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Harry had been pacing the length of Draco’s bedroom for three hours, and he was about two minutes away from burning down the Leaky Cauldron just to see if Draco would scuttle out of the wreckage.
This wasn't the routine.
The routine was simple: Harry arrived at eleven when Draco was already tucked under his sheets, and Harry got to spend the night in the armchair by the fire, watching the steady rise and fall of Draco’s chest. It was the only time the world felt quiet.
But tonight? Tonight the bed was empty, the sheets too crisp, and Harry was losing his mind.
He knew Draco was out. He knew he was probably at some underground club, draped over a velvet booth, letting some faceless stranger pour expensive gin down his throat. The thought of it made Harry’s blood feel like it was boiling in his veins. He’d been standing by the floo, imagining all the ways Draco could have gotten himself hurt—or worse, the ways he was currently letting someone else touch him.
To keep his hands from shaking, Harry started shopping.
He moved to the dresser, his fingers hovering over the neat rows of silver brushes and crystal cologne bottles. He picked up a small, malachite cufflink that had rolled behind a jewelry box. Mine. He slipped it into his pocket, the cold metal a tiny comfort against his thigh. Then a stray silk tie, discarded on a chair from the morning. Mine. It went into his jacket, right next to the stolen quill and the half-used tin of lip balm he’d swiped last week.
His shrine at Grimmauld Place was getting crowded, but there was always room for more of Draco. He needed these pieces. They were the only things that kept him sane when he wasn't here, breathing in the scent of Draco’s laundry soap.
He was just reaching for a discarded wrapper on the nightstand—something Draco definitely wouldn't miss—when he heard it.
The heavy thud of the front door echoing all the way up the stairs. Then the giggling.
Shit.
Harry froze. He’d been too busy playing with Draco’s things, too distracted by his own spiraling thoughts, and now he was trapped. Usually, he’d be under the cloak or tucked into the shadows of the wardrobe before Draco even hit the landing, but tonight he was standing right in the middle of the room like a bloody amateur.
The footsteps were closer now—uneven, dragging. Draco was hammered. And he wasn't alone.
Harry bolted for the gap behind the heavy bed curtains, pressing himself into the corner between the headboard and the wall. It was a tight squeeze, his heart hammering against his ribs so loud he was sure Draco would hear it the second he walked in.
The door swung open, hitting the stopper with a crack that made Harry flinch.
"And this," Draco’s voice rang out, slurred and dripping with that forced, hedonistic cheer that Harry absolutely loathed, "is where the magic happens."
Harry peered through the tiny gap in the fabric. Draco was leaning against the doorframe, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, looking flushed and reckless. He had a girl on each arm—some blonde from the Ministry, and a brunette Harry didn't recognize.
"Oh, Draco," the blonde squealed, stumbling into the room and falling onto the bed. His bed. Harry’s hand twitched on his wand. He wanted to Hex her off the mattress before her shoes even touched the silk. "It's so... big."
"Everything I own is big, darling," Draco drawled, staggering toward the dresser. He stopped right where Harry had been standing seconds ago. He looked down at the spot where the cufflink had been, his eyes narrowing just a fraction.
Harry held his breath, his magic coiling in his gut. Don't look up, Draco. Don't look at the curtains.
Draco didn't look up. Instead, he let out a laugh and turned back to the girls. "Drink! There’s a bottle of firewhiskey in the cabinet. I want to be so drunk I can’t remember my own name by midnight."
Harry watched through the gap, his knuckles white around his wand. He wanted to leap out and wrap his hand around Draco’s throat—to pin him to the mattress until the boy realized who actually ran his life.
The rage in Harry’s chest was hot and suffocating. He’d spent the last six months being Draco’s silent, invisible guardian. He was the reason there was fresh organic produce in the larder instead of just shriveled lemons and old champagne. He was the one who snuck in at 4:00 a.m. to swap the cheap, hangover-inducing wine for fortified water and hangover draughts. He’d even spent three hours last Tuesday mending the hem of Draco’s favorite cloak with a silent Reparo because he couldn't stand the thought of Draco looking anything less than perfect.
And for what? So Draco could pull this pathetic stunt?
It was the second night in a row. Draco was throwing away all of Harry’s hard work, flushing his health down the toilet for a few hours of slurred conversation with two girls who didn't know the first thing about him.
He needs to be punished. He needs to be reminded that he doesn't belong to himself anymore.
But that was the trap.
Harry knew exactly what Draco was doing. He saw the way Draco’s eyes kept darting to the shadows, the way his laughter sounded just a bit too forced, a bit too sharp. This was a beckon. Draco had finally figured out he had an audience.
It had started three weeks ago. Harry had been careless—exhausted from a double shift at the Auror office—and he’d left a single, gold button from his own shirt on Draco’s bedside table. He’d realized it the second he got home, but it was too late. He remembered watching Draco hold it up to the light, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. He didn't know it was Harry—he couldn't—but he knew he wasn't alone anymore.
And Draco, being the miserable, attention-starved prick he was, had learned the most dangerous lesson possible: his ghost only interfered when Draco was being self-destructive.
So now, Draco was making Harry’s life a living hell. He was drinking more, sleeping less, and bringing home every stray witch in London just to see who would come out of the shadows.
