We Are the Champions

Author\'s Notes
Summary: Draco got to base, but no home run for the Slytherin team.
Warnings: This is possibly the crudest thing I have ever written, and, considering the previous chapters, that’s saying something. Again, this is CRUDE. I’ve been channeling my inner Draco a little too enthusiastically.
Beta: My betas: thanks snottygrrl, silentauror, and fauxwen, especially fauxwen. Greatly appreciate it.
Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to red_rahl, who drew me the most beautiful picture of Harry and Draco for Chapter 2: http://w-williams.com/art_hobbit/harry_potter/Champions_web.jpg entitled, \"Harry at Bat\".

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Draco might have imagined it, but he didn’t think anyone in the entire room was breathing or moving. Oh, shit. Shit! In those few seconds of suspended animation, Draco began to panic, sweat pooling under his arms and in the small of his back. Fuck, please someone kill me now. Private humiliation was one thing. Nothing could be worse than adopting Potter as a fantasy figure. His Malfoy ancestors were making gagging noises in their graves. But he\'d punish himself later, restricting himself to eating only American chocolate for an entire week. A severe punishment to be sure, however, no less than he deserved. American milk chocolate. But his private hell was nothing compared to this public flogging. Spine-crushing, abject humiliation in front of his peers. Where\'s a portkey to Mozambique when you bloody well needed it?

He was just this side of total despair when two blessed words popped into his head.

The List.

Oh God. The List. Flawless hair. Check. Near genius. Given. The completely uncharacteristic panic nearly paralyzing him began to abate. He checked a whimper of gratitude. It was working. Phenomenal physical beauty. You\'re so bloody right. As he mentally ticked off all his personal charms, the Malfoy starch, the confidence, the absolute bloody sass that was as natural to Draco as breathing came back, not with a whimper but a roar. He arched his back ever so slightly because the best part was coming.

Perfect dick.

As if there was any room for debate on that score.

AS IF!

Suck rocks, Potter, he crowed to himself. Based on the number of people Draco had heard grunting and no doubt flooding their anxious little hands during his five-minute gala performance, Potter was choking on Draco’s wanking dust. That dwarf-like troll didn’t bring off a single person despite all his cock-sure hand action and delicious nipple tweaking. Was it even open to debate that Draco’s equipment and technique certainly beat, hands down, that scarred, blind-as-a-bat, absolute twit, who would, under no circumstances, ever blacken his fantasy life again?

Rolling his shoulders in a lazy, devil-may-care attitude, he tilted his chin in what he hoped was a killing gesture of nonchalance and gave Blaise a confident smirk. “Ready when you are, Zabini.” As if it were, ho-hum, just another day in the life of Draco Malfoy to be ogled by nearly his entire class, about three seconds from orgasm, as he wanked off to some sordid private fantasy. Flannels around his ankles. So standard. Silk boxers riding under his balls. Yawn. Happened the other day, as a matter of fact. Yawn again. While staring down his arch enemy.

Wait. That did happen every day. The staring part.

Potter hadn’t moved an inch, his upper teeth still worrying that frankly sexy bottom lip. Fuck, he prayed, make Potter as deaf as he was blind. Because if Draco had uttered out loud half of what he’d said in the fantasy, Draco was flooing immediately to Mozambique. No, Africa wasn’t nearly far enough: Bangkok. A slight frissure appeared in his newly minted armor, widening with every millisecond, until his trusty evil little voice screeched, “Don’t go there, Draco!”

Thank Merlin his evil voice occasionally doubled as the voice of reason.

Right. Lowering his eyelids until they were nearly closed, he pulled his eyes away from Potter’s bottom lip and, with all the sated grace of a jungle cat that had just consumed an exceptionally fat zebra, turned his attention to Blaise and raised an eyebrow.

Blaise handed Vince the ruler and grabbed the clipboard with the tally sheet, quill at the ready. Vince, with his usual lack of affect—which is to say his face had all the animation of a ventriloquist’s dummy—placed the ruler next to Draco’s dick and measured. Three seconds later, Vince’s chin jerked up, his eyebrows wriggling frantically at Blaise but not making an ounce of sense.

Clearly, a refresher course in eyebrow code was called for. What’s the frigging point of having a secret eyebrow code if the codees can’t understand the coders?

