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The mirror was adorned in twisted gold metalwork. It sat comfortably in Draco’s hands, his own curious and flushed face looking back at him— daring him to just do it already, you coward.

It was the best and worst gift he had ever received. Best, because if the mirror worked the way it was promised, then Draco would be having probably the most incredible masturbation sessions of his entire life for the foreseeable future. Worst, because who gives such a thing as a gift?

Pansy and Blaise, the fuckers.

They’d both burst into outrageous fits of laughter when he’d unwrapped the parcel, which at the time was quite confounding as it really did look entirely innocuous. Or perhaps the better term was discreet.

“For fuck’s sake, can one of you arseholes tell me what’s so fucking funny?” he’d snapped, inspecting his glowering reflection.

“Draco, dearest,” Pansy began, taking a gasping breath. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen her so overcome with wicked glee. Her eyes, outright watering. “It's enchanted.”

“No shit, it’s enchanted.” Draco had felt the hum of magic since the moment he picked it up. “Enchanted how?”

“For sex. It’s a sex toy.”

That had caught Draco off guard, enough so that he’d actually dropped the damned thing. Luckily, it landed on the soft cushion of his mattress.

“Oh please!” Blaise had rolled his eyes. “It’s not used, you utter prude.”

“I am not a prude!” Draco had insisted, but that only made his two bastard friends laugh harder.

He wasn’t a prude— just single minded. Yes, Draco didn’t have a very active sex life outside of embarrassingly frequent masturbatory fits, but not because he was uninterested. He was simply picky, and being picky when the options were already slim was a very frustrating predicament without his so-called friends adding insult to injury.

They were well into their make-up year, and while hostilities had settled into a background simmer, very few students at Hogwarts had the nerve to try to start something with Draco other than a fight. He was fine with that. None of them met the qualifications that Draco had for a partner anyway.

Well, not none.

One, to be exact. But that was neither here nor there. Draco was satisfied fucking his slick fist and gnawing on the satin slip of his pillowcase, trying and failing not to imagine Harry Potter. What could he say? Draco loved a good routine, and he’d been practicing that one since he’d first figured out just what his prick was used for.

That may have been an exaggeration, but the fact remained that Draco was not, and would never be, a prude.

Eventually, Blaise and Pansy had taken pity on him and explained, in quite uncomfortable detail, the intended purpose of the mirror, and the unintended, possibly far superior, uses for it.

He was no prude, but Draco had burned hot as a Red Pepper Imp the entire time.

Really, his friends were quite depraved, and apparently comfortable enough to rope him into their deviant ways.

The mirror, or as it was marketed, the Love Bridge, pause for a dramatic gag, was intended for use by long distance couples to engage in sexual acts while separated.

“What on Earth could I possibly need this for, then?” Draco had asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Let us fucking finish,” Pansy had snapped back.

The mirror, when activated, would conjure the genitalia of the person gazing into it when they uttered the incantation. No. Conjure wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t a replica, it was the actual genitalia of the person.

“You’re fucking having me on.”

“On Salazar’s honor. It’s the truth.”

The magic used was very experimental— so much so that the mirror hadn’t even made it to mass market yet, which made sense. Surely if such a device were commonplace, Draco would have heard of it by now.

By use of portals, of all things, one could fuck their partner halfway across the bloody globe and their partner would actually feel it. It was outlandish. It was incredible. Draco would have been in an awed stupor if he hadn’t been so discombobulated by the possibilities.

He’d had the thought before either of his friends even brought it up.

“You could fuck yourself,” he’d said.

They had both nodded vigorously.

Apparently, the unintended yet increasingly common use for the device was, in fact, performing sexual acts on one’s own orafaces.

Fuck.

“You’re welcome,” Blaise had said in that haughty tone that was both annoying and charming.

The whole scenario was humiliating, in retrospect, but Draco couldn’t deny that he was completely captivated at the thought of it. Those pitiful wank sessions would be nothing compared to actually fucking himself. Feeling both the hot sweet clench around his prick and the spearing, stretching violation of his arse in tandem? Draco was half chubbed up before he’d even managed to kick them out.

The logistics of such a thing, however, were a bit more complex.