"Is the whiskey too strong for you, Emily?" Draco teased, leaning over the brunette, his shirt sliding further off his shoulder. "I like things that burn. Don't you?"
Harry just had to wait. That was the rule. Two bottles of firewhiskey, a few hours of slurred nonsense, and then Draco would pass out in a heap of pale limbs and expensive linen. Then Harry could emerge.
He found himself daydreaming about the aftermath, his fingers twitching in his pockets. He’d take a lock of hair tonight. He’d use a severing charm, right from the back of Draco’s head, where he wouldn't see it in the mirror immediately, but he’d feel the edge when he ran his hand through it the next morning. A little reminder. A tug on the leash.
I’ll make you look at it every day, Harry thought, his gaze fixated on the back of Draco's neck. I’ll make you wonder when I was close enough to touch your skin.
But then the air curdled.
Draco didn't send them for the bottle. He didn't keep his distance. Instead, he crooked a finger at the brunette, his eyes gleaming with a sick, bright sort of malice that Harry knew was meant entirely for the "ghost" in the room.
"Come here, love," Draco drawled. He patted his thigh, his smirk widening as she scrambled onto his lap.
Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. No. This isn't how it went. Draco never let them sit there.
Draco took a long, slow pull of the firewhiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight. He didn't swallow. He held it in his mouth, his cheeks slightly puffed, and then he leaned forward. He grabbed the girl’s hair—roughly, the way Harry wanted to grab his—and pressed his mouth to hers.
Harry heard the wet, sickening slide of the whiskey passing between them. He heard the girl’s muffled gasp of surprise, then her giggle as Draco pulled away, a trail of firewhiskey glistening on his bottom lip.
The world tilted. The bedroom, the Manor, the very ground Harry stood on felt like it was dissolving into his white-hot rage.
That was his mouth. Those were his lips. Every inch of Draco Malfoy had been Harry's for months. He’d spent nights memorizing the curve of that jawline, the exact shade of grey in Draco’s eyes when he was tired, when he was happy. Draco was his. He was his prize; a pet, a sacred thing that Harry had kept alive while Draco tried his best to wither away.
And now this… this nothing, this girl whose name Draco hadn’t even bothered to learn, was tasting him.
Obliviating them wouldn't be enough. Previously, he’d planned to just wipe their memories and dump them in an alleyway, but that felt like a mercy he no longer possessed.
He stared at the girl’s hands, currently tangled in Draco’s unbuttoned shirt. He imagined the sound her fingers would make if he snapped them, one by one. Ten wet pops for the ten fingers that dared to touch his property. He wanted to hear her scream. He wanted to see the blonde’s eyes go wide with terror as he dragged her across the Persian rug by her hair.
He moved his hand to the edge of the curtain, his knuckles white, his breath a low, dangerous hiss in the dark. The urge to step out, to end the charade, and to show Draco exactly what happened when Harry stopped being a hero was almost overbearing.
The blonde leaned over now, her mouth finding the sharp line of Draco’s jaw. She was messy, desperate, her hands fumbling blindly for the fastening of his trousers. Draco’s head fell back against the velvet cushions, his throat exposed—a long, pale column of invitation. A sound escaped him—low and airy that wasn’t quite a moan but sounded enough like one to make Harry’s vision go dark at the edges.
The other one, the brunette, was moving lower. She trailed her mouth down his neck, her tongue darting out to taste the skin Harry had spent hours dreaming of kissing. She reached the hollow of his collarbone, then his exposed chest, her hands roaming over him with a sickening, casual familiarity.
Harry made a silent snarl.
That was his spot, his mind fixating on the exact patch of skin the brunette was currently defiling. He knew the scent of that skin better than he knew his own. He knew the way it flushed when Draco was cold and the way it paled when he was sick.
He watched the blonde’s fingers finally catch the button of Draco’s pants.
He wasn't just going to break their fingers. He was going to erase the very concept of touch from their nervous systems. He wanted to peel the memory of Draco out of their brains until they couldn't even remember what a man looked like.
Just as the blonde’s thumb hooked into the edge of his briefs, Draco shoved them back. It was a rough dismissal that sent the brunette sprawling toward the foot of the bed.
"Get out of your clothes," Draco commanded. He stood up, swaying only slightly, his shirt hanging open to reveal the damp patches where the girls had been slobbering on him.
They didn't hesitate. They were eager, fueled by the whiskey and the twisted prestige of being in a Malfoy’s bed. Harry watched, his lip curling in disgust, as the blonde fumbled with the clasp of her bra, spilling her breasts out into the cool air of the room. The brunette kicked off her skirt, stepping out of a pair of flimsy green panties that looked cheap against the backdrop of Draco’s ancestral home.
Harry didn't blink. He didn't feel a flicker of interest. To him, they were just meat. Intrusive, breathing piles of meat that were contaminating his sanctuary. He fixated on the blonde’s nipple, imagining how easily he could slice it off with a focused Diffindo for the way it had brushed against Draco's arm.
But Draco wasn't looking at them, either.
He stood there with the firewhiskey bottle dangling from two fingers, his trousers unbuttoned and sagging low on his hips, exposing the sharp, pale v-line of his pelvis. He didn't spare a glance at the girls waiting for him on the silk sheets. Instead, his head moved in a slow arc.
