Chapter Text
Mallacht
(n.) curse, malediction
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧ :･ﾟ✧･ﾟ✧
The club's frenetic energy pressed in on Draco from all sides, a suffocating blanket of sound and sensation that made his temples throb with the beginnings of a headache. The air hung heavy with competing scents, the cloying sweetness of overpriced cocktails mixed with the acrid bite of cigarette smoke from the VIP lounge, undercut by the faint metallic tang of sweat that no amount of expensive perfume could fully mask.
The bassline of the current song vibrated up through the marble floors, resonating in his chest cavity with an intensity that made his teeth ache. He found himself cataloguing every sensory assault with mounting irritation: the way the strobe lights sliced through the haze in garish streaks of color, the shrill laughter of over-served socialites that cut through the music at irregular intervals, the constant brush of strangers' hands against his bare arms as they pushed through the crowded dance floor.
Draco longed for the sanctuary of his modest apartment with a physical ache that surprised him. He could practically feel the weight of his favorite book in his hands, see the way the lamplight would pool warmly on the pages as he settled into his well-worn armchair. The imagined strains of Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat Major, his preferred reading accompaniment, played faintly in his mind's ear, a soothing counterpoint to the club's auditory assault.
But escape remained impossible, not when he'd come so far, invested so much in this moment. The thought made his jaw tighten as he forced himself to focus on the present.
His fingers twitched at his sides before moving almost of their own accord to tug at the hem of his ridiculously short skirt, the motion sending the delicate silver chains around his wrists tinkling like some parody of holiday bells. The uniform was a masterpiece of calculated humiliation—the neckline plunged so dramatically it threatened to expose him with every deep breath, the sheer black stockings and lace garters an unnecessarily provocative touch that made his skin prickle with discomfort whenever he caught his reflection.
He barely recognized the creature staring back at him in the staff bathroom mirror earlier that evening—his normally pale blonde hair darkened to a rich chestnut and styled in artfully messy waves, his lips stained a deep, glossy crimson that made him look like some overpriced escort rather than the literature professor he'd once been.
The disguise was perfect, which only made it more galling. He needed to be utterly unrecognizable, a complete stranger in every sense of the word.
Not that Harry Potter would remember him regardless.
Their single encounter had been years ago, back when Draco still wore his hair in a neat, professional crop and hid his sharp grey eyes behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that he'd always hated but needed for reading. He could still picture the scene with perfect clarity—hovering near the bookshelves in his father's study while Potter and Lucius exchanged pleasantries, the way Potter's gaze had slid right over him as if he were part of the furniture.
The memory made him adjust his ridiculous costume with more force than necessary, the fake diamonds at his throat catching the light with every movement.
A sudden commotion at the club's entrance snapped him from his bitter reverie. His head came up sharply, his pulse kicking into a faster rhythm as he tracked the ripple of movement through the crowd. The bouncers were stepping aside with unusual deference, their usual bored expressions replaced with something approaching wariness.
And then, with the easy arrogance of a man who expected the world to make way for him, Harry Potter entered the club.
Draco watched as Potter cut through the sea of revelers with the unconscious confidence of someone who'd never doubted his place at the top of the food chain. Even in the club's dim lighting, those famous emerald green eyes were unmistakable as they swept across the room with a look of mild disdain.
The phalanx of bodyguards flanking him moved with the precision of a well-oiled machine, their dark suits and coiled menace clearing a path without needing to utter a word. Draco felt his lips curl in involuntary distaste.
Of course the man traveled with his own private security detail. When you destroyed as many lives as Harry Potter had, when you left as many broken people in your wake, precautions became necessary.
Harry Potter.
The so-called "Boy Who Conquered" the business world.
The wunderkind who'd built an empire before he turned thirty.
The man newspapers alternately praised for his visionary brilliance and feared for his ruthless business tactics. The man who had systematically dismantled Draco's family without showing a shred of remorse.
The familiar burn of hatred rose in Draco's throat like bile as the memories surfaced unbidden. He could see his father—the great Lucius Malfoy, once so proud and untouchable in his custom-tailored suits—sitting at their kitchen table in a stained dressing gown, staring blankly at piles of unopened bills.
