This chapter has been edited.

Ahh, you've probably read a million Diary!TomXHarry fics. And a million Slytherin!Harry/Dark!Harry fics. I've always wanted to write one, I don't care if it's not 'original'. Please don't compare it to others either. This is my fantasy, and I'm sharing it with you. This is my interpretation of how this scenario would play out. Oh, apologies for the cheesy beginning as well. I wrote it a while ago and wanted to throw it in one of my stories. This one seemed quite appropriate. I have a rough idea of what's happening, so I'm not sure if the updates will be especially consistent. By the way, I'm rating this M for a reason. It will probably contain violence, and will most definitely contain smut.

Enjoy!

Harry Potter did not view himself as a particularly interesting individual. He thought himself less than attractive, his only good quality being his bright, green eyes that were unfortunately permanently covered by unruly hair. Harry couldn't draw wonderful things, or write beautiful words. He was less than average at school. He didn't have a lot of friends, and couldn't sing or dance well. The only thing he found himself to be remotely decent at doing was annoying his Aunt and Uncle, the Dursleys. He didn't even have to try to do that.

The ten-year old lived with his Aunt and Uncle in Surrey, in the nice neighbourhood of Little Whinging. They had a pretty house, with a delightful garden and a large conservatory. They lived a very comfortable life- except for Harry, of course. He was treated like a piece of dirt that the Dursley's couldn't wait to scrape from their shoes. The mild abuse he suffered at their hands was tolerable; he had never been struck, but to be complimented or praised for once would've been nice. Harry was always met with disapproval or irritancy. Despite this, he truly was grateful enough to have the roof over his head. To even consider running away was out of the question, as he knew he wouldn't last a night by himself. Harry often compared himself to Jane Eyre, a character from a book he read the other week at school.

It was an exceedingly normal morning on a particularly normal day. Mrs Dursley had struck her bony knuckles against the door of his cupboard, waking Harry from a rather pleasant dream about running through the corridors of a huge, ancient castle. He dressed as quickly as he could, banging his elbows on the underside of the stairs in the process. Harry didn't even blink. He had grown so used to this small space that bumps and scrapes were commonplace. Dashing out of the cupboard to make breakfast for his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin, he began another normal meal- lashings of bacon and eggs for everyone, and a small slice of toast for himself. After a quick clean-up of the pans and dishes, it was into the garden to work whilst Mr Dursley took Dudley to school. Harry had been suspended from school for two weeks. This had been regarding an incident involving Jam in the teacher's hair. Jam that had been thrown by Dudley, mind you.

Petunia busied herself with the laundry as Harry watered the flowers. Sighing, he shifted his gaze towards the sky, fresh with lilac, morning light and cottony clouds. He had always loved the sky. It was such a breath-taking, wide sweeping space; so vast that Harry had often wondered if there really were any other planets or stars out there. To him, it just seemed like endlessness. Harry sometimes caught himself thinking about why people were scared of what they didn't understand. Like why Dudley was afraid of the dark or why Petunia looked fearful anytime someone mentioned the supernatural. Harry himself loved thinking about things like that. His dreams would give way to vast, open expanses, where he was free to run as long and as far as he could possibly run. He was jolted from his thoughtful trance by Mrs Dursley's high shrieking.

"Harry! Harry, get inside!"

He turned off the hose and scuttled inside towards the harsh-looking woman, who had folded her apron away and donned her expensive-looking coat. As he approached, she sniffed indignantly and gave him a disapproving look.

"I'm going out shopping. Come, you're staying with Mrs Figg."

Five minutes later, Harry found himself in the fusty old house of Mrs Figg, trying to prevent cat fur sticking to his trousers as a large feline rubbed up against him. As soon as Mrs Dursley had left, she had offered him some tea, to which he politely declined. Her tea tasted of cabbage.

"Alright then, Harry dear. You can go out and play in the garden if you'd like."

He grinned, bolting out of the back door. The garden was the only good thing about Mrs Figg's house, in Harry's opinion. There was a huge hedge at the bottom where Mrs Figg couldn't see out of her windows. It had a small hole in the side, leading through a series of narrow tunnels made by himself. They wound through the shrubbery until it reached another street in the neighbourhood. He followed his tunnel, ducking as low as possible as to avoid branches getting caught in his unruly hair. Harry grinned. He loved that nobody else knew of his tunnel.