His grey eyes were blown wide, the pupils swallowing the iris, as he scanned the darkness. He was looking right at the shadows. He was looking for the monster.
Draco took a slow, deliberate sip of the whiskey. He didn't know Harry was behind the curtain. He didn't know Harry was five feet away, close enough to smell the salt and the firewhiskey rolling off his skin. Yet Draco’s gaze never stopped its frantic search.
Draco kept his fake smile plastered on as he gestured toward the bed.
“I want you both warmed up,” Draco echoed, his voice thin and brittle. “Go on then. Let’s see it.”
The girls didn't need a second invitation. They fell onto each other, a tangle of desperate limbs and charm-tanned skin against the white silk of the sheets. The blonde’s hands clamped onto the brunette’s breasts, squeezing and kneading with a performative energy. The moans started almost instantly—high, shrill, and so obviously faked that Harry felt an urge to seal their mouths shut with a permanent sticking charm. It was a circus. A disgusting, noisy display.
Harry’s eyes stayed on Draco.
Draco was looking at the bed, but he wasn't seeing them. His eyes were distant, like he was watching a particularly dull play, yet he didn't move to stop it.
Finally, the blonde pushed the brunette down onto the pillows, spreading her legs wide. The brunette let out a breathy wail, her head falling back as she arched her back. The brunette looked up at Draco, her face flushed and sweating, one hand reaching out to catch the hem of his open trousers.
"Come here, Draco," she panted, her eyes wide with a greedy, vacuous light. "Look at her. Look at what—oh god right there—she’s doing for you. Don't you want to—fuck—see? Don't you want to feel her? You could put your cock right here while I… while I show you how good—please—we can be for you."
She continued talking and offered herself like a piece of fruit on a platter, describing the wetness between her legs and the way she’d scream his name.
"She’s waiting, Draco," the blonde whined, her fingers playing with herself, her eyes fixed on him. "Come and use us. We’re yours."
"Hmm. How about no? I’m bored," Draco said. His voice was flat and cut through the sounds of their faked moans.
The brunette stopped mid-arch, her legs still spread, her face a mask of confusion. The blonde’s hand stilled inside her friend.
"What?" she breathed, her tits still heaving.
"You heard me," Draco drawled, his head tilted back with that insufferable arrogance, his eyes flashing with a manic edge. "I thought this would be interesting. I thought you’d have some spark, some… allure. But you’re just hollow. And you’re making my head ache." He took a slow, dismissive sip of the whiskey, looking down his nose at them as if they were stains on his rug. "Put your rags on and get out. Now."
Harry felt a surge of dark triumph. Good boy, he thought, his fingers relaxing just a fraction on his wand.
"But Draco—" the blonde started, her voice rising into a shrill, desperate whine. She scrambled up, swaying as she reached for him, her fingers trying to hook back into his belt. "We haven't even started. I can do the thing with—"
"I don't care what you can do," Draco bit out, stepping back out of her reach. "The door is that way. Don't make me call the elves to toss you over the gates."
The brunette’s face twisted. The charming Pureblood she’d been chasing all night had vanished. "You’re a freak," she spat, grabbing her green panties from the floor and shoving her legs through them with aggressive, jerky movements. "You lead us on all night, bring us back to this tomb of a house, and then act like we’re the problem?"
"You are the problem," Draco murmured.
"Total prick," the blonde muttered, fumbling with her bra, her face flushed a dark, angry red. She didn't look sexy anymore, just cheap and humiliated. "Come on, Sarah. Let’s go. He’s probably got some nasty hang-up anyway. Probably can’t even get hard without a mirror."
They scrambled into their clothes, whispering vitriol under their breath, snatching up shoes and bags. Draco didn't move. He didn't offer an apology, or even a look. He just stood there until the heavy bedroom door slammed shut behind them.
Silence rushed back into the room, thick and suffocating. Harry didn't move. He didn't breathe. Not when the door slammed, and not when the silence began to ring in his ears like a physical blow. He just watched Draco through the slit in the curtains.
Draco stayed standing for a long moment, the bottle of whiskey trembling in his grip. Then, he let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped back against the dresser. He looked wrecked.
He looked terrified.
Draco lifted the bottle and took a desperate, messy swallow, some of the amber liquid spilling down his chin and onto his chest. "I know you're here," he whispered. He was shaking, a fine tremor that started in his hands and moved up his pale, sweat-streaked neck. "I know you watched that. Did you like it? Are you proud of me? That I sent them away?"
Harry didn't respond. He let the silence fester, let Draco drown in the uncertainty of his own gamble.
Draco waited, his chest heaving, his eyes darting frantically toward the shadows. When the air remained still, the terror in his expression curdled into a sharp, drunken pique. He let out a bitter, wet scoff and slammed the bottle down on the dresser, the glass clattering against the wood.
"Fine," Draco spat, his face twisting with a mix of anger and crushing disappointment. "Stay in the dark. Be a fucking coward. I’m going to wash the smell of cheap perfume off me."
He turned on his heel, stumbling slightly as he made for the ensuite bathroom. He didn't look back. He thought he was alone again, that his ghost had abandoned him.
He was wrong.
