Chapter 3: Kneeling Worship
The silence that followed was thick, almost viscous, broken only by the ragged rhythm of her breathing and the distant hum of cursed artifacts on their obsidian shelves. Lyra lay sprawled across the ruined sheets, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her climax, her cunt still slick and sore from his invasion. The collar pulsed against her throat—a warm, contented thrum, like a cat purring after a meal.
Draco hadn't moved.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, his trousers still open and pooled around his thighs. His cock was half-hard, glistening with the evidence of what they'd done—her wetness, his seed, the filthy mixture that coated his shaft and matted the dark hair at the base. He looked obscene. He looked satisfied.
He looked at her like she was a prize he had won.
"You did well," he said, and the praise sent a complicated shudder through her chest. The collar warmed, basking in his approval. "Better than I expected for your first time."
Lyra didn't answer. Her voice was gone, buried somewhere under layers of shame and exhaustion and something else—something she refused to name but couldn't quite ignore. The thing that had made her say I'm yours. The thing that had meant it.
Draco reached down and stroked her hair, his fingers gentle in a way that made her want to cry. "I know you're tired. I know this is hard. But we're not finished yet."
She looked up at him, her green eyes blurred with tears and a flicker of defiance that still hadn't died. "What more do you want?"
He smiled. That sharp, wolfish smile that made her stomach flip. "I want you to finish what you started."
He gestured down at his cock, still slick and semi-erect, and the meaning was unmistakable.
"Kneel," he said.
The command was simple, spoken without magic, but the collar responded anyway—a gentle pulse of compulsion that made her limbs move before her mind could object. She pushed herself upright, her muscles protesting, and slid off the bed onto the cold stone floor.
The basalt bit into her knees. The air was cool against her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and thighs. She could feel his eyes on her, heavy and expectant, and she knew there was no point in hesitating.
She knelt between his legs.
Up close, his cock was even more imposing—thick and veined, the head a deep rose color that gleamed under the faint light of the chamber. It smelled of sex and salt and something musky that was uniquely him. She had never done this before. Not as a man, certainly. And this body, this mouth, had no memory of what to do.
But the collar knew. The collar would guide her.
"Go on," Draco said, his voice low and coaxing. "Take it in your hand first. Get familiar with it."
Her fingers trembled as she reached out. The skin was impossibly soft, warm and velvety, and it twitched when she touched it. She wrapped her fingers around his girth—thicker than her wrist, hot as a brand—and he let out a low, appreciative hiss.
"That's it," he murmured. "You feel that? That's what's going to be inside you. In your mouth. In your cunt. Every day, for the rest of your life."
She wanted to hate the words. She wanted to recoil. But the collar pulsed, and the hatred curdled into something softer, something hungry.
"Stroke it," he commanded. "Slowly."
She obeyed, her hand moving up and down his shaft, feeling the veins pulse beneath her palm. A bead of precum welled at the tip, and without thinking, she swiped her thumb across it, smearing it over the head.
Draco groaned.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You learn fast."
He tangled his fingers in her hair—not pulling, not yet, just holding—and guided her head forward. "Now your mouth. Just the tip. Lick it."
She leaned in, her breath ghosting over the swollen head, and touched her tongue to him.
The taste was sharp and salty, strange and intimate. She licked again, a little more confident this time, tracing the ridge of his corona with the flat of her tongue. His fingers tightened in her hair, and the collar hummed with pleasure.
"That's good," he said. "Now take it in your mouth. Slowly. Don't choke."
She opened her lips and slid him inside.
He filled her mouth instantly—too big, too much—and she had to fight the urge to pull back. But the collar kept her steady, and she breathed through her nose, relaxing her jaw, taking him deeper inch by inch.
"Watch your teeth," Draco warned, his voice strained. "Use your tongue."
She did. She swirled her tongue around his shaft, tasting the salt of his skin, the bitter tang of his precum. Her lips stretched around his girth, and saliva pooled at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin.
He watched her with hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling with quickened breath. "That's it. You're doing so well, Lyra. So fucking good with your mouth."
The praise went straight to her cunt. She could feel herself getting wet again, her thighs slick with a fresh wave of arousal. The collar was pulsing in time with her heartbeat, amplifying every sensation, making her hunger for more.
He pulled her hair, gentle but firm, guiding her head up and down his length. She took him deeper each time, her throat relaxing to accommodate him, until her nose was pressed against the wiry hair at the base of his cock.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Look at you. Taking all of me. Harry Potter, on his knees, sucking my cock like a good little whore."
