Diary of a Rockstar

Just a little update

2005-10-01T14:49:08Z

I’ve found that I get distracted rather easily. I know it’s no excuse, but I blame it entirely on Crabbe and Goyle. One of them, I’m not sure which one, bought this thing called a Playstation. Needless to say we’ve been behind on everything because I can’t get them away from the bloody machine for five seconds. I sometimes wonder why I even bother with them.

Pansy has a new boyfriend. She’s developed a love for long haired, tattooed muscians. The bloke is nice, just looks like a real-life canvas. His music is decent enough, though. Very hard, very fast. Pansy is just overjoyed that I approve, although I’m not sure why I wouldn’t. I thought at first she had brought him to meet us just to scare me into action, (i.e. defend her against this person and prove that I really do love her like she wants me to), but that’s not the case, thankfully. She really seems batty over this guy.

I’ve been writing and laying down vocals on some of our new songs, to be released very soon. It takes a lot of tweaking, and I’m a hard person to please. So, be patient and remember that good things come to those who don’t complain all the time because it’s taking so long.

I’ve also decided that since she convinced me to try the whole music thing again, I owed Granger. Dinner seemed to be adequate payment. She seemed to think it was a great idea, as well. She was actually the first woman I ever took out that was on time. People from my world, such as Pansy, don’t seem to understand that punctuality is just as sexy as the mounds of make-up you pile onto your face.

Granger is also a lightweight in terms of drinking. She had two glasses of wine and the next thing I know, she’s giggling and rubbing my hand with her manicured nails. Not that I’m complaining or anything. It was…actually very nice.

“You’re drunk,” I said with complete confidence that I was right.

She shook her head and her brown curls bounced happily, “No, I’m not. I may be a bit tipsy, but I’m not drunk.”

I smiled as she giggled and took another sip of wine, “You are drunk.”

She set her glass back on the table and reached over to run her nails lightly over the back of my hand. I had to hold back a shiver, who knew that could feel that…wonderful.

But other than her few moments of casual flirting, the evening went by with hardly a problem. She told me how her modeling was going, I told her about a new song I was working on. I thought at one point I felt her foot against my calf, but I must have been mistaken because it didn’t continue.

So, we had dinner, had a bit more wine, and I took her home. I played the perfect gentleman and walked her to the door of her flat. I kept my hands to myself, while she seemed insistent on leaning against me and hugging me not only in the elevator, but in front of her door as well. I like Granger when she lets her guard down. She’s much more approachable and…flirtatious.

I placed a kiss on her hand and bid her goodnight.

All in all, a rather enjoyable evening; I might see if she wants to do it again. Soon.

I'm Back...

2005-04-10T02:43:56Z

I’m aware how long it’s been since I’ve been here. I’ve neglected my devoted fans, and for that I’m sorry. However, it took losing what I had to realize how much I love what I do.

First off, I never thought of the Countess as anything other than another one of my fans. I wouldn’t go after a married woman, much less a Muggle one at that. Her husband should keep more of an eye on her male friends instead of the lead singer of a band that has no intention of sticking around to muck up his marriage to his wife.

This little problem caused Serpensortia to get dropped from EMI. Admittedly, I was rather hacked off when I found out. First, they didn’t ask me if it was true, and second, there was no warning. Just a call telling me that the band was no longer under the management of EMI, they wanted to avoid a hit to their other bands under employment. Those other bands can sod off. They weren’t lied about by a jealous old fool.

I did what any person does when they get the stuffing kicked out of them by life. I went home. Mother was off shopping, father was, well, I don’t really know where he was, but he wasn’t home often. Pansy and the rest of the group had gone back to life as normal. They returned to their old jobs, but I didn’t have that luxury. I couldn’t go back. I’d had a taste of something great. Being adored agrees with me, and I hate that I had lost it because of a stupid misunderstanding.

But you know, you often find encouragement in the strangest of places.

It happened when I was sitting in a muggle bar in London, mother and father were off again, and I was tired of the Manor already. I was having a drink, trying to figure out what I was going to do. I didn’t want to give up the music career. I really enjoy it, but there wasn’t a record company that would have anything to do with the band because of the scandal. And in walked the least likely person on the planet. Well, not least likely anymore given that I think she’s stalking me.

“You are the hardest person to find,” she told me as she took the stool beside me.

I looked over at her, even seeing her wasn’t much of a comfort, but it was a bit, “Maybe I don’t want to be found.”

“Ah. Wallowing in self pity, I see.”

“It’s not self pity.”

“And what is it?”

I sighed, “Discouragement.”

She nodded and ordered water. Who orders water at a bar? “Why run away? You always struck me as the kind of person that believed no publicity is bad publicity.”

“They made me out to be a home wrecker, nothing more than a gold digger.”

“But that’s not true.”

“I know!”

She frowned, “Why not tell everyone the truth?”

I scowled at her, “They wouldn’t believe me. Besides, it’s been too long now.”

She nodded, “You’re probably right. You should just give up.”

