Chapter 3: Bernie's
I've slept for two hours this afternoon. I did lie down, because he told me to. I didn't need the extra sleep; I didn't pull that all-nighter.
My room might be a bit of a mess, I might have motivational issues with managing stuff like getting myself a new fridge, but I've got a routine of sleeping six hours straight every night.
With my complete lack of a social life, it's kind of hard to build up a lack of sleep.
So now, at half past ten in the evening, I'm wide awake.
Thinking about him touring the clubs in pursuit of pleasure.
I've heard about his exploits, his escapades. They're legend.
I didn't have to do any snooping to learn about stuff like how he won this year's costume contest at the Egypt dressed up as a pharaoh with a hex that transformed his head and shoulders into that famous mask with the blue and golden stripes, then managed to have the prize changed from a voucher for a dinner for two to free booze for a private Pharaoh-themed party at the club's main backroom.
People say he recruited a dozen slaves from a hundred volunteers for that party. I can perfectly imagine how he sorted through the applicants to select the ones to his taste, then changed their clothes to just sandals and grass skirts with no more than a bored flip of his wand.
He so could have been an ancient decadent emperor.
I see him in my mind's eye, smirking.
"Darling, you need to live a little."
I guess he's right. If I don't live, at least a little, then there wasn't much point in not getting myself killed by Voldemort.
I've long since stopped to subscribe to the wisdom that life's pleasures are worth its pains, because its pains just really suck, but maybe I'm wrong.
And maybe the fliers littering the Hall's lobby don't lie when they say you're in for the most epic fun of your life if you come attend the all-you-can-drink rave at the so-and-so club next Friday.
And then…
He can't respect me if I'm this weirdo.
I don't need him to respect me, obviously.
Or maybe I do.
Suddenly I can't bear to be who I am.
The boring, damaged Saviour.
Who could never be with Draco Malfoy, not even as his thirteenth slave.
My gaze strays to the bottle in the bin, like I hadn't just caught his hair in it but a genie, to be summoned in case of need.
In a way, I did.
I can't be with him.
But I can be the next best thing.
I can be him. -
I've got a Polyjuice base in my medicine kit.
All I need to do is put that base in my folding cauldron and heat it, then add Draco's hair.
Preparing potions is strictly forbidden in LCWL Hall for fire safety reasons, but I wouldn't have cared about stuff like that in the old days.
Back when I still had my Gryffindor adventure spirit.
I lock my door with Securio, then get the cauldron out from under the bed. -
I'm Draco.
There's my new reflection in the mirror on my door. It's blurry, until I realize I need to lose my glasses.
My tracksuit looks so absurd on Draco it makes me grin, and that's his smirk on my face. His face. I watch it, for the first time at leisure.
God, that smirk. It's so sexy it makes my toes curl.
And my groin twitch.
It's crazy and a little bit creepy to pop wood from watching yourself in the mirror.
I turn away. I've got a plan; I need to focus. I'm going to go out as Draco Malfoy, which means I've got to lose this tracksuit and change into my coolest clothes.
As I dig through my cupboard, I realize that all my stuff is really ancient and plain-Jane. Or plain-Joe, whatever.
In the end I decide on a pair of combat trousers and a plaid shirt.
The trousers need a bit of lengthening. Needlecraft magic isn't my strong suit, but the result of my Tailor hex is passable.
The shirt is okay. I bought it in double XL because I like my clothes baggy, so it fits Draco's built. And it has got long sleeves. That's good, because the polyjuice didn't replicate the Dark Mark.
He's still got that.
Most of the times he keeps it covered up. He has developed a kind of tick actually, a continuous tugging on his left sleeve. He isn't aware he's doing it, but I know he's trying to make sure the sleeve is covering the mark.
There are those times when he forgets about it though; sometimes his sleeve rides up his arm when he pushes his hair back, smiling down at me.
It's remarkable how I've stopped to really see the skull and snakes.
That image used to be so powerful, the icon of ultimate evil.
These days, to me at least, it's just a friend's old, tasteless tattoo that he got in his troubled teens.
I button the cuffs, then check my outfit in the mirror.
I look good.
Hell, of course I do, I'd look good in anything that isn't Harry Potters old tracksuit. I'm Draco Gorgeous Malfoy.
And I'm going to paint the town. -
Bernie's.
I picked it because it's the club that sounds the least gay.
The least scary.
But the moment I'm past the bouncer, who waved me through after he had just told everyone in the queue that the club was full, it becomes clear that I've done this thing they call step outside your comfort zone.
In an instant, I find myself in the centre of a group of boys who seem to have been lingering in the hallway with the sole purpose of meeting up with me.
"Hey, D! Good to see you! What's with the shirt!"
