Diary Of A Slug

DIARY OF A SLUG

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Welcome once more to the cesspool of moral filth that is my diary.

I can't believe you're back for more. What are you? Masochists? Oh well. Each to his own.

Things are going well, I suppose. My father is still as mad as ever, so that little sunlit spot in my life remains. Ginny is... wacky. I'm trying not to be mean. I love her to bits and itty pieces, but she's odd. Yes, yes. How jolly witty you are to say that never-tiring old saw, 'She'd have to be if she's with you!'

My, my. I think we missed out a comic genius when we checked through you lot on entry. And an excellent point-outer of obvious stuff. Goodness me, I'm already slagging you all off, and I've barely got to know you.

Like hell I don't.

Anyway, for those fluff-lovers, here is a little poem of me and Ginny.

Do you love me?

Yes you do.

Strange that I didn't

Have a clue

I must be thick

(you're telling me)

Ginny, get out of my diary.

What would you

Rather I'd be?

(charming, dashing,

handsome, too)

Am I just not

Good enough for you?

Of course you are, honey. Now stop showing off.

GOODBYE, Ginny.

Good, she's gone. I won't bother continuing. Due to the lovely whoops and catcalls of amusement at my lack of talent that I received when one of my poems was found, I have decided to stop completely. I'm thinking of going into art instead. Yes, I could do sketches of people, then burn them all, stick my thumb in a wad of sticky-tack and call it art. Yes, I think I'll do that. Let me have a look around.

Okay, I couldn't find any sticky-tack, but I've got staples. Okay then. I'll stick my thumb into a staple and see what it looks like.

Oooh. Splatter painting!

I think I'll go to the hospital now. My thumb has gone a funny colour.

-----

Madame Pomfrey screamed loudly when I turned up at her door with a manic grin on my face and squirted blood in her eye from my thumb. She refused to heal me for scaring her, so I sat outside patiently, aiming blood squirts at a wall. The fun was all spoilt when that party-pooper Delirium came and took me away. I collapsed. How bloody embarrassing. The only other situation in which I have collapsed has been when I've had a clove attack.

I'm violently allergic to cloves. You know, those funny little spiky things that you stick in oranges at Christmas? Last time, I had to go to wizards' casualty ward. I was swooning and drooling, and all these fit witches in tiny white dresses saw me. Blast. Why me?

Well, I was discovered, sitting in a pool of my own blood. They took me in and patched me up. I showed Ginny my splatter painting. She screamed out loud, and because I was still delirious, I thought she liked it. Then I made the traitorous mistake of saying it needed another colour, and asking her if I could use her blood. When she asked why, I said 'Isn't lower class blood a sort of inferior colour?'

She fled the room crying. Bugger.

I still don't see what's wrong with the statement. I've never seen lower class blood. My father didn't want to distress me beyond repair, so he's only ever slaughtered rich people in my presence. You see? He is a good father.

I have to go and chase my girlfriend right now. See you tomorrow.

-----

She's a leeettle bit mad with me. Apparently, there was lots wrong with the statement, mostly being the suggestion of her being lower class. I told her about my father, and she looked at me strangely. I don't get it. I thought it was really generous of father. Oh well. Shows how much I know.

(damn sight more than you, I'll wager.)

I got a detention from Filch today. I have to help the house elves out in the kitchen gardens and stuff. I don't get why. I did nothing wrong. I told him that he was looking fatter than usual. That's all. Oh well. Time to go.

-----

Those house elves are slave drivers!

One bloody chicken bit me while I tried to take its eggs. But I showed him. I found it later on, once they'd roasted it. I pulled its leg off and bit it.

How did you like it?

Yes, that made me feel a lot better. Ginny appears to be having that time of the month thing, and she's always mad with me. It brings me back to a little while ago, when I lived to piss her off.

Those were the good old days.

I kind of want it back, in a way. It was a lot more fun than living to please her. I do the good thing. I send her roses every week, and a present every month. I send her little notes all the time. I've given up on the secrecy thing, and I walk her to class. I carry her bags, and whenever she says she's tired, I carry her. I take her out to Hogsmeade every now and again. Our two or three month relationship has failed to break me. I'm still perfect. What am I doing wrong?

