The first sensation was drowning.
Memories cascaded through his consciousness like a waterfall of ink, each drop carrying fragments of a life he'd never lived. Tom Marvolo Riddle's childhood at Wool's Orphanage, the discovery of magic, the sorting into Slytherin, the careful cultivation of charm and brilliance that masked growing darkness.
Around him stretched an endless void—pure black nothingness that would have been terrifying if he'd had a body to feel terror with. No up, no down, no walls or boundaries. Just him, floating in darkness with a head full of someone else's memories.
Well, this is cozy, he thought sarcastically. Note to self: next time I get mysteriously transported into a fictional universe, maybe aim for somewhere with better lighting.
But these weren't just memories anymore. They were his memories, absorbed and integrated into his soul like a really intense crash course in "How to Be a Teenage Dark Lord 101." Every spell young Tom had learned, every book he'd devoured, every conversation he'd manipulated—it all settled into his mind with startling clarity. The weird part? He could feel himself getting stronger, like his soul had just eaten a five-course meal after starving for weeks.
Yet beneath it all, his true self remained intact: a twelve-year-old Harry Potter fan from the twenty-first century who'd spent way too many hours on Reddit arguing about whether Snape was actually a good person. (He wasn't, fight him.)
The event previous he traveled was filled with an amount of irony that was almost painful.
Right before he became... a soul, he was just arguing how Tom Riddle's downfall began with splitting his soul, that wholeness was the key to both power and humanity. Now, trapped within the very diary that had once contained a fragment of Voldemort's mutilated soul, he existed as living proof of his own fan theories. The fragment was gone, fused but somehow purified by his complete soul, leaving him with all of Tom's things, like his appearance or his accumulated knowledge and magical potential.
I fused with Voldemort's soul fragment, he mused. Am I about to become the world's youngest Dark Lord?
Honestly... let's pray I don't get lumped with him.
Voices drifted through the void—muffled but familiar. The distinctive cadence of Arthur Weasley discussing something about Muggle batteries, punctuated by Molly's sharp corrections about not bringing work to the dinner table.
He could recognize those voices from the movies, although he preferred the books but it probably didn't matter at the moment. He should be in the Burrow. He was at the Burrow, which meant Ginny would be getting her Hogwarts letter soon, and more importantly...
Footsteps on creaking stairs. The darkness around him suddenly... shifted. Not exactly sight, but awareness—like having eyes that could see through paper, is this how other horcruxes saw the trio? A girl entered the room above him, small for her age, with long red hair that caught the late afternoon sunlight.
Ginny Weasley looked nothing like the movies. Her hair wasn't bright orange-red but deep auburn that shifted between copper and mahogany as she moved. Freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like someone had flicked a paintbrush at her face—way more than the movies had shown. She was all sharp elbows and knobby knees, wearing what was definitely a hand-me-down jumper with a faded Gryffindor crest.
Percy's jumper, Tom's memories supplied helpfully. Probably smells like cauldron fumes and prefect badge polish.
But her eyes were exactly as he'd imagined while reading the books. Warm brown with flecks of gold, currently surveying her messy desk with the expression of someone facing a particularly annoying homework assignment.
"Mum says I should organize my things before term starts," Ginny muttered, settling into her chair. She began sorting quills by length with the methodical precision of someone trying to avoid thinking about something else.
Nervous about Hogwarts, he realized, watching her fidget. Can't blame her. Following six older brothers to school has got to be intimidating.
Her fingers hovered over the diary—his diary—without quite touching it. "Did mum get this for me in Diagon Alley? Every witch should need a proper diary for her thoughts." She made a face. "Though I don't know what thoughts are worth writing in something this fancy."
Oh, if you only knew the thoughts this thing used to contain, he thought. Good thing I gave the previous tenant the boot.
"Maybe I could write about Hogwarts when I get there. About the classes and the castle." Her voice gained confidence as she spoke. "Harry Potter was there last year, you know. He defeated You-Know-Who as a baby, then again in his first year. Saved the Philosopher's Stone."
The cosmic irony hit him again. Here was Ginny Weasley, talking about Harry Potter to a diary containing one of Harry's biggest fans. If someone had told him a week ago that he'd be eavesdropping on the Weasleys from inside a Horcrux, he'd have suggested they lay off the butterbeer.
Ginny picked up a feather quill and dipped it in ink. The tip hovered over his first page for a long moment, and he could practically feel her internal debate.
"Dear Diary," she began, then immediately crossed it out. "No, that's childish. Hello, diary? Ugh, worse." She set the quill down with a frustrated sigh. "This is ridiculous. It's just a book."
Just a book with a passenger, he thought, then made his decision. Time to make contact. But carefully—Tom's memories were full of lessons about patience and subtlety, even if his own intentions were completely different.
He simply absorbed the previous ink and let a few words appear on the page when she wasn't looking directly at it. Light, faded, like old ink slowly becoming visible.
Hello.
When Ginny glanced back at the page, she blinked in confusion. Had that word been there before? She leaned closer, studying the faint script.
