Dear Lover, Dear Enemy

by KarmaVictim

When Hermione suggests Harry writes his feelings down, he obeys and confesses in a random journal he discovered in his dorm. But it turns out, this journal can reply—and it has a lot to say. HPxLV Contains an AU of Chamber of Secrets. Not compliant with HBP or DH.

Dear Lover, Dear Enemy –

Summary: When Hermione suggests Harry writes his feelings down, he obeys and confesses in a random journal he discovered in his dorm. But it turns out, this journal can reply—and it has a lot to say. HPxLV Contains an AU of Chamber of Secrets. Not compliant with HBP or DH.

WARNING: Contains memories of child abuse and self-harm and SLASH.

/

Some things that you should know: Okay, so the AU of Chamber of Secrets is simple. Instead of Ginny being the one unknowingly releasing the Basilisk, a fifth year Slytherin does it. Harry destroys the Basilisk, but has no idea about Tom Riddle's diary.

Now, something I want to add to help understand the story, is that Voldemort is linked to his younger self's diary. He knows what happens within it. Remember, this is SLASH.

/

Harry Potter was not someone who ranted. He kept everything locked up, as tightly as he could. His mental walls were impenetrable. And although you could use Legilimency to browse his mind, he would never voluntarily rant or let anything out.

Maybe he would rant, if he wasn't declared the Boy-Who-Lived. Since he was everyone's "Golden Boy" he refused to come off as anything less. Voldemort would close in eventually, and he couldn't risk letting his guard down. He didn't want to come off as weak. Not just because Voldemort would find it easy to strike, but because his own memories restrained him.

Harry couldn't be weak. He couldn't afford it. Every time the option of venting came up, he pushed it away. A strong façade is what he needed to focus on, and nothing else.

He was the boy cursed with a lightning shaped scar. He was the boy abused as a child. He was the boy "destined" to defeat Voldemort. He was the boy, that was just that—a BOY. Not a man, not a superhero. He was young, but the weight of saving the whole wizarding world was thrust upon his shoulders. Harry never asked for it; he didn't WANT it. Sometimes he thinks about his parents. How they should have let him die, and not sacrificed themselves.

He was entering his sixth year. After discovering Order of the Phoenix, the weight upon his shoulders doubled. And it did not help that HE had killed his godfather. HIM, and him alone, had been the cause of his only remaining family member's death.

Harry gave up then. He submitted to the world, but kept his walls up. He continued pretending as the role he was forced to play. He let the world dub him as their savior, the only one that could defeat the darkness. But he didn't want it; he never did.

Hermione had suggested something interesting that morning. She knew how he didn't rant, or confess personal matters. She gave him the idea of jotting his thoughts down in a journal. Harry disagreed with the idea, not wanting to risk his reputation. But throughout the day, the option sounded more and more tempting.

As he had been returning to his dorm after a particularly exhausting school day, he spotted something on his bed. He frowned in confusion and curiosity, eyes locked on the object as he approached it.

It was a book. Not just any book, but a journal. Harry could sense the magic coming from it, and the power it held. He wondered why it was on his bed too. Maybe he was supposed to touch it, and it'd kill him? It sounded paranoid, but he never knew what to expect with Death Eaters and traitors roaming the Earth.

Nonetheless, he reached a hand out and touched the leathery journal. He sighed in relief when nothing happened. He grasped ahold of the journal and picked it up, while plopping onto his bed. He flipped through the book, frowning in bewilderment as he only saw blank pages.

'Maybe Hermione put it here,' he thought with a soft smile. That girl was always concerned for his wellbeing, and it felt nice. Though it was annoying at times, it made him feel cared about.

Harry sighed exasperatedly, finally deciding to write in the journal. He plucked a quill from his bag, along with a small container of ink. He dipped the quill's tip into the ink, making sure he didn't spill it, and began writing.

"Dear journal (because diary sounds gay)—"

"I agree."

Harry went rigid, watching open mouthed and wide eyed as the two words wrote themselves across the parchment. Did his new journal just REPLY to him?

"How are you replying?" Harry finally wrote.

"Magic," it replied simply.

Harry stared for a moment, until he finally gave a response. "Are you just an enchanted journal then?" he asked, quill shaky.

"No," it wrote. "I am a past living person with control over his journal."

Harry blinked in surprise and confusion. Someone with control over a journal? But that left yet another question—

"Are you dead then?" the boy scribbled.

