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title: Valley Girl date: november 10, 2002 If Draco Malfoy had been not-straight in an all-boys’ school, that might have been fine. Dandy, even, because then he could blame it all on the professors and lack of feminine wiles. But he was not-straight in a girls-boys’ school, and it didn’t look like he was going to be getting straighter anytime soon. Maybe he could blame it on his parents. Narcissa had long, flowing hair. So did Lucius. Draco had been sure there was something fundamentally wrong with that, judging from the look on Potter’s face when he met Draco’s father for the first time; but what on earth could he say? Here, have a scissors, and after you brutally butcher your only son, can you cut your hair? You could not tell Lucius Malfoy what to do, and anyway, Draco’s father probably thought it was fashionable. For escaped convicts. For villains. For woodland fairies prancing in mushroom rings. Perhaps it was inherited, like his hair and eyes. But fuck his hair and eyes. They had landed him no amount of feminine wiles. When Draco had been smaller, he had thought wiles were willies, and willies were caterpillars (mostly because he had a lisp, how gay), and girls seemed to want to caterwillie their way onto his lap. Stupid girls. He’d thought that hanging around Crabbe and Goyle, who took showers every week on the dot on Thursday morning so they would have the rest of the day to get dirty again, would shake them off. No, girls just thought he was being manly. Or gay with Crabbe and Goyle; Draco didn’t know which of the two would send him running for a basin, they were both equally revolting. Draco even had this crush on Marcus Flint in Second Year, because Marcus was about two years older and when confronted with an authority figure on a broom, Draco didn’t have time to think, he leapt. And if buying a whole team of brain-dead, grunting butterbeerheads new brooms was what it took to get Marcus’ attention, Draco was ready to supply all participating teams in the Quidditch Cup with a new stadium. Each. Then Professor Snape had taken it on himself to explain the complicated process of Vaginas, Penises and Abortion Spells. As well as Other Boys. In fact, if Draco hadn’t known of Snape’s penchant for Muggle pin-up girls, he’d have guessed the Good Professor was a fan of the Other Boys, snogged behind the Other Quidditch Shed, swam in the Other Great Lake, blah blah blah. Halfway through the lecture, Draco dozed off, because trying to remember Temporary Infertility Hexes was too hard and there was no possibility of an unplanned pregnancy for him, unless some bastard decided to hex on him something disgusting. Like a uterus. Nonetheless, there were some interesting diagrams Snape showed him, although they seemed terrifically old and Draco, for all his unwillingness to explore the “wonderland of the womanly body”, was sure there were only two nipples on each breast. “I’m only doing this because you are a Malfoy,” repeated Snape for the eleventh time, as if that meant anything. “I’m sure you only did my mother because she’s a Malfoy, too,” said Draco, although he were sure he hadn’t really said that, otherwise he would be drowned in a cauldron already. He’d probably dreamt it. Draco had very interesting dreams. To begin with, most of them were very wet. In fact, once, he’d dreamt about his father getting his hair and nails done; but Draco had been too busy making out with his father’s hairdresser to really notice. The man was called Maurice; he had very wavy hair and perfect cuticles and came around every week at the Malfoy Manor to groom Lucius Malfoy. Draco was getting very suspicious of his father. If not for his mother, Draco would have sworn Lucius would have been the sort to pick up younger lads in family-friendly places, like bookshops. Marcus sometimes featured in these dreams. Oh fine, Marcus featured in them a lot. Draco had been sure it was just a bad case of Idol Worship, of wanting to be like Marcus, and for some reason Draco’s penis came into the equation; Draco didn’t know, he was lousy at Arithmetic. He’d only wished, then, he’d have chosen somebody with better teeth to idol worship. Then there came the dream about Maurice (several of the dreams about Maurice). These were more unsettling, because Draco didn’t particularly want to be Maurice, though he would appreciate softer hair. There was nothing vaguely worshippable about Maurice, except for the thought that if Draco bent that stupid floppy wrist back enough, it would crack at a slightly better angle for Draco to kiss it. And well, wasn’t that an exciting thought. It was around this time that the Slytherin boys started talking about girls and who fancied who. Draco was still slightly put off; weren’t girls supposed to give you pimples or something? What a loathsome thought, Draco loved his skin, what the hell would he want a spotty girl with a face like lava to touch it for? Boys didn’t seem to have this problem; all those ghastly pimples and bras and skirts magically disappeared when it came to boys his age. Although, Marcus’ teeth were almost as terrible as Granger’s. Why did girls wear bras anyway? Draco had nipples too, so what? And frankly, Crabbe probably had bigger breasts than any girl in Slytherin, although admittedly most of it was fat and wobbled a lot more than girls’. If Draco wanted to grab something firm and rounded, he’d go grab a pudding. Draco was even starting to get paranoid enough to believe that girls did have as many nipples as Professor Snape said they had. However, this secret talk Professor “This is only because you’re a Malfoy” Snape gave Draco endowed him with a sense of knowledge and supremacy over other Slytherin boys still fumbling in the dark amidst walls of confusing bra straps; but fuck all if Draco knew what he was going to do with it. Mostly, it just gave him the feeling that something was very wrong with him. Enter the dream with Potter in it. Draco and Potter weren’t snogging in it or anything; that might have been enough to make Draco hurl himself off the Astronomy Tower. They were just flying about on their brooms in the Quidditch field, laughing, mucking about with fancy tricks to show off, generally having a good time. The downright weird thing about it was that Draco would never have done this with Potter, ever, and it felt kind of fun, a lot better than when Draco could insult Weasley or pummel some Hufflepuff Seeker into the ground. In fact, once he got over the instinctive Disgusting-Potter-ishness of it all, he was confronted with the longing that he could do it again with Potter. Fly around. Laugh a bit. Hit Potter about some, because obviously in the dream, Potter couldn’t fly for nuts. Thinking about it, even with the residual grossness of the presence of Potter in the dream, gave Draco a warm-ish, wistful sort of feeling. Draco reckoned it was probably close to what girls got when they cooed over some picture of a defenceless baby unicorn just ready and weak enough to be killed and eaten by a huge boa constrictor. At the Great Hall, Draco took one look at Potter’s spotless face with that very un-girlish, clean jawline, and that was it. You’re gay, Draco. You’re about as straight as Gilderoy Lockhart, Draco. You don’t just swim in the Other Great Lake, you scuba-dive in it for fishes and don’t even want to come up for air. And the worst part of it, Draco? You’re not even surprised. He hadn’t even been able to look at Potter the next few days. And any sort of skin contact he made with Potter made his skin tingle and his face feel like he had just been shoved into an oven. If Potter wasn’t going to give Draco pimples, he might just drive Draco insane. *** “Do you want to go flying today, Potter?” “Whuh?” “Surely you’re not as stupid as I think you are. Do you want to o-or n-not?” “You’re such a bastard, Malfoy. Fine then.” |
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