It had all started with what Potter had called a "strategic partnership opportunity", his interest apparently piqued by the Malfoy family's rapid ascent in the European markets. Lucius had been wary from the beginning, preferring to keep his business dealings within carefully curated circles, but Potter had been nothing if not persistent. He'd wormed his way in with smooth words and carefully calculated favors, his offers of assistance gradually turning into demands, until one terrible day they'd awakened to find he'd taken everything.
And he had taken everything.
The company their family had built over generations, the one his grandfather had started from nothing. The ancestral estate that had stood for centuries, with its library of first editions and its rose gardens that his mother had tended with such care.
Their good name, their reputation, their standing in society. Their dignity. Their future.
Draco could still picture with painful clarity the way his mother's hands—once so soft and delicate, always adorned with the finest jewels—had trembled as she tried to chop vegetables in their cramped new kitchen.
Narcissa Malfoy had been raised in unimaginable luxury, a woman who'd never so much as poured her own tea until she was nearly fifty. The humiliation had broken something fundamental in her. He'd watched her wither away day by day, her beautiful face growing gaunt, her once-vibrant eyes turning dull and distant, until one terrible morning she simply hadn't woken up.
And Lucius—proud, unshakable Lucius who had always been his rock—had completely shattered after that.
The memories came in fragments, sharp as broken glass.
The nights of drunken weeping that echoed through their tiny apartment, the empty bottles piling up in corners until they formed miniature skylines of despair, the increasingly desperate calls to old "friends" who no longer returned their messages. Then finally, the screech of tires and the sickening crunch of metal as his father's car—the last vestige of their former life—had wrapped itself around a bridge support.
The police report had stated his blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit. The unspoken conclusion had been obvious to everyone who read between the lines.
Now Draco stood alone, the last Malfoy, with nothing left but the white-hot rage that had been festering in his chest for years. He'd spent months—no, closer to a year now—meticulously researching every aspect of Harry Potter's life. His habits, his routines, his vices. The women he dated (never for long), the restaurants he frequented (always the most expensive), the charities he supported (for the tax benefits, no doubt).
When he'd discovered Potter's penchant for frequenting The Amorist Club, this den of decadence masquerading as high society, Draco had given up everything without hesitation.
He'd resigned from his teaching position at the prestigious boarding school where he'd finally found some measure of peace. He'd sold what few possessions remained of value. He'd spent weeks practicing his new persona in front of the mirror until every gesture, every inflection was perfect. The cost had been exorbitant, but he'd paid it without complaint.
The humiliation of dressing like this night after night, the sleepless hours spent smiling at lecherous patrons who thought his costume was an invitation, the way his skin crawled every time some drunken fool grabbed his wrist or whispered obscenities in his ear—none of it mattered in the grand scheme of things.
Because tonight, it would all end.
Earlier that evening, during the lull between afternoon setup and the evening rush, he'd slipped into the club's private storage room with a practiced ease that belied his racing heart. His hands hadn't shaken at all as he'd carefully coated the rim of Harry Potter's exclusive crystal glass—the one only he was allowed to use, because even his drinking vessels had to be special—with a poison so refined it left no trace, so deadly that a single sip would be enough.
No one else would drink from it. No one else would suffer.
Just Potter.
Draco's fingers curled into fists at his sides, his manicured nails biting into his palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks. He watched as Potter made his way toward his usual booth, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea. The waitstaff scrambled to prepare his usual drink, the one that cost more than Draco had made in a week of teaching.
Soon, very soon now, that drink would be served in a very special glass.
And then Harry Potter would learn, too late, the oldest lesson of all—that when you destroy a man's entire world, you had better make sure you finish the job. Because survivors had nothing left to lose, and everything to prove.
The heavy bass of the club's music pulsed through the floor as Harry Potter made his entrance, his mood as dark as the tailored suit that clung to his broad shoulders. It had been one of those days where even the air felt oppressive, where every minor irritation had compounded until his patience hung by the thinnest of threads. The kind of day that made his knuckles ache with the need to connect with someone's face, to feel the satisfying crunch of cartilage giving way beneath his fist. Tonight wasn't about pleasure or relaxation—it was about finding an outlet for the restless, dangerous energy coursing through his veins.
