Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: The war is over. Draco may or may not have what he wants. A post-war mindfuck, rated NC-17 for explicit sexual content. Harry/Draco slash written for Aja.

When Draco's cock enters him, it is slick and hot and smooth, a long, wet slide that stretches him and makes him ache and shiver in his own skin--so familiar by now that the dull edge of pain feels more like a slaked thirst to him than pain at all, and he arches as he lifts himself up and lowers himself down again, taking that cock within him until he's resting on Draco's thighs, and he's filled so good and he's hurting so sweet, and he wants to lean down to kiss Draco, to taste that gasping, sweat-salty mouth, but he knows that Draco doesn't like kisses.

So he braces both hands on Draco's chest and undulates in slow circles, letting his head fall forward until his black hair partially obscures his sight--but then Draco's hand is there, warm and moist and cupping his face, stroking the damp hair away until it flattens obediently, much more obediently than it does when dry. Draco is trembling beneath him, a long, pale expanse of glistening skin--and the sight of it, the mere sight of it, is enough to make him quiver with pleasure.

'Harry...'

He loves the way Draco says it--all quiet, sobbing desperation--and when he hears it he almost thinks that this is love, that this is need, that he and Draco are doing this because it was fated to be, because Draco comes to him, only to him, though there are so many others he could have chosen--because Draco's body and his arms and his chest and his cock are made for this, only for this, and oh he fits inside so beautifully.

Draco's hands are on his hips, stopping him from picking up the pace--strange, given that most men like to fuck him hard--but Draco likes savoring this, taking it slow, even though his usually pale face is flushed a painful red, even though his light hair is darkened almost to brown with sweat, even though his fingers are such cruel claws when they prevent a full-fledged thrust, a thrust both of them so obviously need.

So he obeys Draco's wishes, as he always does--lifting himself carefully, only a few, scant inches--before Draco's hands pull him down again. The light from the tattered curtain muddies the white sheets with shadows--and Draco doesn't stop him when he circles both palms over Draco's nipples, catching them between his fingers and tugging, smiling when Draco moans and arches his hips. Draco's eyes are wide open and fixed on him, as though drinking in every moment of what they do.

It is so easy now to move up and down, a slow rise and fall as gentle as breath, as painful--Draco's cock leaving him just long enough to make him desperate, to make him push back a little harder than necessary, hard enough to hurt a little, to spark a little flash of heat. Wet. Wet. Wet. Fill me.

He can't resist removing a hand from Draco's chest to stroke his own erection--the first brush of his palm enough to send him bucking and shivering-- tightening only when he sees Draco watching him, eyes lit with heat and a desperate hunger, and since he isn't commanded to stop he doesn't, letting his hips rise and fall even as his hand moves back and forth, stroking himself, fucking his own hand, skating his fingers over the damp head before slicking back down again, slow, twisting, harsh little turns of his wrist that make his arse clench painfully around Draco's cock, so that Draco finally breaks and surges up, oh God up up up, lifting both of them clear off the mattress as Draco comes, pulse after pulse of scalding heat, mouth open to let out a loud, broken cry.

It isn't difficult after that to come himself--watching Draco's face twist in orgasm is almost enough, but that heat, that sinful, wet heat that always feels like tears inside him, like dirty, warm tears trickling out around the softening cock--ah, that is enough to do it, and his hips buck suddenly and he's coming too, cock jumping with the urgency of it, coating his hand and Draco's shaking stomach with spunk.

In the blinding moments of emptiness that follow, as loud as the roar of his pulse had been a moment ago, he barely notices being shifted so that he's lying limp against the cool sheets, breath filling his lungs in desperate gasps, Draco's cock slipping out of him, soft and wet and glistening. He barely feels the warm mouth lingering on his forehead, right over his scar, before Draco sweeps a hand down his arm again, as though soothing a frightened animal, and murmurs, one last time: 'Harry.'

So it's over. Only two hours today. He feels tempted to ask: 'When will you see me again?', but that would be going too far--he has no right to question what Draco wants, after all, and he should only be glad that Draco's bought all his favors now, and that no one else can touch him.

He feels the mattress shift as Draco leaves the bed--there is the muted thump of two feet hitting the floor, and then the bed lightens, and it's best to close his eyes, because he can't stand seeing Draco leave, not anymore.

There is the rustle of clothes and robes and the smooth sound of a wand being slid into its holster--and then the door is opening and closing quietly, almost silently, and if it weren't for the creak of the old hinges, he wouldn't know that Draco has left at all.

