Tom Riddle was bored.

No, more like Diary Riddle was bored, very bored in fact. He had too much time on his hands. Forever if his plans went through.

There was one small, simple problem. Horcruxes, apparently, are alive or at the very least have sentiment. How was Tom to know?

Not many others had Horcruxes, so there wasn't much information in the first place and if there was, as frustrating as it is, he would have galdly destroyed any of it's remainders. The less who knew the better. Knowledge is power after all and this is one power he didn't want another to have. He didn't have to fear death, but he'd be sure his enemies would.

When he was first created, and how weird did that sound, the pain was unimaginable. The tearing of one's soul, of moving it to another place. But for immortality it was a small price to pay. Though it wasn't as simple as storing said soul in his diary, like he had originally thought, no one could argue he became the diary instead.

He knew who he was the moment he became a Horcrux. Tom had all of the knowledge, all of the memories and experiences from when he was a part of the original 16 year old Tom Riddle. Now he was another 16 year old Riddle who happened to be stuck in the diary, his new 'skin', if he wanted to be humane about it.

It was a strange sensation when he first thought about it. He could no longer smell, which wasn't too much a bother, touch, now that one took a while to get used to, and move, expect his own pages. He could still feel magic however, it was a blessing especially now, but in the beginning it wasn't a big deal. After all Tom Riddle, no Lord Voldemort, would write to him daily so they could plan. It was nice to finally be able to have a decent discussion even if they were originally the same person.

That was another thing, he couldn't 'talk'. He could write, but not talk. He also couldn't hear, but if he had enough magic or if someone in the room had a lot of magic it was easier to sense them. It was interesting for a time. Tom and Voldemort would experiment with Diary Tom's capabilities and his limits. It was especially exciting when Tom found a way to 'talk' rather than writing constantly. All he had to do was bring that person into his domain, it made planning with Voldemort easier.

That was also a positive surprise. Tom had a domain in the book, where he could control everything. The book was his domain, outside sources were another story, but not entirely out of his control all he would need was time before he could dominate another's mind. They had found out through a special punishment and then said person was conveniently obliviated.

That was how Tom and Lord Voldemort would spend most of Tom's time, talking, planning, and experimenting. Originally Lord Voldemort would write daily, but as his plans started to form he slowly stopped visiting and writing. Fist it was weekly, then monthly till Lord Voldemort all together stopped, he had even stopped sensing him, probably do to a lack of magic.

A Horcrux could survive without a magic supply, he was magic after all, but if Tom wanted to expand outside of his domain he would need an outside source to supply the excess magic required. Without Voldemort (or someone else) writing, he no longer had that source. He still had that magic, but it was limited and Tom wasn't going to waste it, he felt better having a bit of insurance.

Lord Voldemort's last entry was informing Tom that he was going to be under Abraxas's care. Tom didn't mind, he was after all Voldemort Horcrux. It was the original purpose, the others were just wonderful bonuses.

Though after 'time' Tom found they were bonuses for Voldemort. After 'time' Tom found he had a leash, a weakness. One that he disposed with every fiber of his being. He needed someone. And that left a sour taste in his mouth. Tom Marvalo Riddle needed someone. He could live, that wasn't a challenge, but one could only take so much. He could only go over memories so many times, review so many spells that he was now a master of (maybe even more so than Lord Voldemort himself) only so many books he could read.

There was nothing new. Everything was the same. The books had helped him pass time and helped him learn, but he could not read a book outside of the ones that the original 16 year old Tom Marvalo Riddle had. And Oh how that hurt. Tom craved knowledge, he craved power. He hated being weak. He wanted more information, he wanted a challenge, something different, he wanted Voldemort to inform him if his plans were working, he didn't even know the date.

Of all things not to know, the bloody date! It wasn't Tom's fault, he knew, but it was so simple, something everyone knew. Here though, stuck in his book, he could not know witho it an outside source. Time did not pass in the Horcrux. Everything stayed the same. It was a form of torture, the passage of time. How could something so simple as time be so cruel?

In the orphanage he could at least practice his wandless magic. And wasn't that another burn. The orphanage, of all places, was better than being stuck in his book.

He wanted Out!

He wanted Freedom.

So when the chance came, he took it. It was easy. An open mind that gladly welcomed him. Walking Malfoy's halls was a relief, but he took too much. It had been too long, in his happiness at the freedom he forgot control. He forgot just how weak the others magic was. He used to share power with Voldemort, of course one of his followers was a pin in comparison to Voldemort's power. Tom was only able to move around and get a few more books before Voldemort put a stop to it. Annoying as it was, at least he got some new books to read.

So he spent more time devouring the new knowledge, practicing the new spells and their theory's. But it was gone as fast as it came and the dreaded ever lying boredom and passage of unknown time returned with a vengeance and he swore the next time he would take it slow and milk it for all it was worth.

.

It was small. Like pulses of magic here and there. It was odd, feeling magic again, but a very good, thrilling feeling, but he would control it. This time there would be no mistakes, he would get what he wants and then take it, either his new source would be willing or not was no concern of his.

It was still odd though. Feeling pulses of magic instead of the smooth, steady flow. It would be troublesome if the source was too weak to produce a steady flow of magic. Still he would need to encourage them to continue writing. Tom marked his page and set the book down on the coffee table next to his chair. As he stood up the book vanished from the table to its place on the shelf. With a simple thought, the library surrounding Tom vanished. Only to be replaced by Tom's old perfect dorm room.

He stood past the Slytherin green curtains surrounding his luxurious dark green silk bed, the dark walls spelled with a window to his first view of Hogwarts, his one true home, the large bassalisk painting welcoming him back to his nest hanging over the warm fire to his dark oak desk to look at his mirror image of the diary. His connection to the world outside his domain.

Upon glancing at the diary on the desk he felt a wave of disgust and disappointment, in able to stop his sneer. The writing was in chicken scratch of the primary school level.

His Diary, his domain was in the hands of a child. A filthy child. Obviously not the Malfoy heir as all purebloods would at the very least be able to write elegantly. This child was no pureblood. At least the child would be worth something, if very little, for it at least had magic. It could at least become a source, if not a source for magic at least the final price for freedom, after all taking over a child's mind would be excruciatingly easy.

As he watched the words form, he noticed that it wasn't written in a quill or any ink, instead the letters were crude as if written by a pencil. Another proof this child wasn't from the magic world.

'Well if it's a muggleborn' he thought in disgust, 'at least they won't be missed.'

It wasn't until he started reading that he became intrigued as well as somewhat relieved. The horrible handwriting screamed primary level, while the words said another story. What child would know the meaning of 'jargon'? He could only hope the child would be at the very least somewhat intelligent, he didn't want to have to kill the child right away.

More questions formed the further he went, but was relieved to read that the witch was going to Hogwarts this year, answering at least one if not two of his questions. Still somethings didn't add up, elementary? Middle? Movies? That and she swears like no tomorrow while trying to switch to wizard swearing, not very refined. So many questions to be answered and so, so much time available.

"Well.," he practically purred. "Looks like I won't have to be too bored."

sorry about that, my main account is on wattpad and since my computer is out of wack I'm using wattpad as my writting tool, maybe i saved it as a doc x, not sure.