Day Seven, continued:

Oh, no. Oh, Lord. Oh, this cannot be good. What was I thinking? Why didn't I listen to my father? What is wrong with me? "Always look after your investments, Draco, " he told me. I do realise that it's not directly applicable but, if looked at from the right angle, that is precisely what I have neglected to do.

I should be locked away, so I should. Wait. I already am locked away. But I meant at Saint Mungo's, or, or, Azkaban, or one of those places where crazy people who are dangerous to themselves and society at large are locked away so they can't do anymore damage. I should be locked away in one of THOSE places.

I mean, I had it good, didn't I? I was all set. I had the Dursleys all figured out, I had Dudley Dursley as putty in my hands and I was free from doing anymore chores for the remainder of my stay; I even heard that Petunia woman talking about putting me in the guest bedroom to save my back. And what do I do? I ruin it.

I spoke to Dudley yesterday. (You were already aware of this, I'm sure, but I'm going to elaborate.) You see, I mentioned that Petunia Dursley disapproves of the Grey girl almost as much as she disapproves of me. I was, and am, also of the opinion that the Dursleys approach to Wizards is rather like my family's approach to Muggles. Based on these to assumptions, I was able to come up with a comparable situation: If Dudley Dursley were a Pureblood Wizard (proper Pureblood, not like Weasley pureblood), then Natasha Grey would be like a Muggle so far as Mr. and Mrs. Dursley are concerned… I suppose she already IS a muggle, but I mean in the metaphor.

After I gained this insight into the situation I, naturally, turned it to my advantage by threatening Dudley and implying that I would tell his parents unless my life got more comfortable. He agreed quite readily and so my life got more comfortable. Of course it only lasted for one short day, but that day was undeniably more comfortable.

With this in mind, I admit that I became a tad audacious. I snuck out the back door and meandered down to something called a Newsagents. This was my first mistake.

My second mistake (even though it technically occurred before the first mistake) was cavalierly wearing my own muggle clothes, bought solely to get me through King's Cross without causing a fuss, rather than highly dubious muggle clothes left by Potter. My own clothes could be described as somewhat out of date, I admit, but they were perfectly serviceable nonetheless. I was wearing a perfectly acceptable pair of black slacks and a white dress-shirt, black braces and black neck-tie. A garb which Petunia informed me looked "Positively Victorian"; I don't really know what that means, but she disapproved so it must be a good thing. Now there's absolutely nothing wrong with this ensemble. As a matter of fact, I thought I looked rather dashing when one considers how difficult it is not to look idiotic in Muggle Clothing.

My appearance was not well-received, however.

All the way along the street, people were staring at me or pointing at me or, in the case of one rodent-looking little simpleton, sniggering and calling to his friends "Just wait till Big D gets a load of him!" I haven't the faintest clue who Big D is, or why he would want anything to do with me. And, frankly, until such times as I've dealt with Dudley Dursley, I consider this a good thing, as I cannot handle more than one antagonist when I'm unarmed.

You see, I obviously did not intend for my attire to attract anyone's attention. I am a man on the run, and as such I cannot afford such publicity. But attract attention is precisely what they did. And whose attention did it attract? None other than Natasha Grey, the morbid, aspiring vampire I was blackmailing Dursley with in the first place. She walked up to me in the sweets aisle and told me that I looked "very Gothic chic. Like an albino Edgar Allen Poe or something". Evidently she meant this as a compliment, though I did not take it as such and simply stared blankly at her.

Now, in Hogwarts, when a chap stares blankly at a girl after she gives him a compliment, the girl tends to take it as the universal sign to go sink her claws into some other poor sap, and acts accordingly. But not this Muggle. She just stood there nodding at me for a while before saying "Stoic? That's cool." and wandering off looking pleased with herself. At that point, I think I could be forgiven for assuming that she had some mental problems. And so I treated her as I would treat any raving lunatic: I pointedly ignored her and her inane prattling and went about my business.

(My business, by the way, involved nicking some sort of chocolate bar while the elderly man who ran the newsagents wasn't looking. It had these little crystallised minty things all the way through it. It was quite nice. I would've paid for it, of course, but the only money I had with me were galleons and sickles, so I had to resort to theft for something as insignificant as a chocolate bar. God, I'm so pathetic at the moment that I'm practically a Weasley.)

When I exited the establishment a few minutes later, she was there; waiting for me. She made several attempts at conversation, but failed miserably each time. Eventually she said something about things called "C-Ds" and then mentioned her "Smashing Pumpkins". I plainly said I didn't care how smashing her pumpkins were and told her to get away from me. When she continued to linger I stated, quite clearly, that even if she were the last black-swathed, death-obsessed, empty-headed Banshee-in-training alive on planet Earth, I would still prefer to spend an evening chewing off my own arm to spending five minutes feigning interest in her moronic little obsessions.

This finally got the message through, and after a moment of staring at me with and expression like a cow staring at a Hungarian Horntail, she turned and fled. Not a moment too soon in my considered opinion.