I knew what she was trying to do. You can’t manipulate a manipulator, “Maybe I will.”

“I think you’re stupid if you do. You had something really great! And you loved it! You can tell me you didn’t, but you’d be lying. Being Draco Malfoy, rock star, excited you. It’s okay to admit that it did. I saw you on stage. You were happy.”

“Right, I was happy. And with a few words, they stripped that away from me.”

She sighed again. She did that a lot. It was obvious she was getting frustrated, but it wasn’t my fault that the world turned against me. “So, what are you going to do?”

“Finish my drink.”

It was her turn to scowl at me, “No, I mean...with your life?”

It was my turn to sigh. I didn’t want to give this up. She was right. I hated that she was right all the time. Whose idea was it to make her smart and beautiful? There’s not really a good way to fight against that. “I don’t know.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

I rolled my eyes and looked over at her, “You’re going to any way.”

She gave me a small, shy smile, “I see you’re learning. To hell with them. Don’t let the gossip mongers keep you from doing something you love. Fight for it.”

“Why?”

“Because, that’s what you do when you love something. Even if it is your career as a rock star.”

I watched as she twirled the ice in her drink with her straw. “The band is broken up.”

“You can fix things that break. I bet they would jump at the chance to get back on the stage.”

I realized that I was fighting a losing battle. She’s talking me into doing something I already want to do, but lacked the courage. It was obvious she believed in me. For some reason, that’s enough. I tossed money on the bar and stood. She was looking at me, obviously waiting to see what I would do. I help her from the stool she’s perched on, and in that skirt I realized just how long her legs are. “Thanks.”

She smiled at me. One of those smiles that kind of make you...feel funny. “Any time.”

So, here I am. The band is back together. The only problem was that when we reformed, because of the rumors, we couldn’t find anyone to sign us. Apparently the scandal was bigger than we thought. Greg, Pansy, and Vin were ready and willing to come back, but were disheartened that we couldn’t get signed again.

It was a month after looking for a label that I decided to start my own. They won’t sign me, sod them all. I’ll get the profits we make from the record sales. So, I present to you Scandalous Studios, might as well get a bit of fun in at the people that put us out of business in the first place. I assigned Pansy as our publicist, because besides Pansy, who is better at pretending they’re someone important? Serpensortia is back, and better than ever.

The problem was convincing the people that owned the radio stations that we were worth playing. They weren’t willing to just overlook what happened, but I was too stubborn to back down. One station has finally given in and has agreed to play our newest single during the morning rush. The song is called “Slither” written by yours truly! I honestly think it’s one of my best.

We, my band mates and I, hope to see you at one of our upcoming shows and download the new single!

Slither (Right click and Save Target As)

hiatus

2004-10-25T05:28:53Z

This journal has been made private by the Management
until Draco starts returning our calls. Which might be anytime between tommorrow and Christmas.

We express our deepest regrets to Draco's fans ... would you like free T-shirts? :)

they say any publicity is good publicity ...

2004-04-09T19:01:38Z

Hullo, everyone … if you came here, expecting to see a charming little entry about Draco Malfoy’s latest excursion in the music industry (involving copious amounts of mascara and several bottles of gin, of course), then you should probably find something else to do.

You see, this is Pansy Parkinson here. Draco has been missing for the past month, probably sulking in some unplottable bit of land where we can’t find him, writing something angsty and depressing and full of unjust woe.

How typical of the bastard.

It all began when Serpensortia was invited to perform at a very ridiculous and very posh polo tournament. Various members of British royalty and nobility were invited to watch and/or participate, dressed in designer finery and flaunting their large, froofy hats.

Well, of course I was enjoying myself immensely, swilling around my expensive drink and parading my highly-fashionable hat. It was then I caught sight of Caroline, the Countess of Bradford, sidling up to my Draco and behaving more than its considered respectable towards him.

Honestly – not only was the unfashionable little worm wearing stripes with checks in her hideous choice of dress – but she was fawning all over Draco as if he was the best thing that ever happened to the human race since Jimmy Choo shoes.

Which he is, actually – but really.

Draco, of course, being the royally-drunk bastard that he was, simply smiled over her simpering comments and even accompanied her on a walk. The Countess, of course, made a huge deal over having the Draco Malfoy draped over her arm like a new handbag, and paraded him through the green and even posed for the press gathered there.

You can only guess what appeared in the papers the next morning.

I know you might be asking: “Well, the Countess is obscenely rich and influencial – her relationship to Draco may not only boost record sales, but her association with the cream of society may not only benefit Serpensortia, but Pansy Parkinson as well, who always wanted to get to know Prince William one way or another.”

Well. There’s just this little fact that the Countess is married. And Count Bradford was so upset over this whole wife-off-gadding-with-popular-rockstar fiasco, this happened:

*sigh* The last we saw of Draco was when he stormed out of the hotel room, shouting, “I am nothing of the sort!”, carrying his guitar and several stacks of sheet music. Crabbe, Goyle, David and I just shrugged it off, thinking he was in one of his ‘moments’ where he just goes storming off with his guitar and several stacks of sheet music and comes back later with several rage-driven songs and his pockets stuffed with phone numbers.

