For years now your sense have been tingling, your nose prickling with anticipation as you wait for your pray to become vulnerable enough for the wolf that is within you to strike. There is a wild look to him that makes your animalistic instincts go crazy, creating the fantasies tat accompany your wet dreams each night. You want his innocence; you want to make a man out of the boy; you want to feed on his youth as if he were a roast ham at Christmas dinner.

The fact that he is twenty-two years your junior does not matter. Dash the fact that he is the only son and child of your best friend; the boy's father is a slowly decaying corpse that rests six whole feet under the surface of the cold earth. His mother is no more; she lies next to her husband under the willow tree just a few feet away. The only "family" that he had left had, too, died from his own stupidity.

Harry Potter is alone in the world, much like you are it appears. However, you do not want to love him or take care of him the way some think that you do; oh, hell no, you do not want to spend the rest of your already pathetic excuse for a life telling him that you want only him. There is nothing more he is besides a toy for you to play with and break into thousands of tiny pieces; he is but something to nostalgically remind you of you youth in your middle aged days of a failure.

Oh, how you want to grab him viciously, shove him down on his knees, and force him to take your long, thick, hard cock into his mouth as you thrust your hips into him. You want moan and groan loudly; you may even encourages him with a simple, "Suck me dry!" You would be his master, and he would be your slave.

You have had these impure thoughts even when you met him again three years ago on the train. There was something inside of you that wanted so badly to smear that chocolate that you hid in your pocket all over the small ring of muscle you knew he had, and then you would have proceeded to lick it all up, swallowing the sweet melted liquid down your burning hot throat. When you were done, you would have told him how good he tastes ad then that you wanted to explore his childish body even more extensively.

Then there was the time last month when you entered the room that his Muggle relatives kept him in. His stench had consumed you to the point where there was almost no turning back. There was a long moment in which you contemplated with the wolf if you should strip the young man of his unnecessary clothes and thrusts your prick into him, rocking back and forth with suck intensity that he would bleed all over those dirty white sheets that the Muggle wench had forced him to sleep with. You wanted to hear him gasp your name, say it, yell it, scream it at the top of his young lungs as he reached a climax.

You do not even know if he is queer, but you do not care. The wolf is hungry, and you cannot deny it the food it craves for much longer.

No matter, you think to no one but yourself as you spot him alone wit a thick book in hand in the sitting room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The wolf always gets whatever it desires.

He looks up as he turns a dusty page; his sparking green eyes meet yours. Your mouth forms a sly smile as you feel your fully developed privates begin to expand under your battered robes. "Professor Lupin," he says kindly. "Would you care to join me?"

Suddenly, the door is locked behind you; there is no one who can disrupt the hunt as your mouth begins to water. The wolf does not have much longer to wait.