His security team moved in perfect synchronization around him, their expensive earpieces glinting under the club's mood lighting. The protection was largely for show—Harry had spent years mastering Krav Maga, boxing, and several other lethal combat systems. He could disarm and disable most attackers before they even registered the threat.
But when you commanded the kind of wealth and influence Harry did, it was expected that you'd have people to handle such unpleasantries. Why get blood on your own Brioni suit when you could pay others to do it for you?
The club owner, a perpetually sweating man whose gaudy rings dug into Harry's palm during their obligatory handshake, came bustling over with the eagerness of a starving dog.
"Mr. Potter! We're honored by your presence tonight!" His voice dripped with sycophantic glee, his jowls quivering with nervous energy. The man owed Harry considerable favors—not to mention a substantial sum that had been "invested" in the club's recent renovations. "Your private booth is prepared, as always. Would you care for some company this evening? We have fresh selections that might... interest you."
Harry barely spared him a glance as he was led to the most secluded VIP area, a plush semicircular booth that offered both privacy and an unobstructed view of the entire club.
The owner wrung his hands anxiously, his sausage-like fingers twisting together. "Perhaps one of our premium companions? We have exquisite options tonight—models, aspiring actors, even a visiting ballet dancer." He gestured vaguely toward the crowd where dozens of beautiful faces turned hopefully in their direction, their practiced smiles not quite masking the desperation in their eyes.
Harry's gaze swept dismissively across the offerings. Pathetic. The world was overflowing with opportunists and social climbers, all desperate to attach themselves to power and wealth. He was about to wave them all away when movement near the bar caught his attention.
There, half-hidden in the shifting crowd, stood an anomaly—a slender figure dressed in the club's standard revealing attire but wearing it with obvious discomfort. The way the "woman" kept tugging at the skirt's hem, the tension in those delicate shoulders... it sparked something unexpected in Harry.
A slow, predatory smile curved his lips as he pointed with deliberate casualness. "That one. Bring her to me."
His quiet command sliced through the club's noise like a knife. Conversations stuttered to a halt as heads turned toward the bar where Draco had been lost in thought, absently tracing patterns in the condensation on his empty glass. The sudden silence made him glance up, and when he did, those striking mercury-colored eyes locked directly with Harry's piercing emerald gaze.
For a suspended moment, the rest of the world faded away as they simply stared at each other, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension.
Behind the bar, the head bartender nudged Draco urgently, his whisper frantic. "Move! Now! When Mr. Potter points at you, you run, not walk!" The sheer panic in the man's voice suggested that disobedience would have dire professional—and possibly physical—consequences.
Draco's perfectly shaped brows drew together as he met Harry's stare with unexpected defiance. He approached with deliberate, measured steps, each movement radiating barely-contained resentment. His hands, Harry noted, were elegant but strong—not the soft, manicured hands of someone accustomed to this line of work.
"W-would..." the word caught in his throat, and Draco had to clear it before continuing. "Would you like me to bring you a drink?" the question came out clipped, the bare minimum of politeness stretched thin over clear hostility.
Harry studied him for several loaded seconds, taking in the delicate jawline set with stubbornness, the way those pale eyes refused to look away despite the obvious discomfort. Finally, he nodded once. "My usual. In my glass."
The specification was unnecessary, the staff knew better than to serve him in anything else, but he wanted to watch this intriguing creature's reaction.
The bartender sprang into action like his life depended on it, mixing the expensive cocktail with practiced efficiency before pouring it into Harry's personal crystal glass—the very one Draco had prepared earlier with such care.
As he accepted the heavy tray, Draco's long fingers betrayed the slightest tremor, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. Just a little longer, he told himself, the words a silent mantra. Just until he takes that first sip. Then justice will finally be served.
The thought played on loop in his mind as he crossed the final distance to Harry's table, each step measured and controlled.
