Chapter 2: The Vow on Her Knees
The bedroom was darker than the rest of the flat. Black silk sheets swallowed the weak light from the window, their surfaces creased and shadowed like the inside of some great beast's mouth. The air smelled of burnt beeswax and something else—something older, muskier, the ghost of a scent that clung to the walls no matter how many times he opened the windows.
Harry laid her down on the bed.
She sank into the sheets, platinum hair fanning across black silk, red dress rucked up around her hips. Her legs were still shaking. He could see the fine tremor in her thighs, the way her breath came in shallow pulls.
He stood at the edge of the bed and looked at her.
"You're a mess," he said.
"Whose fault is that?"
His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Something hungrier.
He climbed onto the bed, knees bracketing her hips, and lowered himself until his chest pressed against hers. She could feel his heartbeat through the thin silk of her dress—steady, slow, utterly controlled. Her own heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
He kissed her.
Not rough. Not demanding. Soft. His lips brushed hers once, twice, a question she hadn't been asked in years. She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her breath caught somewhere in her throat and stayed there.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him. He tasted like coffee and something sharper underneath—firewhisky, maybe, or just the heat of his own mouth. She made a sound against his lips, a small broken thing, and his hand came up to cup her jaw.
The kiss stretched. Minutes or seconds, she couldn't tell. Time had gone liquid. Everything narrowed to the press of his mouth, the weight of his body, the way his thumb stroked the hollow behind her ear like he was gentling something wild.
When he finally pulled back, she was gasping.
"So," he said. "Here we are."
She stared up at him. His glasses were slightly askew. His hair was a disaster. His lips were wet with her.
And she wanted him. Wanted him so badly it burned.
She surged up and kissed him.
Not soft. Not gentle. She kissed him with everything she had left—every scrap of fear and fury and desperate, gnawing need. Her hands fisted in his shirt, yanking him closer, her teeth catching his lower lip hard enough to draw a sharp hiss from his throat.
He pulled back just far enough to look at her. His lip was bleeding. He touched it with his tongue and smiled.
"There she is," he said.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
She grabbed the back of his neck and dragged him down again. This kiss was teeth and tongue and the copper taste of his blood. She didn't care. She wanted to consume him. Wanted to crawl inside his skin and stay there.
His hands found her hips. Squeezed. She arched into him, grinding against his thigh, and the friction made her gasp into his mouth.
"Easy," he murmured.
"Don't tell me to be easy."
"You're going to hurt yourself."
"Then let me."
He pulled back. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. He looked at her like she was something he'd found at the bottom of a deep well. Something precious and dangerous.
"You're something else," he said.
"I know."
He laughed. It was a rough sound, scraped out of somewhere deep. Then he rolled off her and stood.
She propped herself up on her elbows. "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere."
He stripped off his shirt. Then his trousers. Then his pants. He stood at the edge of the bed, naked and hard, and let her look.
She looked.
The scars were the first thing she noticed. The lightning bolt on his forehead, obvious. But there were others—a long white line across his ribs, another on his shoulder, a cluster of small marks on his forearm that looked like they'd come from something with teeth.
"Auror work," he said, following her gaze.
"I didn't ask."
"You were wondering."
She was. She hated that he knew.
He climbed back onto the bed. This time, he didn't hover. He settled between her legs, his cock pressing against her belly, his weight pinning her to the mattress.
"You're still dressed," he observed.
"I noticed."
"Want me to fix that?"
"Don't be gentle."
His eyes flashed. "I wasn't planning on it."
He grabbed the neckline of the dress and tore it.
Silk parted like water. The sound was obscene—a wet, ripping noise that seemed to echo in the quiet room. She gasped, more from shock than anything else, and he used her open mouth to kiss her again.
His hands found her breasts. Cupped them. Squeezed hard enough to bruise. She arched into his grip and made a sound she didn't recognize.
"Fuck," he breathed against her lips. "You're so responsive."
"I hate you."
"You keep saying that." He pinched her nipple. Hard. "And yet."
