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London isn’t exactly sleepy in the thick dark of early morning, but this is as close as it gets. They city is nearly ready to hang up its hat and stumble to bed in a half-drunken stupor, only to wake an hour later to bake bread and sell fish and produce. And to serve breakfast pints to the drunkards who never made it home in the first place.
Like the city itself, Draco is difficult and quarrelsome at this hour. He’d much rather be in bed, curled around a handsome stranger or, better yet, sprawled alone between cool, crisp sheets. But no. Even in undeath, Draco has never been so lucky. So tonight—or more properly, this morning—he slides on an old, Slytherin-green jumper, matching hat, and dark sunglasses and sets off for the blood bank in Wizarding Chelsea. At least his money can buy him this—a spot at the least shit bank in a not-entirely-shit part of town, even if his appointment is at half three in the bloody morning.
The bank is the same as ever: red-brick and fluorescent-lit, aggressively Muggle, and, appropriately, just as crowded and unpleasant as any NHS-run clinic. He scowls and lights a cigarette as he approaches, smoking sullenly beneath a streetlight and nonchalantly sniffing the few living people who amble by. Rich, coppery, as decadent as a fresh chocolate pastry, and utterly illegal to hunt. His eyes follow a particularly delicious chap, all dark hair and unblemished skin, and he thinks, not for the first time, that he wishes he could be deposited right into the heart of a deliriously horrid Victorian London, if only to eat a normal fucking meal for once in his ungodly un-life.
Instead, he puts out his cigarette and strolls into the building, taking a ticket—number seventy-two—and slouching into a chair, one knee pulled to his chest. He watches people come and go, watches the waiting room number climb from sixty-five to seventy. He yawns. Yawns again. His stomach growls in its strange, haunted way. So, when the air shifts, Draco isn't entirely alert, focused as his body is on the constant gnaw of hunger and the bag of blood awaiting him.
So Draco doesn’t see the git walk in. No, he becomes aware by visceral irritation alone.
“Marjorie, good to see you. Yeah, I took the spot cos I’m on a case, and it keeps running late—” The voice prattles on. Something about it makes Draco’s insides roil, his once-living stomach tightening with unspent frustration. He feels a scowl coming on as the wanker natters and natters, but reality only sinks in when a nurse appears in front of the man, holding a can of lemonade and a twisty straw.
“Right this way, Mr Potter, we cleared out a room for you. As one of our super-donors, you’ve earned special privileges.”
“Oh, Merlin. That fucking prick.” Draco lets out a low growl, but he ducks his head when Potter looks in his direction. “Super-donor. Of course you are.”
“If you could please keep it down,” the receptionist says, lowering her glasses in Draco’s direction.
Draco huffs and huddles into himself, shrinking down into the tatty old chair. He rolls his eyes when Potter disappears behind the curtain, rolls them harder when he hears Potter chatting up the nurse, loud as an Erumpent in heat. Horribly, Draco’s gums tingle when he hears Potter react to the needle going in. Merlin, he is not going to let his fangs come out over the idea of the Chosen One's blood. It’s humiliating enough when his fangs pop out at The Chrysalis, when he’s dancing on some boy, angling for a questionably legal blood encounter. It’s far worse when it’s over Potter.
“Seventy-two!” The receptionist glances around the waiting room, finally catches sight of Draco, then nods sullenly like she’s deeply disappointed in him.
Heaving a dramatic sigh, Draco uncurls from the chair and strides towards the curtain. He schools his face into something neutral because he knows what lies behind that curtain; he can smell it. The iron-heavy scent of fresh blood, and, much stronger, the human housing it. The funk of a late-night stakeout. Bitter coffee. Souring milk spilled on a lapel. But even dead, he’s a Malfoy; and he will be unbothered. Unbroken.
When the curtain swings open, he’s careful not to meet Potter’s eye. Not that he’d notice or care—
“Malfoy?” A hand, warm with life, falls on his shoulder. “I thought you were—”
“Out of the country?” Draco shrugs off the offending hand. “That’s what I paid the paps to say. You’ll be glad to know I’m deceased instead. Inhuman. Unliving.”
“The paps? It was in a tiny blurb in the Quibbler.”
“Then you missed my big spread in Witch Weekly, didn’t you?” Draco sneers, then makes the cardinal mistake of looking at Potter. Eyes as pure green as always, but now with laugh lines framing them. Silver spectacles, stylish instead of round like saucers. Shoulders broad, a cheerful curve to his belly. And, Merlin, the smell of him, strong and near. The gauze taped to his arm. The hint of life beneath it.
Draco opens his mouth to say something cutting, a one-liner to let Potter know he hopes they never meet again. Instead, his fangs erupt in a burst of shuddering pain that he feels down to the few remaining nerves in his spine. Merlin. It's normally not that quick.
