Draco's Diary (It's Secret, Ya Know)

Fifth Entry: September 3^rd (Morning)

Oh my god...I'm handicapped by a near-fatal hangover!

It wasn't helped by Weasley making doe-eyes at me as I passed him by, or by the dark-blue Whiner I received this morning. Not nearly as loud, or sudden, as a Howler, but a thousand times more embarrassing.

They follow you around all day, whimpering on your shoulder and yelling out what you've done in a generic whiny voice.

'You abandoned me, Draco,' it moaned. 'You didn't come, when I most needed you...oh, you are so, so not nice!'

'Die,' I suggested to it.

'I want you, oh I need you. And what do you do? Desert me! What does that sound like to you?' it whinged.

'Shut up,' I observed.

Ended up hurling the damned thing into the nearest fire.

Almost threw my next arrival in the fireplace, too, until I realised it was from mother.

Apparently, as part of my therapy, I have to do a task each week. This week, I have to research careers. And also, I have to submit my journal at the end of every month to review my progress.

Somehow, I don't think casual sex, drinking and drug abuse will factor high in the "sanity" stakes.

These are indeed tough cookies.

I just wish mother would stop being such a fat-head and let me be young! I can have a career at any time. We're rich, anyway! Why do I need a career?

It's probably just to fill my time between rolls in the hay with the help and local peasantry, but... then again, I find this writing lark comes very easily to me!

I may have found my calling in life--to be a writer!!

Writers get chicks, right?

Right?

Fifth Entry: September 3^rd (Night)

During Herbology class, Nott recommended that we break into Greenhouse Number Seven. Unfortunately, when we tried we were attacked by a crowd of raging Hufflepuffs, snarling and screeching like stoned lemurs.

As a rule, the Hufflepuffs generally avoid us, except on rare occasions when fifty or so will get together to dry-gulch a lone Slytherin.

Like this occasion...dirty, scummy bastards that they are!

I mean, come on! The average Hufflepuff has all the literacy and intellectual development of a young goldfish.

That's why as an experiment, I am setting up the Court of Malfoy!

I shall put on trial anyone accused of being criminally stupid and/or ugly...as well as other crimes, amongst them compulsive Potter-ism, and obsessive Granger-ism...and habitual redness.

Write now, Parkinson is awaiting trial for criminal ugliness on the Astronomy Tower. She's tied to the battlements and squalling like a stricken piglet. That just makes us giggle even more.

But...what is it in Greenhouse Seven that they are so desperate to protect?

And why is it that every morning they stroll down to breakfast, mellow and red-eyed and giggly?

Beats me, anyway. Should really find out.

It really shows how dull and boring my life has become.

The only remotely interesting thing that happened was Dumbledore making some sort of announcement.

Usual sort for him - full of doom, gloom and hints of a quest.

Potter, Granger and Weasley of course were goggling at him, and each other. Potter's pupils opened and closed like nervous umbrellas, but that could have something to do with the flat candies I slipped into his pumpkin juice (this seems to be the beginnings of a habit). Nott says they melt in your brain, not in your hands.

Anyway, Dumbledore's speech ran somewhat thus:

"Students, I have grave news. Strange portents have appeared all around Britain, excluding parts of East Anglia. Fields sown with corn have reaped fungus and carrots. Even small gardens reject tulip bulbs and sprout potatoes. There has been a hot day in December, and a blue moon in the sky. Calendars are made with a month of Sundays, and a blue-ribbon diricawl bore alive - two insurance salesmen! The earth splits, and goat entrails have been found tied in square knots. The face of the sun blackens, and the skies have rained soggy potato chips."

"But what does all this mean, professor?" Granger shrieked.

"Beats me," Dumbledore shrugged. "I just thought it made good copy. We are approaching our DOOM!"

The room exploded with rank-smelling smoke, and we all gasped and choked as Weasley kicked the still-farting Dung-bomb out of the Great Hall.

"Was that really necessary?" he demanded.

"The word 'DOOM' requires special effects, Weasley," Dumbledore sniffed.

It seems that Albus has finally gone off his Dumbledore.

He did say as closure, though: "But some words of comfort! Be not afraid, allay your fears, quail not, and hold your hippogriffs."

We waited, in stunned silence.

"That will be all," he said smoothly, slumping heavily into his chair, which folded up under him with a muffled crack.

Yep, nothing strange there.

Oh, well. Parkinson's trial awaits!

I hope I get to issue the death penalty.

Maybe I'll be a judge instead of a writer? It seems to be more rewarding!

Anyway, after reading over this journal, I've decided it would be better employed as kindling for the Malfoy fireplace.

And our kindling is pretty damn expensive, monsieur!

Tinkerty-Tonk,

Draco the Maginificent.