Hmm…two chapters and two reviews, I feel pathetic. Oh well, chapter three is my favourite so far, and so I hope that you guys like it as well. Please leave me a review, it motivates me, even if it's a flame, I don't care, but at least it'll show me whether or not people are actually reading this.

So, without further ado, I give you chapter three.

Chapter Three: Of Staring Contests and Discovering the Past

In his short life that far, Harry had had many staring contests with various people, some with owls and even one with a certain half-kneazle that can often be found wandering the hallways of Hogwarts on cool summer eves, but had he felt more challenged than in that instant when, instead of a pair of bright eyes, he fought with the bindings of a small book.

The thin black leather bound cover stared him down with its cold unwavering gaze, much as he imagined that its previous owner would have. He shivered slightly and reached out a long fingered hand towards the book.

-"Harry!" Remus Lupin, one of many current residents of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place (Voldemort had taken to destroying the homes of anyone he found was affiliated with Dumbledore and his Order) threw open the door to the younger one's bedroom, not bothering to knock. The light flooding into the dark room from behind the lycanthrope stung Harry's eyes and he blinked repeatedly, waiting for his pupils to let his irises take over.

-"Remus, what can I do for you?" His voice sounded detached and somewhat shaky, even to his own ears. Like he was trying to sound like someone he was not. Trying to sound like he had nothing else in the world on his mind, like Remus was his only preoccupation, like he actually had the strength left in his body to do whatever his old friend asked of him. He wanted to sound as if he needed something to do, and Remus was liberating him from his boredom, as he was simply jumping at the occasion to add something to his near empty 'to do' list. He was trying to sound like Dumbledore. And he was failing miserably, and he knew it.

-"Oh, Harry, I'm fine, I don't need a thing, I just heard that you had arrived, and well…" He trailed off uneasily. He hadn't said the words aloud, they were not needed as his eyes were screaming what his lip would, or could, not.

I don't need you to be him.

Harry cocked his head to the left and looked at his mentor curiously. The deep purple half-circles that usually marred the underside of his amber eyes had become black and stretched down to the top of his high and prominent cheek bones. His pale skin now looked more like sour milk than anything else, and although his shoulders were usually hunched over, they now seemed to be holding up not only the weight of the world, but also of Atlas who was obviously failing his task.

The sight of the normally cheerful man brought down to such a level awoke Harry's conscience, and he felt the thick, vine-like tendrils of shame and guilt wrap themselves around his quickly beating heart. How blind he had been not to see, not to think that everyone around him had equally been rendered distraught at, had suffered from, the loss of their mentor and leader. But it was worse for Remus, for McGonagall, for Moody. He had once upon a time been their mentor. He had always been their leader. And he had also been their friend. They had lost so much more than him, and yet they had not begun locking themselves up in the dark. They had not lost hope, they realized that they could not afford to. They were adults, and he was a child. They had, in fact, doubled their efforts at making the end of the war a victory for the light. They had, it would seem, separated the late man's strength between them. But no, there came in the child's perspective again. They had not separated his strength, they had divided his responsibilities. No one would ever be able to do as much as that man, but they tried anyways. That was how the younger had always remembered his almost father figure; strong enough in mind and will to surpass the weakness that his body plagued him with.

The man's voice brought Harry out of his musings. "If there's ever anything you need, do not hesitate to let me know. This offer is unconditional, though there are certain times of the month during which I am sure you will prefer not to be asking me for help, one of those nights being tomorrow, so Professor McGonagall asked m to tell you on her behalf that one fire-call to the school is all it takes to contact her." He then handed the boy a medium sized purple velvet pouch, patted him on the back and left. He did not close the door behind him. Harry noticed the meaning behind the gesture with a smile.

With a flick of a switch, flames erupted from the chandelier hanging from the ceiling (Arthur had installed the switches in every room of the house. He said it was to "facilitate the illumination of such a dark and dreary place." Every one knew that it was for the satisfaction and irony of installing something muggle in a house where an old hag in a painting screamed at all hours of the day about blood traitors and mudbloods.)

