Draco's Journal

September 16, 1997

A Slytherin doesn't necessarily keep his promises... But Malfoy's always do. And I promised I'd write in you today. So I am. I have a bit to say... And I did tell you yesterday that I would have to deal with Advanced Potions this morning. So why don't I tell you how it was?

Of course, the only Slytherins that made the class besides myself are Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. The Ravenclaws are Alexzander White, and Barra Ssussun. There is only one Hufflepuff, Hannah Abbot. And of course, out of the Gryffindors... Now, who would you expect but the famous Gryffindor trio? Yes, that is correct. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. I'm quite sure that the Weasel is only taking the class to be nearer to Granger. His hatred for Snape (and me) is much too deep for him to be enjoying himself. Honestly, though, I'm not quite sure how either Potter or the Weasel King ever managed to scrape enough OWLS together in our fifth year to qualify.

We (that is the Slytherins) were all on time, of course. Professor Snape is our head of house, after all, and it wouldn't do for us to be late to his class. The Ravenclaws, being the smart little buggers they are, were also on time... I do believe that the poor Hufflepuff is too frightened to even consider crossing Professor Snape in any way... Especially something as trivial as being late. Even the Weasel and Granger were on time... So who does that leave to come strolling in ten minutes late, for all the world like he was the professor?

That's right. Mr. Boy-Who-Bloody-Well-Lived himself. The rich, the famous... Harry Potter.

Sometimes I wish I could hate him.

He has everything. He doesn't see that all of the girls--and quite a few of the guys--stare at him... Not in envy, but in respect and... lust. Dare I count myself in the ranks of his many admirers? I haven't a choice, have I? I'd like to say it's a physical attraction... I'm fairly sure that's all it is, since the only words we ever speak to one another are insults.

Oh, have I told you yet that I'm gay? Although I dare say you could figure it out on your own. But back to my misery...

He won't even look at me, though. He came strolling in the classroom, scanning the room briefly with those brilliant emerald eyes, resting briefly on people here and there. His eyes did pause on Blaise, though... If he's attracted to Blaise then I have no chance. The boy is beautiful, with his blonde, curling hair... Hair so soft, so golden, that it simply screams "Touch me!" His lips are so luscious, and full, and his eyes are a deep sapphire color, a color that you think you could lose yourself in. Comparing me to Blaise? Comparing my pitiful, pale skin, to his deep tan? My plain, grey eyes to his wonderful lash-rimmed pools? My boring, almost-white hair to his soft, golden fall?

There is no comparison.

But what am I thinking? Even if there were no Blaise, Harry would still never want me. Why should he? I've made his life hell since we got to Hogwarts. I've attempted to get him in trouble numerous times, and succeeded at every try. If only he would steer clear from those two idiots he calls his friends... If I could get him in trouble... If I could get a detention with just him... But it will never happen. And if it does, where does that leave me? He'd still hate me. He'd probably fight me as soon as kiss me.

Oh this is two depressing. I'm leaving for now. I will write in you tomorrow.

The blonde boy muttered the spells to lock his journal before sliding it under his pillow. His head quickly followed, and he rolled over onto his side. No one was around to see the tear tracks left on his cheeks...

September 17, 1997

I'm craving human contact. Maybe that's what made me do it. I know it's not, but it sounds like a plausible excuse.

I found him alone. I don't know where he was going--away from the Great Hall, outside. He might have been going to the Quidditch pitch, or down to the lake. I didn't ask before I pounced on him from behind. No insults, no hexes, just fists. My fingers tugged on his magnificent black hair (How did I never notice how soft it was? Like silk... I couldn't get a grip, my fingers kept sliding out from among the smooth strands.), and I pulled his glasses from him and tossed them to get a glimpse of his emerald eyes as we pummeled each other.

Romantic, huh? Here I am, beating the guy that I'd rather snog senseless. Scratching at a face I'd rather caress. Struggling to rip his clothes off, but of course, no one notices that part. They think that the rips are simply from me trying to get a better grip on him, to pull him closer so that I can pummel him some more.

The odd part is, is that I have rips in my clothing as well. But, that is not from any hidden lust on his part. I know he hates me. I can see it in the way he studiously ignores me, in the eyes that flash every time I insult his friends.

Although, truth be told, I don't insult them as much anymore. The Weasel... I don't know about him. I don't hate him, per se... I've been taught to never hate another pure-blood, even though this totally contradicts my father's hatred of the "Muggle-lovers," but he is so annoying, so frustrating. He's so much of a stereotype. You always hear about redheads with quick-fire tempers, and then you insult one Ronald Weasley and -boom! Explosion of the idiotic Gryffindor.

And the Mudblood Granger. Well, we won't go into that yet, will we? Suffice to say that while she is an irritable know-it-all, she's some one that I could look up too. If Malfoys looked up to any one, that is. She may be a know it all, but she does have a tendency to be right, and she is extremely loyal to her friends.

