Archive of Our Own ^beta

Draco’s pureblood heritage wasn’t just a point of pride; it was the foundation of how he viewed the world, including his marriage. From the moment Harry became his husband, Draco ensured that his customs were honored, not out of malice but because they were intrinsic to who he was, it was something Harry understood about his husband firsthand.

The finances? Those were Draco’s domain, and Harry was deliberately kept out of them. Instead, he was granted a generous monthly allowance—more than enough for his needs—and if he ever required more, all he had to do was ask.

Draco preferred Harry remain at home, avoiding work altogether, ensuring their household reflected the grace and dignity of a proper pureblood residence, he had said.

He was required to dress impeccably in tailored clothes—sometimes even in heeled boots slightly higher than what men typically wore. Harry complied without protest, a sucker for that strange thrill in meeting Draco’s exacting standards.

Harry was to ask for permission before making plans, whether it was visiting friends or attending a social event. It wasn’t a restriction Harry found constricting; it was all part of the old-world charm and order Draco brought to their lives.

Similarly, when they went out together, Harry was to walk just a step behind him in public—a sign of respect and submission that, to Harry, felt less like an indignity and more like a deeply intimate, public, acknowledgment of their roles.

And every evening, as the clock struck the appointed hour, Harry would wait by the door to greet Draco, poised with all the elegance Harry had cultivated over the years. He would take his husband’s coat with a flourish, hanging it neatly before stepping aside to pour him a drink.

In truth, Harry didn’t mind at all. If anything, there was something strangely thrilling and sensual about serving Draco in ways he wasn't aware existed before his pureblood marriage, about slipping into a role that felt so contrary to what the world expected of him. It turned him on in ways he could hardly articulate. He wasn’t just the Savior anymore, wasn’t just Harry Potter. That name, that weight, no longer defined him. Now, he was part of the Malfoy family, bound by customs that Draco’s ancestors had shaped over centuries. He was Draco’s, part of a bloodline and legacy older than he could fathom. And he reveled in it

Being his —gave Harry a sense of belonging he hadn’t known he craved. He slipped into the pureblood traditions with ease, as though he’d always been meant for this life. He didn’t even hesitate when his in laws insisted he wear the ancestral wedding gown, an ornate relic of Malfoy history. Harry had just felt cheeky about how stunning he looked in the intricate fabric. Secretly, he had taken pleasure in the thought that Draco could never pull it off as well as he did, Draco could never look that good in a dress—not with those broad shoulders and that distinctly masculine form.

And when Draco had looked at him that day, his silver eyes darkened with awe and want, Harry had known. He wasn’t just blending into the traditions—he was owning them, and Draco was completely taken by it.

In the Muggle world Harry grew up in, these traditional roles had disappeared over the past two centuries but Draco’s pureblood background meant his marriage would follow strict traditions, and for Draco, Harry’s commitment to those duties was nothing out of the ordinary. But for Harry, these customs sparked a passion he hadn’t expected, drove him crazy with lust anytime he found himself thinking about all the ways he served Draco, making his life easier by being a plaint pretty house husband.

He found himself looking forward to the moments when he could show his devotion through such ancient traditions, leaving Harry yearning for the next opportunity to lose himself in the intoxicating dance of tradition and desire.

The rituals—seeking Draco's permission for outings, walking a step behind him in public, and attending to his needs at home and under the sheets—were more than just mere formalities to Harry. They were acts that stirred a deep, almost primal desire within him.

For Draco on the other hand, it was all just routine—perfectly natural that Harry Potter, vanquisher of the century's Dark-lord would effortlessly take on the traditionally female role in their marriage. He would sometimes recall, "Well you wanted my cock up your arse ever since you first laid eyes on it love, it hadn't been any other way, you love bearing the children as much as I love seeing you blown up with them."

But both of them understood that Harry’s inclination toward the feminine role wasn’t limited to just his sexual preferences, no, it was rooted in his very nature. He was nurturing where Draco was protective, submissive where Draco was domineering, and stubborn where Draco was forceful. He was fearless where Draco was cautious, strong where Draco was cunning.

