‘Let’s be clear, you are not special. You are not clever. You are not even dangerous. You are a relic of someone else’s failed plan, and now you are stuck here, begging me to care.’

The response came quicker this time, the words snapping across the page.

‘I am not begging. You don’t understand what I am.’

‘No, I understand perfectly. You are a parasite. You latch on, suck people dry, then act like it is their fault for being soft enough to listen. But unlucky for you, I don’t bleed that easy.’

The ink twisted violently before spilling into words.

‘I am powerful. More than you can imagine. You mock me because you are afraid.’

Cassian snorted. ‘Afraid? Of you? You are a notebook. You are about as scary as a damp teabag.’

Bathsheda folded her arms, her gaze fixed on the page. “It is rattled.”

“Good. Let’s see if it cracks.” Cassian scratched out another line.

‘If you were half as powerful as you think, Lucius would’ve kept you. Instead, he chucked you in a bag like week-old leftovers. You are nothing. A sad little voice in an empty room.’

The reply bloomed across the paper in jagged strokes.

‘I could unmake you.’

Cassian let out a bark of laughter. “There it is. The toddler tantrum.” 

‘Do it then. Try. Reach out, grab my mind, curse my fingers. I will wait. No? Didn’t think so. You can’t touch me, can you? You are chained in your little paper box, howling at the walls.’

The diary trembled under his hand. 

‘I am not chained. You will see. You will beg for me.’

‘Beg? For you?’ Cassian leaned closer, his grin vicious now. ‘I’ve met curses with more charm than you. You are not a god, you are not even a decent hex. You are a sad echo, hoping someone is stupid enough to listen. You found the wrong man.’

The ink erupted across the page,

‘I WILL BREAK YOU.’

Cassian shut the diary, wards flaring back around it.

“Temper, temper,” he muttered.

Bathsheda raised a brow. “Think you pushed it too far. My turn.”

Cassian barked a laugh as he pushed up from the chair. “All yours, love.”

An hour later, Bathsheda was in his place. Cassian leaned lazily against the table, arms folded, a grin playing on his face.

“Write this, ‘Someone threw you into the toilet, and I fished you out.'”

Bathsheda hesitated only a second, then the quill scratched across the diary’s page.

“Hi.”

The ink sank into the page. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then neat, careful letters bled out of the parchment,

‘Hello. It is lovely to meet you.’

They both frowned, “Does it know I am a different person?”

“Maybe.” He tilted his head.

“How is that even possible?”

She shook her head, “Handwriting?” Bathsheda narrowed her eyes. “It always continued like you were the same person. Never paused. Never shifted tone. No matter how many days later you came back. But the moment I wrote something, it acted like a stranger walked in. It started over. Reset its tone. Almost like it knew I wasn’t you.”

Cassian frowned. “So what changed?”

They sat in silence for a moment, chewing on the idea.

“Could it see us?” he asked finally. “Detect surroundings somehow? That’d be the obvious answer.”

“No,” Bathsheda said immediately. “Impossible. I was in the room every time you wrote. I watched you write in it. It didn’t act like it noticed me.”

Cassian clicked his tongue. “So visual cues are out. Could it be magical signature?”

“That was my second thought.” She pushed from the table. “But again… I was always near it. If it responded to passive magical presence, it would’ve clocked me from day one. You also tested with ‘we.'”

“Unless,” he said, slowly now, “it only reads the one writing. Maybe that’s how it connects. Not just ink. Contact. Intent.”

“That would make sense,” she murmured. “It doesn’t just read the words, it nudges against the mind. Could it tell who you were based on your thoughts, then?” Bathsheda asked, her voice sharper now. “Not just magical signature. More like… the flavour of your intent.”

Cassian’s brow furrowed. “That’s dangerously close to legilimency.”

“Not full legilimency. It’s too crude. But maybe a rudimentary form of mind-brushing. Passive empathy, or identification through intent anchoring. The way some cursed objects only trigger if you’re actively angry, or curious.”

“So when I wrote, it always felt that same… anchor.”

She nodded. “It learned you. Or thought it had. But the moment I took over, different touch, different intent, different magic, it tripped something.”

They stared down at the page again.

Cassian added softly, “Which means it can tell. Not just who is writing… but what kind of person they are.”

Bathsheda’s hand hovered over the diary. “That makes it more than sentient. That makes it adaptive.”

“And worse,” Cassian said, grim now, “it means it’s been learning me this entire time.”

They sat with that for a while.

Then, Bathsheda tilted her head, feigning a schoolgirl’s shy curiosity.

‘Lovely to meet you too. Who are you?’

‘I am a friend. I can help you, if you will let me. I know things… secrets, knowledge long lost to others. What is your name?’

Bathsheda let out a soft hum, tapping the quill against her lip like she needed to think about it.

“Daisy.”

Cassian snorted from the sofa. She ignored him.

