September 4, Saturday

Pansy, Blaise and I decided via three-way floo to sashay around Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley tonight wearing our best outfits. This will be a chance for me to debut the Rockcoon, for Pansy to show off her rediscovered beauty, and for Blaise to be seen in respectable company, for once.

"Ooh, I wish that that bastard Cormac, stupid Cho, and their yellow lovechild would be there to see me!" Pansy squealed.

Clearly, Pansy was still not over Cormac cheating on her with their realtor Cho Chang, during Cormac's supposed business trip to England. According to Pansy, it was not the cheating that hurt her most, but the impregnation part.

Which probably explains her rather insensitive remark.

"Now, Pansy, let's not be racist," I said.

"But Cho and Cormac's little menace really is yellow!" Pansy replied defensively. "The kid contracted Muggle hepatitis, didn't you hear?"

Trust Pansy to still be at the center of the gossip mill, even if she's all the way in Geneva.

"I bet the poor lad got it from the dirty Chinese food that Cho keeps on feeding them," Pansy adds haughtily, "I heard their egg rolls are made from cats."

"Let's just start planning your outfit, shall we?" I said exasperatingly, interrupting her before she begins to further insult a billion people.

"Right. Do you have anything that's not gold, sparkly, nor encrusted in diamonds?" Blaise asked.

"Er…"

"Something in black, perhaps?" I offered.

"I have a black corset dress dotted in some rubies. Is that okay?"

"We could charm the rubies to match her hair, then I could lend her my black chinchilla robes!" Blaise exclaimed, who was apparently excited to play fashion designer.

"Oh, no way to the chinchilla. Harry would skin me alive, irony intended," I said.

"Ooh, your do-gooder boyfriend's opinion suddenly matters now," Blaise mocked in an annoying sing-song voice. "What's next, you sitting at the Gryffindor table, wearing his red and gold scarf?"

I imagined it briefly—Harry, sensing the chill in the air, beckoning me to sit closer as he wraps his warm scarf around my neck…

Blaise's cackle jolted me from my reverie.

"We've graduated from Hogwarts a million years ago, Blaise, don't you recall? Oh, wait, that's right, YOU FAILED YOUR O.W.L.S." I spat evilly.

Little did I know that as Blaise and I verbally sparred (with as much dignity as one can muster while arguing with a fireplace, anyways), Pansy had already selected her outfit and was resplendent in a silken onyx cape with leather straps and silver buckles, a snug plum turtleneck, high-waist, loose-fit slacks, and crushed velvet boots.

"You like it?" Pansy asked, her projected image in the fireplace twirling like a raven's feather falling in the embers.

"I bought the whole thing next door while you two were bickering like a couple of homos," she explained.

"We are a couple of homos," I was about to say, when Blaise squealed, "Darling Pansy, you are a vision!"

"Thank you, Blaise," Pansy said, still preening. "Better make sure that your robes won't clash with mine tonight. Come later, Cormac will rue the day he left me for an Asian!"

And that was how the most offensive conversation of my life went.

11:00pm

We did not see Cormac nor his family, much to Pansy's dismay, but nevertheless, the evening went extremely well.

First, we were photographed by a Daily Prophet photographer who was so taken with Pansy's beauty that he promised to put us three in the front page of the Sunday society section. Not only is this good for my future superstardom and Pansy's campaign to make Cormac jealous, but it will also help bolster Blaise's increasingly shady reputation.

Second, I already have 8 appointments this coming Monday by random people from the street requesting the Rockcoon.

(Note to self: ask Brianna to stock our shelves with hair dye and shower caps)

And, last but not the least, we ran into Hermione while walking past Honeydukes. Upon seeing me, she exclaimed, and I quote:

"Goodness, Malfoy, what have you done to our Harry? He keeps pumping his fist to the sky randomly in the middle of conversation, and his grins are just about splitting his face in half!"

The night would have been perfect, had our encounter simply ended with me knowing that I had something to do with Harry's declining mental stability. However, just as we were parting ways, Blaise chose to unhelpfully contribute the following statement:

"Well, our Draco is currently prone to sweeping in rooms unannounced while singing big band renditions of love songs, thanks to your Potter. It wouldn't be so bad, except, they're scheduled to shag tomorrow, see, so I'm afraid things are only going to get worse!"

Dear Diary, is it possible to just expire from mortification?

September 5, Sunday

Right.

I'd spare you the lurid little details, as it is Vincent, and not I, who is the gifted erotica writer in our group.

(By the way, he promises to pen the "blow-by-blow, pun very much intended, isn't that right, Gregory?" account of this morning's, erhm, tryst, and send it to me as an early Christmas gift.)

For posterity's sake, however, here is a slice of the afterglow:

"So, Harry," I said as we were putting our clothes back on, "we've just about polished off the blueberry jam, the chocolate syrup, the maple syrup, the caramel pudding, and the whipped cream. And your cupboard is still full of sugary things. Is this your plan all along, to kill me with diabetes?"

"No, it's to make you fat and therefore, suicidal," Harry deadpanned.

I smothered him with my sweater in response.

"Wow," he said after a violent choking fit, "This is probably a creepy response to your attack, but I think I'm starting to get addicted to the scent of your Weasley Pharmaceuticals antibac soap. And whatever fabric softener it is you're using. Merlin help me."

"It's Magic Breeze." I said nonchalantly, although inside, I'm jumping for joy.

So…there.

I guess I can assume that both Harry and I will notbe walking nor sitting normally for the rest of the week.

And, I guess the black shirt that I wore today is officially out of commission, as Harry's scent is all over it (just salty skin, sweat, and grass—does this boy roll around lawns in his spare time?). It is now stuffed secretly inside my pillowcase for future sniffing, the girl that I am.

And, I may also have to remove the old "Potter Sucks" and "I Hate Gryffindor" posters from my bedroom walls, as I will be expecting the offended company to show up unexpectedly (and in various states of undress) during the whole course of, I hope, my life.

Well, maybe the "Potter Sucks" poster stays, because he does, harhar. Oh, Merlin, he does.

Sigh.

He ruins me every second I think of him.

September 6, Monday

I totally forgot to check yesterday's Sunday society section for my picture!

(I blame this on my post-coital haze.)

Hence, imagine my surprise when I peeked out of the salon for a whiff of fresh air, and saw a block-long line of teenagers, mothers, and, curiously, goth punks, all waving their newspapers about, and asking for the Rockcoon!

My success has come to a point wherein I can finally use my long forgotten "Shear Magic only honours appointments" sign!

So proud. So proud.

Night

Pansy's owl is a HOOT, pun intended.

Draco,

First of all, can you please unblock your floo network 24/7 from now on? My owl Declan is close to dying from exhaustion from flying all the way to London at least thrice a week!

Second, Cormac contacted me, asking to meet! But I'm not a homewrecking harlot, so I said 'stuff it'. HA!

Why haven't I received word about Sunday, by the way? Do remember that it's because of me that you're dating Potter in the first place! I demand DETAILS! DETAILS I SAY!

To which I replied:

Pansy,

I have a mini coffin that's perfect for Declan, should his dying be as imminent as you make it seem.

Good for you regarding Cormac! That smug git deserves it. Plus, he's way boring. Why not snag that Daily Prophet photographer who's mooning over you?

For Sunday details—we all know I'm emotionally constipated when it comes to writing sensual stuff. Ask Vincent for the lowdown. He's probably penning my romance novel as we speak.

Draco