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Summary
Three times Harry fucked Draco, and one time he didn’t.
It starts with a hotel bed and morning breath, moves through bruises on kitchen counters and magic-bent wrists, and ends somewhere unexpected: in a quiet room, where Draco touches him like he’s something worth keeping.
They don’t talk about what this is. They don’t need to. It’s sex. It’s trust. It’s rage, relief, release.
And then—slowly, terrifyingly—it becomes something else.
Something like hunger.
Something like love.