A/N: Well, I spent the majority of the last day or so writing more of this story, and my sister spent a good hour editing (I have a chronic case of too many commas), so expect some fairly frequent updates!

I should have explained before chapter one, but the centaurs call her Cygna because when she was born, the constellation Cygnus was high in the sky, and they don't really want anyone who encounters her to know who she is. My sister also asked why I am doing this from Draco's POV, instead of Harry's, because she really wanted to know what being raised by centaurs was like. I dunno, maybe I'll do one from her POV later, but for now, I like the mystery it gives her.

I'm also toying with the idea of an eventual Harry/Draco pairing… opinions welcome, leave them in a review!

Shortly before they left for Diagon Alley to get school supplies for his second year, Draco overheard his parents talking.

His mother was asking his father if he regretted it, following him. His mother never used the names the rest of the wizarding world used; she just stressed the pronoun delicately, like she did with her pureblood lady friends when they gossiped about someone who'd done something scandalous.

"I do not regret my beliefs, Cissa," his father said. "But I do regret the lengths I went to. It was foolhardy, to risk so much."

"He told us, though," his mother said, soft and low, so quiet that Draco had to lean closer to the door to catch it. "He told us he couldn't really die, that he could… return."

His mother had sounded scared. Draco didn't like it. It made him feel scared, too, and Malfoys were never supposed to be afraid.

"He did say as much," his father had admitted easily. Draco's heart was pounding so hard he was surprised neither of his parents heard it. "But you know he entrusted me with the key to his resurrection, and I do not intend on using it. In fact, I mean to… dispose of it."

That was the end of the useful information; shortly afterward, he had heard the sounds of kissing, which was disgusting.

Then Draco had watched, later that morning, with sense of horror and dread, as his father slid a worn journal into the Weasley girl's cauldron. He just knew, without any other indication, that this was what he'd heard his father talking about. He couldn't get rid of the persistent cloud of worry that hung over his head on the way to school, but when weeks passed and nothing happened, he relaxed.

Until there were words written in blood on the walls, and a petrified Mrs. Norris, and Draco knew exactly what 'Heir of Slytherin' must mean, even if he'd never heard of the Chamber of Secrets.

This sounded like a problem for an adult to take care of, except there wasn't anyone he could tell. It was pretty unbelievable, in the first place, and it was difficult to explain without bringing up his father's involvement, and then his father would be in serious trouble. Crabbe and Goyle, even though they probably would believe him, were certainly too lunkheaded to be trusted with this kind of information, and he didn't trust anyone else at school.

And then, he realized there were two others he knew of who would believe him.

He went back to the forest during the daylight hours this time. He was hesitant to call out for the centaur; even though Firenze had seemed nice enough, it was never wise to assume that a centaur would be at his beck and call.

He only called Cygna's name twice before there was a faint rustling, and the girl herself dropped out of a tree above him.

"You're very loud," Cygna observed, leaning coolly against a tree trunk.

"Well, excuse me," said Draco, affronted. "I grew up in a proper house, not a forest."

The girl snorted. "Did you need something? Or are you just here to waste my time?"

Draco remembered what he'd ventured into the forest to ask and swallowed dryly.

"You-Know-Who," he said.

"Do I?" Cygna laughed.

"This isn't a joke," Draco seethed. "The Dark Lord is returning."

"What do I care?" Cygna said loftily. "I grew up in a forest, not a proper house."

"This is serious," Draco said. "There's - my father had a book, from - from him, and he gave it away, but now there's been an attack, threats against mudbloods. The Heir of Slytherin - that can only be one thing, see?"

Cygna looked at him, expressionless, for a moment.

"He will be back," the girl said slowly. "But not yet."

Draco cried. "What do you mean, not yet? Have the centaurs seen something?"

"The stars are not right," Cygna said calmly. "There is still time."

"But what are we going to do?"

"We? Nothing," Cygna scoffed. "You can do whatever you like."

"You don't even care," Draco said miserably.

"No, I do," Cygna said, her green eyes catching Draco's earnestly. "But it is too soon for me to be involved. Things will not go well if I enter Hogwarts now."

"Why?"

