86. Privacy
Draco lay awake that night, but not because the usual unwelcome memories of past events bothered him. Jory's remark about seeing and being seen kept him from sleeping.
He was not particularly enthusiastic about being seen, and that was probably the main reason why he preferred to go for a swim when he had the beach to himself.
But seeing was a different matter.
He had long since stopped feeling embarrassed by the way his body reacted to the abundance of female attributes displayed on the beach – on any beach, not only on the one that belonged to the naturists. Strangely enough, tiny knickers and ornate brassieres seemed to intensify the reaction rather than to mitigate it. As long as he was clothed – fully clothed; bathing trunks were useless in that respect – he simply endured the state of arousal. Wearing his shirt over his trousers helped to conceal the outer evidence.
Cold water had a quenching effect, if only a temporary one. Admittedly, the tricky part could be to dive into the sea before people had a chance to notice his condition. Here was probably another reason why he went swimming at nightfall. Darkness conveniently obscured not only the problem but also the beauties who caused it in the first place.
On the whole, he didn't mind seeing girls or young women on the beach because they had a tendency of appearing in his dreams – dreams from which he would wake panting and sweating, dreams that would result in wet pyjama trousers. He liked these dreams. There was no denying it. He really, really liked them. They were transitory moments of bliss in his otherwise rather blissless life.
They had become more regular lately. Two or three of these dreams per week were by no means uncommon. He had got used to laundering pyjamas in the morning. During the journey with the Hungarians, however, he hadn't always had an opportunity to launder clothes and to dry them afterwards. So, he had pushed his pyjama trousers off as soon as he'd been safely between the sheets, thus leaving the possible task of dealing with stained bed linen to whoever had to tidy up after the lodgers.
Although he truly liked having these dreams, he had never tried to bring them about deliberately. They just happened or did not happen. That was why he wondered what he should do right now. Musing about good-looking girls and young women had led to a swollen membrum virile. He supposed he could go for a swim despite the late hour, but he didn't want to. He wanted a dream to take care of the little – or not quite so little – problem.
The trouble was that he would have to fall asleep before he could have any dream, but that falling asleep was somewhat unlikely considering the way his member throbbed.
He squeezed it in an attempt to ease the throbbing, but the result was anything but soothing. Against all logic, he squeezed again. He simply couldn't help himself. The memory of a gorgeous brunette woman clad in extraordinarily tight trousers and a flimsy, see-through blouse that gave more away than it obscured filled his mind. They had passed her by on a beach near Penzance, and the Hungarians had turned their heads as one man. He had gaped, too. Now, lying in his bed, he imagined touching the transparent fabric and feeling the warmth of the body beneath.
The women in his dreams were never completely nude. As a minimum, they wore a two-piece bathing costume. Sometimes they were dressed in gossamer blouses or ones that were drenched in spilled coffee. Frilly brassieres that begged to be taken off featured in his dreams, and so did undershirts made of smooth silk.
In reality, he had only ever seen silken underwear on Pansy.
And there was another memory from his school days. He recalled a hissed argument between Zabini and Nott. He had overheard them by chance and only for a short moment. They had been going on about "taking things in one's own hand". Back then – it had been shortly after the start of the Triwizard Tournament – he hadn't been all too sure about who was supposed to take what in hand. But he had a pretty good idea now.
He adjusted his fingers a little. It felt good, but already the slightest movement triggered an irrepressible desire for more – for more movement, for more... well, just for more. He gave in. He wrapped his fingers more firmly around his member and moved them back and forth. With every move, the desire intensified. It grew into a pressing need, plainly physical and urgent. Letting go of all inhibitions, he moved his fingers faster and firmer and experienced some sort of seizure – the muscles in his legs contracted, the muscles in his abdomen followed suit, and the pull was strong enough to lift his head and upper torso off the mattress. It hurt, and he cried out as a series of spasms ripped through him while the gooey, white liquid emerged in several spurts. Simultaneously, waves of golden relief travelled through his body and let him collapse back onto the pillow. He breathed heavily; his hand fell limply to his side.
Why had he never done this before?
...
87. Morning Swim
He woke around dawn, and the question was back immediately: Why had he never done anything similar to what he did last night?
Why, indeed?
He couldn't think of any answer.
Doing what he had done last night was easy, perfectly easy. There was no special skill necessary. So why had he never done it before?
He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he would repeat it from now on – over and over again. He wouldn't be able to resist even if he tried to, but the truth was that he had not the slightest intention of resisting.
The warmth and drowsiness afterwards had surpassed the similar effect that crying had for him. Although the difference between crying and last night's event was quite obvious, there were parallels as well. Both were private, very private. Both required giving up control, letting the body take the lead. And in both cases there was the reward – immediate and basic and physical.
Not being able to cry had been absolutely terrible. He had got that gift back almost exactly one year ago. Yes, being able to cry was a gift, and what he had discovered last night was one, too. He wasn't going to disregard it. What was more, he wasn't going to feel guilty about making use of it. No, this time he wasn't going to feel guilty. He didn't care what anybody had to say about this. He wasn't going to listen to anyone who tried to tell him how this was wrong for whatever effing reasons or how it was just another sign of weakness. No, not this time. This was about his body, and his pleasure – finally a source of pleasure that nobody had to give him permission for, finally something that was his and only his and entirely his, his, his, his...
