TEMPTATION IS THE BEAST

Written by Playgirl Eugene

Author's Note : Thank you for the wonderful upstart. I'm glad that this is quite well received. Temptation is very easy to write compared to Longbottom's Solution 069 and In the Brink of Insanity. I just want to remind you that Draco and Harry won't start spouting eternal promises of love and stuffs until later. I lean more to the realistic, sarcastic edge of their personalities. So, while there will be sexual scenes between them and some adoring emotions but deeper feelings will blossom slowly in time, but not too slow I assure you. This is also a rather light story compared to my usual taste. Enough with my ramblings; I hope you'll enjoy this chapter too. It's kind of long, so bear with me. Please don't forget to review?

Standard Disclaimer : The Harry Potter series and all of the characters, including the original plot and situations, is created and owned by JK Rowling and Warner Bros. I own nothing of it and I do not earn profit of any kind from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This disclaimer stands firm for the whole of the story. Furthermore, if I use any material that needs to be disclaimed, there will be individual credit where due.

Summary : Draco Malfoy had always known he was unnaturally captivating, which had people speculating him of veela descendant. He was not. The Malfoys had always been, and would always be, man-eaters.

Rating : M/NC - R/18

Warning(s) : Slash/yaoi/male x male, cussing, explicit rather extreme sexual situations. If any of the aforementioned warnings offends you, I suggest you turn back now. I will not appreciate anyone flaming me just because they didn't read this.

Setting and Timeline : Set in the seventh year while ignoring Half-Blood Prince and the Deadly Hollow.

Character Setting : Draco/Harry, Ron/Hermione, others undecided

Chapter Details : None in particular.

Chapter 01

"The git's ignoring me."

To us man-eaters, humans are but food.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Malfoys had always been a visualization of eloquent impiousness and frivolity. They were born like royalty, lived as aristocrats.

They were also man-eaters, a sensual race that embraced Epicureanism, worshipped flesh and pleasure, and practical sinners that spoiled themselves without guilt. They indulged profligately in immorality, debauchedness, and arrogance.

Draco was eleven summers old and was one of the proudest boys of eleven in this part of England during the season where Hogwarts letters were simultaneously dispatched. The night before his first year started, his father summoned him to his personal study and told Draco to sit across him.

"As you grow older, Draco," he started, "you will learn that what you eat will gradually lose their appeal."

"What do you mean, father?" Young Draco titled his head to the side, frowning in confusion.

"This," Lucius indicated the goblet placed on the table between them. At a glance, it appeared like wine. On closer look, it was thicker and smelled stronger. Blood had been the only thing that a child man-eater could consume before they entered their puberty. "It will start to taste more and more… unsavoury until you reach point where you are likely to lose your appetite altogether. It will become more noticeable when you reach your first maturity."

A frown echoed between Draco's eyebrows as he tried to discern what Lucius had just told him. "But why?"

"It's a part of maturing for us, man-eaters." Lucius continued in his cold, even voice. He tapped his cane against the floor and stared at his only son. "First maturity is always the most painful. You will feel extreme pain. You will feel constant hunger and thirst, but nothing will be able to satisfy you. Not even when you bedded a human to feed."

Lucius ignored Draco's slight flinch and presented a look that was close to sympathy at the sudden apprehension that settled on his son's fair countenance. He himself had gone through his first maturity and was quite proud to say that not even the Dark Lord's worst Cruciatus could ever match the pain that had brought.

Lucius had never been teetered closer to insanity as he desperately tried to quench that need to feed. The urge had been so great, it was terrifying.

The nature of their race had been always sensual and dangerous. Lucius did not even want to remember how torturous his first maturity had been. For more than five months, his body had denied food. Everything he put in his mouth had tasted nasty, like the human's food he had for appearance's sake during the functions and soirees that he attended.

"When this happened, Draco, you do not try to deny what your body demands. You must give in to your instinct first and foremost no matter what happens, do you understand me?" Lucius spoke with a hard look, "This is very important. The first maturity will determine whether or not you will survive for your next."

"But what should I do when that happen, father?" Draco asked, anxious. "What will my body demand if not humans?"

Lucius grimaced. "That is for me to keep and you to find out."

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Draco noticed the signs about two months ago. It was quite sudden. He was feeding on this fifth year Hafflepuff chaser, Campbell, when the usually smooth and delicate taste of a human suddenly became bitter and sour as if turned bad. Draco had cringed in distasted, chased Campbell out from his room, and blamed the taste on the fact that she had been a Hafflepuff.

But then, it happened again; twice, thrice – again and again and again until he learned to accept it and the taste rose from unbearable to tolerable. Matilda Payne had been the last half-decent, tolerable meal that he had without having the urge to throw up. She was far from what Draco would expect of his meals, but at least she had been edible. Everyone else after her had tasted like none for the better if not worse.

No matter whom it was, there was nothing that could wash this foul taste from his mouth. Draco was almost tempted to scratch his own tongue against the nearest rough surface he could find had it not been for his pride.

Draco realized that he was entering his first maturity. And he also realized, with considerable dread that Potter seemed to be the only thing in existence that smelled appetizing, if not mouth-watering.

Great, Draco thought, just his luck – rotten or otherwise – of all people in this great, big, fucked up world; it just had to be Potter. Potter – delicious, sweet, annoying, arrestingly adorable Potter.

Lately, Draco had been having these dreams – he absolutely refused to call it wet dreams, how old was he – that featured Harry bloody Potter in each scene. It would start innocent enough – a Quidditch match, a food fight, a Transfiguration project – before everything took turn for the erotic – Potter rutting against his broom erotically while slipping the Snitch into his body as if it was some kind of erotic toy, Potter licking the honey off a certain hard part of his body like he was denied of food for days to end, Potter transfiguring McGonagall's ropes into elastic looking whips.

Then Draco would wake up with outrageous arousal and had to take the novelty of ice cold bath that did little calm to his suddenly puberty-like hormones. Despite the odds, he couldn't bring himself to even look at Potter the following morning without sporting a respectable tent in his pants. Not wanting to spend the rest of the day uncomfortably hard and bothered, Draco took the liberty of avoiding the cute prat, who seemed to be popping around the corners more often than usual for some reasons.

This wasn't supposed to happen. After last year, he was supposed to hate Potter. Draco's lips twisted bitterly. In fact, he had wanted to hurt Potter, intent on making this year especially torturous for Potter for his father's capture.

