Aes

Dudley’s second bedroom is completely quiet. It’s bare, almost empty besides the worn-down wardrobe and the small, fragile bed which is pushed into a corner. When Harry looks at it, he can’t say it looks like a bedroom per se. He saw Ron’s bedroom; he even saw Hermione’s on photographs she brought last year. Well, her room was in the background, not the motive, but anyway.

He knows what a room for a fourteen-year-old child should look like. It’s not this. This is more like a big version of his cupboard.

However, Harry doesn’t really care about the state of his room. So, what if the wallpaper is turning yellow? What if the wardrobe and the bed really don’t match in color or style? It’s a room. He’s glad he can point at a door when someone asks where he stays without feeling dread or pure horror.

It’s fine. It’s good, even. Yes, the bed frame is scratched, and the wardrobe’s door is broken. Yes, even though he cleaned up, Dudley’s old toys still stare at him with lolling heads or missing eyes. But all that doesn’t really matter, does it?

Because he has a desk. A whole, cool new-old desk. Aunt Petunia decided that her Dudders needed a new one – and in addition Harry gained a new one, too! One with scratches and missing paint at the edges from too long use, and it’s actually really old and has smudges that aren’t identifiable anymore, but it’s a desk.

Even though it doesn’t match his bed, or his wardrobe.

It’s just a shame that Uncle Vernon locked his trunk – with his schoolbooks – in the cupboard. Harry was only able to smuggle a small bag with him. He placed a shrinking spell on it, which wore off just about five minutes ago. Books, pens, and other things. Things he wouldn’t miss too much if they were gone. Or things he could replace with money – or time.

Enough to spend the summer at least somehow entertained.

Harry is sitting on the floor, cross-legged. His glasses are cracked on one side and so he holds his head a little… crooked. He knows it’s not helping his sight, but still. He also holds his body crooked, too, but that actually helps against the cracks.

With a small sigh he reaches out, taking the bag by the edges and just dumping it upside down on the ground. Books slip out, some loose pens, a small, black diary.

A diary.

Harry’s hesitating as he reaches out, slowly gripping the small book. A leather cover. At least it feels like it, but Harry’s not that well versed in materials. He lifts it up, turning the diary around.

Tom Marvolo Riddle

Harry frowns softly, brushing his fingers over the golden letters. He doesn’t know someone named Tom Riddle. He hasn’t seen this diary before, either. Turning it back around, he stares at the black-golden cover. It looks fancy. He brushes his finger over the material, a heavy cloud of something settling around him. It doesn’t feel bad – just… unfamiliar. Harry shakes himself, trying to shake the feeling off, and then he slowly opens it.

The pages are blank. Completely. No doodles, no words, no anything. Not even smudges or- or, hell, crooked corners.

Harry’s brows furrow more deeply and then he snaps it back shut. It feels like some pressure around him fades. After a moment of hesitation, he slowly puts the diary down to his other things. Then he grabs his bag again and opens it wide, feeling the inside for the inner pocket. He finds the zipper and tugs. His photographs. Relief is settling over him when he holds them in his hand.

Hermione and Ron are grinning up at him, waving happily. Harry’s smile dims. Oh, how he misses them already.

He shifts a little to the right. There’s a loose floorboard where he digs his fingers beneath, cracking it open. He carefully settles the photos next to a very old bag of wrapped sweets. While he could make new photos next year at Hogwarts, he would like to just… have them.

After a last longing look, he pushes the floorboard back in place. It’s better if they’re safe. Still, Harry only collects his smuggled things reluctantly, suddenly not in the mood to do anything. With a sigh, he pushes to his feet and drops his things onto his new-old desk. He drops into his wooden chair like a wet rag.

He misses Hogwarts. He misses his friends, he misses his professors, he misses the castle.

God, he even misses Snape’s potions class. That should say something about how horrible it’s at the Dursley’s.

Harry straightens up reluctantly, careful with the bruises around his ribs. He moves slowly – however, he’s also too impatient to move slow enough, probably.

