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You may have read brief accounts of my adventures in a largely biased series of books featuring a certain Harry Potter as its principle character and, therefore, assumed it to be truth. It is not. I did not, as my enemies would love to believe, become entangled in Dumbledore's 'anti Disapparation' spell but walked away perfectly unmolested and am currently setting things straight at the Ministry. Things will go according to plan. I will prevail. Meanwhile you may read what I bother to type to you, trusting you possess enough maturity to dismiss my doing so on a Muggle computer.
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While most of you simpletons find it necessary to explain long absenses from this diary, I certainly am no victim to such an impulse. I don''t care where you think I've been all year. I don't care about you, either. Not one fig. If you must know, however, I have been very busy trying to keep my sexy arse out of Ministry clutches. Apparently they still resent my attempt to retrieve the Dark Lord's balls at the D.O.M. Yes balls. He had more than the one, you understand. The Potter Prophecy and another concerning his possible Transfiguration into a goat by the local barman (a relation of the thankfully deceased Albus Dumbhead). I was to make the former a priority, naturally. I failed, shockingly.

As I recall, Cissy and I had a terrible argument about the whole affair. She was adamant. I wasn't to go. She sensed danger.

"Darling," I said, "please. You say this about every other mission I lead."

"But I know I'm right this time, I just know it!"

"I'm only going to fetch those pesky balls of his and help him off Potter when he lures him. Really. Very routine."

"Stay, my lithe, supple love-wand! *edited for length* Please! This mission doesn't feel right."

I sighed and let her go on, knowing I wouldn't get any if I interrupted too often.

"He should get his own balls down, like any other man. It isn't right for him to ask another man to handle them, no matter his motives or inclinations. Or orientation."

"His orientations are entirely innocent. His motives are twofold; get the Prophecy and learn how to kick Potter's arse."

"Can't he do that anyway?"

"Then again, there was that time I caught him in the solar with Wormtail--very suspicious . . . "


I apologized to Cissy and said, "Never mind--I'm sure he was just polishing his shoes." The argument went back and forth for a time without resolution, then I left. Now, when she's angry with me she brings up this minor error as if I've besmirched the entire Malfoy and Black lines! It gets ever so old.

*takes moment to savor spiced Pigmy Puffs in rosemary sauce--delicious*

Later I shall publish my adventures from the past, very entertaining as I wrote them. I have also commissioned a local artist to illustrate key points and we are currently discussing fees, though her 'terms' annoy Cissy to no end. I don't see why. She doesn't have to watch, after all. Or listen. I'll have Tippy change the sheets, after all. Witches!
Current Mood:
nostalgic nostalgic
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Not that anyone of you gives a skrewts firey ass about my life and how I choose to conduct it, but we've recently returned from a holiday in Salem, Massachusetts in America after I could no longer bear Draco's insistance he wed that Mudblood, Granger. I am, to say the least, displeased with that entire family. Most displeased. Before I left, I took pains to set ghouls on the Granger's home and plant curses whereever I thought might do a bit of good, such as Mr. Granger's prized set of dental tools in his lowly office. Dentists! In the time I spent creeping about that office after hours, I learned more about the industry than I care to. They PULL teeth; rip them from Muggle mouths when they rot, rather than regrow them! Utterly revolting. But no less than Muggle filth deserve. I do wish I could see the look on Granger's face next time he 'drills'! He'll find himself in quite hot water when his patient complains he ought to be drilling his tooth rather than his kneecap! Ah, how I love the Dark Arts.

Back to the holiday; Cissy insisted on a bed and breakfast for its romantic appeal and though I initially protested, I found the location most conductive to relaxation. Our window faced a known tourist attraction and historical site, where many of our kind were once burned to the entertainment of hundreds of Muggles. Twice daily, a burning was reinacted by most convincing illusionists, who, amusingly, term themselves 'magicians.' Of note, Cissy and I had no trouble walking freely through Salem, even in our ordinary robes. Half the Muggles dress in period costume anyhow and the two of us drew no attention to ourselves. Nor did other wizards living in the city. As Beliard, of the bed and breakfast, informed me, Salem is one of the very few cities in the world combining both Muggle and Wizarding communities, though, naturally, the fool Muggles have no clue a genuine magician might be living right next door. I could never live this way. Granted, I did enjoy walking with my beloved wife, knowing we were by far the most attractive couple in either world, but how long would that joy last? A week? I grew weary in only 3 days. The smell of them pressed so near!


Cissy just walked in--asked me to amend . . . of course dear! The part about us drawing no attention to ourselves. Perhaps I wrote that in haste. We did have a minor . . . oh all RIGHT Cissy . . . near disasterous? Oh, the pleecemen. Right.

First of all, Muggles have such a complex system of laws one can never know them all, even if one studies for years! There are laws against getting in fights, walking across streets where there are no white lines and, to my dismay, laws against showing appreciation for the opposite sex. Now, as I did mention, many Muggles dress in clothing that resembles our own fashions and I can't always rely on my nose to tell Muggle from Wizard. But I won't take all the blame. I was keeping to myself while Cissy attempted to locate the priciest diamond necklace she could get her hands on. I had on my richest green robes, the ones trimmed and lined in silk, with the black embroidery along the hem and sleeves. Most elegant. I had just conditioned my hair as well and, I'll admit I made a most attractive figure once I tied it back in a matching bow. How attractive was I, you ask?

