Chapter 1: The Green-Eyed Interrogation
The lantern light caught the rust on the bars, flaking iron weeping orange tears down the stone. Harry stood in the corridor, hands in his pockets, watching her.
Dracaryis Malfoy. Dracaryis.
The name still felt wrong in his mouth. The woman behind those enchanted bars bore little resemblance to the sneering boy he'd known at Hogwarts—and everything like him at the same time. Same pointed chin. Same silver eyes that could cut glass. But the body was different. Softer. The platinum hair fell past her shoulders now, a silver curtain that trembled slightly as she shivered against the far wall of her cell.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
He watched her pull the thin Ministry blanket tighter around her shoulders. It was a pathetic thing, threadbare and gray. Her robes—the fine black velvet she'd been arrested in—were crumpled on the floor beside her, too expensive and too conspicuous to wear in a holding cell. Beneath the blanket, she wore only a thin white shift. It clung to her in ways that made Harry's jaw tighten.
She looked small.
That was the strangest part. Malfoy had always seemed to occupy more space than his body should allow, his presence a kind of arrogant gravity that bent everything around him. But this woman—this version of him—looked like she might fold in on herself if the bars disappeared.
Harry pulled out his wand. The bars shimmered once, twice, then vanished with a soft hiss.
Dracaryis's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide, then narrow, then flat.
"You."
Her voice was different too. Higher. Thinner. Still with that aristocratic clip, but the venom had nowhere to hide now. It just sounded defensive.
"Me," Harry said. He stepped into the cell. The door reformed behind him.
She scrambled to her feet, clutching the blanket to her chest like a shield. Her feet were bare. He noticed that—pale toes against the cold stone, nails painted a chipped, peeling red.
"What do you want?" she demanded. "Come to gloat? Take a few photographs for the Prophet? 'Boy Who Lived Captures Death Eater Heiress in Shocking Transformation'?"
"I don't work for the Prophet."
"You don't work for anyone but yourself, Potter. I remember."
Harry leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You remember a lot of things."
Her chin lifted. Defiance, or the memory of it. "What's your angle? You could have left me to rot. The Wizengamot would have had a field day with this. Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, hidden away as a woman, living under a false identity—"
"You're not Draco Malfoy anymore."
She flinched. Just a flicker, there and gone, but he saw it.
"According to the Ministry," Harry continued, "you're a non-person. No records. No rights. No name. I could walk out of here and no one would ever know you existed."
Her grip on the blanket tightened until her knuckles went white. "You wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?"
"You're not a killer."
"I'm an Auror. Different thing entirely."
She stared at him. The lantern light caught her eyes, and for a moment he saw something raw there—something that looked almost like fear. Then it was gone, buried under years of practiced contempt.
"What do you want?" she repeated. Quieter this time.
Harry pushed off the wall. He walked toward her slowly, deliberately, letting his boots echo on the stone. She didn't back away. Pride, probably. Or maybe she'd learned that backing away never helped.
He stopped a foot from her. Close enough to smell her—something faint and floral, soap maybe, or the ghost of the perfume she used to wear. Close enough to see the dark circles under her eyes. Close enough to notice the way her pulse fluttered at her throat.
"I want to make you an offer," he said.
"An offer." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You sound like my father."
"Your father's dead."
It was cruel. He knew it was cruel. But he needed to see what she was made of, this woman who had once been his enemy. She flinched again, harder this time, but didn't look away.
"What's the offer?" she asked.
"Protection. Safety. A place to stay, wand permits, access to the Ministry records so we can fix your identity—give you a real one. Dracaryis Malfoy doesn't have to exist. You can be anyone."
Her eyes narrowed. "In exchange for what?"
Harry smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
"In exchange for you."
"Me."
"You. Your loyalty. Your obedience. Your body."
She recoiled like he'd slapped her. The blanket slipped, and she caught it, but not before he saw the flush that crept up her chest and throat. Fear, he thought. Or anger. Maybe Vane.
"You're disgusting," she spat. "Is that what you've been reduced to, Potter? Coercing women to spread their legs for you?"
