Love Under Will

Love Under Will

Part One: Transeamus

Chapter 13: Four letters

Left you last night on the left coast

Writing you a letter right now

The things that you do render in you

Something I can´t live without

Maybe, maybe, I´ve got a pulse now--maybe my heart´s on fire

But a bird in a hand is worth a bird in a cage is worth a bird on a telephone wire

Left you last night on the left hand

Of the land of the free-to-be-burned

The heat of your touch is making it such

That I´ve forgotten everything I´ve learned

Maybe, maybe, I´ve got a problem--maybe my heart´s a liar

But a bird in the hand is worth a bird in a cage is worth a bird on a telephone wire

Left you last night on the left half of the bed,

The half that used to be mine

The way that you sleep is the image I keep

Always on the edge of my mind

Maybe, maybe, you are the only one, my heart´s desire

But a bird in the hand is worth a bird in a cage is worth a bird on a telephone wire

And I may be a bird in a cage,

But at least it´s your cage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

4 October, 1977

--This week´s house password: jelly legs.

--Number of Gryffindor house points: 135 (it was 160, but Sirius Black and James Potter got caught lifting Unbreakable Glue from the storage closet last night. At least it was McGonagall and not Filch who caught them. I think they were going to go through with that dare Frank Longbottom made them to glue Snape to his chair in Herbology.)

--Item of interest: Meredith Galworthy has her eye on Frank L. and is quite adamant that he likes her too, despite the fact that his eye is continually turned towards Joanna Banks. I think he and Joanna would be an awfully cute couple--but not as sweet as people think Peter and I are together, of course. But then, what couple can ever compare to the happiness each person claims for their own?

...not that things have been perfect lately--but more on that in a bit...

--Gryffindor trounced Slytherin this evening at Quidditch--I of course say Gryffindor, when I really mean that Cynthia Finch beat Flint to the Snitch--but actually everyone played exceptionally well. It was a good match, and the Slytherin captain actually looked satisfied after it was over because the match was so close. I guess that´s because Cynthia is nearly unbeatable in good weather--she´s improved her playing so much since last year, and seems quite proud of herself. I´ll almost miss not being around to watch her play next year. Hecate granting I graduate, that is!

I´ll also miss watching him play, too. He gets such a look in his eyes--it was one of the first things I noticed about him long ago--that determination. It´s so... I don´t know. Every inch the Gryffindor. And yes, Lily Evans joins the throng of female students who´ve taken a fancy to him. I swear, it´s just because he´s so bleeding quiet and shy. It´s the whole fact of his being tall, dark, and mysterious. I don´t even know him. And he´s one of Peter´s closest friends, and...

And anyway, I don´t think that incident last year in the library was important. We were just talking--I mean, how likely is it that he´d start dropping hints to a girl when he barely speaks three words to anyone who isn´t Sirius or Remus--

--At least, not this girl, that is.

It´s just one of those harmless little crushes. It´ll pass. Peter has been so attentive lately--holding my hand everywhere, whispering in my ear, giving me little presents--he does know how to make a girl feel special.

(Okay, to be fully honest, it makes me feel awkward and smothered, but that stays between you and me.)

He´s so sweet, Peter--his mother sent me a copy of the Crucible last week because he´d mentioned to her that I was doing my report on Muggle perceptions of witches. I don´t think I´d´ve ever known where to find something like that otherwise--I am so sadly under-read in the area of Muggle literature since coming to Hogwarts, beyond a lot of Roald Dahl and Madeleine L´Engle--and of course Jane Austen, but then everybody reads Jane Austen--there just isn´t much I´ve read. I have a feeling that play was about a lot more than the witch hunts it described, but I´m so shady on American history--even though it was only 20 years ago.

It´s so infuriating. I´ll never be the kind of witch I want to be at this rate. I mean, honestly, and Professor McGonagall agrees with me--how are we supposed to be well-rounded when they don´t even have a Muggle Studies class here? Think of all the things we still need to learn about their culture, their beliefs! No wonder witches and wizards are still persecuted today--they know as little about their attackers as the Muggles do about us. It´s absolutely ridiculous. When I´m an Auror I´ll make sure they know how I feel on this issue. I´d like so much to help be responsible for the creation of a Muggle studies course--maybe even a department at the Ministry!

What was I talking about? Oh, yes. Peter.

Peter--he´s seemed really distant lately. Just, a little preoccupied. But I really don´t know what´s wrong. The N.E.W.T.S. aren´t till April, and his family´s all doing fine as far as I know. But then again, he never tells me anything. We don´t really talk. He´s very quiet, and I don´t really find that I have that much to say, lately. To him, or anybody. Maybe I´m overreacting. These days, the shadow of Voldemort is hovering over us all. Maybe I´m just imagining things, and the tension between Peter and me is just my own stress. But I can´t help feeling that there´s something completely different going on here.

And I´m just not smart enough to figure out what.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

21 December 1995

Malfoy Manor

It´s odd, isn´t it? How you can notice so many things about a person without even trying? I, for instance, can see you where you sit reading this--you´re lounging in one of the huge armchairs in your posh common room--they´ve always spoiled you Gryffindors silly--or lying in bed on your stomach with your legs bent over your back. Either way, you´re wearing that stupid oversized burgundy flannel shirt that never has fit you and never will--but you´re comfortable in it and no one´s around to give you disparaging looks about it, so you wear it anyway. (Well, Granger is, but my guess is that ever since our nice little public brouhaha yesterday you´ve been avoiding her and her inevitable barrage of questions.)

You´ll sit up and push your glasses up on your nose, and your forehead will crease for a second in that look of surprise you always get whenever you get a letter, because for some reason you never expect anyone to actually write to you. At first you´ll think it´s another letter from Voldemort and you´ll think about throwing it away; but then your eye will seize upon the handwriting and you´ll know instinctively that it´s from me. Never mind that we´ve really never paid attention to one another´s handwriting. All those times we were partnered in Potions we were more likely to look anywhere but at each other, unless it was to glare--much less to stare at each other´s handwriting. I never asked you if you felt anything back then. I didn´t--nothing but hate. But I thought about hating you constantly; and somewhere in all that time I must have memorised the way you wrote--the way you scrunch up your o´s and a´s and draw out your e´s and r´s, and turn everything possible into a loop: d´s, b´s, p´s, t´s, i's. And the way that one lock of hair always flops down over your right eyebrow whenever you bend to write or read--I can see all that now, without even trying.

