Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its characters, fictional events, cool latin names, etc. That would be the property of Mrs. JK Rowling, who has made millions of dollars off of it, whereas I have made none. This story is written purely for entertainment purposes. And so, enjoy!
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Chapter 1
October 1991 – The First Mask
He slid the hard ceramic surface onto his face, pulling the string over his head and snapping it onto his light blond hair. He opened his eyes, looking through the eyes of the mask.
The short, chubby boy directly in front of him started to laugh, clutching his stomach as he did so. "You look hilarious… Like a… some sort of demon-ish…" Crabbe couldn't finish the statement, bending over as he laughed harder. His pudding-bowl haircut fell in front of his face.
At Crabbe's laughter, the shocked silence disappeared from the dropped jaws of the other three boys in the room. They grinned and started to laugh as well.
Draco scowled from behind the mask, turning around to face the half-length mirror in the dorm room. He knew that the mask had looked ridiculous, part of the reason why he had thrown it on first, but was it really that amusing on him?
He started in shock as he viewed his reflection, the visages of his fellow Slytherin first years around him, shaking in amusement. The grey eyes in the mirror were the only thing he recognized, and they weren't truly his own anymore. They were colder, fiercer, painted hard by the black makeup of the Chinese mask surrounding his eyes.
His eyebrows had disappeared, replaced by a fierce, white sweep over each eye, highlighting the light pupils of his eyes even further, making them seem darker, part of the mask itself. His mouth transfigured itself into a sharp, pointed semblance of a groomed beard, painted into the yellow surface of the smooth face underneath. Red fiery spirals were drawn over his nose and forehead, with end points like arrows, one pointing down to the tip of the flared nose, the other serving as furrows in the ceramic yellow forehead. The bright red color seemed to radiate the irritation that Draco was feeling as the laughter behind him continued.
His eyes sharply turned to Goyle in the mirror, whose grin disappeared. His tall lackey nudged Crabbe with an elbow, to make him stop laughing as well. It took a few more chuckles before he actually stopped.
"Sorry," Goyle apologized, clearing his throat. The laughter from the others, Nott and Zabini had died down as well, Zabini still staring at Malfoy with an amused smirk on his face.
"It's just that—"
"You don't look anything like that mask at all," finished Crabbe.
Nott snorted. "Obvious enough, Crabbe." He rolled his eyes. Goyle and Zabini sniggered, while Draco still silently glared at everyone in the mirror.
He spun around and pulled the string from off of his hair, yanking the ceramic Chinese mask from his face. He smirked, shrugging and regaining his composure. There was now another mask on his face to replace the one he'd just taken off, the regular arrogant and snobby one that he wore as a rule when he was at Hogwarts.
He snorted. "It looks absurd, right? Thought I would give you goons a laugh. I can't believe that someone would actually bring this thing to Hogwarts. Do you think they got it from their junkyard at home?" He scoffed at the mask, looking at it with derision, as laughter met his ears again, this time at his words rather than at the painted mask on his face.
In his head, he smiled. There, that was better. Tables turned satisfactorily.
As Draco lifted his arm to toss the mask behind him, he caught Blaise's look. The smirk was still on the other boy's face and his eyes were slightly narrowed, as if he saw right through Draco and his show of arrogant contempt. Blaise raised an eyebrow, amused.
Draco scowled. Arrogant twat. He didn't care what Zabini thought of him. If he didn't recognize Draco's importance then he was obviously of the wrong sort.
He tossed the mask over his shoulder, into the hallway, and heard the thumps as it bounced down the carpeted stairs.
Draco turned and flopped onto his bed, his arms behind his head, as he spoke airily to his audience. "If that's the sort that Hogwarts brings in," he continued, "I knew I should have gone somewhere else. Like to Durmstang. My father has connections there, you know."
He waved his hands through the air for effect and waited as Nott drew closer to him. It took Crabbe and Goyle a bit of a minute to do the same, turning away from the front of the room to pay attention to him on the bed. It took them long enough. What, did they move in molasses? Zabini didn't shift in his seat, but Draco knew he was listening to him. Even if he didn't gain the boy's acknowledgement right away, he'd gain it eventually. Their family was well-esteemed, of course.
"Really, in Durmstang?" repeated Nott.
