Acceptance

I'm having a bit of trouble adjusting. No, no, wait, scratch that. Trouble is something that Malfoys cause, not have. After all, even if trouble was stupid enough to seek us out, we're always prepared for every possible situation. Almost. Sometimes.

In any case, I'm not in any trouble. I'm just taking my time getting used to all of...all of...well, you know, all of this.

Hunh. This. I'm not exactly sure how to define it. The word 'annoyance' comes immediately to mind, but somehow I think that's not quite right. 'Bother,' maybe, or 'confusion.' Better yet, 'pain inflicting, despair causing, eating-my-soul torment.'

Okay, okay, so that was mostly wishful thinking. On the contrary, there is a lot less soul tormenting going on than there should be. After all, I'm Draco Malfoy. I'm not supposed to be enjoying this. I'm supposed to say, "Harry Potter? Oh, shit, there really must be something seriously wrong with me. He's a boy. And he's HARRY FUCKING POTTER! It's just lust. That's all it is. Some weird hormone imbalance, no doubt. Yeah, that's all." And then, I'm supposed to slip back into my happy little state of denial and pretend that the whole thing never happened.

Only...I haven't got that much willpower. So far, I'm thoroughly enjoying this whole secret admirer thing, and have no desire to stop anytime soon. I give him subtle glances across the room (or, at least, I thought they were subtle, until I realized that Harry was staring back at me with a puzzled expression on his face), I 'accidentally' brushed his hand with mine when Snape partnered us up in Potions (and, unfortunately, caused him to spill some particularly acidic armadillo bile into my lap), and I even sent him a cute, anonymous love note by owl (which required some fast talking when that damned Granger bypassed all girly squealing customs and instead performed a tracking spell. Has she no respect for tradition?)

Now, though, I think I'm beginning to understand girls and their general silliness a little bit better. The way your heart starts to beat faster, and your breathing quickens, and your palms start to sweat, all just because he's walked into the room...

I'm beginning to sound like one of my mother's favorite trash novels. What was it called? Flaming Love? Burning Desire? Incinerated Longing? Well, whatever it was, the main character was always going on about how her body went all wonky on her when some uber-sexy detective walked in the room. Not that I've read it, mind you. I just happened to pick it up one day, and it just happened to fall open, and I just happened to read the following sixty-four pages...but, I didn't enjoy it, or anything. Goodness, no. Not at all. No way.

Back to the point. If this feeling is what causes all their giggling and mushiness, then I suppose I can almost relate. 'Almost' being the key word in that sentence. Though, I can't help but wonder about the appeal of these renowned 'slumber parties' which they all seem to enjoy so much. Maybe they'd let me come to one...?

OH. GOOD. LORD. Think evil thoughts...think evil thoughts...

A slumber party...between the Hufflepuff girls and the Slytherins. Heh. Now there would be something worth seeing.

Sometimes, I do wonder if I've gone a bit over the top. Two days ago, I had occasion to recall little Weasley's valentine to Harry back in second year. And you know what? I found myself wishing that I had sent it, instead. Maybe something really is seriously wrong with me. That singing cupid dwarf...I shudder at the memory. I shudder more when I remember a similarly dressed hobgoblin which approached me last year with a singing valentine from dear Pansy Parkinson. Needless to say, a few hexes later, she and the hobgoblin were both paying visits to Madame Pomfrey. Personally, though, I thought Pansy looked better with the bright purple beard; you couldn't see her face.

Silence is not a virtue, though I'm beginning to think it should be. There are the obvious reasons, like...well...Pansy, of course, but I'm also becoming a bit of a hazard to myself.

People say that old habits die hard, but heckling Harry & Co. doesn't hold the charm that it once did. There are, now and then, moments when I find myself saying something hateful just like I used to, but the insults don't have the same edge. You just don't seem threatening when you freeze up at the sight of fiery green eyes and, caught in momentary panic, end up calling someone a cupcake.

You see, upon realizing that I did not, in fact, want to murder Harry, and actually wanted to snog him instead, I seem to have lost most control over my speech. I've come close to admitting my feelings several times, once getting so far into the sentence that I had to make an emergency excuse and ended up shouting, "Don't you get it? I lo...er...that is...I loaned Blaise my Potions book!"

Unfortunately, this was not a very good answer to Harry's inquiry, which was, "Why do you bother me all the time?" Hmm. No, not my finest moment.

I promptly fled the scene, of course, before my tongue could run away with me again. If by 'run away' you mean bind me hand and foot, gag and blindfold me, and then Apparate me to Tijuana. My tongue is a vicious little thing.

Running away in such a manner does not count as cowardly, by the way, because everything a Malfoy does is completely calculated and regal. For example, that time when Harry and I went into the Forbidden Forest, and I made a strategic retreat. Strategic. And despite what anyone may tell you, I absolutely, positively, undeniably did not scream. And even if I had, it certainly wouldn't have been in any way girlish. That's just a rumor. Understand? Rumor. I am manly in every meaning of the word, and probably a few that don't exist yet. Cower in fear of my macho-ness.

I wonder if Harry thinks I'm macho? Surely he must. After all, you'd have to be positively blind not to see that manliness just oozes from me. Oh, yes, oozes. Unlike the nancy-boy vibes constantly emanating from someone's pasty, red-headed sidekick. Heh.

...wait. Wait just a minute. I've just had a shockingly disheartening thought. Suppose that somehow, despite his complete awkwardness with girls and unnatural fixation with broomsticks, Harry isn't gay.

...

DAMMIT!