The Secret Diary

by chochowilliams

The book was discovered, untouched, in the ruins of the old Riddle Manor. Scrawled on the inside cover was "TMR". The pages were blank, but that meant nothing. AU, Post-Hogwarts, Non-Epilogue Compliant, Drama, Male Slash couple, Not Brit-Picked. HP/DM

The Secret Diary

One-Shot

Written by: chochowilliams

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters, places or names. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Summary: The book was discovered, untouched, in the ruins of the old Riddle Manor. Scrawled on the inside cover was "TMR". The pages were blank, but that meant nothing.

Warning: AU, Post-Hogwarts, Non-Epilogue Compliant, Drama, Male Slash couple, Not Brit-Picked

Pairings: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy

Inserts: -

A/N: This came about because I was unsatisfied with Dumbledore's assumption that Merope had used a love potion or the Imperius curse on Riddle Senior. Frankly, I thought that was a copout and hated it. It's like in the DragonBall saga where they all get stronger in order to fight some new villain only for Goku to revert back to the Spirit Bomb to win the day. It's anticlimactic. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my take. Thoughts are always welcome.

oOo

I

August – Midnight - Ministry of Magic - Auror Department

Harry was writing his report on the murder-suicide of newlyweds Jonathon and Martha Kellerman when a green hardcover book found its way onto his desk with a thud. An eyebrow cocked, Harry eyed the book and then the man who had tossed it onto his paperwork.

"What's this?" he asked. Harry made a mental note to thank Hermione for the quick-dry ink she bought him for his birthday the week prior.

"It was found in the ruins of the old Riddle Manor." Kingsley Shacklebolt's husky voice filled the cubicle in the Major Crime unit of the Auror department. Currently, Harry was alone as second shift just ended and third shift-a skeleton crew-had yet to stroll in. For once he was grateful for the lull.

Harry shot forward like a snake.

"According to the locals," Kingsley explained, "vandals have wreaked havoc on the manor since the caretaker was killed."

Harry glanced up briefly at that.

"Then this past winter, a fire broke out. The frigid temperatures froze the hydrants, so the firefighters had no option but to allow the fire to burn itself out."

Harry nodded as he turned the book over in his hands.

This past winter had been the coldest in decades. Quite a few people-mostly the homeless and the elderly-died from either exposure or pneumonia. The cold weather caused the roads to turn into Swiss cheese. Pipes froze and burst. There had even been stories of buildings burning down when people tried to thaw frozen pipes using unconventional methods-such as a muggle blow torch. So it would not come as any surprise if a homeless person had broken into Riddle Manor in order to escape the cold and started a fire to keep warm. Whether from inattention or from the fact that the manor had been abandoned for so long by that point, either way, the fire quickly grew out of control.

"When the investigators went in to determine the cause of the fire," Kingsley was saying, "one of them-a man by the name of Vincent Murphy-discovered the book in the fireplace. The fact that it was virtually untouched intrigued him so he decided to keep it."

"How did you come to possess it?"

"I went to school with Vincent's twin brother Kevin," Kingsley explained.

"Wait." Harry looked up. "Kevin Murphy from the Portkey Office?"

"Yes. Kevin is the first wizard in the Murphy family in several generations."

Harry nodded.

"Kevin was intrigued by the book Vincent found and had to see it for himself. When he saw the 'TMR' on the inside of the front cover, he understood right away and brought it to me."

Harry's head snapped up. "Tom Marvolo Riddle," he breathed.

"So it seems."

Harry swore.

"I had the Unspeakables go over the book, but they could not find anything. It appears to be just an unused notebook."

"Hm." Harry studied the notebook with a critical eye. "Appearances can be deceiving."

"Indeed," Kingsley agreed. "And that is why I am here."

Harry sat back and started to thumb through the book. There was page after page of blank unlined parchment. Just as Kingsley and the Unspeakables determined in their initial investigation, the hardcover notebook seemed to be nothing more than an unused journal of some sort; it reminded him of those muggle sketchbooks he'd seen. As he told Kingsley, a book should not be judged by its cover—or lack therefore of.

"Is it possible this belongs to Senior and not Junior?" Kingsley inquired.

