To those of you reading this because you know me from my H/G fics, I'm... I'm sorry. Writing this is like watching a train-wreck - I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but it's too morbidly fascinating to stop.

First and foremost, the italicized paragraphs in the first three scenes of this story are taken directly from the final chapters of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (although obviously the pronouns have been modified). Anything else you recognize equally belongs to J.K Rowling (such as the contents of Hagrid's letter).

Anyway, yes, this is a fic that intends to eventually pair a female Riddle with Harry. The inspiration came from Thunderstorm by T3t. I will be skimming through PoA and GoF as fast as I believe I can, since the action only really starts 'heating up' in OotP and beyond. That's about all I have to say, except for one thing I must make perfectly clear:

I believe in competent characters. To the best of my ability, nobody will be intentionally holding the Idiot Ball, and every character will have more reasons than just 'the plot demands it' for their said, since I am writing mostly writing from Harry's POV (however, Lupin will appear next chapter, or the one after that, and so will Riddle), the only information you—the readers—can receive is information that Harry can physically know.

For instance, right now, by the end of this chapter, both Dumbledore and Riddle are scheming heavily, but neither of them are about to explain a word of their plans to Harry (or to anyone, really), so there's no way you can find about what they're doing until it happens. If you're particularly interested in something, feel free to ask me (in a review or a PM) about it - if I can answer, I will, even if all I can say is that you'll have to read and find out.

Now, on with the story!

"Ginny, please wake up," Harry muttered desperately, shaking her. Ginny's head lolled hopelessly from side to side.

"She won't wake," said a soft voice. Harry jumped and spun around on his knees.

A tall, black-haired girl was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. She was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry was looking at her through a misted window. But there was no mistaking her.

"Tom - Tom Riddle? But that's a boy's name!"

Riddle's lips curled up into an almost-savage grin as she nodded, halfway between mocking scorn and fury.

"My mother was delusional when she gave birth from me, dying from blood-loss and a broken heart. She thought I was a boy, and named me for my pathetic father." Her eyes never left Harry's face, and there was something ugly in them, a primal, predatory longing (had he been older, he would have called it lust, although not the kind he would hope to find in the eyes of a beautiful girl) focused directly at him.

"What d'you mean, she won't wake?" Harry said desperately. "She's not - she's not -?"

"She's still alive," said Riddle. "But only just."

Harry stared at her. Tom Riddle had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet here she stood, a weird, misty light shining about her, not a day older than sixteen. Harry was still a little too young to appreciate Riddle in all her glory, but he knew what the older boys found attractive; she had all that and more, slender, curved and with a flawlessly pale face. But Harry doubted that he, personally, would ever consider her beautiful. There was something... wrong about her. Her smile was all sharp edges and pain, a slight madness flickering in the curl of her lips, and her eyes glinted with cruelty - where had the friendly Tom Riddle from the Diary gone?

"Are you a ghost?" Harry said uncertainly.

"Why do you care how I escaped?" said Harry quietly. "Voldemort was after your time."

"Voldemort," said Riddle softly, "is my past, present and future, Harry Potter..."

She pulled Harry's wand from her pocket and began to trace it through the air, writing three shimmering words:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Then she waved the wand once, and the letters of her name re-arranged themselves:

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

"Lord? You're a girl!" Harry scoffed.

Riddle sneered, an ugly smile cutting across her face. "If the pathetic Muggles have changed rulers in the past fifty years, so is their Queen. And yet, she could be addressed as of the Duke of Normandy, the Lord of Mann or the Duke of Lancaster."

"You hate Muggles... and you're using them as an excuse as to why there's nothing wrong with your name's anagram?" Harry asked incredulously.

Riddle hissed—actually hissed, she was using Parsletongue even though she didn't say anything coherent—and sparks flew from the end of Harry's wand as her fingers tightened around it, but she didn't say anything in response. Even at sixteen, Tom Riddle was not used to anyone daring impertinence around her.

"Get away, bird," said Riddle's voice suddenly. "Get away from him. I said get away!"

