Disclaimer: Characters, settings, and themes from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I do not profit from the writing or sharing of this story.

The rules are simple. Everyone who walks through the door signs a contract—a magically binding contract. In that contract are the individual desires and limits for each participant; this includes both soft and hard limits. The most important aspect of the contract is the safe word. This is the key to making the whole thing work. Each person's word is a binding trigger that will halt all, shall we say, activities, no matter deep in the headspace the other is.

So how does it all work? Each dominant is given a room. They set the room up to their liking, displaying the toys and items they would like to use for the evening. Some dominants stay in the room and wait for a partner while others wander the halls until their room is triggered as occupied. Submissives look at the markers on the walls—they show red for occupied and green for waiting. If they're green, then a submissive may enter and peruse the options available. If a submissive chooses that room, they simply call out their safe word; the room triggers the dominant and flips the marker.

Simple, right? Hardly. I've been coming to this hellhole for months now. My room is always the same. Large four-poster bed in the middle of the room, bedside table with my preferred lube and a couple of towels. It looks clean—elegant. For some, it isn't enough. There's not enough toys or implements to indicate pain or my ability to wield it. Some think it's the indicator of an inexperienced dominant. Not everyone needs whips and chains to exert power.

Many nights, my room remains empty. That's all right. The clientele here varies widely and there are many I'd rather not deal with. However—when that marker flips, I'm bound to enter my room. It's an extension of the contract—a duty, if you will—to fulfill the needs of the submissive in the room.

It's been nearly a week and no one's entered. I've been drinking soda at the bar, trying to be patient. That's never been one of my strengths. My glass is empty and I've already nodded for another when suddenly—I feel it. The bartender moves to grab my glass and the wicked grin on my face signals to him that I won't need it. He slides it off the bar and vanishes it for cleaning.

My eyes close for a moment, but I can feel the pull of the room. It's calling. The magic is signaling to me that I'm needed, that I'm wanted, that someone is waiting for me. My hand comes up and I roll my neck around once, trying to loosen up. Shaking it off, I step off the stool and stride toward the far end of the hall. The marker is red. I can feel my heart speed up a bit, then drastically slow down. My breath is deep and slow as I approach, each step long and purposeful.

The door is closed. I quirk a brow and use my safe word to enter.

It takes me a moment, but I find him. He's kneeling at the far corner of the bed on the floor. His hands are flat to the floor and his chin is tucked deep to his chest. Looking over his bare arse, I turn to see his clothes neatly folded to the side of the room.

This one intrigues me.

He's unfamiliar to me. I hear a harsh intake of breath from him as the door closes and I step farther into the room. Licking my lips, I take my time admiring his form. He's fit and holding the position surprisingly well. He must do this often.

The buttons of my shirt come loose smoothly. As it slides down my arms, I hear the whisper of cloth against skin and I shiver. Stepping behind him, I run my fingers down his spine and he doesn't react. No movement—not even a twitch.

Oh, he is lovely.

My fingers shift upright and I dig my nails in. I see the soft roll across his shoulders. His head moves just enough that I can see him shift back into position. When I reach the globe of his arse, I lift all but my index finger. It's tracing a harsh red line down his skin and his pale skin is holding the color so well.

I pull back from him and let my other hand run up the back of his neck, burying fingers in the shaggy black hair there. It's soft and thick; it's long enough I can grab hold of him and pull his head back just enough to stare into his eyes.

Fuck.

I'm pulled out of the headspace for a minute, but his eyes are glazed and he's already there.

It's him.

I have to take a breath, lick my lips, grip his hair a bit stronger, and pull upward. He comes with the pressure easily. He's been trained well. As his right foot drags on the floor, flips and lands flat, his mouth falls open. I desperately want to kiss those lips, to claim them, but I can't.

Instead, I press my chest against his back, hand embedded in his hair. My other hand wraps around his hip. His head comes back to rest against my shoulder and I walk us toward the bed. He's compliant, willing—almost fluid. He lands face down and doesn't move. I don't follow him. My instinct is to ravish him, to take from him what I've always wanted, but I can't.

This is about more than that. He needs something. There's a reason he's here in this room. Another deep breath bolsters me. My wand slips easily from my pocket. I trace the wood along his back and he moans softly. He can feel the hard wood dig into his skin, can feel its magic pulsing against his skin.

Using the palm of one hand, I nudge his thighs apart. He complies easily and I wrap around his waist to get him up on his knees. I can see the globes of his balls swinging loosely and the tip of his cock just beyond that. My wand follows down the crack of his arse, around his thigh and tucks neatly into the crevice by his balls. He stops breathing for a moment and my hand at the base of his spine rubs in soft circles.

I wait until his head drops again and he's breathing easily before I continue. A modified binding spell wraps thin cords around his balls, snaking around the base of his cock in a figure-eight. He gasps.

"Is the pressure too much?"

He shakes his head, so I pull my wand back and tuck it away. With him on elbows and knees, bound and nearly panting, it's taking everything I have to hold back. I close my eyes and step up behind him, feeling along the dips and ridges of his arched spine. I listen to the inhale and exhale as he tries to keep the rhythm steady. His head is once again tucked to his chest, but everything else about him is relaxed.

I rub one hand gently along his arse before swinging back and landing harshly. He reddens nicely. Another. He shifts slightly to brace. Another. I switch cheeks and leave my mark there. Moving down to the backs of his thighs, the sting in my hand is beginning to fade into the background as I watch the swing and bob of his engorged cock.

When he's pinked and panting, I stop. I run my fingertips over the swollen skin, breathing gently over areas where I've overlapped. His head pops up occasionally when I lick and kiss areas of particular sensitivity. It's not until the heat of my chest leans against him that a soft moan escapes and he panics, cutting it off and making sure his stance is perfect.

