Author's Note: This is the third installment of 'When Darkness Sings.'

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Rating: T

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Harry had always been quick for his age.

Dudley spent their entire recess chasing him, dunking into tight spaces Harry thought he could use to get his cousin off his tail but still managed to follow him, and the elder would laugh when the younger escaped every time. Harry often overhead his cousin telling his friends that, if they somehow manged to catch the small raven-haired boy that was his cousin, he would give them a reward. If they didn't, their lunch was forfeit. Harry had yet to be caught, and during each lunch, he had something filling to eat. The other boys haven't figured out where their lost lunches went to.

The days he did not go out to the playground, his cousin would hunt him down in the library where the gentle librarian sat with him, both immersed in the slow learning of letters and their sounds, and give him part of his lunch. He glared the entire time, but Harry would smile at his cousin in thanks. The portly boy would flush each time before leaving, grumbling under his breath about stupid cousins who could not feed themselves properly.

The progress he made in his alphabet was astonishing, and his teachers often praised him. The attention did not deter him. If he could learn enough words, perhaps he could start writing in his journal. The thought made him bubbly with excitement. If it was a magic journal, then maybe it could talk back to him. They could become friends, Harry often would entertain himself with the thought, and then he would have someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn't judge him.

He had spent many months learning the rules, and he felt he had a large enough grasp on the written word to start with something small. When he returned to the Dursleys after school, he was quick to finish his chores. They were going out for dinner, and Mrs. Figg wasn't home so they decided he would be left at the house. They locked the cupboard after he crawled in, as an extra precaution, but Harry was fine with that. He had no intention of leaving.

He had a few of his notebooks, each filled with the alphabet, little charts with pictures and their word next to them. He even put a line of each color he had in it with the color's spelling so he would know the word when he saw it and how to spell them. Sitting in his cupboard, one little spider resting on his shoulder, he eyed the journal at his feet before taking it in hand. Finally, he breathed to himself, it was time.

It heated up instantly, as it always did, and Harry swallowed. The journal quivered in his grasp, as if recognizing him, and the spider skittered down his arm, resting on the back of his hand as if encouraging him, and he slowly opened the book. Taking a steadying breath, he picked up a pencil, freshly sharpened, and tapped it against the page. What did one write in a journal? Staring at the blank, white, line-less space, thinking of all the pictures he drew, and the three letters on the inside of the cover, Harry nodded to himself. He had already filled pages with his art, so what would it matter if he placed words inside instead of pictures? It would eat his words when he was finished.

Setting the pencil to the page, he wrote: I not no how paper eats art, but I told books like this are right in.

For a long moment, his words sat there before sinking. It was like the first time, and Harry had a distinct feeling it was looking over the words he scribbled. Cocking his head to the side, he watched the words vanish into the paper like his pictures had before them. He wondered if the journal was use to such things, these kind of words, but Mr. Figg said it was a book people used to write their thoughts in. He hoped it might return his sentiment, like it did when it provided him charts on his pictures, but his hope was dimming the longer the page stayed blank. He was about to close it when the writing started to reappear on the page in a script far cleaner than his own.

The words were slow to form, and Harry leaned in close to see them clearly: Hello, child. My name is Tom Riddle.

Harry stared. Tom Riddle, like the letters on the back of the cover. Swallowing, he set his pencil directly beneath the line, a line that wasn't vanishing, as he asked: Tom Riddle? TMR on inside paper.

It stands for Tom Marvolo Riddle. The 'inside paper' is the inside cover of the book, and they are my initials. What name do you go by, child?

The writing was elegant. He traced the letters with awe, and a smile pulled at his lips as he looked at the spider setting on his knee. he pulled the book closer to his face, squinting as he slowly read the words aloud. He kept one hand under the word, frustrated when some did not comes as quickly as others, but soon the words pulled together into the question at the end. Smiling, feeling as if he won an award, he petted the spider sitting with him. He turned to the book as he answered: My name is Harry. Mr. Figg give last name when righting to a new prson, but I cant right mine.

