DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

BETA READER: silverbluewords

INTERLUDE

~NOVEMBER 1996~

"A.K. my life," Draco grumbled, chucking aside the third bottle of Firewhiskey he'd necked that night. He reached for a fourth, swatting Moaning Myrtle out of his face, calling her a filthy Mudblood, along with a few other slurs for good measure, and sending her wailing down the toilet to bleed some other bloke's ears out.

Fucking hell, alone at last. He planned on drowning himself in Firewhiskey tonight. He hardly even noticed the burning sensation anymore. Eventually, it had ebbed away and grown numb, just like everything else. Suddenly, dying a slow, miserable, and lonely death in an abandoned girls' loo, his pale, emaciated corpse—not that anyone could tell the difference at this point—littered amongst a third of the world's supply of smuggled alcohol, sounded like the best-case scenario he could hope for. He should just do himself and everyone else a favour by hurrying the fuck up and dying already.

Hell, no one would miss him. No one even bloody cared. That, he knew for certain. Even through the bars of his cell in Azkaban, his father would merely frown upon his remains in disapproval, raging on and on about the eternal shame he'd brought upon his ancestors, his constant failure to bring honour to the Malfoy name, the utter grief that he never ceased to inflict upon his parents with his insolence, what a grave disappointment he'd turned out to be, et cetera, et cetera—in other words, nothing new.

He couldn't fix the Vanishing Cabinet. He couldn't beat Potter at Quidditch. He couldn't even beat Granger at school. For fuck's sake, he was almost as worthless as Weasley! What did he have to live for? The Dark Lord would simply order another pawn from his extensive, completely expendable army to finish what Draco started. As for his mother, even if she did care, she would never grace him with anything beyond that cold mask of indifference. She fulfilled her duty as Lady Malfoy to the last, calligraphic letter, siding with her husband in all matters of the estate—no exceptions.

Surely, not even anyone at Hogwarts would be sorry to see him go. He doubted that Crabbe and Goyle could even spell the word "death." Nott and Zabini would both ascend, sneering, to the top of the Slytherin social hierarchy by default, and Pansy would probably grieve for him the same way she grieved for lost sales opportunities at Twilfitt and Tatting's. The heroes and the Hufflepoofers would serenade his demise with song, dance, and endless cheer.

He wouldn't even have to kill Dumbledore, or, more accurately, Dumbledore wouldn't have to kill him. Wanking Snape, the Dark Lord's favourite, wouldn't have to waste his precious time babysitting him anymore. Pothead, Weaselbee, and the Beaver would save the day, like they always did, and he would've almost done something noble by kicking his own bucket before he did something really stupid.

Bottle in hand, he lurched to his feet and took one last, dramatic swig of liquid courage. After spending hours hunched in the same position, he staggered, swaying slightly and sniggering with manic giddiness at his alcohol-induced epiphany. He'd never get to live out any of his wank fantasies about Granger, but that was probably for the best. He was already sick enough as it was. Who knew what sorts of diseases were festering inside of that sweet, virgin pussy of hers, or her—

WHAT IN BUGGERATION? Who the fuck said he even had any wank fantasies about her? He didn't have tossing wank fantasies about HER! So what if she slapped him in third year? It wasn't as if he'd liked it, or anything as disgustingly masochistic as that! The delirium was merely a side effect, resulting from unwanted skin contact! She'd infected him! And so what if he was paying more attention to her at the Yule Ball than Pansy? Everyone was staring! He'd never touch a filthy Mudblood like her! Wait, NO! Not "her!" IT! He meant "it!"

Right. Thoroughly convinced by the soundness of his own impeccable logic, he nodded firmly and set his conscience at ease. With a wobbly flourish of finality, he lifted his wand and pointed it straight at his head. Just two words, and it would all be over.

"Avada Keda—"

Oh, fuck.

Why, on tonight, of all nights, did she, of all people, have to come mucking about in here, OF ALL PLACES? Hermione feckin' Granger just had to barge into the loo, intruding upon his epic, poetically tragic, and above all, private suicide, and she couldn't even do it quietly. No, she had to burst in, bawling hysterically at the top of her putrid lungs and wailing like a bleeding banshee. Brilliant. Just. Fucking. Brilliant. He even failed at dying—thwarted by a Mudblood, of all the lowly creatures that crawled upon this earth. How much more pathetic could he get?

