Heh. In the words of Forrest, it's kind of a funny story. But, anyway, this is Chapter Nine, Part One. Part Two is so close to finished it hurts me, but I really wanted to get the story updated before Christmas, and, as this chapter is almost two times the normal length, I didn't think you'd notice. Part A should be up by, like, New Years. Maybe.
Disclaimer: All I want for Christmas is the rights to Harry Potter. Alas, in the words of… some old, dead guy, it just ain't gonna happen. I would say that I'm going to have a blue Christmas without it, but, actually, I'm pretty good. I ordered the Harry Potter books box set for a Christmas gift… to myself. It makes me HAPPY!
Monday, July 19: West Wing Drawing-Room
I've changed my mind. I hate Pansy. Because of her, Monsieur Tyran despises me more than ever! I could tell because, the second he walked into the classroom, I saw that his already beady eyes were narrowed so far that they looked like tiny black slits in his face. Oh, and he had gone out and got a new birch rod, a really thin one.
That makes it hurt more, you know. When I was little, I thought it would hurt less if it weren't as big, so I whittled it down with my dinner knife when he wasn't looking. Ow. Even the memory hurts.
Where was I before I started recalling my horrible childhood? Oh yes. Pansy. I curse her and all who support her to an early and well-deserved GRAVE!
And my parents aren't helping one bit. I tried complaining to Mum, but all I got was the "in the family" talk. You see, the Tyran family has been teaching our family (on mother's side, not the Malfoy's) forever. They taught Mum and her sisters, and my Grandmother Black, and even Great-Aunt Adeline. I wonder if they were all as horrible as my Monsieur Tyran.
Somehow, I don't imagine they were.
Sunday, 25: Ballroom (or, to be correct, hidden in the cupboard under the Ballroom stairs)
Monsieur Tyran didn't go home Friday, like he usually does. He told Father I'm in desperate need of extra studying and that I'm doing just horribly. Which, of course, led to another lecture. Father was really furious this time. (He threw a chair out the window. Reactionary much?) So, anyway, now I'm having lessons on the weekend too.
Or I'm supposed to be having lessons, anyway. I've hidden myself in our Ballroom, in the storage cupboard. Only house-elves come in here and I can just order them not to tell. It's perfect!
Oh, the cleverness of me.
Later Sunday: The ClassroomBugger! How does Monsieur Tyran know me so well anyway? He came bursting into my Cupboard Stronghold and dragged me out by the scruff of my neck. Then he sat there, still holding tight to my throat and started screaming at me in French.
"What is your problem, Draco Malfoy?"
"Right now, breathing," I told him.
He glared a hole into my head. And then, of course, launched into one of his lectures. I didn't listen. Actually, I find my ability to tune out authority quite inspiring. Finally, he stomped out to tell my Father on me, hissing orders on his way out.
"While I am away, you will wait here for your punishment and think about what you've done! Also, you will finish your work, which you so selfishly neglected."
Bollocks to that! I'm going to try hiding down in the Kitchen. I tell you, Monsieur Tyran is positively beastly.
Friday, July 30: West Wing LibraryYou won't believe what's happened! Dobby, my Father's personal house-elf, has run away! Really! He just took off this morning, no one knows where. Father is livid. He keeps wandering around the halls, muttering to himself and kicking house-elves.
I am amazed at Dobby's stupidity. For Merlin's sake, he's not even a free elf. It's not like he can stay away! I tell you, he's going to be ironing his hands when he gets home, if he's lucky. Father looks fit to kill.
Is it terribly wrong for me to find this amusing?
Sunday, August 1: East Wing StudyStill no sign of Dobby. Father's in a right state. He's called all of his evil buddies together for an emergency meeting. Mother's got me guarded in her rooms for the time being, as always. Anyway, about Father, he thinks that Dobby knows something about his "operations" (aka deatheater plots, probably) and has scurried off to tell someone. I think this is ridiculous. Who on Earth could he tell? He's a blooming house-elf!
I wrote Pansy about all this. Her only input was that paranoia seems to run in the family. Thanks Pansy. That helped loads.