The women couldn't keep their eyes off me.

Could I blame them? What do they normally have to choose from? Pathetic Muggle men in 'tea shirts' and blue dungarees, all with bad skin, terrible hair and not a semblance of class. I strolled through town and soon found myself at the head of a long procession. Now normally, I would have been untroubled about this, but I know Cissy. She can be a trifle possessive. So I turned to address the crowd.

"Who among you are true witches?" I asked.

"Will you take me out if I say I am?" one of them asked me.

"With that complexion?" I replied. "Certainly not. You look as if a bubotuber has burst on your face. Then again, the pimples do do an admirable job of detracting attention from your enormous buttocks. Now . . . witches. I will not tolerate Muggles."

"What's a Muggle?" another woman asked.

"You are, if you must ask." I aimed the tip of my cane at her. "Begone."

She stayed. In fact, she pressed to the front of the . . . Cissy yes it WAS a crowd! Were you there? Or off spending my money? Anyhow, she got to the front and promised me a number of, ah, pleasures if I would treat her to supper that evening. She came toward me and nearly succeeded in actually TOUCHING me with her foul Muggle hands, but I was too fast for her. A few mild hexes later, she was trotting up the street with her brand new horse's tail on fire and her horse's ass emitting a string of curses at the other 'ladies.' A pleeceman rode forward on a bicycle (something with two wheels) and left with the framework wrapped around his body. More pleecemen arrived and I had a time of it, cursing them before any could use their guns. In the end, I grew weary of the exercise and Apparated back to our room to await Cissy in peace.

My restraint would have worried my Lord. Not one Muggle died during my entire stay. Not one. I'm getting lax of late. I can probably blame Draco for this; his willingness to befoul the Malfoy name is ever on my mind and I simply cannot enjoy myself as of old. What fun is bobbing Muggles over one's head when one's troubles cast a pall over one's entire life like this?

So I'm back home. The cats are now numbered over a thousand. They incubated in the basement and burst from the dungeons when we came home. Our house elf couldn't cope and sent them outside, where they circle the grounds emitting plaintive cries. Damn beasts!

And because I won't let any of them near me, my old pains from that little lesson of Voldemorts have returned in force. No matter. I will conquer them and do so myself, with no feline attention.

Cissy, to say the least, is well pleased to see them go.
Current Mood:
cynical Oh, what do you care?
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That Squib checked the pipes and checked them well; no love potion has circulated since last week. Not a drop. No one slipped my son a single, solitary drop and both Crabbe and Goyle assure me their sons have not been pulling a prank. I believe them of course. Neither father nor son from that lot has the brains to cobble together a clever ruse of any sort.

This means, of course, that Draco . . . arrgh! And a marriage proposal! Roses! Pillowed trysts and romantic blather to shame even the most stoic of hearts! It's absolutely sickening. To make matters still worse, Cissy is still quite distant with me and when she wishes to be cold, none are her equal. Eating with her is like dining in the dungeon during a hard freeze. She blames me for this. Says my pride has pushed Draco away by stages and I kindly reminded her of her own unflagging pride. After all, we share the same values or how could we get on? But, this will double back on my insensible boy. Oh yes. He still has obligations and Lord Voldemort is less than pleased at the road Draco is taking. He feels 'that Mudblood filth' will prove too distracting in his upcoming duties and even an Unbreakable Vow can't rescue Draco from such folly. He will have to abandon this idiocy or face His Lord's wrath, as I have.

What suffering to protect our own! And how little they appreciate it.

Moving on to happier subjects; I am no longer blue. However the shopkeeper, Trudy, has told me she suspects the Weasley twins of the ever-expanding supply of photographs of me at my bluest, in Diagon Alley. How despicably juvenile. Worse, barlidoc has chosen to portray me in comic form, to add insult to injury.

The cats. Oh, the cats. I have been incautious. We are nearing springtime now and I might have kept that in mind before agreeing to host these creatures. Springtime and their own needs have boiled over with a vengeance that exceeds description. Thirty two cats all in a hot-blooded rampage to determine which of them can mate the most attractive of their females. The noise! None will attack the ones I change into mice; they're wary of that ploy. One poor mouse became victim of an astonishing sexual manuever I cannot believe even now. So I suffer, still.

All that sex and none for me. Oh, Merlin's balls--Cissy is going downstairs with her wand again! Turning them into--not baby chicks darling! Please! Show some restraint! Oh the PEEPING!
Current Mood:
listless sexually frustrated
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I've gone through every color of the rainbow at this point, only to come back to blue again. Damien boasted he could dispense of the charm and only earned me several hours extra work to wind up where I left off, bloody cat! This is likely the sort of simple charm that wears off on its own, but I cannot find peace in my own home! Cissy kept humming at breakfast, a tune I didn't recognize.