Draco nodded, smirking and propping himself up onto an elbow. He elaborated, pulling the conversation towards the dirt that Hogwarts let in, compared to the blue-blooded specimens like themselves, perfection in the muddied waters of the school.
......
It was only much later, when everyone else had gone to bed, that he snuck downstairs.
The mask had fallen behind a potted plant near the fireplace, nestled in the dark niche between the side of the wall and the base of the pot. Draco picked it up, running a finger over the lines of the mask.
Now that he examined it more closely, it didn't look merely demonic or angry. It looked… determined, resolute, strong. It looked as if it could carry out whatever instructions were given to it, as if the man who inspired the mask was ambitious and willed enough to carry out whatever things he chose to do. In fact, if the mask were green and silver, perhaps it would be… a perfect mascot for Slytherin. Turn the points of the spirals into snake heads, lift the painted lips into a smirk, make the eyes shine with assuredness and pride… and the man that wore this painted face would be a worthy denizen of their house.
Draco sucked on the corner of his lip and then decided.
He crept back up the staircase, slipping into the dorm room he shared with the other four boys. The snores of Crabbe and Goyle hit the air, annoyingly loud in the small space. Was he really going to have to deal with that for six more years?, he thought in annoyance.
As he passed his bed, he slipped the mask in between the mattress. He'd put it in a more secure place later. It was… kind of cool.
He slid into bed, and covered his ears with a pillow, half-drowning out the sound of Crabbe and Goyle. Soon, he fell asleep.
٭ ٭ ٭
November 1992 – The First Crush
The tail of the blue robe swooshed past the audience as the broom raced up past the stands, rejoining the specters of blue and yellow in the sky.
"Luxmens has rejoined the field! The quaffle comes his way and ohh—he stole it! He dodges around the Hufflepuff chasers and passes it to McArthur! No, to Covell. Luxmens! Fast today aren't they? Luxmens dodges a bludger, swerves in an absolutely magnificent show of skill and… the Ravenclaw crowd cheers! Luxmens blasted through Keifer's guard and scored the goal! Now that's what I call quidditch. 50 to 20, Ravenclaws up!"
The end of Lee Jordan's commentary was lost in the roar of the crowd, cheers and screams erupting from the blue section of the audience, loud groans emerging from the yellow one. As one of the Hufflepuff chasers rebounded the quaffle, Luxmens briefly flew over the Ravenclaws' heads, doing a short celebratory circle above them. They cheered louder, clapping as he darted back into formation with the other Ravenclaw chasers, working to prevent the Hufflepuffs from scoring a goal.
Draco observed the entire spectacle in slight boredom, zoning out the noises from the students of the two houses playing this quidditch game. As far as he was concerned, Luxmens was the only player worthy of any attention on the pitch today, talented and naturally skilled. The sixth year knew it too, not hesitating to celebrate his goals with a short bout of showing off, making quidditch look easy just because he could. Draco didn't resent him for his arrogance; in fact he admired him for it. If he could play as good as him, he'd boast himself as a star as well. (Well, he still did boast, actually. But if he were as good as Luxmens he wouldn't have been made fool of in the recent match, the first of the season.)
His eyes scanned the crowd, searching in the midst of the scarlet robes for the brown head. There he was. Potter. That infuriating mass of troll snot. It wasn't enough that the school thought that he was the golden hero of all time, but he also just had to have a reserve of natural quidditch talent as well. He didn't deserve the title of a proper wizard, really, much less the status of having beat a Malfoy at quidditch in the past match. It just wasn't fair. And Draco had gotten the best of brooms too, the latest! He'd just—
He cut himself short before he could start mentally whining like a child. His father had always gotten on him about that. If you can't think like a man, then you'll never be worthy of being one. "You'll never be worthy of being anything but scum underneath the sole of someone's shoe. The level of one's superiority is determined by blood, but maintained by the stature of one's actions…"
Right…whatever…maturity…, Draco mumbled in his head.
His eyes turned back to the sky, to see Luxmens score yet another goal. 80 to 30. This game would be over soon, it seemed, just as soon as the snitch was found.
He let his eyes linger over Luxmens as he flew. His lithe, quick movements, his cocky, mischievous grin, the way his hands barely even graced the surface of his broom handle for it to turn just the way he wanted it to… Draco found himself sighing.
