Quill and curiosity.
Harry rarely wrote in the diary, despite its faint allure. He wasn’t one to linger on idle conversation, and he had preparations to make for his second year. Teeth had given him more survival instincts than social skills, and Hogwarts demanded a different kind of cunning. Still, there was something mildly entertaining about Tom Riddle’s curiosity.
When Harry did pick up the quill, his responses were as minimal as ever.
What have you been up to, Harry? Tom’s elegant script sprawled across the page one evening.
Reading, Harry replied curtly.
The ink bled back quickly. Reading what?
Harry tilted his head, considering the blank page. He hadn’t been reading anything particularly fascinating, but he knew Riddle’s knowledge of the world was limited. Grabbing a Muggle novel he had borrowed from the library, Harry began copying down passages.
At first, there was no response. But after a few lines, the ink shifted.
What is this?
Harry smirked faintly. A book. You wanted to know what I’m reading.
The ink hesitated, then formed words again. This isn’t magical.
No, Harry responded, dipping the quill once more. It’s modern. You don’t know much about the modern world, do you?
There was a long pause before the ink returned, slower this time. I know enough. But... this is interesting. You’re copying it for me?
Harry shrugged as if the diary could see him. You said you’ve been alone for fifty years. I figured you might want to catch up.
The diary’s response came quickly, almost eagerly. You’re rather unusual, Harry. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.
Harry didn’t reply to that. Instead, he copied another passage, watching the words seep into the page as though the diary was drinking them in.
Over time, this became a strange routine. Every few days, Harry would jot down passages from various books—fiction, non-fiction, even a few strange Muggle magazines he found discarded. Tom Riddle seemed oddly fascinated by it all, though he continued to prod for more personal interactions.
Why don’t you write more? he asked one evening.
Harry’s reply was as detached as ever. I don’t have much to say.
You’re a curious one, Harry Potter. The words swirled lazily. Most people can’t help but spill their thoughts when prompted. But you’re different. So careful. So calculating.
Harry didn’t respond immediately. He let the silence linger before finally writing, I don’t see the point in sharing things that don’t matter.
The ink seemed to hesitate before responding. And what does matter to you?
Harry’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he wrote back, That depends on the day.
Riddle’s words appeared almost immediately, sharp and probing. What about today?
But Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he shut the diary and went back to sharpening his quills.
Tom Riddle was growing restless. It was clear in the way the ink flowed—more impatient, more insistent—whenever Harry picked up the quill.
You could write more, Riddle coaxed one evening. Surely there’s something on your mind.
Harry simply jotted down another book excerpt, ignoring the attempt to pull him into conversation.
You’re infuriating, the diary finally wrote, though there was a strange undercurrent of amusement in the words. Do you enjoy keeping people guessing?
Harry paused, tilting his head. Then, with a smirk, he replied, Maybe.
The diary fell silent for a moment before writing, You’re like no one I’ve ever met, Harry Potter. You’re a mystery.
Harry closed the diary with a snap. And that’s how I like it.