Unfortunately, Draco never came back.

Countess Bradford has shrugged off the whole issue and is currently fawning over the lead singer of Neville and the Toads, for reasons I’m not quite so sure of.

But things aren’t so charming here … Record sales have dropped, tours have been cancelled, singles have dropped from the charts, and David, our manager, is in a terrible fury. Our lead singer is missing and we have no idea where to start looking for him.

If we do manage to find him, I’m going to wring his gorgeous little neck and stuff something unpleasant up his taut arse. Because he’s causing so much trouble and I still have not yet met Prince William.

Oh dear – there goes his mobile phone … he had conveniently forgotten to bring it with him, and I’m sure it's that Granger girl again who’s trying to reach him. How many times does she have to be reminded he’s not back yet? Honestly.

V-day single. Why do I even bother?

2004-02-16T05:42:20Z

CD sleeve designed by Abra

Well, it’s done: I’ve finally released that bloody single that they’ve been harping at me to write, and all in time for Valentine’s Day, too. Considering the fact that I loathe Valentine’s Day with an undying passion and that I do not work well when I’m being pressured by whiny record label interns and an equally irritaing manager, I consider this single release as quite an accomplishment.

The inspiration behind the song came from a most perculiar source, though.

Before the press releases, the radio advertisments, and the publicity shots; before the recording and the song-mixing; before Serpensortia’s single ever existed, there was a bored, blond musician sitting in a hotel room, plagued by band members and horrible pop music playing over Pansy’s newly-obtained MP3 player, staring solemnly at a blank paper and admiring at how empty it was.

I had been staring at the paper for the past hour, pencil and guitar in hand, and numerous doodles in the margins declaring how obscenely bored I was. This will not do, I thought, bidding farewell to the hotel room and going out into the streets. I was risking being mobbed by fangirls by takling a walk, and if inspiration didn’t come I will be sorely vexed and with numerous phone-numbers lining my coat pockets.

Anyway … scouring the streets was hard enough. After being mobbed by nearly three groups of squealing fans demanding me autograph inappropriate places on their bodies, I was near exhausted with hopelessness and grief. I would have to talk to David and tell him I could not find a song to write about. I was already structuring a dazzling speech why I couldn’t find inspiration as I walked back to the hotel – full of reassuring phrases that Serpensortia will not be ruined – until I saw a familiar face across the street.

Well, a familiar head, to be accurate. Full of bushy brown hair, staring quite yearningly into the window of a bakery shop, her face reflected in the dark glass.

My first thought was, ”Does Hermione Granger follow me everywhere?” I thought of her screaming her bushy head off at every one of my concerts, spulrging her money on my merchandise, utterly worshipping me as I sauntered across the stage and I thought how awfully uncharacteristic of her to do so. Still, it was a nice vision.

Curious, I crossed the street to approach her. “Granger! This is a surprise. You’re not following me to every city I tour in futile attempts to be a rock groupie, are you?”

She threw me a stare – ones that I am quite used to by now, after six years of receiving them at Hogwarts. “Hullo, Malfoy. It’s nice to see you, too.”

She returned her gaze to the window of the bakery, and I noticed she was eyeing the eclairs with the very same glazed, yearning look of First Years staring at the latest racing broom model displayed at Quality Qudditch Supplies.

“Why don’t you just buy the bloody éclair?” I asked her, “you can definitely afford it, considering you should be a high-paid supermodel by now.”

“That’s just it. I’m a model: I have to watch what I eat, or the agency will replace me with a fourteen year-old schoolgirl claiming to be twenty-five, and I’m back to being a sales clerk at Harrods. I can’t buy that éclair – I think I’ll just settle to imagine eating it.”

Oh, that’s just pathetic, I thought, though I did not say it. “And why are you here, anyway, so far away from London?”

“Trying to be a rock groupie.”

I raised my eyebrows. I was impressed – clearly the lack of food and poor temperament improved Hermione Granger’s sense of humour. This will not do. I prompty went inside the bakery, bought six eclairs – and a cream pastry thrown in for good measure – and gave them to her. My efforts to diminish her humour so that it will not outshine mine were quite succesful though; she was clearly too stunned to say anything. But she thanked me prettily enough. I will expect her to be in the front row of my next concert with ample amounts of lingerie to throw onstage.

As she set off to her hotel and as I set off to mine, there it was – inspiration. It was as if I had been walking along all this while and conveniently stumbled over inspiration or plucked it from the air – put it in any way, there inspiration was. I had a song and I needed to write it.

David just rushed in with the latest UK Top 20 charts. Apparently the newly-released single had debuted at number 19, and it’s expected to climb to 3 by the end of this week. Crabbe tells me that the top single is a song called ‘Coldplay’ by a band named ‘Clocks’, though I’m not entirely sure about his accuracy in names.

not the best way to start the New Year, if it's any way at all:

2004-02-08T11:38:02Z

Well, if this is the new year, it can damned well sod off! I need chocolate, I need fan letters from adoring women, and I need Rita Skeeter and the press to curl up into fragile husks and die. But have my needs ever been met? NO, people insist on making my glittering existance as miserable as possible. Maybe Mother could send me a Dark Arts care package to help out ...

