Draco has a type.

He likes them big, big enough to protect him from the vulgar crowd who insist on physicality over magic -- not that being physical doesn't have it's place in Draco's world. It's just that that place is the bedroom.

He likes them big, and he likes them dumb -- or at least, dumber than he is, which isn't saying much. He likes them to need him, to be beholden to him, to do anything for his sake, anything that he wants. He doesn't trust his looks to last forever, beauty charms notwithstanding, and he doesn't believe in love, but power, being able to bind someone to you, that he gets. He'll take the Dark Mark if he has to, but he'd rather give his own.

He likes them big, and he likes them dumb, and he likes making physically powerful people beg and whimper and scream and want to change the world just to see him smile.

He's smiling now, even with N.E.W.T.s in a year, even with all the studying he'll have to do, to get ahead of the mudblood, to get marks he can be proud of, marks that show how much smarter he is, more magically powerful even so, he's smiling. He's in danger of failing Magical Creatures, and he's smiling, and it's all he can do not to laugh in Snape's office.

"Yes sir," he says, "I won't embarrass the House. I'll study harder, Professor."

"See that you do," Snape says, and dismisses him, and he smiles.

Draco has a type.