Prologue

The night was imposing and deafening, demanding nothing more than unconsciousness and obedience. It wasn't a night that made love encounters possible, and it didn't protect those who wanted to do harm. There were scarce stars on the sky and the moon was clear, round and aristocratic like the eye of a great and benevolent god or goddess. The wind was surprisingly unsteady and unpredictable, waiting to catch anyone unaware and make them pay for it.

The whispers that came from the trees – and everything alive, dead and undead that could make itself heard with tiny chilling whines of what was, is and would never be – surrounded manors and engulfed houses. It was daring, the way the nightlife struggled to make itself noticed and yet remained unnoticed, but some appreciated what only shadows and dim lights could provide. This kind was just like the elements they used to their advantage: ruthless, untrustworthy and selfish. They had ambition, determination and a record of victories that defied decency and logic.

And what they possessed was easily identified.

The walls were ice cold, the doors heavy and the whole manor smelled like old parchment and dry blood mingled with salty tears. History is everything, and that manor most certainly proved that. From the doorknobs made of bones – he had heard many things but never the truth, so he decided it was indeed hellhound's bones – to the painting frames that were made of gold and silver – depending mostly on who graced and lived eternally inside the enchanted canvas.

He was a part of this history and because of it he knew every inch of that property as he knew intimately the very pattern of the letters that composed his name. Just like he knew every book inside the library – especially the ones he should have never found.

But obviously he knew some rooms better than others, so much so that he was sure that he could find them even blindfolded and if they really moved magically inside the house - there was a very interesting and everlasting rumour that you could get in a room inside that manor and never find your way out of it again. A rumour that naturally no one had ever bothered to confirm or deny, and he didn't also.

The library would be one of the rooms he would find easily enough, since he did spend most of his times there anyway and he had become one with the armchair that had been placed there one day when he was 8 – he had never bothered to ask whose doing that was and no one had ever bothered to tell him.

The other was quite naturally his bedroom.

He did spend a lot of time in his room but then again time had always been relative for him. He had never been the kind of child that made faces at 'bath or bed times', he had never been the type of adolescent that had a problem with rising early when needed and he was far from being a sloppy young man. He had his freedom as long as he did what he had to do and since he quite enjoyed his doings and deeds for most of the time, he had little trouble living his life the way he wanted it to be lived.

In that abhorring and unsettlingly calm night his bedroom was dark and warm. The walls reflected the way the wind and the moonlight made the shadows dance around the huge mahogany bed.

It was a four-post bed. The headboard bore carvings that told of great power, history and legacy. The wood was strong, black and intimidating. The blankets were wide, reached the floor; creating a beautiful yet shuddering contrast with the impeccable white of the sheets and pillows.

Nothing seemed to have moved during the night.

Nothing seemed to move during the day.

The room in itself was just like the rest of the manor: incredible, astonishing and beautifully gloomy. The stone-floor shone ethereally with the amount of light that refused to bow to any barrier, let alone one so useless as an absurdly clean glass window. As it happened, everything looked bare to inspection, anyone who dared to look inside that window would see all of his books, his study, the open door that led to his private bathroom, his nightstand, his broom and his robe. Each item neatly and carefully kept where it belonged, where it had always belonged.

But obviously not everything could be seen, particularly in such a family, with such a boy, and yet – with everyone at all. Still, he wasn't everyone and nor would be his masks like anyone else's. Where the silver streak of light couldn't reach, there were riches no one could see, not if they simply looked from outside.

Treasures he didn't show anyone nor did he ever really mention them. Only a few knew of their existence and even fewer knew where he actually, truly, consciously or not, kept them.

Safe would be the name anyone could use to define his behaviour, his tendency to secrecy and deceit. Others though, would call it cunning, cowardice and maybe even insecurity.

He settled for all of the above, ones more than others. Say what you say; it was better than reckless stupidity. He should know.

He knew it better than most in fact.

He hated it and one can only truly hate what he truly knows.

It was his controlled intelligence that made even his slumber motionless, restful and ever vigilant. That was what made him lay down with one arm stretched at his side, his legs slightly parted, the back of his head on the middle of one of his many goose-feather filled pillows and his other arm bent at the elbow. His left hand was under his pillow, his wrist under the back of his neck.

His fingers were forming a tight fist that made his knuckles white, around the only object he couldn't part himself from since he was 11 years old. Right above his fisted hand and his head was what he only thought of as 'it'. 'It' looked like a book but 'it' wasn't a book. 'It' also looked like a notebook but the idea was simply ludicrous and on the overall 'it' wasn't a notebook. 'It'looked ancient, like most things he was used to, and therefore powerful, something he regarded deeply. The pieces of parchment that served as pages were yellow, not golden but sicken. The colour of secrets: deep, hidden and unforgivable secrets.

