Under Pressure - toxik_angel - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Draco’s eyes dart automatically toward the open door of the Auror training space. The warm, damp air wafts out into the hall, and if he walks close enough, he can smell the salt of sweat from within.

Inside, two aurors are wrestling, heads bowed together, each others’ sweaty shoulders gripped in big hands. Another Auror is goading them on, watching them intently and clapping sharply at intervals. Draco’s entire body jerks when the third Auror glances up to see him in the doorway. He lifts a hand in a casual wave, and blood rushes to Draco’s face at being caught.

Hurrying away, Draco tries to forget the sight of the sweat patches beneath their arms, the tight material of their shorts stretched across muscular arses, and the masculine grunts leaving their mouths.

It doesn’t work very well, and Draco stops by a bathroom to splash water on his face and wait for his co*ck to soften.

I had to be attracted to Aurors, Draco thinks to himself, glaring angrily at his reflection. Might as well have fantasised about the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

When the assault of heat and high blood pressure have eased, Draco continues on his way toward the Archival Office of Magical Residence Resources. If he is to be married to Astoria, to take his father’s place as the head of the Malfoy legacy, he would need a guide for how to gain his home’s unwavering loyalty.

With Draco’s 20th birthday two months passed, he’s overdue to complete his education to run the Malfoy estate as his father had done before him. The entire matter of the war had kept him from studying summers and school breaks to learn the fundamentals of the Malfoy businesses and political activity. It’s exhausting, but one Malfoy in every generation must do it.

After securing his 800-page guide to house loyalty and leaving the Ministry, Draco’s thoughts wander back to those idiotic Aurors, and what brutes they all must be, wrestling for fun like that, half naked. How forward, to be touching each other in such ways, hot and impassioned. How humiliating, to be witnessed doing so.

Draco can’t stop thinking about the salacious acts and decidedly doesn't dwell on why it makes him feel this way.

1994 ~ the Harry Potter scandal

Harry Potter openly kissed Neville Longbottom on the mouth.

In public, where people were watching. Where Draco was watching.

Longbottom touches his lips, tilting his head to the side curiously. He says something to Potter, and they lean in again, Potter’s hand reaching behind Longbottom’s neck to pull his body closer, till their chests are touching.

And then their friends come up, Granger and Weasley looking surprised, but not very. Potter says something to make his three companions laugh, and they continue on their way, Potter and Longbottom swinging their linked pinkies between them.

Draco feels sick to his stomach, witnessing it. It’s not that he has a problem with hom*osexuals! He doesn’t!

He just feels ill, and sort of wants to throw himself from the Quidditch seats onto the pitch below.

And then, not a day later, Potter transforms himself in front of the students of three magical schools, growing fins and webbed hands and feet, and Draco watches the power with which he cuts through the murky lake water, only a foot from the surface. Crabbe elbows him twice in the ribs before Draco realises he’s being offered hot buttered popcorn, charmed to stay warm in the cold, damp air.

When Potter and Longbottom discontinue their affections, Potter moves on to some Ravenclaw Draco’s never cared to learn the name of. His eyes are bright blue, and Potter can’t stop gazing into them. He can’t stop from touching the boy’s downy facial hair, his ears, his lips.

Draco watches it from afar, fists clenched around handfuls of his robes, glowering at Potter. Potter with his public affairs, his ability to touch and touch as much as he wants, and seemingly never alone. The Potter Stinks badge flashes below his chin, just within his periphery. He rips it out of his robes and points his wand at it. The text changes: Potter is a horrid slag. The slime-green letters dance before shifting back to Cedric Diggory, the real Hogwarts Champion.

After the Ravenclaw, it’s another Gryffindor, and this one seems to capture Potter’s fancy even more, and Draco can’t watch Potter doing this anymore.

Instead, he returns to his room and buries himself in the female nude art book he’d shoplifted from the back shelves of Flourish and Blotts. His eyes trace the curves of breasts of all shapes and sizes. He peers closely at the dark details between the spread legs of some women. He touches the lines of their legs, their shoulders, their hair, appreciating their beauty with all his might.

He tries closing his eyes and imagining one of those forms moving above him, and she pins his arms near his ears and tells him what a nasty little pervert he is for watching Potter with his boy of the month, how deeply disappointed Father would be, what a failure he’s been as the Malfoy heir.

Nothing has happened in his body until she’s speaking, when his co*ck grows achingly hard between his legs. She lowers herself over him, her breasts pressing against him, and touches her mouth to his ear. Her voice is strangely manly when she speaks, oddly familiar.

“You can’t look away from me. You can’t keep your filthy, perverted eyes off me, what do you think that means?” Potter murmurs, and Draco moans. He imagines Potter’s knee pressing into his crotch, digging hard against his balls, and Draco cries out, hands laying limp next to the sides of his head, pushing his hips up into empty air, and hating himself more than ever before.

He picks a fight with Potter after double Herbology as they all trek back toward the castle.

Potter hits Draco hard in the stomach, and Draco drops to his knees, doubled over at the pain crawling through his stomach. Crabbe and Goyle stand guard, and Theo gives him an unimpressed face as he passes by, shaking his head and turning back to Daphne.

Draco follows up with more female p*rnography ordered from Knockturn, studying the women’s bodies and how they move when pleased. There’s a man f*cking one of them. He pulls out of her to shoot over her stomach and tit*, and Draco’s heart races at the gleam from a thick piercing at the tip of his co*ck.

1996 - the War incident

Draco’s not sure why it matters so much to Yaxley, a man who’s never cared about Draco ever in his life.

“You play a crucial role, young man.” Yaxley says, holding Draco’s shoulder in a painfully tight grip. “And the Dark Lord has tasked you to lead us into the first battle. Should we trust you to do it?”

Swallowing thickly, Draco nods.

“I’ll do it. I can do it.”

“Good boy.” Yaxley says, and Draco’s knees go weak. He hurries out of the room, hiding in a dark closet and pinching his arms sharply until his erection goes away.

And then it’s Severus, reminding Draco of his skills and talents, assuring Draco that he’s capable of thinking everything through. Draco can’t meet his eyes the entire time, knowing if he looks up, Severus will question his hotly flushed face, and possibly read the images running through Draco’s mind that really, definitely shouldn’t be there.

Father’s gone, but Draco’s receiving more encouragement than ever before. Nothing had prepared Draco for the attention he’s getting from being specially tasked with an assignment straight from the Dark Lord.

He applies stinging hexes to the balls of his feet as a reminder anytime he’s standing to not let his mind devolve into thoughts he really, definitely shouldn’t be having. Sometimes, he has to rock back onto his heels and take a break from the jolts of pain from the weight against the hexes. Sometimes, he has to be alone to sit until his body stops reacting like that to the pain.

1999 - the Teachers issue

The war is over. Draco is finishing his eighth year. He’s spoken to Potter three times since returning to Hogwarts. He hasn’t seen Potter in weeks. He’s more focused on studying than he’s ever managed to be.

And it’s showing in his marks.

He answers a question correctly in Ancient Runes before Granger can say it, and doesn’t think about the chest flutters when Professor Babbling gives Slytherin House five points for it. He earns another ten from Slughorn in Potions for correctly brewing a cauldron full of cold cure.

Even McGonagall gives him an O for his report on the degenerative properties of repeated transfiguration on organic objects. Draco rereads every one of her notes in the margins by candlelight each night for nine days, and only stops then because he has them memorised. The tummy flutters don’t go away for weeks.

The final straw, however, is in DADA, when the retired Auror who’d taken the position uses Draco’s warding project as an example of excellent wandworkmanship, and Draco grows lightheaded the longer O’Houlihan points out the small pieces that make the magic work together. He digs the heel of his hand against his co*ck beneath his desk, barely keeping his eyes open until the professor moves on, congratulating Draco one last time with two taps on his desk. Draco nearly comes.

The scene revolves in his mind like its own solar system, and Draco resorts to applying an icy cold compress to his co*ck before sleep each night. It brings burning tears to his eyes as his muscles seize up under the assault.

And then it’s summer, and Draco is home.

Mum is not. She’d left Father during Draco’s time at Hogwarts. He’s not quite sure when, but he’d received a letter toward the end of the spring term letting him know that Mum had moved in with Draco’s Aunt Andromeda, and Father is still trapped in his house arrest at the Manor.

She wasn’t even there to receive him when he arrived home. Father was in his study, and Draco went to him there as soon as he’d lugged his trunk to his room - no house-elves at the manor anymore.

Father looks weary, his hands folded together atop his desk.

“Welcome home, son.” He tells Draco, and it sends a flutter through his chest.

“Father, I hope you’re well.” Draco says, bowing his head. “I’ve brought my reports for you to review.”

Father taps the desk twice, and Draco lays them in front of him, chewing on his lip as Father’s finger tracks his place on the page.

“Very good, Draco.” Father says, passing back the reports. Draco is giddy with it, and restrains his smile with effort. “I will see you at dinner.”

Spirits high, Draco returns to his room to unpack.

2000 - the Father’s role

It’s Draco’s 20th birthday, and he’s sitting across from his father.

They don’t speak. They’re not celebrating. Father is combing through ledgers, and Draco is enjoying a morning scone. Father hasn’t acknowledged the day, but it’s early yet, and they haven’t had any conversation as of yet.

“Happy birthday, son.” Father says after he closes up his ledgers and is on his way out of the room.

None of his old friends from school write. They’re all together partying their way through Spain and claiming to be ‘attending university.’ Draco knows them better than that. They don’t have estates to run. They don’t have Lucius Malfoy for a father.

Toward the end of the day, Draco idly runs through as many spells he can think of to kill himself. Dying would certainly bring some sort of response out of Father. Some sort of sadness, maybe.

But he never follows through. Because maybe Father wouldn’t actually care at all. Maybe he’d just sigh, find a young pureblood woman and start over. Get it right this time. Raise a real heir, a real man .

One who doesn't look into his DADA professor’s face and can’t stop hearing his praises, imagining them whispered against his sweaty, bare skin in that low, rough voice.

Draco slaps his bollocks hard, cupping them as the pain throbs through his crotch, and whimpering into his pillow as his co*ck twitches through it.

2000 - the Astoria thing

The day his betrothal to Astoria Greengrass begins, Draco leaves the intimate joint family dinner at the manor. Astoria watches him leave, her expression entirely neutral. She doesn’t seem at all surprised or disappointed.

Draco finds himself halfway to wasted in the first club he’d stumbled upon, wandering through London in the middle of the night.

And then, Ernest Macmillan is in front of him, frowning into Draco’s face.

“You’re just what I needed.” Draco tells him, enunciating carefully to hide how much he’s had to drink. “I want to lose it tonight.”

“You may have already, mate.” Macmillan says, removing the scotch from Draco’s hand and putting it on the bar behind him. He gestures across his throat to the person behind the bar, and Draco tips his chin up.

“Don’t you hate me?”

“No.” Macmillan says, holding Draco up from below his arms. “Not until you do something dickish.”

Draco frowns.

“I want to lose it tonight.” He says again. Maybe Ernest hadn’t heard properly. “And I want you to take it.”

“Don’t think I’ll be taking anything other than taking you home safely.”

Draco scowls up at him.

“And why should I count on you, when you won’t even help me reach my goal? Getting f*cked for the first time?”

Macmillan’s steps falter, and he looks curiously into Draco’s face.

“I’ll do it on one condition. You have to eat something first, and ask me again when you’re more sober.”

“Date first?” Draco asks, batting his eyelashes up at the man. Macmillan nods, shifting his hold lower down Draco’s waist, sneaking his thick fingers inside his clothes to feel the skin of Draco’s side.

And Draco does eat. He eats quite a bit, and Macmillan eventually feels that Draco is sober enough, and asks if Draco still wants it. Draco enthusiastically agrees, and exits the food place in front of Macmillan, swaying his hips to entice him to go through with it.

Draco’s stomach is uneasy as soon as it begins.

Macmillan f*cks him in a dim flat. Draco’s legs are against his chest, his arms holding them there for Macmillan to f*ck him ever deeper. Draco feels so poorly that he has to shut his eyes to prevent tears from leaking out. It doesn’t go unnoticed, and Macmillan pulls out.

Draco complains.

“It doesn’t seem to be feeling good for you.” Macmillan says.

“Doesn’t matter.” Draco says. “I want it. I don’t want to like it.”

“I-” Macmillan reaches up to press his hand to Draco’s forehead, checking for a temperature, and Draco’s eyes fall shut. He presses into it, and Macmillan holds him flat to the bed. “I want to stop you from doing something you’ll regret.”

“I want to hate being f*cked.” Draco tells him. “I feel ill, and that’s how it should be.”

Macmillan sits back on his heels.

“Malfoy, it sounds an awful lot like you have a problem with queer people.”

“I don’t.” Draco says, scowling.

“You don’t.” Macmillan repeats disbelievingly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised, you’ve always been the sh*tty sort of pureblood.”

“I don’t!” Draco says again, louder. “I’m just not one of them.”

“You’re not one of what.”

“A hom*osexual.” Draco says, lowering his legs back to the bed. “How awful I feel is proof.”

“I don’t have the faintest idea why you wanted this so badly if this is how you’re going to act.”

“Don’t tell me you can’t handle me.” Draco taunts. Macmillan looks at him with hard eyes which glint in the light from outside. He leans forward over Draco again, gripping his wrists tight against the pillow above Draco’s head. His hands hurt from the difficult angle they’re held at.

Draco stares up into Macmillan’s angry face.

“I’m giving you a second chance tonight because Harry Potter insists the war changed all of us, even the Slytherins. Don’t make me regret my forgiveness.”

“Maybe you should.” Draco says, voice unexpectedly hoarse. He tries to pull free of Macmillan’s vice-like grip, but it only results in Macmillan jerking them higher up, making his shoulders ache.

“Maybe you want me to.” Macmillan says quietly, examining Draco’s face. “Is that what you want? For me to give you what you think you deserve?”

“I know I deserve it.”

Macmillan releases Draco’s wrists to wrench his legs back, and quickly resumes his pounding of Draco’s arse. But now, Draco is euphoric, the bruising grip on his thighs sends something through his body, something that makes him fall limp against the mattress as he’s ravished.

At some point, Macmillan pulls out of Draco again, flipping him onto his stomach, yanking his hips up, and f*cks him like that, like a Knockturn whor* bent over for three sickles and a sandwich. And he holds Draco’s head against the bed with heavy pressure at the back of his neck, and Draco gasps into the bed, knowing this, this, is what he wanted to hate. Wants so desperately to hate with all his heart.

Macmillan’s handhold changes to the tops of Draco’s shoulders, slamming Draco backward onto his co*ck, and Draco moans too loudly, too often.

When it finally ends, and Draco didn’t really hate any of it, he rolls off the bed and pulls on his clothes again.

“You alright?” Macmillan asks. Draco shrugs. “You seem like you’re in a crisis.”

“I’m not.” Draco assures him, but he barely believes it himself. Macmillan sits back against the headboard.

“Look, I get it, okay. It’s tough, the position you’re in. I mean, I’m lucky to have older siblings to get my parents off my back, but they want me to be with a woman anyway. Increase the odds of having male heirs to carry on the name.”

“I'm not gay,” Draco tells him firmly. “It's just that sometimes I get feelings which make me sick to my stomach.”

“Again, not really convincing me you’re not a raging hom*ophobe.”

“I f*cked you, didn’t I? You’re a hom*osexual.”

“Yeah. And you seem really happy with that choice.”

Draco doesn’t reply, buttoning up his neat shirt and pulling his semi-formal robes over his head.

“I’m marrying a woman.” Draco says. “We’re engaged.”

“sh*tty move.”

“We’re both fulfilling our duty to our families. It’s as simple as that.”

“And finding a random classmate to shag you is a totally normal reaction to being engaged.”

Shrugging again, Draco steps into his shoes. Macmillan rubs at his chest, watching from the bed.

“You never came.” He points out just before Draco reaches the door.

“I have to save something for marriage.” Draco mutters.

2000 - the Affair

“The Malfoy accounts will be opened to Astoria Malfoy née Greengrass at the time of the wedding ceremony. The dowry entitled to the couple will be transferred at the time of the wedding ceremony. The matrimony will be recorded in the Ministry’s Hall of Records at the time of the wedding ceremony.”

Draco is slouched against the armrest of his dining room chair, barely listening to the solicitor droning on about wedding details. Astoria seems to be similarly bored, but she keeps her posture much more successfully.

When at last it’s over, Draco signs page after page, Astoria’s flourished signature just below his. Each of the parents present sign, with plans made for an official to deliver the document to Narcissa to sign. Draco’s eyes meet his father’s as the solicitor concludes, and Father dips his head in acknowledgement.

“Walk with me, Dearest.” Astoria beckons, taking Draco’s arm before he has a chance to reply.

They make it into the manor gardens before she speaks her mind.

“It’s not real for me, either.” She says. Draco doesn’t react. “Our marriage. I know you’ll likely want to find satisfaction elsewhere, as will I. So long as we’re discreet, it won’t be a problem.”

“I don’t require satisfaction outside of my wife.” Draco says, the words coming out in an odd cadence. Astoria pats his arm.

“We’ll see.”

And somehow, not three nights after the first time, Draco finds himself rapping softly at Macmillan’s door.

He opens it in his pyjamas, top unbuttoned over his chest, the top of a thatch of pubic hair just visible above his waistband. He sighs.

“Malfoy. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“f*ck me again.”

Macmillan looks at him for a moment, then jerks his head for Draco to follow him inside.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Potter isn’t meant to be here. Not tonight, not here.

Not with fake-looking red-orange hair that touches his shoulders and sticks up all around his head. Not with his barely-there muggle t-shirt cut to shreds.

Draco turns away quickly, slouching down, vainly hoping he won’t be noticed.

He seems to be in luck, and Potter doesn’t approach. Draco sneaks out of the main room toward the space Ernie had recommended. A space where people are being whipped and beaten. Sticking to the shadows, Draco leers in particular at the way the back muscles flex as the man with sandy blond hair beats another man’s arse.

It goes on and on and on, the man swapping a flat black tool for a thick wooden paddle.

“sh*t!” Draco hisses as the wood hits flesh with a resounding thwack. He adjusts his trousers, and watches the reddened arse twitch between hits, the legs shake.

By the time he’s hopelessly, painfully aroused, Potter has walked in, and he runs his fingers along a wall of instruments of torture. It sends tummy flutters through Draco’s unwilling body. Potter’s ridiculous hair colour clashes horribly against the red velvet of the walls.

His heart jumps as Potter looks around the room and spots Draco.

“Nev.” He calls, and the man spanking his partner pauses, looking up at Potter, who nods over at Draco.

Neville Longbottom turns to face Draco, his face betraying his curiosity. He looks briefly back at Potter, shrugging slightly. Then returns to his spanking.

Potter wanders over, slowly and confidently. He absently picks up a stick with leather strips on the end, flicking the tails against the palm of his hand as he walks.

“Who could you possibly know that’s been here?” Potter wonders aloud. “Not a Gryffindor, certainly. And the Slytherins who frequent are all older than us. Though maybe you know them through family connections.”

“Ernie.” He blurts out. “Told me.”

“Ernie. Hufflepuff Ernie?” Potter repeats, eyebrows lifting. They’re still black. There’s a silver piercing between them at the top of his nose. He twirls the stick between his fingers, looking thoughtful. “And you’re here, which means you must like some impact play.”

The hair makes his eyes, for once not concealed behind glasses, appear more green than should be possible in a human. Bottle green, maybe, almost too saturated to be real. But that’s Potter, too much for this world.

“Have you been enjoying watching Neville?”

“It’s horrid.” Draco says, eyes darting over to see Longbottom wiping the other man’s tears, cupping his face. Horrid. “Barbaric. Unfit for a person of his stature in the magical community.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it is.” Potter says, glancing down at Draco’s tented trousers. Draco adjusts himself, trying to get it to lie flatter against his stomach. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t want to feel what it’s like.”

Give it a try, see if you like it, Ernie had said. But with Potter?

Another round of tummy flutters catch him off guard, and Potter watches him with interest.

“No, thank you.” Draco chokes out. He leaves the space quickly, feeling Potter’s eyes on his back the whole way.

It’s not until much, much later, after Draco has explored all the side rooms, and can’t take just watching anymore, that he finds Longbottom.

“Oh hey.” Longbottom says, clapping Draco’s shoulder. “Harry said you liked watching us earlier.”

“I didn’t.” Draco says. He’d told Potter as much, and the arse hadn’t listened.

“So why are you still here?” Longbottom asks, waving around them at the walls still, horrendously, covered in tools with which to hit.

“I told Ernie I would stay a while.”

Longbottom watches him for another moment, then nods once.

“Okay, great. I’m heading out about now, so maybe I’ll see you next time.”

“Not likely.” Draco says, and Longbottom nods again, just a dip of his chin, and waves goodbye.

“No luck with old Nev?” Potter’s voice causes a squeak to fall unchecked from Draco’s lips. “That’s alright. He’s pretty picky with his subs.”

“His…”

“Subs. Submissives.” Potter says. “People who enjoy being dominated or controlled. What do you think of that?”

Draco scowls at Potter, hoping to convey exactly what he thinks of that.

“Right. So he doesn’t just pick up random people. Though, you’re not exactly random.”

“Not to you.”

“No, not to me.” Potter repeats. “Nor do I have a problem with picking up new submissives.”

From his tone, Draco believes Potter is coming onto him. Flirting, possibly. It’s dangerous.

“Good luck with that, then.” Draco says callously, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What do you think about submitting to a new, unfamiliar Dom?”

“I’m not submissive.” Draco snaps, ignoring the tummy flutter and the blood rushing downward. “So I supposed I’d best be on my way as well.”

“I was reviewing our monthly bills, and I came across an odd charge,” Father says, flipping through his ledger to find it. “It’s from three weeks ago, the beginning of the month, and - here’s what’s odd - it’s logged down as being an entry fee to a sex den.”

Draco swallows bile as his father watches him.

“Now, I can’t begin to imagine how such a charge may have been attributed to a prominent family as ourself. I’m certain the fee collector at this house of sin would be happy to provide a copy of the transaction receipt to prove it was not me, nor my son who patronised this wicked establishment.”

“C-Certainly.” Draco stammers, knowing it’s useless. Father watches him, unimpressed.

“This is extremely disappointing behaviour from you, son. I expect a certain level of hormone imbalances and poor behaviour from an emotional boy like you, but I did hope you would have drawn the line before a public sex den.”

Dejected as he is, Draco shivers at the phrase sex den. It had been, sort of. Undeniably a den of depravity. Draco would give anything to be watching Potter whip a submissive rather than standing here, in front of his father, being watched like that.

“Moving forward, you will be devoted to your wife, and produce a suitable heir for the bloodline of Malfoy to carry on after you. You will not frequent establishments such as this, you will not bring condemnation upon your family name. Do you understand? Do you know your role in this family?”

A flash of memory, of Father bending Draco over his knee, flipping up Draco’s robes and hitting him hard at the crease where arse meets thigh, spanking him as a lesson rather than talking him through it. Where were the spankings now? The pain of Father’s strike is so much more bearable than having Father rebuke him for his deviancy.

“Yes, Father. Forgive me, please.”

“You are dismissed.” Father tells him, so Draco hurries out of the room.

Astoria happens to be at the manor already, sitting in a sunlit parlour, the tome of house magicry open in her lap. Perched on her nose are reading glasses, and she glances up over them as Draco approaches.

“You’re flushed.” She notes, patting the settee beside her. Draco takes his seat. “This will require quite a lot of labour, largely from you. It’s best if you complete it before we are married.”

“Where will you go? When we’re married?” Draco asks. “Where will you go to get… to be satisfied.”

Astoria’s eyebrows lift.

“There are a number of high-end services which can provide me with a satisfactory partner.” She says. “Obviously, it will take discretion and care to be sure we have no illegitimate children, but I’m not overly concerned about that.”

“You would pay for it?”

Astoria shrugs.

“It’s very common. My mother has had a gentleman friend who visits her regularly, and has done so for as long as I can remember. Father goes out.”

“I want to love you.” Draco tells her, unable to look her in the eye. “I want so badly to- to not have- to not-”

“Draco.” She says softly, taking his hand tightly in hers. “Your duty is first to your family, to me, and then to yourself. Fulfil your end, impregnate me once, and I will not keep you from doing as you please.”

The thought of it, of parting her legs and sliding into her, watching her breasts jump with each thrust, hearing her moans and approvals, the idea does nothing to excite him. It’s no more enticing than the thought of Father finding out everything Ernie does to him whenever they see each other.

“We can kiss before we’re married.” He says. Astoria nods warily.

“Certainly. It’s encouraged, even.”

“I want to kiss you.” Draco says, willing it to be so. “I want to kiss you now.”

She twists toward him, folding her leg between them. Draco grips his knees, looking at her face. She’s pretty. She’s a lovely girl. She’s decidedly not his type. He leans in.

Astoria reaches up to cup his jaw, and Draco fights his urge to pull away. He swallows thickly just before their lips meet, and when they do, he lets out a trembling breath.

After only a few seconds, Astoria pulls away. Draco doesn’t realise his eyes are leaking until she brushes a tear from his cheek.

“It’s okay, Draco. I know you’re gay. I know.”

“I’m- I’m not-” Draco chokes, but Astoria gives him a long look, glancing toward the door.

“Let’s walk, shall we?”

She doesn’t wait for him to answer, just tugs him up and out the French doors into the garden.

“I’m not gay.”

“I’m not stupid, Draco. You may know very little about me, but I know quite a lot about you.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Daphne was always my dearest friend, you think I didn’t watch her with her schoolmates?”

“Daphne and I were never- never close.” Draco whispers. “It was always Pansy, in school. I was meant to marry Pansy.”

“I know. And that would’ve been a disaster, I’m certain.”

Draco doesn’t answer. It doesn’t matter to him, Pansy, Daphne, Astoria… he can’t muster up the right feelings for any of them.

“I was at every Slytherin game. I saw your eyes follow the other players. I saw the way you couldn’t take your eyes off Blaise when he had the quaffle, how you watched his arse anytime he flew past you.”

“I didn’t-”

“Always the boys.” She continues. “Always Potter. You couldn’t keep your eyes off Potter. Not ever.”