So I wandered back to the Muggles' house feeling altogether quite chuffed, both at my successful outing and at having unburdened myself of the Muggle Hag so effectively. No sooner had I returned to the house than I had Dudley Dursley threatening to "wallop" me for hurting the bizarre little bimbo's feelings. He did not proceed to do so, but I know better than to flatter myself into thinking that this fact had anything to do with me. Rather, he did it because he could not at that time think of an excuse to deck me that did not involve Natasha Grey and he knew his mother would ask after his motives. He couldn't very well say "I heard that he insulted some cadaver-like creature whom I've been lusting after", could he?

How, precisely, he heard about the incident in the first place is quite beyond me. But he did.

Now that I think of it, as I entered the building I thought I heard him talking to someone called "Piers", even when there was no one around. Perhaps he was using that speaking device of theirs. No matter, I suppose. The point is that he heard about it, and he was less than pleased.

In fact, if one were to combine his displeasure with this incident and his displeasure with being blackmailed into doing gardening all morning, one could be forgiven for describing Dudley Dursley as distinctly miffed. In this barbaric, uncivilised hellhole, brawn is more important than skill or talent. This means that Dudley Dursley being miffed is a highly dangerous situation for yours truly. It probably wouldn't be if I had Crabbe, or Goyle, or preferably both with me - but I don't, and so it remains highly dangerous.

And whilst Potter may be perfectly happy suffering curses, jinxes, bruises, cuts, broken bones, burns, poisonings and so on, I myself am highly adverse to pain. I would not go so far as to say that I am afraid of pain, per se; simply that in any given situation I will avoid it at all costs.

I am therefore staying in my cupboard, until Dudley's displeasure has passed. It is my belief that this will improve my chances of leaving this nightmare intact.

To be honest, I don't even understand why he's upset. It's not as though I encouraged this impudent strumpet's advances, or somehow stole her from him. He's welcome to the vacuous tart, it makes no difference to me. The only reason I would ever have any interest in her is if I could somehow tie her down and force her to reveal to me who, precisely, she reminds me of and stop my mind from pondering it at inappropriate moments. However I doubt she'd be capable of intuiting who she resembles at Hogwarts, thereby rendering her useless once again.

Still, I suspect I'd be better off if I didn't try to explain my reasoning to Dudley Dursley.

Day Eight:

Holy God, I'm actually hungry. I don't think I've ever been hungry before, but now I am. I'm really, genuinely, for the first time in my life, hungry.

It's horrible, too.

The Petunia woman said that she refused to feed me unless I came out of my cupboard and behaved like an adult. The implied insult alone would have been more than enough to get me out of here on a normal day. However today it was followed by the Verona man grunting about having a word with me for "endangering his loved ones by gallivanting off wherever I pleased" and Dudley Dursley's agreeing that he, too, wanted a word with me. I mean the only reason I escaped him yesterday was that he didn't have an excuse to hit me. That is no-longer the case, since his father just provided him with one, and so I am not going out there.

I will just sit in here and continue pondering who would win in a fight between Vincent Crabbe and Dudley Dursley, if both were unarmed. I must admit that the idea of witnessing such an altercation amuses me greatly. Not because of the violence, precisely, but because it would amuse me to see a battle of wits between two such singularly witless individuals.

Other things I have been pondering as I sit here in my cupboard include who Natasha Grey reminded me of. I believe I have finally puzzled it out -

She reminds me of Lavender Brown.

I know that this may seem like an odd comparison to anyone with even a glancing familiarity with Lavender Brown and Natasha Grey, but it is who she reminds me of, nonetheless.

They both have the same slightly vacant stare, the same urge to discuss meaningless drivel as though it were somehow central to human existence, and the same maddeningly superior look commonly associated with clueless dolts who believe they are connected through suspicious and highly unspecific means to some "Higher Power" that we mere mortals could only dream of. In fact, if one were to take away the black lipstick and pink lipgloss, the black clothes and jangling bracelets, the heavy combat boots and the sparkly hair accessories, it is my belief that Natasha Grey and Lavender Brown would be virtual duplicates of one another.

They even have the same small, excessively turned-up noses, for pity's sake. And one may never overlook the important of noses in assessing someone's character. For example: Albus Dumbledore has a big, bent, highly unattractive nose and is a scheming manipulative git. Severus Snape has a large, less-than-flattering nose and turned out to be a traitor (so am I, I suppose, but unlike him I have a valid reason). Viktor Krum - well he appeared to be a regular sort of chap for a while, but look at what taste he turned out to have! Had I paid more attention to the nose, I assure you, I would have known him as a muggle-loving, cradle-robbing egotistical cockroach right from day one.

Why people never listen to me about these things is quite beyond me as they make perfect sense. Or rather I think they make perfect sense, but I haven't really eaten anything today and am, to tell you the truth, quite out of sorts because of it.

And to make matters worse my "torch" is starting to flicker on and off at the most inopportune times. It is exceedingly irritating, I'll have you know.

It's not as though I ask a lot of these muggles.

A dependable light source should hardly be too much to ask.

