Disclaimer: characters and situations in this story belong to J. K. Rowling and publishers; no copyright infringement is intended.
Blood and Sex
If men want women for sex, then for what do women want men?
The answer is obvious, of course: the same.
Draco Malfoy had been brought up to distrust. It served him well, during his school years and beyond.
He distrusted his family. It was one of the first lessons that he had been taught: not even those who had raised him could be trusted.
He distrusted his friends. Rarely did he let on his true secrets, or reveal his true face. Very few among his friends knew that he had disdained Voldemort, or that he had received 10 O.W.Ls, or even that his favourite colour was indigo.
He distrusted his enemies for more obvious reasons.
But, if he distrusted his friends, it was nothing to what he felt for women. To him, women were items to be used, cherished, kept ignorant, and ultimately discarded when they lost their freshness or became too nosy.
So, when pretty, redheaded Ginny Weasley showed up at his door one day and, ignoring his questions ('what do you think you're doing? How did you manage to get past my guard trolls?'), proceeded to shag his brains out—metaphorically, of course—it was only natural that Draco Malfoy would be suspicious.
But she deftly avoided his questions, and, after a few tries, he gave up; there was more than ample distraction. What little small talk that they made thereafter was entirely impersonal—conversations about anything from current wizarding politics, to the weather, and even to the Wimbourne Wasps' humiliating defeat at the hands of the Chudley Cannons last Saturday.
Somewhere in between ordering the house-elves to bring up caviar and musing on the (questionable) merits of Jennifer Ehle, Draco Malfoy found his eyelids growing very heavy, and they soon closed altogether. Well, he thought before succumbing to his sleep, at least I've found a good substitute for a sleeping drought.
When next he woke, the silken sheets beside him were cool in the faint light of dawn, and the chamber was completely devoid of any sign that she had been there, save a faint scent of sandalwood and frankincense perfume that disappeared when he shifted.
He began to wonder whether he might have imagined it all.
This impression was certainly not helped by the fact that, at breakfast, a picture stared out at him from the front page of The Daily Prophet, with the accompanying headline, 'Harry Potter spotted at St. Mungo's charity ball with fiancée.' Draco blinked at the people in the picture, and they blinked back. He remembered, then, that the papers had had a field day a while back, when the boy who lived had announced his engagement to Miss Virginia Weasley.
Harry Potter had disappeared from the picture now, hiding beyond the edges. Ginny Weasley stayed. She stared out at Draco with large brown eyes. 'Some hero he is!' muttered Draco balefully. 'Leaving you alone out here to fight off the reporters by yourself.' Ginny continued to stare out at him from the picture.
'Begging pardon, sir.' The squeaky voice of a house-elf interrupted his thoughts. Draco jumped in surprise. 'Is Mr Malfoy done with his breakfast?'
Draco narrowed his eyes at the elf, who promptly backed into the doorway. 'Yes, take it away.' He waved a hand dismissively, and the house-elf sighed in relief.
The rest of the day progressed fairly normally; he managed to yell at three Muggle-born witches, and even fired one of them. Business-wise, it was very productive, and by dinner Draco had managed to put Ginny Weasley from his mind entirely.
It is only to be expected that Draco Malfoy would be shocked and angered when he heard a knock on his bedroom door, and, upon opening it, found not a house-elf with his customary cup of chrysanthemum tea, but a fully disrobed Ginny Weasley. How she managed to make her way through his grounds to his room in such a state, without attracting attention, was anyone's guess.
What happened thereafter was an exact repeat of the events of twenty-four hours before, right down to the remnants of sandalwood perfume left on his pillow the following morning.
There could be no doubt this time. Draco could not have had two impossibly realistic dreams for two consecutive nights.
The third night, Draco was ready. The guards were told to be extra alert, and Draco himself stood, wand at the ready. Ginny Weasley would have a lot of explaining to do, and she wasn't about to escape this time.
But literary justice deals out irony in large doses, and it just so happens that, on this night when he was most prepared, Ginny did not come, and Draco was left to lie awake in the darkness, craning his neck to catch a whiff of her peculiar perfume. He felt strangely disappointed, and found himself wondering, for the first time in years, about Potter's love life. Did he have pretty, redheaded Ginny Weasley in his bed right now?
When the knock came at Draco's door the fourth night, and Ginny Weasley entered, this time wearing nothing but a long trench coat and stilettos, Draco sprang up at once from the chair where he sat tensely. A wave of his wand, and ropes sprang around Ginny's ankles and wrists from thin air. She was promptly bound to the wall before Draco. The door slammed shut.
'How did you get past my guards?' demanded Draco. 'They were told to watch for you.'
Ginny struggled faintly against her bonds. 'Do you have to tie me? My clothes will be ruined.'
Draco relaxed slightly; he was in control now. 'I don't care. Answer me!'
She stopped struggling. 'Your guards aren't exactly very bright. It was easy to slip past.'
Draco didn't believe her. He asked, 'how is your fiancé? I understand you're to marry Harry Potter in two months. That should make you happy; you've wanted him for twelve years.'
Ginny whitened visibly, speechless.
'Why are you here?'
She did not answer.
Draco smiled at her—a hard and mirthless smile. 'You're in my house, you know,' he said, his voice suddenly soft and winning. He leaned close to her, let the rich terrycloth of his robe touch her bare legs, let her smell the scent of alcohol in his breath. 'You are trespassing on my property. You are mine.' He paused slightly, and raised his wand.
She was quivering now.
'I can do what ever I want.' He leaned closer still. 'Want do I want?' he mused, his leg now snaking between hers. 'Crucio!'
Her petite frame went rigid with pain. She gasped—such a delicious sound!—and bit her lip; she would not scream. A trickle of blood flowed from her lip—she had punctured it.
Draco turned away his wand.
Ginny sagged. Her lower lip trembled. A fat tear slid slowly down her cheek. She looked up at him with those big, brown eyes. 'I thought you wanted me,' she whispered.
Draco sighed, amused. 'I do!'
'You're lying, Draco. You're a cheating, deceitful bastard, just like your father.'
Draco flinched. How dare she accuse him? 'I do not lie, Weasley.'
She turned up her nose in distaste. 'Prove it.'
Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Somehow, even while tied to the wall and cowering, Ginny managed to preen and stretch herself against him. Her eyes held challenge and defiance, and, as he continued to stand motionlessly, a growing triumph.
What red lips you have!thought Draco suddenly, irrationally. How many men's blood and souls have you drunk with those lips?
She turned away. 'Indeed,' she said coldly.
That broke the spell.
Draco's mouth descended upon hers. Coat and robe fell away, and they were skin to skin. At some point, the bindings disappeared, too. They scrabbled for the bed. Satin sheets twisted and stained with sweat and sandalwood perfume. Blood flowed that night; they were drowning in it.
Man wants sex; woman wants lifeblood. They are complementary; aren't they?
Two months later, a pale Draco Malfoy entered the dining room and sat down for breakfast. The headline on the front page of The Daily Prophet proclaimed, 'Potter and bride wed in Muggle London'. In the picture stood two people. One of them, a thin man with messy black hair and eyes that were bright even on the black and white paper; the other, a pretty, petite redheaded woman in a pure white gown, waving merrily. Perhaps it was Draco's imagination, but she looked vaguely triumphant.
A/N: Constructive criticism is very much appreciated.