Harry raised his head. Riddle was pointing Harry's wand at Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun and Fawkes took flight again in a whirl of gold and scarlet.

"Phoenix tears…" said Riddle quietly, staring at Harry's arm. "Of course… healing powers… I forgot…"

She looked into Harry's face. "But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me…"

She raised the wand.

Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes soared back overhead and something fell into Harry's lap – the diary.

For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the Basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.

Or, at least, he would have, had Riddle not been just a little bit faster. The diary burst from Harry's grip, flying across the Chamber away from the two of them; he tried to snatch it back, but the pure force of Riddle's magic had overpowered even his Seeker reflexes. Riddle spun to face Fawkes, eyes blazing and wand moving in a complex pattern – just before she could finish whatever spell she was attempting to cast, Fawkes vanished in burst of flames.

Harry took advantage of her distraction to race after the Diary, not knowing exactly why but somehow understanding that it was important. Riddle—looking far more solid than she had even moments before—let him go, for some reason, and it was only when he glances over his shoulder to find some sort of demonic fire burning through where the Basilisk was that he realised what she was doing.

Because he also knew, somehow, that without the Basilisk fangs or the Sword of Gryffindor, the Diary was safe from destruction. He stumbled to a stop beside the Diary as he felt the blazing heat die away, falling to his knees in despair.

The room fell silent, and all Harry could hear was the sound of his own breathing and Ginny's – in the pursuit of the Diary, he'd run almost full circle trying to find it in the darkness before he finally discovered it.

The silence was shattered by Riddle's laughter, glorious and exultant; if he'd been older, the sound would have gone straight through him.

When she stopped laughing, Ginny wasn't breathing any more.

There was another flash of flames and the sound of thunder, and when Harry looked through the pillars, he saw Albus Dumbledore standing before Riddle, an expression of sheer, unadulterated fury on his face, blazing with magical power to dim a thousand candles. He looked like an angry god. Riddle's wand whipped down, a green jet speeding from her wand, but the very stone around Dumbledore came alive, rock rising from the floor as the Killing Curse impacted harmlessly against the Chamber's re-arranged floor.

The stones blew outwards, revealing Dumbledore behind them, and just as Riddle was about to cast another spell, the Headmaster struck – the transfigured stone hand behind her lunged forward, pinning her legs to the ground and trapping her arms before she could so much as react. Harry's wand flew out of her grip towards Dumbledore, who snatched it out of the air.

Harry slowly approached, barely focusing on the world around him as despair crashed over him like waves – he'd come down there to save Ron's little sister, to save someone part of the closest thing he'd had to a family, and he'd failed. Ginny was dead and Ron's family was broken and it was all his fault.

Dumbledore glanced at him, fury fading to sadness and pity.

"Fawkes, could you take Harry to the Hospital Wing?" he said to the phoenix, which flew over to Harry; without really knowing why, Harry grabbed a tailfeather. The last thing he saw before he vanished was Dumbledore turning back to Riddle, and the unmistakeable hints of fear slinking into her expression.

Later, much later, when Harry was still abed in the hospital wing, Ron and Hermione came to him – he'd passed out when he'd first arrived, and by the time he'd regained consciousness Hermione had been un-petrified and released.

"Ron…" Harry whispered, unable to look him in the eye, unable to study him and see the tear-tracks stained into his face in a morbid memorial to despair.

"There's a part of me that blames you, you know," Ron replied, voice breaking.

"Ron!" came Hermione's half-scandalized, half-shocked gasp, but Harry ignored her.

"You should," he replied, knowing it to be the truth. "If I'd been just a little faster, a little smarter, a little…"

He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Silence fell, a dull, suffocating silence, sheer, raw emotion choking the air from their lungs. Harry was lost in thought, knowing what he had to say but still wishing he didn't have to say it, wishing he didn't have to lose the only friends he'd ever had. But he was certain it was the right thing to do, and so Gryffindor courage prevailed.

"I… I can't be friends with either of you, any more."

Ron's head snapped up from his shoes, and Hermione's head whipped from Harry to Ron and back to Harry, but before either of them could respond, Harry started to speak again.