Wednesday, August 4: My Bedroom
Sweet Merlin, I'm exhausted! There were nine Ministry raids last night, so we were up 'till seven o'clock in the morning, waiting for owls and moving all of my father's dark arts supplies into the chamber under the drawing-room. I've never carried so many creepy things around in my life! (This being the only good part.) I'm so tired that I can barely lift my quill, but I didn't want to forget. When I'm in therapy later on in life, I can read back and blame my parents, no problem.
Tuesday, August 10: West Wing LibraryFather's decided that we're going to Diagon Alley on the nineteenth. He wants to sell some incriminating potions down Knockturn, and I'm bloody glad of it! Maybe he'll stop pacing soon. It's starting to give me a headache.
I want to ask someone to come with me. It's going to be a real bore, just going with my parent. Pansy said she's going another time, and, even if I did sort of make peace with Nott, I'm not exactly running off to have a play-date with him. Crabbe and Goyle are going on the 23rd, Crabbe said (what are they, joined at the hip?), so not them either. I know! I'll write Forrest and see if he'll meet me!
Thursday, August 12: My Bedroom
Hogwarts letters are here! I noticed that there were a ton of Lockhart books on the list. I'm betting the new Dark Arts teacher is a woman, as it seems to be the witches that are Lockhart's biggest fans. I suspect that Mum fancies him a bit. When I told her about the books, she started gushing about what a brave, handsome, all around fabulous man he was. Father growled something about stupid, overrated clots and their stupid, phony publicity, and bit viciously into a biscuit.
Then Monsieur Tyran mentioned that Lockhart would be signing books in Diagon Alley on the 19th, the day we're going, and Mother turned a very interesting shade of magenta. She was singing today. I didn't even know she could sing.
Thursday, August 18: Dining HallJust got an owl from Forrest. He's good to meet me tomorrow, so the trip won't be a total bore. Actually, I'm really excited about visiting Knockturn Alley. I've only been a couple times and it's really, really interesting! You know, the skeletons-staring-at-you-and-shopkeepers-who-look-like-zombies kind of interesting. I do hope Dobby comes home soon. Father has developed a nervous twitch.
Friday, August 19: Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor
So far, I can't say this little trip is going splendidly. Actually, this whole day has been one disaster after another, it seems. It started out like any other day. I was woken by a rather harassed looking house-elf, who I promptly kicked in the mouth. (I am a bit grumpy in the morning.) So then, Monsieur Tyran tried waking me up. But really, how motivating is it to have this demented man standing over you cursing in French?
The first indicator that it was not a normal day came next, however. My father came in, sporting a slightly crazed look and waving his cane around like a madman. He took one look around, kicked the house-elf, and then pulled me out of bed by the ankle.
"GET UP!"
Now, as he was more than a little frightening at the moment, I was forced to acquiesce. He hasn't been exactly sane lately. Stress and all that. Stumbling down in my half-dead state, I was greeted by the smell of burnt pastry. Could it be? No, it wasn't possible. God would not torture me so.
But, alas, He-Who-Is-Up-There decided to have a little fun with me today. Mum was COOKING. As I sat down, already wiping tears induced by the horrible smell from my eyes, I was greeted with a strange and frightening sight. Spread out in front of was the most disgustingly pink display of fairy cakes that I have ever seen or ever shall see again. They were all, of course, burnt beyond recognition, and each one was decorated with a little deformed Gilderoy Lockhart. My heart turned to ice. The man who invented fairy cakes must have turned in his grave.
My mother came skipping in (yeah, didn't know she could skip either), wearing a pink, frilly apron with, you guessed it, a grinning picture of Lockhart on it.
"Eat up, Draco!" She said cheerfully. "Today is the day we meet Lockhart!"
I stared at her.
"And, of course, we're going to get your school things," she said, having the grace to look a little embarrassed.
I feel so loved, I can't even tell you.
Father stomped in at that moment, mumbling something about Gilderoy Lockhart being Satan incarnate, and (bless him) herded us into the carriage before mother could make me try her fairy cakes.
