September 12 Dear Diary, Heh, just using that opening phrase makes me want to cringe. Who would have thought that I, the great Draco Malfoy, would ever be writing in a diary?! Childish schoolgirls and loveless female teenagers are the only ones who would waste time with these. Yet here I am, sitting on my bed late on a Saturday night, trying out my skills at creative writing. In a way it feels good, to get my thoughts on paper. The excuses for roommates are far from any help when I want something off of my mind. Crabbe and Goyle can barely hold a regular conversation, let alone a deep one. And what of the rest of my Slytherin 'pals'? Just as useless I fear. Sure Pansy Parkinson would be more then willing to sit and listen, but unless it's about the daily gossip or who's shagging whom, she really won't care. Besides, just looking at that ugly face makes me want to gag sometimes.
The Slytherin gals are far from beautiful. Unfortunately we lost that bet to the Gryffindors, whose ladies can be quite foxy, though I loathe admitting it. Blaise is the only hot one around here, and while I'd love to get my hands on that sweet-ass of hers she'd be far from willing to give it up. Nothing but cheap talk from a cheap tease. Marcus Flint used to be quite the guy for petty chat; he could always turn it around to something funny, in a smutty off-key kind of way. Yet he's gone from Hogwarts now, graduated two years ago, and it took him long enough to do it too. Had his parents not been pumping the school with money, he'd have been kicked out long ago. My Slytherin pride can only last me so long when I am faced with such petty allies as these. The adversaries however are good enough to keep that small flame burning inside of me, and now I take every chance I can get at beating those over-pretentious morons who call themselves wizards. With their lack of skills they should be thrown among the muggles to live their lives in misery and horror; nothing would suit them better then their own kind. Of course that's just my bitter anger talking; if their skills were so slack then how can they continue to beat me? A thought that causes shivers to course down my spine and anger to bubble through my blood. No matter, one of these days I will get my full and utter revenge upon those floundering imbeciles, and then they'll regret the day that they ever laughed at a Malfoy. Sincerely, (which sounds just as bad as Dear Diary) Draco Malfoy September 16 Dear Diary,(must find a new opening, this one so used and cliché. Also it is far from masculine) Right now, my anger is my main emotion. Stupid Weasel; putting me in the hospital wing for two days. I'm so sorry I started the truth that Granger's a fucking mudblood; well, actually, no I'm not. Did he really need to try and turn me into a toad though?Idiot, he managed to turn my hair green, and make my fingers and toes webbed. I swear Madam Pomfrey was laughing the whole time she was fixing me up. Who would have thought that it would require surgery to remove the skin between my toes. I will get that lousy low-life Weasley back. Couldn't report this case earlier of course, it would mean I would have to tell either Goyle or Crabbe that I kept a journal. I shudder to think of the rumours that could be spread if either one of the blockheads mentioned it. Although, I doubt very much anyone would understand what they said, it was better to play it safe. I can't have my reputation tarnished, and if Potter found out all would be hell. I relish Potions class every day now, knowing that after seven years Snape still favors me over Potter, and that he purposely tries to fail him. I see no reason why that crackpot Dumbledore keeps Potty here at school. He's a disgrace. No good to the wizarding cause. And I can say little more for the company he keeps. Ugh, am too angered to write. I will leave this entry with these last words. I *will* get Weasel and the rest of his friends back. They will pay. Sincerely, D. M. September 20th Diary; Midnight, on a Sunday night, and here I am sitting in an abandoned classroom on a window ledge. Funny how the moon affects ones perception of things. There is an almost full moon tonight, and with a cloudless night sky the rays seem to light up everything. And while I'm sitting here I can also see the figure of one Gryffindor prat out on the Quidditch pitch. The moonlight's bouncing off his glasses, and he's got his broom with him. Who goes flying in the middle of the night? Someone with a death wish in all likelihood. Oh, well, good riddance. For some reason though, I get the feeling that he's done this before. A secret nightlife, where you can revel in the silence and obscure solitude it grants. Maybe I should come out here more often; easily beats listening to Vincent and Gregory snoring away as if they had run a marathon minutes before.Draco stopped, and set his pen down on the page, and watched as Harry kicked off on his Firebolt, and whizzed around the stands. Draco sneered. "Poncy showoff." He diverted his eyes, and stared at his diary page, picking up the pen to chew on it, wondering what to write next. What thought to portray. Draco began to write again, a glazed expression crossing his face as the scratching of the pen rose into the air.
