Diary of a Glacial Prisoner

Day Three

The first thing I noticed was the cold. It was a gnawing, wrenching, all-pervading, ceaseless cold. Maybe I had expected too much from a chamber of pure ice. I had thought that it would be a little warmer at least, like perhaps the ice bit wasn't really important. It was.

Damn my father. Damn ever single inch of Lucius Malfoy that Satan bestrew upon this earth. He wants me to prove myself. Prove myself! As if I need to prove anything. When he said he wanted to test my bravery, courage and endurance, I thought he meant something easy like slaying a dragon or walking over hot coals, or trekking in the mountains. Not being encased in ice for a fortnight, wearing only my best black satin boxer shorts.

At least he has provided me with some 'entertainment', although one could hardly call it that. A few 'insider' books, written as guides on how to serve the dark lord, a few weights to lift. What use to Voldemort is a servant if he is not muscular? My mother made him leave a pile of rags for me to sleep on, but since they are frozen solid they are of little use. Luckily, the ice has an anti-melting charm, so I am not likely to drown slowly (although I believe that that was my father's original intention). And he left this diary, with a quill and ink.

I am completely alone, trapped within my gorgeous glassy prison. It is outside, next to my mother's rose garden. I sleep with the sunset and wake when the golden orb rises. I like it best at sunrise. The thick, roughly carved ice glitters as it splits the light. Some is reflected, and sparkles and shines, and for moments I feel as though I am in a palace of diamonds. Then, as the sun slowly creeps towards its highest point in the sky, its colour changes, and so much light rushes in that for an hour at least I have to shield my eyes.

That is when I like to read. The books my father has left me are fascinating. I must say that I was not entirely sure about joining the Death Eaters once my education had come to a close, but the more I read about the subject the more I am won over by the immense sense of brotherhood, and all of the appalling deeds they have carried out in the last few decades. I will admit, my dear diary, that I had worried for some time that I was becoming soft, but the passionate hunger and violent feelings that this literature has awoken inside me reassures me as to my true vocation.

Hunger. My father sends me meals twice a day, but they consist mainly of soup, bread and some dried fish. Honestly, if I had wanted to eat fish and be cold all the time, I would have travelled to Scandinavia! I am still hungry, but the feeling is dying. All feeling is dying. Most of my body is numb and aching from the intense conditions and the amount of time I have to spend sitting or hunched over.

I have to go now, diary, there are weights that require lifting!

Day Seven

Not a great deal has changed since I last wrote in you, diary, as nothing much does happen inside a big chunk of ice.

I have nearly completed reading my father's books. They were not all boring; in fact I was lucky enough to find a copy of Playwizard folded up inside one (also, to my immense surprise, a copy of Playwitch. And I don't think it belongs to my mother...). The books are all about self-glorification and evil. I've been reading over what I wrote a few days ago, and I'm not entirely sure I agree with it. Having had some time alone, to think about everything, my mind is beginning to change.

But enough about the future. What I really need to concentrate on is getting through this ordeal alive. Only a week to go! I'm sure I saw a look of horror on my father's face yesterday when he came to check on me. And today I found a big bone in my fish. It may just be the paranoia speaking, but I think he's trying to kill me. He's not very subtle. And he doesn't have eyes in the back of his head like he told me he did when I was young; I gave him the finger as he walked back up to the Manor and he never noticed.

Day Nine

Bloody ice. Bloody cold. Bloody Lucius Malfoy. Blood service to the Dark Lord. Bloody Dark Lord. Bloody ice.

Day Eleven

I'm sorry, diary, but in a fit of boredom I ripped out a few of your back pages and began compiling some lists. Here they are:

Ten things I hate about my father:

Ten things I could eat right now

Ten things I would like to have right now

Oh, and maybe world peace. Maybe.

Must go, the Playwizard centrepiece has started dancing!

Day fourteen

I got out of the ice today. Today was the last day. My father came down, with my mother. As they approached the ice, I saw that the little colour left in his face had drained away. He waved his wand, somewhat shakily, and a door-shaped hole appeared. I glared at him.

"Draco," he said, with surprise. "You-you're alive." It was at that moment that I confirmed to myself the real intention of his icy little game. He wanted to kill me. I snarled at him.

"Well, that-that's excellent. Now you are fit to begin your...service."

"That isn't what you wanted," I spat. "You wanted me to be fit for nothing. You tried to kill me." My mother let out a moan.

"I tried to stop him, I did, but he's too powerful," she sobbed. "He's insane, Draco, he's a madman!"

"I know, Mum, it's alright. There was nothing you could have done."

"It is NOT alright!" my father bellowed. "Crucio!" My mother shrieked and fell to the floor, and he stood there, his wand pointing at her, and the hungry gleam in his eyes told me that he was enjoying every second of the torture. I ran out of the hole in the ice, and lunged at him, knocking him to the floor and breaking the connection between my mother and his wand. She lay on the floor, breathing softly, and he looked up at me in surprise. I had been stronger than him for quite some time, but I hadn't had a chance to prove it.

"I am not going to serve anyone," I told him calmly, though our faces were mere inches apart. "Especially not a power-crazed scumbag who isn't even human. I'm not yours, you know, and I don't want to be like you. I am my own man." One of the rose bushes applauded me as I stalked off to collect my belongings, until my father set fire to it. He came lurching after me, like a man drunk, but I ignored his alternating threats and pleas. I kissed my mother, promised to visit her soon, and set off out of the gates of the manor, clutching a small suitcase, to take charge of my own destiny.

And as I strolled down the hill to the small village that lies at it's foot, I realised that the ice had not been my prison, it had been my father, and that I felt more free since the moment that I had left him behind me than I ever had, ice or no ice. There is no doubt that he has left great shoes, but I have learnt that it is not my duty to fill them.