Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling is the amazing author.

…

Throne

Summary: Once released from a years imprisonment in Azkaban, Malfoy spends his time restoring his wealth and building his power. That's not enough, he wants another prize, he wants the Saviour. One-shot.

Inspiration: The song Throne by Bring Me the Horizon

Harry did what was just, not what was right. He left Malfoy to face the penalties of every traitor of The Light since he was the only living, captured Death Eater after the battle, knowing of the atrocities that lay ahead for him. Malfoy watched his fate rest in the hands of a damaged boy, despite showing clear signs that he wanted to help; occasionally uttering the acts he and his family portrayed before and during the battle, acts that could lighten his sentence or even free him, but he was still being shepherded and lead after his quest was complete, so lost in the emotional tidal wave of the battle, that he allowed himself to be governed by friends and his adopted family as to what his new image and role will be in shaping their broken world.

Over the months of his incarceration, Malfoy wondered if Potter was even aware, appearing more like a shell of the past than an icon for the future. After the trial he was abandoned by the Saviour; left to drown as the weight of over a hundred convictions dragged his mind and soul into perdition. He soon lost count of the amount of times he was tortured and beaten, each blow tearing a fissure in his resolve, but he refused to give in to the demons in his head pleading him to. Saturated in pain, a constant since the age of 16, he learnt to live alongside it, feed off it, let it guide him and fuel his conquest to reign high once more after being left for dead in the cells of Azkaban.

One year into residing in the prison, Malfoy was anonymously released from a high power. He was saved. Determined and desperate to find out who, and already knowing, he wants, no needs, confirmation and explanation as to why he's suddenly been remembered and pardoned. After all, what is the point? He has nothing. He is no-one. This world holds nothing for him anymore. Maybe he can become more than what he was, maybe he can claw back what he had. Screw answers and being equals, he wants to match such a standing of the man that freed him. He was thrown to the wolves and now, he'll return leader of the whole pack.

Malfoy's release circulated in the papers for months, resulting in the return of the routine of being beaten and abused by all sides; light, dark, supposed intermediaries, and it's been exactly what he needs. Every obstruction has built him; the schoolboy rivalry, living in dark company, the insults, physical confrontations, all of it has made him stronger. Every wound has strengthened his resolve, every scar is a reminder of his suffering and conquests, shaping his throne and aiding his goal for complete dominion.

…

5 years on from the war, Malfoy enters the house of Verity and Alasdair Hawkworth, the hosts of tonight's charity gala. They're part of an old and noble pureblood family; some of the ascendants have worked in the British Ministry of Magic as members of the Wizengamot, and the majority were renowned members of society, influencing many and were among the firsts to build their fortune after the First War.

Malfoy looks about the opulent ballroom and is fully aware that many eyes are upon him. It's exactly what he wants. Being a sponsor, it's custom to honour your beneficiaries so he was invited to this select gathering. High society hates that he's grown and recovered more than they ever will. He's reaping the benefits of his cunning and ambition; after spending years of hard, honest labour at the cost of his own pain. He has the scars to show for it.

His moral making has been proven under veritaserum - through a non-consensual confrontation where it was forced upon him and the law-breaking act was overlooked given the victim wasn't worthy enough to receive justice - that he has built himself stick by stick to reach his pinnacle, recover the family vault and bring sovereignty back into his name. He has an empire, he has a crown yet he associates with the peasants who believe he is scum. If only they weren't so blind, they'd have a chance to atone and seek association with his eminence.

Malfoy walks between the families he's grown up with but readily turned their back on him and his mother so as not to be dragged down too. It was unsurprising, they'd have done the same if the tables were turned but he wouldn't change his past for the world, it gives him the chance to relish in the mockery that now he can spit on their future investments; when they beg for his money and title, when he can laugh in their faces.

Although he needs no-one, it doesn't stop him from wanting one.

For the longest time since his imprisonment in the manor, he's glad to be in the company of purebloods. Their blood status is one of the few things most of the invitees have left, a lot of their businesses lost their funding as customers withdrew their memberships in fear of associating with bad company. For once, prejudice was placed amongst the Gods.