The question was why it had taken him so long to discover it.
Taking things in one's own hand... He took his member in his hand approximately ten times a day – whenever he went to the loo, whenever he washed or showered. Why had it never occurred to him to do something else as well? Nott and Zabini had discussed the topic at the age of fourteen. He was twenty now. That made six years of missed... well, what was it called? Taking-things-in-one's-own-hand was a neat enough description, but was there also a correct technical term for it? Simulated intercourse perhaps?
Real intercourse he had only had once. The initiative had lain with Pansy, but declining her offer had been no option. He had believed a positive response would further his reputation and his status – maybe this notion had been downright silly, but back then he had believed it nevertheless – and, of course, there had been the lure of silken underwear and the uncharted territory beyond. To say he hadn't been curious and thrilled would be a lie. But there had also been a great deal of nervousness on his part. The actual event had been awkward, to put it mildly.
Pansy had been disappointed. She hadn't said so, but he had seen it in her posture and heard it in her tone of voice. He hadn't met her expectations. Then again, how could she have known what to expect?
He pushed the thought aside and got out of bed.
...
It was too early for breakfast so he grabbed his towel and went to the beach.
He walked briskly, but when he reached the point where the narrow path left the lane he stopped to examine the old weathered sign. For the first time, he thought in earnest about what the inscription might originally have been. He remembered the word Cliff, which had probably been the remnant of Cliff Sun Club. The line below had started with Natur, and he had concluded – without much thinking – that an e was missing. Now he had learned that the missing letters had been i-s-t. What the word really meant he wasn't completely sure. The people in question liked to swim in puris naturalibus. So did he. Did this mean he was a naturist? Was a man's swimming habit enough to categorise him?
Maybe there had once been an explicit warning Draco mused as he continued down the path. The sign was large enough for a third line, and Jory had said that people who could read wouldn't walk to the naturists' beach by accident.
A statement like Private Grounds might have warned him off two years ago, whereas he doubted that he would have deemed it necessary to find out what a Naturist Enclave was. Yes, at times, he showed all the prudence and circumspection of a five-year-old. But for once, he was glad about his lack of caution. Thanks to it, he had found what was now his favourite bathing place. He could but hope this Mr Webster would never get his hands on it.
...
The parlour was still empty when Draco returned from his morning swim. Smells of cigarette smoke and stale beer lingered in the air. Sporadic clunks and clinks came from the kitchen.
He went to his room. He shaved and changed into clean clothes. Then he started to put his belongings into the rucksack.
He could have stayed for one or two more days, but he suddenly longed for the city. He wanted to be back in the library. He wanted to read, to study, to learn new things. The conversation with Jory had reminded him of how much he still didn't know.
When he was done packing he gathered the Fiendfyre sketches and tore them to small pieces before he disposed of them. There were also pictures of coastal landscape, but they weren't many. He hadn't had much time for sketching during the journey with the Hungarians. And on the way back, he had hurried, not dallied. He selected a few good ones and added the best of the pictures showing Gorran Penwith. The rest he tossed into the bin.
...
88. Exam Results
"Leaving?" Mr Gill asked with a glance at the rucksack when Draco came downstairs for breakfast.
"Yes, term is about to start."
Mr Gill nodded. A while later, he came to Draco's table with the bill.
In addition to the money, Draco gave the man the little stack of pictures.
"Maybe your wife would like to have these sketches," he said. "She may put them up if she likes."
"That's Gorran," Mr Gill said softly, gazing at the topmost picture.
"It is the best representation of him I could do. Depicting faces is difficult."
"But it's great! Eva will like it," Mr Gill assured him while he thumbed through the stack. "She's very fond of your paintings you know."
Fearing the conversation to become lengthy and wearisome, Draco stood, hoisted his rucksack up and said, "I'm afraid I have to go now, Mr Gill."
"I think we could put old Gorran right over there," Mr Gill went on, pointing to the wall opposite the counter. He blinked when he looked back and saw Draco standing directly before him. "Sorry, what did you say?"
"I need to go, Mr Gill," Draco repeated, already retreating. "Give my compliments to your wife."
"Oh, thanks. Yes, I will. Of course, I'll do that," the man said, flustered. "Looks like you're in a hurry. Well then, have a save journey."
"Thank you," Draco said, reaching for the door handle. "And, please, tell the people of the Naturist Society they need to renew their sign. It has become unreadable."
...
He walked inland at top speed. The strong wind blowing from the south practically shoved him onwards. When he neared the ferry point and noticed the boat was about to cast off, he broke into a run. He managed to catch the boat and reached the city by early afternoon.
Mrs Bates was engaged in a phone call when he arrived at Hind Green Close. She waved at him in greeting but didn't interrupt her discourse on cancellation charges. Draco didn't mind skipping the small talk and rushed upstairs.