Then, she spotted him. She halted mid-sob, clearly startled by his presence, although, technically, she had no right to be startled, since he was here first, BLAST IT! An awkward silence ensued. For a moment, she just stared at him, standing there with his wand trained at his own forehead, royally mashed and knee-deep in a sea of sauce, and he just stared at her. Her bushy hair was even more wild and untamed than usual, and those muddy eyes of hers were red and swollen, bloated with fat tears that wobbled haphazardly down her angry, puffed-up face.

Without warning, she stormed right up to him and snatched the bottle out of his hand, screeching: "Give me that!" He gaped, dumbstruck, as Granger—Hermione Granger—proceeded to gulp down half a litre of Firewhiskey in one go. Blimey, he couldn't be that drunk! Could he?

"Granger?" he ventured uncertainly.

"What?" she snapped.

Taken aback, he found himself at a loss for words. He couldn't help ogling her, just a tad, as she wrapped those rouged lips tightly around the neck of that bottle, where his lips had been only moments before, sucking hard, swallowing its fluids, and not spilling a single drop. Bloody hell… Maybe he really was that drunk.

"Get your own Firewhiskey, Mudblood!" he snarled, seizing the forlornly depleted bottle from her filthy clutches.

"Just tell Mummy to buy you some more, you prat!" she spat, grabbing it back.

"Do you have any idea how BLOODY difficult it was to sneak all this past that blighted Squib? No, of course you don't! There aren't any books written about it in the library!" he taunted, wrenching the bottle out of her grasp and taking a nice, long swill out of it to rub it in her face. He'd completely forgotten about the fact that it was contaminated, but he was still alive, wasn't he? Fuck it! At this point, death by Mudblood pathogens was still better than living.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Malfoy," she leered, a positively evil glint marring those roiled eyes. A trick of the light, surely. Or the alcohol. Yes, it was definitely the alcohol. It had to be the alcohol. "I am a prefect, and if I'm not mistaken, I've just discovered you in the possession of enough illegal substances to join Daddy in the nick."

"HA!" he barked. "I'm a motherfucking prefect too, Granger!"

"Indeed," she snorted, the corners of her lips twitching slightly with some private joke that he couldn't care less about. "All the more reason to turn you in."

"Tell you what, Granger," he mused, smirking down at her. "I dare you to report me. I fucking dare you."

"An unwise move to use against a Gryffindor, don't you think?" she coolly responded, raising her eyebrows.

"Well, you're not such a good little Gryffindor now, are you, Granger?" he sneered. "I'm sure your beloved professors would love to hear all about how their favourite student, in the midst of an emotional breakdown, assaulted me for alcohol and attempted to blackmail me in a blatant abuse of her prefect status."

She immediately burst into derisive laughter. "Honestly, Malfoy, who would take your word over mine?"

Fuck. She had a point there.

Taking advantage of his stupefaction, she lunged for the bottle and fought to pry it out of his hold. A heated tug-of-war commenced, both of them completely disregarding the shroom-like colonies of unopened liquor that surrounded them.

"Hand it over, Malfoy, or I'll put your arse in detention!"

"You can't put me in detention, you stupid Mudblood! I should be the one giving you detention!"

"Don't worry, Malfoy, unlike you, I'm not completely heartless! I'll be sure to put all of your lackeys in detention with you!"

"My lackeys? Is that the best that you can come up with? I haven't even started on those bender boy toys of yours—"

"You just wait until I give Tweedledim and Tweedledumb lines—"

"What the fuck is a Tweedle—NO! You know what? Fuck YOU, Mudblood! Go spew your shite at some twat who actually cares! I don't fucking speak Muggle—"

"I can just picture it already! Reading! Writing! And thinking! At the same time! Have the noble inbreeds of Slytherin finally met their match? Salazar save you all—"

"Yeah? Well, I think I'll have Weasley muck out the slug pit, since he always seems to be on such friendly terms with them—"

"Yes, do that! And have him scrub the floor of the dungeons while he's at it!"

"HA! Even better, with that foul Squib breathing down his scrawny neck—"

"And without magic!"

