Draco tied his letter to Tanaxu's leg then gently smoothed her silvery feathers. "Take this to Vincent, then Gregory. Then pick up Hermione's letters." She always had missives with extensive notes and further revisions. Draco enjoyed them. Planning, even for something as trivial as lectures, provided a brief escape. He glanced at the calendar. August 29th. Summer's almost over. Draco opened the window and felt the brief fluttering of wings brushing past, releasing his confession before he changed his mind again. The breeze smelled of summer and unlimited potential, so he left the window open. Draco placed himself carefully in the hard wooden chair and inspected his books again. He'd already skimmed Miranda Goshawk's Standard Book of Spells Volume 2. Little of note, he knew most already, proof that the Galleons Father paid to tutors had been spent well.

Beside the textbooks sat a small, leather-bound book with title, no markings at all. He leafed through the blank pages. He'd found the diary last week, after a day spent exploring Piccadilly Circus and hiding from obligations. He'd ducked quickly upstairs, not drawing attention to himself. Wasted effort. Mother was nowhere to be seen. Dropping his backpack onto his bed, Draco changed out of his jeans and T-shirt into formal robes,

"So you are Wizard, again?" Mother had said in early July, after she'd noticed him change. She'd never spoken about her lost decade, but Draco had investigated. She'd done nothing as a Muggle. Cashed checks, lived comfortably but not well. No ambition. No Goals. Perhaps she'd done that before, lived the aristocratic lifestyle she'd returned to. Had Father told the truth, had she been totally innocent of his plots? Then how had she spent her time, before? How had it felt, feeling aristocratic living as a commoner? Had her decade been like Draco's summer?

Draco had cast three cleaning spells, hid his purchases and stuffed the jeans into the back of his closet. Then he'd spotted the book, spine resting against the head of Father's cane. He'd ignored it for a week, but tonight Draco carried the diary downstairs.

"What is this?" Narcissa's feet curled under her, sitting in the Leather chair that Father used to read from. A glass of wine rested on the table next to her. She looked like she'd been there all day. Draco didn't know. He hadn't ventured out since breakfast.

"Why it's a gift, of course." She didn't get up, but kissed him gently on his cheek as he stood next to her. He'd expected more questions, stern glances, even another lecture about "his fascination with useless Muggles." None came. Draco wondered if Mother had resigned herself or settled on a less maternal avenue to express her disapproval. Does she know what drives me out of here, in addition to what attracts me there? Would Mother set a trap for me? As a lesson?

Father absolutely would have. Traps provided lessons, all part of the Game. Maybe she'd given up on him.

"Father said ..." She tsk-tsked. He left the question unfinished and started back towards the stairs.

"Lucius forbade you from keeping a diary, didn't he?" Her light voice rang across the room that Draco still associated with silence and whispers. He turned and saw a twinkle in her eyes, some happy thought she hadn't shared.

Draco shook his head. "Not exactly."

"I remember the scene, Draco. Before dinner he'd take ten minutes, perhaps fifteen. Sitting here in this chair in front of a roaring fire that provided the only light, he'd write out his thoughts for the day. Perhaps it would be some stratagem or an observation. His hopes, his dreams, a new spell. Never a letter or an order, he wrote those at his desk. At least three times he composed poems. One was quite good. Lucius would carefully correct mistakes and read over his work. And once he was satisfied he'd stand up, toss the scroll into the fire, and go about his evening." Draco remembered it clearly, just as she described.

He'd asked Father about it, half a lifetime ago.

There is a purity to writing down your thoughts. When Speaking you pause and stumble, your lips race ahead of your mind. To write well is to truly understand...But once you do understand, there is no reason to keep around anything your enemies might read.

"You needn't burn anything. This diary won't reveal your secrets, Draco." Narcissa went upstairs, carrying her wine with her.

Draco returned to his desk. Despite Father's example, he felt no desire to write. Draco wrote only to achieve an end like passing a note or getting a grade. Letters simply allowed him to exchange information at a distance.

Tonight Draco wrote.

Dear Diary.

Ink dripped from his quill. Draco placed it the inkwell and stared at the wall. He took out his wand and tried to summon his Patronus again. He'd gotten it to work only once after Father died, earlier this summer. A brief moment of happiness, prior to self-loathing. He'd been terrified after Auror Li discovered it, the morning Vincent and Gregory arrived. He hadn't told them he could cast Patronus. Before Voldemort died, he'd worried what would they would say. Later he feared he'd never be able to cast it again. And so he'd cast it once, successfully.

