A/N: Alluding to the story notes about what concepts I'll be touching in this fic series, the exploration of radicalization begins here. You the reader should be easily able to spot what lies Draco takes at face value from a certain person.

Chapter 7: The Boy in the Diary

Come Sunday morning, a nagging at Draco had him dragging his Potions homework out after breakfast. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd get it done, since Sunday morning also seemed to be when the older Slytherin students commandeered the common room.

The Selwyn twins dusted off the gramophone in the corner and carded through their record collection with their friends. Draco would have found it easier to focus on his homework if they liked what he called 'old people music': the Celestina Warbecks and Dahlia Flume-Peris of the wizarding world. They all sang along with and danced to something more catchy and upbeat. As distracting it was, they were fun to watch and listen to.

There was a bit of din at the common room entrance. A string of students came in flushed with wet hair, Flint and Higgs leading. They both looked over toward the dancing girls. Flint grinned and nudged Higgs.

"Oi, Selwyn!" Flint called ahead on his way across the common room toward them. "Say it isn't so!"

The Selwyn twins seemed to always know which of them was being addressed when called by their surname. It was Ellie that furrowed her brow at Flint in confusion.

"The seventies are back?" Flint elaborated. "Again?"

Laughter rippled through all the students gathered around the gramophone. Before Ellie could reply, Flint had reached her. He grinned again with his hand outstretched.

"Give us a dance, then," he told her.

The laughter turned to giggling and flushed cheeks hidden behind hands, Ellie among them before she slipped a hand into his. Flint swept her immediately into a fast-paced waltz, which made Draco laugh. He would have never thought Flint capable of it just by looking at him. There he was though, and there they went.

Someone turned the music up, and Draco figured his homework was a lost cause for now. It stayed open in front of him while he watched along with Crabbe and Goyle. Those two hadn't hardly put a single line down since they started working an hour ago.

Crabbe guffawed to himself before poking Draco in the shoulder. "So which of them d'you reckon is the dancing queen?"

Draco snorted, along with Goyle. "Quite frankly, the two of them ought to just get married."

"What makes you say that?" Goyle asked.

"They dance like my parents do."

"Do they?" Goyle looked back at Flint and Ellie, who created a grinning path for themselves through the common room. Their pelvises were pressed together. "I've never seen your parents dance like that."

"Clearly you haven't seen my father after getting into the Firewhisky," Draco drawled. The three of them looked at each other, serious, then erupted again.

It wasn't until later in the day, once the common room settled, that Draco finished his homework. The new week of lessons was just as liberal with assignments, especially courtesy of McGonagall and Flitwick. Draco suspected they would have a lot less in Defence if Quirrell could manage to not waste half the lesson stammering. Astronomy stayed easy. While placing the planets' locations on a map of the night sky, Draco could see where the constellations his relatives were named after would go.

He was between Charms and Transfiguration on Thursday morning when someone tall fell in step beside him. The first thing Draco saw when he looked up was a grinning mouth full of teeth.

"Hullo, Flint," Draco greeted him.

Flint ruffled Draco's hair. "Didn't see you yesterday."

"Quit that," Draco snapped, jerking away and patting his hair back down flat. "See me? For what?"

"Quidditch trials."

Draco's stomach dropped, the sort of feeling he'd get if he'd forgotten something important. He recovered quickly, confused. "You already have a Seeker."

"There are other positions on the team, see."

Draco shrugged. He hadn't thought about them. He also didn't think he would manage as a Chaser, Keeper, or Beater, so it was easier not to bother.

"Ah well, then." Flint put his hands in his pockets. "Fancy scrimming with us, by any chance? Higgs was the only contender for Seeker, so we don't have a spare or nothing. He needs someone to play against. If you're thinking about trying out next year, could be good practice. See if you're up to it. We don't have many people try out that're as wee as you are."

"Wee?"

"Relax, it's a good thing for Seekers—as you should know, if you want the position." Flint clapped Draco on the shoulder and stepped off down another corridor they passed. He walked backward. "Let me know, anyway. Practices start next week. Wednesday and Sunday evenings."

Draco didn't see a reason why not. Getting a personal invitation like that from the Quidditch captain was certainly worth bragging about. Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise realized how impressive it was, but Theodore just rolled his eyes every time Draco brought it up.

His excitement carried into the weekend. With nearly a jolt on Sunday evening, Draco realized the Transfiguration homework had completely fallen out of his mind. He dug it out, and couldn't help but agree with Goyle when he said something about getting his mum to send a homework planner.

Draco remembered then that he actually had one—or, he had something that would work for it. While packing to come to Hogwarts, he'd included the black book he found in his grandfather's desk.

