Draco opens his mouth to respond to the mysterious boy– though, respond is a tame name for what would likely be confused blubbering– when a large, bright gold began to glow in the boy's pocket. Seemingly forgetting Draco and however the fuck he got here, Tom reached into his cloak and pulled out a black diary, clearly responsible for the glowing. The gold faded away when Tom opened the diary.

Draco noticed it looked very much like both the diary Harry owns and the diary in his own robes. And speaking of, in the pocket where his wand used to sit and where the diary has made its claim, a golden light, dimmed by the fabric, is pulsing.

Tom's witting in the diary now, and Draco wants to see what he's writing, but he's a bit (a lot) afraid to move closer. He stays frozen to his spot watching Tom. He's smiling as he writes. He seems to write something, then wait a bit before writing again...

... Almost like he's replying to someone. Odd.

The diary in his robes is brighter, now, and Draco is not having it. He doesn't WANT to open it, or touch it in general, but the urgue to open it is like an itch, unbearable and irresistible. And... besides, it's not like one little peek would hurt, right?

The book feels fitting in his hands, like his hesitant hold was always its rightful place. He opens it slowly and as he does, the light fades away.

(Odd.)

There, on the first page of the diary.. appears writing.

'... And you just won't believe what happened— it's wild, Tom.'

Was that... Harry's handwriting? What the hell is going on?

Writing appears on the page as Harry's words fade, and it takes Draco a moment to notice that it's appearing in sync with Tom's writing accross the room.

'I'm ever so interested, Harry. Don't just keep me waiting.'

(The smile, it's playing on his lips again.)

'Ron blasted a spell at Malfoy— I've talked about him, the git— because he was being a bitch and Malfoy just straight up disappeared. Straight up. No one knows where he's at. His wand is still here, though. Ron's in so much trouble.'

Tom looked mildly interested at that, his eyes flashing toward Draco before they return to the diary. 'What was the spell?'

'I'd tell you if I knew, Tom— I'm worried Ron's gunna get expelled. If we bring him back Ron might be saved. If anyone could do it, it'd be you. But when Ron arrived back from the Headmaster's office he refused to speak about it– he's got another meeting tomorrow nd he's not fairing well. People are saying the spell was dark magic.' Draco wondered how long it had been— the incident, for lack of better word, happened to what felt twenty minutes ago, but he didn't know how long he'd been in that odd state of pain.

"You," Tom suddenly addressed Draco, startling him, "Give me your name." He was putting something together— he always was incredibly intuitive.

"Er— uh, It's Draco. Draco Malfoy."

His face twisted into a snarl. (Harry had told him all about Malfoy.)"Is that so?" He hummed for a moment, tapping his chin. "I suppose that spell sent you into my diary. That's what it's sounds like. That shouldn't be possible. What was the spell?"

"Diario Diario murum reddamus pretium ut decidant," Draco repeats, bitterness in his tone.

Tom's writing again: 'I will talk with you later, dear. I'll be looking into it. You need to rest.'

'Goodnight, Tom.'

He closes the diary with a sigh. "We are stuck together for now, Malfoy, however unfortunate the circumstances may be—"

"Stuck together?" Draco interrupts. Tom looks like he might lose it. "You mean there isn't a way out?"

"If there was, then do you think I'd still be here?" Tom bit, but it was weak and even Draco could tell he wasn't being entirely truthful. "Let me see that," he gestured to the diary in Draco's hands.

Draco opens his mouth to protest, but Tom is up our of his chair and across the room in an instant. He feels the diary in his hands before opening it.

"Do you have a quill? Ink?"

Draco nods awkwardly. "It's all I have."

"Interesting." He puts it under his arm and reached into his robe pockets, pulling out his own version of the diary. He compares them for a moment before sighing, again, and tossing Draco his version. "You'd be able to talk to Harry through that, then." It's said unhappily, like he'd rather Draco NOT have a connection to the outside world.

"How is that possible?" says Draco. "How is any of this possible?"

Tom dismisses him with a wave of a hand. "Later, later, Malfoy. I want to look into that spell. It could be very useful information if we found out how you got here."

"Like I'd be able to get out?"

He thinks for a moment. "Perhaps. But I doubt it. We'll see. Have you heard of that spell before? Read about it, mayhaps?"

Draco shakes his head before pausing. "I think maybe Crabbe–" Tom's nose wrinkles at the name, "– told me about it during breakfast."

"Yes, yes?" Tom prompts. "What about it?"

"Erm, I can't quite remember—"

"You can't remember?"

"I was distracted!" Draco defended.

Tom snorts. He seems to have taken an immediate dislike to the boy in their now shared alternative plane of existance. "And just what was so important that you overlooked conversation on an obviously Dark and now very relevant spell? Have you any sense?"

"Of course I do," Draco snapped. "I was– uh, thinking about Potter—"

Tom seems to have entirely misinterpreted that or understood it completely, Draco can't tell which, because his face contorts into an angry glare. "No more talking. I am tired of your voice–" the very much implied 'of you' is left unsaid, "– and I have much to do."

"You have things to do here?" Draco eyes the room with distain– it's not much to him. It's a rather large sitting room, with two hallways breaking off, but nowhere near the size of even the broom closets of Malfoy Manor. There's a bookshelf, but that seems to be the most interesting thing about the place. There's a couch— colored the same gold and sage mix as the rest of the room— but it hardly looks comfortable. Like it was from the 1930's, or something. And the color scheme was gag-worthy. Gold always has been a Gryffindor color and he much preferred Slytherin green to this. There were candles scattered around the room, each emitting more light than should be possible. A few paintings here and there. Some more decor and furniture— perhaps objectively pretty, but objectively uninteresting as well. There's not much to do.

"With your apperance comes books I haven't read and I'm rather inclined to catch up," Tom says, now standing in front of the bookshelf and scanning the titles.

"What does that mean?"

Tom sighs. "So many questions. So insufferable. Take a book– preferably one I've read before– and if you can be relatively silent for an hour or so, I'll answer all your questions and more. But please do be quiet."

Draco hesitates before coming to stand next to the taller boy— Tom is his sixteen year old's self and he's so much taller than him, perhaps two heads more, something Malfoy notes with small upset— and nods. "Okay," he says, "I can be quiet."

"Then do apply this talent."

Draco rolls his eyes but does so. He grabs a book— not from his time, it's from the 1920's by am author likely long dead, about Nicholas Flamel— and sits on the sage green couch.

Tom does not join him.