Setting the glass down with precise placement, Draco willed his hands to remain steady. Drink it, you monster. Let it burn your throat on the way down.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans. Harry made no move toward the poisoned cocktail. Instead, he kept his unsettling gaze locked on Draco's face, studying him with the intensity of a predator sizing up prey.
"Sit." Harry snapped his fingers, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the tense silence, indicating the plush seat beside him with a careless gesture.
Every muscle in Draco's body went rigid at the command. Without conscious thought, his eyes flashed with pure, undiluted hatred—the kind that comes only from years of carefully nurtured resentment. No one spoke to a Malfoy that way, like they were summoning some common serving wench.
Before he could voice his refusal, another waitress intervened, pushing him nervously into the seat with a frightened glance toward Harry.
Harry leaned closer, invading Draco's personal space with the casual arrogance of someone accustomed to getting whatever he wanted. "What's your name?" His breath carried the subtle aroma of top-shelf whiskey and expensive mints, the scent incongruously pleasant given the dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Darcy," Draco answered through barely-parted lips, his alias rolling easily off his tongue after months of careful preparation. The name tasted bitter, but not as bitter as the disappointment of seeing his untouched poison sitting just inches from Harry's reach.
Harry's hand moved suddenly, long fingers grasping Draco's chin with surprising gentleness as he turned his face toward the overhead light. "You're new here," He murmured, more to himself than to Draco. "I'd remember eyes like yours." His thumb brushed over Draco's cheekbone in a gesture that might have been mistaken for tenderness by someone who didn't know better.
The club owner chose that moment to intervene, his jowls quivering with nervous sweat.
"Ah, yes! Darcy is our newest employee, Mr. Potter. Please forgive any... lack of polish." He shot Draco a glare that promised severe consequences later. "The full VIP service training hasn't been completed yet." Turning back to Draco, he spoke through clenched teeth. "Darcy, show some respect! It's an honor to be chosen by Mr. Potter. You should be thanking him properly!"
Draco's spine straightened with centuries of aristocratic breeding, his posture perfect despite the ridiculous costume. "I've introduced myself and delivered your drink, Mr. Potter," He said coolly, each word dripping with icy politeness as he rose from the seat. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have other duties to attend to."
The crystal glass containing the poisoned cocktail glimmered innocently under the club's mood lighting, its deadly contents concealed beneath a deceptively inviting amber surface. In mere moments, the toxin would begin its lethal work, constricting Harry's airways in a silent, merciless embrace. Draco could almost picture it—those arrogant lips turning blue, those piercing green eyes widening in shocked realization as his body betrayed him.
The fantasy was so vivid that Draco barely registered Harry's movement until iron fingers clamped around his wrist with bruising force.
Before Draco could react, Harry yanked him backward with such violent precision that he lost all balance, his body twisting awkwardly before landing with an undignified thud directly in Harry's lap.
The sudden impact forced the air from Draco's lungs in a startled gasp, his legs splaying across Harry's powerful thighs in a position that sent waves of humiliation crashing through him. He barely had time to register the heat of Harry's body beneath him before cold, demanding lips crashed against his own.
The kiss was nothing short of an assault—a ruthless claim that left no room for resistance. Harry's lips were initially cool and unyielding, then scorchingly hot as they moved with devastating precision. Draco's mind reeled as a skilled tongue invaded his mouth, exploring every inch with arrogant possession. The sensation was overwhelming—the slick heat, the faint taste of premium whiskey, the way Harry seemed to be memorizing his very essence through that relentless exploration.
Against his will, Draco felt his body responding, heat flooding through him as pleasure and outrage warred within his traitorous nerves.
This was no romantic gesture, but a blatant demonstration of power from a man who took what he wanted without hesitation. Harry kissed with the same ruthless efficiency he employed in business—calculated, controlled, leaving no opportunity for refusal. The realization that Harry had undoubtedly reduced countless others to this same breathless state sent fresh fury coursing through Draco's veins.
How many people had been subjected to this same humiliating treatment, left panting and ashamed by this man’s casual dominance?
With a strength born of pure hatred, Draco tore his mouth away, his entire body trembling with barely contained rage. He didn't think, didn't hesitate—his hand flew up in a vicious arc, connecting with Harry's cheek in a slap so forceful it echoed through the suddenly silent club like a gunshot.