In every sense, Harry naturally gravitated toward the softer role, and oddly enough, it brought him comfort. He felt a sense of ease, completely at peace, knowing anything that involved numbers or quick decisions was already handled by Draco with perfect precision. He didn’t mind being called a "Himbo" by his Muggle friends. They all didn't have a single clue as to just how fucking hot being Draco's himbo was and that Harry was simply addicted to it's sensuality.

At the end of the day, they fit together seamlessly, the yin to each other's yang, completing a whole that was greater than the sum of its parts. It was an effortless harmony between the masculine and feminine energies, each role perfectly supporting the other.

Spring was Harry's favourite season, spring was when they fell in love, spring was when Draco had come to kiss him under the tree outside Hogwarts library and warmed his cool wind swept cheeks, banishing the chill with a burning heat, spring was when Harry had had his first pregnancy, conceived their first son, Scorpius Malfoy, and spring was when he had given birth to their second, James Malfoy.

Shopping with Draco on yet another blissful spring afternoon felt different from any other outing. The cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley were alive with the energy of children on spring break, their laughter echoing through the air. The weather was perfectly temperate—neither too chilly nor too humid—and the trees lining the sidewalks were heavy with blossoms, their soft petals drifting lazily in the breeze. Even Draco couldn't suppress a small, genuine smile as he watched Harry wave cheerfully to every shopkeeper he knew, his joy as contagious as the lively fuzz around them.

Harry had become a familiar face around Diagon Alley, a well-known figure among the shopkeepers and patrons. But what does "Himbo" Harry do while his husband Draco was away busy crafting ingenious potions and turning them into millions, you ask? He ✨decorated✨. Harry was a designer at heart. Muggles might call it interior design, but for Harry, it was far more than a mere academic discipline or artistic pursuit.

Having spent his childhood with a cupboard under the stairs for a home, Harry had developed a near-obsessive appreciation for space and beauty. Draco would often tease him, raising an eyebrow as Harry rearranged a stack of cushions with priceless Chinese silk embroidery from Suzhou, for the fifth time that day, or scoured antique shops for the perfect vintage lamp. Draco would laugh, his voice tinged with affection and amusement and Harry would grin back with that unshakable, wide-eyed enthusiasm of someone who finally had a place to call their own. "It’s the one thing I can actually control. You wouldn't get it, Mr. I-make-potions-worth-a-fortune. "

The grandeur of Malfoy Manor had captivated him from the moment they had moved in. "It’s just so big," he had marveled, his emerald eyes wide with childlike wonder, for a full six months. And Draco, ever his teasing husband, would chuckle before smirking knowingly, "You’ve always liked big things, Harry love. It was only natural you ended up growing old in one."

Harry would bite down his grin at the sexual innuendo, resorting to an eye roll before going back to his own musings, quietly wondering if that particular corner of the living room in the West Wing—where they had just made some sweet sweet filthy love—should be graced with a pair of handcrafted brass lanterns from Morocco. Maybe the floor would look better adorned with a couple of Persian rugs, legendary for their intricate designs, vibrant colors, and superior craftsmanship, now that would tie everything together. Wait, oh, oh, of course, it wouldn't hurt to throw in a few Handmade Damascus Steel Swords forged in Syria to add some "drama" to the room. All of it, naturally, would cost them an amount of gold that would make Molly scream in horror.

More than once, Harry had to pay . No, not from the Potter vaults—those were sealed off as inheritance for their children.

"The Chinese jade sculptures you ordered—do you have any idea how much they cost Daddy's hard-earned money?" Draco’s voice was sharp, a mixture of disbelief and frustration. Harry did not miss something else in there as the large bulge between his thighs grazed against Harry's lips. "You have no clue, do you? How do you plan on paying for them?"

Harry, of course, didn’t have a clue. He’d simply ordered them, fully aware that they likely cost more than their grand week long wedding—yet hoping, just hoping, that Draco wouldn’t notice the dent in their finances. From where he knelt at Draco's feet, his mouth a mere inch from the large upright cock, he would look up at him with his doe eyes that drove Draco crazy, "Um, I don't have the money daddy, maybe-, maybe....we can come up with some sort of arrangement? Something more to your liking perhaps." With that he took a nice lick on the slit of Draco's cock tip glistening with a single bead of pre cum, all the while looking into his eyes, hopeful and innocent like a child on Santa's lap.