The blasted thing is going to out completely in a moment, I'm sure of it. I suppose I'll have to stop writing then. I'll just sit here and ponder things like Daphne Greengrass's hair, and whether or not Crabbe could actually be beaten up by a muggle. Yes, that's what I'll do.

Time will just fly by, you'll see. In a few hours I won't even think about my growling stomach, or the fact that I can smell Petunia cooking sausages for lunch. You'll see.

Day Nine:

I do not believe… I mean there are certain things one will tolerate… He's only a Muggle… I suppose I'm partially to blame… But he's still just a MUGGLE…

Although, I will admit that it was partly my own fault as I let my instincts get the better of me. Yes, I admit it: I snapped. I couldn't cope - I left the cupboard.

Well I was starving!

I've never been that hungry! I was practically malnourished! What did you expect me to do?! It's not as though I didn't take all the advisable precautions. I waited all night so that I sneak go out in the small hours of the morning, stock up on food, use the facilities and replace those little metal cylinders in my "torch". It was still dark, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley wouldn't be awake, there would be no one around, and no one need ever have know I'd left the confines of my dusty little cell.

It was an utterly flawless plan, I assure you! A plan which is even more commendable when one considers the fact that my insides were clawing with hunger, making it completely impossible to get any sleep and thereby driving me even more loopy than I was last night.

While executing this utterly flawless plan, however, I ran into some trouble. Trouble in the form of a large seventeen year old boy, leaning by the fridge with a dumbbell in hand, doing his morning exercises. I asked him about them, and have since learned that these exercises were insisted upon by his boxing coach. Whilst I have the faintest idea what boxing may be, I somehow doubt that it's a Muggle form of needlepointing.

The boy was really quite terrifying, to tell you the truth. I know that sounds absurd, as I am a wizard and he is little more than a primate, but he was genuinely terrifying - his hulking figure partially obscured by the early morning twilight, his cold metal dumbbell moving mechanically in his hand, his beady eyes glaring at me. Most upsettingly, he spoke in quiet tones, almost as though he were taking me into his confidence. I know, of course, that he only did it to avoid waking his parents.

Even though he didn't expressly say so, I was able to intuit that he planned to inflict no small amount of violence upon me. I mean, I've spent the past six years in the company of Crabbe and Goyle, so there are certain expressions that one comes to understand and the "I'm going to beat the snot out of you in just a minute" Look is one you're not likely to forget in a hurry. So, if you could try to imagine my situation for a moment, you would understand why I was fairly eager to convince this thick-necked twerp that I was on his side.

Therefore, when he said "I realise we're very different." I did everything in my power to convince him that he was wrong.

In order to do this, I had to call upon everything I'd ever heard Potter say about them, since my own observations of the Dursley family would hardly promote kinship. Unfortunately, the only thing I could remember Potter ever saying about this lot was that it was impossible not to hate them. Again, this was not the kind of comment I had in mind, so I thought about the people Potter knew instead.

Then I remembered the Weasley twins telling Lee Jordan, that Quidditch commentating git, about a prank they'd played on a muggle at Harry Potter's house. Jordan asked if they should be pranking muggles, but the Weasley twins just said that they had no problem whatsoever pranking "That great bullying brat". Of course, they had to be referring to the boy standing before me. I therefore realised that he must have bullied Potter, so we finally had something to agree on.

I started explaining this to him. How Potter and I were rivals and how I'd played so many marvellous tricks on him, and about how I nearly got him expelled so often and so on and so forth.

Dursley was just staring at me with a blank expression, so I went on. I told him about those 'Potter Stinks' badges in fourth year, and about the snake thing in the Duelling Club in second year, and about the Inquisitorial Squad, and how I made Prefect but he didn't and so I got to do all sorts of things to him.

Then, thinking that I might be making the muggle a bit jealous with all my exploits, I tried to put in a slightly less successful story, just to even things up a bit. When I remembered that incident in third year when Crabbe, Goyle and I dressed up as Dementors to try and make him fall off his broom, it seemed like the perfect story to woo Dursley over to my way of thinking. I mean, it was hardly successful, but it was an inspired caper nonetheless. I imagined him hearing about it and all but swooning. So, naturally, I told him all about it. When I said the word "Dementor" he got this look of confusion and horror on his face - a bit like Longbottom when Snape asks him a question. I assumed he looked this way because he didn't know what a Dementor was, since I've heard Muggles can't see them, so I started explaining it to him.

After about three sentences he said "I know what a Dementor is," in this really weird, constricted sort of voice.

Then his fist connected with my face.

It was like being his in the nose by a rampaging Hippogriff! I went skidding over the kitchen table and landed in a heap on the floor. He came over and punched me in the ribs a few times, saying that I was "the lowest scum to ever walk the Earth". Honest to God! What cheek! And from a muggle too!

He only hit me a few times, but I think he knew that his mother and father were stampeding down the stairs so he stopped earlier than he would've liked, the violent brute. Then his parents came in and demanded an explanation. Obviously I was too winded to give it to them myself, so he said some rubbish about me trying to sneak out of the house and then his rhinoceros of a father tried to hit me too.