Now, he wanted to hate him, hurt him for making Draco feel everything he was feeling, for making him stare like a love-sick retard whenever Potter swung his great arse up on his broom in the air during Quidditch while wondering how his sweat would taste like, for making him think how life was so boring and how time was so slow when he couldn't see Potter's ugly mug, for making him crave his taste, making him forget who he was, and who his father served, for making him forget about the consequences.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it, hadn't been able to ever since he accidentally overheard the conversation between his mother and Aunt Bellatrix – his least favourite of relatives – last summer.

His cousin twice removed, the escaped convict Black, was dead. Aunt Bellatrix looked especially pleased with herself, being the apparent murder of the so-called blood traitor. Her high-pitched giggles sounded insane to Draco's unaccustomed ears, telling him just how volatile and dangerous the seemingly childish woman was.

- Flashback

Ever since his father was captured as a Death Eater, the manor had been considerably quiet. There were no more grand balls and gala parties held at Malfoy Manor as everyone else avoided them; friends scorned their ways and relatives refused to be associated with the Malfoys. Lucius' business rivals even tried to take advantage of the situation, but Narcissa – who was a former Black – was still very much respected in this society and she held their ground with impressive strength that Draco wouldn't have expected from his seemingly gentle mother.

Hypocrites, all of them, Draco thought with a snort. He simply pitied his dear mother, who had looked so bored and lonely these days without her husband and friends accompanying her.

He was walking down the impressive, ornate cloister outside his mother's private parlour on his way to the mansion's library when he overheard Potter's name coming from inside of the parlour. As always, his reaction to that name was unnatural.

Unable to help himself, Draco decided that there was no harm in listening in to what the two women had to say about his archrival. Stealthily, he rounded the heavy, silk tapestry draped along the entrance and heard the calm, almost severe voice of his mother that contrasted against the erratic, mockingly sing-song voice of his aunt.

"And you know, Cissy, the look on icky widdle Potter's face when I send our dear cousin Sirius over the veil?" Here she laughed even harder, as if it was some kind of private cosmic joke. "Widdle baby Potter was very, very angry at me and he raised his wand, shouting Crucioooo! Crucioo! Over and over again!"

She cackled; her wild dark hair falling over her hauntingly pale, gaunt face.

Draco's grey eyes widened with disbelief. 'Potter? That Potter? Saint Potter tried to use an Unforgivable?'

The idea of that upright, noble prat using anything even vaguely dark itself was absurd. But still, an Unforgivable?

"Buut, noooothing happened! Nothing!" squealed Bellatrix, in a degraded parody of an overly excited school girl. "Baby Potter seemed surprised himself. I guess his love for his goddaddy wasn't enough to make him do it!"

'Godfather? Mother's cousin was Potter's godfather?' Draco's mind screamed. The revelation astounded him; Potter was related to the Black although not immediately.

"The Potter boy is weak." Narcissa said with a solemn voice, "I simply cannot comprehend how he managed to escape the Lord for so long."

Narcissa had been a little more cynical than usual. She knew it was not the boy's fault, but she needed someone to blame for her husband's capture and the sharp slump of their lives. She was already tired of blaming Lucius' choice of a master. Although she could not bring herself to say that Lucius now in Azkaban was quite enough to justify Sirius' death. They had been blood relatives after all and she had always been a proud Black – she had adored him and Regulus as childhood mates when they were younger. Now, the last of Black had died.

If anything, Narcissa always tried to be the neutral party. Bellatrix would never understand her decision for her sister knew no other love but for that twisted fixation on her master. She might have forgotten her pride as a Black, but Narcissa had not.

"Nooo, you're wrong there, my dear Cissy!" Bellatrix's voice suddenly dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, "He's not as strong as our great Lord, but he's veeery strong. Ickle baby Potter was just not ready."

Narcissa looked at her darker sister with a searching look.

"That's why," the darker woman said, this time with infatuated reverence and almost too passionate sigh edging her heavy voice. "That's why the Dark Lord made plan. This year, there will be something big happening, Cissy. Something veeery big!"

The smile on her thin, cruel lips widened.

"But I will not tell you anymore, Cissy." Bellatrix playfully tapped on her chin, ignoring her sister's look of sudden bewilderment. "I won't, because someone is being a bad, bad boy behind that veil!"

Bellatrix's unstable laughter rang again as Narcissa's eyes widened. The blond haired woman whipped her head around to the direction of her door. There was no one standing there, but the receding fluttering of her blinds told her otherwise.

End Flashback -

Whatever guilt that Bellatrix couldn't comprehend with her unstable, feeble mind, it weighed on Draco's instead.

He had never actually met this Sirius Black before, despite the fact that half of him was a Black. But at least Potter didn't seem to hate him just because he was blood related to that deranged woman who killed his godfather.

Potter hated him because he called Weasley and Granger names, Potter hated him because he tried to sabotage his Potion works, Potter hated him because he laughed over the Prophet's front page articles, for insulting that mad half-giant, for the detentions he had to serve. Potter hated him for many things, but never for his blood, never because he was Lucius Malfoy's son, never because he was the nephew of his godfather's murderer.

It was hard to hate someone like that, although it was easy for Draco to despise Potter's goodness of heart and patronizing unpretentiousness; he was so easy sometimes you'd have to wonder whether he was really that good or just stupid and without pride.

He didn't realize though, with him being evasive rather than offensive, he inadvertently succeeded in something he had endeavoured relentlessly yet fruitlessly for six years.

Harry Potter had looked at him with more awareness and curiosity of Draco's existence in his life, more than Draco had dared to guess.

"The git's ignoring me."

Hermione blinked and finally pulled her eyes away from her three foot essay on Transfiguration – How to Transfigure an Inanimate Boggart and Why the Southern Folks Did It – and stared at her friend sitting across her with a frown.

Ron had disappeared somewhere – much to Hermione's displeasure – when she brought up the topic of their homework. Harry learned that the little traitor was heartless enough to abandon him with his girlfriend, much as Harry adored Hermione.

Now finished with his half-hearted Potion scrawl, Harry had taken to stare into distance, as he had been doing an awful lot lately, which Hermione left him to before he suddenly said that.

"Excuse me, Harry?" Hermione said, vaguely wondering if she did hear what she thought she heard.

"Malfoy." Harry repeated and lowered his eyes, "He's been acting… weird,"

Hermione frowned and looked thoughtful. "But he hasn't done… well, anything these days actually."

"Isn't it?" Harry pressed eagerly, "You notice it too, right? Right?"

"Yes, I do, Harry." Hermione answered patiently, "But isn't that a good thing? I mean, he hasn't change but at least we can have some peace—"

"But that's the point, Mione!" the dark haired bemoaned, much to Hermione's confusion.

"I'm afraid I don't see your point, Harry."

