Well, here is my second chapter. Hope you like it. I always find it hard to start a new story. Especially when I don't know where I'm heading.
When Harry woke up the next day, he found himself with his head on the desk. A little confused he looked around the room. Slowly but certainly the memory of the night before flooded back in his mind.
"Oh no." He muttered.
How stupid could he be? Tom Riddle was a vicious mas-murdering psychopath. Even locked-up in a diary he could be dangerous. Harry only had to think about what happened to Ginny. Or almost happened. She could have died, just by pouring her doubts and feelings in the diary, entrusting them to Riddle.
No harm done. If he just left the diary alone, nothing would happen. Diary Riddle could not come to live, if he didn't feed the memory his soul. He closed his eyes for a moment, before Uncle Vernon banged on his door.
"Get down to the kitchen boy!"
A sigh escaped his lips, before he got up and dressed quickly. With one last look at the little black book, he turned around and left his room.
"Finally! Hurry up boy. I need to get to work."
He rolled his eyes. Even after all these years, he was still cooking and doing his chores. If uncle Vernon needed to be somewhere on time, he should just bake the eggs himself, instead of pestering Harry about it all the time.
Two slices of bread flew out of the toaster. That thing needed fixing! Harry barely caught them in time. He placed them on a plate, with the baked egg on top. A few slices of bacon, and he was finished. Without another word he set the plate down in front of his uncle.
"I'm going out." He said. He didn't even wait for the comment. Otherwise he would be in there all day, cutting the grass, doing the dishes, vacuum the living-room and whatever else Aunt Petunia could come up with.
No. For once he wanted to spend his day outside, in the sun. Maybe a long stroll would calm his mind. He felt uneasy for some reason. The feeling started in his abdomen, a slight tingling, like when a small bug crawls over your arm.
Ignoring the feeling, he walked straight out of Privet drive. How further away he was, the better. The unpleasant tingling in his abdomen even disappeared. Considering the weird and long night he had, he felt surprisingly good.
His feet took him as far as the nearest forest, which was quit an end away. But he didn't even notice. All he could think about, was the night before. The words in the diary. However hard he tried to think of something else. Every word flashed before his eyes, over and over again. He rubbed his temple.
He couldn't even think about his friends, or Sirius. Not even one single spell came to mind. Only Riddle. Riddle's Diary. Riddle's words. Riddle.
It unnerved him as much as it irritated him.
"For crying out loud!" He suddenly yelled. No one heard him, he was on his own. Why couldn't he forget this? Think of something else. There was nothing worth remembering in that conversation. He just had to focus on something else. Something happy, that had nothing to do with Riddle, his painfully lonely situation, or his nightmares at all.
He sat down in the green grass, at the edge of the forest, resting his back against a tree. Then he let his mind drift. Hoping it would bring him somewhere else than with his thoughts about Riddle.
Bird. Flapping his wings, trying to bring a worm into its nest, to feed the small ones. And another one, chirping a happy song, whilst seated on a twig. Two butterfly frolicking around each other.
His eyes slowly closed. He felt the soft breeze on his face, wind playing with his already messy hair. The sound of a dog barking in the distance. Tranquillity descended upon him. This was exactly what he needed. Some peace and quiet.
Slowly but surely, he fell asleep. Drifting away from this world into another. A world of dreams.
Harry!
His eyes shot open. Every muscle in his body tensed. "What...?" He blinked. There was no one there. Not on the road leading to the forest, nor in the forest itself, or the grassland surrounding it. He blinked again.
It had to be in his dream. Someone calling out to him, even though he couldn't remember dreaming just a minute ago.
The tingling feeling was back, but it was no longer concentrated at his abdomen. The feeling was spreading through his chest, climbing up his spine. His head started to ache. The blood in his veins was pulsating. His body tried to tell him something that his mind couldn't grasped so easily. He just didn't know what it was he had to do.
He rubbed his temples with is fingers, hoping the throbbing in his head would go away. But it didn't work. He just needed some sleep, that was all. This was his body telling him he needed to sleep. So, he lay down in the grass again, closing his eyes once more. He would feel a whole lot better when he had slept a bit.
