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December 1
Potter is coming to meet me in Norway in six days. How can I even wait that much longer? It's been eight weeks and three days since we parted ways in India. I never anticipated it to take this long....
Damn it. It's not fair, the way he's gotten stuck in my head. I've started thinking of him as Harry instead of Potter. Can you believe that? Is that even right?
Well, there are many things that aren't right. Or, not right by the standards of the man I used to be, who would have thought that calling him Harry was wrong. I've changed a lot, I should think. I'm no longer the child who would obey my father's every whim.
Gods, he would be mortified if he saw me now. I'm in Norway, one of the most liberal countries on the planet. And I love it. Even wizarding Oslo is very-gay friendly. I've seen half a dozen male couples showing affection publicly. That would not go well in Diagon Alley...
Not that I would know. I haven't spent much time in Diagon since before the War. People don't do well to see me in public. From what he's said, Harry doesn't either. He tries to avoid his rabid fans. Ha. I'd love to have my own rabid fan base.
I can't wait to be here with Harry. I hope he loves it here, too. I doubt we'll stick out too much. Voldemort's War wasn't much of an issue here, or so I've heard. They won't recognize Harry Potter.
So, while I've been waiting for Harry to arrive here in Norway, I've been wandering around the city.
Perhaps I'm not so changed and holy after the Vipassana, because I am so relieved to be back in a first world country. I love the feeling of being clean, and not having beggars clawing at my feet. I also love not being at risk for food poisoning or parasites.
Ah, travel.
I wrote in here plenty when I was in Mongolia, but it's still stuck in my mind. It was beautiful. The mountain air was crisp and cold, like it is here in Norway, but it was so much different. I felt a kinship with them... Maybe I'm just being a soppy Western tourist, but I was at home amongst the wanderers.
Here in Norway, it's a different kind of kinship. I've always been proud of my light, distinguishing hair. It's what made me a Malfoy. Here? Everyone's a blond. It's not as much of a concern to be pointed out as "that white haired Malfoy spawn."
And, of course, it's nice to be surrounded by other gay people. It will be even better when Harry's here.
December 4
Are Harry and I actually in a relationship? Or was I just head over heels for him in India and he saw me as a casual shag after his forty day meditation? Am I being played for a fool?
I wouldn't be so insecure if he hadn't sent me a letter yesterday. He spoke so casually, and he still called me 'Malfoy.' It was like he was just deciding to catch up with an old schoolmate. Maybe that's all I am to him.
Dammit, Potter!
Can't he see that I'm special? I'm more than just a schoolmate. I'm his enemy-turned-lover, I'm his childhood rival, I'm the best shag of his life (and he didn't need to tell me that for me to know).
How can noble, famous, brilliant Potter do this to me? How can he treat me so unfairly? Don't I mean anything to him? You'd think he wouldn't be the kind to kiss and go...
Oh, well. I'm meeting him tomorrow. I made a reservation for us at a lodge above a fjord, and it's romantic as fuck. The northern lights are supposed to be coming on strong, and I've requested extra blankets so we can sit out on the deck. I even ordered some wine (not the best; the people here prefer stronger spirits apparently) for us to sip.
I only wine and dine the dates I really like. Harry better appreciate it.
December 7
He's here. He's actually here. I was being a ridiculous, emotional teenage witch. He's here.
Yesterday was a mess. I stood on the front steps of a church for three hours, wondering if he's actually come. And then a little old woman dragged me to her house and force fed me fish and told me to get my head on. She called me stupid.
And she was right. Because for all my moping, Harry Potter is alseep next to me with his head on my shoulder. I wanted to Port-key to the lodge, but he insisted we do this the muggle way. Which has been strange, as I've never ridden in a car before. But it means that I have three whole hours of my body against Harry's, and time to write without interruptions. Sometimes the driver asks me questions, but he doesn't speak English well, and I don't speak his language either, so it's okay.
I met Potter at the train station. The bloody idiot took a train.... That's why he was late. But as soon as he was off the train, he spotted me and dropped his bags and kissed me on the spot. In public. It was brilliant.
I can of a few hundred fangirls back home that would be extremely jealous.
He apologized for the letter, and said that he had to be casual because sometimes the press monitors his letters. I told him it was only okay if he promised to make it up to me. He's either a bigger sop than I am or I'm gettling laid tonight. Either would be most satisfying. I've got a lot of pent up desire after all this time without him.
He smells like peppermint and sweat and leather, and he breathes deep and peacefully. I think he's a good breather, after all that time he spent meditating.
I wonder, if I were a legilimens, could I see what he was dreaming of? Would it be of me? Or of whatever other secret lives he has back home? Does he have secret lives? I wish I could get my hands on a copy of the Prophet so I could know if he's still with the Weaselette. Would he do that to me? To her?
It doesn't matter. He can't see my dreams, either--I'm the best occulmens since Severus. So he can't see them, and I was just being daft again back in India. And even if he did see them, he'd just know that I dream about him. Incessantly. I day dream about him, too. I'm afraid if I ever come back to Oslo, every landmark is going to remind me of a different fantasy I've had of him. Is that wrong?
Oh, gods.
He's mumbling my name. Should I wake him up? Kiss him? Shut this book and hide it so he doesn't know I keep a journal? I do have a reputation to maintain... He's waking up.
I'll write later.
We just arrived at the lodge. As expected, the room is luxurious. We have a glorious deck, and the bed is plenty large and soft (I'll be sure to take advantage of that later). The wine is waiting for us, and the blankets are folded up by the door.
It's hardly past three in the afternoom and the sun is going down. It doesn't rise until mid morning, either. I'm not complaining. I'll have more time to watch the sky.
