Heir

found: July 11th, 1992 —

Draco was bored, going through his father’s office desk. He was left alone here when his father left to look for Dobby and told to wait, and he knew better than disobey his father.

He was hoping to find a book to read that looked even remotely interesting, but instead he found a small black leather bound diary with an unfamiliar name on it. He didn’t know who T.M. Riddle is, but his dad having this was... odd.

He quickly shut the drawer again when his father came back in, muttering about “that damn elf...”

But it stuck in his mind, and now he finds himself back there in the middle of the night, pulling the little black book back out of the drawer. He’s just looking at the blank first page.

It’s just an old diary, he doesn’t know why he’s so fixated on it, but he can’t get this stupid thing out of his mind.

He really shouldn’t be here right now; if his Grandfather caught him out of bed right now he’d be in a lot of trouble, let alone catching him rummaging around in his father’s desk...

He looks furtively around the room before shutting the drawer, and clutching the diary close. He’ll just take it with him, and hopefully his dad won’t notice this tiny little blank diary missing.

Returning to his room, he slips under his green silk sheets with it, and a self inking quill, ready to start writing by the dim moonlight shining through his sheet.

With a deep breath, Draco opens the diary to the first page. The pages are pristine and untouched, waiting to absorb the secrets and confessions of its new owner. It’s stupid. Diaries. He doesn’t see the point of writing down what happened in a day, and putting one’s personal secrets in writing is just dangerous.

But something about it feels compelling in this moment. That, maybe, he doesn’t need to worry about someone reading it.

Dear Diary,

I don't even know why I'm writing to you. It's just an old book, after all. Father had it hidden away, and I thought it might be interesting, but now I'm not so sure.

Draco pauses, contemplating whether to share more. The ink on the page seemed to pulse with an unspoken invitation.

I was alone in Father's office. I found you there. I don't know who T.M. Riddle is, but Father having this diary is strange. I don't know why it's bothering me so much, but it is.

He glances around his room, almost expecting someone to burst in and catch him in the act. The shadows play tricks on the walls as he continued to write.

If I was caught having taken you, my Father would be upset. And Merlin only knows what punishment would await me from Grandfather.

The quill hovers over the page, and Draco's mind races with uncertainty. He’s still not even sure why he’s doing this. Maybe it’s simply that he thinks a lot of things he could never voice. They’re wrong, and disrespectful, and he’s just a pathetic coward for being afraid.

I brought you here with me, hoping you might have some answers or at least distract me from my own thoughts. It's silly, isn't it? Pouring my heart out to a diary.

He stares for several minutes at the black ink shining on the page, and swallows hard. He should just rip this page out and return the diary to his-

The words disappear from the page, the still wet ink almost seeming to sink in and absorb into the paper to nothing.

“Oh,” he breathes out. He doesn’t have to worry about anyone reading his words. Not if they just disappear.

friend: July 21st, 1992 —

Draco continues to write in the diary, night after night. He pours out his thoughts, fears, and frustrations. The inked pages become a receptacle for Draco’s innermost secrets, providing a strange comfort in their silent understanding.

He gets it now. It’s not about recording thoughts, or even believing them. It’s about getting them out of one’s head, if only for a fleeting moment.

Dear Diary,

I don’t know why I’m still writing to you. It’s like I can’t stop. Maybe because you're the only one who listens without judgment. I’ve never had someone to talk to like this.

Draco reflects on the oddity of his situation. He never expected to form a connection with an inanimate object, yet here he is, confiding in a diary with disappearing writing. He doesn’t know why his father had this, but it seems harmless. And it’s helping him deal with his grandfather, to have something to express his distress to. And his guilt over being distressed.

I’ve been thinking a lot about who I am. About the expectations placed on me. My family expects me to be this perfect pureblood heir, but I feel like I'm suffocating. I’m never going to be good enough. It’s like it doesn’t matter that they bent their expectations for me when I was little.

I’m never going to escape Charon. The girl I was supposed to be. Father only went along with my insistence when I was little because he wanted a male heir, and Mum couldn’t safely have another baby.