He was a person who loved secrets. In reality if asked, he'd say he was one who loved knowledge, especially the type of knowledge he wasn't supposed to know in the first place. The kind that he could use later, the kind that brought him profit, power, more knowledge or in the least, leverage in a bargain. And those were so difficult to find these days, good secrets, that is. He was good at finding them out and even better at keeping them but good secrets, deep, hidden and unforgivable secrets, those were hard to find and lately too easy to discover.

He had learned that the best way to keep people completely away from your secrets is exposing them. No one believes the truth if a liar tells it. It was a family heirloom, just as much as everything else that came with the name and the blood that reigned in his veins. Lies, deceit, secrets and everything else were a mere scapegoat of something bigger, stronger and older.

He wasn't and would never be made by his name but he did live by it. Most didn't understand, nor should they. They weren't them, him and us. And everything in between.

They, the others, would never know simply because they could never comprehend it fully. Stupid, clueless imbeciles. Waste of time, waste of energy, waste of magic. He tried, with all his might, he forced himself to discard them as the idiotic rotten existence they were, unworthy of any of his thoughts and anger. He tried so hard.

Not good enough.

Yet.

This time it'd be different. This year everything would change. He had found 'it', he was ready and there was only one way to go from now on. And he knew it, he could feel it, sense it, almost touch it. His, on his own merit, ever so deserving and all the more important.

It has come, it would happen.

This year, tomorrow and every day after that. All he had to do was open his eyes and reach for it.

Everything he had ever wanted, more than anyone could ever imagine and not at all what people conceived him to lust after.

Patience, all in good time.

Fifteen years of wait.

He was ready.

The wind outside blew stronger this time; the shadows danced a pace tad faster for a second before settling down to a slow and monotonous waltz again.

His eyes didn't move under his eyelids, his mouth didn't twitch and his chest kept its dangerously lazy rhythm. But his hand had moved and his wand had dug in the soft flesh of his palm.

In that night, imposing and deafening, he didn't dream but he had and he would.

Lulled by the murmuring of the night and the promise of the days to come, Draco Malfoy slept.


28tht of August

I found it - or it found me I do not know for sure and it does not matter now. I am ready for what awaits me from now on. I can feel it in my very core.

My things are set and ready, I soon will have to go and leave but I needed to start this journal before going down. It would be impossible and absolutely inadvisable to write anything inside the carriage and after that I will have even less of an opportunity to do this.

It is inside my coat's pocket and once I put on my robes it will be completely concealed. I will tell of it to no one, I have shown it to no one and I intend to keep it that way.

Father and Mother know I have found it and that is all they will know.

I could not sleep last night, for most time. Every time I tried to rest I felt the urge to open it, read it or simply hold it. The only time I could indeed close my eyes without the fear of losing it somehow was when I placed it under my pillow, just above my head and at hand's reach. It was as if it lulled me to sleep.

Not it per se, obviously, but the certainty of its nearness and the fact that in that position no one could take it away from me without waking me up instantly.

I noticed this need of assurance as soon as I touched it but I am sure it is more than natural.

Father said I would only open it - and be able to read it – at school. I do not mind, I have been patient so far. I have learned to appreciate things more this way and soon the expectation will be over so I can move on to other subjects.

This summer I only kept contact with her. I did receive letters from the others but I did not bother to respond. It is enough that I have to spend most of my seven years in that school with them around and next to me, I do not have to endure such a thing during my vacations.

She said she was enjoying her stay at her grandparent's – her mother's sake naturally. I will never know what she finds so endearing in such a despicable and ridiculed land so I have given up trying to figure her out when it comes to things like that.

She promised me a great surprise at school and I will not even try to figure out what it is for she always surprises me, no matter how far my imagination takes me. One of the reasons why I– would like to see her again.

I did not tell her anything but I also have something for her. She does appreciate surprises but the reason why I did not say a word was because I do not want her to figure it out before even seeing the package.

She will be back next week and that means we will only see each other at Hogsmeade. Until then we will keep our correspondence, as it is, long and unending. That will soon stop when the classes start.

Mother said that she would accompany me alone for Father will have to travel for business. I do not really mind this change of pace and I am after all used to his absences. We all are. She also wants me to see Grandfather and Grandmother.

As I sit here I try to prepare myself for all the pampering I shall get from my Grandparents – from my Mother's side. There will be the usual presents, compliments, and abominable physical demonstration of – affection. I am already used to such a thing from them, they are after all – it does not matter.

Blekage just arrived with something from my Grandfather Synphus – Father's father. It is the little "encouragement" he had assured me he would send me this year. Apparently he does not have good memories of his fifth-year back at Durmstrang and decided I need the wand he had promised me.

Untraceable, unregistered and absolutely illegal.

I suppose this year will be indeed promising and glorious, just as it should.

I believe that I will only be able to write again once I am back at Hogwarts.

As for now, I shall leave.

D. M.