The Hunt

He was out to make a conquest

Didn't care what harm was done

Just as long as he won

The prize

She was just another conquest

Didn't care whose heart was broke

Love to him was a joke

'Til he looked into her eyes

And then in the strange way things happen

The roles were reversed from that day

The hunted became the huntress

The hunter became the prey

~*~

The Hunt

White-blond hair tousled in a roguish manner? Check.

Steel-grey eyes subtly highlighted with the narrowest sliver of charcoal beneath them? Check.

Cheek bones high and softly tinted with a manly shade of rouge? Check.

Hand-stitched Oxfords pressed, coupled with Egyptian cotton silver-green tie hanging slightly loose about the neck? Check.

Docs polished, black, and ready to saunter with calculated swagger and grace? Check.

Patented Malfoy-smirk? Mmm, yes, love. Wink, wink. You know that's a definite 'Check'!

Draco Malfoy was the walking, talking, and dripping epitome of sex, and he knew it. The way he walked, the way he talked, the way he grinned, the way his eyes would focus in on something or someone he liked just oozed smouldering masculinity and power. He was a Slytherin prince, and he'd be damned not to let anyone forget it.

His reputation as a player was well-renown at Hogwarts. He never referred to himself as such as the term 'player' was so plebeian, and a Malfoy was anything but. He was a Conquistador. What the ladies called him, in the heat of passion, was less imaginative - often breathless and elated moans and screams of 'Oh, Merlin'.

Right. Smirk. Merlin had nothing on him.

He sauntered about the halls, his hands firmly entrenched in the pockets of his tailored trousers. He had considered asking his mother to buy him a pair of Brioni's, but this only elicited a purse from her tight lips and a disapproving glare. He agreed that he had to maintain a front of hostility towards Muggles, but he'd be a happier man if only Brioni was a sodding wizard. Eton, on the other hand, was a wizarding brand, but there was no way his father would shell out the hefty gold galleons for something Swedish-made. He would have to make do with his Italian and French hand-tailored clothing. It was a burden he would have to bear, but as for wearing it, he would wear it well. It was the least he could do for the females of Hogwarts.

He leisurely reached for his tie with his right hand, deftly tugging at the knot until the fold neatly slid out, unravelling the accessory to its former shape. He brought his left hand out of his pocket and grabbed the other end of the tie, slinging it around his shoulders in a blasé manner as he held onto both ends, strolling past all the girls, who looked up at him with wide eyes, soft blushes, and secretive smiles.

He then let his right hand travel downward and surreptitiously pull at his collar, allowing for three buttons to pop undone. Only three, mind you. It was a rule. You show them three, and they beg you for four. Women were creatures of habit and observation, he had noted many years ago. They noticed, and he rewarded.

He brought his hands back down into his pockets and hunched forward slightly, not in an oafish manner, like someone devoid of poise and grace, but like a prowler on the hunt. But even a hunter grows weary of the same game, and he felt rather restless as he wandered about the halls, seeking out his next target, his next conquest.

He had already gone through all the girls in his house and quite a fair number of Ravenclaws for that matter. He was getting rather bored with the same flavours and their predictable responses. It was time to dig his well-manicured fingers into the warm pie of something a bit more spicy.

Of course, due to past experience, Hufflepuffs were completely out of the question. Right out the door. They were far too sensitive and clingy afterwards. A few owls to his parents and some derisive comments from his Head of House, Draco had quickly come to realise that Hufflepuffs were far more hassle than what they were worth, which was very little in his sensible opinion.

He wanted his prey to be ashamed and withdrawn after the fact. Oh, yes, he would rather have her be flattered and honoured at the opportunity at having a go with the Greek god that he was, but then pride and honour usually led to possessiveness and dependence. He didn't want any of that. Neediness was a turn off.

The only house left to him now was Gryffindor, and a Gryffindor wasn't going to write home to mum or complain to her housemates about how he used and abused her, or some such crying, blabbering, or trifling of the sort. She would keep her moralistic gob shut. She wouldn't want the others to know that she had been rooting in the nest of a snake.

