A/N: Warning: Dark themes, casual murder, references of character deaths. Enjoy.
In the end, it was absurdly easy to take over the world.
. . . . .
Narcissa was too well bred to chew on the end of the delicate strand of hair that hung over her right shoulder, like she would have ten years ago. But she was Lady Malfoy now and, what's more, a mother. Where before she only had to keep up appearances for the press, now she had to maintain perfect poise at all times. After all, Draco needed role models to look up to.
"Draco, how was your day?" Narcissa asked over the gentle clink of forks on porcelain. Her son glanced up with a start, almost guiltily, but then stared down at his salad again.
"Fine," He muttered, shoving the new salad greens from one side of his plate to the other, as though he might magically reduce their number with their distribution the plate.
"Did you do anything interesting?" A mother knew things, especially Narcissa who had desired or been granted very few entertainments besides avidly watching her son for the past ten years. The quick flick of his eyes to the right, the tense of his left shoulder, the flutter of his lashes- he was lying, even when his face, a mask of perfect innocence was turned to her a second later.
"Oh yes, Mama. Today I went to the stables and pet the abaraxas. I know you think that I'm too small, but they are so beautiful." Narcissa took a worried sip of her wine as her son elaborated on his lie about the graceful beasts.
The lie didn't worry her. Her mother never knew half the things Narcissa did in her days. It was the quality of the lie, that caused her heart to clench. The small admission of something naughty but not deviant, the subtle direction of her worry, the copious details. If she spoke to the house elves they would undoubtedly confirm Draco's story: 'yes, Ma'am, Master Draco was in the stables. Yes, Ma'am, he did pet the horses. No, no he didn't ride them.'
No, Draco's lies tended to be bland and evasive. His eyes normally jumped around as he spoke, his form too tense- as if he could will her into believing that he had no idea where her best perfume had disappeared too.
But now. . . Narcissa watched her son with sharp, bitter worry. Draco's skills had increased too much and she didn't know why.
. . . . . .
"Potter," The messy haired boy on the stool muttered, "Harry Potter." He glanced up from behind battered glasses as though expecting something- a hug or a strike.
Draco froze as the needles flashed around him. It took a concentrated effort not too shout or scoff, but only smile. A polite, pleasant smile that his father had once commented on, 'Slower, Draco. People want to feel like you're smiling for them, not beaming at everyone you meet.'
"How are you liking Diagon Alley." He asked finally. The boy hesitated, glanced at the bustling street outside, the rabble of voices and commerce.
"It's a bit-"
"Much?" Draco offered and then berated himself. He was always too eager. Interrupting. Mother said that he needed to slow down, let other's fill the silence. But Potter seemed grateful for the help and only nodded.
"I know what you mean. It's my first time here too and it's a bit…" Draco waved his hand and was rewarded with a sharp jab of the pin. A small lie never hurt to ease the tension, he had been told. It wasn't his first time or even his tenth, but you needed common ground to foster connection. Which is why, his father said, men like Fudge would always be ministers- rather than Malfoy's.
"Yeah, when Hagrid said that I was a wizard-" Shock deafened Draco to the rest of the sentence. Dumbledore had sent Hagrid, the oafish gamekeeper, to act as bodyguard to the boy who lived? Wait. The Boy-who-lived didn't know he was a wizard?
This was…. Either excellent or horrifying. It changed everything though.
"My mother and father are coming to pick me up in a few minutes. Would you like to get dinner with us? We can show you all the nicest places in Diagon Alley unlike-" Draco cut himself off before anything more could be said. Arrogance, he was told, could only be appreciated by those who knew they didn't have anything.
. . . . . . . .
It was easy to find the journal. For all Draco's promise as a perfect Slytherin prince, subterfuge was neither his nor his father's strongest suit. The wards Lucious had over the secret basement rooms were so pathetic as to beg breaking them. The first four years Narcissa thought that they were a particularly subtle trap. Now, she simply took over as ward keeper of the manor.
Narcissa retreated to her study with the slim journal and set it carefully down on her desk. It looked ordinary enough. An unmarked leather exterior- showing the wear of many years- could be found in a dozen wizarding libraries. The pages were of thin material and a faint inscription of a name on the front cover, when Narcissa flipped it open, was one of T. M. Riddle.
Riddle? Narcissa never heard of such a family as the Riddles. Where had Draco found this? It certainly wasn't in either the Malfoy library or the Black dowry her parents had sent with her. Narcissa turned the page, hoping to find some more clues- either to the journal or to her son's new found skills.
The pages were blank.
Narcissa narrowed her eyes. She had spied Draco scribbling avidly in this very journal only yesterday. The pages shouldn't be blank.