It hesitated before it scrawled its own answer. "For the most part."

"Well that sure helps my confusion," Harry wrote absentmindedly. "What do you mean for the most part? Who are you?"

"I'm not answering those questions. My identity doesn't matter. Who are YOU?"

"It matters here," Harry protested, quill flying across the old parchment. He was beyond intrigued now. "I won't say my name either then. I'm writing in this journal for a reason, you know. I'm going to rant, which means no one can know who I am, and find out my opinions."

"And why would it matter if someone discovers your opinions?" Harry paused, about to reply when the words continued appearing. "Are you being controlled? Tsk, tsk. Not such a way to live life."

"Got that right," the teenager scribbled. "Can't help it. I've got too many expectations."

"Maybe I could help?"

"Nice try," Harry jotted down with a slightly amused smile. "Not going to give myself away."

"It was worth a shot."

"If you're 'partly alive' then do you know what goes on in real life?" the curious boy couldn't help but ask.

"Yes. Quite an interesting war taking place." Harry found its sudden musing suspicious. "What do you think of the war?"

"I think it's stupid," Harry replied bluntly.

The journal didn't write anything back for a moment. "And why is that?" it finally wrote.

Harry sighed, finally letting it go. He was finally going to rant about his opinion of the war. And no one would know, except for this strange being.

"Because it's useless. By the time it ends, it won't be worth it. Too many lives will be wasted and lost. The so called 'light side' is just as controlling as the 'dark side'. Dumbledore may as well be as bad as Voldemort when it comes to controlling people. And besides, the 'light side' is always forcing things. The Ministry calls three spells the Unforgivable curses, when many other spells are just as harmful, or worse. For example, Voldemort tends to cast the Killing curse often. Whereas others could be completely merciless and cast torturing or humiliating spells for long periods of time, and never put the poor souls out of their misery.

"The 'light side' is always urging people to fight for them. Why is it so difficult for people to be neutral in this damn war? I don't want anything to do with it. Though revenge on some people would be nice," Harry wrote, hand surging across the parchment. He was relieved to be getting this off his chest.

"Interesting opinion," words appeared onto the once-blank parchment. "You seem to have no problem saying Voldemort's name."

"Neither do you," Harry wrote back with a tiny smirk. "And I didn't SAY it. I wrote it."

"Point taken, boy," it replied.

The teenager paused for a moment, eyes narrowing at the text. "How do you know I'm a boy?" he scribbled nervously. Part of him feared that it knew his identity.

At first, the journal didn't respond to him. The young wizard grew nervous, as the seconds dragged on. Finally, just as he was about to write again, words began appearing across the inky page.

"I can sense who is touching the journal," it explained. "I can sense your emotions and thoughts, but not memories. Who are you?"

Harry blinked in shock, rereading the explanation over and over again. How did this make any sense?

"I'm still not saying," Harry finally scrawled down on the parchment. "That's cool, though. What's my favorite color?"

"I cannot just tell your favorite things."

"You don't have to, duh! You said you can sense thoughts, sooo what color am I thinking is my favorite?" he asked.

"Scarlet."

"That's AWESOME. What's my favorite animal?" the boy wrote, an impressed smile lighting his features.

"Stag."

"Favorite food?"

"Everything."

Harry laughed aloud at that one. Ron seemed to be having an impact on him. "Damn, you seem to read my thoughts very well then."

"Yes. Don't make me pry information from you."

"Did you know I can tell you're curious and amused?" Harry wrote with a little laugh.

He wasn't lying. It seemed that the journal's connection with him was shared. While the person behind the journal could sense his thoughts, Harry could sense his as well.

"How is that?" it queried after a few moments.

"I dunno. Guess it works both ways. HA! You think I'm interesting!"

"This is intriguing," the being responded. "It works both ways… and yet it never has for anyone else."

"I've been told I'm an exception to most problems," the raven-haired boy scribbled down, a soft smile on his face. This was actually fun.

"Or the cause of them."

"That too."

Harry perked up when he heard two pairs of footsteps. He quickly stashed his journal under his pillow, and pulled the curtains around his bed. He kept completely silent, not in the mood to socialize. Ron would most likely come up and try to start a conversation, and he wasn't in the mood.

He heard a few muffled voices, and the dorm's door open. He quickly feigned sleep, subconsciously stroking the leathery journal under his pillow. He felt the journal's energy, and the writer's confusion. It was most likely waiting for a response from a message Harry hadn't read yet.

