Author's Note: Okay, first of all, I really need to apologize for the lateness of this first chapter. My laptop broke and being a part of the Scholar's Academy doesn't really give me much downtime either. My laptop is still broke in fact and I can just tell this chapter is going to be hell to write on it but I feel bad enough for the lateness as it is. Secondly, for all of you who favorited/followed and/or reviewed, thank you so much. You guys make my life worth it, quite honestly. Also, I believe I need to clarify something. The Tom in this story is a diary. Not a human. Only a broken piece of a soul. Not a human. Which is why I was leaning towards red eyes (Not to mention all fanart of Tom featuring red eyes that I draw inspiration from.) Truthfully, I've always seen human Tom with a misty greyish-blue eye color. So if this was a time travel or the like story, Tom would, without hesitation, have that color as his eyes. But as he is not even a living being, I was leaning towards red eyes. But it doesn't even really matter yet, because a fully corporeal form of Tom won't be here for a while. I just wanted to get that out there. I was more interested in your opinion of Harry's house in the reviews. I personally see Harry as the heir of Gryffindor (whether it was debunked or not I don't really care either way because I believe it is true) which is why I was hesitant about putting him within the snake house, but apparently the muse inside my head along with all of my reviewers has decided Harry will be a Slytherin in this story. So mote it be. Anyways, onto the first chapter.


"Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."

-Anais Nin


Written Reality

Chapter One

The Boy in the Diary

When a young Harry Potter awoke to his Aunt Petunia's incessant rapping upon his cupboard door the next morning, he was surprised to find himself feeling oddly refreshed. After most nights within his cupboard, the young boy often found himself aching and more tired than he was before he fell asleep. But that morning, as his aunt's screechy voice flooded into his make-shift room through the vents upon the door, the boy felt as the world had finally decided to do him a favor. It was with this soaring heart that Harry replied politely to his demanding aunt that he was awake as his eyes fell upon the dark journal within his lap that he could only see due to his eyes having had to adjust to the dark cupboard after all of the years within its confines.

The dark haired youth barely registered the fact that his aunt had walked away from his door muttering about a 'blasted brat' that 'thinks he's better than all the rest of us.' Instead, he picked up the leather-bound journal and gingerly placed it within his ratty bookbag reluctantly. As much as it pained him to do so, though he had no idea why that was, he had chores to do. So with that in mind, the emerald eyed boy left his cramped and dusty, spider-infested cupboard to tend to the tasks given to him by his relatives on that very lovely Saturday morning.

Harry clumsily walked down the hallway, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he went. No time for tiredness. He had work to do.

The seven year old quickly attended to the Dursley's breakfast. It took everything in the boy to not hungrily stare at the cooking sausages in front of the watchful eyes of Vernon Dursley who sat at the kitchen table, but he somehow managed.

"Boy."

The word was stern and loud. It startled the young boy atop a stool to reach the stove so much that he would have stumbled off of the stool completely had he not reached for the adjacent counter. Harry looked at his uncle silently after he caught himself, waiting for him to continue.

"Did you visit the barber shop yesterday?"

Although it was stated as a question, the boy's uncle had said it in a tone that suggested that no matter what Harry replied to it, the man would believe the answer was most certainly a no. The seven year old had long since gotten used to this sort of obvious mistrust from his uncle, so this didn't faze him. Instead, the boy truthfully shook his head no. Vernon hadn't ordered him to yesterday, after all. However, despite the action showing that he was correct, this seemed to enrage his uncle to no end as his sweaty face reddened and the muscles in his cheeks twitched.

"Why ever not?! As soon as you finish breakfast, boy, go and get a trim. Let's make this one permanent this time, shall we?"