If only he could… be like him...
"Something wrong?" a grunt to his side questioned.
Draco took his eyes away from the figure of Luxmens in the sky regretfully, to focus on Crabbe on the bench beside him. He frowned at him, his mood falling to irritated very quickly. "Nothing's wrong," he snapped. "Watch the game, nitwit. You'll miss the catching of the snitch."
"You're the one that needs practice for that," Crabbe snickered beside him. After a few more seconds he started to chuckle in unabashed amusement; it seemed the thought of this method of Draco improving his seeking skills had permeated his brain.
Draco let his glare melt from anger to pure ice. He'd been meaning to try the trick for a while, something that he'd seen his father use to persuade his way into places in the Ministry he wouldn't have otherwise been able to go. As Draco let his icy glare linger, Crabbe's chuckles turned to gulps, and then nervous hiccups as he spoke nervously.
"You…you don't need any practice at all," Crabbe stuttered. "You'll get it next time..."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "I thought so."
He turned away, focusing on the match again in peace. The game had moved on since he'd been interrupted, Luxmens now dancing around bludgers, as the chasers below him passed and stole the quaffle. Hufflepuff, then Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw again, back to Hufflepuff…
The game drew on monotonously. The snitch was still taking a bloody long time to find. Draco's eyes roamed over the players in turn, keeping track of the game for a short moment, before his attention drifted away again. Unless the Gryffindors, their main competitors, were playing, there was just no reason to stay alert. The Ravenclaws were good, but they were underdogs. No real threat.
His eyes drifted back up to Luxmens, the star of the game, finding him a much more interesting specimen than the dance of the blue and yellow below. He frowned, both admiringly and wistfully. Even the way the chaser dodged the bludgers that flew past him, cutting through them in his path through the air, was spectacular.
Luxmens ducked underneath one, the ivory skin of his neck peeking out from beneath the collar of his quidditch robes. He shifted, and his robes clung his back, showcasing the shape of his shoulders as they moved underneath the fabric, the firm, tight muscles of his back. The chaser twisted to avoid another bludger that came flying his way, and the robes tightened around his lower torso, outlining the toned abs that were underneath his robes.
Draco imagined their work, each individual muscle contracting as Luxmens shifted once more, pressing the broomstick with his thick thighs as he steered it towards the three hoops. The position of his hips shifted as he lifted himself up just a bit more, his back extending as he reached up to grab the quaffle that flew towards him, the white of his knuckles as he clutched the ball, glaring defiantly at the keeper who glared back at him, daring him to try and get past… And of course, as usual, Luxmens did.
Draco found himself staring once more, half caught between Luxmen's actual movements and the precision of them he saw magnified in his imagination. His stomach felt hot. He swallowed, slowly, deliberately, as if that would take it away. He was in awe, he knew. He swallowed again.
The roar snapped him out of his daze.
Draco looked around in confusion for the sound, and then saw that the Ravenclaws were cheering, and whistling.
"The snitch has been caught! The snitch has been caught!" Lee commented, his booming voice as excited as the Ravenclaws. "Ravenclaw wins, 260 to 90!"
"That's not winning," an older Slytherin two rows down from Malfoy announced to the girl beside her. "That's a slaughter." She and her friend giggled loudly.
"Luxmens…" Goyle grunted briefly beside Malfoy.
Malfoy frowned. "Speak in complete sentences," he chided automatically. "We are speaking English here, not grunt."
Goyle frowned. "There's a Grunt?"
Malfoy scowled. "What were you saying?"
Crabbe butted in. "I think he was saying Luxmens'll be hard to beat."
"In the next match," added Goyle.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Luxmens won't be that tough, because he won't even score that many points. The Ravenclaw players are like sticks; we can easily take them. And us Slytherins… well, I am their ace player, you know. I'll get that snitch in ten minutes; the game will be over before it's even truly begun."
Crabbe and Goyle nodded beside him, reassured, though Goyle still looked like he wanted to ask a question.
"What is it, Goyle?"
"Well… who does speak Grunt?"
Malfoy shrugged. "Maybe giants." He stood up, preparing to leave behind the students that were already dispersing. Crabbe and Goyle stood up after him, Goyle frowning at his back.
"So I can speak Giant?"