What I can´t see in my mind is how you´ll react when you realise that this letter is from me; whether you´ll be surprised or angry or alarmed or offended. I´d like to think you´ll be relieved--that I´ve written first, that I´ve written at all--but maybe that´s just me being wistful. With anyone else I´d just leave them alone and let things blow over, but I can´t do that with you. I doubt you wanted to hear from me quite this soon, maybe; you´ve probably spent all day festering, thinking through everything that happened, and knowing you, you weren´t done being mad yet. You´ll probably just get pissed off reading this--if you choose to read it at all.

I don´t want you to be mad. I don´t like the idea of you festering and letting your anger with me grow. Purely selfish of me, but there it is. But I don´t know what to say to you. I don´t know what to do to appease you, or change this between us. I know you´ve been thinking about it incessantly ever since it happened. So have I. I wanted to write you as soon as I got back to the Manor yesterday, but I didn´t have a chance--my father left this morning for the Netherlands, and my mother is planning a grand shopping trip to London tomorrow for last-minute Christmas presents, so the household was in a whirlwind of preparations. I´m to go with her and the whole sodding entourage of house-elves tomorrow. I hope this owl will have reached you by then, so I can occupy myself properly with wondering how you´ll take what I have to say, and not waste precious mental space worrying if you´ve received this letter at all.

I feel like I´m supposed to be making a speech. I´m good at making speeches. But they don´t feel right, somehow, when they´re directed at you.

When this first began, you told me you didn´t want to change me. I believed you then, and I believe it now; but as much as you´ve tried, I think you might have changed me in your mind a bit--or at least chosen to pretend like the ugly parts of me weren´t really that ugly. You can´t see Draco Malfoy, the child of Lucius Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy, the boy who likes to give you bite marks in odd places, as the same person. You may think you can--but really, you want me to be a nice cuddly version of cold, cruel, and callous--something you can hold in your arms and still understand, even if you disapprove of it. But I can´t do that: I don´t work that way; my family doesn´t work that way. Why do you think it´s so difficult to find an example of a warm, loving Malfoy on the record books? It takes serious cultivation and breeding to be able to snuff out goodness like so many flickering candles. My family--even the Manor itself--is as effective in that regard as a room without oxygen.

I wish you could see the Manor. In the winter my mother has the entire place done up in Christmas lights, inside and out. The lights are enchanted so that whatever the onlooker´s favourite colour may be, they see that colour when they look at them. (The first year she did it, my Uncle Edgar got terribly upset after drinking too much cranberry cordial and tried to burn down the Christmas tree. Later he claimed he was only trying to light Christmas candles, but couldn´t see what he was doing because all of the Christmas lights were black.) It´s twilight right now. If you were to look out my window, you´d see white-gold lights strung all around the lake and shimmering in layers in the willow trees like frozen fireflies--iceflies? The snow will have covered everything by now, and the silence will be so deafening and so thin you´d be afraid to move, lest you crack through it and the world awoke around you. The difference between the silence at Malfoy Manor and the winter silence anywhere else in the world is that, at the Manor, there is no world to awake. It´s just you and the night; and everything that lives around you slumbers in an impenetrable solitude that nothing, not even Spring, ever really awakens.

You would find this beautiful, I think.

This morning my father left on a very secretive recruitment and organisation mission for the Black Order--that´s the name that I´ve given them in my mind. I am not supposed to be aware of this, nor am I supposed to have knowledge of their whereabouts, even though it seems to me to be patently obvious; but then, you´ve already seen that even with blinders on I can find my bearings.

My father will be meeting with people of all ages--some the same age as, maybe even younger than you and me. From them he will exact oaths and declarations of loyalty to Your Enemy. He will prepare them to fight, and murder, and relentlessly strike out against any who oppose them. He views these training, this initiation, as the highest honour that can be bestowed on anyone--at least, he does outwardly. How he really feels about his missions is anyone´s guess; but he is dedicated to them, and to his master´s service.

From his son, however, he asks only silence, secrecy, and that I obey him in all things, unquestionably. In addition to this, I believe he prefers me to stay as far out of his way as possible. He thinks me incompetent, incapable, unequipped, or perhaps just unworthy, of serving the Black Order. He would, I think, like nothing better than to be rid of me; To him I am roughly equivalent to one of the rose gardens on our estate: pleasing to look at, cause for mild admiration, but expensive and unprofitable in the maintenance and upkeep.

Before you start saying that my father´s disinterest in me is a blessing in disguise, let me assure you that I care as little for him as he does for me. But he is a Malfoy; and as a Malfoy he deserves certain treatment from me, even if he doesn´t believe me capable of making my family proud. The Malfoys have but one unspoken rule as a family: namely, to be loyal to the Malfoy name, come what may. You will see, if you look through the family history, generations of Malfoys who have hated, resented, ridiculed one another within family circles; yet never did their hatred extend as far as betrayal, nor their animosity venture into the public eye. To betray another Malfoy was, and is, to betray every Malfoy.

I will not be the one to break my family´s tradition of solidarity. Someday my father will know just how much he has underestimated me. But until then, if I even once show fear or hesitation in doing what he asks of me, in private, let alone in public, I sever the one unbreakable bond between us: the bond of our family name. My position as a Malfoy ensures that, whatever differences stand between my father and myself, I will have his support and sanction in all things. This credo is the hallmark of our power: our security that we may always depend on one another. As long as we have that, no harm ever has or will befall us. As long as we bear the Malfoy name, it is the hallmark of who we are--who I am. This is how it is, and how I will it to be. It doesn´t matter that my father thinks me unworthy: I obey him because I am loyal, and because he is a Malfoy. It is the only thing I have to rely on. If I were to disobey him, even once, then I would lose that; and moreover, in losing his respect, I would shame my family.

I will not do that, for you, or anyone. I don´t expect you to understand or appreciate the value of obedience to a name that you have grown to detest. I am well aware that to you my family represents darkness. We see differently on that score. I´m not ashamed of my name or what it represents, in any way. It is that name that made me who I am; and you can´t deny that you at least like that aspect of things a little.