"It's not only my fault Ginny died. It's my fault she was targeted. And it's my fault you were petrified, Hermione. If… if it wasn't for me, none of this would have happened. I'm a danger to everyone around me and I'm no—not good enough to save everyone. I failed."

Everything was quiet, like the world holding its breath, hovering on a precipice and unsure which way to turn. Then Ron let out a huge sigh; it sounded like he was releasing more than air, perhaps expelling two years of friendship as well.

"Goodbye, Harry," he said before turning and walking away. Hermione looked at him, stunned, then back to Harry, an imploring look on her face, but Harry only shook his head and looked resolutely in another direction.

"Go, Hermione. Being close to me will only bring you pain."

She hadn't left by the time he fell asleep, but she wasn't there when he woke up, and Harry hoped she wouldn't ever be again even as every part of him wished he didn't have to lose her—and Ron's—friendship. But if his parents died for him, who was he not to sacrifice his happiness so others could live on?

Later that day, Professor McGonagall came to the Hospital Wing and told Harry that Professor Dumbledore wanted to see him "at his earliest convenience." He looked around, and not seeing Madam Pomfrey anywhere, decided to release himself. He stumbled at first before righting his still-aching body, and made his way to the Headmaster's office. Rather than having to supply a password, the entry was already open and inviting - Dumbledore was clearly expecting him.

Taking the invitation, Harry made his way into Dumbledore's office, freezing in shock as he crested the last step – standing in one corner of the room, glaring out the window and shaking with fury, was Riddle. Dumbledore was seated in his chair, gazing at Harry, but his eyes did not twinkle and there was an air of irrepressible sadness surrounding him.

"Hello, Harry," he said with ritual formality.

"Hello, Professor," Harry said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I am… sorry, for having to do this to you, deeply, truly sorry, but it must be done."

"What, Professor?" Harry asked, his sense of foreboding increasing with every passing second.

"I know of only one place to imprison Miss Riddle where Voldemort's servants," he said, and Harry wondered why he made a distinction between the two of them, "could not ever hope to even find out that she exists. I'm sorry, Harry, but I'm afraid she will be spending the summer break with you at the Dursley's."

"What!?" Harry shrieked, noticing neither the fact his voice screeched like a young girl's nor the fact he was shouting at the Headmaster.

"You're going to place me with more filthy Muggles?" Riddle spat, turning her attention to the conversation for the first time. "Aren't your thrice-damned Vows enough, Headmaster?"

Harry had seen Dumbledore cow many people with a single glance, but he didn't think even he could silence the woman who would one day be Voldemort. Apparently, though, he could, because Riddle turned away, radiating a sort of suppressed fury that reminded Harry of Vernon Dursley every time he realised Harry existed. Before Harry could say anything else, Dumbledore held up a hand.

"Believe me, Harry, I wish as much as you there could be another way. But this must be done; we cannot have any of Voldemort's Death Eaters finding out that Miss Riddle exists, and the protections at your aunt's house prevent them from even locating it – Miss Riddle herself will only be able to enter because of the extensive series of Unbreakable Vows she has made."

And just like that, Harry had a sixteen-year-old Tom Marvolo Riddle—who happened to be female despite having a male name—as a summer guest. He knew he wouldn't be going to the Burrow at all, not with her there, but he didn't think he'd be going anyway. He wasn't—couldn't be—friends with Ron any more, and he'd taken too much from the Weasleys already.

Perhaps the only good thing about this arrangement was that he very much doubted, even if she'd sworn never to harm another person in her life, that Riddle would let the Dursleys treat her like they treated him. It would be nice to see someone stand up to them for once, even if that person was the teenaged reincarnation of a mass-murderer and a terrorist.

Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never one quite like this.

The atmosphere was twisted, a pitiful, broken thing; everyone knew they should be happy because all the Petrified victims had been saved and Harry had killed the Basilisk, but they only had to look at the Gryffindor table to see the crushing despair hovering around the Weasleys like a vulture in the desert, picking apart the carcasses of who they once were and the family they should have been.

