Tom Riddle's Diary - Tumblr Posts

Little Witch Tom Riddle x Malfoy Reader

Hello readers! So, had an idea in the dead of night and wrote this chapter for this potential story and I need some feedback. Do you like it? Would you like to see more of this? Please tell me because I would love to write more of this, but I don't know if anyone would want to read something like this. Also, the title is not its official and final title. If you guys enjoy this idea, the title will be something completely different from Little Witch.

Hope you enjoy this random thing of mine.

The smell of moisture and mildew clouded my senses. I could feel the tendrils of the musty basement curl around my head, tightening their hold. The familiar throbbing ran down my head and face, causing me to wince and squeeze my eyes, trying to work through the pain. I’ve always hated coming down here. This underground layer underneath my home always made my spine shiver and made gooseflesh appear on my delicate skin. This place, full of death and sorrow from previous victims throughout the history of my family, haunted these walls. In the dead of night, I could hear their wails and shrieks of terror. I could hear their weeping and their cries for help. Hear their pleas to a higher power and bargain with their soul, trying to escape this prison. But their prayers and pleas went unanswered. Day in and day out, they were still here. Stuck. Tethered to these bloody walls.

Knowing that these souls occupied these walls and halls was one reason I avoided this place. But something was calling me. Whispering my name. Urging me to come down here, to explore. To search for it. I’d tried to ignore the call, the whisper, but each night it grew louder and louder. Finally, after a nightmare of snakes strangling me in my sleep, I allowed the voice to take control and call to me. I followed the voice, down the corridors, passing portraits, the sleeping quarters of the house-elves, all the way down the stairs that led here. Unlike the dungeons that were kept clean and lit, the basement, underneath the dungeons, was dark, dirty, and had a metallic smell. Here, I could feel the voice calling louder, urging me more quickly, practically pushing me forward, moving my stone-cold feet towards a chest. An ebony chest, decorated in silver and bore the Malfoy family crest. On the lip of the lid wrote a name: Abraxas M. Malfoy.

This was my grandfather’s chest. My recently deceased grandfather.

Now, this close to the chest, I could feel magic electrifying in the air, crackling with energy. The voice, now clearer and deeper, called out my name. I felt an invisible hand take my own and place it on the chest. Magic pulsed and cracked throughout the house, passing through my fingertips, travelling up my body, tingling my nervous system. Power gushed through my veins; an echo of spells in Latin, French, and German rang through my head. I felt a pull in my abdomen, as if something was trying to reach through my body and pull out my magical core; rending me magickless. I tried to fight it, combating it with my own power, using ancient spells and curses passed down through my family, trying to ward off the entity. However, my attempts became futile. Whatever this spirit—voice—was, it knew how to avoid and get past my family's magic, delving itself into the pits of my mind, reaching into the darkest parts, seeing memories I’d wish to avoid.

Memories of a man with red eyes and cold skin.

I felt my brain being torn in two when my throat convulsed. I screamed loudly. I felt a whoosh of power flow from me as I screamed. I felt the chilling laughter of a monster crawling up my skin, piercing my soft and supple flesh, drawing blood. Ruby drops coated the floor, soaking a carpet and dripping onto my feet.

The lid of the chest flew open, the lock breaking, and a sense of dread curled in the pit of my stomach. Still under the control of whatever this spirit was, I felt myself lean and bend, reaching my hand into the chest and grabbing a small black book. A name was etched into the leather cover, written in gold lettering. When my fingertips connected with the cover, I felt a pulse of dark magick flow through my fingers, numbing them.

I ran my index finger down the leather cover, tingling with power, as I traced the name. Names were power. Though some people disagreed, the old ways were proof of that sentiment. Names held power over someone. You knew their true name, the name their soul carried, you held power over them. And this name, I knew, even in my drunken and controlled state, that this name held power I couldn’t even imagine. That this name was dangerous. And if I uttered it, it would seal my fate.

“(Y/n)!!”

The voice of my father reached my ears, making me blink a few times, as my vision became blurred. I felt my body becoming numb and buckled under my weight.

“(Y/n)!!” Father’s arms wrapped around me and I felt my body become weightless. Light. As if I was a feather.

“Sweet girl, what happened? What’ve I told you about coming down here? It’s dangerous!”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t feel. All I could do was blink and stare at my father; his grey eyes trained on my figure as he assessed the situation and damage. His hair was tied back in a bow, keeping his strands of silver out of his eyes. He wasn’t wearing pyjamas. He was still in his clothes from earlier. His cloak, his three-piece suit, his dragon-hide wingback shoes.