The second Draco’s back was turned, Harry stepped out from behind the velvet. He didn't use the cloak. He didn't use a charm. He moved with the predatory silence of a man who had spent months learning the exact groan of every floorboard in the Manor.
Draco was halfway through the bathroom door when Harry reached him.
Harry didn't hesitate. He launched forward, his hand snapping out like a coiled viper. He caught Draco by the back of his unbuttoned shirt, fist bunching in the expensive silk, and slammed him backward against the cold marble tile of the bathroom wall.
CRACK.
Draco’s head bounced off the stone. The air left his lungs in a wheezing gasp, his eyes flying wide, pupils blown so large there was barely a ring of grey left.
Harry didn't give him a second to breathe. He stepped into Draco’s space, his body a wall of solid, radiating heat, and shoved his hand hard against Draco’s throat. He pinned him there, the weight of his entire body crushing Draco against the marble.
"You've been a very busy boy tonight, Draco," Harry hissed, his voice a low, vibrating growl that didn't sound like it belonged to him.
Draco’s hands flew up, clutching at Harry’s arm, his fingers digging into the fabric of Harry’s jacket. He was gasping for air, his face flushing a dark, feverish red, but even with the life being squeezed out of him, that suicidal smirk began to pull at the corners of his mouth.
"There he is," Draco wheezed, his voice bubbling with a mix of spit and whiskey. He tilted his chin up, leaning into the pressure of Harry's arm, goading the bruise. "I knew... I knew you couldn't handle it. Watching them... touch me."
He let out a weak, rattling laugh, his eyes burning with a manic, drunken triumph.
"You look... pathetic, Potter," Draco sneered, his tongue darting out to lick the whiskey from his lip. "Sneaking around... like a dog. Did you enjoy the show? I could have... let them go further. I could have let one put her mouth on my cock—"
Harry’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft skin of Draco's neck until the blonde’s words died in a choked gurgle. Harry leaned in closer, his nose brushing against Draco’s, his breath hot and smelling of the cold night air, and the darkness rolling off him in waves.
"You want to talk about what you'd let them do?" Harry whispered, his eyes fixed on the wet, swollen curve of Draco’s lower lip. "How much of a whore you would be just to beg for my attention?"
Harry shifted his weight, his knee forcing Draco’s legs apart, pinning him even more securely against the wall.
"You're not going to be talking for a long time, Draco. Not after what I'm going to do to you for making me watch that filth."
Harry saw the flash of real, cold terror bloom in Draco’s eyes, and it felt better than any spell he’d ever cast. It was a rush—watching the bratty defiance falter, seeing the realization sink in that Draco wasn't playing with a ghost anymore. He was trapped in a room with a man who had lost his mind months ago.
"Will you be doing that again, Draco?" Harry asked. His voice was terrifyingly conversational, even as his fingers buried deeper creating indents against Draco’s skin. "Are we going to have a repeat of tonight's little performance?"
Draco’s face was a mottled red, his chest heaving under the crushing weight of Harry’s body. He managed a jagged, spit-flecked snarl. "Fuck... you... Potter."
"Tsk. Wrong answer."
Harry didn't let go of his throat. He used the grip to shove Draco forward, dragging him out of the bathroom by his neck. Draco stumbled, socks sliding uselessly on the hardwood, hands clawing at Harry’s sleeve.
With a violent, controlled heave, Harry pushed him.
Draco hit the mattress hard, the air driven out of him in a pained grunt. He scrambled back against the headboard, his platinum hair a bird’s nest, his shirt hanging off one shoulder to reveal the red, angry bruise Harry’s hand had left on his neck.
"Why are you here?" Draco demanded, his voice cracking with a mixture of drunken hysteria and genuine dread. He looked at Harry—really looked at him—as if seeing the darkness behind the glasses for the first time. "Why me, Potter? Out of everyone in this miserable world, why the fuck did you choose me?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. He reached up and unbuttoned his jacket, moving with calmness. He slipped it off, turned, and draped it meticulously over the back of the chair, smoothing a phantom wrinkle.
"Why not you?" Harry said, finally turning back. His green eyes were flat. "You were falling apart, Draco. You were a mess of bad habits, rotting away in this mausoleum. Someone had to take charge."
"I don't want to be stalked by you!" Draco yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He tried to lunge toward the edge of the bed, but Harry was there in a blurred second, his hand snapping out to catch a handful of Draco’s hair.
He wrenched Draco’s head back, forcing him to look up.
"Too damn bad," Harry hissed, leaning down until their foreheads touched. "You’re pathetic, Draco. You’d have wasted away in the dark if I hadn't stepped in."
Draco let out a strangled whimper, his hands flying up to grasp Harry’s wrist, trying to loosen the agonizing pull on his scalp.
"You don't get to choose anymore," Harry whispered into his ear, his breath hot against the skin the brunette had been kissing only minutes ago. "You threw away your right to choose the second you let those girls touch you, just to spite me. Do you understand? Your life belongs to me now. Every breath, every drink, every filthy thought you have—it’s mine."
Harry tightened his grip on the hair, twisting his wrist until Draco’s back arched off the bed. "You need me.” Harry watched the way a flush began to creep up Draco’s pale chest.
"Still going to pretend you hate it?" Harry asked.
Draco’s breath was coming in short, needy pants, even as his mouth twisted into a snarl. "I hate you. I fucking hate you, Potter."
