AN: retconning Hedwig's pointless death in this chapter. Any complaints about my poor girl 'Actually' not being able to survive an Avada to the face can take themselves out. Hedwig is the master of death for all I care.)

Thank you for the support ^^
Enjoy

Chapter 4 - Burn

The first time of what Harry firmly keeps calling their 'arrangement' isn't the last. Unusually, that lifts nothing of the mystery from the stranger. No matter how many times they spend the night (or morning, or afternoon, neither of them is much concerned about the timing) he still knows absolutely… nothing. Personal questions after passionate make-out sessions are expertly avoided even on moments Harry thinks he finally catches the other off guard. A stranger indeed, and not only to Harry. Upon asking around in private, no-one appears to know a thing about him. Not even a real name – Harry's pushing for one always ends in being given another alias.

- ''Venero?'' Harry doubtfully asked upon finally being given an answer. ''That's your name?''

''Hmm, not really. You might as well call me so, though, I quite like it.''

''But what's your real one?''

''Dominick.''

''Truly?''

''Of course not.'' -

He lets it go, in the end. Maybe there is a good reason, and Harry feels too proud to keep pressing. No-one else knows it either, a mild relief that this isn't some secret only he isn't privy to. He makes do, not needing a name to address the stranger directly when 'Hey' and 'You' do the trick well enough, and it's not as if Harry has anyone to introduce the man to. It only leaves a sour taste to still not put a proper name to the face he's by now seen contorting in both pleasure and pain.

The only bits and pieces he does learn aren't awfully helpful in discovering whom he is actually inviting in either. The man has a preference for strong coffee and even stronger liquor, doesn't like hairy animals and favours psychological thrillers and horror movies over any other genre. Beyond that, Harry is left in the dark. The stranger does a helpful 'this and that' for a living, has travelled 'some places' and has had a number of partners that he 'doesn't care to remember'.

Had it been anyone else, Harry would long have been through and moved on, except there is a spark that makes him feel more alive than anything whenever they so much as exchange two words. It is frustrating beyond belief and especially in the first couple of weeks, a sympathetic Hedwig has to endure more than one rant of complaints.

''You've never invited me to your place,'' Harry mentions one evening over dinner.

''Didn't need to in order to get you in bed with me, did I?'' the stranger remarks, critically inspecting each leaf of the salad before chewing it down. He is a slow eater, as if having gone most of his life without much food around. ''I'm a very private person, not unlike yourself. I've seen exactly three rooms of your house so far.''

''You, private? Wouldn't have guessed,'' Harry retorts bitingly. Really, three rooms is more than generous, considering that most can simply not be made easily habitable for a Muggle. He isn't about to remodel the entire house to accommodate someone he occasionally spends time with. Taking down the moving pictures from his bedroom wall and stashing away the array of miraculous soaps from the bathroom is as far as he's been willing to go. ''You just said yourself: so am I, and here you are at my table. You can't fault me for wishing at least a glimpse into your life.''

''You wouldn't like it,'' is the answer, accompanied by a breath-taking, wry smirk.

One late evening - two days and a ride in the expensive, shiny car later - Harry comes to learn that his stranger has been right.

''Oh wow. I really don't like it,'' he grimaces, taking in the penthouse he's been led into. White blank walls and black cubic furniture look ready for a designer photoshoot. The place is devoid of dust, clutter or any other sign of life. The atmosphere is so lacking in personality that it feels plain hostile.

Once again, he wonders about the man's job – affording something like this in the heart of London is nigh impossible for anyone besides famous politicians or film stars. None of which he can be, since not a single one of Harry's associates recognised the man. Maybe he is some sort of faceless investor? Into foreign banking? ''It looks as if you moved in here yesterday,'' he nervously mentions.

''You're not entirely incorrect, I acquired this place only half a year ago.''

''And before?''

The other gives an irritated wave. ''Someplace else. Up north.''

Up north. Why had he even expected a more precise answer? Few counties in Britain are not further north than London. At least it excludes the man from the list of potential Midsomer murderers, he inwardly grins. One green flag he'll clutch onto.

''You might enjoy the view more than the décor,'' his stranger suggests, and he must have pushed some secret button or installed smart home equipment, for the shutters start rising as soon as he is finished speaking to reveal a spectacular view. Drawn in by the height alone, Harry moves towards the windows, which reveal themselves to be automatic glass doors that open before he even touches them and lead to a short strip of balcony. Beyond the balustrade: a steep drop towards thousands of blinking electric lights, multiplied further by their reflection in the silver ribbon that is the Thames. The sight almost makes up for drowning out the stars. Captivated, Harry only notices the other has joined him when insistent lips nip at the crook of his neck and arms wrap around from behind.

For once, Harry is drawn in more by the view than his stranger though. How amazing would it feel to start a broom flight from this point? The wind is already whipping at his hair and freezing his hands, and he isn't even moving yet! A spark of a thrill ignites. Holding his breath, Harry looks straight down, trying to gauge the distance.

The touches become more frequent and harder to ignore when a hand pushes up his shirt. ''I did not show you this so you could stop paying attention to me,'' the man growls lowly, a noise that vibrates right down to Harry's cock.

