Chapter Five: Draco's Journal

19 June

5 pm

Bedroom

Keeping a journal is one of those things a Malfoy does not do. Having one would mean the Malfoy's life was not perfect, that things happened by surprise that shook the veneer that clearly says everything is completely under control. Malfoys are never so troubled.

Thus, my defense for keeping a journal now is that I am young, and by nature this means I have nothing under control. Even though I am very mature for my age, I am still having too much trouble appearing perfect to not express some concern to SOMEthing, even if it's just a blank book I express it to. If I don't, then these thoughts are going to loop through my head until I either go crazy or something worse happens, and I'd really rather not think about that. That said...

I said something I didn't mean.

To Harry Potter, of all people, so you would think it doesn't matter, especially given what I said. I told him “I hate you more than anything,” and a year ago that would've been fine, but as soon as I said it I knew that I was lying. Or at least that I hadn't meant it like that.

Ugh. How can you tell someone you hate them but 'not mean it like that?' That's ridiculous.

That's not the point, though. The point is that I said it and realized afterwards that it was the opposite not accurate. This time last year, I wouldn't have even cared if it was true or not. Being around Potter so much has changed my perspective on the way I think, and I really want to be mad at him for having that effect on me but I'm actually kind of grateful.

Oh God. Father would be sick if he ever heard I was grateful to Potter for anything, even if it was something as useful as this.

It's useful because this perspective helps prevent me from causing an unnecessary scene, even if the scene would make me look good. Hanging around Potter has been a lesson in karmic backlash. I found that once I stopped picking on Granger and Weasley so much, I really did get in less trouble. And it meant he wasn't angry with me so often, so on the nights we met, he was less... vindictive. If he wasn't mad at me, it was easier to enjoy getting off.

Though, now that I think about it, not being mad at me anymore was one of his reasons for ending our little game. How ironic. If I had known that pissing him off would stop him from ending the game, I wonder if I would've continued to do it?

Whatever. That's not what I was talking about.

One of the most apalling realizations that came with being around Potter so much was learning just how much I lied. Constantly. I knew I lied to people-- “No, Mum, I haven't eaten any sweets before supper”, “Of course I care about my homework, Professor Trelawney”--but it never occurred to me that I lied to myself. It was in little things such as getting angry in every situation I didn't agree with instead of reacting with my true feelings. Like when Potter beat me in Quidditch, I was angry instead of disappointed. Or like when Moody turned me into a ferret, I was livid instead of just embarrassed. Or like that day I insulted Weasley and got hit, then insulted Granger and got detention, I was laying blame instead of feeling guilty.

Like when I found out Dad was going to Azkaban. I went into a rage, but I was terrified. Really, honestly scared.

It's no wonder I'm a Malfoy needing a journal to confide in. Malfoys aren't supposed to have family wind up in prison.

7 pm

drawing room

One thing I am honestly angry about—or was—is that Dad got caught at all. I couldn't believe, after every time he'd stressed the importance of not getting found out in things that wouldn't look good publicly, that he would do something that absolutely stupid. I didn't even think of the effect it would have on Mum until I got home, and when I saw how badly she was doing I was even angrier. He must've known what it would do to her if he got caught; he couldn't be completely oblivious to how she felt towards him.

My stupid bastard of a father probably didn't think he could be caught. Arrogant... He didn't even succeed at killing Potter in the process. Useless of him. He could've at least saved me a lot of trouble, if he was going to go get himself thrown in Azkaban anyway. If he'd done that, I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in now. There would be no Potter problem, and I wouldn't need this stupid journal in the first place.

20 June

2:35 pm

bedroom

I didn't mean that. I don't wish Potter was dead as penance for my father being imprisoned. I don't hate Potter anymore. I really did, right after it happened, and I really wished my father had killed him. Now, I really want to hate Potter. I want to hate him more than anything.

Maybe that's what I wanted to say on the train.

Or at least tell him not to look at me like that. That expression on his face made me so mad!

... I just reread that last sentence a few times. I don't want to admit to that being anything other than anger. There's this trend, I've noticed, where anger takes the place of either fear or hurt. I have never been scared of Potter.

Ugh. I don't want to think about it. Journaling is stupid.

