Diary of a Lusty Gentleman

by Epitome of Distraction

Disclaimer: All characters, places, and whatever else you can recognize as J. K. Rowling's is J. K. Rowling's. Please don't sue me.

Chapter One

Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived. The boy who lived. At age one, he survived an attack from the Dark Lord. Ten years later, he thwarted him from returning to power. The next year, he saved a girl from Slytherin's monster. Just over a year after that, he competed against three schools' finest in a famous tournament and won. The next two years were spent saving people's lives, having hidden dealings with the Ministry of Magic, and going off on grand adventures. People absolutely loved him. And why shouldn't they? He was talented, he was brave, he was selfless and noble. What wasn't to love?

"Stupid Harry Potter," grumbled Draco Malfoy as he trudged down the corridor, flanked, as always, by Crabbe and Goyle. "Everybody thinks he's so great. He's not!"

The two bulky Slytherins following the currently-ranting slim one exchanged looks, rolling their eyes, each thinking the same thing: off on this again, is he? Malfoy remained oblivious to what he would surely think of as the impudent thoughts of his companions, crushing that day's Daily Prophet roughly in his hand as he continued on his way to dinner. "All the professors adore him. Even the headmaster, though he always was a nutter. I mean, why should he get special treatment? Everybody else in this school works just as hard as him. He's not even that smart! And don't even get me started on that scar..."

They rounded the corner, walking straight into none other than Harry Potter himself. Draco started, but regained composure quickly. "What about my scar, Malfoy?" Harry said venomously. The raven-haired boy stood with his arms crossed, leaning casually against the wall, facing Malfoy. Draco had the brief impression the Gryffindor Golden Boy had been waiting for him to appear. He was alone, which was of itself odd, but seemed to add to the suspicion he'd been expecting them. Draco pushed the thought from his mind, writing it off to paranoia.

"It's none of your business what I say to my friends, Potter." He spat the last word, as he had practiced to perfection. Harry pushed himself off the wall and dropped his arms, hand casually straying to the pocket that held his wand. Draco followed suit. He stared pointedly at Draco for a moment, making Draco want to hurl himself at him, then ripped his eyes away and made to push past him.

"I suppose you're right, it is none of my business." He strode two paces, then turned around to face him again. "And I don't particularly care what you think, Draco m'dear. Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to get down to dinner before it ends." He disappeared down the corridor the Slytherins had just come from.

Draco stared after him for a moment, regaining his equilibrium. He ordered Crabbe and Goyle down to dinner without him, fleeing down the opposite hall as soon as they were out of sight. He quickly made his way to the nearest bathroom, which was mercifully empty, and locked the door after him. Now, finally, alone, he sank down on the wall, exhaling deeply.

His heart beat was faster than any race-horse's, his body tingling with the familiar foreign sensation he wasn't sure if he liked, his stomach wrapping itself into little knots. All this just because he had seen Harry. And Harry had said his name! Oh, glorious day! wonderful life! his name had touched those forbidden lips!

Now a great deal more under control (only his stomach was tingling now), Draco went into each of the stalls flushed every toilet: the way he called that ghost, Myrtle. He slid down the wall again and waited for her to come. Within a minute, she appeared, popping suddenly out of a toilet. She floated over to him.

"Hello there, Draco. You called?" she said, her voice not quite so whiny as it had been when they had first met a little over a year ago.

"I saw him just now," he replied, not bothering with the unnecessary formalities. "On the way to dinner. I was talking bad about him to those idiots, and I turned the corner, and there he was. We exchanged our usual "I-hate-you"s, and he went on his way."

The ghost floated a little closer. "What else happened? You're trying to hide it but you're really happy about something. I can tell. I know you well enough now, you know." She smirked and drifted higher.

Draco looked up at her, a forced look of disgusted on his face. Dropping his head, he gave in. "He said my name," he mumbled into his sleeve.

Moaning looked surprised. "Oh! Really? What exactly did he say? I know you can remember, Draco, so don't bother pretending you can't."

He didn't. "He said, 'I don't particularly care what you think, Draco m'dear.' And then he left." Draco blushed slightly reliving it, his uncharacteristic smile barely suppressed by his pride.

"Oh, yay! That's fantastic! Well, I suppose it's not good that he doesn't care what you think, but what he said..." she clapped her hands together and sighed. "It's so romantic."

Draco shot her a look that clearly stated he thought she was absolutely mental, then rested his head back on his arms. The image of Harry leaning up against the wall looking so smug played itself in his mind. Oh, what he wouldn't give to wipe that look off the grand hero's face, to have the boy writhing and mewling beneath his lips. To make him completely submissive under his touch. And to do it all in a no-holds-barred snogging session.

That would be just lovely.

"Perhaps he does fancy you," Moaning Myrtle said pensively. Draco snorted. "I know you think he hates so , but that's what he thinks about you, isn't it? You can't rule it out that he may be as good an actor as you."

Draco tuned out her voice. He'd heard all this before. What Draco really wanted was for Moaning Myrtle, the wretched, blessed ghost, to spy on Harry, to find his secrets. Just so Draco could feel a bit closer to him. He sighed. Blimey, he had it bad. That stupid Potter boy was all he could think of. Day and night, haunting his mind, not giving a moment's rest. And it might not be that bad if there was any chance that the crush was reciprocated, but, of course, with girls practically throwing themselves naked at his feet, why would the boy who lived even bother with someone as stuck up and rude as Draco?

Oh, and all of this not to mention Harry didn't like boys. Of course, neither did Draco. Girls were definately his partiality, but, though he didn't understand it at all, Draco was more attracted to his arch-enemy than any other living thing ever to walk the earth. And wasn't that just dandy?

What about that brief suspicion that Harry had been there to intercept the Slytherins? Was it paranoia, or a false hope? He knew Harry thought he, Draco, was always "up to something;" if Harry had heard rumors that "something" might happen, he would most likely turn the blame to Malfoy. Then again, if Harry did, by some unknown force of nature or magic, find his own enemy as irresistible as the Slytherin found him, then he would want to have as much contact as possible. And, as they say, negative attention is still attention, so their arguing may not be so bad after all.

Ah, who was he kidding? They ran into each other because they lived in the same castle, purely coincidental, no hidden meaning behind it. Harry did not like Draco, in any sense of it.

But of course—

"Draco? Draco! Are you even listening?" the high-pitched voice of the hovering girl broke into his reverie.

"You claim to know me so well; shouldn't you know the answer to that?" he drawled sarcastically, glancing up at her. She rose a few feet in indignation.

"Fine. You obviously don't need me. I'll go then." She turned to the nearest stall.

"Alright fine, go. But first one thing." She turned back to him from just inside the stall, her transparent arms crossed. "Can I ask you to please watch him for the next few days? I heard some people talking in the common room, I think they're going to try something."

She looked skeptically as him for a moment, then whirled around saying haughtily, "I'll think about it" and dived headfirst into the toilette.

It might have been wrong to lie like that, but Draco just wanted information. He knew she wanted to help, and would be appealed to by the supposed caring reason behind it; he also knew she was an incorrigible gossip and would let slip anything good.

Draco stood up, muttering "Alohomora." Might as well get down to dinner.