Harry relaxed when he heard the voices quiet down. He let out an inaudible breath at the sound of rustling sheets, and a couple good night's being said. He recognized Ron's voice, and was relieved that the redhead hadn't tried sparking a conversation.

When he was sure no one would pay attention to him, the teenager sneakily reopened the journal, and read its messages.

"I can sense your anxiety, in case you don't know that."

"I know you're there."

"If you are going to hoard my journal, at least tell me when you won't reply."

Harry huffed silently at all its messages.

"Chillax. A couple people just walked into my dorm."

"Chillax? And you are in a dormitory?"

"Yes, old man, I'm in a dorm," Harry answered. "And chillax is 'chill' and 'relax' combined. Duh."

"Oh, excuse my incompetence. How selfish of me to not know what chillax means," it responded sarcastically.

"You're forgiven," he replied cockily. "Wait, how are you able to be sarcastic if you're a journal?"

"I'm not just a journal. I'm a living human. I simply have control over this journal."

Harry smiled, looking back at their conversation. He thought for a moment, considering the journal—no, the writer's words.

"That's cool."

"Indeed."

There was a pause until Harry yawned and finally wrote, "I'm tired and it's almost an hour past curfew. G-bye."

"Curfew? Where are you, a school?"

"Yup."

"G-bye?"

"IT MEANS GOODBYE. And G-NIGHT."

"G-night. I will figure out who you are eventually."

"Sure you will," the Potter boy replied tiredly, giving yet another yawn. He finally closed the journal when he received no response. He made sure to put away his ink without spilling it, and to stash away the journal safely under his pillow. By the time he lied down, he was falling into a deep slumber.

/

Harry awoke earlier than usual that morning. He frowned in thought, the memories of last night racing back to him. At first he wasn't sure if it was just a dream, until he lifted his pillow and spotted the magical journal.

Harry hesitated for a moment, recalling the writer's words. It could sense whoever touched it, right? So would that wake the writer up when he touched it?

After contemplating for a moment, he decided he would bring the journal with him to class. It wasn't like he had anything to lose, right?

But instead of directly touching the journal, he picked up a spare shirt and carefully wrapped it around the book. After covering it completely, he set it in his bag and began getting ready for the day.

Harry decided to take a shower, since he had plenty of time to spare. So he made his way to the washroom, stripped, and began washing himself. After that, he dried off, slipped his glasses on, and got dressed. He attempted to tame his messy black hair, but eventually just let it be. He noticed he had just barely noticeable bags under his eyes, most likely because he had gone to sleep later than usual.

By the time he finished getting ready for the day, his roommates were still preparing to get dressed. He smirked, proud of himself for actually waking up earlier than his other companions.

Harry grabbed his bag, glancing intently at the journal wrapped in a t-shirt. After making sure to put it in a separate compartment (so the writer wouldn't sense him when he grabbed his homework) he headed down to the Gryffindor common room.

Harry actually laughed when he spotted Hermione on the couch. She was staring at him in awe, most likely surprised with him being awake. The boy promptly took a seat beside her, while they waited on Ron.

"You sure seem better than yesterday," Hermione observed.

Harry shrugged. "Yeah." He paused for a moment, considering the journal. Would she have placed a magical journal on his bed? "By the way, I took up your advice on writing in a journal."

"Really? That's great," she murmured, grinning triumphantly. When Harry noticed she said nothing else, he frowned.

If Hermione had given him the journal, than wouldn't she have said something by now? Yes, she would have. But if it wasn't Hermione who gifted him the book, then who was it?

The pair sat in silence for a moment, only perking up when a certain ginger-haired teenager made his way down from the male dormitories. He looked tired, as he usually did in the mornings.

"Good morning, Ron," Hermione greeted.

"Morning," he grumbled lazily. When he noticed how awake Harry was, he asked, "How'd you get up so early?"

Harry shrugged. "I just slept well I guess." He smiled at his two friends, and followed after them to the Great Hall.

/

The raven-haired teenager had yet to touch the journal. He had already turned in his Transfiguration homework, along with his Defense Against the Dark Arts homework. Potions was up next, and he dreaded it. Snape wasn't very fun to be around.

Harry entered the uncanny classroom, spotting only a few other Gryffindors inside. He slowly chose a seat in the back corner, digging through his bag to find the essay he had completed last night.