Of course, I may not be faster or stronger than the son, but the day I can't outmanoeuvre a lump like Vernon Dursley is the day you can pour the dirt onto my cold, dead body.

Before Fatso the Elder had another opportunity to go for me, his wife stepped in and said that they couldn't return me in less than mint condition. Like I was a commemorative plate or something! Of course, by this point blood was spewing forth from my nose like a bloody geyser, not that any of them noticed. It was only when Dudley suggested that they lock me in at nights from now on that anyone even looked at me, and even then it was only for a second while they all agreed to it, the barbaric bastards.

Eventually I got cleaned up. Eventually I got something to eat (well, if you call those sugary flake monstrosities edible). Eventually I even got new metal cylinders for my torch. But while all this was happening, the Dursley Father was retrofitting my cupboard with a bolt and an air hole "Just in case they forgot about me", while Dudley spent the day watching me and cracking his knuckles whenever I looked like I was about to say something.

It has truly been one of the worst days in the history of the world. And to make it worse, I spent most of it with toilet paper up my nose.

Days like this really make a man wonder just how bad being kidnapped by Voldemort would really be.

Day Ten:

I hope that anyone reading this will forgive my momentary lack of decorum, however it has to be said:

OW OW OW OW OW! WHAT THE BLEEDING HELL IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?!

No. Wait. Actually, not people, person. Dudley Dursley was just glowering at me and make intimidating gestures, posturing like a gorilla or something. And the other one, Vernon, he was at work all day, so he was not too terribly annoying.

It was the Bony One.

I foolishly thought that because she was related to Potter, and because she was the only one around here with maternal instincts, that she would be the nice one. I suppose she was, up until such times as she suspected her Diddykins was upset about something. I suspect she knows that it's not the fact that I was 'sneaking out' as well, she just doesn't care. As far as she's concerned, I upset Dudley and must therefore pay the price. Do you know what the price is? I'll tell.

HARD LABOUR!

THAT'S WHAT!

Hard labour that has left my back in agony and left my shoulders feeling like limp rags: I've cleaned dishes, I've weeded flower-beds, I've wiped down surfaces, I've scrubbed a floor, I've even been subjected to the hoover, but is it enough for this diabolical wench? No it is not! She's even made me clean my cupboard. Honestly, what is there to clean? I mean the floor's a mess, but since it's all covered by this abomination of a bed I don't see why she'd care. Besides, there might be spiders under there, so I'm not doing it. All in all I've been worked like a House-elf today.

If I had my wand… Oh, the things I could do to them.

But there's no use dwelling on what I don't have, I suppose. So I shall just have to find a way to turn things in my favour once again. Don't think I've forgotten that blissful afternoon, when the Dursleys were in the palm of my hand because I most certainly have not. I have four days left here, and I assure you that by the end of these four days I will have them back under my control. Or, at the very least, I'll make sure that I'm capable of walking down a hallway without Dudley Dursley slamming his shoulder into me as we pass. And I'll make sure that I never have to glance at another dirty dish for the rest of my days.

What I really need, I suppose, is leverage. And possibly a distraction. Or, if possible, both.

I'll go mull that over while I lie in that dark, clutching my shoulder and whimpering. Thank you very much Petunia Dursley's maternal instincts.

Day Eleven:

I, Draco Malfoy, have a brilliant plan. Well, it's not brilliant. One cannot have truly brilliant plans when one sleeps in a cupboard and eats meat in loaf form, but I had a passably brilliant notion when one considers the circumstances.

This notion was brought to fruition because a boy names Piers Polkiss came over today. I know his surname because it was stitched into the back of some jersey thing he was wearing - I think it's associated with some sport or another, I don't really know. Anyway, he came over to talk to Dudley. I was sort of reminded of that night in third year when we all slept in the Great Hall and Percy Weasley would go up to Dumbledore and "check-in". In this scenario Piers would be Percy and Dudley would be Dumbledore.

I know that's quite a stunningly obscure comparison, but it's what it reminded me of, nonetheless.

But, getting back to the point, here's how it happened: Predictably enough, I spent this morning being glared at by Dudley Dursley and ordered around by his mother. It was not an altogether surprising situation, then, when I found myself out in the back garden at eleven o'clock, repainting the fence, when Polkiss turned up to make this report. Dudley was standing in the front garden as he received his report and knew, in a peripheral sort of way, that I was there. Obviously the Polkiss boy didn't know it and, as he couldn't see me, he wasn't likely to find out. So I could eavesdrop with relative impunity.

They spoke of all manner of mind-numbing drivel going on in the general area, before Polkiss mentioned that Natasha Grey, though hurt and appalled by my behaviour, was still quite taken with yours truly and has spoken of little else. If this is true then she is truly Queen of the Demented, but that's neither here nor there. Dudley was a little irked by this observation, and quickly changed the subject, saying that he only hoped she wouldn't be twittering on about me at the company barbeque tomorrow night. Not 'the company', as in Mr. Dursley's company Grunnings, but Natasha Grey's father's company. Or rather the company he works for. Apparently it's a building firm that does business with Mr. Dursley on a fairly regular basis and so his family was invited.