He had to admit that he had been toying with the idea of ensnaring a lioness for quite some time. They were obstinate creatures - proud and determined. Draco figured that it would be nice to catch one and knock her down a few pegs, make her beg a little, get what he wanted from her and leave. It was all about the hunt, you know - the chase, the first bite, and then the quick release. Well, not too quick, mind you. He wasn't known for his stamina due to his circling of the Quidditch pitch, if you catch the drift.

The whole wish-wash notion of love outside sex was just plain ridiculous. Love or sex - it was all just a game, a joke. He didn't believe in such rubbish. Humans were meant to shag, eat, and sleep. Rinse and repeat. What more was there to be had?

Any woman who had such a notion that there was something beyond la petite mort was a sentimental and delusional fool. She was especially misguided if she thought that something could come of an affair with a Malfoy. For him, it was all about the prize.

His current prey, nay, borderline obsession, was the feisty Weasley girl. She was one of the very few purebloods in Gryffindor and one of the marginal few that he would consider shagging. He had pondered the notion a few weeks ago when he had stumbled upon the She-Weasel practising Quidditch.

He had watched her fly gracefully in the air and noted that while she wasn't especially attractive, she was exceptionally magnetic in a peculiar, hard-to-pinpoint sort of way. She had red orange-ish hair, which would have been considered unique and beautiful if her entire clan of a family hadn't sported the exact same colour. She had freckles and pale skin, which - again - could have been labelled as cute if it didn't seem as though her tanning method was simply lying beneath a screen door.

She was small and curvy though, he had to begrudgingly admit in her favour. She wasn't extraordinarily petite, but her waif-like mannerisms, lithe form, and cherub-like face belied her long legs and more voluptuous features.

He frowned and cleared his throat, shaking his head. He had been fantasising about the Weasley girl rather incessantly these past few days. He had made it a habit to follow her when she went outside or mark the occasions when she was out practising. He had meant it to be a type of reconnaissance, a way of observing the mannerisms and habits of his victim. This had, disturbingly, begun to transform into something rather stalker-like.

This would simply not do. He would have to check his ego lest he adopt obsessive-compulsive behaviourism to combine with his acute narcissism. There were far too many isms and not enough asms for his liking!

He came to an abrupt stop as he had unknowingly taken the path towards the Quidditch pitch. His hand reached up to his eyes to blot out the glare of the sun as he had predictably looked upward, temporarily blinding himself. He frowned at his momentary lack of awareness, berating himself for having lost himself in thoughts over a girl.

Suddenly, the sensation of being watched washed over him, and he turned his head to look left, towards the field. The Weasley girl was standing on the slope with her broom in hand. She wasn't looking at him but rather upwards into the sky where his gaze had previously been focused.

Her eyes were closed, and her rosebud lips were smiling, breathing in the fresh, cool autumn air. He watched as her hand went up to her head, pulling the elastic out of her hair, letting her mane tumble down in waves as she shook it, slipping the band around her wrist as she spread her arms open to the air, broom still in hand.

She brought her head back down, her soft face dusted with cinnamon-coloured freckles, when someone - a boy - shouted her name, and she went running over to join her fellow teammates. Her long, copper locks fluttered behind her as she sprinted her nubile body over to the waiting and impatient males.

He frowned as he watched the Gryffindor boys clamour around her, discussing tactics and strategies he figured. Okay, he hoped. He watched her smile and laugh with them, tossing her silky, smooth-looking hair about.

Hmm, well perhaps her hair wasn't that orange, and maybe he had judged too quickly when he made the comment about her complexion. She had a peasant charm to her that made her somewhat attractive in her own subtle way - for a Weasley, that is.

Blast it! His mind had tumbled back into that those murky waters of - what was it called again - praise. This non self-admiration kick he was indulging in was utter bollocks. Since when did it serve his purpose to admire a girl before he had even tried to advance on her?