It was grasping at straws and they both knew it, but it was a possibility that had to be considered.

"I suppose it is possible," Harry replied.

"But you don't think so."

Harry shook his head.

"That is what I was afraid of."

Harry gazed down at the notebook, his thumbs running along the leather cover.

"What are you thinking?"

"The last time," Harry said sitting forward and laying the notebook open to a random page on his desk, "I had a Riddle diary before me." He picked up his red metal dip pen.

"Ah yes."

Harry dipped the metal nib of his pen in the crystal vial of black ink. Then he held the pen over the open notebook. His heart was pounding as he watched the ink gather at the tip of the silver nib. The droplet of ink danced, then for a heart stopping moment, the droplet merely hung there, suspended, before breaking free. Harry held his breath as the droplet cut through the air, thick with apprehension, to land with a splash on the page below. As the black ink began to soak into the parchment, the black spot grew, creating a misshapen image. Then between one blink and another, the ink was dry…and still there.

Flopping back, his breath exploding in a single exhale, Harry tossed the pen onto the desk.

His green eyes—that some have compared to the color of the Killing Curse—were riveted on the black ink spot.

While there was relief that the "ink test" did not end the same way as last time, Harry was not completely satisfied.

"What is it?"

Harry tore his gaze from the book to look briefly at Kingsley. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "Just a feeling."

"You think there is more to it."

"I can't be sure, but…this is Voldemort we're dealing with."

Kingsley nodded. "Do what you feel is necessary. Just be careful."

"Right," Harry said distracted by the mysterious notebook.

II

A Couple Hours Later - Shropshire, England – Malfoy-Potter Residence

There were two place settings at the small round kitchen table. Between them in the center of the table sat the garlic bread cooling in a cloth napkin lined basket and a leafy salad tossed in Italian dressing.

Harry had foregone using the formal dining room, which was where Draco preferred to eat every meal, and instead opted to eat dinner at the small kitchen table-mostly because he was too exhausted to wander back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room.

Standing at the stove sautéing a pan of cooked spaghetti in a tomato sauce mixed with diced onion, garlic, mushrooms and peppers was Harry. A half-filled wine glass sat within arm's reach on the counter besides an open bottle of wine.

It was a good thing Kreacher was at Andromeda's. Otherwise the ancient house-elf would be throwing a fit over Harry cooking. It was always, "Master Harry must not be doing that." Drove Harry nuts. Of course, Draco had no problem laying about doing absolutely nothing.

While Harry's hands were occupied with cooking dinner, his mind was still dwelling on the notebook. Though he'd tried to set it aside for the night, his mind kept returning back to it. He just could not help but feel that they all had overlooked something. There was more to this seemingly innocuous notebook that all the tests could prove.

The smell of something burning brought his mind out of his thoughts and back to the present.

With a curse, Harry lifted the pan off the stovetop. Now he was doubly grateful Andromeda had accepted Kreacher's help until she was back on her feet. The poor old creature would give himself a concussion after witnessing Harry burn spaghetti of all things.

After turning off the burner, Harry crossed to the table to plate the paste. Then after wandlessly levitating the pan and tongs to the sink where they started to wash themselves, Harry went to the fridge to retrieve the block of parmesan cheese and fetched the grater from the utility drawer. He grated a healthy dose of cheese onto both dishes before setting the cheese and the grater on the counter out of the way.

Grabbing his wine glass, he downed the entire contents in a single gulp.

"Moderation Harry," drawled a male voice behind him.

Harry turned around and glanced over the rim of his wine glass with a smile. "Hey," he greeted the man who was standing in the basement doorway. "Just in time."

"It smells delicious," Draco Malfoy commented as he strolled through the kitchen to stand before Harry. He bent down slightly to kiss Harry in greeting.

"Hope it tastes as good," Harry said as he grabbed the bottle of wine and followed Draco to the kitchen table. "Got the recipe from Aaron."

Aaron was Arron Lloyd who had been Harry's first partner out of Auror Academy. Though the man had since retired to New Zealand, the two had kept in touch.

As Draco dug into the artfully prepared meal, Harry poured them both some wine.