It was obvious to someone as observant and empathetic as me that Dudley had been rather looking forward to seeing the cantankerous Miss Grey at this event, and was quite upset with the idea of having the experience marred by her slave-like devotion to me. It occurred to me that this was, therefore, the perfect time to implement my plan.

Now I don't know if you know this, but I happen to be a fairly dab-hand at whipping up a potion. True, the extremely complicated theory work does tend to get me a bit turned around, but the actual brewing of a potion is elementary if you're me. Since I don't have a wand, and since I absolutely must change something about Dudley's predicament, just to make my life tolerable once again, I decided that a potion was the best way out of my worries.

Allow me to explain my reasoning: If Dudley's happy, he's unlikely to beat me up again, which means that the chances of me sustaining more facial trauma are significantly lowered. If Dudley's happy, his mother is happy, which means that the chances of me ever again going near a vacuum cleaner are nonexistent. And if Dudley's happy, his father will drift back off into the world of Not-Caring as he flicks through that idiotic muggle rag, The Daily Mail. This makes all the Dursleys. And as they are the only people I will have contact with over the next three days, they are my main concern.

The plan burst forth, fully-formed in my mind. Like a good little Slytherin Potion-Brewer, I immediately abandoned my allotted task and scaled the opposite fence so that I could flit around and collect the necessary ingredients.

You see, I intend to dose Natasha Grey with such a potent potion that she will fall head-over-heels in love with the youngest Dursley. This will, at the very least, distract Petunia and Vernon's attention away from me when they find their Little Prince getting it on with the Inferi-Empress under the refreshments table. Or will, at the very most, leave Dudley Dursley ecstatically happy and indebted to me for life.

You could be forgiven, gentle reader, for assuming that I am talking about a Love Potion. Indeed, if I had the resources that would probably be my first choice. However I don't have the resources - I'm in suburban Surrey, living in a house where there's no such thing as an open flame and where the closest thing I've got to a pewter cauldron is a pan coated with something called Teflon. I could not possibly make a Love Potion, unless I went ahead and created a brand, spanking new one off the top of my head. No, I am not making a Love Potion.

I am making a Befuddlement Potion.

It's really quite simple. Almost all the ingredients are growing in gardens around here, and those that aren't can be readily stolen from the Dursleys meagre herb collection. The same cannot be said of a Love Potion. Unless, of course, Muggles have taken to adding frozen ash winder eggs to their omelettes just for a bit of spice. Indeed, I've got almost all the ingredients stashed under my bed even as I write this.

Now I know, I know, a Befuddlement Potion is hardly the same as a proper Love Potion and, in most cases, it can hardly be expected to have similar effects. But in this instance, I think we can make an exception. I mean really, we're asking a girl to sacrifice her lingering futile hope for a relationship with me, and throw it away for Dudley Dursley.

She'd have to be more than e little addled, wouldn't she?

Day Twelve:

Last night, I collected all the necessary ingredients for a Befuddlement Potion and prepared them for use. I very nearly collected the ingredients for the antidote as well, but I decided not to bother. Besides, I couldn't find any sneezewort.

There was a while where I was utterly convinced that there was no Whitethorn in the entire muggle world, but I did eventually find some in the deserted grounds of a private girls' school. The only reason I found it is because they had posters up all over Little Whinging that declared they had planted a Fairy Garden, and that the general public was free to come and have tea in the aforementioned garden after paying what looks like a ridiculously high fee. I went and had a quick look around and discovered, much to my surprise, that most of the plants in there did indeed attract fairies. This fact would increase my estimation of Muggle intelligence, were it not for the fact that they were trying to attract fairies. Then again, I suppose Natasha Grey is a vain, quarrelsome little beast, and yet she seems to attract a lot of positive attention too so why wouldn't they like fairies?

In order to make the actual potion, I had to wait until the Dursleys were sitting in the living room watching that god awful box. I was able to sneak into the kitchen. It only took twenty minutes to brew the entire thing, as I had all the preparation done. I did, technically, burn a hole through one of those Teflon things but I personally consider it an improvement, since they are horrible things. Whatever was wrong with metal pots and pans I don't know. And as for that cooker… Dear Lord, what a horrid thing to work with. I mean really, whatever happened to an open flame? This thing runs on "electricity". I would've chopped the dining set to bits and set it aflame if I thought I could do so and keep my extremities intact.

But, ignoring that traumatising experience for the moment, I suppose I should be grateful that I managed to prepare the damned thing at all.

My problem now is that Vernon Dursley informed me that he and his family were attending a gathering this evening, and that I was going to be locked in my cupboard for the duration. "To stop any funny stuff."

So now I need to figure out how to sneak out of the house, find the location of this barbeque and dose up Miss. Grey, while still making the Dursley family think I'm in my cupboard. I suppose I could Apparate, but then I might be traced. And I, for one, am not being hunted down and slaughtered on my own in the middle of Muggle Surrey. If nothing else, I'd at least make sure I took Petunia Dursley down with me.

I think I'll have to examine this lock a bit more closely, to see how I can get out after they lock me in.