27 June

12:26 pm

Library

What I did over the last week:

(*) Went with mother to Paris and watched her shop (went out to dinner, too; fantastic filet mignon, and the Peach Melba was lovely)

(*)Tormented the House Elves (not as fun as it used to be)

(*) Wandered the mansion's grounds (first time I've done that willingly since I was little; I never realized how nice it felt to lay on the lawn shirtless, and I had forgotten how easily I sunburn)

So now I'm sunburnt and bored. That's the only reason I'm writing. That, and this seemed like a better idea than hanging out with Crabbe and Goyle, who don't provide much intelligent conversation.

When I was writing my last entry, journaling seemed like a very stupid idea. I think that's just because I was delving into a place I wasn't sure I wanted to deal with, but not writing it down and sorting it out just meant I was thinking about it obsessively, which was even less enjoyable.

Now that I've been thinking about it for a week and considering it along with my newly discovered desire to never lie to myself again, I am able to admit that I was hurt. That... look. The one in Potter's eyes, like he expected me to do something horrible to him, that was painful. It hurt so much that it made me defensive, and so I told him I hated him. Which doesn't make any sense, but at the time it seemed like a good idea.

Hell. It didn't even seem like a good idea. It just happened. Then he left and I realized I had tears in my eyes, which was horrifying because I don't know if he saw that or not. I still can't believe I was crying... How embarrassing.

28 June

2:03 am

bedroom

I hope he did see me crying. I hope it made him feel guilty for evrythinng. He's completely buggered mlife. He got me dad thrown in prizzon prizzen prisenprizon, which made Mum miserable, &he's completely run me over. Alot. Our first year, on th train! I tried to be friends withim, and he insinuated I wis the wrong kind of person! How dare he?! Then he made me feel infeerior when he got on the quidditch team a year before he should've, andhe humiliated me when he had mMoody turn me into a ferrit. A sodding ferret, fergodsake! stupidbloodygitpotterIhatehimmorethanalot.

this last school year we were so... I dunno what we were, but itsnot jus something I can forget!! Maybe he can, but notme. It meant something. It meant something to me.

Fuck. Oh Fuck. That's not right. It shoulnt have meant something. It shouldve meant nothing. That was one of therules.

He must've known. Fuck him, he mustve known it'd become something to me. I bet he figured it out before i did and that's why he made us stop.

Fuck. I am soooo buggered right now.

NeedanapnowZzzz.....

1:32 pm

bedroom

Note to self.

After all that stuff I wrote at about 2 a.m. this morning, there should be plenty of evidence for why I should never, EVER drink when I'm upset with someone. Or why I should never write letters drunk, for that matter; I found a badly folded letter tucked between the cover and the first page of this journal addressed to “HarRy”. A lot of it doesn't make sense, and what does would embarrass anyone. I'm just grateful the owls were all out hunting, or there would've been a very big problem.

And on a side note, apparently I swear a lot when I'm drunk and angry upset. And I'm more honest than makes me comfortable to reread. I hadn't really thought of how much Potter had upset me in years past; the more recent problem has been much more obvious, but this really does go as far back as first year.

Though, actually, it's probably better that he and I didn't become friends back then. He'd probably be long since dead by now if we were friends; I'd either be blackmailed into killing him or handing him over to be killed, or I'd have been used to blackmail him. Either way, I'd be a tool, and I don't like that thought.

I really don't like the last two and a half paragraphs of what I wrote this morning, and it's frightening to be faced by my own drunken honesty like that. That's just

Wait. Maybe I touched on something there. Maybe he really DID realize I was getting too attached comfortable with our arrangement. That's intimidating, because it means he realized something about me before I did, and Potter is not someone I've ever wanted knowing me that well. Now, I guess I don't mind so much. Or I wouldn't, if it didn't feel so one-sided. I don't really think I ever paid that much attention to him. I know what color his eyes and hair are, but so does everyone else. He's got light skin, but it's still darker than mine. He's got a faint dimple on his left cheek, and a small mole on the back of his right arm.

He twitches when you touch his stomach. His hand twitches, and his stomach muscles try to stay relaxed but keep tightening. And when you get him all riled up on sex then just barely touch his groin, his legs shiver.

I bet I'm the only person in the world who knows that, but that doesn't seem important right now. I don't know him. I don't know his favorite color, or what position he sleeps in, or where he wants to visit more than anywhere in the world. I don't know what his family is like or what book he's reading or even if he likes to read.

Not even a year ago, I wouldn't have cared. Right now, though, it's all I can think about.

