The Boy in The Pages
Harry’s quill scratched rhythmically against the page, transcribing a section from Great Moments in Magical History. He wrote with methodical precision, copying every detail about Voldemort's downfall into the diary.
Riddle’s words appeared alongside Harry’s handwriting, curious and watchful. You’re writing about the Dark Lord again. Why?
Harry didn’t look up, replying without hesitation. You said you’d been stuck in here for fifty years. Figured you’d want to know what’s happened.
There was a pause before the ink returned. Kind of you. And this… Dark Lord, Voldemort—he was defeated by a child?
Harry shrugged slightly, continuing to write. That’s what the book says. A baby, actually.
Fascinating. The words seemed to hover, lingering before they continued. And this child… Harry Potter. Do you know much about him?
Harry hesitated, briefly, before writing back. I suppose so.
What do you think of him? Riddle asked.
Harry stopped mid-stroke, the quill dripping ink onto the page as he considered the question. What did he think of himself? It wasn’t something he often dwelled on. He wrote simply, He’s just a person.
The ink bled back quickly, faster now, almost urgent. A person who defeated the greatest Dark Lord of all time? Surely, there’s more to it than that.
Harry’s lips twitched faintly. Don’t know. Never met him.
The diary seemed to hesitate, as though Riddle were processing something. Then, slowly, the next question appeared: Harry, what’s your surname?
The quill stopped moving. Harry stared at the page, his expression unreadable. He didn’t often share his name outright—most people already knew who he was. But there was something in Riddle’s curiosity that felt different. He replied after a moment:
Potter.
The ink stilled. For a moment, the diary was silent, the page eerily blank except for Harry’s name. Then, suddenly, words spilled forth in a hurried stream:
Harry Potter?
Harry tilted his head, watching as the ink settled, the question standing stark on the page. He responded with a simple, Yes.
The diary seemed to shudder under his hand, the ink blotting slightly before steadying. You… the words formed slowly, deliberately. You’re the Harry Potter. The one who defeated Voldemort.
Harry’s brow furrowed slightly, and he tapped the quill against the desk. I guess. Why does it matter?
Riddle’s response came quickly, almost frantic. It matters because you survived. No one survives the Killing Curse, Harry. It’s unheard of. Impossible.
Harry frowned, his quill hovering over the page. Well, I did.
How? The question loomed large, the ink bold and dark.
Harry stared at the diary for a moment, then set the quill down. He leaned back in his chair, considering his answer. Finally, he wrote:
No idea. People like to make it a big deal, but I don’t remember anything.
Riddle’s next words were slower, more deliberate. You don’t remember? Not even a little?
Harry’s response was curt. No.
The diary was silent again, as though Riddle were deep in thought. When the words finally returned, they were softer, almost reverent. You’re remarkable, Harry. The things you’ve lived through… I can’t imagine it.
Harry frowned at the diary, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t used to people speaking to him like that—it felt strange, almost intrusive.
After a long pause, he wrote back: It’s just life. Nothing remarkable about it.
Riddle didn’t reply immediately, but when the ink returned, it felt heavier, as though imbued with something deeper. You’re wrong, Harry. You’re extraordinary. And I’m glad to finally meet you.
Harry closed the diary with a quiet snap, his expression thoughtful. He placed it back in his trunk, locking it away for the night. Whatever Riddle thought about him, Harry didn’t particularly care. The diary might see him as extraordinary, but to Harry, he was just a boy with a monster waiting for him in the woods.