Crabbe made a discontented noise behind him. "Why can Goyle speak Giant and I can't?"
"Maybe he's better than you," Malfoy muttered disinterestedly, not truly paying attention to his words as he gestured for his two companions to walk in front of him and create a wider path. They obeyed, passing him, and students pushed themselves out of their pathway.
Goyle turned to Crabbe as he walked. He laughed, a vague, booming sound. "Hear that? I'm better than you."
Crabbe scowled. "Tch. Malfoy thinks I'm better at everything else though, don't you, Malfoy?"
"No, he doesn't," Goyle argued back. "He thinks I'm better. He just said so."
They had parted the thick crowd, stepping onto the hard ground of the grass around the quidditch pitch. They walked forward, continuing their argument.
Draco's eyes ran across the crowd of students heading through the doors leading into the castle. His eyes alighted on the three figures near the door, around which the other students were giving a wide berth. A group of Hufflepuff students passed the trio and stopped their whispered conversation, glaring before they turned away, putting up a cold shoulder.
Among the trio, Granger's mouth thinned, looking after them angrily.
Green eyes rose and met his. Harry Potter's. They turned angry, defiant.
Draco treated Potter to a taunting smirk, turning away as the Weasley twins made their way over to the three second year Gryffindor students, Potter's current bodyguards against the accusations of him being the Slytherin Heir.
"Move," Malfoy ordered his two goons before him, and they cleared a pathway for him again, so he could stride through the crowd easily.
⸗ ⸗ ⸗ ⸗ ⸗
The day was oddly hot, muggy even, befitting a mid-summer day rather than the season of almost-winter that was currently resident to Hogwarts. But the students in the Potions classroom hugged their black robes closer to them, warding themselves against the chill of the usually cold air of the dungeons.
The Potions Master weaved in between the rows of the benches and seats, his long, curved nose and hard, narrowed eyes looking down on the second-years as they worked, his mouth in its traditional sullen line. The icy aura that he emitted as he passed produced another source of coolness, chilling the students even further. Perhaps he was a personal practitioner of the theory that a cold atmosphere produced better concentration and results, because as he leaned over a few students to murmur into their ears that their potions were coming along terribly, they seemed to straighten up and shakily redo their work to make a slightly better one.
Draco concentrated on the timing of his strokes as he stirred, counting under his breath. 1…2…3…4…
The partner that he'd been paired with was slicing up luminescent fish scales into splinter-sized pieces, her tiny, nimble hands perfectly suited for the job. Draco had assigned her to the tedious bits, eyeing her over his shoulder while he concentrated on making the potion correctly. If he'd been paired with a Gryffindor it would have been a harder task to accomplish. More headbutting and spitting insults under their breaths and less things that would actually be accomplished. He was grateful to have a fellow Slytherin working with him, and even more grateful to not have his usual partners—the pair of goons, Crabbe and Goyle—at his side. They could never slice as effectively as they needed to with their swollen, large fingers, and their skills in counting were as bad as their telltale grades in home-schooled Arithmancy might suggest.
"The scales are done," the sharp-nosed, frizzy haired Slytherin next to him informed him. She slid him the finished mound of luminescent specks, and he raised a hand, ignoring her as he continued to count. …22…23…24…25.
The series of strokes were done and the potion had turned a pleasant rosy color. Wonderful, he was pleased with the shade of red.
He reached beside him and grabbed the tray of scales, dropping them into the cauldron. The potion hissed.
He set the tray back on the table, looking back at the girl he'd mentally assigned the role of minion for that lesson. She stared back at him with slightly bored eyes, her tiny lips frozen in a pursed state.
He pointed at the board. "We need beetle's eyes," he reminded her. "Eleven of them."
She shrugged, and then slid off of her chair, walking up to the front of the room. Draco looked down to stir the cauldron once more, now concentrating on it only enough to ensure that the froth emerging from it was the proper thickness. When his partner came back with the beetle's eyes, she added them to a secondary mixture she was doing, grinding them up into a messy powder. Draco looked up from his potion, his eyes skimming the room.
They narrowed as they saw the frizzy brown hair of Hermione Granger, stirring her cauldron with complete ease. He rose onto his tiptoes to peer over another student's head and into her cauldron. It was a perfect scarlet, frothing up to what was presumably the perfect thickness. He scowled. He would outperform that dirt witch one day; he swore it.