She cried out. The pain-pleasure spiked through her, straight to her cunt. She could feel herself getting wetter, slickness spreading between her thighs.
He pulled back and looked down at her. His eyes traveled from her face to her breasts to the ruined dress pooled around her waist to the damp curl of hair between her legs.
"No other man," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"No other man," she repeated. The words felt like a vow.
"Say it again."
"No other man will ever touch me." Her voice was steady. Surer than she felt. "You're the only one. The only one who gets to fuck me."
His jaw tightened. Something shifted in his eyes—something possessive and primal and almost frightening. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head, one hand easily circling both, and leaned down until his lips brushed her ear.
"Mine," he said.
"Yours."
He bit her earlobe. She yelped. He laughed.
"Good girl."
And then he was inside her.
Not rough this time.Not fast. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, letting her feel every stretch and slide. Her body clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper, and he groaned low in his throat.
"God," he whispered. "You're so—fuck. So tight."
She couldn't answer. Her hands were trapped above her head, her body pinned beneath his, and all she could do was take it. Take him. The pressure built with each slow thrust, a deep, aching fullness that made her want to cry.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked. His eyes were fixed on her face, watching every flicker of expression. She felt exposed. Seen. It was terrifying.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"Don't—"
"I'm not lying." He thrust harder, hitting something deep that made her vision white out. "You're beautiful when you come apart."
"I'm not—"
"You will be."
He shifted his angle, and she gasped. His pubic bone ground against her clit with every stroke, a deliberate, relentless pressure. She was climbing. Falling. Building toward something she couldn't name.
"Please," she heard herself say.
"Please what?"
"Please. I need—"
"You need what?"
"To come. Please. Please let me—"
He stopped.
The sudden stillness was brutal. She cried out, frustrated, and tried to move her hips, but his weight held her down.
"Not yet," he said.
"Fuck you."
"You will." He kissed her forehead. "But not yet."
He started again. Slower this time. Each thrust a deliberate, dragging slide that made her want to scream. She was so close. So close. And he was holding her there, on the edge, refusing to let her fall.
"Tell me a secret," he said.
"What?"
"A secret. Something no one else knows."
She shook her head. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat. She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
"Tell me," he said. "And I'll let you come."
"I—"
"Anything. A secret."
She swallowed. Her throat was dry. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst.
"When I was fourteen," she whispered. "I used to dream about you."
He stilled inside her. "What?"
"Not like that. I mean—I dreamed you would save me. From the Dark Lord. From my father. From everything." Her voice cracked. "I wanted you to kill me. I wanted it to be you."
The silence stretched between them. His face was unreadable.
"And now?" he asked.
"Now?" She laughed. It came out broken. "Now I want you to fuck me until I forget my own name."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he kissed her.
It was a different kiss. Softer. Almost tender. His hand released her wrists, and she brought them down to grip his shoulders.
"You're not a secret," he said against her lips. "You're a confession."
And then he started to move again.
Harder this time. Faster. The rhythm built into something punishing, relentless, a driving beat that pushed her higher and higher until she couldn't see anything but the dark blur of his eyes above her.
"Come," he said.
She came.
It crashed over her like a wave—shuddering, drowning, complete. She clenched around him, crying his name, nails digging into his back hard enough to draw blood. He followed a heartbeat later, spilling inside her with a groan that vibrated through his chest and into her bones.
They collapsed together. Breathing hard. Hearts racing. Bodies slick with sweat.
He rolled off her but kept her close, one arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against his chest. She could feel his cum trickling out of her, anointing her thigh, his seed and her wetness mingled, dripping into the sheets.
The silence stretched. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed and faded. Somewhere in the building, a pipe clanked.
"Harry," she whispered.
"Hm."
"What happens now?"
He was quiet for a long time. She thought he might not answer.
"Now," he said finally, "we sleep. And tomorrow, we figure out how to keep you alive."
"And after that?"
His fingers traced patterns on her shoulder. Circles. Loops.
"After that," he said, "I don't know."