Such "payment arrangements" always lead to the most fierce, mind blowing sex of his life, with Draco fucking Harry senseless into their mattress, no matter how many times they reenacted the scene each time differently on different purchases Harry made.

In all honesty, Draco did enjoy spending millions on Harry. He loved spoiling him, indulging in every little whim, and watching Harry's face light up with that pure, unguarded joy. It was impossible not to—especially when he saw Harry leaping around in happiness the moment the Chinese jade sculptures arrived. They had barely even touched the porch before Harry was jumping up and down, laughing like a child, completely mesmerized by the delicate carvings. The way Harry’s happiness made everything worth it, no matter the cost, was a feeling Draco couldn’t quite put into words.

Maybe it was the way Harry’s eyes lit up as he turned an ordinary room in the Manor, into something extraordinary—with color, with texture, richness, with a story unfolding in every nook—that made it clear. For Harry, decorating wasn’t just about appearances; it was about rebuilding, piece by piece, the foundation of a life he was still learning how to live.

He lived for moments like that—the kind of pure, unrestrained happiness that Harry radiated when he was surrounded by things he loved. It was maybe the reason Draco worked so tirelessly in his potions lab, mixing and brewing, perfecting formulas, all with the goal of making moments like that happen more often. If it meant he could one day, maybe, buy Harry the moon if he so wished for it—he’d do it without a second thought.

The soft chime of the bells echoed through the air as Harry flung open the door to his favorite antique store, the familiar sound marking his entrance. Without waiting for Draco, Harry bounded inside, already too eager to linger in the warm, dust-laden atmosphere of the shop. Draco, who had followed a few paces behind, didn’t yet show any outward sign of displeasure if he had felt any.

Harry, as the shop's most lavish and loyal customer, had earned certain privileges. He was granted early access to newly arrived treasures, items still safely encased in their protective wrappings, awaiting pricing and description. Most people would have to wait weeks for these pieces to hit the shelves, but not Harry. He’d become a sort of VIP, allowed to sift through the new acquisitions before anyone else even had the chance.

And today, as Harry moved to the back of the store, he knew exactly what he was looking for.

A relic that most would pass by without a second thought— The Forgotten Hourglass of Eldritch.

The hourglass is crafted from aged, tarnished silver, its once-gilded edges now dulled with time. The glass is cloudy, and the sand inside—a mixture of fine, almost sparkling grains—has an unusual hue to it, shifting from pale gold to a deep, almost blood-red shade, depending on the angle. The hourglass seems to breathe, ever so slightly, as if it were alive, with a faint hum emanating from its delicate frame, almost inaudible to the untrained ear. The sand inside doesn’t flow in a steady stream, but rather drifts in fits and starts, moving erratically as if caught in some otherworldly current.

He glanced over his shoulder at Draco, who was standing by the counter, arms crossed and surveying the shelves with an air of interest. Harry’s heart beat a little faster, knowing the conversation that was inevitably coming. Was it worth it? oh, yes, it would soo be worth it.

Harry wasn’t here to shop this afternoon; he was here to go home to something he had been looking forward to all week.

"Draco," Harry called softly, careful not to disturb the other patrons browsing the shop.

Draco reluctantly tore his gaze away from the enchanted mirror he had been inspecting, with his hands clasped behind his back, he walked over to him, a hint of curiosity on his face.

"Honey," Harry said with a touch of amusement, "you simply must see this. Isn’t it magnificent?" He gestured toward the object in his hands, his voice rich with false admiration.

"I read about it in Arcane Relics & Curios (Harry's favorite wizarding relics and antiques magazine) , No one truly knows its origin, but rumor holds that this hourglass once belonged to a long-forgotten wizard of immense power—someone who had mastered time itself, or so it’s said. Some believe it holds the ability to manipulate time, although no one has ever dared to test it. The hourglass has changed hands many times over the centuries, each owner more paranoid...."

