White

He's sixteen – or sixty, depending on how you looked at it. Either way, Tom Riddle is certain that a romantic relationship with an eleven-year-old girl is illegal. Not that he's ever really been one to follow the rules. TRGW

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

I'm tired. I feel like creating a new character for Tom – not the typical "witty, clever, scheming, particular, and stands in a corner watching everybody in silence" individual that I normally cast upon him. So excuse any blatant OOC, please. x) This is meant to be a brief overview of the behind-the-scenes diary look, so if things seem too rushed, I'm sorry.

Gah. Too lazy to make this canon. Oh well. Enjoy. Remember to reivew! xD

Key:

Tom

Ginny

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"Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted.... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her...."

-- Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

A diet on an eleven-year-old's fears cannot be healthy.

It's got to have some side effects, right?

When you're stuck in a diary for fifty-some-odd years, things change. Don't agree? Go kill somebody, stick your soul in a boring object, and maybe you'll understand.

See, there is absolutely nothing to do in a diary besides reflect on memories, analyzing and dissecting each thread of thought until you are appalled by the world.

There's really little you can control afterward. You either become sardonic or mournful, depending on your nature.

Then weird things happen to your mind. You go crazy. You are bored to the point of inanity that you are willing to – and God forbid – experiment. I completely agree. What a ghastly word. There are some concrete things that no one need question, and insanity has possessed me to either testify or bale.

I can't number the day when I actually decided to read what Ginny had scrawled into the diary. To actually consider her arguments instead of passing over them, immediately dismissing them as false.

Though I do know: whatever that day numbered to be, was the day the worst began to happen. That was the day I crossed over the threshold and burgeoned into this despicable creature.

You see, I, Tom Riddle, am now officially –

Wildly –

Passionately –

Utterly –

Fanatic.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Say, Ginny, I have been considering your romantic dilemma over Harry Potter, and I pondered on your definition of love.

Love? Well… I don't know how to put it. It's the warmth that makes you smile, I suppose. It's comfort and stability, a welcoming embrace.

Ah, yes… but how do you define "in love?"

"In love?" Excitement. Uncertainty. It's dangerous and alluring. It's the bliss of being the sole two individuals in a world of white.

Your phrasing proves to be innately interesting.

Really? How so?

You see, Ginny, you are the sole individual in my world of white pages.

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I assure you – if nothing else, I am thorough. I research my topics well. I would not name myself with such a derogatory adjective as "fanatic" had it not been ultimately true.

An eleven-year-old, with a fiery temper and a passionate voice transcribed through her words, began to spin my world sideways.

Given, her ideas weren't fully developed, and she sometimes lacked complete coherency as fervor overrode all, but she was only eleven. The difference was that I could see her mindset. I could taste her passion… and it was infectious. She had a way of luring me over even as I adamantly argued against her in heated debates. She had a way of luring me over even in normal conversation; and suddenly, her petty eleven-year-old woes became my own concerns, though I had inwardly mocked them before.

There was something appealing in her nature, something that could not be pinpointed onto any one characteristic. If anything, I suppose it was the total effect of her vivid personality: stubborn, clever, playful, intelligent, proud. She could be sly when she wanted to, though she was otherwise blunt. A more contrasting character to my own I could not find.

And then she defined "in love" – a concept I never considered before.

You cannot imagine my relief when I realized how far her definition was from my raging emotions, though such relief had surprised me at the time.

And yet, after considerable reflection, "in love" seemed to be the only term that fit.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

How did school treat you today?

It's all right. Normal, I guess. Do you always do that?

Do what?

Speak so formally. It's unnerving. I feel like I'm talking to a textbook rather than a diary at times.

I have always been cautious with my word choices. Language is an art. In a world of magic, the slightest error could destroy drastically. You should know as much, being a pureblood.

Yeah, when you're dealing with magic. This is friendly conversation. Don't you ever relax from your paranoia?

Paranoia?

Yes. That's what you are. Don't even bother denying it, because I'll shoot you down.

I "bother" to deny it.

Why? What am I to you? A toy? Honestly, now.

Honestly, you are an amusing acquaintance.

Only an amusing acquaintance? But – Tom – I thought we were friends. I mean, I loved you.

…Ginny, you know that…

Yes, I know. But hah! See? You couldn't even bring yourself to say the word "friend," you're so particular. You're afraid of what saying the word "friend" would mean, and how it would define our relationship – so you chose an absolutely neutral word. And I bet you flipped out at the word "love" too – it's way to strong and extreme of a verb for you to handle. You're absolutely paranoid of emotion!

…Clever.

No need for the dryness, Tom. You're just petulant that I beat you.