Normally I would just abandon the idea, and leave them to their collective lunacy. However, I caught a look at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning. My nose was crooked, my face was swollen and purple, I looked worse than that oaf Hagrid after a run in with one of his pets. And, since I'm fairly certain that I'll be hit again before my time here is up, I've got to do something to avoid it. How can I possibly do anything else?

After all, my nose is nearly a whole centimetre to the left of where is started! How can I risk any more damage to my face?

Day Twelve (continued):

At least, I think it's still day twelve. It might well be early Day Thirteen, I'm not sure.

All I know is that it's far too late, and I should technically be asleep. However I wanted to get this down now, as I shall be devoting the better part of my energies towards forgetting it from now on.

To start with, I suppose it all went pretty well. I mean, I managed to break the lock easily enough. Well, actually, I broke the cupboard so the when the bolt tried to lock it didn't lock into anything. I smashed it apart with my torch, and it splintered like kindling. When Dursley locked me in, I simply huffed and puffed indignantly until he left. Then I opened the door, snuck around the side of the house and followed the car.

Why they required a car to go four streets over, I don't really know. But they did.

I'd gone up to Potter's room earlier and snatched an old blue jumper, in hopes of blending in. I'm not quite sure if it worked or not, but nobody bothered me, at least. I was able to slip the potion into Miss Grey's lemonade with astounding ease. I, naturally, vacated the area immediately afterwards. I hardly wanted to be caught at the scene of the crime, did I? So I came back to this hell-hole, I put Potter's old jumper back in his little den and I stole a book called "Flying with the Cannons" that I saw sitting under his bed. And no matter how dreadful the Chudley Cannons may be, they're still more interesting than anything else around here. I took it, I returned to my cupboard, and I waited.

It was nearly four hours later before the Dursleys returned. With a young female in tow, I might add. A young female who can only be described as a plainer, duller, infinitely less-talented version of Susan Bones's idiot cousin. Assuming, of course, that Susan Bones has an idiot cousin (which is a fairly large assumption since her family is extremely well-respected). This young female was quickly revealed to be Ellen Eccles.

Yes, I'd forgotten who she was too. Until I heard Petunia simpering to her about how her son had been speaking of nothing but her for weeks. A blatant lie, of course, but one which seemed to please Ellen Eccles. It is possible that Dudley would have set both women straight on the matter, and declared in no uncertain terms that he didn't give a toss about Ellen Eccles, had he not been preoccupied.

What was he preoccupied with, you may ask? Well, I'll tell you. He was preoccupied with yanking my cupboard door practically off the hinges, sticking his meaty head inside and snarling at me to go upstairs and into the bathroom, of all places, and that he'd meet me there as soon as he got rid of Ellen Eccles.

Once I recovered the torch that had somehow fallen from my grasp at the sight of him, and stifled a manly cry of alarm that somehow managed escape my lips, I agreed to go as requested out of sheer curiosity. I certainly wasn't afraid of that glorified ape, no matter how effectively he may punch.

So, off I went to that flowery, pink-tiled chamber of horrors known as the Muggles' Bathroom. I was only there a few minutes before Dursley managed to shake off the Eccles girl and his psychotic parents. It first occurred to me that the great oaf was a bit miffed about something when my head connected with a hyacinth-covered wall tile and his forearm began pressing into my windpipe. It wasn't quite as communicative as if he'd sent a strongly-worded letter to the Prophet, but it certainly got the point across.

Somehow, I don't know how, but somehow my brilliant plan had gone awry: Perhaps the ingredients around here are substandard, or perhaps Muggles just don't have the physiology to handle a simple potion. Whatever it was, 'awry' is definitely the word one would use to describe the event.

From what I was able to gather from Dudley Dursley's snarling narration of events, the potion I added to Natasha Grey's lemonade caused her to react… rather strangely. Dudley informed me that when the Dursley family vacated the area, Natasha was skipping around her garden, twirling occasionally, and declaring herself to be a Nymph called Bubbles who embodied the spirit of dance. My observation that this was not in-line with traditional Greek mythology, where nymphs were said to embody aspects of nature, was ill-received to say the least. It would also appear, from what little information that Dudley could ascertain, that if anyone attempted to touch Bubbles she would scream loudly and attempt to turn herself into a tree. A Eucalyptus tree, specifically. Which seems odd to me, as they're about as far away from native as you can possibly get in this country.

Her peculiar behaviour was written off by most witnesses as a side-effect of something called "drugs".

I attempted to point out to the dear fellow that there was no way he could possibly say it was me, as I was locked in my cupboard the whole time. His response was to rather coolly inform me that he'd seen me there, seen me slip something into Natasha's lemonade, and seen me slip off again.

As you can imagine, I was rather flummoxed. What do you SAY to that, I ask you?

Fortunately, I suppose, Dursley did not expect me to say anything. He just told me that if I didn't concoct something that would fix Miss Grey by tomorrow morning (this morning?) then he would "Be sending me back to my witchy mother in a bag". Needlessly confrontational if you ask me.

What I sincerely hope is an antidote is sitting in an emptied out milk carton on the kitchen table as I write.