Loyalty. That's something Slytherins do know about. Not loyalty to friends, but loyalty to house, family, and the Dark Lord, of course. There is always him. Must be loyal to him, mustn't we?

You did note the sarcasm, I trust?

But I do crave human contact. Here in Slytherin, there isn't much. Every one in Slytherin is a loner. I'm dubbed the "Slytherin Prince," but that doesn't mean much. That simply means that the other Slytherins are subordinate to me. And even that won't last forever, not when my eighteenth birthday draws ever nearer, not when graduation draws ever closer. Nine months, I tell myself, nine months and I'll never have to bend my neck to the lizard-like creep again.

Nine months. I feel as though I'm pregnant. This is, to put it mildly, impossible.

Not that male pregnancy is impossible; I know perfectly well that it is fairly commonplace. I understand that it is not so with Muggles, of course. But this is the Wizarding world, and with so much magic rebounding every where, well, there has to be some side-effects, right?

Simply put, I meant that it is impossible for me to be pregnant, for obvious reasons. But then, I wasn't being literal when I said that I feel as though I'm pregnant. I simply meant that counting down the days for nine months makes me feel as though I'm counting down the days remaining in my pregnancy, since that is around the time it takes for... Oh never mind.

I'm rambling. And I need to get to detention, with Potter. Will right in you tomorrow.

He sighed and stood up, stretching slightly. His back popped, and he smiled with pleasure before picking up his school robes and slinging them on over his uniform. After sliding his wand into a pocket and running a hand through his hair, he was gone. A few people blinked in surprise when he walked from among their midst, but most did not notice the blond boy walking away.

"Who was that?" asked one first year girl. A fairly pretty--if not quite bright--chit, she was promising to turn into the next Pansy, a.k.a. 'Gossip Mongrel.'

The second year sitting next to her turned to look. "Ahh, the Ice King himself. Don't get on his bad side!" And with that, the two students went back to their game of Wizarding chess. If any one else cared to know about the blonde's passing, none commented on it, and in truth, he was forgotten five minutes later by every one in the common room.

September 18, 2004

I know you won't believe me if I tell you I'm sorry
So why bother?
These things I feel inside
My emotions and my thoughts swirl in confusion
I can't say what I feel
I can't feel what I say
I'm so confused, I don't know up from down, or where I am
My life is so tangled
My mind is gone completely
Tears flow freely
I can't stop crying.
I cry at completely inappropriate times
But never at the right times
I keep messing up, I'm such an idiot
I can't stop, I can't help it
I know you won't believe me if I say I'm sorry
So why bother?

That's all I have to say today.

The boy closed the journal gently, casting the locking charms with a sigh.

September 19, 2004

Sorry that I didn't write much yesterday. It was still to vivid, I needed time to think, to remember. I'll tell you about the detention I had the other day, shall I?

The cause of the detention was the fistfight between me and Harry. It was Professor Flitwick who found us, and cast the appropriate charms to separate us. It was Professor Flitwick who gave us detention. I didn't even know that the Professor gave detentions... but apparently he does.

When we got to his classroom, there were feathers everywhere. Apparently, today was the first years' levitation lesson. Professor Flitwick told us to gather up all of the feathers, so I pulled out my wand. As soon as I did so, of course, the Professor took it, and Harry's as well. "By hand, boys."

By hand. He wanted me, Draco Malfoy, to pick feathers up by hand. I glared at his retreating back, but Harry had already started so I sighed and got to work. I didn't want to give Harry another excuse to think badly of me.

The feathers were everywhere. They were in the carpet, resting on tops of chairs and desks. There were even some inside of the desks. Feathers were on top of the shelves, and the chandelier, and some how the little buggers had even managed to imbed some in the walls.

The carpets were thick, and feathers had gotten in deep, so it was several hours before we had the stuff with in reach picked up. Leaving the feathers in the wall for later, we started to tackle the chandelier.

I was still unsure of how to do this without magic, but Harry had apparently worked out a plan.

"Come here, Draco." He beckoned me to him, and I had to look away for a moment to regain my self control. When I got to him, he bent down and told me to get on his shoulders.

"Why?"

"Because this is the only way we are going to get those feathers," he answered, exasperated.

"Why do you get to lift me?" I arched an eyebrow at him. Not that I minded, I just felt as if I should keep up appearances, such as they were.

"Because even though we are about the same height, you are skinnier than I, and weigh less." Faced with that logic, I climbed on his shoulders to get the feathers.

Instead of trying to collect and hold on to the feathers, I just brushed them off the chandelier. When Harry realized what I was doing, he started to complain about me making another mess.

I told him rather sharply to stop his whining, because if I tried to hold on to the feathers, I would lose my balance. I might lust after the boy, but I shouldn't have to put up with him when he's being annoying.

Of course, at this time, I did lose my balance, as one would expect. Thankfully, I'd managed to get all of the feathers off of the chandelier, so I slid down Harry to the ground, holding on to him to keep from falling.

This had the effect of sliding my body real slow down the length of his. Oh shit. I knew that wouldn't be good. I was inches from his mouth, from his perfectly shaped rosebud. I couldn't resist, I leaned into the kiss.