She closed her eyes. His heartbeat was steady under her ear. His breath ruffled her hair.
And for the first time in five years, she felt something she'd almost forgotten.
Safe.
When she woke, the other side of the bed was empty. Cold. The sheets rumpled, the pillow still dented with his shape.
She sat up. The window was gray with early morning light. Rain streaked the glass.
She could smell coffee again.
She pulled on his discarded shirt and walked barefoot to the kitchen.
Harry stood at the counter, coffee in one hand, a piece of parchment in the other. He looked up when she entered. His hair was damp from another shower. He'd shaved.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
"There's more coffee."
She poured herself a cup. Black. No sugar. She leaned against the counter across from him and tried to ignore the ache between her legs, the evidence of last night still slick on her thighs.
"What's that?" she asked, nodding at the parchment.
"Illusion charm. For your face. So you can walk around without anyone recognizing Malfoy's features."
"You thought of that."
"I think of a lot of things."
She took a sip of coffee. It was bitter and hot and perfect.
"What happened to the dress?"
He looked up. "I tore it."
"I noticed."
"I'll buy you another."
"You'll buy me a lot of things, apparently."
"That's the arrangement."
She set her cup down. "What exactly is the arrangement, Harry? Because I seem to remember being dragged out of a holding cell and then fucked senseless, and I still don't know what you actually want from me."
He set down the parchment. Crossed his arms.
"I want you," he said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." He walked toward her, slow and deliberate, until he was close enough to touch. "I don't know what this is yet. I don't know what I'm doing. But I know I'm not letting you go."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not supposed to be."
She looked up at him. His face was serious. His eyes were searching hers for something she didn't know how to give.
"I don't trust you," she said."Good."
"I don't like you."
"You don't have to."
"I—"
He kissed her forehead. Soft. Lingering.
"I'm not asking for trust," he said. "I'm not asking for love. I'm asking for you to stay. To follow my lead. To let me keep you alive long enough to figure this out."
"And if I won't?"
"Then you can walk out that door. But you won't."
Her jaw tightened. "You're so sure."
"I'm so sure."
She hated him. She hated the way he knew her. The way he looked at her like she was a puzzle he'd already solved.
But she didn't leave.
She finished her coffee. He watched her. She glared at him over the rim of her mug, and he smiled—a small, almost gentle thing.
"Get dressed," he said. "We have an appointment."
"What kind of appointment?"
"A secret one."
She didn't ask where they were going. She just went to the bedroom, pulled on a fresh blouse—a deep, soft green that made her eyes bright—and gathered her platinum hair into a loose braid. When she emerged, Harry was already waiting by the Floo.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Does it matter?"
"It does."
"Then yes.I'm ready."
He nodded. Grabbed her hand. And then they were gone.
The Floo spat them out into a narrow, dimly lit corridor that smelled of dust and something floral—lavender, maybe, or lilies left too long in stagnant water. Dracaryis stumbled on the landing, her boots catching on the uneven stone, and Harry's hand closed around her elbow before she could fall.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"Under the Ministry. Old records department. No one comes down here anymore."
He led her through a series of turns—left, right, another left—until they reached a door marked with a faded silver rune. He pressed his palm to it, and the door swung open.
The room beyond was small and cluttered. Shelves lined every wall, stuffed with scrolls and leather-bound ledgers. A single desk sat in the center, covered in parchment and ink pots and a lamp that flickered with blue flame.
Behind the desk sat a woman.
She was old—ancient, really—with skin like cracked porcelain and eyes that gleamed silver behind thick spectacles. Her hair was white and wispy, pulled back in a knot that looked like it hadn't been touched in decades.
"Potter," she said. Her voice was dry as old paper. "You're late."
"Traffic."
"There's no traffic in the Floo."
"There's traffic everywhere."
The woman's lips twitched. Almost a smile. She turned her gaze to Dracaryis, and those silver eyes sharpened.
"So this is the Malfoy heir. Or what's left of him."