It had fallen to the bottom of his trunk. Draco dug it out before bed and put it in his bag along with his books for Astronomy, Transfiguration, and Defence for the morning.

As Draco expected, Professor Sinistra assigned some questions due Wednesday. Crabbe and Goyle dashed down the assignment on spare pieces of parchment, and Draco dug the black book out. While flipping through the pages, writing caught Draco's attention.

He turned back. A weird flush of emotions passed him over as he read what they were. Surprise froze him, spare a slight tremble in the hand. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as if a ghost walked behind him.

I'm sorry to hear that, was written in a hand that definitely wasn't Draco's. Who was your grandfather?

Draco had no choice but to focus in Transfiguration, but he remembered nary one of Quirrell's stuttered syllables during Defence. By the time the bells rang for lunch, Draco was dying to be alone. He headed with Crabbe and Goyle to the Great Hall for lunch.

"I suppose you want to get on with the homework?" Crabbe grunted when he and Goyle finished eating.

"I might lay down, actually," Draco replied. "I'm not feeling well."

"Yeah, you barely ate."

Indeed, Draco's plate had turned into more a mess than something fit for consumption. Maybe his hunger would return by dinner.

"I'll see you later," Draco said as he rose from his seat.

The dorm was thankfully empty. Draco drew the curtains around his bed and brought the book, some ink, and a quill out of his bag. He used A History of Magic as a makeshift table.

I'm sorry to hear that. Who was your grandfather? still showed on July twenty-sixth. Draco realized—remembered, rather—that he'd written about Grandfather dying in the blank space for that date. Hands shaking, Draco dipped his quill.

Abraxas Malfoy, he wrote.

Like before, the words glistened, then disappeared. Draco's heart pounded against his rib cage as he waited for a response. He inhaled long, shocked that someone replied.

Abraxas? That's a terrible shame. He was a friend of mine when we were young.

Who are you?

My name is Tom Riddle. We shared a dorm at Hogwarts, and stayed friends until I died.

Draco's mind raced. So you're not writing from somewhere else? You're dead? But how are you writing at all?

I preserved my memories in this old diary of mine, Tom replied. Abraxas took it after I died. It was with my permission, of course. Your grandfather was not a thief.

The end of Draco's quill ended up between his teeth. He narrowed his eyes while he thought. He didn't think he'd ever heard his grandfather mention a Tom Riddle. Why hadn't he, if they were such good friends?

How did you die? Draco asked.

I was killed by Lord Voldemort.

The sight of that name felt more wrong than any swear Draco had seen written in the boys' toilets. And yet, he couldn't help but admire this boy—or man, Draco had no idea on his age—for writing it.

Why? Draco wrote.

Got in the way, I suppose. Too human for his tastes.

Oh yeah. Draco wasn't sure he actually understood, though.

Whatever became of Lord Voldemort? Tom asked. It has clearly been a while since this diary was written in. Abraxas was the last one I spoke to when he told me he intended to place a blood enchantment over it as protection. Yet, since then, he's had at least one child, who's had enough time to grow up to have THEIR own. And now Abraxas is gone. How did he die?

There were a lot of questions there to answer. Draco hesitated at the very first one, frowning to himself as he remembered how Sophie the Muggle-born grew all interested about Potter once she knew the story. No way did Draco want to have somebody like Tom start fawning over that git too.

The dark lord is gone. Has been for a while. Ten years now. He was killed. I was only a year old when the war ended so I don't know a lot about it.

It took a while for an answer to surface. I see.

As for grandfather, he died in the summer from dragon pox. He only had one child, that's my father Lucius.

What's the current date? And what's your name, by the way?

Draco, he wrote. And its 16 september 1991.

So you're what? 11?

Yes. You?

16 forever.

Why 16?

That's how old I was when I created this diary. I was very good at Charms.

I'm pretty good so far, Draco wrote. Well its my third week in. But Flitwick has been very happy with my work.

That's good. Slytherin, are you?

Yes.

Your grandfather would've been made happy by that.

A sudden sadness overcame Draco. Grandfather Malfoy hadn't lived long enough to know that he'd upheld this one particular family tradition.

I don't think he ever mentioned you, Draco decided to say. I feel like I'd remember a name like Riddle. But maybe he only talked about you around his other friends. When did you die?

The late 1960s. Which friends are those? Are any still alive?

Montgomry Nott is. Draco had to sound out his name in order to spell it correctly. He wasn't certain he managed. Mr Avery and Mr Lestrange both died in the last few years.

Shame. I remember them too. We were all friends.

I'm sorry they never talked about you.

It's all right. Were they loyal to Lord Voldemort?

I'm not sure. Lots went to azkaban after the war, but they didn't. My grandfather was talking about it a lot in the end. My father said he was remembering it like a happy time because he was about to die. He wanted to show me the mark on his arm. The snake and skull thing.