Near him, he spotted his two goons frowning at their potion cluelessly. Grey smoke rose from its bubbling depths, gurgling loudly throughout the room. Draco raised an eyebrow. Really, it should be a crime to let those two partner together in the same lesson. Things were bound to go awry.
But as a brush of cold air swept past him, he looked up to see Professor Snape heading not for Crabbe and Goyle's potion but for Neville Longbottom's. The spindly Gryffindor boy was staring at his cauldron nervously, nibbling on his bottom lip as he tried to fix whatever mistakes he had made this time. Draco smirked, sniggering under his breath. The only person in the room who was worse than Crabbe and Goyle combined, providing the main source of hilarity in the otherwise dry, tense room. Snape had opened his mouth to chide him, his lip curling as he told him that the potion was unfit for ever consuming while the drinker was still actually alive.
Draco and the girl next to him laughed with the other Slytherins at the remark, while Longbottom's ears turned beet red.
⸗ ⸗ ⸗ ⸗ ⸗
The first time he went there, he'd convinced himself it was simply a reconnaissance mission. A way to pit his skills against the other's, to observe him up close and in motion, away from everyone else, and to gather information on how to become far better.
He'd slipped around the corner of the wall to the quidditch pitch, sprinting into a dark niche further in and then settling down into it, where he'd have a better view. In the darkness, he wouldn't be seen from the air, by the player he would be observing. Seth Luxmens, the star player for the Ravenclaw team, the single-handed scorer of most of the points in the game.
The sandy-haired teen came out here during certain days of the week, when no quidditch teams were scheduled to use the pitch that evening for practice, to practice by himself and improve on his own skills; extra practice outside of his team's. Though it wasn't a secret, it was a tradition that was respected through the school. Even Luxmens' most devoted groupies avoided the area at this time, taking their giggling and heart-shaped candies elsewhere for the time being.
Draco nestled into the space, sliding the soles of his shoes further out so he could rest his elbows against his raised knees as he stared up into the sky. His idol was there, practicing diligently as always. The cocky, self-assured air that he showed during the game was gone, replaced by a sort of silent determination that Draco could spot on his face even from this distance. His ice blue eyes glared into the air in front of him as if daring it to try and stop him, as he settled into his routine.
Draco frowned up at Luxmens, watching him in his dance. It was far more athletic and strenuous than the acrobatic, showy moves he had done effortlessly while playing in the game before. This time it looked as if it actually took effort, patience and time.
Luxmens curved and whipped through the air to improve on flexibility, dived and flew in patterns that would increase broom control, tossed three different quaffles high into the air and sped to catch them in a sort of mad juggle, flinging one and speeding to catch another as that one left his hand. It was a sort of magic all of its own. Watching him could almost make the real game of quidditch seem uninteresting; his dance was the only art that could fully satisfy the mind at all.
But what left Draco intrigued wasn't so much Luxmens' show of practice and focus, or even his extraordinary quidditch skill; it was the boys' eyes. While he was engaged in the athletic display of passion, his eyes were hard, cold, fierce. Draco felt his shoulders slacken as his arms slid off of his kneecaps, and he found himself leaning forward. What was Luxmens focusing so hard on? What was going through his head? Draco wanted to crack open that skull of his, to get inside of his thoughts. What was going on behind those eyes?
By the time it was truly dark, Luxmens started to wind up his routine, and Draco was sneaking out from his hiding space, creeping away from the quidditch pitch and out onto the main grounds in the darkness. He sprinted across the lawn and ducked below the windows, so no one would spot him. Then he silently pulled open one of the main double doors to the Great Hall and snuck through the dungeons of Hogwarts to his common room, before anyone noticed he'd violated curfew.
Afterwards, he went back again. And after a few more times of watching Luxmens' play, Draco realized that he didn't watch the player because he wanted to improve, or because he wanted to spy on his techniques, or even particularly because he admired him—though he did, certainly. Instead, he realized that he went to the pitch during the Ravenclaw's single practice sessions simply because he enjoyed it.
