Work Text:
The war had ended years ago, but the world never truly healed. Harry Potter had seen to that. The Boy Who Lived had died in the final battle along with Voldemort’s body. What rose from the ashes was something far darker—a wizard who had tasted death, power, and the hollow victory of survival, and decided the light was for fools. He wore the title “Dark Lord” now without shame. The Ministry bent the knee. The Aurors who once called him friend now whispered his name in fear. And the wizarding world learned quickly: Harry Potter took what he wanted. Always.
And what he wanted, more than magic itself, was you.
You were (Y/N) Moore—soft-spoken Gryffindor beauty with eyes like warm honey and a voice that never rose above a gentle murmur. Even after graduation, you still carried that quiet courage, the kind that made people lean in just to hear you speak. You worked in the little apothecary on Diagon Alley, brewing calming draughts and healing salves with steady hands and a smile that could soften stone. You had no idea how long he’d watched you. How many nights he’d stood invisible outside your flat in Muggle London, cloaked in shadows, memorizing the way you brushed your hair, the way you hummed while reading, the way you bit your lip when you were nervous.
He knew everything.
Your favorite tea. The way you still slept with the stuffed lion your mother gave you at eleven. The soft little gasps you made when you touched yourself alone in bed, whispering fantasies you’d never dare speak aloud.
And he knew you were dating someone. A bland, safe Hufflepuff named Elias Finch. A nobody who dared put his hands on what belonged to Harry Potter.
That was the night everything changed.
The alley behind the Leaky Cauldron smelled of rain and spilled firewhisky. Elias had walked you home after dinner, laughing at some joke you’d barely heard because your thoughts kept drifting—always drifting—to the strange green eyes you sometimes felt on your back. You never saw him, but you felt him. Like a shadow that loved you too much.
Elias leaned in to kiss you goodnight, his hands settling on your waist.
A crack of Apparition split the air.
Harry stepped out of nothing, wand already raised. The Killing Curse left his lips like a lover’s sigh.
“Avada Kedavra.”
Green light—his signature, the one the Prophet still called “the color of hope”—slammed into Elias’s chest. The man didn’t even have time to scream. His body hit the wet cobblestones with a wet thud, eyes wide and empty. Blood didn’t spray; the curse was too clean for that. But Harry wanted mess tonight.
He flicked his wand again. “Diffindo. Sectumsempra.”
The spells carved through flesh like invisible blades. Elias’s body jerked as deep gashes opened across his throat, his chest, his stomach. Blood poured out in thick, steaming rivers, pooling around your shoes. You stumbled back, a horrified sound dying in your throat.
Harry turned to you, the streetlamp catching the wild gleam in his emerald eyes. His glasses were gone—had been for years—and the scar on his forehead stood out stark white against his skin. He looked beautiful and terrible, like a fallen angel who’d decided heaven was boring.
“(Y/N),” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “You’re safe now.”
You tried to run. Of course you did. Your soft heart still believed in running from monsters.
He caught you before you’d taken three steps. Strong arms banded around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. His cloak smelled of smoke and dark magic and something uniquely him—ozone and pine and raw power.
“Shh,” he murmured against your hair, one hand sliding up to cradle your throat. Not squeezing. Just… holding. Possessing. “No one else gets to touch you. Ever. He was going to take you from me. I couldn’t allow that.”
You were trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Harry… please… what did you do?”
“I fixed it,” he said simply. His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “You’re mine now. You’ve always been mine.”
A whispered “Stupefy” later, the world went black.
When you woke, you were in a bedroom that looked like it had been carved from night itself. Black silk sheets. Dark emerald drapes. A massive four-poster bed with silver runes pulsing along the posts—wards so strong you could feel them humming against your skin. Your wrists were bound above your head with soft velvet ropes that tightened every time you struggled. You wore only a thin white slip—the one you’d been wearing under your dress. Your wand was gone. Your voice, when you tried to scream, came out as nothing but a broken whisper.
The door opened.
Harry stepped in wearing only black trousers, chest bare, the Dark Mark seared into his left forearm like a brand of ownership. Scars from the war crisscrossed his skin—reminders of every time he’d chosen power over mercy. His eyes drank you in like you were the only light left in his universe.
“You’re awake.” His voice was rough velvet. “Good.”
He crossed the room slowly, savoring every second. When he reached the bed he crawled over you, knees bracketing your hips, caging you beneath him. One hand traced your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear tracks.