"Divine," Draco said after the first bite. After wiping his mouth free of pasta sauce, Draco rose his glass to toast Harry.

Admittedly, Harry felt a swell of pride at that. He inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you."

They ate in companionable silence for a time before Draco asked Harry about his day.

"Hm," Harry hummed disinterested. "Same as yesterday and the day before."

Draco nodded before he took a sip of wine.

Harry twirled his fork through the last of his pasta. "I'm not sure if it being so quiet is a good thing or a bad thing."

"What is that muggle saying? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth?"

"I know," Harry sighed. He shoveled the pasta into his mouth. As he chewed, he thought about how the crime rate in Wizarding London alone had dropped ten percent in the last year. This was either the calm before the storm, criminals had become smarter or less crime was being committed in general. Kingsley had joked once that criminals just did not want to go up against the man who had defeated the Dark Lord. Harry washed down the pasta with some wine. Sitting back, he gazed at Draco across the table.

Draco caught him staring. "What?" he asked as he reached for his wine.

Smiling, Harry shook his head. "Actually," he said, "something did happen today."

"Yeah?" Draco sat back with his wine glass in hand.

Harry stood up and exited the kitchen. He made his way through the dining room to the living where he grabbed the green hardcover notebook from the coffee table before making his way back to the kitchen. He handed the book to Draco as he returned to his seat.

"What's this?"

"An unused notebook," Harry answered.

Unimpressed, Draco raised an eyebrow.

Briefly, Harry explained what had happened earlier with Kingsley.

"Interesting."

"I believe it's enchanted."

"Even though the Unspeakables believe it to be clean?" Draco asked as he flipped through the notebook.

"According to Kingsley, the Unspeakables determined it to be was an ordinary notebook. That is not the same thing as 'clean'."

"Isn't it?"

"Not to me it isn't."

"Mm."

A sudden yawn seized Harry and had his eyes watering and his jaw aching.

Draco eyed him. "Tired?"

"Exhausted," Harry admitted. It had been a very long day.

Draco closed the notebook with snap and handed it back to Harry. "Go relax. I'll clean up."

Not about to argue, especially with a man who never cleaned up after himself unless it was potions related, Harry stood up with the notebook in hand. "Thanks," he said around another yawn. He leaned over the table and met Draco halfway for a brief yet electrifying kiss. "I love you," he whispered against Draco's lips.

"Love you, too," Draco returned. "Now go."

"Sir, yes, sir," Harry barked with a straight face and a salute.

Draco chuckled. "I'll be up later smart guy," he said. "I have a little more left to do."

"Don't work too hard," Harry said as he rounded the table and headed towards the back staircase. Once upon a time it used to be the servant's stairwell, which was why it was so tight and narrow and at the back of the house. Harry had never been fond of tight spaces, but he hadn't thought he was claustrophobic—that was until they moved here. Usually, he avoided the staircase if he could help it, but their bedroom was at the top of the staircase, so perusing it was faster than having to troop through the house to use the main staircase.

"That's rich coming from you," Draco called after him.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Harry drawled as he disappeared up the staircase with Draco's chuckles following him.

III

A large Oriental rug that Draco claimed had been in the Malfoy family for generations but looked surprisingly brand new covered the hardwood floor under the bed of the master bedroom. Harry had not liked it a decade ago when Draco made the executive decision to confiscate it from the Manor in order to use it to decorate their bedroom and he did not like it now. It was hideous and he wanted nothing more than to burn it until not even ashes remained, but he had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that the rug was deceptively plush and finished the room off nicely. Still, he sneered at the sight of the rug as he entered the master bedroom.

Crossing to the bed, he tossed the seemingly unused green hardcover notebook onto the black leather bench at the foot of it. Then turned towards the attached master bath, stripping off his shirt along the way.

The hamper was in the far corner of the bathroom by the bathtub. To his annoyance, the hamper was full. Harry sighed in disgust as tossed his shirt into the hamper before stripping off his jeans and tossing them in as well. He let the hamper lid slam shut.

