For the Devil to Dance Again [tomarry]

11. t. m. riddle

Ignoring his friends, Harry moved forward, almost against his will. At least, he was moving without thought, without intention, as if his body and mind were separate beings.

"What is it, Harry?" he heard, but it was like being underwater. The voice was distant and distorted, and he didn't even know who spoke.

Light flooded the room, and Harry saw that it was lined with shelves, each displaying a different object. But he cared nothing for them.

It was the books he was after. Or, at least, one of the books.

With a trembling hand, he reached out and took the black, leather-bound tome. It felt right in his hand, as if it was always meant to be there, and his mind cleared, the fog over his thoughts and actions gone.

"What is that?" Pansy asked, whispering.

"I don't know. My father said never to touch it," Draco replied, his voice equally quiet. "I always thought it was cursed."

"Draco!" came the stern voice of Lucius Malfoy, as if summoned. "What are you doing down there?"

Four of them turned as one.

But Harry slipped the book into his pocket, unnoticed and uncaring of the consequences. He couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to. Because the book was like the diadem, and unlike every other dark object in the cellar.

His.

Draco was explaining to his father that his friends were just curious, and that they just wanted to have a look. Mr. Malfoy looked stern but understanding, and Harry felt a flash of jealousy for their relationship. No doubt Draco would get a talking-to, and then life would return to normal.

Hardly a consequence to be feared. So Harry didn't pay much attention, though he had arranged his face in a guilty sort of expression.

As they filed out of the room, Lucius placed a hand on his should.

"I think I need hardly say this, Harry, but your father-"

"I won't tell him about the room, Lucius," he said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "He hardly needs to know."

Mr. Malfoy smiled at him.

"Good lad," he said, and Harry climbed the stairs.

The rest of the party was a blur. He remembered his friend asking him if he was alright, if he was hurt, but Harry managed to reassure them somehow. He, in fact, managed to act completely normally, though he was unsure how he did it.

The diary, for somehow he was sure it was a diary, was burning in his pocket.

The rest of the party seemed to last forever, but eventually, it ended, and Harry followed his family back through the floo. He barely stayed long enough to listen to his mother wish him a good night before rushing up to his bedroom and locking the door behind him.

Still in his dress robes, Harry sat at his desk and examined the book. It was black leather, and on the first page was inscribed the name, T. M. Riddle. He flipped through it, but other than that and the name of the shop it came from printed on the back, it was completely blank.

But that didn't deter Harry, who opened the book to the second page and dipped his quill in black ink.

My name is Harry Potter, he wrote, not sure what he was doing or why, just that it felt right. As if it was the only thing he could do.

Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. The words bled into the paper, in the same black ink that Harry was using. How did you come by my diary?