Fred and George had come up to Harry at one point, where he sat well away from Ron and Hermione (Hermione had tried to join him, once, but Ron had grabbed her hand and Harry had shaken his head with heavy finality), and told him he'd done everything he could have done; he thanked them, all the while thinking but not everything I should have done. Percy had nodded to him once across the table, slow and stiffly formal, like he would break if he moved swifter than a glacier.

Gryffindor House as a whole was subdued, having lost a member to the scourge of Voldemort; Dumbledore had applauded Harry's courage and made sure that everyone knew he had been facing off against a thousand-year-old Basilisk and a resurrected Voldemort with only the Sword of Gryffindor. Dumbledore never explained how, or why, but the sheer intensity of his voice and the flaring rage of his magic convinced even the most sceptical of the truth. The Headmaster had also explained that the Sword could not be presented to the Hall because it had been destroyed by Fiendfyre from Voldemort's wand, and Harry's head slumped in sadness – he'd been hoping against hope that somehow the sword had survived when Riddle had incinerated the Basilisk.

There were very few cheers when it was announced that Gilderoy Lockhart had lost his memory and would not be returning to teach the next year; not because those present were not happy about it—even Snape looked somewhat pleased at the news—but because in light of a student's death, who were they to celebrate something as trivial as the loss of an incompetent teacher?

Not even the news that the exams had been cancelled brought much joy to the sombre Hall (even the Slytherins were subdued, although that was more likely than not politically motivated rather than out of any real sense of loss). Harry and Ron were awarded a hundred points each to Gryffindor for their efforts in finding the Chamber of Secrets and subduing the Basilisk, but neither particularly cared, and neither did their Housemates.

And so, a few, scant weeks later, Harry found himself sitting in a compartment on the Hogwart's express, alone save for the presence of Riddle. Nobody came to bother him, not even Malfoy; probably partly because Lucius had been sacked as a school governor and partly because he wasn't sitting in his usual compartment with his friends. Former friends, they have to be former friends.

Riddle was lost in her own world, gazing out the window, a faint look of loss on her face, although Harry had no idea why (if he'd known it was because Riddle missed Hogwarts like it was her true home, he'd have been disgusted with how similar his own thoughts were to hers).

"Why'd you do it?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Riddle glanced at him, haughty and disdainful. "It's bad enough that I'm stuck with you; I don't particularly want to talk to you as well."

"Not so talkative when you've lost, are you?" Harry shot back, suddenly furious. "Guess you're just mad Dumbledore proved he's better than you."

Riddle blinked before scowling furiously, twisting her flawless face with a rage held in check only by the weight of her Vows; as much as she might want to curse Harry, she couldn't voluntarily harm him unless she wanted to be killed by her own magic. Silence fell, for how long Harry didn't know, and just when he'd almost forgotten the question, she started to speak.

"You're an orphan, Potter," she said, sneering. "You know what it's like to be powerless. I'm ten times the witch compared to anyone else you know, and if that stupid girl's memories of the tales of Voldemort were right, I could duel Albus Dumbledore to a standstill with a third of his experience. Why should I let lesser witches and wizards—pathetic, wasted excuses for magical power—have a say in what I do? My life is mine."

She turned back to gaze out the window and was silent for the rest of the ride back, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

When they arrived back at the station, Harry got off the train as fast as he could, collecting his luggage and Hedwig; Riddle had luggage of her own, although from how or where she'd got it, Harry didn't know – probably something Dumbledore had arranged. Her wand—her actual wand, the brother (or would it be sister?) to Harry's—dangled idly in her fingers; Dumbledore had seen fit to give it back to her from where he'd retrieved it after Harry's defeat of Voldemort as a child as a sort of 'good behaviour bond', although Harry personally thought the idea was ludicrous.

Normally, Riddle would have caught the eye of every male in the vicinity, and Harry—the Boy Who Lived—was famous enough for the both of them (although if anyone knew he was walking alongside the future Lord Voldemort, well, maybe not in that case), but nobody noticed the two of them. Glancing at Riddle, he saw her pocketing her wand again – it seemed she didn't want any attention. For once, Harry agreed with her on something.

