Harry grimaced when he read that, though the answer should be obvious. He hadn't figured out yet when Draco wrote this diary, as there were no dates, but Draco was clearly going through a change. That was the last thing Draco wrote on that page. Harry turned to the next one, and his eyes widened at Draco's first words on the new page.
It's my father's fault. Even my unconscious knows that. I don't deserve to be hurt. 
I don't deserve to be hurt. ~~~~~
Harry blinked as those words bore into him. He felt a little proud that Draco had come to that conclusion.
I could have tried harder, but I don't think that would have mattered. He blamed me for everything. Losing Dobby, his board position, even the damned chicken-horse flying off. How was that my fault? Course, he was mad that I had "let" myself be hurt in public. Fuck you, dad. It fucking hurt. Madam Pomfrey said that I almost lost my arm. That damned idiot Hagrid might have warned us that the chickens understood fucking English.
Harry grimaced at the dig to Hagrid, but Harry didn't expect Buckbeak to slash Malfoy either. But he had figured out when Draco got the diary. It was during their third year.
It's nearly time to go home for the summer. I know that he's going to be pissed. I've already "earned" enough for days of... punishment. He's already pissed about the chicken, but I didn't improve my grades either. My father wants me to rule Slytherin House, but still study hard enough to beat Granger? What's more important, Dad! I can't do everything. I can't do anything.
Fucking hell, he's going to flay me alive for losing to Potter again. Perfect Potter just had to get the Snitch at the last fucking second. Couldn't give me one thing, could he? Fucking bastard. 
Harry wondered when he would come up, but to hear that his victory over Draco had caused him pain, was terrifying to think about.
The thing is that I had the Snitch! and he just came out of nowhere on his fucking Nimbus! Damn, that fucker can fly. Nothing like my teammates. He's a natural. I've never flown with anyone like him. All those trainers and ex-quidditch players that Father hired had nothing on Potter. Bloody hell... it was a match. Fuck... it's almost time to go home. What the hell am I going to tell my father?
He put down the diary and tried to put himself in Draco's shoes. It was the end of the third year... he was thirteen... no fourteen... and facing torture. He knew that Draco's abuse started before the war. Draco had already experienced it... at least since their second year. Draco also had several childhood injuries, but the Cruciatus didn't start until he was roughly thirteen. Fuck Lucius. Draco didn't answer himself... at least on paper.
Should I burn this? If my father finds this, he'll kill me. Blaise said that it was nearly impossible to break into it. I should come up with some extra spells before I can't cast magic anymore.
I found one that's like a Notice-Me-Not charm. Anyone who wants to harm me can't even see it. No one can see it if they want to use this against me. I think it will be enough... hopefully.
Harry's eyes stung a bit. It was why McGrath or even the Aurors didn't find it in their sweep of Draco's house. But the next page was written in shaky letters.
Father was pissed. It's hard to walk and talk. He kept me for two weeks in the basement. Fucking hell... How could he do that? I'm his son... his only son. He only cares how I make him look. Mother tried to stop him, but he hurt her, too. If only I had been a little faster to the Snitch, then Father wouldn't have h- fuck you, diary. He would have still hurt me. He likes it. I just have to... not set him off.