He was still awake then; I mused.

“(Y/n), look at me, tell me what happened.”

I tried. I really did. But I couldn’t. I felt my body and mind slip in and out of consciousness. All I could do was grip the book tighter. He noticed. His grey eyes travelled to my hand, where I clutched the book for dear life. As if it was a part of my soul. A part of me.

A gasp left my father, his eyes widening as he took into the leather cover. His eyes flashed back and forth.

To me; to the book. To me; to the book.

Over and over and over. Until he finally gained the strength and re-established his mind.

“Come (Y/n),” Father picks me up in his arms. I feel the book drop from my hands. It slapped against the cold stone floors. It’s voice called out to me again. I wanted to hold it, clutch it close to my heart, weep over the pages. But I can do nothing about it. I was motionless. Paralyzed. My strength was all but gone. The fight for control and the will of my magick took its toll on me. I could no longer feel.

As father carried me away from the basement full of death, my vision was blurry and I could only hear distorted voices. It was as if I was hearing things on another frequency. As if I reached another plane of this universe. The only voice I could hear clearly was the whisper.

“Come to me,”

“Free me from this cage,”

“Come to me, (Y/n),”

“Come…”

The last thing I heard was a man whispering in another language, a language I knew and understood, yet I could not understand.

In the dark basement of Malfoy Manor, while house-elves and the Lady of the house took care of the heiress Malfoy, trying to break her fever and console her shaking and convulsing body—a man walked down the long spiral staircase leading down towards the damp basement. He held his wand in front of him; it was lit with the simple lumos spell, as he travelled down to the haunted walls.

His eyes were set in an icy determination, the same look he had about him when he was intending to see things done properly—his way. His brows were furrowed and his pointy chin was jutted out. The surrounding air crackled as his own magical core expanded, covering his person in protection spells.

For years, that blasted diary was quiet. It slept peacefully, only to be awakened when it was time for his master to see the light of day. It appears, when the cursed pages woke, it stirred something in his eldest child, his daughter. Called out to her, hypnotising her. She was its victim, wanting her to take the book and pour her soul into its cursed ink so that his Master might live again. His Dark Lord’s plan was planned out so very well, its cursed nature, its spiritus malus enchanted his daughter. While Lucius was angry and wanted to incendio the cursed book to nothing more than a pile of ash —- it was his master's orders to answer the call, and Lucius was a devoted servant of his Lord.

He walked down the long corridor, towards the chest. Lucius bent down and picked up the book, feeling its magick course through his veins. He suppressed a shiver from running down his spine, and turned on the balls of his feet, clouding himself in shadow as he marched his way down the corridor, up the stairs, and into his private office.

Sitting the book on his mahogany desk, he took a seat in his leather winged-back chair and stared at it. He could hear the whispers of the curse, trying to seduce him, place him under the spell.

Lucius didn’t know what to do. He ran through his memories, looking for one of his Dark Lord. He shifted through his categorised mind, tearing down the walls and boarded up doors of his mind. He sorted and searched until he found it.

It was after his daughter’s first birthday. October 31st, 1976. She had just received her soul-mark—something the Malfoy family has always had; the magick of soulmates. It was also after the Dark Lord appointed him as his Second-in-Command. He remembered how thrilled he was, earning the approval of his Lord, and rising in the ranks of Death Eaters. It was a glorious moment for him and his family. Lucius remembered how, after the small gathering they had for his daughter, the Dark Lord stayed around, claiming to speak to him about an urgent matter at hand. But what he didn’t notice back then, in the present, of his Master’s eyes on his child’s soul-mark embedded in the skin of her right wrist. It was strange, Lucius remembered himself saying. A snake wrapping its body around the child's wrist, eating its tail. The mark was nothing like his own mark with Narcissa; a flower with a snake coiled around its stem. His mark was calm and held an aura of serenity. While hers was violent, untamed, out-of-control. There was no softness, only a cold exterior of a snake eating itself.

Lucius remembered when he was a child asking his own father about the nature of their soul-marks. As to why snakes were always included in their depiction of the other half of their soul. Abraxas didn’t know, but claimed there was a snake involved in the ritual to tether the souls of mates together, to show, to embed a mark on the skin, showing the world the superiority of Malfoy’s and their magic.