1 July

7 pm

bedroom floor

I walked in on Mum crying in the drawing room. When I got drunk a few nights ago, I'd only done it to see what it was like, but seeing mum like that made me want to get drunk and upset just so I didn't feel so responsible for it. I know it's not my fault, but I hate seeing her like that. I'd finally begun to think maybe she really was over Dad being gone.

She was crying because she'd bumped some glass bauble off of the shelf it had been sitting on. It was replaceable, not even expensive, but she was sobbing.

“Lucius bought this for me in Milan before you were born,” she cried. “We were on our two-year anniversary vacation.” She smiled fondly and let out a sob at the same time, which wasn't very attractive. “We always thought it was on that vacation that we conceived you.”

I almost told her just how disgusting it was to even consider my parents ever did anything more than hug, fully dressed and somewhere unobtrusive. But she looked so sad and... Broken. Like that little decoration had been more than just a useless, pretty object, like it had been part of her.

So I didn't say anything. I just left the room.

If Azkaban would let their prisoners take owl-post, I would write a long, descriptive letter to Lucius right now and tell him how badly he's hurt Mum, and how weird she's acting, and how much I will never, EVER forgive him for getting caught.

5 July

10 am

bed

I just had a strange dream.

Actually, seeing as I haven't even had the will to wank off for almost a month and a half, I guess dreaming about sex isn't that strange, especially at my age. The dream itself was just... weird.

And it was Harry Potter I was having sex with. After the last school year, I guess it's not too surprising, but there was a time my sex dreams involved hot girls. Lots of them. And Granger once. I think I was nicer to her that following week than I'd ever been in my life, just because she was so good in that dream.

In this dream, the room kept shifting back and forth between my huge bedroom with my big, comfortable bed, and this room that was only a little bigger than my closet with almost no space to move for all the junk in it and a tiny bed with springs in the mattress. Which didn't really matter in the dream, since the main focus was on me being on top of him with his breath falling hard and fast while I thrust into him. Because it was a dream, I couldn't really feel exactly what it was like, but the idea was there. As I mentioned earlier, I have a pretty good working knowledge of Harry's body. I never had sex with him, but it wasn't too hard to imagine how it would feel to be pressed in between his thighs like that.

What was weirder was the way we were looking at each other. I don't know how to explain it. It was like I was in the act of making sleeping 'doing' him, but I was also sitting off to the side watching, so I could see both of our faces. I know what his face looks like when he's high on lust, and his face looked like that, but there was something like affection in his eyes. And he kept touching me in ways that were really ... affectionate. Like touching my cheek.

I'm embarrassed about the look on my face. If he looked affectionate, I was downright adoring. I kept kissing him, and while yeah, we kissed a lot too last year, this was different. This was more than just lust manifested; it was Deep. It was connected.

I woke up and was painfully disappointed it was only a dream, then woke up properly and was horrified at my disappointment. Now I'm just confused, because I'm more disappointed than I am horrified and this is so... not me. It's not a Malfoy thing, to allow for confusion or being emotionally damaged by the enemy.

But then, Malfoys aren't supposed to fuck up so badly they end up in Azkaban. At least I've got my youth as an excuse for acting stupid, unlike my father.

8 July

10:42 pm

kitchen

I'm about to drink myself silly again as an experiment. I got this idea yesterday: Since drinking and writing proved to be so revealing last time, why not try it again and see what comes up? (Not a terribly educated idea, but the curiosity is getting to me.) I still don't feel anymore clarified after the other morning's dream, and it occurred to me that maybe I'll say something when I'm drunk that'll give me some clue into what's going on in my head. My inhibitions towards talking about my emotions are so much lower when I'm drunk, and I think I need that right now.

Though hopefully, I won't actually say it. I'll just write it.

11:23 pm

My room!

I am writing. Hahaha. I am a little drunk, too. I feel bubbly. I want to laugh a lot right now.

As disgusting as brandy tastes, it is very potent. Didn drink firewhisky, my father lemme tryit once wen Mum wasn looking and I thought my throat had been cauterized. My voice didn't sound right for a mnth. Month.... mounth? Month.

Allllright. My insane dream. It wasn't insane, acutally, jus'sexual. Mmmm. It wasn't the sex that bothered me though; definitely old news. Way old. Since uhmm.... October. When I kissed Harry and he kissed back instead of freeking out. Of course, we were both veeery cranky, and I think the only reson kissing came to mind was 'cause I could feel his dick rubbing on mine through our clothes. Mmm.