PLAKK!!!
The sound seemed to freeze time itself. The music continued its relentless thumping, but every conversation died mid-sentence as dozens of heads swiveled toward the VIP section in unison. Draco stood trembling before Harry, his chest heaving, his lips swollen and tingling from the brutal kiss.
The entire atmosphere of the club had transformed in an instant, the air thick with electric tension as patrons and staff alike held their collective breath, waiting to see how the infamous Harry Potter would respond to such unprecedented defiance.
Draco barely had time to register the collective gasp from the crowd before an iron grip closed around his forearm, squeezing with such brutal force that white-hot pain lanced up to his shoulder.
"You stupid little bitch!" roared a mountainous bodyguard, his face contorted with rage. "How dare you raise your hand to Mr. Potter!"
The man's fingers felt like steel bands cutting off Draco's circulation, his entire arm going numb from the crushing pressure. Even as he struggled—kicking out wildly, raking his nails across the guard's wrist, even sinking his teeth into the meaty hand restraining him—the brute didn't so much as flinch.
Humiliation burned through Draco as he realized how pathetically ineffective his resistance was against the guard's overwhelming strength.
"Release her.”
Harry's voice cut through the tension like a scalpel—calm, measured, yet carrying such absolute authority that the bodyguard immediately loosened his grip, sending Draco stumbling back a step. The sudden release left him off-balance, his legs trembling beneath him as he fought to maintain some semblance of dignity.
The entire club watched in breathless anticipation as Harry slowly rose to his full, imposing height, his expression unreadable. With deliberate slowness, he brought his fingers up to trace the reddening mark on his cheek where Draco's palm had connected, his emerald eyes never leaving Draco's face.
The silence stretched unbearably, thick with unspoken tension, until Harry finally spoke, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Name your price."
The words struck Draco like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily speechless. Price? Was Potter actually... proposing to pay him after that humiliating violation? His gaze flickered involuntarily to the poisoned drink still sitting untouched on the table, its deadly potential now wasted.
The reality of his failure crashed over him with crushing weight—all his careful planning, all his months of preparation and patience, undone because he couldn't control his temper for five more minutes. Bitter self-loathing rose in his throat, mixing with the lingering taste of Potter on his tongue as he struggled to maintain his composure.
Every eye in the club remained fixed on them, the weight of collective scrutiny pressing down on Draco like a physical force. Yet despite the overwhelming attention, despite the precariousness of his position, Draco found himself unable to look away from Harry's piercing gaze.
The situation demanded absolute control, a performance so convincing it would make Harry lower his guard completely. Draco had rehearsed this moment countless times in his mind—how he would flutter his false eyelashes, how his painted lips would curve into an alluring smile, how he would lean in just close enough to make Harry crave more.
Every movement had been calculated to lead to one inevitable conclusion: Harry raising that poisoned glass to his lips without a second thought.
But when those rough hands had yanked him down onto the man's lap, when those demanding lips had claimed his with such arrogant possession, all of Draco's carefully constructed composure had shattered like glass.
Now he stood amidst the ruins of his own plan, his chest heaving with barely contained fury, the taste of Harry still burning on his lips.
The poisoned cocktail sat untouched on the table, its contents waiting uselessly while Harry studied him with those unsettling green eyes that seemed to see straight through his disguise. Draco's failure was complete, and the realization made his stomach churn with self-loathing.
He should have endured the humiliation, should have let Potter grope and maul him if that's what it took. His parents had suffered far worse at this monster's hands—what right did he have to balk at a few minutes of degradation when their vengeance was at stake?
His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the approach of Jane, the club's reigning queen who had been Potter's regular companion for months.
The voluptuous brunette moved with the confidence of someone who had never been refused, her hips swaying in a practiced rhythm as she closed the distance between them. Her heavily lined eyes burned with barely concealed jealousy as they raked over Draco's slender form, taking in every detail of his borrowed finery with obvious disdain.
