Chapter 1
Tom Riddle was a mudblood in Slytherin.
It was because of this, that he felt as though his robes were a neon red, as though his limbs were bent the wrong way. It felt that, no matter how hard he tightens the mask around his face, he just couldn't hide who he was. His mud-soaked last name wouldn't allow him to truly rise to the top, unruly chains around his ankles, it was.
He had started from the bottom of the barrel, an orphan boy unfairly forgotten by the world. A charming, talented, genius boy- but an orphan and forgotten nonetheless.
Just when he finally had an escape from this blackhole of poverty and dirt, he found himself again, at the very base of the food chain. He felt cheated. Scammed from what little hope he had.
But he was nothing if not ambitious- and certainly not Tom Riddle if not brilliant. So, he grit his teeth and made it through his first year stumbling and fumbling. An embarrassing start that he would make sure no one would remember, if he could help it.
Embarrassing was an understatement, however. It was humiliating. All the purebloods pointing out his second-hand items didn't help, either. No matter how excellent his magic was, how high his grades were, how handsome, how charismatic- it always came down to his blood.
And it was always the little things. From how to hold your forks and spoons, to your posture and the small spells that always made life a bit more convenient. Tom knew none of these, he drank only from the knowledge of books, and they never included an instruction manual on how to survive your first year as a mudblood.
I'll show them. Tom would seethe in his four-poster bed, I'll show all of them how great I am, to the point where they would forget all about where I came from, or even what my last name was-
He would write all of this down in his journal, his quill scratching onto the parchment fervently, venting about things he could never say aloud.
In a way, the journal was the only thing he could truly "talk" to. For the most part, he had to keep his head down during Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner. Other than cleverly fighting back against the snide remarks on his last name and blood status, he stayed quiet, preferring to read a book instead.
It felt as though things weren't really going forward, as though his efforts to finally rise to the top despite his upbringing were futile.
Everything was the same, the same insults directed at his entire being, his life felt like a comedy show using the same joke over and over again. A laugh track repeating on forever, it may seem funny at first, but over time it becomes so irritating that you wish for nothing but to turn the TV off.
Same, same, same.
It was, until a fateful day.
Tom never really believed in Christmas Miracles, but it seemed to do the trick just fine.
Because it was only then did he come across another person writing in his journal, non-existent in the present time he was in, but still an entirely other being.
—
Harry had gone from pest to circus animal.
Of course, it was an upgrade from the locked cupboard under the stairs, but he was getting a bit tired of being stared at. Questions about things he doesn't remember doing, remarks on how alike he was to his parents- to the point where he would stare at himself in the mirror, wondering if he would grow up to look like his father as well.
It hurt, a bit. But you couldn't really miss what you never had.
In a way, it was a sort of tired acceptance.
The sky was blue, the grass was green, and Harry Potter would never be normal.
He could never blend in, no matter how well he adapted. He will always be stared at, like he had grown two heads or seven more fingers. He will never truly belong, the differences between him and others too great to ignore.
He thinks that, maybe, he should have realized this a long time ago.
He had always been a firm believer in Christmas and the spiritual joy it brings. But he'd stopped believing in that after so many years of being locked up in the same, cramped and dark space.
However, he thinks that maybe it's time he start believing in that again, because it brought to him a friend- one that maybe, just maybe, he could feel true to.
A friend fifty years in the past, but a friend nonetheless.
—
Harry Potter flipped through the pages of a peculiar diary while his dormmates slept on, their snores and levelled breathing filling the room.
Why he was doing this, he didn't know. He had found the book, sopping wet on the bathroom floor, right before polyjuicing into Goyle. He felt an almost magnetic pull to it, and nicked it into his pockets before meeting a Ron-turned-Crabbe.
The plan to infiltrate Draco Malfoy's house worked perfectly, but what didn't go as expected was the fact that Malfoy was not, the Slytherin heir. He and Ron fled quickly just as the potion stopped working, and found a Hermione-turned-cat instead.
'The hair I plucked from Millicent Bulstrode wasn't hers!.. It was a c-cat hair!' she yowled with tears in her eyes and fur-covered face.
While the plan was executed somewhat perfectly, the results were not.. exactly satisfactory. They still didn't know who was behind the attacks, and they had no idea what to do from there.
His second year felt disastrous, from almost getting expelled by entering school in a flying car, to a mysterious being petrifying students left and right, and he was the one getting blamed for it, apparently! It was almost surreal, how quickly his life could go from bad, to good, to worse.
He sighs quietly, pulling himself out of his thoughts to inspect the book on his bed more.
It was completely empty- not a trace of ink on the pages of this journal. He was idly flipping through the pages to see if there really was nothing in it.
He had a spare pot of ink and quill, laying on his bed. If his Aunt Petunia saw him like this, she'd scream her head off about a potential spill. Wincing at the very image, he carefully dips his quill in the pot.
He wonders, was it appropriate to use someone else's journal like this? The name Tom Marvolo Riddle was vaguely familiar.. but he just couldn't remember where he had heard it from.
There was another strange thing he pondered, the book felt rather.. compelling. Like his fingers were twitching to write in it. Ignoring and pushing that aside, his quill hovers over the blank pages, as blank as the thoughts in his head.
He truly had no idea what to write.
Frowning slightly as he thought, the memories of today were flashing through his head. He's frustrating himself with how to write his sentences, and then thinks that nobody would read this anyway-
He had just noticed some ink dropping onto the paper, staining it like watercolor. He sighs wearily, it was a big splattered dot, an ugly thing to mix with handwriting. He looks around for his wand, an ink-reversal spell already at the tip of his tongue.