He found a spot in the middle of the network, huddling up against the branches. It was cosy and quiet, with just the right amount of light filtering through the dense foliage. Still grinning, Harry stuck his hand into a veil of leaves until the most part of his arm disappeared. He felt around for a few moments before placing his hand atop of the object he desired. The boy always hid a few things in here to play with, wrapped in a little plastic bag. Nothing special; just a variety of spinning tops, toy soldiers and a few pencils he'd been meaning to use. His hand brushed over something else. Harry jolted slightly, tugging at both items. The familiar bag came into view, along with something that perturbed Harry greatly- mostly because it meant he wasn't the only one who came in here and hid things. He checked his bag to make sure nothing was stolen. Fortunately everything was present and he went back to the new object.

It was an old book. He looked both ways, making sure no-one was watching from somewhere in the bushes. Someone could have dropped it accidentally, Harry thought, so the least he could do was see what was in it. He turned it over in his hands carefully as it looked fragile. The covers were dark leather, worn from use and slightly wet from the moisture of the morning dew. Harry opened it gently to inspect the inside for anything that might have indicated an owner. He was baffled when he found no such thing. Actually, he couldn't find anything. It was completely empty. Nothing. Not even a name scribbled anywhere, or any note of where it was made- just page after page of coarse, slightly-yellowed paper. It was obvious that it had never been used, so now Harry's only dilemma was what to do with it. Should he leave it there in case the owner came back? Should he take it? There was something appealing about the softened leather cover; cracked and floppy like it had been the dearest thing in the world to someone, yet held nothing inside. It sat lightly in his hands, as naturally as the sun sat in the sky. It wasn't like there was anything important written in it…surely it wouldn't be missed. He'd always wanted a notebook. Placing it to one side for later, Harry began to play with his toy soldiers before Mrs. Dursley came to pick him up.

"Harry! Harry dear! Your Aunt is here!"

At the sound of Mrs Figg's voice, Harry quickly stuffed his toys back into his bag. First the toy soldiers- there were twenty of them- plus five spinning tops, and three pencils; two coloured and one for sketching. Before he placed the last pencil in, he stopped to regard the book. It would surely give him something to occupy himself with when the Dursley's locked him in his cupboard. He stuffed the small book into his sock, the graphite pencil into the other and then scrambled out of his tunnel.

The rest of the day was filled with Harry's usual chores. At three-thirty, Dudley came bounding into the house with Mr Dursley demanding a bar of chocolate and knocking Harry over. The small boy picked himself up whilst Dudley snorted at him loudly, moving to the kitchen to prepare the dinner. After they Dursleys had eaten, he was given a small ham sandwich and locked inside his cupboard. They weren't to realise that this wasn't much of a punishment anymore, now that Harry had something to do. Once settled, Harry pulled the book and pencil from his socks and grinned.

In the dull light of his cupboard, the paper seemed to glow slightly. He brought it to his nose and inhaled. It smelled just like a book was supposed to; woody, crisp and slightly stale. Harry picked up the pencil and began to write his name on the front page.

-My name is Harry Potter

The boy beamed with pride at the scrawly, misshapen writing on his new possession. He quickly decided he would write in it every day. What would he draw first? He looked around his cupboard in thought; however, when his eyes returned to the page in front of him, he jumped. The space where had just written his name was empty. Shaking his head, he dismissed the event as a trick of the eye. The pencil mustn't have been touching the paper properly. He almost dropped the book when something began to form on the page. It was in a distinct, cursive script that was most certainly not Harry's handwriting.

-Hello Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle.

Harry was speechless. His mouth began to open and close in awe. He turned it over, inspecting it closely for anything suspicious. When he found no such thing, Harry checked his temperature to make sure he wasn't sick. He knew that the ham his aunt had given him didn't taste right. The book seemed to sense his hesitation, for another note began to bloom on the page.

-Tell me Harry, how did you come across my diary?

The boy grasped his pencil and decided to jot down a reply. As a child, he was naturally inquisitive about such a fascinating object.

-You're a talking book?

-I'm a person. I was trapped inside a long time ago. How did you come to own this book?

Harry's mind flashed with the picture of a tiny old man running through the pages. He giggled.

-I found it. Who are you?

Harry was intrigued. How could this even be possible? How could someone be inside a book?

-I do believe I have already told you. I am Tom Riddle. If you please, Harry, where did you find my book?