"You're not a woman."
"I'm enough of one now."
"You're a Death Eater who cheated the Ministry," Harry said evenly. "You faked your death. You used illegal potions to change your identity. You've been living a lie for five years. The only reason I haven't turned you over to the Unspeakables is that I find you... interesting."
"Interesting." She said the word like it tasted foul. "I'm interesting."
"You were always interesting, Malfoy. Even when I hated you." He stepped closer. She had nowhere left to retreat—the wall pressed against her back, and he was close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. "You're proud. Arrogant. Defensive. But right now, you're scared. You're alone. And you know, deep down, that no one is coming for you."
Her breath hitched.
"Your father's legacy is in tatters. Your mother is in France, living off the last of the Black fortune, and she hasn't written to you in six months. You have no allies left. No friends. The only person in the world who knows you exist is standing in front of you right now."
"What about it?" she whispered.
"So I'm offering you a choice." He braced one hand against the wall beside her head. She flinched but didn't move. "My protection. My bed. My terms. Or I walk out of here and forget you exist. The Ministry will find you eventually. They always do."
"You'd let them kill me."
"I'd let them do whatever they want to you. It's not my concern."
She stared at him. The blanket had slipped again, exposing one pale shoulder, the curve of her collarbone. She looked like a painting—ruined, beautiful, tragic. He wanted to touch her.
"You're a monster," she said.
"Maybe." He leaned in, close enough that his lips almost brushed her ear. "But I'm the only monster who's offering to protect you."
She trembled. He felt it through the wall, a tremor that ran through her body and into his hand.
"Why me?" she asked. "Why do you care?"
"Maybe I don't. Maybe I just want to see you on your knees."
Her breath caught. He heard it—the sharp inhale, the way her pulse quickened. Not fear. Not quite.
"Say yes," he murmured. "Say yes, and I'll take you out of this cell. I'll give you a bed, clothes, food. I'll make the Ministry forget you ever existed. You'll be safe."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I leave. And I don't come back."
The silence stretched between them. The lantern flickered. Somewhere above, water dripped through the stone.
Dracaryis closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in short, sharp breaths. He watched her—the way her fingers clutched the blanket, the way her lips parted slightly, the way her hair spilled across her shoulders like liquid silver.
"What are you really asking for?" she whispered.
"I told you. Your loyalty. Your obedience. Your body." He pressed closer. "You. On my terms. For as long as I want you."
"You're not asking. You're demanding."
"I'm offering."
She opened her eyes. Her gaze was cold, flat, resigned.
"You're a bastard, Potter."
"I've been called worse."
She held his stare for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, she let the blanket fall.
It pooled at her feet. She stood before him in the thin white shift, her hands hanging loose at her sides, her chin lifted. Defiance. Even now, defiance.
"Fine," she said. "You win."
The words landed between them like a stone in still water.
"Say it properly," he said.
Her jaw tightened. "I accept your offer. My loyalty. My obedience. My body." Her voice dripped acid. "Are you satisfied?"
"No." He reached up and traced one finger down her cheek. She flinched but didn't pull away. "But I will be."
He stepped back. The distance between them felt like a wound.
"I'm taking you to my flat tonight," he said. "You'll stay in the guest room until I decide otherwise. You don't leave without my permission. You don't speak to anyone without my permission. You don't make a single move that I haven't approved."
"And if I disobey?"
"You won't."
She smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm very sure of you." He turned toward the cell door. "Put your robes on. We're leaving."
He heard the rustle of fabric behind him. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He could picture her—those long legs, that slim waist, the shift tugging at her hips as she dressed.
"Potter."
He stopped.
"You'll regret this."
"Maybe." He looked back at her. She stood in the center of the cell, robes falling around her like a shroud, her platinum hair wild and tangled, her eyes burning with hatred and something else. Something that looked almost like need.
"Let's find out," he said.
The walk through the Ministry was silent. He led her through back corridors and forgotten stairwells, places where the cameras didn't reach and the night staff never wandered. She followed a step behind, her heels clicking on the stone, her head held high.
