The music swelled into an upsurging crescendo, a current of colour and sound, as the pianist reached his peak. His final notes absorbed by the emergence of polite society paying their respects to his haunting number. The Maestro supplied an eloquent bow before resuming his position as entertainment provider for the evening.

One glance around the room would make it clear that this was a social event of considerable proportions. Young girls flittered about the expansive rooms looking shiny and polished in their finely stitched dress robes. Their doe-eyed expressions had been the down fall of many a rich wizard.

These aforementioned men had arrived in droves; prepared to share the fruits of their business acumen, to network, but also in the hopes of partaking in the decadent delights on offer. It was truly an opulent affair.

The soft light from the crystal chandeliers glowed romantically as it reflected off the highly polished mahogany boards; tickled the rims of the exquisite hand-made Elvin glassware from which the many beautiful debutantes sipped. Lush fabrics draped the vast walls and the ornate ceiling hypnotised those stray gazes, which would wander upwards to take in its beauty.

However, one young man was alas, not held captive by the sights and sounds before him.

Draco Malfoy watched the scene with no little amount of wonder. Indeed, it was all very familiar to him and yet he was unsure as to whether he had ever felt quite so out of place before.

Apparently, many of the young, covetous witches whose coquettish smiles indicated their intrigue and their interest did not quite agree. As a young and virile (he hoped) young man, he knew his own interest should have been piqued - but it was not. This too made him wonder.

He had spent the entire evening fielding the questions of curious minds and eager gossips asking after his health, both mental and physical. Of the latter, he asserted that he was indeed in good health, of the former he did not deign to respond.

The young man had managed to escape their vulture-like circles and had proceeded to observe from a secluded and darkened corner toward the back of the room, determined to find where in this cluster of indulgent personas he fit.

Draco was shaken from his inner sanctum by the light touch of a hand to his shoulder, a feminine touch. He turned his weary gaze to the girl: Pansy Parkinson. He raised a brow expectantly.

The slender girl sighed as she sat down next to him. There was a pregnant pause, as she appeared to be considering her words.

'Draco,' she tilted her head upward and a river of shiny dark hair fell across her shoulder, 'I don't even know what to say to you.' She smiled then, a saddened smile. 'I won't say I know what you're going through, I don't. But I… I want to, I suppose, is what I am trying to say.'

He turned his head to look at her properly and noted the moisture building in her cloudy blue gaze.

'I don't want to push or anything, but with your mother… the manor must be quite lonely. Just come and see me if you need to. Or I could come see you, just let me know okay?' She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek and he nodded.

Then he left, needing to escape the claustrophobia of what had apparently been his old life.

Only a few moments later Draco stalked through the doorway of his bedchamber, slamming the heavy door closed behind him. He felt caught up in his exhaustion, his frustration. He was drowning in his own torrent of conflicting thoughts and emotions and questions. So many questions and so few answers - so few real answers.

He felt like an artist's initial sketch. He was, at present, the two dimensional portrait of a man. No form, no flesh. He felt as though he had been existing for the last week with absolutely no purpose. It stops now.

He pounded his fist against the door, clenching his jaw as he ignored the surge of pain, which ripped through his forearm.

The young man stood there for several moments, breathing, before he stood upright and gazed sharply around the immense open space of the room. His gaze keen as it absorb the various armoires, wardrobes and other potential hiding places. He was searching for clues, for some hint at the void that now stood between who he was and whom he had been.

He started with the large, antiquated armoire in the far corner of the room. It had been one of his mother's favourite furnishings. Narcissa had loved the ornate carvings and smooth dark whorls. However, Draco had very little interest in its sentimental value at that precise moment. He checked through drawer after drawer, sifting through varied pieces of parchment all of no apparent importance.

Draco stilled for a moment and glanced up from the papers in his hand. Photos. He gazed around his room. There were no photos. Not a single one in his entire room. He felt hollow with the realisation.

Nevertheless, he renewed his search, moving away from the treacherously empty armoire to his wardrobe. This time, however, he did find something to intrigue him. A large leather trunk which had been pushed back into the far recesses of the wardrobe, ignored it would seem, for months.

He hauled the heavy inventory toward the edge of the bed, and sat eager to peruse. The lid came off leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Coughing at the powdery residue, he reached for the black fabric of his school robe, which had lain across the top of his belongings. Draco gingerly ran his fingers over the material, as though he were hoping to absorb the memories it contained with a mere touch.