Anyway ... the nightmare all began when Serpensortia went on tour for our New Years Eve tour. I had to share the stage and my glorious spotlight with other bands. To add insult to that grievous injury, I had a dressing room that was only semi-private, and half the size of the one for someone named J-Lo.

I suppose that her frighteningly round derriere could use all the extra space, but on top of it she was being given the best flavored water. Just for comparison here’s what she had:

1. A huge supply of Perrier in every flavor
2. Fabulous little fig cookies
3. A 12 ft by 12 ft dressing room that she didn’t have to share with anyone!
4. Everything in her room draped in obscene lilac shades at her request. I don't particularly like lilac, but still!

Meanwhile I had to make due with:

1. Champagne that had obviously been opened and chilled for 20 minutes before being replaced with fresh stuff.
2. Horrible little caviar sandwiches (My throat can’t handle that much salt before a performance!)
3. A 17 ft by 24 ft dressing room that I had to share with the other members of my band!

(I shall have to make a mental note to out-diva this J-Lo at my next concert ... everything upholstered in lilac -- it seems a very diva-ish colour, come to think of it.)

Then to make matters worse, some little Spears girl spent her every offstage moment trying to seduce me. (Pansy told me her name, though I can't possibly remember it -- Brenda? Brittany?) If I wanted to sully myself with a Muggle, I’d at least choose a Mudblood to make the torture less vile, and preferably one with less of an accent. And she would most definitely not be trying to be sexier than me on a stage! Brita Spears' vulgarly displayed bellybutton is nothing on the pure pallid perfection of my incredible body!

But I had yet to discover that the ultimate horror was still awaiting me onstage: My performance started magnificently, of course. My voice and timing were perfect. My intonations were sublime, and my overall performance was exemplary (as usual). The rest of the band was passable, I suppose. Anyway: it was during our final song that IT happened.

I was leaning out over the audience so that the girls in the front row could get a much better look at me and then go on to tell their friends how lucky they’d been and all, when I saw something funny flying through the air towards me. I stepped back, of course, because I do NOT let strange presents from a Muggle crowd touch me ever; and it landed on the stage at my feet with a muffled sort of plop.

I have had many thongs thrown at me by women while performing, but they’ve always been quite scarce on fabric and silent upon landing. I had never seen a pair like this before though. There was entirely too much fabric on these knickers, and a funny cartoon face with some odd extra fabric.

Well, before I knew what had happened the press was running forward and shooting pictures of me. The lights from all the flashes on top of the stage lights blinded me for a moment and I started to fall off the stage into the crowd. I’d have surely been ripped to pieces by all the crazed fans, desperate for my body, but luckily Neville from our opening act, Neville and the Toads, saw what was happening and grabbed me before I could trip.

For some reason the ensuing debacle only excited the press further, and I was unable to understand why until the morning papers were delivered to my suite today. Splashed across the front page of every one of them was a photograph of Neville with his arms around me, and what was identified as a man’s thong at our feet. I have been labelled unspeakably gay by the media, and that damnable Neville Toad has been named as my suspected lover! Of course, it’s a blatant lie; I don’t even know Neville (though his name does sound somewhat familiar). It’s libel, and I will deny it to the grave for I am an innocent man!

If you’re all wondering what the offensive thong looked like, I have attached a picture. It is simply the most ridiculous and fascinatingly repulsive undergarment I have ever seen … next to Pansy’s frilly pink things, of course:

… and the fact that it was signed, “With Love From Irving” didn’t make matters any less discomforting, either.

Oh, bollocks! As if this day couldn’t get any worse! David Foster (not that David Foster), the Manager From Hell, has just told me that I have to come out with a new single for Valentines Day! How can any artist be expected to work during a crisis like this? I don’t have any sodding inspiration for a Valentines song at the moment. (And no, Pansy, the day that you tried teaching Goyle to tie his shoes by letting him tie your bikini top and how it nearly came off because the idiot got the “bunny-ears” backwards does not count as inspiration.)

hayfa, caliginess, I know you're out there. Kimberly, Alex: you too. As well as a few million other adoring fans. At least one of you may have something I could scribble a few verses about ...

Merry Christmas, Darling Minions.

2003-12-23T17:15:10Z

It's been awhile since I last updated. No doubt you've missed me, as I have missed you. I have a great many reasons to why I have been gone, and hopefully you'll be so dazzled by them you'll readily forgive me:

1) I have been on tour, and was too exhausted after each performance to think of anything coherent to say. Running from hordes of screaming fans (demanding autographs, photographs, free merchandise, among other unmentionable things) can be quite exhausting. Let's not even mention trying to perform fast-paced songs on a stage littered with frilly pink undergarments. (Twisted and ankle after tripped over leopard-print thong. Don't want to talk about it.)

