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

12^th Entry: September 8^th (Witching hour again. Can now see what Muggles mean about not trusting witches.)

The sun rose, caressing the paling sky with delicate brushstrokes of red, scarlet, crimson, burgundy and saffron. Clouds seemed to be burning at the edges, and the birds awoke our camp with their cheerful dawn chorus.

In other, less poncy, words, it was morning. Whoop de fucking well doo.

The day took a nasty turn this morning when I received the "care package". What it mostly consisted of, amongst various unmentionables, were red satin knickers, lacy black bras, suspenders and suspender belts, love letters, candy (hell on my complexion) and engagement rings.

Snape really did send a chastity belt. I am profoundly disturbed now, and I don't think anything will save me.

Speaking of Snape...BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Potter got the dumb postcard!

He turned this fascinating shade of purplish-green, and ran off to some discreet shrubbery to retch up the lumps of sleeping bag he had for breakfast.

We went in circles for a while, and sent Pansy off to check the perimeter. I voiced my concerns that she might get shot, or wounded, or even killed, to which Hermione said, 'Oh, Draco, I had no idea you were so sensitive and caring!'

Hope swelled inside of me, amongst other extremities.

'Well that's just the kinda guy I am, Milady,' I crooned, kissing her hand.

She turned puce and giggled. 'Don't worry, Draco,' she cooed, 'I'm sure Pansy will come back safe and well.'

I scowled. 'Ah, well. Better luck next time.'

Blaise and Ginny exchanged looks. I didn't like the look of them. They're plotting something, which will probably result in my ritualistic humiliation and general public embarrassment for the foreseeable future.

We could hear Pansy from half a kilometre away, panting like an asthmatic rhino as she pounded along the ground, and occasionally uttering this strange noise that went something like, 'HEEK!'

I presume she was having difficulty inhaling, or at least I hoped this was the case. Perhaps some hunters were on her trail, rabid for the taste of manflesh! Wait, did I just say that? In the immortal words of the mysterious beastie who has haunted my trail, 'ME BEASTIE, ME NOT EAT OTHER BEASTIES LIKE HER!'

No such luck, anyway.

Parkinson returned fit and well with every sickening part of her intact. It turns out she was running to tell us we had room and board for the night!

'You're back, then?' I scowled.

'You were expecting maybe Beowulf?' she snapped irritably.

Cow.

Turns out that the ghastly, horrible ruin of a castle is actually Fleur Delacour's weekend gaff.

She seemed quite pleased to have such special visitors in her place, actually!

And I was quite pleased to be visiting her special places! SCOOOOOORE!!!

What's that you say? Draco "Stud Muffin" Malfoy struck again, this time with a French Fancy?

And our survey says...WE HAVE A WINNER!

Or more accurately, a thoroughly satisfied and quite exhausted Draco Malfoy!

I had no idea that part-Veela were such demons in the sack...I'll be walking like I just got off a broomstick with no cushioning charm for days now.

So far, my TO DO List for this quest (Tee hee hee...) stands thus:

Christ...that girl must be some kind of female equivalent of me.

Mainly because she is so damn fine and rich and she could wear out the Great Wall of China and she must be some kind of slut because she's really, really GOOD!

Not to mention, she's really slutty too! The little coquette clapped eyes on me, gasped and hissed across the room, 'Bienvenue, Monsieur Malfoy. S'il vous plait, lichez mon clito!'

Rough translation? 'Welcome, Mr. Malfoy, you slavering, sexy little beast. Please lick my clit.'

I'll let you guess which part I added myself. (Hint: it lies between Malfoy and a full stop!)

She told me my "cul" was rather "mignon".

Thankfully, mother ensured that I was educated in all European languages, apart from Spanish and Nordic, because she seems to think that these countries are below Malfoys.

Cul means arse. And mignon? It means cute.

Damn, I love the French language. So expressive, so eloquent...so perfect for describing me!

Anyways, the rest of them were too busy pigging out to notice that Fleur and myself were having a quickie under the table.

Fleur kept on saying, 'Quiche, quiche,' until I whispered, mid-shag, 'It's pronounced KWIK-EE, you dumb French tart!'

She rolled her eyes heavenward (and naturally enough, I thought this was a good sign) but then said, 'Non, non, Draco, mon petit chou, ton cul est dans la quiche!'

Loose translation? 'No, no, Draco, my dear, your arse is in the quiche.'

And I didn't edit that at all.

We did it six more times in various places in and around the castle. And in various places amongst each other's persons. HYYYOOOOOOOOOO!!

Did I really just say that?

I'm fairly sure I caught Ron Weasley watching me at one point...and somebody was playing footsie with me while Fleur and I...procreated beneath the table.

I have to have a shower now.

The whole experience has been tainted, once again courtesy of Ron Weasley.

That gimp.

Fleur has offered us the contents of the stables to "use at our will". The girl's hot, but she doesn't so much speak the English language as chew it up and spit it out.

We told her about the quest, and she paled considerably.

'Well,' she purred, 'You must be leaving at zee dawn. Eet eez not safe for me...I mean you...heeeeere.'

'But why?' Hermione asked.

'Alas,' Fleur explained.

'Alackaday,' Potter agreed.

These are indeed tough cookies. I was looking forward to shacking up with her for a while!

Stupid Potter. I hate him. I hope he dies.

Will hopefully choke him in his sleep!

Tinkerty-Tonk,

Draco the Disturbed.

Again.