"It's a very long story," Cygna sighed. "And I don't feel like telling you."

Draco gaped at her, completely bewildered.

"I'd get that book out of the school before someone is killed," Cygna said, with a flash of green eyes. She pushed off the tree, and with a quiet clap, disappeared.

Draco's cry of, "What – and how?", was heard only by silent trees.

Draco had been hoping he'd get more constructive advice than 'you get rid of it', from Cygna. He spent a solid week sulking about it. Why was it up to him to figure out how to save the school? He was the Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team this year and he didn't have time for this!

He did, however, have a most interesting conversation with Crabbe and Goyle a few days later.

If the fact that he was actually having an intelligent discussion with them hadn't tipped him off, their very nervous behavior would have. He wasn't sure who was impersonating them, but they were trying to figure out if he was the heir to Slytherin. Draco could have laughed in their faces, and almost did.

But whoever was questioning him couldn't be expected to know that, he had to remind himself. Most of the wizarding world lived in blissful ignorance of the Dark Lord's ability to resurrect himself. He wouldn't have known, either, if he hadn't overheard his father.

He needed to get that book, and stop the attacks, but unfortunately, he couldn't go sauntering into the Gryffindor girls' dorm and take it from Weaselette's trunk.

Draco was at a total loss at how to continue. Perhaps he needed better friends than Crabbe and Goyle, he thought, that he might actually be able to bounce ideas off of. They wouldn't know an idea if it came spelled out in cupcakes.

He sighed dramatically, and despondently, as fake Crabbe and Goyle made their excuses and left, whatever spell or potion they'd used clearly wearing off.

It turned out the fakes were Weasley and Longbottom; he heard from a portrait on the second floor the next morning that Granger had mistakenly ingested Polyjuice that was contaminated with a cat's hair.

It wasn't a solution to his book problem, but it did cheer him up a bit.

It turned out he didn't need to break or sneak into anywhere.

He finally found it in, of all places, the girls' third floor bathroom.

Hardly anyone went in there, although Myrtle was actually a very good listener, if you had something to whine about. (Draco frequently did.) He didn't mind listening to her, either. Nobody else bothered to listen to her, not even most of the ghosts, but if you wanted gossip material, Myrtle was the one to go to.

Myrtle had been complaining about the firstie that came to her bathroom to cry, but never bothered to talk to her, for weeks. It wasn't until after he'd gone to the forest that she mentioned something else, too.

"Yes, because her little diary is so much more interesting, isn't it? I'm right here, and she just sits there crying and scribbling, and ignoring-"

"Her diary?"

"Yes, it's pathetic. I sulked very loudly in the u-bend of my toilet about it, while she was here, and she still couldn't even say hello!"

"Very rude," Draco agreed. "Did she have red hair?"

"Oh, how did you know? You don't have a crush, do you?" she said coquettishly, or, at least what she thought was coquettish. It was really quite off-putting, especially as she tried to lean closer to him.

"No," Draco said, sidling away while trying to not make it look like that was what he was doing.

"Well, you'd better check and make sure she doesn't have a crush on you," she giggled. "You really shouldn't go around breaking poor girls' hearts." Then she cackled, swooping through the air, and shot back into her toilet with a little splash.

It was quite clear that Myrtle would be perfectly fine with him breaking a few hearts, Draco thought, peering into the cubicle after her. Then he spotted it.

Perched innocently on the back of the toilet was the black diary his father had foisted off on the Weasley girl.

He snatched it, and then nearly dropped it, because it was sodden through. Myrtle appeared again, rising up from the toilet bowl, and rested her arms on the seat.

"Ooh," she giggled. "Read it aloud."

Draco peeled apart the pages, looking for where the Weasley girl had been writing. There was nothing. Not a single ink blot, stain, or any trace at all that anyone had ever written in it. He told Myrtle as much.

"Well, I'm sure I saw her writing in it. She must have used spelled ink," Myrtle sniffed. "How disappointing."

Draco ignored her, frowning down at the book in confusion. His father had said this book was the key. There were petrified people in the hospital wing as proof that something very dark was happening, and yet there was nothing here.

He was missing something, he knew it.

He just didn't know what.