Expertly, he wiggles free and catches the hand from groping lower. From experience, he knows a single touch will make him forget all about how loud his cries would echo over the city from here, and although Harry can be adventurous, enjoying voyeurism is not yet on his list.

His stranger does not appear to mind too much when Harry hurries back inside. ''Can I – err – actually use that? For sitting?'' he doubtfully asks, waving to one of the stools of expensive ebony that stands neatly arranged in front of a surface that appears to be a personal bar. The seat is still covered by a protective plastic layer, as if it has just been delivered.

''What else would you use a stool for?'' the other inquires, amusement shining through. Harry somehow suspects that it hasn't been his question bringing forth that amount of humour, but rather Harry's obvious discomfort.

Cool air fans the back of his neck quickly as Harry's personal space is invaded again, back pressed to a firm chest. ''Here, allow me,'' the man whispers, arms going 'round Harry to first carefully peel the plastic away and then lift him up onto the stool as if he weighs nothing. The display of careless strength makes his throat run rather dry. ''Seems you are in need for a drink,'' the other comments with a wicked smile that shows teeth.

Before Harry can gather his wits to reply, the handsome man is already behind the bar, opening a steel fridge to take out several bottles. An ashtray he didn't notice before suddenly stands to Harry's left. The grey specks in it are the first comforting sign of someone actually living in this place. Surprising, as he doesn't get the impression that the flat has suffered from indoor smoking, smelling brand new.

''When did you start your bad habits?'' he asks to do more than sit here numbly, feeling entirely out of place.

It is a question he's wanted to know the answer to for a while now. Harry made clear that he turned to alcohol and casual sex out of a loss of purpose, a way to cope with the remnants of his grief, perhaps a start to new connections. Yet his stranger is so on top of life… Despite the described hardships, not a hair is ever out of place, not a single whine of misery ever passes those thin, delicious lips. This man is neither trying to find himself, nor lose himself, and that hardly ever pairs with giving into addictive substances.

The reddish-brown gaze that Harry loves to have rest on him all day shifts from the drink in his hand to the empty tray.

''I always thought myself above these kinds of things,'' he softly speaks when pouring them both a glass of amber whisky. ''Pleasures of the flesh, too beneath one like me to fall prey to. I strove for higher ambitions, gaining power over concepts and other such ethereal matters. Knowledge, worship… I was indifferent to the rest.''

''Then why?''

''I came… close to dying twice. Dangerously close. After the first time, I strove even harder for my initial beliefs, but when that failed once again, my way of thinking shifted. Are the pleasures of life not its core? Why live without enjoying every aspect of it to the fullest? I started indulging, experimenting, finding it gave a sense of victorious satisfaction instead of feeling debauched with filth. Haute cuisine was first, then drinks, then smokes… next came the pinnacles of capitalism: acquiring the finest objects that struck my fancy. Clothing, cars, this.'' He nods into the general direction of the living room.

''And where does sex fit in?'' Harry tries to ask as casually as humanly possible, lifting the glass to his lips to hide the way he worries his bottom lip.

''My latest indulgence,'' is the surprising answer, accompanied by the flash of a smirk.

It's the start of October now, and Harry does some quick calculations in his head. If this flat was bought merely half a year ago, and they first slept together the night after Harry's birthday… There's not been much time in between. That is somehow rather pleasing to hear. Of course, he doubts the other means he's never indulged in sex before, considering his (estimated) age, but Harry feels a bit better knowing it is unlikely he is the latest in a long string of casual hookups. Hypocritical, maybe.

''So…'' he hints, downing the rest of his drink in one go for that extra bout of courage. ''Being so private and still experimenting, can I assume your bed here hasn't been defiled yet?''

The words have their desired effect, for Harry's back is pressed into silk sheets barely a minute later, the weight of his stranger effectively pinning him down. Harry groans in pleasure as he hugs the perfectly sculpted body tight, fingers digging into the rolling muscles of the man's back as the tip of an already hard and pulsing cock is gradually pushed inside. Thank Merlin that he hoped for this possibility today, taking care to thoroughly prepare himself this morning 'just in case'.

''You're always- so-'' he huffs in between ragged breaths. ''Demanding.''

A low laugh that vibrates against his throat is the only reply to his whimpering. Large hands part his thighs further with ease to sink in deeper. The exquisite grunts Harry tears from the usually so silent and stoic throat are a special type of music.

Their bodies shake with enough force to make the high-end, robust bed creak as if it stands on its last legs. Harry can relate, as usual struggling to keep up as he is filled, desperately pushing his hips up to meet the relentless rhythm that never fails to leave him gasping and wanting. He was used to being on top, before this… Letting his head fall back into the pillow, struggling for air as he holds on for dear life, Harry can't recall what had been so good about that. Nothing could be as rewarding as pleasure building up from inside to spike through the length of his body. Nothing releasing his tension with such intensity as a blunt cock purposefully angling to hit the bundle of nerves that will bring him to the point of blacking out with every few strokes.

