We can all see where this is going...
Harry Potter was in his room, going through his new school books.
He could hear the low rumble of conversation downstairs, which told him the Dursley's guests were still on the premises.
Uncle Vernon had allowed Harry to go with him earlier to London, where Vernon got dinner jackets for himself and Dudley, his fat son, while Harry collected all of the new school supplies he would need for the coming year at Hogwarts. He had only been allowed this chance on the strict instruction that he would tend to the garden, mow the lawn, help Aunt Petunia clean the dining room and kitchen, and then remain in his room while the Masons were at Number Four, Privet Drive.
Harry was good at pretending not to exist. He had eleven years of practice, after all.
Though the Dursleys had forgotten, (or perhaps they had never bothered remembering in the first place) that today was Harry's birthday, and getting to spend even just an hour in the magical shops of Diagon Alley was the best gift they had ever given him. What made his day however, had been the presents all of his friends from Hogwarts had sent him in the early hours of that morning. Each one had come with a card, all of which were placed lovingly on his desk where he could always see them. They hadn't been all that extravagant of presents, but they were the first ones Harry had ever received, so each one meant the world to the undergrown boy.
Draco Malfoy, a boy in Harry's house at Hogwarts, had sent him a book on interesting looking spells, as well as some of Mrs. Malfoy's homemade chocolates with her compliments.
The Weasley twins, who were two years above Harry but had taken a liking to him last year, had sent an enchanted jenga set, their letter said they wanted Harry in good practice to keep winning, as they had plans to start a competition across all four houses at Hogwarts.
Hagrid, the Hogwarts grounds keeper, had sent a large box of assorted candies and chocolates.
Theodore Nott, one of his best friends, had sent him a magic chess set made of moonglass, which seemed expensive, and meant the chess men shimmered with constellations Harry couldn't even name, and different types of wizard candy. His other best friend, Hermione Granger, had sent a small birthday cake, and several books on first aid, both magical and Muggle.
Hedwig, Harry's owl, had looked particularly pleased with herself, when she had arrived with Hermione's gifts. Since Hermione was a Muggleborn, (a wizard from a family otherwise without magic) she didn't have an owl of her own to send him letters, and he had warned her against trying to send anything through the Muggle post. The Dursleys would not be pleased if any mail for him came through 'normal means', since they preferred to pretend he didn't exist.
Harry pushed all of the Lockheart books that he needed for Defense Against the Dark Arts class to one side, pulling his charms book from the top of the pile.
Charms was one of his favorite classes. The spells came easily enough once he got the hang of them. He flipped through it for a minute before he set it aside as well. Looking over his other new text books, he noticed something stuffed between the pages of his Transfiguration book.
Opening it, he found a small book bound in black leather. He pulled the little book out of the magic text book. Carefully straightening the pages that had gotten bent by the impromptu addition, Harry set 'Transfiguration level two' on his desk, placing the other books on top of it to help smooth out the bent pages.
Leaving the small tower of books, Harry turned his attention to the little black book, wondering why it had been shoved into another book. The cover was embossed with a faded date, placing it as a diary from fifty years ago. Opening it to the front cover Harry saw a name written in ancient, faded ink; T. M. Riddle.
Curious, Harry flipped through it, finding every page blank.
A fake laugh drifted through the closed door, reminding him that the Dursleys were downstairs entertaining guests.
What did he care about some random diary?
Tossing it on the desk next to his other books, Harry flopped down on his bed, trying to ignore the itchy feeling that started to build in his arms.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling so long he must have fallen asleep without realizing it, because the next thing he knew he was startled awake by the sound of a car door slamming. Sitting up, Harry sleepily rubbed his eyes, almost completely dislodging his square framed glasses, (a christmas present from his head of house last year) which had left imprints on his face.
Looking around, the first thing he saw was the little diary sitting on his desk, where the light from the streetlamp illuminated it through his half open window. At least that explained why he had heard the car door so clearly.
Harry got to his feet, stretching his arms over his head, he shuffled over to the window, glancing at the digital clock on his desk. The glowing numbers proclaimed it to be nearly one in the morning.
Straightening his glasses, Harry carefully closed the window, making sure to check that Hedwig was perched in her cage, so he wouldn't lock her out accidentally. He was just about to go back to bed, when his eyes fell on the little diary again. There was something about it. A nagging in the back of his mind, drawing him to the strange diary.
He picked it up, sitting at his desk rather then going back to bed like he wanted, and turned the book over in his hands, examining it in the light from the streetlamp outside. On the back was an address he couldn't quite make out, which he hadn't notice on his first inspection.
He set it on his desk, idly flipping it open, and turning the pages slowly, as if waiting for something. Harry wasn't sure what he was waiting for, he just knew there was something that was supposed to happen.