The words should have shamed her. But the collar had done its work too well. She moaned around his length, the vibration making him curse, and she felt a rush of pride at his reaction.
He started to fuck her face.
His hips bucked upward, driving his cock deeper into her throat, and she gagged—once, twice—but the collar wouldn't let her pull away. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the saliva that coated her chin and his shaft. The wet, obscene sounds of her mouth being used filled the chamber, and she couldn't tell anymore if the moans were his or hers.
"There it is," he breathed. "That's what I wanted. That's what I've been waiting for."
He fucked her harder, faster, his grip in her hair almost painful now. She wasn't a person anymore. She was a hole. A thing for him to use. And the worst part was that she liked it.
"You're going to swallow," he commanded. "Every drop. You don't spill a single one. Understood?"
She nodded as best she could with her mouth full of cock, and he groaned in approval.
"Good girl. My good girl."
His hips stuttered. His cock swelled in her mouth, and she knew he was close. She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, using every trick the collar whispered into her mind to push him over the edge.
He came with a roar, his seed flooding her mouth in thick, hot pulses. The taste was bitter and strange, but she didn't hesitate. She swallowed, once, twice, three times, until he was spent and trembling and she had licked every last drop from his shaft.
He pulled out slowly, his cock softening, and she stayed on her knees, her head bowed, her mouth wiped clean.
The collar blazed with satisfaction.
"Fuck," Draco breathed. He slumped back against the headboard, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "That was... that was something else."
She didn't answer. She didn't trust herself to speak.
He looked down at her, still kneeling on the floor, her lips swollen, her chin still slick with her own spit. Something flickered in his gray eyes—something that might have been wonder, or tenderness, or something darker still.
"Stay there," he said, and stood up. He adjusted his trousers, buttoning them with practiced ease, and crossed the room to a side table where a decanter of dark liquid glinted in the fading light.
He poured himself a glass of Firewhisky and drank it slowly, his back to her.
Lyra remained on her knees, the cold basalt biting into her flesh, and stared at the floor. The plan she had made—the resistance, the attrition—felt like a cruel joke. She had admitted she was his. She had said it out loud, and the collar had made it true.
What was there left to fight for?
But even as the thought crossed her mind, something stubborn and furious stirred in her chest. You're still in there, it whispered. Harry Potter is still in there. Don't forget.
She clung to that voice.
Draco turned back to face her, the glass cradled in his hand. "Get up," he said, not unkindly. "You can sit on the bed. I'm not a monster."
She rose on unsteady legs and moved to the edge of the mattress, sinking down onto the silk. Her body ached in a dozen places. Her jaw was sore. Her cunt still throbbed with the echo of his possession.
He joined her on the bed, sitting close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He offered her the glass, and she took it without thinking, swallowing a mouthful of the burning liquid. It warmed her from the inside out.
"You're thinking about fighting," he observed. "I can see it in your eyes."
"I'm thinking about a lot of things," she said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—softer, higher, but still with that stubborn edge of defiance.
"Good. I'd be disappointed if you weren't." He plucked the glass from her fingers and took a sip himself. "I want you to fight, Lyra. I want you to resist. Because every time you do, the collar tightens a little more. And every time it tightens, I win."
She looked at him, and for a moment, she saw something other than cruelty in his face. She saw fascination. She saw hunger. But beneath it all, she saw the same boy from Hogwarts—the one who had been raised to believe he was superior, the one who had never learned how to care for anyone but himself.
"You're wrong," she said quietly.
He raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"
"I won't let you break me."
He smiled, slow and dangerous. "You will," he said. "But I'm looking forward to the process."
He took another sip of Firewhisky and stood, placing the glass on the bedside table. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we begin your lessons in earnest. There's a wardrobe full of clothes. A bath behind that door." He gestured vaguely. "Clean yourself up. I'll have dinner sent in."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He crossed to the door and paused with his hand on the handle. "One more thing."
She looked up.
"The word you're looking for is master," he said. "Not Draco. Not Malfoy. When you address me, you'll call me master. Understood?"
The collar pulsed, demanding an answer.
"Yes," she whispered.
He waited.
She closed her eyes, and something inside her cracked a little more.
"Yes, master."
He smiled—genuinely this time, a warmth in his expression that made her stomach twist.
"Good girl. Get some rest."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Lyra sat alone in the vast, dark chamber, and the silence pressed down on her like a weight. The collar was quiet for once, sated and content. But she could still feel it—the binding, the compulsion, the slow, creeping spread of submission that was taking root in her heart.
She had said master.
She had meant it.
