Survival

I fuck anyone, really.

Men. Women. It doesn't matter much.

I have but one rule, though. That they be willing. Even if unwilling does present such an intriguing prospect that I am almost tempted to try it out one day. But that is neither here nor there.

Now whoever my lover and however many times we've done the deed, let me, for the record, say that I care not for any of them. Their whispered, heated proclamations of an endless love fall on my deaf ears.

We meet. We drink. We screw. Nothing passionate or even remotely loving about that. Nothing to encourage affection or promote a life-long affair. So their hollow promises and pledges mean less than dirt to me. Such drivel, their sentiments. Worthless shit.

Just because they claim to feel some sort of hideous adoration for me doesn't mean that I have to return the cliché. Screw their emotions, I say. I have none. So why, pray they, should they?

They're nothing but bodies, anyway. Only bodies. Obliging whores in which to empty myself in. Useful tools for the selfish ends of a Malfoy.

Like the proverbial Big Bad Wolf, I am. I prey on the unsuspecting innocents who resemble each other. And who, in the end, all bear a twisted resemblance to just one other. A dark-haired, solemn-eyed other.

Nameless, faceless, soulless creatures they are to me. Filthy with their own idealistic dreams and futileexpectations. As, inevitably, I am filthy with mine. And no matter how hard I scrub, this grime of games and play-acting never fades.

It's funny in a way, that I can never remember their names, nor can I tell them apart. Like I said, they all look like each other. Like him. And it's not like I particularly want to. Tell them apart, that is. I much prefer them to hide behind their anonymity. Because that way, I can pretend, and the stain of my fantasy need never go away.

Such a childish sentiment, that. To pretend. But it is only fitting.

In my make-believe world, the distinct individualities of all who took me to their beds blurred and smeared. Their faces raging across my consciousness in a cacophony of sights and sounds and smells. Until finally, they coalesce into one definitive form.

The form of Harry Potter.

The other that all my lovers try to emulate unsuspectingly. The other that passes like a ghost between the heated bodies and slick skin of myself and whoever.

In my deluded fantasies, his green, green eyes would stare at me out of every random face.

Their lips would be his lips pressing kisses down the column of my throat. Hot and insistent. Coaxing. Teasing. Promising.

Hands that roamed my body and hands that tormented my flesh would be his hands.

And it would be his voice I hear relentlessly crying out my name into the darkness.

It is in the memory of him that I lose myself in the pounding, the grinding, the incessant pleasurable pull of pure meaningless sex with whoever it happened to be that day. Because that is the only way that I can ever snatch a bit of peace so long denied.

Reality does not dare infect the blessed, blissful emptiness that comes after I come.

Such is my salvation. Such is my truth. To trade in a willing body that I could care less for an unwilling one who robbed me of my ability to care, who cut it out of me as I struggled to make sense of the havoc he played on my mind.

And I am left with a sorry substitute when once I had the flesh and blood original of my two-bit replica.

I have much too much pride to ever come crawling back to him. I am a Malfoy, after all. And Malfoys do not beg. Even though this need seethes in me and sometimes, it makes me forget my blood, my family, my duty.

But I do what I have to do. It's all about self-preservation, don't you know?

Because who else but the strongest, the coldest, the most heatless of us can survive in this cutthroat existence.

So I fuck. I dream. I pretend. I smile my little smile, the travesty of my curving lips never once reaching my vacant eyes nor warming the coldness of my soul. And I die a little death each and every time, all in the name of my desire, my longing, my own rendition of an unrequited love.