The Mission
Draco liked the stillness of the forests better than the pulsing thrum of the club. He missed the dewy rain on the underbrush, mist clinging to the leaves, and told himself that if he was successful now, he would reward himself with a different kind of hunt come morning.
“They’re not scarier than Dementors,” he muttered to himself, cracking his knuckles absently and telling himself to breathe unsuccessfully. “They’re not scarier than Voldemort. They raised Hermione. Muggles are people too. You rode a dragon into battle.” With that thought and one particularly deep breath, he pushed open the door to the dingy little club, pulsing lights visible through the small, streaked window. “They’re not that scary.”
As he slipped in, he found there were too many people, too many bodies, for him not to be overwhelmed. Grimmauld was staid and dusty, every mess his own. Here, everything stank of sweat and alcohol and stale breath. The floors and countertops were sticky. The flashing lights were too bright, and the rolling bass was far, far too loud for his sensitive ears.
He pressed the empty vial he’d shoved into the pocket of Sirius’ old ripped jeans to remind himself of why he was here. This task wouldn’t take any more courage than, say, stunning his murderous Aunt at point-blank range, or negotiating with the Dark Lord. He was a short Apparition from Grimmauld, and even if he got too drunk to Apparate, it was only a few measly blocks away. He could walk home in ten minutes if he had to.
The bartender was a nice-looking fellow, attractive in a pleasantly forgettable sort of way. It had been so very long since he’d touched another man, or even talked to one. He eyed him appreciatively before perusing the offerings behind him.
”Four shots,” Draco decided. “Vodka.”
The bartender poured and watched as Draco downed each shot with mechanical precision. “Rough day?” he asked, his brows lifting a little.
”No,” Draco replied tightly, voice constricted from the slow progressing burn of alcohol sliding down his throat, pressing a fist to his lips and blinking hard. “I’m just on a mission.”
The bartender smirked and leaned in. “Well, if you don’t complete your mission by three,” he began, leaning an elbow on the bar and leering at Draco with a dishrag in one hand, an amused glint in his eyes at what he was about to say, “I get off then. We could too, if you wanted.”
Draco let out a startled little laugh and rubbed his hair, feeling the heat creep into his cheeks and neck. This man doesn’t know I once swore a pact to exterminate him and everyone like him . “I’ll think about it.”
With that, his level of discomfort at remaining outside the throng of people increased enough to set him in motion. Draco could feel the alcohol begin to sing in his blood as his senses dulled enough so he could push himself into the crowd.
He didn’t like it, being so surrounded by people. His skin felt itchy and his brain felt oversaturated. He wished he had thought to put a muffling charm on his own ears before coming, or a stifling spell on his olfactory senses. Soon enough he would be up and gone, if only he could find a willing participant.
Draco’s most reliable plans–a flawed metric if there ever was one–were ones where he took charge first. No sense in leaving this to anyone else, either. It wasn’t life or death, but it certainly wasn’t comfortable , either.
So he strode up to one lonely looking, handsome man and convinced him to dance. He wasn’t unpleasant, not really, if Draco only looked at his dark hair and the front of his shirt, avoiding contact with eyes that weren’t a stubborn, menacing green.
He didn’t like the feel of a stranger’s body on his and he didn’t like how the man’s hands grasped at his waist. Draco turned in his arms so their faces wouldn’t be so close, so he wouldn’t have to smell his breath or the scent of attraction on him, but the man misread it as an invitation. He leaned in to kiss Draco’s neck, and Draco clutched his hair in an iron grip.
“Buy me a drink first.” Their faces were inches apart. Draco forced his face into what he hoped was a beguiling smile, reminiscent of his mother when she tried to flirt with other politicians at their dinner parties. It came out too sharp and cruel, but Draco couldn’t stop himself as he gave the man’s hair one vicious tug before releasing him.
If anything, he seemed to like Draco more for it. “I’ll be back,” he yelled over the music, hands lingering on Draco’s shoulders, heat in his eyes. Draco had to resist the urge to flinch and rubbed his ringing ear as the stranger melted away towards the bar. He put the three hairs he’d caught in his fingers in the empty vial he’d brought.
As he began walking away, through the crush of people and towards the door, his sharp ears picked out an astonished gasp of his own name just to his left. A Muggleborn wizard–dressed too convincingly Muggle to be anything but–was agape in fear and astonishment, his expression amusing in its terror and surprise. Draco swayed over in time with the music, his grin pointed in the flashing lights.
He threw an arm around his terrified shoulders, draping himself languidly onto him even as the Muggleborn fumbled for his wand in the waistband of his unfashionable jeans. Draco leaned in close, his nose brushing his hair, and whispered Confundus as he jabbed his wand into the stranger’s stomach and his teeth raked his earlobe. The Muggleborn’s frame instantly relaxed, and to give himself a little giggle, Draco licked the other man’s neck from collarbone to jaw.
He untangled himself from the pleasantly dazed Muggleborn, blowing a kiss over his shoulder, and didn’t pay his tab. Instead, he swiped an unguarded drink awaiting its rightful owner from the bar, downed it in two gigantic syrupy-sweet mouthfuls, and tossed the empty glass over his shoulder as he waltzed out the door, swaying to the music.
He left the club with a bounce in his step, humming to the beat. It was a crisp night, and cursing someone attractive had put him in a jaunty mood. He walked home slowly, relishing the cool night air fresh on his face. When he found one of his Wanted posters stuck onto a telephone pole, his own half-lidded eyes slowly blinking with a self-deprecating sort of malice, he carefully folded it into his pocket, stowed safely right next to his vial.