“Holy shit.” Potter’s mouth hangs open stupidly.
“Jutht what are you thtaring at?” Draco covers his mouth with one hand and shoves Potter with the other, watching with grim satisfaction as he stumbles to the side. He slings the curtain closed behind him and thrusts his hand out to the nurse. She puts a soft, plastic bag of blood—so fresh he can practically hear its pulse—into Draco’s hand. “I prethfer to eat in private,” he grits out. Merlin, Potter has him so he cant even speak.
She scuttles away, and Potter must have crept back into the night like the toad he is. Finally, Draco sits, alone with the warm slosh of his bag. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t let it sink in what he’s doing, that he's feeding from a person he despises. No, with his skin prickling and stomach roiling, he fits his fangs into the openings at the top, groaning when they pierce the bag and the first drops fall against his tongue. His eyes roll back in his head, and he starts to gulp, making high-pitched, desperate sounds as he swallows. He’s certain the receptionist is losing her mind, that she’s blacklisting him right now, but he couldn’t give a single fuck.
It’s rich—like wine, like a vineyard full of it, Sangiovese and Montepulciano d'Abruzzo. No—as he drinks, he realises it’s not only wine, but a burst of perfectly aligned flavours; served course after course, each dish building upon the last. Like a human meal of the highest, most sinful decadence, like real, solid food he's not tasted since well before the night he died. Stuffed figs and olives bursting with ripe cheese, strong tea with cinnamon and clove and orange peel, chocolate truffles filled with bourbon and cream.
When the bag is empty, Draco nearly sobs. There has to be more. He peels it open with his fingernails, blood staining his hands, and licks the inside clean like a starved kitten.
It’s only happened once before, after a singular sip from a very good-looking boy at The Chrysalis, and at the time, it was short-lived enough to hide, but now—now, his cock is rapidly filling and soon, utterly, ragingly erect, filled to the brim, nearly bursting, with Harry Potter’s blood.
***
Draco has a wank in the loo. He might as well.
No amount of money will hide the sounds he was making during his meal, nor could he properly clean himself before the nurse found him—blood-sullied and wild-eyed, clearly hard in his trousers, gnawing on the edge of his blood bag like a ragamuffin. With only a half-arsed silencing ward tossed at the door, he tosses off to the thought of Potter’s veins, the deep red of their nectar, the tremble of a warm body beneath his.
It’s been so long, and Potter tastes so good. A man’s taste. A man. Draco thinks the word on repeat and comes in the sad, dingy toilet, stripes of pearly semen suspended in the bowl like sparse clouds in an afternoon sky. Not that he’s seen those in a while, or ever will again. The thought is a tad too poetic, given the circumstances. He casts a decent cleaning charm and is free, mostly, from the filth of the past hour.
When he heads for the door—hands shoved in his pockets, sunglasses on—the receptionist gives him a pale, haunted look. But she doesn’t say anything about the blood or the sounds or the wanking, so he’ll count as a tacit invitation to return to the Chelsea Vampire Blood bank. In fact, Draco plans to keep his insanely timed appointment until they forcibly drag him to the horrid blood bank on Knockturn.
Finally, a good fucking meal. A passable wank. And his spot at Chelsea is safe. Draco positively has a spring in his step when he walks into the crisp, pre-dawn air—until he catches sight of Harry Potter slouched beneath a flickering street lamp, huddled in his hideous leather jacket and deplorably tight Muggle jeans. Draco grunts and hunches off in the direction of his flat, trying his best to ignore the wanting buzz in his tongue and teeth, the gnawing pit in his belly that tells him—that bag of blood wasn’t enough. It’ll never be enough. Not when it’s him.
“‘Lo there! Draco!” Potter, of course, doesn’t let Draco slink into the night, can’t read Draco’s body language telegraphing that he should be left alone for eternity—and he has the gall to call Draco by his given name, which only serves to irritate him further.
Draco marches along more quickly, cursing his clumsiness with vampiric magic, his lingering inability to Apparate at the top of his list of grievances. “Sod off,” he shouts. “Vampire theatre is officially over. Go home.”
“Wait—just. I have a few questions, that’s all.” Potter jogs up beside him, still smelling distractingly of coffee and copper. “Ron and I, we busted a whole vampire coven like two months ago. They’d been seducing new, er, recruits. Not very—ethically.”
Draco laughs coldly. He keeps walking. “You don’t say.”
“The thrall, that’s what Ron says it is. Like a Veela’s allure.”
“Right, well. Thanks for warning me. I’ll keep it in mind next time I’m being forcibly drained.” Draco speeds up, Potter practically running to keep pace with him now.
“Yeah, you’d probably. Know that.” Potter veers ahead of him and stops right in his path. “That’s not why I’m—I’m not warning you.”
