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barnabusthebarmyballetschool · 2 years ago

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I am LOVING this series!

since feeling is first who pays any attention — chapter two

Summary: Ginny has done her fair share of watching Harry over the years.

AO3 | FF.net

Note: Thank you all for the wonderful birthday wishes last time! Hope you enjoy a glimpse of Ginny during Prisoner of Azkaban!

Trigger Warning: PTSD, Panic Attacks

ii.

Ginny leans out of the train window, the cold metal and glass pressing against her stomach, waving to Mum and Dad as the train speeds away. The wind whips strands of her hair into her face, but that has nothing to do with the tears that well in her throat. She swallows them down, waving harder until the train turns a corner and blocks her parents from view.

She tries hard to not feel like a cloud has blocked the sun.

Ron stops waving beside her and turns his head toward Harry and Hermione.

“Go away, Ginny,” says Ron suddenly. His voice isn’t unkind, but the words sting.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Ginny huffs.

Her eyes flicker to Hermione’s apologetic smile and then to Harry’s green eyes for just an unbearable second before she automatically looks away. She holds her breath, but neither says anything.

Right then. Ginny lifts her chin and stalks off, anger and sadness churning inside her.

You would think saving someone’s life might bring you closer to them. Form a bond, perhaps. But as always, that would be asking for too much, wouldn’t it? Instead, her embarrassment around Harry Potter has only worsened over time.

All summer, she bottled up the scorching Egyptian sunlight, letting it spread through her body to dispel a haunting coldness that resided in the darker corners under her skin. It was easy to block out what happened when she was surrounded by family; Dad’s warm hand on her head, Mum’s soft hugs, and even her brothers’ annoying hovering were a comfort.

Each day, blinding gratitude pulsed through her. Apparently nearly dying does that to you. Puts things in perspective; makes you hyper aware of all the things often taken for granted.

This summer was ablaze with life and love, each new breath a fresh flame.

But here, on the train clanging its way back to Hogwarts, a chill starts to seep back in. She puts one foot in front of another, away from Ron, Hermione, and Harry Potter.

The compartments are filled with happy students reuniting with their friends after a long summer. There are also the eager first years, bright eyed and flushed with excitement. Her heart sinks as she makes her way down the corridor. None of the compartments seems any more inviting than the last.

The sight of Fred and George’s hair sends a shot of hope through her, but they’re fully immersed with other members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Everyone is laughing, probably at something the twins said. They might be telling them about Egypt and how they tried to lock Percy in a tomb. She could join in, maybe do that impression of Percy that had them in stitches. She hesitates in front of the compartment window, wondering if they will notice her.

Go away, Ginny.

Stomach clenching, she goes on.

With dread, she nears the end of the train. That’s when she sees a few of her fellow second-year girls in a compartment, a mix of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff that she recognizes from Charms. She searches her mind for their names: Demelza, Robin, and…maybe Lucy? The empty spot next to Demelza signals that there’s enough space for her.

All Ginny needs to do is open the door and ask. It’s easy, she tells herself, even as her heart starts to pound. It’s easy.

But she can’t move.

What if they ask about the things she doesn’t remember? The memories she longs to forget? The nightmares she can’t escape?

One of the girls throws her head back in silent laughter, the sound swallowed up by the train’s engine and metal sliding over metal.

Cold slips down Ginny’s back like a shard of ice, even though her skin feels unbearably hot. The overwhelming juxtaposition of hot and cold makes her sick.

She stumbles forward, unseeing, bashing her elbow against the food trolley as it pushes past. The glimpse of the trolley witch’s wide-eyed gaze that only makes her chest seize with more panic. Her breathing sounds labored and harsh to her ears, like the air can’t get through her tightened throat. She slides open the door to the loo and shoves herself inside, her numb fingers fumbling against the lock until it takes.

She leans over the small sink, feeling the blood pumping through her veins. She wants to scream, she wants to cry. Fighting back the urge, she bites her quivering lip, refusing to give in. Not now, not here, not again.

Focus, Ginny.

Her eyes cast about, trying to find an anchor, but when they land on her reflection, she knows it was a mistake as she grazes against an unwanted memory—hollow eyes staring back, bright blood on her hands that won’t come off. She slams her eyes shut. Flashes of icy fear and hot shame flare through her aching chest.

She focuses on the memory of Bill in Egypt, the way the sun glinted on his fang earring, the soft warmth in his eyes behind his familiar smile.

Focus, he said, leading her through a dark tomb. His steady hands guided hers through the motion of new spells. Ginny was never afraid of the dark, but that was before nightmares that had her waking to strangled screams, sounds of hisses and laughter ringing in her ears. Trust yourself; you’ll find the way out.

That sunlight in the darkness.

Her breath finally evens out. Her legs are shaky, and she slumps back on the closed toilet lid. She feels drained, weak.

The sweat on her brow begins to cool her overheated skin. How long has she been here?

It dawns on her where she is. A short laugh escapes her lips, echoing in the loo.

A flicker of anger stirs her blood. She has spent enough of her time alone in girls’ loos, a shell of the person she used to be.

Ginny spent a year under the thumb of the darkest wizard in the world, fading with each day.

Nothing else will ever compare.

She won’t let Tom take more from her. He has already taken too much. Steeling herself, she stands and opens the door.

Before she can head back toward Demelza’s compartment, the train jolts to a hard stop. The momentum topples her over. Her hands feel tender and raw against the train floor. Sounds of students yelping and thuds of luggage falling in disarray fill the air.

Without warning, the lanterns go out, throwing the entire train into darkness. Everything goes quiet.

That momentary strength inside Ginny flickers.