Harry impatiently slapped his hands against the table as if to make one. "He's avoiding me! For almost two months now! Malfoy never ignored me! The stupid git didn't even insult me in the corridors anymore; he took off whenever he saw me like… like I'm contaminated or—or something! I was so, uh distracted that I didn't realize I walked into one of Peeves' traps until my ears were twenty times its size." Harry blurted, "And then the twat saw me and I was sure that he was going say something, but he just… looked and walked away! Without saying anything!"

Hermione patiently listened as she allowed Harry to rant. He seemed like he needed it, to blow some steam. That was the most she heard from him since the start of the term, even if he was talking like the some four horsemen of the apocalypse would be offended because Malfoy was, as he dubbed it, ignoring him. Malfoy had been quiet lately, admittedly a little too much to be normal, but he was still a right bastard as far as she was concerned.

Still, if this unhealthy, petty rivalry between him and Malfoy was what Harry needed to take his mind off Voldemort and more importantly, Sirius, Hermione would gladly humour him.

When he finished, Harry was panting and flushing, apparently embarrassed by his outburst. Hermione smiled genially at his display of modesty. People always talked about how Harry was a quiet, modest boy with regular habits. Hermione had thought differently. Harry was quiet and, for the lack of better word, unpredictable, and he could be so random and absurd sometimes.

Since that incident at the Ministry last year, Harry had been especially obscure. Sometimes she felt like she didn't know him. He had troubles eating, had troubles sleeping according to Ron, and kept to himself most of the time. It was hard to tell when he was feeling normal and when he was thinking about something self-destructive, or Sirius, or his misplaced guilt, and pretended to be normal.

Every time he was seized by a reaction, Hermione would always worry, fuss, and feel curious. On these occasions, she would notice that dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes. He would hardly speak a word or move a muscle for hours.

To others, he was the Boy Who Lived, the prophesied saviour. But in Hermione's eyes, Harry was a child – a self-reliant child, but still a child. Harry projected an elusive combination of almost curious innocence, delicate physique, and chaotic, passive aggressive temperament that made him appear as if he would either explode or collapse at any given moment.

Harry was a volatile little thing; passionate and gentle, naïve and enduring, wilful and docile all at once.

What people didn't realize was that Harry was not that virtuous and forgiving of a Gryffindor everyone believed him to be. Hermione noticed since fourth year: that look he sometimes had, the dissatisfaction and malice that lingered behind his eyes. He was kind, but even he had his own Slytherins: cunning, ambition, moments of pretentiousness, tragic past, a scar, anger, darkness, hatred, a streak of viciousness, and desires.

Hermione wanted to know what he was thinking, because for all her genius, she didn't know what to do or say to Harry in order to comfort him. That was Ron's department actually, hard as it was to believe considering how polar they were.

Ron's laidback and carefree attitude relaxed Harry. Hermione simply thought it would be awkward if she tried it, because she but she supposed that Harry would naturally come to her for something like this. Ron was not sensitive enough, and sometimes was too much a biased prat, to handle this kind of talk with Harry.

"And that's not a good thing, why?"

"I-I… It feels weird." Harry finally admitted softly. "I mean, Malfoy being a jerk was like—I can't believe I'm saying this—like something that never changed in my life for once. He's obnoxious, nasty, and… and annoying, but he never changed! Everything around me keeps on changing! Even me and Ron every now and then, but me and Malfoy! Us, what we had, never changes! I'm not going barmy, am I? Maybe I'm just twisted? No, I've been spending too much time with Professor Dumbledore. Or maybe I am barmy. Merlin, I am."

The witch studied her flailing friend calmly, patiently.

"O-our, umm… relationship is something I'm familiar with and now he's trying to take that away from me. So I'm just upset and—you do understand what I'm saying, don't you, Hermione? I don't understand what I'm saying right now, so please tell me you do." He pleaded in a quiet, desperate voice as he fidgeted in his seat.

Hermione nodded; she did understand.

"I-I kind of… miss it, I guess." Harry groaned and buried his face into his hands, bemoaning his apparent lack of coherence. "Oh, I'm losing it, Mione—I don't even know why I want it! Malfoy's being a decent human being for once and I'm talking like he's another aspiring Voldemort! I need Malfoy to do something, anything! I need to do something—hex him, scream at him, punch him, something—or I'm going to go batty!"

Hermione leaned forward to pat on Harry's soft, dark hair affectionately. She took a deep sigh. Well, here goes nothing.

"Harry, this is not healthy, you know that right." Hermione said gently, "You seem to determine your sense of normalcy with Malfoy. You're letting someone you hate—your possible enemy—to hold such control of your life,"

"I know." Harry said miserably and looked up at her, "Am I an idiot, Mione?"

Hermione shook her head and smiled. "You're being human." Besides, I'm sure it's not just you.

Even more so than Harry – who never actually initiated anything but 'welcomed' what thrown his way – Draco Malfoy's obsession couldn't even more obvious even if he went to the Astronomy Tower, cast a Sonorus, and announced it throughout this part of Scotland. It might have something to do with Harry's denying him of friendship. Hermione was quite sure that, by the look of it, Malfoy was never denied of anything in his life.

Even though he was a mean, nasty prat, she thought that maybe Malfoy turned out the way he was because the way his parents indulged him. She had heard about how difficult it was for purebloods to conceive. It was obvious that, despite the fact that Lucius Malfoy was possibly Voldemort's biggest supporter yet, he loved his son and with their wealth, she could only imagine how pampered Malfoy was raised. It didn't mean that he was necessarily evil, no one inherently was, even Voldemort.

Watching Malfoy and Harry was like watching a pair of preschoolers with crushes. Whether he realized it or not Malfoy had, for six years, been pulling on Harry's proverbial ponytail and she knew for sure that Harry didn't even notice it. While Harry could be unexpectedly and unusually quick-witted and agile, he could be so slow on occasions. And when Hermione said slow; she did mean slow.

Everyone else – including Ron – watched them with knowing eyes and said nothing because the involved parties didn't seem to realize it themselves. Surprisingly – or maybe not – it had been Neville who pointed it out the first time. If they really thought that the combination of Malfoy's pride and Harry's inexperience in romance were going to produce some results soon without outside interference, well, they thought wrong.

Of course, it could always have something to do with Harry himself. After all, appearance wise, Harry was not a hard person to the eye even if he didn't realize it. He was like a brother to her, never a man and never would be, but Hermione knew that Harry struck the attention of the most casual observer.

In height, he was rather lacking – Harry had been desperate for some sudden growth spurt over the summer but was disappointed to learn that he was now only a little over five feet five and even an inch shorter than her, much to Harry's early year dismay – and thin, with clear, pale skin. Despite his Scotch taped glasses, scruffy hair, and godforsaken clothes that he could've afforded better, people were inexplicably drawn by his huge, almond-shaped, too expressive, sensitive green eyes – the only pair in the whole castle – framed with long, thick lashes.

