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Dear Diary,

I have fed you the truth when so often I have served the world outside these pages lies. For this I am both ashamed and somewhat glorified that my false tellings have been so easily received. One may ask, how can a woman such as myself feel so much pride one moment and so much self loathing the next. The answer to this question is simple-love and hate are one.

For example, I hate to lie, but lies have delivered me what I love most, my son. My son is in fact my greatest lie of all. Naturally, I both love and hate him for this. He is becoming somewhat of a monster, but he is my monster, my creation. Because of this, I know that he is not evil. People say that Draco is his father's son. They could not be further from the truth.

Imagine, me, the beautiful, model trophy wife of a prosperous Death Eater, folded in pain and uttering prayers to a god whom I have been too 'good' to worship, asking him to allow me to have a child that looked entirely like me. And my prayers were answered that night. I bit nails watching him grow, ever doubtful that Lucius would somehow know, but some angel seemed to cast a veil over my husband's eyes.

The fairest hair and palest skin and eyes of gray ice-they are my own, but I let Lucius claim them. Even to this day, I hope that Lucius never realizes that they are mine. From the hook of his bird-like nose to the sallow cheeks that mark him a Black, I hope Lucius sees only himself.

The sneers, the cool voice, the movements, are all molded from a childhood as a pureblood Malfoy.

I am so fortunate that Lucius has never seen Draco smile or stare idly out a window, watching and wondering. Surely, he would be able to detect that bit of his son that belonged to neither him nor his charming wife.

I suppose luck has always been with me, whether good or bad. Was it not luck that gave me this life? Surely it was luck that my old, secret friend replied to me the fateful night I sent him a letter spilling all of my woes. It was some form of luck that my friend, always so quiet, so kind, came to my doorway when Lucius was away somewhere, raising the sign of death in the sky. Luck that that gentle man, so strong inside, succumbed to my advances, letting me use him to satisfy my own wants. I am most certain, though, that it was not luck but fate that allowed me to become with child on that passionate night.

One day, my luck will prove fortunate again. My beloved Draco will realize the error of his ways-he is almost at that point already. When he does, he will be ready to read these words.

One day, I will be able to tell my son that he does not have to live up to his father's image, because Lucius Malfoy is not his father.

One day, I will be able to tell Draco of my friendship with one Remus Lupin. . .

***

Lucius Malfoy closed the diary, rage pulsing through his veins like fire.

He had arrived home, a man now freed and at his lord's side again. He had expected to be greeted with open arms by his gorgeous wife, to touch her smooth skin again, forgetting all of the lonesome days he spent behind Azkaban's walls.

However, when he arrived, she did not even notice him in the doorway, she was so engrossed in writing something into a thick bound book. He had asked what it was, as any husband would. Narcissa jumped and in that moment, she made her mistake. She slammed the book and instinctively slid it aside.

He had asked her again. "A journal, such a silly little womanly thing," she'd replied.

He wanted to see it. She had been less than willing to give it to him. The book would not open for him, a protection spell, he was certain. With a ready wand at her throat, he had made her open it. Then he had made her read the words allowed.

Every word was a dagger. Without realizing it, Lucius had let two words of his own slip out of his mouth. When her body, lifeless, fell onto the sofa, he had looked on with shock, as if it had been someone else who had murdered her.

And there she remained. With her life went the spell that bound those pages closed...Lucius had read.

Lucius held the book with a steady hand and took it to the fire place. Flames grew high, as if in expectance of the gift. He dropped the book inside and then turned back to his wife's corpse. He wanted to say something, anything that would make her actions more justified, but all he found was that steady rage, hidden now, waiting to be unleashed on another.

"Father! What are you doing here? Where's. . ."

Lucius turned. Draco stood at the parlor's entrance, fear in his eyes. . . his mother's eyes. He was looking past Lucius to his mother's still form. Lucius fought the urge to laugh, instead calling upon tears. "My son," he bit his lip at the false title, "they came. . .They were looking for us. . ."

"Who?" The word was a low growl, predatory in nature.

"The Order," Lucius muttered. "The ministry would not be as bold as to. . . Oh, my son, look what they have done."

Draco crossed the room, reaching out to take his mother's cool hand. "But who? Who would do this?" Draco's face flushed with anger and grief. "Why would they? She was. . ."

Lucius put a hand on Draco's shoulder to steady him. "They must have been looking for something. Your mother must have put up a fight. They probably assumed that she was a danger. One of them must have killed her, thinking she meant harm."

Draco turned, baring his teeth. "But who? Give me their name, Father!"

"I don't wish you to seek a life of vengeance," Lucius answered, eyes downcast. He frowned at his son. "But you deserve to know. It was Remus Lupin."