Diaries hold blackmail material. Usually. It's just Blaise's luck he finds the one that doesn't. Done on a challenge. Canon!Blaise.
Blaise glared down at the diary in his lap, disappointed. It was empty. Not so much as a drop of ink. Of course, he supposed he shouldn't have been overly surprised. He wasn't even certain the Weasley girl knew how to write. Still, it left him with a blank journal. What on earth was he supposed to do with it?
He disliked writing down his thoughts. After all, he'd stolen the diary with the express purpose of mocking the contents and possible blackmail, if the need ever arose. Making it possible for someone else to blackmail him later would be sheer stupidity. Dark eyes narrowed, he studied the page in front of him.
Thoughtfully, he reached out and dipped his quill in his ink pot. The first line formed the top line of an eye, the second line formed the circle of the iris, and from there a face slowly took shape. It was a familiar face, one that he wasn't all surprised to see form. He continued sketching, down the line of the back, outlining the vertebrae with special care. This, he supposed, could be blackmail material as well, but it was innocent enough he could claim a simple practice nude, and really, which was more likely from a thirteen year old?
He sketched diligently, down to the toes, then sat back to admire his handiwork...
...only to have the ink fade before his eyes. He jerked, startled, as words spidered their way across the page.
A bit young to be drawn in such a compromising state, isn't he?
Blaise frowned at the words. He dipped his quill again and wrote back. He's only a few months younger than I am.
Both sets of words disappeared. It was, he supposed, a fairly fascinating process, although he was still a bit too upset by the loss of his drawing and the censorious commentary to wonder at the mechanics of the process.
And how old are you?
Thirteen. His age, he thought, was safe information. There wasn't much that the person in the book could do with his age.
An early bloomer, then. Or am I to believe that this is just an artist's sketch?
He was quite glad that there was no one around to see him blush. Of course, even if there hadn't been, dark skin had definite advantages when it came to noticing such things, but still. He was glad. The others are starting to have naughty thoughts too. After all, fourteen is the time things usually start happening and we're almost there. He frowned. This was ridiculous...he was justifying himself to a book. Who are you, anyway?
As the words faded and reformed, he got the odd suspicion that the other writer was laughing at him. There's no need to be so defensive. I am Tom Riddle. And you are...?
He hesitated. Manners, of course, dictated that he answer the question. However, he knew enough to be leery of simply handing his name out. Names have power, after all. In the end, manners won out. Blaise Zabini.
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Zabini. And who, if I may ask, is your model?
Draco Malfoy. The words were half written before he even stopped to think that this might not be the best idea.
Ah, a Malfoy. I shouldn't be surprised. They always were quite attractive...a sign of your apparent good taste.
Thank you. He wasn't certain what else to say. The conversation had suddenly turned uncomfortable. On the one hand, there was something about Tom that made Blaise want to trust him, or maybe it was just the fact that he didn't dare talk to the others in the dorm about his dreams and fantasies. They weren't on quite the same level just yet. On the other hand, how much could he trust an unseen entity in Ginny Weasley's diary? For all he knew, if the girl got the diary back, Tom would cheerfully report everything he'd said. So, are you a Weasley family heirloom or something?
The first word in the reply seemed to be written with a bit more emphasis than the rest. Please, Mr. Zabini, don't be insulting. I am not remotely connected to the family, other than the fact that little Ginny Weasley was given my diary as a gift. I am a memory, nothing more. There was a trail of little dots and the words picked up further down the page. Although, if you could arrange to return this diary to her, I would appreciate it. If you could get it to Mr. Harry Potter instead, I would be even more grateful.
Potter? For the first time in his life, Blaise regretted his ability to show disgust in writing. Why Potter? While we're on the subject, why would you want to go back to Weasley?
Oh, I don't really want to go back. The Weasley girl is irritating. Whiney. However, she has her uses. Mr. Potter...well, we'll just call that a personal interest, shall we?
Blaise frowned. He nestled himself back on his pillows and studied the diary for a long time. He should say no. Tom already had too much information on him. And yet.../What do I get out of it?/
I'd suspected you must be Slytherin, Blaise, but that confirms it. A proper, Slytherin response. I'm oddly proud. Tell me, Blaise, along with your fondness for drawing, do you have dreams? You know the ones I mean. The dark ones that make you wake up with the sheets all damp?
He tried to be blasÃ© about it. Of course, doesn't everyone?
Yes, they do. Tell me your dreams, Blaise. Then hold your eye up to the page and I promise, I will give them to you.
He stared at the page. It wasn't possible. Tom was a memory, he'd said so himself. No memory could give him anything like the images that poured themselves out behind his eyelids at night.
Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, he started to write.