Harry watched as Draco took in the piece, his expression giving away nothing at first. But soon, the subtle signs appeared—first, the faint flicker of unimpressed indifference in Draco's eyes, as if he were already tuning out Harry’s excited rambling. Then came the slow progression: mild displeasure, a growing disinterest, until finally, his eyebrow arched at the price tag.

Though money wasn't the issue in the slightest. They both knew that the item, however "unique" Harry insisted it was, didn’t quite match the level of taste and refinement Harry usually sought. But Harry was pretending—just a little—that it was a find worthy of their collection.

Draco exhaled softly, his voice smooth with that familiar, controlled calm. “That’s… interesting, my love,” he said, his tone threading between affectionate and mildly amused. “How about we take a look at some of the other pieces? You never know, you might find something that catches your eye.”

With a gentle, almost tender motion, Draco curved his hand over Harry’s hip, a polite invitation to move on, as they usually did together, in search for that next perfect addition.

“But I want this daddy,” Harry insisted, his voice rising in excitement. “It’s very interesting, it’s said to be—”

"We’ll come back to it, love. Let’s just take a look around first," Draco interrupted smoothly, his hand still resting lightly on Harry’s hip. “Let’s look around for a bit, see what else finds your liking.”

“No,” Harry said, his tone firmer now, almost challenging. “I want it NOW!”

The words hung in the air, sharper than he intended. Draco’s hand on Harry’s hip stilled, the movement like a sudden freeze in time.

The corner of his mouth tightened. His fingers, still resting on Harry's hips, stiffened with a silent warning, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Draco’s eyes glinted with something dangerous—rage simmering beneath the surface, though it was tempered by an unexpected flicker of surprise. Harry had never raised his voice to Draco in public, and the sudden shift unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

A few nearby customers had turned their heads, clearly noticing the sudden escalation in their conversation.

The tension in Draco’s expression deepened, his usual composure cracking a little. Harry had never raised his voice to Draco, atleast not in public, and the sudden shift unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He was terrified, if he admitted it. Harry knew he’d pushed too far this time, couldn’t help but feel the weight of what was coming and the forbidden arousal that came with it.

He knew the rules. All Harry needed was one small meaningless “please,” and that item would be on his bedside table before the hour was out. Draco had never denied him anything—not a single thing Harry had asked for, no matter how extravagant. He spoiled Harry in ways he never would his own sons. But this time, things were different. Harry had raised his voice at Draco—his husband, his lord— in public. And Harry knew, without a doubt, that he was going to pay for it and as usual his kinky arse had been looking forward to it.

With a crackling snap, Harry was unceremoniously thrown to the floor of Draco’s study in the manor. His hands scraped against the cool stone as he scrambled to his feet, heart racing. Before he could reach the corner, a sleek black leather chair materialized with a soft whoosh, his favourite discipline chair, its curved back rising to meet him as if summoned by the tension in the room. The seat seemed almost to taunt him, its edge raised in an inviting yet commanding manner, as if it already knew what was to come as well as Harry did.

Harry bolted toward the chair, his breath quickening as he dashed across the room. With a flick of his wand, his clothes vanished in a swirl of magic, the cold air brushing against his skin. His heart thudded unnaturally in his chest, each beat louder as the unmistakable sound of Draco’s steps grew closer behind him. Panic surged, and he scrambled to position himself in the chair, his hands shaking as he tried to settle.

Harry yelled out at the first lash, pain coursing through him and before he could completely register it another hard whip followed forcing out streams of tears and broken cries of pain. Harry was used to the pain, oh he loved the pain. It was a part of their dynamic.

The first few lashes had been sharp, punishing, fuelled by his raw anger. But as the moments wore on, the force of Draco’s strikes began to grow just a little milder, losing their edge.

As the whip cracked again and again, each strike tearing through him with a force that still made him scream, "You ungrateful slut," Draco ground out, his voice sharp as shattered glass and dripping with venom. "How dare you disgrace me."

His body trembled, not just from the strikes, but from the deep, unsettling feeling that he had let things go too far. He was upset—not with Draco, not with the punishment—but with himself. More than Draco even, he realized.