“Now you tell me.” Draco stops. He’s just tall enough to loom over Potter so that’s what he does: drifts into his space and looms. “Go home.”
“I heard you. Eating. After I—”
“Are you looking for a culinary review?”
“No, I—”
“You're a fucking five course meal, better than I've had in ages. Here to gloat? Want to tell your friends your blood is special, just like the rest of you?”
“I was just curious, is all. I’ve donated hundreds of times, but I never met one of you. And I know you, and I thought. Well.”
It takes a moment to sink in. “You little slag.”
Colour floods Potter’s deep tan skin. He even has the audacity to look shocked. It’s almost fetching. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a groupie.” Draco grins. He steps closer into Potter’s space and gently straightens the collar of Potter’s jacket. Merlin, he smells so bloody human. “But I suppose you’ve always been full of surprises. And you do so love dangerous creatures.”
“Dangerous?” Potter laughs nervously. His pupils have dilated. He smells even more strongly of sweat now, a veritable musk rising from his pores.
“I’m new. Weaker than one made a century ago.” Draco lifts a finger to Potter’s neck and traces a vein there. Merlin, it feels like flying for the first time. Potter, here, tasting like this. Asking for this. “Hungrier, too. They keep us hungry, you know. Means of control. Who knows what might happen if we were allowed to really hunt?”
“That’s why I—I know they don’t feed you enough. I thought, I’d offer and—” Potter’s blush deepens.
“And what? Have me drain you? Try out my thrall? All because you’re bored with your wife and your shit job?” Draco’s rests his thumb at the hollow of Potter’s throat. He draws back his lips and lets his fangs emerge. Less embarrassing, more dramatic this time. Far easier to speak around. “Looking for a thrill?”
“No, I—I was just offering. I know you’re not dangerous. Not really. You never wanted to hurt anyone.” Potter’s eyes are soft and genuine, arousal now mixing with the scent of his sweat. It’s a heady combination. Stupid with a side of irresponsibly horny.
“You know that, do you?” Draco takes pains to enunciate clearly. “Like I’m the thame—the same—child I was at sixteen?”
Potter quirks a grin, which makes something in Draco’s cold chest thump and rattle, revving into a pleasant little thrum. “Essentially. And I could easily shake off your thrall. Imperius doesn’t work on me. Or Veritaserum. So I’d be safe if you wanted to drink—”
“Oh you think tho, do you?” Draco pushes Potter in the centre of his chest and—before he can think or feel or pull himself back from the brink—he does the unthinkable. He takes off his sunglasses and conjures up the unstable, unwieldy cloud of his magic, staring Potter right in his pretty eyes.
Potter’s face slackens—that’s the first thing he sees. A change in expression so minuscule that most humans would never know it. But it wakes up some primal piece of Draco, some well of predatory instinct that, until now, has been directed only at bags of lukewarm blood, and the occasional willing club boy, watched over by bouncers at The Chrysalis. Then, Potter’s smell turns sweeter, crisp around the edges, like spun sugar. And he sways closer to Draco.
Draco revels in it. In the intoxication of Potter’s willing, open body standing before him. He’ll be thrown in Azkaban for this, or strung up before the morning sun to burn. But he’s not sure he minds. Not sure it won’t be worth the risk. Just this one experiment. “Unbutton your shirt.”
Potter looks for a moment like he might resist. But the defiance in his face melts away, and he unbuttons his shirt, exposing his skin, his thick pelt of chest hair. All that living flesh, all that blood beneath it.
“Don’t you look a treat. Better than a bag, aren’t you?” Potter makes a strangled noise in response. Draco shivers, rests his hand on Potter’s chest, and says, “I had an ortolan when I went to Normandy with Mother and Father. Do you know what that is?”
Potter gulps, like he’s gasping for air.
“It’s a bird, stuffed and cooked while it’s still alive. It’s far worse than that, really. But I’ll spare you the details.” Draco runs his knuckles over the centre of Potter’s chest. That pulse of life, just beneath his skin. His fangs feel more like part of his mouth now, like he can talk around them glibly now that he holds Potter in his thrall. “You eat it with a towel over your head, so you can hide your lechery from God.”
Potter’s eyes move quickly from side to side, like if he looks away from Draco he’ll somehow escape. But he won’t. Draco feels it.
“The point is the taste of dominance,” Draco says, still caressing Potter’s skin. “Oily and slick and decadent. Something that should never be eaten. But we humans do it anyway because we crave that power. We eat it because we love to sin.” He brings his lips to Potter’s ear. “That’s what you’d taste like. I can feel it in the roots of my teeth.”