The book was taking as long to respond to his message as it took him to read its response. Finally, after several minutes, an answer appeared: Giving a last name is proper when meeting someone new. The word, however, is writing, young Harry. Write and writing are the names of the actions we are doing. Right is a way of saying 'to the right is your pencil.'

Harry recorded the information in one of his notebooks after working out the sentence, a smile on his face as he turned back to the book as another question swept across the page: How old are you, Harry?

He paused, eyeing the question as he tried to recall how Mr. Figg told him to word this. Swallowing, he wrote with care: Six? I is six?

I am six. Harry nodded, and recited the line to himself in his head as the words kept going: For someone so young, you are doing well. Are you the one who drawls in the pages of my home?

I am. Harry watched the words sink into the paper, a pleased smile on his face as it responded: For a six-year-old, you draw rather well. Is the fat one your brother?

Harry blinked, and a sensation of a giggle welled up but did not slip past his throat. No. That Dudley. Aunt son.

Your cousin, then. How old is that one? Harry mused the question in his head, before answering honestly: He am seven?

He is seven. A year older than you. Harry nodded to himself, the firelight of the candle dancing across the pages as he caressed the lines. They stayed where they were, the pages warmed under his fingers. He was talking to his book. Or was it Tom's book? Harry wasn't sure, but he was happy to have it with him. Then, after some time, the journal said: I do wonder where you got me.

Aunt got for me. Things to write with she got me. The book ate the words, processed them, and then asked: Was I a present?

Yes? Harry wasn't sure what 'present' was, the words coming out odd as he tried to sound them out. The journal responded, as if sensing his thoughts: Was I a gift?

Yes. My brthday. Harry smiled as the book corrected his spelling, and then, rather promptly, said: It's getting late, Harry. Go to bed.

Harry stared at the journal for a long time, watching as the words were taken into white pages, and wondered if the clock he drew functioned like an actual clock on the inside of the pages. The thought of a drawn Dudley wrecking havoc had silent laughs coming from him, and watery eyes blurred his already hazy vision. Closing the journal, keeping it close to his chest, he blew out the candle and set his head upon his pillow. As the smoke wafted through the room, a spider watched him from the rafter above. Sleep claimed him, and gave way to dreams of green lights and a shrill screams.

Harry decided after the first month of kindergarten that he liked Mr. Figg.

The gentle teacher didn't smell like cats, cabbage, or an old person's home. He was patient, understanding, and the gentle man made the appointments for tutoring after school himself. Mr. Figg drove him home so that his aunt or uncle didn't have to get out a second time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after each session was done, and everyone was happier for it. Harry suspected that was the reason his aunt and uncle did not mind him staying at the school past three in the evening, nor the fact he got home at five. While he had to stay up late to get both his chores and homework done, and even longer to talk to Tom, Harry felt it was time well spent.

In the month that passed, his writing flourished under the care of his tutors. Mr. Figg didn't mind that he couldn't speak, but offered to teach him sign-language as a means of communicating outside of paper. If they finished his letters and numbers early, he would guide him through the letters and how to shape them with his hand. It was slow going, and Harry had asked for a chart to practice at home, and Mr. Figg had supplied one readily. Whatever bruises Harry had, they never came to light, and Harry made sure to keep his journal on his being at any given moment of the day.

"Words are a means of expressing what we feel," Mr. Figg stated as he stood at the front of the class, a warm smile on his face as he said, "and, because of this, they are a gift we must grasp with eager hands."

Harry continued to sit in the back, and, despite the fact the board was a blurry jumble of lines, he pushed onward. He was halfway through class when Mr. Figg pulled him aside with a gentle hand and gestured him to sit a seat away from prying ears and eyes to ask, "Harry, have you had your vision tested?"

The small, raven-haired youth furrowed his brow, questions dancing in his eyes. Mr. Figg took his glasses off, and handed them to Harry. Taking the glasses from his teacher, looking them over with wonder, Mr. Figg explained, "Those help me see better. If someone has trouble seeing, glasses help fix that. I noticed you squint in class, and I wanted to know if your aunt has taken you to get your sight tested."