Malfoy's dressed in new grey robes, a deep purple silk shirt, and dark grey trousers. He looks good and he knows it. He deliberately went for an amatory look at this affair, aware that eyes are drawn to him whether reluctantly or openly. He can smell the pheromones as he walks past them, deliberately brushing against some as they react to his being. Some shiver with want, some retract in disgust. Either way he owns them and it's orgasmic.

Malfoy acts and walks with superiority, like no-one else in the room matters only it's not an act, no-one does. He behaves politely, still needing them on his side and embraces the snake within him, using charm and beauty to coax and beguile those who need putting in their place. He flirts with married company, makes light jovial insults with men that despise him, entices those that go in for a bad boy. He gets them so worked up that he can practically smell their arousal, see how hard and wet they are as he subtly watches but never allows them to know he's watching as he suppresses the grin wanting to break free at the way they squirm, hands ghosting places they wish were his digits instead. If he wasn't in public he'd laugh, allow himself to indulge in the glory of his evolution now he is considerably more than he was and is still able to worm inside the heads of the weak-minded. Those of a strong will, such as Potter, take a lot more work.

The guest's ability to act and speak honestly about him, is restricted in the presence of such an extinguished guest. As Harry's aged, he's grown more of a back bone although somethings are engrained into him such as attending these galas and balls. Mention charity and he's a guaranteed show. It's this guarantee that allows Malfoy to plan the perfect attack.

At that thought, his eyes surf the mass of overdressed widowers and paunty, balding men until he finds those mesmerising emerald orbs, or rather those eyes find pale grey. Regardless of who has started this interaction Malfoy jumps onto the moment, lifting his glass of champagne no higher than a few centimetres above his mouth but the gesture is noticeable enough across the ballroom and tips it in Potter's direction, a toast between the two before finishing the bubbly in the flute and flat coupe glass and simply turns around, his most powerful move and riskiest one. He walks to the ornately carved, ivory double doors leading onto a balcony overlooking the grounds. They're nowhere near as impressive as Malfoy Manor but they still represent the wealth the Hawkworth's once had.

It's always been the two of them. Their names can't escape each other, especially since they're both the largest contributors to these galas. It's the small acts; the ones that aren't enough to be satisfactory, the hook that leads to their damnation again and again, that determines in a few minutes Potter will be walking through the balcony doors behind him. He's missed the sparring. Plenty of people insult him and try to start fights but they're they're not worth his attention. He wants to get Potter engaged and interested in him once more. He wants that spark that was never-ending in their youth. He's a worthy opponent but that's not what he wants tonight.

Time draws on as the first song finishes. Has he made a mistake? He has dominated countless obstacles to get to where he is now, he needs this last chapter. As the melody of the second song starts to rise and fall, he has the urge to start pacing or worse, return. He banishes the thoughts of the weak and listens to the person-less orchestra. To those of unclean blood it looks like impressive magic, managing to charm each instrument that they play in a unison tempo and pitch but Malfoy knows the truth, the Black List is in play. There is a list comprising of ways to save your galleons while living and feigning the life of luxury. It brings shame and slowly eats away at you like a new plague. It brought him great joy at the sight at how Lady Verity reacted. He walked up to the hosts, seeing the look of loathing in their eyes only spurred him on as he greeted them and looked around their home.

"It's a bit black out today, don't you think?" He commented, internally grinning as the wife opened her mouth to correct him. Her head turns to the bay windows streaming in sunlight as she attempts to grasp the opening to embarrass him, so he pointedly looks elsewhere, keeping an eye on the way her husband stops her from passing comment and notice his gaze at the band. Her eyes widen like a gazelle in wand light and she swallows thickly, the only sign of her nervousness at potentially being outed as frauds but otherwise doesn't comment on the matter or express what she'd like to say about him. She simply raises her head and turns to their next guest, his cue to move on.