Harry loved and respected Draco with every ounce of his being, they both always knew that Harry's moments of disrespect were merely an act, a lead up to yet another intense, hot session.

Knowing how seriously Draco took pureblood traditions and customs, Harry understood that Draco would've never expected Harry to yell at him in public. To an outsider, it might have seemed like a trivial argument, just another petty disagreement. But to Harry and Draco, it was more than that—it was a breach of trust, of cultivated discipline. The guilt weighed heavily on Harry, a sinking feeling in his stomach, he didn’t like the idea of disrespecting his husband, especially in front of others, and the thought of offending Draco, even unintentionally, made him feel sick.

"I'm so sorry, my lord," Harry sobbed, words choking through his tears. "I didn't mean it... I just wanted this."

The whipping ceased, leaving an aching stillness in its wake, and Harry heard footsteps retreating from him. Slowly, he turned, his tear-streaked face glistening in the dim light. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he forced his watery gaze to focus on Draco, who had calmly settled into his study chair. With an air of composed indifference, Draco began leafing through the month’s bookkeeping.

Harry slid down from the discipline chair, the lashes on his arse and back pulsing with a mix of heat and pain. He collapsed onto the cold marble floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to steady himself. With each painful, determined movement, the distance between him and Draco’s table seemed to stretch further, the pain in his body making each crawl feel heavier, more exhausting.

He finally closed the gap, resting his head against Draco's legs. The cold floor bit at the heat of the strikes on his back as he settled himself at Draco's feet. A cool swish of magic washed over his arse and back, soothing the fresh burns and stripes. Harry exhaled deeply, relief flooding through him—not because the pain had disappeared, but because Draco had deemed him worthy of healing. The fact that Draco wasn’t still displeased with him eased his racing heart, and Harry felt a quiet calm settle over him, knowing he hadn’t completely lost his lord's favor.

"Daddy?" Harry croaked, his voice barely a whisper. He lifted his head, meeting Draco’s gaze as he adjusted his spectacles, his focus still firmly on the accounting journals spread out before him.

"Daddy, may I please you?" Harry asked softly, his voice tinged with longing. He knew it wasn’t yet the right time to give Draco the best blow job ever and Draco confirmed it when he didn’t even look at him, his attention unwavering from the work before him.

Harry sighed, reminding himself to be patient. He had been trained to wait, to endure. Lowering his head, he bent to Draco’s feet, pressing a soft kiss to the polished shoes. That wasn’t an act of tradition, not a gesture demanded by pureblood customs—it was something he did purely because he wanted to, a small act of adoration that spoke more to his heart than any ritual ever could.

He lay there, trying to find a comfortable position with his face resting over Draco’s shoes. His tired eyes fluttered shut, and before long, Harry’s breath evened out, sinking into a peaceful sleep.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep, maybe fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. It was about the time it usually took Draco to finish his household bookkeeping on Saturday evenings.

Harry felt Draco's feet nudge his face, signaling that it was time. Harry slowly rose to kneel beneath the study table, just in time to hear the familiar sound of Draco’s zipper being drawn down. He was short enough to fit comfortably beneath the table, his head avoiding the underside as he settled in.

Draco shoved Harry's face off his cock with bated breath, and in the next moment, Harry found himself landing on their bedroom mattress. He internally rolled his eyes in mild indignation. They never did it in the study. Everywhere else in the manor, yes—but never in Draco’s study. Something about keeping that space just as it should be—neat, orderly, precise—seemed important to Draco. It was his sanctuary, a place where everything had its proper place, where chaos had no room.

And Harry was the one thing in Draco’s life that unleashed the chaos within him, making him lose control, turning him into something wild and primal with lust. The mere thought of fucking Harry was enough to drive him mad, to strip away the composed mask Draco so carefully wore. So, of course, Harry had no place in the study—where order reigned, and Draco could keep himself contained.

Every time they apparated from there, it only strengthened Harry’s resolve to one day break Draco’s composure so thoroughly that he wouldn’t bother with the fuss of apparating them away before things got started, before his cock decided for him that bending Harry over the desk and breeding him there was the only thing that mattered not the order or boring sanctities of study rooms.