The trip to Diagon Alley was filled with an intimidating silence, only broken by Father's mutinous mutterings. I was beginning to feel that this trip would be long and tedious and said a quiet prayer of thanks to whatever inspired me to invite Forrest. On landing, Mother rushed over to Flourish & Blotts, where Lockhart was signing books, pausing only to ask me this all-important question.
"Draco," she wanted to know. "Do I look absolutely divine and yet, at the same time, very pretty and rather accessible?"
"Sure, mum," I said, feeling slightly disturbed.
Father snorted and sent Madam on her way. And, as Mum rushed off to flirt, he grabbed a hold of my wrist and pulled me towards my DESTINY (aka Knockturn Alley). All I could do was wonder why such a horrible feeling of foreboding had settled over me.
When we
Still FridaySorry. Mr. Fortescue wanted to know if I was a paying customer and let me know that, if I didn't buy something, my bottom was going straight out the door. After purchasing a small cup of ice cream, which I have no intention of eating (Blech. How common.), I have settled down to complete my tale of woe.
When we turned into the alley, I couldn't help noticing how dark and creepy it all was. Now, I've been raised on dark and creepy, but, for whatever reason, the whole place gave me a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like I was going to be sick almost. It's so very… evil in there. Except I'm the only person who's noticed.
Then we went into Mr. Borgin's shop, and I forgot all about the feeling. Because it's just so cool in there! I mean it! Haunted jewelry, caskets, skulls, the works! I was reaching for a glass eye when Father ruined my moment of fun.
Father: (ringing the shop bell) Touch nothing, Draco.
Bugger. I was hoping he would forget to tell me. As tempting as it was to keep on reaching for the glass eye, I decided that, if I did, Father would probably rap me one with his cane. Believe me, that hurts much more than a birch rod.
Me: I thought you were going to buy me a present.
He did, too. As this journal is my witness, he said he'd buy me a present if I was good at the reunion. And he'd better pull through, too!
Father: I said I would buy you a racing broom.
Me: What's the good of that if I'm not on the House team? Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He's not even that good, it's just because he's famous ... famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead… everyone thinks he's so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick.
Stupid Potter. Life is so unfair. You know it is! I'm the pureblood! I should get the special treatment, not him! He's not really any different from me, you know. He's really not as wonderful as everyone makes him out to be.
Father: You have told me this at least a dozen times already. And I would remind you that it is not… prudent… to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear.
That's when Mr. Borgin came out, thankfully ending that lecture. You see, Father wants me to be all buddy-buddy with Potter, so he doesn't look suspicious. Well, the only was he's going to get me to be nice to Potter is the Imperious Curse!
Anyway, Father and Mr. Borgin talked for a while. Blah, blah, blah, stupid ministry, selling, gratuitous flattery, blah, blah… And then I spotted the coolest thing in the entire shop.
"Can I have that?" I couldn't help interrupting.
"Ah, the Hand of Glory!" Mr. Borgin exclaimed, obviously excited about a potential sale. "Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir."
"I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin," Father glared at both of us. "Though, if his grades don't pick up, that may indeed be all he is fit for –"
Oh, for Merlin's sake! This again?
"It's not my fault," I shot back. "The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger–"
"I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam," Father said, coldly.
Oh, this is just great! Thanks to that stupid mudblood girl, I've made my father ashamed of me. I hate her! It's all her fault, you know! If she weren't around, my father would be proud of me again. She's ruining my life.
Anyway, Father and Mr. Borgin bargained for a while, as I looked around, still fuming. As I was looking at a cursed necklace, a strange thing happened. I turned around and, right in front of me was this cabinet. Before I even knew what I was doing, I was moving foreword, reaching out to touch it. It was mesmerizing, really, pulling me in. Was that… breathing I heard? I really think it was, and I swear to you now, there was someone in that cabinet. I could hear their heart beating.
