Harry swallowed hard, the mixture of vulnerability and desire overwhelming. He couldn't help the soft whimper that escaped his lips, a sound so unlike him that even he was startled by it.
Draco's smirk softened, eyes searching Harry's face like he was looking for permission, reassurance. "Tell me to stop," he said quietly, "and I will."
Harry wanted to say no. He wanted to say stop. But the words caught in his throat. Instead, his fingers twitched, reaching out to brush a stray lock of Draco's hair from his forehead.
"Don't," he whispered, voice trembling.
That was all Draco needed.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing softly against Harry's jawline, trailing down to the pulse at the base of his neck. Harry's breath hitched, the sensation both tender and electrifying.
The tension between them thickened, an invisible thread pulling tighter with every touch, every glance. Draco's hands moved slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing the way Harry responded—how his body shivered, how his eyes fluttered closed, how his breath grew uneven.
Harry's mind swirled, torn between the ache of vulnerability and the desperate need to surrender. The memory of the night before—the closeness, the raw honesty—made every touch feel amplified, every kiss like a promise.
Draco's lips finally met Harry's in a slow, searing kiss that spoke of longing and restraint. Harry melted into it, the world narrowing down to just the two of them—their breath mingling, hearts racing, fingers entwined.
When they finally parted, gasping for air, Draco's smirk was back, a little softer now but no less captivating.
"You're mine," he said again, voice low and possessive.
Harry's cheeks flushed deeply, a smile breaking through his exhaustion. "And you're impossible."
Draco's laugh was a rumble in his chest, warm and genuine. "That's what you like about me."
For the first time in a long while, Harry felt something fragile but real—a connection that went beyond teasing and tension, beyond the complicated history they shared.
As Draco pulled him closer once more, Harry knew this was just the start.
Harry lay beneath Draco, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, every inhale a struggle, every exhale shallow. The world had narrowed to just the heat pressing between them, the brush of skin against skin, and the slow, deliberate movements that left Harry feeling utterly spent—more than he ever thought possible. His limbs were heavy, almost foreign, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.
He tried to move, even a finger, to pull away or adjust, but his body betrayed him. Each attempt was met with a wave of dizziness, a tightening in his chest that stole the very air from his lungs. His vision blurred slightly, and for a moment, all he could do was lie there, utterly helpless under Draco's weight.
Draco, however, was the picture of control—his prideful smirk never wavering, even as his emerald eyes glinted with amusement. He seemed almost amused by Harry's helplessness, though his touch was gentle as he rubbed slow circles on Harry's back, coaxing the younger's ragged breathing into something steadier.
"Breathe, Potter!" Draco murmured softly, his voice low and teasing, "You're making it difficult for me to take you seriously when you sound like that."
Harry's lips parted, struggling to respond, but only a soft, broken sound escaped. The mix of exhaustion and desire tangled in his chest, making even speaking feel like an impossible task.
Draco's fingers traced soothing patterns, a strange contrast to the heat they'd just shared. His smirk softened just a fraction as he leaned closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from Harry's damp forehead.
"You've been claimed" he whispered, pride and something almost possessive threading through the words. "And I'll be the one to keep you breathing as well the reason for your shallow breaths."
Harry's eyes fluttered closed, overwhelmed by the tenderness wrapped around that teasing confidence. Even in his weakness, he felt the strength of Draco's hold—on him, on this moment, on everything fragile between them.
And for once, Harry didn't want to move away. He just wanted to stay exactly where he was—caught in Draco's gaze, in Draco's smirk, and in the slow, steady rhythm of his hands on his back.
Because right now, that was enough.
Steam curled into the air as the door to the bathroom creaked open. The scent of Draco's expensive citrus and cedar shower gel lingered behind him as he stepped out into the dormitory, skin still glistening slightly from the warmth of his bath. A single white towel hung low on his hips, just barely clinging, and his platinum hair was slightly damp, tousled in a way Harry had only ever seen during sleep or… the moments after.
Harry looked up from the book he wasn't really reading and immediately dropped his gaze. His throat dried instantly.
Bloody hell.
"You've already seen everything, Potter," came Draco's voice, smooth and cocky, the smirk audible even before Harry risked a glance. "Touched it. Felt it."
There it was again—that smirk.
That damn Slytherin smirk that used to accompany insults and scowls back in their school days. But this one wasn't malicious. This was sharper. More intimate. It was the kind of smirk that came from knowing Harry Potter had once gasped his name, clung to his back, whispered incoherently into his mouth.
It stirred something dangerous and desperate in Harry. He clenched the book a little tighter and tried to keep his voice steady. "Doesn't mean I need a reminder every time you walk out of the bathroom like that."