It grows colder as the sun sets, leaving beautiful streaks of coral pink, powder blue and honey orange amongst the horizon. Clouds of his own breath fade in the air and casts a warming charm. He's allowed to be comfortable and he won't give in. Not yet. Not ever. As the song reaches halfway he hears the music grow louder, a sure sign that the door is open and then dim again as it's shut. He doesn't turn. If it's not him then he'll simply obliviate the encounter. Too many have used his liking for isolation to seek their own inconsequential revenge for themselves, their loved ones, or the hurting world in general as they lust to harm the one free, denounced Death Eater, the only one they have access to and to inflict their woes upon. He's bored by the attacks; no longer being unresponsive to callous beatings and unrecognition of his dominion. He's worth more than them and their juvenile behaviour. He's the one on the throne, his subjects have no standing. Malfoy moves his hand towards his inside pocket for his wand when unmistakable dark hair moves into his peripheral vision.

It worked. He's here.

Malfoy doesn't look at him, refusing to acknowledge his presence or start phatic conversation wasted on the old bats with their menopausal wives and mistresses lurking to the sides of the room. In the cool air he can feel the body heat at his proximity, smell the same scent he's had for years under the cologne. It's better than any drug, just one inhalation and he's deliriously intoxicated. Addicted even. It's then, he realises, he always has been.

Malfoy had planned this far ahead, trusting his instincts but his precise strategies exit his mind, leaving him devoid of anything relevant other than the overriding lust coursing through him and the need to exert his new-found power, prove he's not of the same standing but a higher one. Potter is far from stupid, he knows there's something more here. He's seen Malfoy grow in strength and noticed how others, especially those of pure blood, react to it. They've met at previous events and finds his eyes are always on him. He remembers when it used to be the other way around, when he went so far as to stalk the blond in sixth year at school. Knowing what constant eye contact means, he knows Malfoy has intentions for him.

No-one knows how to play him like Malfoy does. Take the Hawkworth's; before every event Harry asks Hermione to research the family to check how true their cause is. Their charity giving is abysmal, they also lost all their financial supporters so as happens often, they asked him here to show the world how they've recovered. One comment from him to the Daily Prophet will reveal their being frauds to the public and can make this whole evening redundant. No, they don't know how to play the game.

"The Saviour blesses me with his presence." Malfoy drawls, keeping his eyes fixed on the stone fountain centred on their green lawn.

"Is the gala not to your liking?" Potter asks, although there is no interest in his tone as he too stares out over the gardens.

"They're all the same." Malfoy replies with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

"Why are you here with me and not inside?" He continues. He needs to know how to spin his web without getting himself tangled and make sure Potter can't get out.

"What if I'm bored too?" Potter turns his head and Malfoy meets his eyes, intrigued by what he sees. He wants a challenge. He hadn't anticipated that Potter wouldn't need persuasion. Gladdened by this information, in one swift movement Malfoy stands on the railings and looks down at him. His eyes sparkle mischievously as he offers his hand.

"Trust me?" Malfoy asks, watching every muscle on the tanned face to ensure he doesn't miss anything.

"No." He replies coolly, looking at the outstretched hand.

"Good." He retorts and Potter's eyes meet his again, a small smile ghosting his lips.

Malfoy's heart beats remarkably steadily given the situation but it's nothing more than returning to an instrument you haven't played in years; you remember the movement and the notes, it's not until you hear the sweet music that you wonder how you have managed without it for so long. After what seems like an eternity, Potter takes his hand and joins him on the rails, peering over the wrought iron railing, both hands now in his pocket. Malfoy's impressed by his daring but unsurprised, he was a bloody Gryffindor and leader of a war.

Alasdair will arrive in two minutes. If the Saviour has left without mentioning his departure it could damage the hosts reputation, simply because they'll look insignificant. If a once disgraced member of pure society is - Merlin forbid - walking freely through your abode, he could be wreaking all kinds of havoc. After a simple location charm they'll see he's not there and he'll vacate from their thoughts like the removal of a cancerous growth. He relies on the use of another rule on the Black list, The Conservation of Magic. Most of their magic will be upholding glamours for the event, eluding elements of sophistication so the wards will have been kept to the walls of the house, wrapping the balcony like cling film but an inch after that and he'll be free, they'll be free. It is also the weakest point in the shielding hence his choice for their meeting. He pulls out his wand, ready to lead when –

"Malfoy."