Just as my hand reached the handle, though, Father called me, and I had to leave the shop. Well, I guess that's what I should expect from an item in Knockturn Alley. Still, on my way out and for almost an hour afterwards, I wanted so badly to open it that it hurt. It was a kind of painful longing, I'd say. Strange.
Then again, it IS Knockturn Alley. So maybe it isn't that strange, after all.
Still, Still Friday
I wish that Mr. Fortescue would leave me alone. He interrupted my writing, telling me that I had to eat my bloody ice cream, not just poke at it, or I needed to leave and stop taking up his space. I tried to buy him off with a couple of galleons but to no avail. So, I had to eat the sprinkle-covered monstrosity.
It was actually very good. I've never really had ice cream before. Invented by muggles you know. Father says it's part of the Ministry's attempt at "blending" the two worlds together. Yeah, like that's going to happen.
Well, anyway, where was I? Leaving Knockturn Alley. Yes. Well, as we were making our way down Diagon Alley, I suddenly heard someone calling my name. I turned around and, lo and behold, who would it be but Forrest, running towards me.
Father snorted at this obvious display of non-aristocraticis… ness (which is not a word, but who cares). Forrest stopped in front of us, panting heavily and clutching a large bag to his chest.
"Hi," he gasped. "I… saw you way back there… couldn't catch up."
Father looked down at him, wrinkling his nose.
"And who," he asked, coldly. "Are you?"
"This is Forrest… uhh… Dad. (I decided that "dad" would be the appropriate noun to use around Forrest.) He's the friend from school I was telling you about."
"Oh. The bleeding heart."
Forrest blinked at him, obviously surprised by my father's rudeness.
Forrest: Yeah, that's me. (nervous laugh) So, it's nice to meet you Mr. Malfoy. Draco talks about you all the time.
Father: Does he now? And where, may I ask, are your parents?
Me: Father…
Please, I prayed. Please don't let him start the interrogating thing. Apparently, somebody up there is angry with me today.
Forrest: Oh… I don't… really have any…
Father: You're an orphan, are you?
Forrest: Kind of, yeah.
Forrest is an orphan? How come I didn't know that? Maybe Pansy's right, and I am a bit self-absorbed. Do you think?
And what's up with everyone's parents dying? There's Nott, there's Potter, now Forrest, and… well, I'm sure there are a lot more. Aren't Longbottom's parent's dead? They aren't around ever, just his gran. Maybe I'm supposed to know? Anyway…
Father: Well, isn't that a pity. Who do you live with now? Surely you're not out on the street. Though, by the way you're dressed, I wouldn't be surprised.
Me: Father!
Forrest: I live with my aunt and uncle. And my brothers and sisters. I'm staying at the Leaky Cauldron for the night.
Father: Oh. I see. And what was your parents name? I'm sure I knew them. I know all of the old wizarding families.
Forrest: Oh, well, they… (mumbles something unintelligible) I- I don't really like to talk about them.
Insert long, awkward silence here. Forrest sweated, I was humiliated, and my father cleaned his nails. We all started walking together down the alley, heading for Flourish & Blots.
Forrest: So… Mr. Malfoy, what do you do exactly?
Father: I am head of the Department of Mysteries, my boy. Of course, I also… (he rattled of about his oh-so-important jobs for a while), etcetera.
Forrest: (obviously lying) That's so interesting! You know, I've been thinking about going into Ministry work, though I'm not quite sure how to go about it. How did you get your job, Mr. Malfoy?
Father: Well, I took over from the previous electorate when he very sadly accidentally brutally cut his head off while combing his hair.
Forrest: (taken aback) Oh. How… fascinating.
Just about then, thankfully, Father spotted someone that he needed to "have a chat with" and walked off. I think Forrest actually breathed a sigh of relief. My father turned back before he went.
"Draco, go pick up the rest of your school things," he told me.
"Yes, sir."
"Wait for me over there at Mr. Fortescue's."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't go anywhere else, Draco," he said. "Don't talk to strangers, don't go into the muggle world, don't buy from street vendors, and don't go down any dark alleyways."