Draco rubs his hand over his face. If Astoria had seen, then surely- he covers his hot face with both hands, trying to catch his breath.

“And the Weasley twins, my gods.” She says, facing him, watching as he shakes and whimpers. “With their tricks and spectacles, well, even I couldn’t begrudge you that.”

“Hell.” Draco gasps out. “I can’t be like this, Astoria, I- I can’t-”

“You can.” She tells him. Her hands rest on his waist. “Because I know what you are, and I don’t care. Like I said, I won’t keep you from it, so long as you keep it private. And I will do the same.”

Draco’s breath leaves him in a whimper, and he drops his head down onto her shoulder. She’s so small, really. A head and a half shorter than him, freshly eighteen, and yet she’s handling everything so much better.

“I’m not gay. I’m not. I can’t be.”

Astoria doesn’t speak.

“Don’t tell Father.”

“Dearest, he already knows.”

“Don’t tell him. Never tell him. Never tell anyone.”

“Of course not.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Ernie f*cks him hard and fast, and Draco clings to the windowframe, face pressed to the cool glass.

“You’ve got to come at some point.” Ernie pants against the back of Draco’s neck. “It’s probably unhealthy, never letting yourself finish. Do you at least come for yourself when you’re alone?”

Without answering, Draco reaches back to pull on Ernie’s hair, getting his mouth closer to Draco’s pulse point, where Ernie bites him. Draco’s knees buckle, and his fingernails scrape the wall as he searches for anything to grab on to.

“One of these days, you won’t be able to help it. And I’ll make you come all over yourself, and feed it to you afterward.”

Gripping the base of his co*ck so tightly that his eyes water in pain, Draco shakes his head. Ernie huffs a breath against Draco’s skin, pulls his hips back, and comes not long after.

“You have a problem.” Ernie says, not unkindly, as he slips out of Draco.

“I know.”

“I don’t think we’re talking about the same problem.”

“Probably not.”

Draco lets Ernie peel him away from the wall and coax him into the bathroom to get cleaned up. Draco’s balls ache. His stomach and thighs are still tense, and he bucks into Ernie’s gentle hand as Ernie ices him down.

“It’s a completely made-up thing, getting f*cked but refusing to come, thinking that will keep you pure before you get married.”

“It’s all I can do.” Draco whimpers, shivering as his co*ck softens. Ernie rubs his shoulders, waiting for the erection to fully go away before removing the cool cloth.

“I wish you didn’t feel this way about yourself.” Ernie tells him. “I wish you would let go of your father’s ideas completely, see what he’s done to you. What he makes you do to yourself.”

“It’s not his fault. I have a duty to my family. He only reminds me of it when I lose focus.”

“Right.” Ernie mutters, kissing Draco’s forehead. “I wish I could help you, Draco. Really.”

“You do everything I need you to do.” Draco assures him.

Ernie lets him out with a squeeze to his hand and the same offer he always makes.

“If you ever leave your family, I’ll be here for you.”

Even if it’s thirty years from now. Even if I’m married or if we don’t speak for all that time, you can always count on me, Draco.

He’d said the rest the first time, but now he just issues the reminder before he bids Draco farewell.

And it means the world to Draco, even if he knows he’ll never take the offer.

Draco loiters outside Ernie’s flat with a cigarette in hand and several pubs in mind. Ernie makes a noise of surprise as he exits the building.

“I would have let you stay inside, you know.”

“Can’t smoke inside.” Draco shrugs. “And you’re busy today.”

Sighing, Ernie touches Draco’s shoulder and says goodbye again. Draco watches him walk down the street until he turns a corner out of sight.

It’s at pub number three that Draco meets the tattooist.

“I do piercings, too.” The man says conversationally, sipping his beer. “You have any?”

“No.” Draco says. “What do you pierce?”

“Anything. Except certain ones that people think are sexy, but are really bad for the body.”

“Like-” Draco swallows. “Like co*ck rings?”

The man’s face brightens, and he laughs. Draco feels his face flush hot.

“I have no quarrel with co*ck rings, I can assure you. Something about that sparks your interest? I hear the ladies are particularly fond of an encounter with a pierced prick.”

The thought of Astoria seeing it, seeing Draco’s deviancy so clearly in front of her, makes him feel ill.

“I’ve wanted one for years.” Draco admits, his voice barely a whisper. The man wiggles his eyebrows.

“Give me your hand, I’ll write down my shop name. Come find me when you’re sober, and we can talk.”

Draco can’t sleep all night, ices himself down time after time as the thought of a man putting a hole through his co*ck. Every hour that goes by, he becomes more determined to go through with it.

As soon as it’s light out, Draco hunts down the shop written on his hand, and sits outside until the man appears to unlock it.

“Holy hell, you’re not even having a lie in?”

Unable to find a response, Draco just follows him inside.

They look at different types of piercings, and Draco wants them all, wants to see what they’d look like, how they’d feel, but he can’t stop looking at one. The Prince Albert. The same one he’d seen on a co*ck spurting come over a flat stomach so long ago.

“Very good choice.” The piercer says.

He explains about it, walks Draco through the process, and Draco’s so hard. It’s mortifying when the piercer looks at Draco’s co*ck to see if he’s anatomically compatible. It only makes Draco harder.

“You want to set a date today, or think about it some more?”

“I want you to do it today.” Draco says. “Right now, if you can.”

“Impulse body mods are usually a bad move.”

“It’s not an impulse. I’ve thought about it forever. I’m ready, I want it.”

The man seems hesitant, but Draco doesn’t back down, and the piercer eventually agrees to it.

There’s a thin metal rod involved, and they have to stop and start over several times, because Draco can’t stop himself from getting hard.

“It’s really common to have a reaction to the sound. I see it all the time.”

It’s surprising that the needle doesn’t hurt more. It’s less surprising that it results in pools of blood.

“This is why I usually recommend waiting until you’re not erect.” He explains. “More blood in the site, higher blood pressure, and a lot of people are alarmed to see so much blood from their penis.”

The piercing is thick and silver. The piercer settles a silver ball between the ends of the loop, and cleans the area again with alcohol. It stings. Draco is still hard.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yes, I’m-” Draco swallows. He can’t stop looking at it.

He’s barely listening to the aftercare instructions, can barely hear past the rush of blood in his ears.

What will Ernie say? What would Father think? Would he be at a loss for words, resorting to physical punishments once more?

Draco pays in cash to prevent the charge from alerting his father again. He leaves the shop with an ache in his co*ck, but more energy than he’s had in a long time.

He doesn't enjoy being naughty. It's just that naughty things are so fun to do. It scratches an itch deep in that wicked, terrible part of his psyche that won’t go away no matter how long he tries to beat it down.

Despite the direct instruction to avoid sexual contact, Draco finds himself again at Ernie’s club that night.

He’s clothed, he’s hard, and he’s watching Potter stuff his entire forearm inside some submissive's gaping hole. Draco can’t look away from it, not until it ends, and the wide-open hole is filled with a black bulb.

Before Potter can catch Draco leering again, he slips out of the space into the much safer common area, where nothing more dramatic than kneeling is happening. f*ck, how Draco longs to kneel.

“I wasn’t sure we’d see you back so soon.” Potter says as he walks up. Draco keeps his gaze at Potter’s face, tamping down the urge to let his eyes wander down and across Potter’s bare, hairy, gleaming chest. “You can look at me, Draco, that’s basically the point of me being shirtless in here.”

Draco’s face flushes at being caught out. He glances down once, perfunctorily, just to show Potter… something. Prove himself. His head is swimming just a bit. The fresh piercing in his co*ckhead stings.

“Pardon me for having manners.” Draco bites out. Potter smiles broader.

“After the last time you came in, I talked to Ernie.”

That’s dreadful news.

“Apparently, you’re engaged, and it’s some sort of pureblooded cuckoldy setup.”

“That’s- that’s correct.”

“Huh.” Potter says, eyes following something moving behind Draco. He refocuses on Draco’s face. “Well, I could give you the lay of the land, if you’re interested.”

“I already looked around last time.”

“And how much of what you saw did you understand?”

At Draco’s silence, Potter gestures him ahead, and Draco walks slowly toward the nearest alcove.

Potter speaks softly, like he doesn’t want to call attention to them in whatever space they’re in. He tells Draco the rules of the club, the opportunities it provides. What Potter enjoys, and how, and why.

“Anything strike your fancy so far?” Potter asks casually as they walk toward a larger space in front of them flooded in red light.

Yes, gods yes.

“Nothing particularly.”

Potter gives Draco a curious look, but doesn’t comment on it.

“It took me a while to work up to most of this. Sometimes people never go beyond the lighter stuff, and that’s totally normal too. I didn’t even come to the club until last year.”

“Where did you…” Draco’s attention is broken by a long, wailing moan from a man org*sming. He clears his throat. “How did you find out you… you like…”

“BDSM?” Potter asks, guiding Draco around a demonstration with a hand on his back. “Say it, Draco. BDSM, they’re just four letters that can’t hurt you.”

“How- how did you find out you like… BDSM?”

“Well done, Draco.” Potter says, and Draco gets the tummy flutters again. “Nev and I got into the scene around the same time a couple years ago. I’m really not sure who brought it up first. We had a little bit of a fling at Hogwarts - just between friends, since we're both queer - and we reconnected after school.”

They don’t speak for a bit, pausing to watch an array of different torments happening nearby.

“Now, what I want to know is why you’re here, if you have no interest whatsoever in any of this.”

“I don’t know.” Draco says, and it’s actually true. Potter tilts his head.

“It’s scary.” Potter says, softer.

Draco frowns at his hands. Potter touches him again lightly between his shoulders. Draco follows him.

“God knows I had to unlearn and relearn all sorts of things.” Potter continues. “I had a lot of shame and guilt for liking the things I like. I thought it meant my life had broken me in some way. Maybe my childhood, maybe Hogwarts, maybe the war, I wasn’t sure. So I get it. It’s scary.”

“I’m not scared.” Draco says, and Potter shrugs.

“Admitting you're scared is scary too. Sit down.”

They’re in a quieter, smaller alcove, and Draco sits in the plush armchair. The movement of his pants and the zip of his trousers send a jolt of pain up his co*ck. It feels so dirty, sitting across from Potter with a ring in his prick. Draco shifts again to feel it more.

Potter hops up to sit on a strange leather bench.

“How’ve you been?”

It’s not a question Draco expects to hear from Potter of all people. He clears his throat several times before answering, quieter than he would've liked.

“Not well.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Well.” Draco says, sinking down and watching his hands press into the seat.

“Who are you engaged to?”

“Astoria Greengrass. Daphne’s sister.”

“Daphne Greengrass?”

“Obviously.”

Potter laughs softly, and it stirs something unwanted in Draco’s chest.

“I’m trying to place the name. Our year, hung out with Pansy?”

“The same.”

“Hm.” Potter says. “I didn’t realise you knew each other. Or did you meet after school?”

Draco shrugs. He’s not entirely sure when they’d met, it hadn’t stood out to him because he didn’t have any reason to remember the little sister of a girl he barely spoke to.

“Father arranged our engagement with her parents after Pansy left for the continent.”

“I see.” Potter says. “You don’t seem particularly happy about it.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

It’s the same thing Ernie asks him constantly.

“I have a duty to my family. I’m the sole heir, and it’s up to me to produce the next.” The answer has never satisfied Ernie, and it doesn’t seem to satisfy Potter either.

“And how does she feel?”

“She’s going to hire whor*s to satisfy her for the rest of her life.” Draco spits bitterly. “But I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

Potter is quiet, and Draco finally looks up at him. His massive thighs are spread casually apart atop the bench.

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

“Now?” Potter asks. Draco shrugs. “I- yeah, sure. Not here. We can go somewhere else.”

“Yes.”

They leave the club, stepping out into the damp night air. Potter offers his arm.

“Come home with me?”

“Yes.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

They land in Potter’s home. It’s nice. Warm. Draco is still clinging to his arm, and he releases it.

“Did you drink tonight?” Potter asks, setting his wand on a shelf and toeing out of his shoes.

“No.”

“Good boy.” Potter says, approaching Draco barefoot and bare chested. Draco shivers. “Mind if I undress you myself?”

“Please.”

Potter’s hands are gentle, too gentle, and they find Draco’s skin easily. He shuts his eyes. His piercing stings as it rubs against the fabric of his pants.

“What do you want from me?” Potter asks, his voice low and husky.

“I- I don’t know.”

“Come on, Draco. Spoiled boy like you not knowing what he wants? I’m offering it to you on a silver platter, and you won’t even say what you want?”

A pathetic whimper slips from Draco’s lips, and he squeezes them together.

“What is it? If I could give you anything in the world?”

Flashes of a million things spin through Draco’s head, making him dizzy and ill.

“I can’t say.”

“Yes you can.” Potter says, lifting Draco’s chin with two fingers. “Open your eyes, Draco. Look at me.”

Draco shakes his head tightly. Potter’s sigh brushes his lips.

“You have to tell me what you want or we’ll never get anywhere.”

“I can’t say it.” Draco repeats through his teeth. Potter’s fingers stroke along Draco’s side.

“You can say it. I promise, you can say it to me.”

“If you never know, you can never tell me how wrong it is, what I want.”

Potter is quiet long enough that Draco has to open his eyes just to see his face.

“I’m certain it’s just like what I want.” Potter says. “And I told you what that was as we explored the club. You’ve seen me working with subs there, you’ve seen what I like.”

The image of a stretched out arsehole wrapped tightly around Potter’s forearm makes Draco’s mouth water.

“I want my father to hit me.” He croaks. Potter tilts his head. Draco can’t look at him. “I want to enjoy kissing women. I want for my balls to ache from keeping myself pure. I want to want to produce my heir. I want for you to step on my neck and crush it until I'm dizzy just like you talked about doing. I want my father to be proud of me. I want you to hear all this and not tell me how wrong it is, and to just give me what I want.”

Potter’s hands cup Draco’s jaw, thumbs caressing his cheeks. They’re rough and tender all at once. Draco holds on tight to Potter’s elbows.

“Eyes on me.”

He waits for Draco to open his eyes again.

“I’ll give you what you want, but we need to talk first.” Potter says softly, pressing his fingers against the dip of Draco’s jaw. “We have to make sure you can handle it, and that I don't damage your clearly brittle self-worth.”

Draco lets out a miserable little moan.

“I know you don’t want to, but it’s very necessary. This is the only way you’ll get what you want from me.”

“What is there to talk about?” Draco whines. Potter pats his cheek, then releases his face.

“Why do you want to have sex with me? What are you hoping for?”

It’s a question Draco doesn’t have an answer to, and he shakes his head cluelessly.

“Alright, what do you want me to do to you?”

As Draco’s chin dips in shame, Potter lifts it up again.

“Keep your eyes on me.”

“I just- I just want you to hurt me.”

“Why do you want that, sweetheart?”

The name catches Draco off guard.

“I want it to hurt. I can’t- I can’t explain it, the way it makes me feel, but I want it, and I want it from you.”

“Try to tell me. Just give me one try, alright? How does it feel when it hurts?”

“It feels like I’ll never have to think about my familial duties ever again.”

Potter brushes his calloused fingers through Draco’s hair as he thinks.

“Okay, sweetheart. Okay. Kneel for me, okay?”

Draco drops to the floor so fast, Potter’s hand doesn’t have a chance to leave his hair. He rocks forward against Potter’s legs, cheek pressed to the denim-clad thigh.

“That’s so good.” Potter says, tangling his fingers in the hair at the crown of Draco’s head. He tugs until Draco tips his head back to look at Potter’s face. “Would you like to suck my co*ck for me?”

“Yes.”

So Potter pulls it out, popping his trouser button and lowering the zip with one hand, keeping the other twisted in Draco’s hair.

Draco never sucks off Ernie. It’s too much, it’s too real, but with Potter…

“Come on, pretty thing, open your lips for me.”

Mouth watering, Draco licks at the tip once before Potter sets it on his tongue, just inside his mouth.

“Feel that, baby? How’s that? Are you okay?”

“Yeth.” Draco lisps, more of a noise than a word. Potter’s hand slides down from Draco’s crown to the back of his neck, and he pulls them together, his co*ck sliding into Draco’s gaping mouth. Its salty, fleshy taste makes saliva pool all around it, and Draco tries fruitlessly to swallow.

Potter gives him a few seconds to get used to it. Draco’s just starting to worry that Potter has no intention of moving at all when the co*ck brushes the back of his throat.

The noise he lets out is barely human. Potter frowns down into his face, lightening his grip on Draco’s neck. Draco whines for it, unable to speak with his mouth full.

“Suck my co*ck, Draco.”

Draco’s eyes roll back as he thrusts himself forward to take the shaft deeper down his throat. A loud slurp startles him, but Potter goes back to brushing his fingers through Draco’s hair

For a moment, Draco thinks he may have come in his pants. But he’s still hard, still aching, so it must be just pre-come. So much of it. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, wishing sucking co*ck didn’t make him feel like this.

“You’re pleasing me very well, Draco. Do you practise sucking co*ck, or is it that you exist for me to put my co*ck in you?”

Tears leak down Draco’s cheeks, and Potter’s thumbs catch them.

“You look so pretty when you cry like this.” Potter says. “Crying for Daddy’s co*ck.”

The words startle him, and Draco gags suddenly, body jerking and co*ck stinging, gods f*ck, why does it hurt so badly?

He tears at his waistband, trying to get his co*ck out to soothe the pain with rough squeezes.

“Desperate for it, aren’t you. Can I f*ck your mouth?”

All care for his own co*ck flies out of his mind at Potter’s grip on the back of his neck. He moans for it, pushes Potter’s co*ckhead deeper into his throat.

“Look at me, Draco, nod if it’s okay.”

Draco nods frantically, gripping the back of Potter’s thighs. Potter steadies his hands against the nape of Draco’s neck, and then yanks him forward. Coughing, gagging, he can’t do anything but let Potter guide his mouth. Potter thrusts in and out, speaking softly and shifting his hands to cradle the back of Draco’s head.

When he comes, Draco chokes on it, some cum splattering out over his lips. Potter pulls out slowly, his hands moving again to hold Draco’s jaw closed, tipping it up. Draco’s tear-blurred eyes can just make out the dark satisfaction in Potter’s expression.

“Swallow.”

As he obeys, Draco feels the hot cum settling deep inside him, deeper than Ernie can get it just by f*cking Draco.

“Good boy. You beautiful creature.”

More tears leak from Draco’s eyes, and he blinks quickly to stop them from welling up again. Potter’s thumb traces Draco’s lower lip, and he presses it into Draco’s mouth.

“So good. So good for me.”

Another sharp throb of pain shoots up Draco’s co*ck, and he remembers suddenly the ring sitting heavily in his urethra. He reaches again for his flies, and Potter crouches down to do it for him.

“Holy sh*t, you’re bleeding.” Potter yelps, wrapping an arm around Draco and pulling him to his feet. “Just sit down right here, and I’ll-”

It is a concerning amount of blood, but Draco isn’t worried. The piercer warned him about it. But he hasn’t found his voice yet, and Potter is in the kitchen.

Reappearing with an alcohol wipe in a little paper pouch and a plastic sleeve of white gauze, Potter kneels between Draco’s knees, tugging Draco’s pants and trousers further down his thighs.

“Oh baby… baby, you’re not supposed to have sex with a fresh piercing. When did you get this done, sweetheart?”

“To- Today.” Draco croaks. His throat is destroyed, and the thought of it causes more blood to rush to his already leaking co*ck.

“Today? Baby.” Potter says a bit reproachfully. He dabs at the blood pooling in the crease between Draco’s thighs, bunching gauze to absorb it as it leaves his co*ck. Then the alcohol swab, and Draco hisses through his teeth.

Potter is so tender, handling Draco’s bloody, achingly hard co*ck with a soft touch and gentle care. Draco tips his head back to keep from crying all over again.

“We’re almost done here, and then I’ll make you a bite to eat. Are you lightheaded?”

“Yes.” Draco rasps out. Potter uses Draco’s knees to push himself up to his feet.

“I’m going to get some ointment and a cool compress. We’ve got to get your erection down. I’m sorry, but it’s best not to come with such a new piercing. Cum isn’t sterile.”

Draco nods, and when Potter returns with the cold, wet flannel, Draco wishes he didn’t find it so erotic. He endures the cold for so long without the slightest dip in his arousal, but Potter waits patiently for Draco’s co*ck to soften before applying the ointment with a cotton swab.

“I have some clean pants you can have. We’ll throw these into the wash so you don’t have to go home with dried blood in your crotch.”

So Potter helps Draco up, removes the rest of his clothing, and disappears back into the kitchen. Draco hovers where he was left in the middle of the sitting room until Potter pokes his head out.

“You can come in here if you’d like. I’m making us something to eat.”

Potter is perfectly at home in his kitchen. He’s still distractingly shirtless, and Draco is still distractingly completely nude, drops of blood clinging to his dickhe*d where they’re trapped by the thick ointment. Even flaccid, his co*ck feels heavy and tender from the weight of the piercing at the tip. Draco sits his bare arse on the wooden stool in the corner.

When dinner is done, Potter waves Draco back out to the sitting room to eat.

They each have a bowl of early-season pumpkin soup and half a cheese toastie on the side. Potter has Draco sit - again, entirely naked - on the sofa beside him. He eats his soup with one hand, and has the other arm wrapped snugly around Draco’s waist, fingers caressing Draco's hip.

He has Draco spend the night, despite his protests, because he wants to be sure Draco hasn’t lost too much blood to travel home alone.

And it’s too much. Sleeping beside Potter in the bed that smells like his aftershave, feeling Potter’s hairy chest against his back, soft co*ck tucked between Draco’s arse cheeks. It’s so much, yet so far from being enough. Draco’s fingers stroke through the coarse hairs on Potter’s thigh.

Draco is awake all night, wishing he could stay forever.

Draco leaves Potter’s house midmorning after a shower, some more fresh piercing treatment, and a breakfast of muffins and blackberry jam.

He has a cigarette outside the manor before he’s ready to face his father again.

“You’ve been smoking.” Father says without looking up from the letter in his hands.

“Sorry, Father.”

“A disgusting muggle habit. I hope you weren’t out all night with deviant freaks again.”

Draco swallows.

“I- No, no I was-”

Father looks up over the tops of his spectacles.

“Have some respect for our family name. I won’t remind you again.”

“Yes, Father.”

Draco hovers where he is for a long moment, but Father has returned to his reading and doesn’t speak again.

The muffin from earlier sits uneasily in Draco’s stomach, and he leaves the house again to smoke through the rest of the pack. It doesn’t help at all.

Astoria stops by in the early afternoon with a house-elf, the first one Draco’s seen since the war.

“I’ve brought help to start you off on the restoration.” She announces, dropping her hat into its arms. “I have more house-elves at my disposal if you require them.”

The elf bows its head, and Draco regards it.

“As much as I appreciate the offer, it’s meant to be my hands which labour.”

Astoria huffs.

“There’s no harm to having an elf dispose of the rubbish and perform other chores in the house whilst you’re occupied.”

After a moment, Draco nods.

“Alright, um. You can manage the kitchen, I suppose.”

With another bow, the elf disappears in a snap.

“Very strong words from the future lord of the house.” Astoria says just after, inviting herself in and heading toward a parlour. “You smell like ash. How long do you give it before the house is loyal to you?”

Draco follows her, pushing his hair back off his forehead.

“I don’t know. If I start at the heart of the house, maybe a few months.”

“Give it a year, to be thorough.” She advises, sitting on the edge of the sofa. She gestures across from her. “I received a letter from your father this morning.”

Swallowing, blood running through his veins like ice, Draco shrugs.

“And?”

“He’s concerned for the future of the name of Malfoy. He wants me to exert my ever-so-powerful authority over you so you’ll honour our betrothal.”

Draco has nothing to say, so he stays silent.

“Of course, he misunderstands our relationship, and it’s really none of his business what either one of us do. He is a disgraced former patriarch about to be replaced in his own home by his son. This is the way things go, and as your betrothed, I give you my blessing to do as you please.”

A breath leaves Draco in a whoosh, and Astoria quirks her eyebrow at him.

“That’s not to say it should be public information. If you require recreational satisfaction, do so here, or at the home of your paramour. Agreed?”

“I do.” Draco says. “Always. I don’t- never in public. I wouldn’t.”

“Good. So we understand each other.” Astoria says with a lift to her chin. “I’m passing through on my way to select formal robes for my trousseau. Do you prefer green or violet?”

“I don’t- violet, if I had to choose.”

“Hm. Very well. Walk me out?”

Draco stands up, and Astoria meets his gaze.

“You don’t always have to listen to him, you know. Respect only goes so far before it becomes unflattering.”

She wraps their arms together, and draws him along to the foyer once more.

“Start on the house today. There’s no reason to delay. Have a good shag this evening when you’re done, and we’ll check in tomorrow.”

The word shag from Astoria is jarring, and Draco agrees without really thinking about it. She nods once, kisses him on the cheek, and is on her way.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

“Well, Lucius is as pleased to see me as he ever has been.” Potter remarks casually as he enters the room. Draco spins to see him.

“I wasn’t expecting you for an hour.”

Certainly not. Draco is covered in dust, an apron drowning his figure, and slick with sweat.

“I came by early.” Potter says with a shrug. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning.”

“I can see that. Why are you cleaning?”

Draco runs a hand through his hair.

“It’s ritual. I must earn my home’s loyalty to become the lord of the estate when I marry Astoria.”

“I see. How long will that take?”

“Ages.” Draco says, slumping onto the sheet-covered sofa. He rubs at one eye, sure that dust is caked so thickly over every inch of his skin that he’ll never stop feeling the grime. “I’ve been working on this one room for three days.”

With a hum, Potter crosses the room to open the large windows overlooking the back lawn. A rush of fresh air fills the room, and Draco flops back against the sofa.

“What’s left to do in here?”

“Everything.”

Potter sits on the sofa beside Draco, watching him. Draco lets out a long breath.

“I have to shampoo the carpet. Wash the windows, finish dusting, get rid of the cobwebs in the corners, paint the walls, rehang all the portraits, clean the chandelier…”

“Have you eaten today?”

“I-” Draco frowns, trying to separate this morning from the previous. “I can’t remember.”

“Let’s get you a bite before we carry on.”