"Right now, I kinda hate you too," Harry shot back.
He shoved Draco backward, letting go of his hair. Harry stood at the edge of the bed, his fingers moving to the top button of his own shirt. He undid it slowly, his gaze never leaving Draco’s face.
"Now be a good boy for me and strip," Harry commanded.
Draco scrambled to sit up, his chest heaving, his attention following to Harry’s hands as they moved down to the second button, then the third. "I'm not doing shit with you. Get out. Get the fuck out of my house."
Harry didn’t even pause. He pulled the shirt out of his waistband, the fabric falling open to reveal the hard, tense lines of his stomach. "There are two ways this can go, Draco. I’m in a foul mood, and I’ve got months of your nonsense sitting heavy in my gut."
He stepped closer, the edge of his knees hitting the mattress.
"Maybe I can reward you," Harry said, his voice dangerously soft, "for having enough sense to stop before you were inside one of them. Or, I can spend the rest of the night punishing you for letting their filthy hands touch you at all."
Harry knelt onto the mattress, his weight sinking the expensive fabric as he crawled over to Draco, a movement that forced Draco to scoot back until his spine was flush against the headboard. Harry didn’t stop until he was looming directly over him.
"You can be obedient, Draco. I know you can," Harry purred. He cupped Draco’s jaw, his thumb dragging across that bottom lip. "You’ve been playing this part for so long. The aristocrat. The hedonist. But we both know what you really want. You want someone to take the choice away. You want to be told exactly where you belong."
Draco’s eyes were glassy, flicking between Harry’s green gaze and the hard, unyielding line of his mouth. He looked like he wanted to spit another insult, but the words seemed to die in his throat.
"Don't make me choose the punishment, Draco. You won't like how I get when I'm angry.” Harry leaned in closer, his lips inches from Draco’s ear. “Now. The shirt."
For a heartbeat, Draco stayed frozen, his breath coming in shallow hitches. He looked up at Harry’s eyes, finding nothing but a possessive, dark-eyed stranger who had been watching him sleep for months.
Slowly, his defiance crumbled.
Draco’s gaze dropped to Harry’s chest. He gave a single, jerky nod—almost imperceptible, but enough. His hands, still shaking, rose to his own chest. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his rumpled shirt, his movements clumsy.
He pulled the fabric apart, his pale skin blooming with a cold sweat as he shucked the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the bed. He sat there, bare-chested and vulnerable under Harry’s shadow, waiting for whatever was coming next.
"Good boy," Harry whispered.
Harry’s hand clamped onto Draco’s jaw, his fingers digging into the skin as he surged forward. The kiss was magic—pure, dark, and overwhelming. After months of watching through curtains and glass, months of memorizing the curve of Draco's lips from across a room, the reality felt like it was altering Harry’s entire state of being. Draco tasted of firewhiskey and mint, his mouth hot and yielding.
A noise broke from Draco’s throat—a low moan that vibrated against Harry’s tongue. It wasn't like the sounds he had made for the girls. This was deep, guttural, and honest.
Harry felt a surge of savage pride. He’d brought that out. He’d squeezed that sound from Draco’s lungs, just by touching him.
"That's it," Harry growled into the kiss, his teeth grazing Draco’s bottom lip. "That’s the only sound I want to hear from you."
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and feverish as he watched Draco’s chest heave. Draco looked wrecked—his lips were swollen and wet, his eyes half-closed and glazed with a heavy, dazed arousal.
Harry didn’t waste another second. His hands moved to the waistband of Draco’s trousers, which were already sagging. He shoved the fabric down, over Draco’s hips, until they were at his knees.
Then, Harry’s hand closed over the front of Draco’s briefs.
He gripped the thin fabric, his palm molding over the hard length of Draco’s cock. He started to rub, a slow, steady rhythm that made Draco’s hips give an involuntary, desperate twitch.
"Will you be doing that again, Draco?" Harry asked. “Bringing someone else into your bed?”
Draco didn’t answer. His head was thrown back against the headboard, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, his mouth hanging open as he tried to suck in air in broken gasps. He looked undone.
Harry’s grip suddenly tightened, his fingers squeezing the sensitive head of Draco’s cock through the cotton until Draco let out a pained whimper.
"I expect an answer to my question," Harry demanded, leaning in until his glasses brushed Draco’s temple. "Am I going to have to watch you parade more filth through this house?"
"No," Draco choked out, his hands clawing at the sheets. "No... I won't. I promise. Please, Harry... please. Don't stop."
The use of his name made Harry’s blood run hot. It was the first time he’d heard it from Draco, and it sounded like a prayer from a sinner's mouth.
"Good," Harry murmured.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the briefs and peeled them down, exposing Draco fully to the cool air and Harry’s burning gaze. Harry didn't toss the underwear aside. He crumpled the cotton into a tight ball and stuffed it into the pocket of his own trousers.
Mine. He’d add it to the box at Grimmauld Place. A trophy of the night Draco accepted that he was Harry’s.
He looked down at Draco, who was flushed from his neck to his groin, his cock leaking a slow, clear pearl of pre-cum that glistened in the firelight. Harry reached out, his thumb catching the drop and smearing it over the slit, watching Draco flinch at the contact.
