I had some trouble with this one at first. As with all my stories, this is based on real-life events from my experiences. This will be my longest story to date. Enjoy, and please review.
Disclaimer: All copywritten names and locations in this document belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner brothers Entertainment.
He'd stopped sleeping more than a few hours a night years ago. He had no deep psychological reason for it; he didn't have nightmares, he didn't have insomnia. He just didn't like sleeping. It took too much time out of his life. If he slept a full eight hours a night, he reasoned, he'd sleep a full third of his life. There was simply too much life to live, and not nearly enough time to live it in the normal sixteen waking hours of daytime.
Gradually his body had adjusted to the lack of sleep. He no longer dreamed at all; he only rested. Somehow, by some miracle of magic, or nature, or some other force, he'd managed to subsist on two or three hours of sleep a night.
It had been more than three years since the Dark Lord had been defeated. Three years since he'd been given a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the public, and he'd done that many times over by the end of the first year. Three years since he'd been given his own life back, since he'd been given the freedom to live however he wanted. Father was in Azkaban, mother was traveling the world, he had a flat Diagon Alley, so he might as well live out the life he'd never been able to when he was younger.
He was polite these days. He mostly kept to himself, speaking only to those he had to: shopkeepers, clerks, professionals, and the occasional reporter. He smiled often. He legitimately enjoyed his life. He had opened a potions shop in Diagon Alley, and made small talk with the customers. His flat was directly above. He travelled into muggle London occasionally, to run errands.
His life really began at night.
Diagon Alley, as the largest magical community in Britain (Hogsmeade was smaller, but had an entirely magical occupancy; Diagon Alley, residing within muggle London, didn't actually count, but was considered the largest all the same), had a considerable nightlife among young witches and wizards. The attitude was much the same as during the Roaring Twenties some eighty years prior, which had been brought about due to the end of World War One: "We may die tomorrow, so we should live it up today." As such, there were reckless and stupid activities going on all over the neighborhood, if one knew where to look. Draco knew where to look.
After the Ministry crackdown on the Dark Arts following the War, Knockturn Alley had become nearly empty. The area was mostly harmless these days- his own shop among some of the new, respectable businesses to open up there- but the area really came alive during the night. Despite easy access to several different pubs and bars, magical and otherwise, many of the young witches and wizards had taken to secret, private gatherings- speakeasies- at which to do their drinking and partying, free from the prying eyes of the general public, hidden away in the basements of the old, empty buildings. Many highly illegal potions with less-than-reputable effects- some of which he'd attempted to replicate, though he'd never admit it- were passed between patrons at these events, which made the parties prime targets for Magical Law Enforcement, the members of which were always looking to dispose of any fun to be had. It was at these parties that Draco came into his element. He could often be found drinking liquors and potions of all colors and effects. Just as often he might be on the dance floor, or maybe at a table with some random people he'd just met, talking as if they'd known each other for years. Several times he found himself on the receiving end of Ministry raids, though he'd always escaped before they found him. He kept going back, though. He liked the parties. They helped him meet new people, something he'd always had trouble with, and they made him feel alive.
There were other things he did at night, too. Draco had taken to several particular dueling clubs, in which highly illegal gambling went on and highly illegal spells were cast. To keep up his daytime reputation, he always went to the fights with plenty of glamour charms on; nobody would ever recognize him. He would walk in, place a sizable bet on himself, step up to the stage, and take on challenger after challenger, all night long, hour after hour. Having been on the receiving end of countless Cruciatus curses before, he was able to absorb and shrug off damaging curses that might kill a lesser wizard. Additionally, having been exposed to so much fighting and Dark Magic in his short life, he had an extensive library of curses, many of which bordered on illegal. He liked fighting. It kept his reflexes and his wits sharp, and it made him feel alive.
"Irration" Alley even had its own magically enlarged Quidditch Arena. Its location changed every match, and it never remained following each one, so it was completely untraceable by the Ministry, yet still thousands of witches and wizards turned out to each match. Like all the hidden attractions of the Alley, much of what went on there was nearly or very illegal; besides the gambling, many of the players played dirty. It was considered a particularly clean match if no more than two players per team were sent to St. Mungo's.
Draco had always had an affinity for the sport; he'd loved it as a child, and during his time at Hogwarts it was often the only thing he looked forward to. Yet this was a different kind of Quidditch. It was much closer to the rugby matches he saw than the football ones he'd always considered similar to the magical sport. Just the same as with the duels, he'd glamour charm himself before going to the matches so nobody would recognize him. It was only six months after the war that he'd tried out for one of the teams. Now he was team captain, and they were on their way to winning the Irration Alley Cup. Just like with the fights, he'd always place a sizable bet on himself before the game. He'd lost plenty, for sure, but won more than enough to make up his losses. He liked the game, though. It kept him fit, and kept his broom skills in top condition, which was always useful for a young wizard. It made him feel alive.
And so, he left the comfort of his shop each night, closing up and getting something to eat in his flat. Afterwards he'd leave via the rear entrance, glamour charms in place, and begin his prowling, looking for the next vice. He didn't need to sleep. He needed to live.
Today was no different. Draco woke around six thirty in the morning, his tea already prepared by his charmed clock radio- the radio itself a holdout from the war days, when he'd secretly listen to Potterwatch to see which of his old classmates had gone missing. He'd charmed the clock to wake him when his tea was ready, usually right around the time the paper arrived.
Draco had cancelled his subscription to the Daily Prophet long ago; he'd lost faith in the Ministry-sponsored propaganda machine. Instead, he now got subscriptions to the surprisingly reputable Quibbler; now that ol' Looney Luna Lovegood was in charge (she herself a frequent visitor to Irration Alley), the paper had begun doing what a newspaper was supposed to: printing the truth for the masses. Due to the fact that the whole staff was under thirty, it was the most relevant paper for people like him.
Today the headlines were more of the same: "MINISTRY RAIDS ON SPEAKEASIES GROWING MORE INTENSE"; "IRRATION ALLEY QUIDDITCH CUP APPROACHING"; it was all stuff he'd seen before. However, there was one headline that caught his eye. It was an article about him. Well, not exactly. The headline read, "DRAGON WOWS FANS, SPECTATORS". "Dragon" was the name he went out at night bearing. Unoriginal, yes, but he'd yet to be found out.
He read through the article once, then again, and then a third time. Apparently, some of the reporters were collecting information on his exploits. It had his fighting record (undefeated, with nearly eighty wins in a row so far), his Quidditch record (14 wins, 3 losses so far this season- he was pushing his team for the Cup), and even some notable nightclubs he often frequented. It surprised him that his alter ego had become something of a celebrity. He'd have to be more careful; the whole point of the glamour charms was to avoid being noticed. Oh, well; as long as somebody didn't recognize him as Draco Malfoy, there was no real problem with the notoriety.
He finished his tea and set the paper aside; he'd read the rest later. He had a shop to run.
I'll have the next chapter up in a day or two. Hope you liked it :)