One chore. That was all he had asked of Draco this week. Since Kreacher was with Andromeda for the next month or two, at the very least, it was up to the two of them to keep the house in order. It was difficult with their schedules—what with Harry not only an Auror, but a Unit Chief as well and then Draco was a Potions Master and an independent apothecarist—but it should not have been impossible. As Draco worked from home, the man certainly had more time than Harry to do the laundry or at least to wash his dishes. That Draco has done absolutely nothing other than lock himself in his laboratory was not a surprise. In fact, it was a typical day in the life of Draco Malfoy. But because Draco refused to do what he called, "servant's stuff", Harry is left to do it all on his own. So, instead of relaxing on his day off, Harry is left with a long list if chores to do. And Draco? Usually in his lab, sleeping or watching Harry work.

Draco was lucky Harry loved him so damn much. Otherwise, Harry would have done what Ron has been trying to get him to do for a long time now: kick Draco to the curb.

Harry was seriously considering renting a house-elf until Kreacher returned. Harry paused before the sink closest to the door and pondered whether or not that was even possible. If not, maybe Draco's parents could let them borrow one of the many that worked at Malfoy Manor. Or they could look into getting another one. Kreacher would not appreciate a "usurper", but he was not as young as he used to be and could use the help, despite what he claimed. That was something to talk to Draco about.

It was either that or somehow get Draco to help around the house more, which was never going to happen. Ever.

Taking off his glasses, he set them aside on the marble topped antique dresser behind him, and proceeded to wash his face and brush his teeth.

His face dripping and toothpaste smeared around his mouth, Harry yanked the towel from the ring on the wall between the double sinks and wiped his face. After throwing the towel into the hamper, Harry exited the bathroom in nothing but his boxers.

Behind him, the light in the bathroom went out.

He crossed to the bench and picked up the notebook. Sitting crossed-legged on the bench, he flipped through the notebook. Page after page passed his sharp keen eye, but there was nothing, just like every other time he'd looked through it.

Aggravated, Harry slammed the notebook closed.

Was it possible that he was wrong and this truly was an unused notebook? Harry shook his head. Impossible. He was not so arrogant as to believe that he was always right. In fact, he'd been wrong plenty of times before, but about this, he knew without a doubt that he was right. This seemingly innocuous notebook was hiding some mysterious secret that he would discover one way or another.

When another yawn seized him, Harry decided that he would take a fresh look at things after some much needed sleep.

Standing up, Harry half-turned to toss the notebook back onto the bench when an explosion shook the house. Harry stumbled and lost hold of the notebook. As it slid from his grasp, the corner edge sliced across his hand. Cursing, Harry snapped his hand away from the notebook and to his mouth, watching as the notebook landed with a muffled thud on the rug.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned to watch a ghostly lion leap into the room. Startled, Harry leapt back and then immediately scolded himself as he recognized the lion as Draco's Patronus.

"Just a minor explosion," came Draco's voice from the lion's mouth. "Nothing to worry about."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Git," he mumbled against his hand.

This was not the first time something like this has happened and it would not be the last. One of these days, Draco was going to blow himself up and take the house with him. Draco claimed that was not going to happen as the wards protecting the house and the laboratory in the basement were stronger than those surrounding Hogwarts, Gringotts and the Ministry combined. The wards might protect the house from sustaining any damage done in the laboratory, and even protect the laboratory itself to a degree, but what did the wards have to do with keeping Draco from blowing himself to kingdom come? With all the experimenting Draco did, it was only a matter of time. Harry had explained this to Draco some time ago and Draco had brought up the fact that as an Auror, there was no guarantee that Harry would come home safe and sound let alone at all at the end of his shift.

Draco got him with that. Still, it did not stop Harry from worrying.

Wondering if he should go make sure the bottom two-thirds of the house were not on the verge of collapsing out from under him, Harry heaved a sigh and picked up the notebook. He froze as he went to toss the notebook onto the bench. There was something different about the notebook.

Lowering himself onto the bench, Harry opened the notebook to a random page and gasped, nearly dropping the notebook in his shock. His eyes wet wide. "What the hell?" His heart pounding, Harry thumbed through the notebook. "I don't…But how-?"

Instead of being greeted by pages of blank parchment for the umpteenth time, what Harry saw was small, but neat, blocky lettering that filled the notebook from cover to cover.