Yes, and I'll try not to take any unwrapped candy either. Gods. You disappear once down Knockturn Alley when you're three, and they never let you live it down.
"Yes, sir."
"That's my boy."
As Father sauntered off, Forrest turned to me, raising an eyebrow.
"What?" I asked, wondering at the odd look he was giving me.
"I don't think I've ever seen you so… submissive. I expected some kind of sarcastic comment or something."
I shrugged, heading towards Flourish & Blotts.
"You don't really talk back to my father. He's… well… not the kind to take it."
"So I gathered," Forrest looked thoughtful. "Kind of reminds me of my uncle, except with a pimp cane."
"With a… pimp cane?"
Forrest flushed.
"Oh! I'm sorry, Draco! I didn't mean to insult… I mean… It's actually a very nice cane! Uhh…"
I opened my mouth to assure him that Pansy commonly referred to said walking stick as a "pimp cane", so it didn't bother me, (I was just surprised that HE said it, mind you.) when I noticed the insane amount of people stuffed into Flourish & Blotts. You couldn't even see inside, it was so packed!
"Oh, wow," Forrest said as we opened the door. "Okay, attack plan. You get all of the books from upstairs. I'll get the ones down here."
"That sounds good. Meet me at Fortescue's, alright?"
"Sure."
And with that, we both dove into the crowd, going our separate ways. I made it upstairs, with much difficulty, and started grabbing two of every book on the list. But then I looked down, and I noticed something. At the center of the crowd, happily taking a picture for the Daily Prophet with Lockhart, was Harry Potter.
Why does he haunt me? I ask you!
As I stomped down the stairs, I spotted Mum and dumped the pile of books in her arms. Then I turned and made my way towards Potter, who was stumbling out of the crowd with a pile of free books. It's disgusting, really. All of that favoritism, just because of one fluke that happened when he was a baby. I really hate it!
When I finally pushed my way over to him, he was leaning over and whispering to a tiny, redheaded girl that looked vaguely familiar.
"Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?" I sneered down at him.
He stiffed and then straightened up to look at me. I continued talking as if I hadn't' even noticed the hostile look he was giving me.
"Famous Harry Potter. Can't even go into a bookshop without making the front page."
The redheaded girl with him, who hadn't moved until now, suddenly pushed past him, putting her hands on her hips and glaring up at me. That's when I finally recognized her.
It was Ginevra.
Yes, that girl from the train station! My, but it's a small world, isn't it? I know she recognized me also, because her eyes got very wide and, for a second, it looked as if she was going to back down. Now, I couldn't have that. I gave her my most infuriating look, smirking and raising my eyebrows, just daring her to say something. Her eyes narrowed.
"Leave him alone," she said angrily. "He didn't want all that!"
I sneered down at her.
"Potter, you've got yourself a girlfriend!"
Ginevra turned bright red, shutting her mouth for the first time since I'd met her. Surprisingly, my comment didn't seem to affect Potter much. In fact, he seemed a bit confused as to why she was so embarrassed. He really is clueless, isn't he? I almost feel sorry for the silly girl.
Before I could point out Potter's idiocracy to him, the other two members of the Dream Team came up behind him.
"Oh, it's you," said Weasley, looking rather displeased to see me. "Bet you're surprised to see Harry here, eh?"
"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," I shot back. "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those."
He turned a delightful scarlet color and started towards me, but Potter and Granger held him back. Have I shared with you the sick pleasure I get out of winding up Weasley? It may be wrong, but Merlin, is it fun!
Just then I heard a voice calling to Weasley from across the store. A group of people, mostly redheads, was making its way towards us. At the head was a large man that I recognized as Arthur Weasley, Ron's father. The others, I concluded, were the rest of the Weasley clan.
As the group settled around us, it suddenly occurred to me. I don't know why I didn't see it before! Red hair, apparently dirt poor, hanging around with Potter… It all pointed to one thing.
Ginevra is a Weasley.
This should have been obvious, I suppose, but, for whatever reason, I just didn't put the pieces together. To my credit, however, she is a girl in a family that is all boys. Also, her name is Ginevra. "Hi, these are my children: Ron, Fred, George, GINEVRA." Now, how was I to know? I ask you!