Draco lets himself stay there for a few seconds, not daring to bring his teeth to Potter’s skin. He growls, that low, nasty animal sound that rumbles from his throat when food is near. And not just any food—something truly extraordinary, all tarted up and weeping with hormones and sweat and fear and the unspent wanting that Draco’s always sensed from Potter. But a Malfoy is still a Malfoy, and there is still some composure to be found, buried deep beneath the hunger. He blinks hard and reminds himself that, while this un-life has proven to be utter shit, he doesn’t actually want to die, not for real. He steps back with some effort, pulling his magic away from Potter until the connection breaks and his head, blessedly, clears.
With a sigh, he slips his sunglasses on again. It’s far more difficult to retract his fangs. The feel of it is nearly excruciating; his hands start to shake like the Dreamless addicts he often encountered in the vampire dens. But he does it, gasping, shuddering. Bloody stupid to dance that close to the edge.
He hears the blood bank doors open; a distant creak, hurried footsteps, a concerned voice calling Potter’s name. He could try vampire flight again, but he’s too hungry, even after his meal. There’s not enough power in his body with this little blood. Besides, they know precisely who he is. So he raises his hands in surrender. “Consensual encounter! Potter solicited me! I am but an innocent here.”
The nurse is huffing when she catches up to them, her concerned eyes on that slutty open collar. But Potter steps between them, hands raised. “He’s right. It was all consensual. I asked him.”
“But Mr Potter, I saw—”
“It’s alright, Marjorie. I’m fine. Best if we don’t share this around, yeah?” Potter’s shirt is still open, and there’s a small scratch running along his neck where Draco ran his nail. “I told Draco to take me home with him. We got a little carried away.”
Marjorie’s eyes dart towards Draco, then back at Potter. “You’re not—you’re not under his spell, are you?”
“Never.” Potter winks. “Just looking for a little fun. But keep it between us. Can’t have it getting out, not before the divorce goes public.”
Draco raises an eyebrow at that. Divorce or no, he needn’t be associated with Potter, not like this. So he slinks off while Potter is still blathering on at the nurse—something demented about his children and the stress of his job, and the need for occasional release. When Draco rounds the corner, he feels Potter’s magic surge, hears his voice: “Obliviate.”
Before Draco can waste time feeling grateful to the daft sod, he pulls on his magic and sprints, moving at a steady, gliding clip that no human could match. A motivated man on a broom might be able to catch him, if he knew where Draco was headed. But he isn’t listed in any wizarding directory, and it seems he lost Potter quickly enough. When he arrives at his flat, the street behind him is empty, and the sky is still hued purple with the barest hint of early light.
Draco locks the door behind him, strolling into the cool, dark of his bedroom and leaving the night behind him.
This was nothing more than a distraction, a bad dream played out in real time. He hangs his clothes, then showers to warm his skin. Naked, he slips between his cool, crisp sheets and falls to slumber as the city crawls from its stupor.
***
It’s not often that Draco can get an actual meal at The Chrysalis. Still, he goes every night he’s not scheduled for the blood bank. Blood isn’t even the goal anymore, not really. It’s more the pulse of life, the heartbeat of the music. When he steps inside, he can forget, for a moment, who he is and how he came to be.
Tonight, there’s a band. Some experimental music with a heavy beat and a repeating chorus. It deafens the noise in Draco’s brain, his sordid backstory, his imagined paths of rescue or redemption. The older vampires mostly ignore him; largely isolated in VIP sections, groupies sitting on their laps, legally bound to their masters. Draco makes a point of ignoring them back, luring a pretty boy away from another young vampire and dancing with him until Draco smells of his sweat, and his fangs begin to sharpen.
“Drink?” Draco has a hand around the boy’s neck but takes care not to make full eye contact. It feels like he’s choking when he shoves his thrall aside, like his body is reminding him of the free, open thrill he felt with Potter.
“Yeah,” the boy says, a little breathless. “You seem nice and I—I have half a replenishment potion left from last week. The guy last Friday—he drank more than he said he would, but it’s been long enough…”
Draco doesn’t care. His mouth is already watering, gums tingling. “It’ll be fine,” he purrs, a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy’s arousal doesn’t have the sinful edge Draco prefers, that deviant twist that tastes like heaven. But it’s no matter. A meal is a meal, no matter how paltry. “I’ll grab a back room bouncer.”
Draco winks at the boy, who’s blushing like he’s preparing for a first kiss. It won’t be enough time or privacy for either of them to get off, but it’s fuel for a decent wank later, and energy enough that Draco won’t be starving before the blood bank.
It’s quick, as always, when he gets the boy in one of the small rooms at the bank, bouncer well-bribed and looming close, pocket watch in hand. The first rush of blood is sweet like custard: richly sweet and silky. Not the same high as Potter’s blood, but Potter is older, a renowned wizard. The rich silk of Potter’s blood bursts with magic, like it’s begging for a place to go. Like it’s looking for Draco.