He hissed as the edge of the spine of the book rubbed against the palm of his hand. Bringing his hand up, he noticed a sizeable gash. It was still bleeding.

The wheels started spinning. Connections were made. And suddenly everything made sense.

Was it possible?

The wound and Draco's potions mishap forgotten, Harry turned back to what might have just turned out to be Riddle's secret diary and started reading.

IV

An hour later, Draco strolled wearily into the master bedroom covered in sweat and grime and smelling like smoke and a mixture of various other unpleasant things he would rather not dwell on.

He came to a stop just inside the door and blinked at the sight of Harry sitting on the bench with his face, almost literally, buried in that notebook.

Typical Harry, Draco thought in amusement, still working even though he can hardly keep his eyes open.

"I thought you were going to bed," Draco said as he crossed towards the bathroom, chucking off his shirt in the process. He paused in the doorway between the bathroom and the bedroom, his shirt balled up in his hands and glanced back at this husband who had a confused look on his face.

"Huh?"

Draco indicated the notebook in Harry's hands.

Following Draco's gaze, Harry blinked down at it as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh!" His face lit up like a child at Christmas. There was an almost feral grin on Harry's face and a twinkle in his eyes. "Turns out I was right. It's a diary."

Draco cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Tom Riddle's diary."

Draco froze as if hit with a Petrificus Totalus. He could feel the color draining from his face, leaving him dizzy and lightheaded, as he remembered the events that transpired after the last Riddle diary was opened.

"Don't worry though," Harry rushed to assure Draco. "This one is a normal diary. It seems there was only the protection charm cast on it to conceal the diary's contents from unauthorized access."

Sagging in relief, Draco nodded and tossed his shirt at the hamper, unfazed when it fell short. "Which was why it appeared to be blank?"

"Yes."

"Why wasn't this charm detected by the Unspeakables?" Draco wondered aloud.

Harry shrugged. "Who knows? Remember this is Riddle we are talking about here. He was practically a genius. He probably found a way to hide the magical signature."

Draco cocked an eyebrow. "Is that possible?"

"An hour ago I would have denied that it was," Harry answered. "There has been quite a bit of theoretical work done on the topic, but I have never come across anyone who had implemented it or could say with absolute certainty that it could work. I've only ever been told that it could work in theory."

"Which is not the same thing as successfully applying said theory to a real-life situation."

"Right," Harry agreed with a nod. "Knowing Riddle, I'm sure he came across something in his journeys that allowed him to remove the magical signature of any magic he cast."

Draco hummed in agreement. "It wouldn't surprise me if he had. Just how did you figure all this out anyway?"

Harry raised his right hand. "All it took was a little blood to unlock the enchantments."

Draco cursed at the sight of the cut. He crossed the bedroom in two steps and grabbed Harry's hand. When the man hissed, Draco looked at him sharply. "What happened?" he demanded.

Harry explained.

Draco cringed. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Harry waved his free hand as if brushing a fly aside.

"No, it's not," Draco disagreed.

"Dray," Harry cupped Draco's cheek with his free hand and repeated with a smile, "It's fine. It's a little tender still, but it's stopped bleeding finally and most of all, it helped me discover what was up with this damn notebook."

Draco sighed heavily. "Fine. Just let me do get the salve."

Harry dropped his hand and nodded. "Okay."

With a non-verbal wave of his wand, Draco summoned the healing salve from wherever it was hiding. He was not surprised when it came flying towards him from Harry's bedside table. After the glass container smacked into his hand, he gazed at his husband with a suggestive hitch of his eyebrow.

Harry blushed and lowered is gaze to the diary in his lap.

Snickering, Draco unscrewed the lid and set it upside down on the bed besides him to keep from dripping the greasy ointment onto the bedspread, though if that blush was anything to go by, he had a feeling that Harry had smeared a good amount of this stuff on the bed already. Draco scooped out a small amount of the clear gel-like substance and smoothed it across the gash on Harry's palm. He smirked when the Auror shuddered and exhaled a shaky breath.

"Like that do you?" Draco's own voice was husky and threaded with lust.

