Draco's Diary (It's Our Secret, Beloved)

Prologue: My Dearest Ginevra

Dante's Inferno, Canto 5

Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,

Entangled him by that fair form, from me

Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still:

Love, that denial takes from none beloved,

Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,

That, as thou see'st, he yet deserts me not.

New York City, 13 March 2004

Dear Ginevra,

For the past seven years I have been the 'It' boy of New York. I was the instant runaway celebrity that everyone fell in love with. Think Colin Farrell without the cussing and the facial hair. I have partied my brains out ever since Hogwarts closed midway through my sixth year. I starred in several movies. I slept with very famous and very beautiful women. I have rubbed shoulders with the elite of fashion and popular culture, but it still wasn't enough.

Being the person I am, I was compelled to push my limits and boundaries, even with the woman I love. You were always at my side, even when I managed to give you the slip long enough to sample some new beauty of a woman, and yet you tolerated it in the name of love, until the day I pushed you too far.

We were at a party, some masquerade ball in aid of charity when I encountered a gorgeous creature. Naturally, she was nothing compared to my own dear heart, but she was a tempting, tender little morsel. I craved her; I wanted her, if only to be true to the person I used to be. Lying through my teeth to my darling one, I managed to escape with my new fleshly pursuit to a nearby hotel. My tender sweetheart, out of concern for me, you followed me and found me with the cheap slut. In tears, you fled. I wished I could die then.

And at one stage I believed and hoped that it was the end of Draco Alphonsus Malfoy at that moment.

It seemed a somewhat ignoble one, but it was suited to the slime that I am and have tried to change. Lying half dead in a dirty, unmade bed, with a partially smoked cigarette filled with unidentifiable narcotics in a nearby ashtray, and some easy girl wrapped around me. Her very presence sickened me. I wanted to throw her from my home, cast her out like a damn accursed leper from a village. I didn't want her. I didn't want her there.

The opposite sex is the most dangerous and addictive drug out there, but the high is unlike anything else. You were a kind of natural high for me. Since you left me I have lost my desire to party and debauch. It is vieux jeu to my more adult mind, which means that it's something that has lost all appeal and novelty for me. As you can see, my vocabulary has extended beyond merely listing the ladies I have had my wicked way with.

Admittedly, I have had some extensive problems recently despite the rapid expansion of my hitherto egregious vocabulary (courtesy of a gift of a dictionary from you, one that is larger than my own head and when I told you this you laughed and replied, 'I never thought that would be possible, Draco. Something larger than your head!')

My inheritance ran out about the same time you left, so I had no electricity or central heating. But, what with being a wizard that was hardly a problem. I owned the apartment, so it's not like I owed rent or anything. A house elf came free with the place, so my clothes were always clean and mended perfectly and the whole place was neat and tidy.

No, my problems are of the heart. Not to mention that there is something of a taedium vitae about me these days, but more on that later.

If you will recall, Blaise ran off with some girl soon after we arrived in New York. We were sad to lose a friend, but happy to find each other. I remember the first time we made love. It was nothing like the teenage fumbles we had in Hogwarts, all hurried and immature. For the first time I realised that the best magic doesn't need a wand. You were simply amazing, and I wanted more than anything else to be yours forever.

But then, you left. My darling one. My Ginny left me. A year, one month, six days, eleven hours and eighteen minutes ago to be precise.

I haven't been obsessing over you or anything.

It's not like I've lost the will to live just because I had been wandering around in my towelling robe, unshaven and dishevelled, unable to eat or sleep and trying to distract myself with beautiful women who look somewhat like you and getting high and stoned so often that feeling shit was an improvement.

It's not like I missed you all that much.

It's not like the ring I made for you and gave you meant nothing. I made it from a star I plucked from the sky with my magic; I set it into platinum with a strand of my hair and yours curled up inside seven crystals that surround the star, and it's encrusted with rubies to represent your flaming scarlet hair, although they're not nearly as beautiful.

You always said I went too far with those romantic gestures, but what could I do? I was crazy about you. I still am as a matter of fact, which is probably why I keep calling you my Ginevra. I know you no longer belong to me, and that's what hurts the most. Everything reminds me of you, absolutely everything.

I think I'm going crazy. Two days ago I wept to hear some American band called Blink 182 play a song called 'I Miss You' on the radio. How does it go again? Oh, yes...