Whoever he was, he sounded smart. The boy eagerly scribbled down his answer.

-Sorry Tom. I have never met a talking book before.

Met? Was that the correct way to describe this peculiar happening? Harry mused, before continuing.

-I found you in a hedge at the bottom of someone's garden.

The book paused, soaking in his words as he wrote them. Why someone would throw away such an amusing object was beyond him.

-Thank you for picking me up, Harry. I'm sure I would have died of boredom if I'd been left there. How old are you, friend?

-10

He sat there for a few moments, absorbing the situation. He couldn't think of any logical explanation to why the book was writing back. Truth be told, it scared Harry. It scared him almost as much as the time he had ended up on the roof after one of Dudley's bullying sessions, with no idea of how he got there. With all these things happening that Harry couldn't explain, it made him wonder if there was something very strange happening. He quickly shut the book and placed it under his bedding, pushing all thoughts of Tom Riddle and the diary from his mind.

It was three weeks before Harry went near the diary again. He had resumed school, much to the chagrin of the Dursleys and his teachers. By now it was June, almost the end of his last year at primary school and Dudley's birthday. Harry dreaded Dudley's birthday more than any day of the year. For the whole day he was forced to be Dudley's personal slave, doing everything at his beck and call. Last year Dudley had made him lick the ground. And if that wasn't enough, Harry had to endure his squeals of disapproval if he received a present he didn't like, cook his meals and prepare the house for the parties. After that he would be sent to Mrs Figg for the rest of the evening. At least that allowed him to escape from his cousin for a few hours.

Unfortunately Mrs Figg had tripped and broken her leg, and was unable to look after Harry. The boy had to watch as Dudley screamed and cried about how he didn't want Harry ruining his birthday, as Petunia fussed over him and simpered that she wouldn't let him ruin her "Dudleykin's" special day.

This brought Harry to the predicament he appeared to be in now.

The ten-year-old sighed and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the tank. His overweight cousin had exclaimed the animal to be boring and dismissed it immediately, moving onto the next unfortunate reptile. Harry chortled to himself at the sight of Dudley's pig nose squashed against a tank. He wondered vaguely if the snake could see his cousin's tiny brain up his nasal cavity. At least the animals in here would have some amusement today.

The snake currently sleeping before him was a long, green boa, coiled into thick knots of flesh. The poor creature. Harry knew what it was like to be cooped up in a small space all the time.

"Sorry about him. He doesn't understand what it's like; lying there day after day, watching people press their ugly faces in on you."

Harry wished that he'd kept his mouth shut. He should've known that talking to animals is a sign of madness. The snake lifted his head from the rock it rested upon and winked.

"C-can you…hear me?" It nodded as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Harry gulped, deciding a little conversation would not go amiss.

He also should've known that Dudley would've wanted to see the snake move. The small boy was violently pushed aside as Dudley pressed up against the glass, shouting for his parents to come look. Well. He was pressed up against the glass. Harry felt a surge of strangeness wash over him, fingers throbbing and head pounding. All of a sudden, the glass was no longer there. It has vanished, causing Dudley to fall forward into the water at the base of the tank. The snake slipped over the bar and onto the floor, stopping in front of Harry.

"Thanksss." It hissed. The snake talked. There was a snake talking to him.

"Anytime?" Harry replied, slightly convinced it might attack him were he not to give a response. He watched from his space on the floor as it slid out of the reptile house to a chorus of screams from other visitors. His attention turned to Dudley, who was standing up to exit the tank. Somehow the glass had re-formed over the entrance, leaving a screaming Dudley trapped inside.

Harry knew he would get the blame.

"There's no such thing as magic!"

The door of his cupboard was locked shut with a loud 'click'. Harry remained silent, the sound of Vernon's shouts ringing in his ears. Appearing on the top of the building, his hair growing again overnight when his aunt tried to cut it, the glass disappearing…his luck was really starting to fail him. And that snake! He never realised that snakes could talk. Harry shook his head violently, recalling his Uncle's anger. There's no such thing as magic. There's no such thing as magic.

He sighed heavily before sinking down onto his thin mattress. The only way that he could see out his punishment was to sleep through it. Harry pulled his tattered blanket up over his shoulders, stretched his legs as far as they could reach, and closed his eyes. Perhaps his luck would improve tomorrow.

