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Tom: Who is he?
Richie: You don't know him.
Tom's handwriting paused for a second, then continued.
Tom: You're right—I don't. I'm just curious… You know, this diary isn't ordinary. It's… special.
Richie's eyes narrowed slightly. He wrote back.
Richie: Special? Besides this piece of your memory, what else is special about it?
Tom: Isn't that enough? I can answer you anytime, anywhere. I can talk to you, listen when you need to vent. Whenever you want, I'm right here—your own personal companion.
Richie rolled his eyes at the line.
Richie: I don't need one.
Tom: Yes, you do.
Tom: Everyone feels lonely. Some people just haven't noticed it yet. Only real companionship drives the loneliness away. Do you have friends?
Richie waited a beat, guessing where this was headed, then wrote.
Richie: Yes.
Tom: I mean real friends—the kind you'd trust with every secret you have.
Richie raised an eyebrow and left the quill still.
A moment later Tom's elegant script appeared again.
Tom: That's fine. You don't have to answer right away. It doesn't matter anymore, because from now on you have me.
Tom: I'm only a fragment of someone else's memory, trapped inside this shabby little book. No one knows I exist except you.
Tom: You know what, Elliot? You're the first person I've spoken to in more years than I can count—and the only one I can talk to.
Tom: Maybe it's fate. You and I are both headed for something extraordinary.
The overly sweet lines made Richie's stomach turn, but he kept up the act and wrote back.
Richie: Really? You're that impressive?
Tom: Of course! I was the greatest wizard Hogwarts has ever seen. Twelve O.W.L.s—all Outstanding. Even Dumbledore…
Tom: Ah, I'm getting ahead of myself. You probably wouldn't understand. Is Dumbledore still headmaster at Hogwarts? Is the Ministry still the same?
Richie: Headmaster Dumbledore has always been at Hogwarts. As for the Ministry, I only know one name—Fudge is the Minister.
Tom's handwriting paused again before reappearing.
Tom: Is that so… Dumbledore… headmaster? He's still alive. That's good.
Tom: He was my teacher once. He was very kind to me. We didn't always see eye to eye, but I'm still grateful.
Richie's eyes widened. So the big boss had actually been Dumbledore's student—and they'd been close?
Did that make Harry his junior?
What kind of twisted "I'm jealous of the teacher's favorite so I'll drag the whole world down with my love" drama was this?
A chill ran down Richie's spine. Something felt off. He wrote straight into the diary.
Richie: It's getting late. I need to sleep. Let's talk tomorrow.
Tom: All right. One last favor?
Tom: Could you tell me what year it is?
Richie: 1992.
The page stayed blank for a long time. When the words finally appeared, they came slowly.
Tom: So much time has passed…
Richie stared at the line, then closed the diary.
He tucked it away inside his expanded suitcase study, walked back to his bedroom, and lay down on the bed. For the next few minutes he replayed every word of the conversation with Tom Riddle.
The guy was clearly full of it.
Claiming he was "just a memory"? Bullshit. A memory couldn't think for itself or hold a real back-and-forth conversation like a living person. He was at least a separate entity—or someone was controlling the diary from the other end.
Worse, the diary could mess with your head. The second Richie learned Tom had been Dumbledore's student, his mind had jumped to some ridiculous over-the-top title straight out of a bad romance novel. He never thought like that. Even in his last life he would've skipped a book with a title like that without a second glance.
Yet the thought had popped into his head fully formed.
He'd been influenced.
Richie let out a long breath. He'd almost let the thing twist him.
Lucky he'd shut it down in time.
Still… if Tom really was living inside the diary with at least sixth-year Hogwarts memories, he probably knew a lot. Curses. Occlumency. Maybe even more.
Richie could use that.
With that thought lingering, he drifted off to sleep.
---
The next morning Wangcai finally flew back. The letter Richie had tied to his leg yesterday was still there. The diary, of course, had vanished again.
Wangcai looked guilty, rubbing his head against Richie's arm like he'd lost something important.
Richie just smiled, pulled out the premium owl treats, and gave him a few extra scratches. No point blaming the bird.
The diary clearly had some kind of magic that let it return to him on its own. Sending it to Dumbledore wasn't going to work.
Two weeks until school started. He could hand it over in person.
Once Wangcai was settled and fed, Richie climbed back into the suitcase study, sat down, and opened the black diary again.
He ran through his plan one more time, raised his mental guard, and wrote under yesterday's entry.
Richie: Good morning.
The familiar elegant script appeared almost instantly.
Tom: Good morning, Elliot. I'm glad you want to keep talking.
Tom: Let me guess—you have questions. Take your time. I'll tell you everything about me.
Richie: Yeah, there's one thing I don't get. If you're just a memory, how are you able to talk to me like this?
Tom: Ah, sharp as ever. It's a special kind of magic. You'll probably learn about it after a few more years at Hogwarts. Or… if you're really interested, I could teach you.
Richie: Really?
Tom: Of course. But you have to promise we'll be friends.
Tom: I've been so lonely all these years. No one to talk to. I don't even know what's happening in the outside world anymore…
Richie: All right. I'll be your friend. But I still want to know more… the kind of magic they don't put in textbooks.
Tom's handwriting seemed to brighten.
Tom: Magic that isn't in the textbooks… like what?
Richie: Curses. And Occlumency.