The inky blackness sends her heart racing. For all the sunlight she has tried to trap inside her, the fear creeps back in whenever the sun dips beyond the horizon. Stupid little girl. She hates proving Tom right, but she hasn’t been able to sleep alone since the Chamber. The only thing that has helped is sneaking into Ron’s room. He always opens the door without a word, his face drawn. He doesn’t tease her, even if she cries. Even if she screams in her sleep. Aside from Harry Potter, Ron is the closest one who knows the pipes, the freefall, the plunging darkness.

Ginny gags. It’s almost as if she’s choking on the rotting stench of Basilisk skin.

Ron.

Through the eerie silence, a compartment door opens and—is that Harry’s voice?

Ginny blindly hurries toward the voices, her screaming instincts guiding her. Her fingers pull a door open, but then someone slams right into her, and they let out two squeals of pain.

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?” she returns.

“Ginny?”

Relief makes Ginny weak. “Hermione?”

“What are you doing?”

“I was looking for Ron—”

“Come in and sit down—”

Ginny rushes into the pitch-black compartment, her knees buckling under her. She immediately sits, but the seat is surprisingly bony and warm.

“Not here! I’m here!” says Harry, his voice squeaky.

Her system overloads with embarrassment. Did she just sit on Harry bloody Potter?

She leaps up and trips over a pair of legs.

“Ouch!” says a boy she doesn’t recognize.

She finally falls into a miraculously empty seat when a wizard shouts, “Quiet!”

Her heart pounds in her throat. What is an older wizard doing here?

There is a soft click and light floods their surroundings, revealing a ragged, tired-looking wizard holding a handful of flames.

“Stay where you are,” he orders, as if Ginny came here only to leave. But before he can move, the door slowly slides open again, and she can’t help but think surely this compartment can’t fit yet another.

She smells something putrid before she sees anything. But as a darkly hooded figure appears at the door, the smell of decay intensifies. It draws a long, slow, and rattling breath, as if to suck in more than air from the environment.

An intense cold overtakes her. It penetrates deeper than her skin, straight to her core. It’s so cold, it radiates from within her. To her horror, she recognizes this feeling.

It’s the painful drawing of a soul from her body.

Ginny gasps. It sounds like a wet sob, but the air is so cold it hurts to breathe. That lack of air makes her body shake.

It’s like she’s back in the Chamber, helplessly sobbing and pleading. Tom leers down at her, turning more solid the colder she becomes. Panic surges through her, amplifying her tremors.

Destroy the diary, her mind screams, but her hand refuses to move no matter how she tries.

In the weak light, Harry falls from his compartment seat, and her heart seizes up in despair.

Her vision blurs. Everything is a wash of fluid dark watercolors. Harry, lying on the Chamber floor, unmoving, blood pooling around him.

“Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain,” Dad said, but what does where it keeps its brain have to do with anything? A person turned monster created that diary.

Is there anything she can trust?

A thick white fog swirls inside, dragging her down. Her body descends to the damp floor, the cold seeping into the back of her robes feels warmer than her own skin—

The intense cold starts to recede, and noises return to her muffled ears. The horrific thing has drifted away, the wizard standing guard at the door, his wand still raised and ready. The lanterns flicker back on, and the floor begins to shake underneath them once again.

Slowly, Ginny begins to register activity. Almost from afar, she watches as Ron slaps a ghastly pale Harry, trying to wake him. How is it that everyone else can move?

Colin Creevey, Mrs. Norris, Nearly Headless Nick, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Penelope Clearwater, Hermione Granger, and now—Harry Potter is dead.

He’s dead and it’s all my fault.

But then Harry stirs. His green eyes blink open, and thick tears blur her vision once more.

“What happened?” he asks, voice small.

Ginny makes a strangled noise, her freezing hand covering her mouth. He’s alive. She doesn’t know what happened to the hooded figure, but Harry Potter is alive, they aren’t in the Chamber, and Tom is gone.

These realizations don’t seem to be enough to stop the tremors still shaking through her. Her body doesn’t seem prepared to recover yet.

She huddles her knees closer as she chokes back a sob. She hears someone coming over and then feels someone’s—Hermione’s—arm around her. She needs to get a hold of herself; later, she will feel hot shame over falling apart in front of Ron’s friends, yet again proving she doesn’t belong. But right now she feels raw and hollowed out, and she can’t help but lean into the warm touch and comfort.

Eventually, she pulls herself together enough to force down some chocolate. It helps, but she can’t shake the lingering chill.

She glances through her lashes, guiltily, at Harry. He was the only one affected worse than her, and she wonders if he thought of anything or anyone, Tom’s laugh, Basilisk blood. She wants to ask, but he doesn’t look her way. He stares out the window as rain runs past the pane, a haunted look in his eyes.

Ginny bites her tongue and looks away.

#hp fic #ginny weasley #ginny pov #pre hinny #harry potter #ron weasley #hermione granger #hinny #pre relationship #hpatpos #hpatcos #philosopher's stone #chamber of secrets #fred weasley #george weasley

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antihero-writings · 4 years ago

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The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: I’ve actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry’s age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn’t have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea myself.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn’t write it because I was afraid I’d bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn’t finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I’d just go for it. I’m still afraid I won’t finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven’t finished any of my other, shorter, long fics…) but I didn’t want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don’t finish it, at least I’ll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me continuing, and me leaving the fic behind. It really helps to know people are interested.

Above art from the internet.

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future��was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was his own; not the boy's or the girl's. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was his own, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snake's venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): He himself killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic—like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

He stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself.

He was just a kid. Did this Harry Potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys?

Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young.

Why did he hate him so much?

It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

He backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch repugnant enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yes, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

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