He was not so striking, if not a little awkward. None of his features was too defined, but Harry was just plain enough to become a blank canvas for its artist's imagination, with his rather soft, infantile features that belied his stubbornness.

Hermione was positive that Harry had often inadvertently and unknowingly attracted perverts trying to enact their sick fantasies on him. Even now, Harry was oblivious in every sense of the word and he was never left alone by Ron and the others because of it. He innocently thought that people were attracted because of his scar and his name. She didn't point out that some didn't care for that scar under that bird-nest he called his hair. But Harry didn't know that; he had a serious lack of self-awareness – Hermione blamed the Dursleys for shattering any confidence the boy might have – and was too unguarded, but it just made him all the more precious.

Harry was so precious; Hermione would do anything to protect him. Even if it meant that she had to fight in this war and kill or die, she would never regret it. She knew Ron wouldn't, she knew of many people who wouldn't. But Harry didn't know that. Harry would never need to know that.

"Mione?"

"Hmm?" Hermione didn't realize that she had been spacing out until Harry called her name. "Yes, Harry?"

"I think I need a walk," Harry said abruptly and didn't wait for her reply as he made a move to stand and leave the common room.

"Wh—Harry, wait! Don't wander off alone!"

After fruitlessly browsing through the library for anything that might help him, Draco decided to confide his plight to Blaise Zabini. Zabini, conceited and obnoxious and insufferable Blaise Zabini, had been an adequate enough companion from time to time. He was vain and arrogant, but otherwise as honourable as a Slytherin man-eater could be.

The Zabini family came from an old, long-standing line of powerful gypsies originating from Val Canavese, Italy. They secluded themselves in Logroño, near Navarre, in Northern Spain not long after the Basque witch trials ended. They were not as old as Malfoys, but close as one could hope to come. In contrast to the fair and aristocratic Malfoys, the Zabinis were known for their exotic mocha coloured skin, dark hair, and tawny eyes. Like their appearance, their magic had been one of a kind and equally mysterious; specializing in blood rituals, poisons, and amorous potions.

Zabini family too was of their kind, man-eaters. The notorious Lilith, the Black Widow of Wasted South, Lady of the Zabini, was a woman of extraordinary, exotic beauty, sexual wiles, and deadly temperament that prey upon the flesh and internal organs of her preys during mating. Unlike the males, female man-eaters ate by far less regularity, but instead feasted on actual flesh rather than the bodily fluids.

Zabini had looked at Draco with a mixture of amusement and perhaps a hint of compassion, as much as a wizard could expect of a Slytherin worthy of their green.

"Congratulations, guapa! That means it's your first maturity!" exclaimed Zabini with rigour. "So, who's your amante?"

Draco stared at Zabini as if he had lost his marbles. They were only the two of them in the common room by the fireplace. All others had headed for bed and a few ventured out from the dungeon for a night of Slytherin mischief.

Zabini looked mildly offended as he scoffed. "Don't give me that look. I refuse to say 'intended'. It's not my fault that they don't have a better name for it." Zabini said as he inclined to the back of the couch he occupied. "Madre always reprimanded me that it's important to feed from your amante during your first maturity. It's kind of like your alma gamela, your soul-mate, she said."

"By Merlin, not this again!" Draco exclaimed with a groan, "We're man-eaters, not bloody veelas! I thought that soul-mate crap was just a stupid myth!"

"Now, querido, you're being prejudiced." Zabini's lips curled with mischievous mirth. He crossed his legs and folded his arms. "The concept of soul-mate is virtually non-existent, even for veelas. That is just some silly fantasies women cooked up to cater their perverse caprice. I have to say that it is quite amusing,"

Draco huffed, "Bloody right."

"I'm serious, Malfoy. Why do you think it is called first maturity?" With light laughter and a wave of hand, Zabini gestured the thin air. "It's like first loves for humans! Only in a much more… eh, crucial degree."

With a look of near incredulous exasperation, Draco stared at his dark-skinned companion and sneered. "And, pray tell, why does that mean? How am I supposed to look for this… amante, as you phrased it, oh wise one?" Draco said; a world of sarcasm and distaste in his voice.

Zabini looked slightly offended but then frowned. "I suppose that you haven't realized it yet?"

"Realized what?" Draco snapped, annoyed.

"Malfoy, you can only initiate your first maturity when you have developed certain emotions that estimule your hormones!" Zabini said with apparent enthusiasm and an impious smile. "It's not some set-up like those romance novels, but it's you who commence it! Like how humans feel the need to be around their loved ones, it's the same to us, only amplified to the point of literal need."

The Italian bestowed Draco another smug look. "You have never tasted that exquisito taste, haven't you, Malfoy?" he said assertively, "It's so adictivo that you will go absolutely pazzo from wanting! Once you taste it, you can never live without it!"

The Malfoy heir let out a snort. "From your words, I assume that you've experienced it yourself, Zabini?" Considering how amorous the Italian was, Draco wouldn't be surprised if he had.

"Por supuesto!" Zabini answered immediately and vigorously. "Ah, he was such a romantic, debonair Casanova, that Llyod, when seducing the twelve-year old, innocent me. Madre was right when she said that I should round my knowledge through travels."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Twelve, Zabini? Really?"

"We are creatures of flesh pleasure after all! Why should it matter? Some humans are perverted, but we do live off sex. And look at us; look at the beautiful, wanton, indulgent humans around us! Such a sin to waste them all! Especially since you're in a—how do you say it in English again—ah, in heat."

"Figures," Draco had always applauded Zabini's for his vanity and frivolity in his mind. While the Italian was tight-lipped and cynical usually, he could never stop when it concerned the nature of their race. He was an ardent worshiper, a faithful aficionado of their hedonistic ideals if Draco knew any.

But, wow, he never thought that Zabini was that depraved. Twelve.

"I simply can't understand why father didn't tell me about this."

This time, it was Zabini who raised an eyebrow. "Your padre is not allowed to. It's our tradition. I was only told by madre after I entered my first maturity. See, if you know about something, you will unconsciously look for it. Something like this has to happen naturally,"

"What? Why?"

"Simply put, if you are under the impression that you like this human, then your senses will dulled during the feeding if you try it. Whatever you eat will instead poison you, but you will not realize it until it was too late."

The young blond huffed, "So let me get this straight, this amante of mine is going to be the only thing I can eat for Merlin's knows how long?"

"It depends, guapa; the more intense your feeling is, the better your amante will taste and the longer you will feel the need for them."