Dracaryis stiffened. "I'm not—"
"You're not a him anymore. I can see that." The woman waved a hand. "Sit. Both of you. We have much to discuss."
Harry guided her to a chair. She sat. He stood behind her, one hand resting on the back of her chair, close enough that she could feel the heat of him through the wood.
"This is Matilda Croft," Harry said. "She's the best identity forger in Britain. Also the only one who owes me a favor."
"I don't owe you anything," Matilda said. "I'm doing this because I'm bored."
"Same thing."
Matilda ignored him. She pulled a fresh scroll from a drawer and unrolled it on the desk. "Dracaryis Malfoy. Born June 5th, 1980. Only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Death Eater. Tried and acquitted at the age of eighteen. Disappeared five years ago. Presumed dead."
"That's me," Dracaryis said flatly. "Or was."
"Now you're no one. No birth record. No family. No history." Matilda dipped a quill in ink. "That's actually an advantage. A blank slate is easier to work with than a tarnished one."
"What do you need from me?"
"Everything. Blood. Hair. A memory of your mother's face. The name of your first pet. The color of the nursery walls." Matilda's quill scratched across the parchment. "Identity magic is finicky. It requires truth as a foundation. Lies collapse under scrutiny."
Dracaryis looked at Harry. He nodded.
"Wiltshire," she said. "The nursery walls were pale green. My first pet was a kneazle named Artemis. My mother's face—" She paused. Swallowed. "She has the same eyes as me. Gray. Cold. Beautiful."
Matilda wrote without looking up. The quill moved fast, ink flowing like blood from a wound.
"Good," she said. "Now. What do you want to be called?"
Dracaryis blinked. "What?"
"Your new name. You can't be Dracaryis Malfoy anymore. That person is dead. You need something new."
She hadn't thought about it. Not really. The name had been a necessity, a placeholder, something to answer to when people asked. She'd never considered it permanent.
"I don't know," she said.
"Think." Matilda tapped the quill against the desk. "Names have power. They shape identity. You can be anyone. Anyone at all."
Harry's hand squeezed her shoulder. A reminder. She wasn't alone.
" Elizabeth," she said slowly, the name forming on her tongue like a spell. "Elizabeth Black."
Matilda's eyebrows rose. "Black. A pureblood name with a complicated history. Ambitious."
"It's my grandmother's maiden name. It's real. It'll hold."
"It will." Matilda wrote it down. "Elizabeth Black. Born 1979. Half-blood. Orphaned young. Raised in France. Recently returned to London. No living relatives."
"They'll check," Dracaryis said.
"They'll find what I want them to find. By the time anyone thinks to look deeper, you'll have established yourself. Jobs. Friends. A life." Matilda looked up. "Assuming you don't do anything stupid."
"She won't," Harry said.
"I wasn't talking to you."
The two women stared at each other. Something passed between them—an understanding, maybe, or a warning.
"Six weeks," Matilda said finally. "I'll need six weeks to build the paper trail. In the meantime, you stay hidden. No public appearances. No Ministry contact. No magic that can be traced."
"That's not possible," Dracaryis said. "I can't just—"
"You can, and you will." Matilda's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Or you can go back to the holding cell and take your chances with the Wizengamot."
Dracaryis's jaw tightened. "Fine."
"Good." Matilda rolled up the scroll and tucked it into her robes. "Potter, I'll contact you when it's done. Don't come back until then."
"I know."
" And Potter?" Matilda's eyes flicked to Dracaryis. "She's dangerous. Not in the way you think. She's dangerous because she has nothing left to lose. People with nothing left to lose do unexpected things."
"I know that too."
Matilda snorted. "You think you do."
They left the way they came. The corridor was still empty, still dusty, still smelling of dead flowers and old secrets. Dracaryis walked ahead, her braid swinging between her shoulder blades, her boots echoing on the stone.
Harry caught up to her at the Floo. "You okay?"
"Do I look okay?"
"No."
"Then stop asking stupid questions."
He grabbed her arm and spun her around. Her back hit the wall, and he was there, pressed against her, his face inches from hers.