All Draco could determine from Vince’s manic eyebrow action was, “Tie me fucking hell.” Had Vince developed some sort of bondage fetish recently? Too bad. Now was not the time for Vince to indulge in his fucked-up kink. Draco motioned with his eyebrows for Vince to get a move on or by morning he’d be leaping across the Serengeti Plains with the gazelles. Not that Draco didn’t have a soft spot for other people’s kinks—glass houses and all that—but this was ridiculous. Time was—well, it wasn’t money—but, well, time. Draco wasn’t getting any harder here. Vince swallowed slowly and deeply, and then looked down again at the ruler. When he looked up again, he patently refused to meet Draco’s eye and whispered something in Blaise’s ear. Blaise whispered something back. Vince tried to muffle his voice, but in his desperation his voice cracked and nearly everyone in the room heard him.

“But I’ve measured it three times already, and he’s getting smaller.”

“Blaaaiiisse,” hissed Draco, in an undertone.

Blaise replied with a resigned roll of his left eyebrow in apology and announced to the room at large, “Tie. Malfoy and Potter are tied.”

“A TIE?” Draco roared. Impossible! Draco didn’t care how gorgeous Potter’s cock was. This just wasn’t on! “Not. Bloody. Likely. A tie with Scarhead?” he sputtered.

“For god’s sake, Malfoy. Shut the fuck up,” snarled Weasley. As usual, the Weasel was spoiling for a fight, and Draco wasn’t the only one who thought so because the color-blind freak finally stopped torturing his bottom lip to whisper something in the Weasel’s ear while simultaneously laying a restraining hand on his shoulder. Unfortunately, Potter hadn’t clapped a hand over the Weasel’s mouth. “No one’s questioned the scores,” he continued ranting. “Your house’s doing the bloody measuring. Belt up, you git.”

Total erection buster. Even Weasel’s voice was ginger. Every vowel, every consonant coming out of that twit’s mouth caused Draco’s erection to sag, sorry millimeter by sorry millimeter.

“Weasel,” Draco opened his eyes. Fucking ginger-haired, ginger-voiced cretin. “If ever I want your opinion on anything, I’ll let you know. Do us all a tremendous favor and hold your breath until I do. There’s a good boy.”

So furious he didn’t give a flying fuck of what impression he was making, Draco shoved his now decidedly soft-ish dick into his boxer shorts, leaned down and hoisted up his pants, and then held out a hand for his shirt, which Greg supplied at the ready. Ignoring the incredulous gasps around him as Blaise pulled out his dick in all it’s as-big-as-Wales glory and went to town, Draco tried to button his shirt. So angry he tore half the buttons off before he could feed them into their buttonholes, Draco grimaced as he slipped his shirttail into his trousers and zipped up. Had Blaise gone mad? Couldn’t he have given Draco an eighth of an inch more? Blaise’s credentials as a Slytherin were in serious jeopardy. A subject the two of them would be discussing later, you could be sure of that.

He hated everyone.

Potter most of all.

With half his shirt buttons missing, he probably resembled some destitute Muggle, desperate for a handout. Why, oh why, hadn’t he worn an undershirt? He held out his hand for his robes. Odd. He jerked his hand a little to signal his extreme irritation. Still no robes. Where in the hell were his robes? Deep breath. Bending over to ostensibly adjust a trouser cuff, he searched for Greg’s ankles. No fat ankles in grubby white socks in sight.

He stood up to scan the room, but Greg seemed to have completely disappeared, leaving Draco to parade around in this wreck of a dress shirt. Fine. He’d find the robes himself.

Before he could move, however, Vince shoved the clipboard into Draco’s hand. “Oi, Draco, would you hold the clipboard?” Draco was so shocked—did he look like the type of moron who should be holding a clipboard?—he didn’t even smack Vince in front of all these non-Slytherins, the standard punishment for uttering that plebian “oi” in his presence. Those perverted twins (and people said he was twisted?) used it with abandon, and since they were the poster boys for everything low brow, Draco had forbidden all Slytherins from uttering it in his presence.

Draco held up the clipboard and pretended to study the numbers. It should have been his moment of shared glory; Blaise was working that enormous cock to victory, but his misery knew no bounds. The groans of the crowd should have had him smirking to beat the band, his sneer getting more pronounced with every lengthening pull. Instead, he was standing in a shirt missing half its buttons, reduced to being clipboard monitor, his dick soft but aching like hell from not getting off, and staring at the pitiful standings of some Hufflepuff who’d been thrown out in the first round.