Draco clenches the back of the boy’s neck and bites harder, drinks deeper, groaning, thinking of the wank he’d had the other night, right in the clinic washroom. The boy makes breathy noises that make Draco wish it were easier to take the boy home and drink his fill, sink into him with fangs and cock, fingers in his mouth, touching his teeth and spit, all the way to the back of his throat. A growl rises from Draco’s chest; his nails dig into the boy’s flesh. The boy whines, whimpers. A hurt sound.
“Please.” The boy starts clutching at Draco’s shirt. “Drain me. It feels so—good. I think I’m going to—oh.” The boy convulses and gasps, and Draco picks up the sharp scent of semen, the warmth of it spreading against Draco’s leg. Draco sucks harder, gulping, the thrill of his magic rising in him, twining around the boy.
“I’ll be so good for you,” the boy murmurs. “Yours if you—if you let me—please. I'll do anything.”
Draco licks his neck then drives his teeth in again, looking for some sharpness in the boy’s blood, some character. But the boy's magic is quiet and growing quieter as Draco drinks. The boy starts to moan. He’s hard again. Such a young thing, and pretty, too. Draco could take him home and feed off of him for weeks. Fuck him every night and—he’d find blood replenishment potions somehow. And maybe after a while, his taste would mature, become something more.
“That’s enough,” the bouncer says gruffly. He grabs Draco’s shoulder and yanks his head back. "You're using your thrall. I could have you killed."
Draco's teeth are still dripping blood, and his breath comes in quick rasps. “You’re hard too—aren’t you, Nigel? Embarrassing for a bouncer. But I think you like it. You like it when the young boys get hard. How much money would it take for you to let me fuck him? I'll do it in front of you.”
The boy whines and reaches for Draco, but Nigel blocks him. “Fuck off, Death Eater. You’ve had more than enough.”
"I'm a life eater now, you absolute tit. Let me go."
The bouncer marches Draco towards the door, sending him back into the crowd with a harsh shove. Draco could fight back. Even hungry and hazy as he is, he’s stronger than any human. But he goes, stumbling backwards, bleary-eyed, stomach grumbling. Even an older vampire wouldn’t last long in a regulated club like this, and they're not allowed to dine anywhere else without a clear contract of consent.
“I’ll pay,” Draco shouts. He pulls out a wad of Muggle bills and throws them in the bouncer’s direction. “I’ll suck your cock after. My mouth stays nice and warm when I’ve had enough to eat. And I love drinking cum.”
“Not a chance, boyo. Off you pop. You’re not allowed back for a week after tonight.” The bouncer nods in the direction of the alleyway. When Draco doesn’t move, the bouncer pushes him again, hitting him with the full force of his magic. Draco is flung backwards, ramming into the cold brick wall with brutal force. The door slams behind him, and he's alone in the alley.
“I didn’t even do anything. Fucking wankers!” Draco fishes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and sticks one between his teeth. Maybe he’d been the tiniest bit—assertive with his meal. The thrall had risen, yes. It had wanted to consume the boy, to take him and trick him and use him like a pile of fresh blood bags. Draco can hardly be blamed; it’s in his nature as a predator. It’s the way he was meant to feed. He takes a drag, then another. The nicotine is cold comfort, but it staves off a bit of the craving, makes his hands that much steadier. He can sleep until his next appointment. Starvation is not so terrible when he sleeps.
He smokes for a while, watches the wizards and witches leaving with their vampire paramours. When he flicks the blood-stained cigarette butt away, it catches in midair, hanging just in front of Draco’s face. Draco feels it like a prickle on the back of his neck. Feels him. The slowing of time and freezing of space. Potter’s magic lingers and spreads like smoke in a closed room, enveloping Draco, twisting around him like vines rising from the earth. The fucker steps out of the shadows, grinning like something from a Muggle horror film.
“Bored of being head Auror? Decided to be Batman instead?” Draco crosses his arms.
“I am a little bored, now that you ask," Potter says, as if he’s continuing a bit of conversation from earlier. “I get what I want, when I want it.” He steps closer. “What I say goes. I take any case I like. That’s boring, isn’t it?”
“Sounds prime.” Draco tries for cool, calm. He takes another cigarette between his fingers. But he knows his face betrays him. Even with the smallest amount of blood in his system, he flushes easily. His eyes flick from Potter’s face to his large hands. “So you simply chase what you can’t have?”
“Something like that.” Potter looks the part of a bad boy, wearing his beat-up leather jacket and Muggle trainers. “Might as well live dangerously every once in a while.”
This isn’t living dangerously. You’re playing with Fiendfyre.”