"Oh, please!" Draco sniffed, "As if I would ever have anything on the prat. He's a stuck-up snob."

"Ah, so it's a him." Zabini remarked triumphantly with a knowing look in his eyes. Draco's eyes widened as his head snapped to the Italian. "And by a 'stuck-up snob', I'm assuming that he's either a Ravenclaw… or a Gryffindor."

Zabini studied his reaction and Draco cursed himself for the careless slip up. Why did Zabini have to be so damn sharp anyway?

Zabini hummed thoughtfully before he spoke in a confident tone. "So, a Gryffindor then. Interesante." For a minute, Draco was worried that Zabini was going to start listing the names – it wasn't that hard to guess, Zabini was surprisingly intelligent, and Draco knew he wouldn't be able to maintain his calm if that bloody name came up. He needed to change the subject and did so subtly. Zabini would only be even more suspicious if he noticed that Draco was trying to hide it.

"You're reading too much into things," Draco shrugged carelessly, "It's not like I'm going to pursue him. I won't. I'll make through this on my own."

"You're not serious." Zabini stared at him with a hard, searching look on the pale Slytherin before he spoke. "You're serious. Madre de Merlin! You are serious!" he cried with a look of horror, "Malfoy, you're pazzo! You'll die from hunger and depletion if this continues! Queramos o no, you can't fight our nature!"

"You don't understand, Zabini!" Draco growled with frustration. "If it is really… him, I just can't bloody do it!"

"Why not?" the dark haired boy asked.

"It's complicated, alright!"

Complicated; sly word that one, Draco thought with a mental note of sarcasm as he shrewdly avoided Zabini's prying gaze.

'It's fucking Potter, nemesis of Voldemort, for Merlin's sake. The wizarding world's gonna have my head and father is going to play ringleader. And what happened to our little I-hate-you-no-I-hate-you-more?'

"But if you don't try it, you'll never know, right?" Zabini urged stubbornly.

Grey eyes pinned him with sarcastic amusement, "What are you? A bloody Gryffindor in disguise?"

"Por lo que más quieras, Malfoy. This is no laughing matter."

"I didn't say it was."

Zabini narrowed his eyes and leaned forward slightly. "Can you even stand it though? The yearning? The hunger?"

No.

"Yes." Draco hissed with a look that dared Zabini to say otherwise. Zabini was nothing if not petulant though.

"No, you can't." Zabini said with solid conviction and assertiveness, "No man-eaters can stand the presence of their amante without trying to jump bones at them, Malfoy. Not even you, I'm sure. Can you really imagine him now and say to me that you don't want to feast on him? Taste his skin, feel his heat? That you don't want to fuck him and have him moaning your name?"

Damn you, Zabini. Damn. You.

He had been avoiding that mental image since the start of this conversation. He was going to sport an embarrassing, ridiculously eager erection right here, in the middle of the common room, in front of stupid Zabini.

He conjured several grotesque, sordid pictures in his head – anything to will his erection away and was barely successful in saving his dignity. Again, he damned his companion and he damned Potter.

Draco thought that it was extremely clichéd. Potter, his archenemy, could very well be the one to decide whether he was going to make it pass seventeen.

How romantic, Draco alluded, I hate romantics.

He needed a break.

With a sigh, the young Malfoy stood from his seat, portraying more calm than he really felt. "Anyway, I'm gonna take a walk." He noticed the knowing glint in Zabini's tawny eyes and shot him a pointed look, "And for your information, I am not going to look for… him."

"Si, si, Malfoy." Zabini merrily sprang to his full height cooed patronizingly as he mock patted Draco's hair. "Lo que tu diga, querido."

Draco bristled and slapped away the offending hand away; his grey eyes reprimanding the other of their standing. "Don't patronize me, Zabini. I'll crucio you."

"Si, si." Zabini repeated, but he did not appear any more repentant as he raised hands in mock surrender.

Draco glared at him again before turning to leave the dorm, leaving a snickering Zabini behind. He needed some fresh air. Space without Zabini. Somewhere to think.

Actually, he needed Potter.

He also needed to confirm whether Potter really was what his body wanted and not just some delusions because of Potter's cute, dimpled arse – and now I'm noticing dimples on his arse; I'm so dead – but damn Potter never went anywhere without at least one Gryffindor playing as his chastity defender, Draco thought as he walked down the long, narrow, damp corridor of the dungeon.

If he was to do what he had to, he would have to get the prat alone. And he happened to know the quickest, most effective method.

"Patrol duties, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco smirked, mentally applauded his Slytherin acumen, luck, and Snape's timing. He turned and smiled pleasantly at his sullen, now guarded professor. "Ah, Professor Snape. Just the person I want to see,"

Like a flick of wand, all noises died down when the dark, intimidating, and theatrical Potion Master, entered the dungeon classroom with quick, powerful strides as his black robes billowed behind him. He was in a visibly bad mood, even more so than usual.

He walked to the front and stared at them with a long, hard gaze. Then, he spoke with that silky voice. "Today we are going to make the Vanishing Potion, something that I'm sure even you dunderheads can do without exploding something." Here, he gave a pointed glare to Neville, who flinched and looked down on his feet. Harry wondered how did Neville even made it into this class and why. "Now, I will assign you to a partner."

No one dared to move or breathe too loudly as if afraid that they would upset some delicate balance of the world if they do. Harry sat back and waited, already resigning himself to his mistress of fate. He already knew who his partner was going to be. Snape, that vindictive arse, wouldn't miss the chance of adding to his miseries for the world, if only to vent some of his bad mood. The names proceeded to roll off Snape's sharp tongue in a curt manner, earning a few groan every now and then.

"Potter, Malfoy!"

Harry almost rolled his eyes at Snape's predictability and caught the sight of the aforementioned Slytherin, who was smirking at him with a self-satisfied look on his admittedly rather handsome face. Harry frowned and got up to join the blond haired teen.

"The instruction is on page seventy-two and the ingredients are inside the cupboard, as usual. You have one hour," Snape's eyes swept over the students again and this time, settled on Harry. He gave the boy a strange look that bewildered Harry but it was gone before Harry could even start to comprehend it. "You may begin."

There were some shuffling and the students moved to their designated partner and started to work.

While he had suspected but unsure at first, ten minutes into the work, Harry confirmed that Snape was breathing down on his neck. He could feel the weight of Snape's gaze following his every movement, like a predator would eye his prey for the slightest mistake before closing in for the kill.

Since the day that their eyes met six years ago during the first feast, Harry had always known that Snape assumed some obscure, poorly disguised hatred against his odds. For a supposedly intelligent adult, Snape acted more like a petulant brat. While he thought that it was rightly unwarranted, Harry was nothing if not deliberately adjustable.