Harry quickly nodded his head submissively, eyes trained on the floor as his uncle calmed down all the while muttering about him under his breath, before sweeping his eyes over to the cooking sausages. Despite the fact that his stomach was in pain from the mouth-watering food he was cooking that he would ultimately not be allowed to eat, he was quite elated. Trips to the barber shop happened quite frequently due to the Dursley's hate for his unruly hair, but they were altogether unenjoyable. In fact, Harry found himself enjoying the visits to the hair trimmer's shop so much that he didn't mind the long walk he had to endure to arrive at the slightly shabby establishment. The old barber was a jolly old man that called Harry his 'favorite customer' and always gave the emerald eyed youth some sweets when he would stop by. The walk wasn't all that bad either, and it passed right by the local park. The young boy would often take a quick stop to the park on his way back to the Dursley residence, delighting in the calmness of the park's nature and foliage.

But it was not just the idea of a trip to the friendly barber that had the raven haired suddenly speeding through the making of breakfast. An idea had wiggled into his brain, an idea that part of him was slightly afraid of, while the majority of him was brimming in excitement. Because this idea was not just any idea, this idea was the an idea that said the young boy was to smuggle the leather-bound book hidden within his cupboard to outside of the Dursley's walls. The boy had known that, today, he would most likely have never gotten a chance to even properly appraise the small book. But if he brought it outside of the Dursley's perimeter without technically sneaking away, he could actually spend some time with his newest and dearest possession.

With a spring in his step that he tried to hide, the seven year old piled on large amounts of breakfast on three serving plates and carefully brought them to the table. The boy almost let out a sigh of relief when he noticed he hadn't made a mess. Almost. Trying to not look to eager to leave, Harry began to clean up all of the cooking supplies. Just after he finished the last frying pan, his Aunt Petunia finally appeared in the kitchen. The high strung female took one look at her nephew before letting out a dainty sniff and not giving him a second glance. Harry took this as his cue to leave, and left the drying frying pan on a dish towel.

The boy's emerald eyes were trained upon the floor as he left the kitchen in clear submission, but as soon as he was out of eyesight, a smile spread across his face and he hurried towards his cupboard. He unbolted the latch before speedily putting on his shoes and grabbing for his backpack. He unzipped the bag quietly and pulled out the journal before hesitating and reaching out for a chipped yellow pencil as well. With both items securely tucked away under his large shirt, the seven year old unlocked the front door of Number 4 Privet Drive before opening it to the perfect weekend weather.

The dark haired boy quietly shut the front door behind him before hopping onto the gravelly walkway to the sidewalk. The truth was that Harry loved the outdoors. He attributed this to the fact that he lived most of his life hidden away in a cupboard, the only time of seeing the outside world when he would pass a window while doing his chores. But that had all changed when school started. Suddenly the young boy had been, not only allowed outside, but forced. And he loved it, every bit of it.

The boy continued down the road, passing many similar houses that looked almost the exact same as the Dursley's. The only difference would be slight; the garage on the other side of the front door, the garden to the left instead of the right, the driveway down the middle instead of the side. It was a little maddening to see so many similarities between the endless rows of houses, but Harry found the slight differences oddly refreshing. And besides, he had grown up within the same house as his gossiping Aunt Petunia, so he knew more about the owners of said houses than he even wanted.

For example, the young boy just passed Ms. Kennedy's home. She was a single mother of two teenage children that were often found coming into the house in the early hours of the morning and rather out of it. And there, Mr. Hemming's house who only cuts his grass every other month and who's dog digs in his neighbors' gardens. And of course you can't forget about Mrs. Figg. Harry grimaced as he passed that particular house. He personally knew too much about her and her cats, alive and deceased, than he wanted to know about anyone. The names Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty still gave him nightmares.

The seven year old wiped the grimace off his face only to be replaced by a grin as his hands brushed past the journal hidden under his waistband. Excitement poured off of the boy's body in waves. He couldn't place the exact reasoning for his exuberance, but he knew it was because of the little black-green notebook. His unexplained happiness originated from the small leather-bound book and he didn't want anything to ruin it.