Potter is so close now. Draco can hear the drumming of his heart, can smell him, too. His cologne—expensive, woody—and the wine on his breath, mixed with the human funk of sweat and skin. “Why's that?"
“Why? Because whatever blood replenishment potions you’ve managed to scrounge won’t be enough when I get you alone.” Draco tries for ominous, and he thinks it works—briefly. Potter swallows hard, but there’s a surge of something else behind it. Wanting. Anticipation. “They starve us, you know. I’d drain you dry.”
“No, you wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t.”
“I won’t take the risk of burning, not even for a proper meal. Good night, Potter.”
“Didn’t say you have to.” Potter draws a small bottle from his pocket, the golden potion gleaming in the flickering lamplight. “I’ve a drawer full at home. I don’t even have to pay.”
Draco’s eyes go wide. “No one has that.”
Potter shrugs. A corner of his mouth lifts, revealing a small dimple in his cheek. “But I’m Harry Potter. I can have whatever I like.”
***
Up until they arrive at Potter’s address, Draco is certain he’s in the midst of an elaborate prank. But when they reach their destination, Potter casts and Grimmauld Place appears, stretching itself into existence between two far cheerier Muggle residences. It is as Draco remembers: dark grey with latched shutters, its door like a wide, black maw. He follows Potter inside, stepping through the fall of thick magic into an incongruously bright sitting room, a fire already flickering in the hearth.
“I’ve reset all the wards,” Potter says. “Your entry won’t set off any alarms in the Creatures Office.”
“So you can do that, too. Get rid of Ministry regulations as it suits you?” Draco sends his jacket sailing to the coatrack by the door. His stomach churns madly like it used to when he first came out, picking boys up from clubs. Simpler times.
“Yeah. Something like that.” Potter’s eyes follow Draco, his odd intensity dialed up even more now that they’re here, alone.
Draco sniffs, putting on an indifferent air. He makes a show of looking at the pictures on Potter’s mantle: Weasley and Granger smiling on a tropical beach somewhere; Potter and his Auror companions, arms slung around each other; and Teddy, of course, whom Draco is no longer allowed to see. A portrait of an entirely normal, human life. “How convenient for the boy wonder. You can get up to whatever mischief you dream up in that walnut-sized brain of yours.”
Potter raises one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s not mischief. I’m providing a service to a victim of the vampire boom.”
“I’ll go fetch a medal.” Draco glides towards Potter, feet barely touching the floor, watching with satisfaction as Potter’s expression changes from smug to rattled. He traces his finger along the collar of Potter’s shirt. His nail severs a thread, then another, and two of Potter’s buttons fall to the floor. “On behalf of all us crawling creatures and cryptids.”
To Potter’s credit, his resolve remains: he summons a golden potion from his jacket and pours it into his mouth without breaking eye contact. He flings the bottle aside, wets his lower lip with his tongue. Draco grabs Potter’s throat, to feel the bob and click of his swallow. Lord, Draco can nearly taste its metallic tang as Potter’s flush deepens, his skin growing visibly smoother, fuller.
“That’s a good trick, Potter. All swelled up like a fatted calf.” Draco takes a long inhale, and opens his mouth. He can feel his magic activate in the roots of his canines; he shivers when they extend, sharp and still the barest edge of strange in his mouth.
Hands trembling, Potter untucks his shirt and lets it fall, revealing the broad landscape of his chest. His nipples are red and erect; they look, to Draco, like little candies. Potter’s voice is thick when he speaks, like the potion is making him as blood-drunk and stupid as Draco feels. “Where—where are we doing this? ”
“Here. I'm not interested in waiting any longer.” Draco presses his nose and lips and tongue to Potter’s neck. His fangs graze Potter’s jugular vein; the pulse inside tickles his teeth. “Then I’ll take you to bed and do it again.”
Potter lets out a little gasp when Draco’s hand clamps down on the back of his neck. The sounds he makes when Draco nips and licks along the vein are downright obscene. Draco’s never been one to play with his food, but he can’t help relishing the scent of Potter’s excitement, his arousal, that sour edge of distress when Draco arranges his fangs just so. When he presses his teeth into Potter’s skin, Draco growls right as the flesh gives way, the sound low and dark and animal. The pop of flesh reminds him of biting into a ripe fruit: the pulled-tight skin of a plum, the burst of rich sweetness, juices pouring down his skin. Draco sucks hard and swallows as much as he can as quickly as he can—lord, he really has been starved these past months. The burst of energy, of magic pouring into him, hits him almost instantly. For his part, Potter makes little sighing, gasping noises that have Draco wishing he was drinking from Potter in bed—but that will happen soon, given Potter’s whorish writhing, his grasping at Draco’s hair, the growing hardness in his worn Muggle jeans.