2) People have been running off with my laptop. Laptops, you see, are these fascinating and horribly unattractive Muggle devices that can be brought absolutely everywhere, including the loo. So many people have been using it to check this strange thing called 'e-mail', which is something like owl mail, except it comes without a hell of a lot of feathers but isn't as elegant, of course. I have been looking everywhere for the missing laptop, and eventually found it. In the loo.

3) Press conference after press conference. Meeting and greeting fans is more tiring than expected. My hand has been permanently stuck in a repetitive spasm which signs my autograph over and over once you insert a pen.

As you can see, my days have been sublime and beautiful torture. Haven't destroyed any hotel rooms yet, but I'm really looking forward to it.

This might not be as fascinating as my amazing list of Reasons Why My LiveJournal Has Fallen Into Neglect, but my opening act is this charming little band called Neville & The Toads. It's a charming little group with a peculiar name, and I haven't the faintest idea why they seem so familiar.

Anyway. The eve of Christmas is drawing near, and I expect a great many gifts to be waiting for me. (Father won't talk to me even since I embarked on my noble musial crusade, so that sterling silver lizard dagger I've been eyeing would obviously be out of the picture this year, unfortunately.) You could go and give my Fanclub a visit, for starters. *wink*

this is your divine rockstar, on national television ...

2003-11-16T18:58:41Z

Such a mundane, mindless and fascinating contraption the Muggle television is. You can effectively and efficiently broadcast news from far-off places, offer interesting advice to a distant audience, and rot the brains of teenagers worldwide with mind-numbing music videos and pointless media.

If the Dark Lord were still alive to see this now, he'd definitely try to take over the Muggle world by launching his own TV channel, mark my words.

Anyway ...

I knew that morning's sunrise was bright-golden-bronze. The dawn sky was coloured in soft pastel-rose hues and inspirational shades of blue. I would have been cheered up by the wonderful sight -- if only I wasn't so bloody upset having to wake up that early to see it.

David, The Manager From Hell: Rise and shine, today's your major publicity television interview! You don't want to be late!
Self: ::sleep-mumbles something incoherant::
David: What was that again?
Self: Coffee.
David: It's 6.20 AM.
Self: ???!
David: It's an hour's drive to the studio. Once we arrive, we have a brief introduction with your interviewer - Miss Adressa Croud - a rehearsal, breakfast, and then we go on air --
Me: ::registering all this in a dazed and groggy manner:: Um. Are Crabbe and Goyle awake?
David: We have nine interns attempting to rouse them now.
Me: Oh, good. You're going to need about three more, and a very good loudspeaker if you want to get anywhere. Now -- as for me -- I need COFFEE.
David: We've run out of coffee.
Self: Mmmm: I loathe you.

About an hour later, we were packed into a dainty little white van that reminds one of cake-delivery vehicles, and then maundered down the road. No limosuine. No coffee. I felt my life was spiralling into Hades already.
(Pansy had discovered this fascinatingly-annoying Muggle invention called the 'mobile phone', and was particularly enamoured in using it. Her undying chatting with Millicent Bullstrode prevented me from taking a nap, so I stuck my head out the open window in hopes I might hit something and perish quite dramatically.)

We arrived quite safely -- to my disappointment -- at the studio. Please take note of this: No coffee, no limosuine, and no horde of screaming fans. I complained to David, who told me to shut up. I offered a very rude hand gesture in return. He did not seem to notice. Sulked afterwards.

The band were introduced with Miss Croud soon after. She was all-smiles, talked rapidly and reminded me far too much of Pansy on caffiene, armed with a moble phone. It was very disturbing.

Breakfast: Croissant and weak, chemical-tasting orange juice. Pansy was talking on her phone again and choked on a jam tart. Very amusing.

And now. The INTERVIEW.

There was a live studio audience, which mainly consisted of females (and the occasional dragged-along boyfriend or liberal gay), harsh studio lights, and a stage decorated to look like a modern living room, with peach-coloured sofas and potted palms.

Yes, this could indeed be the potential doing of the Dark Lord. Why in Hades didn't the Death Eaters try television, I wonder.

The interview was very vague and I remember none of it. The questions the audience and Miss Croud asked me mainly involved my music, my life, my profession, my dreams, and my sexuality. Common topics discussed at home.

Then, half an hour into the show, a person at the back stood up and asked: "Would you consider going out with a common girl -- not of your status, upbringing, or background?"

The voice sounded very familiar, but it was muffled by the microphone handed to her. And it did not help that I couldn't catch her face -- the harsh studio lights glaring in my face dazed my vision.
I think I answered: "If only she was a supermodel."

That was that. The person sat down. I could not catch her features except for a flash of brown hair (but let's not saunter to conclusions). She was hidden from view by a very large couple who were waving 'We Love Miss Croud' banners over their heads.
Then, I was once more enveloped in amazingly mind-numbing questions again, which I found, to my relief, had nothing to do with what model I was thinking of in particular.

