Tom knows that he's not real, that he's nothing more than a construct designed to affix his creator's immortal soul to the physical plane, but he has come to realize that he has attained a level of sentience. He knows that he thinks, that he feels, and that he remembers; that's all he can do. His universe is solely composed of a few incidents plucked out of his sixth year at Hogwarts, and he is doomed to relive them, ad infinitum. In the beginning, he tried changing things, but Dippet and Dumbledore and everyone else he encounters in this netherworld are all simulacrums of their real selves, incapable of original thought; his every interaction with any of them is nothing more than a crude re-enactment of the thousands of eerily similar conversations they've had before.

He's trapped here, secreted away, hovering on the brink of eternity forever.

He spends a lot of time in the library, reading his way through history, and philosophy, and magic. He takes his time to examine the books in the Restricted Section of the library. He was able to get into it before, but now he has the time and the patience to leisurely explore each and every book.

But some days, he finds that boring. He's read through nearly every text and tome and grimoire at least three times now.

So he sometimes just tries to sleep his way through being, but it seems that the soothing shores of slumber are impossible to reach in this relentless ocean of oblivion he drifts in, second after second after second. Time doesn't exist here, not really. How can it, when he never ages, when summer's budding gaiety never matures into the subdued majesty of autumn?

And then, the words appear.

Dear Diary,

I found you today, just lying there in my cauldron, underneath a stack of books. I think I'm going to try to write in you as often as possible.

The letters hover around him. The writer is obviously a student, maybe even a first year. Even though he's sure he's going to have to endure the petty, dull natterings of a child, he's excited to have some contact with another real, thinking being. He'll have fun now, for the first time since he was folded into a memory and lost in a dream.

He grabs a sheet of paper, and begins to write. He knows how the diary works, how words inscribed in it appear in the air before him, and how he can will his written words to materialize within it.

What's your name?

Ginny Weasely.

My friends call me Tom.

It's not true, not really; he doesn't have friends. He has teachers, and subordinates, and even acquaintances, but no friends. But he wants the girl to feel comfortable around him, to confide her deepest secrets to him. They'll be boring, her stupid little dreams and feelings, but he needs to know them to know her. Only then will he be able to play her, to craft her into the pretty little toy she'll need to be to amuse him.

Tell me about yourself.

I'm eleven years old, and I just started Hogwarts this year. I'm a Gryffindor.

His lips curl at that. Gryffindors, with their obtuse courage and mindless bravery, were so trusting, so naïve. This wouldn't be nearly as fun as it would've been if a Slytherin had found his diary, or even a Ravenclaw. It would be easy, too easy, to break her, and his fun would be over much too soon. Maybe he'd get her to leave the diary with someone else when he finished with her.

I kind of miss Mum and Dad. I've only been gone for a few days, but it feels so much longer. And I'm so lonely here. I haven't made any friends yet, and the other girls in my room aren't very nice.

So the poor little dear is lonely. Until she spends an eternityalone, he's not going to feel too sympathetic.

Four of my brothers are here with me, but they ignore me too. Percy's too busy being a perfect prefect, and the twins are really popular because of all of the pranks they play. Ron's just older than me, and spends all of his time with Harry and Hermione. Hermione's nice, and even talks to me sometimes. Today at breakfast she asked me how I was settling in.

But Harry ignores me. I know that everyone wants to be his friend, because he's the Boy Who Lived . . .

Tom stops reading. Boy Who Lived. The appellation trembles within him. It tugs on his spirit and his creator's will, on the very threads that tie him to this plane. He wants, needs to find out more about this boy, whose epithet touched him so deeply.

He eagerly turns back to the floating, flowing words that are waiting for him to acknowledge them.

I know that everyone wants to be his friend, because he's the Boy Who Lived, but I kind of wish he'd pay more attention to me. I am his best friend's sister, and he did spend the summer at my house.

She stays silent for a moment, probably musing about the sad little crush she probably doesn't even realize she has. He needs her to tell him more about this Harry, about this Boy Who Lived, so he decides to encourage her a little bit.

Tell me more about him. What does it mean that he's the 'Boy Who Lived'?

She starts babbling. She's obviously excited to talk about her crush. He's happy he doesn't need to listen to her talk.

Harry's really, really famous, because eleven years ago, a dark wizard, He Who Must Not Be Named, tried to kill him, and he survived. And the Dark Lord went missing after he tried to Avada Kedavra Harry. Everyone knows about Harry, and what he did when he was just a baby.

Who's He Who Must Not Be Named?

If there's a dark wizard running around that might be a threat his creator, he wants to know about it. Eternity may be mind-numbingly tedious, but he'd rather be bored than dead; if this wizard really was determined to kill his creator, he'd eventually find out about the Horcruxes, and Tom will find himself killed by Fiendfyre or something if he isn't careful.

I can't say. Nobody likes to say his name.

She does seem a bit nervous. Her handwriting, so neat and precise before, has become shaky, spiky.

I'm sure it's alright if you write it.

She's silent for a long time. He sighs. He's going to have to beg. He doesn't like submitting, isn't very good at it. He can pretend for a bit, though, if he needs to.

Please? For me?

A V appears quickly, and then fades, as if she tried to rub it out.

Ginny?

The letters form slowly, hesitatingly. A V first, and then an o. And then the rest of the letters, jumbled and prickly and skittish.

Voldemort.

He looks at the word floating before him, surprised. That's the name he spent several tedious Potions lectures crafting. Apparently, he did manage to achieve his life-long ambition of becoming a feared Dark wizard, if this little girl's reaction was anything to go by.

What happened to the Dark Lord, Ginny, after he tried to kill Harry?

He died.

Voldemort didn't die, not quite. He couldn't have, not while Tom was around to keep him immortal. He doesn't quite think he needed to tell her that, though.

Obviously, something happened that night, when he tried to kill the boy. He needs to find out more, to know why his future self risked becoming ethereal and incorporeal in order to kill a baby.

And, of course, he's going to need to take revenge for his indisposed creator.

He thinks, tries to remember what resources he has handy in the castle. He's going to have Ginny open the Chamber of Secrets first, he decides. It's been a while since he last played with his pet.

He's going to be needing a body. He can get it back, if he forms enough of a connection with this little bint that he can feed off of her life energy. He'll actually have to pretend to care, but she's so starving for affection that it won't be too hard.

Tom smiles. This next little while will be fun. He has a mystery to solve for his future self, and a boy to haunt.

Maybe eternity won't be as bad as he thought it would be.

fin.

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