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Although August was drawing to a close, ushering in September and the beginning of a new school year, the weather had not seemed to notice. The crowded streets of Diagon Alley were unbearably hot. Harry had removed his cloak, folding it neatly into his cauldron as he followed Hermione and Ron down the cobblestoned road. They stopped at Fortescue’s—spruced up with a fresh coat of paint and planters along the windows—and, armed with three mint ice creams, they strolled along, peeking into shop windows as they went. Hermione hesitated in front of Eeylops Owl Emporium, asking with a tilt of her head whether Harry wanted to go inside. But he refused, gently pushing past her without further comment. It was too soon, and too painful. They considered ducking into Flourish and Blotts to escape the heat, but above the windows hung a large banner proclaiming THE BOY WHO LIVED TWICE: HARRY POTTER – THE (UNAUTHORIZED) BIOGRAPHY. The bookstore was so crowded that customers spilled onto the street, nearly all of them clutching bright green books with a lightning bolt on the spine.
At the look on Harry’s face, Ron muttered, “Come on, let’s get out of here.” They wove their way towards the apothecary, where Hermione refreshed her potions supplies. It was wonderfully cool and dark inside the little shop, and mostly empty—no doubt thanks to the lingering smell of rotting eggs and cabbage. Still, it was a nice reprieve from the busy street, where people gawked at them and asked for autographs. Most of the shopkeepers were used to Harry’s presence by now; he had spent the better part of the summer in Diagon Alley. But he had not been prepared for the fresh crowds of students and parents, all craning their necks to get a look at him.
All too soon, Hermione paid for her purchases and they stepped back outside. “Shall we stop in and say hi to George, then?” Hermione asked.
“Yeah, we’d better,” said Ron, checking his watch. “It’s nearly noon.”
Harry was happy to see that Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was so tightly packed that they could hardly squeeze inside. Excited squeals and bursts of laughter mingled with intermittent explosions. George was easy enough to spot in his garish magenta robes, demonstrating a Muggle card trick for a group of elderly wizards. As they waded through the crowd, George caught sight of them; grinning, he passed along the deck of cards and squeezed through to meet them.
“Alright, you lot?” he called. Harry had only seen George a few times over the summer. He smiled at them happily enough, but his face was still pale, still drawn. To Harry’s surprise, he reached out and hugged Ron with one arm, thumping his back. Hermione looked as though she might cry.
“I should’ve come earlier,” Ron was saying, his face red. “I just—it’s been busy, you know, the Ministry, they’ve really kept us—”
George waved his hand dismissively before pulling Hermione in for a hug. “Forget it, forget it. Alright, Hermione?”
“Just fine,” she said, a brave smile on her face. “I can’t believe how busy it is, George. You’ve done so well.”
“Lee’s here helping,” George said, looking around the shop. “He’s on break, though, must not be back yet.” Turning to face Harry, he clasped his shoulder. “And this one’s been around all summer. It’s been great for business.”
“You’re doing fine on your own,” Harry said. George beamed at him.
“Have you got more of those Spell-Checking Quills, George?” Ron asked, peering around the shop. “I’m all out…”
It was so loud that Harry could hardly think straight, but he found that he didn’t mind. The shelves were so full of distractions and oddities that most people didn’t notice he was there. Hermione was interested in a set of planners charmed to keep track of classes, assignments, and deadlines—“I can’t believe how clever this is!”—while Harry examined the new line of Skiving Snackboxes. Before long, it was time to leave. They bid goodbye to George, Hermione clutching her new planner and Ron several Galleons lighter, before making their way to the Leaky Cauldron.
The shabby little pub was empty besides their group—squeezed around a large table were Seamus, Dean, Neville, Parvati, and Lavender. There was much excitement as they greeted one another: Neville limped over to give Harry a hug, while Seamus shook his hand vigorously, pulling him to a chair between Parvati and himself. As they settled in, Tom brought over several bottles of firewhisky. Ron and Dean were already discussing the most recent Quidditch game—Cannons against Puddlemere, with the Cannons losing spectacularly—while Hermione hugged Lavender tightly. Her scars had nearly faded. It was nice, he thought, to be among friends.