The lift took them up, up, up. When the doors opened, the London night air hit them like a wave. She sucked in a breath—the first free breath she'd taken in days, he guessed—and tilted her head back to look at the sky.
"You can't just let me go," she said. "You know that, right?"
"I'm not letting you go." He caught her wrist and pulled her toward the Apparition point. "I'm keeping you."
She didn't resist. Her skin was cold under his fingers, and for a moment—just a moment—he felt something that might have been pity. Then her eyes met his, sharp and calculating, and the feeling died.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"My flat."
"Your flat." She smiled, a thin, dangerous smile. "What a romantic."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
He spun on her, closer than he'd intended, and her smile widened. "Careful, Potter. I might think you actually want me."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Too late."
He grabbed her arm and Disapparated.
They landed in his living room. She stumbled, caught herself on the back of his sofa, and straightened up to take in her surroundings.
It was a small flat—functional, clean, unremarkable. He didn't spend much time here. But it had a locked door and a spare room, and that was all he needed tonight.
"This is it?" she asked. "The great Harry Potter's fortress?"
"Guest room's down the hall." He shrugged off his coat and hung it by the door. "Bathroom's next to it. Kitchen's through there. Don't touch my things."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He eyed her. She was standing by the window now, looking out at the city lights, her arms crossed over her chest. The robes were too big for her—they'd been fitted for Draco, not Dracaryis—and they hung loose around her hips and shoulders.
"You'll need new clothes," he said.
"Obviously."
"I'll take you shopping tomorrow."
She turned. "You're going to take me shopping. You. Harry Potter. Shopping."
"Don't make it weird."
"You're already making it weird."
He crossed the room and stopped in front of her. She had to tilt her head back to look at him. Beautiful, he thought. Dangerous. Mine.
"This is how it's going to work," he said. "You follow my rules. You stay where I put you. You don't fight me in front of anyone else. Whatever attitude you have, you keep it behind closed doors. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And when I want you—"
She raised an eyebrow. "When?"
"When." He leaned in. She didn't back away. "You'll be there. You'll be willing. You'll do as I say."
"And if I'm not willing?"
"Then you'll pretend."
She laughed. It was a cold sound, but there was something underneath it—something bitter and exhausted and almost sad. "You really are a bastard."
"So I've heard."
She stepped back, breaking the tension. Her hands were shaking. He hadn't noticed before. The adrenaline must be wearing off.
"Where's the guest room?" she asked.
He pointed.
"Goodnight, Potter."
She walked away. Her heels clicked on the floor, her robe trailed behind her like a dark wave. She didn't look back.
He watched her until she disappeared into the hallway. Then he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and sank onto the sofa.
What the hell was he doing?
She was Malfoy. Malfoy. The boy who had tormented him for years, who had tried to kill Dumbledore, who had stood by while the world burned. And now she was a woman, a vulnerable, desperate woman, and he had her.
He should feel triumphant. He should feel powerful. Instead, he just felt tired.
He thought about the way she had trembled against the wall. The way her voice had cracked when she said "fine." The way she had looked at him—hatred and need and something that might have been fear.
She's mine now, he told himself. Mine to protect. Mine to use. Mine.
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't that simple.
The guest door clicked shut.
He sat in the dark for a long time, listening to the sounds of the city outside, wondering what he had just done.
When he finally went to bed, he dreamed of silver eyes and cold skin and a voice that whispered "you'll regret this" in the dark.
He woke up hard.
And across the hall, Dracaryis Malfoy—former Death Eater heiress, former man, now a woman with nothing left to lose—lay awake in a stranger's bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell she had ended up here.
She touched her lips. They still burned where he had traced them.
Bastard, she thought.
But she didn't sleep.
The night stretched on.
And morning came with the sound of rain against the windows and the smell of coffee, and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same.
She was safe now. She was his.
And she had no idea what that meant.
She woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of rain against glass. For a moment—just one—she forgot where she was. Then the events of the previous night crashed over her like cold water, and she sat up so fast her head spun.