He supposed he was trying to talk himself into the game this time, to make a role for himself. He had to convince himself that the Weasley girl was attractive if he wanted to successfully initiate coitus. He wasn't exactly going to keep it up if he imagined her poor, dirty, and dressed in a burlap sack, was he?

His ire and temptation rose at the thought of the She-Weasel in nothing but a burlap sack. Bloody hell! He seriously needed to stop this nonsense. He would have to have a chat with both his imagination and his libido later on. Attraction was one thing, but infatuation was an entirely different Quidditch pitch that he didn't want to play on.

He was still mentally castigating himself when something fell lightly on his shoulder, and a noiseless figure stepped in front of him, blocking both his sun and his path.

"Malfoy, what are you doing here?" a soft voice asked with a hint of annoyance.

Draco blinked rapidly, stirred from his one-sided mental match of ping-pong, and looked down to see that the Weasley girl had stealthily advanced on him. She was holding her broom and looking up at him with bright, wide brown eyes that were tinted with soft hues of green and flecks of gold. (Weasley hues and Weasley flecks, which, of course, were unattractive).

"What?" he asked foolishly, unable to prevent the slack-jawed, knee-jerk response to tumble past his lips.

The She-Weasel had sneaked up on him ... well, much like a weasel! He hadn't prepared himself for this meeting. He had wanted to subtly impress upon her once he had her routine and personality down pat. Now that she had noticed him, he couldn't very well make a bad impression (well, let's say worse impression). He would have to improvise.

"I said," she repeated, dragging out the verb as she leaned on her broom and brushed her auburn locks out of her face in an bored and put out manner, "what are you doing here?"

"Why, I am here to watch you, Miss Weasley," he answered, feigning a charming smile as he slowly and subtly licked at his lower lip.

His smile turned into a wolfish grin, displaying his pearly whites, attempting to beguile her with a roguish wink.

She seemed unaffected by all of this as she pursed her bottom lip, attempting to stare through him. He frowned momentarily at this but then quickly recovered, poising himself in a more fetching manner as he brought his hands back down into his pockets and leaned forward. He cocked a pale eyebrow playfully in the air and tilted his head to the side as he smirked at her. He was such a poser.

The Weasley girl did not appear to be fazed by any of this, which caused a subtle alarm to set off in Draco's mind. He reached up, unconsciously, for his collar to feel for the buttons. The three buttons were undone, correct? There were only to be three, you know. How was she not taken in by his efforts? Should he have spiked his hair instead of tousled it? Should he have kept his tie fastened tightly about his neck? No, no. He was doing everything right. The problem was with her. What was wrong with this woman?

The Weasley girl now had her head tilted and was directing her attention to an invisible spot on his shoulder. What the hell was she staring at? Eyes up front, love! Pay attention to the grey-eyed heartthrob, here! Why was she not looking at his beautiful face?

"You have bird shit on your shoulder," she said absently without even a mild hint of interest as she quickly eyed him up and down with a look of dismissal and then walked past him.

Draco's mouth fell open in utter disbelief as she made her way by. What she said to him had not yet registered. It was the look of disinterest she gave him as she scanned the length of his body with her cold, almond-shaped eyes that gave him cause to be horrified. Did she just look him up and down like a piece of meat and deem him unacceptable?

He looked over at his left shoulder and cursed under his breath. He did have bird shit on him.

~*~

Draco finally made his way to the Great Hall from the Slytherin dormitories after a hot shower and several wardrobes changes later (he had ceremoniously burned his soiled Oxford, holding a small mock funeral in its honour).

He reached the dinner table and unceremoniously plopped down beside Blaise Zabini and sighed. He then began to stack his plate with various fruits and vegetables. He couldn't be arsed to construct a uniformed meal.

The taller, golden-eyed Slytherin greeted him with a curt hello and then abruptly (and diplomatically) elbowed the blond not-so-lightly in his ribs. The action earned Zabini an evil and malignant glare from the grey-eyed aristocrat.

"Mate, have you rogered the Weasley girl yet?" he asked curiously as he pointed towards the Gryffindor table with his fork.

