OMG! First fanficton writen by me! Yay! Exiting! I hope it's good O.o Anyways... I hope you'll enjoy 3

Disclamer: I solemly swear that I do NOT own Harry Potter

'Writing'

"Talking"

A meeting with a book

'My name is Harry James Potter.'

'Hello Harry.'

The boy would have tumbled backwards if it was not for all the noise it would have made. Instead he made do with starring disbelievingly at the book in front of him. The book he had found lying on the tiny bed in the cupboard he lived in.

'Who are you?' The boy wrote. Holding his breath he looked at the page and waited.

He did not wait long before a simple word formed on the page, right under the words he had written himself: 'You.'

He slammed the book shut and backed as far away as he could, which really was not that much in that little room of his. Pulling himself together before reluctantly taking the book and lying it under the mattress. And it was just in time because just a second later a violent banging on the cupboard door was heard.

"Get up you lazy boy," a female said in a pinched voice. The familiar sound of the door being unlocked made the boy winch. Of course he liked to get out of the small cupboard that his relatives had been so 'generous' to let him sleep in, but staying in there was still better than actually having to be near those relatives of his. "Get out hear and make some breakfast and make it quick."

"Yes aunt Petunia," he said while going into the kitchen. He had made the same breakfast so many times before that he did not even have to concentrate to make it. Instead he let his thoughts wander to the book now lying under his mattress waiting for him. So many unanswered questions was rooming his head. Questions he wanted to ask the book. But that was stupid, there were no way that he could actually talk to a book. He must have been hallucinating. Somewhere in his mind he sincerely hoped he was not.

The day had gone like any other non-school day. His uncle and aunt, Vernon and Petunia, had asked him to do stupid things like making them food, doing the dishes, doing their lawn, cleaning the house, making more food, dishes again and then taking care of Petunia's stupid flowers before they once again lucked him up in the cupboard for the night. So now he was lying on his bed in the dark waiting for sleep to take him. But it did not. He was still thinking constantly about the book which was still lying were he had left it that morning. He refused to take it out. At least not while his relatives were still awake. Over him he heard Dudley, Petunia and Vernon's son, his cousin, walk up the stairs like an elephant would if they could actually walk on stairs. With each stomp dirt loosened and drizzled into the cupboard and unto every surface in there. The boy just sighed and rolled onto his side as to not get to much dirt onto his face.

A little less than two hours later did he finally hear his uncle as the last one move up the stairs. As he sat up on the bed he waited to hear the earth shaking sound of Vernon's storing before taking out the book. He did not wait long before the house was shaking with every intake of breath his uncle made. Fetching a flashlight, which he had snatched from the garage a few months prior, he opened the book. His eyes widened as he looked at the page, the first page, the page he had been writing on earlier that day. It was blank. He turned the page. Blank. Turned again. Blank. Panic was rising in him as he flipped the pages faster and faster until there was no pages left in the book. Had he really been hallucinating? He could not have, could he? Turning to the first page again he took a few deep breaths before lowering the pencil to the paper. But what should he write? He did not know. He could start the same way he had before. But the book would probably think of him as strange repeating himself like that. Lost in his own thoughts he nearly did not see the ink black words that formed on the page.

'Hello again Harry.'

The boy once again stared disbelievingly at the pages. He could not believe the book talked to him. Without thinking he quickly wrote under the ink: 'So I'm not crazy?'

' No, you're not.' He could almost fell the laughter that came with the reply through the book and blushed. He knew it had been a silly question but he had to ask.

Shaking his head he lowered the pencil down on the page once again. 'And who did you say you were again?'

' I'm you.'

He frowned at the answer not really understanding what it meant. 'What do you mean?'

'I'm you from another time. Form the future. Well, another future considering the fact that I didn't have a magic book with another me inside when I was a child.'

'What?' The boy asked confused.

'It's complicated.' The book wrote with a sigh.

'Tell me anyway.' The boy pleaded.

'No. Another time maybe.'

'Damn.' Laughter leaped out of the book by his reply and the boy could not help but smile. If being crazy meant that he could talk to this book then he did not mind being a little crazy.

'So Harry, how old are you now?'

'I turned 10 a few days ago.'

'Hmmm…' The boy could fell the book thinking. Not wanting to interrupt so he waited patiently for it to continue. 'It's only a year 'till your 11 birthday then.'

'Is that important?' For as long as he could remember his birthday had never meant anything so he could not help feeling a bit exited that it might be important for the future him that lived in the book.

'Maybe.' That answer made the boy punt a little because he could fell the smile playing on the books lips if it even had any that is. Apparently he was not the only one who could feel the other because the book started laughing at him which made him punt more. But only for a little while before a smile creped onto his face.

The days passed faster than ever before for Harry. He found time to write in the book almost every morning before his relatives woke up and every night before he went to sleep. He never took it out from the cupboard in fear that his uncle or aunt would take it from him. The book had told him many things such as the fact that he was a wizard and other weird things like that. He never doubted the book though even though the things it told him sounded ridiculous in the beginning. Being told by a book, or anyone for that matter, that you were a wizard should have made him question it but for some reason he did not. He trusted the book and knew it would tell him the truth.

One winter evening he was sitting on his bed, Indian-style, with a frown on his forehead. He looked at the page he had been writing on. The words the book had written. It had told him something weird which was not uncommon. The unusual part was that Harry did not quite understand what it meant.

'So…' He started writing. 'If these horcruxes are a piece of someone's sole… Does that mean this is a horcrux then?' The book had told him that horcruxes were very dark magic so why had the future Harry sent this Harry a horcrux?

'Yes in a way I guess it is.' Neither of them wrote anything else, and Harry was about to close the book for the night when words once again started to form on the page: 'In some way I think this is different form a horcrux. You see, horcruxes are made with a sacrifice. You basically have to kill someone to create one but I didn't.'

'Then how'-

'I was killed.' Harry sat still. He was sure that the others could hear his beating heart even over the lout snores from uncle Vernon. 'I was killed by a man I thought was dead. A man I respected.'

'Why?' Harry had to ask. For once he was glad they could not talk face to face. He was sure he would have cried then.

'Power,' was the only answer he got. He sat there in silence for a long time and when he finally could bear to look down the words were gone and new words had taken their place: 'You should go to sleep.'

'Okay,' the boy wrote with shaky hands.

'Goodnight Harry.'

'Goodnight.'