Notice: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle, and any other characters you may recognize in this story are the property of JKR and/or whoever had the brains, contacts, and cash (or other negotiable items) to secure the rights to them. Alas, I had the brains, just none of the other stuff.

Summary: After the events in the Dept. of Mysteries, Harry returns to Privet Drive. His own personal prison cell and supposedly "safe" house. Hermione sends him a letter and a notebook, asking him to at least write down his feelings, even if he won't talk to anyone else about it. When he starts to take her advice, he finds the muggle notebook with some unusual properties.

The Consequences of an Honest Dialogue

The Notebook

Harry Potter was back at Privet Drive after his fifth year. He had been there six days so far. Oh, joy. Stuck in prison for another summer holiday. Abusive fellow inmates, guards at all corners, watched all the time, and he got to be Uncle Vernon's one man chain gang. Up at five in the morning to cook breakfast for everyone else. If he was lucky he'd get a couple of pieces of dry toast and a glass of water out of it. Mow the yard, paint the shed, paint the fence, and weed the garden until eleven. Fix lunch for Dudley and Aunt Petunia. None for him. Back out to finish on the yard and garden until five in the afternoon. Fix dinner for all of the Dursleys, and pray to any god that might be listening that Vernon didn't get home before it was ready. If dinner was not hot on the table as he walked throught the door, time for a black eye and broken nose. Table scraps for him, if any were left after Vernon and Dudley hit the table. After every meal, do the dishes. After dinner, it was time to do the housework. Sweep, mop, dust, high dust, laundry, and do the windows. That usually went on until one in the morning. Back up at five to start all over again. No correspondence with any of his friends. He sent them out, but nothing ever returned. He didn't even know if they were still his friends after he almost led them to their deaths. Oh, yeah. And to send Hedwig to Remus with a note that says "Still alive. HJP" every three days.

During the six days he had been there, Harry had gotten a total of 14 hours sleep. Waking up the killer whale was a good way to get a broken arm. That was okay, though. At least if he wasn't asleep, he couldn't have a nightmare. To say he was depressed would be an understatement. Sirius Black, his father's and his favorite professor's best friend, Tonks' cousin, the godfather he had barely begun to know, the first person that he KNEW loved him for himself beyond all others, his only hope for getting away from this prison before he was seventeen, was gone. And the worst of it was, it was his fault.

On top of that, the one person he had respected above all others, had lied to him and kept vital information from him. Information that, if he had had it, might have made a difference. If he had known about that damned prophecy, he would have understood WHY he had to study Occlumency. If he had known about that damned prophecy, he would have known that the visions he was seeing were nothing more than a put up job by Voldemort.

If he had known about that damned prophecy, he would have... Actually, he would have probably tried to off himself and just say hello to Mum and Dad as soon as he set foot in the graveyard. Oh, he'd have done it heroicly by stepping in front of Cedric (that would be the Gryffindor way of going out), but that would just be a sham. Better he die then and there and force Riddle to an eternal half life, than to have him alive and killing people again. If he had killed himself at that point before the ritual, the enemy's blood at that point would have needed to come from Dumbledore, and there would be no way on earth that Riddle would have been able to get blood from THAT enemy in the state he was in.

Of course, that brings up the question of if that would have worked. If that damned prophecy is right, the only person that can kill me is going to be the Dark Lord. Presumably, that would be Lord Voldemort, or, as Dumb-Butt-dore insists on calling him, Tom Riddle. "Hmm... Obviously, since I had more broken bones by the age of eleven than most PRCA bull riders have in their career means that I can be hurt by anybody, just not killed; and I learned a long time ago that you'd be suprised just what you can live through. Still, it's a pleasant thought. 'Personal Service' from the Dark Lord himself. Things these days just lack that personal touch," he said to himself sarcasticly.

At that point, Hedwig flew in from her latest trip to see Remus. Suprisingly, instead of going to her cage like she normally would if there was no reply, she landed beside him and lifted her foot like she had a mesage for him. Confused, he just stared at her. Annoyed, Hedwig pecked at his hand and put her leg out to him. "Ow! Sorry girl, but you aren't carrying anything." Harry said. With a resigned look, Hedwig opened her wings and with a small hop landed on his stomach. Along with the feel of her talons, Harry felt something else touch him. A letter. As Harry groped for it, a piece of parchment revealed itself. Harry had never seen anything like it. 'I guess I'm going to have to go into the stationary store more often if they have this kind of stuff.' Harry thought to himself.

Opening the letter, he saw it was from Hermione.

Dear Harry,

I wish I could write you more than this once, but unfortunately, this is the only spelled parchment that I have. The Order is intercepting any owls coming in to you at this time for your protection. I know you are greiving Sirius right now, and I also know that you are probably bottling it all up inside. That's not healthy. You need to let these emotions out, even if it's just to write it all down and read it for yourself. I've included a notebook for your use as a journal if you will please, PLEASE use it. I promise I will never ask you to allow me to read it or go snooping in it if I ever see it. Fair enough? To get it from this parchment, just say 'Notebook.'



'Great. Just what I need. Hermione wanting me to get my feelings out and look at them. Can't she figure out that that will just make them real?' Harry thought disgustedly. Still Harry knew that if he didn't at least get the notebook and put it to where Hermione could see it some time or another he'd never hear the end of it. With a sigh, Harry said "Notebook."

A plain old normal looking spiral notebook was now sitting atop the parchment. 'Gotta go to the stationary store more often!' thought Harry.

The notebook was open to the first page, with the cover flipped around to the back of it. As Harry watched, the words "Hello, Harry. Care to guess who?" wrote themselves onto the page. There was something familiar to the script. He quickly dismissed all of his friends, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, and Mafalda Hopkirk of the office of underage wizardry from the list of where he had seen the writing.

He thought for a few minutes, and then it came to him. "No! It's impossible. There is no way." Sherlock Holmes was then brought to mind. If you remove all of the possible, then the IMpossible, however unlikely, must in fact be the case. At that moment his scar began to tingle. He tried to ignore it, but it soon became an itch.

With a sigh, Harry picked up a quill. He would have to answer, or it would only get worse. "Hello Tom."

A/N: Please read and review. This plot formed while reading up on Chinese history, Machiavelli, some of the ancient empire stuff and throw in some Manipulative!Dumbledore fanfics. Weird combination, I know. It's amazing what you read at 3AM.