A/N: Although I am American, the little voice in my head who wrote this was English. I asked why it had to be that way, and the little voice told me it was so much more fun to read in a British accent.
She – that little voice – is right. Read it – out loud, I don't care where you are – in a British accent, no matter what accent you have, and see how much more enjoyable it is. Then, maybe, read it in a list of other accents you're terrible at imitating and see how much fun you can have. It entertained me for quite a while, but you might be one of those so called 'normal people' who think it's fun to not have any fun.
Well, you can hardly be normal if you're over here reading fan fiction, now, right?
If you still think you're normal, wait until you read this. Heh.
I would definitely start out with a proper greeting, something along the lines of 'How are you, chap? It's been quite a while, hasn't it, since we've talked. Just catching up, you know, wondering how you're doing, mate.' It really is unfortunate that I can't just go ahead and say that, but, as you obviously are aware, we absolutely loathe each other.
Yeah, we hate each other. Big whoop. Not really a surprise, if you ask me. So, why am I rambling nervously, then?
Because there is something I have urged to tell you since the first moment I saw you, Harry.
There is nothing more that I want than to do than – never mind. Leave that up to your imagination. Actually, don't. Let's just say I finished that little fill-in-the-blank with 'punch your smarmy little face off and be done with it.' Yeah, that's definitely what I was trying to convey. Definitely.
As I was saying, Potter, I actually am writing this letter for a reason. Mainly, I want to get this off my chest, since it's something I've never spoken nor written of since it first arrived, again, when my eyes first found you.
Now, now, don't think I'm being some poncy fool, but –
Harry, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you! Err...
Harry, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you!
Disregard that scribble, I was – errr – given a love potion! Yes, I was given a love potion, that's it! And I was talking to my... girlfriend, and she was so absolutely wonderful, so I had to write out how much I, err, loved her.
So, Potter. I await your reply.
Draco Malfoy, absolutely sloshed from a string of parties he had dotted along to with an old friend from Hogwarts, peered at the letter he had hastily written earlier that day and stashed into a garbage bin. Finding the letter of extreme hilarity, Draco stumbled over to his owl, offered the crumpled parchment to her, and slurred directions that the bird could amazingly decipher.
The letter was on the way to one Harry Potter, even though the sober Draco had never intended for that crumpled parchment to ever leave that bin where he had so desperately hidden it.
An owl, feathers ruffled, arrived rather suddenly in the middle of the night and began a relentless tapping on Harry's bedroom window.
Harry, shoving a pillow over his ears in attempt to muffle the ridiculous tapping, groaned loudly, wondering why people insisted on sending owls to him in the middle of the night. Half of the time, they were only drunken notes that, more often than not, were extremely disturbing. He shuddered as he recalled an owl he had received from Blaise Zabini many years ago, and quickly got up to rid himself of this disgusting recollection.
Figuring that stopping the maddening noise on his window would help him forget about that– he didn't dare think about what he was attempting to forget about, but a mental image of Blaise wearing only a short, muggle skirt forced its way into his brain nonetheless.
Shaking his head to try and get away from such awful thoughts, he opened the window and took the rather wrinkled letter from the owl's beak. She flew away, probably glad to get away from the creep her master sent the letter to.
Deciding nothing could be more disturbing than the Blaise incident, Harry plopped back onto his bed and turned on the lamp on his bedside table, preparing to read his letter. Carefully unfolding the parchment, he began to read, his face only showing more and more horror the further he got down the page.
"Merlin's. Pants," he uttered in a forced tone of calm, enunciating each syllable slowly.
Unsure of what to do next, Harry sighed and heaved himself off of his bed to do the only logical thing that would pop into his head – write back.
Dear Arrogant Cabbage Face,
What, exactly, were you trying to convey in that letter? All you did was confuse me, mention something about something important, confess your love for me, scribble it out, make a bad joke of it, then hastily finish the letter.
Why in your right mind would you send such a thing to someone who, in the same letter, you mentioned how much you hated them not only once, but twice?
Please sort yourself out and refrain from sending me such mail while you're hammered.
Potter – the bloke you hate
He sent the reply back with Hermione's owl – it had dropped off a letter earlier that day and had decided to rest at Harry's for a while – and scowled at the window as he closed it. Draco Malfoy was such a bloody, barmy, blooming berk. Honestly.
Still absolutely bashed, Draco Malfoy was delighted to see that Harry Potter had replied so quickly. Clumsily, he read the letter, twice, to be sure what it said, and cheerfully took out his quill to pen a response.
To Mr. Harry Sexy-Pants Potter,
As the little greeting message there points out, your pants are undeniably sexy. I mean, really. How could any one deny that you have sexy pants?
I did try to tell you earlier that I love you. And here I go, again, and I swear that I won't cross it out, darling – I love you, Harry! I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. I absolutely freaking adore you. And your pants, of course. Would you mail them to me?
And now, I must apologize for being such a complete toad all of those years at Hogwarts. I mean, really, your pants were sexy. How could anyone resist that? And with me being a Slytherin and you being all smug in Gryffindor, I couldn't just run up and snog you. It popped into my head a couple of times, but something like that, at Hogwarts, at least, is absolutely taboo.
So I decided being a brutish fool would be just as effective as running after you screaming " Harry, I think you're pants are absolutely dreamy!" You see, both would either make you really hate me or want to skip around the grounds with me, holding hands. Maybe you would lend me a pair of your pants, even.
Somehow, my plan took an awful turn. You deduced that my constant flirting and being absolutely awful to you meant that I didn't like you. I was flirting with you, you dunder head! What did you think it meant? Obviously, I wanted to get in your pants, you cabbage.
So, you sexy panted fool, I love you. And, just for the record, I'm pretty crocked right now. That doesn't really mean much to me, but it seemed like a good point to add to explain why my penmanship is so awful.
I want your pants. And maybe, one day, I'll get in them.
The one, the only,
Taking in the letter with a bit of shock, Harry could not help but to smirk. Perhaps he should have sent his reply at a better time in order to save Draco from oodling his thoughts to Harry while intoxicated, but he could not bring himself to care.
A/N: I wrote this just for you. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. How could I possibly write this just for you? Well, I absolutely adore you. So, since this is just for you, maybe you could tell me what you think so I can write you some more. I'll give you a hint... accio review!
I'm writing Blaise's letter to Harry. So, if you want to read that, keep and eye on my stories and get ready for some more drunk owling. Yeah.