The black cover of the rather empty journal stared back at her.

She wrote in it once, and she was promptly creeped out by what happened afterwards. It started writing back to her in a, if she didn't know any better, rather attractive script. (It was so refined and pretty...)

Being a muggle-born student, she didn't know if that was normal or not. She knew that journals never wrote back and they certainly don't chat with the journalist. Therefore, she immediately closed the book and turned a blind eye to it, leaving her future self to do something with it later.

It took her nearly two weeks of dedicated and intentional evasion of the diary before her curiosity held her by the quill, and forced her to write something, anything. She should write something. It was an empty journal, for goodness's sake. (Granted, it soaked up and she was worried that she'd forget what she wrote there in the first place. Not a very good journal overall.)

She could pour her heart out, perhaps, over how much her fellow Ravenclaws taunted her for her stupidity. Perhaps how much she thought Potter was cute; perhaps how much she found Charms and Transfiguration and flying on a broom rather exhilarating; perhaps writing something to make her feel superior when she really shouldn't, because it wasn't her place to say so, and it just wasn't a part of her to feel superior to others; perhaps...

Instead, her ink dripped, and dripped, and...

After a tentative pause of what could be no longer than a minute but felt just as long and even longer, her hands set to work.

Hello?

She waited only a few seconds. Perhaps she wouldn't get another response like last time; maybe that time was a fluke. Maybe someone is pulling some huge prank on her, or...

The script flowed out in ink, growing and curling into something neat and elegant. Easy on the eyes, but stylish, neat, and a style that she may want to have imitated at least once in her life. Welcome back. It seems that I still do not know who you are. Who might this be?

Aside from staring with fascination over the handwriting, she was surprised that a diary could remember. How does a diary remember who wrote on it? Magic, of course, most likely, but what...?

I find it strange that there exists diaries that can, well—write back. Would you be an actual person? Or are you some kind of—

She trailed off in her ink, unsure how to phrase such an item. Thankfully, the writing appeared just as quickly to save her from her thoughts.

You would not be the first one to believe so. I wager that I would not be the first one, either, but I would not put it aside that there are others.

So are you sentient?

Depends on how you assume sentience is.

And how did you know it was me, again?

My dear, your handwriting is fairly distinct.

There was a distinct air of... amusement in the writing.

Was the diary mocking her for her rather neat handwriting? For the record, she prided herself on her handwriting! That was pretty much the only thing she was good at! She was about to pen such a thought, but the rather neat handwriting continued to write itself.

After all, I have yet to seen such a tidy and elegant script written in all these years.

All of a sudden, the room felt a little more hotter than it did a few seconds ago. Or was it her cheeks heating up again? Her surprise allowed her to keep writing instead of wasting valuable ink. (She should probably get new quills instead of a traditional quill and ink. Aren't there self-filling quills or some things like that on the market?)

Thank you, I suppose.

May I have the honor of knowing your name?

Lisabeth Carton. Do you have a name?

Hello, Lisabeth Carton. Interesting name. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come across this diary?

So, you are aware that you are a diary? You must have some semblance of sentience, at the very least. Um, I don't quite remember. I think in the unused girl's bathrooms. I was bored to say the least.

I find it rather fortunate that I spelled both the bindings and the ink to be rather formidable against water.

...How did you know it was in water?

I just know.

As she wrote and wrote, she thought about this Tom Riddle entity. This Riddle 'spelled' the book and any ink touched to still function after having water dumped all over it. That would be impossible for some simple diary, unless it was actually a person's doing... Maybe it used to be an old student's book? Who knows. Maybe a trip to the library will have some solutions.

So are you some sort of person in a diary, then?

To be exact, a memory.

Oh. How does that work?

Are you, perhaps, a Ravenclaw?

Again, the room seemed to be warmer. Her cheeks were flaming red, probably. How did this... memory even know? A good guess?

The deliberate evasion of the question didn't leave unnoticed, either. She left it as it is. Let this Tom Riddle answer as he pleases. (At least, she had the feeling that this Tom Riddle was a guy...)

Yes, I am. How did you know?

Thought so. I have yet to come across someone as inquisitive as you are. Others often babble and write on until their wrists tire.

She couldn't help but chuckle at this Tom's jab at people. Humane enough for her. So you are a person.

Again, a memory; but yes, if it makes you comfortable.

Interesting. She had nothing else to write at that moment.

A slight pause. Should she confide into such a memory? It was meant to be a diary, after all. Maybe the whole memory thing was just something to make it more like a friend-in-a-pocket. Who knows.

In any case, it was already an hour past her usual bed time of ten or eleven, and she was getting fairly tired from it. Her morning classes would be a wreck if she didn't get enough rest for the night.

I will see you soon, I suppose, Riddle. It's very late, and I would like to attend Potions with an open mind.

A pleasure meeting you, miss Carton. Good night.

'Likewise,' she thought, not writing any more as she closed the book and retired to her bed.

Her roommates were long asleep while she was writing. It was an unspoken routine; they went to sleep before she did, as she had all sorts of things to catch up on like reading or writing even more than what was usually required for an essay. While some of her peers were mostly socializing all the time, she would read and study on the things that she wished to study.

She wouldn't call herself a Granger with how little she studies compared to that girl, but all the same, she felt that it was appropriate to compare herself to Granger in terms of habits. It was a good thing that some other Ravenclaws were of the similar thought, so she could easily blend in some circles without actually doing much.

The diary—Tom Riddle—came at a rather convenient time for her. She didn't have much outlets to let steam off, anyway. This was a great chance for her to finally let some things out like other people do when they complain to their friends. Her other friends didn't really pay much attention to her, so she found herself more often than not lonelier than some others. Keeping a diary was the last thing she ever thought of; naturally, she had no interest in keeping a diary with her.

It didn't bother her at first, but as she slid underneath her comfortable blankets, her thoughts drifted to how little socializing she gets at Hogwarts. A potentially new friend.

She fell asleep with a smile, thinking of the diary and its strange keeper with the name Tom Riddle.

.A/N. Of course, I don't own Harry Potter.

As with mostly anything and everything I write, this was something I wanted to write out but didn't know how to go about it. A messy premise, a messy explanation as to how it may happen, and a messy story progression. Ya feel?

No promises for any progress in this any time soon as school is pretty much in session, but I suppose if I have some inspiration and motivation I'll see if I can make something more than half-decent out of this idea.

Thank you for your interest.

( ﾟДﾟ)