The matured but familiar voice speaks his name, a word he's longed to hear after all these years that he immediately looks to him. The man invades his space, daring Malfoy to respond. Refusing to back from the challenge, Potter smiles, pulls him closer and kisses him. Malfoy moans at the unexpectedness, cursing his lack of control but opens his mouth as Potter's tongue immediately wrestles his. They kiss like they play quidditch, determined and dirty. Malfoy bites his lip, his cock jumping at the moan that leaves the gryffindor's mouth and increases the hold on his waist. If he were tongue deep with any other man he'd be pissed by his boldness to think he's allowed there to be any match for control but instead he's thrilled at the change.

They both never receive such rough treatment from the floozies they pick up here and there. Unbeknownst to the population, rough is exactly how they like it. Potter turns, much to his surprise, so he's underneath, leaning against the wards and pulling Malfoy against him. You can't touch them, well normal persons can't and Potter is far from normal, unless they're of your magic. They're unphased that their arousal is clear, their rock members pressed against the other at being so worked up just by kissing and grazing the others flesh. There has always been sparks between them, often literal, and like when they duelled, this is just as intense.

The exchange of saliva and boyish need ends as Potter pulls back and sighs in frustration, moving them upright and for a fleeting second Malfoy thinks he's done something wrong, that he's not good enough. The thought wounds him more than he'd care to acknowledge.
Just then the door opens and out walks the host of the party just on schedule.

"What is going on here?" Alasdair demands, looking over Malfoy with contempt and pulls out his wand.

"Good evening Alasdair." Malfoy greets, although the smirk on his face deflects from his friendly tone.

"Lord Hawkworth, if you please." The older man growls, his wand still trained on his chest.

"I don't." Malfoy replies, losing all pretence of respect. There's no-one within ear-shot and he's never needed to pretend in front of Potter. Now he knows his prize is hooked, any formalities with lesser wizards are a waste of time.

"Mr Potter, are you ok?" He inquires ignoring Malfoy's rudeness but the redness in his face shows just how irate he is. Harry jumps down off the balcony railing looking calm and collected, but doesn't give the man an explanation. Malfoy smirks and rests his wand against the wards, filing away the expression on the old bats face as he watches his world crumble, appalled that he, a former Death Eater, can melt his wards like it's nothing more than wax. A hole forms where the tip of his hawthorn burns the protection leaving a singed glow of blue embers that drip and disappear into non-existence.

"You can't – you mustn't…get down!" His useless attempt at authority is cut short as Harry simply raises his wand and stuns him, obliviates his memory and leaves him slouched against the stone wall before walking into the gathering without casting an eye back. After punching a hole in the wards, Malfoy sets it to heal once he's left as much as he'd like to leave a reminder of how he fucked them over, he can't risk being detected. The world will use any act to get him reincarnated, believing his time out is momentary but little do they know that whoever got him released also got him cleared of all charges. Malfoy admires the Chosen One's actions and steps off the metal, falling for a few seconds before apparating to his home.

…

Malfoy walks to the study, pouring two glasses of firewhisky and starts the mental countdown; he'll be wearing his mask of regret which no-one will know is fake as he sadly tells of his being needed elsewhere. Little do they know he's choosing the enemy over their soiree. Even though no noise was made as he entered the property to signal his arrival, Malfoy can feel his presence. He turns to face the man standing in the doorway observing him. Neither say anything. Potter enters and picks up the second glass, knocking it back and helps himself to the flagon of amber liquid, pouring himself another glass. Malfoy remains sipping on his. He wants to be able to remember this night, replay the events over and over until his wrist aches and his abused cock can't take anymore.

He watches Potter walk around the room, scanning the rows and rows of old books, quite a few being Dark Arts as is common in Pureblood houses, and notes that he's poured himself a third glass. Malfoy places his empty glass down on the large desk, feeling more in control being back in his kingdom, his crown firmly in place, that he walks over holding his gaze as he takes Potter's glass, drains it and connects their lips. It's just as good as before.