Sometime later, Harry was roused from his dreamlike state. The house was still, with naught but the sounds of the steady creaks of the heating breaking the silence. He lay curled in on himself, listening. There were no signs of movement from either up or downstairs. That meant everyone was asleep. Harry squirmed around to stretch, his legs aching from misuse. Arching his back, he lifted his slender hips from the bed and felt his spine give a satisfying crack. He grimaced as something dug into his shoulder. Dismissing it as the mattress, Harry tossed onto his other side. It was still there, now poking painfully into his ribcage. There was no way he could sleep with that-whatever it was jutting into his side. He grumbled, shoving his hand underneath the mattress to see if anything was there. Harry's fingers gently brushed against soft leather.

The diary.

He wouldn't deny that he was very curious about it, especially after what happened today. Harry grabbed it and huddled up in the corner, slightly reluctant to open it. The book looked innocent, sitting there in his hands. Who knew? Maybe Harry had imagined it after all. He carefully opened the first page. It was empty. The boy let out a sigh of relief, shakily smiling to himself.

-Hello Harry.

That beautifully elegant writing appeared on the yellowed page, much to Harry's horror. So it was real. He fumbled around for his pencil.

-How did you know I was here?

He wrote incredulously. The diary simply responded with another gentlemanly reply.

-I could feel your presence, my dear. For a while now, I have only felt the warmth of my surroundings, yet I could not feel you. Did I frighten you?

-Yes.

There was a short pause. His eyes lingered slightly over 'dear'. Tom must really have been an old man. Only Mrs. Figg called him dear, and she was old too. Harry was breathing loudly, expelling hot air from his mouth. He wondered vaguely if Tom could feel his breath. Could he feel Harry's hands lightly spreading across the cover? Or the pressure of his wrist on the pages, hand poised and ready to answer?

-I apologise. It was not my intention to startle you.

Harry smiled.

-Don't worry, stranger things have happened today.

-Stranger things?

The ten-year-old complied, eagerly writing down every detail of the day's events; save the talking snake, as Harry thought that to be stranger than everything. It might make Tom think he was weird. It was just nice to finally have someone to talk to. He found himself wanting to know about Tom- the colour of his hair, his eyes, his skin, the sound of his voice, height, age, background...Harry never thought he would be sat there pouring his heart out to a stranger. He wondered if Tom's hair was white like the old man down the road.

-Harry, do you believe in Magic?

-My uncle told me it doesn't exist.

All of a sudden, the book became searing hot, scalding Harry's small hands and forcing him to drop it into his lap. He gave a small cry, surprised at the pain flaring through his fingers. There was a creak upstairs. Harry froze; silently pleading he hadn't woken his uncle. He sat rigidly, not daring to even breathe loudly. When he was sure no one was awake, he picked the diary back up and resumed his conversation.

-Tom, what just happened? Your diary burned me!

Harry checked his burnt hands, caressing the reddened skin. They were still tingling.

-Please forgive me. I was angry. I must learn to control myself.

-It's ok. Angry at what?

Harry subconsciously stroked the crisp page, as if it would comfort his new-found friend. Whatever it was that had gotten Tom so furious must've been very serious.

-Your uncle. He sounds like a typical, narrow-minded muggle.

-What's a muggle?

-A non-magical being.

In his cupboard the boy blanched. Was Tom suggesting that magic was real? Harry supposed it was the only logical explanation to the current situation, and the scenario at the reptile house today. All his life, strange things had been happening to him, and he had no idea as to why. Harry had always thought that he was just down on luck. Tom must have read his mind, because sure enough, another message appeared.

-That is correct. Magic is very much real, Harry dear.

He knew it! The boy could hardly keep himself from crying out in triumph, revelling in the fact his uncle had been wrong.

-Is that why I can talk to snakes? Is that a wizard thing too?

Immediately, something felt off. The diary's words turned blurry in his grasp, almost as though someone had taken water to his writing. Why did he feel like he'd just said an incredibly stupid thing?

-You talk to snakes?

-The snake I let out of the tank spoke to me.

Harry didn't manage to get another response from Tom that night, however much he tried. In the end, he decided to stash the diary away and sleep for the remainder of his punishment.

Hoped you enjoyed =D For those of you who have been kind enough to point out any loop holes, I've tried to iron them down. Tom seems to be a bit of luvvie, but just imagine him speaking in that gorgeously intellectual voice of his. I want to marry a gentleman someday. I want to marry William Moseley. So bad.