Clandestine Whispers

>>>>>7 The Diary and the Dream

Slyly, in an attempt to be as inconspicuous as possible, Draco slowly slid his gaze to meet Hermione's. He shifted his feet underneath the table. Every muscle of his was taught with strain and tension. Then, he reluctantly looked away from Hermione. The usual pleasant buzz of many castle inhabitants was now a stuff noisy atmosphere that made him feel nauseous. The need to destroy something, or to somehow cool down, shuddered through him.

His reactions to things always had been on the unusual side. Ever since he was a child, his body's reactions to feelings had been more pronounced than most people's, and his young mind had been easily motivated to search for things that could be of harm, things he could cause harm to, and things which stood out among others. This process of being trained at such a young age had formed him into a manipulative, stubborn, arrogant youth.

And of course, Harry Potter, everything that Draco wasn't, had infuriated him upon meeting. It was immediate humiliation, his hand of friendship having been refused by the famous boy, who turned instead to the poor, foolish Weasley boy. These two, the poor Weasel that Draco never understood what use he was to Potter, and the intellectual Muggle-born, unattractive and also of no real use. Potter had chosen them over him. For years, thoughts of harming this trio of had been in Draco's mind.

But as of late, he had been thinking more to suit his own feelings, instead of taking after familial influence. The Weasley boy was not worth his time, Potter was busy and hadn't been a bother for quite a while. As for Granger...she utterly overwhelmed him. He didn't know how to act towards her anymore. He knew he had never truly hated her much, had in fact been secretly impressed by her intellectual prowess, but the sudden heavy comparison in his feelings towards her had thrown him off balance. And now, he was at a loss as of what to do and say around her. All he knew was that she had an effect on him that he was unfamiliar with.

All these thoughts, he wrote down in a journal.

And one day, that journal was misplaced by Draco, and found.

~~*~~

Hermione was busily scribbling down notes about the Malfoy family, while also mentally taking note that she still had a little bit of homework left. Surprisingly enough, there were sources that spoke of Malfoy family history, although, to her disappointment, they were all ancestors of the current Malfoy family. But, accepting that it was still information, she scribbled down what she read:

The Malfoy family, one of the first to come back from the dark side after Lord Voldemort, said they had been bewitched. Firm supporters that only those who were Pureblood should enter Hogwarts, they sided with Salazar Slytherin. The very heir to the Chamber of Secrets was said to have an ally that was a Malfoy. It is said that, deep in the centuries-old yet still glamorous Malfoy mansion, lies a hidden entrance to many dark objects, said to be common and rare instruments used for the Dark Arts. These are used by Death-Eaters, followers of Lord Voldemort, and the family of Malfoy is acclaimed to have been Death-Eaters for many years. However, this has never been proven.

Hermione scribbled this all down, although most of it she either already knew, or had talked about suspiciously with Harry and Ron. But, there was no proof, and she doubted if the book was even written by an accurate source--after all, she had never heard of the writer of this book, and the Malfoy family was only one of the Dark Arts families listed in the book--a man named Fillspyn Darkel. Hermione sighed, closed her notebook, and lay her head back against the bookshelf. With a clunk, her elbow bumped against the shelf, making her funny bone tingle. With a thump, a ragged, falling apart notebook fell from the bookshelf.

Raising a brow, Hermione cautiously picked it up, and slowly opened it. Written diagonally across the paper, and in symbols Hermione could not understand, were pages and pages of neat, flowing handwriting. But it was very unusual writing. First of all, it was written in symbols she couldn't understand, and the odd diagonal way it crossed each page, plus the odd left-wards slant to it, made it all the more mysterious. The only word Hermione could understand were the dates written at the top left corner of each page. How strange! Flipping through it, she found some pages to be blank, and--what was that? Quickly skimming back to the page that had caught her eye, her gaze fell upon one word: Hermione.

Someone had written her name in this notebook! It was a diary, that belonged to someone, someone who could write in a different language. Becoming excited, Hermione pocketed the notebook and ran to hurriedly gobble down dinner before rushing to her dormitory to study it. Pulling the curtains around her bed for privacy, and putting her notebook beside the diary one, she began to study it. She studied it all possible ways. She flipped it upside down, she attempted to read the words backwards, sideways, from left to right, from right to left; but nothing worked. Finally, sighing, Hermione grabbed her humongous book of languages. It was about the size of two dictionaries. Slowly skimming through it, she picked one word of each language, and then skimmed the entire mystery notebook for a trace of it. And there were millions of languages to try out, too: Latin, Chinese, Mongolian, German, Japanese, African, and many more, plus the few different wizard languages, too. But, hours later with still no sign of anything recognizable in the notebook, she lay her head down on it, and slept.