If Potter could see me now, watching him on the Quidditch pitch, I wonder what he'd say. Something stupid no doubt. Brains are not his forté. But then, who needs brains when you have know-it-all Granger to nag every piece of detail into your head? God, the mudblood is so annoying, and yet they let her be top of the year. But why am I wasting my time, my ink, and my paper with those dolts. It seems that it's becoming harder and harder for me to get my mind off that damn Boy Who Lived, and it's unnerving to say the least. A hatred this deep can only lead to something horrid.Lets just hope that's for him and not me. I think it's time that I just sat here in the moonlight to gather my thoughts. One can never think often enough, and I have too much on my mind to write.
Confused, D.M.Harry Potter loved the feel of the wind through his hair, on his face. He picked up speed and did one amazingly speedy lap around the pitch. He dived into a Wronski Feint, which would of made Hermione scold him. He brought his broom level about a metre away from the ground. Hovering there for a moment, he scanned the pitch. Taking a deep intake of breath, he smiled as he lowered his broom and gently got off. Slinging the broom over his shoulder he headed towards the changeing rooms, where he soon picked up a deep crimson, leather bound book and an eagle quill. The diary and the quill had both been presents from Hermione (who had bought exactly the same for Ron) who insisted on them keeping track of their thoughts for some reason. Harry didn't mind, and he scribbled down the days date in the top right hand corner of the page.
Journal, What an exhilarating flight. I still find it hard to believe that after seven years I have only been caught on the pitch once. I think Dumbledore has something to do with it; he always gives me a sly sort of wink whenever I talk to him. Maybe I'm just lucky though. Still, flying in the moonlight is worth getting caught. It makes me feel free, and that I don't have to worry about Voldemort, or Malfoy (pretentious git; I didn't say what Ron did to him a few days ago...heh, he looked better as a semi-toad) or anyone else is a relief. Sometimes I wish I could just be a normal kid, living a normal life. Yet I know that that's impossible. Being a wizard isn't exactly normal, nor is it exactly reversible; not that I'd ever want it reversed. And that damned Rita Skeeter doesn't help the situation. She's ruined my semi-normal life many times with her reports of lies. After her year of 'sick-leave' she just couldn't wait to get back to the quick-notes quill. And though she kept her promise to Hermione, she always finds some way to make everyone look bad. Anyway, why do I want to spend my time writing about that dreadful Rita Skeeter?
It's only the third week of school and already Hermione is stressing over exams. She's going to drive us all mad one of these days. Ron just shrugs her off with his usual casual manner, which manages to piss her off to no end. Although they're a couple, they still argue like hell. It's tiresome, but somehow Seamus and Dean manage to egg them on, and Ginny just rolls her eyes, and 'tsk's'. And whenever they try to rope me onto their side...its nightmare. NTS: stay away from the couple.Harry stopped and stretched, his back aching from being hunched over, and yawn escaping his lips. He quickly hunched back over the page, and ended off his entry.
While I love these now frequent nighttime escapes I still find it hard to wake up early the next day, and already I'm beat. Just holding the quill is making me tired, so I think it's time I ended this entry for the day. Exhausted, Harry PotterSeptember 25th, Friday, 6am Diary (Dropped the dear, it got too...wrong) I had to abandon my room for the night; just the sight of my roommates wanted to make me scream. Those dolts can't do anything right, and as a result of it my finest bed sheets have been ruined. I walk in last night to find Dumb and Dumber getting it on on my bed. You'd think they'd have the decency to find some secluded room or corner where only rats and vile creatures roam. Needless to say I burned my sheets and headed off to the lonely classroom, only to find that it had been cleared up and looks like it's going to be used in the near future.
In an attempt to find some solitude, I have had to transfigure a table from the dungeons into an armchair. At least I know I can rely on Snape not stepping in until after breakfast. Now, sitting here, I find a strange sort of emptiness descends into my skull and my thoughts have vanished, being replaced by a sweet sort of calm. Maybe it's just the lack of sleep, but either way it feels relaxing and I intend on using it to the its full advantage. Draco settled back into the armchair and put his feet up on a desk in front of him, closing his eyes slightly, his pen drooping in his hand. A vision of Harry flashed across the back of his eyes, and he jerked out of his rest, looking confused. He put the pen back to the paper, and quickly scribbled down his final thoughts. No matter where I go now, Potter always invades me; he's even crept into my thoughts and my dreams. I'd like to blame it on the hatred, but there's something telling me that it's something more...Enough of this though, it's nearly breakfast and I'm famished. Worried D.M.