“A toast!” Seamus called, holding up his bottle. As they quieted, he said, “To our eighth year at Hogwarts—our last year at Hogwarts! And no more interruptions, please and thank you!”
They clinked their bottles together. Harry took a deep swig, melting into the comforting embrace of the firewhisky as it pooled into his chest. He sat back, aware of Seamus’ eyes curiously studying his wrist. Pretending not to notice, he tugged his sleeve down and slipped his arm under the table.
“Have any of you been to see the new Firebolt?” Dean asked, looking around at them.
“It costs a fortune,” Lavender said, shaking her head. “The Cannons have ordered seven.”
“It’ll take more than a new broomstick to save the Cannons,” Seamus muttered.
“Oi!” Ron glared at him, but there was no heat in it.
“And what about your biography, Harry?” Parvati asked. “It’s just come out today.”
Hermione looked at him anxiously, but Harry shook his head, smiling. “I suppose you’ll all want autographed copies?”
They laughed—in relief, Harry suspected, that he wasn’t angry—and then Neville said, “We’ll have to head over to George’s shop after. It’s brilliant.”
“We’ve just been.” Hermione dug through her bag and held up the little pink planner. “I have to admit, George really knows what he’s doing. It was packed—we could barely even get in. I didn’t know if he could manage, since…”
She trailed off, casting a guilty look at Ron, who was staring down at the table. After an awkward pause, Dean said quietly, “I went to see Ollivander. He gave me a wand…wouldn’t take my money for it, either.”
Parvati’s eyes were misty as she said, “That’s really nice, Dean.”
“Yeah. I was glad to see him. He looks a lot better.”
“He’ll be happy now that he’s back in his shop,” Ron said. “He’ll have a whole new group of first-years to sort out, all needing their wands.”
They nodded in agreement, some of them sipping their firewhiskies. A contemplative silence fell over the table.
“Your brother, Ron,” Lavender said suddenly. “Bill. He came to see me, at St. Mungo’s. He told me everything would be alright, you know, that I could live a normal life.”
“Of course you can,” Harry said. “Look at Lupin. He was one of the bravest men I’ve ever met.”
Lavender’s face lit up. “I always liked Professor Lupin. And anyway, Bill and I are the same…we don’t transform. He told me he hardly ever notices it. I think his wife found his scars quite handsome, actually."
Ron chuckled, giving her a lopsided smile. Hermione reached out and held his hand, running her thumb across his fingers.
“You two finally got together, then?” Seamus asked, a sly grin on his face.
Ron turned as red as his hair. He glanced nervously at Hermione, whose face was quite pink.
“Oh, go on, no one’s surprised,” Neville laughed. Slowly, the tension in the air seemed to diffuse.
“Anyone could have predicted it,” Dean agreed.
“Oh, speaking of predictions!” Parvati jumped up in her chair, rummaging through her purse. Finally, she pulled out a deck of silver playing cards. “They had these on sale at Wiseacre’s—I couldn’t resist.”
“What are they?” Seamus asked, his face wary.
“Tarot cards!” she said brightly. “Here, I’ll give you a reading. I need to practice for my N.E.W.T.s…”
Hermione’s face was very stiff as Parvati began to shuffle her deck. Harry knew that she was recalling Trelawney’s classes up in the North Tower, in that warm, cramped room that always smelled heavily of perfume.
“Do they ever come true? Your predictions?” Neville asked. He looked about as nervous as Seamus.
“All the time!” Lavender said, her eyes wide. “I can’t believe you all dropped Divination. It’s so helpful, knowing what’s going to happen. I knew I was going to run late today, for example.”
Hermione’s grip on Ron’s hand was so tight that he winced.
“I was rubbish at it,” Seamus said. “I think I failed my O.W.L.”
“So did I,” Harry said quietly. He could still recall the startled look on Trelawney’s face when she had predicted his death every week. “My worst subject, I think.”
