To my dear Albie,
(my quill fairly trembles at the familiarity of the address; I must have tried a dozen variations of "Mr Potter," but to me that has always been your father - so you must forgive this presumption upon a long-neglected friendship–)
You surely find it a strange and unwelcome intrusion to hear from me after so many years. Had I your Gryffindoresque courage, this owl had come a decade sooner.
My father has completed his bequest and gone into self-imposed exile, leaving me the sole heir of House Malfoy. I assumed my ancestral seat a fortnight ago.
It is strange to be back in the place of one's childhood. A flood of memories overtakes me. I recall what a peculiar child I was, alone and silent. But then, my parents were not fond of company either. The three of us, and the manor staff, made a whole world unto ourselves.
I recall also being torn from the darkness and safety of the manor and thrust into Hogwarts against my will. And how you were the first person I met who did not recoil from my name and likeness.
One day in fifth year we sat by the Great Lake. The other students were boating or flying or playing Quidditch on the lawns, screaming and roughhousing. But you didn't think it strange that I was quiet, tracing lines in my journal. You just sat with me, and we watched brown and amber and golden leaves flaking from the branches, twirling in the air, descending in great spirals to plunge into the water.
I asked if you believed a family could be cursed. And that was when you confessed to me that you feared how unlike your father you were. How you wondered what effect it might have had on him, being made a Horcrux for so many years. If Dark Magic could bleed into the soul, and be passed on through the generations, poisoning one's character.
A preposterous suggestion to anyone who knew you, of course.
I find myself thinking of those days now, alone in this manor. How gauche, and how in character for a Malfoy, to complain of a ridiculously generous inheritance. In truth I intended to sell the entire estate and be rid of it. Why should I hold onto the legacy of such a bloodsoaked family?
Yet the longer I stay here, the more I feel the place has a hold on me. A malaise overhangs the entire property. I feel listless, unable to work up the will to do anything, despite the peculiar goings-on I have observed. I find myself unravelling, memories and names blurring together, portraits of dead ancestors mingling with the faces of the living. Some days I hardly know myself.
Pray excuse my rambling. Your aunt somewhat pointedly observed to me that you were underemployed, and that some country air might do you good. I will quite understand if you toss this parchment away after sparing a smile for our boyhood days and shaking your head at my sentimentality.
Whether you choose to honour me with your company, or never think of me again,
I remain your grateful friend and devoted servant,
Scorpius "the Hype" Malfoy.