Harry just stood there. He must have been shocked. It took him a few seconds to pull away, but he didn't kiss me back, he did pull away. And then he hurried to the other side of the room to pick the feathers from the wall.

We finished our detention in silence.

September 20, 1997

I dreamed about it.

Only, in my dream, he kissed me back.

It was a wonderful dream. His lips were so soft, his hair was so fine, and his eyes were so green.

Well then, that's not a dream. I know that is true.

The wonderful part lay fully in the fact that he kissed me back. At first soft, hesitant, and then passion-filled as he pulled me closer and wrapped one arm around my waist, the other hand tangling in my hair.

That's how it should have been, not the brief one-sided mess that it was. That's how it will be.

The blonde blinked, running a finger up the spine of his journal after performing the customary locking spells. He hadn't meant to write that. But, it sounded right.

September 21, 1997

Started mission "Get Him" today. That's what I decided to call it. "Get Him." It's wonderfully generic, isn't it?

But either way, "GH" is just what it sounds. Well, I guess, in a sense.

There are many literal meanings to it, I guess. "Get Him," as in get revenge on him, or get him in trouble, or a whole mess of evilly-associated doings.

And then there is get him like I mean, 'get him' as in "Make him mine. Get him to be my boyfriend." And that is definitely the more difficult definition.

But I will do it. And I started today.

I purposely haven't, and won't, mentioned to him the kiss from last night. Actually, I haven't said anything to him today.

I also assume he hasn't said anything to his friends, since there were no hexes thrown at me from Weasley today. Although Hermione did give me quite a few suspicious looks, I assume that Harry remained withdrawn from his friends after detention, as he was probably distracted with thoughts about wanting to murder me.

But those thoughts are not conducive to my plan, so I will avoid having them. As I said, I didn't talk to him today. I didn't look at him, I didn't fight with him. I didn't mention him. I did, however, scribble his name all over a piece of paper and then 'accidentally' dropped it where he would find it. Since I'm sure he saw me drop it, and I know he picked it up, he now has a piece of paper that he is no doubt pondering about this very minute.

He will wonder why I have been writing his name like some love-struck fool.

Maybe he'll even figure it out.

He smiled cattily. This was going to be fun.

September 22, 1997

He confronted me today. He wasn't too pleased, he said, with my attempts to manipulate him.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, innocently. I knew what he was talking about.

"You know what I'm talking about." Okay, so I'll admit that was a little creepy, yet not completely unexpected.

"I'm not quite sure. Is this about detention the other day?" Maybe he liked it, and maybe he took that piece of paper as the hint I meant it to be.

"Right now you are probably thinking that maybe I liked it," Okay, this was definitely a little creepy, "but I'm here to tell you that I didn't."

Well go on. Just blow my dreams out of the water, why don't you?

His eyes were blazing, with anger I'm sure. Maybe hatred. Maybe both? Is it possible to feel two emotions at once both so strongly that you're eyes fairly flame?

"If you didn't like it, then why are you here?" I raised my eyebrow at him, quite put out by his lack of feeling.

"I want to know why you kissed me. I assume it's some kind of perverted joke. Are you trying to get me to say that I love you and I want to snog you senseless?"

"Do you?" It had, after all, sounded promising, almost like a confession.

"No. I don't."

Honestly, I've never been any good at that Muggle game called battle ship. All of my ships get sunk. I have this sinking suspicion that if I ever played against Harry, that with a few of those letters and numbers tumbling from between his wonderfully lush lips, all of my ships would be sunk. He's doing a fair job of sinking my heart. Hmmm, this gives me an idea. Anyway, he continued on...

"No, I don't." Hmm. He repeated himself. "I just want you to stop. I'm not going to say that, so you can drop your pathetic dreams of recording it and playing it in the Great Hall at graduation."

"Recording?"

"Muggle device, the spell, Recardosia, has the same effect." I know that spell! Of course, there are few spells I don't know.

"Oh. Well. I hadn't thought of that... It is a good plan, though, Potter, and I will definitely remember it. However, since you have stated that you aren't interested in being my dummy for the plan-" Here his eyes narrowed dangerously. Harry Potter isn't slow, and he recognized me calling him dumb for what it was. Which, was, obviously, an insult- "so I will have to try some one else. Maybe... the Weasel?"

"Stay away from him, stay away from me."

"But I don't want too." And with that, I pivoted on my heel and strode away. Father always said to leave while you have the upper hand and I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold onto it.

But you know, all that talk about the Muggle board game, Battleship, gave me an idea. I played that game as a child at my aunt's house--before my father found out--and while I admit, I'm not the best at it, I'm not terribly bad either.

I wonder how Potter reacts to challenges. Strip battleship, any one? Or maybe for a different stake...

The blonde closed his book with a smirk. Stretching out behind him, he allowed his eyes to flutter shut whilst he imagined vivid green eyes behind bottle-bottom glasses.