After years of enduring his prejudice and volatile temper, Harry believed that he had perfected the art of reading Snape's mood, eluding them, and somehow weaved his way around while sustaining minimal damage. The Sorting Hat did not argue him to join Slytherin just because he could speak to his favourite pet. Except for some point taking and a detention here and there, Harry prided the fact that Snape hadn't been able to harass him as of late.

So today, Harry was pretty sure that Snape was either trying a little harder than usual to land one him for some reasons or Harry was simply having a seriously bad day. Malfoy was back to normal apparently; why had he wanted this again?

Once again, he was partnered with Malfoy during Potion. He was surprised that Malfoy didn't say a single scathing remark about his none too substantial Potion skill and appear rather half-hearted and uncharacteristically careless. Reading the manual very thoroughly, Harry tried not to blunder – because Snape was watching him like a hawk from under his grease bangs – but it was really hard to do it when someone was watching you like Snape did.

Harry read the instruction 'Add two drops of salamander's blood' twice. He looked at the four vials of liquid on the table and frowned. Damn it, usually the great prat would do all the delicate work while he, the menial tasks. He hated to admit it, but the prick was damn good at Potions.

What's with him now?

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Draco glanced at Harry and smirked. He was playing on Harry's weakness. While Harry was actually quite decent in Potion – despite his belief – he could never tell apart between which was what. He amused himself by watching the Gryffindor's movements as he flipped the book back and forth; staring alternatively between the said book and the lined-up vials, the frown adorning his lips, and – stop it.

Last night, he managed to talk Snape into doing him a favour. It was something that Snape consented with the immense reluctance and only on account because Draco was his best student. He smiled as he recalled their private conversation.

"You're the only one who can help me! The other professors will never trust me with the Boy Who Lived alone in the same room!"

"I said no, Mr. Malfoy. If Mr. Potter is indeed your… intended, then your father and the Headmaster must be alerted at once. This is not a game, Mr. Malfoy, and you could very well lose your life—"

"But I'm not even sure about it myself!"

"You can just bloody corner the brat! He's half your size, for Merlin's sake!"

"With all due respect, sir, surely you have noticed that I – and everyone else in this school for that matter – will never provoke a Potter with wand on his person? I am desperate, not suicidal. This is the perfect camouflage since you can confiscate our wands and he won't even be suspicious about it,"

"He knows wandless magic, Mr. Malfoy. Why can't you just ask Mr. Potter to speak privately?"

"After last year, do you really think that the Gryffindors would let their Golden Boy anywhere near a potential Death Eater whose father is now in Azkaban because of him? I don't think so,"

"… Bloody brats; I should've resigned when Longbottom was assigned to my class. Better yet, I shouldn't have taken this bloody job in the first place. But nooo – bloody Albus had to make my existence miserable,"

"One chance is all I ask, sir. Half an hour, no, fifteen minutes is enough. I need to make sure that it is Potter before you alert my father or the Headmaster. Please, Professor."

Professor Snape had been the most unwilling, but they compromised. Sour-faced and all, Snape promised that he would try to land Potter on a detention, which was proving to be a little more difficult than he thought because Potter was surprisingly wily. Instead Snape would only give him fifteen minutes until midnight to assert it before he reported it to the Headmaster.

"What are you doing, Potty?" He sniffed in his haughtiest tone, more for the sake of drawing Potter's attention – two months of avoiding Potter had started to take its toll on him and he was in desperate for some Potter-esque actions – rather than to actually offend him.

Potter's face snapped to his direction, "Butt out, Malfoy." He looked back down on his book, intent on ignoring Malfoy for the remaining lesson and impressed him by making this right.

Draco raised an eyebrow and sneered, "Sure about that? Nothing personal, Potter, but you looked like a clueless moron like that. Do you even know what you're doing?"

The glare, if possible, turned even more heated. How he missed this. "If you're so smart, why don't you do it?"

"Don't mind if I do then," Draco sneered and replied, running a casual gaze on the vials. Of course he knew which one was salamander's blood; it was on the far left. He was about to reach for it when suddenly a brilliant idea popped on his head. Instead, he reached for the second one to the right – the two-headed snake venom.

"Here," the blond said as he dangled it patronizingly before Harry. With another glare, Harry grabbed the vial – missing Draco's triumphant smirk – and proceeded to carefully put two drops of the dark coloured liquid of the vial into the boiling concoction.

Snape apparently noticed this little prank Draco did and had to applaud at his determination. He watched with dispassionate eyes as the supposedly shimmering pale blue liquid bubbled up violently before it sizzled.

Potter frowned and narrowed his eyes suspiciously on a guileless looking Draco. "Oops. My fault, Potter." He said carelessly with an unrepentant shrug, as if he really had not intended it but was not quite sorry for it either. That boy was as good of an actor as his father, and equally infuriatingly apparently.

Snape mentally counted to ten, waiting for the inevitable explosion of mixing that last ingredient; if only Draco wasn't Lucius' precious son and one of his very few competent students.

Exploded cauldrons were nothing new to this class – not when they were accustomed to Longbottom's inclination of doing so – but what surprised them was the fact that it was Malfoy's cauldron that went off.

Snape took in a deep breath. "Potter, Malfoy! Detention tonight!"

'Hook, line, and sinker and you're mine for the night, Potter. Well, for fifteen minutes actually. But who's counting – besides Snape, that is?' Draco thought as he eyed his unsuspecting paramour, who was all four on the floor as he scrubbed the floor using a little too much force.

His face was set into a pout and he had his sleeves and slightly baggy pants rolled up to his elbows and knees – rather barbaric, much to Draco's chagrin – and his slightly longish hair had been gathered into an messy ponytail.

At least Potter was passable looking and bloody cute, he consoled himself, even if he was an annoying, self-righteous Gryffindor. Draco would sooner cry, bite off his tongue, and die had it been, say, Weasley instead.

Draco took his sweet time studying the Gryffindor as he crawled around, bending his upper body even lower to reach some deep places under the desks. Potter was officially a tease, or rather, an ignorant tease. What was he thinking jutting and waving his little, dimpled butt in the air like that.

Draco wondered whether his Potion professor would mind if they used his desk to do some… confirmation. Snape would probably scream his head off and take five-hundred points before giving him detention for the rest of his school life if he found out.

"Oi, Malfoy, don't think I'm going to let you stand there all night with your snotty nose high in the air!" Potter snapped suddenly, scrubbing even harder. "This is your bloody fault after all!"