"Really, Harry darling," She purred, her voice dripping with false sweetness as she reached out to adjust Harry's collar, "you're wasting your time with this... amateur." Her fingers lingered against Harry's throat with possessive familiarity. "Why settle for frozen champagne when you could have properly aged whiskey?"
The scream that tore from her throat a second later sent a jolt through the entire club. Harry's hand had moved with terrifying speed, his fingers closing around Jane's wrist with enough force to make the bones creak alarmingly.
Even from where he stood, Draco could see the blood draining from Jane's fingers as Harry's grip tightened, her carefully manicured nails turning pale from the lack of circulation.
"I won't ask again," Harry said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost beneath the club's music, yet carrying an undercurrent of violence that made the hairs on Draco's neck stand up.
When he released her, the shove was hard enough to send Jane stumbling back several steps, her expensive heels catching on the carpet as she fought to maintain her balance. The look she shot Draco before fleeing was pure venom.
All that dangerous attention focused back on Draco with the intensity of a spotlight.
"Your price," Harry repeated, those piercing eyes missing nothing—not the way Draco's breath hitched, nor the subtle tremor in his clenched fists. "I'm waiting."
What Harry didn't say—what he didn't need to say—was that this was no longer about desire. This had become a matter of dominance, of proving that no one defied Harry Potter and walked away unscathed.
The realization sent a chill down Draco's spine even as it stoked the fires of his anger higher.
Unbeknownst to Draco, his entire scheme had been transparent from the moment he'd stepped into the club. The poorly concealed glances at the glass, the trembling hands, the ridiculous pseudonym—Harry had seen through it all with embarrassing ease. His initial plan had been to toy with his would-be assassin, to pretend to drink the poison before revealing his knowledge in some humiliating fashion.
But then Draco had kissed him back for one devastating moment before that glorious slap, and Harry had found himself captivated by this beautiful, reckless creature who dared to fight back.
Now he studied the furious blond before him, admiring the way rage made those silver eyes glitter like polished steel. There was fire in this one, fire and pride and pain—a far cry from the usual sycophants and gold-diggers who threw themselves at Harry's feet.
This reckless, beautiful man needed to learn what happened to those who challenged Harry Potter, and Harry intended to be a very thorough teacher.
Draco could feel the weight of dozens of eyes upon him, the entire club holding its breath as they waited to see how this unprecedented confrontation would end. The air grew thick with anticipation, the silence so complete he could hear the ice cracking in abandoned drinks.
Every instinct screamed at him to run, to flee while he still could, but the memory of his mother's gaunt face and his father's broken spirit rooted him to the spot.
Drawing himself up to his full height, Draco summoned every ounce of aristocratic breeding in his veins. His chin lifted in that distinctive Malfoy tilt, his shoulders squaring with the unconscious grace of old money and older bloodlines. When he spoke, his voice carried clearly through the silent club, every syllable sharp enough to draw blood.
"You couldn't afford me if you liquidated every asset in that bloated empire of yours."
The collective gasp from the crowd was almost comical in its uniformity. No one spoke to Harry Potter that way. No one was stupid enough to try.
A muscle twitched in Harry's jaw, the only outward sign of his anger as he slowly rose from his seat. The movement was deceptively casual, like a panther uncoiling from a nap, but the danger radiating from him was palpable.
The charged silence that had fallen over the club shattered as Harry's lips twisted into a smile devoid of warmth or humor. It was the expression of a predator who had finally cornered its prey after a long hunt. Without looking away from Draco's furious glare, Harry addressed his head bodyguard in a voice that carried the weight of absolute authority.
"There exists nothing in this world that can deny me when I decide to claim it," He stated, his words dripping with quiet menace as he made an almost casual gesture with his gloved hand.
Before Draco could so much as draw breath to protest, the largest of Harry's security team moved with terrifying speed. Hands like steel vises clamped around Draco's waist, lifting him clear off the ground with humiliating ease.
The world upended violently as Draco found himself flung over the bodyguard's shoulder, his stomach lurching at the sudden inversion. The blood rushed to his head, making the club's neon lights smear into dizzying streaks of color as he dangled helplessly, his carefully styled hair now brushing against the bodyguard's back with each purposeful stride toward the exit.