While many of the guests stared at her wrist with curiosity and fascination, his master’s eyes were full of something Lucius could not place. When Cygnus and Druella approached their granddaughter and daughter, they gave gifts and encouraging words to Narcissa. However, Cygnus looked at his granddaughter with disappointment, wishing his loyal and obedient daughter had given birth to a son first, rather than a daughter. When the man's cold eyes flickered to her little wrist, he reached out and touched it, tracing the mark. Something snapped in his master’s exterior, and the mask of calm and connectedness broke and a sliver of emotion passed through his facade. His red eyes flashed angrily, and his hands clenched into fists.

Before his Lord could make a scene, Lucius approached him, asking him about what matter he needed to speak of urgently. The two left the scene, walking down the long dark-lit corridors, passing sleeping and awake portraits. Lucius pushed the door open to his study, letting the light of the fireplace cast a glow to the porcelain man beside him. His grey eyes watched as the Dark Lord took a seat, pulling something out from his cloak. Lucius turned, closed and locked the door, and strode across the threshold to his master.

“Lucius,” his Master’s voice, was icy, filled with nothing but cold, bitter ice. “This is what I wished to discuss with you.” He placed a book on the mahogany desk occupying this room. Whispers filled the room. Lucius shivered as his magick core sensed the dark magic, the death, surrounding this book.

“What is it, my Lord?” he asked, the hairs on his neck standing up, attentive to the magic in this room. His Master smiled. His smile reminded him of a snake before striking.

“This, my friend, is my old school diary. It is now a cursed object.” He picked up the book, flipping the pages as he spoke. “It contains my younger self. Preserved in these pages.” The book screamed a silent scream.

“I want you to hide it. Once the book awakens, I want you to give it to someone. Magic or non-magic, I care not who it is. Give it to them, and they shall write in it, for the pull of this diary is too strong for anyone to resist. As they write, my younger self will suck their life-force; their core. And once my younger-self has done it, they shall be reborn again.”

Lucius stared in astonishment. “But my lord, you are already here. Alive.”

His Master smirked. “I have no doubts, Lucius, that I shall succeed. But if there is a slight chance. A slight possibility that the old fool beats me, well, then you will know what to do with it.”

Lucius watched as he ran a finger down the spine, watching the book itself shudder.

“This is only a precaution. I know I will have no need for it.”

Voldemort stood from his chair. His eyes, red as blood, gazed into Lucius’ grey orbs.

“Do you understand, Lucius?” he asked. Lucius knew that tone. He’d seen it in action when Death Eaters failed their mission or when he interrogated wizards, witches, and mudbloods.

“Yes, My Lord,”

A chilling smile spread across his face.

Lucius knew what to do. He sighed, laced his fingers together, and sat in deep thought. Thinking up a plan. A plan to resurrect his master's soul. He knew, deep in his soul, that if he was the one to resurrect his Master, he would be welcomed back joyously. His comrades would praise him, his master would thank him.

And if what his master said was true, this new form would be young. No one would know him. He could fit in the ranks of the Ministry, infiltrate it from the inside. Corrupt the Wizengomat. His Master would do wondrous things for the good of the Wizarding World. Purify the scum of their world, and lay waste to the blood traitors.

The glory days would return, and his youngest would live in a world full of wizards and witches like him.

Lucius smiled. Yes, it’ll all work out. All he needs to do is find a mind curious enough to write in the pages of a diary and who’s ignorant enough to believe that this book means no harm.

While this was happening, the young Malfoy Heiress thrashed in her sleep. House-elves tried to calm her, but she continued to convulse. In her fevered dreams, stood a man standing on a hilltop. His eyes were a deep shade of black, almost like he held the starless night sky in his orbs. His skin was pale, blemishless, and pure. Pure as snow. Hard as marble. His sharp nose, his full lips, his arched brows. Everything about him was beautiful. As if he was cut from marble, shaped by elegant and artistic hands. Details you’d seen in statues at muggle museums. His hair was onyx, tousled like he ran his long and articulate fingers through the strands regularly. He stood tall. His back was straight. He looked angelic. But there was something dark around him. Shadows surrounded him. Clouding his body in a dark mist. His face distorted, the skin on his jaw pulled back, revealing bone and rotten flesh. The hill was no longer a grassy hilltop, but a hill of bones; skulls. He stood on them, as if he was a King. His face was slacked in determination and his eyes were hard. He was the victor of a battle, of a war. He no longer held an angelic look, but a demonic aura, full of darkness and evil. Yet his face, though rotting and had parts revealing bone, was the only place on his body that still looked angelic.