"Honestly, you call yourself the brightest witch of our age? That was a given! I'll have him wipe the dirt off the ground with soiled rags, like the ones mouldering on the backs of his entire piss-poor family—"

"Honestly, you call yourself a Slytherin? Have him use a toothbrush! His own toothbrush—"

"Blimey, Granger… That's—that's—diabolical!"

"NO, Malfoy! That is JUSTICE! He'd deserve every sodding second of it!"

"I'm not going to disagree with you, Granger, but… Are you going to give me your signature on that? Because I'm not fucking about—I will seriously write him up this instant, if it's all the same to you—"

"YOU CAN DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT! I don't bloody care anymore! He can figure out how to do things himself for a change! Do you think that blonde, purebred BIMBO is going to do his homework for him? The night before it's due? Or remind him to eat his vegetables, so that he doesn't perish from vitamin deficiency?"

"Er, Granger?"

"Or renew his library books for him? Or put up with all of his jealous rants about Harry? Or his constant whinging? Or his ridiculous boasts?"

"Really, Granger, too much information—"

"Or defend him from pricks like YOU? Or sit around, waiting for him, for years, and years, and YEARS, because he doesn't have the spine to make the first move?"

"Look, Granger, I can't fucking believe that I'm saying this, but maybe you should just calm dow—"

"I—HATE—RONALD—FLUFFING—WEASLEY!"

They both froze on the spot, allowing her incensed proclamation to bounce off the tiles and back into their disbelieving ears. Neither one of them had yet to relinquish their claim upon the bottle, both flushed and panting with the effort of their struggles.

"I would do anything for him," she whispered suddenly, her voice cracking beneath the strain of her despair. "Anything. Why isn't that good enough?" Her shoulders started to tremble. Ashamed, she ducked her head down as she succumbed to great, wracking sobs that shuddered and sloshed through the glass medium that connected them, however briefly, to each other.

He held on, simply to give himself something to do—as if by holding the bottle steady, he could somehow halt the floodgates. Uncomfortably, he averted his gaze. Should he tell her to piss off? Spout off some profound titbit of alcohol-induced wisdom? Fucking hell. Didn't he have enough problems already, without some barking Mud-bitch crying all over his Firewhiskey and polluting it with her odious secretions? Merlin's bleeding beard, was EVERYONE out to get him?

"I fucking hate people," he muttered.

She hiccupped in surprise, peering up at him with watery, mud-stained eyes.

"Manipulative, selfish bastards, the lot of them," he spat bitterly. "Nothing's ever good enough in this fucked-up shithole they call a planet."

"You would know," she sniffed in derision.

"Yes, I would," he answered darkly.

She continued to blink at him, unsure what to make of his cryptic response.

He sighed in exasperation. Fucking hell, he just wanted this day to be over already. "Listen, Granger, you're smart—for a Mudblood. So take my advice, and just give it up already. There's no point in trying to be so bloody perfect all the time. People couldn't fucking care less."

She bristled at his suggestion. "Don't speak as if you know me," she snapped defensively. "From the moment I met you, all you've ever done is judge me, belittle me, and remind me every single, blasted day that I'm worth nothing more than the dirt on your shoes! You don't know the first thing about me! You're nothing but a spoiled, arrogant bully with daddy issues, and I feel sorry for you!"

The numbness that had previously settled over him evaporated in an instant, consumed by a boiling wrath that thundered through him and ignited the fraying, Firewhiskey-soused fuse that had twisted up the last vestiges of his sanity.

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he warned, his voice dangerously quiet. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough," she hissed back.

"You think I'm the one who's self-righteous?" he bellowed. "Why don't you take a good look in the mirror, you gobshitting bitch? You have the nerve to come crying in here, just because that fucking ginger peasant chose some pureblood over you, and you honestly think that your problems are bigger than mine? You don't need me to tell you that you're inferior! You already know that you're inferior! That's why you're so torn up, isn't it? You're such a worthless Mudblood, you have no idea what I have to go through just to fucking STAY ALIVE and get my parents to even look at me!"

"YOU'RE A COWARD!" she retorted. "You don't have the guts to stand up to anyone, not unless you've got your thick-headed thugs behind you to hold your hand! You're so pathetic, the way you degrade others just to bolster your own fragile ego! You're powerless! Your parents brainwash you with their lies, and you believe every single of them, you sick, son of a—"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

"WHY DON'T YOU MAKE ME?"