Maybe she just doesn't like me any more. But the trouble is, I live for her. Without her, I'd have nothing to do. There'd be nothing to write about, no one to draw, no poems to write. Isn't that what living for someone is? When you know that, were they gone, you'd spend your whole time lying on your back with your head dangling off the side of the bed. That's what I know. If I didn't have her, there'd be no me.

I bet I'm surprising you, being like this. Well, I can be melancholy guy. I'm in the mood now. Stop stopping me.

Uh! You threw off my groove!

I'm sorry, but you've thrown off the sex-god's groove.

I don't know about her, but I think we've got something special here. She's more to me than she ever would have been if it was love at first sight. You don't value something unless you have to fight for it. If everything comes easily, you don't respect it. I respect her, (because it takes ages to get her to come. KIDDING. She's quite responsive, actually. JOKE.) and I know that I have to work to keep her as well. Potter is ever lingering. He hangs around us, pouting sullenly whenever we're together. It's sick.

I'm going to see if boy-who-lived blood is a pretty colour. Wish me luck.

-----

Well, the answer is, yes. I got some of it on my teeth when they cut his fist. It's a lovely shade of ouch. Don't worry. My teeth are all straightened up now. It didn't hurt too much. Besides, he was the one lying on the floor at the end. That means I won, right? If I'm still standing, it means I'm better than him. good. So I should be.

It was surprisingly easy to find the Potty. He was waiting outside my room. He wanted to punch me. I punched him first. I really want to give you a blow-by-blow account of the fight, but I forgot it. All I remember is him punching me in the mouth, then clutching his fist. I hooked his legs, and kicked him in the stomach while he lay on the floor. Then I ran for it.

What do you mean by honour, exactly? What's so bad about kicking someone in the belly when they're down? Isn't that the best place to have an enemy? Right where he can't hurt you. Oh well. Like I said, I'm a cesspool of moral filth. You are obviously righteous, pious, solicitous and downright irritating. I don't respect that a tiny bit. It's far more fun to be a bad boy. I read about this game boys used to play in Victorian times when they would smear sticks in cesspools then wipe them on doorknobs. Pooh sticks. Sounds like fun. Racing sticks down a river with a cuddly bear called Edward, however, that is NOT me.

Actually, that's quite a good definition. I'm the pooh sticks involving real shit. YOU are the pooh sticks involving rivers, and teddies. We're all still pooh sticks though.

I get the distinct feeling that the missus will be a little put out about my smashing Potter's glasses and making him throw up, and breaking his nose... but it's all fixed now. Besides, he broke mine! I had snot and blood all over my face. That was kind of gross. Potter, however, had snot, blood, sweat and spit on his. That's because I spat on him when I ran off.

Yes, Ginny could be a tiny bit furious.

-----

That rat told on me!

(I used the term 'rat' because that's the only thing I've never been insultingly referred to as. I promise. I've even been called a piece of toast. Rodents, yes. Rats, no.)

Ginny dumped me. Well, not 'dumped' exactly. We're taking a breather, cos she's getting homicidal impulses. She just can't hack the pace. Poor kid. You gotta have balls of steel to handle the Draco-meister. I recognise that she's hardly likely to have balls at all, but that's not the point. Can't you messed up weirdoes tell the difference between a metaphor and a literal reference? Idiots.

Well, I'm a little starved for air, if it's a breather we need. Yes, I'm getting a little tired of looking after her all the time. It's too much work for one guy to take. Well, in that case, she can breathe till she hyper-ventilates. I don't care. Nobody 'takes a breather' from me.

-----

This is never going to work out my way, is it?

As that weird Muggle with the funny hair and the earring back in the Dark Ages said, these violent pleasures have violent endings, or something along those Shakespeare-ish lines, anyways. Hey, I've got some more intelligent things to say on the theme of love-lost! Don't go!

I've got Latin, for the really intelligent (like me)

Nunc scio quid sit amor

.

Whaddaya mean, you don't understand?! Okay, fine. It means: At last I know what love is really like. I think.

I expect that woman will be the last thing civilised by man

. That's not mine, either. Unfortunate, but I can avoid the embarrassment by NOT TELLING YOU WHO IT WAS!!! Naturally, at least one person will know, and that swot can take me aside at the end and humiliate me privately. Agreed? Good.

I think... wait for it... it's POEM TIME!!!

Okay, let's drum up some inspiration. Okay! Got one.

