Author's Notes- I don't own anything. Part of a series featuring Blaise Zabini who I have chosen to be male. Slash. Bad language. Naughty things will happen too so if you don't like that, shoo now.

Blaise.

You beautiful, conceited, bad bitch.

People would think that Malfoy is the Slytherin whore, with his icy pretty-boy looks and charm. After all, he could have anyone he wanted- male, female, Gryffindor, Slytherin. Or maybe Pansy, with her slut's eyes and softly curving figure. People would be wrong. Both of them have their lovers.. sometimes they entwine themselves, their relationships short and fiery and ending in cool, cutting words. Cold as ice, and hot as fire. They have their lovers. But neither of them compare to Blaise Zabini.

He should have been born a girl. His face was as calm and symmetrical as a death mask, surrounded by shoulder-length wings of black hair that light splintered upon like broken glass. The face was that of a girl's, pointed chin and full slut lips never touched by a smile. His eyes burned intensely dark and sucked the light of the world into themselves. He smudged khol around them, darkened until they were twin holes blasted into the pale androgyny of his face. When he made love, the black outlines bled outward until his eyes seemed unnaturally elongated, slanting up to touch that black, feathery hair and pull the rest of his face into shadow.

No-one knew anything much about his family. He was pureblood, of course. He wouldn't have been a true Slytherin if his blood were tainted in any form. Part Veela too, some said. That would account for his delicate features and cool manner. Rich, naturally. He was fairly indistinguishable in class- clever, but not outspoken. It was only in bed he seemed to come alive. Blaise never said no to anyone who desired him. Most of the male population of Slytherin had tasted him at some point, along with half of the other houses and indeed many of the professors. Almost every night the watching moon found a small, pale figure slipping from some classroom or another with his black hair teased and loose around his downturned face, robes slightly askew. He slipped through the shadows avoiding the silvery moonlight pooling through the windows. A few minutes later, another person would follow, lust satiated and fires quenched. Another night in the life of Blaise, the whore of Slytherin.