Potter insists on cooking Draco breakfast himself, which Draco doesn’t protest very hard.

The house-elf Astoria brought over is nowhere to be seen, and Draco doesn’t know its name to summon it, nor does he want anyone else knowing Harry’s here, cooking for Draco like they’re some sort of couple.

“What’s required for the ritual?” Potter asks, nibbling on peanuts as Draco eats the decadent fruit salad, sausage and toast.

“Nothing’s really specified.” Draco says. “Just that I have to do my part to preserve and maintain the house.”

“So you could use muggle tools, in theory.”

“Are they better?”

“I can promise you that a feather duster is the absolute worst way to dust a room. Do you have electricity in the house?”

Draco frowns at the table. Do they? There are lights and such, but he doesn’t know if they’re powered by electricity or magic.

“How can you tell?”

After breakfast, Draco gives Harry a tour of the house, and Harry points out the electrical sockets in each room, where lamps are plugged into the electricity.

“We’ll get you a hoover,” Harry promises, and though Draco doesn’t know what a hoover is, he’s relieved.

“Do you know the exchange rate?” Draco asks, watching the light-up numbers on the beeping machine go up into the hundreds as the clerk scans their items.

“I’ve got it. You can pay me back later.” Harry assures him. He slides a shiny plastic card through a slit in the machine, and the clerk gives them a long piece of paper that the machine spits out.

“Return policy is 30 days opened, 90 unopened.” She says as Harry signs his name at the bottom. He gets his own copy and wheels the trolley out of the shop.

“The hoover is very loud, but it won’t harm you even if you run over your foot by accident.” Harry tells Draco as they walk behind the building. “But the cans of cleaning product will hurt if you spray yourself in the eyes or mouth, so don’t do that.”

“Okay.”

Draco helps to unload the trolley onto the ground, stacking the boxes so they’ll be apparated along with Harry and Draco back to the manor. Harry returns the trolley to the shop.

“Really rude to not return the trolley,” He tells Draco. “Because then, some poor bastard who doesn’t get paid very much will have to chase it down and walk it back.”

“Okay.”

Back at the manor, Harry helps Draco bring the boxes upstairs, unpackage everything, and take the garbage outside to be disposed of. Draco had already conjured a crate to hold rubbish, and it’s overflowing.

The hoover is a roaring monster, but it does wonders for the dust and debris on the carpets. As Draco hoovers room by room, Harry is opening up windows, covering the furniture in dropcloths, and putting the cleaning products into the proper rooms. Even if he can’t help clean, he makes the job seem possible. Draco could cry. Just dust in his eyes, that’s all.

“He’s been loitering.”

Draco doesn’t look up from the shining wooden surface he’s wiping down. The room smells like oranges.

“He’s just moving rubbish downstairs, is all.” Draco tells his father.

“Your betrothed brought a house-elf to you for that.”

“I don’t know where it’s got to. I told it to manage the kitchen.”

With a clipped noise of disapproval, Lucius leaves the room.

“Take off your shoes and stand on the table.” Harry offers, patting the desktop. It’s quite old, but it would hold Draco’s weight. “I’ll catch you if you slip.”

“There’s no need for that.” Draco tells him, though once he has his hands on the wood, it’s slipperier than he’d assumed it would be.

Harry watches from below as Draco captures the corner cobweb in the brush. There are no spiders on site, at least not now. Maybe they return home in the dark.

“Pass the brush.” Harry says, holding out his hands. He takes the brush from Draco with one, and the other clasps Draco’s wrist firmly so Draco can dismount. He has a dangerous tendency to coddle Draco.

They follow this routine with each room, in some cases moving furniture below the corners for Draco to climb. It’s in the open space at the top of the stairs that the only item available to climb is a tall chest of drawers, and Harry offers his knee as a step up. Draco isn’t feeling any particular way about that.

On the way down, Draco hesitates. It hadn’t seemed as tall when he was on the floor looking up, but now…

“I’ve got you.”

Taking the offered hand, Draco lowers to his knees. He stops again.

“I’m just going to… to…”

It’s cowardly, he knows, but Harry isn’t laughing at him. Draco’s never been brave, anyway.

“Turn around, lie on your back.” Harry tells him, and Draco does. His legs are bent sharply, but his head still dangles off the edge of the chest. Harry’s fingers trace Draco’s jaw and chin. His thumb rests on Draco’s lower lip until he opens his mouth for it.

“Harry.” Draco whispers against his fingerprint.

“Open for me, pretty thing.”

And he does.

Harry’s thumb slips over Draco’s lip and teeth to rest on his tongue. Draco’s eyes are fixed on Harry’s.

“Good boy.”

He’s taking his thumb away to replace it with his fingers, and Draco’s eyes close when they slip deeper, touching the back of Draco’s throat. Harry’s palm is heavy on Draco’s chin, fingers curling against the back of his tongue. Draco swallows thickly.

“You’re so beautiful with me in your mouth.” Harry says softly. “Beautiful creature. Swallow.”

As Draco obeys, he hears the click of shoes on the polished floors below. He can’t quite smother a whimper, and Harry hushes him by f*cking his fingers into Draco’s throat.

The front door opens, and Astoria’s voice greets Draco’s father.

“Is Draco home?” She asks. The door closes.

“I believe your betrothed is upstairs with our lord and saviour, Potter.”

“Mm. Working, I hope?”

“What other activity could they possibly be doing?” Father asks, and Draco’s eyes find Harry’s. Harry looks amused. Draco’s pulse is in his face, but that might be from dangling upside-down.

“Have you secured the financial records I’d requested? I’d like to take a look at those before tea.”

“They’re in the drawing room for you. If you need anything else, I’ll be in my study.”

“Thank you, Lucius.”

Their footsteps lead opposite directions, and the entryway is silent once more. Father’s study door closes with a soft click.

“So we have until tea, then.” Harry whispers into Draco’s ear. Draco mourns the loss as Harry’s fingers withdraw from his throat. “Unless you want to get caught?”

“It’s a bad idea.” Draco croaks. Harry hums.

“Come down here.”

Draco’s body is mostly limp as Harry helps him down. His knees buckle as soon as his weight is on them, and Harry catches him before he falls.

“Let’s go find us a seat.” Harry says, hitching Draco’s legs up around his waist and carrying him back to the sitting room they’d started in. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” Draco says automatically. He’d rather be almost anywhere else. Harry settles them on the small sofa, Draco straddling his lap. Harry’s hands card through Draco’s hair, fingertips rubbing small circles at the base of Draco’s skull. A strange laugh slips past Draco’s lips.

“Feel good?”

“Mhm…”

Harry’s fingers are magical. It’s why they soothe Draco when pushed into his throat, why they can make headaches he’d forgotten about go away. He touches Draco’s skin, thumbs caressing his throat and jawline, skimming down Draco’s shoulders down to his hands, rubbing the aches in his fingers.

When Harry’s done, those hands rest on Draco’s flanks. Draco lowers his face and opens his eyes to look at Harry. His eyes are vibrant green in the bright room. Harry’s hand lifts again to stroke the side of Draco’s face.

“Hello Dearest, Harry Potter.”

Draco jumps at Astoria’s voice, and he’s halfway off Harry’s lap when she waves a hand.

“Don’t move on my account, it’s only me. There are a few decisions we should make, and I have some time now. You don’t mind, do you, Potter?”

“Not at all.” Harry says.

It would be strange for Draco to return to Harry’s lap like before, forcing Astoria to speak to his back from her sofa. He sits a respectable distance from Harry, back straight and pounding pulse quieting. She has a stack of ledgers in her arms.

“You’re making progress up here.” She says casually, looking around the room at Draco’s work. “Well done.”

“Thanks.”

“Alright, life insurance.” Astoria says, producing a small book from the Malfoy’s solicitors. Draco takes it. He’d learned to read these things so long ago, but the words fly right past him as Astoria explains their options.

Harry’s hand finds the nape of Draco’s neck, massaging his stiffness away. Draco’s not listening to a word. Benefactors… policy options… payout plans… children…

“Wonderful, I’ll complete the paperwork this evening and return for your signature tomorrow.” Astoria says, and Draco isn’t quite sure what he’s agreed to.

“Here, it’s this one.” Harry says softly, opening the booklet in Draco’s hand to a page. Policy option eight.

“Okay.”

“Have you reviewed the Malfoy stock portfolio?” Astoria asks, and Draco shakes his head.

“Well, not recently. Not since I was fifteen.”

“There are a handful of unseemly businesses that I intend to quietly pull our investment from.”

“Unseemly how?” Harry asks.

“Businesses whose proprietors have much in common with Lucius, to put it bluntly.” Astoria says. Draco frowns.

“Death Eater owned?”

“Yes. Do you object to pulling the investment?”

“No. Pull it. Today, if you can.”

“Are there any you’d like to review? Do you want to decide what to put the investment toward?”

“Not really.” Draco admits. Astoria’s clearly more comfortable with these things. “I trust your judgement.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’ll have the solicitors owl you a copy of the final report when I’m through.”

“Great.”

As Astoria continues, Harry’s hand continues to massage Draco’s back, and it’s only slightly overwhelmingly distracting. If Astoria didn’t have such a good head on her shoulders, Draco might have been concerned about what he’s agreeing to. Harry seems to be listening as well, asking questions Draco wouldn’t have considered. Astoria has answers for everything, and she doesn’t seem to have a problem with Harry’s involvement.

Draco could have it a lot worse.

“Despite his father’s indiscretions, one half-blood son is all it takes to continue the line.” Father says. He holds out the pile of saucers for Draco to bus to the kitchen. “With everything since the war, pureblood family names are dwindling.”

“Maybe that’s not so bad.” Draco offers, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Father gives Draco a hard look.

“Too many women, too many fa*ggot sons.” He says coldly. “As if they spare no thought for their ancestry. It robs the magical world of continuing family lines.”

Draco doesn’t speak again, walking close behind his father to bring the tea service back to the kitchen. Harry had offered to help, but Father all but kicked him out. Astoria had walked with Harry to the gate before they parted ways.

“If he wasn't the only one, if there'd been more - hell forbid his family reproduce like Weasleys - there wouldn't be a cause for concern. But as he's the sole heir, he has a responsibility he ought not ignore.”

More responsibility, falling on Harry’s shoulders. There’s always more of it.

“You understand, don’t you, Draco?”

“Yes, Father.”

“If the rumours are true, Potter is not just shirking responsibility, he’s also bringing shame to his family name, frolicking about with his fellow freaks…”

Father’s disapproval fades to background noise as Draco cleans the kitchen. Father leaves eventually.

Once he’s finished trucking debris from the day’s work down to the rubbish container, Draco finds himself with his forehead against the cold tile of his shower. Has his co*ck been hard this entire time? He’s staring at it. The piercing gleams in the tip. He put a hole in his co*ck.

Harry hadn’t remarked one way or the other about it. Maybe he doesn’t care for co*ck piercings.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Astoria moves a box of gently packed ancient volumes from the sofa to take a seat. Draco glances up briefly to smile at her, then returns to dusting the grooves of the bookcase feet.

“I’ve never seen a man of your upbringing working so industriously. It’s a good sight.”

Sitting back on his heels, Draco watches as she draws a ledger from her bag.

“What else am I meant to do with myself?”

“Hm.”

Draco watches as she produces a quill and a calculation pad. Does she intend to work here? Making sure Draco doesn’t slack off, or maybe that Harry doesn’t interrupt him? She looks up again.

“Don’t mind me, Dearest.”

Get back to work, she doesn’t say. Draco does. As soon as he’s turned away, he wonders if she’s watching him. The pages of her ledgers turn quietly, and Draco crawls to the other corner of the bookcase to work on the other foot. Should he have stood up to move, instead of crawling? Maybe he’s been spending too much time with Harry, if his first instinct is to crawl places. Not that Harry makes him crawl - Harry is infuriatingly reserved about the orders he gives Draco.

“No Potter today?” Astoria asks, as if she’s reading his mind. He glances sideways at her.

“No.”

“Hm.” She says, turning a page. “How long has he had his hair that colour, do you know?”

Draco shrugs.

“Not long, I don’t think.”

“It’s not a good colour on him.”

Privately, Draco agrees. It’s a terrible colour choice for Harry, but that’s sort of the point, from what Harry said offhandedly one time. Something about vanity and conceit and experimentation and change. Draco had been preoccupied wishing Harry would tell him to kneel again. He hadn’t.

Draco doesn’t answer Astoria, standing to move to the next foot. He feels stupid for doing so, given it’s not even a metre away from where he was.

“I left an updated portfolio of the Malfoy accounts with the solicitors. Do you want a copy?”

“Please.”

Astoria had explained what she was planning to do, merging her own account with Draco’s. The Greengrasses had opened accounts for each of their daughters to be separate from their own estate, in contrast to how the Malfoy accounts are all combined with one figurehead in charge. Upon Draco’s betrothal, Lucius had partially stepped down from his role so that Astoria and Draco could work things out between their solicitors to merge their finances. Draco has almost no interest in the proceedings, but he’s required to at least be present for them.

“I’ve scheduled for us to visit my Gringotts vault on Friday afternoon. Please be on time, the goblins will cancel our appointment if we’re not both there at two.”

“Two o’clock?” Draco’s face heats up. Harry had planned to come over just after lunch, and… it was meant to be a full afternoon sort of affair…

“Do you have another engagement?” Astoria asks.

“No.”

He says it too fast, and he can feel Astoria’s eyes on his back.

“I was going to see Potter.”

“Can you reschedule?”

“Yes.”

Draco’s been polishing this foot for far too long. He stands, not looking at Astoria.

“Good.” She says.

Friday had been one of the few days that Lucius intended to be away from home. He’s kept a close eye on Draco ever since Harry took tea with them, and he hasn’t stopped complaining about Harry’s nose-bridge piercing or his fa*ggotry, demanding Draco agree with him, scolding him anytime Draco falls silent for too long.

But Lucius will be running errands all afternoon, and Draco had nearly wept when Harry agreed to come over.

“It’ll take the afternoon to catalogue the contents.” Astoria says lightly.

“The goblins always inventory the vaults.” Draco says. His voice is small, weak. “I have a lot of work to do here.”

“I know you do. But it’s important to inventory the vaults personally on occasion to be sure it’s all done right.”

Astoria is eighteen, barely out of school, and Draco has no experience conducting any sort of inventory - because the goblins always do it.

“Of course.” He says.

“And don’t forget the castle tour on Sunday.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

The castle, where Astoria wants to hold the wedding, is in Wales. They have to take a portkey in the morning to meet with the owners and the head groundskeeper. It’s going to take the whole day. Draco has been dreading it since Astoria first put the event on his calendar. It says something that Draco would rather be here, under the watchful eye of his father, slaving away to restore the manor, than in a castle making plans for his wedding.

“Draco.”

It takes a moment for Draco to face her.

“I know this wedding isn’t what either of us truly want, but we’re putting that aside for the sake of our families.”

“I know.”

“Do you regret that decision?”

For Draco, it hadn’t really been a decision. One day, Father was characteristically silent at breakfast, the next, he announced he’d arranged Draco’s betrothal. He wonders if Astoria had any more say than he did. Draco hadn’t even picked out her ring, his father produced a family heirloom for Draco to give her. She hasn't said much about it. She doesn’t wear it on her finger all the time, sometimes it’s hanging from a chain around her neck.

“No. I won’t fail my family.” Draco promises. She nods.

“You and I have more responsibility than our peers. It’s up to us to carry our family names.” She says, sounding much older than she looks. She always sounds so much older.

“Of course.”

“Do you need to see Potter on Friday? You’re out of sorts today.”

Draco’s been out of sorts for five years now.

“I’m just tired.”

“If you’re certain.” She says. He can feel her eyes roaming his dishevelled form. His fingernails are ragged and long, his eyes bloodshot from the dust and poor sleep, and he hasn’t styled his hair since Harry put his hands through it. “I’m not your father, Draco. You can be honest with me.”

Draco’s breath turns into a long sigh. He sits with his lungs empty for a time, just watching the floor.

“I’ll reschedule our appointment for the morning.” Astoria says. “To leave the afternoon open.”

“Thank you.” Draco whispers.

“This is for you.” Ernie says, holding the letter out to Draco.

“It is?”

As Draco breaks the seal, Ernie flops back down onto the bed beside Draco, petting Draco’s arm as he watches.

“What is it? A spa day?”

“It’s from Astoria.” Draco says. He must have looked terrible when she saw him, because she’d booked him a full spa treatment for Saturday.

“That’s nice.”

“We’re looking at a castle on Sunday. She says I seem out of sorts.” Draco tells him, letting Ernie slide closer for a proper post-sex cuddle.

“You are.”

“Not more than usual.”

With a hum, Ernie lets it drop. He pulls Draco closer, kisses his temple.

“How is it going with Harry?”

“He said he talked to you.”

“Yeah. He wanted to know if you were doing okay.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said he should ask you about it. Did he?”

Draco tucks the spa booking back into its envelope and tosses it toward the bedside table. Ernie tucks Draco’s head under his chin. Draco shuts his eyes.

“I don’t get him.” Draco says.

“What’s there not to get?”

“I’ve seen him at the club. He’s brutal there. It’s hard to watch.”

“Is it? How so?”

Draco’s not sure how to answer. He’d watched Harry cane a man’s arse and thighs until the man had broken down, and Harry touched the man until he stopped crying. Harry has knives sometimes, though Draco hasn’t seen any blood. And Harry always makes them kneel at his feet before and after, just like he had with Draco that once, but not since.

“I don’t know.”

“Have you talked to him?”

Draco shakes his head. Ernie wraps his arm more securely around Draco’s middle.

“Negotiation is maybe the biggest part of what Harry does with those other people at the club. They tell him what they want from him, or maybe he tells them what he wants, and they talk about it.”

“That sounds horrible.”

Ernie laughs. It resonates in his chest.

“You don’t get the fun part if you don’t ask for it, Draco. You’ll have to learn to ask for things if there’s something you want from Harry.”

“I wish he wouldn’t make me.”

“It would be pretty sh*tty of him if he didn’t. It would be practically impossible for him to be sure what he’s doing is something you want. You’re not exactly an open book.”

“He can tell.” Draco says. Harry’s always been able to tell what’s in Draco’s head. It was infuriating in school.

“And you have to remember that Harry is a person too. Even a sad*st needs reassurance that what they do feels good to their partners.”

Draco doesn’t say anything else. Ernie brushes his fingers over Draco’s arms, letting the quiet sit.

It’s really for the best that Astoria made an appointment to inventory her vault. The inventory report from the goblins had excluded a very valuable goblin-made ring, and Astoria removed it from the vault for storage elsewhere. The goblins aren’t happy about it, but Astoria is good at handling that sort of thing.

Draco hasn’t been inside Gringotts since they completed the renovations (repairs). He doesn’t need to speak at any point, and he’s really not sure why he had to be present to begin with. At the end of the trip, Draco’s magical signature is added to the approved user list.

She returns him home in time to eat lunch before Harry arrives. Draco pours himself some tea and puts a slice of bread in the toaster.

When the floo roars, Draco is still holding his cold cup of tea halfway to his lips, eyes moving in circles over the paragraph of policy eight he’s been trying to read whilst waiting for his toast to… the toast did pop up, and it’s cold in his hand. Harry finds him in the kitchen.

“There you are. Is that your lunch?”

“I was going to have a sandwich.” Draco says. He puts the hardened bread on the counter with a dull plunk. Harry doesn’t wait for an invitation before poking about in the kitchen for something he deems lunchworthy. “We can go up to-”

“We have plenty of time.” Harry says, filling a pot with water and setting random ingredients out. Draco watches dumbly. It’s not very hospitable for him to make Harry cook every time he comes over. Harry remembers where things are in Draco’s kitchen from the last time he was here.

Harry is a good cook.

Recently, the Malfoys have been eating what they can prepare themselves, or buying pre-prepared food from catering services. Harry’s food is a reminder of the better days, when Father still smiled and Mum was here and the house had visitors and overnight guests who weren’t trying to murder half the world, and Draco wasn’t quite like the way he is now.

“Eat, Draco.”

Draco swallows thickly. Harry has served himself much less than what he served Draco.

“What about you?”

“I ate already.” Harry says, setting his hand on the tabletop between them, palm up. It’s a clear invitation. Draco isn’t sure why his hand is shaky when he lifts it to place in Harry’s. Harry smiles, squeezing. His hand is warm.

“Can we talk today?” Harry asks.

“Negotiate.” Draco says. Harry tilts his head. “Ernie says I have to be ready to negotiate.”

“Yeah, that’s something we’ll do. But just having a conversation about what you might find interesting is a good place to start. Did you talk about any of that with Ernie?”

Draco shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“That’s okay. I’ve been through this a few times, we can start with the basics and go from there.”

“Basics?”

Harry nods, reaching his other hand out to stroke little lines up and down Draco’s wrist.

“We can talk about what you’ve seen in the club. I’ll get us started with some ideas, and if something sounds interesting to you, we can talk more about that. Deal?”

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

“Submission.” Harry says, and Draco shudders. “Look at me, Draco.”

It takes everything for Draco to stay where he is, kneeling on the floor, instead of running straight for the terrace and…

He raises his eyes from Harry’s feet to his face. Harry leans forward, bracing his arms on his knees.

“That’s a yes?” He asks softly. Draco nods. “Very good. You’re doing well, sweetheart.”

Draco can see Harry observing his growing flush. He lowers his head again, but Harry stops him with two fingers on his chin.

“Keep your eyes on me.”

“Okay.” Draco breathes. Harry smiles, cupping Draco’s cheek for a moment before taking his hand back.

“Praise.” Harry continues.

“Yes.” Draco says. This one is easy. Harry doesn’t need to know how deeply it runs. How desperate Draco is for it. He probably already knows.

“You asked me to hurt you. When I brought you to my flat.”

Draco nods.

“How do you want me to hurt you?”

He swallows. He’s too hot.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

Harry’s face is so handsome, even with the piercing at the top of his nose. Objectively, a very nice face.

“I don’t know.” Draco tells him. Harry nods.

“That’s okay. It’s a big question. There are a million ways to be hurt, and what feels good is very dependent on the person.” Harry says. He lifts Draco’s chin again. “Eyes up. I’m telling you to look at me because I want to make sure you’re present with me and focused on our conversation.”

“I know.” Draco says. He doesn’t really want to be present. He’d really like for Harry to decide what he’s going to do, not tell Draco, and just do it.

“Then keep your eyes on me.” Harry says, closer to a reprimand than before, and Draco nods. Harry touches his cheek again. “Good. Do you want to keep going?”

“I… yes. Yes.”

“We can take a break if you need it.” Harry offers.

“We just started.”

“And we can pause or stop at any time. We make the rules. Together.”

Draco shakes his head.

“I want to be done with this part.”

“You want to get through it.”

“Yes.”

“Good. I like what comes after this much more.” Harry says, a little smile on his face. Draco is surprised to be smiling back. “Okay. You had mentioned before that you want to be hit.”

Draco cringes, dropping his head before remembering and lifting his face again.

“You’re learning.” Harry says. “You always were a quick study.”

Harry says Draco has to look at him, but he didn’t say Draco couldn’t cover his burning face with his hands. Harry laughs a little, reaching out to touch Draco’s shoulder.

“I think you could be a really sweet brat.” He says, which is a weird thing to hear Harry Potter tell him. “In time, of course. I don’t know what it is, but I just love a brat.”

He’s teasing. Draco doesn’t know what to do with it. Harry smiles again, gentler.

“Why do you want your father to hit you?”

This is one Draco can’t - can’t - explain. He shakes his head. Harry pauses.

“Did he hit you when you were a child?”

“Yes.”

“How did it make you feel?”

“It hurt.” Draco says. “I didn’t like it.”

“So what’s different now, that you wish he would hit you again?”

It’s not that he wants to be hit by Father. It hurts, it’s humiliating, it’s a little bit scary. Or at least it was, when Draco was smaller. But there’s only so far Father will go with it. He wouldn’t damage Draco, never harmed his face or hands, and it wasn’t long before the pain and welts and bruises faded and went away. Temporary.

“Because…” Draco’s lip is trembling. Harry is so intent, like nothing else in the world is more important than Draco kneeling between his feet. “Because when he did that… it went away. And now he just… it was h-horrible, and frightening and he would yank me by my arm or my ear to go to his study, and I knew it was coming, but nothing I said or did would make him less angry, and sometimes he would use his cane, and he would hit me so hard, but then it was over. And now…”

“I’m sorry.”

Draco’s face is down, but Harry doesn’t lift it. He moves to the floor, pulling Draco against his chest. He’s been through so much worse, but Draco is so much weaker and so pathetic, such a waste of an heir, it’s no wonder Father hates him. He hiccoughs, gasping in a breath.

“I know what that’s like.” Harry murmurs against the top of Draco’s head. “And you’re right, it is horrible. And frightening. But it’s worse when they say things, isn’t it.”

Draco nods. Harry kisses his hair. Squeezes Draco tighter.

“That’s why it feels so good when someone says something good about you.” Harry says. “I’m like that too. I don’t know many other Doms with as big of a praise kink as me, but that’s what’s nice about BDSM and kink. Everyone’s a little different.”

He can feel Harry’s voice from his chest. Steady, even heartbeat. Slow breathing. Draco isn’t crying now. Harry doesn’t move away.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Draco. It wasn’t easy, but you did it. That takes strength. Thank you for trusting me with this.”

Draco nods. He doesn’t know what to say, or if any noise would come out if he did try to speak. Harry shifts back to lean against the sofa, still on the floor with Draco. His thigh is pressed against Draco’s calf. He’s very warm. He’s always seemed like the type of person that would be warm.

“What’s going through your head right now?” Harry asks. Draco blinks slowly, shrugging loosely.

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

“Come here.” Harry pats his lap, stretching his legs out in front of him. Draco straddles his thighs. “Are you safe, Draco?”

Draco gapes at him. Harry tucks a piece of hair behind Draco’s ear.

“I wasn’t safe, where I grew up. I left as soon as I turned seventeen, and I haven’t been back since. That’s what was best for me. But I find myself wondering… why are you still there?”

“I owe it to my family to keep the bloodline going.”

“No you don’t.”

“I’m the last of the Blacks. I’m the last of the Malfoys.” Draco reminds him. “My family goes back hundreds of years. My ancestors… the Malfoys fought for England against Spain. And… and who would get the manor when I die? What would happen to the wizarding world without an heir?”