He suddenly gasped when his index finger came in contact with the journal. Part of the fabric had unraveled, and revealed the leather bound book to him. Glancing around cautiously, he pulled out his Potions textbook and then the journal. He sneakily placed the journal inside of the textbook, mentally smirking at his little trick.

When he opened the journal, he was surprised to see their conversation still there on the first few pages. He flipped to the next blank page, chewing on the inside of his cheek in wonder. He had nothing better to do, so why not write to whoever this person was?

"Hello," he wrote simply.

As he expected, there wasn't an immediate response. His knee bounced, and he wondered why he was feeling so anxious. Why would he be nervous while writing to someone he didn't even know?

A minute before class was to start, he got a response.

"Hello," it replied.

Harry smiled softly, feeling content for a reason he couldn't name. "I need to call you something," he wrote absentmindedly.

"Yes, I'd much prefer a name than 'journal'," it responded. Harry's little smile widened, finding himself at ease with how quick they had sparked a conversation. He vaguely noticed Hermione and Ron watching him with interest, but chose to ignore them for now.

"What about Jerry?" Harry asked with a small smirk. Part of him knew the writer wouldn't enjoy that name.

"No. Think of something better."

"Nathan?"

"No."

Harry paused in thought, unaware of Snape entering the room. The black clad teacher strolled into the classroom, examining his class in a sense of boredom. When his eyes landed on a certain journal-writing boy, he gave a sneer.

"Mr. Potter," Snape called. Harry jumped, instantly glancing up at the man.

"Yes?" he asked.

"I would advise you pay attention, instead of writing in a boring diary," Snape snarled.

Harry gave a tiny smirk, suddenly feeling brave. "Sorry, I just knew a boring diary would be more interesting that listening to you drawl on and on."

Snape glared in a flurry of hatred, instinctively murmuring, "Twenty points from Gryffindor."

The boy just nodded, pretending to close the journal and pay attention to Snape. However, when the professor wasn't looking, he quickly scribbled a message onto the parchment.

"Professor Fuck-You-All is being annoying. So what if I call you Margaret?"

"Professor Fuck-You-All? Where are you? Hogwarts?" it wrote. "And no, I am not a girl."

Harry was tempted to snicker, actually. "Yes, I'm at Hogwarts. What about Jayden?"

"No."

The boy glanced up to check if Snape was looking, then continued listing suggestions. "Leo?"

"No."

"Snake?"

"That sounds promising."

Harry stifled a laugh. "No wonder. I figured if you attended Hogwarts, you'd be a Slytherin."

"Yes, I was a Slytherin. What house are you?" it replied slyly.

"No way. Not telling," the teenager scribbled back.

"I feel as though you know more about me, than I know about you," the sentence appeared gradually.

"I've been told I'm very cunning."

"Are you sure they weren't being sarcastic?"

"MR. POTTER!" Snape exclaimed.

Harry jumped, instinctively shutting the journal. "Yes?"

"What part of pay attention doesn't that tiny brain of yours understand?" the greasy haired man growled.

The Boy Who Lived bit back a retort, clenching his jaw harshly. He watched in an angry manner at the man who smirked victoriously.

"Another twenty points from Gryffindor. And hand over that journal!"

"No!" Harry snapped, grip tightening around HIS journal.

The boy quickly made a last attempt, opening the journal and sloppily writing, "Do you have some kind of defense? Cuz someone is ab—"

Before he could finish his message, he felt Snape snatch away the leathery book. "Hey!" Harry cried. The young wizard watched helplessly as Snape turned away with his journal, returning to the front of the classroom.

As Snape was approaching his desk, though, he let out a yelp. The outside of the journal was scorching hot, sending an intense burning sensation through his hand. The teacher instantly dropped the book, which Harry swiftly grabbed.

"POTTER!" Snape snarled.

"It wasn't my fault!" Harry huffed. "You took my journal from me. I tried warning you, because it does that!" The lie slipped easily from his mouth, and he internally thanked his brain for actually cooperating with him.

"Detention tonight at eight o'clock!" the intimidating man growled angrily, swerving away from the teenager and turning back to the rest of the class.

Harry sighed in relief. He waited until he was one-hundred percent sure Snape wouldn't see him, and then scrawled a quick message onto the old parchment.

"Thanks. The stupid bat got what he deserved. Write later, Parsel."

"Parsel?"

"Yeah, I'll explain later," he wrote messily, quickly shutting the book and sitting innocently as Snape glanced over. This was going to be a long Potions class.

