Archive of Our Own

It was categorically another bad day. Harry had snapped at one of the new recruits he was meant to be training, stayed late to catch up on paperwork, and then had to cancel on spending time with Teddy because of it. He was drained, stretched too thin, he could feel himself slipping again. Useless, pathetic, wrong, the voice inside his head chanted. With a huff, he grabbed his bag and headed for the floos.

Grimmauld was cold and quiet in the way all things that have been made to sit and decay are, uncared for and unloved, hostile even. Harry didn’t bother turning on the lights—they wouldn’t cooperate for him anyway—as he made his way to the kitchen. Firewhiskey sat on the counter where he had left it and he took a long pull, letting his head thunk back against the cabinets as his eyes slid closed. With a shaky breath he pulled the business card out from his robes. It was simple: black and matte with a filigree like swirl on the front. He traced the delicate line with the tip of his wand and the swirl reformed: WIXXX - PERSONAL COMPANIONS

Could he do this? It had been so long since he last indulged and even then he had to restrain himself and use glamours, his needs never fully satisfied. No one could know, no one would understand and he couldn’t handle seeing pity reflected back at him, proof that he was damaged on a fundamental level. He had to—he had to, his skin felt too tight, buzzing and hot just under the surface—he knew he was irritable and short tempered and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him. He needed relief; whatever he could get from this encounter—maybe it would be better, more controlled than coming home with some random bloke from the pub.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he tapped the card. A soft blue orb of light rose and a pleasant voice filled the room.

“Hello, Thank you for choosing WIXXX, Personal Companions. How may we be of service?” The light pulsed in a soothing manner.

A little startled, Harry gathered his nerve. “Uh, yes, I would like to inquire about… hiring company? For a night.” Gods, was it too late to hang up? Could he hang up? He didn’t know how to make the orb retreat back into the card. Why hadn’t he planned what he was going to say?

“Certainly, are you a returning customer?”

“No, this would be my first time.” Sweat prickled the back of his neck and he grit his teeth in frustration. It’s not a commitment and it’s not even a real person you’re talking to, he berated himself.

The business card glowed and expanded, paragraphs of text appearing as the voice continued, “In that case, you will need to fill out our contract. Rest assured that confidentiality and safety for you and our companions is of the utmost importance. The subsequent questionnaire and inventory will only be viewed by the companion you select. Companions are magically bound and prohibited from disclosing your identity, location, and any and all activities or services rendered while in your company.”

“O-kay. Right. I’ll just—”

“Additionally,” the orb interjected, “should you decide your companion is not a perfect fit, you can request to review your matches for a suitable replacement, pending availability.”

“Great, I—”

“After you have filled out and signed both forms, we will provide you with a list of companions based on compatibility for you to choose from.”

Harry paused, staring at the orb.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, ok—”

“Thank you for choosing WIXXX, we will be in contact soon.” With that the light dimmed and dissipated.

Harry heaved a sigh, grabbed the contract and firewhiskey, and made his way to the study. Everything seemed straightforward but the questionnaire gave him pause:

Are you generally a trusting person? No, Harry didn’t think he was. He’d overheard his colleagues describe him as ‘emotionally guarded’ and the sentiment left a pit in his stomach. He hadn’t always been so jumpy and pent up, but lately it was like he couldn’t get his emotions under control.

Are you more inclined to turn left or right at a crossroad? Fuck if he knew, and that was the crux of it wasn’t it? He felt directionless. A highly manipulated childhood forced him to the front lines of a war, killed all his mentors, and spit him out lost and broken.

Do you prefer aquatic or terrestrial plants? Was that a euphemism for birds or blokes? He wrote ‘terrestrial’.

What do you need for your time with your companion to be successful? He wrote ‘have dinner’. That seemed like a safe place to start and it was something he needed to have happen before things could progress. Dinner was normal, right? Maybe not in the context of needing an escort, but surely it wouldn’t be the weirdest request they’ve seen.

He decided he wouldn’t fill everything out. Confidentiality agreement or not, listing what he was looking for in great detail felt like too much. He would get a read on his match once they showed up and decide then if he felt safe enough to continue. The ink of his signature had barely dried before it blazed white and the contract shrunk back down to resumed its original appearance. As he reached to pocket the card, the orb materialized again.

“Good evening, we have processed your questionnaire and are ready to present your matches. Do you wish to proceed?”

“Oh, that was rather fast, all right then.”

“To select a companion, say the number, to skip to the next candidate, say ‘next’,” the disembodied voice instructed. “Candidate one: female, age 25-30, brunette, highly rated in—”

“Next,” Harry said.

“Skipping. Candidate two: male, age 20-25, blonde, regarded as highly enthusiastic and—”

“Next.” Highly enthusiastic and younger than him didn’t quite feel like the combination he needed.

“Skipping. Candidate three: male, age 25-30, blonde, described as adaptable and profes—”

“Number three.” Adaptability is probably the best he can hope for.

“Accepted, candidate three. Please state the date and time you would like your companion’s company.”

“Er—tomorrow at seven will do.”

The orb pulsed green as the voice confirmed the details before vanishing once again.

Excitement and nervousness swooped low in his stomach. If this worked out it could be the perfect solution to his problems. He brought the firewhiskey to his mouth again and let the drink soothe him as he made his way to bed. Finally something good to look forward to after a difficult day.

•••

It had been a wonderful day for Draco. After spending all weekend with clients, he decided to get up bright and early on Monday and take himself to the shops to spend his earnings. A croissant from the little bakery on the corner, the latest book in his favorite series, and a new pair of boots found him in high spirits.

He returned to his modest flat, deposited his purchases, and poured himself a drink before sitting down at his desk. His planner gave a familiar faint hum: a new appointment. He tapped the entry with his wand and the standard questionnaire unfolded before him. New Client-Male, coordinates to a home in London, special requests: have dinner together. Interesting but not altogether uncommon, some people hired him for strictly platonic company. Sharing a meal with someone would be easy, unless it was a feeder situation, those could be tricky. He literally didn’t have the stomach for it unless he fasted beforehand. A first time client too, those could be deliciously shy.