Harry frowned, but slowly shook his head as his answer before signing, slowly, 'No, sir.'

Mr. Figg nodded, expression gentle as he said, "When recess starts, I'll take you to the nurse so we can get a general idea on where your vision stands. It won't hurt, so you have nothing to worry about."

Harry dutifully continued on as he had afterwards, and Mr. Figg dropped a paper on his desk. Looking at it, the teacher explained, "It's a copy of what I put on the board. Despite having troubles seeing, I'm glad to know you take good notes while I talk. Listening is one part of understanding."

Harry mentally filed that away, knowing it was important.

Harry Potter. Potter is my last name. Harry wrote as he waited for the nurse to get her stuff together. Both teacher and nurse had their attention elsewhere, their voices light as they spoke, and he really wanted Tom to know his last name. A second passed before the journal replied: Harry Potter. A pleasant name, though I suggest we save our conversation, or time of talking, until you get home or when you are not in the nurse's office about to get your eyes checked.

Harry stared in shock before closing the book, the leather warm under his fingers. He just got scolded. By a book.

"Here, Harry, look through this. I want you to read off the letters on the top row." Harry stumbled through them, the letters shifting and turning around on him, and he made his distress known through writing. It was difficult, writing the letters he saw, and signing the ones he had learned, and knowing his progress wasn't good from the frown on his teacher's, and the nurse's, face.

Swallowing, he continued on despite his discomfort. When he finished, Mr. Figg took him to the office and called his aunt.

When he was left alone, he slipped out his journal to write: Trouble, Tom. I have to go home early. Eyes no good.

The pages warned under his hand, and four words came forth: All will be well.

Harry wasn't sure if he should cry or smile.

His uncle wasn't happy. It was a week since he had to visit an eye specialist, and Harry knew his uncle wasn't happy. The bill from the ophthalmologist sent Vernon into a fit, his face purple with his rage. It was the first time his uncle actually raised a hand to him. Scared witless, his aunt's shocked outcry and his cousin's wide gaze, did not deter him from storming out of the house with the bill clutched in hand. Harry fled from the scene, and curled up in his cupboard with a steadily swelling jaw.

As he sat curled up on his bed, tears staining the pages as his pencil shook in his grasp, sharp, crisp letters formed on the page: Why are you crying?

There was something angry in the way it was written, almost urgent, and Harry shakily answered: I got hurt.

Your uncle? The words came slower this time, and Harry rubbed his face on his sleeve as he said: No. I fell.

The book hissed under his hand, burning hot, and Harry's heart leapt in his chest. His words had been sloppier than usual, and Harry cursed his trembling hand. He didn't want Tom to worry about him, and, as he watched his words sink into the pages, black bleed across the page before vanishing. A shiver swept down his spine, his hair standing on end. Slowly, the words thick and cuttingly sharp, five words scrawled across the page: Do Not Lie To Me.

Tom was angry. Harry could sense it in the words, in the pages, in the leather. It was almost as if the book was surrounding him, pressing upon his senses, and Harry swallowed. In the sharp gloom, he watched as the words came again: Did your uncle hurt you, Harry?

He slammed the book shut, and stuffed it under his pillow. The side of his face hurt, stinging with pinpricks of pain, and he was forced to sleep on his other side, his scar facing away from his pillow. He didn't return to school for three weeks.

In the weeks that followed, he made sure to keep everything spotless. He got up early to clean, and was out of sight with breakfast on the table when his uncle came into the kitchen. His aunt was stern as ever, but she made sure to move him to a different location whenever Vernon was home. Dudley kept up with Harry Hunting whenever he had the chance, and it often led chasing him into the yards surrounding their home.

Harry's hair continued to grow, several inches below his chin when he tried on his glasses for the first time, and he stared in awe as the world shivered and came together as a clear picture. It was like art. His aunt stood behind him as he eyed himself in the mirror, the glasses already fitted to his face, and he pulled his bangs out of the way to admire the black, wire frames. The bruise was gone, but a phantom pain lingered in its place.