The room is silent now. Only the sound of his breaths for company--and he feels a sort of desperate panic for a moment, the way he does whenever Draco leaves--that no one's ever going to see him again, because he's invisible, because this little white room is an Oubliette in which he is fucked, day in and day out, and he wants to break out of it and be with Draco, only with Draco, but the world won't allow it.

Eventually he gets out of bed, once he gets tired of the silence--and he wipes himself off absent-mindedly, gathering the dirty sheets and slipping them out of the laundry chute in his door. He steps into the shower to wash the spunk out of him, now dripping coolly against the flushed heat of his thighs--and when he comes out and gathers the towel around himself, he looks at the mirror and realizes that he's forgotten to change.

Again.

He wonders sometimes that he might forget to change at all one day, and then his magic will drain out of him with the effort of it and Draco will come in to find a dead Harry Potter on his bed--but that is a stupid thought, because he won't disobey Draco's orders, he won't, so he glares firmly at the mirror and starts to change back into himself.

It hurts, still, to see that face--that perfect face, because it must be perfect for Draco to love it so--melt into his ugly, imperfect one. Well. Others had told him he was beautiful, once, but he no longer believes it--because no matter how beautiful he was, Draco had wanted something else--he'd wanted unruly black silk for hair, scarred white silk for skin. He'd wanted green eyes and a scar with just an edge of burning red around it--he'd wanted a cock that fit into his hand perfectly, as though it was meant for that, and the way Draco acts it probably is.

It hurts to see that art, that careful art, melt away--to see the black hair lengthen into an untidy brown, green eyes slip eerily into amber. It hurts to see the scars of battle replaced with the scars of another kind of play--the scars of a whore, gathered around neck and wrists and nipples. He should be grateful that those men don't touch him any longer--that Draco doesn't scar him either, although in some ways Draco's tenderness in handling his body is a sublime form of punishment in itself, and it is a pain that settles scars deeper than his skin, deeper than his mind, to the part of him that doesn't call itself 'Harry' even now.

It hurts two walk back into the bedroom on heavier feet, slip on the bathrobe with heavier hands--it hurts to try to remember his old name, which might have been Simon, or perhaps Simion, but Draco's only ever called him 'Harry', and it's hard to remember anything else. Except 'Metamorph', which was the only other name Draco had called him, that very first night, when Simon--no, Simion--no, Harry--had waited here, quivering, Draco's pale eyes fixed on him with a strange, desperate sort of longing.

'I'll buy him,' he remembers Draco's voice saying, followed by the sputtering of another man. 'Yes, buy him, for every night here. No one else must have him. You are to tell no one of my coming here, or of what I ask. Do you understand?' A whipcrack of ice in that voice, sharp as metal, which made the other man gibber a response.

It hurts to see the Daily Prophet on the table, the only thing he's allowed to have given to him here apart from food--it hurts to read about the world going on as it always does, the Prophet singing Lord Voldemort's praises like it always does, with yet more articles penned by scholars on the importance of keeping Pure blood pure, of Cleansing it of mud, and yet more stories, each an endless re-telling of the one before, of how Voldemort had killed Harry Potter at the beginning of this golden age, of how the death of that false hero had begun the era of Cleansing that now swept the earth.

But he's read all of these before, since the Prophet very rarely talks about anything new at all--and he only lingers over the stories in the middle pages, the ones that praise the heroes of the war, Bellatrix Lestrange and Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy among them. Oh, he lingers over that--Draco's name in ink, in sweet, sharp, swirling ink, as black as poison. He lingers over the stories of Draco's greatness, of how Draco had led Potter to his demise at Voldemort's hands--of how he hadn't even tried to take the glory of Potter's death for himself, that he'd left the weak and poisoned Potter to Voldemort and had Apparated away altogether. He reads of the victory feast that had followed, and sees the moving photograph of it--Draco lauded in a circle of Death Eaters, so joyful that his eyes glittered with tears.

He knows he should sleep now--morphing always tires him--but instead he wants to fill his head with words, fill this silence with something like speech, so he reads and re-reads the Prophet until his eyes start to droop. Then he drags himself into bed and gazes out of the window, at the grey sky marred only by the dark roof of a distant building, and doesn't wonder, because Draco doesn't want him to, about why he will wake up to be Harry Potter again tomorrow. About why Draco's victory sounds more like defeat when Draco fucks him--about why he's so tired, suddenly, when he tries to think about it--about why his mind goes blank, mercifully blank before he falls asleep, and he can only think of himself as Harry again.