I cannot give you an apology, Harry. I can´t, and I won´t, because to apologise for my loyalty to my family would be tantamount to denying them. And even though hurting you is the last thing I would willingly do--I think, maybe, the very last thing I would ever want--I can´t give you any other answer. Harry, you want me to choose sides, or so you say; but are you really ready to force that choice before it´s necessary? Yesterday, I told you things would be all right, and I meant it. I know my father: he will not ask me to serve Voldemort. He hardly believes me capable of serving myself. I had hoped to keep my family away from this, from us--but I can´t do it alone; you have to help me. You have to trust that being loyal to my father doesn´t mean I am any less happy being with you.

Speaking of which--I was going to end by telling you in explicit detail what kind of sex I want when we get back, but I guess now that I´ve depressed the hell out of you, I´ll just hit you up for a blow job. See? I can make compromises, too.

--D.

P.S. Haven´t brought myself to open the book yet. So far I just caress the cover and stare at it. It´s a wonderful present. You idiot.

--D.

~~~~~~~~

December 23, 1995

You didn´t think it´d be that easy, did you, Malfoy?

Do you think one letter and an `I miss you´ would make me feel better and make things all right again? You were holding Voldemort´s seal in your hand. You could have gotten someone killed, even yourself, and you´re acting like it was no big deal, like you don´t even care. And before you start in with the `my family´ crap, you should know I have nothing against your family--it´s your father I don´t trust. Malfoy or not, I don´t care--he´d sell you out in a heartbeat if it would get him something he wanted. He doesn´t care about you, and it makes me sick to watch you making excuses for him and hiding behind family loyalty. I don´t care how much you respect family pride and all that, your father is cruel and ruthless. He´s never done anything as far as I can tell to make the Malfoys look good, so why should you have to bend over backwards doing what he tells you and acting like blind obedience is something to be proud of?

You´re bloody well right I´m still angry. No, I´m not going to just let this blow over, you were right about that. Do you even care? Do you even care that your father could have had you hand me an envelope full of Living Death, or a portkey to Bulgaria or Alaska or God knows where? Or are you just pacified because you managed to look good in front of your father, in public? Is that really what matters to you most? I don´t care about me, I don´t mean that I ought to mean more to you than he does--but what he stands for, who he´s loyal to--do you really want to be a part of that? This isn´t about you and me anymore. You heard Ginny screaming in horror that day, and I know it bothered you as much as it did me. Don´t you see that every time you obey your father and carry out an order and watch him persecute people you´re acting with him? You´re not blind to his faults--I know you´re not. You don´t try to deny the fact that he´s a heartless bastard--and yes, I´m going to tell you how I feel because you´re not around to stop me, and even if you were I´d say it anyway because you need to hear it. I hate your father. I hate him almost as much as I hate Voldemort, and you don´t want to know how much that is. I haven´t let myself think about the fact that you´re his son or what that might mean, because when I´m with you it doesn´t matter. When I´m with you nothing matters, it´s like there´s not even a war and we can just be us without any of that hanging over us.

But then when we´re in public you do things like that trick you pulled on Wednesday morning in the Great Hall, and you only do it because of him and it makes me ill, Draco, because he´s not worth it, and it´s not who I know you are. I never wanted to change you--I never even wanted you to change yourself. You´re wrong. I know now that I liked you the way you were even when you were a cold and snivelling little prick, because that was all part of an act, and as long as I knew it was an act I could buy into it and I could appreciate the fact that you weren´t always like that. But not anymore. Now there´s no way you can tell me you´re just a messenger, not when your father is using you to hand-deliver messages from Voldemort and you´re not batting an eye. You deserve better than that. You deserve to be respected as you are, not as a henchman like your father. But you seem to think that´s a thing to be desired, and you know what, Malfoy? I hate it. I hate it for you and I hate your father because of it and I hate you because of it. You´re putting the opinion of somebody who doesn´t even really care about you above the respect of somebody who does. And if that´s the way it´s going to be, fine, but don´t think you can have it both ways. You can´t keep mine and your father´s respect too, not as long as you think earning his respect means being his lackey for Voldemort. I´m not asking you to choose between him or me, or between the Malfoy family and me. I don´t want you to have to give up your family, not for me or Voldemort or anything. I just want you to stop being such a puppet and start deciding for yourself which side you´re on, and why.

I don´t think you´re a Death Eater. I just don´t.

I´ve been avoiding Hermione ever since it happened. Since the others went home I just kept the door to the 5th-year boys´ dorm locked, and so far she´s knocked, but hasn´t magicked it open. I don´t know what to tell her or what she suspects anymore. It´s not like I can just say, hey, Hermione, I´m shagging Slytherin--oh, but it´s okay, he´s only a bastard when people are around. You know, before two days ago I would have been proud if I´d had to tell anyone about us. I think you know that. I mean, I thought--under the circumstances and all, I thought we did really well together. Now I don´t know. Are you going to have orders from Voldemort next time I see you? Maybe a nice melodramatic black tattoo? It´s fucking ridiculous. We got away with too much I guess, for a little while, and now that´s done and I don´t know what to tell Hermione--or what you want me to say to you. Yes, I´m pissed off. No, I´m not sure what to do next--but I know we´ve put things off for long enough. Yes, I miss you. And I do wish I were there with you. I´d really like to see your house--it sounds really pretty and really nice. I´d like to kiss you just once in front of all the family portraits, and I´d like to shag you rotten on your father´s bed. I wish I could say I missed you too much to be angry with you, but I can´t. I´m mad, and I miss you, and I wish I could touch you too, and I want to hit you.

My mum´s diary isn´t what I thought it´d be like. She was seventeen or so I guess when she was writing it. It´s weird. She sounds like my age. And the really big thing--she didn´t date my dad through Hogwarts like the way I thought they did after all. Hagrid told me they dated, but nobody bothered to tell me that before she dated my dad, my mum dated somebody else. You know who she dated, Draco? As you put it so well, that little rat that screwed over my mum and dad. She dated Peter Pettigrew.

I´m so mad at everything I feel like I could take the world and crack it open and rip it right down the middle and crumble it into dust. Don´t make me hate you that way, Draco. You want me to trust that things will be all right. What if I can´t because every time I start to believe in people I find out shit like this that makes it impossible to believe in anything ever again? Don´t make me hate you. Don´t make me have to push you away or I swear I´ll never forgive you for it. I don´t care if you keep supporting your father, I don´t care if you decide you can´t do this anymore--I reckon I wouldn´t blame you if you did--but don´t stay with me and turn me over to him while I sleep. Hate me or join me, but do something. I can´t guarantee that I would be able to let you go free the way I let Wormtail escape. Don´t make me hate you. Please.

I don´t really know what else to say for now, except--I´m only wearing this shirt because the house-elves do the Gryffindor laundry today, and it´s my laundry shirt. Really, Draco. You´re such a ponce.

--H.

