Author's Note (Rewrite)
Hey all,
This is the full rewrite of my old fic "I Became Voldemort."
I Became Voldemort started as a translation, but I hated the plot by ch74, so I ditched it and wrote my own story from there → ended at ch345.
It ended up being a moderate success overall, but honestly, 20-30% readers dropped off early (before my original writing kicked in). The loyal ones who stayed? Absolute legends.
Same core idea (transmigrator in the diary as a Horcrux, OP anti-hero vs. real Voldemort with a terrifying Dumbledore), just way better executed.
Old readers: thanks for coming back. New ones: enjoy the glow-up.
Let's go!
____________
Silver-grey light drifted through the darkness, thin as mist at dawn, neither warm nor cold. It did not illuminate so much as remind the space that time still existed somewhere beyond it.
Elijah watched it without blinking.
He had long since lost any sense of how much time had passed. Days and nights had no meaning here. There was only awareness, suspended in a sealed fragment of existence, and the persistent fact that he was no longer whole.
He was not even truly a soul, only a shard bound to memory and magic, held together by a spell that had never been meant to house someone like him.
This fragment belonged to Voldemort.
More precisely, it was the Horcrux created during Tom Riddle's school years, the remnant of a sixteen-year-old boy who had already learned how to tear himself apart. The diary had once held Tom Riddle's consciousness, sharp and predatory, but that presence was gone now.
Whatever remained had fused around Elijah instead, filling the vacancy and completing the structure in a way no spell had anticipated.
Becoming a Horcrux was not a fate Elijah had ever imagined, even in the wildest excesses of transmigration fiction. He had read enough stories to recognize the usual patterns: humiliation, danger, desperate struggle for survival. But this was different.
He had awakened already dead, already trapped, already forced to consider resurrection as a prerequisite rather than a goal.
Worse still, there was nothing he could do but wait.
The diary could not move.
It could not act.
Until someone opened it and wrote within its pages, Elijah was sealed inside his own thoughts.
Only Tom Riddle's memories had spared him complete madness. Spells, theories, half-finished experiments, fragments of ambition sharp enough to cut. He revisited them endlessly, turning knowledge over and over like a coin worn smooth by handling.
And the more he examined them, the clearer it became that Tom Riddle had been extraordinary.
By his fifth year, Riddle had already mastered nearly the entirety of the Hogwarts curriculum. He had pushed beyond it with calculated restraint, slipping into the Restricted Section, absorbing Dark Arts with a precision that left no trace of recklessness. While other students were still stumbling through adolescence, Riddle had already begun shaping the world in his mind.
History's true movers had always been like this.
Dumbledore.
Grindelwald.
Men who decided, while still young, that the world as it existed was insufficient.
Grindelwald had nearly succeeded in remaking it, guided by principles forged in student debates and sharpened by war.
Voldemort's vision was narrower by comparison, but his talent was no less real.
Elijah was sifting through those memories when the space changed.
The silver haze stirred, disturbed as if by a breath from outside. Dark ink drifted downward, curling like smoke, settling into the emptiness. Letters formed, deliberate and clear.
"August 19th. Sunny."
Elijah reacted instantly.
Someone had written in the diary.
...
Ginny Weasley stared at the page in disbelief.
The words she had just written were gone, soaked away so completely that the paper looked untouched. The diary lay open on her desk, yellowed pages smooth beneath her fingers. Aside from the faded print on the cover and the faint name pressed into the back, there was nothing written anywhere.
Riddle.
She didn't recognize the name, but that hardly meant anything. All her books were second-hand. Someone had owned this diary before her. That much was obvious.
What no one had mentioned was that it might be magical.
Curiosity flared immediately, bright and uncontrollable. The summer alone had been enough to leave her buzzing with excitement. Harry Potter in her house. Her Hogwarts letter. And now this, hidden among books she had barely wanted to touch.
Ginny dipped her quill again.
"Today is a special day—"
The ink vanished as soon as it touched the page.
She turned the sheet over. Blank. No bleed-through, no smudge. It was as if the words had never existed.
Where had it gone?
She leaned closer, eyes wide, when letters began to appear on their own.
"Hello. Did anything good happen to you today?"
Ginny recoiled, dropping the quill and scrambling back from the desk. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she stared at the diary.
She knew the warnings. Every magical child did. Never trust something that thinks for itself. Anything with a mind and no visible brain was dangerous by definition.