The letter he longed to see lay on his desk. He tore the envelope open without sitting down first. He didn't even take his rucksack off.
He glanced at the list of results and suddenly, the rucksack felt very heavy on his shoulders. He dropped it right where he stood and sat down in the easy chair.
He had failed two subjects – Chemistry and, not surprising in the least, ICT. The rest was anything but impressive.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. For Merlin's sake, these grades were nothing but Muggle O.W.L.s so why did he care?
But the disappointment felt real. He had worked hard for these exams. Months of diligent studying – and what had he achieved? Cs! He had Cs in most subjects. English Literature and Social Studies were even worse, and in French and Maths where the instructors had talked him into sitting the exam for the higher tier he had Bs.
What now?
Was a C in Biology good enough to continue?
Would anything he did ever be good enough?
He had ten real O.W.L.s. Had that been good enough? No.
There had been one Acceptable. It had been in History of Magic. But despite his mother's frequent rants about the shamelessly adulterated version of history being taught at Hogwarts, getting an Acceptable in that subject had not been acceptable for a Malfoy.
His three Outstandings had met with mixed reactions. Having one in Astronomy had been duly noted. Arithmancy had gone down almost unmentioned, but the Outstanding in Herbology had earned him reproof rather than commendation. He had been told that he had wasted his time on an insignificant subject instead of investing his efforts into a nobler science like, for instance, Potions.
Back then he had blamed Griselda Marchbanks, the head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority. She hadn't favoured him as his father had assured him she would do.
Thinking back he had to admit that the Potions exam had not been his finest hour. He had already been slack in preparing for it. Lulled by Snape's practice of giving him top marks regardless of how perfect his work actually was he had spent less time on revising for Potions than for other subjects. Then Snape's last minute training had come. Draco's own brewing had gone just fine but there had also been the mess with Crabbe's potion and Snape's whispered accusation of Draco being at fault for it. Instead of using the remaining time for revising Draco had tried to find out what Crabbe had done wrong.
As a result, he had been rather on edge when the exam had started, and seeing his examiner had done nothing to calm him down. Marchbanks had already tested him in Charms and Transfiguration where she had proved to be a stickler for accuracy. His worst mistake with her, however, he had made right before the Charms exam when he had tried to give her his Father's regards. It had earned him an extremely angry remark about her not being open to bribery.
He should indeed have kept his mouth shut. She had not looked very much like the woman he had expected to see. Later – too late – he had realised that he had confused her with her grandniece, the lawyer Candida Marchbanks.
But his father had definitely said Griselda Marchbanks. He had asserted that he knew her well and that she had attended dinner at Malfoy Manor more than just once. When had she been there? Draco couldn't remember. He was fairly sure he had never seen her before she had walked into the Great Hall at Hogwarts.
Why did his Father lie?
Why did Snape give him praise where praise had not been due?
He sighed. All his past was a tangle of deceptions and falsehoods. How was he to ever unravel it?
And now, when he had made a truly honest effort he had failed yet again.
Mrs Highbury had had such high hopes for him. He remembered her saying he would pass the exam in French with flying colours. But he hadn't. Understanding terms like l'appareil photo numérique or l'écran à cristaux liquides without a dictionary was nigh on impossible for him. Even having the correct translation didn't always help him to make sense of the sentence in which those terms occurred. The letters from one hundred years ago had been easier to tackle in that respect.
In Maths, he hadn't failed because he lacked knowledge or skill. He had simply run out of time. He had known beforehand that tabulated values wouldn't be allowed, but he had been confident that he could do without them. Professor Vector had drummed the Babylonian algorithm into her students, so calculating square roots wasn't a problem for him. He had also learned the numerical values for the sine of the first quadrant by heart. From these numbers, he was able to estimate with the help of symmetries and the Pythagorean theorem whatever might be needed for trigonometry. At any rate, resorting to such calculations had seemed easier to him than fathoming out how the devices worked that looked like oversized mobile phones. But the downside of his approach was that the involved procedures were slow and time-consuming.
What was a B worth? Did it stand for Exceeds Expectations or for Acceptable? There were two better grades – A and A* – but a D was still somehow a pass grade. The two grading systems didn't really compare.
Mrs Bates interrupted his gloomy thoughts when she brought him a bowl of apples. Her welcome speech turned almost immediately into a long-winded account of her second cousins' daring but unsuccessful attempts to smuggle in bottles of strong liquor but, thankfully, the barrage was cut short by the bell ringing in the breakfast room. She excused herself and hurried downstairs.
Draco let out a slow breath. Polite behaviour was what Mrs Bates seemed to like about him, but he definitely wasn't in the mood for chitchat right now. He had better avoid her until he had calmed down.
He put the rucksack away and stuffed the report back into the envelope. Then he made haste to get out of the house while Mrs Bates was still busy with whatever emergency had occurred.
He ran to the park where he kept jogging until the sinking sun added a touch of gold to the scenery.
...
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to be continued
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Author's note:
Many thanks go to TheMightyKoosh and Nooka for beta reading and advice.