“You’re not the last of the Blacks. You have a cousin, Teddy.”

“Tonks?” Draco hasn’t heard that the child was born before cousin Nymphadora was killed.

“Yeah, Tonks. Or Lupin, actually. He’s a darling. I’m his godfather.”

“You are?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” Harry says, smiling crookedly. “He’s Remus’s son. Remus was like a- a father to me, or an uncle, I suppose. But anyway, you’re not the only one left. Your aunt and mother are both still alive.”

“My mother left me.”

Harry would know, if he sees Teddy. Mother went to live with Aunt Andromeda, Teddy’s grandmother. He nods.

“Yeah. She did.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Harry’s hands find Draco’s, squeezing.

“I like to be held down.” Draco whispers. Harry tilts his head.

“In bed?”

Draco nods.

“Ernie holds me down.”

Harry’s hand lifts to brush a tear from Draco’s cheek.

“Does it feel good physically? Or do you feel good mentally?” He asks.

“It hurts.” Draco says. “It doesn’t feel good. Physically.”

“Does it make you feel secure?”

“Helpless.”

“Okay.” Harry says, smiling. “Thank you for telling me that. It’s very helpful for me to know.”

Draco nods again.

“Are there other things Ernie does that you enjoy?”

Draco would classify the entire experience as enjoyable, but he doesn’t think Harry is asking about that. Mostly, Ernie pins him down, makes him take it, and cuddles him afterward. Even completely immobilised, Draco feels safe with Ernie.

“He’s gentle.” Draco says.

“That makes sense.” Harry says thoughtfully. “There are ways to experience pain whilst still having gentle sex. Does that sound appealing to you?”

“I-I don’t know. If I want gentle, I go to Ernie. You don’t do gentle.”

“I can, if that’s what my sub wants. You’re right, mostly, my subs come to me for rougher treatment. I’m known more for being rough than soft. But again, I will do what feels good to you, and I won’t do anything that you don’t want me to do. That’s why we talk these things out, so I know what it is you want to try and what you don’t want to try. Helps me plan better.”

“You plan it?”

Harry laughs a little, shifting away from the sofa to lean further back. He rests his hands on Draco’s hips.

“Yeah, usually. If I’ve been with a sub for a while, I don’t plan as much. But especially if a sub is new to this and new to me, I walk through every step so they know what to expect and can tell me if they want anything different.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“...about my other subs?” Harry asks. Draco shakes his head.

“What you’re going to do. I don’t want to know beforehand.”

“Okay.” Harry says slowly. “We would have to talk a lot more before I’m comfortable planning a scene without telling you any of it.”

Draco makes a noise that sounds miserable. Harry smiles again, moving his hands up Draco’s hips and under his shirt to his skin.

“You have to face what you want, Draco. BDSM and kink will force you to face it in order to experience it. We don’t take shortcuts.”

Draco doesn’t want a shortcut, he wants to never think about it ever and just sometimes be beaten or slapped around a little bit, f*cked, and sent on his merry way. Maybe he just wants to be assaulted with it, a stranger doing things to him he can never ask for and never wants to face. One of the million things wrong with him.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks. “Tired? Overwhelmed? Horny?”

“Yes.”

“We can take a break from talking for now. Just know that we still have lots to talk about before I take a paddle to you.”

Paddle. Longbottom had used a paddle. It looked excruciating. Harry has a look in his eyes that Draco likes very much. Draco’s co*ck is pressing against his zip, the co*ck ring still painful and heavy and foreign.

“Does that excite you?” Harry asks. Bastard. Draco nods. “There are so many things I can show you, Draco.”

“This is not the torment I had in mind when I invited you here.” Draco says, which gets a real laugh out of Harry.

“I’m sure it’s not. A necessary evil, I’m afraid.”

Harry somehow manages to stand from the floor without dislodging Draco, now clinging to his neck. The thighs aren’t just for show.

“Are you surprised that I’m strong now?” Harry teases, adjusting Draco in his arms. “I’m not the scrawny kid you knew.”

Draco is, though. Still scrawny, weak, tired all the time, helpless.

Very gently, Harry lowers Draco to lay across the sofa.

“I remember you being familiar with stinging hexes.” He says, stroking Draco’s side under his shirt. Draco shivers. “Would you like to try that out, see if it feels good?”

Draco already knows it doesn’t feel good. It hurts like a bitch. He nods.

“Verbal yes, please.” Harry pushes, nudging Draco’s face back toward his own. Draco meets his eyes for one second.

“Yes.”

“Very good, Draco.”

Draco shudders. Harry helps him roll onto his stomach. Harry half-straddles the backs of Draco’s thighs. From the corner of his eye, Draco can just see Harry drawing his wand. He shuts his eyes, turning his face back to the sofa cushion.

“Are you ready?”

Even after Draco nods, Harry doesn’t start.

“Yes.”

“Good. Very good, sweetheart.”

Then he starts.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Just one, sharp and hot and painful against the skin of Draco’s lower back. Draco whimpers.

“You didn’t even flinch.” Harry says softly, shifting his weight more fully onto Draco’s legs. His fingers stroke the blistered skin gently. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” Draco chokes out against the sofa. “Good.”

“Ready for another?”

“Yes.”

Draco gasps. This one is higher, closer to his spine. His fingers flex around the sofa. He squirms, looking for friction, but too securely pinned to get any. It only makes him harder.

“Good?”

“Yes.”

“Another?”

“Yes.”

This one burns. His skin is tight and smarting. It feels like a red hot poker singed him and then stinging nettles were put on top, rubbed into the raw skin. He can feel the pulse of blood right there. It feels like his skin was split open.

“More.”

Harry pushes Draco’s shirt up higher, holding it with his weight pressed against the back of Draco’s neck. Draco’s eyes are closed, may never open again. The tip of Harry’s wand touches his skin before he feels it, and now he jerks under the sudden zap of pain.

“Does this make your co*ck hard?”

“Yes.”

Stings. f*ck, it hurts.

“You like being pinned down, don’t you. What else do you like?”

“Yes.” Draco hisses, wringing the cushion between his hands. “I want to come, please, please let me-”

“Not yet.” Sting. “What’s one thing you want me to do to you?”

“I can’t- please, please, right- please, there-” Draco cries, gasping for a breath. “I- I want- f*ck! I want you to beat me, please.”

“Beat you with what? Paddle? Switch?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Where do you want it, Draco?” Harry sits back, pulling Draco’s trousers down over his arse. Draco moans at the pressure on his co*ck. “Here?” Sting.

Draco is drooling. His mouth is hanging open as Harry stings from his shoulders to his arse.

“Answer me, Draco.”

“Yes.” Draco breathes. “Yes. More.”

“Oh, you beautiful creature.”

Humming, Draco sinks boneless, down, down… The stings have stopped. Harry is touching the welts. It burns, and Draco loves it.

“I love it too.”

He has something wet and cool on his hands, skimming over Draco’s skin. It's soothing, but so is Harry’s touch.

“You did so well, sweetheart.” Harry says, tugging on Draco’s shoulder. Draco weighs more than ever before, there’s no way Harry could lift him. “That’s alright, we don’t have to move.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

“Of course. There must be all sorts of happy chemicals flooding your brain now, hm?”

Draco nods dumbly, wondering who put chemicals in his brain. He’s not mad about it, just curious. Harry’s fingers are in his hair. He’d washed it.

“That’s very sweet of you.”

He’s on the floor, leaning against the sofa to look at Draco. He’s lovely.

“What do you feel like now? How does your body feel?”

“Brick.”

Even his laugh is pleasant, a low, hummy sort of laugh. Draco might be smiling. He can feel the air on his gums. He sucks in a deep breath, feeling it inflate his lungs fully. It feels better than it’s ever felt before.

“Sometimes I stop breathing. And I wonder if I’ll die in my sleep.”

“Does it scare you?”

“I don’t know.”

The odd spiked piercing at the top of his nose catches the light, and it feels like his eyes cross to focus on it. In the red lights of the club, it’s difficult to see anything. Here, all the light comes from the sky.

“Are you ready to move?”

Moving from his hair, that hand finds Draco’s, interlocking their fingers to hold his.

“Does a whip feel as good as it looks?”

“Depends on the whipper and the whipped. I know some skilled whip handlers, would you like to try it sometime?”

“Only if you do it.”

“Okay, love. We can talk about it.”

“I don’t like to talk.”

“I know.”

Harry moves from the floor, up and out of Draco’s line of sight. He doesn’t take away his hand until he’s scooping Draco and all his weight off the sofa.

“You can carry me.”

“Yeah. I’ve carried you a few times, sweetheart. Do you remember it?”

“I’ve never been this heavy.”

“You aren’t any heavier than the last time.”

Really? Draco frowns. He squints, covering his eyes with his hands. It’s bright. It’s very bright. Oh, they’re outside on the terrace. The big full lungs breath feels good again. It’s cool air, it’s air that feels good inside him. Why does he ever stop breathing, when it feels good like this?

“I have you, love.” Harry says, and he does. Draco is sitting on the stone wall with Harry’s arm at his waist and a water glass in his other hand. “Drink.”

The water is cool and sweet. It’s not one of the Malfoy’s glasses.

“It’s one of mine.” Harry says. “It’s conjured up.”

“Oh.”

He drains it. The breeze ruffles Draco’s shirt against his damp skin, the painful, painful welts spread over his back. He presses back against it. Harry’s fingers rub the linen against the swollen skin. Did Draco moan out loud or just in his head this time?

“What do you want that I can give you?” Harry asks. Draco’s legs are wrapped around Harry’s hips and thighs. Maybe that’s an erection in Harry’s trousers, maybe Draco is making it up.

“Sometimes…” Draco spreads his arms wide, legs lifting from Harry to stretch out in front of him. He’s looking at Harry, the way Harry kept asking him to do before. He can do it now. “Sometimes I just want to fall. Or to jump, and then to fall.”

The glass drops from Harry’s hand and shatters on the floor, Harry’s arms are both around his waist and his hands are splayed wide at Draco’s shoulders. The swoop in Draco’s belly catches up to him then - had he tried to fall? Had he almost fallen? He’s not supposed to do that. That’s not supposed to-

“I’ve got you, baby. You’re okay. I have you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Harry has him. Draco is slipping off the wall, inside it this time, and then he’s standing with his feet between Harry’s feet, and Harry’s arms keeping him against Harry’s chest. Draco’s heartbeat is loud, but Harry’s is louder.

“I broke your glass.” Draco says. He can’t feel any glass under his feet, but he’d seen it fall and heard it shatter.

“It’s okay. The glass can fall and break, and we can get a new glass. We can’t get a new Draco if he falls and breaks. You are the only Draco we have.”

“I don’t want to break.” He says. “I don’t. I just… want to fall. Sometimes. I didn’t mean to, before. I slipped.”

Harry touches Draco’s face, catching a tear. Why is Draco always f*cking crying with Harry?

“Okay.” Harry says. “Okay. Have you slipped before?”

“No.”

“Okay. Okay, good. I’m glad I was here to catch you, then.”

“Did I scare you?”

Harry’s eyes are a little wide, brows a little low. His pulse is ticking at his throat. Classic symptoms of a spook. He shakes himself, pushing a hand through his faded orange-red hair.

“Yes, you did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Harry says, smiling. He lifts Draco’s palms to kiss each. “Can you do a favour for me?”

“Maybe.”

“If you feel like falling… could you tell me or Ernie?”

“Anytime?” Draco doesn’t know how to get ahold of Harry other than by owl or going to the club to see if he’s there - which he usually is, which might be odd, but Draco doesn’t know where else Harry should be. He seems to be unemployed. “What about if it’s the middle of the night?”

“Do you want to jump in the middle of the night?”

“Not usually.”

“Anytime. We can get you a mobile so you can talk to us without having to go anywhere.”

“What is a mobile?”

He’s heard the word before. Maybe Ernie has one…?

“It’s a muggle device that does floo calls and electronic letters, but it does both better than magic. We can get one together soon. Until then, you can owl me.”

“Does Ernie have it?”

“Does he? I’m not sure.” Harry says. “Will you tell me if you feel like jumping?”

“It’s just sometimes.” Draco tries, but Harry is looking at him like that, and his pulse is still ticking, so Draco agrees.

“We can make a trip of it - getting you a mobile.” Harry says, walking backward toward the house and drawing Draco with him. “You still like sweets? We could get you a box of chocolates, or an ice cream.”

“Are muggle chocolates different from ours?” Draco asks. There are thousands of Honeydukes chocolates, probably, all with different flavours or textures or shapes or colours. Some would be impossible for a muggle to recreate, with magical ingredients or magical properties, like chocolate frogs. But surely the muggles would have lots of chocolates.

“Not too much. They make chocolate into different shapes, like Santa Claus or bunnies for Valentine’s or Easter. It’s very fun.”

“Like a chocolate frog?”

“Much bigger.” Harry says, holding his hands nearly a foot apart. “You can get little ones, too, but they’re not as fun.”

“Oh.”

Draco wonders distantly if he would be expected to get Valentine’s gifts for his future bride. Would she get him anything? Would she expect a gift but not plan to give him anything? That always happened when Pansy and Theo dated, she would never give him anything because, according to her, he had the gift of her. It didn’t work the same way backward, but Pansy is a rather demanding person.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks. Draco is a little bit draped over Harry’s lap, one foot on the floor, most of the rest of his body touching Harry’s. He’s warm.

“I think I need to ask Astoria about Valentine’s expectations.” He says. “Chocolate, or… something.”

“I think that’s a very good idea.” Harry says encouragingly, and Draco melts into him a little more. “Are you and Astoria friends?”

He has to consider it. He wouldn’t immediately think so, but they are engaged, and Astoria has seen him cry several times (though at this point, who hasn’t). They kissed that one time, which was completely fine and not at all terrible - cried during that, actually - and she looks after him in her Astorian way.

“She’s what I need.” Draco says. It’s not really an answer, but Harry doesn’t press.

“You know what I miss?” Harry asks. Draco blinks up at him. Harry strokes his fingers through the fringe at Draco’s temple. “Roommates at Hogwarts.”

And for Draco, that had been Theo, Greg, Blaise, and-

“But just think about the first time you were all in the dorm at once.” Harry carries on, his fingertips running from Draco’s forehead down his temple, his ear, his jaw, thumb ghosting over his Adam’s apple - no, he didn’t tip his head back or wish for a second that Harry would just grab and squeeze - across his collarbone to his shoulder. What had Harry said? “Do you remember if you liked them or not?”

Draco had already known Theo, Greg and… and Vincent. Their fathers were friends. He knew all of them except Blaise. Blaise is - as Father puts it - trashy new money. Mrs Zabini is a self-made woman, which for some reason is shameful?

“I made friends with Ron on the train, of course. He’s great. I met Neville, but he was so small. His personality, his voice, I mean. He was easy to overlook that first year. Dean was easy to get along with. But Seamus?”

With a light laugh, Harry shifts, pulling both of Draco’s legs up higher, for Draco to curl further against him.

“But Seamus was good for me.” Harry says. “He was a bit of an arse. Called me out on my bullsh*t, challenged me when I was lazy. God, I couldn’t stand him sometimes, but… he was good for me.”

“Did you ever like him?” Draco asks. “Do you ever miss him?”

“Not really. I don’t miss him, I mean, because I still see him fairly often at the Burrow - the Weasley’s house. He’s dating Ginny. Kind of. And I like him just fine.”

Harry’s fingers are magic, touching the spot he'd first stung on Draco’s back, pressing the welt until it burns again, and then soothing it away with a word whispered against Draco’s temple.

“My parents had an arranged marriage.”

His voice is a little shaky, cracks as Harry’s fingers find the next welt.

“It was different for them, though. They went through school together. There was no reason they couldn't fall in love.”

“Did they?”

“She left him.” Draco says. She'd left both of them, Draco and Father. She hadn't said a word to her son since. “I never understood her.”

“I got the impression you two were close.” Harry says softly, the spot his fingers are pressing especially tender. Draco hisses, squirming against Harry until the pressure eases and the welt fades.

“Maybe.” Draco says. “I thought we were. But she never made as much sense as Father. Father would never leave me.”

He never has. He's been taken, but never without a fight. Mother left by choice. Draco doesn't even know why. Harry is quiet.

“Have you seen her?”

“Yes. Briefly.” Harry says, taking his hand from Draco’s shirt to settle more comfortably together. “Just in passing, I was dropping Teddy off at the house and she answered the door.”

“Was she…” Does he want the best for her? Does she deserve to be comfortable and happy living with her sister and looking after the child? “Was she well?”

“She looked fine, if that's what you mean.” Harry says, gentler. “She looked healthy, like she's recovered at least physically from the war. We didn't speak, so I couldn't tell you how she's doing otherwise.”

“Oh.”

“If you wanted, I could bring a message to her.”

Draco shakes his head. He doesn’t know at all how to feel toward his mother, but he has nothing to say to her. Nothing at all. She’d left him without even a word.

“If you change your mind…” Harry offers, lacing their fingers together. Draco nods. “How is your back feeling?”

“Hurts.” Draco says, but it doesn’t, really. It’s a shadow of a sting left. “It was good.”

“You responded beautifully.” Harry tells him. “You were so good for me.”

The hand around Draco’s waist squeezes him closer, and Draco closes his eyes. Harry’s breath is soft against his forehead.

“What was good about it?” Harry asks, voice low. Draco frowns without opening his eyes.

“Please, please don't make me say…”

“I'm not making you say anything. I'm asking. But I can't give you more until I know a little more about what you liked.”

With a great sigh, Draco nods. Negotiation… conversation, rather. He draws in a breath without knowing what he’ll say.

“The pain turned me on.” He says. Swallows thickly. “Especially when you pull- um. Pulled on- pulled down my trousers?”

“Very good, angel.” Harry murmurs against Draco’s hair. Angel? He nods tremulously.

“Um.” He clears his throat. “I’m- I think I’d- I think I’d like it if- if someone, I- I mean, if you were to-”

He’s sweating all over, more than he was when Harry was stinging him. Harry brushes Draco’s hair back off his neck.

“If you wanted to- to?” Draco finishes, not having said anything, but not sure what he hadn’t gotten out. Harry hums.

“You had a reaction to me touching your throat a minute ago.” He offers. Draco’s eyes are already closed, but he squeezes them shut tighter.

“You could- could choke me?”

“Beautiful. Yes, I could choke you. That sounds good?”

Draco nods. Harry combs his fingers through Draco’s hair again.

“Maybe… maybe you could… Is there a way you could maybe… sneak up, and- and without warning or telling me, um. You know?”

“We could talk about that, yeah. That’s something I’ve done before, but I have a lot of requirements before I would agree to it.”

“Re-requirements?”

“Mm.” Harry shifts again, adjusting Draco’s weight across his legs. Is that an erection? Or just his jeans sitting in a funny way? “We’d have to play around some more, figure out what you like, what makes your body sing. I’d want to get a thorough rundown of what you absolutely would not want me to do. Even if you don’t want to know when it’s coming, we’d at least need to discuss what is coming.”

“But I don’t want to know about any of it.”

“You have to get through the ordeal before you can do looser, more risky play.” Harry says gently. He shifts back so he can see Draco’s face. “I can see you working to open yourself up to me, and I’m grateful for that. It’s going to take a lot more of this to get where you want to be.”

“Can you do something else to me?” Draco asks abruptly. Harry co*cks his head.

“What would you like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what my choices are. You don’t have a whip with you.”

“No, I don’t.” Harry says with a smile. “I would love to see how you respond to my whip. But we’re not there yet anyway. Even if we had a whip, I wouldn’t use it on you yet.”

A miserable, pathetic whine leaves Draco’s mouth, and Harry’s eyes sparkle.

“I want to get there with you, Draco.” Harry says. He touches Draco’s lips, and Draco opens for him. “God.”

He licks Harry’s finger up and down, sucking on the tip, taking it deeper in his mouth until he’s fighting with his gag reflex. He looks at Harry’s darkened eyes, running his tongue over Harry’s fingerprint.

“You lovely, slu*tty thing.” Harry breathes, adjusting his hard co*ck in his jeans. “I want to do so many things with you.”

“Tell me?” Draco says around the finger in his mouth. Harry smiles, a wicked, tempting smile. He gathers Draco close, pressing his lips to Draco’s face.

“I would tie you to my bench, tight enough that it’ll leave bruises on your skin afterward, but not so tight that you can’t move. I want to see you squirm, and see if you move up toward me or try to get away. If you are still and take it as well as you took my hexes today. I would try my flogger on you, I think you’d like it.” Harry says, soft against Draco’s hair. Draco’s ears are ringing. He’s going to cry. “Warm up your skin until it’s hot under my fingers. I’d use the riding crop on you, maybe. I love the snap it makes, and it’s such a sharp, focused pain. You would… you would lose your mind.”

“Oh please.”

“Oh, I’d love to play with you, Draco.” Harry tells him, leaning back, wiping Draco’s cheeks. “So what would you like from me right now?”

“Hit me.” Draco whispers. Harry’s hand is clutched between his own - when had he grabbed it? “Please? Hard.”

“Hit you where?”

“My- my arse. Spank me.”

“You want my hand?” Harry asks, slipping his hand inside Draco’s shirt down to finger the waistband of his trousers. Draco nods shakily. “Get up and kneel.”

Yes. Yes. He slips from Harry’s lap to kneel between Harry’s feet once more, face lifted, eyes on Harry.

“That’s my lovely thing. Look at you.”

Draco’s mind is leaking out his ears. Harry’s hand lifts, and he opens his mouth for it. Harry’s eyes are sharp and focused, but he doesn’t put his fingers in Draco’s mouth. He brushes back Draco’s hair, tangling his fingers in it and holding Draco still by it. He leans closer, eyes fixed on Draco’s.

“I’m going to pull down your trousers and take you over my knee. Okay?”

Yes. Yes. “Yes.” Please.

Harry’s face brightens in the light, and he looks at Draco like he’s something to be cared for. His hand releases Draco’s hair to card his fingers through it.

“f*ck, you’re a gorgeous thing, aren’t you. Come up here, doll.”

With Harry’s hands at his elbows, Draco gets up, trembly in his chest and limbs as Harry opens his flies to tug Draco’s trousers down to his thighs. The pants follow, and Harry sits forward to examine the ring in the tip of Draco’s co*ck.

“Look at you.” Harry murmurs, stroking up Draco’s length once, twice. He leans forward to lick at the ridge and the head until Draco’s eyes are blurred. “Get over my knee.”

He does, awkwardly squirming into position, legs bound by his trousers, arse bare for Harry’s hand to… Harry pushes up his shirt until most of his back is bare. Draco hides his face between his arm and Harry’s thick thigh.

“Are you comfortable?” Harry asks. Draco wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Yes, he’s settled. No, he’s laid bare before Harry. Yes, this is where he should be, ready to take his punishment. No, Harry’s far too sweet to him. Yes, he’s content at last. No, he’s stripped his feelings naked for Harry to examine and judge and laugh at and share. Yes, no, but no, yes…

“Yes.”

“I’ll start slow.” Harry says, his hand tapping at Draco’s arse cheek, grabbing a handful of flesh roughly. Draco’s co*ck is hanging hard against Harry’s thigh, touching but without any friction or pressure or relief. Harry pats him again before lifting his hand.

The first slap startles more than hurts. Draco makes a noise of surprise, and Harry’s hand rubs away the sting.

“Good?”

“Yes, yes.”

He slaps again, harder, on the same spot. Draco can feel his skin heating, braces himself against Harry’s calf and the sofa cushion.

“Don’t start slow, please?” Draco says. Harry’s free hand rests against the back of Draco’s neck, holding him firmly but without applying any pressure.

“Alright, love. Keep talking to me, you’re doing so well.”

Draco’s back arches at the next blow, and he flinches away at the one after that. They’re faster now, with barely enough time to draw a breath between them. Sharp, loud, distantly painful. Harry hits hard. Draco moans.

When he’s hit every inch of skin from Draco’s arsecrack down to his thighs, Harry pauses, shifting Draco on his lap.

“How are we feeling?” He asks. Draco nods quickly.

“Sore.” He says. “Good sore.”

“Good. Would you like more, or are you done?”

“More, please.”

“You’re so polite, sweetheart. Are you ready?”

Draco nods. “Yes.”

He shifts again, angling Draco’s body with his hand at Draco’s neck and the other pushing and pulling at Draco’s hip. Draco lies still for Harry to leave him where he wants him. He’s not really expecting the first hit, not braced for it, and it hurts.

“Oh you take it so well.” Harry breathes, tightening his grip on Draco’s neck. He hits again, harder, and again, harder, and Draco swallows thickly, mouth cold from his gasping breaths. Harry’s hand is fast, delivering stinging pain now, Draco’s arse is smarting, hot, prickly, ow, f*ck, it hurts, he presses up on his toes, Harry’s hand hits lower down his thighs, it hurts, and Draco’s legs part for him, just a little, and Harry growls.

It’s too much to think, to remember to let out his breath after it comes in. He’s heavy again, maybe, or light - lighter than air.

“How are you doing, baby?” Harry asks without stopping. Draco makes some noise, and maybe it was a yes, because Harry hasn’t stopped.

“M-” Draco swallows. Harry’s hand doesn’t drop. It’s suddenly quiet. “My balls.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Hit them.”

“Right here?” Harry asks, tugging Draco’s co*ck and balls back behind his legs. His co*ck is wet? Did he start bleeding again? Harry’s thumb rubs over Draco’s balls.

“Please.”

Everything is hot and sore, and Harry’s fingers tap first, gentle. Too soft. He goes harder, little by little, as Draco squirms and moans for it. And then he hits - not hard, not nearly as hard as he’d hit Draco’s arse - but f*ck, the world drops away and Draco is gasping for breath, pleading for- for-

“Gorgeous.”

His hands cling to vines twisting down his wrists, tying him to the ground lest he drift away entirely.

“f*ck, look at you.” Harry says, hitting again. “Baby, baby. f*ck, you’re beautiful.”

He’s in Harry’s lap, arms pulled up over his head still bound by vines. Harry looks bright and excited and happy as he combs Draco’s hair back from his face. He produces a thistle, fluffy and purple and very small, holding it between his fingers. He lays it on Draco’s chest.