It was hard to look at him; she thought. He’s beautiful, was another thought of hers. It was as if her own mind was being torn in two, her thoughts constantly contraindicated each other. She didn’t know why. Why was she still looking at this beautiful monster? Why didn’t she run? Why was he calling her over?

“Who are you?” She called out to him. The man smirked, exposing the right side of his mouth, rotting. She shivered.

“Who are you?” She called out again, her voice trembled. “Death?”

The man chuckled, his voice booming all around her. As if she was in an echo chamber. She felt his laugh in her skull, rattling her bones.

“Sometimes.” He answered, smirking at the young Heiress. “But not today… little witch,”

The next thing she knew was that she was ripped from her dream in a cold sweat. But what she would later learn is that she could not remember the dream, nor the man, only the words: “Little witch,”

Translations:

spiritus malus = evil spirit (I used google translate for this, sorrry if I'm wrong)

my ass could not be trusted with Tom Riddle’s diary

diary of a witchy kid (t.m.r.)

summary: tomothy chalamets diary falls into the wrong hands…or maybe even the right ones… 

happy new years eve/new years! be safe out there. this blog is only four months old and I have enjoyed my stay so far. thank you for the encouraging messages and post appreciations y'all send! omg I can now say I have internet friends because growing up my immigrant parents wouldn't let me have any ahdkfhsfhs 

here’s my attempt at a little more serious fic but it’s not sad or anything just leaning more toward early scheming/taking over the world tom who can’t identify what a crush is ^.^

when avery dropped the book on the table, your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull. tom had a diary? in unison, lestrange, nott, and abraxas moved back in their chairs as if it were a bomb.

“avery what the bloody f*ck?” the blonde looked up at him, “what do you think you’re doing with that thing?”

“i can feel the evil oozing out of its pages…” nott whispered dramatically, grabbing onto reinhard lestranges robes while eyeing the book. you stared at the inanimate item innocently sitting in the middle of the study table. black leather. gold letters of tom marvolo riddle branded as its title. it wasn’t cracking with electricity around it, it didn’t open up to have teeth like the monster book of monsters, and there was no aura around it indicating a hex. why was everyone treating it like a cursed item?

“i thought you lot might’ve been more amused.” averys excited grin had vanished long ago. “there’s got to be hundreds of secrets-“

“except this is toms diary,” lestrange reminded, lightly pulling nott of of him to readjust his collar. “he’ll kill us if he catches us.“

you have never talked to the man the myth the legend one on one. you were new to the school this year, new to slytherin, but he didn’t seem to mind you as an addition to the group, though he never went out of his way to talk to you either. you assumed that being second ranked and distantly related to nott made you tolerable. consequently, your knowledge of tom was small. he was quiet, kept to himself, somewhat dark, and seemed to have a dominant presence over your new friends.

“when who catches you?” a flat voice appeared behind abraxas. your instincts reactively changing the diary into another book. hopefully he didn’t notice.

“merlin, he moves like a prius…” you mumbled to yourself.

“when uh…ravenclaw uh…catches these hands the next match!” nott grinned nervously. your eyes shifted toward your second cousin, curious to see how a situation like this would play out.

“ah, yes, the last one was,” lestrange coughed, “not our best.” the most recent ravenclaw game ended with avery in the hospital wing when a bludger dislocated his shoulder. rather than guarding, he was lost in a trance staring at athena lovegood smiling and waving at him in the stands. 

you watched the boys intently, dead still in their seats, anxious about the little leather book mocking them as it sat idly on the wooden surface. what was so terrifying about him?

tom didn’t respond. luckily for them, he didn’t care about quidditch. the tension is everyone’s shoulders relaxed as he turned around and ran his fingers along the spines of the books.

“i see…” he said dryly. in a panick abraxas snatched the diary off the table and tossed it to avery.

“put it back where you found it,” he whispered.

“no way, he’ll skin me!” avery deflected the task to nott, throwing it to him. nott gripped it by its spine as he glanced over his shoulder to tom who was distracted by the shelf, flipping through one of the books.

“oh hell no!” he passed it to lestrange, but before it could even land from its flight in the air, the slytherin flicked his wand, sending the book into your chest.

“no!” your arms wrapped around it instinctively, the force nearly knocking you out of the wooden chair. not sure what to do, you shoved the diary under your jumper. why did they have to involve you?

“is something wrong, (y/l/n)?” tom asked, returning the book to its spot. you froze on the spot. it might’ve been the first time he had acknowledged you by name.

“no.” you responded.

“then why did you say no?”