~~~~~~~~

24 December, 1995

Dear Harry,

I hope you´re doing better. You´re probably wondering why I´m sending you an owl. I just wanted to see if everything was okay, and also--Harry, I´ve been so worried ever since that morning--you know, the day we left. Something´s been bothering me, and I wasn´t sure whether I should say anything to anyone. Usually when I even so much as hint at something being wrong the family goes into hysterics and starts treating me like I´m ten. So I finally decided to write you because--well, I just wanted to know what you thought. Please don´t think I´m crazy.

It´s just that--that day in the Great Hall, later, after we were on the train, Ron told me I´d been screaming my head off. But the thing is I don´t remember screaming. I only remember feeling like something horrible was going to happen--and not just horrible, but--but evil. I know that doesn´t help much, but that´s what it felt like--like something evil had come to us, and no one was doing anything to stop it. Like--whenever you accidentally walk through Peeves or Nearly Headless Nick in the corridors--you know, that icy feeling all over? Now imagine that same feeling and imagine being surrounded by total thick darkness--the kind that´s so thick you can just feel it. That´s what it was like. It´s the only way I can describe it.

And--you know when it happened? It happened the moment Malfoy pulled his wand on Fred. I don´t even remember much after that. I just remember seeing everything and feeling that awful blackness all around, and I don´t know what it means, but please, Harry, do try and stay away from Malfoy! He´s dangerous and cruel and who knows what kind of curses he knows? I´m so worried. That awful icky feeling didn´t go away until Malfoy put his wand away, and even afterwards I still felt ill. Just--I--Harry, please be careful!

--And have a Merry Christmas.