~~*~~

Hermione awoke to the pleasant sounds of crickets chirping.

Making sure no one was awake, she cautiously flipped on her flashlight, glad she'd thought to put in underneath her pillow. Just for a final try before really going to bed, she flipped through the P section of the wizard half of her language listing book. Suddenly, one caught her eye: Parseltongue. Harry was a Parselmouth, he had spoken the snake language in their second year at Hogwarts. Quickly reading over some facts about Parseltongue, the snake language, she picked the word that meant "pain," and skimmed through the notebook. Immediately, the word pain began popping up everywhere. Pain, pain, and more pain, the word came up on almost every single diary entry! Her stomach jolting with excitement, she proceeded to memorize each symbol of the Parselmouth alphabet. Although she did not and could not speak the language, memorizing the way of writing, was, for Hermione, a fun challenge. In a half hour, she had every single syllable possible memorized and stored away in her brain. Then, she tackled the notebook.

Dear Journal,

A part of me is reluctant about even keeping this notebook, and using it to write down my thoughts. However, sometimes thoughts run through my head so much that I must write them down, therefore, I am keeping you. As long as father doesn't find out, I won't be in any trouble. No one except me and Potter know Parseltongue, here at Hogwarts. I love speaking the snake language, words flow off of my tongue like silk. Father would be angry to find me daring to write my thoughts down in a notebook. He would call it petty, foolish. He would say I might as well just keep all my thoughts in my head. But I think that is the exact reason I won't. I am sick of doing what father says, and at certain times, I feel so much pain and overwhelming emotion that I can't help wanting to squeeze it out of the cage of my brain and down onto paper. People would be so shocked to see this part of me. At school, I never show my true feelings. My neutral mask is always kept on, unless something is funny, or I am teasing Potter and his friends. I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I had not introduced myself that way to Potter, saying that some wizarding families are better than others.

Hermione paused. She seemed to recognize this phrase, vaguely. Who had spoken to Harry in such a way? Who would ever do that? She continued reading.

However, I couldn't help myself, seeing that riffraff Weasley had already gained the friendship of the boy-who-lived before I did. I hate all Weasleys. At first, I only hated them because of what Father said. But eventually, I learned to hate them too. They have a huge family, not enough money to support all of them, and they all have red hair, freckles, and hand-me-down robes. Also, Mr. Weasley is a muggle-crazed lunatic. They are all living so inconveniently, in an alien of a house, out in the middle of nowhere. I hate people like that, who live in horrid and strange conditions without seeming to notice the respectable families around them. Well Journal, Father is calling me. If I'm late to dinner, he'll make me spend the night in the dungeons again...

Skimming pages and pages farther in the book, Hermione came to the page that said her name on it:

Dear Journal,

One of my dreaded nightmares came true. Granger found out about me. That is, she saw. I don't think she understood, but either way, she saw. I saved her life, Journal. It was instinct, somehow. I let myself become attached to the ways of Hermione Granger. Yes, I am calling her Hermione now. I have to admit, I have become quite attached to her. I knew, ever since the envelope incident, that she has another, different personality other than her studious, bookworm self. I can't explain how I know that she has another self, and how my knowing is connected with the envelope, but I know. If I have a separate self, of course Granger does. Our relationship had been getting quite close, and I was surprised when she let me kiss her. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced before. I would have continued, if it wasn't for the pain in my back. It had felt on fire ever since Parent Visitation day, and the scrape made it even worse. Hermione ran away from me, when she saw it. I think she became afraid, perhaps disgusted. Of course, who wouldn't be? The sight of the scrape, cuts, marks and bruises covering my back are horrendous. The back injuries are the worst ones. But, the only reason they were still there was because I hadn't managed to slip into the hospital wing and steal some ointment, after the beating I got on Parent Visitation day. So I stayed, wounded like that. But the nurse healed me up, and now all signs are gone from my back, except for a few of the really bad, permanent cuts and bruises. I don't think Hermione actually realized anything though, other than the fact that I got severely wounded. She probably wondered how I got them.