“Was I good for you?”

“So good, love. So beautiful, f*ck, you’re just-” Harry holds Draco’s chin, thumbing at his lower lip. Brushes tears from Draco’s cheeks and temples. “Baby, I wish you could see yourself.”

The tears on Harry’s fingers glimmer. Draco’s eyes close.

“Did you know you could do this?” Harry asks, touching Draco’s hair again. “Open your pretty eyes, love.”

He looks up at Harry, his bright, smiling face. He’s so handsome.

A little abruptly, Harry has Draco on his feet, the vines falling from his arms to the floor. The floor has grown moss, thick and soft with tiny purple and white flowers.

“That’s you, love.” Harry says. Draco doesn’t understand. Harry pulls him from the room down the hall to a bathroom, where Draco’s reflection stares blankly back at him. There are thistles in his hair. His skin has a faint pinky-gold lustre, his hair is glowing white. Harry touches it again, twirling a lock around his finger.

“What is happening to me?” Draco whispers. His fingers trace his cheek. That’s his hair, when did the thistles get there?

“It’s your magic, baby. Isn’t it beautiful?”

It’s fading slowly, even in the few minutes since Draco arrived in front of the mirror.

“I- I don’t understand…?”

It is beautiful. He never knew his magic could… it can’t be his. Harry’s the one that’s full to the brim with magic. Harry has beautiful spells and a Patronus and life and love and beauty, not Draco. It’s not Draco’s magic, it’s Harry’s, binding him, softening the ground under Draco’s knees, crowning him with blooms. Draco’s magic doesn’t do things like this.

“It’s not mine.” He says, looking away from the light coming off his skin.

“Of course it is.”

Draco shakes his head.

“My magic isn’t like this.” He reminds Harry. Harry knows Draco’s magic. It’s a dull brown-grey like infertile dirt that’s baked in the sun and packed tight underfoot. It doesn’t make pretty things, it takes their beauty and twists it into something grotesque.

“It’s your magic, Draco. Look at it.” Harry says, stepping behind Draco and lifting his chin. “Look what you can make.”

Draco’s eyes are empty as he looks into them. Harry has to be wrong, he doesn’t understand his strength and power, he never has. He doesn’t realise it’s his own.

There’s a sound downstairs, and Harry’s arms are suddenly restrictive and tight.

“Is your dad home?” Harry asks Draco’s reflection. It nods slowly, ears prickling, searching for a door closed too harshly or footsteps a little too clipped on the stairs. “Okay. It doesn’t sound like he’s coming upstairs right now.”

The glow is gone, sucked back into Harry’s body and away from Draco. He’s normal again, pinched and sallow and weary now. He averts his eyes. Harry had buttoned up Draco’s trousers when they stood, but Draco checks again to be sure. His feet are bare, one tiny purple flower from the moss caught between his toes. He kicks it away, and the flower turns into grey-brown dust on the floor.

“Are you going to be okay this evening?” Harry asks, and Draco has no idea how to answer. “I’ll stay with you.”

Draco shakes his head. If Father sees Harry here, he’ll be angry, and he’ll rant about Harry and make Draco agree that Harry is a waste of good blood and failing his family line, and it’s just-

“You have to go.” He says. “Everything will be worse if you stay.”

“What would be worse? Worse for you or for me?”

“For- for both. Everything, all of it.”

Draco could never sleep in Harry’s arms in this house. He’d stay awake, worried his father might burst in at any moment and know that Draco is- is exactly what Father hates, and then he’ll hate Draco.

“Okay, I’ll go.” Harry says, softer. “No chance I could persuade you to come with me?”

Draco shakes his head.

“You need to go before he comes looking for me.”

“Are there wards? How do you want me to leave?”

“There are wards, but they’re not really used anymore. You can apparate out.”

There’s another noise from downstairs, and Draco pulls Harry back to the room they’d been in, where Harry’s wand lies on the table.

“Come see me soon.” Harry says. “Or send me an owl.”

“Yes, I will.” Draco says, grabbing Harry’s wand and shoving it toward him. “Go, please.”

Harry kisses Draco once before he apparates away. Draco shakes the thistles from his hair, shoving them into a table drawer when the footsteps come closer. The vines are gone already, and Draco pushes the sofa to hide the moss until he can get rid of it. The room is a mess anyway, mostly covered in drop cloths, so the sofa doesn’t look so out of place. Draco grabs a rag and throws himself at the bookshelves to dust the lower ones.

“Son.”

Draco turns, at a normal speed, to see his father surveying the room.

“Were- were you able to get through the… shopping?” Draco asks. His voice comes out funny. Father walks to the window, looking over the terrace before answering.

“It was a very productive day, for me.” He says. Draco sets down the figurine he’s been dusting for far too long. Father approaches. Draco keeps his head down, focused intently on the items he’s removing. “And for you?”

“Very… very productive, thank you.” Draco says. Why is his throat closing? He blinks fast, turning away under the pretence of setting the figures and books from the shelf aside.

Father’s hand pulls Draco’s chin around to face him, looking stern and like he knows exactly what Draco spent his afternoon doing. He plucks- he finds a thistle in Draco’s hair and plucks it out, twisting it between his fingers for a moment. Then he crushes it, pulverises it into ashy, grey-brown dust that falls onto the knees of Draco’s trousers.

“Seems that way.” Father says, quiet and cold. Draco watches him leave. He’s stopped breathing again.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

The thistles are gone when Draco looks for them.

He’d closed them into a drawer, out of sight. Now, he removes the drawer from the table, taps the ashy brown dust out onto a rag to dispose of it.

The moss is gone too. He sweeps up the mess.

It’s a quiet Saturday morning, and Father isn’t in his study when Draco passes it. He prepares a light breakfast for the two of them, wondering again where Astoria’s house-elf had gone. Maybe she’d taken it back without mentioning it. Harry had cleaned everything he’d used to make Draco’s lunch yesterday, leaving everything where he’d found it.

The breakfast sits under a stasis - Draco had cut up persimmons and cured ham to go with tea and toast, leaving most of the food for his father to find when he’s ready to eat.

Before long, it’s midmorning, and Draco has no reason to loiter in the kitchen any longer, he has to go to the spa that Astoria had booked for him.

He washes up quickly, trying and failing to achieve the effortlessly aristocratic appearance his father commanded as a young man. The morning is hot already, and Draco rushes to leave with enough time to catch his breath outside the building.

They show him to a room, and a woman appears to give him a massage, wash his face and hair, pamper his skin with fragrant, luxurious products. Whilst she paints some sort of cream onto his face, each of his hands is taken to polish and buff his nails. It’s overwhelming, having this many hands on his body. He lies very still until they finish.

Afterward, when they leave him to redress in privacy, Draco steps in front of the mirror.

His eyes are flat, staring back out at him. His hair has been styled, a little windswept back off his face, just brushing his shoulders. His skin is a little pink, a little glowy. Not like yesterday, not glowing from magic. There’s a dampness to it from the products they’d use, and it reflects the light. That’s all. No magic.

Draco dresses.

The establishment is uptown, far from any muggles or even magical businesses of lesser esteem. Draco walks instead of going straight home. It’s very warm out, and the hot breeze flutters through his hair. He catches looks - the Malfoys are not as prominent in society these days, it’s unusual to catch sight of one.

Cutting through an alley, Draco leaves the street full of long-established pureblood shops in favour of walking through a neighbourhood, where almost no one is outside, just one lone elderly man tending his garden quietly. As he passes, Draco can hear him humming a song to himself. He seems peaceful.

And then, somehow, he’s found himself in the muggle sector, where he’s spent many, many nights drinking to the point of total blackout. He tries not to do that anymore. Ernie had asked him to take care of himself, and Draco tries to listen to Ernie. Just up the street is where Draco had sat with his trousers down for a muggle man to slide a needle through the tip of his co*ck. It aches a little to remember - Draco is such a slu*t for pain.

He hadn’t really put much thought into it - the pain - until Harry made him. Harry with his wicked, beautiful, magical touch and his soft, uncommonly kind words in Draco’s ear and against his hair.

He enters the shop, the little bell chiming.

It’s late morning on a Saturday, and the shop is busy. There are customers in every chair, and Draco looks around at them. They’re getting tattooed, all of them. The man who’d done Draco’s piercing leaves his customer with a word to jog up to Draco, peeling off his gloves.

“Hey mate, how’s Prince Albert treating you?” He asks warmly. Draco frowns at him. “The piercing?”

Oh, that was the name of it. Draco hadn’t really listened at the time.

“Fine, thank you.” Draco says. The man tilts his head, questioning. Draco shakes himself. “Oh, em. You appear to be busy, I don’t have an appointment.”

“What were you looking to do today?”

Draco looks around. He hadn’t planned it out. The man hadn’t wanted to pierce Draco’s co*ck without Draco thinking about it more.

“Nipples.” Draco’s mouth says, eyes landing on a photo of a heavily tattooed man’s chest, where heavy rings hang from each nipple. “Piercings, not tattoos.”

“Nice.” The man says, looking at the same photo Draco is. “They don’t start out that size, you have to work your way up.”

“I know,” Draco says. He doesn’t.

“I think Claudia is wrapping up, we can see if she’ll squeeze you in before her next appointment.”

“Really?”

Claudia is a buxom woman with tattoos on every visible spot of skin. Draco might be attracted to her, but it might just be the way she pushes him into the chair and tells him to take off his shirt. She smells like smoke and bubblegum and men’s cologne. She thrusts a case of piercings into his hands to pick something out.

“Small.” Draco points to the barbells with the tiny ball ends. “So they won’t be visible through my clothes.”

“They might still be visible, even with a low profile.” Claudia tells him. “Depends on what you wear, how tight or transparent it is.”

“I don’t wear anything that’s tight or transparent.”

“Probably won’t be an issue, then.”

Draco nods redundantly, and she takes the case away.

“Did you eat this morning, love?” She asks, peeling open a plastic pouch with a needle in it. “You squeamish?”

“I ate.” Draco says. “Blood doesn’t bother me. I got a Prince Albert last time.”

Her painted on eyebrows arch even higher than where they sit regularly, and she smiles, shark-like.

“You’re into some fun stuff. Pretty wicked tat you’ve got on your arm there.”

Draco looks down at the faded red of the dark mark. It looks like a brand to him, because that’s what it is.

“I got that a long time ago,” he says, a little distant. It had hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before. Oddly enough, Draco can’t remember how he went from not having it to having it. He can’t even remember when it happened. Sometime in 1996, is all he knows. Maybe 1995 or 1997. Probably 1996, though. Most likely.

“Yeah, I can see. You should get it touched up sometime. Cleaner lines, cover up the blur.”

Draco won’t be doing that.

Claudia maps out the piercings before she does them, handing Draco a mirror to see for himself. He nods.

The needle is just a poke at first, and then it’s stinging stinging forcing every drop of his consciousness to focus into that tiny bit of flesh.

“Alright? Love, look up at me.”

He can hardly hear her past the ringing in his ears, but he tips his face up to see her frown.

“You going to pass out on me?”

“No.” He says, voice barely more than the roughest rasp. His co*ck is aching.

“You sure? Your eyes are black.”

Draco swallows, nods quickly. Claudia’s gaze flits down to Draco’s lap, his strained trousers, and smirks. He blinks, twice.

“I see.” She says, low and teasing. Draco lets out a meep of confusion. She laughs under her breath, and continues to clean the new bar sitting in his nipple.

The other one goes better, if Draco actually whimpering aloud could be considered ‘better.’ He bites down on his tongue, and Claudia thinks it’s funny, but she doesn’t comment on it.

He follows her stiffly to pay, barely listening to her instructions of how to care for them whilst they’re fresh. She gives him a bottle of something and a page of instructions, and he thanks her and leaves.

This time, remembering the sting of the co*ck piercing, Harry’s reprimands about having sex with a new piercing, Draco swings by the apothecary to buy a quick-healing wound salve. There might be some at home from when Draco was a child, but he couldn’t bear to ask Father where it might be kept.

At home, Draco dabs the salve onto each nipple, then onto his co*ck. He washes it off his hands, looking up at his dull, expressionless face again.

Those are his eyes. Eyes belonging to Draco Malfoy. He grew them, he wears them every day. He can’t fathom why they always look so lifeless.

He’s seen a handful of deaths in his life. Grandmother Druella, who’d died here in the house when Draco was nine. It was Father who found her, and Draco watched them carry her out to be buried properly. They’d closed her eyes before he saw her corpse.

And then, during the war, he’d seen many others die in front of him, watched their eyes go from scared, or angry, or righteously impassioned - and then blank, when there was no soul behind them.

Sometime around then, Draco watched his own eyes lose the life behind them.

He turns off the light and leaves the bathroom.

For lunch, Draco makes two sandwiches on loaves of wheat from the bakery Mother always loved. He slices each down the centre, plating them on the prettiest leaves of lettuce, adding a cut up tomato on the side.

Father hadn’t eaten the breakfast Draco left for him. He seems to have eaten - there’s a dirty plate in the sink and a coffee cup beside it. But he hadn’t touched the spread. Draco washes the dishes.

For lunch, Draco dumps a lemon’s worth of juice into a pitcher of ice water, sweetens it, and pours two glasses. He leaves one with Father’s sandwich - the bigger, nicer one - and brings his own lunch upstairs to pick at as he works.

The door to Father’s study is closed, and Draco wonders why he hadn’t left it ajar like he normally does.

For lunch, Draco cleans the bathroom the Dark Lord had used. He only vomits twice, giving up on his sandwich when none of it stays down. The discarded snakeskins on the floor make Draco’s skin crawl to touch, so he makes a trip back to the store Harry had taken him to and buys the thickest rubber gloves he can find. He scrubs every inch of tile with tile cleaner and then straight bleach, and it still doesn’t feel clean enough.

He’s ruined his manicure, his hands red and chapped by the afternoon.

When he’s deemed the bathroom as clean as he can make it, he moves on to the adjoining bedroom.

The bed looks barely slept in, but there’s a corner of the room that was clearly dedicated to Nagini’s… health. He shudders, goes back to the muggle store to ask them if historical carpets are redeemable after a snake has lived on them for about two years. He leaves when they have no idea how to answer his question.

It’s a task to remove the carpet - it’s nailed down, but not glued - and Draco takes it outside to wash on the grass. It’ll probably kill the grass, but the grass isn’t about 500 years old, and the carpet is. Draco further sullies the work done on him at the spa by getting some of the cleaning product in his hair.

When Draco lugs the beaten, scrubbed, charmed-dry carpet back upstairs, he passes Father’s study, sees it’s empty. He reinstalls the carpet with the now clean nails, then has to take it up and redo it, because he’d put it back facing the wrong direction.

Exhausted, Draco washes up in his own bathroom - the one he’d used his whole life, just a small ensuite attached to his bedroom with a second door opening to the hallway. He’s kept that door locked for about seven years now, and he’s not sure he even knows where the key went. Not that a wizard would need one.

Still smelling faintly of bleach and artificial lemon, Draco collects his forgotten sandwich from earlier and returns to the kitchen.

Father isn’t there, but his sandwich is. He hadn’t eaten it. Draco looks around, though he’s not sure what he’s looking for. Father, standing in the doorway to tell him the sandwich had too much oil in it, or that he could see roots sprouting in the tomato? Draco thought his sandwich tasted fine. He wraps Father’s in paper, foolishly thinking perhaps Father will want to eat it tomorrow.

Tomorrow - Draco will be gone all day, touring a castle to be married in. He tucks the paper around the sandwich tightly, setting it in the ice box. Perhaps Father thought the food was for Draco, didn’t know Draco had his portion separately. Maybe Father thought the house-elf had prepared food for Draco.

Draco leaves the kitchen, returning to his bedroom.

With shaky hands, Draco strips out of his mussed clothes, a little startled to remember the tiny silver bars sitting in his nipples. They look so out of balance with the thick metal in the tip of his co*ck.

Draco touches them - they’re healed now, he’s allowed to - and his nerves feel frayed. Claudia had laughed at his reaction to being pierced. Draco wonders how agreeable Astoria would be to sticking needles into her husband’s skin to get him off. She seems like she’d allow it for the sake of producing an heir.

Maybe she’ll see his piercings and decide it’s too strange, too deviant, and ask him to take them out, heal his skin to be as it was a month ago, before he’d done such a thing to himself.

And then he thinks of Harry, and Harry dabbing at the blood from the piercing, telling him things like cum isn’t sterile. There’s a spiked bar in Harry’s face at the top of his nose, but Draco hasn’t found any other piercings on him. He’s seen the places that would have them - face, ears, nipples, co*ck. Maybe Harry has had sex with other people who have gotten piercings. And that’s why he knows what to do about one. Either way, now that Draco’s piercings are healed, maybe he’ll touch them.

Maybe he’ll pull on the ring in his co*ck and -

Don’t think so much. Draco tells himself, stroking his aching, aching co*ck. His other hand hesitates, flitting briefly over one nipple before lifting to his mouth. Stay present, focus on this.

Two fingers slide over his tongue - they don’t have the weight of Harry’s co*ck as it slid into his mouth. He’s missing the hand in his hair. They slip deeper, touching the back of his tongue. His other fingers are getting wet. His mouth is watering. There’s spit running down his wrist as he slides them in and out, a memory of Harry’s fingers like this as Draco dangled off the edge of a chest of drawers driving his hand on his co*ck.

It sounds like Harry’s voice in the back of his mind, Harry telling him, Relax, Draco. Focus on how good it feels. How it felt to have the needle in your skin. Feel the fingers sliding in and out of your mouth. It makes your mouth water, doesn’t it. You exist for me to put my co*ck in you. That’s why it feels this way. You were made for it. Your body made to be penetrated. That’s why you’re a failure at everything else.

He stops abruptly, his empty eyes searching for why, why, Harry would say such a thing to him.

Draco puts different clothes on, clean clothes, washes the drool off his chin and hand. Unbecoming behaviour, hallucinating Harry Potter whispering into his ear to get off. Deviant, freakish behaviour. Draco turns a full circle in his room before he decides to return to the kitchen. Maybe Father is there.

He checks the study again, finding it empty, and continues downstairs.

There’s little chance he’s outside the house. He has to be supervised anytime he leaves the grounds, and he’d just gone out yesterday. He must be inside, Draco hadn’t looked for him very hard.

Draco eventually finds him reading in a little-used sitting room with three walls of books and the grand piano. He raps on the door jamb, but Father continues reading.

“Father?” He tries. Clears his throat. “Father, I was going to start on dinner.”

He waits for a bit, his brows dipping as Father doesn’t so much as lift his eyes from the book.

“Was there- was there anything you’d particularly like to eat?” He asks. He sounds small. Weak, and scared. He clears his throat again. “I- I made breakfast and lunch, but I should have- should have left a note, or- or brought it to you. I’m sorry, I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready. Father?”

Draco chews his lip, clinging to the door frame like a child to its mother’s legs. He blinks quickly a few times, standing straighter. Steps inside the room. He hesitates again, and Father is still reading.

“Father, have I done something to upset you?” He asks. His voice is shaking. Father lifts a ribbon from the armrest of his chair to set between the book pages, closing it and placing it on the table beside him. He sits back in his chair, looking up at Draco at last.

“Why should you think that?” He asks, flat, toneless. Draco wants to die.

“I… um. Um.” Draco’s breath is coming in gasps now, and he blinks again. More. His mouth is twitching too much to form words. Oh, he’s crying. “I’m s-s-sorry.”

Father clicks his tongue, looking away, his eyebrows lifting and falling once. He’s unhappy, he’s unhappy with Draco, again, and it’s like a knife to his heart. Draco sniffles, swiping at his wet cheeks. It doesn’t help, he’s still blubbering.

“Draco.” Father says, low. He stops. Shakes his head again, eyes lifting above Draco to the back of the room. He can’t even stand to look at his son. Draco chokes.

“I’m s-sorry I h-had… I asked P-Potter to um. To visit.”

“Visit.” Father hisses. He stands, finally meeting Draco’s eyes. He’s furious. Draco collapses.

“I’m sorry!” He wails, head hanging. “I’m so s-sorry, Father, I- I swear, I’ll never speak with him again, I promise I won’t, I’ll never speak with him ever again, please please- I’ll- I’ll- please forgive me, Father, please-”

He’s a disgusting sight, snot and tears running down his face, dripping into the beautiful carpet under his hands. It’s probably from the 1700s, and now it’s defiled by Draco’s horrible snivelling. He can't bear to lift his head, to see how Father thinks of him. His fingers flex against the ancient fibres, and he sees Father’s shoe step closer. For an awful, hopeful moment, Draco thinks perhaps Father will kick him.

But he doesn’t. His hand rests on the top of Draco’s head, and for the great comfort he provides, all Draco can do is sob harder and cling to the hems of his lovely, well tailored trousers with sweaty, tear-soaked fists.

“You’re a very difficult child, Draco.”

“I’m s-sorry.” Draco breathes. “I’m sorry.”

“So you’ve said. And yet, here we are, fresh off another dalliance with those queers. No respect for your name, no respect for your family, no respect for me. So what am I supposed to think, Draco? Hm?”

Draco lowers his head further, nodding.

“I’m so sorry, Father.” Draco says again. He can’t say it enough. “Never again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I have worked very hard to give you everything you could ask for. I’ve protected you throughout your time at school when you insisted on causing trouble at every opportunity. Our gracious Dark Lord gave you opportunity after opportunity to rise through his ranks to become someone valuable to his cause, and you failed him, you failed us. You brought shame to my family name. And now, you continually show your spirit is as weak as an adult as it was as a child.”

Draco wishes he’d just kicked. Wishes he’d kicked and beaten him to death, because that would be more bearable. Crucio would hurt less.

“I raised you to be better than this.”

He sobs.

“Will you continue to fail me, Draco?”

“No, Father.” Draco whispers. “All I want is to be- to be worthy of your love. Nothing else.”

Father takes his hand back, shaking Draco’s hands from each leg. Draco folds himself smaller, wishing he could vanish completely, to be nothing at all. Father sits down in his chair again, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, observing Draco. Draco squeezes his eyes shut.

“Of course I love you.” Father finally says. Draco breaks again, grateful beyond words, hiding behind his hands as his chest shakes in relief. “But you have always, and will always be my greatest disappointment.”

Draco’s crying slows, and he looks up at last. Father isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s reading again. Draco sniffles, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, the room blurring as tears fill his eyes but don’t fall.

“Go clean yourself up.” Father says, and Draco lifts to his feet, vision tunnelling as his head pounds, and leaves.

He stumbles gracelessly up the stairs to his room.

The walls seem to sway with his uneven steps, and the hallway door to his bathroom swings open for him. He trips inside, pushing the door shut and falling back against it. His head drops with a thud. He must be better than this.

Father didn’t have to tell him that he’s on thin ice.

Draco takes one step, and he’s in front of the sink, slurping water from his cupped hand and avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He splashes water on his face, then puts his entire head under the faucet to cool his burning eyes.

That’s all it is, Draco must be better. He hasn’t worked hard enough to be something Lucius could be proud of. He hasn’t. All he’s done is get into trouble, fail, fail worse, and wait for someone else to fix everything he’d broken.

Standing upright, Draco stares at the running water as the water on his face rolls down his neck and chest into his shirt. He reaches out to turn off the tap. His hand lingers there. Falls against his side. Be better.

When he lifts his hands to his shirt buttons, they quake so severely, he can’t manage to get the buttons undone. He pulls it over his head instead. If his shirt fit him properly, he shouldn’t be able to do that. That’s what the buttons are for. He has to get his clothes tailored. That would make him better. He lays the shirt on the vanity as a reminder. Tailoring. He nods.

His fingers go next to the bars in his nipples - his latest deviance, and an easy one to undo. He takes out the pot of healing salve, then sets to work undoing the ball on the end of the bar. It’s very, very small, small enough for the sin to be concealed from sight. No more secrets under his clothes. He will be better.

When his shaky hands pull too hard on the bar, his co*ck hardens, and he kicks off his trousers to twist a cold, wet towel around the base of it. It doesn’t help, of course, but he’s trying. The ball comes off at last, and he slides the bar from his nipple. He wipes off the blood with a wet hand, and dabs the healing salve onto the empty hole. He turns to the other one.

The blood lingering on his fingers makes it impossible to loosen the ball on his left nipple piercing. He washes it off, splashes water on his chest, and scrubs it dry. Tries again. Now he’s made this nipple bleed as well, and he grunts in frustration. He repeats the process to clean away the blood, holding the towel to his nipple with some pressure for a moment to lessen the bleeding. And now he’s bled on the pristine white towels. He’ll wash them by hand until there’s no trace of it.

The pressure didn’t really work, and the piercing is still bleeding when he tries again. His fingers slip through blood as he tries again and again to get the f*cking thing out. It’s impossible to see the shape of metal past the blood now, so he moves to the shower, turning it all the way cold. The coppery blood washes down the drain. It’s cold. He’s already shivering.

Draco switches to try wrenching the ball from the ring in his co*ck, which is a bit easier because he’d put a massive f*cking ring into his co*ck. He holds the ring in his palm, wondering what the f*ck he’s meant to do with it now. Flush it, maybe.

He sets the pieces on the floor outside the shower to be dealt with later. Returns his attention to the stubborn last piercing. His nipple is taut and achy from the torment and the cold water, but he continues, determined to be rid of these indiscretions immediately. He’s gritting his teeth. It’s too wet, too tiny to get undone, and Draco holds tight to one side of it, looks up at the ceiling, and rips it through the other side.

After a brief flash of white, he becomes aware of a throbbing ache at the back of his head, and realises he’s laying in the tub now, cold water landing over most of his body, cold porcelain at his back. The toes of his left foot ache, and he sees them crumpled against the corner of the tub. He lifts his hand a little, straining to see the silver glint of the piercing out of his body. He lets his head fall back to stare at the ceiling.

Closes his eyes.

It’s cold.

Tomorrow, he’ll make a plan, he’ll find all the ways to be better, how to earn his place.

He hopes distantly that his head isn’t bleeding. He hadn’t seen any blood washing down the drain, but he hadn’t looked for it.

There are little spots dancing around the inside of his eyelids. He watches them. They move when he moves his eyes.