Sincerely,

Ginny

~~~~~~~~

26 December 1995

Malfoy Manor

Listen, Potter.

You don´t even realise what a blind sodding hypocrite you´re being even when your own words are staring you in the face, do you? Your world is entrenched in so much black and white you can´t realise you´re the biggest grey area of all. You dare me to think for myself, and then say you don´t think I´m cut out to be a Death Eater. What if I were? Did you ever think about that? Did you ever stop to consider the possibility that maybe I could look at you and point that wand you hate so much right at you, and mutter those pretty little words that sent your parents to their grave? You´ve never let yourself consider it. You won´t. It´s high time you started, because maybe then you´ll have a sodding clue how fucking hard it is for me to be with you and know that who I am is nothing, that I can be nothing to you, until I´ve made some kind of fucking choice--and what does that really mean anyway? Just that I´ve chosen a side, but will that make me any different? Any less convinced that muggles ought not to be allowed anywhere near magic? You think I´ll be any less able to kill you if I´ve chosen to deny my family? You think I think this is a game. You think I idolise my family. You think--I don´t know what you think. You say you don´t want me to be in blind service to my father, but I know you, Harry Potter. You´d much rather accept blind servitude than face the fact that maybe, just maybe, I might want, consciously want, to be there with him. Not because I like him at all--I hate him more than you do--but because I want the same things he wants. Power. Victory. The chance to see Purebloods regain their position in our society instead of being pushed aside and decried as old-fashioned snobs while all the mudbloods and muggle-lovers invade and take over our culture and change our heritage into something dirty and disgraceful.

You knew this was how I felt. And if that means watching Voldemort kill a few Muggles along the way to bringing Purebloods back into power, why should I care? Why should I stop to think twice about that? Why should I grow what you call a conscience about wanting all those things? Believe me, it takes a hell of a lot more backbone to commit to a goal like Voldemort´s and be willing to follow it through to its bloodiest conclusion, than to hide behind a self-righteous façade of peace and harmony while you continue to let our society degenerate into a mockery of the ideals it used to have. Muggle Studies and that disgusting Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department at the Ministry--the fact that we even need a department like that is just more proof of how lazy we´ve become, how willing we are to let muggles create our world for us instead of using our gifts to make our world for ourselves.

I don´t want anybody to create my world or my life for me, but me. Not Voldemort. Not my father. Not you. Except that you want me to make a choice I´m not ready to make, and I can´t stop feeling guilty about it because you seem to think that on either end of that choice is a wand at your throat, and who knows, maybe there is. Maybe one day Voldemort will decide that the only way he can get to you is through me, and there I´ll be, stuck in the middle, and you know what? I don´t know what I´d do if that happened. I don´t know. I would like to think I´d be courageous and bold and noble and display the proper dose of Malfoy pride--but that doesn´t help me know what I´d choose. Not then. I can´t know, how can I? I´ve been raised to think that the Dark Lord wants my services about as much as he wants a run-in with a pack of angry giants. I´m fifteen years old and I´m still trying to get my brain to bend far enough to accept the fact that I have a boyfriend, much less the fact that I´m having boyfriend issues because he thinks the issue of whether I have a tattoo on my arm is a matter of Mortal Peril. I can´t do it, Harry. I wish I could, if it would make you happy--I wish I could give you everything you lost, everything you need, everything you want, anything--but what if I lied? What if I made a mistake? What if I tell you one thing only to find later that I want the complete opposite? If you can´t take the idea of not knowing what I´ll choose in the end, I´ll understand, but do you honestly think I would risk making a decision over this now when there´s a chance--a chance, mind you--that I might choose and then lose you, only to realise later that I lost you over the wrong choice?

I can´t keep you from hating me--I hope you realise that. For obvious reasons I don´t want that to happen--what am I saying? -- of course I don´t want you to hate me. But I don´t know what it will take to get you to realise what you´re asking me to do.

In choosing to deny my father and refusing to support the Dark Lord, I would become the first member of the Malfoy family to betray the family since Malcolm Malfoy, who lived during the time of the French Revolution. Our cousins, the French family Malfoi, made a little trip to the Manor around the summer of 1790; they asked my (insert a long string of "greats" here) grandfather, Alexander, for asylum while they searched for a new residence in England. What they were really after was the chance to organise meetings between English and French Wizard Purebloods, who were involved in a secret plot to put down the French rebellion and establish a new Wizarding order. Alexander Malfoy agreed to harbour them, but his eldest son, Malcolm, a progressive who had been involved in a secret counter-society of wizards and muggles, went to them and denounced his relatives. He then led them to the Manor to arrest the Frenchmen, where suddenly, without warning, the muggles started to attack my family. Malcolm managed to bring his youngest brother, Henry, to safety--but the rest of the family were slaughtered. Afterwards these men Malcolm had trusted set fire to the Manor. Today in certain wings of the castle, you can still see the scorched stone.

Malcolm was outcast by everyone. His name became synonymous with `traitor.´ Even Henry wanted no part of him and left England after seeing the way Malcolm was being treated, vowing that he would have the revenge Malcolm couldn´t deliver. Malcolm performed the Killing Curse on himself one year to the day after what became known as the Manor Massacre occurred. To this day, his name is considered a curse among my family. Some time later Henry returned to England and led a backlash against muggles that was so fierce and so bloody he became known as the Dragon of Malfoy Manor. It is because of him that the Malfoy name became ultimately stronger than ever, and also synonymous with anti-muggle sentiment. He took care to see that it was a carefully cultivated tradition. It is him for whom I am named.

The moral of this little tale is the fate of Malcolm Malfoy. His decision to betray his father and his family loyalties cost them their lives--and for what? He was looked on, not as a hero, but as a traitor to his kind. He never even got a chance to make amends. It didn´t matter to anyone else that he regretted his decision. Once he made that choice, there was no going back.

Do you really think it will be any different for me? You know that it won´t be. And I´m not ready to commit to something like that. To commit to you, that´s different--but not to everything around you. Not to choosing sides in a war.

My grandmother, the Catholic one, used to insist that I accompany her to mass every other Sunday. Her name was Althea. She was my mother´s stepmother, the second wife of my grandfather Desmond. They lived with us in the castle for a time when my grandfather fell into poor health. After he died, my father procured a private house for her near the castle, but she didn´t take it. I never understood why. She hated the Manor. I know she did. Once I asked her why she stayed here if she disliked it so much, and she just arched an eyebrow at me and said, "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage."

She hated to fly. And she hated to floo even worse--can´t blame her--so we´d take the largest Malfoy carriage. Once coming home from the mass the carriage hit a rut, and my grandmother´s locket came unclasped and fell off. I bent to pick it up and it fell open; inside it was a daguerreotype, you know, one of those tinted picture things before they had photographs--of Malcolm Malfoy. I couldn´t believe it--I was incensed. I said something to her, something like "If there is a god, how can you bring that curse into his house?" And she answered just as if I hadn´t shouted at her at all, "That curse was your flesh and blood. He has not had the rosary spoken over his soul since he passed. It is time he found the rest a Malfoy deserves." And when I started to scream and yell all over again, she said, "Remember--without the need for vengeance, there would have been no Dragon. Respect your curses, Draco, for they are the instruments of your destiny." She looked so serene when she said that. I sat back in the seat totally dumbfounded, and stared at her. And she touched my hair and said, "Never forget who you are, Draco. Never forget."

I´ll never forget that, anyway. When my grandmother died, I snuck into her room and hid the locket away before anyone else could find it. I didn´t want them to--well, I´m not sure what I wanted really. I haven´t been to church since she died, though, so I guess poor old Malcolm hasn´t had much luck in the Requiescat in Pace department.

I won´t be another Malcolm, Harry. If you can´t forgive me for that, I understand. I can´t blame you for anything, if only because you´re so sodding cute when you´re doing that whole, `Why, why is Fate unjust and cruel?´ pouty-lip thing. And when you wrinkle up your nose in your `I do not, Malfoy, and you´re full of shit!´ look, the way I know you did just then when you read that. That nose-scrunch thing--I used to make the feather quills fly in your face in Transfiguration when we´d have to turn our muskrats into pillows just so I could see you do that. That wasn´t so long ago, really.

And now I´ve seen the way you look when you sleep. Thank you for that. I´ll never forget that. You´ve done a lot and if it seems like I don´t appreciate it I know it´s only my fault. But I do, Harry. I´m sorry none of this is what you want to hear. I can´t tell you why I´m this way, or why anything is the way it is. I don´t know why your mother dated Pettigrew before she met your dad, or if it would have made any difference in what happened to them even if she hadn´t. But I do think your mother was a really good witch, especially under the circumstances. And she must have been pretty special to have married your dad, and to have done what she did to save you. I guess I´m grateful to her for that. Keeping you alive. It wouldn´t be fair to her memory if you were to let anything you read change how you saw her. We all make mistakes. Fathers and mothers too, I guess. And maybe you shouldn´t judge people because they dated a bad egg when they were a teenager. She´s still the same person you knew her to be before you got her diary though. She always will be.

My mother is a very nervous, excitable person, in general rather flighty and irresponsible. She often does things that might be considered erratic--the latest instance, as I have mentioned, was deciding that despite a whole roomful of presents for family and friends (yes, Potter, we do have friends--I know what you´re thinking, prat), a trip to Diagon Alley was necessary in order to purchase additional presents for all my housemates, as well as a set of flannel robes for my rather tedious nonentity of a great-uncle Duncan. My father remains convinced that even with a mansion of house-elves to tend to her, my mother would burn the place down or accidentally hex herself if someone in the family is not constantly with her. There´s no arguing with him, so I suppose in that respect it is a good thing I returned to the Manor. If nothing else, my being back gave my mother an excuse to spruce up and go out on the town, and there is nothing she likes better than that. Normally at this time of year I would see little of her, as she and my father would be in a flurry of activity attending dinner engagements and making sure their social calendar was the fullest of anyone they knew; this year, my father´s absence forced her to cry off from all but the most important--a Christmas dinner or two and a New Year´s Eve fete. I would have gone with her, had she asked, but I have a feeling it slipped her mind. Knowing her, she will pause on her way out the door and ask, `Draco, why aren´t you dressed?´ My mother has a tendency to flutter about like a butterfly in a jar, which, come to think about it, isn´t that bad an analogy.