“You were better than Ron,” Parvati scoffed, laying out three cards on the table. “Don’t you remember when he read your tea leaves?”
Lavender tittered next to her. In her best imitation of Ron—which, Harry thought, wasn’t bad at all—she said, “‘You’re gonna suffer…but you’re gonna be happy about it!’”
They burst into peals of laughter as Ron shrugged, smiling sheepishly.
“What do you think he meant, Harry?” Neville asked from across the table. “Do you reckon his prediction’s come true?”
Harry picked at the label on his bottle of firewhisky, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “I dunno. I can’t think what he meant by it.”
***
It was draughty in his little room. The floorboards squeaked, the sound familiar and soothing. If he strained, he thought he could hear soft voices murmuring below. But he knew they wouldn't be unbothered—in this room, he was free from scrutiny, from demands he didn’t care to fulfill. Harry tugged experimentally at the magical restraints around his wrists, knowing they wouldn’t give but not ready to concede defeat entirely. Much as he surrendered himself, there was always that stubborn core within him, unwilling to be subdued.
“Get your legs apart,” he heard, and then a warm hand was pulling his knee aside. “Better.” A sharp inhale, and then, “God, you look good. I couldn’t wait to get back to you.”
Harry arched his back up gently, preening at those words. The restraints dug into his wrists, but he hardly noticed.
“I thought I’d never escape,” that slow drawl continued. “Father just kept going on and on…and I had to nod, and smile, and agree…Meanwhile, I kept thinking of you. I try to stop myself, but I can’t.”
Harry startled as a palm came to rest on his back, running along the curve of his spine. “And you were at lunch with your friends. How was it? Tell me.”
“Fine.” Harry swallowed thickly. “It was fine.”
“Mmm.” Fingernails, now, gently trailed across his skin. “Did you think about me?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think your friends know?” The voice was hardly more than a whisper, hissing at him as the fingernails skidded against his sides. “Do you think they have any idea that their hero, the Chosen One, was fucked so hard last night he came twice?”
Harry couldn’t help it—a pitiful groan escaped his lips. “I—I don’t know.”
“I bet they don’t. I bet they have no idea how often I have you on your knees, begging for me, begging for my cock.” Already, Harry wanted to rut against the bed, but he knew he needed to control himself. He still had a long way to go. “You always beg for it, don't you, Harry?”
“Yeah. All the time.”
“That’s right.” That hand drifted lower, lower, lower, until it dipped within his crease and trailed down to his sac.
“Draco,” he breathed, unable to stop himself.
He expected the sharp slap against his thigh. “Behave.” The mattress shifted and Draco came to sit next to him. “Behave,” he said, more gently now, reaching forward to inspect his wrists. He tutted to himself, tracing his thumb along the pattern of bruises there. “From the restraints?” he asked. Harry nodded. Carefully, he sat up and inspected Harry’s bottom, rubbing the cheeks with his palms. The subtle ache barely registered. “These have started to fade. You’ll need fresh ones, I think.”
Harry bit his bottom lip, acutely aware of how his cock throbbed at that. Draco pressed his lips against Harry’s wrist in a chaste kiss. “Tell me,” he said quietly. “Tell me what you want.”
Even with his wrists held tightly above his head, Harry managed to look up at Draco’s face. He was close enough to kiss—and he wanted to kiss him, wanted so badly to taste him, to hear him groan the way he did whenever they kissed. His lips were pulled into a teasing smile, his white blonde hair halfway in his eyes as he leaned forward to hear what Harry said to say. “Want you to fuck me.” Harry cleared his throat, trying to soothe the rasp in his voice. “Fuck my mouth.”
Draco smirked. Lewd as his words had been, he didn’t seem shocked at all—and that was one of the hundreds of things Harry loved about him, his refusal to be shocked by whatever indecent ideas he came up with. “You want me to fuck your mouth?” he asked. Harry nodded. “Want me to choke you with my cock, is that it?” He nodded again, more vigorously this time.