"Draco, sweetie! Gimme a kiss! What's with the shirt!"
"D! Come here! You know you want to, gorgeous! Love your plaids!"
They touch me, too. One of them, a scrawny boy with a face like a girl and a number of vicious-looking nipple piercings under this torn dragon hide shirt, is hanging off my arm.
I was never good with receiving attention. And then this kind of attention? I plain don't know what to do with my face. With Draco's face.
Or what to say.
I've got to say something though, or my cover will blow.
It would be so totally embarrassing if he ever found out.
Nobody must find out. I've got to pull through with what I started; I've got to play Draco and be convincing.
"Hey," I say, because inspiration is a bitch, then upgrade to, "hey guys," trying to sound like him. Self-assured, a little aloof.
It's bad I don't know any names. Else I could say something like, Timothy, please let go of my arm, you are ruining my shirt.
But then Draco would probably call Nipple Piercing darling, anyway. So I try it out, and it works. The guy lets go of me, looking at me with renewed adoration, absurdly.
"How about we go outside for a bit and share a ziggy? My treat," he chimes.
Turning towards the entrance to the club's main hall down the corridor, I tell Nipple Piercing I'll get back to him later. Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. He wiggles his metal-studded tongue at me, clearly labouring under the delusion he just received an indecent proposal.
Obviously; Draco wouldn't bother with making up excuses if he wasn't interested.
I hasten towards the blare of music coming from the main hall, hoping to disappear in the noise and bluish darkness. –
The club mostly consists of a vast dance floor with a bar in the centre. The walls are lined with red leather booths, much like in a Muggle steak house. It's quite nice, really.
Or it could be, if there weren't so many people staring at me, like I was the Minister of Magic. Or his model lover.
Or like they expected me to perform some kick ass magic on the spot. Maybe not the world-saving kind but rather some fantastic dance stunt or something, but it's not that different really. Yeah, maybe being Draco Malfoy isn't that different from being Harry Potter after all.
"Draco! D! Hey, it's Steve! Over here! Come dancing!"
The dance floor is packed with people. I've got no idea which one of the dancers is Steve. But dancing sounds like a good idea. Dancing is better than talking. Safer.
I wedge myself onto the dance floor, answering nudges and smiles with Draco's smirk, and start moving to the beats.
I have ever only danced at the Hogwarts Christmas ball. And I didn't do much dancing then, either.
From the corner of my eye, I observe the other dancers, trying to copy their moves.
It's not that hard. Left foot, right foot, knees flexing, hands swaying.
This is going alright. It's even kind of fun. I can do this.
People still stare, even more so than they did before it seems. I try to ignore it.
Two guys come dancing up to me. One with a black ponytail, the other with shiny red bangs, both of them in very skinny jeans. I guess one of them is Steve.
They are pretty guys; about my height. About Harry's height that is.
As Draco, I'm a head taller then they are.
I'm a tall blond, drawing pretty boys.
Yeah, I really don't enjoy this as much as I expected.
The crazy truth is, I'm jealous. Jealous of these hot guys that are coming on to me. Because it's really Draco they are coming on to, and if he was me at this moment, or rather, himself, he'd take them up on their offer.
And I hate that.
Hell, I'd really appreciate it if these two exercised just a little more restraint.
Their hands are all over me, and now they have started taking turns grinding their trim backsides against my front.
I'm a rookie, but even I can read that dance style.
It means that I'm expected to make out with them.
It freaks me out beyond anything. I'm straight, that's why.
"I need to go to the bathroom," the one with the ponytail screams over the music. "You coming, D?"
Hell, this is… Out of my comfort zone doesn't even begin to cover it.
Hell.
I guess I had to expect something like this to happen. This is a club. People come here to get action.
And these two obviously expect me to give them said action, because I'm Draco Malfoy, super stud.
I have to act my part. Act Draco.
But I can't do it.
Clumsily, I extricate myself from between the two boys and flee.
Only where to turn to for refuge? The bathroom, the classical choice in cases of social stress, obviously isn't safe. For want of a better alternative, I head for a booth in the club's darkest corner and dive right under the table, pretending I need to fix a problem with my sneakers.
They don't come after me. It seems I have escaped.
But the respite doesn't last.
"Taking your tragic romance to the next level tonight? Not even getting your rocks off anymore?"
When I emerge from under the table, I see it's Theodore Nott, with a mug of butterbeer in hand. At least I know his name.
"That why you chose to wear sneakers?" he asks, pointing his mug at my feet. "And that shirt, and those trousers? You trying to scare people off? I can see your socks, man."
"Shut up, Theo," I say, prodding him in the ribs like I've seen Draco do it.
But playing my part isn't what's foremost on my mind.