So Friday my mother and I went to London for the last-minute Christmas buying spree. We went into Madam Malkin´s looking for that lovely little flannel number for Uncle Duncan, and the whole time I was there all I could think of was you, and the way you looked that first time we met. You had this wide-eyed gaze plastered on everything you saw, and your hair was flying every which way. I thought it was cute. And I thought you looked nice enough, so I said hello. I´ll admit I was a bit unimpressed by your unwillingness to talk to me, then. Of course, I´ve since learned that maybe going on about my family and how spoiled I am isn´t the best way to start a friendship. but there´s nothing for it, now. Something about being in that space that day--ice cold wind whipping through the store whenever somebody came inside, and people clamouring and hustling about in their stupid red and green Christmas robes--I just kept replaying that scene over and over, and I kept thinking what if? What if you´d chosen differently? Would I have made a new friend only to lose you once I shared my favourite worldview with you? Would I be the one you came to for advice instead of Dumbledore? Would Crabbe and Goyle follow both of us around in blind loyalty today, instead of Ron and Hermione? Would I have been the one helping you find the Chamber of Secrets instead of wishing like a stupid twelve-year-old that I could help open it? Would I hate Gryffindor as much if my best friend had been sorted into it instead of my first, my best enemy? Would it even be possible for us to be friends?

It´s really rather painful to think about this sort of thing for any length of time, and have all those thoughts screaming at you, demanding your attention while your mother sorts through clothes and keeps jibbering at you about different shades of plaid, and all you want to do is floo back to Hogwarts and tell your boyfriend that you´re sorry you hurt him and you´re sorry you´ve spent the last four years making him miserable and you´re sorry that you still don´t seem to be able to do anything but hurt him some way or other but if he´ll just forgive you this one time you know somehow things will be all right, and people with heavy snow-boots keep tromping on your favourite Italian leather shoes--

so I left. I ducked out and went for a walk and left my favourite house-elf to assist my mother in deciding between Banbury tweed or Shropshire cashmere for cousin Virgil´s new cummerbund.

It snowed pretty heavily in other parts of London Friday, but in Diagon Alley and the magical district the snow was mostly on the ground. It was quite picturesque, really--people everywhere in holiday muffs, bustling around with their parcels and huddling under awnings to get out of the snow, even though there was only just enough of a flurry to get in your hair and tickle your eyelids. I don´t know why I mention it except that it was very nice and the snow reminded me of the snowball fight between our houses, that led to the food fight, and detention, and, well, anyway, it was pretty. I had my wand with me, and it was just a few steps to Ollivander´s, and I thought I´d just pop in on him and ask him what might be the trouble with my wand. It´s not that it doesn´t always act correctly as much as the feeling that, well, it´s doing the magic instead of me. Just a bit off, I suppose. Ollivander was weirder, though. I´ve never met the man before. Seen his picture, but that´s it. Just being in his shop creeped me out. Did that happen to you when you went for your wand? You step inside, and it´s like, you´re instantly, I don´t know, sealed off from the rest of the world--and everything´s quiet and still, like some kind of petrified winter. Mr. Ollivander was in the front of his shop staring out the window at the people passing when I entered. He had this vacant expression--vacant but intense, as if he were living some intense long ago memory. I cleared my throat and called his name and he turned around and looked at me--rather, looked through me, because his gaze didn´t change a bit. And then he really jumped--his whole body twitched, I´m not kidding--and he said in this long hoarse drawl, "With such finely made robes, such a noble mien, and such striking fair hair, sir, you can only be the younger Mr. Malfoy." I just blinked at him, I think, for a second. He came over and began asking all manner of questions about my parents. I didn´t even know they were acquainted--but apparently we send him a Christmas card every year and have since my Choosing.

This was my cue of course to ask him about my Choosing, if he remembered anything about it. He got this odd look on his face and said gravely, "Oh, yes. I remember. But remember this, young Malfoy"--no one has ever called me `young Malfoy´ before, and I almost snickered right then--"a wizard never discusses his Choosing with other wizards. It is an act of secrecy, an initiation into magic of the highest order, and it should not be relegated to so much discussion like one of your Quidditch games." This time I know I stared at him, and he went on, still in that weird dark voice, "I will tell you this one thing. Your Choosing was..." Here he trailed off and just gazed into space for a long moment and I started to think perhaps he´d caught that muggle disease where you fall asleep standing up or something. But suddenly his gaze shifted back to me--god that creeped me out--and he ended up with "Extraordinary. Most extraordinary."

I asked if he could elaborate and he just looked at me and smiled, which was almost as freaky as the gaze thing, and told me in time I´d learn all I need to know. Ha. Whatever. "In good time"--that stupid response must be the dumbest fallback answer in the book. After something like that there´s no way you can ask any more questions; and I couldn´t very well say, `Er, sir, I know you think my Choosing was right smashing and all, but I think you may have buggered it up.´ So I tried a different tactic--I produced my wand and asked him casually if he remembered it.

I guess I expected him to get excited and rhapsodise about it or something. But instead--Harry, he didn´t even look at it. He kept his eyes on me the whole time, and it made me edgy. Oh, yes, he said, he remembered it--he remembered every wand he´d ever sold, and this wand in particular was unforgettable. If it was so unforgettable, why wouldn´t he look at it? I lifted it up and held it in front of him and was about to ask if he wanted to see it, take a look, something, but the moment I held it up he turned back to the counter and busied himself with something or other. It was blatant; I was a little disgusted but also really confused. He said I must have a reason for dropping by his shop so close to Christmas when I could be out enjoying the vacation. I responded that I wondered if he could examine my wand, as it had been giving me problems ever since I began using it and I wasn´t sure why. He froze, and whatever kindness had been there before vanished--snuffed out in a heartbeat. For some insane reason this scared me. It took me a few seconds to remember that I was the one with the supposedly powerful, unpredictable magic wand handy, and thus distinctly carried the advantage--but by that time he was smiling at me again. A little more coldly, though--reminded me a bit of my father, actually. "Ah," he said, "I´m afraid you´ve chosen a rather unfortunate occasion for an examination. Recollect what today is."

It took me a moment. "The winter solstice."

He nodded. "Exactly. One of two days of the year when magical objects are at the most intense height of their power. Any examination I made today would be an inaccurate one."

He was right, I should have thought of that first--but still, it didn´t feel right to me. So I asked him why he was open today, at all, if he couldn´t accurately judge wands. He bloody well glared at me, and reminded me that Ollivander´s was also noted for its fine selection of wand trim, velvet wand pouches, stylish wand cases complete with adamantine security locks, O´Neill´s Finest wand polish, and their best selling spell alarms, which alert you whenever your wand performs magic by playing one of three enchanting tunes--choose from `Fur Elise,´ `Fish and Chips,´ or the theme from `A Summer Place.´

Yeah.

To prove to him I got the picture I bought a bottle of wand polish; I wanted to see if he´d been accurate enough in his trip down memory lane to bring me the right kind, since he still hadn´t taken so much as one look at my wand. I was right--not really surprised, either, when he brought me the wrong polish, and I got to twirl the wand in his face and smile and point out that I needed ebony polish. It didn´t phase him, though. He looked straight past the wand at me as I held it up, and said in an odd voice, "So I did. Pity." I swear, the guy´s as loony as St. Mungo´s. He gave me the ebony wand polish and I got my arse out the door. It felt like I was stepping back onto a sidewalk in my own universe after a trip to Pluto. When I got back outside I realised he´d accidentally given me both bottles of wand polish. Nutters.

I had planned after that to drop by the bookstore where you got the Memoirs, just to see what else they had, but when I went over to Mortome Row, they had the street blocked off for some kind of Ministry investigation. It´s just as well they didn´t see me--they´d´ve recognised me for a Malfoy and probably assumed I was going to Knockturn Alley to sell poison on the black market or something. So I left the scene before I found out what happened, or if the shop you went to was involved. As it turns out, it´s a good thing I went back when I did--Mum was about to walk out the door of Madam Malkin´s wearing a cream and crimson negligee she had decided to buy and forgotten to take off. Not a good scene, and I´ll spare you the details. I will say, however, that once she gets away from the plaids, my mother has an excellent fashion sense. She´s the reason I always look so irresistible--we have little else in common, but I like to think we bond over clothes. Except the once when I suggested the pinstriped vest she´d gotten for my father wouldn´t match his dark mark. She backhanded me halfway across the room and didn´t speak to me for a month. It was the only time anyone had ever hit me. Actually, as far as I´m concerned, it still is.

And now it´s getting dusk here and my mother is summoning me downstairs before she takes herself off to whatever dinner she´s attending. And I had planned to send this out to you before tomorrow. But I´m still writing. I guess if it looks like I´m babbling it´s because I am. Maybe because a part of me knows you might not write back, or that if you do write back it will be to say things I don´t care to dwell on. Anyway, no matter what, I hope you have a merry Christmas. I´d make a lame joke about coal in your stocking, but my jokes aren´t funny right now, even to myself. It´s a white Christmas again this year. It´s something, isn´t it? I´ve been staying indoors reading up on Salazar. He seems to be a really dry boring old man with a tendency to ramble on about everything and anything in the world. I´m loving every line.

I´m lucky to know you, you know that?

--D.