Harry closed his eyes and told himself to breathe, to control himself as Draco rummaged through their bedside table and then sat across his thighs. Pinned like this, Harry’s cock pushed further into the sheets, providing just enough friction to drive him insane without actually offering any relief. “Five, do you think?” Draco asked conversationally. “Count for me. I want to hear you.”
Draco sat back, and Harry braced himself. At the first thwack he cried out, tangling his hands in the sheets for some kind of purchase. “One,” he breathed, rocking against the bed as he rode out the sharp sting across his arse. Another thwack. The paddle—it must have been the paddle, the burst of pain was so sudden and so sweet—landed almost directly where it had the first time, causing him to gasp in pain. “Two.”
The feel of Draco’s fingers caressing his burning flesh was almost more shocking than the first two lashes had been. He alternated between rubbing and pinching, causing Harry to whine. “Fuck, I wish you could see yourself,” Draco said. His voice was almost reverent, which did absolutely nothing to improve the ache in Harry’s cock. “Your arse is so red. You’re going to bruise.” As Harry keened, he said quietly, “You like that, don’t you? You love it when I mark you.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, still rocking softly against the bed. “Yeah, I do.”
Draco had barely removed his hand when the third lash came. This time, the pain in his arse shot straight to his cock. The sheet beneath him was starting to grow sticky; his cock slipped in the wetness, and that made him shudder. “Three,” he managed to say. He knew he must look pathetic, rutting against the bed like some sort of animal, but he was long past the point of caring. The fourth strike came a moment later, landing dangerously close to his sac. He shouted, the pain and the pleasure mingling together in the pit of his stomach. He thought, vaguely, that he could probably come from this, from Draco’s voice, his unrelenting lashes, his cock dragging against his own pre-cum.
“I didn’t hear you,” Draco hissed, pinching his arse.
“Four,” Harry yelped, squirming away. A shiver passed through his body, from the tips of his fingers to the bottoms of his toes, as Draco once against slipped his fingers between his crease. He bucked against his touch, growling as Draco gently swatted him. “Behave.” But it was so difficult to be good, to listen, when those long, delicate fingers were teasing him apart, barely glancing over his tight hole before coming up to brush over his back, his cheeks, his thighs. Suddenly, Draco withdrew his hand, and Harry expected the final lash. Instead, he thought he might melt as Draco’s body suddenly draped over his. He kissed along the back of Harry’s neck as his cock pushed along his crease, gently easing him open. Half-crazed with want, he told himself that he wouldn’t mind if Draco took him now without preparing him, wouldn’t mind at all if he tore him in half. He just needed to feel something, anything, before he lost his mind.
He whimpered as Draco withdrew, the cold air hitting him cruelly. He tugged uselessly at his restraints, wanting desperately to feel that warm body against his. But Draco had other plans—a moment later, the paddle came down on his arse, so hard this time that the pain was blinding. “Five, five, five,” Harry moaned to himself, pressing his forehead against his forearm as the pain coursed through him. And then Draco had his hands on his thighs, steadying him, and he was licking against the fresh wounds, kissing and mouthing him as though that might heal the bruises. And Harry thought it just might, because it felt so good, Draco’s lips running across his skin.
“Up.” Harry wasn’t ready for the sudden release of his restraints. He sagged forward, face falling into the sheets, and he took a moment to flex his aching wrists. “Up, and on the floor. Go on.” Everything in him said to obey that voice, and so he did. Scooting off the bed—careful to avoid rubbing his sore arse against the sheets—he scrambled to the floor, resting on his knees. From this position, he could finally see Draco properly: the smooth expanse of his stomach, his pale flesh that seemed to just go on and on and on, his grey eyes and his pouty little mouth and his straight nose that came together to form a face that had no business being so beautiful. Harry’s cock was sore at the sight of him.
“Don’t touch yourself,” Draco warned, as though reading his mind. And that was another thing Harry loved—how in tune they were, predicting each other’s thoughts before they had fully formed.