The tears came then, hot and silent, streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto the ruined sheets. She cried for Harry Potter, the boy who had died. She cried for Lyra, the woman who had been born in his place. She cried for the future that had been stolen from her and the one that had been forced upon her.
But beneath the tears, something else remained.
Something stubborn.
Something angry.
Something that refused to die.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked around the room—at the obsidian shelves, the cursed artifacts, the locked door. She thought of the book she had found in the dark, the passage about resistance, the promise that the collar could be weakened.
She thought of the way her body had responded to him, the pleasure he had wrung from her, the disgusting, undeniable need.
She thought of the word master on her tongue, and how natural it had felt.
The collar was winning. But the war wasn't over.
She rose from the bed and walked to the bath, her legs still shaky, her cunt still sore. She would clean herself. She would rest. She would eat whatever he sent.
And tomorrow, she would fight again.
Because that was what Harry Potter did. That was what Harry Potter had always done. And Lyra, whatever else she had become, was still Harry Potter inside.
The collar pulsed, a warning.
She ignored it.
The bath was warm, the water scented with something floral and calming. She sank into it gratefully, letting the heat soak into her aching muscles, and closed her eyes. The water clouded around her, and for a moment, she could pretend she was someone else—someone free.
But the collar remained around her neck, a constant silver band, and the truth remained in her bones.
She was owned.
She was his.
But she was not broken.
Not yet.
And as she sat in the bath, the plan began to take shape in her mind—a new plan, forged in the fires of her surrender. She couldn't resist the collar directly. She couldn't fight the compulsion head-on. But maybe, just maybe, she could use it.
If Draco wanted her to be his good little whore, then fine. She would be the best whore he had ever had. She would make him trust her. She would make him want her—not just her body, but her. She would make him let down his guard.
And when he did, she would be ready.
The collar throbbed against her throat, as if it knew what she was thinking.
She smiled, watery and weak, but real.
Let it know. It didn't matter. The plan was simple, and it was the only plan she had.
Submit. Serve. Wait.
And when the moment came, strike.
The water was cooling around her, and she rose from the bath, water sluicing off her skin. She wrapped herself in a robe she found hanging on a hook—crimson silk, of course—and padded back into the bedroom.
Dinner was waiting for her, as promised. A tray sat on the nightstand: roast chicken, roasted vegetables, a glass of red wine. She ate slowly, savoring each bite, fueling her body for the battles to come.
When she was finished, she lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The room was dark now, the only light coming from the faint, eerie glow of the cursed artifacts on their shelves. She could feel them watching her—the objects, the books, the magic that saturated every inch of this place. They were witnesses to her captivity, her surrender, her fragile defiance.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be another battle. Another test. Another chance to fight.
But tonight, she would rest.
She reached up and touched the collar, feeling its warmth, its power. It was a part of her now, as much as her beating heart, as much as her lungs that drew breath.
She hated it.
But she was learning to live with it.
The last thought before sleep claimed her was of Draco's face—his gray eyes, his sharp smile, the way he had looked at her when she called him master. There had been something in his expression, something that wasn't just triumph.
Something that looked almost like need.
She tucked that thought away, a secret to be examined later.
And then she slept, and her dreams were filled with silver collars and crimson sheets and a man with platinum hair who held her in his arms like she was something precious.
Consciousness returned in fragments.
First came the weight of the crimson silk against her skin, impossibly soft and impossibly heavy. Then the scent of burnt sage and crushed violets, familiar now, woven into the fabric of the pillows and the sheets and the very air she breathed. Finally, the collar—a warm, steady presence around her throat, pulsing with the slow rhythm of her heartbeat.
She opened her eyes.
Sunlight streamed through the high windows, pale and watery, more like early winter than late summer. The chamber was still and quiet, the cursed artifacts on their shelves humming their low, malevolent song. Nothing had changed. She was still here. Still his.
She turned her head on the pillow.
Draco lay beside her, sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung across the mattress where she had been. He was naked from the waist up, the sheets tangled around his hips and one leg. In sleep, his face was different—softer, younger, the sharp edges of his cruelty smoothed away. He looked almost innocent.
The thought made her stomach turn.
She watched him for a long moment, her mind still sluggish with sleep. The events of the previous day and night replayed in fragments—the breakfast tray, the book on the shelf, the lesson, the surrender. She had said she was his. She had meant it. The collar had made sure of that.
And yet.
She sat up slowly, the silk sliding off her shoulders. The collar loosened just enough to allow movement, still humming its contented tune. Draco hadn't given an order. He was asleep. For the first time since she had woken in this body, she was free to move without compulsion.
She looked down at him.