He turned it over within his grip when his thumb brushed something hard beneath the fabric. Shifting the robe once more, he found the peculiar item pinned to the lapel. It was the Head Boy badge. He smoothed a finger over its shiny surface and felt an odd twinge engulf him. Draco stared hard at the small pin, knowing it to be a clue to something he desperately sought to find.

Gazing suspiciously at it one more time, he placed the robe on the bed before turning his attention once more to the trunk.

He found books in abundance. Texts for potions and transfiguration and charms all worn and used. Pages curling at the edges, a result of constant thumbing. Glancing back down he noticed another book, one he did not recognise. It was lodged carefully into the side of the trunk, almost as though it had been crammed in at the last moment. The black leather binding was soft, from hands constantly smoothing over the cover, he imagined.

As he flipped the mystery book over he noticed a lock and growled in frustration. Draco was just about to hurl it across the room when he took a closer look. It was silver filigree - very unusual for a lock, and not at all practical.

His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he fumbled for the key locket he had taken to wearing beneath his robes. According to his mother who had eyed it rather distastefully, it held no magical properties and that she was unaware as to how he had come to wear it in the first place.

Draco had, despite her protests, decided to keep it close. He may have been unsure of its purpose but had been very keen to find out. It appeared as though he was just about to.

Yanking the small chain from around his neck, he leaned over, allowing several overlong locks to fall gracefully across his eyes. He was quite unsure as to why his stomach was rife with the tingling sensations of nervousness and anticipation - in equal parts.

Fumbling clumsily with the lock, he felt it click. Draco hurriedly flipped to the inscription page and blinked.

Dear Draco,

An inscription to himself in someone else's handwriting had not been what he had anticipated. And it looked to be a girl's penmanship, no less. Eyes of darkened ash traced the neatly curved loops of the very feminine handwriting without actually absorbing the words.

Realising this when they spotted a few highly conspicuous words, Draco raked his gaze up and began to read it properly.

Mere moments later, when his gaze had hungrily traced the last curve of ink, he felt dizzy. His heart was racing as he stared at the page in disbelief. Love? She spoke of love? His mind buzzed with questions. Who was this unusual character with the perfect handwriting? Better yet, how could what he read be true?

Draco Malfoy may not have been in reign of all his proper faculties, but he was quite sure that he would recall something, anything that would verify her words. If it were real, would he not have remembered it? Would he not recall her taste and smell? He recalled nothing.

Despite his own questionable recollections, would someone else not have told him he had a girlfriend? In fact, would she not have been by his side?

He was truly bewildered.

Oh, he remembered having girls; their lithe and lissom bodies rolling with his in the dorm rooms; experimenting down by the Black Lake. But love?

Yet even in the midst of his incredulity and his cynicism, Draco knew that something in his life had changed him before that night. Something that caused him to view his world so differently to the way he had been brought up to.

And so he chose to turn to the next page of what was clearly this girl's journal.

Draco kicked off his shoes and arranged himself comfortably on the bed before he began to read.

September 3rd,

I suppose I should begin with an introduction as I am not quite sure how one writes in a journal. This (or should I say 'you'? Well that does sound a bit ridiculous since you are a Diarynot an actual person) was a gift from my parents for becoming Head Girl, something to record my thoughts and experiences in, I suppose. To be perfectly honest I have always found journals to be overrated and more than a little self-indulgent. It is not as though I can get any emotional feedback for what I write in here. How and ever I shall strive to do my best - as always.

Draco shook his head in a combination of disbelief and amusement at the inane ramblings of what was apparently the Head Girl - his counterpart, he thought, as he recalled the badge.

It is only our third night back at the castle and already the work is mounting. Why, just yesterday, I was discussing the transfiguration essay we received from Professor McGonagall and she said it was imperative to…

Draco unconsciously raised a brow whilst simultaneously rolling his eyes. Who in the name of Merlin was this 'Hermione' character? His eyes were glazing over after reading almost a page long documentary on the benefits of extra reading to one's studies.

He scanned the pages listlessly before he spotted something of interest:

…is not Head Boy material. Who in their right mind would appoint him over Ernie Macmillan or at the very least, one of the Ravenclaws? Draco Malfoy is a self-absorbed prat without the substance to justify his arrogance. The staff knows what he is like, what his family is like. He will no doubt graduate from Hogwarts straight into the Academy of Death Eaters - with honours. The wizarding world would be a far better place without that family of Pureblood puritans.

Infuriated, Draco threw the book across the room, gasping in a lungful of air with the sole aim being to calm his blood pressure.

He felt weak and sickened at the same time. Who the fuck is she?