Anyway, just as this revelation came upon me, I heard a voice from behind me, feeling an all-too-familiar hand on my shoulder.
"Well, well, well. Arthur Weasley."
It was my father, glaring at Mr. Weasley in exactly the same way I think I must glare at his son. It was weird watching them, kind of like peering into the future. After all, people do say that we're nearly identical. And what happened next certainly seemed like something Weasley and I would do. (Though, I think I would do it in a slightly less mortifying way.)
Mr. Weasley: (nodding icily, by way of greeting) Lucius.
Father: Busy time at the Ministry, I hear. All those raids... I hope they're paying you overtime?
He reached into Ginevra Weasley's cauldron, pulling out a ratty copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration. It was in sad condition, let me tell you, and I saw Ginevra blush with embarrassment. I swear, I must get this poisonous personality thing from my father.
Father: Obviously not. Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it.
Mr. Weasley: We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy.
"Clearly," Father hissed.
He gestured over to two muggles that were, apparently, with the Weasleys. I think they must have been Granger's parents. Arthur Weasley's ears reddened.
"The company you keep, Weasley… And I thought your family could sink no lower."
Then, in true Weasley form, Mr. Weasley went at my father. I'm not actually sure who threw the first punch, but, before I knew it, they had knocked over a bookshelf and were rolling around underneath a pile of heave books, hitting each other. People were screaming and stampeding, the Weasley twins were cheering him on, and I just stood there, utterly mortified.
Finally, I heard a voice booming over the crowd.
"Break it up, there, gents! Break it up!"
Hagrid stood over my father and Mr. Weasley, separating them from each other. I never in all my life thought I'd be glad to see Hagrid, but here I was, ready to throw my arms around him in gratitude. Father was, of course, not at all as glad as I was. He had a black eye from being hit with a rather large spell book, and Mr. Weasley's lip was bleeding. You know, I can't be sure who came out better, but I'd venture to say Father would have won if Hagrid had let it go on. Mr. Weasley's no match for Father's cane, which he will use as a weapon if provoked.
Father threw Ginevra's book back into her cauldron, looking peeved.
"Here, girl," He snarled. "Take your book. It's the best your father can give you."
With that, he turned and motioned to me to follow. Looking peeved, he swept out of the shop, with me in tow. I didn't say anything, as he looked ready to Avada Kedavra the next person foolish enough to speak to him.
Once outside, Father turned on me. Where were my books? Where was I supposed to be? What had he told me about fighting with Potter?
I pointed out that he hadn't exactly been a shining example of sainthood in there either, but that just made him angrier. Finally, he ordered me to the ice cream parlor, saying he'd come for me when he was done.
So here I am, sitting at a table in Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor and chocking down my third sundae since my arrival. And I have to wonder, where in the world is Father? For that matter, where is Forrest? And why, oh why, do I always get the bad end of everything?
Still Friday: Madam's Carriage
Draco, are you alright?
I'm fine. Why?
Well, that was a pretty hard hit. I think I heard something crunch.
I didn't hear anything crunch. Besides, it's nothing. He's just in a bad mood.
And is he frequently in a bad mood?
Bad, yes. This bad, no.
Good. You'd be in horrible shape if he were, you know.
No worries, Forrest. I have Monsieur Tyran for that.
Yeah. Are you sure you don't have a concussion? Your eyes are kind of weird.
I'm fine. And what's weird about my eyes?!
Nothing, nothing. Never mind. Hey, Draco, do you think he'll whack me too if I say anything?
I wouldn't chance it.
That's what I thought.
Yeah...
Yeah.
No, seriously. What's wrong with my eyes?
STILL Friday: Malfoy Mansion, My RoomDon't mind that last entry. Forrest and I where passing notes on the way home. It's probably really confusing to you anyway, as you have no idea what we were talking about in the first place.
You know, I've just realized something. This entire journal is written like I'm talking to someone. Is that a bit weird? Don't worry, though. I do not, in fact, believe that this book is sentient.