The thing Draco loved about being an escort, besides the pay, was the challenge of figuring out exactly how to take a client apart. It was almost like acting in a way and the drama of it all was very exciting, plus it gave him a reason to dress up. Did they want him demure and in lace or bossy and clad in leather? The perfect conversationalist at a gala or the fiery dirty-mouthed secret? Yes, Draco loved his job and first timers were particularly exciting. It gave him a sense of pride when he could push them a little and help them discover what they’re looking for, to understand themselves better.

With the dinner in mind and not much else to go off of, he laid out a nicer set of navy blue robes and his new boots for tomorrow before he retired for the night.

•••

Draco examines his reflection, his robes are nice but not too formal, he could dress them up with jewelry but sometimes that just gets in the way. He settles on a ring and plaits his shoulder length hair for a more polished look. At precisely seven he apparates to a row of brick townhouses that have seen better days. Confidently, he strolls up to the door and knocks thrice. The hinges let out a ghastly moan to reveal none other than Harry Potter.

Merlin and Morgana both, it must have been a decade since the last time he saw Potter. He’s filled out since their school days but he still has that slightly haunted look about him, like he’s expecting danger around every corner.

“Malfoy? What are—you can’t be here.” Potter peers around the door as if checking the street for an ambush. Draco catches his hand twitch ever so slightly to where he undoubtedly has his wand stashed.

“Why, but Potter, I’m your date for the evening,” a smile blooms across his face.

“You’re a prostitute?” He blurts.

“Asks the man hiring prostitutes. Careful, Potter,” he sniffs. “I assure you, I’m a professional, but if you’d prefer someone else…”

“I just wasn’t expecting you, this—” he gestures between them, “we’ve never worked well together.”

Draco takes in the way his hand shakes, color splotching his cheeks, oh Potter would be fun to rile up. His mind is already turning with how to disarm him. He lowers his mouth to an inch from Potter’s ear. “Breathe Harry and invite me in.”

His eyes follow the bob of Potter’s throat as he inhales and takes a step back allowing Draco to enter. That was too easy and he finds he’s a little disappointed at how quickly he solved the puzzle. Of course Potter needs a dom; he’s always had someone telling him what to do. He’s probably lost now that there isn’t a divine cause for him to martyr himself for.

Draco removes his outer cloak and holds it out expectantly. “Hang it up, pet.”

“The cloak rack is right there,” Potter narrows his eyes and scoffs.

For a moment Draco can’t tell if he’s being intentionally bratty or if he’s read Potter wrong. “Then make use of it. Show me to your sitting room and fetch me a cup of tea. We have other matters to discuss first.”

Irritation flashes across Potter’s face but he grabs the cloak all the same and points Draco towards a stuffy room full of antique furniture, not at all what he would have envisioned as Potter’s taste in decor. The rug is intricate but moth bitten, dust clings to the drapes, and water stains mar the side table. He seats himself on the far side of the settee; a test to see if Potter will sit beside him or in the chair across from him.

A moment later Potter returns carrying a mismatched tea service, as if he grabbed the first cups and saucers he could find, and settles himself in the chair.

“Be a lamb and add a splash of milk,” Draco holds his cup out, eyes never leaving Potter’s.

Potter tilts his head, sizing him up before he raises the jug. “Are you always this bossy? You know you can leave, right?”

Shite, he did get it wrong. Leave it to Potter to have him on the back foot. No matter, he exhales his frustrations and re-centers himself. Perhaps honestly will get him somewhere, what with Potter’s Gryffindor sensibilities.

“My mistake, I thought perhaps you wanted someone bossy. You’ve hired me to ensure you have a good evening and that is what I intend to give you. Which brings us to the questionnaire. I found it lacking.”

“Lacking?”

“Yes, you left quite a lot of it blank. What exactly are you looking for Harry?”

“Dinner and then…” Harry’s eyes flicker across the room never landing on one place for long, as if the bookshelf or fireplace will shout the answer he can’t seem to give voice to.

Draco lowers his tea and studies him: shallow breaths, constricted pupils, slight tremor in his voice—he’s very clearly panicking. Whatever Harry needs it doesn’t seem like he can put it into words and the idea of that is sending him into an anxiety attack. “Harry, take a breath and look at me,” he softens his voice as Harry’s eyes finally settle on him. “I promise you, whatever it is you want I’ve heard it before. There’s no wrong answers.”

Harry partially folds over himself, elbows on knees, his hands rising up to comb through his hair. He stays silent but Draco can tell he’s pacing his breathing in an attempt to get it back under control.

“You wrote dinner and that sounds lovely. I’m very much looking forward to it. Would I be correct in assuming you’re looking for something more though?”

“Yes,” Harry speaks to the floor.

“Something sexual in nature?”

Harry’s breath catches as he nods.

“I know you’re having a hard time articulating it and I saw your nod, but it’s very important to me that you use your words if you can,” he pauses, trying to catch Harry’s eye. “Do you have a safe word or are you familiar with the stop light system?”

“I know about the light system,” Harry mumbles.

“That’s good. Will you be able to tell me if something is wrong and we need to pause?”

Harry begins to nod but stops himself. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Draco offers him a smile. “That can be enough for now. Would you like to eat dinner?”

At this Harry’s whole demeanor changes, his eyes regain focus and some of the tension seems to seep out of his shoulders. “Yeah, yes—I started pulling everything out when you knocked. The kitchen is back this way.”

Draco can practically feel the nervous energy radiate off him but he stays quiet for now and observes as Harry leads them into a cavernous kitchen.

“I’ll admit the culinary arts are not my forte, but is there anything I can do to help?”

“No!” Harry looks alarmed. “Sorry, no, I have to do this. You can have a seat, it won’t be long.”

“You have to?” Draco asks.

“Yes, it’s—just yes.” Whatever is in the pan on the hob starts to sizzle as Harry whirls around to check on it.

Draco goes back to studying him. It’s apparent now that Harry needs to be in control. He almost put himself in hysteric over whatever this dinner ritual is. Perhaps he’s trying to fulfill a domestic lifestyle fantasy. If he had to guess he would bet that he’s desperately lonely.

“Harry, how do you feel about casual physical affection? If I were to say, lean against the counter and rub your back as you cooked?”