When he glances back down at the pages, he does a double take immediately.
It was gone. Gone! The ink dot had completely disappeared- he wasn't hallucinating, was he? That would be insane.
Hesitantly, he dips his quill into the ink again and places it onto the paper. Then, he writes.
Harry Potter.
After a few moments, Harry watches with amazement as the ink seeps into the paper, and then back out to nothing. As if disintegrating on the pages. He flips to the next few pages to make sure the ink hadn't just gone through the paper- and nothing.
Was it an invisible ink thing? What a strange book.
And it was about to become even stranger, because the next moment, a loopy cursive started forming onto the pages.
Tom Riddle.
'Tom Riddle?' Harry muttered under his breath, fascinated and perhaps a bit disturbed- was there.. a person trapped in this diary? With a bit more eagerness, his quill scratches out a meager response.
Hello.
It writes back,
Hi.
A few moments pass, with Harry just staring at the page, blinking. Could a book be ever more so awkward? Chewing on his bottom lip, he writes again.
Are you the owner of this book?
I am, yes.
This is insane, he thinks deliriously. He was talking to a sentient book through writing.
Are you trapped in this book, Tom?
Trapped? No. You're the one who's trapped in here, aren't you? You don't happen to have gotten sucked into the pages of my diary, have you?
What? Of course not. I found this diary in the girl's bathroom.
Are you a girl?
No, I'm a boy.
Then what were you doing in the girl's bathroom? And I certainly haven't lost my journal. It's always sitting on my bed in my dorm.
It was the second floor girl's bathroom, it's always abandoned! And it's a long story. If you hadn't lost your diary, then how come I have it?
What? What do you mean the second floor's bathroom is abandoned? It's most certainly not. If I had lost my journal, then why do I have it too? Hang on. You're in Hogwarts, aren't you?
I am, yeah.
Are you in Slytherin?
Slytherin? Of course not, I'm in Gryffindor! If I were in Slytherin I don't think I could stand Draco Malfoy's rubbish.
There was a pause when the other didn't write back, Harry wondered what was taking them so long. Then, it finally appeared.
There isn't a Draco Malfoy in this house.
What? He wrote, Everybody knows about Draco.
There's only one Malfoy, and that's Abraxas.
I've never heard about an Abraxas being in Slytherin.
Wait, what year is it?
What an odd question to ask, Harry mused. Everybody should know what year they were in, shouldn't they?
1991, it's about to turn into 1992 in a week or two. Why?
Is this some kind of joke?
What do you mean?
It's not 1991, that's 50 or so years from now. It's 1939.
Harry blinked. This was getting stranger and stranger. There was no way the person on the other side of this diary was 50 years in the past! That would be impossible.
But things have always been possible with magic hasn't it? In one way or another, "impossible" wasn't really what it stood for anymore.
Before he could respond, Tom Riddle did it for him.
I don't believe you.
Harry scoffs, Yeah? Well I don't believe you either. Perhaps this was some elaborate prank the Weasley twins had set up, how does one prove that they really were 50 years in the past?
Perhaps you've heard of me, if you're from the future?
Maybe. Maybe the professors? What teachers do you have, Tom?
Well, we have Professor Beery for Herbology, Kettleburn for Care of Magical Creatures, Merrythought for Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course we have Slughorn for Potions- he's also our head of house in Slytherin. Professor Binns for History of Magic, and lastly, Dumbledore for Transfiguration.
Harry read the page in shock, Dumbledore used to be a professor in Hogwarts? Not only that, but he had Binns for History of Magic too! And whoever Slughorn was, he clearly wasn't apart of the Hogwarts staff anymore, because Snape was the head of house and potions master now.
Dumbledore used to teach Transfiguration?
Yes, although if I may.. he's not exactly one of my favorite classes. If you know of him, does that mean he's still at Hogwarts?
Of course. He's the Headmaster! And what do you mean by that? What I wouldn't give to be taught by Professor Dumbledore..
Headmaster? Of course, that's not surprising. The old man's such a bigot, he favors his precious little Gryffindors over everything. Us Slytherins have to scramble for anything over an Exceeds Expectations. Of course, he usually has no choice but to give me an O in everything, I have top grades in all my classes.
Harry paused in his writing, Dumbledore, a bigot? He couldn't imagine the man as anything but fair. Although, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.. fervently shaking his head to clear away any other thoughts, his quill sinks into the ink pot again.
What a strange situation I've found myself in! Harry thought to himself, I'm talking to a boy 50 years in the past- or so he says.
The bed creaks weakly as he immerses himself deeper into the conversation, his curiosity overcoming any skepticism.
Are you really in the 1930s? He couldn't help but ask,
I am. Although, I'm not sure how to provide evidence for that. I'm sure at least someone knows my name in this school. You should ask Professor Dumbledore tomorrow. He must remember my name.
I don't want to bother him with something like this! He's been really busy, with all the attacks in the school. How about Professor Binns instead?
Professor Binns is still teaching?
Yes. Well, I suppose not really. He's dead, isn't he?
He's been dead for over 50 years then, I don't think he's noticed yet.
Harry snickers quietly, he immediately shuts up when he hears Ron snore loudly.
Cursive forms on the paper again, Harry noticed that the diary always vibrated slightly when a new message appears. It warms in his hands, a soft glow on the pages that he hadn't seen before.
I just realized, you said something about attacks? What do you mean by attacks in the school? Is Hogwarts in danger?
Harry purses his lips anxiously. After a few pensive minutes he sighs and writes back. After all, what could a boy 50 years in the past do now? Tom Marvolo Riddle of 1939 would be called insane if he were to say he was talking to someone 5 decades into the future.
Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?