~~~~~~~~

Harry,

Merry Christmas. You can´t avoid me forever. Even if you don´t want to talk to me about Malfoy, we still need to talk about this.

Hermione

~~~~~~~~

Merry Christmas. I´m not avoiding you. You´re just always in the library studying. It´s not my fault. And I don´t see why you´re bothering about that stupid note Malfoy handed me. It´s just a stupid piece of paper, it doesn´t mean anything. And there´s nothing to say about Malfoy. Thanks again for the Rememberscrall. It´s really cool. Even if you´re making it easier for me to take notes while not paying attention. I really like it. -H

~~~~~~~~

December 29, 1995

Draco,

Maybe if I just say this, and get this out of the way it´ll make everything better. Probably things will just be worse but I guess it´s too late now to care about that because I already know how I feel.

I guess you want to know if after all you´ve said I´ll still be with you. I will be. I´ll be with you for as long as I can. But I won´t let you come between me and what I have to do.

You keep saying, `this is who I am´ like it´s some kind of badge--as if you can sum up everything you are in one name, Draco Malfoy. If you want to act like you really believe that, fine. Go ahead. I can´t stop you. But I know better. I know who you are. I know you. You can talk about your family and wield your name all you want, but I know better. But hey, I´ll play along. I can do that too. I´m Harry Potter. People hear my name and their eyes pop out of their head and they stare at me like they expect me to, I don´t know, turn into a pile of ashes or something in front of them. People see me and they stop and point. When I´m introduced to them their eyes automatically move to my forehead. Never mind that my bloody hair covers up the thing. They know it´s there. That´s enough. You know how it is, Malfoy. You did it too, that day we met. And then you mocked me for it afterwards, for years. As if it were my fault everybody around me treated me like some kind of saint or some kind of stupid hero. I´m not a hero. I´ve never tried to be--I just do what I have to do, and if that means that I keep winding up being the centre of attention, then fine, that´s what it is. But I´ve never done anything to try to live up to what people think of me, what they expect of me--I don´t get that at all, and I don´t see how you can be so casual about it. Like you´re just being a good son. But then, you´re right, I´ve never had a real family so I don´t know what lengths I´d go to to make them happy.

Actually, I guess I do know. I know because I think about it every day. I think about it and I think there´s nothing in the world I wouldn´t give, wouldn´t do, to have them back. But that´s impossible so I always figured the best way to make them proud is just to be myself.

But I´m me. That´s just how I feel, and I´m really sorry that some stupid guy who lived 2 hundred years ago made you feel like you had to support your family at all costs or else you´d end up just like him. Do what you have to do, Draco, but at this rate, the only person I´m worried about you betraying is yourself.