Li had kept his secret, Draco probably gained an ally. Guilt and rage prevented him from casting it again. Rage he couldn't escape at home with only Mother and memories as companions. It had taken all of his courage to finally confess, to write the letter explaining what he'd learned and lost, and why he'd hidden it from them. His fears. His tutors had taught him the value of a sincere confession, but it was an advanced technique. Knowing the theory, that confessing his secrets might not drive them away, hadn't quelled his anxiety. Draco wished he could recall his Owl.

Draco practiced spells for a half hour. Eventually he regained some discipline and gathered his composure. He picked up the quill and wrote.

I don't know what to do.

Draco gasped as the letters broke apart and reformed.

What are you trying to achieve?

Calligraphy danced across the page with broad loops but straight, harsh lines. The cross on the 't' stabbed like a cut across the page's skin. Draco stared at the page.

To save Slytherin. Draco waited; the letters flowed and the response came back

From whom?

The rage returned. He couldn't write the answer that had jumped to mind. "From Father"

Draco closed the book, got up and stared out of his open window into the cold. Dusk had passed and it was dark outside. He saw four dancing lights in the woods, Fiendflies waiting to lure unwary Muggles to their death. At least, that's what Father told him. Probably just lightning bugs, engorged on the Cibom Deorum roots that he'd discovered this summer. After shutting the window, Draco returned to the diary. The front page was blank, no evidence of any writing. He picked up his quill and wrote quickly, his earlier rage shunted aside now that Draco had a goal.

From itself. From wrong ideas, from fear. From the sudden vacuum Voldemort's murder of Father and the parents of many of my classmates left. From the knowledge that so many of us flocked to him, even though he was clearly evil. I don't know where to begin.

Draco sat as still as the page's words. He sat listening to the branches scrape gently against the side of his room near the window as the breeze gently rocked a birch tree. Draco sat holding his breath and slowly, deliberately, let it out. He could hear the grandfather clock chime the half hour.

So, you are no longer the Scion of Malfoy, but Lord. How old are you, Draco?

You know who I am? The answer came almost immediately.

I could hardly give useful advice otherwise.

Lying about this seemed pointless and counterproductive. This was Mother's gift, after all. I am twelve.

Then I suggest you not rush into things. The question I asked earlier was premature. Scribbles darted around the page, as if to indicate thinking. After a moment, they disappeared and words continued. The correct question is 'Why are you trying to achieve that? What is your ambition?'

The page turned itself. The next page was fully written, The conversation had become a lecture.

Sometimes, when you cannot find a path to your goal, it may be that you lack the tools. If you wish to lift something heavy you must know how to cast Wingardium Leviosa (a summary of the motions and pronunciation were diagrammed on the facing page) and have sufficient magic. But if you have tools and the path is not clear, then often you are unsure where your goal lies.

Your ambition is to save Slytherin, but you listed a jumble of problems. You lack clarity and precision, but you are young. Draco frowned; the page turned.

Gather information until you can state your goal. You must ask yourself – "How will I know if I have won or lost?"

Draco took it in. He felt calm, distracted. Not distracted, he realized. He felt a purpose. One he'd ignored too long.

Do not despair if it takes days or months to get an answer. Knowing yourself is difficult. Especially at your age and for several years to come. Most wizards do not truly understand themselves, especially as teenagers.

Draco twisted the quill around several times, then wrote What are you?

Your birthright. There was a pause. One, anyway. The handwriting took a stern tone. I am powerful, I am useful. I remember what you tell me. I am guidance, but your plots belong to you.

I can impart a vast amount of knowledge. I know some of people, but that your training there is superior to my knowledge. People, emotions, motives sprawl beyond my authors ability to impart. But as regards magic and knowledge, deception and tactics, there I am encyclopedic. Those things I contain. The loops and lines relaxed into a more gentle flow. I am not wisdom, although you may glean some reflected in my words.

I am not power, but I am a map that leads to it.



Draco's skin tingled while he read.

Think of your ambition.

Draco's resolve, absent all summer, started to return.

Ask yourself "How will I know if I have succeeded?"

Draco heard wings fluttering.

A true Malfoy has many ambitions. Think on that.

Draco jumped as the Tanaxu screeched outside his window, a monumental scroll attached to her leg. The diary slammed shut.