Tragic romance.
He just said something about Draco and a tragic romance.
"What tragic romance is that supposed to be," I ask, trying to sound bored.
"Yours? Your excuse for fucking every hole that's moving?"
"Don't know what you're talking about, darling."
At least that's one honest sentence.
"Come on. Are you trying to get back into the closet here? Not gonna work with me, mate. I know your dirty little secret. It's your own fault. Talking my ear off every time you get drunk. Whining about all the sex, and how it simply never makes you forget your mystery man like it's supposed to, and how you'll be in love with the guy forever."
His brow creases. He seems to be inspecting my shirt, or its plaid pattern. Then, without any warning, he reaches out his hand and slips it inside my shirt, down my chest.
I jump backwards.
But apparently it's not a move.
Dealing me a hearty whack in the shoulder, he cries, "You're not wearing your amulet, man! So you really got over him? Good for you, Draco! All he ever did was make you miserable!"
He takes a swig of his beer and repeats, "Good for you! I think I know who the fucker is, anyway. I always wanted to tell you, he's not worth it. Forget him. Stop the sick pining."
Theodore is so right. That guy sure isn't worth a forged knut. Mystery man. I wish I, too, knew who the fucker is. I need to cast a real nasty, disfiguring hex at him.
Heck, it's probably a long-legged, sleek-haired twink with no glasses. And no brains.
Right then, another one of those comes sashaying up to me.
Seriously, they're like flies on shit as the poet would have it.
This one's got pink and platinum hair and swimming trunks that must be the result of a paint spell. He's batting charmed lashes at me.
"Hey, gorgeous."
I don't react.
"I'm Sasha, in case you forgot. You up for it?"
"Just leave me be for a sec, Sasha, okay?" I say.
"You sure, gorgeous? I remember your impressive equipment…"
I blush so hard my face feels like coming off.
"I couldn't walk for a week," he purrs, leaning in to me. The guy is talking about getting fucked by Draco. I hate him so much I forget being embarrassed to have my equipment addressed.
"Well, I don't remember yours, darling, but I'm sorry to inform you you aren't up to my standards," I say, aiming a pointed glance at his mid section. He looks mortified.
"That was short for buzz off," I clarify. He walks off, looking utterly deflated.
I guess I should enjoy it. Being able to be nasty without any personal consequences. Getting to brush off people who think I'm hot. Even if it's just guys.
That's it, that's the problem.
I don't enjoy this because there's just guys here. No girls.
Because Ginny isn't here.
Ginny is my girlfriend, I would want her to come on to me, no one else.
I don't care if Draco fucked this Sasha guy so hard he couldn't walk for a week. In fact, I wouldn't care if he had fucked him so hard he'd dropped dead.
"Darling?" Theo says by my side, mimicking my acerbic tone.
"What's your problem?" I snap. I turn on him, and he shrinks back a bit. I'm Draco, I'm all kinds of toned, I could crush him without using my wand.
I love Polyjuice.
"You don't call people darling, at least I've never heard you do it before?" Theodore says. "You're weird tonight, D."
And shrugging at me, he saunters off.
I take a deep breath, relieved at seeing him leave, when he turns around one more time.
"Didn't you say you'd check out the Bong tonight? The place not up to your standards, either?"
Shit. Oh man, I didn't think of that.
Shit, he's going to see Draco at some point, and they are going to talk. Draco is going to find out about this.
I tell myself to calm down.
He'll know somebody polyjuiced into him. He won't know its me.
He won't know its me.
I need a drink.
That's one good thing about being in this club, there's a bar here, and they are bound to have cold drinks on offer that deserve to be called that.
I walk up to the counter, automatically bracing myself for the task of getting the barkeeper to acknowledge me. There's a problem with my body language or something; I'm the kind of guy who gets ignored by bar personnel. At least when I'm wearing lenses and when my scar isn't visible.
The barkeeper waves at me when I'm still yards away from the counter.
Of course. I don't have my glasses, or my scar, but I look like Draco Malfoy, king of gay England.
"The usual, D?"
The usual. It's probably some kind of hard liquor, like firewhiskey mixed with something even worse.
I can't afford to get wasted. And I will if I drink alcohol. After my operations, the healers told me to avoid it, and now I'm not used to it anymore.
"I'll have a pumpkin juice," I say.
Guillaume's eyebrows shoot up so they vanish under his bright blue fringes. I know his name is Guillaume because it says so on his name tag.
"What got into you, cheri!" he says, the shock bringing out a strong French accent. "You got the stomach flu? You like a snakeweed tea?"
I find that I'd love that, in case he can make it an iced tea, and tell the guy that. He stares at me, then starts laughing.
"You're shitting me, man! You nearly got me there."