I'm going to get some sleep anyway. Threats of violence and some random muggle's decent into lunacy are not valid reasons to neglect one's rest, in my opinion.

Day Thirteen:

Well, I suppose that was successful. I mean, Dudley's no longer mad at me, Vernon couldn't possibly lecture me here, and I doubt that even Petunia Dursley could find any domestic activities for me in my current position. True, I'll probably die soon, but at least I can Rest In Peace, without that shrew screeching in my ear.

To explain:

My valiant attempt at rest was cruelly sabotaged by Dudley Dursley who shook me awake at an ungodly hour, and told me to get dressed because I was coming with him to administer the potion.

There followed an incredibly ham fisted attempt at breaking into Natasha Grey's house. Luckily for us, Natasha Grey's slightly disturbed mental state meant that she was communing with a begonia in the back garden. After a certain amount of convincing (I think he told her that drinking the green stuff in the milk carton would please the gods and make her branches grow strong, or something) Dursley got her to drink my antidote.

Simple potions have simple antidotes, so it was fairly effective.

Upon coming to, Miss Grey was rather furious and demanded to know what had been done to her. Dursley told her that I had slipped her some 'Magic Mushrooms' for a laugh, which I thought was rather oversimplifying not only the situation but also the potion in question. There was more than mushrooms in there, let me tell you. Nevertheless, I had to take responsibility.

Miss Grey smacked me across the face.

To add insult to injury, Dudley offered to take her to the hospital for a once-over, to make sure she was all right. She gratefully accepted, and I had to stand there and watch Dudley sodding Dursley stroll off with a girl on his arm, leaving me marooned in the middle of a strange muggle's back garden.

Muttering quite creatively, I made my way back to the Dursley household, were Vernon -having discovered my absence- began yelling loudly at me. Please note, he didn't notice his own son's absence. Just mine. The man has highly confused priorities, if you ask me. He lectured me for the better part of half an hour, he was purple by the end of it, and I could do nothing but sit there quietly and take it. I mean I could've explained to him where I was and why it was necessary for me to go, but he would have just become more angry. And probably scared when he realised that I could still make potions, and lord knows that when angry people get scared it rarely improves a situation. So I just stood there until he tired himself out and then slunk back to my cupboard.

Pitiful, I know.

Then to make matters worse, after Vernon left, Petunia summoned me to do some more godforsaken dishes. Apparently British Home Stores pulled through, because there were even new dishes to be done. I was delighted, I'm sure you can imagine.

As I was standing elbow deep in warm, soapy water and feeling distinctly sorry for myself, that wide, lard-arsed, swine, Dudley Dursley practically skipped in through the back door, grinning from ear-to-ear and humming a little tune. I don't claim to know what put him in this mood, but I can hazard a guess. That guess has bad hair and a vacant expression. To think I had a steak knife in my hand at the time as well, and I didn't use it.

Upon seeing her only son stroll through her back door, Petunia Dursley was alerted to the fact that he had been out. Rowena Ravenclaw would've doubtless found a kindred spirit in the endlessly observant Petunia Dursley and her incomparable deductive reasoning skills.

When asked just where he'd been at that time in the morning, Dudley did the unthinkable and told her. I mean, I would never go so far as to say that we had an understanding, but it seems to be in pretty poor spirit to sell out the chap you've just attempted to break-and-enter with not three hours earlier, wouldn't you say? In fact he not only told her where he'd been, he did so with explicit detail and even explained to his stunned mother precisely how and why Natasha Grey really wasn't at fault, and how she was just like them in a lot of ways. To my eternal dismay his mother agreed, saying that Miss Grey 'really couldn't be blamed at all'.

Yes, she bloody well could! She decided to throw herself at me, and then go off telling people about it to get me in trouble! How could she not be blamed?!

Sadly, Petunia took a similar attitude to her son and proceeded to beat me about the head with a rolled up newspaper, screaming that I will be the death of all human decency. A pretty special moment being told by a woman who thinks meat comes in loaves, that I will be the death of all human decency. In response, I abandoned the dishes and took refuge in my cupboard. It was a relief, let me tell you. I would've started documenting events then and there, but I was still pretty tired so I decided to take advantage of my humiliating experience and close my eyes for a while.

Less that five-minutes had passed when I was rudely interrupted by a gigantic fireball appearing approximately three inches above my head. Things like that do tend to wake a chap up. Quite thoroughly at that.

Of course, it wasn't a fireball. In fact it wasn't even gigantic, it just seemed to be larger than it was because of my confined surroundings. I refer of course to Dumbledore's damned phoenix. That bird, whom I resolutely detest, was carrying a note from Harry Potter. The combination of the dratted phoenix and a note from Harry Potter would, normally, be enough to send me over the edge. Only the fact that the note contained details of my departure tomorrow prevented me from spontaneously combusting, I assure you.

I had to scribble down a response for Dumbledore before the bird would finally go, leaving yours truly in the very confusing state of feeling simultaneously cheered and furious. Anyone who has ever experienced a similar blend of emotions knows that it is a highly volatile state to be in, and that just about anything can tip the scale one way or the other.