Harry jerks when his lover stills, throbbing length buried fully inside of his arse. ''Don't,'' he pleads, too close for the little power plays the other is so infuriatingly fond of. ''I'm on the brink-''

''I know. Your face flushes so beautifully right before you are about to come undone.'' Deft fingers curl around Harry's own neglected cock, a caress ever so light that he has to grind his teeth not to instantly beg. If he overdoes it too early, he'll be left to finish himself up. Too late and the same will happen.

''Fuck,'' he spits out instead, glaring fiercely, clamping down hard to make his annoyance known. His chin is caught in a firm grip, face forcefully tilted sideways so he can no longer make direct eye contact with that smug, sadistic, ridiculously gorgeous face.

''You will keep me warm and hard for as long as I want, Harry,'' the other purrs. ''It's not as if you have places to be.''

Closing his eyes, Harry tries very hard not to take the bait. They both know what he truly wants, and he must play along to reach that goal. The other cares little for the position in which he finishes, just as content to drizzle his cum across Harry's face as he is to release it all inside. Harry is the one who craves to feel the man's essence leak out of him for hours, another drug he's lost a battle to.

Every touch is fire, fingers trailing his erection from tip to base, turning it into a pillar of flame. Each twitch of his own cock is answered in kind by the one that keeps him so impossibly full. It goes on and on, skin becoming more sensitive by the minute. Yet even when his throat runs dry and his head goes light-headed with want, Harry does not speak up. Only when tears of utter frustration well up in the corners of his eyes, tears that at last evoke a pleased grunt from the stranger, does he dare respond to the torturous edging with more than the violent shaking of his limbs.

''Please…'' he whispers. ''I promise that my body is yours whenever you care to take it. I'll keep you warm even after I come if you only ask. Just- just give me- Hnggg…'' he almost swallows his own tongue when his lover pulls out, achingly slowly, leaving only the tip where Harry needs it.

''You'll need to do better than that.''

Harry shudders at the words, cold and demanding. How strange… if this tone would be used to command him around anywhere else, anger would undoubtedly follow. But here, in the safe space of a bed, Harry can silently admit that a deep, filthy part of him yearns for this level of… not control, but strict guidance. A lifeline that gives direction where he's lost all other purpose.

He tries again, hopelessly clenching down on the hot flesh that remains. He pushes all pride aside. ''You are the only one who can give me what I crave,'' he mutters. ''To have your seed inside of me, to feel wanted long after you've left. I'm begging you- fuck me properly, make me forget everything but you. Use me.''

He cries out when their bodies slot together again in one perfect stroke, the excited hitching of his stranger's breath betraying he did not remain unaffected by Harry's whimpering. Nonetheless, they still again too soon, the hand that has been smearing leaked precum over the darkened head of Harry's manhood moving up to push stained fingers against his lips. The other one harshly pulls at unruly black hair to expose Harry's throat even further. ''So wanton and eager to be mine…'' his lover hushes. ''How about a deal? I will load you up if you call me master.''

As if that needs to be considered. As if Harry could, in this moment, deny release for longer. ''Master, please-'' is drawn from his throat reflexively and answered by the most ferocious growl he's ever heard a human being make.

Harry's eyes snap open in shock, and for a moment, a trick of the light almost convinces him that russet eyes have turned a bright red, cold fear settling in his chest. The moment passes as quickly as it came, every coherent thought wiped away when the older man at last starts fucking him thoroughly as if there is no tomorrow. Prick trapped between their rubbing bodies and rim stretched as far as it will go, it takes little before he is balancing on the same edge as before. The aching Harry carried in his body is washed away by pure adrenaline as his lover's length hammers inside of his arse until at last rewarding him with thick streams of cum that coat his insides.

The feel of being stuffed with hot slick is enough to push him off the cliff, abused cock releasing the withheld fluids with a burst across their chests.

''Before you get smug about it,'' Harry slurs when gathering his wits. ''I'm not calling you that outside of the bedroom.''

''Not yet,'' his stranger chuckles, positioning himself to Harry's side. Fingers that were previously so cruel now pet his hair. Brush against his forehead. The instant urge to slap the hand away when it briefly traces the scar passes when the gentle touch moves onto Harry's flaming cheeks, their path quickly followed by lips until those find his own. They never kiss while having sex, Harry absentmindedly notes through his haze. Only ever before or after. Maybe he should change that.

''Is that a challenge?'' he scoffs, wiping himself clean with the silk sheets as no tissues have been provided.

''A prophecy.''

Again, the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He's being paranoid, Harry immediately thinks. Seeing ghosts after too many glasses in a desperate and vain hope to find new purpose, which he despises himself for even more as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He attempts to school the grimace that twists his features at the word. A poor choice in his presence, but protesting it will lead to questions he cannot provide an acceptable answer to. Not to such a down-to-earth Muggle anyways. The last thing Harry needs is for his stranger to leave due to Harry claiming to believe in things like divination.

''I'll cross my fingers that it's not a self-fulfilling one,'' he thus only dryly answers. ''Can you point me to the bathroom?''

When walking away from the bed with as much dignity as he can muster, Harry misses the crimson stare that pierces his back.