This time he didn't even have the chance to drift away.
Harry! The voice came again. This time louder and clearer.
He recognized the voice. But that was not possible! He blinked again, looking around. There was no one there, like he confirmed before. He was all alone. But he hadn't imagined the voice. It was as clear as day. That was what scared him the most, because it could mean only one thing. Riddle was inside his head.
Solitude and darkness.
That was the worst part of being locked up in a diary for over fifty years. As long as the diary remained closed, the only thing he could see, was darkness. Not even a shadow, but pure and utter darkness. It surrounded him and cloaked his soul in black velvet.
There was no light, not even the faint light you get from the stars, or the moon. Even in a night-dark forest you could see, even if it was only shades. But here in prison of his soul there was no light.
Worse than the darkness, was the solitude. Playing games with yourself got boring pretty quickly. Talking to yourself even faster. He could relive every single memory, if he wanted. And he had done that over a million times. He had seen the past sixteen years of his life, over and over again. Or at least the years that were contained in this diary.
A memory is like a play. Every time you act your part, you'll get to know the role a little bit better. You memorize the words, until there is no longer anything to memorize. You'll become a part of that play, saying the words out of habit, with no lingering feelings. It will become routine. Dull. Boring.
However hard you try, you'll never get the other actors to say something else, something out of the play, something out of character. Because that's not what the script says. You can't change your own lines, because then you'll be thrown out of the play, back into the dark abyss form whence you came.
This was exactly how boring his memories got. There was nothing new to learn, nothing he could use anymore.
This was why he wanted someone to talk to. Even if it was someone like Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the boy who cut of his escape-route. At least with Potter he could have a decent conversation. Even if it was about nightmares or less intelligent topics.
How low he had fallen. He would talk about girls, if it would get him out of the darkness and boredom.
Harry would do just that. The promise the boy made the night before would ensure that. At least once more. If he could help it, more than once. But first he would have to pull the boy closer.
He could feel the presence of the boy at all times. He was leaving, getting further away. With each step Harry did, the thread, symbolizing the promise Harry made, got weaker. He knew if the golden boy wandered to far of, the weak thread would be broken. That was something he could not risk. This might be his one and only chance to get out of here.
So, he started filling Harry's head with the memory of the night before, the conversation they had. The bond made sure Harry would get these memories. Piece by piece, until he could think of nothing else. It seemed to work, he could feel the bond getting stronger again, even though the boy moved further away still.
At the very moment he started to bring the boy in, something changed. A feeling of calmness fell over him. Short images of grassland and birds. The boy wonder was drifting off to sleep! This could not happen, not now.
He gathered all his strength, all the power, however weak, that made their bond, to call out to the boy.
Harry!
He could feel the threat thicken again. Apparently, he woke golden boy. But his mind was still wandering of. Descending into tranquillity once more.
Harry! He called out a second time, only this time with much more power.
The boy's thoughts wandered back toward him, unwillingly strengthening the bond. Then he started to pull, hauling the boy in, like a fish with a line. He could feel the presence coming closer. At first the boy resisted him, too stubborn to be obedient. That could only hurt. But it mattered not, because he knew Harry could not ignore him forever.
And sure, enough the boy realized this to, because he no longer resisted him. The presence came closer and closer, faster than he had expected. If Harry was so easy to reel in, this would be a whole lot less difficult then he suspected.
A little while later – it could have been an hour, maybe two, or even only ten minutes – the diary opened. He could see the light, but nothing more. There were no colours, besides from black in white in this dreadful place. But white was always better than the never-ending blackness.
When the words came, he smirked -if locked up souls were even able to smirk-. The boy had a temper, but it mattered not. He had what he wanted, some attention.
What the hell do you want Riddle?
Oh, he was going to have so much fun, playing with the Gryffindors head. Messing up his emotions and eventually feed on the boy's soul. And there was nothing to boy could do to stop him.