"Hello there / The angel from my nightmares / The shadow in the background of the moor / The unsuspecting victim

Of darkness in the valley / We can live like Jack and Sally / If we want / Where you can always find me,

And we'll have Halloween on Christmas / And in the night we'll wish this never ends / We'll wish this never ends.

Where are you? / And I'm so sorry / I cannot sleep, I cannot dream tonight / I need somebody and always

This sick, strange darkness comes / Creeping on so haunting every time / And as I stared I counted the webs

From all the spiders / Catching things and eating their insides / Like indecision to call you

And hear your voice of treason... / Will you come home and stop this pain tonight? / Stop this pain tonight..."

If that's not a sign that I've been a fool, I don't know what is.

I have definitely matured. I looked back over my diary from when I was sixteen and I can't believe what a little blister I was. How could I have treated anyone so callously? How could I have done such a thing to my parents? How could I have found such horrendous things remotely amusing?

I was an absolute terror of a person. If I ever have children and one of them turns out even remotely like me, I will have no problem in hexing them into oblivion. I know that sounds terrible.

Am I really such a bad person? Did I ever truly wish to be a bad person, to live up to the ignoble reputation of Slytherin house? Prima facie, yes. The very notion of it now repulses me. As I sit here and reflect, I wonder is it possible to change the habits of a lifetime?

You may well laugh. I am a Malfoy, we are not well known for seeking second chances or for redemption. If we are redeemed it is usually under false pretences. I think back to my father and mother after they became Death Eaters, and the deceitful way they crawled back to the other side, claiming they had been enchanted. Initially, I had felt that they did the right thing. They escaped a prison term and managed to be portrayed as victims in the whole sordid affair.

Contemplating on the events now, I realise that my parents were devious and disloyal. I also understand that I was only put in Slytherin because I wanted them to be proud of me. To have traitors and sycophants be proud of me...

The only person I want to be proud of me now is you, Ginevra Weasley. I want to be worthy of you. You were the one and only truly beautiful thing in any part of my life. I don't care that you're a Weasley. I don't care that the elitist wizards would frown upon our relationship. I don't even give a damn that we're not distantly related, which seems to be a prerequisite for most Malfoy marriages. Quite frankly, the whole inbreeding thing amongst wizard-kind is sickening, and if one more generation marries a first cousin... Well, let me just say that the children will mostly consist of teeth.

Even now, eight years on and at the not-so-tender age of 24...I stray from the point.

I want you back here, in my arms. It's been too difficult for me without you. Denying that I'm in pain and trying to stop it by falling back into my old habits helps nothing. As a matter of fact, it makes me feel worse. I feel guilty each time, as though I have soiled the purity you left on me with your mere presence, as though I have sullied the goodness that seeps from your spirit and into mine.

Well, even if it does sound poncy, I don't give a damn. Crabbe and Goyle came up here the other day. They think I've gone mad. Goyle also thinks I'm gay, what with writing poetry and songs all the time. He wonders what has happened to me.

What has happened to me? Quite frankly, love.

I love you.

Was that really so hard for me to say? It was one of the reasons that you left me, those three simple words. I took it for granted that you knew, and I became slack in letting you know. And that unforgivable incident in the hotel...

I deserve my lot. I know that.

It is my own fault that I am where I am now, suffering alone. It's like every passing minute is a full day and every hour feels like a week. I found myself sniffing my pillow, hoping for the scent of your hair. I reach out in the mornings, expecting the silk of your skin across your neck. I painted a mural on the wall in monochrome grey; illustrating the way that shadows once lay on your lily-white skin as you slept by my side (and I envy those shadows now, oh believe me, I do). Good God, I even know the delicate arch of your instep, the cute little curve of your shell-like ear, the perfect cupid's bow of your lips and their soft, demanding pressure...

I can remember exactly how many freckles you have, one hundred and eighty-two. You wanted to prove to me that I didn't know everything about you, and I surprised you by knowing that precise number. We then counted them to make sure. I know that the amount of freckles people have change with exposure to the sun. I wonder if someone else has counted them for you since. Is that the case, Ginny? Have you found someone who will treat you better than I ever did?

It does sound obsessive, even a little insane, but that's love for you. I read somewhere that love has been known to drive both men and women to noble self-sacrifice, but it can also torment and wound worse than any spell or any Muggle weapon. They also say that love is a double-edged sword; it is beautiful, but cutting on both sides and a deadly weapon in the wrong hands, or the right ones for that matter.

Every word of it is true. I am dying for you.