"Elizabeth," he said.
"What?"
"Your new name. Elizabeth." He said it slowly, tasting it. "I don't like it."
"I don't care what you like."
"You should." His hand came up to cup her jaw. "Because I'm going to be the one calling you by it. Screaming it. Moaning it while I'm buried inside you."
Her breath caught. "You're—"
"I'm what?"
"Impossible."
"No. Just honest." He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "Now walk. Or I'll fuck you right here in this corridor."
She shoved him back. He laughed.
They Floo'd home.
The flat was warm and quiet when they emerged, the gray light of the rainy afternoon filtering through the windows. Harry shrugged off his coat and threw himself onto the couch.
"Hungry?"he asked.
"No."
"Liar."
She wasn't. But she didn't want food.
She wanted him.
The realization was unsettling. She'd spent so long hating him—years of hating him, decades of hating him—and now she couldn't stop thinking about the weight of his hands. The taste of his mouth. The way he said her name like it was something that belonged to him.
"Come here," he said.
She walked to the couch. He caught her wrist and pulled her down on top of him, so she was straddling his hips, her knees on either side of his thighs.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
"I don't—"
"You do. You just don't want to say it." His hands found her hips, thumbs tracing circles through the thin material of her trousers. "So I'll say it for you. You want me to fuck you again."
She said nothing.
"You want me to strip you down and bend you over this couch and take you until you forget your own name." His voice was low, rough. "You want me to make you come so hard you scream."
Still nothing.
"And you want me to be rough. Because rough is all you've ever known, and gentle scares the shit out of you."
Her eyes snapped to his. "That's not—"
"Am I wrong?"
She wanted to say yes. Wanted to deny it, to push him away, to prove she wasn't as transparent as glass. But the words wouldn't come.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"I know."
" I hate you."
"You've said that."
She grabbed his face and kissed him.
It was brutal. Teeth and tongue and years of pent-up fury. She kissed him like she was trying to destroy him, trying to claw her way inside his skin and make a home there.
He moaned against her mouth. His hands slid under her shirt, found her breasts, squeezed hard.
"Fuck," he gasped. "You're—"
"Shut up."
"Make me."
She ground against him. The friction was electric, sending sparks down her spine. He groaned and thrust up, his cock a hard line against the seam of her trousers.
"Bedroom," he said. "Now."
He didn't wait for her to move. He stood, lifting her with him, her legs wrapping around his waist. She didn't protest. She was too busy kissing him, biting his lip, running her fingers through his hair.
He carried her across the flat. The bedroom door slammed open, and then she was on the bed, the black silk cool against her back.
"Strip," he said.
She pulled off her shirt. Her trousers. Her underwear. She was naked beneath him, her body arched and waiting, her cunt already slick with want.
He took off his clothes. Slower this time, deliberate. His eyes never left hers.
"You're eager," he observed.
"I'm not—"
"You're dripping."
Her face burned. "Shut up."
"I can see it. Your thighs are shining." He knelt between her legs and ran a finger through her folds. She jerked at the contact. "You're so wet you're making a mess on my sheets."
"I'll make a bigger one."
His eyes flashed. "Promise?"
She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand to her mouth. Sucked his fingers clean. She wasn't sure where the boldness came from—didn't care. It was written plain on his face how much he wanted this. Wanted her.
Tasted herself on him. Musk and salt and something sharp.
His eyes went black.
"Fuck," he said.
He pulled his fingers free. Grabbed her hips. Flipped her over onto her stomach.
She caught herself on her elbows, hair spilling across the pillows, ass in the air. He knelt behind her, and she felt the head of his cock pressing against her, hot and thick and ready.
"Tell me," he said.
"Tell you what?"
"Tell me you want it."
"I want it."
"Say it properly."
She closed her eyes. "I want you to fuck me. Please. Please, Harry."
He entered her in one hard thrust.
She screamed into the pillow. The stretch was brutal—deep and sudden and exactly what she needed. He didn't pause. Didn't wait for her to adjust. He just fucked her.