'What is that infernal melody?' I asked her over my poached eggs.

'Oh, nothing . . .' she went as red as I was blue.



'Tell me.'

'It doesn't matter, dear. Eat your eggs.'

'You're smiling. You were smiling when--making fun of me! Now what was it?'

She sighed heavily but I could hear her hold back a giggle. 'S . . . smurf theme . . . I'm sorry! It just popped into my head!'

I'm afraid I don't always have the best judgement when angry. Even now I regret what I did next. While I fumed, Cissy picked at her bacon and I produced a deliberately piglike snort. Needless to say, we aren't speaking to each other right now. She is so sensitive about the canary/pig snout curse, so much so, she marched through the house singing that horrid song as loudly as she could and I've been snorting at every opportunity. Finally I had enough and told her that had she shown better sense and not dosed me with love potion last month, NONE of this would have happened. I would not now be on Voldemort's blacklist and dependant on cats to keep me from diving into pain-driven insanity. Stupid woman! She knows it's true.

As for the cats, that mangy Mrs Norris brought the others with her. And I thought the DE loyalists a pathetic count. Just thirty two members of that Dark Paws organization, yet in the house they feel and smell like 500. Tippy can't keep the sandboxes clean enough and I've insisted they all stay in the basement and not utter a sound above a soft mew lest I change the offender into a mouse for the others to enjoy. I did earn an Outstanding in Transfiguration during my OWL's after all. Feline Death Eater movement! It tickles me, really. However my suggestion to overwhelm the other side with cat bombs did not go over well. Perhaps a hairball revolution is more in order?

I go to my lonely bed, blue.
Current Mood:
cold Blue
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Question from my beloved Cissy: If I deny you for over a week, will you also have blue balls?

I'm sleeping in the second floor guest room tonight.

Current Mood:
cranky cranky
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Dull minds amuse themselves with such ease. Take the typical patron of the Leaky Cauldron. A mentally inferior brood with an equally unsophisticated sense of humor; to wit, one group who thought it would be the height of taste to charm the Diagon Alley entrance to . . .


Apparently this new shopkeeper, Trudy, is responsible. She cannot handle her liquor, it seems. Nor should she be permitted to bear a wand when her bladder has been willfully turned into a firewhiskey barrel, as every single person who has passed through that entrance is now a brilliant shade of blue.

Including myself. Including my HAIR. Cissy is no help. She's in the drawing room right now, unable to breathe to perform the countercharm. She keeps making references to a fictional blue people called 'Smurfs' and is calling me Grouchy Smurf! Was there NOT a Sexy Smurf or even a Death Eater Smurf? *trying charm canceller again*

By the hot sweaty balls of Merlin this is MADNESS!! I can't go out like this! Cats are trying to push me out the door as I type and are threatening to break off with me if I don't. Forget it. I won't be seen in this condition. *tries again*

Current Mood:
infuriated infuriated
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Tomorrow I will pay a visit to that little shop in Diagon Alley, that tailor who proves so tiresome to hold a conversation with the other day due to her cataclysmic stuttering. Typically shot nerves of a Hufflepuff! I purchased sheets for our bed on that occasion. Silk, if you must know. What else should I sleep on?

I am hoping little Gerty recalls every charm and incantation she used. Every one. As soft as ordinary silk is, it can be chilly when you first tuck in and we occasionally get a cold spot at our feet if the cats don't happen to sleep at the end of the bed. The cats, by the way, have been welcomed back with open arms. Cissy even troubled herself to join Tippy in searching for Savant, who had gotten lost around Fesser's Turn. To explain, I had a small amount of trouble last night keeping my mind on essentials. This upset Cissy. Upset her a great deal, in fact. Poor dear. She was so near 'completion' when I had one of my bouts. I was suddenly unable to see anything but my Lord hovering over me with a wand and, while most dramatic, it does nothing to improve my love life in the least. I'm not that sort of wizard. Pains came on as well and the search for Savant began. When we returned, the cats curled up beside the bed and my mind cleared at once. We continued and I performed magnificantly, of course.

As for the new sheets . . .

I must say, I am quite flabbergasted. I expected them to overheat at one point, to tell you the truth, but they actually began to offer a little coolness as if the charm sensed we would soon grow uncomfortable. The drying charm worked especially well and when we settled in, the sheets were both clean and dry. Nor is there the dreaded cold spot. No matter how I rolled over, they maintained a constant warmth.

So tomorrow, a visit to order two dozen more. I will certainly recommend this establishment to all our friends!
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You scored as Cut Throat. Your death will be by a slit throat, maybe because you are a Death Eater or a Dark Wizard. People get testy when they see some freak in Phantom costume pointing a wand at their mixed-blood-loving hearts. Caution is in order, my friend.

Cut Throat


Killing Curse


Murder by House Elf








Eaten by Trolls




Accidental Overdose of Love Potion


Natural Causes








How Will You Die??
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Dinner party post to come. Be patient and go to bed!
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