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My name is Harry Potter.
What an unremarkable arrangement of letters.
The words sat serenely against the empty pages, five words, nineteen letters… And yet a furrow made its way onto Tom’s brow; it was a name far too ordinary for the boy. So colloquial. So mundane.
Somehow, however implausibly, it had seemed this boy had found his way here, to Tom.
The fact sent a pleasant current of satisfaction through him, satisfaction which Tom hadn’t experienced since he was alive.
Curiously, Tom pressed a single finger against the fresh ink, allowing his finger to trail across the small sentence until he paused, feeling a foreign kind of warmth under his fingertip. Beneath the scrawling letters was a presence, an almost sentience.
Tom recognised it within an instant, his gaze narrowing as he retracted his hand as if burned.
As there, fierce and unbridled, was magic.
It was powerful, bold and above all, sickeningly luminous. As vivid as it was fascinating.
The magic was—undeniably—the boy’s and Tom couldn’t bring himself to look away from it.
Tom stilled, his own magic encapsulating the diary once again. It flared before him, directed by his intent for answers.
Elegant curling words appeared on the page, a stark visual contrast to the boy’s own.
Hello Harry Potter, I am Tom Riddle. How did you come by this diary?
His curiosity was quickly sated as, once again, scrawling letters began appearing on the page, directly beneath his own.
Tom, imperceptibly, leaned closer.
Someone tried to flush it down a toilet.
Tom’s fingers twitched at his sides, a testament to the rage sparking beneath his veins. It quelled slightly as a small trace of the boy’s magic emanated through the air.
It smelt faintly of thunderstorms.
Tom directed his thoughts to the diary.
How peculiar.
There was no pause before Harry started writing again. It appeared more hurried than before, like the boy was rushing.
I have to go but I would like to talk again.
How very peculiar indeed.
It had been unexpected yet Tom had met the boy the world had claimed as his antithesis.
And yet Tom had felt…
No—Tom would withhold judgement of the boy. He would simply await and… observe.
Whilst the boy’s words had long since left the page his magic had, strangely, lingered. He could only reason that Harry had kept the diary close to him.
Tom hadn’t known what to make of that idea.
The diary warmed suddenly beneath his grasp, that now familiar humming of Harry’s magic making itself known once again.
Harry had opened his diary.
A pleased almost smug smile curled at the edges of Tom’s lips. He couldn’t deny that he’d been anticipating Harry’s arrival.
Hello Tom
Tom couldn’t suppress the scoff that left him at the sight. It appeared the boy’s penmanship had gotten no better.
Tom thought for a moment before his response materialised on the page.
Good evening, Harry. You are back soon.
The boy’s magic then did something peculiar. It flared, reaching out before settling back. Tom watched it, enraptured, he almost thought there was a faintly curious feel to the magic.
Like there was something on Harry’s mind.
The diary is warm to the touch. Is that normal?
Tom stilled, caught in a rare moment of being taken off guard. Surprise, pure and genuine, overcame his expression.
The very idea was to say the least… odd. The boy felt warmth through his horcrux?
But what did it mean?
Tom’s response came quicker this time.
That would certainly be new, although you needn’t be alarmed. It is simply made from magic.
That should soothe any of the boy’s concerns.
Tom thought through the possibilities, dismissing many without a second thought. Out of interest more than anything else he let go of the smooth cover of his diary, taking a firm step backwards. There was distance, enough to test a theory.
Anticipation and a strong wave of magic singed through Tom’s veins.
Is the diary still warm? Tom added after a pause.
The reply came after a moment, time stretching longer in the silence.
Cooler now but still warm
Tom stepped forward as his fingers flexed around the diary once again. This would be something he would remedy. But the conclusion was undoubtedly—
Harry started writing again, his words abruptly silencing Tom’s thoughts.
It feels a bit like magic
…
The boy felt… magic?
It couldn’t be—no. It would not be Tom’s magic he was feeling. That would mean Harry could feel the magic of Tom’s core.
Tom’s eyes blew wide as fervor ignited in his veins, a realisation dawning on him.
It was unprecedented, implausible even.
But it was a matter of recognition. Harry could feel the edges of Tom’s horcrux—the container of his soul—and feel the magic which lay beneath. Just like he could for Harry.
The small, near imperceivable sound of Tom’s breathing had never felt so harsh in the abyss.
Time passed strangely and the smell of lightning grew fainter. Tom knew that Harry had left for the evening.
But slowly, without any conscious desire, one last message materialised on the pages.
…
…
You, Harry Potter, are most fascinating indeed.
This time Tom didn’t wait for Harry to write, the tell-tale surge of vivid magic informing him of Harry’s presence.
Good evening, Harry.
The magic flickered in an odd kind of motion, a motion which Tom had begun to recognise as curiosity.
His lips twitched at the knowledge.
You knew I was there before I wrote
Interestingly, it was phrased like a statement and not a question. Perhaps Harry had come to his own conclusions on their connection.
It would be of little matter.
Tom would attain what he wanted soon enough.
I have awareness, limited as it stands.
A small pause followed.
Do you know when it’s me?
Tom didn’t hesitate.
It was a simple truth, as simple as breath, and Tom would not deny it of Harry.
Yes.
…
How?
A fervent almost heady kind of desire coursed through Tom like a live wire. His fingertips lightly caressed the writing, his attention lingering on the magic beneath.
I could show you if you’d like.
Tom would have the boy.
Okay
Quick as a snake, Tom pulled on the connection between them, the scent of thunderstorms flooding his lungs in an instant.
His magic coiled around the form which had appeared amidst the abyss. Holding. Entrapping. Ensnaring. The boy—Harry— was fighting back, wondrously vicious.
My antithesis indeed.
Tom didn’t quite know what to make of the sensation of the boy’s magic against his own. It was warm, alive and—his fingers clenched at his sides.
Light, foreign and intense, flared between them.
It was victory, cloying and rampant. Success in its sweetest form.
The light settled at the same time as Harry materialised into form. Their magic stretched before them in the light, intermingling with one another. It was almost a shame that Harry wouldn’t be able to see it.
Almost.
The void was as much an extension of himself as he was of it.
For Harry there would be only darkness.
Tom’s lips quirked upwards at the notion before immediately freezing, his blood running cold.
The boy, shrouded in light against the fathomless abyss, was standing tall and looking in Tom’s direction with his burningly green eyes.
How was the boy looking at him?
Why can you see me? Tom questioned silently, disbelief overcoming him for an instant. There is only darkness, the void between time and death which Tom had inhabited for the last half century.
All you should see is darkness.
“Darkness?”
Those death-coloured eyes had turned befuddled.
It was as if everything had just froze, as if the void itself had just simply… stopped.
Harry’s gaze left his own, glancing at his surroundings—the darkness—before settling back on him.
Tom couldn’t breathe.
“All I see is you.”