“Er, no. I mean, not while I’m cooking but maybe after you eat? If you wanted to.” Harry rushes the words, nerves beginning to creep back in.

“Okay. It’s just that you’re all the way over there, I could keep you company if you’d like.”

“It’s all right, I’m almost done.” His fingers flutter over the counter top as he grabs something to toss in the bin.

Not domesticity then. Draco doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s almost like Harry wants platonic company, but that can’t be right because he definitely indicated that there was a sexual component to tonight. Maybe he really is a feeder.

“What are you making? Is that… bacon I smell?”

Harry turns, two plates in hand and a slight blush gracing his cheeks. “Just a fry-up,” he sets a plate in front of Draco as he passes to the far side of the table.

“For dinner?” Draco asks. He can see Harry’s shoulders fold in like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“It’s the first thing I learnt how to cook,” Harry says softly.

He looks insecure despite all the effort he put into preparing their meal. Draco isn’t sure what he did to make him deflate but it feels like he’s losing and he won’t allow that. He picks up his plate and moves to the chair directly in front of Harry’s.

“It smells good, as unconventional as it is. Thank you.”

Harry looks a little stunned but pleased all the same. He watches Draco’s fork expectantly.

“Would you like to feed me? Or I, you?”

Harry’s brows knit together eyes shifting up to meet Draco’s, “No… is that something you do?”

“Not typically but some people enjoy it,” he replies easily.

Harry’s gaze falls back to his fork and with nothing left to do Draco takes his first bite. A small smile and an almost imperceptible nod of his head lets Draco know he passed whatever test this was.

“It’s very good. How long have you been cooking?”

“Since I was old enough to reach the hob. My aunt had me serve breakfast most mornings.”

“The muggles you lived with?”

“Yeah, I was basically their house elf.”

At first Draco thinks he’s taking the piss, the words are thrown out so nonchalantly that he almost laughs along like he’s in on the joke. “No, that can’t be right, you would have been too young.”

Suddenly Harry looks very tired. No, not tired, worn like something that’s been stretched past its threshold yet is still expected to resume its original shape.

He watches as Harry fidgets, opens his mouth and closes it again—words escaping him. Draco leans across the table to grasp his hand. “It’s okay, Harry. I’ve eaten dinner, will you allow me to touch you now?”

Harry nods and Draco is out of his seat and around the table kneeling beside him. He lightly runs his palm up and down Harry’s thigh as one would to soothe a skittish horse.

“Do you think you can tell me what you’d like to do next?” He asks carefully.

Slowly, Harry pushes his chair back and extends his hand to pull Draco up. He keeps their fingers entwined as he leads them down a corridor, stoping in front of a bedroom.

Only it’s not a bedroom, it’s a cupboard. Draco stares into the tiny space and is surprised to see a single bed shoved to the right and shelves on the left. They can barely take a step in either direction.

“Harry, this is an elf’s quarters.” Draco turns to him, searching his face for any realization that they’re at the wrong door when it dawns on him: I was basically their house elf.

A cocktail of emotions flood him as he quickly makes several connections—indignation at the muggles for forcing a child to cook and clean and serve them, outrage at Dumbledore (may he burn in the ninth circle) for sending him back there year after year, and fear at the prospect of being made to live in a cupboard; like Harry was just some tool they could put away when he was no longer of use.

Clarity slams into him like a Bludger: Harry doesn’t need to be told what to do or given the fantasy of domestic bliss—he probably can’t even conceive it—he needs to feel safe, because he’s still stuck in the cupboard; a neglected and unloved child begging for Draco to show him something different.

He takes a step back from the room. Harry hasn’t so much as looked at him; he stands there, eyes trained on the ground, fists balled at his sides. Alarms are blaring in the back of Draco’s mind as lets out a long exhale and brings his hands to rest on Harry’s shoulders in an attempt to ground them both.

Fuck, can he do this? He tries to assess the situation quickly before Harry begins to panic again. Is the cupboard traumatizing? Yes, absolutely. Do clients sometimes try to process their trauma in a controlled environment? Also yes. Is it really that outlandish of a request? He supposes not. He’s a professional. He won’t fail. Merlin give him strength.

He slides both hands down to grasps Harry’s. “Can you look at me please? I just have a few questions before we begin. You’ll tell me if you want to stop, yes?”

“I will,” Harry promises as he lifts his head, green eyes meeting grey.

“Is there anything special I need to know or anything I shouldn’t do?” Normally he would let the interaction develop naturally but he wants to be so very careful with Harry.

“I have…” Harry hesitates, tries again. “There’s a jacket.”

“Oh, may I see it?” Draco asks.

Wandlessly, wordlessly, Harry summons and presents it for Draco’s inspection.

It’s smooth, a little worn, the leather cool to the touch. It smells like stale cigarettes and nights spent at the pub. It doesn’t look like Harry’s style but it brings a smile to Draco’s face all the same.

“Leather in the bedroom, hmm?” He leans in closer to murmur. “Are you going to wear this while you fuck me?”

Harry’s eyes widen. “No. No, it’s for after. It stays out here.” He takes it back, hanging it on the door knob. “It belonged to my godfather.”

Oh. Draco commands his smile not to slide off his face and die on the floor. “Okay, thank you for telling me. Well, come on then, show me what you like.” He winks over his shoulder and prays it doesn’t look like a grimace.

Harry closes the door behind them and throws a dim Lumos to the ceiling. There really isn’t much space for two grown men to stand, Draco could extend his arms and touch both walls if he tried. He sits at the foot of the bed, deft fingers sliding buttons through holes as he shifts towards the center of the mattress.

“Do you think you could help me pull my boots off?” He asks as he slides his trousers and pants down his hips.

Harry does so, placing them to lean against the shelves behind him, as he removes his own clothing.

“How would you like me?” He says with a smirk as he watches Harry’s hooded gaze trail over his body.

“Leaning back against the headboard.” Harry’s voice is barely above a whisper, be that from nerves or arousal Draco couldn’t say.

As he positions himself, he notices Harry grab something from the shelf and drape it over his shoulders. It appears to be a child’s cloak, pastel in colour and coming to rest right above his buttocks. He hesitates, one knee on the bed, knuckles white where he grasps the fabric.

“What is it, Harry?”

