Hermione awoke early the next morning. She planned to write her letters to Harry and Ron before class. She sat cross-legged in her four poster bed with the curtains closed. A blank piece of parchment lay neatly in her lap and her quill was posed at the ready. No words were springing from it. In fact, she had no idea what to write at all. Usually one writes to update the recipient of their letter about events and occurrences in their life.

There haven't been any events or occurrences in my life, Hermione thought, staring blankly at the paper in front of her. I mean, the great hall had pork chops for dinner last night. Ron used to love the pork chops, but that's hardly enough material for a letter.

She tapped her chin with the end of her quill. The soft feathers tickled her face. She decided that one letter would be enough. She didn't need to write Harry and Ron separately. She doubted she had the energy to anyway. She placed the tip of her quill on the paper and began:

Dear Harry and Ron,

I hope all is well in your nobel quest to become aurors. Hogwarts is quiet these days which is a welcome transition. I've been spending most of my time in the library (I'm sure neither of you are surprised). I'm sure you both have much more interesting things to share and I look forward to hearing from you.

Hermione

She paused to look at her work. The letter was bony and lacked any sort of substance whatsoever.

PS: They served pork chops last night, Ron.

Hermione felt partially satisfied. She folded the letter and placed it in an envelope and addressed it to her friends. She then got up, dressed, and left for the owlrey.

x~x~x~x~x~x~x

Her classes dragged on all morning. She easily mastered the new spells, charms, and potions that were introduced during the lessons. Usually it took her a bit longer to complete her work because she would have to pause to help a struggling Ron with a particularly difficult spell, or a confused Harry with a cryptic step in making a certain potion.

Now she only had one person to worry about, herself, and she didn't need any sort of looking after. She found herself asking to be excused to use the loo or get a quick drink of water. She often dawdled in the corridors; discovering paintings she had overlooked, or pausing to inspect the stitching on intriguing tapestries she hadn't bothered to notice.

Her day was completely uneventful until after lunch. She was sitting in the back of the History of Magic Classroom. Her food was digesting sluggishly and her eyelids grew heavy. Her body longed for a nap, but her mind kept reminding her that everything presented in a classroom was important and required her attention.

She fished around her book bag, hoping to find a piece of gum to occupy herself with. Instead she found a tough, black, leather bound journal. She frowned. She hadn't recalled slipping the journal into her bag. She opened it cautiously on the desk and almost cried aloud.

Her original entry remained untouched, but underneath, someone had written in elegant cursive. Her eyes brushed over it, and she realized it was a response to her own entry.

Hermione G. (interesting name, if you don't mind me saying so) I can relate. I too find myself with too much time on my hands. I agree, it's completely fine for one to enjoy a little free time. However, there's an old saying: Idle hands do the devil's work.

I don't quite understand the next part of your message. When I lay down for a nap, for example, I'm not fretting over someone hexing me or killing me in my sleep. It appears that either one of two things is true. Maybe both.

You could be extremely (and unnecessarily) paranoid. I doubt this is the correct assessment.

I think you've either seen terrors that you can't even begin to describe in words. You can't share them with anyone because people who have experienced such things are rare. Is that why you've turned to writing in this journal?

I can completely relate. It's the reason why I bought this journal in the first place. I find it's easier to confess to it's pages than it is to attempt to have someone understand me. Is that how you feel as well Hermione?

-Tom

Hermione read over the response numerous times. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins causing her body to go numb. How did someone find the journal? Why would they write in it, then return it? WHO is Tom?

She tried to recall the names of everyone in her year. She hadn't heard of anyone called Tom. She doubted there were any sixth years named Tom either. She pulled her wand silently from her robes and tapped the cover of the leather book again. What are you hoping to accomplish? she asked herself.

I just want some answers.

When she failed to reveal any sort of magic once again she slumped back in her seat. She was stumped. She had a bad feeling about this journal, but she wasn't sure what to do with it. Perhaps she should just get rid of it. No, a little voice inside her head spoke up.

Hermione of course could not resist a mystery such as this. She decided she was going to get some answers. She picked up a quill from her desk and began to scribble into the journal.

Tom. Interesting. Who are you? How did you come across this journal? Why have you decided to contact me?

She set the quill down with a little too much force. She glared at the pages, half expecting an answer to bloom upon them in the same beautiful script as it had before. She was waiting for Tom's reply. However, nothing happened. She couldn't fight off an acute feeling of disappointment. Perhaps it was one of her room mates playing a joke on her.

Her blood boiled, It's not a very funny joke, she thought.

Ooh~ the plot thickens. Sorry there's no actually Tom Riddle in there yet. Never fear! I'm just setting up the story for now.

Thank you for the reviews and the favorites! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter.