Draco's gasp is colored with shock and awe. Harry grins behind him as he takes hesitant steps into the room. The light is low, but bright enough for good visibility without affecting the mood. There's little in the way of actual furniture, only a large chaise and two flanking tables. He thinks they next time they walk in here it might be different, but he doesn't really know, and he's not going to bother trying to suss out what the Manor intends. The real draw is in the middle of the room, and the second Draco's eyes hit it, light spills down overhead in a spotlight. He gasps again, and Harry has to roll his eyes at the room's overdramatic gesture. Draco moves forward and approaches it like one would a skittish animal: with slow steps and careful attention.
"What—what is this?"
The emotion in Draco's tone burrows under Harry's skin. He hears curiosity, apprehension, and restrained excitement. But no fear.
"It's how I'm going to restrain you while I kiss you."
Honestly, Harry had no idea what he would find when the door opened. He'd merely stood inside and offered up a few vague impressions of how he wanted things to go and left the rest up to the room. He certainly didn't expect this. Not that's he's complaining, because it's apparent the Manor is a great deal kinkier than he anticipated.
Draco's neck cranes upward to take in the structure. "Merlin's fucking balls, Harry. Just—" Draco's head snaps around to stare at him with desire. "Put me in it, yeah?"
The smooth polish that normally coats his words is gone, and Harry hears the raw want that makes Draco's speech rough—almost common, really.
The item in question that's making Draco lose the last of his comportment is a large, rectangular metal frame. It's bolted through to the floor, fastened down by metal plates and rivets as big as Harry's thumbs. Two sets of restraints dangle from the top and near the floor: wide, thick leather with large, shiny buckles and lined with soft fleece. It's a rack designed for flogging, or any other number of intense activities, and even though they're not headed in that direction yet, Harry thinks what's about to happen will be just as intense. His chest aches with the thought.
Possibly more so.
Draco's gaze swivels from the rack to Harry, back and forth like a metronome, keeping the same beat as the blood pumping through Harry's veins. He takes a deep breath, centers himself to focus his mind, and then exhales slowly.
"Strip."
Draco is naked in seconds, his clothes neatly folded in a pile on the small table, and Harry has to stop a smile from spreading across his face at Draco's eagerness.
"Very good," he says, raking his eyes over Draco's pale form. His cock is hard, jutting out from his body, and his eyes sparkle in the light. He's trembling slightly, but he's making a concerted effort to keep himself under control.
Harry turns from Draco and divests himself of his shirt, socks, and shoes, tossing them to the side, before walking over to the frame. "Come here," he says, holding out a hand.
Draco moves with controlled precision, his eyes on the frame. He doesn't look at Harry until Harry's hand closes around his wrist and pulls him forward into the center of the frame. A ripple dances down Draco's spine on a sharp exhale.
"If this is uncomfortable, use your safeword, and we'll stop now."
"No," Draco protests as his head swings around to Harry. "I mean—just, no. That won't be necessary. I want this."
The desire in Draco's eyes reflects the simple truth. He wants this. He wants Harry.
Harry is silent as he crouches down and urges Draco's feet apart with his hands. Draco's arse is right above his head, and for a second, he wants to lean forward and bite and lick at the offering before him. To shove his face between those muscled cheeks and thrust his tongue inside. To make Draco shake and scream his name. To beg for mercy.
Patience, Harry. All in good time.
He's still enough when Harry buckles his ankles into the restraints, but the faint clink of the chain makes Draco's breath catch. Harry lets his fingers linger on the divot behind the joint, stroking softly to ground him. He wants to bend down and kiss him right there, run his tongue along that indented patch of skin, and find out if that will make Draco shiver.
Another few minutes, and he'll have the answer.
Harry stands, careful to keep his chest from colliding with Draco's skin.
"Arms up. Grab the bar just above the chain."
Draco's arms ascend gracefully over his head, and his fingers curl around the metal frame above where the chain is anchored into place. He doesn't go around to face Draco, instead preferring to fasten him in from behind. Harry's hands work quickly, buckling him in securely.
He leans in to whisper in Draco's ear, "Are you ready for this?"
"Y—yes."
Harry traces the curve of his ear with the bridge of his nose, sighing softly. "You're going to be so good for me, Draco. Aren't you?"
Draco twitches and gasps, "Y—yes, Harry." He swallows hard. "Please."
Harry presses a kiss to his ear. "So polite. So obedient. I like that."
Draco's response is a muffled groan.
Harry's hands reach up to grab the frame just below Draco's. He holds his body back to keep from touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from Draco's skin. His lips graze beneath Draco's ear, right at the dip behind his earlobe. It's a soft, reverent kiss, and Harry has to close his eyes as he breathes in Draco's scent. He kisses his way down to where Draco's neck meets his shoulder, trading in the chaste press of lips for a wet, open-mouthed perusal.
He tastes salty and sweet all at once, and it's an addictive combination that stirs an awakening in Harry's groin. Draco groans and tilts his head to the side, elongating that beautiful neck, giving Harry access to worry his teeth along the slope.
It's such a precious thing, Draco's willingness to submit, and Harry has to grip the frame harder to keep his hands from wandering. This is about the kiss. The insistent press of lips on flesh, the flicker of tongue against sweat-cooled skin, the taste of the man beneath him. The intimacy that only kisses can bring.
It's so simple, and yet so complicated. He wants to show Draco what it's like to give in to pleasure, rather than having it taken from him. He knows it's also the hardest for Draco to reconcile. Submission under force comes easy for the Slytherin, especially when he feels that's all he's worth. This kind of pleasure, slow and syrupy-sweet, burgeoning with honeyed emotion is something Harry knows Draco will have to learn to take.
Harry's going to enjoy teaching him. Because Draco is worth so much more than flogging and rough play. He deserves more than a steely hand and an iron-willed Dom.
He moves to the nape of Draco's neck, burying his nose in the fine, silky hair, mouthing at him as if he will learn everything about the man by taste alone. He bites along the line of his shoulders, teasing and tasting, alternating back and forth between right and left, causing Draco to pant and shudder.
The small, tinkling noise gains his attention, and he glances up to see Draco's hands wrapped around the frame in a white-knuckled grip. He's trembling, trying so hard to keep still that the chain is rattling against the metal. Harry soothes with a shush and a lick to the top of his spine. He starts there and begins to work lower, licking his way down, branching out to bite at the sides of his torso every now and then. The random stings make Draco jerk in response, but Harry slides his tongue over the marks, sucking sharply for no other purpose than to hear Draco's cries. His back is littered with bright red splotches, some more purple than red, and Harry's cock hardens at the thought of seeing those marks on Draco tomorrow.
Harry's hands slide down the frame as he goes. The only part of him that touches Draco is his lips, and Draco's taste burns on his tongue like sweet fire. Draco's scent and taste swirl around his head in a fog, and Harry has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to keep his focus. His tongue swipes a lazy figure just over Draco's tailbone, slow and methodical, and when he presses it flat over the top of his crack, Draco lets out a keening wail.
Something snaps inside Harry at the noise. It's high-pitched and full of want and frustration, and it tugs at the corners of Harry's soul. The sound threatens Harry's self-control, and he wants to shuck his trousers, bury himself balls deep in Draco's arse and fuck that noise out of him until his voice is raw and ragged. In a frenzy, he attacks the globes of Draco's arse—kissing, licking, biting, sucking—over and over until Draco begins to shake uncontrollably. He bites down hard where the curve of buttock meets the inside of his thigh, where the skin is paper thin and dotted with nerve endings.
Draco's head jerks back and he howls, and Harry can see the drops of moisture that have leaked from his cock onto the floor. His balls are drawn up tight against his body, and Harry dips his head to snake his tongue out to dart over them. The rattling chains grow louder, because now Draco's trembling at every point of restraint. The line of his body is taut, defining the outline of long, lean muscle.
Draco is beautiful like this, perched on the edge of orgasm. Submitting, but at the same time unwilling to cross that line and give into oblivion.
"Easy," Harry says, kissing down the backs of Draco's legs. "You're doing so well. You're so beautiful, Draco. So beautiful," Harry murmurs against his skin. His voice has a calming effect, and the rattling dwindles.
Draco's head lolls forward as he gasps for breath, and Harry continues his path, finally reaching that hollow of ankle that tempted him before. He noses around the restraint to lick up underneath it, and takes a moment to catch his own breath.
He lets go of the frame and crawls around on all fours to Draco's front. His eyes flick upward to find Draco staring down at him. His pupils are blown wide with desire, face flushed from his cheeks down to his chest. Sweat drips down between the defined cut of his torso to pool and drip from the hollow of his navel. His cock is dark and red, rock hard and leaking. He seems a little surprised to see Harry on his hands and knees in front of him, as if it is the one place he can't ever imagine Harry deigning to be.
This is what he wants Draco to realize. That power is not defined by position. That control is not always domineering.
And the disbelief in Draco's eyes tells Harry it's a start.
Harry shifts until he's centered between Draco's feet, and then slowly, deliberately, reverently, kisses the tops of Draco's feet in turn. It's feather light, this worship, and Harry bends with a deference and veneration he's never felt before. He's never prostrated himself before a sub, and he realizes it's because he's never been with anyone who deserved it as much as Draco. He's always taken care of his partners, but this is a gesture of trust that was unthinkable before—a testament to how deeply he's affected by Draco.
He kisses his way up Draco's legs—over his shins and knees in turn—in a long, protracted sweep of lips and tongue. The scent of Draco's arousal is thick in the air, bittersweet and salty, and it makes Harry's mouth water. He's careful not to let any part of him brush against the straining of Draco's cock, and Draco whimpers as Harry bypasses it for the junction of where groin meets thigh. Harry closes his eyes and inhales deeply at this narrow strip of sensitized skin, committing Draco's scent and taste to memory.
He licks it because he can.
From here Harry takes his time, drawing out every pass of his mouth, every flick of his tongue. He bites his way up over Draco's torso, nipping at the ridges of his abdominals. Draco's panting so much his upper body is working like a bellows, in and out, over and over again.
Harry's mouth slides across Draco's chest, stopping to lavish attention on the tightened nubs, which wrings more of those delicious noises out of Draco's throat. His cock is as hard as Draco's, and it's becoming increasingly more difficult to keep his body from leaning in to press them together. He kisses up Draco's neck, letting his tongue trail through Draco's sweat and the remnants of his own saliva. It's a mixture that is uniquely theirs, and Harry wonders how the flavor will change with the addition of Draco's come.
He mouths underneath Draco's chin, and Draco's head falls back on a moan that vibrates onto Harry's lips. Harry smiles at the wanton sound.
"Do you have any idea how sexy you are right now?" he murmurs against Draco's throat. "How unbelievably gorgeous you look? Tied up here, just waiting for me to kiss you properly?" Harry's hands reach up over Draco's and grab the frame. "So patient, taking my kisses when I know you want more." He moves on to Draco's cheeks, licking over his face with the point of his tongue, dragging it over the arch of his brow, planting tiny, butterfly kisses down the bridge of his nose. Harry lets his lips ghost over Draco's eyelids, grazes his teeth over Draco's temples. He lets his mouth wander and worship over the high forehead, before coming back down to suck an earlobe into his mouth. He bites down and tugs, and Draco's whole body seizes. For a second, Harry thinks Draco might have lost his control.
"Pl—please, Harry," Draco rasps. His hips thrust forward, but Harry leans back just in time.
"No touching yet, baby. Not until I say." The endearment feels fond and sweet on his lips, not the saccharine, infantile appellation it used to be with others.
Draco chokes back a sob, but nods in assent. Blond fringe is plastered to his forehead with sweat, obscuring his bottomless gray gaze as his head tips forward. Their cheeks almost touch, and the heat that's rolling off Draco in waves is charged—electric—and Harry thinks the air could spark between them and combust at any moment. He's taken this as far as it can go, and his cock is throbbing in his trousers to just bloody get on with it. He's waited this long for a taste of Draco's mouth, waited this long to see Draco come undone again.
"Look at me, Draco. Show me that pretty face. I want to see how much you want it."
Draco's head lifts slowly, and his breathing is shallow, like it's taking everything he's got to make his neck move. His lashes flutter, and those dilated slate eyes come up to catch Harry's. His nostrils are flaring as his jaw clamps shut. Harry can tell he's trying to get his breathing under control. He's trembling all over, shaking like the last leaf on a tree, hanging onto the metal frame as if he'll buckle without it.
"Tell me you want it." Harry hears the unusual grate to his own voice, but he's not really surprised. Nobody's ever aroused him as much as Draco.
Draco's mouth falls open, panting, and his tongue darts out to swipe over his lips. It's a blatant invitation, and Harry's just about ready to accept.
"Kiss me, Harry."
That's all it takes.
Harry's mouth crashes into Draco's, and the chains rattle furiously against the metal as their chests collide. The kiss is volatile, a ragged tangle of lips, teeth, and tongue, certainly not indicative of the finesse Harry normally possesses. But he doesn't care about that now. Doesn't care about the seductive, teasing games his mouth could play on Draco's. All that matters is the completion of the circuit, Harry's lips on Draco's. They're both gasping and Draco's moaning like he's dying or being born again, and it's a carnal sound that trips the last of Harry's resolve.
Harry slams his hips forward and grinds his cock into Draco's.
Draco's cry of orgasm is sobbed into Harry's mouth, and his entire body bucks like he's being electrocuted. Harry feels the warm wetness seep into his trousers, and the knowledge that Draco has been completely unmade triggers his cock into bursting. He comes hard, still licking into Draco's mouth, with white lights flashing behind his eyes.
He pulls back to gauge Draco's state of mind. Draco's eyes are glassy and blissed out, and he's sagging a bit, but otherwise seems to be in a healthy mental state. Until his eyes look down and see the smear of milky white fluid over Harry's groin.
"Oh, God—I'm s—sorry," he stammers. "You didn't tell—"
Harry gathers him close, wrapping his arms around Draco's neck. "Shh, no, no—you're fine. You did beautifully. You did exactly what I wanted you to." He rubs a hand up Draco's nape, threading his fingers through the damp strands of hair. Draco rests his chin on Harry's shoulder, and Harry can feel some tension bleeding back into his body. "What is it?" he whispers.
Draco nuzzles close to his ear. "Was I good?"
The question is laced with quiet insecurity.
Harry steps back and reaches for the buckle at Draco's left wrist. He unfastens it and takes Draco's hand. Harry turns his hand over and brushes a sweet kiss on the palm before guiding it beneath the waistband of his trousers. He places Draco's hand over his spent cock and squeezes.
Draco's eyebrows shoot up and he stares at Harry in wordless surprise as his fingers slide through the evidence of his orgasm. Draco's fingers curl to cup him gently, and he allows it.
Draco's earned touch. The look of sheer wonder on his face has earned everything.
"You feel that?" Harry asks. "That's what you do to me. Kissing you, watching you, feeling you respond—that's what happens, Draco. You have me coming in my trousers like a schoolboy. You did that. As much as you think I have power over you—" he thrust his cock forward for emphasis, "—that's the power you have over me."
Draco is silent, but the gleam of pride and affection in his eyes speaks volumes.
Harry releases him from the restraints, and they head back into the bedroom. The shower is already running in the bathroom, and Draco commits himself into Harry's aftercare with a sigh and a soft smile.
The bed is turned down and the lights are low. Harry slides Draco under the sheets and slips in beside him. He spends several long minutes watching Draco sleep before gathering him up in his arms and curling around him. Sleep is easy to come after that.
OOOOOO
Narcissa rouses from sleep, limbs heavy and sated. Her eyes blink up into the dimly lit room, focusing after a brief moment. Neville is pressed close against her side and the heat of his body seeps into her skin. She soaks in his warmth like a sponge, as if she can draw it inside and keep it there to chase away a future chill. His long, muscular arm pins her to the mattress, not with force, but with a gentle, grounding pressure that only adds to the lingering ache in her bones. The fine hairs on his forearm tickle underneath her breasts as her chest rises and falls with each breath.
There is a stirring in her heart, a querulous resignation that seeks attention. She knows from experience it will not be denied. She eases out from underneath Neville, careful not to jostle him. He stirs and shifts with a snuffle against the pillow, but does not wake. Her dressing gown swishes with a whisper as she ties it around her naked body and pads on silent feet to a door on the opposite side of her room. A door she hasn't opened in a very long time.
Unfinished business lies on the other side of the ornately carved mahogany. Business she's resigned herself to ignore. But stubborn Black blood flows through her veins, proud and defiant, and if she's learned anything from her wayward cousin, it's that unfinished business eats at the soul. Narcissa spares a glance over her shoulder for Neville, sleeping so peacefully between her sheets, and she knows that if they are to have any sort of future together, then some doors must open before they can close.
She opens the door and steps inside, leaving it cracked behind her. A wandless wave of her hand lights the room, and soon it is bright enough to venture inside.
Lucius's adjoining suite is the same as he left it, only now the furnishings are covered in muslin. A fine layer of dust coats everything; it is the one room in the Manor that the house-elves are not allowed to enter. She turns her gaze above the fireplace and comes forward. Her hand trembles for only a second before she reaches for the edge of the fabric and pulls.
Lucius Malfoy blinks calmly at her from his wingback chair. The gilded portrait frame glows in the warm light of the room.
"Well," he drawls, and it sends a familiar twinge of icy fingers down her spine, "I wondered how long it would take before you came to me."
"Not long enough," Narcissa replies with a lift of her chin. She will not allow him to rankle her, and her eyes narrow in response.
Lucius stands, unfurling himself from the chair, no doubt to tower above her. As if the portrait isn't already high enough on the wall. No pedestal is ever too high for Lucius Malfoy.
"Where is Draco?" he demands. "Where is my son?" His tone is imperious. Even in death, he never fails to make her remember where she stands in his esteem.
"Your son?" she scoffs with a bark. "You have no son. He ceased to be your son the moment you let that madman brand him like cattle."
There is a small tremor around the corner of his left eye, but nothing more.
"Then why are you here?"
Dismissed, as always. But she's learned of her own worth enough these past years.
"My reasons are my own."
He laughs, and it's still the same throaty chuckle that tears at her heart and makes her gorge rise. The same condescending chuckle he always gives whether he's killing muggles or fucking Death Eaters in their bed. "Does guilt rob you of your sleep these days? Can your traitorous soul not find rest?"
"You speak so casually of souls, husband. One would think you had one for comparison."
"Ah," he says, inclining his head to assess her, "there's your shrewish tongue. How easily you return to the uncouth nature of your blood without me to gentle you. Lady Malfoy shows her true colors at last."
Narcissa's hands curl into fists at her side. "I am no Malfoy. You knew my nature when you bought my Black blood, like you bought my lineage and my fortune. It's too late for either of us to regret our choices."
The sneer that crosses his face is hate personified. "Yes, I bought you. And you were never worth the price I paid."
This time it is she who laughs. "I find it amusing that you still posture." Her hands relax and she breathes out to continue, "There is no one here to properly cower before you. No one to shiver at your great arrogance and delusions of power. There are no whores here to impress into our bed." She clucks at him, "How the mighty have fallen."
His jaw locks as the rest of his face seethes with anger. "Bring me my son."
It's amazing at how little his words affect her now. She's been under his thumb for so long that even dead he manages to keep her shackled to his memory. But no more. A terrible weight lifts from her heart. The spell breaks, the curtain is drawn, and she can finally see what's eluding her. Freedom. Truth. And it's exactly what she needs.
"I should have killed you a long time ago," she says evenly. Lucius only snorts in response. "But I didn't. You earned your reprieve with one simple act. You gave me Draco." Her smile is cruel. "You owe him your life. You owe that boy everything."
"I owe no one!" Lucius hisses, fury erupting over his features. A pointed finger slashes in the air. "You betrayed me!"
"You're goddamned right I did!" she shouts back. "I survived. I survived the Dark Lord, and I survived you. Now I'm going to live. Every breath I take from now on is a breath I take to spite you. This is the last time you will look upon my face, because the dead do not live here. I only hope that Hell treats you as favorably as you have treated us."
"I'm glad to be rid of you. You always were a cold and hateful bitch, Narcissa."
"No." Her voice is solid and strong, and she finally feels like the rock she's had to be for so long. "For the entirety of our marriage, I was a mirror. I only reflected that which was presented to me. So if you don't like what you see, Lucius Malfoy, you have only yourself to blame." She lifts her chin higher than ever, and isn't surprised that it's not defiance she's feeling in her bones, but a final sense of resolution. Her voice rings out clear and without waver, stronger than it's ever been. "When history opens its pages to the name Malfoy, it will be Draco's face they see. It will be Draco's triumphs recorded, and this world will bask in his light. He will take your name and vault it in ways you could only dream. He will make it his own. And you—you will be nothing but an ugly footnote overlooked at the bottom of an unread page. You will have no legacy. You will not endure. And it's high time I cleansed this house of the last of your pervasion."
She snaps her fingers and Blinky pops in.
"Blinky is being here, Miss Cissa."
Narcissa keeps her husband's furious gaze as the frost in her voice turns glacial. "The portrait, Blinky."
"Yes?"
"Burn it. And bury the ash. I don't want even a speck of him left in this house."
Blinky bows her head. "Right aways, Miss Cissa."
She doesn't spare another glance for Lucius and heads for the door. Neville is standing there, bare-chested and mussed from sleep, with eyes bright enough for her to know he's heard the whole exchange. Eyes only for her. He doesn't even glance at the portrait. As she nears, he pulls the door wider to allow her through.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly, placing her hand on his cheek. "I should have told you."
"Shh," Neville responds, putting a finger to her lips. "It's okay. You don't owe me an explanation. Not now. Not ever." His tender smile and quiet strength is almost too much to bear.
"I don't deserve you," she whispers into the warmth of his chest. He pushes her back to smile at her, and it's all she can do to keep her knees from buckling.
"You're right," he chuckles, and his laughter touches her in a way that Lucius never could. "You deserve more."
Her arms wind around his neck without thought. "Take me to bed."
"With pleasure."
Neville scoops her up bridal style and carries her back into her quarters. Behind him, the door ripples and slams shut on its own. Instead of a bang, it sounds like an exultation.