"Maybe," Harry whispered.

Draco chuckled. As he drew back his hand, his fingers teasingly caressed Harry's sensitive palm. Those emerald orbs flashed and Draco's pants grew uncomfortable tight. He reluctantly turned away to screw the lid back on the salve jar before setting it aside. "So," he drawled, turning back to Harry. The saucy smile faded when he noticed Harry had his head buried once more in that damnedable diary. "Harry," he sighed.

Harry hummed distractedly.

"What is so interesting about that thing that it can't wait?"

"Everything," Harry mumbled.

Draco freely rolled his eyes.

"It's definitely Riddle Junior's diary. He talks about finding his father."

"Oh?" That caught Draco's reluctant interest.

"Yeah…" Harry's voice trailed off.

Draco saw the troubled expression on Harry's face. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Harry lifted his head and gazed at Draco. "Everything."

Draco blinked. "What does that mean?"

Harry shifted so that he was facing Draco head on. "This part here," he said pointing at the opened diary. "Riddle is talking about confronting his father."

"And?" Draco scooted closer to Harry, eager to hear the once forbidden details of the dark Lord's life. "What does he say?"

Harry was frowning down at the secret diary once more. He looked bewildered.

"Harry?" Draco called softly.

"It-he…" Harry lifted his head. "Sixth year. Dumbledore told me about Riddle's past, showed me memories."

Draco nodded. Years ago, Harry had told him all about the hunt for the horcruxes.

"But…" Harry gazed back down at the diary and flipped the page before looking back at Draco. "Riddle's version…is very different."

Draco hummed in thought. "That's to be expected though isn't it?"

Though he looked uncertain, Harry tentatively agreed. "I guess. It's just…I never really bought Dumbledore's version of Riddle's life. Not really."

"Oh?"

"Don't get me wrong. Despite all the bullcrap he put me through, I loved Dumbledore. He was a great man, but…he had this-." Harry sighed. "I hate to say this, but—Dumbledore had a huge ego."

Draco snorted. That was obvious. The man had always thought he was right and he'd had no problem playing God. That man had had no redeeming qualities in Draco's opinion.

"He made these assumptions about Riddle based on snippets of memories from people other than Riddle himself, people who—like Dumbledore and the lady who ran the muggle orphanage were Riddle lived—did not look upon Riddle kindly at all."

"So, Dumbledore's assumptions of Riddle's life are based on his negative bias."

"Right."

"Meaning, you don't know how much to believe."

Harry nodded. "Exactly."

"Did you ever believe his assumptions about Riddle?"

"At the time I did, but as I got older, I began to have doubts. And now I have proof that I was right. There was more to the story of Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"What did Riddle have to say?" Draco asked, scooting closer to the end of the bed and thus Harry.

"Well, for example, Dumbledore claimed that Merope-"

Draco recalled that Merope was Merope Gaunt, Riddle's mother.

"-used a love potion on Senior to get the man to marry her."

"And Riddle denies this being the case."

"Yes." Harry flipped back through the diary several pages until he found what he was looking for. "Here, he said, jabbing a finger at the diary.

One look. One look was all it took for the both of us to realize who the other was. There had been no need for introductions for it appears as if I had been made in His image. What an unfortunate turn of events.

This Man, this Muggle Man, who lives in the lap of luxury despite the depression and the war raging around him, while my mother suffered unnecessarily, while I suffered unnecessarily among the filth of That Place…

"Let them eat cake" indeed.

Any lingering doubt that This Man had not been privy to my existence or had been searching for me all these years vanished the moment our eyes—so vexingly similar—met.

None of the emotions one would associate with reuniting with a long lost son (such as joy and happiness I would assume) were prevalent on His face. There was only disgust, animosity and even hatred. Admittedly, those same emotions surged within me, but I had reason for my dislike. This Man did not know me. He had never met me before. It reminded me of how Dumbledore judged me based on what that foul woman from the orphanage told him. Did he ask me for my side of the story? Did he give me the benefit of the doubt? No, of course he did not. When it came to muggles, Dumbledore had on blinders as well as rose colored glasses. Dumbledore saw what he wanted to see and no more. This Man was the same.