Malfoy glared at him – his nose was not snotty, thank you very much – and chose to idly inspect his groomed nails with lazy interest as if Potter hadn't been more than passing air; intent on vexing Potter further and succeeding. If only gaze could crucify, Draco would've gone through worse Crucio than any Death Eater ever would.

"Malfoy," Potter hissed – his infamous parseltongue accent slipping into his voice, like it always would when he was pissed – and suddenly, Draco was reminded that this pint-sized prick was the Boy Who Lived, the number one on Voldemort's hit list, and according to Professor Snape, a decent wizard even without a wand.

With a begrudging look, Draco pinched the tattered rug and inspected it at arm-length distance with a sneer of disgust on his face as if the material was contaminated.

Certainly, Potter didn't expect him to go sink to his knee and polish the floor with this piece of filth? While Potter seemed to be in his elements in acting like a house-elf, Draco was certainly not.

"Potter," the blond haired boy said, "Surely you don't expect me to?"

"What? Too dainty for some rough work now, Malfoy?" Potter spat with enough sarcastic venom to make any decent Slytherin proud. "I have always thought that you're one high-maintenance woman, princess."

Draco bristled at the insult.

"I'm not the one with the girly mug, Potter." He watched in satisfaction as the sardonic look vanished abruptly from Potter's face. "Come to think if it, you really do look like a bloody chit. Hmm, are you positively sure that your mudblood mother didn't give birth of you with some deformities down there? I mean, you'll never know with a mudblood. They tend to have some defects—"

He never finished with his sentence because the next thing he knew, air was knocked out of him and the back of his head and body was connected to the ground harshly. A loud, throbbing pain shot through his spine and he looked up to see a furious Potter straddling his midriff with all his glory and pinning him down with his magical, fierce green eyes.

Those too green eyes of his; Draco was long ago arrested by those gloriously heartbreaking eyes hidden almost too carefully behind his scandalously hideous glasses.

Draco had long ago learned that looks could be misleading – as a Slytherin, he knew it all too well and it was one of the basic principles of life he often took advantage of. He had learned it the hard way, but Potter brought that lesson to a whole different level.

Never had he imagined the scrawny, girly looking Potter could inflict any serious damage bodily, but Potter had proved him that he could punch as good as he could hex him into next Monday. He wasn't really all that surprised at the impressive display of brute strength that enabled Potter to tackle and pin down a boy two times his vertical size and perhaps three times his weight.

Small, almost childlike hands came around his throat and wrapped firmly. For a moment, Draco thought it was amusing that the idea of strangling him. It was such a muggle thing. But then, he felt the sharp, heavy pressure from the outburst of Potter's lashing magic. As always, if there was any potent insult that could shake Potter's system, it would be one about his parents. As a son himself, he couldn't take it when someone insulted his parents, however awkward they might be as ones. Potter's died because of him. Cruel as it was, Draco could not help but revel in Potter's deep, flushed face, the dangerously bright look in his eyes, the snarl on his lips, and the sound of his voice.

"Look here, you bastard," Potter hissed; it would've sounded less intimidating if he had simply shouted at him. "I have just about enough of your shit! I don't know what stick lodged up your arse today, and I don't bloody want to know! Either you take that back Malfoy or I'm going to do something that we'll both regret in the morning!"

Despite the fact that Potter's fact was quite convincing to any ear, Draco found himself smirking languidly up at his prey upon the chosen words. He captured Potter's wrist and – using his man-eater's strength – pried them away but not releasing them before he leaned up and nuzzled Potter's neck, inhaling his delicious scent. "Merlin, Potter." He moaned; voice hypnotizing, sensual, debonair, and smooth as he drowned himself in the innocent sensuality that was Potter's body heat and smell.

All anger seemed to have left Potter's body momentarily as shock took over. He stilled as Draco skilfully shifted their position so that he was the one pining Potter's small body underneath his larger one – exercising the full advantage of his towering size.

Potter might defeat even the most feared Dark Lord in a magic duel, but when one took it away from him, it was very easy to overpower him. Considering that his physical constitution was that of a third year, it was hard not to.

Draco nuzzled and stared at the patch of skin exposed by Potter's unbuttoned collar. Wetting his suddenly dry lips, Draco leaned forward and used the tip of his tongue to taste – cautiously, tentatively, apprehensively.

His heart raced in his chest; so fast that he thought it was going to stop. Potter, whose eyes had gone just as wide as his, looked almost… scared. Draco stared down at him incredulously. Never once had Draco seen him so terrified, not Potter. Never Potter. He was the epitome of all Gryffindor-esque traits, with bravery that bordered on reckless stupidity.

Draco had never seen him quite like so even when he had barely escaped Voldemort's by an inch. It gave him a sense of supreme, exotic power over the great Harry Potter – something that not even the fearsome Dark Lord could. What he wouldn't give for a Pensieve later, in order to replay the face over and over again.

Then, the taste of the prat hit him and he thought that he had died and went to heaven. That alone could've sent him into embarrassing, consecutive orgasms on the spot.

Merlin, he thought in amazement. Merlin, Merlin, Merlin. He tastes so good!

He grabbed and jerked Potter's immobile face, ignoring the startled yelp he heard, and bit hard on those supple lips. Scrunching his eyebrows in a mixture of pained pleasure and desperation, he exercised his pheromone to weaken Potter as he slurped, suck, and feasted on Potter's little, delectable mouth.

The harsh slurping sounds were indecent even to his ears and Potter's breathless moan was swallowed by his mouth. He could feel small, trembling hands reaching the side of his robe and clenching hard there.

"Umm, anh!"

Those soft noises were like siren to his ears. He released Potter's mouth, looking down at him with heavy breathing, face flushing and twisting in a combination of shock and pleasure, and saliva dripping down the corner of his mouth.

More, cried a feral, primitive voice inside his head. I want more!

"M-Malfoy, what are you—ahh!" Potter appeared disoriented and flushed, before his eyes slid shut with wanton pleasure and he tossed his head back and panted, his body quivering rather violently when Draco grounded their hips together and nipped on neck. His expression was so licentious; Draco thought Potter should be relieved from his saintly duty.

Draco wasted no time in feasting on Potter's skin, wanting to get a more intimate taste. He needed to; he felt like he would die if he was denied of Potter for any longer. He was so hard, it hurt.

Not enough, not enough… I want so much more!

He reached for Potter's pants, fumbling with the buckles and lamenting why Potter wore so many damn clothes.

The sound of popping button, however, seemed to be some sort of reality call for Potter because in the midst of extreme pleasure, Draco felt a sharp, startling sting of pain right where his desire swell and doubled over. Another blow, less fatal but still as painful, landed on his cheek and caused his head to ring. Potter, again with an unexpected strength, managed to shove Draco off his body. He scrambled to his feet – askew and even more tousled than usual – while putting immediate safe distance between them.