His cock was visible through the tangled sheets, half-hard with morning arousal, the shaft pale and thick against his thigh. The sight of it made her mouth water—a reaction that was purely physical, purely the collar's doing, but real nonetheless. She could still taste him from the night before, still feel the phantom weight of him on her tongue.
The thought came to her, slippery and dark.
She could wake him. She could take him in her mouth before he opened his eyes. She could give him pleasure before he could demand it, and maybe—just maybe—earn something in return. Trust. Freedom. A crack in the armor.
The collar pulsed, warm and approving.
She slid down the bed, moving carefully, deliberately, until she knelt between his spread legs. The sheets rustled beneath her knees, but he didn't stir. His breathing was slow and even, his face slack with sleep.
She reached out and touched him.
His cock twitched at the first brush of her fingers. The skin was warm, impossibly soft, and it hardened quickly as she stroked him from root to tip. She watched his face for any sign of waking, but he remained still, his breath catching only slightly when she ran her thumb over the head.
She leaned down and took him in her mouth.
The taste hit her instantly—salt and musk and something sharper from the night before. He was heavy on her tongue, thick and hot, and she had to relax her jaw to take him deep. She bobbed her head slowly, working him with her lips and tongue, using everything the collar had taught her.
The collar hummed with approval.
Draco stirred beneath her. His hand moved, fingers tangling in her hair, not quite awake but responding to the pleasure. She took him deeper, hollowing her cheeks, and he let out a low, guttural moan.
"What the—"
His voice was rough with sleep, confused. She didn't stop. She sucked harder, faster, her tongue tracing the vein along the underside of his shaft. His hips bucked instinctively, driving himself deeper into her throat.
"Lyra?" His hand fisted in her hair, and he pulled her back just enough to see her face. His gray eyes were wide, stunned, still clouded with sleep. "What are you—"
She pulled off him with a wet, obscene sound. "Good morning, master."
The word felt natural on her tongue. The collar blazed with pleasure.
Draco stared at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, he looked genuinely at a loss—the controlled, calculating Draco Malfoy reduced to a man with a hard cock and a naked woman between his legs.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're serious."
She answered by taking him back in her mouth.
This time, he didn't stop her. His fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her rhythm, and he let out a string of curses that would have made his mother faint. She worked him with single-minded focus, her lips stretched around his girth, saliva pooling at the corners of her mouth and dripping down her chin.
"Shit," he groaned. "Shit, that's good. You're good at this, fuck, you're so good."
The praise sent a shiver through her. The collar pulsed, amplifying her own arousal until she could feel the wetness gathering between her thighs, her cunt clenching around nothing. She was doing this. She was making him feel good. She was pleasing him.
And Merlin help her, she liked it.
She pulled back just long enough to catch her breath, her lips still brushing the head of his cock. "Do you want me to stop?"
"Don't you fucking dare," he said, and the rawness in his voice made her smile.
She took him all the way down, her nose pressed against the wiry hair at the base of his shaft. He bucked his hips, fucking her face with the same brutal rhythm he had used the night before, and she let him. She let him use her. She let him take his pleasure from her mouth.
His release came swift and hard.
He spilled down her throat in thick, hot pulses, and she swallowed every drop, just as she had the night before. She kept sucking until he was trembling and oversensitive, until he had to push her away with a breathless laugh.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, Lyra."
She sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lips were swollen, her jaw ached, and the wetness between her thighs had soaked through the sheets beneath her. She was a mess. She was his mess.
The collar purred with satisfaction.
Draco propped himself up on his elbows, staring at her with something like wonder. The morning light caught his platinum hair, turned it almost white, and his gray eyes were soft in a way she had never seen before.
"You're full of surprises," he said.
She looked at him, still kneeling, still naked, still wet from her own arousal. The plan was working. She could see it in his face, in the way his walls had cracked just a little.
"I told you," she said, her voice hoarse and low. "I'm yours."
He reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers gentle. "Yes," he said. "You are."
The moment stretched between them, fragile and strange. Then Draco's stomach growled, loud and ridiculous, and the spell broke. He laughed—a real laugh, not the mocking one she was used to—and sat up fully in the bed.
"I suppose we should eat," he said. "You made me work up an appetite."
She rose from the bed, her knees aching from the cold stone beneath the sheets. The collar loosened, allowing her to move freely, and she grabbed the crimson robe from the foot of the bed where she had left it the night before. She shrugged it on, the silk cool against her heated skin.
"I'll order breakfast," Draco said, reaching for his wand on the nightstand. He summoned a house-elf with a flick of his wrist, a trembling creature that appeared with a pop and bowed so low its nose touched the floor. "Breakfast. For two. Quickly."