He lunged forward and grabbed her, slamming her up against the wall and crushing her lips with his. The forgotten bottle smashed to the ground and shattered, splashing them both with scorching, sizzling flecks of the intoxicating drink. He practically sucked her face off, opening wide, engulfing her entire mouth, and slavering his claim upon it.

Growling gutturally, he drew upon the molten slickness of his tongue to probe for the slightest weakness in her defences. Once he found it, he shoved himself in without mercy, groaning at the taste of Firewhiskey that still lingered upon her tongue. It burned through him with a searing intensity that incinerated all of the voices in his head that were screaming at him to stop—the voices of his mother, his father, his ancestors, and the puritanical society that had dictated his entire life. This time, he threw himself into the fire, and to hell with the consequences.

At first, she remained unresponsive as he feasted upon her and took his own pleasure. She made a few feeble attempts to shove him off, but her reflexes were slowed and her strength severely diminished by the sudden drinking binge, their crackpot tug-of-war, and the blazing row that had ensued.

Then, a hot tear splattered upon his cheek and he blinked in confusion, pausing momentarily in his assault. Deep and utter sorrow continued to bleed in winding rivulets down her face. Guilt immediately overrode his hormone-drenched stupor. Shite, shite, shite… Had he gone too far? Was this technically considered rape? Could he be expelled for that? Or worse, maybe she thought he was really that bad at kissing? IMPOSSIBLE! That would be preposterous!

"Malfoy," she whispered shakily.

"What?" he growled, stewing bitterly in woes that were far beyond the abilities of this cruel, cock-teasing bint to even comprehend. Did they seriously have to talk now? For fuck's sake, his dick was literally crying in frustration! He needed to have at her now, before he sobered up and actually realised what in the blazes he was doing!

"Make me forget," she pleaded, squeezing her eyes shut, even as the tears continued to seep through. She clung to his robes, yanked him in closer, and stood up on her tiptoes to offer him a timid, tremulous kiss that burned with desperation.

She was using him. Just using him. And he was using her. They both needed to forget. Just for one night, neither of them wanted to remember who they were, who their parents were, what was expected of them, and what they were supposed to be living for. All that mattered was this moment—right here, right now, with each other.

The world could go fuck itself.

In a rare gesture of tenderness, he gently wiped her tears. He didn't know why, but it bothered him to see them on her face. They were for Weasley. He was the one kissing her now, and she was still crying over that freckle-faced mong. Only then did he realise that not once had he ever seen Hermione Granger cry because of him, despite everything he'd ever said or done to her. Not once had she cried for him. Yet with Weasley, her tears streamed so freely. It made him feel… oddly hollow.

Then, her lips embraced his once more. They were soft, yet moist with his flavour. Abruptly, a dark hunger overcame him, and he was consumed with a sudden, inexplicable urge to dominate her.

Tomorrow, she would go running back to Weasley, him back to the Room of Requirement, and they would've both come back to their senses. Life would go on, and everything would be as it should be. But at this very moment, in this very place, she was his, and his alone.

He sank his teeth into her bottom lip, just hard enough to make her gasp aloud. Eagerly, he plunged his tongue into her wetness, ruthlessly exploiting the opening that he'd created. She whimpered, barely keeping pace with his ferocity. Needing more, he fisted his hands in her lush curls and roughly pulled her head back into an angle that allowed for deeper penetration.

"Open wider," he commanded, the words gruff and husky with arousal. "Give me your tongue." She complied, screaming into his mouth as he lashed her tongue with his, sliding up and over the slick flesh with long, thick strokes that told her exactly how he was going to ride her later.

It didn't take long before she became just as violent as him. They groped and grasped at one another, lost in a haze of pent-up desire. Their robes slid to the floor, fluttering amongst the sounds of ragged breathing, rustling uniforms, smothered moans, and suckling, wet smacks echoing across the tiles.

She recklessly ran her hands through his hair and raked her nails down his back, eliciting bestial growls to rumble from the back of his throat. He thrust his tongue into her with the territorial carnality of a male claiming his female, and she hungrily sucked upon it, wringing out every last drop and relentlessly demanding more. Turned on by the sight of her gorging upon his essence, he hiked her skirt up and possessively rubbed his erection down the front of her exposed knickers. She purred and pounced, twisting her legs around him.