There! I've done it again! Why do I do that, I wonder. Oh well. Back to my story.
So, after I waited in the ice cream parlor for two hours (TWO HOURS!), Forrest finally showed up, followed closely by my father. Forrest's hair was mussed, his eyes were wide, and he looked more than a little harassed. As soon as he reached my table, he slumped into the chair across from me with a sigh.
"What took you so long?" I wanted to know.
"Well," Forrest started. "It's kind of a funny story. See, I was heading for the Lockheart books when this group of witches just-"
At that moment, Father arrived. Forrest never got to finish his story.
"Draco, we're going. And you," He said, looking disdainfully down at Forrest. "My wife insists that our driver take you home. Come along, and, please, be quiet. I have a horrible headache."
You know, I'm not surprised. Half of his face had turned a purple color from that hit he took to the face. I'm rather inclined to say he deserves it though, because of what happened next.
We followed him in silence, finally arriving at the carriage. Mum was waiting for us, and Madam was in the driver's seat, ready for takeoff. But, as we started to get in, I remembered something. Father never got me my racing broom! And, like a fool, I thought it would be a good time to bring it up.
"Father," I said, stopping mid-step. "You forgot to buy my broom."
"Get in the carriage, Draco," Father hissed, glaring down at me. "I told you, I have a headache. We're going home now."
"But Father, you promised! Remember? You promised you'd buy me a racing broom if I was good at the reunion! And I was!"
"Draco," he nearly shouted. "Get in the carriage!"
(Okay, note to self. That was a bad time to continue pressing the point.)
"But you promised! I was really good! I put up with Uncle Ramputin's stories and Aunt Martha's ramblings and… and everything! I did! And I want my broom! You pro-"
And then, before I could say anything else, whack. Father's cane had come straight down on my head. Gods, did that hurt! I mean, really, he could have at least not used all of his strength. I was bleeding, for Merlin's sake!
"There!" He bellowed. "How does that feel? Does it feel good?! I'll bet it feels a lot like my head right now! Now, GET IN THE CARRIAGE!"
While I was too dizzy from the blow to say anything, Mum got out, practically pulling me in with her. Forrest was staring at me, with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. Having him see me like that… Cor, it was awful! How much embarrassment can I take in one day, anyway?
No one was brave enough to speak on the way home, though Forrest did write to ask if I was okay (see above entry). After we got home, Father stormed off and locked himself away in his study, and Madam took Forrest home.
Okay, I am not going down to dinner. I am just so furious with him! (Father, I mean. Not Forrest.) Of all the horrible, irrational… GODS!
All right, I'm done. I suppose I deserved it, anyway. I should know when to leave off with him. Besides, it's not like this is the first time this kind of thing has happened. I just bring out the worst in people, I think.
I'll sleep on it. I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning. I always do.
Tuesday, August 25: West WingI'm dead. No, I'm worse than dead. I'm killed. Monsieur Tyran is going to kill me! What has happened you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It is horrible, simply horrible!
Okay, truthfully, if it weren't going to get me into so much trouble, I would find it quite funny. But that's not the point.
From now on, I'm going to think twice before accepting any more gifts from Pansy. Because Mini-Draco has caused me nothing but trouble. Nothing!
Today, he escaped from my trunk (where I've had him locked all summer, in an attempt to avoid things like this) and followed me down to the dining hall. I want to go into town this week and get some sweets, so I decided to ask Father. He said no. Just "no"! Just like that! Just… like… "no"! Now, I was righteously angered by this. Luckily, I am gifted with the ability to control my anger.
Mini-Draco is not.
"Ow!" Father shouted, suddenly.
He held up his finger, from which was dangling a very tiny, very angry plushy.
"What the-?"
On that, Mini-Draco let go of his finger and pounced.
"Ah! It's got my eyelid!"
As Father shouted and made a scene, I slipped out, longing to escape the madness. Unfortunately, the satanic thing followed me around all day. House elves were tortured, women were moved to tears, and children were terrorized.