Maybe she should tell Mum.
The thought came quickly, sharp with fear. And yet she didn't move. Another thought followed, quieter but persistent.
Mum had chosen the diary herself. If it were truly dangerous, surely she would have noticed. Molly Weasley didn't miss things like that.
Ginny hesitated, then bent down and picked up the quill again. The words were still there, waiting.
"Who are you?"
The question flashed and disappeared.
"My name is Tom Riddle. I am a memory left behind by the owner of this diary. Where did you find it?"
Ginny paused. She murmured Merlin under her breath.
"My mum bought it in the second-hand section at Flourish and Blotts."
The reply came quickly. "The second-hand section? Then you're a Hogwarts student as well?"
The word 'as well' warmed her in a way she didn't expect.
I'm starting my first year. Were you a student there too?
"I was. I've long since graduated. I never imagined this diary would end up with a young student bound for Hogwarts. Fate has a strange sense of humor. May I ask your name?"
Ginny hesitated, then wrote it carefully.
"Ginevra Molly Weasley. You can call me Ginny."
Another line began to form, but a sudden knock at the door made her jump. She slammed the diary shut.
"Ginny, dinner!" Molly's voice called. "Are you asleep? I've been calling you."
"No, Mum. I'm coming."
...
Elijah felt the diary close.
The connection snapped, leaving only silence. He had no sight, no sound, but the abrupt severing of awareness was unmistakable. A thin edge of anxiety cut through his composure.
She hadn't been discovered... right?
That was the important thing.
Tom Riddle had once begun his manipulation here, and Elijah had no intention of deviating from the opportunity now unfolding. If Ginny continued to write, the bond would deepen. He could wait. He had already waited far longer than this.
Originally, he had prepared two paths. If Lucius Malfoy had opened the diary, things would have been simpler. Dark wizards were not sentimental, and life-force was an easy currency among them. But Voldemort had never told Malfoy the diary's true nature. That avenue was closed.
So he would follow the original plan, with adjustments.
Absorb life. Influence reality. Restore form.
There was no need for a dramatic confrontation in the Chamber. No need for a childish duel with Harry Potter. Timing mattered more than spectacle. If he moved carefully, he could be gone before Dumbledore was ever recalled to the school.
No one needed to die. Even the cat would survive.
The roosters were unfortunate, but unavoidable.
Elijah dismissed the flicker of guilt as useless sentimentality.
Dumbledore remained the greatest risk. Outside Hogwarts, adult wizards were far harder to deceive, and Elijah had no body, no mobility, no alternative.
Once he had physical form, the Basilisk would ensure his escape. After that, the world would widen considerably.
Confession was never an option. A face like Tom Riddle's would only ever be read one way by Dumbledore, especially after the failure at the Philosopher's Stone.
—
Ginny ate dinner in silence, cheeks warm, barely listening as Ron and Harry talked across the table.
Harry smiled at her once, politely, then returned his attention to his plate. She fled back upstairs as soon as she could.
Once the door was locked, she returned to the desk. The diary lay exactly where she had left it. Old, smooth, untouched. Fifty years old, if the date on the cover was accurate.
Had Tom Riddle lived through that war?
She opened the diary again.
Fuu~ Nothing happened.
Reassured, she dipped her quill.
—
Elijah felt the connection bloom again, sharp and exhilarating.
"Hello, Mr. Riddle. Are you still there? Mum came in earlier. I don't know if I should tell her about you."
The moment hung delicately between them.
Elijah answered with care.
"You should. Magic items deserve caution. Any responsible witch would check. I'm honestly surprised you didn't before speaking to me. You were lucky this wasn't something truly dangerous. There are books that would trap you speaking only in verse."
Ginny laughed softly as she read.
"I wouldn't want that. I trust you, Mr. Riddle."
Heh~ Of course you do, Elijah thought, and steadied himself.
"When I was at Hogwarts, I was a Prefect. Later Head Boy. I received a special contribution award as well. It should still be in the trophy room."
"Really? That sounds like Percy. He's a Prefect too. He got twelve O.W.L.s, but he's a bit boring."
"Who is Percy?"
"My brother."
The conversation flowed easily after that.
At last, Ginny wrote, "I don't think I need to tell Mum. Just for now."
Elijah allowed himself the smallest satisfaction.
"Sometimes," he replied, "it's nice to have a little secret of your own."