“me? i didn’t say that.” riddle quirked an eyebrow at you. to the average persons eye, you were your average teenage girl—good grades, gets along well with peers, but there was something else. and it wasn’t just your grades. you were effortlessly likeable by peers, charming even. professors liked calling on you and offering you more challenging work, treatment only tom received. yet of all the groups you could have inserted yourself in, you chose his. and they gladly accepted you. why? something was different, off even, but he didn’t look into it because it didn’t seem to pose as a threat. deep down, you reminded tom of himself and he didn't know how to feel about it.

“i am confident you did.”

“oh, it’s because lestrange asked if i’d be his girlfriend, so i said no.” the corner of your mouth twitched in amusement. it wasn’t much, but seeing reinhard lestrange get flustered was revenge in it of itself.

“is that true, lestrange?” tom asked.

“….yes…” he sighed in defeat, sending a deathly glare your way.

“tough…” the salazar heir tsk’d, nearly letting a grin slip at the thought of you rejecting lestrange.

*.*.*.*

the following days were surpringly not awful. tom didn’t seem to notice his missing diary, and if he did you weren’t a suspect. you didn’t know exactly what to do with it. slipping into the head boys room and placing it in a “misplaced” area was stupid. tom didn’t seem like the person to misplace things, so he would definitely get suspicious— that is if he didn’t already sense someone forcefully entered his dwelling. avery claimed that he found the diary wedged in one of toms unattended textbooks during a late night study session. surely, you could put it back into one of his books if you got close enough. you just had to get the timing right.

while you waited for that window, you read the diary. accidentally, that is.

the third day after the hot potato journal in the library, your elbow knocked over your stack of books while writing your divinations essay, the book fell open.

june 22

i hate coming back here every summer…

no, this is wrong... you shut the diary and think for a minute. 

to read this is public that is. 

you have never ran to your room so quick, which was fortunately empty.

june 22

i hate coming back here every summer. the moment i step into wools orphanage i search for the nearest spoon to kill myself with.

yikes, starting off strong i see.

june 23

madam spinsky has me washing the floorboards like orphan annie. my welcome back present from “my vacation” at “boarding school”.

june 25

abraxas has invited me to the stay at the manor. his father will take care of my transportation. maybe i’ll put the spoon down for this summer.

each entry was short, but enough to put together the important parts of tom riddle. he was an orphan, a master charismatic, and most importantly-- wizard prodigy whose talents went beyond hogwarts curriculum. he seemed to always be scheming, sought after something larger. but rather than be frightened, you were intrigued.

september 1

there is a new girl. she is attractive.

you shut the book close, eyes wide. you look up finding a 5’5 brown haired girl in pajamas.

“janey, hi,” you say breathlessly. how long has your roommate been standing there? what time was it?

“are you alright, (y/n)? you’re sweating.” she stared in concern. her eyes fell to the book in your hands, smartly disguised as a romance novel. your eyes followed.

“steamy chapter,” you grin sheepishly. not the proudest of lies you have ever told, but it did the trick.

“oh, right…” she smiles awkwardly, cheeks going red. janey proceeded to slip under covers and kill the light in her bedside lantern. from the corner of the room you were sitting in you looked around and realized your two other roommates were also fast asleep.

the next day you went to the one person you could trust.

“what the bloody hell-“ nott cursed as he felt something grip onto his ankle. “oh sh-“ he was cut off by his fall to the ground and screamed as he was dragged underneath the table.

“(y/n)! you lunatic! you ever think of contacting me, i don’t know… literally any other way?” he exhaled.

“yeah yeah whatever, i’m hiding from riddle remember. anyway, look at this…” you opened the diary.

october 4

myrtle elizabeth warren grinds my gears.

you flipped forward a couple of pages as your cousins eye brows furrowed at the sheets of paper.

october 14

(y/n) (y/l/n) did wandless magic when she thought she was alone. she might be of use.

“this one,” you pointed to the entry. “what does it mean?” nott moved closer, taking the book and bringing it up to a more comfortable eye level.

“(y/n), this page is blank.”

“hardy har har you’re a real jester, nott.” you rolled your eyes. but the concerned look on his face told you he wasn’t joking. you took the diary back and looked down at the words that were 100% there. not worried, you flipped through the pages. they were all filled.

“they’re all blank. i believe you, but i don’t see anything.” well at least he didn’t think you were crazy.