‘Daisy… that’s a beautiful name,’ the diary wrote smoothly. ‘Are you a student?’

Bathsheda smiled faintly at the page.

‘First year. I am still getting used to everything.’

‘Hogwarts can be overwhelming at first,’ the diary wrote back. ‘But I can help. What house are you in, Daisy?’

“Gryffindor,” she scrawled, lips twitching faintly.

‘Ah, brave and bold. How wonderful.’

She tapped her lips with the quill and wrote, ‘That is sweet. Will you really help me?’

‘Anything. Tell me what you want most, and I will show you how to get it.’

‘Can you teach me spells?’

‘Of course. I know things your professors could never dream of. Things that will make you stronger, cleverer, untouchable. Do you want that, Daisy?’

Bathsheda paused, then wrote, ‘Maybe… Can I ask you something first?’

‘Anything,’ the diary said.

‘Were you really left in the loo? Because you smell a bit like toilet water…’

The ink bled slower now.

‘…Really?’

‘Mm. Maybe I am imagining it. But when I picked you up, the cover was damp. I thought… oh, someone flushed you and didn’t bother to see if you were gone.’

Diary answered, ‘That is their loss, isn’t it, Daisy?’

‘I guess.’

The response came almost instantly, ‘It must feel strange, finding me. But maybe this is fate. Perhaps you were meant to find me.’

Cassian smirked faintly at that. “Fate? Oh, here we go. Next it’ll be asking for a blood oath and a promise ring.”

Bathsheda hid her grin behind the back of her hand as she scratched out her reply. ‘Maybe. Or maybe someone just didn’t want you anymore.’

The ink bled into the parchment, ‘I am not so easy to discard. People think they can leave me behind, but they always come back.’

‘Sounds like you’ve been tossed away a lot.’

A pause. Then the diary’s words curled tighter, darker. ‘Because they were too weak to understand me. But you are different, Daisy. I can tell.’

Cassian swung his legs off the sofa. “Different how? The girl’s been humoring you for five bloody minutes.”

Bathsheda ignored him, her quill scratching lightly. ‘Different how?’

‘You are curious. You’re brave. You’re not like the others. I can help you grow, Daisy. I can make you stronger.’

“Called it,” Cassian muttered, rubbing at his jaw. “Same script every time. Flattery, temptation, then, bam… ‘accidentally’ eating your soul while you nap.”

Bathsheda didn’t look up, but her lips curved faintly as she wrote, ‘What is in it for you?’

This time, the reply came with less polish. ‘I don’t want anything. I only want to help. That is what I was made for.’

Bathsheda grinned as she scrawled, ‘Who made you?’

The reply came almost instantly, letters curling across the page with a strange eagerness.

‘I can show you. Open your mind, and let me show.’

Bathsheda smirked faintly and scribbled back, ‘Maybe later. Gotta go now.’

The ink lingered for a moment before fading into the page, leaving it blank again. 

“You think it is sulking?” Cassian asked, lips twitching.

“Of course it is sulking,” Bathsheda said, setting her quill down. “We didn’t bite, so now it is going to sit there stewing until we come back.”

Cassian huffed out a laugh. “Good. Let it stew. Maybe it will ferment into something useful for a change.”

Bathsheda pushed to her feet, stretching her arms over her head. “We should leave it alone for a while. It is too eager.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed slightly at the black cover. “Eager and clever. Never a good mix.” He rubbed his jaw, glancing at Bathsheda. “Want tea?”

“Always.”

They drifted into the kitchen, and Cassian busied himself with the kettle while Bathsheda perched on the counter.

“Lucius really didn’t know what he was handling,” she said after a moment, her gaze distant. “If he had, he would’ve burned it.”

“Or he is too much of a coward,” Cassian muttered. He poured boiling water over the leaves and stirred, watching the steam curl. “Malfoys like power they can wave about at dinner parties. Not the kind that might bite their hand off.”

Bathsheda hummed in agreement. “But someone made that thing. Someone brilliant enough… and twisted enough to bind a personality into it.”

Cassian leaned against the counter, mug in hand. “Brilliant’s one word for it. Lunatic’s another. You don’t stitch a mind into paper without leaving a few screws rattling loose.”

Her lips curved faintly. “Sounds like you admire whoever crafted it.”

“I admire the craftsmanship,” he said easily, taking a sip. “Not the intent. Let’s not get carried away, love. I like my brain unchewed.”

Bathsheda tipped her head, regarding him with faint amusement. “Still curious, though.”

“Of course I am curious.” He gestured with his mug. “It is a bloody diary that talks back. That is history and horror rolled into one neat package. But I would rather not end up writing sonnets to it because it got clever with a memory charm.”

Not a Spoiler, Just an image! ↓

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Author Rant ↓ 

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Sometimes I imagine you nodding. It helps. Barely.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep