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DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY WAS TIRED. The type of old, tired weariness that seeped deep into his bones and lodged between crevices of marrow and blood to wear him down. The kind of sluggish, Muggle-like behavior that would compel his father to hiss in his ear: We are Malfoys; keep your back straight. Chin up, Draco.
Draco tipped his head back and drank deep. Chin up, Draco.
The acidic taste provided a murky vision of how disgusted his father would be to see his pure-blooded son among Muggles, the dirty blooded creatures he loathed. The thought of Draco among Muggles had been so absurd his father didn't question his midnight rendezvous. For his father to find out how he'd been wasting hours of night would mean to suffer a fate worse than death.
To be disowned. To lose the right to bear the Malfoy name. To be stripped down to just Draco— just Draco.
Between the dark hours of night and drinks, Draco liked to pretend he didn't care what his father thought. That he was a Malfoy by blood, not by birth. That the thought of loosing the only family he'd ever known didn't bother him in the slightest. But underneath the layer of daunting smirks and cruel lashes laid a tiny, pale haired boy who still yearned for his father's approval.
Muggles, as useless and pathetic as the lot were, proved to be quite useful in forgetting the tiny boy with the strange name existed. Explicit promises and sultry voices crooning in his ear had settled into a sort of norm for him, just as spending useless time in a Muggle bar had.
The Muggle behind the dirty counter gave him another drink without Draco requesting one. He'd become a regular of sorts. He only accepted the drink now, tipping his head back to empty it before slamming the cup back down on the counter, coincidentally startling the woman giving him a dirty look. He spared a raised eyebrow to the filthy blooded woman and sneered, "Looking for a thrill, are you," he gestured to her ring claded finger. "I'm a bit too pretty for you, wouldn't you agree? I suggest trying the alley outside. If you're lucky, there might be a murderer lurking out for you to please."
"Careful now, pretty," a smoky voice drawled in his ear, "or you might just hurt her feelings. And you don't want that, do you, pretty. After all, she might be warming your bed tonight."
Draco jutted out his chin a little, inclining his head to look at the Muggle's dull blue eyes. How ugly, to be born with blue eyes. Draco gave her a lazy once over, scoffing and turning to the bartender, "Another round. Quickly now, before the all the wine goes bad."
"You're cruel when you've got a drink in you," Dottie spoke in that lazy drawl of hers. It was an irritating screech in his ear that he'd grown accustomed to.
Draco didn't reply at first. He watched the woman scowl angrily, tearing off her ring and jamming it into her extraordinary large purse of hers. When she caught him, she flushed. Draco bared sharp teeth to her. He pulled out a cigarette, a silly thing Muggles seemed to be infatuated with, lit it, and breathed in. He turned to Dottie and lazily blew a puff of smoke into her face. "You never fail to annoy me when you gave a drink in you."
"You're dreadful this evening," Dottie noted, taking her drink and taking a sip. She grimaced. "What's troubling that pretty head of yours?"
"I'm contemplating the the consequences of providing four married women the pleasure of all this," Draco gestured to his crotch area, gracing Dottie a smug smirk. "I'm sure I can take four husbands, wouldn't you?"
Dottie evaluated him, trailing her fingers the curve of his neck, arms, hairline. Draco's eyes fluttered closed. Cold fingers traced his eyelids, jaw, resting on the crotch of his trousers. Then, "From what I saw last fortnight, you're too thin to take on even one skinny little boy."
"Perhaps." Draco murmured. If you only knew the horrors a simple piece of wood could inflict. "Perhaps not," Draco's eyes snapped open and he tugged Dottie a little closer, "I've been told I'm wild when drunk. I'm sure our time together could lead you to believe the same."
"Perhaps," Dottie said, a small smirk curling her lips unpleasantly, "perhaps not."
Draco blew smoke into her face.
"Take the smoking outside, kid." The bartender seemed to have noticed the smoky smell shifting into the room, and sighed at Draco. He gestured towards the door. "Hurry now. Before the wine goes bad."
"Some of the ladies here would go to the edge of hell to warm your bed." Dottie licked her lips. "It shouldn't be too hard to find four married women."
"Hell is far too easy, Dottie. Any old fool could compel the devil to escort him into hell," another puff of smoke in her face. "It's a matter of whether or not they're willing to bare the price of heaven for me." And with that, Draco tossed the cigarette at the bartender and walked out, grabbing the hand of the ring claded woman with the extraordinary large purse.