The guest room was small and sparse. A bed with gray sheets. A nightstand with a chipped lamp. A window that looked out onto a gray London morning. No mirrors. She noticed that immediately.
He'd thought of that, hadn't he. The bastard.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched cold hardwood, and she shivered. The shift she'd worn to sleep clung to her skin, damp with night sweat. Her hair was a tangled mess around her shoulders.
She needed a shower. She needed clothes. She needed to figure out what the hell she was going to do.
The door opened without a knock.
Harry stood in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, his hair still wet from his own shower. He wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark trousers. No Auror robes. No wand visible, though she knew he had at least three hidden somewhere on his person.
"Morning," he said.
She pulled the sheet up to her chest. "Don't you knock?"
"Don't have to. My flat."
"Prick."
He smiled. It was almost friendly. Almost. "There's coffee in the kitchen. Clothes on the chair. Bathroom's free for the next twenty minutes. After that, we're leaving."
"Leaving where?"
"Shopping. Remember?"
She remembered. She'd hoped he'd forgotten. Or that it had been a threat, not a promise.
"I don't need your charity."
"It's not charity." He took a sip of his coffee. "It's an investment. You look like shit in my robes."
She wanted to throw something at him. Instead, she stood up, letting the sheet fall. His eyes flicked down—quick, almost involuntary—and then back to her face.
"Twenty minutes," he said, and closed the door.
The shower helped. The hot water scalded her skin, and she let it. Let it burn away the cold of the cell, the fear of the night before, the lingering sensation of his finger on her cheek. She scrubbed herself raw, washed her hair twice, and emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel that smelled like him.
The clothes on the chair were simple. Black jeans that were a little too long. A gray sweater that hung loose on her frame. Underwear that she didn't want to think about—where he'd gotten it, why he had it, what it meant that he'd thought to provide it.
She dressed quickly. No bra. The sweater was thick enough to hide her nipples, which were still peaked from the cold water.
When she walked into the kitchen, he was leaning against the counter, reading something on his phone. He looked up as she entered.
"Better," he said.
"Where did you get these clothes?"
"Diagon Alley. Fire-called an order this morning." He pocketed the phone. "There's a shop that specializes in...discreet deliveries."
"Discreet."
"For women who don't want to be seen."
She poured herself a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar. The way Draco had always taken it. The way Dracaryis still took it.
"How thoughtful," she said flatly. "You've thought of everything."
"I try."
The silence stretched. She sipped her coffee. He watched her.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're interesting to look at."
"I'm a freak. A potion experiment. A man in a woman's body."
"You're a woman." He said it evenly, without inflection. "You've been a woman for five years. You've lived as one, moved as one, presumably fucked as one. The potion isn't temporary. It's not a mask. It's who you are now."
She set her mug down. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're defensive. I know you're scared. I know you'd rather die than admit either." He pushed off the counter and walked toward her. "And I know you're attracted to me."
She laughed. It came out sharp and brittle. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, smell his soap. "Last night, when I touched your face, you flinched. But you didn't pull away. You could have. You had nowhere to go, but you could have turned your head. You didn't."
"You're reading too much into things."
"And just now, in the bedroom. When I looked at you. You didn't cover up. You stood there and let me see you."
"You'd already seen me. There was no point."
"There's always a point." He reached out and tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear. She didn't move. "You're testing me. Wanting to see what I'll do. Wanting to see if I'll push."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not."
His hand cupped her jaw. His thumb brushed across her lower lip. She held her breath.
"What happens now?" she whispered.
"Now? We go shopping. You get clothes. We come back here. And then..." He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear. "Then you get on your knees and suck my dick."
Her breath caught. Heat flooded her face, her chest, pooling low in her belly. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to walk out the door. She wanted—
"You're disgusting."
"You keep saying that." He pulled back, smiling. It didn't reach his eyes. "But you're still here. Still letting me touch you. Still wet for me, I'd wager."
"Fuck you."
"Not yet. But we'll get there."