Draco’s free hand wanders absently over Potter’s body, exploring muscle and scars and hair as blood flows into his mouth, more slowly now, salty and silken on his tongue. He can taste the iron now, mixed with buttery plasma, flavors mingling like the most divine repast. Potter’s blood is different than it was at the blood bank; it’s more than it was out of an unfeeling plastic bag. More delicately spiced, creamier, a nutty undercurrent. It flows like velvet over Draco’s tongue, more surely with each swallow, thick as molten chocolate. And warm, so warm, like a blanket falling around his shoulders, like a seat in Mother’s best chair by the fire, like coffee and cake on a bitter-cold day.
When he brushes one of Potter’s ludicrously full nipples, Potter nearly sags in his arms, hiccuping out a sob. “Draco. Draco, I’m dizzy.”
With a sigh and a vigorous tweak of the other red nipple, Draco retracts his fangs and licks over the small wounds on Potter’s neck. “Let me take you to bed. I’m still starving, and you could well faint before I’m through. Alright, darling?”
“Yes. Bed.” Potter sways in Draco’s arms, like a pliant Victorian maiden. Potter is deliciously muzzy when Draco lifts him in his arms and carries him towards the stairs. Potter just whimpers, plainly overcome, relaxing so dearly beneath the influence of Draco's magic.
“It’s alright, Harry. I’ll take excellent care of you.” Draco presses a kiss to Potter’s temple. His cock is steadily filling with Potter’s delectable blood. Bed is a marvelous idea, most assuredly, given the state of Draco’s body. “Tell me, do you have more replenishment potions in your nightstand?”
Potter nods sleepily against his neck.
“Very good. We’re going to have a splendid night.”
***
Potter is far more biddable than Draco could have even hoped for. When Draco moves him into place, he goes easily, his pupils huge, his expression entirely too trusting. That’s how Potter’s always been, Draco thinks as he flicks his fingers and Potter’s trousers vanish. A Gryffindor idiot to an absolute fault.
“Good trick. S’so good. Trousers all gone.” Potter’s words are slurred, his eyes half-closed. There’s a soppy smile on his face that Draco recognizes from his brief encounters with blood boys at The Chrysalis. Draco’s own experience being drained was utterly terrifying at the last, but the first moments—the body high of his maker's thrall, the pounding sexual energy—well, that’s why Draco ended up like this, isn’t it? He'd sought out that oblivion. In a way, he and Potter are similar in their exploration of the unknown. Only now, Potter is the prey, and the vittles on offer are seemingly endless.
“My magic is sharper with a little blood in my belly.” Draco scratches his fingernails over Potter’s inner thigh, thrilling at the scratches that rise in their wake. A few fat drops of blood well up, and Draco crawls between Potter’s legs to kiss each one away. “But I’m not full just yet.”
“Good.” Potter groans and lazily summons another golden phial, tipping the contents in his mouth and discarding the bottle. He pushes up to watch Draco, spreading his legs. His erection is hard and thick, pulling at his tight briefs. A little moisture has wicked into the fabric; it smells as salty and wild as the sea.
“My, how eager you are.” Potter’s leg hair stands on end, his flesh prickled with goosebumps. “I’m going to drink from your femoral vein, love. It’s a delicacy, I’m told. Might hurt.”
Potter brings his hand down to touch himself through his pants. “Yeah, don’t care—fucking—do it. Need you.”
“Should we remove these? Easier access. I'll need all of you when I'm done.”
Potter’s only answer is a thready whine, so Draco vanishes them too, leaving him face to face with Potter’s firm, fat cock. He runs an experimental finger up Potter’s shaft, humming when it jumps beneath his hand and a little bead of moisture forms at the tip.
“So slutty. And all for a vampire.” Draco taps the skin on Potter’s thigh, feeling for the right spot, where the pulse is strongest. It’s close to the crease of his thigh, where his skin feels like silk and smells like sin. “Your mortal enemy, no less.”
Potter snorts. His eyes are closed; his whole body looks vague and limp. Despite his compromised state, Potter grins sleepily, and says, “Mortal enemy. You didn’t even come close to—holy fuck.”
Draco sinks his fangs into Potter’s thigh without further fanfare, past fat and fascia, tapping into the blood pumping back to Potter's living heart. It’s proper etiquette to warn your meals, but Potter was rude, and Draco can’t abide such terrible manners. But Potter is meek as a kitten now, squirming beneath Draco’s firm hands, his sounds breathy and pained, his words a babble of begging as the high takes him. His arousal rises around Draco like a promising shroud, deeper than it was when Draco had him downstairs. Potter is his now, but Draco had warned him. And Potter had invited him in.
