Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Much to his displeasure, he found it more difficult to see through the link during the day. Things were hazier, not as well formed. Thoughts were only half created and tossed away just as quickly. He had almost given up when he felt a jolt of pain and then a flood of relief mixed with a stinging sensation.
Suddenly the colors around him were more vibrant, although something told him they weren't too bright to begin with. There was more clarity in the world now, but the stinging remained. He gasped when the eyes he was sharing looked down at an arm.
It was skinny, far too skinny to be normal. What skin remained was so full of cuts it was hard to see where one began and another ended. What wasn't bleeding was in various stages of bruising from a sickly yellowish brown to purple so dark they looked black.
It was strange, knowing he had no control over what he was doing or seeing. But he wasn't truly alarmed until he caught sight of the glasses behind the arm. Those glasses could only mean one thing. The horcrux he never knew he created was in Harry Potter.
Even more alarming than the arm he was still gazing at was that there was no desire to live. There was no fire. Only the stinging pain and the anticipation just before the blood would appear. He felt fear tear through his body when a click went off somewhere behind him. Another click, another wave of fear. There were far too many clicks for this to be real, Harry must have fallen asleep and now this was some sort of dream.
Except it was no dream. Nothing fabricated by the human mind in it's unconscious could produce such sickly crunches as fists came hurtling towards his body.
After he pulled himself into his own mind, he decided it was time to get to know his enemy. He thought he had known everything about him. It appeared that his ideas of Harry living in a nice house with a bed and a family that loved him were very far from the truth.
Harry got up, shuffling to the window. It may be barred against people, but certainly not the owl that was gently tapping on the window. It was like he knew to be quiet. The window creaked, although no one was home at the moment to hear it. The owl dropped the small parcel he was carrying on the ledge, and took off again.
He gently took the paper off, wary of what was sent to him. He hadn't recognized the owl and if it were anything from the Weasley's they would have sent it with Hedwig. She was currently standing in for Errol who was too elderly to carry anything heavier than a short letter at a time.
Neatly packaged was a leatherbound journal. It was the color of blood, with silver swirls every so often. It was elegant, and far too refined for any of his friends to have sent it. Underneath was an automatically refilling quill, a small box with the same design work as the journal and a small note folded in half.
'Never underestimate the value of writing down your thoughts.
From, An Ally'
Harry eyed the journal, not eager to repeat his second year at Hogwarts. He had steered clear of diaries and journals ever since. Nevertheless, with nothing to lose, he picked up the quill and wrote.
Well, I suppose I have nothing left to live for. You're not some magical journal that will come to life and try to possess me are you? Just checking. I don't have much to say, other than that, I don't want to live if I have to live like this.
He watched, fascinated when his words didn't disappear, but more appeared below his short paragraph.
Think of this journal as a...a sort of imitation of passing notes in class. I have charmed my journal to link to yours so you have someone to talk to. I know enemies run rampant for you, but I can assure you I mean you no harm. I do hope you'll consider using it. As well as the box I sent with it. Check it.
Harry blinked in confusion. Why would he check the box again? He looked anyway and was surprised to find a handful of grapes in it. He ate the grapes, not caring if they were laced with poison. Petunia had forgotten to feed him today and yesterday, and had only given him stale bread and a small cup of water the day before. Nourishing potions can keep you from starving, but they didn't help the gnawing pain of one's stomach shrivelling to nothing. He put the quill back to the paper.
Why? The script was coming faster now.
Because you should not be starved to death. You are too good of a person to wither away into the abyss we call death. The words stopped for a moment before continuing. Would you like to talk about anything? I, for once, have an entire day of nothing ahead of me.
Harry contemplated. He had nothing better to do, but he wasn't sure if he should be trusting the person at the other end of the book. His isolation from the rest of the world prompted him to not care about the consequences. He missed talking to someone too much.
I appreciate your assistance. I was beginning to think no one cared for me any longer. I suppose I would like to talk more than I would like to admit. He waited for the words to start appearing.