Norwegian sunsets are gorgeous. the frozen lake (fjord?) below is glowing, and the sky is on fire. Potter better get out of the shower soon. He's missing an extremely romantic moment, and I'd quite like to share it with him.
Maybe I'll stand by the shower door and sing. That'll get his attention.
Harry sleeps a lot. That's fine by me, of course. He looks nice when he sleeps, and I want to record every moment of today.
Gods, I can't believe I had six years of school with him and I wasted it being a git to him. Why didn't I take the advantage to watch him sleep at the time?
I have no idea how long I'll have him back for. When is he going back to Britain? Every waking moment with him is precious.
Oh, that's right. That's why I'm writing; I need to get this down while it's still fresh so I can read it over when he's gone and feel better.
I ended up singing for him, call me insane, and he turned the water off and started humming along. He's tone deaf. However, since I'm more than just a sop, I did go into catch him naked. But then I just ended up helping him dry off. Along with a few other things....
And then the sop within me won over, and I made him put on some warm clothes and I dragged him out onto the deck. The blankets were warm, and Harry is warm, but he cast several warming charms regardless. He says he likes the heat. No wonder he managed to stay in India for so long.
The sunset was fading, and twilight came along and it was pleasant and purple and grey. We talked about his time back home in England--apparently his friends were worried sick about him. He hadn't written home in over a month, obviously. But there's not much to say for a month's worth of meditation. He said he told them about seeing me. I wonder how much. I'd pay to see the look on the Weasel's face when he found out that I'm Harry sodding Potter's gay lover.
Right. Loving. It didn't take long for the Aurora Borealis to show it's pretty face. The snow on the ground was shimmering and the colors in the sky were Gryffindor red and green like Harry's eyes, but I didn't say either of those things because fuck if I let Potter know he turns me into putty.
I know he knows, though. I was reminded of India when he looked straight into my eyes and my soul and it's really hard to perform occulmency when you feel like melting all over and spilling your secrets. It was like in India. I wanted him to know, dammit, and he saw.
The stars were very bright and the sky was lit in a fierce red and green fire and we talked about the War.
I told him I was sorry for being a Death Eater.
He said he was sorry for using Sectum Sempra.
I think we forgave each other. After all, we both saved each other's lives at one point.
Oh. And the prat told me he still has my wand, and he won't tell me why he hasn't given it back yet. But I can't be cross with him, because big-headedness aside, he's a great kisser. And he smelled better after the shower; more peppermint and less travel odor. He also looks amazing when he's well kissed and his impossibly messy hair is even messier and he's bright pink from the cold.
How do I say this without saying I love him? Because I can't love him, can I? He enamours me. He enthralls me. He makes me happy. He satisfies me.
We could only talk for so long, and we did take good advantage of the bed. He's just as fantastic as I remember, obviously. And now he's passed out again. He sleeps like a stone and he mumbles a lot.
I'm tired, too. I'll write more tomorrow.
December 8
Draco! I didn't know you kept a journal! I knew you were a sap on the inside.
Too sweet, really. And, no, I'm not a legilimens. I didn't know I make you melt. Good to know though.
Might as well keep writing about you while you're in the shower, too! Just to make things even.
Hmm. What to say? I have no secret life. I broke up with Ginny as soon as the war let out. I haven't dated since her, and don't call me desperate, because it's not even been to years. And I'm sorry to leave you waiting in Oslo.
What else?
Oh. Let's make this good.
Draco, your eyes are the color of the snow in the twilight, and you smell like spice and citrus. And when you sleep you like to cuddle. I adore that.
Draco, you enthrall me, too. And you're more than just a quick shag.
December 9
Potter read my journal. And wrote that. I didn't even find out until today.
All yesterday, I was clueless. The git climbed into the shower with me and it was great and he was murmuring things about how much I've changed and what I've learned from my travels. He chalked it all up to being a bloody legilimens, and I believed him until I read that thing.
I found out this morning and I yelled at him. We talked it out though. As usual, I am putty in his hands.
That doesn't mean I didn't cast several protective charms on this book and hid it.
This is too embarrasing.
Currently, picking up lunch from the kitchens. We're going to eat and go for another hike (we did yesterday) before the sun sets.
December 10
Dear Draco's Diary,
It'll take more than a few Dark wards to keep me away from reading this! It's too marvelous to know these things.
He's putty in my hands, isn't he? But I'm also clay in his... How else would I decide to shirk off three weeks of duties to stay with him in this ice hole?
Oh, I forgot to tell him. I plan on staying three weeks. And then I'm dragging him off to somewhere warm. How does he like cold weather so much?
Er, I know Draco writes a lot of observations about me in here. And questions. So I'll do some more.
Draco is a shit prankster. He's all malicious and icy on the outside, and his sense of humor in school was just sad. Seriously, the dementor costumes? Pathetic and low. The "Potter Stinks" badges? Really? Did he obsess over me even then?
But his sense of humor now is golden, even if he can't appreciate me meddling in his secret diary. He makes me laugh and my head feel light and I feel alive when I'm with him.
I always knew there was good in Draco Malfoy. I hoped, at least. There was something about him... I see that something every day I'm with him. Change sparks in his soul and sets me alive.
I kept his wand because I like the feel of his magic. It reminded me of him. Meditating next to him was like swimming in his energy.
I'll give him his wand back when he comes home with me.
December 12
I talked to Harry about the journal. He's promised to leave it be. That's not to say I didn't like what he wrote, though.
And I'd bet that he's just as much of a sop as I am, on the inside. I just have to find his own diary.
This isn't a diary. It's a journal. Just to clarify.