With a sneer that would make Abraxas envious (though dear Abraxas would never admit it), This Man (who is not worthy of the title 'Father') had the nerve to ask, "How much?"

"Excuse me?"

This Man took a step towards me (was he trying to be threatening perhaps?) and said, "Tell me how much it will cost to get you to never sully my doorstep again."

The audacity! As if I were some call girl to be tossed aside like yesterday's trash!

My wand was in my hand and pointed between His filthy muggle eyes in a blur of movement that surprised even me.

This was the man my mother fell in love with? This man she so adored that even after he walked out on her, she named her only child after him? This was the man she gave up her magic for? This was the man whose blood was flowing through my veins? Whose face I see staring back at me in every reflective surface? Clearly, my mother had been a shallow woman indeed. It is the folly of man to fall in love with an image and to make assumptions based on that superficial rendering. We become blinded to reality and start seeing the world through rose-colored glasses. This narcissistic infatuation with what we want to see with our eyes instead of what we actually see was one of the greatest sins. And now it seems as if my own mother was guilty of this sin. For there is no doubt This Man was an attractive chap (superficially of course), but good looks are not everything, as He is clearly demonstrating.

"Hold your tongue you filthy muggle! What my mother saw in you I will never know!"

Not only had my mother fallen in love with an image she had built up in her head (tall, dark, handsome, rich…possibly showed some concern and compassion when Grandfather and Uncle were arrested), but she continued to love Him to her dying breath. In fact, I am almost positive my mother died of a broken heart. At least she had the decency to live long enough to give birth to me.

How pathetically weak she was to give up on everything (including her life and her magic) just because she was rejected by a single non-magical man. Life is full of rejection. We all will get hurt multiple times in our lives (whether mentally, emotionally, physically, & al) under a variety of conditions. That is life. That is reality. It is no reason to give up on life. That my mother had, said more about her than anything else could.

At the sight of my wand, This Man's face drained of color. Even his lips became indistinguishable from the rest of his pale facade. There was a moment when I was certain He would swoon. It was a travesty that did not happen. Instead, His face grew as red as the roses that guarded the walk to the front door.

"How dare you wave your Devil Stick in my face! Threaten me in my own home!'

Devil Stick. In that instant, it all made sense.

"Just like your Devil Whore mother!"

The urge to hex This Man was overwhelming.

"My mother loved you."

The Man sneered.

"She was pregnant with your child and you threw her out onto the street with nothing but the clothes on her back! She died a few months later still in love with you! Still holding out hope that you would come back to her!"

"Good riddance!"

Anger like I have never felt before raged within me. I strode forward and shoved This Man with all my strength. He stumbled and fell backwards into the foyer, hitting His head with a loud thud on the travertine tile floor. "You shut your mouth about my mother," I hissed. "She was not perfect (after all, she fell in love with you), but she was not a bad person! She did not deserve what happened to her!"

Looking slightly dazed, the Man sat up. "She got what she had coming! Consorting with the devil as she was! Siring his hellspawn! Using her voodoo on me! She was a freak!"

That word. That vile word. It echoed in my head and brought forth unwanted memories from my wretched childhood. I was teased and taunted, bullied and humiliated over and over again. They called me 'freak', and 'evil' among so many others. They forced me to go through exorcisms "to rid me of the devil". Why? Because I was different.

People like This Man who lash out at those who are not like them are the real evil.

I have never met a muggle who was worthy of breathing the same air as me. They are all the same. ALL THE SAME!

The next thing I know, I am standing in what appears to be the sitting room over three unmoving bodies who I quickly surmise are dead. It is The Man Who Would Be My Father and an elderly couple (a man and a woman) whom I believe were This Man's parents and thus my grandparents. I do not remember what occurred, but it was not difficult to deduce what happened and I can say with absolute certainty that I have no regrets.

As a parting shot, I say to the corpse of This Man, "The cost will be your life."

Harry closed the diary softly and looked up to meet Draco's thoughtful gaze.

"I am not sure how to process that," Draco admitted.