Tied with Potter. This was undoubtedly the worst day of his life. After the contest, he’d return to his room and indulge in a marathon glass-smashing session. Five hundred glasses minimum, quota or no daily quota, and he’d fucking strangle any house elves that tried to limit him to the fifty-glass-a-day bullshit. Once the glasses were shattered, he’d drink himself into a coma. Not even winning the stupid contest was going to make up for this horror of a day. He doubted he’d even enjoy the gloating once they’d won. He’d put on a good show, of course, but it would all be an act because he’d have to face the reality in the morning.

And every morning after that.

How was he going to do The List? There can’t be two perfect dicks. Perhaps Potter had a small, disgusting bend in his dick. He frowned. Was he grasping at the proverbial straw? He had to admit, having had a ringside seat, so to speak, that Potter’s dick certainly didn’t appear to have any nausea-inducing twists or bends. Perhaps a mole? Draco hated moles almost as much as he hated freckles. Yes! An ugly mole on the underside. One with gnarly bumps. Potter’s dick only looked perfect, but on closer inspection there’d be a mole, the sort of mole that would give Draco nightmares for years if he ever he sucked off Potter. Not that he would suck Potter, of course.

The consoling thought that Potter had a mole on his dick, which in Draco’s imagination was growing second by second until Potter’s dick was nearly all mole, somewhat restored his confidence. Not to mention that Blaise was nearly done. Draco wondered, not for the first time, how in the hell had he gotten his mouth around even half of Blaise’s dick. It wasn’t just long, it was a thick motherfucker.

Of course, being a near genius at giving blow jobs helped.

He sneaked a glance over the room. The Ravenclaws were whispering among themselves, no doubt spewing some intellectual garbage about the Zabini gene pool and how many generations of six-inchers spawned seven-inches who spawned eight-inchers, and so on, to produce that stupendous cock. Blaise probably got it from his mother’s side. Sophoria Zabini had a rack not to be believed. Draco didn’t bother to hide his yawn. Boring tossers. Without fail, they’d take something like a messy and highly satisfying hand-job and morph it into an arithmancy treatise on the pressure and number of tugs it took to come. Except Ravenclaws used the word “ejaculate.” The third time he heard it in reference to himself, “Draco, honey, did you ejaculate?” as if that were open to debate, he crossed all Ravenclaws off his “to fuck” list.

Of course, not a single Hufflepuff ever made it to his “to fuck” list. Draco didn’t need any manner of contests to discern there wasn’t a shaggable arse or pussy in the whole house.

Sad. To a man, the Hufflepuffs’ jaws were on the floor as Blaise jerked off. Not surprising faced with a dick like that, as they’d been taking showers for seven years with classmates at Weeny Dick Central. If you took every dick in that house and lined them up, they’d still fall short compared to Blaise. Probably wouldn’t hurt to post a suicide watch on the Astronomy Tower. Glancing around some more…dammit all to hell. Draco sighed. Vince looked like he was about to cry. When this was all over, he’d give Vince a bar of his finest chocolate as a consolation prize. It wasn’t Vince’s fault that his mother couldn’t be arsed to keep up with his vitamins. The woman should be AK’d. Negligent bitch.

Draco looked at his watch. Blaise had another thirty seconds or so. Poor Vince. Dick-wise, he’d have been right at home in Hufflepuff. Kind of cruel, really. What was the Sorting Hat thinking, putting Vince into a house that had a centuries-old reputation for being hung? Oh well, there must have been other overriding factors. Perhaps Vince’s sheer delight in beating up people tipped the scales.

It was truly amazing at how cock-challenged all the Hufflepuffs were. Was there some sort of corresponding factor among the girls? Like tits no bigger than a galleon, or, god, wouldn’t it just be too cruel if they all had cunts the size of breadboxes, but their male counterparts had pencil dicks. No, nature abhors a vacuum. The girls probably all had really tight cunts to fit those really small dicks. Hmmm, maybe it was time to revisit his iron-clad rule of never letting his dick within three feet of a Hufflepuff. Tight cunts…it would be like fucking a virgin arse. Like an olive-skinned virgin arse, pushed up in the air, shiny from saliva and lube…

“Ten inches,” said Vince in his ear.