They exited Platform 9 and ¾, and made their way over to the Dursleys. Clearly, Riddle had lifted the charm at some point (why Dumbledore was allowing her to use magic, even casual, household magic, was beyond Harry), because Vernon, Petunia and Dudley noticed the two of them immediately. By the snarl on her face, Riddle had noticed them right back.

"Those are the Muggles you live with?" she spat. "I should just kill you now and let these Salazar-damned Vows take me."

"Who are you?" Vernon demanded, turning red like he'd heard Riddle's words. In retrospect, she had been quite loud in her disdain.

Riddle sidled up to him; something about her walk changed and Harry was somehow reminded of a snake, a viper slithering through the grass, ready to strike. She laid a hand on Vernon's arm, but she must have been doing something else—Harry didn't know about wandless magic yet—because he suddenly stiffened, and Harry swore he could feel Riddle's power radiating off her. For all that he knew she couldn't harm him (or anyone else, really), she still frightened him somewhat.

"Someone who would very, very much like to kill you, you stupid, fat Muggle," she said, staring directly into his eyes like she was trying to read his mind; when she started speaking again, Harry wondered if perhaps she actually could.

"Apparently I have to stay with you for the summer, but if you treat me or Potter anything like you've done in the past, I will end you," she said, gripping his arm hard enough that he flinched, although that may have been because the shirt under her fingers was smoking slightly. Harry wondered both why nobody was looking in their direction (before realising Riddle had probably done something about that) and why Riddle had bothered to include him in her statement.

"Yo—you can't use magic outside of school," Vernon blubbered, obviously noticing Riddle looked too young to have graduated.

"Do I look like I care?" Riddle hissed, her fingers pressing down, hooking around his arm like talons, or the fangs of a snake. She held him a moment longer before releasing his arm and stepping back; she smiled at Petunia and Dudley, but it was almost manic, a slasher smile promising pain and screaming if they ever thought of crossing her. Riddle was a hell of an actress; Harry had to give her that. That said, in her mind, she probably wasn't acting at all.

The journey back to Privet Drive was subdued; Vernon concentrated solely on the road, Petunia looked like she'd rather be anywhere else other than the car, and Dudley shivered every time they took a corner and Harry so much as brushed into him.

They arrived back at Number Four, and Harry carried his trunk inside. Riddle didn't; she walked straight inside with a mixture of almost-imperial majesty and disgust. Vernon had clearly taken heed of her warning (or was it a bluff?), because he took Riddle's trunk inside for her. The Dursleys promptly retreated to another room, and, remembering back to earlier, Harry turned to Riddle, asking her a question.

"Why'd you include me in your warning?" he said curiously; he was honestly puzzled about the whole thing, because he couldn't think why she'd do anything remotely nice for him if she didn't have to.

"They're Muggles, and you're a wizard," she said, as if it explained everything. Then again, knowing who she was and what she became, it probably did. "Now, where am I going to sleep in this pathetic excuse for a house?"

Life at the Dursleys was, strangely enough, a lot better now that Riddle was there. Vernon and Petunia never asked Harry to do any chores, or to cook their breakfasts or anything like that: Petunia did all the cooking nowadays, the closest Harry got to doing work around the house was climbing up and down the stairs, and Dudley bolted from the room the moment either of the two of them entered.

As for Riddle herself, she spent most of her time in the lounge-room, reading over a ratty copy of a fifth-year Transfiguration textbook (it seemed Dumbledore was forcing her to finish her education at Hogwarts, although from what little he'd seen of her she probably would have wanted that anyway); the way she was skimming through it suggested she was either bored, or already understood all of it. Personally, Harry suspected it was the latter.

