Harry held a diary in his hand. In fact, he had never had the desire to start a diary in which he would share not only his thoughts but also his life. However, Harry quickly realized that this diary was not that simple. All the pages inside were blank, yellowed, and there was a name in gold letters at the back of the diary: Tom. M. Riddle.
Harry decided to keep it, given that the diary was discarded and unnecessary. But he didn't know what to write on the empty pages. Write about himself? Ask about accidents that happened at school? How can diaries answer that? Harry runs his fingers over his name, frowns, and then thinks about who is to blame for the whole school treating him as if he is to blame for all the misfortunes just because he can talk to snakes.
Harry picks up a quill, dips it in ink, and opens it to the first page and writes: Draco. L. Malfoy. Kill.
Harry looks at the inscription and closes the diary, knowing that he can only dream about it. But how much easier his life would be if this daddy's boy didn't exist, never leaving him alone for a day.
Harry stares in disbelief at the corpse of his former classmate, paler than usual, with a huge pool of blood around his body, his eyes wide open in fear. How... could this have happened? How did the petrifications turn into murders? Harry turns his gaze to the headmaster, who has ordered the teachers to escort the others to the dormitory.
"It wasn't my fault, sir, I—"
"I know, my boy, I know."
Harry swallows at the look in his blue eyes, which no longer have their usual sparkle.
"But I have to ask: Is there something you want to tell me?"
Harry thinks of the diary he always carries with him, of the name he has written on the blank pages.
"No, sir, nothing."
Harry just can't say-not when it could mean an admission of guilt. It makes him afraid. Fear of being locked away somewhere, fear that he will never be part of the wizarding world because of a stupid mistake. Harry didn't even know it would work. That he could kill someone just by writing something in his diary.
Harry hasn't written anything in his diary since then. He just looked at the golden letters, ran his fingers over them, thinking about the magic inside it. How could it kill someone? It was dangerous and he was afraid to leave it somewhere where someone could steal it. Even though the writing on the page disappeared, it didn't lessen Harry's fear. He learned how to shrink objects, and with that, the diary was always at hand. In his pocket.
Harry sometimes had the urge to write someone's name on the pages to get rid of them, especially Voldemort's, but he doubted that it would affect such a powerful wizard. Harry looked at his hands with a sigh.
"Kill her."
Harry turned toward the voice, but no one was in the bedroom at the time. What?..
"Kill her," the voice repeated behind him.
Harry looked back and froze when he noticed a stranger who looked the same age as him, with bright red eyes. Fingers took his hand, placing a quill in his palm, and the voice continued to whisper to him:
"Write her name in the diary. Kill her."
Harry shakes his head in disagreement, a lump forming in his throat. He wouldn't kill someone for nothing, he wouldn't repeat his mistake. But the stranger doesn't seem to like that, grabbing him by the neck and starting to strangle him.
"Either you kill her or I'll kill you," he hisses right in his face.
Harry grimaces, grabbing his wrists with his fingers, scratching them until they bleed. Tears well up in his eyes and he coughs when the hand is no longer pressing on his neck. Harry shudders at the unpleasant sensation, dips his quill into the ink, and opens the diary to the first page: Dolores. D. Umbridge.
Harry is sure that this was a bad idea. That it will get him into big trouble in the future.
Harry is sickened by what he sees, he turns away from the picture of the torn corpse, of which there is no surviving part, the only thing that helps to identify her is pieces of torn pink fabric. He has no desire to stay here, so Harry makes his way through the crowd and goes somewhere quiet.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Why not?" the stranger answers him, laughing coldly.
Harry crosses his arms over his chest, unconsciously defending himself. He leans against the wall and holds back the urge to scream, to accuse and... Harry runs his hand over his face and groans. Why is everything going wrong?
"Voldemort is coming. Voldemort is going to take you."
"I hope my death is quick."
Harry hears only laughter in response. He wants so badly to strangle the stranger who comes closer to his personal space. Breathing the same air.
"It will be La Petite Mort."
Harry doesn't need to look around to realize how much he is hated at this moment — while he is kneeling by the throne, with his head on Voldemort's thigh and a stranger behind him as a guard against the people's discontent — no, both are Tom, as Harry later learned. And he deliberately calls them by that name, feeling a great desire to destroy everything around him with magic.
"I hate you," he whispers to them.
Harry will never give up until he can defeat them.