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Even the indignity of sharing a room with Harry Potter can’t keep Draco from having a brilliant year. Which is quite an accomplishment and a mark of growth for Draco. He’s shared this perspective with as many people who will listen, though they often give him strange looks when he starts rattling off his issues with Potter and how he’s decided to not let them bother him, not at all.
For one, Potter has a penchant for hoarding food in his cupboard. This has spilled over into Potions ingredients and Advanced Charms spell books, including rather queer looking ancient texts that seem more Granger’s speed than Potter’s. How many antique tomes could one man need? Pansy stops answering this question after the fourth time Draco poses it, which Draco feels is terribly unfair. When he tries bragging about his final project for 8th year transfiguration, she at least feigns interest, but wanders away entirely when Draco tells her how he’s planning to outshine anything Potter could conceive of in his feeble mind.
It’s just as well. Mother has always told him no one could possibly grasp the nature of Draco’s brilliance. Certainly not Potter, whose mind resembles a horde of rabid squirrels who collect magical paraphernalia in lieu of nuts.
By the day of Draco’s test run for his exquisitely crafted spell, he’s oozing with confidence and well earned bravado. He gives himself a little pat on the shoulder before he begins. The spell is graduate level work, at least, and the Ministry will be knocking down his door to purchase Draco’s research. He stands, naked, in front of the floor-length mirror he’d pilfered from the Manor.
He’s resplendent as he is, of course—broad-shouldered and lean with a thick, meaty cock that’s perhaps not as long as Potter’s but certainly thicker—but this spell will make Draco into the finest version of himself, the pinnacle of masculine beauty, with the ideal length and width of cock and a twelve pack of abdominal muscles, which is twice as many as six and therefore better.
Yes, of course his research could be used for better disguises for Unspeakables—lasting changes that would work for long assignments, far better than Polyjuice—but Draco’s first stop on the fixer-upper train is himself. He deserves it after having been through so much. Mother would certainly agree.
He shuffles through his parchment and begins the primary incantations, adapted from ancient Sumerian—which Potter certainly doesn’t know and never shall absorb with his squirrel brain—and moving into old French, flicking his wand then swishing it in an intricate swirl. This part is quite precise; he feels a brief moment of panic when he enters the Appearance Vortex portion, but he pushes through it—after all, he’s going to be the most accomplished Transfiguration expert or his age. As magic pours from his wand, hovering in the air around him like motes suspended in light, he feels the change start to take place.
“Yes,” he says, “Merlin, yes. Potter won’t be able to keep his eyes—”
The door slams open, a sharp ray of golden magic and a shouted spell following it. “Impingnio!”
The magic surrounding Draco destabilizes and absorbs the gold, causing it to burst around him like flame, ricocheting off the mirror and hitting one of Potter’s crumbling spell books, bouncing again, and zipping through a pile of Potter’s massive collection of Chocolate Frog cards. The last thing Draco sees before he crashes to the floor is a Minerva McGonagall card floating in midair.
He doesn’t know how long he’s out, but it must’ve been over an hour since the light in his room is dim, only moonlight coming in through one tall window, and he’s lying in bed. He feels—odd, like his body isn’t quite right in his skin, like he’s a newly molted shellfish, his skin raw and tingly and awkward as a new foal’s. But that shouldn’t be—because when he sits up, he’s all there. His legs feel normal, his abdominals are still six and not twelve, his shoulders sturdy and broad. But when he sits and the covers fall away, he’s sees the evidence of what he’s done.
His chest is raw and sore, and he has two very tiny mounds on his chest, nipples protruding. When he touches one, he shudders and gasps. Arousal spills through him in waves, climbing higher with each touch. He expects his cock to get hard, but something down there feels different, the pleasure stronger and deeper, like touching his nipples lights up a radiant circle of pleasure from those two points down to the bruise-tender ache between his legs. He brushes a nipple again and makes a high pitched sound of surprise. His groin feels like it has pulses of magic rolling through it, but it’s better than any one of Blaise’s pleasure spells. Maybe Draco’s cottoned onto something new—maybe he’s created a pleasure spell of his own, absolute genius that he is.
“Malfoy, is that you?” Potter’s voice rings out of the darkness. “You had a pretty nasty fall after that magic went haywire—”
“I’m fine,” he snaps. “No thanks to you!“
“Lumos.” Potter sends a light to the sconce by Draco’s bed. “I’m coming to see if you’re alright.”
“No! I’m fine.” Instinctually, he pulls his quilt over the tiny buds on his chest. They’re so tender; it feels like he needs to protect them.
“You’re not. I saw what that spell did—”
“Yes. I enlarged my nipples. That’s all!”
“That’s all?” Potter laughs. “You really did just wake up, didn’t you?”
“You mustn’t tell anyone or they’ll boot me from Transfiguration. I’ve already had four infractions.”