“This is—I can’t have,” he lets out a frustrated growl. “Nothing can happen to this. It’s very old. Once we—I just don’t want it to get damaged.”

Draco peers between Harry’s face and the cloak, takes in the way his breaths have turned shallow again, and feels his own heart pang in understanding. It’s not a cloak, because Harry wasn’t raised as a magical child, it’s his cot blanket.

“Nothing will happen to it, I promise,” Draco swallows, “come up here with me.”

Despite his anxiety, Harry moves to straddle Draco’s legs, settling his weight down just above his knees. Slowly, he lowers his torso, cheek coming to rest over Draco’s heart.

Draco feels Harry’s ribs expand against his, shuddering on the exhale. He brings an arm around to rub softly over Harry’s blanket covered back. “Is this okay?” He asks, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s crown.

A mix between a whine and a cry gets muffled into his chest as Harry scoots his body down a little, knocking his glasses askew. He lifts his head to remove them, a look of uncertainty flashing across his face, before he lowers his mouth to lick over Draco’s left nipple.

Draco hums at the sensation, muscles in his stomach fluttering as Harry uses the flat of his tongue to draw him up to a peak. He rolls his forehead against Draco’s pectoral, breath ghosting warm over the stiffened nub.

“Can I touch your hair?” His voice comes out all gravel.

“Shall I undo my plait?” Draco asks, pulling his hair over his right shoulder. Almost instantly Harry reaches up, enclosing it in a gentle grasp as he brings his mouth back over Draco.

Harry seems content to settle in for a time, neither flicking nor swiping his tongue, just suckling at Draco’s chest. Nursing, his mind supplies. Draco arranges his blanket, tucking it over his shoulder where it had fallen and lets his head lull back. The dim light and weight of Harry’s body is soothing. If he closes his eyes he can almost pretend they aren’t in a cupboard. How many times did Harry pretend he wasn’t in a cupboard?

He runs his fingers through Harry’s curls as he hums whatever songs he can remember from his childhood, occasionally whispering sweet nothings to him: good boy, Harry, and take what you need. Eventually he prods at the corner of his mouth breaking the suction. “Switch sides for me, love.”

He feels the first signs of Harry’s arousal as he brings Draco’s other nipple into his mouth. His length pressing against Draco’s leg, throbbing in tempo with his heartbeat.

“So perfect for me, darling,” he sighs, rolling his hips slowly. The achey pleasure from his nipples keeping his own cock half hard.

Harry moves then, burying his face in the curve of Draco’s neck as he beings to rut against him, little moans and gasps escaping him when their cocks catch, the dry friction dithering on the edge of discomfort. His shoulders begin to shake, tears wetting Draco’s clavicle.

Draco shushes him, offering more reassurances as he analyses every hitch of his breath and tremor of his muscles. He wants to give Harry the space to work through his emotions since he’s so adverse to talking, but he only seems to be getting worse.

“Harry, what’s your colour?”

A choked sob leaves his throat and he sits up in Draco’s lap, pulling the blanket tighter around him, he looks so lost and sad.

“Your colour, love,” Draco prompts again.

“…Yellow,” he mumbles.

“Okay. You seem upset. Is there something you would like me to do differently?”

“No,” he pauses, eyes flicking back and forth as he searches for the right words. “I’m just nervous? Or maybe overwhelmed…” he trails off, pressing both palms to his eyes. A beat later, the words barely audible as if they aren’t meant for Draco at all, “I’m scared of doing something wrong.”

The admission sits heavy between them, Draco suspects it stretches far beyond the events of tonight.

He gathers Harry’s blanket from where it’s slipped off his shoulders and sets it off to the side, safe, as he brings his hands to encircle Harry’s wrists, not to pull them away, just to let them rest as he speaks softly, “It’s okay to feel that way. It’s just you and me, we’re safe. We’ll only do what you want. You have all the control.”

The rise and fall of his chest begins to even out as he lets Draco’s words soothe him. “I’m okay, I want to continue.” He leans back, arm outstretched towards the shelves as a small bottle of lube is summoned and poured into his palm.

Draco watches him with hooded eyes as he widens his legs in anticipation and then all thought comes to a buzzing halt as Harry brings his fingers to his own entrance.

“Gods Harry, the sight of you.” Heat rises to his cheeks, arousal spiking with each high pitched keen and gasp that falls from Harry’s lips. He looks debauched like this—brows knitted together, cock jerking with every pump of his fingers, precome glistening the tip where it peeks out from his foreskin. Draco wants the taste of him on his tongue, his fingers where Harry has them buried inside himself.

He throws his head back on a moan, his own hips pushing up into the air. “Fuck, Harry, I want to touch you. Can I?”

His movements stutter, just briefly, as he shakes his head and uses his free hand to grab Draco’s, placing it over Draco’s own erection and squeezing once.

The denial stings but he pushes it down, no doubt Harry has his reasons and he doesn’t want to push him on this. He rolls his bullocks in his palm as he tugs at his cock, arching his back when his foreskin slides up over the head and back down. He squeezes on the next upstroke, forcing a bead of precome out of his slit. He spreads it around the head, dipping the tip of his nail in for more. If Harry doesn’t want him to touch, he’ll put on a show of touching himself.

It’s a heady feeling, having Harry’s focus aimed directly at him. He’s a vision himself, all tanned skin and trembling muscles, his cock weeping where it pulses heavy with blood, and oh how Draco wants. Perhaps another time, if he could be so lucky. His musings are interrupted as Harry moves up his body and reaches for his cock. That first touch is electrifying, he’s not even doing anything with it, just holding Draco steady at the base as he guides him to his entrance, hips starting to thrust down insistently.

“Wait, Harry, you didn’t give me any lube!”

The head of his cock pushes through the tight ring of muscle. Harry’s eyes screw shut, jaw clenched, as he breathes through the stretch until he’s fully seated.

Draco’s hands are a vice on his hips, preventing any movement as his mind races to catch up. Bloody hell, this is what he gets for not being responsible and finding a way to get Harry to talk to him. He can hurt clients, he has before upon request, but never like this. Never with his cock. The sense of failure has his heart rabbiting behind his ribs. It’s a razor thin line between helping Harry work through his trauma and adding more to it, and he won’t. He can’t.

