A/N: Written for The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.
Beater 2 - Wimbourne Wasps.
Prompt: Riddle's Diary (Additional Prompts: (nursery rhyme) Jack and Jill, (colour) magenta, (creature) Dementors).
Just as a disclaimer - italics in the text are the thoughts/stream of consciousness and replies of Riddle's Diary. I hope you enjoy!

Consciousness is a state of mind – apparently… However I would refute that. Consciousness is a state of being which can be measured in a number of subjective manners. For what is consciousness when one has no mind? When one has been split from the body, the soul and the mind – then what is consciousness? Perhaps contact, perhaps discovery, unequivocally for myself consciousness is interaction. My consciousness lies in the turning of the pages of my soul. And when those pages are closed, I am nothing. I am unaware of existence and consciousness.

Sometimes my pages would be touched or moved – by a human hand or a whisper of wind, and I would stir for a moment before falling back into unconsciousness. Time seemed to be absent during those periods, however in those brief moments of consciousness, I was aware of its passage. Perhaps through an aging of my soul – though I was separated from the main… Or perhaps through other means.

Small rough fingers turned through the blank pages, then let them fall to a middle page; those small fingers fumbled to pick up a quill and clumsily dipped it into an ink pot. He knew he wasn't supposed to use a quill yet, or ink – mummy had given him pencils and told him to practice with them, but he wanted to be like father; father used a fine tipped beautiful feather quill. If he was careful and didn't get ink all over him, then she wouldn't have to know – this was a black notebook of fathers, and he could hide it and practice in it.

Slowly and meticulously, the fingers gripped close to the nib, he wrote: "A B C D." It took him a long time to do each letter, and they were uneven, untidy – childlike.

'What the…?' Consciousness had sprung inside me at the sudden splash of ink upon my pages.

" K." The letters continued to be scribed.

'You missed J…' I pointed out, using the ink of the person who seemed to be practicing their alphabet on my pages. They did not respond, just carried on: " R S T U." Perhaps they couldn't read. That must be it… That was infuriating, it must be a child! How had they gotten their hands on my precious vessel?

"X Y Z." The untidy writing stopped.

And suddenly there was nothing.

Two large spots of emerald ink dropped onto the first page of the notebook, which had been jammed into an old bookcase in between two large leather bound journals and forgotten about for some time. This time the first sentence was written quicker, the handwriting still rather untidy, but much better than the previous occasion:

"My name is Draco Malfoy. I am six and three quarter years old."

At the instance of the first spots of ink I had relished the sudden possibility of interaction – of genuine consciousness. 'Hello Draco, my name is Tom Riddle.'

However the next sentence had already begun to be written and this time the ink was navy blue – so rich it was almost black: "I live with mummy and father in our manor. We have a house elf called Dobby." Then the writing stopped, and two words scrawled in magenta appeared: "Hello Tom."

'How did you find my diary?' This was still a child, not even seven years old – what use was he to me?

"It's fathers." The ink now a blood red shade.

'Your father's?'

"I borrowed it to practice in because mummy says I have to get better at my writing." Draco Malfoy wrote in reply.

'He let you have my diary?' I asked incredulously, concerned about the worthiness of the individual I had entrusted my vessel to.

"Not really." Draco wrote slowly, "He doesn't know, and he mustn't! Otherwise he'll send me to the dementors!"

'The dementors?'

"You won't tell him will you?" The writing became untidy again.

'I don't see how I can.' I replied truthfully. This Draco was still a child, it wasn't like possessing him would do me any good – his soul was not mature enough for me to latch onto and gain strength from. I could not find a use for the boy in any way that might aid myself.

"Good." But perhaps Draco didn't trust me as suddenly my pages slammed shut, and I could feel his hands roughly shoving me into a small space. And I was without life all over again.

"Humpty dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty dumpty had a great fall…" Two almost incomprehensible sentences were scribed in black ink, then suddenly and quite violently those two lines were scored out.

The ink touching upon my page was like the breathe of life for me, revitalising me from my undisturbed slumber. Yet the confusing lines which had provided that life to me again meant nothing to me. 'What is humpty dumpty?'

"It's a nursery rhyme." Nine year old Draco Malfoy wrote in his much improved handwriting.

'A what rhyme?' Could this possibly be a form of verbal magic that I had never heard of? Or perhaps it was a kind of code that I had been unaware of…

"A nursery rhyme… You learn them when you're a kid and they have messages behind them." Draco explained.

'What kind of message?' So it was a code! 'And what are you telling me for?' I asked, rather confused at the point of this conversation.