He sat back down at his desk and frowned once more. Then, as if he had grown tired of his thoughts, he reached out for the book once more, again stopping mere millimetres from the cover. "Why am I doing this?"

The fact that he had spoken aloud seemed to have escaped him, and he continued doing so shamelessly. "I stole a dead boy's notebook because of a feeling. Why did I do that?" He sighed. "Because I want to know the real him. Every one wears a mask, and I want to take his off. I want to die having known someone the same way I know myself."

It was only then that he clasped his fingers around the cover and opened the book to its first page. A skilled hand had elegantly written, This diary belongs to Draco Malfoy.

The unforgiving exterior of the diary had given way to soft yellowed pages, much as Harry was beginning to suspect that the harsh exterior of its owner would have given way to a soft, mellow young man. A sudden feeling of intimacy took over Harry and he hurried to close his bedroom door, leaving a sliver open. He walked with a determined pace to his desk, picked up the open journal and proceeded to settle himself comfortably on a corner of his large bed.

As he prepared to turn the page, a small piece of parchment fell out from between the two pages that followed. It read, Draco, my son, I have not been able to give you much comfort, nor have I fulfilled my duties as your mother, and I know that you carry a lot of grief, anger, and resentment with you. My mother gave me this journal when I was your age, but I have never been much of a writer, and so I am now passing it onto you. Your father does not know about this, I do not doubt that he would disapprove if he did know, and so I advise that you leave it at school in a place that you know to be safe during your vacation time. I am giving it to you in the hope that you will be able to let some of your anger go and maybe find some joy in the life that you lead.

It was written in the same script as the introductory line of the journal. Harry placed it beside him on the bed cover, turned the page, and the first entry began.

"September 1st 1991

I do not know who to address this book to, so let me simply say hello, and whoever apart from me finds themselves reading this can add their names in their heads. I will not waste what precious few pages of freedom I have introducing myself and the like, I doubt that you care regardless. I just arrived at Hogwarts earlier today. It is almost exactly as I had imagined it to be: a safe haven away from the man who forces me to call him 'father' and his bloody expectations.

I met a boy at Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions when I was in Diagon Alley. He seemed really very nice and had he ended up in Slytherin, indeed had he ended up anywhere and not been Harry Potter, I would have liked to befriend him and show him my true face. But alas, he shall only know me as a coward and a jerk and will most certainly condemn me as one. Gryffindors are like that. You know, in the two seconds that the Sorting Hat spent on my head, it actually offered for me to go in Gryffindor, but I refused point blank. Lucius would have killed me and I couldn't leave Mother alone with him.

Well, with the good news of finally starting Hogwarts comes the bad news of my entourage: Crabbe and Goyle. I've been calling them that for so long that I can barely even remember what their first names are, and I think I'm going to forget them soon. It's like having two gorillas following you around everywhere. They're stupid, they're fat, but they couldn't actually defend me from a fruit fly. They haven't the brains between them to best a troll.

I suppose that it's times like this when I miss my mother the most, and I wish Missile were here to curl up around my bare feet to keep then warm. But Lucius doesn't allow Mother to leave the mansion anymore for fear that she will tell someone or go to Hogwarts, take me and run away. And no one really wants a dead cat to curl up at their feet anyway.

When I was nine, Mother got me a white kitten with beautiful yellow eyes. I loved that cat so much. His name was Missile. When I turned ten, Lucius broke Missile's neck in front of me. He said that it was time for me to grow up and grown ups didn't play with kittens. I cried, and I paid dearly for my tears, grown ups don't cry either, and Missile was never mentioned again.

Mother held me that night, for the first time in years, or what felt like years. It was only for five seconds (five seconds was all we could afford, or Lucius would have noticed), but with that embrace she gave me more comfort than any words could have. I'm lucky to have her, and I miss her very much. Then again, I miss her even when I am with her, so that's not saying much.

Well, I must say, it is one o'clock in the morning and I have to pretend to be a sleazy jerk tomorrow, and I need to be well rested for that, so good night.

Draco."

Harry closed the book, his breathing oddly calm, one sentence in particular playing over in his head, Lucius would have killed me and I couldn't leave Mother alone with him.

What kind of a life had this boy had?

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