The elf disappeared.
Lyra stood by the window, looking out at the grounds below. The hills rolled away into the distance, gray and green under the pale winter sky, and somewhere beyond them was the rest of the world—the world that still thought Harry Potter was alive and well.
She wondered if anyone was looking for her.
Draco approached her from behind, his bare feet silent on the cold floor. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, and rested his chin on her shoulder.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Nothing," she lied.
He didn't call her on it. He just held her, his body warm against hers, and watched the view. The silence between them was almost comfortable—a dangerous thing. She couldn't afford comfort. She couldn't afford to forget.
But the collar hummed, and her body leaned into his, and she let herself pretend, just for a moment, that this was something else.
Breakfast arrived on a tray carried by a different house-elf, this one even smaller and more terrified than the first. Draco took the tray and dismissed the elf with a wave, setting the food on the small table by the window. Fresh croissants, fruit, cheese, a pot of coffee that smelled rich and dark. Her stomach growled.
"Eat," Draco said, and she obeyed.
They sat across from each other, eating in companionable silence, and Lyra found herself studying him. The way the morning light caught the fine lines around his eyes. The way he buttered his croissant with careful, precise strokes. The way his foot brushed against hers under the table, deliberate but casual.
"Your lessons begin today," he said, as if reading her thoughts. "I've arranged for a tutor to come this afternoon. She'll teach you how to move, how to speak, how to dress. The basics of being a woman."
"A tutor," Lyra repeated.
"Don't worry. She's discreet. And she knows better than to ask questions." He smiled, sharp and quick. "I'm very good at making people mind their own business."
Lyra took a sip of coffee, letting the bitter warmth spread through her chest. "And after the tutoring?"
"Then I teach you the rest." He set down his croissant and leaned back in his chair. "How to please me. How to anticipate my needs. How to be the perfect companion." His eyes flickered over her, possessive and calculating. "You've already shown a natural talent this morning. I think you'll take to it well."
She should have felt anger. She should have felt shame. But all she felt was a warm, humming contentment, the collar's approval soaking into her bones like sunlight.
"I'll do my best," she said.
He reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb tracing slow circles on her palm. "I know you will."
The tutor arrived at noon.
She was a severe-looking woman in her fifties, with iron-gray hair pulled back in a tight bun and eyes that missed nothing. She introduced herself as Madame Voss, and she looked at Lyra the way a teacher looks at a particularly slow student.
"You have a lot of work ahead of you," Madame Voss said, walking a slow circuit around her. "Your posture is atrocious. Your gait is masculine. Your voice—" She paused, tilting her head. "Your voice has potential, but it needs refinement."
Lyra stood still under the scrutiny, her hands clasped in front of her. The collar was quiet for once, watching but not interfering. This lesson wasn't about submission. This was about learning to wear her new skin.
"We'll begin with the basics," Madame Voss continued. "How to walk. How to sit. How to hold yourself in a room. By the time I'm finished with you, no one will ever mistake you for anything other than a lady."
The word stung. A lady. She was supposed to be a lady now. The irony was almost funny.
Madame Voss put her through her paces for hours. She made her walk back and forth across the room, correcting her stride, her arm placement, the angle of her chin. She taught her how to sit—back straight, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. She made her speak in different registers, softening her voice until it was low and smoky, the kind of voice that made men lean closer.
It was exhausting. It was humiliating. And it was necessary.
By the time Madame Voss left, Lyra's muscles ached, and her head was full of rules and corrections. But when she looked in the mirror on the wardrobe door, she saw someone different. Someone elegant. Someone sophisticated.
Someone who could move through the world as a woman, unnoticed and unremarked.
Draco had watched the entire lesson from a chair in the corner, sipping coffee and taking notes on a piece of parchment. He dismissed Madame Voss with a curt nod and gestured for Lyra to come to him.
"You did well," he said.
She crossed the room and stopped in front of him, her posture perfect, her chin lifted. "Thank you, master."
He smiled and reached out, tugging her down onto his lap. She went willingly, the collar humming its approval. His hand found her thigh, sliding up beneath the crimson robe, his fingers brushing the damp heat between her legs.
"Now," he murmured against her ear, "let's practice what you learned this morning."
She didn't resist. She didn't want to resist. The collar had done its work, and she was learning to live within its walls.
But somewhere deep inside, the plan was still there.
Submit. Serve. Wait.
She would be the best whore he had ever had. She would make him trust her. She would let him cum in her. She would become pregnant with his baby.