Harry continued his trip down the street before taking a right at the crossroads, effectively passing the expansive yet secluded park. Only a little ways further before he reached the barber shop. The small child couldn't keep the grin off his face or the spring out of his step the entire walk. As he passed the perfectly trimmed bushes that were the first sign that he was nearing the barber shop, Harry's grin seemed to only widen. Nothing could go wrong.

A small stone pathway peeked through the foliage and the young boy walked immediately upon them automatically after his many visits to the shop. Said shop now loomed over the small boy. It was a quaint shop, relatively small with a handsome antique look. The roof's tiling was an appealing slate gray and the outside walls were painted a pale yellow. The few steps that lead up to the wooden front door were worn from the obvious years they had dealt with customers stepping upon them.

Harry smiled up at the building that he visited frequently. The little glowing sign in the window showed that it was indeed open this early in the morning, and with a final pat of his hand upon the hidden journal under his clothes, the emerald eyed boy walked up the steps and opened the door. He couldn't help but let out his customary quiet laugh as the tinkling of the bell attached to the door jingled. A balding head whipped around at the sound before seeing the young boy in the doorway. Owner of said head, a clearly elderly man with bright blue eyes and a lilac colored suit, smiled down at the boy as he embarrassedly shuffled his feet a bit before closing the door behind him.

"Well good morning lad. I take it you're here for a trim?"

There was a twinkle in his eye, a twinkle that Harry noticed many of the elderly had. He shyly nodded up at the old man he had come to know. The young boy was fond of him. His name was Isaac Jackworth and he was the only adult Harry knew that openly smiled at him and treated him like an actual kid. After having the boy appear in his small shop every other day, the two bonded. The elderly man insisted that Harry call him Jack, but he allowed the young boy to call him Mr. Jack when he noticed the young boy wouldn't rid himself of his mannerisms.

"Then hop up on the chair lad and we'll try to tame that lion's mane of yours," Mr. Jack joked lightly while patting a large chair.

The raven haired boy quickly moved to sit upon the barber's chair. The chair dwarfed the boy's size and he immediately felt insecure just as he always did before his thoughts were wiped away by the happy gleam within the elder's eyes. Harry looked up at Mr. Jack and waited patiently for him to come forward and attempt to cut his hair. Even the barber himself said that Harry's hair was impossible to fix, so they never expected much of the actual cutting of his hair, and instead, the balding man would tell the young boy stories. Stories of his childhood were prevalent, but he would also add in folktales, fairytales, myths, and legends on a good day. Harry loved just sitting in the barber's chair and listening to the rambling of the old man.

But today, Harry's mind was on other things entirely; the journal namely. He was itching to leave the calm company of the elder if he could only spend some time alone with his newest possession. Mr. Jack seemed to sense his antsy-ness because he went straight to trying to tame the boy's hair, only quietly commenting and joking around with Harry. Soon, the boy was told to stand in front of the mirror. He slowly eased off the chair before padding towards the long mirror. In front of him was the same scrawny, messy haired boy he always saw within the mirror. Harry let out a half smile before taking a quick look at the barber for comfort. Mr. Jack just raised an eyebrow before rolling his eyes in an obvious manner of saying 'I tried.'

Harry knew he should stay and listen to the old man's tales, but he just couldn't stand the thought of being so close but yet so far away from his new journal. He shuffled his feet nervously before taking one final look at the kind, twinkling eyes of the old man.

"See you, Mr. Jack."

The old man's eyes crinkled happily, laugh lines from years of happiness present on his face.

"Take care Harry."

The boy left the small barber shop, smiling at the tinkling of the bell behind him. He was so close now. His face was starting to hurt from all of the smiling he was doing, but he just couldn't help it. He had never felt so happy and he just had to show it. He walked down the stone pathway once more before walking back on the sidewalk. As he passed the neatly trimmed bushes again, his right hand automatically reached out to brush against the hidden journal, to make sure it hadn't disappeared. Part of him felt that the journal was too good to be true. He had never seen such a beautiful book in his life and to actually comprehend that it was his was exhilarating.

