Chapter 100: The Stand-in
The hour had grown exceedingly late, yet Gryffindor Tower refused to sleep.
Far removed from the damp, solemn chill of the Slytherin dungeons, the lion's den remained a suffocating pocket of warmth and raucous noise. Down in the common room, the hearth fire roared, casting flickering orange shadows against the scarlet tapestries. A cluster of older students huddled in the corner, their voices carrying up the spiral staircase as they animatedly dissected Harry Potter's flying car stunt, elevating the reckless breach of the Statute of Secrecy into an act of legendary heroism.
Up in the first-year girls' dormitory, Ginny Weasley lay curled into a tight ball on her four-poster bed. She had yanked the heavy velvet hangings shut, sealing herself in a dark, stuffy cocoon. But the thick fabric did little to muffle the bursts of excited laughter echoing from below.
Every cheer grated against her ears. It was all too loud. Too overwhelming.
And incredibly, achingly lonely.
"If only Sister Tamara were here..." Ginny whispered into the quiet dark. She squeezed her pillow against her chest, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
She had spent her entire first day at Hogwarts desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the older girl. But Tamara was a star, perpetually orbited by a dense crowd of admirers. Those older Slytherin students with their crisp green ties and haughty, sneering faces terrified Ginny; she hadn't dared to take a single step toward their table.
Worse still, every time she even thought about slipping away to find her, Ron or Hermione would suddenly appear to drag her into some mundane conversation, or Percy would march over, chest puffed out, to sternly warn her against wandering the corridors alone.
"We were sleeping in the exact same room just last night," Ginny sniffled.
The sheer whiplash of going from that warm, intimate comfort to this vast, isolating castle made her chest tighten with a suffocating pressure. She had so much bottled up inside. She desperately wanted to tell Tamara how terrified she had been when the Sorting Hat slipped over her eyes. She wanted to complain about Fred and George's relentless teasing. She wanted to ask what Tamara honestly thought about Harry and Ron nearly getting expelled.
But there was no one. Surrounded by a house full of boisterous, friendly lions who fundamentally did not understand her, Ginny felt like a solitary island adrift in a noisy sea.
Then, as if guided by an invisible, magnetic pull, Ginny slid her small hand beneath her pillow.
Her fingers brushed against worn leather. She pulled out the black, shabby diary. In a castle full of loud siblings and overwhelming strangers, this little book was the only thing in the world that belonged entirely to her. It was her one true secret.
Muttering a soft incantation, Ginny ignited a faint, trembling light at the tip of her wand. She flipped the diary open to a blank page, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink, and let the nib hover over the parchment. She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat, before finally pressing down.
Dear Tom... I arrived at Hogwarts today, but I am not happy at all.
The wet black ink shimmered for a fraction of a second before it melted into the paper, vanishing as if swallowed by the page itself. The silence in the dormitory stretched. Then, a few seconds later, ink began to bleed back up from the depths of the parchment, forming a line of elegant, looping cursive script.
[What is wrong, Ginny? Hogwarts is supposed to be a wondrous place. Is someone bullying you?]
Staring at that neat, attentive handwriting, Ginny felt the dam break. A hot tear slipped down her cheek, splashing onto the page. The sheer relief of being heard, of being responded to with such gentle concern, felt exactly like the warmth Tamara had shown her just twenty-four hours ago.
No one is bullying me, Ginny wrote back, her quill scratching frantically across the paper. It is just... I feel so very lonely.
I want to talk to Sister Tamara, but she is a Slytherin star. There are always so many important people around her. And I am just an unremarkable Weasley. A Gryffindor... I feel like I can never get close to her again.
The diary fell completely silent.
Deep within the dark, suffocating void of the magical seal, the soul fragment of Tom Riddle stared at the words manifesting in his domain. A deep, almost paralyzing sense of absurdity washed over him.
That Tamara girl again?
What kind of mind-altering potion had that wretched woman slipped this foolish child? Just last night at The Burrow, Tom had been perfectly positioned to sink his hooks into Ginny's vulnerable mind, only to have the opportunity snatched away by that interfering Slytherin. And now? Now that they were finally within the walls of Hogwarts, this pathetic little girl's first instinct wasn't to seek comfort in his brilliant, attentive presence, but to whine about missing her?
Pure, unadulterated indignation flared within the dark void. He, the Heir of Slytherin, the brilliant Tom Marvolo Riddle, was being treated as a bloody substitute!