This feeding is more for Draco, too; the blood is both thicker and sweeter at the junction of hip and thigh: as dense as flaky dough layered with butter. Draco’s belly is so full now that it’s swollen, pressing against the buttons of his trousers. Still, he gluts, his body humming with sheer life. The replenishment potion has Potter swollen as a Christmas goose dripping with oil and rich, dark juices. It’s not only the taste, though—it’s Potter’s magic alongside it, the electric current of its power pouring through Draco’s limbs, lighting him up from within. His own trousers and pants vanish with barely a flick of one hand; his shirt follows. When Draco can drink no more, his own arteries and veins finally full, his belly distended and heart pumping, he pulls off and covers the ragged wounds with little kitten licks of saliva, watching the flesh knit together before his eyes.
Potter is in a stupor: eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly, one hand held limply around his cock. They’re a matched set, Draco buzzy with magic and heat, his own cock jutting, angry and redder than he’s ever seen it, like a divining rod towards the space between Potter’s legs. Draco settles there, bends his body so he can lick the head of Potter’s cock. He’s all sharp and salt here, the scent of need still strong. While Potter coos and threads his hands in Draco’s hair, Draco swipes his thumb across Potter’s lower belly, cleaning him from the inside and filling him with warm oil. Draco's magic pours out like a wave, wrapping Potter up with his force and preparing him for what Draco plans to take next.
Once Potter realises what Draco’s done, he whines, his aching arousal evident in his musk, in the pulse of blood in his cock. Potter’s protests are far too meek to take seriously, so Draco shushes him and bullies him onto his belly, where he stays, panting and grabbing the pillows ineffectually. "There you are, kitten," Draco says, breathy, shaking, "There's so much you can give me, isn't there?"
Draco’s tip sinks in with a satisfying pop, tight resistance made hot and smooth with oil. It's uncommonly tight, like forcing himself into an oiled vise. It's better, by far, than any club slut, so good, in fact, that Draco could well hide his face from God. It's just as well that he doesn't, for Draco wants to see every part of this, their first of many joinings. As Draco sinks in, Potter sobs—I’ve never done this, oh my God—and Draco shushes him again, grunting when he bottoms out. It must hurt at first—Potter is still preternaturally tight even after Draco's first careful thrusts, as if he’s unaware of how to use those muscles entirely. But Draco knows how to do this, knows how to make it good, and, oh, how good he'll make it. How well he'll reward his plumped up prey, for years and years to come.
Draco angles his cock and drives down into Potter’s prostate until that too-tight hole loosens. That's when Potter starts begging for it, rutting into the sheets, repeating Draco's name, telling him how good he'll be, if only he can serve him. It only takes moments before Potter is shuddering beneath him, making a mess of his bedclothes and tightening around Draco; the hard grip of smooth, perfect muscle. Draco could easily go longer, but he knows he’ll need this again soon, so he fucks Potter in lazy strokes, letting the tension coil and build, watching the slide of his rosy cock and the dipping in and out of Potter’s rim. He grabs the swell of Potter’s arse to anchor himself when he comes, riding the monumental, screaming tide of pleasure as he shouts and empties himself inside.
Afterwards, he plays with Potter’s wet hole, fingers dipping inside, massaging the rim. A great tenderness rises in him when Potter starts to whimper and beg for more in a desperate-edged voice. "Draco, please. Please."
“It’s alright, shh. I know what you need.” Draco kisses his way down Potter’s spine to the slicked, puffy rim and slides his tongue inside. The taste is overwhelming in its strength, the combination of them, when before tonight, this version of them had never existed. Draco uses his new magic to lengthen his tongue, just a little, so he can slip it deep inside and make Potter clean and soft again. He swallows his own come, rich as it is with the salt-and-copper taste of Potter’s pink, puffed hole. Occasionally one of his fangs nicks the skin surrounding, spilling a precious drop of blood on Draco’s lips. Draco moves his fattened tongue in and out like it’s a cock, and, predictably, Potter comes again, his arse tensing and releasing. Like a bloody virgin, this one.
It’s only after Draco fucks him a second time that he lets Potter roll over, looking dazed and stupid, his eyes locked on Draco. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Potter says, cupping Draco’s cheek. “I want to give myself to you. Every night, just like this.”
“Of course, darling.” Draco shivers. It’s like looking into the eyes of a saint seeing visions, or a mortal meeting an angel in its splendors—only, Draco knows he’s dark and terrible, and as far from holy as any man can be. He’s not good enough to say no, not when this has fallen into his hands. Potter is likely in Draco’s thrall, at least a little—Draco must have done the magic without meaning it, but the greater part of him is conscious and willing, at least Draco thinks so. And that's close enough. “I’ll take everything you have and come back for more.”
Potter makes a sleepy sound and burrows against Draco's shoulder. And, finally, Draco sleeps with his belly full and the taste of Potter on his lips.