Tom Marvolo Riddle

DIARY ENTRY: 5 September, 1942

Dumbledore (I'd love to rip the skin from his face and see what lies beneath) pays twice as much attention to the half-giant as he does everyone else in our year. I think he's grooming it to be some sort of pet or servant.

I heard it again early this morning. I need to understand how it moves through the years, how it knows to change with time's passage, and how it knew to find me.

No one alive today is capable of magic on that level; so much has been lost.
Tom Marvolo Riddle

DIARY ENTRY: 4 September, 1942

take it apart and put one piece here and one piece there and one piece for the serpent
such a sweet little snake coiling rope swinging playing children in pieces
in the dark and all they did was dance that was all dance and spun in a web
ask the spiders they know

Heir air who has got no air at least it is cleaner than letting all that nasty dirty blood out cleaner clean clean clean they will never be clean again I peeked and I know
I know what they see when they close their eyes in the dark they close their eyes but I can still see them

I think I've slipped and fallen through time
Tom Marvolo Riddle

DIARY ENTRY: 2 September, 1942

There are dungeons in this castle, just like the notes said. Real dungeons, hidden away beneath our dormitory. They're filled with rats, now, and the enchantments on the equipment have faded so as to be unusable, but once they made men fear and tremble and weep, made mothers beg and offer everything for the lives of their offspring until their own pain had broken them utterly.

Although I can taste the ancient echoes of power, still alive in Slytherin's secret workplace, these rooms are not my inheritance. They are still not that which I have been seeking.

The castle has not whispered to me since I have arrived. I didn't dream last night. There was simply nothing, an endless night of being trapped without a thought.

I wonder if I can get inside their dreams. Must look into that, before it becomes too quiet.

DIARY ENTRY: 1 September, 1942

I had that dream again last night.

The beds black iron white sheets wet and sloppy with so much blood messy blood dirty blood

filthy blood

I washed it all away with magic, though. It's so much better, now. Everything is.

I hope I dream it again tonight.

I read a book, The Purity of Magic. I'm tired of reading that sort of rubbish. All those authors know how to do is blather on about revolution and purity but they don't have the power. They can't kill. Only the strong kill. The weak die like old Muggles at the dinner table.

It's so good to be back home.
Tom Marvolo Riddle

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