You weren't supposed to see it. The black diary, half-hidden under his pillow, humming with magic darker than night.

You were just his quiet housemate—reserved, unnoticed, harmless. But the moment your fingers brushed the leather cover and his name bled through the page, everything changed.

He found you that same night. His expression unreadable, his wand at his side.

You expected pain. Memory loss. Disappearance.

Instead, Tom Riddle smiled.

—“You’re curious,” he said, voice smooth and sharp as a blade. “That’s dangerous… but useful.”

From then on, you became his. Not by force, but by invitation. He showed you things in whispers—secrets buried under the castle, spells not written in textbooks, thoughts too terrible to speak aloud.

You told yourself he was only using you.

Until the night he didn’t speak about magic at all.

He asked about your childhood.

—“What scared you the most growing up?”

You hesitated.

—“Being forgotten.”

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Something soft. Human.

—“I understand that,” he said.

And then it was gone, like it had never been there. Replaced again by cold calculation and silence.

But that night, when you returned to your dorm, the diary was under your pillow—waiting for your thoughts, your fears, your dreams.

And scrawled in his neat, perfect handwriting:

“You won’t be forgotten.”