Chapter Text
Holly knew from the moment she first laid eyes on Tom Riddle that she had a crush.
The concept of a crush was, of course, nothing foreign to her—when you lived in a dorm full of girls, gossip always managed to find its way from one person to the next, and half the time, the gossip was always about love. Who had a crush on whom? Who asked who out? Who broke up with whom?
Holly had always listened to the conversations with half a heart—love had never interested her particularly, and Holly had yet to experience the so-called flutter of butterflies in her stomach or rising heat in her cheeks that was meant to signify that she had a crush on someone. Sure, Hogwarts had its fair share of people that Holly thought were handsome or cute, but none had particularly grabbed her attention. She had her friends, Hermione and Ron, and that was enough for her. She didn’t need some silly little crush to distract her.
Unfortunately for her, that all changed when a mysterious and all too charming Tom Marvolo Riddle entered the equation.
It wouldn’t be a lie to say that Holly had been fascinated by Voldemort when she first learned of him from Hagrid.
How could she not be when in this great story that Hagrid weaved about her being some sort of “Girl-Who-Lived”, Voldemort was at the very centre of it?
But back then, to her, he had only ever been a mere concept or idea—a supposedly dead man that haunted the past. And so she embarked on her first year of Hogwarts with a spirited heart, embracing her first-ever proper freedom from the Dursleys. She learned how to make feathers float and turn matchsticks into needles. She wrestled trolls, helped smuggle a dragon, and even uncovered the mystery of the third-floor corridor.
And then she met Voldemort in person and discovered that he was, in fact, very much not dead and had been stuck on the back of Professor Quirrell’s head for the past year. The situation rose into a scuffle for the philosopher’s stone, where Holly had, by some miracle, triumphed, and Voldemort had fled.
But of course, it seemed that even with him gone, Voldemort still managed to haunt her existence in the form of an old leather-bound diary that went by the name Tom.
She had found the diary washed up on the floor of the girls’ bathroom one day back in her second year. It hadn’t seemed anything special at the time, the pages empty and slightly weathered by time, and the diary soon eventually found a home at the bottom of her trunk, forgotten.
She never made the connection that the attacks stopped after she found the diary—after all, how could the old artefact ever cause any harm? Nor did she ever pause to consider the strangeness of how familiar the diary had felt in her hands when she first picked it up.
So, Holly was very confused when one day she found herself lying on her bed, turning the diary over in her hands. Perhaps it was a product of boredom that she found herself seeking the diary. She had never been particularly into journaling before, but she had often seen Lavender and Parvati giggling softly as they wrote in a diary using fancy quills. Holly had never understood what was so entertaining, but maybe this was her chance to try it out?
Holly stretched her arm, reaching out to the tabletop to nab a pen (she wasn’t bothered to pull out an inkpot for her quill) and pressed the diary flat, and as neatly as she could, wrote the date in the top left corner of the page.
Dear diary,
Holly paused, unsure of how to continue. What did one usually write about in their diary?
Detention with Lockhart went horribly. The git made me go through his stupid fan letters. How that man has fans, I don’t know. I can’t believe I have detention with him again next week. Even worse, I have to see him in class tomorrow.
People say there’s a curse on the defence against the dark arts position—no teacher has lasted more than a year for a long time. If the curse is real, I hope it hits Lockhart soon. Sometime between now and my class tomorrow would be ideal.
Idly, Holly spun her pen in her hand, slowly starting to understand the appeal of journaling. There was simply something so riveting about letting out all her pent-up thoughts that she wasn’t able to say aloud.
However, before Holly could continue writing, the words seemed to seep into the page, completely disappearing.
And then, like magic, words started bleeding onto the page.
Hello there, I’m sorry to hear about your detention. I’m Tom Riddle, a memory preserved in this book, intended to aid its users. May I have your name?
Holly’s pen faltered over the page. She had never considered that books could be charmed to write back. Now that she thought about it, a book like that did seem like a pretty nifty thing to have around.
Holly Potter, but you can just call me Holly.
Then it is only natural that you call me Tom.
Holly took a moment to admire just how neat Tom’s cursive was. Her primary school had tried teaching them how to write in cursive, but it had never come quite naturally to her. Suddenly, a spark of inspiration struck her.
Do you know about the Chamber of Secrets?
Tom’s response came quickly.
Yes, I was once a student at Hogwarts fifty years ago. Back then, the Chamber and its monster were a mere legend. In my fifth year, however, the Chamber was opened, resulting in the death of a girl.
Holly frowned. I’ve never heard about that, she quickly scribbled.
I would be surprised if you did. The incident was brushed under the rug—the Ministry didn’t want parents taking their students out of Hogwarts.
The Chamber has been opened again, though. Students have been petrified. Holly paused before deciding to continue writing, her hands trembling ever so slightly. People think I’m the Heir of Slytherin—that I’m the one attacking students.
And would I be correct to assume that you are not? I understand—it must be rather frustrating being falsely accused of another’s crimes. Though I’m curious as to why people would suspect you of being the heir. As far as I’m aware, the Potters are not descended from Salazar Slytherin.
Holly pursed her lips slightly. I don’t know how, but somehow I can speak to snakes.
Tom seemed to take longer than usual to respond.
While I can’t answer where you got the ability from, as I cannot trace your lineage, I can say that there is no shame in being a parselmouth. It is simply another language, is it not? Think of it as a gift.
Unfortunately, that is not a sentiment shared by most. But thank you, it does make me feel a little better.
Of course, I’m always here to help, came the silky reply.
You mentioned you were a student once. What was Hogwarts like back then? She asked, curious to know more about this mysterious Tom Riddle.
I can show you.
Holly let out a deep breath she didn’t know she had been holding.
It was only seconds after scribbling a hasty affirmative that the wind started to pick up around her, and Holly felt herself being sucked into the diary.
And that was when she first saw him.
Handsome was the first word that came to mind when she saw him.
He seemed to be in the middle of a class, but Holly paid the class no attention.
All her attention was concentrated on him.
He possessed the kind of beauty that didn’t ask for attention, and yet demanded it all the time.
His features were deliberate, as if a masterful sculptor had taken the time to carefully carve each curve of skin to artistic perfection. Nothing about him felt accidental—not the sharp line of his jaw, nor the quiet symmetry of his brows.
Holly had never thought it possible for a person to glow among all things.
His smooth, pale skin seemed to draw the light towards it, and the light seemed to dance, delicately playing with the ridges and grooves of his face. Against it, his hair fell dark and thick, moving between inky black and dark brown depending on the light. And there, falling elegantly upon his forehead, was a stray lock of hair that rested right above his brow.
And those eyes–
Holly licked her lips slightly.
They held a weight in them. A quiet intensity. Holly could only wonder as to what thoughts lay behind those eyes.
In a trance, Holly watched as he answered the professor’s question.
Gosh, even his voice was perfect—a rich voice, yet to fully deepen, but still with its boyish charm.
Something dangerous curled within her—a foreign feeling she had yet to process.
Want.
She took another moment to look at the boy in front of her.
Yes, she decided. He was perfect.
And she wanted more.