This will be my first complete fanfiction story in English. There may be some spelling mistakes.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to J. .

Silent screams were all that filled his mind. His hands clutched the blanket around him. Twisting and turning. Then his eyes shot open. Green eyes, haunted by the lingering nightmare. It took Harry a while to realise it had been yet another dream. The same dream, over and over again.

Kill the spare.

Those three little words were like a whisper in the dark. A chill went down his spine. He had to remember it was only a dream. A vicious nightmare, no longer the real thing. That battle ended nearly two weeks ago. If you could even call it a battle.

Cedric died, without a chance to defend himself. Death came by a flash of green and the whisper of two words. And then Voldemort had returned. Harry couldn't stop himself from shivering, knowing all too well it was by mere chance he escaped yet again. He knew one day his luck would run out. That was if he could get out of this rotting stinking place.

He was the one, who saw Voldemort return, yet he had not heard any news at all. Ron and Hermoine were his only two contacts to the magical world. But even they their letters were vague. Every question he asked, was answered the same.

I'm sorry Harry, we cannot tell you anymore. The wrong people might read these letters.

He knew they were right, there was a high possibility that someone would read their letters and it was dangerous to put any real information in them. But it was nonetheless infuriating. Not even Dumbledore had contacted.

In all those years, he never felt more alone. When he told any of his two best friends about his nightmares, they would push it away, saying it was only logical, that he was traumatised. Maybe so but that didn't mean he didn't want to talk about it. He had all these feelings, emotions inside him, consuming him, wreaking havoc in his mind and body. But there was no one he could go to.

For a moment he rubbed his eyes, adjusting to the darkness. Then he grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and looked at the clock. 2:16. It was still the middle of the night. But Harry knew all too well he wouldn't sleep again, not now. The vision was still engraved in his mind, the words to clear in his ears.

He shook his head. He had to get rid of these thoughts, this turmoil of feelings. So, he got up and walked over to his desk. He switched on his lamp, grabbed a quill, some ink and parchment.

Dear Hermoine,

I know I've told you a million times, but I just can't shake this feeling. I need to talk about it with someone. It's alw...

He dropped his quill. It was always the same. She would just give him the same response yet again. So why bother? Because he needed to lose these feelings, rather sooner than later. But there was no comfort I writing a letter to which he already knew the answer.

A few minutes passed, while he tried to process his thoughts, order them. There was of course someone else he could talk to. Someone, who might understand, or at least laugh about his pathetic state of being. It would be a different response all together. He had nothing to lose.

As quietly as possible, he opened the hidden compartment under his wooden floor. Pushing his first-caught snitch aside, he found what he was looking for. A small black book, old and wretched.

Tom Riddles Diary.

Last time when he didn't know what to do, the young man in the diary helped him. With lies and tricks, but it helped none the less. He knew Tom Riddle couldn't be trusted, he was after all the younger version of Voldemort himself. But what could a memory do to him? Nothing.

He sat back down behind his desk and opened the diary at a random page. Picking up his quill, he hesitated. Poor Ginny almost died pouring her feelings, her very soul into this book. Wasn't this the very same thing?

No

This was different, he knew it was. He would never give Riddle his soul. Riddle was a slimy bastard, who used cunning words to manipulate you. With this knowledge the young man in the diary was no threat to him. He made up his mind.

Hello Riddle.

Silence. No other words appeared on the paper. Could a memory die? No probably not, not this easy. Could they sleep? He snorted. That would be funny. Elegant letters appeared on the paper.

Why Hallo Harry. I presume it is Harry Potter.

Who else would it be? He wrote back.

Dumbledore perhaps?

He looked at the disappearing words. Well that would be logical, any sane person would have given the diary to a wiser wizard, hoping he knew what to do with it. But for some strange enough reason he decided to keep it, make it his.

Oh my, I presume you didn't tell the old man? Am I your dirty little secret?

He looked at the words, biting his lip. No, he never told Dumbledore what happen with the dangerous little book. Not the truth at least. Why should he? Dumbledore never told him anything. Yet the words from the Slytherin heir made him uncomfortable. It was like he did something really bad. Two minutes in this conversation and Riddle was already crawling under his skin!

He cleared his mind, dipping his quill in the ink once more.

No. There are no secrets between me and Dumbledore. He lied.