“You’re going to make yourself sore. We need more lube.”

He shakes his head, “I can take it.”

“Harry,” his voice breaks. I know you can. It’s not about taking it. You deserve pleasure, you can just have it! He screams in his head. He says none of these things. Instead he risks shattering Harry’s need for control: “Please, I need it.”

“Oh…” Harry’s eyes search him as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Slowly he rises, the drag up a little easier, until just Draco’s tip is nestled inside him.

Draco snatches the bottle and brings his hand to where they’re connected, slickening his length throughly before guiding Harry back down. He lets his head drop back as panic gives way to heat.

“Alright?” He asks.

Harry nods, leveraging one hand against the headboard as he begins to roll his hips.

Tentatively, Draco thrusts up to meet him and is rewarded with a curse falling from Harry’s petal pink lips. Lips he would very much like to kiss. He traces the shape of them with his eyes, pillowy and soft looking where they pant above him. He imagines pulling the bottom one between his teeth, and then sucking the hurt away, just to do it all again.

He imagines running his fingertips over the cut of Harry’s cheekbones, chasing the touch with a featherlight brush of lips. He imagines kissing over his eyelids and dragging his fingers through his hair and telling him he’s something precious, because he is. He imagines a time when Harry would be able to accept his affection.

“You’re doing so well, so perfect for me,” he babbles.

Harry’s breath hitches again and Draco reaches up to brush his tears away.

“What’s your colour, darling?”

“Green. It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m safe.” Harry repeats, more to himself.

“You’re safe,” Draco agrees. “Look at me, you’re with me.”

“Fuck,” Harry gasps, eyes locking on Draco’s and then he’s leaning down and kissing him.

Draco’s whole body arches into the kiss, every nerve alight with pleasure, as his heart soars for being able to give Harry something good to overshine the hurt of his past. He slides his tongue against the seam of his lips, seeking more whimpers and whines and whatever else he can coax from him.

He’s loath to pull away, but he’s rapidly nearing his end. “I’m almost there, tell me how you want me to come.”

“In me, please.” The words punched out of him with each thrust.

All Draco can hear is the blood rushing in his ears as his vision whites out. His senses falling away one by one to give precedence to the feel of his muscles tensing, drawing tighter until his orgasm pulses through him. Wave upon wave cresting and crashing in an endless cycle. He has enough presence of mind left to feel Harry clench around him, fist covering his mouth, as his come paints their stomachs.

For one heart stopping second the look on Harry’s face is pure relief, but all too soon his eyes shadow over and a sob breaks free from his throat, his shoulders starting to shake again. He can see the exact moment Harry starts to crumble.

“Darling, darling,” he murmurs. “You’re okay, what’s wrong? Does something hurt?”

“No. I…I didn’t—” A wretched sound is pulled from him as he chokes and sputters.

Draco’s softening cock slips free and he moves to kneel in front of him, pulling him against his chest. “You’re so good Harry, you did everything right,” he tries.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that, gently swaying with Harry’s head tucked below his chin, his body cycling between tensing and trembling. The sweat and come and tears have left their skin tacky, the air humid and stagnant. It feels like the walls are closing in, taking away more and more space until there’s nothing left of them.

Below him, barely more than a whisper pressed into his skin, Harry says, “I don’t want you to pity me. I can’t bear it.”

“Oh Harry,” he gently tilts his face, meeting his eyes, “this wasn’t pity, this was you letting me take care of you. You can have pleasure, you’re worthy of that.” Then, quieter, “We don’t have to stay in the cupboard.”

He doesn’t respond but Draco thinks his words have started to chip away at his insecurities. He hopes so at least. They both dress in silence, passing clothing to each other and returning the blanket to its shelf. Draco reaches for the door knob but diverts his hand at the last second, offering it to Harry instead.

“It’s time for you to let us out, love.”

Draco takes in his first lungful of slightly less stale air and lets it center him—he tucks away his thoughts and emotions to review later, in private. He needs all of his focus dedicated on Harry.

He nicks Sirius’ jacket, frowning down at the cool leather—that won’t do. He casts a warming charm on it and guides Harry back to the sitting room. His eyes are unfocused, staring off into the distance, but his breathing has settled for the moment. Improvement. Kneeling before him again, he takes each arm and carefully tucks him into the old fabric. Spying the tea from earlier, he vanishes it and refills the cup with water from his wand.

“Drink for me.”

Harry does as told, eyes flicking down to him only to dart away again, fast as a Snitch. He’s gradually coming back to himself—good, but Draco can do better.

He stays on the threadbare rug, hands gliding up and down Harry’s thighs, trying to catch his eye; seeking out that connection that Harry is here and present with him.

Eventually Harry grabs his hand, fingers playing with Draco’s ring, twisting it this way and that, as he finds his words.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, my darling, none of that. You have nothing to be sorry for. You never did,” he says delicately.

Harry’s breath shudders out of him as he tugs at his hair, sending his curls every which way. “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Do you want me to kill them?”

“What?” Harry huffs a laugh at the unexpected offer. “You can’t just Avada people, that’s illegal.”

“Not if you ask me to. The contract prohibits me from confessing to anything you have me do so…”

He knows Harry knows he’s taking the piss but he can’t help it; it’s the first time he’s seen him properly smile all night and it’s addicting. He would continue making a fool of himself just to keep it there a while longer.

“That’s not how the law works,” he scoffs, amused.

“Oh, are you a solicitor? I didn’t realize. Harry Potter, the boy who lived to uphold the law.”

“Shove off,” he chuckles.

“No, it’s good,” he doubles down, “fitting really. Have you let the Prophet know? We might be able to make tomorrow’s evening edition.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

He cradles Harry’s hand tracing over the old scar with his thumb before he rises to bow over it, placing a kiss to cover the cruelty.

Despite the lighter mood, when it’s time to go his stomach twists as he turns to leave Harry bundled in his dead godfather’s embrace.

•••

Draco slides down the door as soon as it closes behind him. Heat prickles behind his eyes as he swallows past the ache in his throat. This is the worst part of his job.

