[Ginny POV]
21/07/1992
Dear Diary,
Today Fred and George caused trouble again. They turned Ron's breakfast into a spider, and he screamed so loudly he fell straight off his chair. Mum nearly hexed them herself.
I'd just finished writing that when the ink began to fade.
At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the words really were disappearing—thinning, paling, until the page was completely blank. My stomach twisted as I stared at it, my fingers tightening around the quill.
Then new words appeared.
Hello?
Are you hurt?
I froze.
Before I could even breathe properly, another line formed.
Magic isn't meant to be used to harm others.
My heart started racing. I'd been taught since I was little that magical objects that could talk were dangerous. Cursed. Mum and Dad would tell me to stay far away from them.
Part of me wanted to run downstairs and hand the diary over immediately.
But it hadn't threatened me.
It had asked if I was hurt.
Swallowing, I picked up my quill again.
No, I wrote. I'm not hurt. But who are you?
The answer came smoothly, as if it had been waiting.
I am a memory left behind in this diary.
A memory? I frowned and wrote again.
Whose memory are you?
My name is Tom Riddle, it replied.
I was a fifth-year student at Hogwarts.
And you are?
My chest fluttered in a strange, pleasant way.
Ginevra Weasley, I wrote.
Nice to meet you, Ginerva.
I don't know why, but that made me smile. The diary sounded calm and polite—nothing like the dark, dangerous objects Mum warned us about.
How did you leave a memory of yourself in a diary? I asked.
There was a pause before the answer appeared.
I'm afraid I don't know, I don't understand how or why I exist like this.
That didn't seem right to me, so I wrote carefully.
Does that mean you've been trapped in the diary since it was made?
Yes.
My chest tightened.
What year was it?
1942.
I stared at the page, my throat going dry.
*Tom,* I wrote slowly, *I'm not sure how to say this, but it's been over fifty years.*
The diary stayed silent.
No words appeared at all.
Before I could think of what to say next, Mum's voice drifted upstairs.
"Ginny, dear! Dinner!"
"I'm coming!" I called back.
Reluctantly, I wrote one last line.
I have to go. My mum's calling me.
After a moment, I added:
I'll come back.
I tucked the diary under my pillow and left the room.
Walking downstairs, I couldn't stop thinking about Tom. About how long fifty years must feel when you're trapped inside a book. I wondered if he'd been asleep the whole time—if he'd only just woken up because of me.
At dinner, Mum asked me to fetch the boys from the garden. I nodded and went outside.
"Fred, George, Ron—dinner," I said. "Come on, or Mum'll be angry."
They followed me in, still laughing.
But my thoughts stayed somewhere else.
Mum noticed.
"Ginny, sweetheart," she said. "You seem miles away. Is everything all right?"
I jumped, realizing everyone was staring at me.
"It's fine," I said quickly. "I was just thinking about Hogwarts."
That seemed to satisfy them.
After dinner, I went straight upstairs and closed my door quietly behind me. For a moment, I stood there, wondering if I should tell Mum about the diary.
I decided not to.
I climbed into bed and reached under my pillow, my fingers brushing the diary's smooth cover.
I hesitated and after a moment, I tucked it back into place.
Tomorrow, I decided. I'll talk to Tom tomorrow.
[ Horcrux POV ]
As my consciousness faded into darkness, it returned just as suddenly. I woke suspended in a hollow void, a space devoid of light or form, and before I could make sense of it, memories crashed into me all at once. Two lives collided violently—two endings replayed in agonizing clarity. The final moments of both were unbearable, and I couldn't stop myself from screaming before everything collapsed into darkness once more.
When I woke again, the pain was gone.
In its place were memories—two complete sets. One belonged to Charles. The other belonged to Tom Marvolo Riddle. My eyes widened as understanding settled in, slow and horrifying.
I had become Tom fucking Riddle.
The immortality-obsessed fanatic. The self-proclaimed Dark Lord. A delusional wizard who preached pure-blood supremacy despite being half-blood himself. The man who plunged magical Britain into a dark age, terrorizing countless witches and wizards, and crowned himself the alleged Heir of Slytherin. A Horcrux.
I cursed my fate and forced myself to think logically. What year is it? Harry Potter took place somewhere in the 1990s—was I close to canon, or trapped decades too early? Merlin forbid I'd landed right after Riddle first created this abomination.
I delved back into Riddle's memories, this time with intent. He had been… exceptional. His spell repository surpassed the Hogwarts curriculum by an enormous margin, and that was without accounting for entire branches of magic the school never taught. Theory, experimentation, adaptation all of which Riddle pursued obsessively.
Occlumency stood out the most. Grade Three mastery, according to his own framework—comparable to elite Aurors. Wizards at that level were already qualified to attempt the ICW Mastery Certification, and Dumbledore himself had been a certified Grade Four specialist in the mind arts while Riddle was still a student.
The Dark Arts archive was immense but methodical rather than reckless. Alchemy featured heavily, particularly soul alchemy, which played a huge part in the creation of horcruxes
I began experimenting.
To my surprise, I could cast spells within the diary. That shouldn't have been possible. In the films, Riddle needed to possess Ginny and drain her life force to manifest magic. Yet here I was, shaping spells freely. The only explanation was the Essence of the Blank.
Time passed—how much, I couldn't tell, but I felt the change. My soul was growing denser, more cohesive. Each day, my control improved, and spells that once required effort came effortlessly. At this rate, interfering with the outside world might be possible far sooner than canon ever allowed.
That realization brought genuine satisfaction.
[A few weeks later]
Riddle had spent most of his existence dormant. Using magic weakened him, forcing prolonged periods of deep sleep. I didn't share that limitation.
Spellcraft became my way of staving off boredom—testing, refining, and pushing theory into application. Recently, I'd been working on a spell inspired by Sectumsempra, though with a more insidious design. Not merely to wound, but to linger. The idea was simple: physical damage paired with a corrosive magical effect—burning, spreading, resisting conventional countermeasures.
Elegant. Efficient.
I was preparing to begin another refinement cycle when a ripple passed through the diary.
Someone was writing.
My focus snapped outward immediately, anticipation flaring as words began to form on the page.
Finally.
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Let me know if you liked the chapter and feel free to suggest ideas for spells and fan made theories for power scaling. I might use them in the story, who knows?
Anyways give me power stones if you don't want Voldemort to touch you.