Are you sure? It took you a while to respond.

Irritation crept in his mind. Knowing all too well what Riddle was doing, but not giving it a chance to succeed.

Unlike some memory I actually have other things to do.

You do now, don't you? Pray tell me, what do fourteen-year-old boys do in the middle of the night, while all others are sleeping?

What? How did Riddle know it was the middle of the night? How did he even know how old he was! Did this book have eyes or something? He browsed through the pages, looking for a window, like the one he saw two years ago, but there was no such thing.

I can read your mind Harry.

He stared at those six words, another shiver ran down his spine. There was no such thing like mind-reading. Was there? And if there was, certainly a memory from a diary wasn't able to use it. He closed the diary, his heart was racing. Riddle was creeping him out. Had he always been this unnerving?

He stared at the closed diary. Doubt settled in him once more. He could just throw the diary away, but that would rob him of the only chance to actually have a real conversation with someone. He had no doubt Riddle would be deathly honest against him. Especially about his nightmares.

He opened the little book again. Neat words filled the blank page.

I was only joking. I need a body and a wand to read your mind. Were you scared?

Harry bit his lip again, wondering what answer he should give. But before he made up his mind, new letters appeared.

Of course not. I may not be able to read your mind, but I can feel what you are feeling. Now what is I that the great Harry Potter wants from me?

The great Harry Potter? He could not help himself, a little chuckle passed is lips. Sure, it was sarcasm, but coming from the one who would become his nemesis, it just sounded funny. He grabbed his quill again.

I just wanted to talk.

I'm flattered that you would choose me over any other.

Harry snorted. As if. If there was someone else, he would talk to someone else. But that was just is, wasn't it? There was no one. That's why he assorted to this in the first place. But he wasn't going to tell Riddle that.

Don't flatter yourself. This late at night, you are the only psycho available.

I'm sure there are many more to choose from. Tell me, what is it you wanted to talk about? If it's a girl, please shut the diary again.

He cheeks flushes. He didn't want to talk about girls! Why would he talk about girls with this psychopath?

No, not girls. He wrote back, ink disappearing almost immediately. I've been having the same bloody nightmare every night.

A nightmare? About what? And do mind your language.

Your hideous older version, killing a friend of mine.

Why was he doing this again? It was not like Riddle could help him, or even understand him. The Slytherin Heir was probably laughing, because he was essentially causing his nightmares. A letter to Hermoine or Ron would have been a whole lot better. It wasn't too late. He could just close the diary, put it back under the wooden floorboard and just continue his letter to his best friend.

I suppose you have been traumatised. Nightmares pass, there is not much you can do about it.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Riddle was not laughing, not very helpful either. Maybe he could talk to the Slytherin heir about this sort of things.

I know. It's just...I get this horrid feeling inside. Like it is happing over and over again, every night.

Nightmares tend to do that. I know I didn't like waking up screaming.

His breath stopped for a second. Riddle had nightmares? Voldemort has nightmares? No, that would be ridiculous. What would the Dark Lord be scared of? Except his own mirror reflection of course. But Riddle wasn't Voldemort, now was he? Not Completely at least. Riddle was still partially human.

What did you do about it?

The page stayed blank for a few moments. Just like Riddle was trying to build some suspense. If he was, it was working. Harry was anxious awaiting the answer. When the words did appear, he could imagine Riddle smirking.

I gave my nightmares their own fears. Me.

Well, that wasn't helping much. Seeing how Voldemort was the biggest part of his fear, he could be seen as his nightmare. It was hardly possible let Voldemort fear him, or something else. The man had no emotions. He decided he didn't want to talk about it anymore. So, he moved on to another topic.

How did you know those things before?

If I tell you, will you visit me again?

Yes. He had written it down, before he realised and was fully aware of the question.

Do you promise?

Yes. He wrote again, feeling a tingle of magic surging through his body.

Even a memory knows how much time passes. As for the rest...I anticipated your thoughts.

And that was the final straw. He closed the diary and pushed it away. Riddle was scary as hell. The Slytherin heir knew exactly what he was thinking. No bloody way he would ever open that odd little book again. He would stuff it away and never speak of it again. He decided that a lack of sleep was the cause of this idiotic idea. Once, but no more. Promise or no promise.