Harry looked down at him, watching the way Draco’s hips chased his hand, the blonde’s skin practically humming with a frantic, unspent energy.
"Would you like me to get you off, Draco?" Harry asked, his voice a purr.
"Yes," Draco gasped, his eyes unfocused, his head thrashing once against the pillow. "Yes, fuck, yes. Please."
Harry let out a short, dark laugh, his thumb circling the head of Draco’s cock one more time before he abruptly pulled his hand away. The loss of contact made Draco whimper, a pathetic, needy sound that echoed in the quiet room.
"I should have expected impatience," Harry murmured, leaning down until his lips were brushing Draco’s again. "My spoiled little pet."
The word seemed to snap something in Draco, a flicker of the old fire sparking through the haze of arousal. "I’m not... your bloody pet," he wheezed, though his body still arched toward Harry, betraying every word.
"You're whatever I say you are." Harry pulled back, his green eyes scanning Draco’s flushed face. "You know what? I’ve changed my mind. You should be the one getting me off tonight."
Before Draco could process the words, Harry shoved him down, forcing him flat against the mattress. He moved with grace, pinning Draco’s wrists above his head with a single hand. Draco’s slender wrists felt like glass under Harry's palm.
Harry shifted, hovering his hips over Draco’s face, his own erection straining against the dark fabric of his trousers, right at the level of Draco’s mouth.
Draco froze. His grey eyes went wide, a genuine, sharp flicker of fear darting through the lust. He looked small like this, pinned under the weight of the man who had been haunting his house for months.
"Have you ever done this before?" Harry asked. His voice had lost its edge of rage, replaced by something quiet and dangerously intense.
Draco swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared up at the dark shape of Harry looming over him. He slowly shook his head, a lock of platinum hair falling over his brow.
Harry felt a surge of possessive triumph, so violent it almost made him dizzy. First. He was the first.
"I'll go slow," Harry promised, his voice dropping to a rough, velvet whisper. He leaned down, his free hand reaching out to smooth that lock of hair back from Draco’s forehead, his touch gentle. "I’ll be good to you, Draco. As long as you do exactly what I say."
Harry kept Draco’s wrists pinned with one hand, while his other moved to his own trousers. He worked the button and when he finally eased his cock out, thick and heavy, he saw Draco’s breath catch.
Harry took himself in his hand, giving a few slow, dragging strokes. He watched Draco’s tongue darting out to wet his own lips in an unconscious reflex. Harry felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace, he loved this—the way Draco looked at him like he was a god, or a disaster he couldn't turn away from.
"Open up, love," Harry breathed, his voice a low, vibrating command. "Show me how good you can be for me."
He guided himself to Draco’s mouth. Draco didn't hesitate, he leaned into it, his lips parting to take Harry in.
It was bloody heaven. That was the only way Harry could describe it.
Harry let out a long, ragged exhale, his head falling back as he felt the warmth of Draco’s mouth close around him. It was sloppy, desperate, and perfect. Draco clearly didn't have a clue what he was doing, but the sheer effort he was putting into it was intoxicating. He was trying so hard to please, his head bobbing with a frantic, eager energy that sent jolts of lightning straight to Harry’s gut.
Harry looked down, his knuckles white where he still held Draco’s wrists captive. He could see the focus in Draco’s eyes, the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, and the frantic flush darkening his skin. Every time Draco’s tongue swiped against him, or his teeth grazed him by accident in his inexperience, Harry only grew harder.
"That's it," Harry growled, his fingers twitching against Draco’s wrists. "Use that mouth, Draco. Use it for me."
He started to move his hips in slow thrusts that forced Draco to take more of him. Draco made a muffled, wet noise against him, his throat working hard to swallow, his fingers curling into the sheets as he tried to find purchase.
"You're doing so well, Draco," Harry whispered, his voice thick and ruined. "You were made for this. You were made for me."
Harry pushed deeper, his hips meeting the resistance of Draco’s throat, and a single tear tracked through the flush on Draco’s cheek. Harry leaned down, his thumb sweeping the salt away with tenderness that he only felt when it came to Draco.
He was at his limit. Draco’s mouth was ruinous and it stripped Harry of every bit of his usual composure—his stamina shattered by the feel of Draco’s tongue on the base of his cock.
Just as the pressure in his gut reached a breaking point, Harry pulled back. He slid out of Draco’s mouth with a wet, heavy sound, leaving Draco gasping and blinking up at him, his lips a bruised, swollen red.
"Not yet. I'm going to come in your arse tonight," Harry said trying to catch his own breath.
Draco’s eyes went wide, the dazed lust instantly replaced by a spike of panic. He tried to scramble upward, his elbows digging into the mattress, but Harry’s hand was still a vice around his wrists, pinning him down.
"No," Draco’s voice trembled. "No, no—Harry, I don't—I don't like that. I’m—I’m—" He was stuttering now. "I'm not taking it in the bloody arse. I can't. Please."
Harry didn't move. He let his cock, slick and pulsing, rest against Draco’s stomach and then spoke.
"Then you don't get to come either, Draco," Harry said. "It’s as simple as that. You can stay like this. Hard, aching, and untouched. I’ll leave you here with the lights on so you can think about what you did tonight."