A man in a stiff, black suit briskly walked past the small boy and his smile immediately disappeared. Uneasiness and cautiousness settling into his stomach and he quickly looked toward the ground in submission before continuing on faster to his destination of the park. To his relief, no one else passed him and he arrived to a relatively empty park. He quickly surveyed the area and took notice of the three inhabitants. There was an old woman sitting upon a bench in front of the pond, feeding the ducks pieces of crushed bread from what Harry could tell. Then, on the other side of the pond, a middle aged man was walking his dog. Harry tried to tell what kind of dog it was, but as he squinted his eyes to see he noticed it was much too far for him to tell, even with his glasses. The boy shook it off. It didn't matter really. All living beings were accounted for within the park and his favorite spot near the trees was free.

The seven year old tentatively began walking towards the trees, making sure he didn't step on any leaves so as to disturb the quiet. It was odd, he thought. It was a Saturday morning, the sun was shining and it was an altogether beautiful day. But still, the park mostly empty. Harry was immensely glad of this fact and was also glad that the gaudy children's play equipment that he had always been denied of use in St. Grogory's was not present within the peaceful garden-like atmosphere of the Little Whinging Park.

As he reached a worn bench, a small smile appeared on his face again. The young Potter hesitantly sat down upon the fraying wood of the bench and smiled down at the chipping black paint. This place was a safe haven for him. He had found it after his very first trip to the barber by himself. It was a year ago, but for the seven year old, it was an eternity ago. Everything was always calm in the Little Whinging Park and the secluded bench in the middle of the dark and shady trees had been like a drop of rainwater after a drought for the boy. His aunt and uncle didn't suspect him of taking a break on his way back to the house so they just accounted it to how long he would always take when going on a trip to Mr. Jackworth's, so he was always allowed at least a few minutes of sitting in relative silence amongst the darkened trees.

Harry's hands took the journal along with his pencil out from their hiding place under his clothes. The gold trimmings on the dark green cover glinted even in the shade. Harry's eyes widened in awe and appreciation as he held the journal fondly in his hands. Cautiously, the young boy opened the notebook to a clean, crisp white page and hesitantly held the pencil within his right hand over the page. He had the journal available for his use, so what now? For some reason, Harry was suddenly unsure of what to even put within the book's pages. He couldn't think of anything that would be really adequate for the beautiful little notebook. Anything his small hands could produce would be a shame to be found within the masterfully crafted journal. Harry suddenly felt bad from taking the notebook from its original owner. He just couldn't think of anything worthy to put within the book.

In his lack of concentration, Harry's right hand lowered until the pencil was atop the white paper. As soon as he noticed his folly, he jerked his hand, resulting in a large haphazard line across the otherwise stark clean page. A cry of shock was out of the boy's lips as the blemish of the page done by him was presented before him. The boy fumbled with his pencil to turn it around so the eraser ends was touching the page before he noticed something equally as horrid. The pencil's eraser was completely rubbed down. Harry nevertheless tried to erase the mark only for it to remain the same other than a slight smear. The seven year old was panicking at the thought of ruining the perfect little notebook when something very peculiar happened before his very eyes. The graphite mark was fading into the page. Harry rubbed his eyes quickly and hurriedly cleaned his broken glasses but that didn't change anything. The mark was literally sinking into the page. Before long, the page was completely white once more.

Harry stared at the book, not believing his eyes. He wasn't crazy he knew, despite anything his relatives said on the matter. But he just couldn't believe it. He had seen with his very eyes the horrible mess he had made of the page, and yet, here it was completely clean. It just didn't make any sense. The seven year old's eye brows came together in his confusion as he was left gaping at the little book in his lap. He knew he must have been a sight to see at the moment, but he just couldn't help it. He couldn't believe it.