Oh, just please give me one more chance, Ginevra! I am aching so badly for you, and for once it's not my body that calls for something to whet its lust. In truth, you have brought me more physical pleasure than any I have ever encountered, but something about you is what I need to complete me. Your soul matches mine somehow.

You are the only one I have ever dared to call beloved; the only one I have ever bared my soul to. You were the one who inspired me to become a writer and have my poetry and writing published. Your gentle disapproval shamed me into trying to forsake my old ways, and old habits die hard I can tell you now, experto crede!

You are my first and only love. Can you imagine what that is like for any male, to admit that he has had but one love in the world but that he has lost her out of pure selfishness? You made me forget how to be macho and I gave up being a pureblood elitist, all because of you.

As I once told you, I am in love with myself and committed to myself until my dying day, but you? You, I will love until the end of time, until God wearies of this grand, mad experiment called the universe and crushes it in his mighty fist, grinding the stars, planets and people into a massive pile of dust under his immortal feet, and all that has happened and been achieved by this world is meaningless. Amongst all that death and destruction, Ginny, my love for you will go on.

If you were to read this, of course you would think it a shameless lie from the mind of a celebrated writer (even if I do say so myself), all designed and exacted with one purpose - to win you back. I may well look back on this and deem it to be sentimental hogwash one day, but Ginny, believe me now...I mean it all. Every last word, every single syllable was chosen with you in mind. I have written this letter thousands of times over the last six months, which probably explains why it's so poetic. I wanted only the best for you.

I could send you jewels and roses, had I a mind to. They don't make up for what I have done. I could get down on my knees and beg for your forgiveness, but that would lower you. I want to place you on a pedestal, where my behaviour cannot pollute your pure and beautiful soul. And how can it be there are only seventeen synonyms for beautiful, and yet none of them can come close to describing you? There should be whole books full of words that mean beautiful, all dedicated to and printed in honour of you.

My tears don't redeem me. Nothing ever shall. I have hurt you in a most callous and shameful way, and for that I deserve a thousand deaths and torment at the hands of the servants of hell. No, I do not know what I deserve. Not really. I deserve the worst in the world, and I suppose that the anguish of knowing what I have done, the pain of knowing you cried and the countless hours I have wept for are penance for my crime.

I will never forget the look on your face when you caught me. Maybe that's my greatest punishment to date. Perhaps one day you will forgive me, but in the meantime I've decided to cleanse myself in extremis.

It will be a long, hard journey to do so. I suppose I could call it the second quest of my life, although the first was so farcical it hardly even merits the title.

To begin on my journey, I have decided to sell my apartment, this place that once thrilled with the sound of your laughter and was lit by your smile and eyes. It echoes now, cries from a former life hiss about these empty rooms, filling me with even greater melancholic despair.

I am going to go on a pilgrimage to your old home, the Burrow, then on to Hogwarts and its empty corridors and passageways. After that, I will go to India. Perhaps there I shall learn faith. I want to go to Africa, which is where I pray I will learn charity. Nepal will teach me the power of my own mind over my flesh, while China, Japan and Thailand will train me in respect and honour. Australia will instruct me in my own humility, something I desperately need. Canada and the north will show me the Aurora Borealis, which will undoubtedly make me weep tears of joy at the sight of such beauty and will make me appreciate yours all the more. America will give me a stronger sense of self and drain me of my fears and qualms. South America will school me in survival and lack of the luxury and conditioning I have been subject to since birth. Europe will improve my mind, making me more tolerant and hopefully more educated mentally. I know how much you love a clever turn of phrase, and also how much you love foreign languages. The next to last stop will be Ireland, where I will be coached in chivalry and hear the old legends of the Fianna, with the ancient axiom of 'death before dishonour'.

I am not going to Apparate or fly to any of these places. I am going to travel the Muggle way. It seems purer somehow. You see, I have to redeem myself. I have to be purged, to be punished and pushed to the extremes to truly comprehend what I put you through. Perhaps one day I will have fully atoned for my sins, and for what it's worth I am truly sorry for hurting you.

I will send you each chapter of my journal so that you know exactly what I learned and how, and perhaps you will be inclined to forgive me after reading them. Yes, I know, selfish even now, but you are what I want most desperately above all things in the world. You have changed me, Ginevra, and have driven me to change myself. Nobody else has ever done that for me.

Now until you receive the first one, please know that I am thinking of you, I miss you and I wish you were here...in my arms.

All my love forever,

Draco Malfoy.