Draco chuckled—an honest, husky sound—and stepped closer. His bare feet padded across the stone floor, and Harry didn't have to look to feel the presence closing in on him. The warmth radiating from Draco's freshly bathed skin was undeniable. Tempting.
Harry looked up, and it was a mistake.
Draco stood right in front of him, still damp, golden in the soft morning light, the towel dangerously loose. His expression wasn't mocking—no, it was something else. Playful, yes. But also open. Honest. There was an ache in his silver eyes that echoed something inside Harry too.
"I want you to do something," Draco said, his voice quieter now.
Harry's brow lifted cautiously. "Like what?"
Draco leaned forward, his hand bracing against the wall just beside Harry's head, not touching but trapping him. His damp hair clung slightly to his forehead as he exhaled softly.
"Mark me."
Harry blinked. "What?"
Draco tilted his head slightly, that rare vulnerability flickering in his gaze. "Last time… I had marks. And you kept staring. You didn't ask, but you wanted to. And I didn't like seeing you hurt about it." He paused, searching Harry's face. "So this time, I want it to be from you. I want to wear you."
The way he said it—so earnestly, with quiet fire—made Harry's breath hitch.
Draco Malfoy, once the poster boy of haughty pride and cold sarcasm, was asking him to leave something behind. Not for pain. Not for show. But so he could feel owned. So he could feel kept.
Harry didn't answer with words.
Instead, he stood, closing the inch between them. His hands found Draco's hips, fingers curling against soft, damp skin. He leaned up just slightly, and without breaking eye contact, he brushed his lips against the curve of Draco's neck.
Draco exhaled shakily.
Harry pressed harder, then opened his mouth to kiss—no, claim. He let his lips linger, then sucked gently on the skin, dragging his teeth slightly before soothing the spot with a slow flick of his tongue. He repeated it again, a little lower, and this time Draco's breath stuttered audibly.
When Harry pulled back, a flush painted across Draco's pale throat, and already the beginnings of a mark bloomed there—a deepening color that would only grow.
Draco touched the spot gingerly, glancing in the mirror behind Harry, then turned back with a smirk—not mocking, but satisfied. "Better."
Harry's fingers tightened at Draco's hips. "Don't ask me to stop now."
Draco leaned in, brushing his lips just once against Harry's. "I wasn't planning to."
Harry barely had time to catch his breath when Draco leaned in again. He didn't kiss him this time, just brushed his nose against Harry's jaw, the smile curling at the corners of his mouth far too pleased.
"If you keep doing that," Draco murmured, voice dipping dangerously low, "I might just keep you inside all day."
Harry stilled, pulse pounding hard under his skin.
Draco's lips brushed his ear. "Or longer. Maybe until you're completely bedridden."
Harry's breath caught audibly.
That smirk. That filthy, beautiful smirk.
And then—just like that—Draco pulled away, stepping back with the casual grace of someone who hadn't just turned Harry Potter into a mess of heat and need. He turned toward the mirror, grabbed his wand from the nearby dresser, and flicked it lazily. His hair dried instantly. The towel stayed on—barely—but Draco didn't seem bothered in the slightest.
Harry stared, still seated at the edge of the bed, legs weak and head spinning.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he managed, voice hoarse and uneven.
Draco turned halfway, lifting a brow. "Breakfast," he said simply, as if he hadn't just wrecked Harry's ability to form coherent thought. "You should stay here. Rest."
Harry blinked. "I can come—"
"No, no." Draco held up a hand dramatically, eyes gleaming with mischief. "We can't have the Chosen One wobbling down the hall like he just got thoroughly—" He paused, watching the pink crawl across Harry's cheeks. "—handled."
"You're unbelievable," Harry mumbled, trying to cover his face with a pillow.
Draco grinned. "Mm. But apparently, I'm very effective."
With another lazy flick of his wand, Draco conjured fresh clothes—tight black trousers, a dark green sweater that clung too well to his lean frame—and finally let the towel drop. Harry didn't dare peek, but the sound of fabric rustling was enough to torture him.
Draco turned to the mirror, adjusted his collar, then faced Harry again with that signature cocky tilt to his head. "Get some sleep, Potter. I'll bring you something from the hall."
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Oh, absolutely," Draco said, walking to the door. "And just so you know—" He looked over his shoulder, silver eyes glinting. "—I'll never be done with you."
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut, and Harry collapsed backwards into the pillows with a groan. Muscles he didn't even know existed were sore. He couldn't move without feeling every bit of the night before. And worse than the ache was the burn in his chest that came with how much he wanted more.
More of Draco's voice. More of his hands. More of being seen the way Draco saw him—desired, known, wanted.
And Merlin help him… more of that smirk.