Suddenly, she took a step back and drew her wand.
The first half dozen diagnostic spells showed nothing was amiss. It was a magical item, to be sure, but nothing sinister about it. Maybe the residue of an old anti-spying jinx? An ordinary parent would have shrugged their shoulders at this point, but the long hours locked in the Black Library so her mother could have 'some merlin-cursed silence' weren't entirely in vain. Narcissa continued down her list, questing for greyer and more dangerous signs of magic.
It wasn't until she was casting for straight black magic that her spells came back positive. A misty grim paced around the room before disappearing into a shower of sparks. Death followed this book, either in its creation or history. Death and strange signs of life. But still, the pages were blank.
Narcissa blinked and sat down, winded. It had been years since she'd cast this much magic at once. The room stank of lightning and wisps of light cluttered the corners of the room. Narcissa covered her face with her hand, feeling the faint film of sweat. Her instincts were telling her to destroy the book and run, but she hesitated. Since becoming a mother, Narcissa'd become as reckless as a Gryffindor. What if her son had given some of his life inadvertently to this book? What if it was his death that was promised if it was destroyed?
There was only one way to find out.
Narcissa picked up a quill, her favorite, of a white peacock feather, gathered from one of the guardians of the grounds. She dipped it in her signature ink of pure, liquid silver and opened the book.
Hello, she wrote. Then watched without astonishment as the words disappeared, absorbed into the blank page.
She was equally unsurprised, though more disturbed, when they appeared in altered form.
Hello, the dark, jagged handwriting replied, my name is Tom Riddle. Who are you?
Tom- that must be the T from the inscription, Narcissa realized. But she didn't recognize the name- not of any one of their set or the past few years. Either he was a half-blood or had not gone to Hogwarts. A lack of knowledge might bother a Ravenclaw from an intellectual perspective, but it was a source of danger to Narcissa.
She ignored his question. You've been writing to my son.
Ah, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, The words responded immediately, confirming her worst fears: not only had Draco spilled his personal secrets to this intelligent book but he had also given away family information, I have not felt magic like that in many years. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.
. . . . .
"Hullo Harry." Draco popped his head into the carriage wearing his most practiced look of nonchalance. Today was not going as planned. He had loitered with his father for an hour and a half on the platform, making small talk with other parents and children while waiting for the famous boy who lived to enter. As the time passed, Draco began to despair. His questions to his father became increasingly unlikely fears of kidnapping, Phoenix nefariousness, or Muggle brutality when Harry breezed through the doorway. Draco took a hasty step forward, only to freeze when he saw Potter's entourage. The Weasleys.
Now, as though realizing this was his only shot at fame and fortune, the youngest Weasel was attempting to, well, weasel his way into Harry's absurdly open good graces before Draco could. It wasn't fair!
"Hullo Draco." Harry smiled at him and Draco relaxed. It was a gamble to assume such familiarity with what was, hundreds of hours of newspaper articles read to the side, a stranger. But Harry seemed happy to be called by his first name, happy to respond. "This is Ron."
The Weasley sneered at Draco- shoulders hunched as though prepared to defend against some attack. It would be too easy, Draco realized. All he needed to do was remain perfectly, completely polite on the surface and the Weasley would seal his own fate by lashing out. How perfectly Slytherin! Draco could hardly contain his glee at his own cunning.
"Hello." He nodded politely at the boy, then motioned to his associates in the corridor. "This is Crabbe and Goyle. Mind if we join you?" Harry nodded happily and scooted over to make room. Ignoring the incredulous, well, at least confused, looks of the other boys, Draco took his seat.
Five minutes later the Weasley's face was as red as his hair.
Seven and a half minutes later, the Weasley threw himself at Draco, fists flailing.
Seven and thirty-three seconds later, Ron found himself soundly hauled out of the carriage and Harry was crouched over Draco, offering him the edge of his ragged jumper to stem his bleeding nose.
Ten minutes later, Draco was seated, with a freshly pressed handkerchief, explaining to a very worried Harry that Slytherin was absolutely the best place in the world to learn about wizarding culture and manners.
. . . . .
"Good morning, mother."
Narcissa glanced up from her glass of mulled wine and looked at the boy who was not her son take his seat across from her. Oh, he looked like Draco. Sounded like Draco. Even had the same quirks and mannerisms as her little boy. But he moved differently, as though used to limbs that were longer, a height that was taller.
For a week, she pretended that her blood didn't freeze when she tucked him into bed. For a week, the thing that rode her darling boy pretended that he didn't notice her pretending.