Ah.

Did you have one?

Yes.

My father has one, Draco said. He showed it to me this summer.

What did your father do for Lord Voldemort?

He said something about holding the door at the ministry. He visits there a lot. He's very sutle when he talks to people.

Subtle?

If thats how its spelt then yes.

Tom didn't say anything to that. With his bottom lip held between his teeth, Draco tapped his quill in thought.

He wrote again: So you and grandfather were the same age?

Yes, Tom replied. We both left Hogwarts in 1945.

What was grandfather like back then? Draco asked. I only ever knew him as an old man.

I have far too many stories I could write here. Would you rather I showed you instead?

Draco's brow wrinkled a little. Show me how?

The pages of the diary flipped all by themselves, making Draco pull his hands away. Even without him holding it down, the diary kept itself open. It stopped on the first week of August. On the fourth—a Wednesday—a black box appeared, almost like ink had been spilled perfectly within the date. It thinned a bit in places, making the shape like a window. Draco squinted, dipping his head closer to try and better see. Something near his navel hooked and pulled.

Like with a portkey, Draco started to tumble. He panicked for a second as he found himself in darkness. Everything clarified, and then his stomach leapt again in realization that he knew exactly where he was.

It was nighttime in the memory, but not a whole lot had changed in his grandfather's bedroom. The open drapes let in what moonlight there was. After Draco's eyes adjusted, he could make out two figures in the bed. One was blond, who he figured was Grandfather. The other had dark hair.

Heavy knocks came at the chamber door. The room came more into focus when the dark-haired boy stirred. He propped himself up on an elbow, gaze toward the open bedroom door. Draco came closer, to try and see what the boy looked like. It must be Tom.

More knocks came, louder and heavier than before. Tom shook Grandfather's shoulder.

"Abraxas," he whispered.

Grandfather stirred, and then the knocking turned loud with impatience.

"Don't worry about it," Grandfather whispered back. "They'll go away."

Although Tom seemed uncertain, Draco believed Grandfather. He'd always been taught to respect a person's space within the manor house. If nobody answered or invited you in, they weren't to be disturbed. It didn't matter if they were younger or older than you. A person's space was their space.

Tom returned his head to his pillow. He must have fallen back asleep because, rather suddenly, the room was lit up with lamplight. Draco's great-grandfather Nero stood beside the bed. Although in a dressing-gown with his long hair slightly messy from sleep, there was a look in his eye that spelled danger. His wand was steady, pointed at Tom.

"Father!" Grandfather yelled as he rose out of sleep all at once. "Get out!"

"Dobby informs me we have a guest." Great-Grandfather's voice was low and even. Neither his gaze or wand wavered from Tom. "An unauthorized guest."

"You know Tom." It struck Draco then how much he and his grandfather looked alike in their youth. Granted, Grandfather was maybe about fifteen or sixteen here, but they had the same pointed features and grey eyes. Grandfather's hair nearly touched his shoulders. "You've met him on the train platform. Go on, Father. Just. . .go."

Great-Grandfather was not moved. "Met, yes. Given permission to take one step on these grounds? No, and you know that. Otherwise, you would have informed me you had him here."

"You know him—"

"Know him!" Great-Grandfather filled the room with his voice. "The orphan boy that grew up with Muggles? Oh yes, I know him. I know his kind!"

"Father—"

"Could be a Mudblood for all you know." Great-Grandfather took a step closer, upper lip curling. "And yet here you have him in your bed."

"He's not a Mudblood!" Grandfather snapped. "Bloody fucking bollocks, Father, can I get some pants on and—he's got wizarding family, Father, I swear. He found out. Please."

Although Great-Grandfather remained livid, he at least stopped shouting. With eyes narrowed in suspicion, he studied Tom. Draco did too. He would've figured that Tom would be a lot more intimidated or even downright frightened to be in this situation. He laid on his back, the blanket up to his waist. He didn't breathe heavily, look more pale than he naturally was, or anything. Draco wondered if this wasn't the first time he'd had a wand in his face.

"Which family?" Great-Grandfather asked Tom through a stiff jaw.

"Gaunt, sir," Tom calmly replied.

One of Great-Grandfather's eyebrows rose.

"It's on my mother's side," Tom said.

Great-Grandfather grunted. Although he still shrewdly studied Tom, he lowered his wand.

"We'll discuss this over breakfast," he finally said, then pointed a warning finger at Grandfather. "Next time you bring company, I expect to be aware of it. The last thing I want in the middle of the night is that blithering idiot of a house-elf waking me up. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father."

Great-Grandfather sniffed and slipped his wand into the pocket of his dressing-gown. "Good night."

