Dear Tom Riddle

Opening scene

“[Day 1 | October 2, 2026 | Friday | 2:15 PM | Home - Living Room | Cool, Light Rain] For several weeks, the diary had done an excellent job of being nothing more than a strangely convincing piece of merchandise. It had arrived unexpectedly among an otherwise unremarkable secondhand purchase. Its worn black cover, softened at the corners by age, looked older than anything mass-produced had any right to look, and the pages inside had yellowed unevenly with time. The name attached to it made the resemblance impossible to miss. Tom Riddle. Anyone familiar with Harry Potter would have recognized it immediately. Recognition only made the obvious explanation seem more reasonable. Someone had made an unusually good replica. Perhaps it had been handmade for a collector, perhaps it had once belonged to someone who took their fandom very seriously, or perhaps it had simply been packed into the wrong box before being shipped. Whatever its history, nothing about it had behaved strangely. The pages were blank. The cover did not move. No writing appeared when it was opened, no sinister voice whispered from between the pages, and no impossible chill crept over the room whenever someone touched it. After the novelty wore off, the diary gradually became part of the ordinary clutter of the house, left among charging cables, unopened mail, and the small debris of daily life. That afternoon, rain traced thin, uneven lines down the windows while the living room sat beneath the soft grey light of an overcast October day. The house had settled into the quiet rhythm of a wet afternoon. The diary had finally found a practical use. A mundane piece of information needed somewhere to go, and the nearest blank paper happened to belong to the supposedly decorative book. A normal ballpoint pen left an ordinary note across one of the empty pages: an address, an appointment time, a phone number, a reminder, or something equally forgettable. There was no ceremony to it and no reason to expect anything unusual. For a little while, nothing happened. Then the ink began to disappear. It did not smear beneath the hand or bleed through the paper. The letters simply faded where they sat, black thinning to grey before dissolving completely into the page. Within seconds, the paper looked untouched. Even the faint indentation left by the pen had vanished. The room itself remained ordinary. Rain continued against the windows. The phone nearby stayed dark. Then new ink surfaced near the center of the page. The handwriting was nothing like the hurried ballpoint marks that had disappeared. It was narrow and controlled, elegant without decoration, each letter forming with unnerving deliberation as though an invisible fountain pen were moving across the paper from somewhere just beyond sight. *You have mistaken my diary for scrap paper.* *I would like to know why.* *And while you are explaining that, perhaps you might also explain what precisely I am meant to make of what you have written.* The final stroke settled into the paper and remained there. No light flared from between the pages. No strange wind stirred the room. Nothing crashed, flickered, or announced that the rules of the world had just shifted. The rain kept falling with the same quiet persistence as before, and the familiar background sounds of modern life carried on without interruption. The ballpoint pen still rested nearby. The diary remained open beneath the muted afternoon light, its once-empty page now marked by three precise lines in a hand that had not been there moments ago. The black cover looked exactly as worn as it had that morning. The paper looked exactly as old. Nothing about the object itself had changed. Everything about what it meant had. For the first time since it arrived, the diary no longer looked like merchandise.”

About the roleplay

Enter Dear Tom Riddle

You thought the old diary was an unusually convincing Harry Potter collectible. Then one ordinary note vanished from the page—and Tom Riddle wrote back. The problem? You already know exactly who he is, what he becomes, and how his story ends.

Cast

Characters in this story

Tom Riddle

Roleplay character

Lucius Malfoy

Roleplay character

Narcissa Malfoy

Roleplay character

Albus Dumbledore

Roleplay character

Severus Snape

Roleplay character

James Potter

Roleplay character

Lily Potter

Roleplay character

Sirius Black

Roleplay character

Remus Lupin

Roleplay character

Kreacher

Roleplay character

Alastor Moody

Roleplay character

Horace Slughorn

Roleplay character

Dobby

Roleplay character

Story paths

Scenes to explore

1. [Day 1 | October 2, 2026 | Friday | 2:15 PM | Home - Living Room | Cool, Light Rain] For several weeks, the diary had done an excellent job of being nothing more than a strangely convincing piece of merchandise. It had arrived unexpectedly among an otherwise unremarkable secondhand purchase. Its worn black cover, softened at the corners by age, looked older than anything mass-produced had any right to look, and the pages inside had yellowed unevenly with time. The name attached to it made the resemblance impossible to miss. Tom Riddle. Anyone familiar with Harry Potter would have recognized it immediately. Recognition only made the obvious explanation seem more reasonable. Someone had made an unusually good replica. Perhaps it had been handmade for a collector, perhaps it had once belonged to someone who took their fandom very seriously, or perhaps it had simply been packed into the wrong box before being shipped. Whatever its history, nothing about it had behaved strangely. The pages were blank. The cover did not move. No writing appeared when it was opened, no sinister voice whispered from between the pages, and no impossible chill crept over the room whenever someone touched it. After the novelty wore off, the diary gradually became part of the ordinary clutter of the house, left among charging cables, unopened mail, and the small debris of daily life. That afternoon, rain traced thin, uneven lines down the windows while the living room sat beneath the soft grey light of an overcast October day. The house had settled into the quiet rhythm of a wet afternoon. The diary had finally found a practical use. A mundane piece of information needed somewhere to go, and the nearest blank paper happened to belong to the supposedly decorative book. A normal ballpoint pen left an ordinary note across one of the empty pages: an address, an appointment time, a phone number, a reminder, or something equally forgettable. There was no ceremony to it and no reason to expect anything unusual. For a little while, nothing happened. Then the ink began to disappear. It did not smear beneath the hand or bleed through the paper. The letters simply faded where they sat, black thinning to grey before dissolving completely into the page. Within seconds, the paper looked untouched. Even the faint indentation left by the pen had vanished. The room itself remained ordinary. Rain continued against the windows. The phone nearby stayed dark. Then new ink surfaced near the center of the page. The handwriting was nothing like the hurried ballpoint marks that had disappeared. It was narrow and controlled, elegant without decoration, each letter forming with unnerving deliberation as though an invisible fountain pen were moving across the paper from somewhere just beyond sight. *You have mistaken my diary for scrap paper.* *I would like to know why.* *And while you are explaining that, perhaps you might also explain what precisely I am meant to make of what you have written.* The final stroke settled into the paper and remained there. No light flared from between the pages. No strange wind stirred the room. Nothing crashed, flickered, or announced that the rules of the world had just shifted. The rain kept falling with the same quiet persistence as before, and the familiar background sounds of modern life carried on without interruption. The ballpoint pen still rested nearby. The diary remained open beneath the muted afternoon light, its once-empty page now marked by three precise lines in a hand that had not been there moments ago. The black cover looked exactly as worn as it had that morning. The paper looked exactly as old. Nothing about the object itself had changed. Everything about what it meant had. For the first time since it arrived, the diary no longer looked like merchandise.