There was a thrill in sneaking out of the castle after curfew, hiding in the dark niche where Luxmens couldn't see him, and spying on him through the darkness of the space, getting a first class seat to a view that no one else was privileged to. It filled him with a sense of importance and pride, as if the sixth year was performing solely for him. There was also an adrenaline rush to it—he found his heart beating hard in his chest as he stared up at him, taking his delicious time to soak in every movement, little twist and turn, absorbing the view that he wouldn't allow himself to stare at during the game, for fear of snickered remarks that would result if anyone discovered where his eyes had been.
He started to note things unrelated to the quidditch practice: the nimbleness of Luxmens' fingers, the sharp joints of his wrists and hands, the way his hips curved against his robes, the fierceness in his intense gaze, the strength in his clamped jaw. They were odd observations, certainly, but after enough times of scrutinizing him while he practiced, Draco suspected he could tell him the exact number of scars he had on the length of his arms, and had already imagined from where most of them had originated.
And underneath the excitement of spying, another source of heat throbbed from deeper within him, flushing his cheeks scarlet red and making his breath quicken every time Luxmens' eyes almost looked his way, glancing over his hiding spot while he flew overhead.
That evening, Draco left when he felt his pants tighten uncomfortably around his crotch.
He slipped into the entrance to the castle, looking around briefly to make sure that Peeves, Filch, Mrs. Norris, or no other source of irritation were around that he'd have to avoid. Lately the professors had been like sentries over the school, with the panic around the rumored opening of the Chamber of Secrets. If they found him out of his dorm now, he'd be accused of bloody murder. While he'd enjoy the attention, he didn't really prefer to be in the spot that Potter and his crew were in right now. It just wouldn't do for his image, being caught sneaking around the castle, especially with a tent in his pants.
Satisfied that there was no one around that could catch him and drag him away, Draco rushed down to the quidditch teams' lockers. He twisted the knob to the Slytherins' room (only one, since the team was all male) and ducked inside, clicking the door shut behind him. He sighed when he'd reached his haven, the closest, deserted place he could think of going right then, and then reached behind him, pulling his wand out from the waistband of his trousers.
"Lumos," he muttered in the darkness.
A speck of light appeared at the end of his wand, lighting up the room. It didn't provide much light, but it was satisfactory for the short time he'd be there.
He sank down the wall and landed into a sitting position, back pressed against the cold wall, legs spread outwards. He tussled with his tangled robe underneath him for a moment, before yanking it off his arms. It dropped, pooling around his waist, as he slid his feet outwards so he could reach the zipper of his pants more easily.
He relieved himself quickly, with practiced skill, wishing he had a more comfortable setting, or proper materials like lotion to handle it better. When he was done, he cleaned himself up and eventually rearranged his clothes, recollecting himself into a more refined image. He threw on his robes again, shaking his head to rid himself of the aftereffects of the heated, blinding need to masturbate.
That had been… embarrassing. Imagine if Luxmens had seen him. It would have been humiliating. Getting excited just from watching a bout of quidditch practice? What sort of pansy was he?
Somehow the embarrassment slid away, leaving him simply with the image of Luxmens noticing him. If he had looked down and seen Draco, staring up at him, awed by his playing, obviously aroused… what would he have thought? What would he have done?
Draco shook his head again, ridding himself of the silly childish thoughts. He was a Malfoy; he should think like one and be seen like one, at all times. But the niggling image in the back of his mind was still a possibility of what would have happened had Luxmens caught him. Perhaps he would have flown down to speak to Malfoy himself. Perhaps he would have leaned into him, pressing him against the wall, his hot breath a whisper on his skin as his hands slid down Draco's shirt, over his waist, to his fly... and he would have—
Draco shook his head again, concentrating on the stone silent, solemn gray surroundings around him before he gave himself another hard on. He bit his lip, half-furious with himself. What the hell was that? He was really just a bit too horny these days, honestly. He knew he was a teenage boy, but really now.
He opened the door a crack and peeked out of it, making sure the coast was clear. Then he left the room, sneaking through the halls to retreat back to his dorm again.
⸗ ⸗ ⸗ ⸗ ⸗
"So I heard these noises coming from his room, right? And I pull open the door to find my brother in there, with his best girl friend. An' they were…" The third year let his statement trail off.
The other boys, mostly first years, soon jumped in after the silence went on for a few seconds.
"What? What were they doing?"
"Aw, come on, mate, tell us!"