He doesn’t think he falls asleep, but the water goes off at some point, and he doesn’t recall when. Enough time has passed that every one of his limbs is asleep, and he has to work for a while to get any of his fingers moving. His legs take longer, but when they’re functioning again, he stands up to take a proper shower.

Regardless of what hour it is, the idea of getting into bed and sleeping is vile. When he’s finished with his shower, he steps out to find his most well-fitting robes, pausing only to dab more salve onto his empty piercings. The marks should fade in the next week, but the holes themselves will be healed today.

It’s light out, but barely. The door to his bedroom is open, and he closes it softly. There’s no sound in the house. Father must be asleep.

Draco finds robes from a summer function he’d attended at fourteen, and they fit him better than anything he’d had made for his latter years at school. Rather short in the leg, but they’d been hemmed, and he lets out the length and steams the crease away. In the mirror, his glazed eyes roam down the embroidery over his chest. He hasn’t developed any further into a man since he was fourteen. A true disappointment in every way.

He dries his hair, sectioning the top half to tie back with a dark ribbon. His face is hopeless, so he leaves the bathroom to put on shoes.

To avoid mussing his robes, Draco doesn’t cook anything for breakfast. He has a sliced apple and a bit of bread. The doorbell rings, and it’s jarring in the quiet stillness of the morning. A glance at the clock tells him he still has an hour before he has to meet Astoria to portkey to Scotland. To find a wedding venue. For their wedding.

Draco goes to answer it, finding Astoria on the other side, already dressed, a pair of brown kid gloves and what must be the portkey in her hands.

“Oh good, you’re dressed.” She says as a greeting, stepping inside.

“You can apparate inside.” Draco tells her. She always comes to the door as if she’s a guest here.

“That’s rude.” She says. “Did you go to the spa I booked for you?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” She says, frowning a little. She brushes a fallen strand of hair back from his face. She takes one of his hands, her thumb brushing across the back of it. She reaches out for the other, and he rests it on top of hers. “What happened to your hands?”

“I was… working.” He tells her. “Cleaning.”

She pauses, setting one of Draco’s hands on top of the other to free her hand to dig around her purse. She pulls out a small bottle of lotion, squeezing a dot onto the back of each hand.

“There you are.” She says, rubbing it in. It stings a little from how raw his skin had gotten. He hadn’t noticed until she mentioned it. “I came to be certain you were appropriately dressed.”

Draco stands very still, awaiting her judgement.

“Did you have those made recently?” She asks, touching his sleeve. Draco shakes his head. She hums again. “That’s the best fitting suit I’ve seen on you in years.”

She notices his face falling, her sharp eyes lingering on his expression. She puts her hand to his cheek.

“Chin up, Draco. If nothing else, you’ll get to see a beautiful castle today.”

She pats his cheek once before moving her hand away.

“I’ll handle the particulars, of course.” She continues, walking past him toward a sitting room with the drapes drawn. She opens them, squinting into the light. “The forecast for Scotland is good. It’ll be clouded but not foggy.”

She turns to face him, sitting on the sofa. He mirrors her.

“Would you like to eat dinner together?”

“Of course.” Draco says. She smiles.

“I don’t have evening plans, so I’ll leave it to you to pick the place. Nothing fancy, I’ve adapted my diet to prepare for pregnancy.”

“Alright.” Draco says without internalising any of it. She gives him another once over, then nods.

It’s a little odd that she doesn’t speak again, but Draco is glad for it. Neither of them say anything else, or move from their positions on the sofa, until the footsteps upstairs alert them that Father is up.

He doesn’t come downstairs, and after only a moment, the door to his study closes. Draco closes his eyes for a second.

“We’ll need to move him from the master to the other wing.” Astoria says casually. “Let’s do that when we set a date.”

“We could get married today.” Draco says. Astoria looks up, surprised. Draco’s voice was very even, and he looks at her steadily. “We’re going anyway, we could just get married today.”

“Do you want to?”

Draco doesn’t have an answer for that.

“Why shouldn’t we?”

“The house isn’t done. Our room still has your father in it.”

“I don’t want to wait.” Draco says, and at least that is true. Astoria looks at him quietly.

“Alright.” She says. “A private ceremony, just family.”

He nods.

“I’ll owl my parents. Go tell Lucius.”

Draco stands slowly, watching Astoria leave to write a letter. He stays in place for another little while. He’ll be better. He takes one step, then another. He climbs the stairs, walks to the study, raps softly on the door. He opens it, heart beating in his throat.

“Father.” He says, bowing his head.

“Draco.”

“Astoria and I are going to be married today.”

“It’s not as if I haven’t tried.” Astoria says quietly to her mother. Her robes are immaculate, but Mrs Greengrass is fluttering her hands over them anyway.

“Your sister loves you,” Mrs Greengrass says for the third time. “I’m sure she wishes she could be here.”

“It’s been over two years.”

“She loves you, Astoria.”

Draco is standing beside his father, silent and stiff.

It all moves very fast.

Their hands are bound together with a traditional Scottish knot. Astoria’s hand is smaller than he’d thought it would be. He’s touched her hands before, hasn’t he?

“Draco?”

He jerks, looking up at the officiant, who seems concerned.

“Repeat after me, please.”

Draco nods.

“I take you, my heart, at the rising of the moon.”

“I take you, my heart. At the rising of the moon.”

“And the setting of the stars.”

“And the setting of the stars.”

“To love and to honour through all that may come.”

“To love and to honour through all that may come.”

“Through all our lives together, in all our lives, may we be reborn.”

“Through all our lives together, in our- in all-” Draco blinks twice, looking back at the officiant. He smiles, dipping his head a little, like it’s sweet that Draco can’t follow the simplest instruction.

“Through all our lives together, in all our lives, may we be reborn.”

“Through all our… all our…”

Astoria squeezes his hand. Draco clears his throat.

“Through all our lives. Through… Through.”

“Through all our lives together.” The officiant repeats. Draco echoes him. “In all our lives, may we be reborn.”

“In all our lives, may we be- may we be reborn.”

Had Astoria already gone? Had Draco missed her side?

“That we may meet and know.”

“That we may meet and know.”

“And love again.”

“And love again.”

“And remember.”

“And- and remember.”

“Very good.” He says. “Astoria, please repeat after me.”

He hadn’t missed it. But he does now, ears full of cotton as he watches Astoria’s lips make the words.

And then it’s over.

Are you pleased with me?

He kisses her briefly to light applause from the few people present. As soon as he’s pulled away from her, his eyes flit to Father’s, then away.

Have I made you proud?

He looks at Astoria, then away. It feels like their hands are glued together, like he couldn’t take his away if he tried. Father congratulates the happy couple. Draco excuses himself to the bathroom, walking quickly and taking many wrong turns before he finds it. A bathroom. The ladies’ room. No one is here, and he ducks inside, blocking the door with his body. The mirror faces him. His soulless, empty eyes stare back at him.

Why did you do it?

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

“Tonight?”

“I don’t see any reason to wait, do you?” Astoria says, draping her beautiful robes over the seat of the chair in the corner. They should be hung, immediately, and he takes a stuttering step to do it himself. They'll get wrinkled, and the beaded embroidery will catch on itself and snag or tear, and they’re heirloom pieces. She hadn’t said so, but the technique is old and out of use these days.

The closet is nearly empty still - it’s been about six decades since anyone has occupied this room. It’s maybe why she’d chosen it. Maybe it’s because it has one of the larger ensuites with a clawfoot tub and a sculpted porcelain sink basin. Maybe it’s because it’s a suite of honour that had somehow escaped defilement by the death eaters.

Astoria’s wedding robes hang beside three other extant pieces wrapped in layers of careful preservation charms. Draco looks at them for a long moment.

“Draco.”

God. Sex. Right.

Better, he has to be better.

He turns to her again, mouth open to say yes, of course. Only a breathy wheeze comes out, and Astoria rolls her eyes. Better, Draco. For his wife. Wife. Wife.

“You’re acting as if this is totally new to you. It really doesn’t need to be this difficult, Draco.”

It’s not, she’s right, it isn’t difficult at all, he’s just being a baby again, just a pathetic waste of a person.

“You only have to do your part for a few minutes, and it’s not such a great chore, is it?”

“No, of course not.” Draco says softly. He nods.

“Of course not. And then I will do the rest of it for nearly ten months. So really, you have the easy part.”

“Of course,” Draco says again, fainter. His fingers mechanically undo his buttons, his eyes landing on the bed, made up with summer sheets, because no one had bothered with them since 1995 when everything went to sh*t.

The light bedspread isn’t very old, it’s actually fairly new to the house. It’s a lovely woven piece that Draco has admired. There’s not two alike in the entire house, every room with its own decoration to suit the fauna visible through the window and the type of light filtering in.

Draco’s robes slip off his arms, and he lets them fall.

Astoria is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him, and he picks up the material to drape over the chair. His fingers stumble over the laces of his shoes. He should have worn a more elegant boot, the type with buckles that shine and a small heel to lengthen his leg, but he’d worn plain black oxfords with no style and no personality.

He’s extremely aware of Astoria’s eyes on him. Maybe he’s supposed to put on a little show for her, as foreplay, or something. Probably. The thought nearly makes him sick. He blinks very fast for a moment, then unlaces the other shoe.

Shoes off, then stockings. Trousers. The linen tunic, and his shorts last. He’s bare, and trembling, and he’s never been more flaccid in his life.

Astoria’s eyes are on his body, and she beckons him closer. His toes catch on the carpet, and he stumbles gracelessly to her.

“You’re working yourself up over something that could be pleasurable if you let it.” Astoria says, setting her hands on his hips. The lights are still on, and something tells him this would be easier if she couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t see her face as she regards him with mostly indifference. He puts his hands on her jaw and bends to kiss her.

Pleasurable. If he lets it.

There are men who can enjoy sex with someone they’re not attracted to, aren’t there?

When they part, Astoria presses her lips to Draco’s chest. He lets out a shaking breath.

It’s nothing, actually. He’s just being dramatic again, and foolish, and making everything more difficult for Astoria. He steels himself.

“Lie on the bed.”

Draco climbs up onto it and lays on his back, looking straight up at the ceiling. He startles violently when Astoria touches his arm, and he averts his eyes when he realises she’s taken her clothes off. He looks back at her, eyes on her collarbones.

“Lift up, I’m going to turn the blankets down.”

Right. Right. Who has sex on a bedspread?

Draco rolls off the bed to stand on the other side, folding back the blankets with her.

“What would be most comfortable for you?” Astoria asks, and Draco stares at a crease in the sheets.

Ernie pins him down - either by pushing his legs up to fold him in half, or with Draco on his knees and Ernie’s weight holding his shoulders to the bed. Draco is what one might call a passive partner. A pillowbiter, even. Probably because he’s selfish, weak, useless and terrified of most things.

“Draco?”

He jolts. What was the question?

“Whatever you prefer.” Draco says. Swallows. “I don’t have a preference.”

She’s quiet a moment, but Draco doesn’t look up. She pats the bed, and he climbs up again.

Astoria settles first, laying on her back, propped slightly up with a pillow behind her shoulders. Draco moves between her legs. He stills there, at a loss. He knows there’s something to be done with a mouth down there, and he knows generally the idea is somewhere along the lines of stick it in and out for a while until something happens, but it feels a little… impolite. Just. To stick it in.

Plus, he’s no harder than he was before. Nothing is being stuck anywhere until that changes.

Huffing, Astoria sits up, folding her legs under her and pushing Draco down.

He gapes at her stupidly as she takes his co*ck in her hand and lowers her mouth to suck on it. He looks up at the ceiling, imagining a spider dropping down onto his chest.

There’s a loud slurping noise from Astoria’s mouth, and Draco squeezes his eyes shut.

Before, it seemed that absolutely anything could make him hard. Pain. Humiliation. Submission. Praise. Attention of any kind, really. He couldn’t stop getting hard even at horribly inappropriate moments.

But it takes what feels like ten hours for Astoria to coax him into something stiff enough to not bend under a strong breeze. Maybe stiff enough to get inside her.

When she lifts back, Draco starts to move to his knees again, but she pushes him down with a hand on his chest.

“I’ll do it.” She says, and straddles his hips. “Just think about Potter or something.”

Potter.

Harry.

Draco turns his head toward the door, eyes catching on the ornate glass knob. Blown glass, flecked with gold, inset with a painted porcelain piece in the centre.

Astoria slides laboriously down onto Draco’s prick.

The doorknobs of each floor match each other, except for Draco’s room, because he’d thrown the door open too hard when he was seven and shattered it. It had been replaced with brass in the same style, but a much younger Draco had been very flattered to have the one unique knob in the house.

Of course, as he’d grown older, he’d learned that the unique knobs were the glass ones, and his was just a mass produced version that would have been used in thousands of muggle homes.

That had bothered him for a long time, before everything had happened and he’d finally determined that maybe the muggles weren’t so bad, or at least, how could they be worse than wizards?

He thinks of Claudia pushing him back into her chair to sit for his piercings, her command over his body and his humiliating and vocal reaction. She’d been very relaxed, very cordial, and Draco thinks she could probably make him hard just by looking at him the way she had.

“What does Harry do when he’s here?”

Draco abruptly remembers where he is, and looks at Astoria’s hands, propped on Draco’s hips. Her manicure is pristine, as his had been for about two hours before he ruined it with bleach and other chemicals.

“Does he f*ck you?”

Who?

“Harry.”

Harry.

“Potter?”

“No.” Draco says faintly. “He hasn’t.”

“What is he doing all that time?”

Draco really has no idea. He shakes his head, looking to the doorknob again, and Astoria makes a noise.

“How does he make you come?”

“He doesn’t.” Draco says, barely audible. He’d been saving it for marriage, saving this for marriage, and marriage is here now, and nothing is happening.

Astoria lifts off and wraps her hand around the length of it. He’s thrilled he hasn’t gone limp again, but he doesn’t think he’s anywhere close to being able to org*sm. Her hand slides up and down, up and down, quicker, and Draco thinks somewhere, distantly, in the back of his head, he can feel it. But he’s staring at her hand around someone’s co*ck and watching her hand move.

Look at me, Draco. Harry didn’t let this happen when they’d talked, the constant dalliances into his own mind. Harry made him stay focused. He’d held Draco’s chin to force Draco’s attention to stay, and it was horrible but it worked, and it was just Harry, Harry, in Draco’s head.

Draco looks very hard at the ceiling as Astoria pushes his legs apart, settling between them. He can’t quite be sure if she’s stopped stroking his co*ck, but something is pushing at his arse, wet, and it’s fingers, it’s her fingers, and Draco’s hands clench around his thighs. He squeezes his eyes shut. It’s working, though. Her fingers there, doing that. So he doesn’t… he doesn’t…

“You like this, do you not?” Astoria says. “Having fingers inside you. Getting f*cked.”

Draco nods stiffly.

It’s very hard to ignore. Impossible, actually. He looks at the doorknob. Ernie’s hands are bigger. Her nails are blunt, but he can still feel them.

“Does it help?”

“Yes.” Draco says.

“You’re closer?”

“I think so.”

"Tell me when."

It’s faster, battering into him, and Draco gasps. His back is tense, thighs shaking. His pulse is in his teeth. The ceiling is splotchy. He can feel his nails against his thighs, the cramps in the arches of his feet, his vision blurring. One hand lifts to his mouth, pressed tight over his lips, barely stifling the cry. Astoria pulls his hand away.

“Are you going to come?”

Draco’s ears are ringing.

“I- I’m not- I’m not sure?” Draco’s voice is unsteady and high. He swallows. Every muscle in his body is trembling.

She’s very quick to straddle him again, fingers still inside him as she gets back onto his co*ck. He takes a long breath. His armpits prickle, hands going clammy.

Just… just come, Draco.

The doorknob is still, and Draco’s robes are on the chair. The closet light is on. The bedspread is rumpled under his feet. Come, Draco. His heart is pounding. Her fingers are in him. In. Inside. He shuts his eyes. Come. Deep breath in. It doesn’t feel good like it did before, outside, with-

Come.

Come.

Just come.

His fingers twist into the sheets, the linen damp. His hands damp. The cool air against his body makes him shiver. He tips his head back to the ceiling. His vision is blurry. Deep breath.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Draco swallows thickly. He shakes his head, eyes shut tight. Astoria stops moving, her weight settled on his hips.

“Every other man finds it extremely easy to ejacul*te. Why not you?”

He’d like to die now. He’d like to be nothing, and never return. His eyes are still closed, but he can feel her gaze on his skin like sand. She moves, shifting her feet.

“There is something wrong with me.”

He should have told her before the wedding. Before the engagement, actually, before he’d given her the ring on her finger, he should have told her that he’s a twisted, revulsive creature posing as a man. Should have let her escape without tying her name to his.

Astoria slips off him, and he looks over when she stands from the bed. She takes his clenched, sweaty hand, pulling. He stands, his body weak, wrung out and off centre, skin worn through to the meat underneath.

“Would it help if I made you kneel for me?” Astoria says quietly.

Draco falls to his knees. Her toenails are painted a pale pink. One foot lifts to nudge his knees apart, baring his pathetic co*ck to fall between his thighs. She presses the ball of her foot against it, and Draco’s hips jerk forward. Her hand touches his neck, thumb wrapping around to the front of his throat.

“If I wrapped my hand around your neck?” She forces his chin up with her thumb against the hinge of his jaw. His eyes are shut tight. She doesn’t make him look at her. “Is that what you want, Draco?”

Is it? You want to kneel for your wife, have her step on your balls?

“I see the way your eyes wander.” Astoria says. She presses her foot harder. A noise leaves Draco’s mouth, something weak and shameful. “I see the way you gaze so longingly at their hands. You cower when they come near you. You’re desperate for their approval. You can never seem to meet my gaze, and your eyes never want to dwell on my eyes, my lips… or my breasts.”

He’s barely breathing again. It could just stop, he might not even notice.

“You really get off on this, don’t you.”

She’s waiting for an answer. He nods, shaking.

“Doesn’t it make your stomach churn, to need me to do this to you?” She digs her foot in more, and Draco cries out. “It’s not natural, to want pain the way you do. You’ve gone looking for it as long as I’ve known you. And that’s the only way to keep your co*ck hard, isn’t it? You can’t hide it from anyone. You have to be hurt to feel good.”

Her knees are just at eye level, and it’s easy to let his eyes glaze over. She’s still talking, he can hear her, and he can feel her touch on his co*ck now, and he’s hard, he’s dizzy, he’s afraid, he’s alone, she pulls his chin up, forcing his lifeless soulless empty, dead eyes to look at her.

“We’ll try again tomorrow. You need to do better.”

He topples forward as soon as she moves away, catching himself against the bed as his chest shakes, tight and compressed like she’s sitting on him, and he can’t- can’t breathe-

Astoria has donned a silk dressing gown, now sitting at the desk beneath the window, Draco’s robes now caught under one foot of her chair.

Her quill scratches across the page, her attention directed only at the page without noticing or caring that Draco is watching her as he gasps in breaths.

She writes for a long time.

Draco stays on the floor, eyes on the corner of the bedside table. His left foot is completely numb, and he should really move.

She moves in and out of the attached bathroom, running water, turning it off. Running water, turning it off. She nudges his head away from the bedside table to open the drawer and pull out a silk scarf, which she ties around her pinned up hair. She pulls the blankets back up from where they’d been piled at the end of the bed, sheds her dressing gown, and lays back against the pillows.

For a long while, she just reads quietly. Draco lets his temple fall against the side of the mattress, his weight pulling his body down toward the floor.

“Draco?”

He pushes himself up so his head is visible, which is the only answer he’s capable of giving her.

“Get in bed, Dearest.”

He does as he’s told.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

It has to go better. It has to. It certainly can’t f*cking go worse.

He’s ready this time, clean and exceedingly calm and he doesn’t smell that much like smoke tonight. He’d lost sight last time, forgotten what’s important. He knows his duty, the responsibility his position has always held. He just… forgot, last time. That’s all. She told him to be better. He will be better. He has to be better.

When she closes the bedroom door, taking the pins from her hair, Draco folds back the covers, both sides even and smooth. She watches him, pausing in the doorway to the ensuite, her eyes hot like the sun against the back of his neck. Draco arranges the pillows for her to lie back - he will do the work, he will be better, he will treat her like the lady she is - and he will-

She steps out of the bathroom, hair down around her shoulders, watching him. Undress her, probably should be next. Draco moves closer, walks behind her, and she’s still, curious or amused, he can’t quite tell. He finds the clasp at the nape of her neck, brushing her hair to the side.

“May I?”

“Of course.” She says, amused. Draco swallows, unlacing the back of her robes so they fall smoothly off her shoulders. He hangs the garment, and when he returns, she’s removed her chemise and undergarments, and is nude once more. He forces his eyes up from her knees to see her smile - small, a little wry, but she’s not laughing at him, nor is she disappointed. Yet.

He takes her hand for her to climb onto the bed. She’s perfectly content with his plan so far. Seems tickled, even. He disrobes quickly, evening his breathing before facing her again.

“There’s something wrong with me.” He tells her. Her fingers are draped gracefully over the pillow her arm rests on. She dips her head to catch his eyes.

“We discussed this yesterday.”

Draco nods, shutting his eyes.

“It- it might help if-”

God, why did he have to live through the war?

“Tell me.”

Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want me to do with you. I promise you can say it to me. It’s just what I want.

His entire body twitches instead of a normal nod, and he shakes his hands out of the clenched, sweaty fists. Tell me.

“I had piercings done. A while ago, and I healed them, there’s nothing left of them, but it helped to feel the needle in my skin.”

At Astoria’s silence, Draco fights to stay put, stay standing still, eyes shut, when he wants to throw open the balcony doors and rush to the edge and-

“What did you pierce?”

The first attempt comes out hoarse, and Draco clears his throat to speak again.

“Nipples.”

“Nipples.” Astoria repeats, flat, no emotion in her voice. It could be curiosity or condemnation, and he can’t open his eyes to know which.

“And- and my-” Draco’s voice disappears again, and feels his face heat as he gestures pathetically toward his co*ck.

“You pierced your co*ck.”

Ah, there’s something in her tone now. She thinks he’s insane. Mutilating his body for pleasure, unable to perform without it. She’d said so yesterday - unnatural. A freak of nature. Something vile wrapped in flesh and trying to pass for a man.

He doesn’t answer, and she’s quiet again, lounging back against the pillows, appraising him.

“Do you mention this because you want the piercings you had before? Or because you want me to put a needle in your skin?”

“I don’t want to be a deviant.” Draco says. Astoria lifts a little, tilting her head to hear him. He swallows. “I can’t- I-”

Astoria swings her legs over the side of the bed, walking to the bathroom. Draco runs his hands over his face. His skin feels too tight. She returns a moment later, taking his chin in one hand so he’ll look at what she’s holding: a long, thin pin with a teardrop pearl end.

“Will this do?”

Draco nods. She looks at his face, considering him, the anxious sweat at his temples and upper lip, his blotchy red cheeks, the hair falling over his eyes.

“We’ll try it tonight.” She says, and he lets out a breath. She returns to bed, pin held delicately between two fingers. Draco follows, and she lifts one knee for him to kneel between her legs.

“I’m sorry.”

“Where do you want it? Now?”

“I-” Draco resettles himself, pushing back his hair. “I’m not-”

“Could you make one decision?” Astoria asks sharply. “I’m not a mind reader, I don’t know what you want.”

“Nipples.” It falls out of him without a thought, and she huffs.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Draco says faintly. He doesn’t move. Astoria beckons him closer, so he leans over her, hands on the headboard. He smells anxious - he’d been so careful earlier, to not smoke, to wash off the sweat of the day’s work, to be better, and now he’s a mess again, incapable of having a f*cking conversation with his wife. Wife.

“Look.”

She has his nipple pinched between two fingers already, and he watches as she presses the pin to his skin. It’s a fleeting second before the sharpness reaches his brain, and he gasps, pressing his face to his arm, fighting to hold still. She’s slow, intent, her steady hands cool and dry on his skin. It f*cking hurts.

“Are you alright?” She asks, when the pin is pressing at the skin on the opposite side. He watches the metal pierce through, the droplet of blood that appears. He swallows.

“Yes.”

She presses her thumb over his nipple, making him moan. He’s breathing hard, jumps a little at her hand on his co*ck.

“Remarkably effective.” She says, stroking him. His eyes shut, and he swallows the saliva collecting in his mouth. “What about the other one? I have another pin.”

He nods quickly, and she taps his leg to move from under him. He pulls at his co*ck as he waits, pinching and rubbing the sore flesh made slick with the bit of blood. The sharp tip catches on his skin as he moves, not piercing through or even drawing blood, but the tiny pricks keep his entire awareness focused in his body, and on the sound of Astoria returning with another pin. She kneels beside him, pulling his shoulder so he’ll face her.

The second pin is even more painful. It’s quicker, bleeds a little more, and Astoria wipes a wet cloth over his chest to clean away the blood.

“Sex doesn’t have to be as dire as you’re determined to make it. It might even be considered pleasurable.” Astoria says, retaking her place against the pillows. She pinches one nipple hard, and Draco moans. She makes an approving noise.

Right. Yes, right. Next. co*ck goes inside her. He touches her, hesitantly, and she shifts her hips to open up to him further. After a minute or so, she seems wet enough, about as wet as he normally would be with lube. She doesn’t need to be fingered open, she hadn’t yesterday, so he braces himself above her and lines his co*ck up against her… c*nt… and presses in. Her fingers move between them to use her wetness to lubricate his co*ck.

“Pull back a bit, then go in again.” She tells him, so he does. The slide is easier, and he does it again and again until he’s all the way inside. She pinches his nipple again, and his hips jerk forward. He can feel the blood rushing to each nipple, droplets beading up at the holes in his skin. He starts to thrust into her, more gentle than Ernie is. Ernie had been gentle the first time, but Draco had only enjoyed it when he was brutal. Astoria isn’t like him, she’s normal, a respectable woman who would never enjoy being hurt, let alone get off on it.

He picks up speed, still smooth and measured. Her fingers rub at his nipples, twisting the pins, pinching them hard. All the pain runs up and down his spine, keeping him hard for her, not allowing his mind to wander off. She shifts again, lifting one leg to wrap around his back, her hips relaxing down to let him in easier.

Now, he has to come.