"Are you excited about your trip today?" She asked, dropping her glance back to the paper. Six days ago, she convinced Lucius that he needed to take their boy away for a month. It was a tradition, she lied, of the Blacks, that father and son would spend a full cycle of the moon together before Hogwarts so as to prepare the boy to become a man. Lucius had been skeptical, then curious, then intrigued when she explained that of course, they needn't go camping. They could go to the treasures of the Mongol Courts, see the Hidden Villages of Tibet, take a tour of the catacombs of Europe.
"Of course!" Draco gave her a bright, brittle smile.
"And have you instructed Dobby on what to pack?" She asked, taking a sip of wine.
"Yes, but Father won't let me bring my brooms." He said in mock-disappointment. Her real Draco would have complained for hours about the injustice and asked her for advice on how to smuggle them or comfort that Lucius would buy him more. "But, mother, speaking of packing…"
"Yes?" She didn't glance up.
"You haven't, by any chance, seen my journal somewhere, have you?" He gave a false, bright laugh so at odds with Draco's giggles that Narcissa set her paper down and sat back in her chair. The boy, not her son, not quite her son, looked earnestly at her. It was a bad look for Draco.
"Do you have a journal?" She asked mildly. Do it, she dared silently, break character. Admit that you are not what you seem. "How very mature of you. I've never seen you write."
"Oh, every now and then." The not-Draco laughed, "It's just something I picked up on a whim."
"Oh, a whim." Narcissa repeated in the same light, false tone. "Well, if I see it, I shall be sure to let you know."
The thing would know, Narcissa was sure of it. As soon as she saw her son disappear, Narcissa had torn the house apart until the small, black journal was in her hands. Now, that same journal was locked in her personal, safe in Gringotts that no one could open without her wand, will, and word.
The not-Draco had been searching for the journal ever since, in quiet, unobtrusive ways. Narcissa took a perverse pleasure through her worry at creating an endless string of errands and excuses to keep Draco at her side for the past seven days. The suppressed irritation was her only indication of his pain, but it thrilled Narcissa. Today was the first time he had mentioned it directly.
"Please do. It's very precious to me." Draco reached for the sharp blade next to the ham and used it to butter his toast, "I would hate to see anything happen to it." He paused, with the blade resting on the edge of Draco's pale, tender wrist.
Though her heart contracted, painfully at the sight, the clear part of her mind snorted. Such obvious threats. This creature was clever, no doubt, but so indelicate.
Narcissa only picked up her paper, forcing her hands to remain steady. This was not so different than the year of torture at Morgana McDougal's hands in her fifth year. She had kept her head then, she would do the same now.
"Of course," She said, turning the page. "I stop at nothing to protect what is mine."
Maybe it was her imagination, but the creature looked concerned as he turned back to his bread and butter.
. . . .
"Gryffindor!"
Draco bit back the growl of frustration. Despite all his best work, Potter had slipped through his fingers. No doubt Dumbledore had something to do with the latest child to join the red and gold. It wouldn't look quite correct for the Boy Who Lived to share a house with You Know Who. The Weasel was sending him particularly grating looks of triumph over the thronged heads.
Draco shared eye rolls and looks of disappointment with his classmates, but when the last were sorted, the song was sung, and the food appeared, Draco made his way over to the Gryffindors. If Potter's arrival had heralded a chorus of cheers, Draco's brought only silence. He fought down the urge to posture. He was here for one thing.
"Dra-" Harry began, but Draco cut him off.
"Congratulations," he said, a trifle colder than he intended. His heart was thudding in his chest at the sight of the hard eyes and the sound of incredulous whispers through the great hall.
"I'm sorry Draco. Everything you said about Slytherin sounded great. It really did." Harry babbled, "It's just my parents were in Gryffindor and. . ."
"All house have their virtues," Draco said stiffly. Then, sensing Harry withdrawing, added with greater warmth, "I think I had a cousin who was sorted into Gryffindor."
Well, second cousin maybe. And no need to mention that he was blasted off the family tree for that act. Harry brightened though so Draco continued.
"Plus, we'll have at least half our classes together and our free time. I'll teach you about wizarding culture then." And Christmas, Easter, and the summers, he added silently, as Harry smiled and agreed. He might have failed in the housing, but he wouldn't fail on the vacations. In the meantime, all he had to do was ensure Harry wasn't brainwashed into Dumbledore's view of Slytherin and magic.
. . . . . .
It was a beautiful day, Narcissa realized. A sweet breeze blew through the window and the gardens were stunning in the mid-morning light. Maybe she would stretch her legs and take a walk to clear her head. After all, she had been up half the night working on this project. A little break wouldn't be amiss.