"Let me go, you brainless brute!" Draco shrieked, his voice cracking with equal parts fury and panic. He hammered his fists against the bodyguard's broad back, his legs kicking wildly in the air like a furious cat being carried against its will.
Each blow he landed met unyielding muscle, the impacts sending sharp pains up his arms while the bodyguard continued moving as if unaware of the assault. The sheer futility of his resistance only stoked Draco's rage higher, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he twisted violently in the unbreakable grip.
As they moved through the crowd, Draco caught glimpses of the frozen spectators through the disorienting upside-down view. The club's patrons stood rooted in place, their cocktails forgotten, mouths agape at the brazen abduction unfolding before them. The owner's face had gone ashen, his sausage-like fingers clutching at his chest as if fearing a heart attack, yet he made no move to intervene.
Not a single soul among the glittering crowd dared to challenge Harry Potter's will, their cowardice as palpable as the bass still thumping through the sound system.
The abrupt transition from the club's stifling heat to the cool night air of the parking lot made Draco gasp. The bodyguard's grip shifted slightly as they approached a sleek black sedan, and in that moment of adjustment, Draco saw his chance. With a desperate twist, he managed to slide from the man's shoulder, his heels hitting the pavement hard enough to send a jolt up his spine.
Instinct took over and he ran, his ridiculous stilettos clattering against the asphalt as he willed his legs to move faster despite the constricting skirt and impractical footwear.
Freedom lasted exactly four strides before an iron band clamped around his bicep, yanking him backward with such force that his teeth snapped together painfully. Without thinking, Draco whirled and sank his teeth into the meat of the bodyguard's hand, the coppery tang of blood flooding his mouth as he bit down with every ounce of strength he possessed.
“Fucking hell!" the bodyguard bellowed, shaking his injured hand as dark droplets spattered the pristine concrete.
Harry, who had been observing the scene with detached amusement, let out a low chuckle that sent fresh waves of fury coursing through Draco's veins.
What followed was a flurry of desperate violence as Draco fought with the frenzied energy of a cornered animal. He raked his nails across the bodyguard's face, aimed vicious kicks at his shins, even attempted to headbutt the man's granite jaw. But against the bodyguard's trained reflexes and sheer bulk, his efforts were as effective as a kitten attacking a bulldog.
Gradually, his limbs grew heavy with exhaustion, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps as he sagged in the man's unrelenting grip. Yet even as his body failed him, his eyes remained blazing with undiminished hatred when they locked onto Harry's.
Harry closed the distance between them with measured steps, his polished Oxfords clicking against the pavement like a countdown to doom. "I'll make you a generous offer," He purred, tilting his head in mock consideration. "Give me your word that you'll behave, and I'll let you ride up front with me." He gestured to the car's plush interior visible through the open door. "Italian leather seats. Climate control. Your choice of music."
The way he said it made it sound like he was granting some grand privilege rather than the basic decency owed to any human being.
Draco's response erupted from him like lava from a long-dormant volcano. "I'd rather be dragged naked through broken glass than spend another second in your revolting presence!" He spat, his voice raw from screaming but still dripping with aristocratic disdain.
Harry's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew more pronounced, transforming into something truly terrifying in its calculated cruelty. "Your persistence is... admirable," He conceded with a sigh that might have sounded disappointed if not for the predatory gleam in his eyes. With a slight nod to his bodyguard, he delivered his verdict, "The trunk it is. Perhaps some time in the dark will help adjust that attitude of yours."
The bodyguard needed no further encouragement. He hauled Draco toward the rear of the vehicle, popping the trunk with one hand while maintaining his vise-like grip with the other. The yawning darkness within seemed to swallow what little light the parking lot offered, transforming the spacious trunk into a black maw waiting to consume him.
Draco's renewed struggles were pitiful now, his energy spent, his body aching from the futile fight. The last thing he saw before the lid slammed shut with a final, resounding clunk was Harry's satisfied expression, those emerald eyes glittering with dark promise in the artificial glow of the parking lot lights, sealing Draco's fate as effectively as the trunk latch clicking into place.