He released her and stepped back. The sudden absence of his touch was a physical ache.
"Shopping first," he said, as if nothing had happened. "We'll take the Floo. You don't speak to anyone unless I tell you to. You don't look at anyone unless I tell you to. You're my shadow today."
"Your shadow."
"That's right." He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door. "Let's go."
She followed him.
What else could she do?
The clothing shop was in a narrow alley off Diagon, tucked between a used-book store and a potion supply shop. The sign above the door read "Whispers" in elegant silver script. Harry led her through the door without knocking.
Inside, the shop was dim and warm. Racks of clothing lined the walls—robes, dresses, skirts, blouses. Everything in muted colors, careful cuts. Expensive.
A woman emerged from behind a curtain. Tall, elegant, gray-haired. Her eyes lit up when she saw Harry.
"Mr. Potter. Your fire-call was quite mysterious."
"Eloise." He nodded. "This is my associate. She needs a wardrobe. Practical. Discreet. Something she can move in."
Eloise studied Dracaryis. Her gaze was assessing but not unkind. "I see. Come, dear. Let's find your measurements."
The next hour passed in a blur of fabric and numbers. Eloise measured her in ways that felt both clinical and intimate, noting the width of her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the length of her legs. Dracaryis stood still and let it happen. Harry sat in a corner chair, watching.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence was a constant pressure, a reminder that she was his.
When Eloise finished, she disappeared into the back room and returned with an armful of clothing.
"Try these," she said. "I'll adjust whatever doesn't fit."
Dracaryis changed behind a screen. Black trousers that actually fit. A silk blouse in deep green. A jacket that cinched at the waist. Boots with a low heel—practical, but elegant.
She looked at herself in the mirror. A stranger looked back. A woman with sharp cheekbones and tired eyes and hair the color of moonlight.
"Better," Harry said from behind her. He'd moved without her hearing, standing at the edge of the screen, watching her reflection.
"I'm done."
"Not yet. Eloise has more."
"Harry—"
"The dress." He turned to Eloise. "The red one."
Eloise smiled. "Of course."
The dress was blood-red silk. Sleeveless. Plunging back. It fell to her mid-thigh and clung to every curve she had.
"Put it on," Harry said.
"Absolutely not."
"Put it on, or we finish this conversation in my flat, and you won't like how it ends."
Eloise tactfully disappeared.
Dracaryis took the dress from her hands. Her fingers trembled. Why were they trembling?
She changed behind the screen. The silk slid over her skin like water. Zipper in the back—she struggled with it, her hands clumsy.
"Let me."
Harry's voice was soft. His fingers brushed her spine as he pulled the zipper up. Slow. Deliberate.
"Turn around."
She turned.
He looked at her. Really looked. His eyes traveled from her face to her throat to her chest to her hips to her bare legs in those low boots.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm a—"
"Woman." He cut her off. "You're a woman. A beautiful one. And you're mine."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He stepped closer. "Say it."
"I won't."
"Say it, or I'll take you home right now and you'll spend the rest of the day on your knees, begging to come."
Her breath hitched. Her face burned.
"I'm yours," she whispered.
"Good girl."
The words hit her somewhere deep. Somewhere she didn't want to acknowledge.
He stepped back and called for Eloise. "We'll take everything that fits. Ship it to my flat."
"Of course, Mr. Potter."
They Floo'd home.
The flat was quiet when they arrived. The rain had stopped, leaving the windows streaked and the light gray and soft.
Dracaryis stood in the middle of the living room, still wearing the red dress. She didn't know what to do with her hands. She didn't know what to do with anything.
Harry hung up his coat and walked toward her. His steps were slow, deliberate. He didn't stop until he was close enough to touch.
"On your knees," he said.
It wasn't a request.
She stared at him. Her heart pounded in her throat.
"Harry—"
"That's not my name."
She swallowed. "You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious, Dracaryis. Especially about this. Now. On your knees."
She knelt.
The hardwood was cold through the silk. She looked up at him—at his face, his eyes, the flat line of his mouth.