Anyway --
Yes.
We stepped out of the studio after that, and there a reasonably-fanatical horde of rabid fans was. I was much pleased. A limo awaited to take us back to the hotel, and David actually made to effort to stock the vehicle with cups of coffee. They even had those little artificial sweeteners that I so much loved. (If the Dark Lord were alive today, he'd like those, too. They're very evil and they're much healthier than sugar, anyway.)

Oh yes, another thing: While I enjoy sorting through my fanmail, seeing ongoing conversations whereby I'm not the centre of attention leaves me quite stunned.
Yes, darlings, I'm sure you have a lot to say -- but let's concentrate on what really matters here (i.e, me). *wink*

what now?

2003-10-25T18:26:31Z

Time seem to be passing by excruitiatingly slowly nowadays.

The upcoming television interview will be in a number of days, and in the meantime, I must bear with A) constant phone calls from that Talbolt person who insists I meet him at 8.00 in his apartment for 'coffee', and B) David, the Manager from the Deepest Bowels of Hades constantly reminding me that our tour around the British Isles starts two weeks from now, and it promises to be very, very tiring.

Oh yes: the fangirls will have a gloriously exhausted Draco to fawn over by the time the tour is over.

And ahem. I met her again today.

This afternoon, in a moment of pure inconvenience, Pansy decided to go on an unannounced shopping excursion with Crabbe and Goyle. Imagine my horror and disbelief when I woke up this ~~morning~~ afternoon, in dire need of coffee, and no one to buy it for me.

It was confirmed: I had to buy my own coffee. 'Tis a truly twisted, twisted world.

As I sauntered vaguely downwards the rain-splashed sidewalks, I bumped into a mass of bushy brown hair and colourful, knitted woollen scarves which seemed to be sobbing severely.

Last time I met Hermione Granger, she was a semi-successful model building a promising career -- and mocking me because of it. This time I met her, she looked as if she had found out Viktor Krum was formerly Viktoria Krum, her eyes and cheeks stained with tears.

Self: Granger. Fancy seeing you here.
Hermione: Go away, Malfoy. I don't want to put up with you, too.
Self: Wait, stop.

And most miraculously, she did just that.

Self: What do you mean, put up with me, too? You mean someone else has successfully made you cry actual tears? God, I'm jealous.
Hermione: You think you're so funny, Malfoy. But you want to know something? [breaks into a long, long rant I pay half-attention to.]
Self: So you're upset.
Hermione: Well, of course I am! I'm standing here on the pavement screaming at you! *suddenly realizes that* And I have to go back to my apartment to cry now. So if you'll kindly excuse me ...
Self: Granger -- Stop.
Hermione: *stops. and stares*
Self: Allow me five minutes. And I shall make whoever did this to you regret his or her words for as long as he or she lives.
Hermione ...
Self: Consider it a challenge. On your behalf.

Hermione then began reconstructing a story - between sobs, of course - on how she and her fellow model friends from the agency decided to go out and patronize the cafes.

When they stopped at a nearby eatery, Hermione's skeletal companions all ordered salads with not enough vegetable between them to feed a rabbit, while Hermione herself ordered a shepard's pie.

Hermione: They -- they ... They called me a fat cow.
Self: You? A fat cow? Hah! At least when I insult you I have a more creative usage of metaphors.

The uncreative insulters in question were sitting inside a small, dingy cafe, pecking away at their little salads, wearing striking red dresses with not enough fabric between them to create a pillow. There were three of them, all with the same distinct hairstyle (straight and highlighted in atrocious colours), all with severely-painted faces.

I knew what must be done.

Sauntering into the dimly-lit restaurant, I ordered myself a glass of champagne from the puzzled waiter, and sat myself a table away from the skeleton warriors.

The champagne came. I lifted the glass up, tilted it towards my lips, and when I knew the glint of the glass caught their attention, I threw them my stormy gaze -- you know, the one that Pansy fantasizes about in her wet dreams.

Anyway.

One of them glanced towards me. I knew her exact reaction -- I'd seen it countless times: the mouth dropping open, the glazed look in the eyes, the slowly shifting of the legs as the knees buckle.

So of course she sashayed up to me. Which was exactly what I anticipated.

Model #1: Hello, there. Mind if I sit here with you, or should I just drag you over to my table and find someone else to sit here?
Self: *intensely fake French accent* Of course, of course. Why don't you invite your little friends here along as well?
Model: [proceeds to bring over and introduce her friends, all with equally unpronouncable names].
Popular French Dessert: Now that you know what we're called, what's your name, hmm? *bats eyelashes in a most aggravating way*
Self: Well, Bouillabaisse --
PFD: Beessablaise-anna.
Self: Yes, Bouillabaise, my name is Richard Kaofanseer, and I'm from France. I'm here in England to see my cousin -- and probably meet a lovely girl in the process. [commence the smouldering look]
PFD: Well -- I'm sure us English girls are far more atractive than those you get in France. *the three of them break into annoying, pealing giggles*
Self: Ah yes -- but those girls we get back in Paris are, how do you say, have fuller curves than those you get here.
PFD: ... Excuse me?
Self: Ah, you see, the three of you for example ... though you may have colourful faces, 'tis true, but you are like -- how do you say, like starved rats without the tail and whiskers.
Three: ...
Self: But then again ... *laspses back into British tongue* Better starved rats than fat cows, hmm? *walks from the room, leaving them speechless and possibly quite confused*