He has to move faster, thrusting into her more harshly, softened by how wet she is now. That’s a good sign. He adjusts his knees for better leverage, leaning down over her to speed up. She places her hands flat over his nipples so she won’t be stabbed by the pins. Right. Real piercings, then, and she can pull on them without being pricked. Less blood, too, less cleanup.

“Are you getting there?”

Draco’s forehead is on the pillow now, and he nods. He has to come. That’s all. Then he can smoke and think about nothing for a while. He just has to come.

“I’m going to-” Astoria pulls both pins from his nipples, stabbing each into the mattress. “Hurting my hands.”

“I’m sorry.” Draco pants, shutting his eyes. His nipples are sore and achy now, with less of an acute sting.

He’s still hard enough, but he doesn’t feel like he’s chasing anything. There’s nothing coming, no org*sm on its way.

He squeezes his eyes shut, f*cking her harder, trying - trying - to find a thread to pull on, a feeling to follow, but there’s nothing there. He’s just f*cking her. It’s difficult, he’s sweating from exertion now, and she’s not as wet as she was before. It’s been a while. There’s just-

“Nothing?”

Her footsteps are softer in her house shoes than her outdoor shoes. He can still hear her, but it’s quiet.

“Dearest.” She says mildly, and he turns just enough to give her a half smile and see her sit at the small breakfast table.

He made crepes this morning, with mixed berries and hand-whipped cream and chopped walnuts. He dusts icing sugar over them before serving her a dish. He can’t meet her eyes, and doesn’t speak.

The coffee had taken a long time to get right, first too strong, then too weak, and Draco poured out nine pots of it before it was good enough for Father to drink. Draco had considered putting a bit of cream into his own cup, but he hadn’t, and his hands are jittery from the caffeine. He’s been stealing berries all morning, stopping only to leave enough for Astoria and Father to have plenty with their crepes. He’d hoped eating would settle his stomach a bit, but after a while, he’d determined the unease is from his constant failures, not drinking two and a half cups of coffee on an empty stomach.

“You weren’t in bed when I woke up.” Astoria breaks the quiet.

Draco shakes his head.

“It took me a moment to remember where I was. Isn’t that odd? Second morning, not the first. Were you cooking all morning?”

“I had to buy turpentine.” Draco says. She hums. “I began on the hall of portraits. They all have… dark marks painted on them. It’s not original, they were added around the first war.”

“Oh dear.” Astoria says. “Are you going to eat?”

“I had some.” Draco tells her, leaving the kitchen to see if Father’s study door is closed. It is. He’ll make a plate for Father and bring it upstairs. He should’ve, before, but he hadn’t thought Father would stay in his study through mealtimes. Astoria has nearly finished her plate.

“This is very good, Draco.” Astoria says before she takes a bite, and for some reason, Draco almost starts crying. He hurries to the sink to wash the bowl he’d whipped the cream in. Very good, Draco. Very good, Draco. He takes a shaking breath. Very good, Draco. He brushes back his hair with a wet hand. Very good, Draco.

The dishes are washed and put away, back where they belong. Draco arranges the last of the crepes and berries onto Father’s plate, taking care to not split the crepe, to keep it intact and evenly filled with berries. He hesitates with the icing sugar, because Father doesn’t have Draco’s sweet tooth, but the icing sugar always goes on crepes for aesthetic purposes. Father doesn’t often order sweet items in restaurants, and Draco really shouldn’t have made crepes, because Father never orders them, and Draco’s suddenly unsure if he would even like them. He won’t, he’ll hate them, and he’ll hate Draco for serving him such a dish. Draco dumps the entire thing into the bin. He stares at the plate in the bottom of the bin. Astoria comes up beside him, looking down.

“Dearest, why did you throw it away?”

“Father hates crepes. I’d forgotten.”

“You could have eaten it yourself.”

Draco shakes his head for a long time. Too long, probably, Astoria is watching him.

“I ate.” He says, rubbing at his wrist. “No, I ate. I’ll make him something else. Something better.”

Yes, better. Better. Eggs Benedict, maybe. Father likes that. With Hollandaise sauce. Yes. Better, that would be better.

“You look unwell.”

The sound Draco makes is dismayed and pathetic, and Astoria begins to speak, but stops.

“You look like you didn’t sleep well.” She says after a moment. “That’s all I meant.”

There’s nothing to say to that, is there. Draco looks down at the plate in the bin. Those aren’t thrown out, those are washed to be used again later. He retrieves it, washing it quickly to be put away. He startles when Astoria puts her hand on his arm. He looks at her.

“The crepes were good.” She says, and Draco manages a grateful smile before pulling away to put the dish where it belongs. Astoria leaves the kitchen a moment after. Very good, Draco, she’d said.

There’s a recipe in a book for Eggs Benedict, and it’s really not difficult to make, it just takes a few practice eggs to get them right. Astoria had liked the crepes. He can make them again for her tomorrow, if she’s not tired of them. Or he could make something different. A breakfast dish good enough for her to forgive his utterly abysmal performance in bed. Pain au chocolat. Girls like chocolate, don’t they? He’ll buy chocolate this afternoon.

Draco knocks on the study door before opening it, eyes on the breakfast tray so he won’t trip on the carpet and make a fool of himself.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Draco.” Father says, moving his morning paper from the desktop for Draco to put the tray in front of him. “You didn’t have to, I was about to come down for lunch.”

“Oh.” Draco says, smiling tightly. “This is alright? For a- a very late breakfast? I’m sorry, I didn’t notice the time, I-”

It’s nearly eleven, Draco hadn’t even realised. Father looks at the dish and Draco swallows. The fork tines are a little bent, he hadn’t noticed that either.

“This is fine.” Father says, and Draco nods gratefully.

“Thank you, Father. Um. I’ll be with the portraits, if you need me. I mean- I’ll come fetch your dishes in a bit, but- if there’s anything else-”

“Alright, Draco.” Father says, flicking his eyes up to Draco briefly before he picks up his fork. Draco leaves, shutting the door behind him.

He had left the cloth in a small tub earlier. He picks it up to resume, carefully rubbing at the skulls painted crudely on top of priceless masterpieces. The portraits themselves don’t move, they don’t have life or personality to them. Generations of Malfoys have preferred immobile portraits done by muggle masters - Francisco Goya, Elisabetta Sirani, Antoine-Jean Gros, et cetera.

And then, the Death Eaters had painted dark marks onto them, tarnishing the artwork not only with the nature of such a symbol, but also with cheap oil paints in indelicate strokes.

Really, he should have thought of the time. It had taken him ages to get the eggs right, even longer for the Hollandaise sauce to set properly. Tomorrow, he’ll note the time better. Serve Father a perfect breakfast at an appropriate hour.

Draco is far too shaky to do his work well, but manages to get the majority of paint off without damaging the varnish too badly. He’ll return with a tiny paintbrush tomorrow to get the last smudges of black off.

Eleven portraits, each a stunning work of art, each face more pale and pointed than the last.

When Draco was very small, he’d tried to talk to them, thinking the portraits were all playing a joke and standing very still. Mum had explained their origin to him, then brought him to cousin Regulus’s house to meet him and his mother, Aunt Wallburga. They only went the once before Uncle Orion died, and the house passed back into the hands of Sirius Black.

Mum was always the one who answered the many questions Draco had throughout his childhood. Father would tell him to ask his mother, and she would answer. Maybe she would be able to answer the questions he has now. Although now, what he doesn’t know doesn’t form well into questions.

“Draco?”

Draco follows Astoria’s voice downstairs to find her outside the kitchen.

“There you are. You haven’t started on lunch yet, have you?”

“No, but I could do-”

“No, it’s good. I’ve gotten you an appointment at Taft & Griffiths. We can eat afterward.”

“Now?” Draco looks down at his plain, ill-fitting clothes.

“I was going to lay out something for you to wear, but there’s nothing of yours in our bedroom.”

“Oh. I haven’t moved my things.”

“Don’t bother, you’ll just have to move them again when your father takes the east wing.” Astoria tells him. He nods. “Go get ready, have a shower, you smell like death.”

“Turpentine.” Draco says.

“Hm. I’ll be in the drawing room, get yourself cleaned up and meet me there in half an hour.”

Draco hurries back upstairs, collecting the dirty dishes from Father.

“Astoria and I won’t be here for lunch.” Draco says. Father looks up at him.

“Oh, I’ve eaten lunch.” He says, waving a hand at the dishes in Draco’s arms.

It would’ve been so stupid for Draco to serve him crepes. It was so stupid to serve him breakfast at that hour.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” Draco says, leaving Father to his business and rushing down to wash the dishes.

When he’s done, Draco only has a few minutes to shower and dress. After his shower, he finds a neat, matching tunic and trousers laid out on the bed for him. He’d forgotten about them, they’re several years old, but he’s exactly the same size at age twenty as he was at age fifteen, and they fit him fine.

His hair is hopeless. He dries it with a spell and doesn’t attempt anything further.

Astoria is standing when he reaches the drawing room, out of breath and more jittery than he was before. She looks him over.

“Where did you find this? It looks nice. We’ll eat afterward, of course. I was thinking of a cafe, something light.” She says, moving behind him to tie his hair back with a ribbon.

The tailor greets them at the door, waving them in and chatting with Astoria about her parents’ summer plans.

“And this must be your husband.” He says, holding his hand out to Draco. Draco shakes it, smiling.

“Draco Malfoy.”

“Of course, of course. You look just like your mother. How is she? It’s been years since she’s come to see me. No need for new robes?”

“Not so many formal occasions for them lately.” Draco says.

He remembers the robes she’d worn, the beautiful, intricate beading and embroidery. He hadn’t known anything about the craftsmanship yet, but he knew they were luxurious, befitting a woman of her station. Draco had some formal robes, but they weren’t as lavish as hers. He’d gone to the tailor his father used. His father’s robes were less flashy, but just as well made.

Draco glances around the showroom to see if they even make men’s robes. Everything is displayed on dress forms with breasts.

Today is only a consultation, he learns. Astoria has opinions on materials and fits, but Draco just stands there, stripped to his shorts to be measured. He faces away from the mirror so his stupid blank eyes won’t be staring back at him the entire time.

The robes won’t be ready for a month, which surprises Draco. His mother had always ordered hers nearly a year in advance. Draco’s must be simpler, less bespoke. It doesn’t matter, anyway, beautiful robes will be wasted on him. Astoria escorts him out at the end, her arm tucked through his as if he’s leading her.

“We’ll set the date for October, that’ll be enough time for everything.” Astoria says as they walk. “If I’m pregnant by then, I won’t be showing yet, but I chose robes to flatter me either way. A perfect reason to wear looser robes.”

She chooses a cafe with shaded bistro tables. She orders a salad, Draco orders a sandwich.

Astoria sips her lemonade.

“Would you like to arrange the flowers or the food?” Astoria asks him. Draco frowns. “For our wedding. You should do one at least, so it’s not just an Astoria party.”

“That would be alright.” Draco says, but she shakes her head. “Food, then.”

“Very good. I prefer flowers anyway.”

When their food arrives, Draco eats his sandwich slowly. Astoria finishes her salad first, and he offers her the other half of his sandwich, which she accepts. It’s a good sandwich, and she seems to agree.

“What are you working on this afternoon?”

Draco takes a long drink before answering.

“I suppose I should start repairing the chandelier.” He says.

It’ll take days to do, it’s a project Draco has been dreading. After it had fallen, Draco had moved it to the side of the room and thrown a sheet over it, and no one has touched it since. He’ll need help hanging it, but that’s another day. He has until October to repair the crystals, reattach everything, and hang it from the ceiling again.

“I have a jeweller if you need one.” Astoria says. Draco nods.

“Thank you.”

When they get home, Draco takes a cushioned footrest from the drawing room to sit on as he works.

“I’m sure you’ll be tired after working on that.” Astoria says, watching him pull the sheet still stained with his blood off the pile of crystal shards and mangled metal.

He balls up the sheet and takes it to the kitchen to wash in the morning. Astoria is looking at a broken strand of crystals when he returns.

“We’ll take tonight off.”

“What?”

“We won’t have sex tonight.” Astoria says, and Draco’s face heats. What a chore it must be for her.

“Of course.”

“Enjoy… that.” She says, waving vaguely at the chandelier. She leaves him to work, her footsteps fading to silence. Draco slumps onto the footrest and starts picking through the shards.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

He remembers the spell that caused each burn, but little else. Not the day, not who cast it, not the reason.

The wallpaper is scorched by misfired spells all around the house. That was an Imperius. This was Eviscero. The one that hit a fleur de lis in the drawing room was a Fervefacio, and had caused the paste to bubble up underneath and distend the paper below it.

Draco has three paintbrushes, a card straight edge, and a mountain of paint pots. And nothing but time.

The ancient wallpaper has a certain texture he’d found difficult to recreate - almost a softened paper, or an uneven fabric. Flourish and Blott’s had nothing similar in their vast catalogue - he’d spent all morning searching - but Draco found a suitable paper to rip up, break down in water, and paint in thin layers onto the wall to fill in the burnt material.

“Draco?”

Draco startles, barely lifting the brush before it ruins the design.

“Draco, what are you doing?” Astoria asks, turning on a lamp.

“Um.” Draco waves at the wall. “Painting.”

“I can see that.” Astoria says, closing up the pots of paint. “It’s well past midnight, why haven’t you come to bed?”

Midnight?

“I- I hadn’t realised the time.”

“You didn’t notice it getting dark? You don’t even have a light on, how could you see what you were doing?”

He’d been standing with his face very close to the wall, actually, sketching out the complicated linework to match the surrounding paper. It had been light enough, somehow, though now the room feels very dark even with the little corner lamp on.

“I’m sorry, I hope I haven’t kept you awake.” Draco says, wiping the paint from his brush. He’s had to refresh the paints in his palette several times, which should have been an indication of time passing if he’d been paying attention to it.

“I dozed off reading.” Astoria tells him. Her hair is loose, brushed out and soft around her shoulders. She tucks her arms across her chest. “Have you eaten? Your father and I ordered food from that place I like in Kensington. There’s a portion for you left in the kitchen if you haven’t eaten it already.”

“We had breakfast together.” Draco says, frowning.

Astoria shakes her head.

“Yesterday.”

“Oh.” Draco says. “I- yes, I had- I had toast, I think.”

“Well, that’s something, at least.” Astoria says, and takes his arm. “Come to bed. The walls will be standing tomorrow.”

Draco’s knees ache with each step as he follows her upstairs.

“I believe we can move Lucius into the east wing at the end of next week. He’s reluctant, but that’s to be expected. No one likes to be replaced, even if it is the way things go.”

“Of course.”

There’s less damage to the wallpaper upstairs, where only the guests of the manor had loitered during the war. Most of the action had taken place down in the common areas. Draco still hasn’t started on Aunt Bella’s room.

“Once that’s done, even in the state the house is in, ownership can pass to you. I haven’t been added to the deed, so you know. Our marriage certificate hasn’t come through, I’ll have to check in with the office tomorrow morning.”

“Yes.” Draco says.

“And once that’s done, we’ll put the note in the papers, send out our invitations, and we can start planning properly. Don’t forget, you have to pick up your clothes from the tailor.”

“Of course, first thing.”

“You seem tired.” Astoria says, climbing into bed. “Perhaps you should keep a clock by you, or charm your watch to chime hourly.”

Draco looks at his bare wrist. Does he still have a watch?

It’s barely a moment from the time he closes his eyes to the time Astoria opens the curtains to let in the morning light.

Just to be sure, Draco goes to the wallpaper, just to see if his work in the dark had completely ruined the entire wall.

He hadn’t… he hadn’t actually… gotten very far.

He checks around the downstairs to see if he’d worked on any other patches in his haze yesterday, but no, it’s just this one place. He’d copied the design over barely a quarter of the damaged paper - barely more than a handbreadth in size - just the linework, he hasn’t even started to fill in the colours or the gold.

The house… it’s defiled, still so full of the war and twisted magic, many rooms still in ruins from the careless treatment.

He’d read for hours and hours about what the house should look like. How to date each piece and treat it appropriately by material. What to do when the furniture is chipped or scuffed, or the fabrics torn and singed and soiled - and he’d spent an entire day on one little patch of wallpaper no wider than his hand. He’s barely started on the chandelier…

“Draco, your leftovers from yesterday are in the kitchen.”

Astoria’s voice breaks him from his tortured reminiscing, and he goes to eat lunch.

Draco’s face is shadowed unflatteringly under the bathroom lights. He turns his face to the left, watching the shadow grow deeper beneath his cheekbone. His eyes stare back, roaming his face, expressionless as always. He turns away.

His legs ache as he walks from his ensuite back to the bedroom, straightening the artwork on the wall as he goes.

Tomorrow, he’ll go pick up his regular clothes from the tailor.

The bedroom lights are still on, which Draco takes to mean that it's not far past midnight. At least he isn't waking Astoria. He shuts the door softly.

When she turns to see him, his eyes drop from her face to her- oh dear god-

“Ah!” He squeaks. “My deepest apolog-”

He's halfway back into the hallway when her voice reaches him. Her hand comes away from her… c*nt… thick with blood as she shifts higher on the bed.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you?”

“I can sleep elsewhere.” Draco chokes out, closing the door.

“If my husband had any worth, I wouldn't have to masturbat*!” Astoria snaps. The noise Draco lets out is… “But it's always according to what he wants, Circe f*cking forbid a woman be pleasured in her own marital bed. No, no, he won't even ask if I want anything!”

“I’m sorry, I'm s-”

“Did you even consider trying to make me feel good? No!”

The bed springs huff as she tosses back onto the bed. Draco stares at his useless hand on the doorknob for far too long before pushing the door open again.

She looks up at him, unhappy and unimpressed. He can't blame her, he's a closer match with the scraggly innkeeper than any leading man in the cheap, smutty romance book that's fallen from her hand.

“It's really the last thing I'd like to be doing this evening at all, but for some reason my husband would rather stare at blistered wallpaper all day than look even once at my face.”

Useless, useless husband. Useless man - shouldn't even be called one.

Draco kneels at her feet, drawing his eyes up her legs toward the blood dripping from her. He can feel her staring at him, waiting for him to flinch from the blood coating two of her fingers up to the second knuckles.

“You'll eat me out tonight of all nights?”

“Do you want that?”

Astoria pauses, and Draco can smell the faint tang of fresh blood. It's not as unappealing as he would have expected a bleeding vagin* would be.

“I can't figure out what's wrong with you.” Astoria says. She wipes her fingers on a cloth by her hip. “You’re such a freak, and in none of the ways I've seen before.”

Draco bows his head.

“I'm sorry.”

“Touch me.”

Draco’s hands slide up her thighs - he follows his memory of Ernie pressing Draco’s thighs open, pressing his fingers to Draco’s arsehole, the way Ernie formed gestures inside Draco. It was so good, the few times Draco agreed to it. Ernie would lay on his side by Draco and tell him dirty, filthy things as his hand toyed with Draco inside his hole. It was slow and achingly sweet, more than Draco could bear. He always ended up begging Ernie to stop, flip him over and pound into him with his hand gripped tight around Draco’s throat.

Most of that memory is not helpful here, and Draco tucks it away.

Astoria is still quiet, but she lets him finger her.

His fingers come out bloody, and he pushes a third inside. Astoria shifts a little, and he stills, letting her adjust around him.

“I'm fine.” She says after a moment, and he continues. “Did Potter do this to you?”

Potter - Harry - had slid his fingers down Draco’s throat. He'd put his mouth on Draco’s co*ck, but never his fingers in Draco’s hole. No, they'd never…

He shakes his head.

“How long were you hooking up?”

Draco lifts his bloodied fingers to his lips, licking them. The taste isn't exactly as he'd expected, but it is blood, and he knows blood. He sucks his index to the second knuckle. Astoria's face is a blur behind his hand, and he sees her expression change without looking at her.

“That's disgusting.”

He licks again, tasting more of the blood, but her leg lifts to push his hand from his mouth. He meets her eyes, only for a second before he can't hold it any longer.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…”

“I changed my mind, I do think you should sleep elsewhere. Wash your hands off.”

“Of course.”

Draco has blood smeared on his lips, and he washes that off too. Astoria has arranged her things neatly on the vanity, but she hasn't used the drawers.

He has to pass her again on his way out, and she's reading her book again, arms folded. He doesn't say goodnight before leaving her room.

“You haven’t already?”

The hangers clacking together in the closet quiet as Astoria no doubt gives Draco a disappointed look. He shakes his head, setting the small pile of folded silk scarves on the bed.

“I’ve been working on the house.”

“You can send the house-elf to pick up your clothes in the morning.” She says, resuming her work in the closet. Draco nods. “I’m certain your father could use more help than me, you should go to him.”

“Of course.” Draco says, leaving to find Father in his - Draco’s, now - room.

Father isn’t present, and instead, the house-elf is scurrying about, packing Father’s belongings. It disappears with an armful of items before Draco can say anything, then reappears a moment later, empty-handed.

“Is there anything left to pack?” Draco asks. It looks startled to be addressed.

“N-no, sir, these are the last of Master Lucius’ clothes, sir.”

“Oh.” Draco says. He nods. “Wonderful.”

The house-elf disappears again with the last of the room’s contents, and Draco wanders to the large oil painting of great-great-grandfather Malfoy’s wife - also a Black, because that’s what happens when there’s only 28 families to choose spouses from. She’s beautiful. She looks quite a bit like Father, though her hair is more honey-coloured than his. Astoria’s hair is light brown, and maybe Draco’s child would have honey-coloured hair instead of the Malfoy white-blond.

It’s been nearly a decade since Draco had last been in this room. He’d been barely Hogwarts age, excited to show Mother his letter as she got ready in the morning. Father had already been out of the house, but Mother was there and listened to him talk about everything he would do in his first year. Of course, the one thing he’d not done out of all his plans was to befriend Harry Potter - a spectacular failure, the first in a long line.

Already, the damask curtains on the Lit à Couronne and windows have been magically steam-cleaned, and now fall in crisp and elegant folds. The gilt mirror has been shined. The furniture has all been dusted and the wood polished. There’s nothing left to do in this room except move in. No reason to delay. Draco leaves to begin packing his own things.

Draco’s breath leaves in a cloud above his face. He snubs out his cigarette and lights a new one. He has to pick up his regular clothes from the tailor tomorrow.

Perhaps the alterations will make a difference, and he’ll begin to feel like a real person. Maybe the cut of his trousers will tell him how to please his wife and get her pregnant. She still lets him try to f*ck her, though he can feel how unimpressed she is in the tense lines of her body. The most successful method for keeping Draco hard is to finger him, still. She keeps most of her comments to herself, mercifully.

At least she doesn’t mind if he leaves the room to sit in the dark before going back to bed. He takes a bit of time to settle his stomach and quiet his nerves with a cigarette or ten before he lays in bed beside her, staring at the ceiling until he falls unconscious.

So, maybe, a set of robes that fits him will change everything and fix his marriage and make Father proud of him for not failing this time.

He replays her words in his mind - After everything with Potter, I thought you’d be good at sex. She’s right, of course. Not because of Potter - Harry - but because of Ernie. Ernie, who had taken care of Draco so often. If Ernie had really wanted to make Draco come despite his determination not to, Draco would have come.

Draco stands perfectly still, eyes averted from the mirror, waiting.

At least all she knows are the sexual abnormalities. Astoria, that is. She doesn’t know about the others, how terribly he fails to be a person. She doesn’t know about Father being so very disappointed in him. Suspects, maybe. But she doesn’t know, not like she knows about the… masochism. And sodomy.

No one else knows any of it - not the sex, not the failures, not the Harry Potter of it. The guests who will be in attendance will only know that Draco is married, and alive, currently, and head of his household, sort of. They’ll see him in his expensive, well-fitting robes with his wife and father and maybe they’ll be able to assume everything is fine and normal and Draco is not falling apart at the seams.

“Here we are, Master Malfoy.”

Draco startles as the tailor approaches with Draco’s wedding robes. Handsome robes.

The man helps him into each garment, fixing them into place with small comments about the ornamental Celtic knot meanings or the particulars of this cut of robes. It’s like there’s a wall separating them, and though Draco has questions for the man about the history of his garments, his mouth doesn’t seem interested in asking them.

Everything fits perfectly, of course.

“Master Malfoy, are you quite well?”

The question startles Draco into meeting the tailor’s eyes through the mirror.

“It’s only, well, in the forty-seven years I’ve been a tailor, I’ve always seen men grow more plump after marriage.”

Forty-seven years. Tailor. Men grow more plump. Marriage. Forty-seven years.

“Of course. It's not my place, I apologise.”

Astoria lies back against the pillows, quill still in her fingers. Draco scratches at his wrists, unable to meet her eye.

“If this doesn’t work, we’ll just try again tomorrow.”

Draco nods. Again tomorrow.

It’s not long before blue light flashes, and a portkey deposits a man into the room. Draco swallows thickly, shifting his arms to cover himself.

“Astoria, Draco.” Astoria says, pointing at each of them. Draco tries to smile at the man, but he’s sure it doesn’t come out right.

“Anton.” The man says.

“It won’t matter.” Astoria says, sitting up, tossing her quill aside. “You’ll f*ck him to completion whilst he’s inside me.”

“Right.” Anton says. He touches Draco’s shoulder gently, and Draco suppresses his flinch. Anton disrobes quickly before approaching the bed. “Are you prepped?”

“N-” Draco clears his throat, looking toward Astoria, barely able to drag his eyes to her collarbones. “No. I don’t need it.”

“Uh,” Anton pauses, trying to look at Draco’s face. “You sure?”

Draco shakes his head.

“It's fine.”

Draco crawls up the bed, Anton following behind him on his knees.

Despite Draco’s assurances, Anton adds some lube to Draco’s arsehole, sliding just one finger inside him. Draco bites his lip until he tastes blood. Astoria lets out an impatient breath, bending her knees and settling against the pillows once more.

“Inside me first.” Astoria tells Draco. He nods, lowering himself over her, braced on shaking forearms. His co*ck slides inside her, and he hides his face in the crook of her neck. Anton’s hands stroke along Draco’s hips.

"I'm paying you to make him come." Astoria says to Anton.

“Ready, Draco?”

Draco nods, tipping his hips up to bare his arsehole to the stranger. Astoria gasps as it changes the angle of his co*ck inside her. Anton pushes in slowly, painfully, and Draco bites his own arm so he won’t make any sounds.