Draco's hands moved quickly to remove his own clothes, while Harry waited, already naked, the heat in his belly growing. Harry leaned forward to stroke Draco's hard dick, it was already in full length but harry just wanted to make sure, before it got shoved inside him.

He couldn't resist leaning forward and taking the tip in his mouth again, Draco's dick always looked fucking irresistible when it was in it's full size and glory. He slurped up the wave of pre cum that hit his tongue, "Hmmm", Rubbing the dick in even motions, Harry bent lower to coax in one large ball into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it before sucking in the second.

He raised his head for air as Draco's fisted his hair, tugging him upward and his open mouth onto his cock. Harry latched onto it smiling indulging around it, he was sucking him a second time. Draco usually got to the fucking after the first blow job, but oddly enough he was letting Harry suck him again, this time of all times, where he had proven himself to a bratty disrespectful slut. Maybe Harry had finally perfected the art of giving amazing head.

But Harry had yet to perfect taking him in his mouth fully, on his own, he could do it when Draco fucked his throat, when it was forced down, stretching his throat, but not on his own. He had done his research and tried every trick in the book only to inevitably retreat in failure, realising Draco was just too fucking big for him. Another pureblood trait, blessing their marriage.

Harry slightly choked on the cock, his head bobbing rhythmically as it hit the back of his throat with each thrust. The room filled with wet, croaking sounds, saliva dripping down his chin and Draco's ball, his throat flexing impressively to accommodate the familiar yet unnatural thickness and length of his husband's cock.

Harry sensed the way Draco groaned like he was about to lose control and rip out the cords and muscles in his throat if he kept at it, and was shoved back roughly on the mattress, his legs drawn and dangled over his board shoulders in a blink. Draco nudged his cock through the tight ring of muscle, as it shone with wandless lubrication, clenching eagerly as the cock slipped in easily, fitting inside snuggly like it recognised the space.

Harry rocked over it impatient, urging Draco who drew back and slammed in, ripping out a scream from Harry. "Please, please," He prayed and had it answered as Draco set a restless pace, grunting as he slammed in and out, in and out of Harry withering beneath him.

He grabbed for Harry's chest, crushing it and squeezing his nipples harshly and Harry could tell he missed his tits, full of milk when Harry had started his third month into the pregnancy. Draco had striped him naked, nudged him open and fucked him often then, grabbing them for hold as he rocked into Harry. Even after the nursing phase ended, when his chest had shrunken back to it's former size, Draco had modified his chest to give him breasts when they fucked.

Harry could not, for the life of him, remember the spell at the moment so he could wandlessly cast himself a pair of tits, because his brain was currently fried beyond it's capabilities of remembering complex body modification spells, Draco had been jamming straight into his prostrates the last few thrusts and it was getting hard to hear his thoughts over his own filthy loud moans.

"Fuunnnggck, Daddy, I'm- Ahhhh" Harry's eyes rolled over as he bit down on his bottom lip till it bled, his voice too coarse to moan out anymore, he was so close.

"Come," The unsteady tone of his husband's command and the rush of hot semen gushing deep inside him, filling him up till he oozed out onto the mattress ripped out his orgasm in a white blinding shock behind his eyes.

Draco chuckled softly as Harry, in his usual endearing clumsiness, kept stepping on the back of his shoes, fumbling to cover Draco's eyes from behind while guiding him toward a room in the east wing of the manor.

"No peeking," Harry warned in a chirpy tone, his voice bubbling like sunlight dancing on water. Draco almost melted at the sound, warmth blooming in his chest. Despite Harry’s small hands doing little to obscure the view, Draco obediently closed his eyes, Harry's contagious excitement sparking a flutter of anticipation within him.

Harry let his hands fall from his eyes and Draco's breath caught in his throat. The transformation was in one word, stunning, a perfect balance of elegance and warmth, blending the grandeur of the manor with an unmistakable touch of Harry’s personality.

The centerpiece was a circular table of dark, glossy teakwood from India, its surface intricately carved with intertwining phoenixes and dragons, their eyes inlaid with tiny emeralds and rubies. Surrounding it were chairs with cushions of fine silk from China, their embroidered patterns shifting ever so slightly as if alive.