It was brilliant, let me tell you.
That is, until the time came for classes. And, inevitably, the wrath of the Mini was stirred. The last time I saw him, Mini-Draco was latched onto Monsieur Tyran's back, looking wild with anger. The poor man didn't have a clue. I've heard that one of his arms has been lost, though I'm not sure how. Then again, it's just a rumor and probably not true. Too bad. That would mean an escape from tutoring.
Well, that's it! Part Two is coming soon, don't worry about that. You know, I've noticed something. Draco takes a lot of abuse in Chapter Nine. No, seriously! When you combine the two parts that's, like, enough to get him in foster care, definitely (or at least a restraining order for Monsieur Tyran). I mean, it's not going to happen, of course, but… Huh. Then again, Wizard Law is probably different than our law. But still. Poor Draye. huggles Ah! He bit me!
My one wish for you, my readers, is this: may your holidays be filled with the cheerful, loving attitude of Draco. May you too enjoy the pain of those trampled Christmas shoppers. May you mock Christmas classics with those Pansys in your life. May you give poisoned treats to your enemies, throw pinecones at innocent bystanders, and eat all of the popcorn of your relatives' trees. Above all else, have a happy Christmas, even if having a happy one means being a bit of a Grinch.
Merry Christmas from Novalee, Acorn, and the gang!
(And we promise an update is coming soon. Really, it is.)
Roddanagh… or feliscorvis… or alexis: :joins in cackling I love Pansy! Sounds like something you'd do, does it? Well, then I love YOU too! Is it really? Thank you SO much! Oh, and he was going to say "assets". What, you thought I didn't know? :grins: nightstar13: Bonjour! Oui, je parles francais (un peu)! Je aimes la langue, mais, oui, l'imparfait es trais mal! Anyway, thanks so much for the review! It was really fun to have one in French! Well, I've heard of a person who did and read about one who did, so I decided to generalize. Bad Nova! Heh. Yeah, Mini-Draye gets that a lot. You think the characterization is good? YAAAY!!! :celebrates: That's my favorite compliment! Read on! Nuit Chouette: Yes, I agree. Stupid elf. Pansy and Tom were my favorite characters in that chapter (aside from Draco!). How did I know that Uncle Ramputin would be your favorite? How did I know?! Were you pleased with the mention of Mini-Draco? I thought you might be. Thaelia15: Changed it! Yes, I figured you would! Poor Tom is dedicated to you, as of now! Thae-chan, he couldn't hex him because they were in the MUGGLE part of town! :face-palm: I'm just waiting for the inevitable "so?". Yes and, as I have mentioned, our English teacher reenacting her son's birth is NOT copyright you. If anything, it should be copyright Mrs. Martha R. (name shortened to protect privacy). So, ha! In your face! :ducks and hides from Thaelia: IdentityCrisis: Heh… (embarrassment) Sorry. It's been a whole summer since French class. I went back and made the changes! Don't worry, you aren't the only person who wants to be French. I loooooooove the accent. And Kyo (band). They rock! I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter! MoonlightPrincess: Don't we all! May not be a good idea though. He might eat you. Anyway, thanks tons! Ludra: I'm glad you're enjoying it! Sorry it took so long to write. I've been… busy. :barely restrains herself from spouting out excuses left and right: Bless you, Ludra, for that comment about the grammar. I always feel like people look at my chapters and think I'm horrible because of the mistakes. I just can't spell! DON'T JUDGE ME! Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! goddess of darkness3: Heh heh. Define soon. Thanks for the compliments! Keep reading! pyrobrat88: A genius, eh? Well, I try not to fly in the face of public opinion! Hohohoho! :clears throat: Sorry… I'm glad you like it! Once again, I think the definition of "soon" is relative, don't you? :nods: Relative. Yes. Anyway, thanks for the review! Acorn: Worry not, A-san! I have corrected my mistake! Thanks again for all of the beta work you've been doing for me. You've helped tons! :pulls out her pom-poms: Gimme an A-C-O-R-N! GOOOO ACORN!!!
