Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

If you have read George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, you'll probably notice that this prologue owes to its first chapter. I, naturally, don't own that either.

Author's Notes: This is my first attempt at a little longer fanfic (first was a one-shot Song). I don't know yet how long this is going to be, though I have the basic plot figured out. Please tell me what you think and remember that flames will be used to keep me warm, and since it's summer maybe to roast me some veggies, but constructive criticism is always welcome.

Warnings: I think it's fair to warn you in advance that even though it has none now, this story will later on contain some violence, angst and m/m pairing(s).  No like, no read, okay?

Who-Am-I-0-0 proudly presents The confessions of a Death Eater.

Enjoy!

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Prologue

Draco Malfoy had bought himself a diary. An ordinary, but elegant muggle diary. It was a book bound in fine leather, with pages of thick creamy white paper. He himself couldn't quite explain why he had bought it. One day as he was waiting for his father outside a store in Diagon Alley, he ventured into muggle London and found a quiet antique shop just outside the wizard side of the city. There he had found this book. Somehow it had intrigued him and he just had to have it.

Now, back at Malfoy Manor looking at the diary he still couldn't explain why. The fascination was still there but he was unable to put a finger on what exactly it was. Part of it might simply have been that it was something forbidden, a muggle thing. He knew that if it was found, he couldn't explain it away. There was no logical explanation as to why he had a muggle diary. His father wouldn't –couldn't- understand it.

He wondered to himself the beauty of it. Yes – it was truly beautiful in its simplicity. Handmade, with care and respect. It was amazing to him that something so close to perfection could be done without magic. Somewhere deep inside he felt respect for those who long ago had made it. Respect for muggles, even long dead muggles – yes, his father should never find out about the book, nor his little trip to the muggle side of the city.

By simply admiring a muggle made object he was disobeying his father and his Master. To make matters worse that was not the sole purpose of it. He had other plans than just to marvel the handiwork. He was planning on writing to it, to stain the perfect sheets of paper with ink. Now, writing a diary in itself wasn't forbidden but Draco knew that what he would eventually write would be treachery.

Lately he had started to question his choices and the choices he was supposed to make. Little by little his adoration and blind worship had turned into something else. Slowly doubt and suspicion started creeping in to his mind. His father's actions didn't seem as wise anymore. He remembered what his father had told him when he was a child. Malfoys are their own masters, Malfoys do not kneel down before anyone, Malfoys do not submit to anyone's will but their own. At first when Voldemort was gaining power again Draco had thought that his father wouldn't join, that he'd  stay on his own. Then he had believed that Voldemort was the most powerful wizard and Lucius stayed with him only to gain more power, that his father was cunning and looking after his own interests. At some point he started to doubt it. Lucius was too close to be a traitor, when he wasn't any more powerful, he had to be serious. And Draco had seen it in his eyes. The last straw must have been when Potter told him, spat at some meaningless argument, that Voldemort was a half-blood.

He couldn't believe it at first. It was clear to him that he was mad and not truly as powerful as he led people to believe, but a half-blood? That couldn't be true. After doing some research, of course discreet enough not to let anyone notice, the realisation started sinking in. Voldemort really was good at manipulating minds. And his father had bought it all. Or had he? Draco had no idea whether  his father knew the truth or not. In a way he hoped he didn't. That way he would be able to hold on to at least a shred of respect for Lucius. To know that he was fooled. But Lucius was a hard man to deceive, Draco knew that from experience. He probably knew and followed him anyway.

Since then Draco's mind had been filled with what ifs and buts. What if they were right? Dumbledore and  - Merlin forbid - Potter? What if there really was another way? But how could he, a son of a known Death Eater and a Death-Eater-in-training, take it? Would they believe him? Would they protect him? For he knew that if he wished to stay with his family, he was eventually to follow his father's footsteps. Now he was beginning to be certain that it wasn't what he wanted.

Gone this far in his musings, Draco Malfoy sighed, and then carefully opened the leather-bound diary. The empty page seemed inviting to him. He grabbed a quill and a bottle of ink but then hesitated. He realised that he had never written a diary before. He didn't know where to start and to whom would he address this. To whom, he now began to wonder, did he write this? To himself, or to the following generations, a guideline not to repeat the mistakes of this age and the mistakes of his own? To his family – to explain it all? Or to whoever who might find this? If – and when, he now believed – the Dark side lost, Malfoy Manor was sure to be examined thoroughfully and then his diary would be found. In the diary he would explain everything, not that it would make any difference then. He tried to imagine the person who found it. Surely it had to be an Auror or Albus Dumbledore himself. He would be the one leading the side of Light, no matter who was the Minister of Magic.

He didn't want to write to, or for, a faceless Auror or Dumbledore. Then it suddenly hit him. Of course, the Boy-Who-Lived, he would write to Harry Potter. To him he would like to tell all of his pain, explain everything. Maybe he would understand. Somehow Draco had a feeling he really would.  

He lifted the quill he had not realised he had dropped and dipped the tip in the midnight-blue, nearly black ink. He watched in awe as the ink slowly stained the perfect whiteness and almost laughed at the symbolism of it. Then he began to write.

My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy and today is my 17th birthday. I am spending it at home because of a special request from my father. He said he wanted to celebrate my coming of age. I know it isn't true. He wants to "teach me some customs". I attend the Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. It is my sixth and second to last year there. I know that in four months, when the summer vacations begin, I will receive the Dark Mark. And I don't want it.

Here Draco stopped, out of breath and shaking. He had written it down. If this was found, he was as good as dead, but not before being horribly tortured. He took a few deep breaths and continued writing.

I don't want to be one of his mindless minions, because I am a Malfoy who still remembers what that means. And I don't want to die because of a whim of some half-blooded madman.

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To be continued…

It was short-ish, I know…

The title is a bit off, so if you can think of a better one do tell me!