He wags a heavily ringed finger at me, then goes on to smoothly prepare some toxic looking drink.
He does a couple of barkeeper stunts, like letting the bottles do a break dance act on the counter, then directing two different liquids into the cocktail glass in intertwining spurts, like the DNA double helix.
In the end I get a green and silver striped drink with a little cloud of fog rising from it like liquid nitrogen.
I'm forced to take a sip under Guillaume's expectant gaze.
I try not to grimace.
By Gryffindor, that's worse than Poppy Pomfrey's coughing potion.
My eyes water.
He's still watching me. No, he's watching my shirt.
"Where's your amulet," he asks. "You over him?"
Hell, so Draco poured his heart out about mystery man to Guillaume, too.
Well, I guess it's kind of a classic, with the guy being a bartender.
"That man is ancient history," I say forcefully, wishing he was.
I hate mystery man.
I can't very well ask Guillaume if he knows who it is.
And I can't ask how much my usual drink is, either, so I throw a gold galleon on the counter.
"What's that supposed to mean," Guillaume says.
I got no idea what that's supposed to mean.
"You don't want that tip?"
"I want our deal? You are buying my drinks at the Crystal Balls, I'm buying yours here? Remember?"
"I just thought your management might not be okay with that," I say, floundering.
"Sure they are, they know it's you," he says.
"They know it's me?"
He looks at me like he's fearing for my mental health.
"You make a place a place to be? Mais cheri, you keep saying that yourself! Don't tell me you don't remember that, either!"
I meet his gaze. I have to, else he's going to start suspecting I'm a fraud.
"Sure I remember," I say, and then, with as much arrogance as I can muster, "Sure I make a place a place to be. It's what I do."
"Now that's my Draco," he says, pointing at me with his wiping cloth, and before I can tell him Draco is nobody's Draco, he leans across the counter and continues talking to me in French.
He's speaking fucking French.
"It was good talking to you, Guillaume," I say resolutely, then turn to go.
"Guillaume," he echoes behind me, as if he had never heard his own name. I wave and start walking away.
"Hey, what's the matter! What about your drink!"
I can't drink that shitty stuff.
I can't do this going out thing.
Catching one last glimpse of Guillaume's cobalt fringes and bewildered expression, I turn on my heels and Apparate back to my dorm. –
Okay. Going out as Draco Malfoy was a flop.
But there's something else I can do before the effect of the potion wears off. I realize that in the hall's squalid bathroom when I'm pulling my dick out to pee. -
At first I can't even look at my cock in my hand.
His cock in his hand.
I'm back in my room; I've locked my door with a double Securio hex, and soundproofed the walls, too, but this is going to be anything but a relaxed wank.
It's a mindfuck. It feels like I'm jerking him off.
And Sasha got it right, impressive is the word.
Ten inches.
A girth to match.
And uncircumcised.
I fight down the weirdness and the feeling that somehow, he must know what I'm doing.
Heck, I want to beat off, and I'm going to. I can do it too; it's not exactly rocket science.
I grab my unfamiliar, extra large erection with both hands and concentrate on getting into a rhythm.
Pump up and down, brush my thumb across the glistening crown every couple of seconds, yeah, it's not that hard.
It's pretty damn nice, actually.
Oh yeah, it is, yeah, I'm starting to enjoy myself here.
I tackle the fat shaft more aggressively, and as pleasure and heat are swiftly building in my groin, the soundproofing spell starts to make sense.
God, Merlin, this is good.
Groaning and thrusting, I rub myself towards completion, spurred by the sense of doing the wrong thing.
Now I'm relishing the fact that it's his cock I'm working; relishing its sheer size and the supple feel of the mobile sheath.
There's a tiny brown birthmark on it.
God, I'm trespassing.
Oh God, I'm coming.
When I spurt the first shot, it hits me straight in the face. The semen slides down my cheek into my open mouth and it tastes like his scent, that's Dray's come on my lips and tongue.
I hear myself whimper.
I can't think about why I'm making that sound.
There I am in the mirror on the door, there's Draco sitting on my swivel chair, trousers and shirt undone, sculpted chest heaving, king-size cock shooting come across my desk.
It goes on and on, because the sight is just too hot for me to stop.
Eventually I look away from the mirror and lift my butt, twisting my body so I can push my middle finger into myself.
I've done this before, if not using my own come but the stuff from the Muggle drugstore to smooth things along.
I've read about it; twenty percent of the straight male population use anal stimulation when they masturbate. It doesn't make me gay.
But I'm imagining it's his cock that's pushing into me. Putting its sperm into me.
And that sure makes me less than a hundred percent straight, and a hundred-and-ten percent a pathetic loser. -
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