Draco let out a broken whimper, his hips giving a pathetic, involuntary jerk toward Harry’s hand. "Please, Harry... please? I’ll be so good, I swear. Anything else. I’ll use my hands, my mouth again, I’ll—I’ll do whatever you want."
Harry watched the way the firelight caught the tremors in Draco’s shoulders. He reached out, his hand gentle as he stroked a thumb along the sharp line of Draco’s cheekbone, forcing the blonde to look at him through the haze of tears.
"Draco... Draco, I’ll make this good for you. I promise," Harry murmured, his voice dropping to that low, hypnotic register he used when he was watching Draco sleep. "Do you trust me?"
The second the words left his mouth, Harry felt the absurdity of it hit the back of his throat like a shot of gin. Do you trust me? He was a stalker, a man who had broken into this house, robbed him of his most personal belongings, and pinned him to the wall by his throat. It was a bloody stupid question.
Draco’s answer caught Harry by surprise. "Don't—don't be rough," Draco whispered, his bottom lip trembling. It was a simple plea.
Harry let out a laugh that wasn't unkind, but it wasn't soft either. "I’m very good at playing with my toys, Draco. I know exactly how much they can take."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. Harry flipped Draco onto his stomach, his hands certain and heavy on Draco’s hips, pressing him down into the silk. Draco made a small, muffled sound into the pillows, his body going rigid as he felt Harry settling between his thighs.
Harry flicked his wrist, a wordless Accio pulling a small, frosted glass bottle of lubricant from the nightstand.
"Stay still," Harry commanded against Draco's spine.
He popped the cap of the bottle, the scent of sandalwood filling the air. Harry poured a generous amount onto his fingers, the liquid slick and cold.
Harry leaned over him, his chest pressing into Draco’s shivering back. He didn't just want to take this; he wanted Draco to feel the difference between the clumsy, frantic fumbling of those girls and the way a man who worshipped his every atom handled him.
Draco jerked, his fingers fisting in the sheets. "Harry—"
"Shh," Harry hissed, his free hand moving to the back of Draco’s neck, his thumb pressing into the sensitive dip at the base of his skull. "I said I’d be good to you. Just breathe, Draco. Breathe for me."
He pushed one finger in, slow and steady. Draco’s breath hitched, as his muscles clenched in shock. A pained inhale turned into a long, trembling moan as Harry began to move, stretching him, prepping the space that had only ever belonged to Draco until tonight.
He eased a second finger in, moving with a patience that was almost agonizing. Then slowly, tentatively, Draco began to melt under Harry’s touch. Harry took his time, circling and pressing, finding the spots that made Draco’s breath catch in that honeyed way.
"There we go," Harry murmured, his lips grazing the back of Draco’s neck. "Just like that. Give it all to me. You’ve been holding onto everything so tight, for so long, haven't you? Just let go. I’m the only one here. I’m the only one who sees you."
Draco let out a long, broken sound, his forehead sinking deeper into the pillows. "Harry... please..."
"I know, love. I know it’s a lot," Harry said. He reached around to stroke Draco’s hip, his thumb tracing the bone. "I'm not going to hurt you. I’ve spent months making sure nothing hurts you. You think I’d start now? I’m rewarding you for being honest with me. For finally stopping the act."
He added a third finger, stretching Draco until the blonde was soft and slick, his body finally opening up like a secret meant only for Harry’s eyes. Harry felt a surge of protectiveness so sharp it ached. This was his duty—to punish the brat, yes, but to cherish the boy underneath.
"You're so perfect for me," Harry whispered, his fingers working with an expert grace. "So much better than you were for them. They didn't deserve to see you like this. Only I do. Because I’m the only one who knows how to handle you without breaking you."
Harry watched the way Draco’s pale skin flushed pink under his touch, the way his muscles bunched and then reluctantly yielded. It was the ultimate victory.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, the wet sound of it echoing in the quiet room. He reached for his cock, guiding himself to that heat he’d just spent so long preparing.
"I'm going to be so good to you, Draco," Harry promised, his voice a dark, velvet vow. "But you have to stay still. You have to take all of me. Can you do that for me? Can you be my good boy one more time?"
Harry didn’t wait for words. He saw the way Draco’s head bobbed against the pillow, a nod that signaled the end of his resistance.
Harry guided himself to that tight, slick heat and pushed in. He went slow, just like he’d promised, his teeth gritted as he felt Draco’s body stretch to accommodate him. It felt like coming home—not to a house, but to the one thing in the world he’d made his entire purpose.
"God, Draco," Harry choked out, his eyes fluttering shut as he buried himself to the hilt. "You’re so tight. You feel like you were made just for me."
He stayed still for a moment, letting Draco’s gasping breaths level out, his hands gripping Draco’s hips so hard his knuckles were white. He wanted to live here. He wanted to stay inside this warmth and never leave the walls of this room again. He leaned down, pressing his chest against Draco’s back, feeling their hearts hammering in a chaotic, overlapping rhythm.
"Breathe, love. Just breathe," Harry whispered, beginning to pull back and thrust in again with agonizing slowness. "I’ve got you. I’ve got all of you."
But Draco wasn't content with slow. The months of pent-up tension seemed to snap something inside him. He started thrashing his head from side to side, his fingers digging deep into the silk sheets, his hips bucking back against Harry’s with a desperate hunger.