Harry himself was taking advantage of his newfound freedom to finish his summer homework; it was surprisingly easier than it had been last year, and he suspected that might be due to the fact he was getting proper meals and a good night's sleep for the first time in his life. He'd even asked Riddle for help a few times; the first time he'd asked, she'd laughed at him and turned straight back to her book, but after the third or fourth time she'd actually answered, saying she was 'tired of his incompetence', and proceeded to be one of the best teachers he'd ever had.

She was like… she was like a good version of Snape, which was a really weird comparison considering who he was talking about. He was fairly sure Riddle was only helping him because she was bored out of her mind and liked to lord her superiority over him whenever she could (to make up for the fact she was practically at Dumbledore's mercy with every breath), but he honestly didn't care. More fool her if she thought being smarter than he was made him feel unhappy - he'd had to deal with a lot worse than mere disdainful superiority in his life thus far.

About two weeks into the summer holidays, something rather unexpected happened. Harry was sitting, re-reading the Standard Book of Spells (second grade), and when Riddle walked into the room, he happened to glance up, looking her in the eyes. That in itself wasn't particularly unusual - it was what happened next that was odd. She practically growled in frustration, a earthy, shuddering sound, and marched over to him.

"I am sick and tired of having to know your stupid, banal thoughts every time we lock eyes. I don't know if I can stand it any more," she hissed.

Harry was completely confused, and even more so when she grabbed his book out of his hands and flung it to the floor. He looked at her, half-scandalized, half-wary as she turned and walked away, beckoning him over her shoulder.

"Come with me," she said, her tone brooking no argument. He followed, more out of curiosity than anything else, and she led him to the dining room, taking one seat and gesturing for him to take the one opposite her. He sat down slowly, wondering what was going on.

"You are going to learn Occlumency," she commanded almost angrily.

"What's that?" Harry asked.

Riddle sighed wearily, as if she'd forgotten he wasn't a twisted magical prodigy like herself.

"It's a way of keeping your private thoughts private," she answered. "Now, pay attention. I will not say this again."

It had taken Harry almost three weeks to get there, but he'd finally done it - he'd managed to sort through all his memories and organise them; Riddle had said that a well-ordered mind was the key to defending it, because if you didn't even know your own thoughts, how could you protect them from someone else? It was a difficult, almost impossible task, especially when he'd had to relive some of his worst Dursley experiences, the fight against Quirrel for the Stone, and of course the events of the Chamber, but he'd persevered; Occlumency sounded like something that would make him stronger, that would help him defeat Voldemort if—when—they fought again, and so he would do whatever it took to learn it.

Interestingly enough, learning Occlumency had actually helped him through his guilt and crushing despair over Ginny Weasley's death. Reviewing the memories over and over again, lost in a morbid fascination bordering on masochistic, he'd slowly begun to understand that there was nothing else he could have done. There was no way he could have actually saved Ginny's life; Riddle was older, wiser, a better wizard and had controlled a thousand-year-old Basilisk. It was a miracle he'd actually been able to kill the damn thing and get out alive. Of course, that didn't mean he was suddenly happy again - while he knew there was nothing more he could have done to try and save her at the time, if he'd been faster, or smarter, or a better wizard, maybe she wouldn't have died.

He was no longer lost in despair; he'd taken his grief and guilt and impotent rage and forged it into iron-hard resolve. He would be faster. He would be smarter. He would be a better wizard. Ginny's death had finally made him understand the truth - if he wanted to keep fighting Voldemort, and avenge his parents and everyone else she'd killed, he needed to be better. Harry could not afford to be a child any more (a part of him simply knew that Voldemort would keep coming after him until one of them was dead). Voldemort was still out there, and Harry swore to himself that one day, he would be the one to confront the monster and end her.

Returning to his current task, now that he'd organised his memories, he had the even more difficult task of constructing a mental defence. Basic walls and barriers were passable for everyday use, but after Riddle had almost torn his mind apart with a Legilimency probe (with his permission, of course, she couldn't voluntarily do anything that could even possibly harm him without it) at the age of sixteen, he'd realised that to even dream of keeping out the older, more powerful Voldemort, he'd have to do a hell of a lot better than 'passable'.