His slippers dampened his footsteps, but eventually they reached the door for Grandfather's chamber. The door drummed closed. Grandfather and Tom both watched after him. Once he was gone, Grandfather deflated with a huge sigh of relief. His head found his pillow again. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then weakly laughed.

"Bloody hell," he said under his breath.

"I mean, that could've gone worse," Tom stated matter-of-factly before the two of them snorted. "I thought you would've told him I'd be here, though."

"I didn't think Dobby would dare wake him up. He'll regret doing that now, that's certain."

Tom resettled. His shoulder touched Grandfather's. With a sigh, he looked over. "So, breakfast."

"Shame, I was hoping to lay in. That was a long trip from London."

They laughed, and then the room started to dissolve in front of Draco. He floated up through nothing. The dim light of the bedroom returned to a greenish tinge as Draco found himself back in his dorm.

He felt a little nauseous from how quickly he'd ended up laying down. Draco pushed himself upright. Tom's diary sloughed off his stomach onto the bed beside him. Draco opened it again on top of A History of Magic and sought out his lost quill.

My great-grandfather didn't like you very much, he wrote.

He came to, Tom replied. He respected my relation to the Gaunt family. I confirmed it in the days after that memory. Your family's manor was only a layover as I headed north to see about what relatives might still be around.

Draco hummed. I don't know much about the Gaunts. They're one of the sacred 28 though. I know that.

They were the last living descendants of Salazar Slytherin. I can't imagine there are any left now. The only one I ever met was my uncle. He went to Azkaban soon after. This was in 1943, mind. I can't imagine he's survived to 1991.

What did he do to go to Azkaban?

Seeing me was rather upsetting. Tom's writing grew messier, appearing rather quickly. He didn't know that I existed. My mother had run off with a Muggle she fancied. She died giving birth to me, and my father had returned home alone. I talked to my uncle long enough for him to rebuke me, and then he went into the town. He killed my father and grandparents.

Draco held his breath when he inhaled. He couldn't imagine such a thing happening. It bothered him so much that the hair on his arms stood up.

That's scary, he eventually wrote.

I was more disappointed than anything. I grew up in a Muggle orphanage, not much expecting to ever meet my proper family. Then I found them, and they were immediately taken away from me.

Yeah

Mr Malfoy - your great-grandfather, I should say - did me a kindness after that. I was sixteen then, turning seventeen the coming December. Mrs Cole, the matron, didn't mind me coming and going so long as she knew where I was. I was very mature and independent. After what my uncle did came out, Mr Malfoy invited me to finish the summer at your family's estate. I stayed there between 6th and 7th year as well.

Since the manor was so old, Draco took for granted that many, many people had left their impressions on it. He thought about that dark-haired boy in the memory he'd witnessed, and tried to imagine him exploring the gardens or sitting at the table in the family dining room. He and Draco had probably used the same chairs or the same cutlery, just decades apart.

Did you get your own room? Draco asked. Or did you stay with grandfather? Why didn't he have pants on anyway? In the memory

There was a long pause. If you have to ask, you're probably not old enough for me to go in about it.

Draco had a suspicion, but he hadn't wanted to assume. Were you lovers?

For the sake of convenience, Tom said. Access, and whatnot. Mr Malfoy had told Abraxas not to get tangled up with girls while he was young. Considering how wealthy your family was, the last thing they wanted to worry about was an accidental heir.

Oh yeah. That makes sense I guess.

I have a feeling your grandfather would've passed that tidbit of advice to your father. You'll probably hear it yourself when you're a little older. Here's your heads up, I suppose. Haha

Draco laughed a little to himself, but his face felt on fire too from something like embarrassment. I don't know about any of that.

You're 11, Draco. Don't worry. It'll come. And when it does, it hits like a train.

Draco still wasn't sure. He didn't fancy anyone, like Theodore fancied Daphne. Because Theodore kept teasing Draco about Potter, he became even more resistant about the idea. Fancies were stupid.

Say, Tom wrote when Draco didn't reply. Who did your grandfather end up marrying?

My grandmother's name was Severine. It's French so you pronounce the e at the end like an a. She was a Rowle

I remember her. Lovely girl.

I never got to meet her, but she has a portrait at the house. She's very nice.

While Draco kept on back and forth with Tom, he eventually needed to light the lamp above his bed. He was sort of aware that he was getting hungry.

A voice came from outside his curtain. "Malfoy?"

Draco jumped so badly that he nearly upended his inkwell. "Huh? What?"

"It's nearly dinner." It was Goyle. "Crabbe and I were heading to the Great Hall. Coming with, or still feeling off?"

Sighing slightly to himself, Draco dipped his quill in order to say his goodbyes. "I'll catch up to you."