The thing he hates about being an escort, and the thing nobody warns you about, is how lonely it is. It was worse when he first started, falling in and out of beds only to return to an empty flat. Eventually he learnt to separate intimacy from sex, but he’s never found a solution for the loneliness. There’s no one here when he comes home from a challenging client, and even if there was, he’d never be able to confide in them because of the contract.

His only witness is the planner—bound to his magical signature by spellwork—it’s the one place he can write about his thoughts and experiences without consequence.

So that’s what he does. He puts each of his feelings in a circle: sad, angry, confused, proud, hopeful, and starts dissecting them.

Sad—Harry was sad, anxious, nervous, panicking, sobbing. The blanket and jacket! He said “I’m scared of doing something wrong.” To what end did the muggles punish him? He doesn’t want me to pity him.

Angry—They made him live in a cupboard and forced him to cook as a small child! Who’s been fucking him without being mindful of his comfort? “I can take it.”? Why Who?

Confused—Dinner ritual - proof of worth? He wouldn’t let me prep him or touch him intimately, but small causal touches seemed okay - possible aversion? Touch starved?

Proud—I think, mostly, I was able to meet Harry’s needs and help bring him back when he was overwhelmed. He always tried, even when he struggled to speak... and he kissed me, and it was rather nice. He felt safe enough to, at least for that moment.

Hopeful—

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a sigh. It doesn’t bear thinking about, says the voice in his head. He reads back over his list and comes to the conclusion that he couldn’t control the situation he walked into, but he left it better than how he found it. Moving his brio back to the last circle, he quickly writes:

Hopeful—I hope this wasn’t my only chance.

•••

The following weeks pass in a blur. It’s the height of the social season—balls, galas, and dinner parties have kept him well occupied on the arm of high society’s best.

It’s usually his favorite time of the year—getting dressed up, dancing, mingling, it’s what he was raised to do after all—but this year his thoughts keep returning to Harry. He hopes he’s okay. He almost considers turning up on his doorstep uninvited but that would be breaking his one rule: don’t entangle work with matters of the heart.

Returning home from his latest date, a wizard in need of a plus one to attend his second cousin’s wedding, he hears his planner give a telltale hum.

The breath is knocked out of him: finally, Harry for tomorrow at seven.

Dashing to his wardrobe he begins to lay out different options. He’ll keep it casual to better match Harry’s style. No outer cloak—the weather doesn’t call for it. On second thought, perhaps Harry would like something of his to wrap around himself? Would that be overstepping? He wouldn’t want to imply that he means to replace the blanket or jacket.

In the end he decides on a soft jumper and charcoal trousers. He sets aside a few rings for both hands remembering how Harry had fidgeted with them and he’ll plait his hair to the side this time.

Feeling confident in his choices, he tries to empty his mind in preparation for tomorrow as he drifts off to sleep.

•••

He apparates with a pop, knuckles poised to rap against the door when it creaks open—Harry was waiting for him.

His heart skips a beat as he swiftly takes in his emotional state. He’s definitely wound up, agitated even, fingers twitching at his sides as he pins Draco with his gaze. Physically, he notes the shadows under Harry’s eyes, he looks a bit rumpled like he hasn’t been sleeping well.

“Couldn’t keep away?” He raises an eyebrow, the joke aiming to disarm.

“I tried a few times actually, but they said you weren’t available.” The words roughened like he hasn’t spoken in days.

Shite. “Oh, I’m sorry, yes, it’s a busy time of year. This is when most of the galas and balls are held. I didn’t realize you wouldn’t be able to get through.” Then, tossing his one rule to the wind, “You could owl me directly.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

He closes the distance, reaching for Harry’s hand as he leans down to whisper in his ear. “Not for you, my darling.”

A small punched out noise floats between them that Harry tries to disguise as a cough. “Right, well,” he stands aside to let Draco pass but lingers by the door.

“What is it, Harry?” He asks.

“Actually, I wanted to talk first.”

“Of course, the sitting room?”

Harry nods, leading them in and gesturing to the settee as he goes to the same chair as before, only this time he hesitates, fingers tapping against each other in a nervous staccato.

“I should make tea.” The words have barely left his mouth as he flees the room.

Draco’s mind whirls in his absence: This is good, he wants to talk. He’s clearly anxious. Is the tea for him or me? Does he need space or is this another facet of the dinner ritual?

A few minutes later Harry sets the mismatched tea service and a package of biscuits on the table as he comes to sit beside Draco.

“Please,” he nods to the tray.

“You’re shaking.” Draco holds his hand out, palm up for him to take.

Harry’s eyes dart to his hand and away, his fingers making an abortive gesture, only to land on the biscuits instead. He places one in Draco’s palm.

The ritual it is then. Draco pops the biscuit in his mouth whole, etiquette be damned, and starts setting up the cups and saucers.

“Harry,” he says very delicately, “you don’t have to feed me in order to receive comfort from me.”

The words hang between them, Harry’s eyes searching his and then his face crumples, a frustrated noise clawing up from somewhere deep in his chest.

“I do, though! I do…” Then softer, “I have to earn it.”

“Tell me why,” Draco says.

“I had—because otherwise—” he takes in a deep breath, releasing it through his mouth and tries again, “When I was little my aunt taught me to cook for the family, in order to earn my keep, she said. I didn’t know back then that Dumbledore made them take me in. They said I was useless, a waste of space if I didn’t—They never wanted me! They never wanted me because I was bad—wrong, a freak like my parents and—” he gulps lungfuls of air, hiccoughing.

“Harry, you were a child. You’re not a freak,” he offers his hand again, but Harry scoffs, batting it away as he stands.

“Right. Fuck people in cupboards often then, do you?”

He feels the scathing words like a slap. Insecurity and sadness he had expected but Harry’s anger? He had almost forgotten about that.

“Lashing out at me won’t work. You let me take care of you. I would thank you not to cheapen it.” He bites the words out, meeting Harry’s hard gaze head on.

Just as suddenly as it had appeared, all the fight bleeds back out of him. “I need to check on the hob,” he mutters. Keeping his eyes trained on the ground he thrusts his hand out, waiting on Draco.

The tension follows them into the kitchen, folds itself over the set of Harry’s shoulders, the clench of his jaw. Draco contemplates giving him space to sort his emotions but part of him wants to have it out, get Harry to say all the things he keeps bottled up so they can deal with them. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Could I make dinner?”

