Corseting
Draco Malfoy’s posture had always been arrogant and perfect; his back ramrod straight, as if his spinal chord had been replaced by a metal beam. There were many things which stood out about him, but his posture was the one Harry found himself most reluctantly fascinated by, despite Malfoy being as pleasant as a mouthful of thorny stems. He’d stared at Malfoy when he thought no one was looking, wondered how he sat up so straight when other students were hunched over their books in the library. Harry’s posture had never been good; the weight of the Wizarding World left him with hunched shoulders. It didn’t matter if he had defeated Voldemort years ago; the constant tension in his shoulders refused to go away. The fact that he had never become comfortable with his great height after his sudden growth spurt in the sixth year didn’t help matters. He still found himself subconsciously hunched when talking to people shorter than he. He’d envied Malfoy in school for proudly towering above the other students, head held high and pointed chin haughtily tilted upward.
It might seem strange, how Auror Potter’s mind had landed on a topic like Draco Malfoy’s posture, but it was difficult not to when the man sat across from him at the end of the bar, sitting primly on the stool as he sipped a glass of the imitation absinthe the pub served. Harry would not have expected to run into him in this dinky, little place, especially since it was the first time he had laid eyes on him in seven years.
Time had been good to Malfoy; his platinum hair reached a little past his jaw, no longer slicked back and softening his pretty, sharp features ever so slightly. He wore expensive black robes, the high collar held together by a serpentine, silver clasp, a somehow tantalising sliver of pale skin peeking from where the material did not meet. His steely eyes, matured by time, widened fractionally when they landed on Harry. He looked away quickly, but his gaze had lingered too long to claim he hadn’t seen the Boy Who Lived.
“To what do I owe the honour, Potter?” Malfoy hadn’t even pretended to be surprised when Harry plopped unceremoniously into the barstool beside him. He had finished his drink, and the bartender had placed another glass in front of him as he crushed an ice cube between his perfect, white teeth.
Harry needn’t flag down the barman for another Guinness; his scar did the talking for him. He’d taken to Mad Jack’s Tavern to escape the taunting, childhood memories the Leaky Cauldron’s walls released, and while they did not coddle him here, his celebrity ensured he would never suffer the indignity of sobriety. Blink and a new drink would appear, or his empty glass would be full once more.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you,” said Harry, “heard you’d gone off to Paris.”
Malfoy sloshed the green liquid in his glass around, the ice quietly clinking against the glass. “I did. It was a great escape, right in the heart of fine culture, but home is where the heart is, no? It was time to come back.”
“I’ve never been there, to Paris, I mean. Haven’t had much time to travel.”
“I don’t know if you’d fancy it too much; doesn’t seem like your kind of thing. However, I believe even you could appreciate its beauty.”
Harry snorted. “Are you calling me uncultured?”
“I don’t suppose I’m the epitome of culture in a place like this. I’m hardly at liberty to trade insults at the moment.”
Admittedly, Malfoy did look out of place: an aristocrat drinking amongst peasants. “You’re the last person I would’ve expected to see in Mad Jack’s.”
“It’s my first night back. I wanted a bit of anonymity before my arrival makes waves; Mother has already notified quite a few of her friends. I didn’t think I would run into anyone I knew here,” Malfoy swiftly downed his drink. “Obviously, I thought wrong.”
Harry frowned, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Why had he spoken to Malfoy? They had never been on friendly terms, and that hadn’t improved after seven years of living in different countries. In his scruffy jeans and old T-shirt, he didn’t look fit to shine Malfoy’s already immaculately shined boots. His gaze wandered to Malfoy’s back. Malfoy sat so straight it looked uncomfortable while Harry was lazily slumped over his Guinness like a bum.
“I didn’t mean to bother you,” Harry started to slide off his seat.
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Potter. If I minded your company, do you think I would’ve entertained asinine conversation for so long?” Malfoy scoffed, shaking his empty glass at the bartender to signal he wanted another.
Harry righted himself on the barstool, flashing a lopsided grin. “Sorry.”
“I’m surprised to see you’re not wearing a wedding band, Potter. Could’ve sworn you and the Weaselette would’ve sired numerous, ginger monsters by now,” said Malfoy conversationally, gesturing to Harry’s unadorned hands.