Hermione seemed particularly happy when I emerged. I had never seen her smile that smile before, especially not in my direction. The bizarre feeling to laugh overwhelmed me, and when I did, she laughed, too. I couldn't fathom what came over us -- perhaps I'll ask Pansy. She always reads those teeny magazines proclaiming to know everything about typical hormone-induced psychology.

Perhaps it was the lack of coffee.

I did not buy the coffee.

I somehow found myself walking through the park with Granger, watching old couples feeding pigeons. It was most queer.

Now, in the hotel room, I feel dangerously light-headed and shivery. I hate air-conditioners.

sighs

2003-09-27T19:29:23Z

Well. The dinner didn't go as I had originally expected.

I really don't want to write this down. But people keep telling me I should.

We set off in a sleek, black limosuine padded with white leather seats and adorned with considerable amounts of champagne. (Needless to say, Crabbe and Goyle managed to get themselves drunk in the space of our twenty-minute journey. More on that later.)

We arrived at a lovely French eatery, which is one of those types of restaurants where there are fountains and rose bushes and golden statues of inappropriately posing cupids everywhere, and where everyone sits outside and eats in rose-trellissed gazebos. Pansy said the place was charming. It reminded me too much of Mother's rock gardens, thus making me promptly lose my appetite.

Crabbe and Goyle, though, were having fun. They were playing around the fountains and making lewd gestures at the golden cupids. Had weird desire to join them. Starched waiters soon arrived with the menus, and David was getting agitated because our Honoured Guest had not yet arrived.

David: I'm worried he might not be coming. The reservation here is already costng us a fortune.
Pansy: You mean EMI is paying for our dinner here?
David: ::resentfully:: Yes.
Self: Wonderful. ::hands menu to waiter:: I'll have the most expensive thing on the menu. And a bottle of your best champagne.
David: ::surpresses urge to strangle me:: What are you doing?
Self: Ordering food and drink, which is what I'm supposed to do at a restaurant. What are you having?

Just then, this strange-looking man wearing a purple suit waltzed into the gazebo-ridden garden, toting a briefcase and looking agitated. He had the type of floppy blonde hair that got into one's face most of the time, and walked in a strange, sashaying manner.
I told Pansy to get Crabbe and Goyle out of the tulip beds. It seemed out guest had arrived.

Guest: Hullo. I'm Mr. Tabolt, representative of Miss Adressa Croud. You must be ... David Foster and Draco Malfoy?
David: Yes. Not to be confused with the other David Foster.
Talbot: ... oh.
Self: So. Why are we here?

It turns out Mr. Talbot wanted to see if I was good enough to be featured on Miss Adressa's 'talk show'. He behaves in a most strange fashion. He orders nothing but orange juice and a salad for Merlin's sake, and he constantly keeps flicking his hair back in a very annoying, repeatative way. And I couldn't figure out why he keeps on glancing at me as if he thinks I'm not looking. Stop smiling, you idiot.

It was when Pansy returned that it began to dawn on me.

Pansy: I managed to fish Crabbe and Goyle out of the fountain. They're currently drying themselves over by the -- oh, hullo.
Talbot: ::shakes hands:: You must be Miss Pansy Parkinson?
Pansy: Yes.
Talbot: That's such a nice Prada bag you have. It matches with your shoes.
Pansy: Thanks. They're Gucci.
Talbot: Yes! I know. Spring release, right?

It was then that it hit me. I knew this was going to be easy.

Self: Mr. Talbot ... ::smirks most handsomely:: What exactly are you looking for in a candidate for Miss Croud's television show?
Talbot: ::suddenly attentive:: Well. We look for celebrities with charisma, who are interesting and on the rise, and ... ::significant pause:: ... extremely good-looking. ::smiles in a most disturbing fashion::
Self: Well. I'm sure by the end of this dinner, you'll find me most ... suitable.
Talbot: ::gets the hint:: Mr. Malfoy - are you interested in another get-together, you know, between the both of us? Perhaps we could discuss future apprearences on our show.
Self: So you're already established the fact that I am, indeed, appearing on the show? Without having to interview me first?
Talbot: I think I'll make an exception for you. ::winks::

As soon as the dinner was over, Pansy took me aside and asked me if I was gay.
I debated the pros of telling her yes, which would probably stop her from chasing me around like a sad puppy for once, but I decided not to. It would cause far too many tabloids' sales to increase.