Potter was panting and blushing so furiously and his magic cackled and sizzled with such powerful anger that another unwanted surge of rather intense arousal seized Draco despite the severe pain of his lower-half region. Potter took a step back, staring at him with a disbelieving, incredulous look.

Wide, green, angry eyes feasted on Draco's pained form. "You—you sick pervert!" he screamed with slightly quivering voice, that bordered on mild hysteria. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand furiously as if he had tasted something bad. He clasped his palm over his mouth again and glared even harder at Draco.

"You try pulling that on me again, Malfoy, I won't just knee." Potter promised – and rather convincingly even if it wasn't for the blush splashing on his pale cheeks – before scrambling out of Snape's classroom as if his life depended on it.

Well, that went well. In ten minutes, he managed to kiss Potter, groped his butt – his dimpled butt – confirmed that Potter was indeed his intended, and was imparted with a revelation that Harry Potter slapped harder than he punched, had a wicked footwork and knee jab, if the rather brutal treatment to his crotch was to be any indication. That vicious little minx might have been small, but he was unfailingly fast, efficient, and unexpectedly capable of playing dirty too.

Draco felt his temper, hunger, and lust exploded within him. He had to feed soon. That earlier contact just now simply amplified his need for Potter.

When Snape stepped in the room not a minute after Potter's un-Gryffindor like escape, he had this hilariously comical look on his face as he took in the sight of Draco Malfoy sprawled on the stone flooring of his classroom, nursing his bruised pride between his legs. Draco grimaced at him.

The dark haired professor quickly schooled his expression and spoke seriously, "Just without the wand, eh Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco groaned and buried his face in his hand. He was never going to live this down.

-:- -:- -:- :- -:-

Blaise Zabini was having the time of his life as he nearly doubled over with pain because of uncontrolled laughter.

He clutched his stomach as he tried to calm down and looked at Draco properly. But every time he did, he'd fall about again. The embarrassing struggle scene and vocal battle that took place between Madame Pomfrey and his blond haired housemate was hilarious.

The Madame, with all seriousness, tried to spread the blond Slytherin's legs in order to examine his most extensive injury – which happened to be somewhere slightly less than proper to venture for a woman the nurse's age – while Draco screamed and accused her of molestation attempts.

He deposited himself on the high, three-legged stool beside Draco's bed after he calmed down considerably, though a shadow of grin still played on his lips.

"Someone actually did that to you?" Zabini cackled with a hint of disbelief, mock sympathy, and almost unhealthy amount of evil delight. "Really, you? And you let him? Ha! Ha ha! Malfoy, you're even more pathetic than I gave you credit for!"

Trust him to be so blood happy over my miseries. Bloody prat. Draco glared at him from where he was sitting against the pillowed headboard, wounded pride and all, but nonetheless nodded grudgingly with a grunt.

"Magnifico!" Zabini clapped his hands in a show of excitement and it annoyed Draco to a point of murderous intent. "Merlin, someone is finally setting you straight. Should've done that a long time ago!"

Zabini was having too much fun with this, he decided. Maybe he should strangle him in his sleep? No, that would be too obvious. Slytherins were all about refined art, subtlety, and cunning. Surely, Professor Snape wouldn't notice, or mind too much, it if a few bottles of his poisonous draught vanished. Draco would just be borrowing them anyway. While man-eaters had exceptional resistance against poison and disease, they were not completely immune. Professor Snape made some pretty potent poisons after all.

"I'm glad to know that my plight amuses you so, Zabini." Draco said as he crossed his arms. "Remind me to slip you some of Parkinson's Amortentia. I heard she was pretty good at it, despite being a complete disaster anywhere else. And I'm sure that she'll be delighted to welcome you into her arms,"

"Oh, please Malfoy! I'm a Zabini. Love potions work as good as pumpkin juice to me," Zabini rolled his eyes and waved his hand impatiently with a dismissive tone.

"Can't you just leave me alone already?" Draco considered pleading, but decided against it. Zabini's already inflated head would only swell to the point of abominable.

"No, por lo que más quieras, mi amigo!" the Italian returned with a saucy smile. "Anyway, you have to admit that it's hilarante!"

"What is?" Draco hissed with barbed sarcasm, "My astronomical prospective of effective impotency?"

"That too! I mean, until now, the only one who's capable of humbling you is Potter and he's—" Zabini abruptly paused. An odd look of realization dawned on his face, followed by apprehension as he stopped laughing and looked up to Draco's face with a start.

That uncharacteristically unwilling, troubled look settling on the blond Slytherin's face spoke of volumes.

Zabini blinked and looked almost awed, "Hell no. For real?"

Draco nodded again.

"O Merlin mio." Zabini whispered with increasing astonishment; his ochre eyes wide with excitement and disbelief. The perpetual knowing smirk on his lips widened even more with vicious glee and suddenly, Draco wanted to avada kedavra himself. Or better yet, just avada Zabini.

"No me jodas, Malfoy!"

Draco shot him a deadpanned, withering look and raised an eyebrow. "Don't worry, I won't."

-:- -:- -:- :- -:-

But human lovers, to man-eaters, are the most vital of nutrition.

End's Note : Here marks the end of the first chapter. I must say thought that despite the fact that the reviews were somewhat lacking, but the alert notices I got kind of surprised me. I hope you all enjoyed it anyway. Please, feel free to drop me a review and comment. It's kind of like my muse or some sort.

Blaise is Italian, I know. But here, he was born in Spain and grew up there, thus his slangs. I mean, I was torn between Italian and Spanish since they're both kind of similar, but ended up using Spanish. Maybe if I ever make another story, I'll make him use Italian. I'm not really that good in Spanish, but I tried. Sorry if it has mistakes. Please feel free to correct me. Here's some translation:

Guapa – Handsome

Amante – Lover

Alma gamela – Soul-mate

Querido – Darling

Estimule – Stimulate

Exquisito – Exquisite

Adictivo – Addictive

Por supuesto – Of course

Interesante – Interesting

Madre de Merlin – Mother of Merlin (Madre de Dios can be literally translated as Virgin Mary or Mother of God)

Pazzo – Crazy/insane

Queramos o no – Whether you like it or not

Lo que tu diga, querido – Whatever you say, darling

Magnifico – Superb

Por lo que más quieras, Malfoy – For God's sake, Malfoy

No, por lo que más quieras, mi amigo – Not on your life, my friend

Hilarante – Hilarious

O Merlin mio – Oh, my Merlin (O Dios mio can be literally translated as Oh, my God)

No me jodas, Malfoy – Don't fuck with me, Malfoy