For one, a charmed curtain and a strong muffliato was well enough for a wank, but such an involved act called for far more privacy. Luckily, he’d been roomed with Weasley. He never would have thought he’d be grateful for such a thing in his life, but Weasley and the rest of the golden trio were inseparable, and that meant for the most part, Draco had the room to himself. He could touch himself— fuck himself. Call out anyone’s name he wanted…

Finally, the bag of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans that was his life was yielding delectable results.

Engraved on the back was a simple set of instructions.

Incipiam to activate.

Absconditus to camouflage.

Sileo to reset.

Simple.

Draco prepared himself for both the best and the worst as he gazed into his own eyes and whispered, Incipiam.

He was well aware that he wouldn’t have time to indulge just yet. Draco was due to be in potions in not even a half hour. But he had to know— had to see for himself just how effective the enchantment could be.

And effective, it was.

The first thought Draco had was that the entire thing was chillingly bizarre. The glass blurred and before he could blink, he was looking directly at what could only be his own arsehole.

It was what he had been expecting to happen, but it still took him entirely off guard.

Where there once was glass, the ornate metal ring now housed a pillowy portion of human flesh. It was three dimensional and lewd and the appeal was instantaneous.

Draco flipped the mirror around again. The back remained the same. It really had to be a portal, otherwise where would one’s prick actually go?

Still— he was skeptical. It could be just a replica, couldn’t it? He wouldn’t know if it actually worked as advertised until he had properly tested it.

Draco scraped a thumbnail alongside the blushing hole, down the soft tissue of perineum that had also been conjured.

He choked out a gasp at the blistering sensation.

Remarkable, he thought.

Then, because he just couldn’t help himself, Draco leaned close and blew a cool breath— his eyelashes fluttering wildly when he felt it tickle him sweetly in his trousers.

“Fucking Merlin and his fucking mother. This is incredible,” he whispered.

And fuck, he shouldn’t have let his curiosity call the shots because he was brick hard and salivating over the promise that little mirror held. But he had class shortly. No matter how badly he wanted to, he could not skip class for the sheer sake of getting off. He was dignified. He was studious.

He hated those parts of himself as he mumbled, Absconditus, and the mirror returned to just that. A mirror. Draco placed it in his bedside drawer. It truly was genius craftsmanship.

No normal person would ever suspect a thing.

Ron dorming with Draco Malfoy was pretty high on the list of things about Eighth year that drove Harry completely barmy. In fact, the top contenders on that list all included Malfoy in some capacity or other. His sharp features? Torture. The curl of his lip when he was displeased? Caustic. The gentle waft of his no-doubt overpriced cologne? Harry’s own personal circle of hell.

That one in particular had been a real challenge since the start of the year— since the first time Ron had sat beside Harry in the Great Hall. It was barely there, but it was there. Mere traces of Malfoy’s signature scent, carried to him by Ron of all fucking people.

Harry had been abysmal over the instantaneous stirring of his prick. He’d had to have a serious talk with his disobedient body because he was not prepared to handle inappropriate erections as a regular occurrence when hanging out with his best friend.

“Are you sniffing me?” Ron had asked him numerous times in the weeks that followed.

No matter how subtle he had tried to be, Harry was frequently caught out. He was running out of excuses, and ultimately accepted that sniffing Ron was unacceptable no matter how he sliced it. God, he needed to get a grip.

Ron rooming with Malfoy also meant that any time Harry visited him, there was a very high probability that Malfoy would also be there, lazing away on his bed— flipping through a Quidditch magazine and acting like he wasn’t Harry’s own personal centerfold.

Fuck.

It was almost worse when Malfoy had the curtains drawn and charmed. Harry knew, reasonably, that the other boy was likely just giving him and Ron a modicum of privacy, but not knowing what happened beyond that curtain kept Harry up at night.

In one particular fantasy, he imagined that Malfoy would hide behind it and finger himself open to the sound of Harry’s voice. Maybe he would stuff his fist into his pretty mouth to keep from wailing.

Silencing charms were only so effective.

