One-shots and plot bunnies

The diary was innocuous at first glance. A worn black cover, blank pages, and no visible title. Harry had found it among Ginny's school supplies, left behind in the chaos of her unpacking. She'd waved it off, distracted, saying she didn't know where it came from and urging Harry to keep it if he wanted.

He wasn't sure why he'd taken it. Something about it had drawn him in, a quiet pull he couldn't ignore.

That night, after another grueling day at the Dursleys, Harry sat on his bed, the diary in his lap. His aunt and uncle were arguing downstairs, their voices muffled but sharp. Dudley's laughter echoed from the television. Harry flipped open the diary, hoping for distraction, and picked up a quill.

"Hello?"

The ink sank into the page, and for a moment, nothing happened. Harry sighed. Maybe it was just an ordinary diary after all.

Then, to his astonishment, words began to form.

"Hello. Who are you?"

Harry's heart raced as he wrote back, explaining who he was and asking about the diary. The response came quickly, elegant and neat.

"My name is Tom Riddle. I once attended Hogwarts too. It seems we are both confined by circumstances beyond our control."

The words struck a chord in Harry. He didn't know why he trusted this mysterious figure in the diary, but something about Tom's tone felt... familiar. The two of them began to exchange stories—Tom of his time at Hogwarts decades ago, Harry of his miserable life with the Dursleys.

Over the next few weeks, the diary became Harry's closest confidant. Tom listened without judgment, offering advice and sympathy. He shared stories of his own childhood, his upbringing in a Muggle orphanage, and the hardships he'd endured.

"I know what it's like," Tom wrote one night, "to feel like an outsider, to be treated as less than you are. You and I are not so different, Harry."

Harry couldn't help but agree.

It wasn't just companionship that the diary offered. Tom's words were filled with knowledge—about magic, Hogwarts, and the wizarding world.

"Why don't they teach us any of this at school?" Harry asked after learning about complex charms and obscure spells.

"Because they fear power," Tom replied. "They want to keep you small, reliant on them. But you're capable of so much more, Harry. Let me show you."

Tom's guidance began to pay off. Harry's magic improved in leaps and bounds. His spells were sharper, his wand movements more precise. Even Hermione noticed.

"You've been practicing," she said, watching him effortlessly disarm Ron during a duel in the common room.

"Something like that," Harry muttered, hiding a small smile.

Unbeknownst to Harry, the connection between him and the diary ran deeper than shared experiences. Late at night, when the castle was quiet and the other Gryffindors were asleep, Harry would feel a strange pull toward the diary.

At first, he thought it was just his eagerness to talk to Tom. But as time went on, the pull grew stronger, almost physical.

One night, he asked about it.

"Why does it feel like... I'm drawn to you?"

There was a pause before Tom replied.

"Because we are connected, Harry. In ways you don't yet understand. You carry a piece of me within you, just as I exist within this diary."

The words sent a chill down Harry's spine. He touched his scar instinctively, the lightning bolt tingling under his fingers.

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see, in time," Tom wrote cryptically. "But know this: it makes us stronger. Together, we can achieve greatness."

As their bond deepened, Harry began to notice changes in himself. He was more confident, more assertive. When Draco Malfoy insulted him in the corridor, Harry didn't just ignore it—he hexed Malfoy's robes to burst into garish colors, earning laughter from the crowd.

"Good," Tom wrote later. "Never let them think they can control you. You are destined for more."

But it wasn't just confidence. Harry's magic had grown darker, more intense. He could cast spells he'd only read about, and sometimes his anger seemed to fuel them in unsettling ways.

Hermione noticed the changes too.

"Harry, are you all right?" she asked one evening, her brow furrowed. "You've been... different lately."

"I'm fine," Harry said sharply. "Why does everyone keep asking that?"

Hermione hesitated. "It's just... you seem angry. And secretive. If something's wrong, you can tell me."

Harry wanted to confide in her, to tell her about Tom, but something held him back. He wasn't sure she'd understand.

The tipping point came during a Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Professor Lockhart, as incompetent as ever, had released a cage of Cornish pixies, and the resulting chaos left the classroom in shambles.

Harry, fed up with Lockhart's antics, raised his wand and cast a spell Tom had taught him. A jet of dark energy erupted, freezing the pixies mid-air and sending them tumbling to the ground, lifeless.

The room fell silent.

"Mr. Potter," Lockhart stammered, his face pale. "What... what spell was that?"

Harry didn't answer. He didn't need to. The look on Lockhart's face said it all.

That night, as Harry wrote to Tom, he felt a growing unease.

"Why didn't anyone else know that spell?" he asked.

"Because they are weak," Tom replied. "But you, Harry—you have the potential for greatness. They fear you because they cannot control you."

For the first time, Harry hesitated.

"Tom... what are we doing?"

"We're taking back what's ours," Tom wrote. "Power, freedom, respect. You've felt it too, haven't you? The world has always been against us, Harry. It's time we fought back."

Harry stared at the words, his hand hovering over the page. Deep down, he knew Tom was right. But another part of him—a smaller, quieter part—wondered where this path would lead.

As he closed the diary that night, the pull toward it felt stronger than ever.