Malfoy moves them so Potter's back hits the shelf, satisfied when the raven-haired man hisses as his head hits the wood. Potter tries to change their position, pushing hard against Malfoy's body but he keeps him down by placing his hand around his throat. The act reminds him of the times it's been reversed and it changes his mood from lust to anger as years of his buried ordeals come flooding out.

"How did you feel when you sent me to Azkaban?" He asks monotonously, his voice fiercely cold and expression lethal, "I was 18, like you. Did you know that some of the Dementors stayed?"

Potter narrows his eyes but doesn't respond.

"I read the papers; it was one luxury we were allowed. I read about your work post-war, the opportunities and luxuries you were given while I rotted, occasionally being fed on. You subjected me to that." During his rant, he'd unconsciously tightened his grip around his throat as Potter moves a hand to the hand on his neck. He needs to calm; the plan is not to kill him, although to deny he's imagined the moment would be a lie.

"Who do you think had you released?" Potter growls, matching his anger. He's been blamed for people's pains over the years, that his being and prophecy resulted in the death of sons, daughters, wives and husbands, and while he knows he is not responsible, when it comes to Malfoy it is partly. It's somewhat his fault for his incarceration, but he grew independent and did what was right. He won't be assaulted for that.

"I know." Malfoy replies, his voice suddenly soft and he loosens the grip on his wrist. A weight has been lifted despite always having known it was him, but having the confirmation brings the end closer. He strokes his cheek with his thumb and moves to kiss him but Potter turns away.

"Fuck you." He snarls, annoyance clear in his tone but so is the desire burning in his eyes. He doesn't want to want him, but he can't help himself.

"Next time." Malfoy returns smirking and successfully captures his lips this time. Their tongues curl and fight with each other and Potter bites his, hard enough to draw blood in a valiant but wasted effort to distract him into freeing him. Malfoy presses his hand harder against his airways. He will submit. Harry squirms but let's go, licking his mouth again and resumes the kiss before Malfoy moves back.

"Next time?" He repeats, his breath slightly uneven and face delightfully rose tinted.

"You are mine Potter and I'll do with you what I like."

He emphasises his point by grinding his hips against his. Potter hums low in his throat, the noise reverberating against Malfoy's palm and sending shivers down his core. Malfoy turns him round and vanishes his clothes. Potter vanishes his too. Malfoy calls them back from the place where everything and nothing exists and glares at him. They're not equals. The Gryffindor challenges his gaze, yet again some of Malfoy's clothes go but more remain. He still has his shirt but the top two buttons are undone, his waistcoat has gone and so has his shoes. He's not going to give up easily.

Malfoy wants to laugh, he never knew this domination would be...fun. He knows his eyes convey humour so he looks away and continues with the plan. He casts a cleansing charm and moves them so Potter's bent over his large desk. He probes Potter's ass with his tongue and he doesn't jump like expected, but exhales shakily and starts to push back with each jab. He can tell he's had this done before. The knowledge brings a pang of jealousy; he may not be the first but he wants to make sure he's the only one he remembers.

Minutes go by and Potter's writhing under him. His raven-hair is impossibly more obstructive but Malfoy finds he likes it. The gryffindor turns his head in what must be an uncomfortable position and watches as Malfoy brushes his thumb over the puckered hole, pushing just enough that he's met with resistance but not enough to be true penetration. Malfoy's momentarily lost in those lust-filled eyes and licks his hole keeping eye contact, noticing how he arches his back and his mouth parts in a silent moan of pleasure. He wants to hear him. He pushes his digit in more, Harry faces the wood again groaning, his knuckles white from holding himself up. Malfoy keeps a hand on his lower back, keeping him steady as his breathing grows laboured. Malfoy stands and turns him.

"Finish."

Harry's annoyed that he stopped but slowly moves his hand from the desk to his cock. He wraps his fingers around his cock and strokes. Malfoy can't stop watching, his own cock strained and demanding to be touched but he won't, not yet. Harry moans tilting his head back slightly and comes, languidly fisting his cock as his hand slides with come. He licks a finger and Malfoy tenses his hands to stop himself from coming. Potter notices the reaction and smirks. Malfoy spells him clean, looking over his flushed body, lidded eyes, the signs of a good orgasm, but he knows can do better.