Rising and stretching her arms above her head, Narcissa let out a long breath, feeling the tension in her shoulders and the grit in her eyes. But as she turned to leave the library, something on the door gave her pause. It was a note. What's more, it was written in her own, distinctive hand.
Don't leave. Destroy the Diary.
The compulsion fell from her mind and Narcissa turned back to the table. The book lay there, half open, looking innocent of all misconduct. Slowly, the rest of the room came into focus. The knives, with wicked twisted blades, that bent rather than pierce the white paper. The vials of poison that ran off the diary like water. The useless candle flames and fires that refused to burn no matter how she doused the book with oil or held it in the heat of the flames herself.
What thing resisted destruction in any form, but carried death in its pages. What thing could possess her child and confuse her mind, turning aside her will so easily? Anger burned deep in her belly, clearing away the last of the compulsion and confusion.
Drawing on skills left dormant since the war, Narcissa took a deep breath and cleared her mind. Occulmancy was taught to all the Death Eaters and their spouses. It was too dangerous that an unguarded mind might fall into Dumbledore's hands.
Most failed, gaining only the most basic of mind clearing and confusing techniques. Enough to confuse or delay until the Dark Mark could end their danger. But she had taken to the mind arts, eager for another layer of deception in her life. With Severus, she spent hours developing traps and walls. Delicate false memories. Painful surprises for the unwary.
When the war ended, she thought the need for these skills had ended as well.
Clear headed, she approached the book and sat down. This time, when she approached the book, the writing appeared.
You're persistent, Narcissa.
The writing disappeared and, then, returned.
Persistent and ingenious. If you keep this up, I promise you won't like the consequences. Little boys are such delicate creatures. So many dangers in the world if you aren't careful.
Narcissa closed her eyes and forced herself to go through the occulmancy exercises. The first letter Lucius sent her was inquiring after Draco's health, since he seemed to be acting oddly. The subsequent letters reported a sudden fainting spell and then a slow return to health in an exclusive Alpine spa.
In their scrying session two evenings ago, Narcissa was able to confirm that it was her Draco- her perfect baby who was scandalized when she started crying in front of them.
Coincidentally, the book had begun to respond to her question that very evening.
Magic is so fascinating, she wrote eventually. As many spells of creation, there are twice the number of destruction. Some, more powerful than others. From the simple reductio- ineffective- all the way to FiendFyre and the unforgivables there are so many ones to choose from.
You can't cast fiendfyre, appeared too quickly after her words faded. Only the most powerful of wizards can cast and control that curse.
I admire your certainty, Tom.
. . . . .
"Harry where are you going!" Draco grabbed the boy's arm as he tried to duck out of the hall. "There's a troll! You need to go back to your dorm."
"Hermione's in the bathroom!" Harry shouted as he wrenched his arm away.
"What?"
"Hermione. She went there after charms. We were teasing her-" Guilt flashed across Harry's face and Draco had to bite back a scream of frustration. No matter what Draco implied, suggested or hinted at- Harry continued to hang around that poverty stinking pitiful excuse for a wizard rather than the much less objectionable Longbottom.
"So tell a professor!" Draco cried. "Or a prefect. What can you do against a troll?"
Confusion warred with urgency on Harry's face before settling on stubborn, stupid bravery. "There's no time-" He started but then Draco tackled him to the ground, trying to keep him pinned while glancing around wildly for a silver badge. Unfortunately, the first one that noticed them was attached to red hair and freckles. Another Weasley.
"What do you think you are doing to Pot-" The anonymous Weasley began, but Draco cut him off.
"There's a girl in the bathroom. Hermione. Next to the Charms room probably. She doesn't know about the troll." One of Harry's flailing arms smacked him across the mouth and knocked him off. Draco tasted blood but lunged at Harry again. Where were Crabbe and Goyle when he needed them!
"This idiot," He continued, "Wants to go after her alone."
That seemed to do the trick because the prefect's face paled.
"Stay here." The prefect ordered, "Don't move. I'm going to tell McGonagall."
The girl didn't make it. The troll found her before the teachers did and Harry wouldn't speak to or look at Draco for a month. In Harry's mind, Draco learned, he'd as good as killed Hermione himself by not running after her on a suicide mission.
. . . . . .
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
The letters were panic large and jagged as the coast they were located on. The wind whipped Narcissa's hair around her face and stripped the warming spells from her skin as fast as she could cast them. Finally, with a shrug, she gave up and shivered.
What did she want? It had been a constant question over the past few months as Narcissa alternately ignored and tortured the strange book. Fiendfyre, it turned out, had been the key. This bit of soul could be killed by that dark curse and was willing, through threats and hints, to reveal it's true nature.