"You're gonna leave us hanging?"
The speaker sucked in a long breath of air, procrastinating longer, while the tension built up in the waiting boys around him. Draco reclined on a couch at the head of the common room, staring at Francis Melrose from his position with his head propped up against his pillow. His ankles were crossed at the end of the couch, as his mouth tilted sourly at Melrose, only half-interested, but irritated at the interruption nonetheless.
Come on, he mentally ordered the older boy. Spit it out before the rest of them all fall into heart failure.
"Well," Melrose finally continued. "They were doin' it."
"Doing it?"
"What is 'it'?"
"What other 'it' is it, you dimwit?" The boy turned to Francis. "Seriously, Melrose?"
The boy shrugged. He was enjoying the attention, Draco could tell.
"O' course I'm serious, guys. Why would I tell a lie?"
Because you're a Slytherin. Because you're an attention seeker. Because you want to act knowledgeable since you're a year older. Because you're a bloody Scottish prat, Draco rattled off in his head. There were a number of reasons as to why he would tell a lie, really.
Draco leaned up onto his elbows, propping himself up on the couch as he frowned at the boy. "So they were doing it. And then what?"
"And then he kicked me out of the room," Melrose admitted. "But still, I totally saw it. And she was like…" he held up his hands six inches in front of his chest and squeezed the air. "Like this and this, she was huge, man."
The boys gaped, wide-eyed, and laughed accordingly, turning around and prodding each other, giggling. They mocked Melrose's gesture, squeezing the air in front of their friends.
Draco kept his eyes on Melrose, looking at him without expression. Melrose turned to meet his gaze. Draco frowned at him, scowling. Attention seeker. Draco should have been the one getting all the laughs today, not that third year bugger.
Melrose's smile dropped in the face of Draco's frown, and they stared at each other for a minute. "Have you ever done it?"
The other boys' laughter started to die down, listening in.
Draco choked slightly, taken aback by the question. "What?"
"Have you ever done it?" Melrose repeated. The other listeners had turned to Draco, staring at him, now waiting on his response.
Draco scowled, looking at them out of the corner of his eye, before looking back at Melrose. "Have you?"
The third year shrugged. "Well, I mean, not fully yet. I got sucked off plenty o' times though, behind me grammy's shed. My girl has an awesome mouth, I tell you. We plan to do it all the way next break."
Draco felt his hair bristle. Frick, he hadn't been expecting that answer. Weren't they a bit too young? Just a year older than him and he'd already had that much experience? Well… he'd just need to top him.
"Well, yeah, of course I have," he lied. "Tons of times." He waved his hand, like it really was no big deal.
Melrose stared at him skeptically. "With who?"
At the words, an image of Luxmens came unbidden into his head, and he felt a pang of heat in his groin again. He shooed the image away, and replaced it of a much more appropriate and plausible one.
"My mum's… exercise… partner. When she came over a few times. Cute, redhead, and fit, with like… gorgeous eyes and big…" He held his hands up in front of him and fondled the air, even farther away from his chest than Melrose had been. The other Slytherin's eyes widened.
"Right in your mum's house?" perked up a first year.
Draco nodded, looking at him. "Of course. It's not like my mum's that observant."
Melrose's eyes had narrowed, and his mouth had tightened. He stared at Draco, glaring daggers. Draco good-naturedly ignored him.
"But she was an older woman?"
"That's so cool."
"Totally."
"Was she pure?" asked Melrose.
Draco looked back at him, his lip curling in offense. As if he'd touch anyone but. He didn't defile himself with mudbloods. "The purest," he spat Melrose's way.
They glared at each other.
⸗ ⸗ ⸗ ⸗ ⸗
His dream was a nightmare. It was filled with quaffles, flying house elves, talking snakes, Potter's emerald green eyes, the snores of his roommates like loud trumpets in his ears, and a certain sandy-haired player, flying through the open doors of the quidditch lockers onto the pitch, trumpets sounding loudly behind him in his ascent.
Draco watched from his position down below, his back pressed against the wall, his ankles feeling fuzzy. He couldn't remove his eyes from the blue-robed specter above, who was now playing a furious game of quidditch with his team in the air. So instead, he reached down blindly and tried to adjust the feeling of fuzziness.
It seemed his socks were awry.