“We didn’t have the time for children; Ginny plays Quidditch for the Holyhead Harpies now,” Harry shrugged.
“So you two are no longer seeing each other?”
“No; people change, want different things… How about you? Your finger’s equally naked.”
Malfoy looked down at his own long, thin fingers as if this was news to him. “Well, what do you know? You’re right! Twelve points to Gryffindor!” he drawled sarcastically, smirking at Harry’s exasperated sigh.
“All that time in Paris and a pretty Parisian girl hasn’t managed to hold your attention?”
Malfoy laughed dryly, bringing his half-full glass of absinthe to his lips. It sort of amused Harry, watching Malfoy down the hallucinogenic beverage like water. He could only imagine how Malfoy would be acting in a short while, what sort of drunk he’d be.
“I wasn’t looking to settle down in Paris; perfectly content enjoying the sordid life of a bachelor. Why are you so interested in my love life?”
Harry shrugged as he downed the remainder of his Guinness. “Just trying to make small talk.”
“You must be awfully lonely to want to make small talk with me,” Malfoy rested his cheek in his palm, leaning slightly to one side, successfully maintaining his admirable posture.
Those careless words rang tragically true in Harry’s ears. Loneliness was something constantly looming in the back of his mind. Ron and Hermione were married. As happy as he was for them, he could not help but feel like the third wheel, and their Friday dinners often left him feeling awkward because he was usually without a companion and forced to endure their lovesick gazes at one another. And whilst he would always be an honorary Weasley, familial love wasn’t enough to curb the empty feeling. Finding love wasn’t as easy as he would’ve liked. Being Harry Potter left him paranoid: did they adore Harry the man or Harry the legend?
Malfoy must have noticed the gloomy cloud which had appeared over Harry’s head, because he muttered a barely audible apology.
“It’s alright,” Harry forced a small smile. An apology, however pathetic it was, was a rare thing from a Malfoy.
“I was only taking the piss. I’m not the same child I was. I didn’t mean to offend you,” Malfoy said seriously, sitting straight up. It was obvious he was starting to feel the effects of the imitation absinthe; his face was flushed and his pupils were wide in his grey irises. Even his upper class accent had sounded a tad slurred, although the most obvious sign was perhaps the fact that he was being so likeably civil. It was almost endearing.
The corners of Harry’s mouth quirked higher in a genuine smile. “Really, it’s okay, Draco,” Harry caught himself. It appeared Malfoy wasn’t the only one feeling the consequences of drink. “You don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you?”
“It’s my name, is it not? Do you walk on eggshells with everyone, or am I just special?”
“You’re very special,” Harry’s timbre had taken on a slightly husky quality. He had felt a small attraction to Malfoy, the very reason he’d come over to say hello, but the other man’s presence had made him nervous like the virginal teenager he once was. Harry had learned early on that gender didn’t mean much to him: someone with a cock was just as capable of loving him as any woman was. Love mattered, not genitals. But he didn’t love Malfoy, at least not yet. There was just something about him that attracted Harry. He was like a block of ice, and Harry wanted to know if he would melt under his touch, wanted to make him lose his mind enough to slump for once in his life.
Draco’s fair eyebrows rose at Harry’s flirtatious tone. “My, my… The Golden Boy has grown up, hasn’t he?” His eyes roved up and down and up again at Harry’s form, not seeming to be at all displeased. “You’re an Auror now?”
Harry nodded in affirmation.
“It shows; you’ve bulked up a bit: not a bad physique.”
“And you’re still as thin as ever, suits you fine, though.”
Draco smirked cockily, looking very much like the pointy-faced schoolboy of years past. “I know I’m gorgeous, Potter, but thank you for the compliment.”
Harry snorted, shaking his head. “What were you up to in Paris anyway?”
“I discovered I’m not too shabby at painting. Started out as something I did to gather my thoughts and pass the time. A lover of mine ran a café, told me he wanted to put one of my pieces in the humble, little gallery. It attracted quite a bit of attention, so I started selling my work.”
“I never saw you as the artistic type, getting messy with all that paint on your hands…Not a bad visual, actually.”
