Chapter three: A sticky situation
It was nine o' clock, on a Sunday evening, and Harry Potter was going to his first rave party. The teen knew it could prove to be a sticky situation (in more ways than one -smirk-), but what was the point of being an inconsiderate teenager, with no respect for the limits placed upon you by your elders -who only want to look out for your safety, if you couldn't inconsiderately jump, blindly and wholeheartedly, into a possibly problematic situation?
See his point? No? Well, he saw it, and that was enough incentive for the likes of him.
The young Potter was standing in the queue, waiting for his turn to enter, dressed from head to toe in his new clubbing outfit: very fitting, black leather trousers, military boots, and a silvery wife beater shirt. For privacy's sake and fear of encountering someone from Hogwarts, he'd transfigured his raven locks into dirty blonde ones, spiked up with an unhealthy amount of gel, which would have made Draco Malfoy proud.
He'd left his eyes as they were, but had performed a temporary sight correcting charm, thankfully not poking out one of his eyes. His glasses were too much of a tell tale sign, and besides, he looked sexier this way. Vain male.
And finally, he'd covered up his scar with a nice transfiguration, a notice-me-not charm and some muggle foundation, just for security.
After he'd headed off for Gringotts, he'd exited Diagon Alley, and went wandering about muggle London's shops. In some little side street, he'd found a small shop selling clothes.
The girl at the counter had helped him chose a few new outfits, among which the one he was wearing. After making him try everything on, giving him some colour coordination tips, and forcing him to come out of the cubicle to show himself all donned up, she'd then cornered him and forced some eyeliner on him.
According to her, his skin was quite pale, so his eyes needed a nice "frame" to stand out further.
Harry had wondered if she'd been mentally instable, but the girl had only muttered that HP slash fan fics and liking androgynous singers could do that to any girl.
Barmy. What were slash fan fics anyway?
(A.N: Wouldn't you like to know? -leers- Yet again, you could be scarred for life...)
Voldemort leaned against a pillar, surveying the long queue to enter the famous underground club. He really didn't feel like waiting in line for so long, but he wasn't a Dark Lord for nothing. He knew quite a few invisibility spells, and he planned on using one soon.
Massaging his temples, he willed away the beginning of a new migraine, and contemplated on the familiarity of the situation. It wasn't the first time his plans had gone up, and over the wall.
Right about now, he should have been sun bathing in Tahiti, while sipping a cocktail and reading "9.999 Ways to Irritate the Boy Who Lives to Ruin Your Days" by Tom Marvolo Riddle. A very talented writer indeed.
And here he was, dressed in muggle clothing, wearing a ridiculous hat, in his stealthy attempt to avoid being seen by a certain... someone (He had a hunch. He was sure someone or something was following him. And this had nothing to do with his usual paranoia regarding a rhinoceros in a pink tutu and a pig with glasses, who enjoyed quoting Shakespeare. No sir!), going to drown his sorrows in a club full of young, sweaty, excited bodies, rubbing themselves against each other, in lewd fashions, to the rhythm of the music blasting out of the speakers; while depressed, fugitive -not that he knew it yet- psychos, such as himself, sat drinking some illegal alcoholic concoction at the bar.
Technically he could have just apparated away to some location, showed up at some hotel, scared the wits out of the dim-witted receptionist and got the best room with a bonus discount. But... fuck technicalities, he'd wanted to do things the normal way for once. Act like someone normal, not like some deranged Dark Lord (with a house-elf hot on his heals) on holiday... which, basically, he was.
Lady Luck hadn't lent him a helping hand, and so he'd had to endure Vicky, Sandra and Matilda's advances. Merlin's balls. Next raid, his followers would be visiting three travel agencies. And he would make sure the guests of honour would be there.
And if all that had happened to him wasn't enough, he couldn't return home, because he had this bad feeling, which had been assaulting him since he'd left the manor. And something told him that Bilky was out for his blood. Probably something to do with the carpet.
Not-a-good-thing. He thought, shuddering to himself.
Why did he have to hire deranged, hyper, sensitive (Since when? That elf was Satan personified! Sensitive, my arse!), psycho house-elves?
Oh, right, appearances.
Harry's patience was shortening by the minute. Why was the bloody queue moving a centimetre an hour? Why did he have to pick the longest queue? Why did the woman in front of him disconcertingly resemble Albus Dumbledore with shiny, pink lipstick? No, it wasn't really him; he'd checked, the... woman, definitely had a bosom. Unless... (Ugh. Bad thought, bad thought. Euck!)
Anyway. Why did he have to stay stuck out here, while dozens of randy males got to act like animals? Why was life so unfair to him? Why did his evening have to start like this? Why-
Author: WHY DON'T YOU SHUT UP AND GET ON WITH THE BLASTED STORY?
Ok, so that's how Harry Potter decided to be astute. Muttering something about the toilet, he slipped out of the queue, and ducked into the nearest, private alcove. Which turned out to be occupied, so he ducked into another one, which, yes, was occupied. So he...
No, he didn't go looking for another alcove. He stunned the two muggles and hid himself behind a dust bin. He pulled off one of his boots, and fished around the inside of the shoe. Finally, he pulled out a crumpled, miniature invisibility cloak, resized it, and slipped it on, pulling the hood up.
Five minutes later, Harry was in front of the entrance. Creeping around the nearest guard who looked like a giant gorilla, he slinked towards the door but bumped into something. Something invisible.
"What the-?" he muttered. Luckily he hadn't attracted "King Kong"'s attention.
Picking himself up from the ground, he padded slowly, then ran towards the door.
CRASH!
Oh fuck! What was it? Was there some invisible barrier blocking him from entering? Had the Headmaster placed some bouncing spell on him, which activated when he tried going to clubs? Was there someone else?
Getting up again, he slowly walked forward. The presence was there, next to him.
"You first," he muttered.
"Thanks," replied the voice, and the presence was gone. What a mad world. Shrugging, he checked for any guards, and walked forward.
CRASH!
For God's sake! Why do people have to leave banana skin peals around, where people can easily kill themselves?
An hour later, Voldemort was on his eighth Bloody Mary - spiked of course, looked still remarkably insane, err... remotely sane, that is. And thankfully hadn't yet jumped onto the counter, singing "I'm-A-Dark-Lord-And-Looking-For-Love", doing the "Mucho Crucio" dance, and using his wand as a microphone.
If he did end up in such a situation, he hoped he could resist the urge to go skipping around the room, shouting out "Avada Kedavra" at random strangers and watching them fall dead, without any explanation to his alcohol befuddled mind.
That last experience hadn't been fun. A whole bunch of Aurors had apparated in the pub, wand pointed to a very pissed Dark Lord's throat, with some deathly curse on the tip of their tongues. Luckily he'd started singing Jingle Bells, and that had scared them off...
Uh, he should have learnt by now, that getting drunk wasn't going to solve his problems.
Just as he was about to take a sip from his ninth glass, a young blond (What was it with blondes today?) male (Oh, thank God, I thought it was Vicky Two The Revenge), sat down next to him and ordered a Bacardi.
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