Honestly speaking, though, to answer your question – your common tongue has infiltrated my thought processes. I suppose you could say… your slang is "rubbing off" on me.

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And then whenever she closes that diary and puts you away for several hours, and whenever you are left to the recesses of your mind (an activity that you really should outlaw), you do what you used to: analyze your memories.

And this time, it'll be different, because now, alongside your own voice, there will be hers, proclaiming her own opinions, her own observations – and it's startling how much of it you begin to agree with, and how much the world still disgusts you… though now for entirely different reasons.

And that's the point when you will begin to realize how much she has influenced you; and you wonder, if you have even begun to corrupt her in the same way she has done to you.

A trade of souls, I suppose you can call it. Pouring a bit of your soul into the other.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tell me about yourself.

About myself?

Yes. I feel like I'm pouring all my worries into you, and you're just taking it all in. I never give you the chance to rant.

Ginny, I am but a journal. I exist for you to "rant" into.

You're not just a journal. You're Tom, and there's so much more to you than just a black cover and white pages. Like, how did you get in there? What happened? What were you like before you were just a book?

…If you want, I suppose I could show you…

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Strange, isn't it, that a person whose existence depends on a journal cannot keep track of time? But my journal was never dated. It was only ever words.

Then images were added to the equation. I can't supply the date that I first brought her within the bounded book with me, but her appearance startled me. With only her words, I had sometimes forgotten that she was a mere first year (until we encroached upon the topic of her numerous – and often frivolous – social insecurities).

Short, red hair, pale skin, brown eyes, freckles. Flat-chested and straight; no curves whatsoever. She was childishly cute, I suppose, and I could imagine the beauty she would become within a few years. But she was overwhelmingly young at the time, and it bade me to think: I was sixteen – or sixty, depending on how you looked at it. She was eleven.

She was so, so alarmingly young.

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It's Valentine's Day tomorrow.

How quaint. Do you mean to hint bluntly at something?

I want to write a sonnet for Harry, but I can't think of anything.

A sonnet?

Don't laugh, Tom.

I wasn't laughing at all. I'm afraid writing sonnets are not among my strengths, however.

Oh… but couldn't you try to help me?

I suppose I can offer my best.

Thank you, Tom – so much! You're the best friend I can ask for.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On the contrary, I can remember exactly the day when I realized that I had fallen "in love."

With an eleven-year-old, no less.

Wasn't that sort of thing supposed to be illegal? Sixteen (or sixty) with an eleven-year-old?

It was February 13th, the day before Valentine's Day. I remember – because of that sonnet I had agreed to help her write. Disgustingly enough, it was growing harder and harder to refuse her anything – and added to that was the temptation of ruining any possibility of a romantic sonnet altogether.

But even my sadistic tendencies could not explain that raging fury that erupted within me – a flame I later recognized as jealousy.

My hatred for the Boy-Who-Lived increased that day.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tom, I'm worried. There was another attack today and I don't remember where I was… I think I'm going mad… I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!

Ginny, you are not in the least mad. It may feel like it – I understand these harsh circumstances that have been wrought upon you (and during your first year, no less) to be traumatizing. I'm certain they are merely the effects of climaxing anxiety.

I don't know, Tom. These memory lapses of mine are occurring more and more often, and then next I turn, there's an attack. It can't just be a coincidence every time!

The shock of hearing of another attack may have stifled your memory. Once the attacker is found, I'm sure the pressure will be released and you'll recall your innocence perfectly.

But –

What you're experiencing is entirely normal, Ginny. It's merely survivor's guilt.

If you're sure…

I am. Now, I need to request a small favor from you. Nothing much, but this might help appease your conscience. Would you do it?

Of course, Tom.

I need you to come meet me in the Chamber of Secrets…

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It should end with perfection: just you and her, alone. You will have met at some point of equilibrium, or so you like to fancy; she will have purified you, and you will have defiled her. Your mark will forever scar her soul, and she is yours; and likewise are you hers.

Painfully romantic, in all senses of the term.

She was so tired, but she was supposed to be. She was still adapting to my soul. When she awoke again, it would have marked a new start and she would have woken refreshed, and we could have lived on as such: two fragments of life, satisfied with the other, and only the other.

In love, as Ginny called it. The bliss of being two sole individuals in a world of white.

Though I had never tasted her description of "excitement" and "uncertainty," I knew this was what she had meant.

She would love me. She had to. She did. Potter was no one; no one compared to me. She had to love me. Together, the two of us would have created a power I had never before known of.

Then Potter came.

Potter ruined it all before it even began, and my world of white succumbed to black.