But the fury was brief. Tom forced his spectral consciousness to cool, his calculating nature taking the reins. He was a master of the human heart, an architect of manipulation. He recognized immediately that this Weasley girl was currently a fanatical, starry-eyed devotee of Tamara. If he dared to speak a single ill word against her idol right now, the fragile trust he had built would shatter. The girl would likely hurl his diary straight into the Gryffindor hearth.
He could not oppose the current. Therefore, he would steer it.
If you so desperately crave the presence of someone like Tamara, Tom thought, a cruel, venomous sneer twisting his handsome features in the dark, then I shall simply become exactly what you desire.
Slowly, deliberately, he allowed his magic to bleed back onto the parchment. He crafted his words with surgical precision, adopting a tone of deep gentleness, laced with the comforting wisdom of an older sibling.
[I understand this feeling all too well, Ginny. Truly outstanding people are always dazzling, but that brilliance often makes them difficult to approach.]
[I, too, very much admire someone as powerful and popular as your Tamara.]
Ginny blinked, stunned by the response. Her quill hovered.
Really? You think she is great too?
[Of course.]
Suppressing a violent wave of disgust that threatened to curdle his very soul, Tom forced his handwriting to remain smooth and elegant.
[She must be an incredibly charming person to inspire such loyalty in you. Actually, I was once a Slytherin prefect myself, and I always took great pleasure in guiding promising juniors.]
[Since you cannot see her right now, why not treat me as your confidant?]
[You can tell me all the things you do not dare to say to her. Practice the words you wish to share. I will listen to you exactly as she does.... I can teach you how to become just as outstanding as she is, so that one day, you will be truly qualified to stand proudly by her side.]
Ginny stared at the looping letters, her brown eyes slowly lighting up in the dim wand-light.
Tom was actually willing to help her! And the way he spoke—so patient, so understanding—it sounded exactly like Tamara! It was as if she had stumbled upon a male version of her beloved older sister trapped inside a book.
Thank you, Tom! You are truly too kind! Ginny wrote, her heart swelling with deep gratitude. In that single moment, the last crumbling walls of her mental defenses collapsed entirely.
Actually, so much happened today. Harry and Ron came to school in a flying car...
Watching the frantic, dense outpourings of ink flood his pages, Tom Riddle let out a cold, silent breath of relief.
Excellent.
Although the insufferable girl was still prattling on about that annoying Tamara and the frankly baffling existence of a flying Potter, it no longer mattered. The vessel had returned to his absolute control. As long as she kept writing, as long as she kept bleeding her pathetic little emotions onto his pages, her life force would continue to siphon directly into his starving soul.
Meanwhile, miles below the Gryffindor dormitories, deep within the subterranean chill of the Slytherin dungeons.
Tamara lay perfectly still beneath her emerald-green silk sheets. Her eyes snapped open in the dark. A faint, deeply familiar ripple of magic had just brushed against her consciousness.
It was the unmistakable resonance of her own soul fragment.
Yet, as she focused on the sensation, her brow furrowed slightly. The magical signature wasn't violent, aggressive, or seething with the dark malice she had expected from her teenage self. On the contrary, the frequency felt strangely... accommodating? Humble, even?
Tamara closed her eyes, extending her magical senses outward, tracing the invisible tether that connected her to the diary. A picture began to form in her mind. She could actually feel the sheer, agonizing effort the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle was exerting to suppress his monumental pride. The arrogant Heir of Slytherin was currently walking on eggshells, cautiously pandering to the emotional whims of a prepubescent, red-haired Gryffindor.
More than that, she realized with a jolt of pure amusement, he was actively imitating her. He was mimicking the sickeningly sweet, gentle persona she had been forced to adopt.
Imitating myself, Tamara thought, the sheer absurdity of the situation nearly making her laugh out loud.
"Well," she murmured into the quiet of her dormitory, a contemptuous, lazy smile curling the corners of her lips. "If my arrogant past self is so eager to act as my stand-in, handling all that exhausting emotional baggage for me, who am I to stop him? It certainly saves me the headache."
Her smile sharpened, turning predatory in the gloom.
Play your role well, Tom, she thought, her inner voice dripping with dark, mocking anticipation. Play the good little mentor. Keep her busy until the day I decide to devour you and take back what is mine—with interest.
Tamara rolled over, pulling the thick covers up to her chin. Surrounded by the damp, freezing darkness of the dungeons—a coldness that made her feel utterly, perfectly at home—she closed her eyes and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, her conscience entirely, blissfully clear.
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