THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN
Harry stared at him.
“What d’you mean, I won’t be — ?”
“I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said Riddle. “For
the chance to see you. To speak to you.”
“Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you get it.
We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later —”
“We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly, and
he pocketed Harry’s wand.
Harry stared at him. There was something very funny going on
here. . . .
“How did Ginny get like this?” he asked slowly.
“Well, that’s an interesting question,” said Riddle pleasantly.
“And quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley’s
like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets
to an invisible stranger.”
“What are you talking about?” said Harry.
“The diary,” said Riddle. “My diary. Little Ginny’s been writing
in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and
woes — how her brothers tease her, how she had to come to school
with secondhand robes and books, how” — Riddle’s eyes glinted —
“how she didn’t think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever
like her. . . .”
All the time he spoke, Riddle’s eyes never left Harry’s face. There
was an almost hungry look in them.
“It’s very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an
eleven-year-old girl,” he went on. “But I was patient. I wrote back.
I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one’s ever
understood me like you, Tom. . . . I’m so glad I’ve got this diary to
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