Crabbe and Goyle are wet and draped upon the hotel room floor, complaining of headaches. They smell funny when they're wet. I must go call housekeeping now.

draco_rockstar @ 2003-09-10T18:12:00

2003-09-10T10:37:00Z

The photographs taken in our previous photoshoot ended up in some famous Muggle magazine called, Vanity Fair.

I haven't heard of such a magazine. According to David, it's quite a good step for us, but were't even on the front cover. I felt scandalized. I tried to find Pansy to complain to, but she was out shopping with David so I complained to Crabbe and Goyle instead. They didn't understand a word I was saying. I called them both twits and asked them to practice their guitar playing. They shambled dejectedly from the hotel room, leaving me utterly alone and utterly idle.

Smart, Draco. Smart.

David told us he had arranged a dinner meeting with a talk-show host's personal assistant. Our conversation went famously along these lines:

David: We're having a dinner meeting with a talk-show host's personal assistant tonight. I want you to wear your best clothes.
Self: That's very interesting. Now. If only I knew what a talk-show host was, I'd be a lot more excited.
David: ::sighs very annoyingly:: It's when a very charismatic person pokes fun at you on TV, tells a lot of unfunny jokes and makes an audience of foolish people laugh a lot. We want you on this show.
Draco: Makes perfect sense.
David: To determine if you're interesting enough to be on this person's show --
Draco: -- Which I am.
David: Yes, but you'll need to impress the personal assistant first.
Draco: I'll charm and dazzle her with my sparkling wit and charisma.
David: Him. The personal assistant is a him.
Draco: Ah. That's different, then.

So I'm supposed to wear some starched, black-and-white thing that Pansy had bought on her shopping trip earlier.

Someone told me it's called a tuxedo, or something.

I looked absolutely devastating in it.

I asked if I could keep it, and it turns out it was paid in full.
Thus, I'm very, very, happy.

Dinner details shortly after. They're calling us down to the lobby as I write this, and there happens to be a limosuine outside waiting to take us to a glitzy French eatery.

I shall not order the snails.

promotions ...

2003-09-03T13:10:07Z

I haven't been writing in this journal lately, I know. I would usually murmur a pathetic excuse and beg for pardon, but then I realize my Father isn't reading this.

So fine, I'm writing in late. Deal with it, mortals.

Have been trying to promote our latest single. David, our agent, not being helpful. He has been vying for us to set a good image of ourselves to the audience, and asked us to don virginial white-and-gold robes for a promotional photoshoot ... I would have burnt them up in firery wrath if I had my wand with me.

We wore black. As it should be.

Now David is lamenting that we shall be labelled as a Satanist cult-rockgroup and forever shall remain underground. I have to disagree. I look devastating in black. I won't do anything to change the black. If I need to flutter from place to place and sell my CD's from the back of a van and distribute them to drug stores, using pieces of cardboard as promotional banners and promising the meaning of life with each purchase AND getting to wear black, so be it.

Pansy squealing over Timberlake fellow's latest song. Must go now to shut her up.

my, my ...

2003-08-26T12:33:58Z

I was such in a hurry to prove to Pansy that I am, quite frankly, quite adept at this typing-keyboard-thingy, that I completely forgot to introduce myself (Mother would be so proud. What a fine-mannered boy she's raised).

For those that already know me for who I am, completely skip this entry. For those who don't, read on. I this to be the beginning of a beautiful obsession.

My name is Draco Malfoy, and I'm a rockstar (or I will be). I have dozens of adoring fans and people chanting my name before they go to sleep (or will have), and have toured all around the world to six different continents (or will travel, someday). You can say I'm the pagan god of the electric guitar. I'm blonde, wintry, rich and all rather handsomely so. I'm rated NC-17 and not to be used as a floatation device. I'm also a wizard.

So if anyone is curious to why I'm here, what I'm doing, or where the hell am I going, then check back often at this ... what's it called again? LiveJournal-thing, and I shall keep you updated. Because I'm going to make my mark on this world. And I'm not just saying that because I have Elvis as my mentor (don't ask, go here) or because I have a good feeling about this, it's because I'm Draco Malfoy.

Thank you for listening.

My First Entry. Aren't You Supposed To Be Rejoicing Now?

2003-08-24T16:49:36Z

I haven't the faintest clue why I'm prattling away at this infernal machine, painstakingly finding each tiny black key and punching it in to form little words on the screen.

Apparently, while we were idly mulling about our hotel room, utterly bored, Pansy decided to muck around with our complimentary laptop computer. It's a devious, twisted little Muggle artifact -- I trust it to serve me about as much as I trust Blaise Zabini to figure out his/her correct gender.

But Pansy insisted I do something with it.

So here I am, prattling away at something called 'LiveJournal', with Crabbe and Goyle looking intently over my shoulder in a very uncomfortable fashion.

STOP LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER YOU BABOON-FACED IDIOTS.

They seemed to have taken the hint. They're raiding the room service tray now.

David F. on the other line, and I must answer the phone. I was hoping to tell you about how Pansy nearly lost her bikini top in the pool yesterday, but time doesn't seem to favour me very much.

I feel like a song ...