In the years of pure youth and stumbling, gangly appendages, Draco might have tore recklessly through Beqanna with his newfound power. He would have devoured every creature in sight, swallowed them whole and relished the tang of fear they left on his tongue. He was a terrible, raucous creature that did horrible, impulsive things. He hasn’t changed much in maturity, but he has leashed the unruly impulses that once ruled his body. Without impulse, he has withdrawn, become more calculated and cruel.

But lording over desperate impulsiveness has made the demon a ticking time bomb. It is only a matter of time before he does something that tears the volcano in his chest wide open.

Draco grunts to himself as he contemplates the jittering energy in his legs. He closes his ruby eyes and tries to concentrate, to count to ten, to search for some magic within himself that might steal such base needs away; but when he opens his gaze back up, there is even more hunger glowing darkly within it. The demon looks more like a monster now, quivering on the riverbank as power renders him incapable of standing still. Alone and quiet, he wonders how long it will take him to find willing (or unwilling) company—and if he will have to inflict some damage on himself should no outlet present itself.

A grown, guttural and near-desperate, stretches over the river and the moon’s reflection. Draco shivers one last time and falls as his body changes. He lies perfectly still on the pebbled bank, a night-black lion huffing where the demon once stood. Draco flicks his tail irritably, only feeling a minuscule amount of relief. He peers down at the blood red claws digging in and out of the mud. In his reflection, he sees an homage to his father and bares his fangs.

A sound, slight and small, finds the cat’s ears. Draco whips his large, regal head around, crimson eyes searching for whatever lies in the shadows.