"Good," he said. "Now take out my cock."
Her breath came fast. Her hands shook. She reached for his belt, fumbled with the buckle, pulled the leather free of the loops.
"You're nervous," he observed.
"Shut up."
"I like you nervous." He watched her hands tremble at his fly. "You're not so proud when you're on your knees, are you? Not so icy when you're about to choke on my dick."
"Arrogant bastard."
"You keep saying that." He reached down and yanked his zipper open. The sound was obscene in the quiet room.
His cock was already hard. She pulled it out, her fingers barely wrapping around the thick shaft. Her mouth went dry.
"Open your mouth."
She obeyed.
He didn't push. Not yet. He let her sit there, lips parted, breath hot against his tip.
Then he slid inside.
Her mouth stretched around him. He filled her completely, the head of his cock nudging her throat. She made a sound—a small, strangled noise—and he groaned.
"That's it," he murmured. "Take it."
His hand found the back of her head. Not pushing. Not yet. Just there. A warning.
And then he started to move.
Slow at first. Gentle. Letting her adjust. She sucked—tentative at first, then harder, letting her tongue drag along the vein on the underside. His hips jerked at the contact.
He stared down at her—her lips wrapped tight, her eyes watering, her mouth full of his cock.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Look at you."
She looked up at him. Silver eyes wet with tears. Mascara smudged at the corners.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
She couldn't answer. Not with her mouth full.
He pulled out. A string of saliva connected her lips to his tip. "Answer me."
"I hate you."
"That wasn't the question." He pushed back in. Deeper. Her throat fluttered around him.
"Do you like sucking my cock?"
She pulled back—just enough to breathe. "I hate it."
"Liar." He pressed his thumb to her chin and tilted her face up. "Your cunt's soaked. I can smell it from here."
Her face burned. She wanted to deny it. She couldn't.
"You want me to touch you?" he asked.
"I don't—"
"You can beg, or you can pretend. But I'll know." He pulled out and stepped back. "Stand up."
She stood.
"Over the back of the couch. Legs spread."
She walked to the couch. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. She bent over the back, the red silk sliding up her thighs.
It was the first time she'd been truly naked in front of him—pussy exposed, hair hanging down, hands gripping the couch.
He was behind her. Close. The heat of him pressed against her. The hard length of him sliding between her legs.
"You want this," he said.
"I don't."
"You do." He traced his fingers through her wetness. She gasped and arched into him, her hips moving of their own accord. "One word, Dracaryis. One word, and I'll stop."
"Don't you dare."
He entered her in one slow, brutal push.
She screamed. It was raw and guttural and completely beyond her control.
He didn't stop. Didn't move. Just held himself inside her, both hands gripping her hip.
"Look down," he said. "Look where I'm inside you."
She looked. Her own arousal streaked his shaft, glistening in the dim light.
"Watch me fuck you."
He started to move. Slow at first, but not gentle. Each thrust pushed her forward, pulled a sound from her lips. Grunt. Moan. Whimper.
"Fuck," he groaned. "You feel—God. You're so tight. So wet. Is this for me?"
She wouldn't answer.
His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. "Answer me."
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes. It's for you."
"That's right." He thrust harder. The rhythm was punishing, his hips slamming into her, his grip tight. "All of it. The tight little cunt. The mouth. The tears. All mine."
"Yours," she heard herself say. "Yours."
Something broke open in her chest. It felt like surrender. It felt like relief.
He groaned and drove deeper, his rhythm falling apart. His hips jerked, his breath coming in harsh gasps, and then he was spilling inside her—hot and sudden and intimate.
She felt it. Felt him. The pulse, the heat, the way he shuddered against her back.
He held himself there for a long moment. Then he pulled out.
She collapsed against the couch. Her legs were shaking. The red silk was ruined. She didn't care.
He walked around her and knelt. His eyes met hers. Tender.
Dracaryis stared at him. She didn't know what to feel. Everything was raw and tender and confused.
"That was—" she started.
"Don't." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Don't think. Not yet."