/

By the time classes were over, Harry had yet to continue writing to Parsel. He decided to call the author Parsel, because he seemed to like snakes. And then there was Parseltongue, which was the language of snakes. So, therefore, he nicknamed the writer Parsel.

Hermione and Ron talked idly as they approached the Great Hall for dinner. Harry smiled, occasionally chipping in to the conversation. His two companions hadn't bothered him too much about his journal, excluding a few questions.

The trio entered the Great Hall, taking their usual seats at the Gryffindor table. Harry made sure the journal was still wrapped in the t-shirt, just to be safe, so Parsel didn't know what he was up to.

For the first time in a long time, Harry felt relaxed. He conversed carelessly with his two friends, smiling happily. After just a tiny rant to Parsel, about his opinion on the war, he already felt much better. It was good to have someone you could vent to.

Once dinner had come to an end, Harry said his goodbyes to Hermione and Ron. He decided to go on an evening stroll, with nothing better to do. After a couple minutes of avoiding Hermione's attempts to join him, he managed to escape and began ambling around Hogwarts grounds.

Harry strode around aimlessly, bag thumping lazily on his side when he moved. Eventually he made a decision to head to his favorite hiding spot. The boy glanced around nervously, and then raced into the Forbidden Forest. He hoped no one saw him, because lord knows what the staff would do. They'd probably think he was on a suicide mission.

The teenager crept cautiously into the Forbidden Forest, already knowing where he was going. He had found this sacred area when he got into a fight with Ron during fourth year, and needed somewhere to hide. He had, stupidly, darted into the dark forest and ventured deeper and deeper.

Harry smiled softly when he spotted the hiding spot. It was a small cove, with a pond and a canopy of trees shielding it from a bird eye's view. The entrance was a small space between a pair of boulders, with just a couple stray rays of sunlight peeking through. When the Boy Who Lived entered the cove, he easily climbed down the rock wall from past experiences. Once his feet touched the ground, he sighed and took a seat under a large tree. He leaned against the worn bark of the trunk, and dug around in his bag.

Harry pulled out the journal, carefully unraveling the book from the confines of a t-shirt. He stuffed the shirt back into his messenger bag, and then pulled out a quill and a small bottle of ink as well. Once he was sure nothing would spill, he opened the journal and turned to the next blank page.

"Hello, Parsel," Harry wrote hesitantly. Once again, he found himself growing nervous. He had no clue why, though.

"Hello, boy-who-I-have-yet-to-learn-the-name-of," it wrote back after a couple moments of serene silence in the cove.

Harry smiled warmly. "Just call me something, I don't care. By the way, I nicknamed you Parsel because of Parseltongue, the snake language."

"Interesting choice," the writer responded. "I'm at a loss of what to call you."

"Well, the words 'heroic' and 'awesome' usually fit well," the teenager replied cheekily.

"Oh, should I call you Liar then?"

"No, but it does fit well… for you," Harry wrote with a huff.

"I would disagree, but you are right. What about Larry?"

"Is this because I tried calling you Jerry?"

"Possibly," the writer wrote back. Harry shook his head in amusement.

"Nah, think of something better, old man," he wrote back.

"Old man?"

"Yeah. I'm assuming you're old," the Boy Who Lived responded carelessly.

"I'm offended. Maybe I should nickname you Insolent Brat?"

"Huh, that's a new one," the young wizard scribbled back humorously. Harry could sense the writer's annoyance, anger, and slight amusement. He chuckled quietly at the peculiar mix of emotions.

"How does Mendax sound?"

Harry paused, absentmindedly murmuring the name. He blinked when it rolled off his tongue naturally. He liked it.

"Sure. Not bad," he approved.

"Good. Because it is Latin for liar."

"You little shit," he wrote, but it was obvious through the connection that he was amused. The boy smiled softly, actually enjoying their conversation. When was the last time he was so relaxed with someone?

"What an insult."

"Shut it, snake boy!"

"I'm not speaking, though?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I kinda knew that already," he wrote with a humored huff.

"You attend Hogwarts, yes?" it spontaneously asked.

"Yeah."

"I did too. What is it like there?"

"Drama filled," Harry replied instinctively. "Lots of drama. And Professor Fuck-You-All is really frustrating. Plus Headmaster Dumbledick is annoying."

"Headmaster Dumbledick? That's… interesting," the writer's handwriting appeared. The Boy Who Lived snickered when he sensed its amusement yet again.

