Soldier
Draco slept with forty men in the year after Potter died, and even he had to admit it was an excessive number. He had no set characteristics by which to select them; they were dark and fair, and some of them even red-haired. Some of them were kind, or gentle, or tender. All of them reminded him of Potter, and Draco was never with any of them more than once.
Sex was difficult for him: easy to find because they were in the middle of a war, but hard to get right: his body felt like someone else's, and the things that had worked didn't work any longer. He wanted to be hurt; he wanted to be torn apart, wanted scars on the outside to match the scars on his inside. But no one he was with was enough to destroy him: no matter how they touched him none of them could touch him. He needed something, someone else; he needed someone who understood what he was missing.
He slept with Ron Weasley the night before the war ended and the sex was terrible. Ron was awkward, shy, clumsy, embarrassed and ashamed. He finished far too quickly and afterward he cried and confessed that he'd never been with a man, that he'd done it to punish Harry for dying. Draco had been looking for someone like Ron since Potter'd died, someone who didn't care about his pleasure or his feelings.