Hard. Fast. Relentless.
The sound of their bodies filled the room—wet slaps of skin against skin, the creak of the bedframe, their mingled gasps and groans. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back to meet each thrust.
"You're mine," he growled. "Say it."
"Yours."
"No one else. Never."
"Never."
He pulled out. She cried out at the sudden emptiness, but he was already flipping her over, pushing her legs apart, driving back in. This time he could see her face, and she could see his.
The pace didn't falter. But his eyes held hers, and there was something different in them now. Something softer. Something almost like wonder.
He looked at her, like she was a question he'd been searching for years to solve.
"What?"she whispered.
He shook his head. Kissed her. His hips kept moving—that relentless, pounding rhythm that made her head spin. But the kiss was gentle.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and held on.
"Come for me," he said. "Now. I want to feel it."
She shattered.
It was slow at first—a warm spread of pleasure that flowed out from her cunt, up through her belly. Then it crested and broke like a wave, crashing over her, pulling her under.
She screamed his name. Always. Silly, stupid name, the name of a boy she'd hated and now a man she belonged to.
He came inside her, filling her, gasping into the curve of her neck.
Silence.
Then breathing. Heavy, ragged, together.
He pulled out and collapsed beside her. One arm draped across her waist. His fingers traced patterns on her hip.
"That was—" she started."Don't."
"I was going to say—"
"I know what you were going to say." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "Don't."
She turned her head to look at him. His eyes were closed. His hair was a disaster. His lips were curled into a small, satisfied smile.
"I hate you," she said.
"Love you too."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She froze.
"That's not—"
"It's a joke."
It didn't feel like a joke. It felt like a door opening. A window. A crack in the wall she'd built around herself.
She didn't respond. Didn't know how. She just lay there, his arm around her waist, his seed dripping down her thigh, and stared at the ceiling while the rain tapped against the window.
After a while, he spoke again.
"He's dead, you know."
"Who?"
"Your father. I mean—he's dead. There's no coming back for him. But there are others. Death Eaters who escaped. Survivors who went underground." His fingers stilled on her hip. "Some of them know you're alive."
"How do you—"
"I'm an Auror. I hear things. There's a rumor—a whisper, really—that Draco Malfoy didn't die. That he's hiding. That he took a potion and became someone else."
Her blood ran cold. "Who?"
"I don't know. Not yet. But someone's been asking questions. Someone who remembers the old days." He turned his head to look at her. "Someone who wants revenge."
"Revenge for what?"
"For whatever they can find. For the war. For the trials. For living when so many died." He paused. "They want a Malfoy. Any Malfoy. And you're the last one left."
She sat up. The sheet pooled around her waist. She didn't bother to cover herself.
"What do we do?"she asked.
"We don't do anything. I do." He sat up too, leaning against the headboard. "You stay hidden. You stay safe. I find them before they find you."
"And if you can't?"
"Then I kill them."
He said it so casually.
"You can't just—"
"I can. I will. That's the job, Dracaryis. Or Elizabeth. Whoever you are now." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I told you I'd keep you alive. I meant it."
She looked at him. Messy hair.Green eyes. A scar on his forehead that was born of war and blood and every dark thing. He looked like a hero.
But she knew better now. Heroes didn't make deals in underground cells. Heroes didn't fuck with the ferocity he did. Heroes didn't offer protection in exchange for obedience.
Harry Potter wasn't a hero anymore. He was something else. Something she didn't have a name for.
Thank God.
Because monsters were what she knew.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'll follow your lead. I'll do what you say. I'll be Elizabeth." She met his eyes. "But you have to promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Don't die."
He blinked.
"You're the only person who knows I exist. The only one who cares. If you die, I'm alone." Her voice cracked. "I can't be alone again."
He stared at her. Then he pulled her into his chest. His arms wrapped around her, tight and solid. She could hear his heartbeat. Strong. Steady.
"I promise," he said. "I don't die easy."
She closed her eyes. For a moment, just one, she let herself believe him.
The rain kept falling.