On one shelf, a small framed photo of the two of them at the Quidditch World Cup sat nestled between two ancient rune-carved statues, next to it, nestled between a carved obsidian phoenix and a crystalline globe that depicted shifting constellations, was a larger framed photo.

The photo had been taken in the manor’s gardens on Scorpius's 12th birthday party, sunlight spilling over the scene like liquid gold. Draco sat regally in a grand, high-backed chair upholstered in deep green velvet, its ornate wooden frame carved with serpentine designs. He looked poised yet relaxed, his silver eyes gleaming with subtle pride, one hand resting elegantly on the chair's armrest. Standing beside him, Harry leaned casually toward him, one arm draped over Draco’s shoulder.

On the other side of Draco’s chair stood their sons, Scorpius Malfoy and James Malfoy, Scorpius had Harry’s untamed energy, evident even in the photo, and his striking emerald-green eyes sparkled with mischief beneath a mop of perfectly combed platinum-blond hair. Yet, there was something distinctly Draco about him too—the way he held his head high, a subtle air of pride that had instantly reminded Harry of Draco in his Hogwarts days, back when his confidence and arrogance had been sharp enough to cut through a room.

James, six years old at that time, on the other hand, bore Draco’s silver eyes, set in a face framed by unruly blond hair that fell somewhere between Draco’s smooth locks and Harry’s untamed curls. He stood with his arms crossed confidently next to his older brother, absentmindedly nudging Scorpius with his elbow, a wide grin that mirrored Harry’s lighting up his features.

Every few moments, the photograph shifted with subtle movements. James, who had been standing beside Draco’s chair, grew restless and suddenly hopped onto Draco’s lap which lead to the carefully composed expression on his face melting instantly, his silver eyes crinkling with warmth as a rare, unguarded smile tugged at his lips. Harry, leaned over from his place by the chair and ruffled James’s hair with a fond chuckle.

The walls were adorned with treasures from every corner of the world. A massive enchanted tapestry from Morocco dominated one side, its vibrant threads weaving shifting depictions of starlit desert landscapes and bustling souks. Opposite it, a collection of hand-painted Italian ceramic plates, charmed to softly hum a tune when viewed together, added a melodic charm to the room.

A striking artifact caught Draco’s eye: a floating, glowing orb encased in a glass dome. Harry stepped closer and grinned. “It’s a Diviner’s Orb from Ethiopia,” he explained. “They say it reveals glimpses of the future, but only if the seeker’s intentions are pure.” The orb pulsed faintly as if acknowledging Draco’s gaze.

Shelves lined another wall, filled with rare and wondrous finds: an obsidian dagger from Central America, a miniature ship in a bottle that sailed its own tiny stormy seas, and a small, enchanted potted plant from Brazil that bloomed flowers of different colors based on who stood near it.

Near the window, a modest seating area featured an armchair upholstered in soft alpaca wool from Peru, paired with a coffee table that held a collection of Harry’s favorite magical journals and a single framed photograph of the two of them in Paris, kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower.

“This…” Draco began, his voice thick with emotion and admiration. He turned to Harry, who was smiling softly at him with those enchanting eyes that drew Draco in like a summoning spell. “It’s incredible. You’ve brought the world into this room... into our home.”

Harry's smile grew as Draco held him in his arms, his cheeks tinged pink. “I wanted it to feel like us—like a place we could explore together.”

Draco stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly over the glowing orb. He whispered, “It’s perfect. Like you are.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed at the praise, a shy smile spreading across his face as he ducked his head for a moment before lifting it again, his green eyes sparkling. Leaning in closer, he murmured, “I love you, Daddy.”

Draco didn’t hesitate, capturing Harry’s soft, rose-colored lips in a deep, lingering kiss. For a moment, the world outside the room ceased to exist. The opulent space around them—the rare artifacts, the priceless decor from all around the face of the earth—might have cost them months of Draco’s earnings, millions of Galleons spent without hesitation. But as Draco’s hand slid to the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him closer, he knew with absolute certainty that every single coin was worth it—for moments like this.