Potter laughs and emerges from the darkness, light casting the smug look on his face into relief. “That’s not all you transfigured, Malfoy.”
“Whatever do you—”
Potter yanks the bedclothes back and uncovers Draco’s lap, which is no longer blessed by a thicker-than-average cock. He’s sporting the same tawny thatch as always—but he’s bare—down there.
“Where’s my bloody cock!? What did you do, you maniac? There’s nothing—”
“Oh there’s something alright. If you spread your legs, you’ll see it.”
Draco scowls, heart hammering in his ribcage, but he spreads his legs all the same because some part of him, some primal part knows Potter is right, that the essential shape of him has changed into something entirely different. He gasps when he sees it. “Merlin’s fucking ball-sack!”
“Might want to call on his accidental minge.” Potter snorts. “No balls or sack in sight.”
“Oh, fuck.” A tight knot of dread gathers in Draco’s chest. “Oh, they’ll—they won’t let me finish school! I’ll never go on to finish my graduate work in magical theory!”
“You’re right. They’ll toss you out on your arse.” A weight shifts the covers and his mattress, and he realises Potter is sitting, his hand resting close to Draco’s thigh. “If they find out.”
“You wouldn’t. Please tell me you won’t. Potter, I’m begging—”
Potter licks his lips, and places a tentative hand on Draco’s thigh. “I can keep quiet for you. I’ll even help you fudge your final project.”
“Thank you, oh, Potter. Thank you—”
“I won’t do it for free.” Potter brushes his fingers higher. “I want a little something in return.”
“What do you—” Draco’s breath is coming quick, his belly doing little flips as Harry strokes the inside of Draco’s thigh, moving a little higher each time. “And you—you want—”
“Your plump little cunt. Can’t you feel it?”
Now that Potter’s said it, the space between his legs feels oddly slippery and hot. When he looks down, really looks, he sees it. The pussy he gave himself is sweet and pink, a little nub at the top, just barely visible. It’s wet, so wet it glistens in the flicker of Potter’s Lumos. Like this, Draco can see the warp of magic coming off of it, the shift in the air.
Potter’s breathing has changed, his cheeks reddened, his neck flushed and blotchy. His hand moves higher, all the way to the crease of his thigh. When his thumb brushes the curly hairs at Draco’s crotch, Potter makes an appreciative sound. “I’ll keep your secret” —his breath shudders out— “if you let me play with it.”
“That’s not proper! I’ll tell McGonagall.”
Potter has moved his Lumos so Draco’s changed body is fully illuminated. When Draco tries to push his legs back together, Potter stops him, hand pressed hard against his thigh. “Not so fast.” His eyes are locked on Draco’s—well, his pussy. “Who do you think she’s going to believe? The ex Death Eater who broke every law of Transfiguration? Or the war hero who killed Voldemort?”
“I will. I’ll tell her.” Draco’s voice is weaker now, and Potter is closer. His pussy throbs in time with the angry march of his pulse.
“Fine. I’m sure it’ll be brilliant for your reputation that you gave yourself a fanny.” Potter’s fingers are light and teasing against his pubic hair, and Draco feels an odd warmth spreading through his thighs, another little slip of wetness.
“Potter,” he whimpers. “We can’t.”
“You’re already so fucking wet. It’ll feel so fucking good when I touch it. And I’ll never tell. Not if you let me have it when I want.”
“Mother said my body is sacred. Only to be shared after marriage.”
“That’s rubbish.” Potter brushes his knuckle over one of Draco’s swollen, sensitive nipples, wrenching a cry from his throat. “It would be stupid not to enjoy this fucking incredible body. I already wanted to bend you over, but now—”
Draco shivers. Potter wants him. “Now—what?”
“You still look like a needy twink.” Potter wets a thumb and circles one of his nipples. “But with little tits and a pussy.”
“And you like that?” The words slip out, unbidden. Potter is pinching his nipples now, making Draco squirm so he’s even more exposed. “You like me like this.”
“You’re all my wank fantasies rolled into a tight blond package.”
“I—I’m a virgin. I should reserve myself for—”
“Don’t you want to know what it’s like? No one will know.”
“I—” Draco swallows hard. The pulse between his legs is insistent now; he can feel the burbles of slickness gathering there when he lets his other leg fall to the side. “Only touching. Only tonight.”
It happens quickly—Potter’s lips on his, the raw heat of his mouth, velvet tongue pushing inside. Potter shoves him down and flings the covers to the floor, covering Draco’s body with his bulk. All Draco can do is squirm and whimper when Potter pushes up Draco’s knees and gets a hand between his thighs.