Reigning in his desperate urge to bury himself deep inside Potter and fuck him against the desk, he closes his eyes and while he isn't looking, presses the palm of his hand against his confined cock. The pleasure is momentary and nothing like what is to come. He apparates them to his room and positions himself on top. The position and his advantageous height, all show his dominance. He keeps on his clothes but undoes his flies and looks down at Potter. The expression he's wearing is odd; it's defiant but willing at the same time. Malfoy presses against his entrance. He doesn't prep him. They've never been gentle people. They're not lovers. This is an act that needs to be remembered and he wants Potter to bare the marks.

In one swift movement he enters, watching Potter bite his lip to withhold the groan of pain. He admires his strength and keeps up a hard pace, hitting Potter's prostate on each thrust and eliciting moans that he tries to conceal. Malfoy tries to control his own vocals and has more success, releasing heavy breaths instead of outright moans as Potter's ass sheaths him perfectly. Malfoy's not aware at how long their fucking continues, the bed rocking from the motion and delightful gasps and moans occasionally fill the silent room. Potter always pushes down to meet his thrusts. Malfoy's close but Potter must cum first. He strokes him in time with the thrusts and he does.

"Fuck." Potter curses with a moan as ropes of cum coat his own chest and Malfoy's, nails piercing the blond's back. A life without pain would be no life at all. Malfoy follows suit, extinguishing the cry that wants to be yelled as he's thrust into a bliss like he's never experienced with other lovers. He won't allow Potter the satisfaction of hearing him moan, knowing he caused it, so he moves to lick and bite his neck - an unmistakable sign of ownership - as he cums, letting ecstasy roll over him as he just manages to support himself by his arms rather than be so undignified as to flop onto the tanned man.

Malfoy allows himself to recover, still breathing heavy by his ear and is startled when Harry plays with back of his neck, uncomfortably aware that it feels really fucking good. When did he become Harry? Getting invested is not part of the plan. Malfoy pulls out and moves so he's sitting on the edge of the bed, not chancing a look at his post shag hair, face or body, as he's certain it'd overwhelm him and then he'd want more. He lists it as another display of power, showing there's nothing emotional to this. He stands and tucks himself away but is stopped when a hand touches his shoulder and another pulls his hand so he's knees hit the bed. No, that's not how this game goes. He pulls his hand back and glares, his jaw square. Potter looks over his expression as he kneels naked, his eyes just as steely but conveying something else Malfoy's not ready for nor wants to accept.

He places a hand on Malfoy's shoulder and leans closer, keeping eye contact as he licks his mouth wanting entry. Malfoy debates the riskiness of this development but concedes, tasting his swollen lips as he ghosts the bruise on Potter's neck with his fingers and shifts so the Saviour is on his back and he's laying with their chests flush. Potter makes no move to redress or to leave so Malfoy decides to indulge. They're both exhausted so the kiss is slow, although not lacking in ardency. He could get use to this. Refusing to share his throne he leans up and grabs a fistful of raven hair, forcing him to meet his eyes and know his place.

"You are mine."

Potter's eyes narrow, although the reaction was predicted. All his life he has been controlled. Used. Manipulated. Malfoy's seen the expression emerge over the years as he grew in his independence and formed the liberated man he is now. To have someone take that away again is unthinkable, despite knowing this lack of choice is different; they'll always be there own people, never again being oppressed by leaders who think they're right. Potter leans up, moving a hand through the blond strands and matches the grip on his own hair making the man's heart jump. Potter's lips ghost his ear, his wicked tongue flicking the tip before releasing the grip on his hair and smoothly caressing his face.

"I'm yours."

With those words, he's finally built his throne.

...

Note: The Hawkworth's are a real pureblood family but Alasdair and Verity are my own creation.

Thanks for reading, any feedback is appreciated x

Update: (14/05/17) Thank you to the reviewers for pointing out that it is hard to know who is taking on occasion. I hope this is clearer now :)