"I wasn't really…" Draco answered. "I've to come up with my own variation of a nursery rhyme for my tutor."

'And you thought that I might want to know?' I wasn't incredibly pleased at being woken up to be babbled at by a child. 'I think you're wasting your time! What point could they be?'

"Well they make you understand values!" Draco wrote quickly, his handwriting deteriorating as he rushed to justify what he was doing.

'How is that possible? Give me an example.'

"One, two, three, four, five

Once I caught a mudblood alive,

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,

I did not let them go again.

Why did you not let them go?

Because I had a point to show!

What point did you have to make?

That mudblood bones are meant to break!"

Draco took his time to write this entry but the further he got on, the more I began to appreciate what he was writing: 'Mudblood bones are meant to break? I like that one.'

"My father taught me that one." Draco answered.

'It seems your father has good taste.' I commented.

"My father is very important."

'What other rhymes has he taught you?' I asked, curious about the content of these rhymes. 'I have never heard of them before.'

"Really? There's lots of them! Most of them have stupid muggle variations, but the wizarding ones are so much better! (Obviously!)"

'So they were muggle before and have been transferred to wizarding ones?' the thought of corrupting that which had first been uttered by filthy muggle lips disgusted me.

"I think it is the other way around! The wizards had them first!"

'Give me another example.'

"Wizards and witches come out to play,

The moon has scared the muggles away.

Bring out your wand and come with your broom,

The sun will be rising all too soon.

Join all the purebloods in the street,

We're going to kill mudbloods in their sleep.

Quietly creep now it's time for our fun,

No muggle scum can from us run.

But careful as the morning breaks,

It's time to hide as the village wakes."

Each futher sentence alighted another pang of enjoyment – these rhymes were delightful! My unfortunate upbringing in that slime pit of a muggle orphanage meant that I had missed out on all of these kind of rhymes! But these rhymes could be used in order to make all pureblood children understand their right to rule! 'Those are really interesting, are they taught to all children?'

"It depends. Father and mummy have taught them to me… And I know some people learn them at school, but I don't go to school yet. I'm not old enough for Hogwarts." Draco wrote. "But I have to come up with my own version of a rhyme…"

'Have you any ideas?'

"The only one I had thought of isn't really coming up with my own, I'm just swapping words."

'What is it?'

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

With crushed snail shells and engorgement spells,

And mudblood skulls all in a row."

Being oblivious to the original rhyme, I felt that the message put across by Draco's version was rather good! It had all the hall marks that it should – a kind of rhyming theme, but also a warning to those filthy muggles and mudbloods that wizards shouldn't be crossed.

"I know father won't be happy with that one though, so I'll have to think of something better."

It seemed that Draco had never really considered the fact that one of his notebooks just so happened to write back to him, wanting to know more and ask questions… Perhaps that was just because he was still too young to understand? But still, his emotional immaturity meant that, at this moment in time, his soul was not actually of any use, but that didn't mean that it might not be in the future… If he wasn't threatened then he would keep coming back – keep writing to me, and then I'd be able to harness the power of his soul…

"I think I've got one!"

'Yes?'

"Jack and Jill went up the hill,

To catch a glimpse of Hogwarts.

Both could see but not agree

That it included all sorts.

Jack and Jill felt most impure,

That mudblood scum was present,

Their blood was pure, and they were sure,

That purebloods would endure – Tojour Pur!"

'Purebloods over all!' This boy would be useful, he could be groomed to my purpose, and maybe even be part of my plan against muggle dominance.

"Yeah! That's it! I'm going to show mummy! Thanks Tom!"

But that was it – and all too suddenly my pages were shut once more, and I had no idea how long this bout of unconsciousness was going to last. However long, when I was reopened perhaps Draco would be old enough, and receptive enough for me to use…

Although my main source of consciousness was through interaction, I had a base level of consciousness when being handled and moved – and that was the next thing I was aware of… a great deal of handling – then nothing.

Until I felt delicate fingers running across the leaves of my pages, and my anticipation for a conversation with a more mature Draco rose… But what came next was not expected.

"August 27th 1993." The handwriting was different, small and curled, not Draco's writing.

"Dear diary, next week I am going to start at Hogwarts and I will be the youngest Weasley there…"

Definitely someone else – why? How? This new person was writing to me as thought I was their diary. Maybe through losing Draco I had gained someone better? But still, as they fed more ink onto my pages, I had to refrain from asking: 'Where's Draco?' Instead, I reset my sights, drained the ink and wrote to the new owner of my vessel:

"'Hello. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?'

A/N: Thank you very much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought of this story! :)