Harry’s brows draw down. “No. You don’t need to. I make—you don’t have to.”

“You don’t either,” he says carefully, “you don’t have to cook or do housework to have worth. The right people will love you as you are.”

Harry turns back to the counter, the harshness with which he halves the tomatoes contrary to the fragility in his voice. “Not tonight, okay? Please?”

“Okay.”

He stands beside Harry, watching as he grinds pepper over the eggs, flips the sausages in the pan. Draco has to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from touching him. He isn’t sure what stage they’re at in the ritual and he’s giving Harry a slight reprieve before his next request.

With the food plated they sit across from each other like last time. Draco tucks in and tries to puzzle out what it means that Harry isn’t touching much of his dinner. Maybe this is as far as they’ll go tonight? The thought doesn’t sit well with him.

“Thank you for cooking, it’s delicious,” he says.

Greens eyes flick to his and away. He’s bouncing his leg so vigorously under the table that it runs up his arm, fork clattering against plate.

“I shouldn’t have said that earlier.” It comes out small, counter to how loud Harry’s being with his body, like he’ll buzz right out of his skin at any moment.

Draco offers his hand for the third time this evening and Harry finally takes it, the pad of his thumb rubbing along the ornamentation of a ring.

“It’s okay to be upset. I’m glad you told me, I want to understand,” he offers.

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I thought that if I did what they asked and stayed out of the way they would hate me less. But even then I still fucked up half the time.”

“And they kept you in the cupboard for it,” he says evenly.

“Yeah, until Hogwarts,” Harry sighs. Then after a beat, “The cupboard was a cage but it was safe, they couldn’t… get at me, it was too small for my uncle to fit.”

Draco tries to keep the anger from showing on his face as he remembers the first time he met Harry inside Madam Malkin’s: scrawny and underfed in clothing too big for him. He had already dealt with so much and then Draco had to go and make an enemy of him.

“Is that why you made your own cupboard here? To feel safe?” He asks.

Harry nods, withdrawing from Draco’s touch to wrap his arms around himself, his nervous energy giving way to weariness.

“I know you said that it’s you taking care of me but it feels—I feel ashamed,” his voice breaks on the word. “That that’s what I—“ Harry bites his bottom lip, stopping his thought before it can become real as he shakes his head.

“Wanting what you want doesn’t make you bad, but Harry, you are safe now. Here, with me, you’re safe and you’re good,” he implores. “You’re so, so good. You don’t have to earn love any more, you’re enough as you are.”

Harry doesn’t respond, but Draco’s can tell he’s working through the words, that maybe one day he can believe them too.

The rest of dinner passes mostly in companionable silence. Despite the range of emotions from earlier, Harry seems to have calmed enough that he takes Draco’s hand without fuss when he leads them down the corridor.

The cupboard seems smaller than before. Harry’s breath hitches beside him as they peer in. The blanket sits on its shelf, small and unassuming, something one might expect to find in such a place under normal conditions. But the more he looks at it, the more his stomach twists. It looks wrong, the trauma of the cupboard defiles it.

Cradling it to his chest, he feels the softness of the fabric, the faint smell of Harry that clings to it. Is this the only thing he has left connecting him to his parents?

Harry studies him carefully, his expression so open for once that Draco can’t bear to put them back in the cupboard. He drapes the blanket around Harry’s shoulders, letting his fingertips rest against his collarbone.

Looking into Harry’s eyes, he whispers, “We don’t have to use the cupboard. You’re safe. I want you to show me to your real bedroom.”

Harry’s breath leaves in a stuttering exhale but he nods, turning to take them up the stairs.

The room is dark, filled with the same style of furniture as the sitting room. No pictures adorn the walls, no personal items clutter the desk, Gryffindor red bedding is the only hint of Harry in the space.

“You’ll tell me if you want to stop?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“Good boy. I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

Harry gives a jerky nod reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Stepping forward, Draco plucks his glasses and blanket placing them on the bedside table. “Let me,” he murmurs. “Arms up, love.”

A flush spans Harry’s chest, his pulse fluttering just below his jaw. The muscles in his abdomen jump and Draco rests his hands there to soothe him.

“Is this okay? Can I touch you?” He asks.

Harry gives another nod, eyes screwed shut.

“Your words, darling. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Overwhelmed but it’s good,” he clears his throat. “It feels good.”

Granted permission, his hands roam everywhere. The back of his knuckles roll along Harry’s breastbone, his fingertips trace the expanse of his clavicle, he pushes gently into Harry’s pulse, the now rapid beat kissing the pad of his finger in return. He lowers them to Harry’s flies when he stops him.

Harry stares at him, pupils blown under hooded eyes, his thumb swiping over the inside of Draco’s wrist where he caught it. When he speaks, the words come out gravelly. “I’ll do it.”

Draco backs away to the bed, undressing himself as he goes, and busies himself with arranging the pillows against the headboard. Situating himself in the middle, he beckons Harry to him.

“I need you, love.”

The bed dips with Harry’s weight as he straddles him. Draco lets himself look his fill. Harry flushes so prettily, his muscles trembling ever so, his nipples pebbled and pink, the same shade as his cock where it rests half roused and thick between his legs. Draco feels his mouth water, his own cock beginning to stir.

“Come here,” he holds his arms out.

Harry’s breathing shallows as he lowers himself, pressing cheek to heart and reaching for Draco’s plait. His fingers trace the strands where they weave in and around each other, squeezing softly, rhythmically, when he gets to the top.

“Good boy, Harry,” he murmurs tucking the blanket over his shoulders. “Do you still feel overwhelmed?

He nods his head into Draco’s sternum.

“Is it the room?”

“Yes, but I’m okay.”

“You are,” he says gently. Draco cards his fingers through Harry’s curls, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other at the hinge of his jaw as he brings Harry to his nipple.

“Suck, my darling.”

Harry moans as he latches on, the vibrations going straight to the base of Draco’s cock, causing him to echo the sound of pleasure back.

“That feels nice,” he hums, “so perfect for me.”

A strangled little noise makes its way past Harry’s lips and he feels the suction break as he rearranges himself, moving his thigh to slot between Draco’s own. He rolls his hips down experimentally.