Horocrux.
Narcissa had never heard of the term before and now envied her previous innocence. The search for the truth had taken her back down dark corridors and in search of darker wizards that she had promised to forget after the war. But this book and it's clever, anagram loving occupant represented the greatest threat to her son.
So steps were taken, never to be taken back. Conversations were had that could not be unheard. Promises were made that could not be broken. Preparations were made step, by slow step, until she ended up here on this barren, untraceable rock in the middle of the North Sea.
"Mistress." The house elf shivering at her feet was silenced with a look. Pitiful creature. It was a shame that things had come to this, but there was no other option.
She thought back to the answer she'd given the book just last night.
I want my son to grow up safe and happy.
There had been a pause, then a babble of writing.
I can do that. I can teach him the spells he needs to protect himself. The way to make connections, manipulate allies so that he will never need to fear his fellow wizards. There are even ways to hide from death. Only I know of them. Only I could teach him. But you have to let me live.
Then, because torturing Tom Riddle was her greatest pleasure, she replied.
I'll think about it.
. . . . . .
It took time, patience and breaking down in tears exactly once before Harry finally relented and agreed to speak to Draco again. Adults, Draco learned, had never been reliable in the past. Harry, Draco found out, needed to rely on himself if he wanted to get anything done. It hadn't been stupidity (it had been) that drove Harry to tear after Hermione, but common sense.
Still, if Harry was really the first and only friend Draco had ever made (he wasn't) and Draco had really been looking out for Harry's best interest (he had), then maybe they could try and be friends. But Draco had to promise and help him next time, not just knock him down.
Draco had promised long and loudly that he would (he wouldn't).
. . . . .
"Give me the book, Dobby," Narcissa commanded. The shivering creature at her feet snapped its fingers and a small, dark book, the exact size, and shape as the one on the rocks in front of her fell into her hands. Narcissa traced her fingers around the edges. In every respect, it was the same as Riddles. He had even, under the promise of freedom, shown her the compulsion and writing spells. The curses he had called upon her head when he found out she lied were the stuff of legend.
Narcissa set the book on the ground and double checked that the necklace was around her neck and that her wand was in her hand. Then she glanced at the small creature remembering when she had first met him- the cringing, mad thing in the Malfoy Manor. There was only one difficult part of her plan and this was not it.
"Avada Kedavra."
A bolt of green light and the small figure crumpled at her feet.
Such a simple act, Narcissa thought, for such a monstrous deed.
But in the end, the difficult part was not removing the damaged part of her soul, which left her breathless and raw and sobbing, or the casting the fiendfyre, which was simple since she had no intention of controlling it, but tossing her wand into the snake-headed inferno and portkeying away.
She would miss that wand.
. . . . .
When Draco was twelve, he helped Harry free the Hogwarts ghosts from cursed mirror under the school.
When Draco was thirteen, he aided Harry in the capture and kiss of the dreaded death eater, Sirius Black.
When Draco was fourteen, he supported Harry during the Tri-wizard tournament and taught him to waltz.
When Draco was fifteen, he defended Harry from the salacious libel in the press and was instrumental in convincing the Ministry that He who must not be named had indeed returned.
When Draco was sixteen, he consoles Harry after his fling with Pansy ends and grows quiet when he hears of the other Horcruxes and the prophecy.
When Draco was seventeen, he leaves Hogwarts with Harry and Tracy to search for the remaining Horcruxes. It is his shielding spell that saves Potter's life during the battle of Hogwarts. He is first to arrive at Harry's side after the duel with the Dark Lord and the tears he shed are real.
When Draco is eighteen, he finally accepts that all his protestations will never convince the public that it was not him that killed the dark lord after the battle, not his wand.
When Draco is nineteen, he leaves Britain to travel.
. . . . . .
"Draco, darling, I have a surprise for you." Narcissa smiles gently at the pale, drawn face of her son. But it is her son, it is. It his stance, his quick smile, his brows. His face lights up when she pulls the small journal from her purse and passes it to him. None of the reporters noticed the book when she appeared tear-stained and exhausted in Hogsmeade with a story of a mad house elf and a stolen wand that was so unbelievable it had to be true.
"Promise me," She whispers, the empty ache in her chest tightening as the diary passes from her, "Promise me you'll write in it every day."
A/N: Originally a drabble intended to explore both a Diary!Riddle influenced Draco and that Diary!Riddle is only 17, whatever his genius, it expanded into this one-shot. One day, I may re-write it as a romance between a younger Narcissa and this Tom.
As always, your favs, follows and reviews are greatly appreciated, especially the reviews.