He grabs one of the muggle pens he nicked from Hermione, swirling it around his fingers. With his left hand, he pulls the diary closer. There’s no Tom Riddle in his year, he knows that. Not in the year above and under him, either. He’s pretty sure.

Absently he turns the pages with his left hand, the paper feeling smooth and rich between his fingers. Then, suddenly, there’s a sharp pain zipping through his finger. A drop of dark, swirling blood splatters against the corner of a page. A papercut. Harry stares at the new smudge, a little guilty, while pressing his fingers past his lips, until the bleeding stops.

Well, now that the page is already ruined, though, he can probably pass some time by just… filling it, right?

Without another thought he sets the pen down with his right hand. He can probably clean the page with a spell, later on. He is a wizard, after all.

He doodles mindlessly, sketching something that looks remarkably like an ugly caricature of Snape. Not that he would ever do something like that. Still, he exaggerates the person’s nose and gives them a mean scowl. After a moment he pulls the pen away – but something is still doodling. Giving his drawn-Snape angry eyebrows, so overly exaggerated that even Harry feels offended. His drawing doesn’t look that bad, those eyebrows aren’t matching his skill!

The line vanishes, and only then does Harry realize that maybe this isn’t as normal as he acts about it. The line reappears in neat handwriting.

‘Hello.’

Harry stares. He stares and stares until the word fades again. Spooky. He pulls the diary closer, brushing his finger over where the word has appeared.

‘Are you still there, little artist?’

The words are written just above his hand. He startles and grasps his pen tighter. Is he supposed to answer a soul that’s trapped into a book? That’s probably stupid, it’s most likely just some dark artifact, or something cool like…

He can’t think of anything, truthfully.

‘I’m still here,’ He hesitates, then just blurts. ‘Hi.’

He feels stupid. He acts all nervous about a book. Actually, if it’s just a book, how does it even write back? That’s not supposed to happen. Did Uncle Vernon hit him harder than he thought?

‘Hi.’ It’s slowly written out – Harry imagines it as an amused drawl. ‘What subject is punished by such monstrosity?’

For a long moment, Harry stares at the words, not quite comprehending. What is that guy talking about? Or girl, for that matter. But the diary belongs to ‘Tom’, so…

His eyes flicker to the drawing at the corner. Or, well, the drawing that should be there if it wouldn’t disappear in like five seconds.

‘Potions, I suppose. He’s a horrible professor.’

Now he sounds like a whiny child. His social skills are so bad he can’t even talk to a book.

‘My transfiguration professor had also been an abysmal teacher.’

Harry follows the cursive with his index finger. It has neat bows, long curves and lines. It looks so fancy.

‘Although he’s an abysmal teacher to me, especially.’

‘My potions professor is an abysmal teacher in general. However, he hates me, especially.’

There’s a small pause in which Harry almost starts to regret everything he just wrote.

‘Are you bad at potions?’

He actually thinks about the question. It’s not like he doesn’t grasp what he’s supposed to do. It’s like cooking, isn’t it? Just that someone is glaring all the time and commenting all his wrongdoings and never explaining a single thing, so…

‘I never had a chance to be good at it.’

‘Ah.’ Another pause. ‘My professor dislikes me despite my good grades.’

Harry stares at those words, feeling a pang of sympathy. A pang of comradery. His eyes stare at the words until they fade away and even then, he still thinks about the unfairness of it all.

‘Draw them for me.’

There’s hesitation. It’s more than a pause. A dot is forming, and then afterwards the words.

‘I can’t exactly draw.’

Harry cracks a grin.

‘Me neither.’

The page is blank for another moment, then slow, jagged lines start to appear. It’s not good, or pretty, but it’s still perfect, somehow. Harry waits until he can make out a face. It’s so bad he can only snicker. Reaching out, he draws the professor thick, big angry eyebrows.

The line of the other waggles, as if amused or surprised, before it starts to draw a beard in crooked lines.

Harry grins widely. Maybe this summer won’t be as lonely as it normally is. Or maybe he wakes up tomorrow with a smashed head and this is all just a big fever dream. The latter is more likely, honestly.

He hasn’t noticed how his blood slowly fades from the paper, until the page is blank again.