Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters. Blah Blah Blah. Don't sue me.
Rating: T for implied theme. Will be M for all the rest of the chapters.
Summary: Orla Quirke, an ambitious, aspiring writer, has set her sights on the one subject no other journalist will touch: the life of Lord Voldemort. For months she has set about gathering information and conducting interviews. Her fellow Ravenclaw Luna Lovegood has promised to publish the article in her magazine, The Quibler. Orla only has one last interview left, to fill in the missing pieces in the story.

A/N: This fic popped into my head while I was in the shower a few days ago. It was inspired mainly by KSchneyer's "The 312th Edition" which I HIGHLY recommend you read. You can read it at Sink Into Your Eyes. Feel free to email me for the link.

Honestly, it is one of the most well written, enjoyable fan fictions I have ever read. It is a chapter from Hogwarts: A History, 312th Edition. It mentions a theory called the Instrumental Love Effect (ILE), which will figure prominently in this story. You don't have to read 312th Edition to understand this story, but you should read it anyway. It's incredible!

Heart of Stone

Prologue

Orla smoothed her hair with one hand, holding tightly to her bag with the other. Inside was all of the research she had done so far; Hogwarts student rosters, Ministry arrest records from her boyfriend Adrian, Harry Potter interviews, and lastly, first person accounts of Tom Riddle. It was well known in some circles that Tom Riddle would grow up to be Lord Voldemort. Now that he was certainly gone for good, Orla felt comfortable researching as much as she could. It was her name she wanted on the definitive biography of Lord Voldemort. She wanted to be taken as a serious journalist. What better way to be noticed intellectually than to take on the one subject everyone else avoided?

She carefully watched the house across the street for a while. At four o'clock she had set herself down behind a hedge in the Muggle street. She knew it would only be a matter of time until she knew for sure if she was in the right place. Sure enough, a tawny owl swooped into the open window of the Muggle house. It left moments later, without the edition of the Evening Prophet that it had delivered.

"Right place," Orla muttered to herself, heaving a sigh of relief. She was about to get her big break. Her friend Luna had promised to publish the article in her magazine. It would help the Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly take note. They couldn't ignore such a story. And she knew if she could nail this interview, it would put the last few pieces together of his Hogwarts days. That could probably be a whole book by itself. Who didn't relish their school days?

She compulsively smoothed her dark hair once more, and pulled a little lower on her skirt. She wasn't used to these short Muggle fashions, but she had to blend into the neighborhood. Especially since her interview subject had been living as a Muggle since the death of her only son during the Second War. Orla took a deep breath, and knocked briskly at the door. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

A moderately tall, lanky woman answered. She had a worried expression on her face, and was clutching her sweater closed tightly. "Yes? Can I help you?" she asked. Her accent sounded like West London, though she was currently living in Edinburgh.

"Elia Rosier?" Orla asked. The frazzled woman's eyes flashed with anger and she slammed the door. Orla took a step back so that her nose was not smacked. She sighed heavily. She was hoping she wouldn't have to pull out the nosy reporter card.

"Elia?" she called through the door. "You look like you're in good shape for someone who's almost eighty years old…."

She heard footsteps from inside the house. The door flew open again. "What do you want?" she hissed. Her gray eyes wandered up and down the street, checking for neighbors, no doubt.

"My name is Orla Quirke, I'm a reporter for-" Door. Orla sighed and put her hand to her temple. "Elia, this will look much better to your neighbors if you just invite me in for tea."

The door slowly creaked open, and Elia stuck her head out one more time, looking back and forth. She stopped and stared at something behind Orla. Orla turned to see the occupant of the house across the street looking out his window curiously.

"Fine. Get in," she said, opening the door fully and motioning quickly. As soon as the door was shut, she wrapped her sweater around her a bit tighter, and showed Orla to the parlor.

"Thank you, Mrs. Rosier, it-"

"Don't – don't call me that," she interrupted. "I don't go by that name anymore."

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"For heaven's sake, just call me Elia," she said. She unfolded her arms long enough to motion towards one of the small couches. Orla nodded her thanks, and took a seat. Elia eyed her suspiciously and sat down across from her.

