A/N: To be honest, before I start to write, I don't know where this will end up, in fact, I'm not sure if there will be any further updates, maybe this will just be left hanging... I'm not entirely sure at this point. The entire reason for this fic (besides wishing to write on the topic) is that I am avoiding the real work that needs to be done - a fifteen minute oral commentary on a poem. My teacher is an unbelievably cruel woman to assign it....especially over the holidays!!
Disclaimer: I claim ownership to none of the characters or ideas in the universe of Harry Potter.
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Yesterday. That's what started this...this utter madness of which I am about to partake. I was with Mother - at least, I was supposed to be. She had taken me to go shopping for new school supplies, of course, the minute we arrived in Diagon Alley, she vanished, after handing me a sack of galleons. It was, of course, only to be expected. After all, why would she wish to be with me? I was only her son - her only son. I can't say however, that I was entirely upset with her departure. But I digress.
I was in Flourish and Blots, picking up the required seventh year course texts, when a small, obsequious book caught my eye. It was blank. It's pages called to me, begging me to write on them. And then, I did something insane. Something, which in all likelihood will be my death. I bought it. And this brings us to where we are now.
Even writing what I have, I know that I have sentenced myself to at the least, great torture if this book were ever to pass into the hands of another. Why I write then? Knowing this sentence as I do? I am not sure. I feel as though I need to write. I can no longer contain all of my feelings inside; I am so full of emotions, secrets, desires that I feel that with no confident I shall burst. Writing however as I have earlier said, is practically the writ to decry my death.
This is my first and only confident. In this book, I shall write down my life, my dreams, and, despite father's attempts to quash them, my hopes.
My name is Draco Malfoy. And this is my death.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
It feels...strange to write here. It is as if I write for an audience, instead of writing merely for myself, and it is this that is likely to hold me back, to prevent me from, at least at first, total honesty.
I see little point in recording a date, for what does it matter? I shall never re-read what I have wrote. Its purpose is entirely for the release of all that is trapped inside.
I shouldn't need it. Malfoy's have perfect memories.
That was one of the many "Malfoy's do... Malfoy's have..." that my Father, Lucius Malfoy, drove into my head at an early age. The penalty for disobeying, for failure, for being anything less than perfect was not worth the small twinge of satisfaction I felt every time I went against an order - every time I did something small, something that MALFOY'S don't EVER do.
I shall have to work out a hiding place for this soon, but for now, I shall just put a disillusionment charm on it. Once at Hogwarts, I should be fine. Crabbe and Goyle are too stupid to find anything I should choose to hide. I am a Malfoy after all...
Disclaimer: I claim ownership to none of the characters or ideas in the universe of Harry Potter.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Yesterday. That's what started this...this utter madness of which I am about to partake. I was with Mother - at least, I was supposed to be. She had taken me to go shopping for new school supplies, of course, the minute we arrived in Diagon Alley, she vanished, after handing me a sack of galleons. It was, of course, only to be expected. After all, why would she wish to be with me? I was only her son - her only son. I can't say however, that I was entirely upset with her departure. But I digress.
I was in Flourish and Blots, picking up the required seventh year course texts, when a small, obsequious book caught my eye. It was blank. It's pages called to me, begging me to write on them. And then, I did something insane. Something, which in all likelihood will be my death. I bought it. And this brings us to where we are now.
Even writing what I have, I know that I have sentenced myself to at the least, great torture if this book were ever to pass into the hands of another. Why I write then? Knowing this sentence as I do? I am not sure. I feel as though I need to write. I can no longer contain all of my feelings inside; I am so full of emotions, secrets, desires that I feel that with no confident I shall burst. Writing however as I have earlier said, is practically the writ to decry my death.
This is my first and only confident. In this book, I shall write down my life, my dreams, and, despite father's attempts to quash them, my hopes.
My name is Draco Malfoy. And this is my death.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
It feels...strange to write here. It is as if I write for an audience, instead of writing merely for myself, and it is this that is likely to hold me back, to prevent me from, at least at first, total honesty.
I see little point in recording a date, for what does it matter? I shall never re-read what I have wrote. Its purpose is entirely for the release of all that is trapped inside.
I shouldn't need it. Malfoy's have perfect memories.
That was one of the many "Malfoy's do... Malfoy's have..." that my Father, Lucius Malfoy, drove into my head at an early age. The penalty for disobeying, for failure, for being anything less than perfect was not worth the small twinge of satisfaction I felt every time I went against an order - every time I did something small, something that MALFOY'S don't EVER do.
I shall have to work out a hiding place for this soon, but for now, I shall just put a disillusionment charm on it. Once at Hogwarts, I should be fine. Crabbe and Goyle are too stupid to find anything I should choose to hide. I am a Malfoy after all...