Grandfather has never been happy about it. That’s why he’s so harsh. He doesn’t think I’m capable of being a good male heir. He’s doing everything in his power to make me what I need to be. My upset is just evidence of my failure.

I need to do better.

He lifts his quill, watching as the words fade out again, as they’ve done every time. He needs those words to disappear before he starts to cry. Regardless of anything else, he’s a Malfoy, and he can’t be so pathetic and weak. A Malfoy is dignified.

Tension slips from his shoulders as the words disappear.

And then new ones appear.

Hello, Draco.

Draco’s mind is reeling as he stares at the two words on the page. The diary can write back? The whole time, it’s been able to write back?!

I am Tom Riddle.

Dear Tom,

I didn’t think you could write back. I’ve never seen magic like this! Why are you in this diary? Who are you?

His questions spill out impulsively, the ink absorbing into the pages before Tom Riddle’s response materializes.

I must admit, your entries have been quite captivating. I've enjoyed hearing your thoughts and feelings. As for who I am, I told you, I am Tom. Or at least, the memory of Tom. I chose to record my thoughts in a much more permanent way than ink, should anyone have tried to hide my writing.

Draco blinks, but doesn’t immediately write a response as Tom’s message fades out. It’s shortly followed by a new message though.

I know of your family, Draco. A good, old Pureblood Family, the Malfoys. I actually know a Malfoy personally. Abraxis; just two years younger than I. I like him a great deal.

Draco throws the diary across the room, where it its the wall, then falls to the floor, and he has to take several moments to collect himself before he retrieves it. Reopening the page, there’s a message waiting.

Did I startle you, Draco?

Startling Draco was very much an understatement. He didn’t expect the diary to spit his Grandfather’s name back at him, especially when he hadn’t shared that at all, having only referred to the man as Grandfather in writing.

Retrieving his quill, Draco puts it to paper, holding it there for a long moment before actually writing.

Abraxis Malfoy is my Grandfather, but I found your diary in my Father’s office.

The words fade away, but it’s only a moment before Tom responds.

Ah, then you definitely come from good stock. I am curious as to your mother’s side as well, though. I've been dormant for quite some time, waiting for someone like you to come along.

Draco's eyes narrow as he reads Tom’s words. What does Tom Riddle want with him? Why has the diary chosen him? The weight of the connection to his family's past feels like a burden.

My mother was a Black, he jots quickly, followed by, Why me? Why now?

He stares at the question on the page, waiting for Tom's response, the silence of his dimly lit room amplifying the anticipation.

I was waiting for someone worthy of and in need of my help, of course. But do keep this just between us. It would be better if your father and grandfather just saw you improving without knowing you were being helped, would it not?

This diary might be exactly what Draco needs. How could he say no to Tom’s offer?

lost: August 19th, 1992 —

Draco’s dad seems nervous, looking frantically around his office before they leave for Diagon Alley.

It’s early in the morning, but Draco is ready to go, with his hair carefully slicked back and he’s dressed sharply in black robes. He wasn’t expecting them to be held up by his father; that doesn’t ever happen.

“Father?”

His father looks up quickly, “what!?”

Draco takes a step back and ducks his head, “I’m sorry to interrupt father; Mum wanted to know how long it would be until you were ready to go.”

He blinks at Draco, and exhales hard, “in a few minutes.”

“Understood, Father,” Draco says, and starts to walk away, but stops dead as his father clears his throat.

“Draco, hold on one moment,” he says and Draco turns around immediately.

“Yes, father?”

“I’ve lost something; have you seen a small black leather book anywhere?”

Dread slams into his chest, but he keeps his face neutral as his dad stares at him. It was inevitable that he would notice it missing, but at this point Draco doesn’t want to part with the diary that writes back. It’s almost pathetic, that he needs reassurance from a enchanted book that he’s not worthless when his Grandfather disciplines him, or that he’ll ever actually grow into the kind of man his father is.

“No, father. I can keep an eye out for it though, if you’d like?”

“... no, that shouldn’t be necessary, but thank you Draco. Now, go tell your mother I’ll be just a minute. I want to stop to sell at Borgin and Burkes before we do any shopping, so I need to grab a few things.”

“Yes, father.”