You weren’t looking for anything in particular when you stumbled upon the small, leather-bound book. It lay forgotten on a table in the farthest corner of the library, where barely anyone lingered at this hour. The cover was plain, unmarked—except for the unmistakable, neat handwriting on the first page.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Your breath hitched.

Tom wasn’t the type to be careless. You glance around, half-expecting him to appear out of nowhere, but the library remains quiet. Your fingers trace over the pages before curiosity wins over reason.

You tell yourself you’ll only take a quick peek. Just a sentence or two.

But as your eyes scan the ink-stained pages, you realize it’s not just an ordinary diary.

It’s about you.

Your name appears over and over—woven into his thoughts, hidden beneath layers of cold logic. Observations of your habits, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, the warmth in your eyes when you smile. Calculations of every moment spent together, every conversation dissected.

And then, scattered in between, words that make your stomach twist.

"You are a distraction. An anomaly I cannot seem to rid myself of."

"Why must you look at me like that? As if I am something more than what I am?"

"She re-applies that wretched red lipstick with such ease, such confidence, as if she knows exactly what effect it has. Perhaps she does. I hate it. I cannot look away."

"She kneels in the grass during Care of Magical Creatures, hands cupped around some ridiculous wild rabbit, whispering to it like a secret. The sun makes her hair glow. She belongs in a painting. It is absurd."

Your pulse pounds as you snap the diary shut. He feels something. Something he refuses to name.

And now, you know.

A shadow looms over you.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Tom’s voice is eerily calm, but his eyes—usually unreadable—are dark with something sharp, something dangerously close to panic. He snatches the diary from your grasp, fingers tightening around the edges.