That said, he had absolutely no idea what to do. He sat in silence for a while, thinking, before realising what the problem was - he was trying to rush into things too much, trying to go from "No Occlumency" to "Master Occlumens" without taking the intervening path. First, he should start with the simple things—walls, barriers, shields—before trying anything fancy. Start small, and build up from there.

So, without further ado, Harry set his mind to the task of trying to create basic Occlumentic defences.

By the time he finished, feeling the last section of the mental dome snap into place around his mind, the night had long since drifted into day, and there was an owl tapping on his window. He'd been so focused on his inner self and defending it that he hadn't even noticed he'd been up all night; as soon as he thought that, a wave of weariness crashed over him and he almost collapsed back into bed. The only thing that stopped him from falling straight to sleep was the insistent owl - the creature was carrying a large book, and with a start Harry realised that today was the thirty-first of July.

It was his birthday.

He opened the window, letting the owl in; it carried two parcels, an envelope with the Hogwarts crest on it and another, larger, squarish package that seemed to be... moving slightly? Ignoring the Hogwarts letter for the moment, he picked up the slightly-quivering package, recognizing Hagrid's untidy scrawl on the brown paper packaging. Opening it slowly, he had just enough time to raise an eyebrow at the book's appearance and title (The Monster Book of Monsters) before it twisted through the air, landing on one edge and proceeding to run across the top of his bed like an insect, or a particularly strange crab.

Harry lunged for it as it scurried under the bed, shouting out in pain (and hoping he didn't wake the Dursleys, although he didn't particularly care about Riddle) as it snapped down on his hand with jaws a book really shouldn't have. Gritting his teeth, he shoved his other hand under the bed as well and grabbed the book, dragging it back towards him, somewhat surprised it didn't screech on the way out. He clamped the struggling book to his chest and was mid-way through stumbling towards his chest of drawers when the book suddenly froze against his chest. Looking over to the side, he saw Riddle shaking her head blearily, wand in hand; she slept on a mattress on his floor (Harry didn't particularly feel the need to be chivalrous to the future Voldemort).

"What the hell is that?" she hissed, voice still blurred with sleep.

"A book. Hagrid gave it to me," Harry replied.

"That bumbling oaf? I'm not surprised," she said, disdain bleeding through her tone.

"Hagrid's a better person than you'll ever be, Riddle," Harry shot back.

Riddle snarled, but said nothing as she turned over to face the door rather than Harry; the action was so oddly childish he almost started laughing. Now having the book under control, Harry proceeded to wrap one of his spare belts around it; in this case, he was actually happy all his old clothes were Dudley's, because the belt was long enough for him to tie it around the book twice. Turning his attention to the attached card, Harry began to read.

Dear Harry,

Happy Birthday!

Think you might find this useful for next year. Won't say no more here. Tell you when I see you.

Hope the Muggles are treating you right.

All the best,

Hagrid

Harry wasn't particularly sure what it boded for the year to come that Hagrid thought a semi-sentient biting book would come in handy, but hopefully it wasn't anything too bad. Placing the card to one side, Harry picked up the Hogwarts letter (there wasn't one for Riddle, something that didn't surprise Harry in the slightest). It was slightly thicker than the one last year; the oddity was explained when he opened the letter and three pieces of parchment fell out rather than the usual two. The first was the standard Hogwart's letter, the text almost unchanged save for informing him that third-years were permitted to visit Hogsmeade, and that a permission form was enclosed; he noticed with a frown that, according to the letter, he would need his guardians to sign it for him. Oh well, they probably will the moment I ask them, thanks to Riddle. The second was the aforementioned permission slip and the third his booklist - he noted with a sigh of relief that there wasn't a massive list of books from the same author under the Defence Against the Dark Arts section.

Briefly, Harry wondered what subjects he'd end up choosing for the coming year, but he decided that was a subject best considered with a good night's sleep.

I promise I have a canon-compliant explanation as to how Riddle gets her original wand back from Dumbledore despite Pettigrew giving it to Voldemort in the canon resurrection scene. If all goes well, that should be in the next chapter or the one after.