Draco motioned frantically with his hand for Vince to shut the fuck up.

An arse he’d caress with both hands before moving down to catch slim hips and then he’d kiss one cheek and then the other and then ask, “Ready?” and get a throaty, low, “Yeah,” in return and then…

“Draco, ten inches. Write it down.”

Enough! Time to stop being Mr. Nice Guy. No more minion probation, no more reprieves from Mozambique. It was straight off to Afri…

He raised his head from the clipboard. Apparently done, Blaise was trying without much success to tuck that monster dick back in his pants. My god, it was like wrassling with a crocodile. When would Pansy come to her senses?

Oh.

Everyone was looking at him.

Oh.

Because he was supposed to be writing down Blaise’s stats.

“Ten inches?” Draco muttered.

“Yeah. You okay?” Vince whispered.

With a curt nod and a shaky hand, Draco filled in the numbers, trying not to mark the parchment with a sweaty palm.

Surreptitiously wiping first one hand, then the other on his pants, he quickly determined, short of Longbottom having a twelve-inch dick, they’d easily win by roughly eight inches. He’d owl Madam Rosmerta in the morning to set up the details in honor of the Slytherin win. If that pathetic wanker were any bigger than his thumb, Draco would bottom for Potter in front of everyone at the Leaving Feast.

After blowing the ink dry on the parchment, Draco was about issue Blaise a hearty congratulations when he spied Potter and Weasel escorting Longbottom to the front of the room, shit-eating grins on both their faces.

Why were they grinning?

They’d just seen a cock the size of Wales, Longbottom couldn’t possibly…

Fuck.

It couldn’t be.

When the three of them reached the front of the room, Potter chirped, “Neville’s turn.”

Draco had a very bad feeling about this, like he wanted to throw up. A chirping Potter could not be good. And Longbottom, whose entire existence was nothing but one long furious blush, wasn’t blushing one bloody bit. In fact, he was unzipping himself with what Draco would call, if it were anyone else, aplomb.

No. NO. NO!

Draco glanced at Blaise, who responded with a tense jerk of his shoulders.

Longbottom reached into his white y-fronts…

Oh. My. God.

It couldn’t possibly be real...Now all those effing Gryffindors had ear-to-ear grins…Christ, the fucker was halfway down his frigging thigh. Nine inches at least and he wasn’t even hard. Longbottom, with a cock the size of Europe. Fucking, absolutely fucking impossible.

“Gryffindors are all disqualified. Slytherin wins,” snapped Draco.

Bedlam broke out. Gryffindors shouting at Draco, Slytherins shouting back in Draco’s defense, Weasley immediately lunging for Draco, fist in air and poised to inflict major damage, only to be held back by Thomas and Finnigan. And in the middle of all this commotion, Longbottom just stood there, flaccid cock hanging outside his y-fronts. An ear-piercing whistle from Potter brought everything to a halt.

“Look, Malfoy. You can’t disqualify us,” Potter stated in a quiet voice.

“I sure as hell can. Just watch me.” Draco threw the clipboard down on the table, and held up a copy of the announcement. “Remember? Use of engorgement charms results in the entire house being disqualified. That fucking thing can’t be real. It’s not…well, human. Clearly, someone used an engorgement charm on him. He couldn’t do it himself. His balls would have ended up in Cardiff, his dick in Peking. Did you get off waving your wand at Longbottom’s dick?”

Weasley made to lunge for Draco again, only to be stopped by Potter’s raised-up palm.

“It’s okay, Ron. Simple enough to determine.” Potter pointed toward the table where they’d stashed their wands. “Ask Zabini to check Neville for charms.”

If Draco’d felt nauseated before, it was nothing to what he felt now. That dick wasn’t natural. It couldn’t be. But Potter was almost vibrating with the same bloody confidence he displayed on the Quidditch field. The easy, loose set of his shoulders, that bottom lip curved in the tiniest smile. It was a foregone conclusion. Somehow, Neville Longbottom, whose intellectual ability was limited to being able to distinguish rosemary from sage, fucking hell, could the bastard even brew tea?, was going to go down in Hogwarts’ history as having the largest dick of any student. Ever.

Draco was going to lose.

Again.

Lights flickered, the table began hopping on its four legs, the windows began rattling in their casings.

“Get your wand and check him,” Draco ordered Blaise and marched out the door before he destroyed the room.