July 9th, 1994
Dear Diary,
The whole world seems to be collapsing. It's my birthday, and I got my presents, my cake, my party, but I never got one thing. My parents. Every birthday they took me somewhere together for just one day, just hte three of us. Now, it's just me, alone in my room, my new presents of expensive artifacts and neat gadgets sitting ignored int heir boxes. Ever since I got my Dark Mark, I've never been able to sleep. It's taking a toll on me, but what do I care? It's not like anybody would care, so why should I? All I care about is trying to get my old life back.
Now I'm starting to remember when Potter and I almost shook hands in the first year, right before the Sorting. I wanted to be in Gryffindor. I wanted to break free of the Malfoy curse. I wanted to be his friend. Draco and Harry, the coolest duo Hogwarts ever saw. But when that handshake, that one attempt to tell somebody good at heart about my life, was refused, I hid my heartbreak under a smirk. Getting sorted into Slytherin was not my heartbreak, no, but the refusal of a friend. I know that guys don't cry, but my tears fall upon the pages of my diary as I write this.
The day, last year, when Hermione slapped me, was another heartbreak. I wasn't going to cause any trouble. That was just another mask for my tears. But the hatred in her eyes ... it was almost the same as Father's when I was caught playing with his wand. I was only three then. He is always angry inside, angry at himself and ready to vent his rage at anybody. But, like me, he keeps it in most of the time. He hides it under a smirk or a glare, trying to tell the world that nothing in the world was wrong with the Malfoys. We're just ... misunderstood.
Mother is knocking at my door now. She sits down beside me, holding me while I cry. She doesn't look at the diary, she knows about it but also knows not to talk about it. As I spill my tears into the shoulder of her Parisian dress, I feel her grip tense. She knows something's wrong, I can feel the heat radiating off of her left arm, as well as mine. The Dark Lord is coming to life, she says, and abruptly she leaves, letting me collapse onto my bed, letting me cry myself to sleep.
Sincerely,
Draco Lucius Malfoy