Grabbing a half empty pen off of his desk, he started to write in the diary, not really thinking about the words.
Who are you?
It was hard enough for Harry to see in optimal lighting, the faint orangey light from outside made the words he'd written barely legible. Even in the bad lighting, Harry could see the words slowly soaking into the page, quickly vanishing altogether. He frowned, thinking it odd, but jolted upright when dark lines began oozing back out.
Trying to stay as quiet as he could so as to not wake the Dursleys, Harry pulled open one of the drawers on his desk, grabbing the taped together electric torch inside. He willed it to work, as he flicked the switch. Perhaps it was in a better state then he thought, perhaps his magic helped it along, but whatever the case, the light shone well enough for him to properly see the words he definitely hadn't written.
My name is Tom Riddle. What is yours?
Harry blinked. Maybe he was more tired then he'd thought. As he watched, the words began to fade, soaking back into the book.
Shifting the torch into his left hand, Harry picked the pen up again, feeling as if someone else was controlling his arm, as he wrote out a response, even as his mind was blank from shock.
Harry Potter.
After a moment he added,
What are you?
The answer came slowly after a few minutes, as if the person writing was weighing his words.
A memory. How did you come by my diary?
Harry stared. Was he really talking to a diary?
It was in my Transfiguration textbook. What do you mean by 'memory'?
Harry felt strange, waiting for Tom's answer.
Yet there was an odd familiarity in his gut, like Tom was an old friend he'd forgotten. Except he'd never had friends before Hogwarts. Dudley had always made sure of that.
I was a student at Hogwarts school. I managed to find a spell that allowed me to preserve my memories in this diary. I can't imagine how it came to be in a Transfiguration book.
I go to Hogwarts! I start my second year in September.
Harry waited for a reply, thinking about what Tom had said. If he really did go to Hogwarts, there was probably loads that he could tell Harry. Whatever spell he'd found, it seemed likely that it was pretty advanced, if it let him put his memories in a diary. He must have learned a lot more complicated spells then Harry knew of.
Really? Will you tell me about it? Has it changed at all since I attended?
Harry found himself smiling as he wrote back. He could practically feel Tom's enthusiasm.
It's amazing! When did you go? It's so magical! It was more then I could ever have hoped.
1942. It really is beautiful. What house are you in?
Harry hesitated a few moments. The only ones outside of Slytherin house that didn't dislike, or outright hate, them were the Ravenclaws, and they weren't always friendly either. But he didn't want to lie to Tom.
Slytherin.
Tom's reply came quickly, as if he was getting a bit excited.
I was in Slytherin as well! Is Professor Slughorn still head of house?
Harry frowned in thought. He didn't remember ever hearing the name 'Slughorn'. Whomever they were, they must have retired.
No. I don't think Slughorn teaches anymore. At least, I haven't heard that name. Our head of house is Snape. What did Slughorn teach?
Potions. He was very good at brewing, but most of his attention went to his favored students, ones he believed would go far, or that had connections. He wasn't the most attentive head of house.
Definatly not then. Snape teaches Potions.
Harry continued writing to Tom for a while. He hadn't realized how badly he wanted someone he could talk to. He cherished his friends dearly, but talking with Tom was different. It was as if they had always known each other, despite having never spoken before. Where he usually stumbled, and second guessed himself, Harry found words flowing easily, coming to him as naturally as flying had. Before he realized it, the sun was rising, shining its light across the matching houses of Privet Drive, and quickly filling Harry's room, making his torch pointless.
He looked up, a little startled. Was it morning already? It hadn't felt that long. He hadn't gotten any sleep, and Aunt Petunia would most likely come to rouse him before long, so there was no point trying to take a quick nap. Today would be long and horrible.
Yet he couldn't find it in him to regret it. He felt lighter then he had all summer. Maybe even longer. Talking to Tom was something new, and Harry found that he liked it very much. It felt like what Harry imagined talking to an older brother would be like. Tom seemed glad to talk to him, even when all he did was expound on the wonders of magic, managing to make even the most mundane of instances sound as if it was worth the world. And to him, it was. Hogwarts felt more like a home then Number Four ever had. Even when the older students sneered at him.
Sure enough, a few moments later he heard sounds of his aunt getting up. He bid Tom farewell and closed the diary, tucking it under his pillow so it would go unnoticed. He started getting dressed for the day, and before long Aunt Petunia knocked loudly on his door, calling for him to wake up. He heard the click of his door unlocking, and footsteps retreating towards the stairs.
With a quiet sigh, Harry headed towards his bedroom door, not quite ready for what today would bring, but resigned to being awake for several more hours.
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