“Now you’re just being cheeky,” Draco laughed a charming, little laugh, melodious when free of vindictiveness. “I think it’s time for me to head home; the room’s started spinning. It was nice talking to you, Potter.”
The room must have been spinning faster than Draco thought, because he would’ve fallen flat on his face if Harry hadn’t been quick to catch him. He held Draco against his body, perhaps longer than necessary. He really was thin, felt fragile beneath Harry’s strong, square fingers. He smelled of pricey cologne and alcohol. Through the thin fabric of Draco’s robes, Harry could feel something rigid and peculiar on Draco’s back. What was he wearing under the mysterious, black fabric? Harry’s curiosity piqued.
“You can let me go now,” Draco said softly, his breath tickling Harry’s neck.
“I will as long as you didn’t plan on Apparating home.”
“…Will a lie suffice?”
“I won’t be responsible for letting you splinch yourself. Where are you staying? I’ll Side-Along us.”
“Malfoy Manor.”
~~
The manor brought with it a terrible variant of nostalgia. They had popped into the large, entry hall, everything looking exactly as it had when it had served as the Death Eaters’ headquarters. Harry swallowed noisily, trying to calm himself and let the tumultuous vestiges of the past remain buried. He did not have to wait long for something to distract him from the melancholy thrum in his ribcage; Draco’s tongue was in his mouth, those pink lips sucking all thought out of his head. He was all instinct and Guinness, wrapping his arms around Draco’s slender waist, pulling him close.
Somehow they made it up the formidable, marble staircase, but not without a few stumbles on the way, occasionally having to grasp the golden banister lest they fall. It was as if something in Harry had snapped when the bedroom door clicked shut behind them. He pounced on Draco like a man possessed, using his weight to pin Draco to the mattress. He made quick work of the clasp holding the collar together, immediately sucking on the white of Draco’s throat when it was revealed to him. Draco’s breathing was loud and quick, fingers tightening around thick strands of Harry’s hair as he grinded his erection against Harry’s firm stomach.
Harry eased up, helping Draco out of his robe with an aroused urgency. There was something so forbidden about what he was doing with Malfoy, and it excited him more than it had any right to. With the robe discarded, Malfoy was still tragically clothed, wearing a gunmetal dress shirt and fitted, black trousers. Harry released a frustrated sigh. Just how many layers separated him from the nakedness his whole world was suddenly, inexplicably based on? He roughly yanked the trousers and pants down Draco’s thin legs.
“Merlin, this thing has too many buttons,” he frowned, running his hand over the silky material of Draco’s shirt, once again feeling that strange, rigid structure covering Draco’s abdomen. “…Fucking small buttons, too. Bloody maddening.”
“Patience is a virtue-Potter!”
It was too late to stop him; Harry had successfully ripped Draco’s shirt open, buttons popping off and flying all over the place.
A shocked silence encompassed the elegantly furnished bedroom. A black corset was revealed to Harry’s wide eyes, laced tightly enough to cinch Draco’s waist, sufficient in making his hips appear wider, like a broad-shouldered, athletic female. It started right beneath his pectorals, leaving his stiff, rosy nipples to stand out against his flat, alabaster flesh. Vertical, silver rivets decorated the black satin. The contrast created an aesthetic sin; Draco was composed of pale colours, the only darkness provided by the corset and the Dark Mark which marred Draco’s left forearm.
“Jesus Christ.”
Draco’s face, neck and shoulders burned in pink humiliation. He looked torn between fury and tears.
“I think you should leave now,” he said evenly, his jaw clenched.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” said Harry earnestly. His cock was so hard it hurt, straining uncomfortably in his jeans. Draco was damn stunning, the portrait of deviance and androgyny; there was no way Harry could turn back now. The things he wanted to do, to ask… Had corseting been the secret to Draco’s unyielding posture for all these years? A pulse of excitement caused Harry’s cock to throb when he thought about a corset underneath something as innocent as a school uniform.
For a moment, Draco seemed shocked by the fact that Harry hadn’t shunned him, but then his grey eyes were consumed by an angry fire. “This isn’t some sick fetish, Potter.”
“Then explain it to me. I’m not going to judge you, Draco,” Harry whispered, placing his hand on top of Draco’s, caressing it with his thumb.