Harry hummed in agreement. "I know what you mean. Makes sense though. Much more than Dumbledore's story anyway. I mean, given the Gaunt's pauper status and the fact that they were uneducated, a Love Potion seems like a bit of a stretch. Take Finnigan for example. He's a half-blood. Father was a muggle. Mom was a witch. First day, he claimed it had been a nasty shock when his father found out what she really was. And this was back in the—what—the '70s or '80s. Can you imagine what it would have been like back then?"

"Given the long, bloody history between magic and non-magic folk, especially among the Christians, I can understand why Senior would react the way Junior claimed. Historically, witchcraft was, and still is to some extent, considered by many to be satanic-even though the existence of Satan is a Christian belief-and as such, witches were the earthly bound servants of Satan. Nowadays many muggles think of magic as superstitious nonsense, but there are still those out there who condemn witchcraft in all its forms. This condemnation was still strong back in the early part of the twentieth century, so it is not much of a leap to think that upon discovering that his wife was 'consorting with the Devil', Senior would want nothing to do with her or the Devil-child within her. He would leap to what to him was the obvious conclusion that the child she carried was her master's and not his and that her siring the Antichrist was payment for helping her bewitch the man she loved into marrying her. After all, why else would someone as distinguished as Tom Riddle marry the tramp's daughter?"

Harry nodded in agreement. "Exactly!"

As quickly as extinguishing a candle, Harry's demeanor went serious. His face fell. With a deep sigh, Harry folded his arms behind his head and flopped backwards onto the bench to stare up at the ceiling.

Draco waited patiently for him to speak.

"Do you think that if Senior would have been even a bit accepting of his son, things would have been different?" Harry asked into the silence.

Draco shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. There is no way to know."

If only Merope hadn't been so obsessed with a man who hated her that she ended up dying of a broken heart…

If only the Ministry contacted magical children living in the muggle world at the first sign of magic…

If only orphaned and abused magical children living in the muggle world had the option of being taken away from their hostile environment…

If only Light wizards would not jump to conclusions about Dark wizards…

If only Dumbledore had recognized that Riddle had been crying out for help…

If only Riddle had been offered that Defense position…

If only…

It was easier to judge the "should haves" in hindsight.

Riddle might still have grown up to become the Dark Lord Voldemort no matter what. Or maybe he would have grown up to be the best Minister for Magic in the history of the British Ministry of Magic had he been shown even an ounce of love.

Who knows?

Seeing Harry yawn—and fighting to urge himself—reminded Draco how late it was getting. "Okay," he said standing up and stretching. "Enough. It's time for bed." Riddle could wait for another day…or century. He was not choosy. Harry's job had been to see what he could make of it and as far as Draco was concerned, Harry had accomplished that. The rest was up to the Minister. "Harry?" Draco turned and noticed that Harry appeared to have fallen asleep right there on the bench. A smile on his lips, Draco exhaled an amused puff of air through his nose. He rounded the bed to stand beside his sleeping mate and just stood there watching Harry sleep.

Reaching out, Draco brushed aside a lock of Harry's hair. Harry did not so much as twitch. Bending over, Draco laid a kiss on the man's unresponsive lips.

Harry really was out.

Shaking his head as the exasperating man, Draco set aside the diary and then Levitated Harry into bed where he removed Harry's glasses before he himself slipped into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

A short time later, Draco was sliding between the cool sheets. He curled around Harry, wrapping a possessive arm around Harry's waist.

As sleep descended upon Draco, he wondered what would have become of Riddle had his father actually welcomed him into his life.

…The End

A/N: This scenario is not so farfetched given the history of witch hunts that have occurred over the centuries (and which still occur to this day; in fact there has been "witch burnings" in Africa recently). This condemnation also includes those who have psychic abilities of any sort, of which hits close to home for me as my maternal grandmother's paternal grandmother (my 2x great grandmother who lived from 1877-1956) was said to have been able to read tealeaves (she passed on her abilities to her son who could see the winning numbers glow if he played the lottery). Only she made the mistake of telling her priest (she was Catholic) and he condemned the act, telling her never to do it again. It wasn't a Godly gift, blah, blah, blah. Anyway, let me know your thoughts. As I said, this is just my take. Take it or leave it.