Ever since I dropped my ring into the well, I have been having bad luck in school, mentally and physically. But in the way of my feelings, I feel more free. I know it sounds weird, a stupid ring having any control over me, but the contrasting feelings I get upon wearing and not wearing it are true. The cuts on my wrist still hurt. They are now only a dull pink. But even worse than the wrists cuts I inflicted upon myself, and even worse than the whip slashing on my back done to me as punishment, is the fact that it all will all get worse as long as the ring is not in my possession. I must get it back, because I truly believe it was cursed to cause both physical--and mental--pain upon when the person who wore it takes it off. But, I know that if I somehow find the well spot again, and dig the ring from the well, that I will have to give up all possibilities of furthering my relationship with Hermione Granger. What should I do? How I wish you could tell me.

--Draco Malfoy

Hermione sat there for a moment, stunned. A flickering of a hint had arisen in her mind upon reading the first few sentences of the story. But, upon the reading the parts that obviously said that this person had been beaten, whipped, and tried self-mutilation by wrist-cuts, she had begun to doubt that this could possibly be Malfoy. However, the signature of the writer, and looking back at the entry about him speaking about his introducing himself to Harry, made all doubt leave her mind.

In her hands was the diary of Draco Malfoy.

~~*~~

{ Age...

It was like the feeling of standing amidst newly fallen snow, with the unblemished white glowing out at his eyes, speaking to him that never should he take a step out into it, never should he destroy the perfection of it with a footprint.

Yet, at the same time, he desired to do just that.

The ancientness of everything around him, everything that was not a part of him, seemed to speak. He felt out of place, foolish and brand new amidst valuable antiques. The delicateness of his surroundings, each paper-thin wall standing, adequately caged him, somehow.

What was this?

He stood, buildings made of a delicate, easily breakable material surrounding him at his sides. He stood in front of a wire fence, wire which seemed, unlike the buildings around him, to weave a complex and solid, unbreakable barrier.

Behind him...emptiness.

He knew not to call it darkness, because although it appeared black and evil, it had a blank feeling to it. Yet at the same time, he knew that there was something...or someone...there. That something or someone that stood in the emptiness stretching out behind him was calling to him. But the being, too, was empty.

He stretched out his hand, lightly brushing his skin against the raw, hard metal of the fence. And suddenly, something ignited inside him. It was like a shower of rain and hail inside his mind, inscribing a code on his heart. He felt pain, a raw, constant, pulsing, sharp pain. He didn't know whether the pain was mental, or physical; it rushed at him, through his soul, his mind, like a tsunami. At the same time, simultaneously with the wave of pain, came a feeling of desire. It gnawed at him furiously, willing him to give in. But he knew not what it offered him. The feeling was glorious, yet sudden, like being shut in darkness after having light forever blinding his sight.

As the pain, power, and desire grew stronger, he whirled, as if his body had a mind of its own and he could not control it, and pressed his hand to the wall of the building next to him, feeling the brittleness grate across his skin like sandpaper. But then, as he clawed desperately at the material, it began to chip away, shredding like cloth tapestry, brushing down past his fingers, leaving black, charcoal-like marks on his hands.

And when this brittle tapestry fell away, it revealed the smooth, almost-transparent glassiness of the wall beneath it, the true wall of the building. As his icy skin touched the warmth of the wall, flame flared through his skin, and he quickly pulled his hand away. But the flame brushed off of the wall, licking furiously at his fingertips, and suddenly, a wall of flame sprang up, dancing around him like trees flowing in the wind.

His fear subsided; he gazed at the bluish-crimson of the fire, the stolen essence of the wall, as the need to release and to shudder with the same grace as the ever-moving flames tore through him, and he bent down, slowly, and grasped the droplets of flame in his hand.

He was unaware of the pain, as an almost beastly hunger overcame him, and he gulped down the flames.

They flashed down his throat, searing like a thousand knives scraping at his insides, and suddenly, the flames disappeared, the buildings crumbled, and all that he was left with was the emptiness and calling behind him, and the mystical, solidly weaved fence before him. The hunger for the flames had been so great, he'd seemingly swallowed up their essence, had done the forbidden.

Unbeknownst to him, snow began to fall, as he attempted to suck in air, his lungs starving for oxygen, but found, that, with the flames gone, the spirit of them destroyed with the buildings, he could not breathe.

The world began to spin, and dizziness overwhelmed him, as, with a horrid cracking noise, the sky darkened, and, as the lightning struck his outstretched hand, still blackened with charcoal and flame, he fell down, sinking into the deep, sapphire snow. }