"That's... odd," she murmured.
He waited, letting her curiosity build. After a moment, she picked up her quill again.
"Did I write that?" she whispered to herself, then seemed to feel silly for talking to an empty room.
No, it was me
She jumped away from the diary as surprise took her. Calming down she dipped her quill and wrote beneath his greeting: Who are you?
This time, he let the response appear slowly, as if the diary were thinking.
My name is Tom. I've been in this diary for a very long time. Are you the one who owns it now?
Ginny's eyes widened, but she didn't drop the quill or run screaming. Instead, she glanced toward her bedroom door as if checking that no one was watching, then leaned closer to the page.
How are you in my diary? she wrote, her handwriting slightly shaky.
Magic, he replied simply. The complicated kind. I was a student at Hogwarts once, many years ago. Are you going there this year?
Yes, in September. I'm Ginny Weasley.
A Weasley? Your family has quite the reputation at Hogwarts. All Gryffindors, if I remember correctly.
Yes. Were you in Gryffindor too?
He hesitated. This was where things got tricky. No, I was in Slytherin. But don't worry—I won't try to convince you that snakes are better than lions.
To his relief, she actually smiled at that. A small one, but genuine.
That's a relief. My brothers would never let me hear the end of it if I started supporting Slytherin.
How many brothers do you have?
Six. All older, all better at magic than me.
There was something wistful in the way she wrote it, and he found himself wanting to reassure her. Being the youngest can be difficult. But it also means you get to learn from all their mistakes without making them yourself.
I never thought of it that way.
Trust me, by the time you get to Hogwarts, you'll probably know more about what NOT to do than any other first-year in history.
She actually giggled at that, a sound that somehow made the endless void around him feel a little less dark.
You might be right. Fred and George have certainly provided plenty of examples of what gets you detention.
The twins? I'd love to hear some of their stories, if you don't mind sharing. It gets rather lonely in here.
And just like that, the conversation began. Not the dramatic, manipulative seduction that Tom would do, but he thought he could just be simple and honest. Two people—or one person and one diary-bound consciousness—just talking.
Ginny wrote about her brothers' pranks, her nervousness about starting school, her excitement about finally getting to see Hogwarts for herself. He shared carefully edited stories about his own time at the castle, focusing on the wonder and magic rather than the darker memories that came with Tom's experiences.
As the afternoon light faded through her window, he found himself genuinely enjoying the conversation. Ginny was funny in a quiet way, observant and sharp when she forgot to be self-conscious. She had opinions about everything from Quidditch strategy to the proper way to organize a spell book, and she wasn't afraid to defend them.
I should probably go down to dinner, she finally wrote as voices called from downstairs. Mum gets upset when we're late.
Of course. Will you... will you write to me again tomorrow?
If you'd like me to.
I would. It's been wonderful having someone to talk to, Ginny.
Me too, Tom. See you tomorrow.
She closed the diary gently, and he was alone again in the void. But he felt now excited, even expectant of tomorrow, there would be more conversation, more stories, more of Ginny's infectious enthusiasm about starting her magical education.
For the first time since awakening in this strange new existence, he felt something like contentment. Sure, he was trapped in a diary, had absorbed the soul fragment of one of history's most dangerous wizards, and was technically dead by most conventional definitions. But he had a friend now, and the promise of tomorrow's conversation.
Could be worse, he thought, settling into the darkness. At least I'm not stuck in Quirrell's turban.
Outside his leather-bound prison, the Burrow settled into evening routines. Somewhere bellow him, Ginny Weasley was probably telling her family about her day, carefully omitting any mention of her new diary friend. And tomorrow, she'd come back with more stories, more questions, more of that warmth that made the void feel less like a prison.
He could work with this. After all, he had all of Tom Riddle's patience and cunning, but none of his malice. That had to count for something.
Plus, he was probably the only person in magical history who could honestly say he'd absorbed a piece of Voldemort's soul and lived to tell about it. That was definitely going on his supernatural resume.
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AN (authors note): Hey! Just wanted to make a comforting love interest, its kind of weird how there are all these stories with people with 30 years old in a childs body so, surprise! now we got a young traveler! now its not weird, right? in a sense I'm thinking he's mentally like HP age, and around the time ginny can help him ressurect its some years after, so she'd be closer to his body's age of tom riddle (he's meant to have his appearance and all)
Also just wanted to say that I'm a fan, but I haven't really read the books, seen many ff's but I may miss some stuff so I ask ya'll to help tell me in case that happens to correct it (I'm also doing research for it as we advance looking up the wiki but still may not be specific enough) so yeah...
Anyway, hope ya'll enjoyed my chapter as I enjoyed writing it, Happy day!
Old AN:
Heyo! I saw this novel previously but I hated how the dude just left down the drain all the potential to develop in academy with his relation ships, sure he did a great job with building the story but as the main point of being the diary, relationship with ginny and all it just went down the drain...
So I'mma update this later when I feel like it, have a good one everyone!
I'll just use the premise mainly, but for other things it'll be different