Author's Note:

This fic has been updated! It is now under the title of Sonnet 18. It's going to be very different from this prototype, which is why I'm leaving this up here. Below is a snippet of the new version, which I encourage you to read and review. Thanks for your patience!

I hate you.

Rolling his eyes, Harry slammed shut the battered diary that lie open upon his bed. If Riddle wanted to be moody, he could be moody by himself – Harry had enough to worry about, what with going back to the Dursley's tomorrow and everything. Looking over the edge of his bed, where his trunk stood readily packed, he mentally double-checked that he would be able to wake-up, stuff himself at breakfast, then go without fear of leaving anything behind. Though there was one thing he wouldn't mind leaving…

I hate you. The diary had flipped itself back open, presenting page 35, near the middle. Riddle's usually precise handwriting, slanted slightly to the right and curling with artistic flare, was sloppy and jagged – his tantrum coming through his writing. Of course, Harry could understand why Riddle would have cause for being upset. Honestly, he wouldn't much like being trapped in a banged up old book by himself either.

"I could have let you die, you know," Harry muttered at the book, while drawing the curtains around his bed. "I didn't have to save you."

Riddle didn't answer. By now, Harry knew that Tom could hear him through the pages… that writing wasn't necessary to communicate with the young Dark Lord. Not that Harry was foolish enough to try a quill – after learning how Ginny had come to be possessed, he certainly wasn't going to risk the same fate, brought on by sheer stupidity. Hermione would be fairly proud.

Sighing, Harry firmly closed the diary again, using an old sock to bind it shut. Tucking it under his pillow, where the weight of his head could hold it down if need be, he warily laid down to rest for his last night in Hogwarts as a second year. "'Night Tom," he muttered, half to spite and half to soothe to seething disembodied youth.

"Mwa?" Ron's sleepy mutter came from beyond the red curtains, obviously already half asleep.

"I said, 'Goodnight Ron,'" Harry lied, listening for his friend's accepting murmur, followed by steady snoring. It was a small lie, but Harry found himself wondering how many of these lies he would have to tell in order to protect what should likely be destroyed.