Finally, Draco slipped off the bed and walked over to him, cock bobbing against his stomach. “Tell me what you want,” he said softly.
“I want to taste you,” Harry said at once, any inhibitions he might have had now long gone. “Please, I want you in my mouth. I need you in my mouth.”
“Yeah?” Draco asked breathlessly. He took himself in hand, and Harry bristled.
“Let me do it,” he said, eyes fixed on Draco’s hand as he slowly pumped his cock. “I can do it for you.”
Draco laughed, and that laugh did all sorts of things to him. Made him giddy. Made him weak. “You want me to fuck your mouth, is it? That’s what you want?”
“Please.” A flush of arousal burst through him, so strong that he had to slip his hands between his knees to stop himself from reaching out. “Fuck me with your cock. I want it. Be rough with me.”
Draco took another step forward, and then he crouched down so that their eyes were level. Smiling, he reached up and ran his fingers through Harry’s hair. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much.”
“Yes, yes,” he snapped. He knew he shouldn’t push his luck, but he was so desperate for Draco’s cock in his mouth that he couldn’t stand it anymore.
“And if you want me to stop?”
“Wandless magic, I know, I know.”
There was something tender in Draco’s eyes, but then it flitted away as he twisted his fingers in Harry’s hair and yanked. “I’ve told you to behave,” he growled. “I’ll leave you here, wanting it. Don’t think I won’t.”
Subdued, Harry looked away. Draco was on his feet again, cock in hand as he stood close enough to touch.
“Open your mouth, Harry.”
Harry obeyed immediately, gazing up as Draco stroked himself. So slowly it bordered on cruel, he brought his cock towards Harry’s mouth, letting it rest against his lips. Harry kept perfectly still, well aware that Draco would go through with his threat if he misbehaved. But his hands nearly trembled with the urge to reach up and feel. Gradually, Draco put his cock past Harry’s lips and into his mouth, giving out a soft gasp that travelled all the way to Harry’s cock. He knew by now that it was Draco’s noises that undid him, more than anything.
“Keep still,” Draco muttered, coming to rest his hands on Harry’s head. He did as he was told, eyes fluttering shut as Draco rocked in and out, in and out. The salty taste of pre-cum was on his tongue. Slowly, Harry brought his lips to close around Draco’s cock, humming in satisfaction when Draco inhaled sharply. He kept his head as still as he could as Draco quickened his pace, thrusting into Harry’s mouth as he threaded his fingers through his hair.
“Fuck, your mouth is so good,” Draco said, staring down at him. “I knew all these years your mouth must be good for something. Use your tongue, go on.”
Nearly sagging with relief, Harry finally allowed himself to lick greedily at Draco’s cock as it bobbed into his mouth. A voice in his head insisted, demanded, that he reach up and wrap a hand around that cock—it would be so easy, it was right there, it would feel so good against his palm—but he controlled himself.
“Gonna go deeper,” Draco grunted. And then he did, slowly pushing his way in until Harry’s nose was pressed against his stomach. He was practiced enough not to gag, squeezing his eyes shut as he reminded himself to relax his throat, to breathe through his nose. He felt full of Draco, so wonderfully full. He was nearly dizzy with need, anxious to reach down and touch his own cock, if only to take the edge off.
“You take it so good,” Draco said as he began to thrust into Harry’s mouth again. He pulled out so far that the head of his cock brushed Harry’s lips, before sliding in easily again, slowing down so as not to overwhelm him as he went as deep as he could. Harry moaned—loudly, so loudly, not caring who might hear them—and Draco made an incredible sound in response, a sound Harry would pay thousands of Galleons to hear again. “God, I love you on your knees. Harry Potter, on his knees for me. I wish everyone could see you now.”