He groaned in approval, brazenly grabbing her arse and tilting her up a tad higher. Without further ceremony, he repeatedly drove his covered cock into her puckered, eagerly awaiting slit, their mating hampered by the dampened thatch of cotton that stretched between her thighs. As he grinded her against the wall, he devoured her impassioned screams, wanting nothing more than to rip off her uniform with his teeth and fuck her like a rabid beast.

After tonight, there was no going back. Undoubtedly, there would be ramifications for his recklessness, but he realised that he wanted her to infect him. The rampant need to drown in her poison and fill her with his both frightened and thrilled him. The forbidden nature of his actions was all at once exhilarating and empowering. For once, he was making a personal choice—a choice that didn't depend upon his parents' approval. After all, if he was going to die sometime this year anyway, he'd rather perish in the throes of passion with this wickedly decadent Muggle-born than suffer a slow, painful death at the hands of the Dark Lord.

He was falling hard, and he was falling fast. Into what, he wasn't sure. But he couldn't bring himself to stop. For both of their sakes, he needed to make things clear.

"This doesn't mean anything," he mumbled in the brief fractions of a second that their lips parted, more to himself than to her. It didn't sound very convincing. But it was probably just the alcohol.

"Oh, do shut up," she groaned, siphoning his tongue back into that sassy, sultry little mouth of hers. "For once in your wretched life, can you not be a stupid, foul-mouthed git and just snog me senseless already?"

"Bloody hell, who knew your mouth was so—so fucking—oh, yeah," he moaned, sliding his tongue as far down her throat as he could reach. He nipped and fucked her mouth like he owned it, mimicking the frenzied, sweaty surging of his hips. She met him thrust for thrust, clamping down on his tongue with urgency. His lips were incredibly bruised, and he might have tasted blood at some point, but fuck him sideways, he couldn't care less.

"You eating your words yet?" she rasped between passes.

"Why don't you put that filthy little Mudblood mouth of yours to good use and eat them for me?" he growled back.

"I hate you," she breathed passionately.

"I hate you too," he whispered, his cock twitching with every pert remark that passed through those succulent lips of hers.

Merlin, all of this bantering, humping, and snogging was going to make him come. He needed to be inside of her now.

As he slyly ran his hands up the pair of dainty legs tangled around his hips and boldly kneading his backside in a silent plea for more, he paused at her knickers, fingering the fabric and debating whether or not to rip them straight off and take her against the wall, throw her down on the floor and yank them off, or pull them off to the side and take her against the wall anyway. Decisions, decisions… Fuck, his brain was beginning to overheat—

"OW!" he yelled as she bit his tongue, whacked his hand away, and forcibly attempted to shove him off. "What the FUCK?"

"That is quite enough, Malfoy," she declared. "I may be drunk, but I know I'm not that drunk. I am not having sex with you, and that is FINAL!"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUUCK IS THIS SHITE? SHE CAN'T DO THIS TO HIM! HE WAS GOING TO FUCKING DIIIIIEEEEEE!

"Honestly, who do you take me for?" she rabbited on in that infuriatingly bitchy, know-it-all tone of hers, which only succeeded in accelerating the blood flow from his head to his dick. As usual, she was completely oblivious to his agony and the angry, weeping hard-on that was straining desperately towards her heat and threatening to tear through his trousers at any moment. "If you want a quick shag, you can just slither back into that incompetent, snotty-nosed House of yours and bed one of your precious, purebred harlots!"

He'd never actually screwed a girl before. But she didn't need to know that.

"And what are you going to do? Scarper back to your tower and use Potter as a substitute while you're waiting for Weaselbee to fall madly in love with you? Pathetic," he sneered. Hell, maybe if he riled her up enough, she'd shut the fuck up and they could get back to snogging already.

"Look, Malfoy, I might not be the sexiest girl in the world—"

His jaw dropped.