Being dry-fucked like that was intense. Surprising too. HAHAHA! God that look on his face when he realized what we done! (Did. Had done... What we had done. There.) Brilliant. Though I bet I looked pretty funny. Ahahaha.

Thelook on 'is face in ther dream was better, though. And the look on mine was sooo loving. I've never been that tender with anyone, so it was nice to see me look that happy.

God that sounds weird. Like I'm my friend and worried about my wellbeing. How silly.

I... should get my own shotglass. I'm using a reglar glass right now, an' it's only filled part way, so I have no idea how much I've had todrink. I threatened the House Elves with clothes if they breathed a word to anyone about this.

I almost used one of Dad's shotglasses, out of sspite. But Mum keeps wandering into the kitchen, and if she sees Dad's shotglass sitting out, she'll either know I was drinking or seh'll break down crying. I dun'wanna get caught and I don'want Mum to cry 'nymore.

Fucking stoo stuu stupid Lucius. This is all his fault. Every-thing. From my being so prideful I could lie to myself to my being so in love with Harry right now.

Actaully, that last part is Harry's fault, but I can't really blame him for existing.

Wait. Ohfuck. I just said I love him. Or wrote I love him. Did I say it too? ohfuck.

Oh My Fuck.

No NO Nonononono.

Fuck. It's true. It's not even drunk affection, because if it were he'd probly be here right now and we could both blow it off as me being completely pissed out of my mind. But I didn't have that much brandy and he's not here and oh fuck I am buggered and fucked.

OH FUCK.

9 July

11:36 am

under a tree

Not drunk enough to get a hangover, but definitely enough to feel really stupid and out of it today.

I really don't want to pick over my drunken writing.

I don't want to use the word Love again, either, but I can't deny that I really do care about him.

When the hell did that happen? And why didn't I notice?

Fuck.

13 July

4:42 pm

library

I think I did notice. Just not in a really obvious way. I actually did like teasing him sexually. I liked trying to make him feel like he needed me to do what I did. I wanted to feel important to him, even though what we were doing was just supposed to satisfy our baser needs. When he said we had to stop, I felt like I wasn't needed anymore, like I'd been tossed aside.

He'd said that what we were doing had felt empty, and even at the time he'd said it, I was ready to disagree with him. I didn't know why, then, but I think I'm getting it now.

18 July

Noon

drawing room

Went on holiday with Mum to northern China and saw a fascinating exhibit on dragons. I even got to touch a recently hatched dragon (a Chinese Fireball, so it was about the length and width of my arm.) It was bright purple, which is apparently natural for one so young. By the time it's as long as I am tall, its scales will have turned bright red and it will start spitting fire.

The trip was a nice distraction from my personal discoveries, and it allowed Mum to get away from the house and all those memories of Dad. She bought some amazing clothes. She bought some clothes for me, too, but only because I didn't protest loudly enough. They're very nice; one of them is a beautiful green silk robe that's light as air, with an enchantment woven into it to keep the wearer warm. Another is a black silk robe, also light as air, with silver embroidery and charms to cool the wearer (I'm wearing that one right now.) They're wonderful robes, and I might've gotten more, but I think all these personal problems have affected my interest in everything. I didn't bring home nearly as many souvenirs and exotic items as I ordinarily would've, and I'm afraid Mum might've picked up on my disinterest. If she did, she didn't say anything; she just tried harder to get me to choose things to bring home. I tried to tell her it was all right, I didn't have to fill all the extra space in my trunk.

She asked me, in the middle of a shop, if she'd picked a bad place for vacation and that's why I wasn't interested in getting things.

"No, Mum! It's wonderful, I LIKE China, honestly."

"Then why don't you seem interested?"

"I am, I just don't feel like shopping."

She paused and considered this for a few moments, a time during which I found a crystal ball that shimmered a myriad of different colors and seemed to glow from within. At the time, I was concerned she was upset with me for not wanting to shop, so I said, "Here, how about I get this? I like it, it's interesting."

"All right," she said, and I was relieved that she sounded less upset. She bought that and some pieces of jade jewelry for both of us, then continued, "How about we go do something besides shop for a while, then? Is there anything you'd like to do?"

That would be why we went to the dragon exhibit.