They don’t trade any more words as Anton thrusts into Draco’s arse, pushing him into Astoria. His co*ck is barely hard enough to go along with the motions, and he thinks he might be sick before it’s even over.

Astoria’s hands slip between their bodies to pinch his nipples, hard, and Draco whimpers. He’s not sure if it’s from pain or pleasure, but at this point, he’s not sure he wants either.

Anton grips Draco’s shoulders to pull him back onto his co*ck, which doesn’t help in the goal of impregnating Astoria, but Draco doesn’t point that out. Astoria’s hand moves lower, her knuckles jabbing into Draco’s lower belly as she rubs herself.

Eyes stinging, Draco summons Potter’s voice encouraging him to come, and it helps, a little. It makes his co*ck harder, thinking of Potter below him, stroking his sides and arms. He imagines it’s Ernie f*cking him, gently squeezing his shoulders, gripping his hips possessively.

But it’s not Potter and Ernie. It’s some strange man watching Draco fall apart because he can’t f*ck his own wife properly, and the thought sends a rumble of unease through his stomach again, and he yanks himself away from both parties in the bed.

Grabbing his pack of cigarettes off the nightstand, Draco leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. He lights the first cigarette right there in the hall.

“You aren’t going after him?” Anton’s voice is muffled through the door.

“That’s none of your concern. You might as well finish me off whilst you’re here - mouth only.”

The bed creaks as Anton moves to perform cunniling*s on Draco’s wife. He leaves the hallway, lube still leaking from his arse, to return to his old childhood room.

Pulling the duvet off the bed, Draco moves to the balcony doors, throwing the doors open. It’s a cool night, and he huddles up by the railing, bundled in the duvet. He pushes the doors shut with his feet.

There’s no sound immediately around him. In the distance, he can make out the wind rustling tree branches, but not much else. He wipes his face on a corner of the duvet and lights a cigarette.

Thinking hurts, so he doesn’t. He stares out at the property he now owns without seeing it.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

The sheet music of course means nothing to him, just marks on a page that Draco can’t read. He lifts the lid on the keyboard, swiping the fine dust from a few of the keys.

It still sounds beautiful, and Draco moves to sit fully on the bench, spreading his fingers over the keys and pressing them in succession.

The ivory is smooth beneath his fingertips, and he sets his left hand on the keyboard as well, testing out the notes for a chord. He never played as a child, and Mum always caught him before he could plunk around recklessly.

Mum loved hearing Bach and Mozart played, and she often hired a professional to do music for events held at the manor. Draco sometimes watched their fingers move in a blur over the keys, always amazed that they could hit the right notes without mistakes. The music often passed in one ear and out the other in his distraction with watching those skilled hands strike the keys.

Perhaps, in the far, far future, Draco’s child could take lessons, and Draco could listen and watch the child learn like he’d wanted to.

Draco closes the lid again, takes down the silencing spells, and continues polishing the piano top until it gleams.

The drapes are far heavier than they look like they would be, and Draco has to carry them outside one panel at a time. His left arm has an odd soreness, though he can’t find any actual injury beside some discoloured bruising.

As he spreads out the fabric along the charmed grass, Draco finds the spots that need treatment. There are webs of spellwork woven into the material to prevent fading and tears, but the charms have broken down in age, allowing fibres in certain areas to tear or bleach in the sunlight.

When he was small, Draco would tuck himself into the curtains in the evenings, believing if he hid well enough, his parents would give up looking for him at bedtime, and he could stay up wandering the house in the dark or sneak into the kitchens for a snack. It never worked, of course, and they always found him in the end, put him to bed, and he’d try again the next night until he was far too old to be hiding in the curtains.

Draco startles as the door to the house swings open and Astoria walks out. She doesn’t notice him on the lawn, or perhaps she does and has determined to give him a reprieve. Her arms are full of objects - candles, phials of liquids, herbs, a cauldron dangling by its handle from her elbow. She walks around the side of the house toward the old altar. Draco saw his mother at the altar when he was very small, but he’d always been a little scared of it. That part of the gardens was always overgrown and neglected. The one time he crept toward it, something skittered away at the sound of his footsteps, and he’d been terrified to go back.

He could tend it for her. As a token of his regard, work in the garden to make it beautiful and fresh and alive like he’d never seen it before. She could be surrounded by greenery and the trickle of the fountain and the scent of roses…

He probably shouldn’t.

He’d only f*ck it up. Better to leave her the space where she can escape his… problems.

Returning to his task, he remembers the mountain of things left to do inside the house before he even works on the outside. The front of the house looks well enough for hosting, but he couldn’t possibly finish the garden before winter anyway, he might as well start on it in the spring.

He directs his wand toward the tangled threads of magic in the curtains, murmuring the words to repair it.

The house-elf is in the kitchen, and Draco nearly jumps out of his skin.

It seems just as shocked to see him.

“I- I was going to prepare lunch.” Draco stammers. It’s a house-elf, pull it together!

“Master Lucius is requesting lunch!” It squeaks, and Draco frowns.

“He- he has? I always bring him lunch.”

The tiny creature shakes its head vehemently, then freezes.

“Of course, Master Malfoy-”

It bows jerkily, and it looks so strangely frightened, so paralysed, Draco can’t just let it stand there in his kitchen, so he sends it away. Father requests meals from the house-elf? Are the meals prepared by Draco not sufficient? He looks at the clock. Not timely? Not good? He’d thought he was getting better, learning how to make more things, cooking separate meals for Father more times than not to be sure everything made for Father is something he’d like and cooked perfectly.

Perhaps Draco has totally missed on both accounts - Father hates the dishes, hates what they are and how they taste. He’d rather have a house-elf prepare his food than Draco, because at least it’ll be done right. Draco could- Draco should ask him what he wants. What would be the perfect meal, and he could find the time-turner from the attic and prepare the dish again and again until it’s right . Perfect. Better. He should be better. He still hasn’t collected his regular clothes from the tailor. He’s wearing his old baggy, ill-fitting clothes because he hasn’t run the single errand Astoria asked of him. She hasn’t even asked him if he'd done it yet, because she likely believes he’d done it the first three times she’d asked.

And he hadn’t, he’d put it off day after day.

Draco turns to go to finally pick up his f*cking regular clothes from the tailor, but his eyes land on the clock.

Noon.

Lunch, probably.

Astoria would be so disappointed - or worse, not at all disappointed because she has run out of it. She’s spent all her disappointment on him already, daily disappointments adding up over and over until she just runs out and can’t feel any of it anymore. He’s failed her so many times, he’s failed in every task she’s given him.

Noon. Lunch, probably. For Father, who’s been disappointed in Draco far longer than Astoria. You’ve always been my greatest disappointment, he’d said. He sets his expectations so low, allows so much for Draco to easily accomplish his tasks, and yet Draco somehow lets him down every time anyway.

But Astoria… he could do this one thing right, he could easily fulfil the request by just quickly going to the tailor.

And Father, Father would just be hungry when Draco returns, because he’d been expecting the house-elf to bring him food, and it hadn’t, because Draco told it not to and dismissed it from the kitchen without even asking what Father had requested as his lunch.

And Astoria wouldn’t say much, he thinks, she’d only say he needs to do it first thing in the morning, and really the drapes could stand to sit with the cleaning agent for an extra thirty-five minutes, he could do it in the morning, except if he goes to bed tonight and she asks him why he’s wearing his old baggy, ill-fitting clothes instead of the tailored tunics and trousers, he’d have to tell her that he’s not picked up his regular clothes from the tailor, he’d painted a single leaf on the drawing room wallpaper over the course of four hours instead.

He would be better , it was part of the plan to have his clothes tailored so he would look like a grown-up and maybe feel a little bit like one too.

But Father will be hungry, and he might… he might have something more to say than Astoria would-

It’s half-past noon now, and Draco rubs his eyes - how had the time passed so-

Astoria must wait. Father will say something, and-

And- and the tailor is likely at lunch, anyway, because it’s half-past-noon, which is lunch time, Father is hungry-

Yes, he’ll just make a lunch, quickly. Yes. Why hadn’t he asked the house-elf what Father had asked for? Stupid! What had it been working on?

He’s hovering, he knows. But Astoria hasn’t come up to bed yet. He’s unclear on whether or not they’ll be…

She hadn’t shared with him the days she’d be menstruating. It’s been three nights since he’d sucked her blood from his fingers and spent most of the night on the balcony of his childhood bedroom wishing he hadn’t, and they haven’t slept in the same bed since.

They’d had intercourse once - or, half intercourse once - but he’s tried to let her be in her bedroom without his presence. She’s largely avoided him right back.

And last night, she had evidently been done bleeding, so he isn’t certain whether or not she intends to have sex tonight. He hasn’t spoken to her all day, barely spoke with her yesterday…

Draco slumps onto the side of the bed, catching the towel as it untucks from around his waist. Should he… dress? Even if she wants to have sex, it’s unlikely she’d consider walking in on him lounging naked to be a positive sexual experience. He should dress, probably, so she doesn’t feel pressured to have sex just because he’s present, and naked.

He rubs his eyes until black spots appear.

Perhaps, whilst he’s here alone, he could get himself hard, and if she does want to have sex, he’ll be prepared, and if she doesn’t, he’ll leave her to sleep and let his co*ck soften on its own, like it seems so ready to do these days. He should dress first, though, so she doesn’t immediately see his co*ck is hard and assume he wants to have sex. She probably wouldn’t assume that.

The door shuts with a click, and Draco whips around.

“Ah, masturbating again?” Astoria says blandly, passing him to sit at her (Mum’s) dressing table. She begins to unpin her hair. “I have someone coming, make yourself presentable.”

Someone? At this hour?

Draco hurries to the closet to find something reasonable to wear. His hair is damp, and his skin pruny.

“To set expectations for this evening.” Astoria states, appearing at the doorway and watching him button his tunic. She frowns at it, then looks at his face again. He looks down, is it wrinkled? He shucks it off to change for a different colour, inspecting it for wrinkles before putting it on. “Draco.”

Astoria clicks her fingers, and Draco’s eyes snap up.

“You embarrassed me yesterday.”

Of course, yes, he’d…

It was stupid. Very selfish and foolish and unreasonable.

“I’m deeply sorry.”

“I thought you’d have some idea of how to be f*cked, but perhaps that was my mistake. I should have explained the concept.”

Draco’s fingers are wobbly on the buttons, and Astoria’s hand brushes his away to do them up for him.

“Anton will be returning this evening. I understand you find it difficult to remain erect without some form of painful stimulation, so I will be instructing him to provide that for you. If necessary, I can use pins on your skin again.”

Draco nods. His hair is damp, does it matter?

“Is that clear? Not too complicated?”

“Of course.” Draco says. Astoria looks as cleverly put together as she always does, her hair down around her shoulders because generally having hair undone is acceptable during sexual intercourse. Not required, though. His hair is damp, should he dry it?

“And you will not yank yourself painfully away from our bodies to run off and sulk?”

“Of course not.”

It was painful, he recalls. He hadn’t cared, but he’s the freak, they aren’t. They would both have not enjoyed it, for him to wrench their genitals around because he had to sulk.

“Of course. Of course not.” Yes. He can see her plan clearly, and it’s a good plan. He nods. “Yes, of course.”

“Alright.” Astoria says to herself, and disappears into the ensuite. Draco took baths there when he was very small. With a tiny wooden gnome toy that nearly got washed down the drain once, but Father rescued it for him. Father has always rescued the gnome when Draco needed him to. Of course he has…

He should dry his hair.

Draco goes to the ensuite to find Astoria setting out straight pins on the counter, long and thin with a pearl teardrop end. She has seven. For Draco, seven pins to go into his skin. So he can stay hard, and come inside her. That’s good, that’s very good.

Anton arrives as Astoria is sticking the pins into the mattress where she’ll be able to pick them up one by one and stick them through Draco’s skin. Anton will see, certainly. He likely thinks Draco is a freak already.

“Good evening Astoria, Draco.” Anton says. His shoes are polished, but they look patent leather. Shiny enough to reflect the two sconces lighting the room, too dull to reflect any shapes or shadows.

“My husband is a masoch*st, he will require you to handle him roughly. Slapping, pinching, biting, et cetera.” Astoria explains. Draco feels foolish hovering just behind her.

Harry might have walked to Draco, cupped his chin in his hand and directed his eyes upward. Is that what you want, Draco? And Draco would try to shrink away, to cower and hide, but Harry would hold him tighter. Draco? What do you want from me tonight?

Astoria and Anton are both staring expectantly at Draco.

“What do you want from me tonight?”

That’s a question. That’s… a question. The man has asked a question, directed at Draco.

Why is he asking a question, when he’s supposed to be f*cking Draco?

Kneel for me, okay? Harry hadn’t needed to wait for Draco to obey him, Draco followed his commands like it’s the only thing he truly knows how to do.

Oh, Draco is standing, he should be on the bed to be f*cked.

That’s why. Yes. That was his question, why is Draco still standing? Clothed?

Draco undresses, turns down the blankets for them, and climbs onto the bed obediently to wait. Astoria will lay down, and she’ll stick pins into Draco’s nipples and maybe elsewhere as well - seven pins - and Anton will f*ck him. And if it doesn’t work, they’ll do the same thing tomorrow. Until it works properly. Until Draco works properly.

“Draco?”

It’s Anton’s voice, and Draco turns back to look at him. Anton is waiting, frowning, head tilted forward. Draco is uncertain of the question. Astoria would know. Draco looks toward Astoria, bowing his head. Astoria knows the answers, it’s her plan. He’ll agree to anything, she knows that.

“I’m just not comfortable with this.”

“I’m not paying you to be comfortable, I’m paying you to make him come. I’ve told you what will make him come, and you have yet to accomplish it.”

“Well, you’re welcome to report me to my boss, but I’m not doing anything that he doesn’t consent to. Draco?”

Draco turns again. Anton is frowning more. Draco looks at Astoria.

“Tell him yes, Dearest.”

“Of course.” Draco says. He clears his throat. “Yes. I consent.”

“There you are.” Astoria says angrily. Anton brushes back his hair, shaking his head.

“I’m just not comfortable with this. I’m sorry, please contact my boss for future appointments.”

“I will be terminating my account with your employers.” Astoria says. “Feel free to tell them it’s because you failed to perform.”

“Sure, yeah. Have a good night.”

Anton has another portkey, but his eyes land on Draco again before he takes it. He has an odd expression on, but his lips flatten into a poor attempt at a smile before he vanishes in a flash of blue light.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you.”

Astoria sits abruptly on the mattress, muttering something to herself. Draco looks down.

“Have you gone deaf? Or mute?”

Maybe… maybe he has… maybe he can’t hear things properly, maybe the Black family madness is coming for him, just too much Black blood in his veins, and it’s turning him mad, and he can’t hear things and can’t say anything back…

“I’ll go.” Draco says, redressing in his clothes and collecting a sleeping aid potion from the bathroom cupboard. He’ll leave Astoria to sleep in peace.

“Draco.”

He pauses at the bedroom door.

“You need to consider if you actually care about your family’s name. It doesn’t seem like you care, and no matter how much I try to help you, I just can’t get anywhere.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Do you even want an heir?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then act like it.”

Act like it. Act better, of course.

“Goodnight, Astoria.” Draco says, and leaves her room.

His feet are silent on the carpets as he returns to the untouched old wing, walking through the open ensuite into his childhood bedroom, where the knob is brass, and the duvet is silver, and the balcony is just wide enough for him to press his back to the house and his feet to the railing.

The sheets are cool on his bare skin as he slips between them. He smells of anxious sweat even after his careful shower. He looks up at the ceiling for a moment before remembering to take the sleeping aid potion.

It calms his body, soothes his muscles to relax against the bed. His eyes are the last to feel the pull of sleep, and his blinks grow longer… in the morning… he’ll be better… apologise to Astoria, speak to her about the potential family madness coming on… they’ll come to an agreement, he’s certain.

Only moments pass, his idle mind moving in slow, syrupy arcs, wandering aimless circles behind his eyelids.

There’s a flickering light drawing closer, he can sense it. Draco… Draco…… It’s nearby his face, and he can see it, in his mind, a candle flickering nearby, lighting his features.

It’s cool, the night air on his skin. The balcony doors have been open to let in the cool night air. His covers are gone, piled up at his feet. His limbs are so heavy, so heavy. He doesn’t startle at the first touch.

Oh, you beautiful creature, did you know your magic could do this? Did you know how beautiful it is? Harry’s fingers rest on Draco’s hip. The bed dips and settles. Look at you, you gorgeous thing. Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want me to do to you.

Fingers lift his hardening co*ck, and lips wrap around the tip. Look at me, Draco. Tell me what you want. Look at me.

His eyes won’t open, his arms won’t move. He’s perfectly still, co*ck hard, limbs lax.

Something hot, wet, soft, slips down onto him. He doesn’t move, can’t open his eyes. The hot, wet, soft thing pulls up, falls back down. There’s a sound that goes with it, but Draco’s eyes won’t open up.

Answer me, Draco, what do you want? Look at me, you beautiful creature, open your eyes. Watch the things happening to your body, feel what your body feels.

Listen, what is that?

Baby, look at me. Listen, you know what it is.

Look at me, pretty thing. You’re doing so well, sweetheart… Eyes on me. Don’t look away from my eyes… I’ve got you, baby, I have you. It’s okay… Let me see you, pretty thing…

Don’t you feel good, love? Don’t you like it? No? It’s alright, I have you. It’s okay. It’s okay…

You’re perfect, you’re doing so well, lovely thing. I’ve got you, baby, it’s okay. It’s nearly over, love, it’s okay. I’ve got you.

Just a bit longer, look at me, sweetheart. Eyes on me. That’s it. Listen to my voice. Precious thing. It’s okay. Nearly there.

There, that’s all, we’re done now, you did so well. You were so still and lovely for me. Well done, you gorgeous, gorgeous creature. So beautiful. Go back to sleep now, love. Go back to sleep, it’s alright, that’s all done now, go to sleep.

The candlelight is snuffed out before the weight leaves the bed. The gentle voice continues to speak until Draco stops listening.

It’s a different agency. Draco is freshly showered, dressed in a dressing gown. Anton is not returning, it’s a different agency.

Astoria is tapping her finger on the bedside table, perched on the edge of the bed, waiting. Draco is standing perfectly still near the foot of the bed.

He startles at the flash of blue which deposits a man in their bedroom once more - a new man, another stranger. Draco can feel Astoria’s expectant gaze land on him.

“Astoria, Draco.” Draco announces, gesturing at her and then himself.

“Warlock.” The man says. An odd name.

“It won’t matter.” Draco says. Warlock’s chin juts up a little. Draco clears his throat. “Are you willing to be rough with me?”

“Absolutely.” Warlock says. Draco’s heart jumps up. He nods.

“Slapping, pinching, biting, et cetera…”

“Gladly.”

“Al-alright.” Draco says. “I- We’re paying you to make me come.”

“You’ll f*ck him to completion whilst he f*cks me.” Astoria says, lifting off the bed to disrobe.

Draco mirrors her, draping his dressing gown over the desk chair. Warlock strips down, and Draco’s eyes roam his bare torso. Had- had they met before? In the war, perhaps? With a different name?

Draco kneels on the bed, moving in as Astoria settles against the pillows. He keeps his eyes at her collar bones. She hadn’t moved the seven long pins stuck into the mattress. Nipples, probably other places. Keep him hard.

The bed dips heavily under Warlock, and every hair on Draco’s body stands upright. A hand circles around Draco’s throat, and Draco grabs the wrist, pulse thumping in his head. He likes this, he likes a hand around his throat, he’s dreamt of it. He likes it. He wants it.

“Bend over.” Warlock says in Draco’s ear. He does as he’s told, clinging to the wrist so his weight doesn’t put too much pressure on the hand at his throat. Draco’s co*ck is hard. The hand releases him, and Draco gasps in a breath, head falling forward. His hair brushes Astoria’s chest.

At the first slap, Draco jerks, shouting. It hurts, the sharp sting on the back of his thigh, and then another right on top, Draco flinches away. There are more, one after the other, and Draco bites his lip hard until a droplet of blood falls on Astoria’s stomach. Her thumb catches it and holds it to his lips. f*ck.

He’d asked explicitly for it. It’s exactly what he’s needed. It hurts . He’s hard.

Warlock pushes Draco down further onto Astoria’s chest, beating his arse now. Draco’s co*ck brushes against her skin. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“That’s plenty of that.” Astoria says, shifting under Draco. “Finger him.”

There’s lube, not much, but some lube on Warlock’s fingers as he shoves in three together. Draco’s breath catches.

“Take it, fa*ggot.” Warlock barks. Draco nods shakily. Astoria’s fingers are on the pins, but she hasn’t drawn any. Warlock gives his hand a vicious twist, and Draco shouts in pain.

“Get up, Draco. Put your co*ck in me.”

Up. Draco pushes up, taking his co*ck in hand. It’s hard. He aims it toward Astoria’s c*nt.

Warlock bites Draco’s back hard, he jerks, and Astoria cries out.

“I’m not a f*cking masoch*st, you careless mudblood!”

“Control yourself, fa*g.” Warlock spits back at Draco. Draco nods, hand hovering around his throbbing co*ck. It had hurt him, definitely hurt Astoria more. He’s hurt her again, that’s not allowed. No, not allowed. He shakes his head. Not allowed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sorry. Of course, yes, so very sorry.”

The hand clamps around Draco’s throat again, and he swallows, his Adam’s apple pressed against the palm. Yes, not allowed. No hurting Astoria, she doesn’t like it. Don’t do that. Of course not, she’s not a f*cking masoch*st. No, he is. Of course.

“Again, Draco, carefully.” Astoria says, and Draco swallows again. He grasps his co*ck, he’s still hard, he likes it. He asked, yes. It’s for him, he likes this. Warlock’s hand is tight, very tight. He likes it.

Draco slides in easier, and he forgot to see Astoria’s hand this time, not until she has his nipple pinched tightly between her fingers, the pin pressing sharp sharp at his skin. It’s a sob this time, that leaves his mouth.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. Sorry.” He says. Astoria takes the pin away.

“f*ck me.” She says. Draco obeys her, he does. He obeys her, he f*cks her, in and out of her puss*, well done this time, maybe, it’s okay, maybe. Warlock bites Draco again, Warlock hasn’t started f*cking Draco.

“F-f*ck me.” Draco says, and the hand tightens more around his throat, his breathing is wheezy. Astoria hits the arm, and it goes away. Draco gasps. Warlock grips Draco’s shoulder in one hand, rams his co*ck inside Draco. Draco falls forward into Astoria.

“Take it.” Warlock spits, droplets landing on Draco’s back. Astoria wipes her hand off on the sheets. “fa*ggot.”

“That’s enough.” Astoria says. Warlock stops talking. In and out of Astoria, just like she’s asked of him. In and out. He’s hard. He likes this, of course.

In his arse, Warlock is thick, and he doesn’t have enough lubrication. He jostles both Draco and Astoria with each thrust in, and Draco just has to pull out a little before Warlock shoves him back inside Astoria.

Warlock’s co*ck hits all the wrong places, and Astoria pulls away, pushing herself back from Draco so his co*ck slips out.

“Get him close.” She says, and Warlock grunts, grabbing Draco’s hips to tilt them up. Draco braces himself against the bed. It’s like Ernie, holding him too tight and f*cking him too hard. Warlock’s hips slam into Draco’s arse each time, rocking the bed back into the wall. The tip of his co*ck hits all the wrong spots, and Draco is gasping in pain, but it’s good. It’s good. He’s like a doll, nearly limp against the bed as he’s taken, painfully, and Draco’s sweating all over, and Warlock grabs him by the throat again, further down, so Draco can breathe, and he f*cks him. Hard, good, Draco is clinging to anything, to the sheets, and Astoria’s ankle, his toes curled and arches cramping.

“He’s close.”

“Draco, lift up.”

It takes great effort for Draco to lift his head with Warlock’s help. Astoria motions.

“Lift up. Don’t come on the sheets.”

Warlock is still pounding into him as Draco tries twice to push up onto his trembling arms. Astoria moves beneath him, and Draco’s left arm buckles. Warlock shoves two fingers in beside his co*ck, it hurts , he’s stretched too far, too much, and Astoria puts him back inside her. It hurts, everything does, Warlock’s hand tightening around Draco’s throat until Astoria slaps him away again, and he grabs Draco by the hair instead.

“Go faster.” Astoria says, and Warlock speeds up, somehow. He takes his fingers away, leaving Draco’s arsehole overwrung.

“I'm going to come in him.” Warlock tells Astoria. Draco shudders.

Astoria’s fingers hover over the collection of pinheads for a moment before she draws one.

“Lift up.”

He does, and she pinches his nipple hard, rolling it between her fingers until it’s hard and aching. She sticks the pin through it, and Draco gasps, his head falling forward.

“He’s a slu*t.” Warlock says. Astoria makes a noise. Warlock shoves his fingers into Draco again, and Draco stiffens. Astoria’s breath catches.

“Nothing?” She asks. Draco shakes his head tightly. “You know what the only difference between a whor* and you is?”

Draco shakes his head again.

“You like it. You enjoy getting f*cked and hit and stuck with pins. The money doesn’t even matter to you, you enjoy being treated like a whor*.”

She’s right, and Draco can’t look at her. It didn’t work with Ernie until Ernie treated him like a whor*. Nothing worked with Astoria until she hired someone to hurt him and f*ck him.

Warlock continues to f*ck Draco, and Astoria pulls back again - only a few inches this time - to touch him, even pressing a pin through the slit and out the head. Draco’s chest is shaking when she stops, his co*ck leaking blood, arse sore and battered.

Women fake it.

He’s heard.

He can’t recall the last time he’d had an org*sm, can’t quite remember the exact physical response, but he made Ernie come, and he pushes his throbbing, aching, softening co*ck back into Astoria and fakes it.

Warlock leaves in a flash of blue. Astoria takes a shower. Draco curls onto his side, halfway down on the bed so he can curl into a nest of blankets. He’s still drenched in sweat.

The lights flick off. The bed shifts, and Astoria’s skin is damp and bare, hair dripping wet. She curls around him. Draco’s eyes open, staring into the darkness.