I ignore the indiscretion. I don't mind. I snake my hands around him, letting him support my weight. My fingers seek out his nipples and I clamp onto them, twisting and pinching. When they're sufficiently peaked, I flick them, feeling him roll his stomach at the sensation. He's having a hard time supporting me in his spread-kneed position, so I place my knees around his and he seems more steady.

When he's focused on my fingers, I begin rolling my hips against him. My cock, still tucked in my trousers, rolls in the crack of his arse and he is fighting to stay still. He breaks; he pushes back against me and I bite the thick flesh at his shoulder. The man beneath me cries out, shoving against me and attempting to rut into the bed. I still him with one hand and bite deeply. He whimpers and drops his head again.

"None of that now."

My teeth leave purple marks on his skin and I have to fight myself not to do more than lick and suck at them. I lay against him for a moment, catching my own breath and letting my aching cock rock gently against him.

He nearly drops to the bed when I pull away, but the slap against his burning arse is enough to remind him to stay put. My trousers slip off easily, freeing my cock. I take it in hand and slide upward with closed eyes, biting my lip.

Looking back at the man on the bed, I have to pull my hand away. I summon the lube and come behind him again. When I tap him on both thighs gently, he moves farther up the bed, staying in position. This pleases me. I reach forward and run my thumb along his arse, dipping between and running gently along his puckered entrance.

He seems to fall deeper into himself when my finger slips in. There's barely any resistance. I take my time before adding a second; at this, I get a little twitch, then he's back to breathing deeply. I can tell when I brush against his prostate because his entire body bows, ripples, and he's fighting to stay where he's supposed to, but he's failing. With my other hand, I grip his hair and yank it back. He's biting his lip and as I brush that sweet spot again, his eyes roll back, his abused lip taking the brunt of his ability to cope.

I slip a third finger in while I've got him twisted about. He's struggling now; his breathing is stilted and he's traded biting his lip for open-mouthed panting. Fingers are twisting in the sheets and when I slip past the second knuckle with all three, he gasps, then everything is still.

Afraid he's come early, I reach around him, but his cock is still rock-hard in its binding, balls tight against him. I let go of his head gently and it falls to his chest. He's not able to tuck it properly, but he's trying.

Withdrawing my fingers, I feel him gripping, trying to hold on to me. I grin and notice he's still a little open, waiting for something to fill him again. It doesn't take me long to lube up my cock and press the head against him. He's gone still again. When the head pops through, he starts breathing steadily. I slide in easily, one steady push and then I'm buried to my balls in his heat.

The pace I set is slow, thorough. I slap at the edge of his thigh where he's not quite red yet and he rolls against me, dipping his back. The other side has to match, so I wait a couple of thrusts and do the same. He gasps. I tilt my hips to try and find his prostate. I know when I've hit it when his hips drop; he's trying to rut against the bed, but he should know better. I slap the worst of his marks and he pushes up again, his cock well clear of the sheets.

Each roll of my hips is accompanied by a well-placed slap or drag of my nails against his body. He's begging for it now. His body can no longer stay in place. He tried, but he's too far gone. Without proper bindings, he pushes back against me and opens his thighs a bit, trying to fix the angle for himself. I punish him with the brutal pace I've set. There's no rest—no way for him to breathe in between thrusts and the continual stimulation against the swollen flesh of his thighs and arse.

When he lets out a guttural moan at my fingers running through his hair, at the way my mouth falls against the middle of his back, I can't hold back. I empty myself in him. There's nothing left of me to give. He cries out at the fluttering of my cock within him, at the way my hips continue to rub against his tormented flesh.

After a moment to collect myself, I pull out, watching some of my come drip out of him. This pleases me more than he can know—more than I will admit. He's desperately trying to hold his position despite the shaking of his knees and the purpling cock head swaying between his thighs. My deep breath seems to settle him, but it's the hand on the flat of his back that unnerves him and he stills.

A silent Relashio releases the binding on him and his panting increases. My hand smooths down his back and I can feel the sweat pooling at the base of his spine. Farther down, I slip into his abused hole, allowing my fingers to swirl in my come.

"Do you want this?"

He nods, barely able to move his head.

"Say it."

"Please," is all he can get out.

I focus on swirling the fingers in his arse until he's wriggling against me. Once he's gasping and nearly there, my other hand reaches under him and grabs his cock. Two quick strokes are all it takes, and he's there.

Exhausted, he manages to stay in place. I cast a Scourgify on myself and walk around the edge of the bed. He's easy to maneuver into my arms, though he's heavier than he looks. The baths are set up for this, so they have wide doors and large tubs. I set him down in the tub and run the water over his sore muscles. The oils on the edge of the tub are my own creation and I take my time easing them onto his skin, watching as his eye lids drift in and out of consciousness.

After he's soaked, I pull him up out of the water and set it to drain. The towels are soft and easy on bruised skin. He doesn't say anything as I tend to him. He doesn't say anything until I take him back to bed and put his pants on.

"Draco."

The name startles me. It's my own, but it's not something I've heard here. No one here knows me, but he knows me. I look down at him, curled up on his side on the bed and wait for him to continue.

"Will you stay?"

His voice is small. He's unsure; I don't know if it's because of me or because of what he's just done. I don't stay. It's not my protocol. It's not in my contract.

Looking down at him, I see him. I see the emptiness in his eyes and the fear. I see the self-hatred and the years of being so alone.

I nod.

"Yeah, Harry. I'll stay."

I curl up behind him, the heat from his arse and thighs a pleasant warmth between us as he falls asleep.