Harry looked down at his average beat up pencil before looking back at the page. Gaining a little resolve at the wonder that had been before his eyes, he picked up his pencil before writing in the notebook in his messy, seven year old scrawl.

My name is Harry Potter.

Harry's emerald eyes shone bright as he looked down at the slowly dissolving words in wonder. He could write anything, anything, and no one would ever be able to read it. Just as the young boy was starting to get excited and whirring at the endless possibilities presented to him with this wonder book, something else strange and magical happened. A very curvy and fancy script was beginning to take up the space where his messy inexperienced hand writing had been just a few seconds ago.

Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?

Harry had never seen such beautiful handwriting and it took him a few moments to make out what the words were before they too faded. The small boy's mouth dried in anticipation before finally bringing his chipped pencil back down upon the crisp page to answer.

I found it in the library. The librarein said I could have it.

Harry's stomach churned in embarrassment at his messy handwriting and he was just sure he had spelled a word wrong. The small boy cringed in fear at what the beautiful little notebook would think about his imperfect answer. As he stared at the words already beginning to fade, he hurriedly added another sentence.

I hope you arent mad.

The young boy looked at the page worriedly, waiting for the answer. But apparently his worries were for naught, as soon the fancily written script appeared once more on the page.

No, of course I'm not angry with you. I've been rather lonely in fact. A library, you say? Which library would that be?

The boy quickly did his best to decode the handwriting. It was hard to read, but he could appreciate the beauty to the loops and curves of the words. Part of him frowned as he remembered that the journal had said its name was Tom. Tom was a boy name as far as he knew, and he knew no boy with quite so pretty handwriting. The seven year old quickly shook it off as he remembered he was supposed to reply

My schools library.

Harry was slightly proud at that last sentence. He hadn't hurried and tried to make it more legible and he was almost certain that he spelled everything correctly. The small scrawny boy's chest puffed out in his pride before he looked back down at the journal with eager emerald eyes. Before long, beautiful script was once more coated on the white page.

What school would that be Harry?

The boy was very glad that someone called him by his name, even if it was only a journal with pretty handwriting. The only person to call him by his first name was Mr. Jack. Of course, the journal didn't know that he was a bad freak like everyone else. That thought deterred the boy but he shook it off. He could hide his freakishness from his new friend, couldn't he? And besides, said new friend was a journal that answered back and had a name. Certainly he wouldn't fault him for being a little odd. Either way, the small boy concentrated as his little hand flew across the page to answer the question.

St. Grogorys Primary School.

Harry's eyes twinkled happily as the letters faded into white and waited patiently for a reply. But soon his happiness turned into apprehension as seconds turned to minutes of waiting. Fear started to creep into the small child as he stared at the clean page. Would he not answer back? Had he said something wrong? Harry grew anxious and began pulling at the ends of his oversized well-worn clothes. He knew it must've been over three minutes by now. Harry refused to acknowledge the burning in his eyes. This whole thing had probably just been his imagination, something his relatives believed he was freakishly bestowed with. Emerald eyes glanced down at the journal once more as his small hands went to close it before fancy writing appearing upon the page stopped him. Tom had finally answered.

Very well. How old are you Harry?

Harry could answer that. He had been taught his numbers two years before. But still, the little notebook seemed rather smart. Harry wasn't quite sure if it would like to spend time with a dorky freakish seven year old. Despite these insecurities, the small boy put his pencil to the paper once more as he answered back.

7

Harry anxiously awaited a reply from the little black-green notebook and was relieved when he received a reply relatively soon.

You are seven? Honestly? I must admit I am rather proud to have met a seven year old who writes as well as you, Harry.

Harry found himself very embarrassed but also very proud. The wonder notebook thought he wrote well. The dark haired boy blushed at the journal's praise before his self-esteem brought him back down. He knew modesty wasn't rewarded, but there was no point in taking praise that deserved to be given to the one giving it. Slightly put down but still highly embarrassed, Harry replied.

I dont write all that good.