“Is this all right?” Harry asks.

“More than,” he replies.

Then Harry does something he didn’t do last time: he flicks and swirls his tongue around Draco’s nipple. His back arches into the sensation, fingers twisting in Harry’s hair as his hips buck. He’d never much been one for nipple play, he’s happy to indulge Harry of course, but the pointed pressure of Harry’s tongue against him has him reconsidering.

“You feel so good,” he groans.

Harry does the same to the other side, the angle a bit awkward with how their legs are tangled together. Draco is fully hard and trying to restrain himself, follow Harry’s lead, but he can’t stop the incessant twitching of his cock where it’s trapped against Harry’s stomach.

“Is there anything you want? Can I…” he trails off, he isn’t sure what he can or can’t do, arousal has replaced his brain with cotton.

“Just you,” Harry says, sitting up in his lap. He returns his blanket to the bedside table, snatching up a bottle of lube in the process and pouring some in his palm before passing it to Draco.

“Can I?” He catches Harry’s hand as he starts to move it between his legs.

Harry gives a quick shake of his head. “I’ll be fast.”

“I don’t want fast, I want you writhing on my fingers, love.”

Another moan leaves Harry’s throat, his brows furrowing as he begins to work himself open. After a beat he asks, “How would you do it?”

“I would lay you down on your stomach,” Draco says, “feel the ridges of your spine with my lips as I moved down your back.” His head thunks against the headboard, eyes fluttering closed as he spreads lube down his length, rolls his bollocks in his palm. “I’d place a pillow under your hips, give you something to rut into as I bring my tongue to your hole.”

Harry looks wrecked above him, cock heavy and flushed where it juts from his body, as he works another finger into himself.

“Have you ever been eaten out Harry?”

“No,” the word nothing more than a breathy exhale.

“I’d lick over you,” He raises his open palm to his mouth, dragging his tongue firmly over the center. “Teasing little licks and you’d be so sweet for me wouldn’t you? The noises you’d make as the tip of my tongue pushes inside you.” He wraps his spit slickened palm loosely around the head of his cock and thrusts, eyes never leaving Harry’s. “But I wouldn’t give you my fingers until you begged.”

Harry gasps, hand flying to grip at his base. “Fuck, your mouth,” he pants.

“If you’d like,” Draco smirks.

Harry crawls up his body, bringing their lips together as he tries to line up, mewling into Draco’s mouth when the tip brushes his rim.

Gods Draco loves kissing him. He slides his tongue along Harry’s, coaxing it into his mouth with little sucks as he position himself. He cants his hips up, nudging until Harry opens around him, the muscles clenching with every inch gained until Harry is fully seated, trembling in his lap.

They still for a moment, Harry breaking the kiss to tuck his face into Draco’s neck. His fingers twitch a little where they cup his cheek.

“What’s your colour, love?” Draco asks.

“Green,” Harry’s breath puffs against him, “I just need a second. Feels good,” he mumbles.

He brings Harry’s palm to his mouth, kissing the center before he wraps his lips around two of his fingers and sucks.

“Fuck,” Harry pushes up to watch him, eyes hazy with arousal.

The shift in position causes a chain reaction: Draco moans around his mouthful, the sound spurring Harry into action, his hips rising and sinking down Draco’s length again and again.

Pulling Harry’s fingers free from his mouth, he brings both of their hands to circle Harry’s cock, spit and precome easing the slide as they begin to pump.

“Fuck my darling, you feel so good around me,” he says, rolling his hips up as Harry thrusts down.

Harry groans, taking him as deep as possible and grinds his hips in a tight back and forth, clenching every time their hands slide over the head of his cock.

“Merlin, you’re exquisite, like something out of my third year fantasies,” Draco babbles, completely overcome with the heat and tightness gripping him, winding him higher.

Something wild flashes in Harry’s eyes at the words, his own movements starting to falter as he moves their hands faster over his cock.

“I want—I want,” Harry’s words punch out of him.

“Anything,” he says, his own release teetering on the edge.

“I want to feel you come in me, please.” He stutters. “Oh God—Draco,” he cries, spilling in pulsing jerks over his body.

And how can he do anything else but oblige when Harry looks like that? So lost in his own pleasure, his mouth open in silent declaration that he can have this. Draco empties himself with Harry’s name on his lips.

He pulls him to his chest, they’re both sweaty and covered in come, it should be uncomfortable but it feels right. The thumping of Harry’s heart against his is its own high.

Eventually Harry rolls off, casts a cleaning charm at their stomachs, and lays next to him reaching for his hand.

“I need to get your jacket,” Draco says, pressing a kiss to his crown.

Harry catches his arm as he’s turning away. “Stay. Not yet. Just, stay?

“Are you sure?” Everything has gone perfectly, he can’t bear to see Harry break, to pull away from him and back into himself.

“We can get it when we get up, I just want this for a little longer.”

He bundles Harry to him, placing a kiss to his collarbone, his nose, his scar. “Okay, my darling.”

They stay wrapped in each other’s embrace, the dark room quiet, comfortable, it’s like they’re contained in their own little world safe from past worries and traumas, until Harry, the menace that he is, breaks the silence.

“So third year, huh?” He grins against Draco’s chest.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he huffs, amused. “It was a very confusing time and you had just,” he waves his hand through the air, “cast a corporeal Patronus at me and won the Quidditch match like it was nothing. The fire behind your eyes when you looked at me, I didn’t know the words yet to describe it.”

“Oh God, that was because you dressed up as a bloody Dementor to terrorize me!” He laughs.

Draco shrugs. “I wanted you, I wanted your attention however I could have it. You’ll learn I’m greedy, Potter.”

“Spoilt more like,” he scoffs.

“Yes, well.”

Draco tucks him under his chin, fingers gently gliding up and down his back as the silence settles around them again. He thinks Harry’s fallen asleep when the word comes whisper soft.

“Draco?”

“Yes, love?”

Harry reaches for his other hand, playing with his rings as he works up to what he wants to say.

“I was thinking… I was thinking, maybe you could help me make dinner next time. If you wanted to.”

Draco can feel his smile straining his cheeks as he tries to get a hold of the emotion in his voice. “I would love to.”