"—but even I'm not worth being taken advantage of by some horny, sadistic snake whose only motivation for shagging me is the woeful misconception that I'm the closest available prey, not to mention the fact that—"

As she prattled on and on in that prissy voice of hers, she'd actually crossed her arms, unwittingly pushing her tits up—which he'd yet to score a proper gander at, by the way—and Draco was about to lose consciousness from a deathly combination of alcohol and overstimulation. He still had her pinned against the wall, and she'd kept her legs wrapped around his waist, either ignorant or completely uncaring of this inconvenient little detail. He was beginning to regret his earlier thoughts on dying. Surely not even anything the Dark Lord could do to him would be nearly as painful as this.

"—honestly, if you were sober, and had the foggiest idea what you were doing, there's no way you'd ever want to have sex with me—"

He begged to differ. Actually, he was on the verge of begging in general.

"—imagine if I, Hermione Granger, walked straight up to you in the Great Hall, right as you're tucking into breakfast, no less, and said, 'Good morning, Malfoy! Fancy a little romp with the Mudblood?' You, being the predictable, bigoted pillock that you are, would almost certainly respond—"

"Yes," he blurted out loud.

Her eyes widened in shock. Then, they narrowed in suspicion. "You would?"

He nodded feverishly, and she gasped, reflexively slapping him across the face as he swerved nearer.

"How about now, arsehole?" she dared.

"Oh, yeah," he moaned, panting like an animal and slathering his tongue over every centimetre of skin he could reach. She squeaked, clearly scandalised by his reaction.

He couldn't help it. She was the one who came crying to him! It was her own bloody fault that she was in this predicament. In fact, everything was her fault! Wasn't she paying attention at all during third year? Didn't she ever wonder why he'd never tried to retaliate against her for that specific incident? She'd inflicted actual, physical trauma upon his person! Physical trauma! NO ONE touched him like that—NO ONE! Not unless he wanted them to! He hadn't even gone whinging to his father about it, and when he was thirteen, he'd informed his father about every transgression committed against his will! He hadn't even tried to hex her! Or insult her for using Muggle means against a real wizard!

Did she honestly think that he'd reflected upon his misdeeds, or discovered the light of forgiveness, or something as FUCKING stupid as that? For someone so brilliant, she could be awfully dim. Merlin's rod, he was so randy for her, he could barely string two words together! He was Draco fucking Malfoy, and she, a mere Mudblood, had rendered him incapable of coherent speech! Blasphemy, it was! Complete and utter blasphemy!

"You're sick!" she mewled, wriggling against his slobbering erection. She fought him, insulted him, cried out in whimpering yelps when he clipped her clit just right, and blushed at the shamefulness of her reaction. His cock shuddered and swelled in triumph, mere strokes away from exploding in his pants.

Fuck! Oh, yeah! Oh, fuck, YEAH! He was so close, he wasn't even going to bother unzipping. He knew for dead cert that he'd be raring to go for round two, once he threw her down, tore her uniform into shreds, bound her hands with his tie, ravished her cherry, and fingered her deeper than she could ever reach on her own. He was going to fuck her senseless on the bathroom floor, right on top of his robes, so that her pussy leaked her pleasure all over it when she came for him—proof of his conquest. Until dawn, the only thing she'd be screaming would be his name.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

She fainted.

She actually fainted.

FUCKETY BOLLOCKS! BASTARD! WANK! SHIT! FUCK! FUCK! DOUBLE FUCK! BLAST! CUNT! BUGGERING, TWATTING, BLOODY-ARSED HELL!

WHO THE FUCK FAINTS AFTER TWO TICKS ON THE SAUCE AND A LITTLE DRY-HUMPING? A SWOTTY, TOFFEE-NOSED GRYFFINDOR, THAT'S WHO!

#^&*^&^$%%&&%^%^&*%#&**^%*^***#%%$&$&#&!

He sank to the floor in defeat, his only hope for salvation slumped in his arms. She remained limp and unresponsive as he fidgeted in torment, his vision blurring and ravaged by little black spots that were eating holes in his eyes. He could hardly breathe. He could barely even move. There was scarcely any blood left in his brain.

He'd finally reached his limit. He was going to pass out. Because men did not faint. And it was very painful to be a man.

"Salazar help me, I am sick," he moaned in dismay, slamming his eyes shut and succumbing to his demise. He wanted to stick his dick in a Mudblood, for crying out loud! How much more perverse could it get?

Praise Salazar he wasn't in love with her, or anything as stupid and hopelessly self-destructive as that.

TO BE CONTINUED