He turned, and gestured to the glasses. Petunia tilted her head to the side, her brow furrowed, before she said, "They suit you."

She turned to the man watching them, and said, "I also want to buy an extra set, glass cleaner, and an extra case for the second pair."

The man logged in the order, and the purchase was made. Petunia grasped his hand in hers as they stepped outside, and he tightened his hold on her hand tightly in his as the city sprung up before him in startling clarity. She didn't move, only stared at him, as he gazed upon the city of London with wonder before a smile pulled at his mouth. He stepped past her, small movements as he turned to gaze upon his surroundings, and he turned to look at his aunt with a wide, flashing smile. Her expression softened, her features less harsh, and let him sit in the front seat when they got in the car.

The return to 4 Privet Drive was silent, and Harry was put the work the moment the car pulled into the garage. Over the past few years, he had thought he had gotten accustomed to odd things happening when he was around, though he was never surprised when something new happened to him. His life tilted off from the normal flow of things a week after he had his glasses.

Kneeling in the garden outside, pulling out the weeds so they would not overtake or taint the soil, Harry shivered as the cold settled upon his skin. It was mid-November, almost October, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. He was elbow-deep in dirt, sweat clinging to his face and neck, his hair hanging around him like a dark curtain, and he angrily pushed it out of his face. He needed to have his aunt cut it before it got to long. He didn't like having it in his way.

He sat back on his haunches, sweating and thirsty, and eyed the house. It was getting cold, and he had yet to be called inside. It was almost dark when his aunt came to get him, and she slipped inside first with him on her heels. He washed his arms and hands with lukewarm water before making dinner. Vernon had appeared in the kitchen, silent, and Petunia had went off into the other room to find Dudley.

Harry knew his uncle was there when his shadow fell over him, and he paused in the middle of his preparations. He turned slowly, knowing his uncle wanted something, and the man was staring him down. When Vernon reached for him, Harry bolted. It was an action inspired by the sharp feeling of unease, his eyes wide and palms sweating. He dropped to the ground, darted between Vernon's legs, and was halfway across the kitchen when he was hauled backwards by the hair.

"Did I say you could go, you ungrateful cretin!?" Harry was thrown back to the stove, his arm falling across the burner and hot oil flew through the air. A shrill cry escaped, the oil splashing his neck and arm, and a heavy weight kept him in place as tears flowed freely from his eyes. The scent of burning flesh lifted into the air, and, in the doorway, he heard his aunt yelling as the overhead lights began flickering. Then they erupted, and the dishes set along the counter shattered into countless shards of glass. His uncle stumbled away, and Harry slide down to the ground, clutching his arm to his chest. Everything was blurring, a hazy settling over his senses, and voices were distorted, "...told you...bad...rid of it...absolutely not...fine...call the...say nothing..."

Harry wasn't sure when he collapsed. When he came around, he was in a white room, arm bandaged, and his journal rested innocently under his other hand.

Tom's diary was warm, vibrating slightly, and Harry swallowed thickly as the incident sprung up in his mind's eye. A small, chocked sob broke past his lips, inhuman sounding in the silence of the room, as a new sense of fear stole over him. Curling his fingers around the journal, pulling it up to his chest and pressing his cheek against the warm cover, Harry allowed himself to cry for the first time he could remember.

The journal absorbed the tears when they splashed its surface, and, as he rocked himself in the wide bed, he felt something brush against his hand. Looking up, seeing a blurry shape coming onto his hand, Harry lifted the limb to better see what critter had found its way to him. A watery smile appeared when the eight-legged insect fluttered its legs, a ticklish feeling dancing under its movements. Spiders. Harry liked spiders. They were kind.

As he eased himself deeper into the bed, Harry relaxed.

He wasn't alone. As he stroked the journal's back, feeling it shiver as his nails caressed the spine, Harry knew he never would be. Not as long as he had Tom.