The messy scrawl was still barely legible but Harry had a feeling that not only could the notebook read it, it also helped prove his point. Harry looked down at the fading words to see new words appearing in their stead almost automatically.

Well, Harry.

The raven haired boy frowned down at the book in confusion. What could that possibly mean? The boy's left hand plucked at a loose splinter in the wooden bench as he thought. After a while of trying to guess the meaning, the boy brought his ragged pencil back to the pencil to ask.

Well what?

Harry's feet tapped against the wet grass as he waited impatiently for the answer. He just couldn't figure it out. Elegant script appeared on the paper in relation to the now faded question.

No, I mean the word you must use in that case is' well,' not 'good.'

Harry looked at the response and frowned. Grammar. He was never particularly good at grammar in class. His teachers said it was because he didn't talk enough to practice it. He didn't agree. It was just hard. But Harry didn't want the smart little notebook to believe he was dumb, so he decided not to say anything on the matter. Instead, he wrote the first thing he thought of.

Oh.

As the emerald eyed boy looked at the graphite written word he immediately cringed. He had to say something better than that. He was writing to a talking notebook. Or, not really talking exactly. More like replying. The small boy's eyebrows knitted together at the thought before he hastily scribbled down a comment.

Youre pretty smart for a notbook.

Small hands twitched at his sides in anxiety as he waited for a response. He hoped the little notebook wouldn't think he was insulting it. It was a wonder book, honestly. Harry was just trying to compliment it, but he wasn't sure how it would be received. Loops and curves appeared on the white page and the small boy was surprised by what he saw.

Well that would be because I am not a notebook, Harry.

Not a notebook? What could that possibly mean? From every which way Harry looked at the tiny book, it was most definitely a notebook. A wonder book all the same, but still a notebook. He had never heard of a notebook that could reply to the writer, but that was what he was sure this was and he couldn't think of anything else Tom could be. The boy looked doubtfully at the now fading declaration from the book before he decided to ask it to elaborate.

You arent?

Harry's grip on the nearly black book tightened in his confusion. Just what was his new friend? A deep sense of foreboding hit the raven haired boy but he quickly shook it off. No need to think of things that needn't be thought about. Slowly, elegant loops and curves once again adorned the page and Harry read them with rapt attention.

No, I am, or was I suppose, a boy, just like you, if only a little older. I was trapped within this book that had once been my most prized possession- my diary.

The emerald eyes of the seven year old widened. Tom wasn't a wonder book. Tom was a person trapped within a wonder book. Harry frowned at that thought. Maybe it wasn't a wonder book at all and Tom was what made it wonderful. Harry shook his head to rid himself of the thought. He had the think of the main problem! His new friend was trapped. Harry knew what it was like to be trapped after years of being locked in a broom cupboard, so he couldn't bear the thought of his newest, and first real, friend being trapped as so. He couldn't just sit around and do nothing while Tom was forced to live within a journal! But even as the seven year old thought this, another thought hit him. Tom had said the book had been his diary. But boys don't own diaries. Was Tom a girl? Harry's frown increased in size in his concentration. That would explain the handwriting. The small boy looked up at the trees above him before finally deciding to get to the point.

Boys cant have diaries Tom.

Short and simple, Harry felt the sentence did the job well. His left hand went back to picking at loose splinters and black paint chips as he waited. Barely ten seconds after the graphite had faded into the journal, Tom had replied.

Why is that?

The emerald eyed boy stared owlishly down at the notebook. Had Tom really just asked that? That was like asking why boys liked toy soldiers and why girls liked dolls. Harry frowned. They just don't. Harry knew his relatives would just plain call it 'freakish' and lump it in with others of their least favorite things; number one namely being Harry himself. Harry is a freak and boys don't have diaries. That was two facts the boy learned during life with the Dursley's. Harry brought the pencil back to the paper as he replied.

They just cant.