"Yup. None of the other teachers bother me." He paused. "Except for Filch. He's… disturbing. He said, and I quote, 'These detentions are boring. I miss the screams' during my first year."

"Ah, I've heard about Filch. Is he the one always patrolling with that pathetic cat of his?"

"Yup," Harry answered with yet another grin. "What was Hogwarts like in your time, old man?"

"I'm not old!" it replied. Harry chuckled as he sensed its frustration. "I sometimes wish I'd track you down and crucio you."

"Get in line."

There was a moment without any response, and Harry winced when he realized what he had written. He was coming close to revealing his identity.

"And why is there a line?" it asked.

"I've made enemies at Hogwarts. The Death Eaters hate me because I hexed a few of the Slytherins… especially Malfoy. That little shit is annoying," the wizard explained. It wasn't much of a lie, actually. In fact, it was very honest.

"Hmm, that's intriguing. I assume you are in a different house then?"

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."

"You are stubborn."

"Is that another word for smart? Because it seems I got more information out of you, than you've gotten out of me," the Boy Who Lived retorted.

"'Smart' isn't the term I would use. 'Luck' seems to fit better."

"Ah, luck. My favorite word… after Mendax."

"Mendax is your new favorite word?" it asked, and Harry sensed its confusion and hope.

"Yeah. Even though it means liar, it still sounds awesome. Plus, it's Latin. I love that language!"

"You love Latin? Not much of a surprise, because most spells translate to Latin," the writer jotted down.

"Yup. It's pretty cool, actually, because it's old and still popular. It's amazing to realize just how far back magic goes," Harry replied truthfully. It really did impress him with how ancient magic is. Maybe Latin isn't THAT old, but it was still created a while ago, right?

"Yes, it is amazing. For a teenager, you seem to have the occasional deep opinion."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Your second favorite word is luck, isn't it?" it signed back, earning a snort from the raven-haired teenager.

"Yeah, thanks then."

"You're welcome." There was a pause, where neither wrote anything. "I'm curious now. Tell me about yourself. Blood status, family members, friends…."

Harry rolled his eyes at the pitiful attempt to ask about him. "You could just say 'who are you and tell me what your life is like.'"

"Fine. Who are you and tell me what your life is like."

"Much better!" the Gryffindor scribbled down. "Well, I'm a half-blood. I'm an orphan, and live with my pathetic relatives who can't be considered human. My cousin is a whale in the form of a person, my aunt is horse-faced, and my uncle is—well, for lack of a better word, a complete and utter prick. My friends are great, but they're always bothering me. One of them pestered me with writing in a journal (not a diary, because like I said before, that sounds gay) and I finally took up their advice."

Nothing was written back to him for a couple moments. Harry assumed it was reading thoroughly through his response, trying to clue in who he was. 'Good luck with that,' he thought smugly.

"Sounds fairly eventful. Your relatives sound… what's a synonym for horrific?"

"Hell-ish?"

"Ah, perfect," it inscribed on the parchment. "Your relatives sound hellish. As for your friends, that must be nice. I personally never had close friends, so I suggest you take advantage of their concern." Harry smiled at that comment. "And where did you find my journal?"

"Thanks, my friends are pretty awesome. Uh, sorry you didn't have friends. I really only have two, and a couple others who aren't that close to me." He froze for a moment, wondering what to write next. "Well, I found your journal in my dorm. I thought—" He quickly corrected himself before he wrote Hermione's name. "—my friend had put it there, but apparently not."

"Strange. My journal has been hidden for decades…." Harry noticed how it avoided the topic of friends. He chose to follow the writer's lead.

"I have no clue. But decades? HA. You ARE old!"

"I am not!"

"Yeah you are! So, what was it like seeing Dumbledick as a student?" he teased.

"Oh please, no one ALIVE has seen Dumbledick as a student!" it wrote, and Harry sensed its joking manner. "I am from the 1940's when I attended Hogwarts, thank you very much."

"That's still old, you know."

"No it is not!"

"Yeah it is."

"Stop it."

"Can't handle the truth, elder?"

"No, I can't handle a lie."

"Sorry, guess I should learn some respect."

"Yes, you should."

"Especially since you're an elder!"

There was no reply for a moment. Harry sensed the being's irritation and couldn't restrain himself from laughing.

"I will hex you when I discover your identity."

"Can't wait."

/