"If this is about my husband or my son, you can leave now. I refuse to give them any more attention," she said curtly.

"No," Orla said, not sure how to begin. "Actually, I was here to ask you a few questions about you." The old woman's eyes narrowed. Though, Orla thought, she didn't appear nearly as old as she actually was. If she had been a real Muggle Orla would have guessed maybe late forties. Maybe.

"I refuse to believe, Ms. Quirke, that I am that interesting to you." Elia's posture had eased up a bit. She was no longer closed off, but square shouldered and angry.

"Actually, to be perfectly honest," Orla started. She took a breath. "I'm here to ask you about Tom Riddle."

Elia's eyes flashed bright again. Her jaw set in an unmistakable expression of anger. "Get out of my house," she said forcefully.

"No, please!" Orla begged. "Don't misunderstand me. I'm not a fan of his, believe me. Some of my closest friends lost their lives during the Third War." Elia looked curiously at her now. "I just, I want to paint a picture of You-Know-Who, the man, before he became the monster."

Elia looked her over cautiously. She took a deep breath and continued to stare. Orla decided to stay exactly where she was, hoping that her perseverance would come through. The old woman sighed, as if in resignation, and stood from the couch. She opened the desk drawer, and pulled out her wand.

"Tea?" she asked, conjuring a pot and teacups before Orla could answer.

"Yes, thank you," she said. She wasn't able to hide her smile.

"I'll give you twenty minutes. That's it," Elia said, tapping the teapot.

"Oh, all right." Orla pulled her notepad and her Ever-ink Quill from her knapsack. "Let's see…. If there's a question you don't feel comfortable answering, just let me know, and I'll go on to the next." Elia nodded. "All right. Do you recall how you met Tom Riddle?"

She nodded again. "He was roommates and friends with my husband." Orla watched as her quill jotted shorthand notes down on her notepad. "You're here about ILE aren't you?" Orla looked up quickly.

"Why, yes, actually. You've read about it?" she asked.

"You're surprised?" Elia asked, smirking just a bit.

"Well, you have been living as a Muggle for almost thirty years," she replied.

"Fair enough. But yes, I'm familiar with the concept of ILE," Elia said.

"A lot of people are laughing at it. They don't think it could be true," Orla said.

"Are you one of them?" Elia asked.

Orla watched her carefully for a moment. She shook her head. "No."

Elia smirked again. "Good. Schocke knows what he's talking about." Orla smiled at her. Elia picked up her teacup, and sipped from it. As she set it back down on the saucer, she shook her head slightly.

"If you're a supporter of ILE, then you want to know what I observed of Tom's love life?" Elia asked.

"Yes, actually," Orla said. "I interviewed a few of your contemporaries, and-"

"Contemporaries?" Elia interrupted. "I thought I was the last one alive from my year."

Orla looked a bit shocked. For a recluse, she sure kept up to speed. "I spoke with Minerva McGonagall."

Elia laughed out loud. "Oh, Minnie… I can't imagine she had many nice things to say about me."

Orla smiled again. "No, not really."

"Well, not many people did. I can't really blame them. I didn't choose the best company then." Elia rolled her eyes and sipped her tea again. She set the cup and saucer on the table in front of her and pulled the sleeves of her brown sweater down, until only her fingertips were poking out the bottom. She tucked her wavy hair behind her ears.

"All right. You want to know if Tom Riddle ever loved. And I can tell you first hand, that he was constitutionally incapable of love. Though for a while, I did think he felt something for me, I quickly realized I was a victim of my teenage whimsy. Tom didn't feel love, like you or I might. No… Tom couldn't understand it. All he was able to understand of love was that it provided another instrument of control. That's all he ever cared about: control."

A/N: If you would like to read more of this story, please add it to your Story Alerts, as the rating will be changed to 'M' for the subsequent chapters. This is Voldemort, people. LOL Since it will be changed to 'M', you won't be able to search for it on the main page unless you modify your search criteria. Thanks!