My love is of a birth as rare

As 'tis, for object, strange and high

It was begotten by despair

Upon impossibility

Oh wait, I've heard that somewhere. I don't think I wrote it. Damn. It was quite good, too. If you know who that was, tell me. I can't remember.

Oh, bugger. I still love her. Why did my pride make me shout at her and spoil it all? No, wait. Don't answer that. I know the answer. Okay, why can't she understand me? Why does she still have to be in love with Potter? Well, in that case, she doesn't deserve me. I love her with every molecule in my body, and I only get half of her. Why, when I have given her everything I have, does she still put me at second best?

Don't talk to me. I don't want to hear it.

-----

Ira furor brevis est

, but I'm okay now.

It's been quite a few days. I still see her face in every window I come close to, but it'll pass. I won't sit here and whine about my predicament, because it's entirely my own fault. I hurt her. I don't know how, but I deserved to get dumped. I shouldn't have shouted at her, because I was at fault.

I'm hollow. I can't even be arrogant.

I gave her all that made me who I was, in essence, my soul. What more can you give someone? I only wanted her to be happy, and I suppose I wanted to be happy, too. When she smiled I felt the sun rise in my chest, and my heart flipped over whenever she laughed. But I suppose I don't deserve this from her. She was too good to be with me. Potter will be just right for her. Potter isn't incurably evil. I am. I wanted her to be happy no matter what it took. Is that so bad? I would do anything for her. I tried to be funny, and light and happy. I gave her my last diary, you know. She read all of the things I went through over her. I'm going to copy what I've written up to this stage, and leave it on her pillow for her. Then she'll see what she's done to me. Maybe she'll love me if she knows that she's the only reason my heart keeps beating. Maybe...

-----

I don't go to lessons any more.

I don't let anyone into my room.

I don't eat.

I don't sleep.

I don't really live any more.

I don't love.

All I do is write. I dream, yes. That's only because I can't see. The hunger is clouding my vision, but I know that if I ate, I would just be sick.

I don't feel.

I have seen no one for seven days now. They force food under my door. I don't take it. I don't want it. She hasn't come. I never slept in case she came and called for me and I missed it. I'm staying alive on spells just to wait for her.

Will she come?

I don't know. In truth, I don't know if I would even recognise her. I'm not sure if I really want to see her. She would be sad that I'm this way because of her, and I don't want her to be sad.

I don't want her to be sad.

-----

They broke down my door this morning. It smashed, and I heard it like a hollow roaring in the back of my head. I don't use the front bit any more. The front is where I'm lucid. The front is where I think of her.

I'm lying in the hospital wing now.

They're treating me for all sorts of things that they say I have. They have charms in packets, and little bottles. Endless reams of pills, but no glue. All I need is glue, and a knife. If I cut my heart out and stick it back together again, maybe it would stop hurting.

Anything's worth a try.

-----

She came today.

She told me that she'd been trying to get in for ages, and they wouldn't let her. I don't believe her, naturally, but why should I? Answer me that, if you can. She was crying, and she said she was sorry, but her tears mean only that her eyes are leaking to me. She hugged me, and I remembered, then I pushed her away. She was still crying, but totally silent. She stood there, her mouth open, tears flooding down those soft planes of her face that I used to love so much.

I was glad she came. It made me see what she's done. She controlled me. For so long, I stayed under her spell. No more.

She wouldn't leave. They couldn't make her. I didn't care either way, and that made me proud. Father will be pleased.

She held my hand all night. A welter of memories rushed around my head, crashing into each other, and I loved her. I wanted to throw my arms around her, and kiss her, and say that it was all okay. Say I'd been ill, and it wasn't her. Say that I'd never leave her, and I loved her so much I couldn't eat or sleep.

But I didn't.

I'm not certain what stopped me. It might be that I'm still too week to move my arms that far, or it might be that it isn't true.

But it is. Every word.

Why don't I understand. I cry out for her inside, but she doesn't want me. She's holding my hand, and she's warm, and soft, she smells like roses. But I'm numb. I don't smell the roses, or feel the warmth of her hands. I imagine it, because her hands are freezing, she smells like salty water, and her skin is wet with tears.

I still love her.

I hate roses, and warmth, and softness. I hate myself, but I don't hate her, but I poured myself into her, and I hate her.

