The pages of the tattered diary were filled with careful, slanted handwriting—Tom Riddle’s perfect script, unwavering and precise. But as the entries progressed, his normally controlled penmanship became darker, deeper, as if pressed with an intensity that could carve through the parchment itself.

At first, it was simple curiosity.

"She is unlike the others. Unlike the fools who scurry around Hogwarts, unaware of the power that flows beneath its stone floors. There is something in her eyes—something I cannot ignore."

Day after day, the observations became more detailed, more consuming. Every glance, every word, every fleeting movement—nothing escaped his attention.

"She does not flinch under my gaze. Most do. Fear is the natural response to superiority. But she… she watches me in return. What does she see when she looks at me?"

Pages filled with meticulous documentation: where you sat in class, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when deep in thought, the way your lips curled when amused or defiant. How you spoke, how you laughed, how you cried, when and what you ate. He noted the books you favored in the library, the way you walked—graceful yet deliberate.

"She is clever. Sharp. There is a darkness in her that she does not yet understand. But I do."

The ink seemed to grow darker with every entry, as if his obsession had taken root within the pages themselves.

"Today, she spoke my name. It should not matter. And yet, the way it left her lips—it was different. It was… intoxicating."

And then, the shift. A slow descent into something more than fascination, more than possession.

"She does not know yet. But she belongs to me. She has always belonged to me."

The final page was written in a heavier hand, the ink smeared slightly in places, as though his grip on the quill had tightened beyond restraint.

"It is no longer enough to watch. No longer enough to know her every movement, every breath. Today, I will go to her, take her heart, and make it mine for eternity."