I don't really know why I was so disinterested in shopping. Maybe because I'm getting older, new 'toys' seem less important. At least being able to go look at things and be somewhere besides home and Great Britain and all those familiar places meant I was able to think about something other than Harry Potter.

But now we're home, and I'm left with my thoughts again.

I'm going to go wander the grounds. It's sunny out, and I don't want to be inside right now.

19 July

6:12 pm

hidden room, third floor

I've spent most of the day hiding from Mum, Crabbe, and Goyle. She seemed to think I'd like their company, in spite of me having not mentioned them beyond "They can be so impossibly stupid" all summer. I think they had a bit of a tea party in the courtyard earlier this afternoon, which was hilarious considering who was present (besides my mother) until the House Elves brought out the devil's food cake. Even from a window three floors up, I could tell it was one of those decadently rich cakes that seemed almost more like fudge than pastry, and the frosting was creamy and beautifully decorated with sugar lilies. This was, I think, my mother's attempt to draw me out as much as it was an effort to please her (yes, hers; I didn't invite them) guests.

Needless to say, I'll be down in the kitchen later tonight looking for leftovers; They did manage to leave half of the cake untouched, which was shocking since Crabbe and Goyle probably could've decimated the whole thing and asked for more. I imagine mother forced them to restrain themselves. The cake might've just been a lure to drag me out of hiding, but she wouldn't allow those two to eat it all and leave none for me.

10:16 pm

kitchen

Chocolate is wonderful. If this stuff weren't so rich, I'd eat all of what's left right here and now.

21 July

5:18 pm

bedroom

Finished the cake.

I never thought I'd be the one to say it, but I miss Potter. Not just because of the fooling around, though that was nice, too. I woke up this morning and just started thinking about all those times we lay on the floor of whatever room we were in and talked. It wasn't anything important, mostly school related I guess, but I know we had some good laughs.

He always waited for me. I didn't recover as quickly as he usually did from an orgasm, and so I would lay down and rest and Potter would sit down not far off and talk about how much he hated this year's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. It was one of those topics we agreed on; that harmless, silly little twit should not be teaching a defence class. No one took her seriously.

I wish I could remember more of what we said, if anything just to have something else to hold onto. That sounds so pathetic, but I really do wish I had a clearly good memory instead of several hazy good ones and a few clearly foul ones. We spent so much time fighting, and now I find I'm regretting it.

If someone told me when I was eleven that someday, the one person in the world I'd want good memories with more than anything would be the famous Harry Potter, I wouldn't have believed them. I guess that's the difference between eleven and seventeen, though, isn't it? Now I feel like I should've taken up writing sooner. I wonder what else has changed?

23 July

3:27 pm

somewhere on the grounds

I've done nothing but brood for the past couple days, and Mum's finally noticed. She has no idea why, at least (thank Merlin), but if she starts to worry much more, she'll have me check in at St. Mungo's just to make sure it's nothing serious. That said, I put on the most cheerful smile I could manage and told her I was going to go take a walk about the grounds for a little bit and enjoy the sunlight.

I walked for about five minutes, found a sunny rock to sit on, stripped down to my boxers and am writing in the sunlight. One of the things I'm growing to love about the Malfoy property is that I can wander off and not worry about someone seeing me almost naked. They'd have to find me first, and intruders would be punished beyond the extent of the law, assuming they could make it this far to begin with. Lots of attack plants and nasty wards.

And now I'm enjoying the sunlight and trying not to brood, but failing on the second part.

I keep thinking about everything that happened, and I find myself wishing I could go back and do something different, but I don't know what. Maybe realize what I know now a little sooner. That wouldn't actually help anything, and might've, in fact, only made things worse; it could've ended up an openly emotional drama instead of skirting the emotional issue in favor of losing my sexual play thing and going spare about it.

Then I think “Maybe there's something I can do to change things now,” but to do that would require the sort of courage exhibited only by Gryffindors. I am not a Gryffindor. I am a Slytherin; I look out for myself and avoid doing anything to put me on the line. Anything I could do or say would jeopardize my way of life. While my current way of life involves a lot of moodiness and deep thought over things I can no longer effect, the possible changes from talking to Harry would probably leave me wide open to far worse. My current way of life is depressing, but the possibilities from talking to Harry keep ending—in my mind—with contemplating suicide, and I'd really rather not tempt that one.

AGH. But living like this sucks!! Isn't there some way out of this?!