He didn't mean to offend Tom at all, no. If his friend was a girl, he didn't mind. He just didn't want him lying to Harry anymore. New elegant script appeared on the page.

I can assure you, Harry, that I am a boy and I had a diary so that is not true.

Harry read the words a few times before they ultimately faded. If that was true, one of two truths Harry grew up with was a lie. If it was a lie, his best friend didn't want him to know that he was actually a she. The seven year old let out a small pout before sighing and replying to the faded words.

Nevermind.

The dark haired boy watched as the words disappeared without a hint of a reply. Harry looked up nervously, aware of the time he had been away from the Dursley's house. It was most likely nearing nine or ten in the morning. He should have been back to finish his chores long ago. As much as it pained him to think of leaving the company of his new friend, Harry knew he had to return to Number 4 Privet Drive soon unless he wanted to go a week without food. Harry brought up his chipped pencil to the clean paper before hastily writing his message.

I have to go Tom. My uncle and aunt will be mad if I dont get home soon to do the chors.

Harry had a feeling he spelled something wrong but he really needed to leave soon so he couldn't spend forever on a goodbye. He nervously flitted his eyes around the park, taking notice of the elderly woman still sitting on the bench in front of the pond and also the disappearance of the man and dog. His emerald eyes quickly went back down to the notebook after surveying the park and finally taking notice of the already written response on the page.

If that's so, goodbye for now Harry. But can you promise me something?

The youth looked down expectantly at the diary before flushing when he remembered he had to reply. He quickly wrote his reply.

Ya. What is it?

Ratty sneakers bounced upon the wet grass in anxiousness as the young boy waited. He needed to leave, now preferably, but he couldn't leave without knowing what Tom wants. Tom was his first friend close to his age, even if he was trapped with a book, and even if he was maybe lying to Harry about his gender. Tom was still his friend and friends keep promises. He wasn't just going to brush this opportunity off. Loops and curves slowly appeared on the page.

Promise me you will write to me again soon.

Emerald green eyes drank in the request hungrily. Tom wanted to talk to him again. The request brought a fuzzy feeling to the young boy's chest. Having friends felt nice, he decided, if this was what you got to feel like all the time. No wonder Dudley liked to keep Harry from making friends. Harry stood up from the shaded bench in the trees of Little Whinging Park before penning his response with a smile.

I promise.


End Note: And chapter one is done! You have no idea how much I just wanted to do a time skip to Hogwarts because of all my little Slytherin Harry plot bunnies. I wrote this whole chapter while listening to Xion's Theme from Kingdom Hearts 358/2 Days on repeat. I liked the atmosphere of the sad music for some reason. This chapter was a real pain to write with a broken laptop but whatever. I managed by being surrounded by my four favorite books: Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, The Thief Lord, and Death Note: Another Note – The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases. Speaking of Death Note, am I the only one that sees Diary Tom as Light with darker hair. I mean seriously. They're like twins in my head. Oh and don't worry about Tom being so caring as he seems in this chapter. If you remember, his primary function is to get emotionally close to a person to steal their life force. So he's just being the narcissistic nearly-sociopathic jerk he always is. And I'm pretty sure he's mentally strangling little Harry for insinuating that he is a girl. Oh oh, and I think in one review someone asked me if there was going to be any pairings in this story. And the answer is: No. I don't do romance. I cannot say I'm not good at writing it because I've never tried, but I just don't feel comfortable writing it so there. But I will probably make a few more jokes about Harry calling Tom a pretty girl for kicks and giggles. Oh and don't worry about Hermione and Ron/Ginny. Truth be told, I actually love Hermione, but I think she is much too bossy to be a best friend of Harry's really. And I hate Ron and Ginny. A lot. So yeah. I'm going to try to put this story on a schedule and have a new chapter up at least every other week or so. I'll definitely try to make sure I don't go as long without a chapter as I did this time though. I hoped you all enjoyed. Oh and by the way, are any of you also super excited for Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them? I know I am!