“interesting…” you whisper to yourself. returning the book was pushed even further in the back of your mind. it was one thing to want to avoid tom because of a school boy crush, but another if he was plotting something and wanted you involved.

that night you were finishing the last two weeks of entries. tom had stopped writing five days prior to Avery taking it. he talked about a chamber, but didn’t go into detail. despite feeling like you have gotten to know tom on a deeper level that any other student has (with exception to his friends), it still felt like the diary was reserved. it seems that tom riddle didn’t even trust himself enough. rightfully so i guess, because what has two thumbs and read the whole thing? this guyyy...

after october 28, the last entry, you turned the page. just cuz.

give it back

ummm that doesn’t make sense. maybe we’re seeing things. you flipped the page back to october 28, then back to the next.

the ink seemed to be appearing as if an invisible hand were writing.

i know you have it, whoever you are

with that, you shut the diary and put all your books in your enchanted bag, slinging it over your shoulder. the diary was where it always was—tucked in your waistband under your jumper. you swiftly made your way out of the back of the library scanning your path as you walked briskly.

“you…” a voice spoke from down the corridor. your head whipped to the left seeing a very familiar head boy stalking his way toward you. you were lost in shock, the library door closing with a thud woke you up.

“expelliarmus!” you waved your hand sending the wand flying out of his hand, anticipating that he might stun you. distracted for half a second from astonishment, you made a run for it. your mary janes pounded the stone floor as you sprinted down the corridor. you were sure riddle went to retrieve his wand, giving you a few seconds as a head start. but soon enough, you heard his footsteps coming after you.

“(y/l/n)!” your heart was beating in your ears as you felt your abdomen burn. the sensation grew to your chest as you pumped your legs even farther. eventually you found yourself heading toward the astronomy tower. “stop running!” you could sense him getting closer.

“expelliarmus!” the clink of the wooden object smacking against the wall distracted him again. “and stop doing that!”

you reached the top of the tower. the midnight chill hitting your face. you wrapped your arms around yourself in an attempt to shield yourself from the cold, slowing down as you realized there was no where else to run. you had to face whatever was to come.

tom caught himself against the wall as he made his way to the top of the steps. wand in hand.

defensively you brought yours up, prepared to duel.

“what are you doing?” tom looked at you blankly, now approaching you.

“locomotor mortis!” you chanted. he blocked it effortlessly.

“stupefy!” deflected. he keeper moving forward.

“expelli-“ a sharp breath passed your lips as you felt your upper body tip back. your upper and lower body teetering, your lower back keeping the balance against the ledge. tom grabbed onto your forearms pulling you toward him. you gasp, slowly looking up at him. why didn’t he let you fall, or push you even?

“aren’t you going to kill me?” you whispered. there haven’t been many times you have seen a a fully expressed emotion on tom riddles face. but if you weren’t quaking in your boots at the moment, you’d be more surprised at his stunned expression.

“breaking curfew isnt exactly the most heinous of crimes, (y/l/n).” your face dropped along with the tenseness in your body. 

oh. well this is awkward.

“why did you chase me then?” you looked at him like accusingly.

“because you ran first, and disarmed me before doing so.” he narrowed his eyes, “and correct me if i’m wrong (y/n), but you have been avoiding me this past week.” you gulp nervously. you have never had a personal conversation with the wizard, nonetheless be this close to him. it was beginning to feel overwhelming.

his breath was cool, you can smell mints as it fanned your face. his grip was strong on your arms, and his chest was inches from touching yours. tom sensed your unease and used it toward his advantage.

“what are you hiding?” he asked in a lower tone, pulling you closer to him. your noses were nearly touching now. tom looked down between you two.

“what is this?”

the diary.

before you could react, tom guided his hand down to the hem of your jumper. you froze still. his eyebrows were furrowed, watching his own movements. the moment his fingers met the grooves and texture of the leather bound book, his eyes shot up to yours, piercing into them. tom leaned into you more, holding the diary up beside his head. you inhaled sharply. wow he smells nice.

“you are able read it,” he mused, grinning.

“indeed” was all you could breathe out. even in the most terrifying of times your responses were always entertaining to him. you didn’t even deny it.

was he not surprised that you had it this whole time? was he even looking for it? would it even matter if it became lost if no one could read it? hotel? trivago.

“no one should be able to read it, but you can…” tom studied your face. it was an enchanted diary, made specifically for the owner and the owners eyes only. “i knew there was something about you (y/n) (y/l/n).”

it appears this diary was trouble this whole time, just in a different way the slytherin boys have warned about. it’s one thing to be an enemy of tom riddle, but something else to be of his interest.

It’s alright, Ginny. It’s just a memory.