I don´t care what you think you have to do for your family. I know you care for them but nothing they´ve ever done for you would be enough to make me change anything I believed in if I were you. I only care about how you feel. You, not your dad or your grandmum. I just want you to be happy and do whatever you want to, for yourself. I can´t judge that. I won´t. I said when I started this that I didn´t care, that none of it mattered, and maybe it still doesn´t. All that counts is how you feel about me and how I feel about you.

But I said it wasn´t that easy, and I meant it.

That thing I said I couldn´t talk about--that secret you said I should tell you, tell somebody about that night. I´ll tell you now. You have to know what could happen. Every day that goes by where you keep putting off making a decision only makes it more likely. So here--I´ll just say it. As much as I care about you--and I think that´s a whole lot--I hate Voldemort more. I hate him so much it makes me ill to write his name, and even more ill to hear somebody shy away from saying it like they´re afraid of him. It makes me so fucking angry. What right, what possible right, do they have to be afraid of him? Why should they hide? He didn´t kill their parents. He didn´t rob them of their family and send their godfather to Azkaban and try to kill them and kill Cedric just because he happened to grab a portkey that was meant for them. They don´t have dreams every night of their mum´s scream right before she gets hit with the killing curse. They don´t have Cedric´s face constantly frozen in their head, that look of shock, the last thing he ever got to feel--He wasn´t afraid when Voldemort said "kill the spare"--yes, Draco, he said that--he said `kill the spare´ and Cedric died--kill the fucking spare like he was a spare part, a spare tyre, something extra and expendable. Cedric wasn´t afraid. My mum wasn´t afraid of him. I´m not afraid of him. I hate every person out there who´s ever cowered before him. He´s nothing--he´s not worth the dirt on their shoes, Muggle or Wizard. I hate everybody who´s ever let him send them into a life of fear and distrust. They have no fucking right to be afraid. I won´t be afraid--and I won´t let him rob me of one of the few things and people I care about. I won´t let worry over what Voldemort will do to you or me keep me from having this. I didn´t even know that´s how I felt until I read your letter. But now that I have I´m mad. I just want to punch something, or break something because I don´t even know what I´m supposed to feel, or what I do feel. But I won´t lose you. He won´t come between us. He won´t take you from me. You´ll have pry me off you with a crowbar and wrench yourself away from me to join him or serve him, Draco. I won´t let him destroy us. I won´t. I promise.

And I won´t let you come between me and Voldemort either. I said I´m not a hero. I´m not. I´m not a hero because I want to do what I´m supposed to do. I want to kill Voldemort. And I don´t want to do it for anybody but myself. I don´t want anybody else to get to him first. It has to be me. So see, I´ve never been able to judge you because you hate Muggles, even though I think it´s wrong. I know what hatred is like. I know what it´s like to want to kill someone I´ve never known. I want to kill him. I want to laugh while he dies. I´m going to. I will kill him and nothing can stop me, not even you. That´s the thing I´ve never told anyone. And now I´ve told you. I can tell you this now because I know you´ll understand. Ron would just stare at me and not really get what the big deal was and say something like `of course you´re going to kill him--it´s what you´re supposed to do!´ and Hermione´s eyes would widen and she´d get all sad and say hopefully that I was just exaggerating and surely I didn´t want to kill him. But I do, Draco. I do and I will. Even if I have to kill myself to do it, I will. I´m not worth so much after that´s done with, anyway. If they want a good Seeker they can look to you. I´m not saying I´ve got a death wish. I don´t. I just would rather see Voldemort dead and my parents avenged than know I had a chance to kill him and didn´t.

Used to be, when I couldn´t sleep, I´d imagine myself killing him. Other boys fantasise about having sex, and I fantasise about killing Voldemort. Except now I don´t think about that so much. I still do, sometimes--but now when I can´t sleep I think about you. I think about spending every night with you. I think about what it would be like--what it will be like--once we´re past this. If there´s any way it can be done, Draco, if there´s even a chance I can survive and he doesn´t kill me first--then I want to get past it with you. Right now, right at this very second, I don´t care which side you pick if you´ll just come with me when it´s over. But I know I can´t live my life that way. I can´t help anybody else get through the war that way. If you were in my position, I know what you´d do. You´d be ruthless. You wouldn´t hold out for me once I´d made a decision. Then again, if you were me, you´d probably have already killed him yourself by now, or something--you´re a smarter wizard than me. Maybe you wouldn´t worry about bothering to save anyone else, either--but if that´s what´s supposed to make me into some sort of hero I think they´ve got it all wrong. You´d save anyone you cared about. I´m sure of that. Anyone would. But if you choose his side--even if you choose your father´s side, Draco, that´s the same thing--then I´ll fight you as well as him. You need to know that. I hope it never comes to that. But if it does, now you know.

We both have our choices to make. And until you make yours, I´ll be here, because in case you didn´t already know it, I love you. Even if sometimes it doesn´t make a whole lot of sense.

I tried for two days to figure out what to say in this. I´m not sure if I said it right. In the end it all just kind of came tumbling out. Things are tense between Hermione and me. Any minute she´s going to crack and I don´t know what I´ll do then. Tell her the truth, I reckon. I don´t know what to say about your wand, but I definitely wouldn´t use it anymore. Just drag out your old wand. You did fine for four years with it--when we get back to school I´ll help you try and figure out what else is wrong with it.

Have I mentioned it´s really boring in the castle without you. I really wish you could have stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas--but at least you´ve had an okay time with your mum. It´ll probably be new year´s by the time I send this at the rate I´m going. Maybe I shouldn´t send it at all and I ought to wait till you get back so we can talk then. I don´t know. Hermione got me a Rememberscrall, it´s a quill that remembers what I wanted to write down in case I forget. I used it to write this letter--it came in handy except it kept writing down more stuff than I was sure I really meant. Wait till you see the Firebolt case Sirius got me for Christmas. Have you got one like it too? It´s really neat.

I guess you're right about my mum. I'm glad you think she was a good witch, even though she was Muggle-born. I wonder what she and my dad would have thought about you. I think they would have liked you. At least I hope so.

I hope you have a happy new year´s eve.

Be safe.

Harry