Title: Kitschy Tail Spin

Summary: One night, in wizarding club land, things get out of hand and the famous drug dealer Oliver Wood is murdered. Only Harry, Ron, Draco, and Snape, four of club land's most famous inhabitants, know the truth.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Party Monster (Disco Bloodbath), which is by James St. James.

Author's Note: The idea for this story evolved when I was reading Party Monster, or by its original name Disco Bloodbath. This is a true novel written by James St. James about the killing of the Club Kid, Drug Dealer by the name of Angel. You should go read it; it's a great book. The movie didn't strike my fancy as much, but it rocked, too. Anyway, this story is rated based on drugs, sex, violence, and (of course) profanity. To warn you now, everyone, or basically everyone, in this story is gay. This is a big slash fic, and if you don't like that then bye, bye. I shall try to explain a little at the beginning and/or end of each chapter in case things are a bit hazy or confusing. I'm sure it will be when things start getting carried away.

Chapter 1

Injection of Confession

I can't explain to you the feeling you get when it seems like your world is tail spinning out of control. It can only be compared to losing control of your car on a nasty piece of ice; gambling away the last of your life savings; a one-night stand threatening to confess everything to your boyfriend; realizing that you're one hit away from overdosing. The worst part is how sudden it occurs, and then you're trapped. The only escape you can turn to is sex, drugs, and the busy nightlife of clubbing.

Needles are overrated. In all movies and TV shows, needles seem to be the #1 method of getting that familiar buzz. They are messy. Marks and bruises appear on your skin afterward. Not something I'd want when searching for the next potential lay. Sniffing can cause agitation around your nose, which might also turn the edges red. It can also cause snot or blood to drizzle out at the most unwanted moments. No. I prefer my drugs through swallowing or smoking. It may take a little while to enter into the bloodstream, but at least I am able to look just as nice after I take a hit. Despite my preferences, I stick to my motto: If it's there, I don't care.

But this story isn't about drugs. Well, at least not entirely. This is about how Harry lost control. How he didn't know what he was doing. How he was on too much of a buzz. Or at least that is how he justified the murder he had committed: the murder of his childhood idol, his mentor, his hero; the murder of the famous washed up Quidditch player, who was only looking for a good time after he had been thrown into the dirty, rat infested gutter.

The murder of Oliver Wood.

Now, I could start from the very beginning being a microscopic sperm in my father's sack, but I'm not going to do that just yet. I believe all stories need a good jumping off point, and the boring talk of conception isn't even an option. No, I have a better idea. I'll start with the night I found out about Harry's deed. It was the same night I experienced that tailspin feeling, coincidentally. It was the very night that would change and mold the rest of my life.

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It was one of those cold, windy nights where you had to be an idiot to actually consider going outside. Well, as you can already guess, I exceeded that title and was walking, jacketless, toward Harry's apartment. Walking is what I say, but it was more like stumbling. I had just gotten over a buzz and felt like total and utter shit. I had searched frantically for more drugs, but to no avail. Then the crazy notion of walking the three miles to Harry to collect some more popped into my head. So that was how I got there: searching for more drugs.

He let me in with reluctance, knowing exactly why I was there. "Draco," he would say, "you know I love you and that you are always welcome in my apartment," this is the part where he would stop and heave a deep, overdramatic sigh before continuing on, "but must you always only come when you are looking to replenish your stash?" I had heard that complaint before, and, like before, I nodded my head absently and walked past him into the warm building.

I would be lying if I told you his flat was tastefully decorated. The walls had been badly painted a light, charismatic blue. Patches of the original grotesque light brown, which had become more of a nauseating dark brown with age and abuse, were hard to miss contrasting against the newer color. Bright red, translucent draperies were strewn about the walls and various decorations to try to give the place an elegant, appealing motif. None of his furniture matched each other or the paint job. And to give you a greater understanding of his bizarre and, well, bad taste, his favorite piece in the entire apartment was a porcelain elephant side table whose true color was a mob of white, red, black, and blue, which he claims was imported all the way from India, but anyone can tell it was from a sale at one of those discount stores in the muggle world.

Anyway, we were sitting on his uncomfortable lime green couch, which was so 60's, with a nice tray of Special K in front of us. I had just snorted (like I said earlier, I don't prefer the method, but it is conveniently there) a line of the white powder when Harry decided to become serious and bring out his big secret.

"Draco," he said calmly, "do you notice anything different around here—anything that is missing?"

I looked around totally out of it and not knowing what the hell he was getting at. When my gaze finally traced back to him, I shook my head. He laughed in that sweet little "you're absurd" chuckle. Then he brushed some of my bleached blonde hair that had somehow fallen astray during either my trek or drug inhalation behind my ear in that light manner that he always uses. He looked at me and smiled.

"I should have waited to bring out the drugs until after I told you the news. I can never get you to pay attention and listen to what I am saying when you are high."

There was an awkward silence. He wanted to go on, and I wanted him to go on.

"Oliver's not here. He's gone. Gone forever. I killed him."

At that point I had thought the drugs had kicked in too quickly and I was hearing things. Harry Potter, Saint Potter, a murderer? That couldn't be right. I rubbed my eyes lazily as if that would help me get a grasp on the situation.

"What?" I must have slurred, looking back at him.

His eyes seemed to lock onto mine and clear my mind, because when he repeated what he had relayed only minutes, seconds, earlier, I couldn't think of anything else, and I knew that he wasn't fucking with me.

"I killed him, Draco. I killed Oliver Wood."

The next moment I must have blacked out because I don't remember a thing.

Author's Note: I hope that chapter was easy enough to understand. Draco, as I hope you caught on, is the one telling the story. The first couple paragraphs up to the break are in the present. The entire story is basically him retelling, from his point of view, everything that happened. Well, I hope you like it so far and will continue to read and review. More familiar characters will be coming up. Thanks.