Draco raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and glanced over at the Gryffindor section, wondering why, exactly, that phrase had ever left Blaise's lips. As his pewter-coloured irises met Ginevra Weasley's honey-coloured ones, he discovered why.

The Weasley girl was staring shyly at him, looking down her eyelashes that she batted ever-so-innocently (and calculatedly). She turned her head and absently picked up a plump, ripe strawberry between her middle finger and thumb and brought it to her lips.

She made eye contact with Draco briefly and smiled bashfully as she sunk her small porcelain-white teeth into the blood-red fruit. The juices spilled out onto her bottom lip, dripping down towards her chin. He watched in amazement as she brought a tiny, delicate finger to her chin and scooped up the trickle of juice, bringing it to her lips. Her smile grew wider as her cheeks turned a warm shade of pink, and she opened her mouth to receive the finger and hungrily take it into her mouth.

Merlin's beard, what was this woman doing to him?

Hypnotised, he continued to stare as her shy smile morphed into a grin, and she removed her finger from her mouth and brought it down to the bowl of strawberries in front of her. She nimbly scooped up the whipped cream on top, taking a small, fluffy white sample onto the tip of her forefinger. She brought it to her bottom lip, letting it rest there. Her tiny pink tongue then darted out, flicking at the soon-to-be-defiled whipped cream. For a seemingly endless amount of time, she taunted him, bringing another cream and sugar-coated finger to her lips to lick, taste, and suck.

The bloody witch was torturing him!

"Draco, you lucky bastard," Blaise breathed with one part awe and two parts bitterness as he watched the Weasley girl's performance.

"I have to go," Draco said suddenly and got up.

He wasn't about to sit there and watch this girl tease him until his gentlemen below fired a twenty-one gun salute in his cashmere, Egyptian-cotton trousers.

Blaise didn't even bother to wave or look up at him to watch him go. His eyes were still trained on the whipped cream-licking Gryffindor. He figured Draco needed to go brush his hair or change outfits again - something to that effect. After dinner, however, Blaise had attempted to pry some illicit details from the normally wiling storyteller. To his dismay, Draco would not divulge and had confined himself to his private quarters, unwilling to come out.

Draco began pacing the length of his room at an alarming and nauseating speed. He could not stop thinking about that sodding Weasley girl: the way her face lit up when she smiled, the way her chin tilted back when she closed her eyes and lifted her head towards the sky, the way she ate strawberries with whipped cream...

He groaned. Not fair. Not bloody-well fair! He was supposed to be haunting her thoughts, not the other way around! He needed to clear his head, get some fresh air, and get a new perspective on things. The hunt was quickly escalating out of his hands. He had to think rationally and plan the proper course of attack.

He left the dungeons and made his way up to the top of the Astronomy Tower. He took in a deep breath of air and leaned over the railings to gaze out at the stars. The black night was blanketed with them, their light only slightly eclipsed by the bright, full moon overhead.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" the familiar soft voice asked rhetorically behind him.

He turned briefly as the owner of said voice approached his side and draped her arms over the edge of the railings in a similar manner as he.

"Yes," he replied quietly as he turned his attention back to the night sky and took in another deep breath, stealing a glance at her through the corner of his eye.

Her hair was down - straight this time instead of its normal curls and waves. It looked longer this way and made her appear older somehow, accentuating the subtle curve of her breasts and the slender slope of her back. She was staring out at the sky, her pointed chin lifting upward. Her side profile was breath-taking as it was ordinary and exposed.

"I never saw you as one for star-gazing," she stated with an air of cheekiness as she turned her head to face him.

"Who says I was referring to the stars?" he responded facetiously, looking outward, and then smirked, turning to face her.

Her eyes were soft and round and wide, so innocently big. They were locked on to his, and he knew that this was his moment, time to put the power play into motion. Yet he couldn't bring himself to say the words, to give her the rehearsed speech. Damn it all, what was happening to him?

She suddenly laughed, her eyes twinkling in the moonlight. It was a sweet, mellifluous laugh.