I would like to propose a game of sorts. We each tell each other something of ourselves. I'll go first: I sometimes miss having friends.
You don't have any friends? The words had left the quill before Harry had given himself permission to write. I'm sorry, that was harsh. I suppose I don't really have any friends either.
But what about school? Surely you've made friends there. A wave of sadness washed over him before it settled to the numb fog he was used to.
You're a stranger to me and you noticed that I'm...malnourished. They don't even ask about my summers, let alone notice I'm smaller than everyone else in our year and the one below us. I hardly call that a friend.
He looked up to see that the sun had crawled farther down the horizon than he had thought. I must leave. His normally scratchy script was practically illegible as he hastily stuffed everything he had received under a floorboard he had pried up and thrown his 'bed' on top of. His heart pounded when he heard Vernon's tires squeal into their drive.
The abrupt ending to their conversation took Voldemort by surprise. He wasn't one for overstaying his welcome, but that was a bit sudden for his taste. He set his quill down and leaned back in his chair before letting himself watch the events unfold in his mind.
Fear was an emotion he would never get used to. It was all encompassing, nearly choking him with its potency. He heard the clicks from last time, wincing as the door flung open. Harry had curled himself up into a ball in the corner on the floor, covering his head as the blows came raining down on him. His uncle left, too out of shape to continue anymore.
Adrenaline flowed through his veins as he picked up a jagged vial that had been broken some time ago. Voldemort was screaming at himself to stop, to not move the hand anymore, but it wouldn't do any good. It was Harry that was doing this, not Voldemort. He decided it was time to visit Surrey to see if, after all of the hatred in the house, the blood wards were even a concern for him anymore.
Upon his arrival at the end of the street, Voldemort immediately recognized the house his nemesis, his horcrux lived. Impressive and powerful wards surrounded the property, although none of them had any blood magic in them. Walking to the edge of the property, he reached out with his magic to find out what sort of wards these were. He'd really rather not feel like he was being burned from the inside out if there really was blood wards.
He recognized standard wards and dug a little deeper. Now this was interesting. Dumbledore had encased the property in anti-magic wards so no witch or wizard could perform any magic here whatsoever. What was Dumbledore playing at? Basic wards at best that he could tear down without a thought and then preventing Harry Potter from defending himself? Was the old fool trying to get him killed? Even he could see that anyone could easily come and kill him. Muggles weren't repelled from the wards and could have come in the night and beat him within an inch of his life…
Voldemort gagged and threw up in the perfectly manicured bushes. That must be what he felt when he had peeked into his mind. The searing pain would have been from someone hurting him. Starving him was one thing, but beating him? This was so much worse than he could have imagined. He hated the idea that a part of his soul was enduring more torture at the hands of muggles. Alarmingly, that wasn't even the worst of it. He felt guilty for all the times he had tried to kill the boy after that first failed attempt. Had he known the conditions he had been raised in, had he not assumed he was living a life of luxury and training, he would have tried to…
Tried to what? Convince him over to his side? Raise him? Leave him alone? He wasn't sure, but he wouldn't have continued trying to kill him if he had any idea the living situation was this bad. Being beaten within an inch of your life to then be thrown into a world where someone was actively trying to kill you? The knowledge of his existance would have been enough to torture the Potter boy, and he wouldn't have needed to spend so much precious time fighting him.
Ignoring his stomach's unease, he grabbed a small toolkit and picked the front door locks manually. He didn't wish to alarm Dumbledore of his presence, that would be counterproductive. He crept silently through the house, ensuring to rely only on his senses rather than his magic. There was nothing of interest on the first floor and he ascended to the second floor.
He didn't have to look very far to find the room he was looking for.
No less than three sliding locks, two chain locks, and four padlocks were dutifully keeping one of the doors firmly shut. Checking on his mental link to the horcrux briefly to ensure the boy was asleep, he quickly picked the locks and opened the door.