She's everything that I love and hate, and I can't address that. I wish I could tell her to go, but she's the only one who came. She's the only one who really cares about me after all.

-----

When I woke up she was lying beside me. Her cheek was on my chest, and her hair was laid out around her. She looked like some kind of angel, and I didn't feel good enough to look at her. Her skin was like porcelain, flecked with gold, and I cried.

A single tear fell from my eye onto her face. It looked like crystal, and I was caught up looking at it. It sparkled on her skin, then tumbled down to her lips, and ran between them.

I loved her again. In that instant, I couldn't hate her. Even after what I'd done for her, I couldn't bring myself to want her gone.

I love you

.

I said it, and she woke up. She was looking at me with those big, bark coloured eyes.

You what?

She didn´t believe me, but my mouth stopped working and I couldn't say it again.

You love me? But I was so horrible to you! I didn't mean a word. Please, forgive me?

I was shaking like a leaf, and I couldn't talk. I tried to nod, to say something, but I couldn't move.

Draco?

Her lip was caught between her teeth, and she started crying again.

Answer me!

I can't.

Love... you. Always.

She flung her arms around me, sobbing like... I don't know what.

I thought you didn't like me any more, the way you just acted like I wasn't there...

Ginny...

I savoured the word in my mouth. For me it means beauty, peace, love.

Happiness.

-----

I'm back in school now. All my robes are too big, cos I shrunk. Everyone gets really tiptoe-ish around me, like I'm made of glass. Not me. That's Ginny, glass-kid. I spend every moment I can with her now. Even Goofy Granger, Ratty Ronald and Piss-pot Potter are putting up with me now. Whenever Granger sees me she bites her lip and starts to cry. I knew I was annoying, but am I truly that bad? Ratty Ronald has grudgingly accepted me as Kid-Sister's Boyfriend now, but if I try to kiss her in his presence he goes a really off colour. Along the lines of a seriously unpleasant bruise, or an eggplant gone squishy. Potty is the only one who truly can't bear me. That's no biggy. I can't bear him either.

Ginny is wonderful. She bought me this bar of chocolate the size of a slab of concrete, and chopped it into little bits for me. On realising that I was trembling to hard to eat, she fed it to me bit by bit, whilst sitting on my lap at the breakfast table. That girl is dynamite.

Father is disappointed that I still like her. He sent me this really shiny new hunting rifle, and hinted heavily that I might consider murdering her with it. I decided to call those blokes with the white coats, and that fun room that has the bouncy walls. He's got a booking for a session with the centre for the criminally insane.

Mother went 'Yars, dwaaarling. Aawwwfully nice, deyaaar. Now, hop alawng. Mommy's busy.' So I guess that's no change there, either.

Ginny expressed a curious desire to show me to her parents. All that night I had nightmares of a towering pyramid of red hair with lots of little boards sticking out displaying marks out of ten. Most of them were below five, except for one, and the owner of the board was making eyes at me. I think it was granny Weasley. Ugh. (I know you missed it. I certainly did. All that time saying sweet stuff without my precious 'Ugh'. Don't worry. I'm back now, and I plan to keep it that way)

~

If this wasn't how you wanted my life to go, then go and read someone else's diary. Scribble out the name on the cover, and replace it with mine. I don't care what you think about me. If you say I'm supposed to be mean, and hate Ginny, may I just ask, HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW?!! You may think you know all about me cos you've read the bedtime stories of Potty and Pals. You're wrong. I'm not like that. If you're reading things from my point of view, maybe you should stop thinking like Potty. It doesn't help matters if you start out thinking 'OOOOOH! Malfoy, now he's a nasty piece of work, innee? Let's read his diary and laugh at him.' I'm sorry. Open-minded members only, thanks. It takes the wind out of a guy's sails a little when you're telling him he doesn't know himself. How do you presume to know me better than I do? I've known me for sixteen years now. I think that beats you, any road.

If you opened my diary with a gleeful grin, but started to understand that Potter's deluded, then waahay for you. I'm afraid you'll have to imagine the balloons and confetti spraying out, and all those people in dumb hats with squeaky party toys. I'm on a tight budget this year.

If

you opened it thinking like the nasty little hobgoblins in the paragraph before last, then I'm afraid you'll just have to hop on the late bus home. You're not welcome here.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a little bit of chocolatey business to attend to...