"Oh, no, Malfoy," she said in mock admonishment, still giggling softly. "That rubbish isn't going to work on me." She had said this with a more serious tone than he had anticipated, causing him to frown.

Rubbish? He thought it was a rather well-played, subtly inserted compliment. The blasted woman didn't know charm if it jumped up and bit her in her deliciously well-toned, heart-shaped arse! He grumbled to himself, still frowning and pursing his lips. That same rubbish worked on countless scores of women. What did she know about anything? Nothing! Stupid Weasley.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Weasley," he said in a more haughty and annoyed tone than he had intended, bringing his attention back towards the stars.

"Hmm, well you can feign ignorance if you like, Malfoy," she said nonchalantly as she, too, turned back around to gaze at the light-filled sky. "You are rather gifted at that."

Backhanded compliment. Well, she was in true form tonight, wasn't she? He briefly looked down to his left shoulder to make sure there was no bird shit on it this time.

"How kind of you, Weasley," he drawled, smacking his lips distastefully.

Why exactly was he putting up with her attempt at banter?

"I know that you have been following me," she said quietly, and he glanced over at her, startled. She was still looking at the moon in front of her, but she was grinning.

"Now why would I do such a thing like that?" he asked, feigning disgust, hoping, in vain, that it would conceal his shock and trepidation.

"You like how my arse fits in my uniform?" she retorted and turned around to face him, leaning her hip against the railings. "I dunno, Malfoy." She crossed her arms over her chest, looking him up and down once more, infuriating him to no end. "Why do you stalk me so?"

"Stalk you?" he repeated, flabbergasted. "My dear, now you are spouting verbal manure." He turned around and took a threatening step forward. "I am afraid I have done nothing of the sort."

"No?" she asked as she lifted herself off the frame and took a step towards him. "You haven't been coming around to watch me practice for the past week?" A playful grin crept onto her lips, and she took another step forward. "You haven't been watching me at meal times, observing how I ... eat?" She laughed and took one last step so that her lips were only inches away from his chin.

"I don't know what you're tal--"

His words were cut off by a set of full, luscious lips and an invasive, darting tongue. She had stood on her toes and reached up with her arms to wrap them around his neck, bringing him downward, allowing for her mouth to crush against his own. Her tiny, deft hands sought out his hair and began to tug at it, eliciting a most feral growl from his throat. This only ignited her lust as she hungrily plied at his mouth while her fingers drifted from his head to his cheeks, holding his face close to hers as she eagerly attempted to sate her hunger for his kisses. He, in turn, tried desperately to keep up, unable to slake her thirst for more.

Suddenly, she broke off the kiss and stepped back. His eyes were still closed, and he was leaning forward expectantly with his lips swollen and pursed in the shape of one anticipating the kiss to linger, which, unfortunately, it hadn't.

Draco's eyes popped open, and he quickly stood up, closing his mouth. He had attempted to clear his throat but found that he had no saliva left in him.

"I'm not one of your conquests, Malfoy," she said softly and quietly with the veiled hint of a threat lingering in her tone. "And I won't ever be." The threat in her voice was unmistakable.

He looked down at her, perplexed, and she smiled, putting a small hand to his chest.

"But I could be something more."

How had it come to this? How had the Weasley girl got him all hot and bothered in the Astronomy Tower, offering him something that he had planned on giving her as a trick, as a means to get her into bed? She had beaten him to the chase.

"How..." he began and then paused.

His brow was still furrowing in a vain attempt to comprehend the situation at hand. She knew what he had wanted, what he had been angling for, but she had denied him this and was offering him something else, something more. Was he agreeing to it?

"How did you know that I was up here?" he finally asked, not sure of where to begin.

"What do you mean? " she asked in return as she tilted her head and brought her fingers to his cheek. "I hunted you."

He watched her full lips twitch into a smirk, seeing the deceptive mirth reflecting in her bright amber orbs. It was in that moment that he knew that he had been deceived; he had been played. She, the hunted, had now become the huntress, and he, he had become her prey.

FIN

Author notes: The epigram is lyrics to the song Conquest by White Stripes.