When Vernon came home early, however, my mood was tipped quite excessively towards the 'furious' side of the equation.

He was home early because Grunnings had closed early. Grunnings had close early because the machines that make drills were not working. The machines that make drills were not working because one tiny bit of machinery was broken and had to be replaced. This tiny replacement bit of machinery was not there because it had not arrived on the plane in London this morning like it was supposed to. It had not arrived on the plane in London this morning like it was supposed to, because the planes cannot operate in the fog. The planes cannot operate in the fog because… oh who gives a toss?

The point is, through some twisted logic or another, Vernon Dursley was blaming the fog in London for his bad day at work. The way he was going on you'd think that the God of Weather had suddenly decided to abandon his post for the day and toy with Vernon sodding Dursley, just for the fun of it.

Wanting to disavow him of this highly narcissistic notion I told him that "all this ruddy fog", as he put it, was actually a side-effect of Dementors reproducing. Something they were doing a lot of, particularly in highly populated areas like London, where they could devour the souls of the innocent with as much ease as most of us pick daisies.

Rather than say something like, "Thank you for informing me of that interesting fact, Draco, I now realise that my own petty problems are meaningless when compared to a swarm of soul-sucking fiends decending upon the nation's capital, and will endeavour to control my self-important ramblings in future" Dursley took this information and turned it into an anti-magic diatribe.

I was prepared to grin and bear it, for the most part. That was until he voiced the opinion that he didn't know why those 'Demented-Thingies' should be feeding on normal people anyway, when from what he'd heard from Dumbledore there were plenty of 'my lot' locked away on 'that prison of mine' which the Dementors could happily snack on. In hindsight, I realise this was just his brainless ranting rather than a direct attack on my father or suggestion that my father should have his soul removed just to save his useless hide, but at the time the difference was negligible in my opinion.

I snapped.

I ranted, I raved, I told Vernon Dursley in explicit detail everything that was wrong with him and his stupid moustache. I insulted his house, his car, his stupid pointed sticks and I told him what I would do to him if I'd had my wand at that very moment. Even his wife and child refused to interrupt me, so I was either intimidating-looking at the time or they silently agreed with me.

In retaliation he did pretty much the only thing he could do - he told me to get out of his house.

So I did.

I snatched this up before I went, threw a footstool through the television for good measure and strode out of there with my head held high. It was, I don't mind telling you, an impressive sight.

Slightly less impressive is the sight of me at the moment. After walking around for a few hours, I finally came in here and decided to kip down for the night. I'm not sure where here is exactly. It's just a small plastic hut-thing with a sign saying "Bus" beside it. I suppose busses must mean different things to muggles, because this thing is most certainly not a bus. Busses have beds and hot chocolate.

This thing doesn't even have a seat.

God I hate my life on occasions.

Day Fourteen (Hallelujah it's almost over):

That note I mentioned from Harry Potter? The one detailing my departure from Little Whinging?

Well it said that I was to be standing at the bottom of Privet Drive at seven o'clock this morning. It's six o'clock, and here I am. That is how pathetically desperate I am to get out of this nightmare.

According to the note, Harry Potter and his assorted cronies will appear at seven o'clock and transport me to a North Sea Port where the Durmstrang School Ship will be waiting to transport me back to that school. Once there, I will be transported to my parents' current location in Russia. (Why they couldn't just send me there in the first place was kind of glossed over. Personally I think Dumbledore just enjoys toying with me.)

When I get to wherever I'm going in Russia, my mother will ask me how the past six weeks have been for me. Back when I was living in Dumbledore's office, I would have said "Boring, depressing, frustrating and generally aggravating". As I sit here on a stone-cold wall, having spent my evening freezing my arse off in a plastic hut, trying to get comfy on concrete, and being awoken at one point by an annoyingly well-meaning Ellen Eccles (who offered me a leaflet for a church, which was tremendously helpful), I do not think that the word "hellish" would be overstating things.

Dumbledore, I'm sure, would like me to think of what I've learned. Well what have I learned?

Famous Muggles are horrendously ugly? Television is evil? Even ugly, wide people with no discernible personality can get a date if they happen to have the antidote to a harmful potion? I'm scared of hoovers? Really, I wouldn't call any of this essential life knowledge. Oh, well, there is one thing. Harry Potter isn't as annoying as he could have been. That saving grace of his is, however, disappearing quickly with every moment he makes me wait.

I suppose, if Dumbledore asks, I could just give him this thing and say "Here, read that you old coot. Then you'll see what I learned. Happy now, you bastard?"

Actually to hell with it, that's what I'll do. I'll send this to Dumbledore.

Here you are, you old sod. Revel in the results of your sick and twisted experiment, and imagine me making various rude gestures at you for the rest of eternity, you sadistic prat.

Oh and by the way? I should've kicked your damn bird.

I don't like you.

I don't like Harry Potter either.

And I sure as hell don't like Muggles.

Now would your bespectacled little idiot hurry up and get here, so that I can go see my mother and father? See, because I actually like them…