As he tried to pull them up, they kept slipping down, and then his pants just gave out on him as well, his belt loosening and allowing the pair of trousers to slide to his fuzzy-feeling ankles.
Near the corner of the door, Potter and his trio laughed, decked out in the green and silver of the Slytherin house. Draco glared at them. How dare they laugh at him. And green and silver were his colors, not theirs. Behind them, the second year Slytherins came out, laughing and talking. They patted Potter and his trio on the back, pulling them into their circle.
Draco gaped. What? That was definitely wrong. The Slytherins were his territory, his place of reign! He tried to stand up, but heavy fabric on his ankles blocked his movement. He looked down, to see a red and gold robe there, Gryffindor colors.
Draco gagged, tossing it off of him like a sudden batch of flobberworms. Then he stood up, racing away, pulling up his pants as he went. He ran from the quidditch pitch, out to the expansive green grounds of Hogwarts, and found himself heading towards the shores of the large, glassy lake. He came to a stop, panting, out of breath, as he stared at its waters. It was strangely calm, tiny ripples caused a barely noticeable breeze in the air.
Draco stared at his reflection, putting a hand up to his face. It was alright. He still looked like himself. He was normal.
"Hey," a voice called out to him from behind.
He spun around, and found himself facing his sandy-haired idol, Seth Luxmens, still dressed in the midnight blue robes of the Ravenclaw team.
Draco's heart skipped in his chest. "You?"
Seth came closer, holding his broomstick at his side as he approached. He frowned at Draco, his eyes soft. "You ran from the pitch. I followed to be sure that you were alright."
Draco frowned. "But what about practice?"
Luxmens waved his hands. "It's not as if I can't take some time off from it. I practice all the time. The team won't miss me."
The sixth year stepped closer, until there was barely any space between them. He leaned down, eyes scrutinizing Draco over from head to toe. Draco gulped, his hands not paying attention to his need to show off confidence and self-assurance, and slid themselves into the back pockets of his pants instead, while he shrunk from the intense gaze of Luxmens' blue eyes.
Once the Ravenclaw was satisfied that Draco wasn't hurt or injured, he put a hand on Draco's chin, pulling him even closer. His broomstick dropped in the grass, as Draco's chest was pressed against his, feeling the heat of his hard, toned chest through his shirt, his rapid heart rate matching Luxmens.
Seth kissed him hard, his warm lips bleeding through Draco's fear and chill. His teeth nibbled on Draco's lower lip and stinging ringlets of blood dribbled down to his chin, but he didn't really care. He kissed him back, feeling that telltale warmth in his stomach.
Words rang in his head, from years ago. Boys don't kiss boys. But why? He asked those distant words, as if they would reply back to him. It felt so good; it felt very very good.
When he awoke, he gasped, sitting up straight. He blinked, half-disoriented at his surroundings, before he realized that he was in the same four-poster bed he always had at Hogwarts, and the snores of his dormmates rang in chorus around him.
He looked down, frowning, and then reached underneath his covers, touching the front of his pajamas. Wet.
His mouth twisted in dismay as he looked up to the ceiling. He pulled his lower lip into his mouth, sucking on it absently. Then he gasped, taking his lower lip out again, like he'd been doused with cold water. The memory of those blood driplets had entered his brain again, caused by Luxmens' teeth, nipping at his soft flesh.
He had a crush. On Luxmens, a star quidditch player, certainly, but no one that he should rightly be crushing on.
He frowned, trying to recall the word. What was it again, that Melrose had said once before, showing them a magazine that proved the existence of men who had crushes other men? Oh right, that was it.
Fag.
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Author's Note: The mask that I refer to in the first part is actually the Chinese Opera mask of Yuwen Chengdu. Not much is known on the character, but I thought it a very fitting mask for the situation.
Also, I refer to the school years in dates rather than actually introducing the headings with 'first year' or 'second year' etc. So 1991 is his first year and 1992 is his second year, etc. I try to keep it in line with canon, but in some places that's not possible, partly due to my lack of physical references at the moment (ie. Any of the HP books. ).
Btw, 12 and 13 year olds should not be having sex. Just wanted to make that clear. v.v
Thank you for reading the first chapter of A False Identity. I appreciate it. ^^
Please do comment and review; I always appreciate responses.
--Paz