“You’re so beautiful when you’re afraid,” he whispered. “But you don’t have to be. I’d burn the world down before I let anyone hurt you. Including me.”
“Harry,” you breathed, voice shaking, “this isn’t—you can’t—”
“I can.” His hand slid down your throat, over your collarbone, cupping your breast through the thin fabric. Your nipple hardened traitorously under his palm. “And I will. Every day for the rest of our lives.”
He kissed you then—slow, deep, devouring. Like he was trying to crawl inside your soul. You whimpered against his mouth, part terror, part something darker you refused to name. When he pulled back, his eyes were blazing.
“I’ve waited years for this. Watched you smile at idiots who didn’t deserve the air you breathed. Listened to you moan my name in your sleep when you thought no one could hear.” His fingers tugged the slip down, exposing you to cool air and his hungry gaze. “You’re mine, (Y/N) Moore. Say it.”
You shook your head, tears spilling anew.
He smiled—soft, almost tender—and summoned his wand. A flick, and the velvet ropes around your wrists tightened, pulling your arms higher. Another spell, and your legs were gently but inexorably spread, ankles secured to the bottom posts.
“Say it,” he repeated, voice darker now. He leaned down and dragged his tongue over one nipple, sucking it into his mouth until you arched with a broken cry. “Or I’ll make you.”
His free hand slipped between your thighs, finding you already shamefully slick. Two fingers circled your clit with devastating precision, like he’d studied every fantasy you’d ever had.
“Harry—please—”
“Say. It.”
A third finger joined the first two, thrusting deep, curling against that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. His thumb never stopped its relentless rhythm on your clit. You were sobbing now, hips jerking involuntarily, chasing the pleasure he was forcing on you.
“I’m—I’m yours!” you gasped, voice cracking.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours, Harry! Please—oh gods—”
He rewarded you by sucking your other nipple hard while his fingers fucked you faster, wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, thighs shaking, a raw moan tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop. He wrung every last tremor from you until you were whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.
Only then did he withdraw his hand, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth and licking them clean with a low groan.
“Perfect,” he murmured. “So sweet for me.”
He stood just long enough to shove his trousers down. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. The sight of it made your stomach clench with equal parts dread and aching want. He stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked on your spread body.
“I’m going to fuck you now, love. And you’re going to take every inch like the good girl you are.”
He climbed back over you, notching the head of his cock at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open until you felt impossibly full. A broken whine escaped your lips. He bottomed out with a guttural moan, forehead dropping to yours.
“Fuck… so tight. Made for me. Only me.”
Then he began to move.
There was nothing gentle about it. He fucked you like a man who’d been starving for years—deep, punishing thrusts that punched the air from your lungs. The bed creaked. Your bound wrists strained against the ropes. Every stroke dragged against that perfect spot inside you until you were sobbing with overstimulation, another orgasm building whether you wanted it or not.
“Mine,” he growled against your throat, teeth scraping your pulse point. “Say it again.”
“Yours—Harry—I’m yours—”
He bit down hard enough to draw blood. The sharp sting sent you spiraling over the edge again, walls clenching around him so tightly he cursed. His hips stuttered. He slammed in one final time and came with a broken roar, flooding you with heat, marking you from the inside out.
For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the wet drip of his release leaking out around his cock.
He didn’t pull out. Instead he collapsed half on top of you, still buried deep, and pressed soft kisses to your tear-streaked face.
“My beautiful Gryffindor,” he whispered. “My soft little Moore. No one will ever take you from me. I killed for you tonight. I’ll kill again. The entire Ministry if I have to. You’re never leaving this bed unless I’m with you.”
You were too exhausted, too shattered, to do anything but nod.
He smiled against your skin—gentle now, almost reverent.
“Good girl.”
He finally slipped free, but only long enough to wave his wand. The ropes vanished. He gathered you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, one hand possessively cupping your cum-filled cunt as if to keep every drop inside you.
“Sleep, love. Tomorrow I’ll show you the rest of our home. And the next time someone looks at you too long…” His voice dropped to a dark promise. “I’ll make Elias’s death look like mercy.”
You closed your eyes, trembling in the arms of the most powerful dark wizard alive.
And somewhere deep inside your shattered heart, a tiny, treacherous part of you wondered if being loved this violently… was the only kind of love you’d ever truly wanted.
Harry Potter had you now.
Forever.
And he would go to any length—blood, magic, or soul—to keep you right here.
He never stopped.