"Harry—Harry, please," Draco suddenly moaned, the sound raw and stripped of all pride. "Don't—don't be gentle. Harder. I need it... please, just do it harder."
Any restraint Harry had left vanished. If Draco wanted the monster he’d been hiding in the shadows, he was going to get it.
"You want it harder?" Harry growled. "Fine. If my good boy wants to be used, I’ll use him."
Harry pulled back until he was almost out and then slammed back in, the sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the quiet suite. Draco let out a high, broken cry that was quickly muffled by the pillow, his back arching into a bow.
Harry didn't let up. He established a brutal pace, his hands moving from Draco’s hips to his hair, tensing and pulling to keep Draco’s face pressed down.
"Is this what you wanted?" Harry hissed, his breath hot and ragged against Draco’s ear. "Is this enough for you? Or do you need me to break you a little more?"
Draco couldn't even form words anymore. Every time Harry hit that specific spot deep inside him, Draco’s whole body would shudder, his toes curling into the mattress. He was taking all of it—every bit of Harry’s obsession, every bit of his rage, and turning it into a pleasure so intense it looked like pain.
"Mine," Harry grunted with every heavy thrust, his vision blurring. "Everything you are. Mine."
Harry reached beneath Draco’s arched stomach, his hand fumbling until his fingers closed around Draco’s cock. It was rock-hard, and slick. He let out a dark laugh against Draco’s shoulder, his hand swiping over his cock.
"Look at you," Harry rasped. "So worked up for me. You can try to run, Draco. You can bring a hundred girls into this bed to try and drown me out, but it won't work. I’m the blood in your veins. I’m the air in this house. I’ll always come back to punish you, to reward you... to own you."
He tightened his grip on Draco’s hair, pulling his head back so he could see the side of Draco’s face—flushed, tear-streaked, and completely undone. Harry felt the pressure building behind his eyes, everything he’d been holding back for months finally snapping.
"Say it," Harry commanded as he delivered a final, deep thrust that made Draco scream. "Tell me who you belong to before I let you go."
Draco’s body began to spasm, his muscles clamping down on Harry. He clawed at the pillows, his voice finally breaking through the haze of pleasure and pain.
"Yours!" Draco sobbed, his voice cracking. "I'm yours... Harry... please, I'm all yours!"
Harry let out a low, animalistic groan, his body stiffening as he came deep inside Draco. At the same moment, Draco’s body jolted, a mess of white heat and release splashing against the silk sheets and Harry’s hand.
Harry didn't pull away. He collapsed onto Draco’s back, his chest heaving, his face buried in the crook of Draco’s neck. The only sound in the room was the harsh rasp of their breathing.
Harry pulled out with a reluctant groan. He hated the distance already, but he couldn't have Draco laying in a mess of their shared release—not when he wanted him perfect and pristine for the rest of the night.
He padded into the marble bathroom, his legs a bit heavy, and grabbed a warm, damp cloth and some tissues. When he walked back into the bedroom, Draco still hadn't moved. He was sprawled face-down across the silk, his skin glowing a soft, feverish pink under the dim light. He looked utterly spent, his silver-blond hair fanned out like a ruined halo.
Harry sat on the edge of the bed and began to wipe Draco down, his touch careful. He watched the way Draco’s eyes drifted open—they were hazy, glazed with a compliant glow that made Harry’s chest tighten. This, Harry thought. He wanted to bottle this version of Draco, the one that looked like he’d been dismantled and put back together by Harry’s hands.
Draco blinked, focusing on Harry’s face, and a slow, familiar smirk began to tug at the corner of his mouth.
"I didn't really expect this from a stalker," Draco murmured, his voice still a bit breathless. He watched Harry’s hand with a curious tilt of his head. "So... caring. I thought you were just here to collect my used quills and watch me sleep like a freak."
"I'm not a freak, Draco. I'm a perfectionist," Harry said. "And you’re my responsibility. Did you think I was just going to leave you here shivering? I’ve spent months making sure your life runs exactly how it should. Why would tonight be any different?"
He reached out, his thumb catching Draco’s chin and tilting it up.
"This is part of the package," Harry whispered, his eyes scanning Draco’s face. "I take care of what belongs to me. I keep it clean, I keep it fed, and I keep it safe. Even if I have to save it from itself."
Draco’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his pulse jumping under Harry’s touch. "You're genuinely mental, aren't you?"
He rolled over onto his back, his limbs heavy and loose, staring up at Harry.
Harry stayed sitting up. He watched the steady rise and fall of Draco’s chest, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his pale skin seemed to drink in the shadows.
He reached out and let his fingers trail over the sheets, not quite touching Draco, but hovering just close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
Draco had asked why him, and the answer was simple: because Draco was the only thing beautiful enough to deserve this kind of cage.
Harry looked down at him, a dark pride settling in his gut. He was going to make sure Draco never had a reason to look at anyone else again. He would weave himself into every part of this man’s life until Draco couldn't remember where he started and Harry ended.
"Go to sleep, Draco," Harry whispered. "I’m not going anywhere."
And that was the truest thing he’d said all night. He wasn't going anywhere, and soon, Draco wouldn't even remember how to try and leave.