“I...” Draco took a deep breath. “When I was still quite young, Father noticed one of my shoulders was higher than the other. Of course, that would never do for a Malfoy. After a while, he realised nothing he did could make me stand straight, and my left shoulder always jutted forward. They took me to a healer where they diagnosed my spine was crooked, but there was nothing they could do. Eventually, I started suffering from near-crippling back pain and blinding headaches.”
He stopped speaking for a moment, reliving the excruciating pain. Harry so desperately wished there was something he could do to take the trauma away, but he couldn’t even dull the pain in his own life, far less someone else’s. A wave of helplessness threatened to drown him.
Draco continued, “My parents became so desperate that they took me to a Muggle doctor in the summer before First Year. He diagnosed me with scoliosis and I had to wear a stiff, uncomfortable brace for the next eight years. When I went through growth spurts, the pain was maddening, and the brace would have to be adjusted. I even had a more cumbersome one to wear at night. When I was nineteen, I no longer needed it, but… I missed the comfort of having something to support me, as strange as it sounds. I was alone in Paris with nothing but canvas and oil paint… I suppose you can piece together a strange transition from here.”
Harry didn’t know what to say, but his fingers had found themselves lost in Draco’s fine, whitish hair, comfortingly massaging his scalp.
Draco surprised Harry by resting his head on his shoulder. “You’re the first person I’ve told this to in years. Not since I was a resident in the Slytherin dorms; people asked questions.”
“You haven’t even told any of your lovers?”
“No, I just let them assume it was a kink I have. At the time, I lacked the desire to sound insane and have people isolate me or treat me like I’m made of glass. I guess things always have to be different with you; you’ve always been the exception to every rule.”
Nervously, Harry chewed on his bottom lip. “Can I touch it?”
“Touch what?”
“The corset.”
Draco nodded his consent, and Harry slid his hand from its place tangled in Draco’s hair, down his shoulders, over his bare chest, and down the smooth satin of the corset, feeling the stiff, metal bones through it. He followed the curves of Draco’s sides created by the corset, blood rushing into his penis once more as he toyed with the white ribbon responsible for reshaping Draco’s internal organs. Without warning, he swooped down and took a pink nipple into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth and prodding it with his tongue before sucking on it.
“Oh…that’s good,” moaned Draco encouragingly, arching his back as much as the constricting garment would allow.
The same oral treatment was given to the other nipple while Harry used his hand to pinch and pull the one which had already gotten all of the attention, reddened and shiny and slick with saliva. Draco’s erection was sandwiched between their bodies, the damp head leaving a wet spot on Harry’s shirt.
“I want to fuck you so bad,” Harry panted into Draco’s collarbone as he unzipped his jeans and freed his own cock, giving it a few lazy tugs.
“Then do it.”
“I want you to be naked when I do. As beautiful as you look in this,” he stroked a corseted side, “I want to be the only support you need, if only for tonight.”
“Ever the soppy Gryffindor,” Draco chuckled quietly. “Hurry up and get your wand. I can’t wait much longer.”
Harry sat back on his haunches. “I don’t want to use magic. Doing it by hand… makes it more intimate. Turn around.”
It took a great deal longer than it needed to, but it was a pleasant inconvenience. He enjoyed startling Draco with a nip to the earlobe or neck while he unlaced the corset. When it was finally off, Harry could see the red and pink lines it left all over Draco’s torso, deepest where the bones cut into skin. He longed to run his tongue all over each indent, but he hadn’t the patience.
Soon, Draco’s legs were spread wide, the backs of his knees held in Harry’s hands as the other man thrust madly into him, the smacking noise of skin slapping against skin deafening in the quiet night. Draco’s manicured fingernails dug into Harry’s biceps, his head thrown back as he gasped and shuddered and bucked and moaned in ecstasy. Harry’s thick cock sawed through his insides, cruelly stabbing his prostate every other thrust. Harry grabbed Draco’s cock, pumping it out of sync with the snaps of their pelvises. Draco came undone with a loud cry, his walls clenching tightly around his lover, bringing Harry to an orgasm shortly after.
They managed to fall asleep in a tangled, sticky mess, their arms and legs entwined in a strange homage to an embrace, feeling more content than they had in years even with uncertainty and regret looming in the morning.
~~
Part II-Tight-Lacing