And Harry, nearly drunk with arousal, found that he wanted that, too. Wanted everyone to know that he was helpless when it came to Draco, that he gladly allowed himself to be used however Draco needed, that he was powerless with Draco’s cock in his mouth, fucking him senseless. Harry curled his hands into fists and pressed them tighter between his legs, doing everything he could not to touch himself. His cock needed it, he needed it, but he also needed to wait, to wait for Draco. He was distracted from his desperation as Draco increased his pace, thrusting roughly into Harry’s mouth and letting out a soft grunt with every push.
“Touch yourself.” Draco said, his voice breaking. “Touch yourself, want to see you come. Want to hear it.”
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. His cock was so wet that it slipped in his hand, heavy and tight and anxious for release. He wouldn’t last long.
“Harry.” The cold, slick drawl faded from Draco’s voice, and came to be replaced with a breathlessness that instantly set Harry’s heart to pounding. That voice always meant he was close. That voice did things to him he had never felt before. “Gonna come. Gonna come in your mouth. Is that—is that okay, do you—”
Unable to speak, Harry reached up and gripped Draco’s arse with one hand, pulling him impossibly closer. His other hand flew over his cock, sloppy as he felt his balls draw up, that tight spool of pleasure twisting in his stomach.
“Oh, God, Harry, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming in your mouth Harry, fuck.” Harry gasped as Draco’s hips stuttered and he spilled into his mouth, his fingers twisting in his hair. And Harry was right behind him—always so in tune, he thought wildly to himself, always one after the other—groaning roughly around Draco’s cock as his release splattered against his stomach. It felt so good it was nearly painful—an agonizing, delirious pleasure, seeping into his teeth, his muscles, his bones. And still Draco’s cock throbbed in Harry’s mouth, softening as Draco muttered incoherently. Very gently, Harry pulled away, rubbing the backs of Draco’s thighs as he came down from his release. He expected it when Draco sank to the floor, and caught him easily in his arms, burying his face into the crook of his neck.
“You were so good for me,” Draco murmured, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. “Fuck, I can’t believe you. You’re always so good for me.”
Very pleased with himself, Harry grinned, taking in the sound of Draco’s panting. He was spent. It was impossible to imagine how he might find the strength to drag himself up onto the bed. But he needn’t have worried, because Draco was pulling him up, supporting him as they clambered onto the mattress.
“Come on,” he was whispering, shooing Harry under the sheets. “You’ll get cold.”
And then Draco was next to him, all warm and soft and sweet as he covered Harry’s face with kisses. He found his wand and cleaned them, and then he inspected the bruises on Harry’s wrists and his arse.
“Let me heal them,” he said, wand at the ready. “Just this one time.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“We’ll make more,” Draco reasoned.
“No. Leave them. Please, leave them.”
Sighing to himself, Draco reached over to set his wand on the bedside table before turning to scoop Harry into his arms. “If you say so.”
They lay like that for a moment, catching their breaths. Harry could hear Draco’s heart beating in his chest. He had fallen asleep to that rhythmic thumping many times before.
“How was it, though?” Draco asked. He was combing his fingers through Harry's hair, pulling the strands away from his face. “Your lunch with your friends?”
“We didn’t have lunch,” Harry said against Draco’s chest. “Just drinks, at the Leaky.”
“Was everyone there?”
“All the Gryffindors, yeah.”
“And how was it?”
Harry considered his question. “A bit sad. I think we were all trying to keep things light, but it’s hard, you know. Hard to find a topic that isn’t related to something painful.”
Draco hummed thoughtfully.
“But it was good. I’m glad I went. And it’s better to get it out of the way, before the school year starts.”
At that, Draco sighed dramatically. “No more peaceful room in Diagon Alley. No more nights to ourselves. No more meals together. Why are we going back, again?”
“We’ll find a way,” Harry said, kissing Draco’s chest. “It’s just one more year. Do it for me.”
“I do all kinds of things for you,” Draco said, his voice affectionate.
Harry couldn’t argue with that. He allowed his eyes to fall shut, listening to the sound of Draco's breathing as it evened out. It was warm in the blankets, and he felt safe.
“Draco,” he said, catching himself before he drifted off. Smiling sleepily, he asked, “Have you ever had your tea leaves read?”