The first touch is like an electric shock: Potter’s blunt fingers light against his wet slit, moving higher to circle his slippery little bud. Draco sobs and pushes into his hand, seeking more, seeking something he doesn’t understand. He hates his body for this wanting, hates his mind for following Potter, for goading him. That’s what got him here—
Every thought in his head fragments when Potter pushes a finger inside and kisses along his neck until his mouth latches onto a nipple. Potter groans as his finger slides all the way in, as he pulls back and adds another, stretching Draco’s cunt until it burns and aches. Draco must be sobbing now because Potter kisses his wet cheeks, tongue darting out to gather his tears.
“Shh, it’s alright. I’ll make it feel so good.” Potter is already pushing down his boxers to reveal a massive erection, the tip shiny and exposed, nearly purple with arousal. Potter is slowly fucking three fingers into him, stretching his virgin cunt to its limit.
“It’s so tender! I can’t—”
“You can. Come on, darling. I need you to come so I can fit it inside. It’s so much easier that way.”
“I said only touching and you’re—you’re already—”
“Yeah.” Potter sighs contentedly and leans forward to spit on Draco’s pussy. “But this’ll feel better.”
When Potter’s thumb circles his aching clit, covering it with saliva, Draco cries out. He spreads his legs wider. The pressure has faded to a thrumming ache, and he bucks his hips against Potter’s hand to get more, to make it deeper. When the angle is just right, pressure starts to build. Draco’s eyes flutter shut. “Am I doing it right? Is it soon—”
“You’re being such a good girl. Doing it exactly right. Finish off with your fingers. Go on.”
Draco slips his hand between his thighs as Potter finger fucks him, pressing deep inside with each thrust. Tension coils tight, arousal building and building until he’s bearing down hard and moaning like a slut. The first release hits him in a rush, making his legs shake, the muscles of his slick, new hole contracting. He feels it down to his toes, in the involuntary twitch of his fingers, in the raw throb of his nipples. He barely has time to think that the intensity of his climax feels new, feels changed, before Potter’s mouth is back on his and something blunt and wide is replacing those thick fingers.
“We shouldn’t—I’m—I’m a virgin!”
“Not anymore.” Potter pushes inside, a deep, hard thrust that leaves Draco shaking. He’s wet enough that his body doesn’t stop it, but his cunt feels stretched and bruised inside. He tenses around the intrusion.
“Just relax.” Potter kisses and licks Draco’s nipples again. They stiffen beneath his touch until they’re red and oversensitive. All the while, Potter thrusts slowly inside him, grunting and whining like he’s holding himself back.
Another burst of warmth hits Draco’s belly. Even though his breath is still coming fast and panicked, the stretch in his pussy feels different now—hot and slick and full. So full.
“Nngh, fuck, Malfoy. You feel so good—I can’t—I have to—”
Draco’s eyes roll back; he can feel Potter’s cock all the way to his throat. His cheeks burn. His mouth waters. “You can—go faster!” With each heavy stoke inside of him, pleasure crests and builds, waves rolling up his spine, thrumming in the meat of his thighs. “Just—don’t come inside—”
Potter grips the covers and slams into Draco, hips slapping, wet and filthy. Every noise Potter makes sounds like profound relief, like he’s been waiting for exactly this, for ages. Like he’s finally in Draco’s thrall. It’s intoxicating. Arousing. Heightening the pounding throb in his pussy, making him clench tight, push down, squirm beneath Potter’s bulk.
“I can—feel your magic—inside—that perfect—pussy, God!” Potter is shuddering, moaning desperately, and Draco is helpless to it. To this feeling of being owned, possessed, split apart for Potter’s perverse needs.
Draco cries out and comes, his body seizing around Harry’s cock, milking him, as wetness gushes from him, pouring out and out, soaking his sheets and leaving him breathless for a moment before another peak reaches him. Potter is slamming into him now, hard, thudding thrusts, whispering to him, “I’ll have this every day, fill your slutty little hole—”
Potter groans, his body seizing as he buries himself deep and bites down into the flesh of Draco’s shoulder.
“I didn’t want you to do it inside!” Draco tries for indignant, but his pussy is pulsing and sated, and he’s already kissing Potter, legs like a clamp around his waist.
“S’mine now. Can do what I like.” Harry nuzzles his neck and works his way down to Draco’s nipples again. “Going to fuck your mouth and your arse, too. You’ll wear lace knickers” —Potter smacks his lips and bites down on a nipple— “and Ginny’s old skirt will probably fit—won’t it?”
“That wasn’t part of our—oh!”
Potter is working his way down Draco’s body and parting his legs, kissing between them with a satisfied sound.
“That spell was more than worth it,” Potter says.
But Draco’s eyes are shut, one leg thrown over Potter’s shoulder. Potter is busy cleaning up his mess, and Draco has his hands buried in dark, unruly hair, back arching as he starts to come again.
And soon, he forgets Potter has said anything at all.