That fantasy, while astounding in the wank department, really came back to bite him in the ass every time Harry stepped foot into Ron’s dorm and saw the curtain zipping itself shut. The image would pop up in the back of mind like a subliminal message, and he was lucky if he caught a single thing out of Ron’s mouth in the meantime.

Foremost on that terrible list, was the fact that Malfoy wanted hardly anything to do with him anymore.

In the past, they’d been quick to row, at minimum. Malfoy would do stupid and childish things to get Harry’s attention— would tease him cruelly. Throw sloppy fists. They would chase each other through the sky and pretend it was the Snitch they were after.

Not anymore. These days, Malfoy stayed a polite distance away.

It was agony. Harry tried to needle him any chance he could but Malfoy always stuck to pleasantries. He had lost his ability to get under the bastard’s skin entirely.

With neither occupant present, the room felt large and empty. It didn’t take Harry long to find his Quidditch gloves. Ron had borrowed them the previous evening and was supposed to bring them to breakfast, but no one was really surprised when he forgot. Harry was, however, caught off guard when Ron insisted that he go fetch them himself.

Even if he didn’t know whose side of the room was whose, he could have guessed. Ron’s bedding was crumpled and dotted with unseemly stains while Malfoy’s was tightly pressed. Harry let himself wander— stray into the forbidden side. He sat on the forest green duvet, running a hand along its velvety surface.

Of course it was luxurious. How could it not be? Surely the pillow was lush with feathers. There was no way to be sure but to press his nose into its inviting dome and suck in the rich aroma of Draco Malfoy.

Fuck, the bits and pieces that Ron carried around held no candle to the rich fragrance. Harry moaned at the mere thought of what it might be like right from the source— to plunge his face into Malfoy’s downy hair and just breathe.

He shouldn’t be doing this, but he knew that Malfoy had potions with Ron, and when else would he ever get the chance?

Harry rolled onto his back, staring up at the same ceiling Malfoy saw every night. The ceiling he probably stared at while he got himself off. It felt strange, to inhabit this small aspect of the other boy’s life, when everything they had shared before had been grandiose. The rivalry. The anger. The fear. They had nothing on this little intimacy.

If he had been a more reasonable person, Harry would have accepted that much and moved along. However, anyone who knew him would say with certainty that Harry was far from reasonable.

What gets you off, Malfoy? he wondered, leaning over the bed to look beneath it. Not so much as a dust bunny, which was somewhat strange itself but Malfoy had always struck him as a total neatfreak. He checked beneath the pillow, next. Once again, nothing.

Harry frowned.

No matter how prim and proper Malfoy wanted people to think he was, he was eighteen years old, and eighteen-year-old boys wanked. Harry would bet every galleon he had on that much. Sure, Malfoy might be satisfied with his imagination, but Harry would regret it forever if he didn’t at least try to find some sort of erotica. Just one peek, to see what got Malfoy hot under the collar.

Then he made it to the nightstand. The bottom drawer was stacked with Quidditch magazines. It was quite possible that for Malfoy, just the action shots could get him going, but Harry persisted. There had to be something. He felt around for hidden compartments, going so far as to draw his wand and cast a detection spell.

Bingo.

A tight ball of magic was tucked away in the top drawer, emanating from a small, circular mirror. Harry had hardly spared it a glance in his initial search. Malfoy was quite vain, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he had a plethora of mirrors stashed about so he could fix his stupid, beautiful hair. But the magic emanating from it was powerful and foreign. He couldn’t quite place the nature of the enchantment, and all thoughts of Malfoy aside, Harry was genuinely curious as to what such an artifact could be.

He picked it up and laid back on the pillow, holding it overhead.

His reflection looked the same as it always did, so at least the mirror was honest in its functioning.

“Mirror, mirror, in my hand,” Harry whispered, remembering a fable from his long repressed childhood. “Who is the fairest in the land?”

Malfoy’s visage did not appear.

Harry scowled and flipped the disc over.

Of course it had fucking instructions. Harry should have checked there first, but let’s face it, when it came to matters of Malfoy the fire was lit but the cauldron was empty.

“Incipiam,” he whispered.

The ensuing gasp was punched out of him.

The slick glass morphed before his very eyes, assuming the form of an immaculately conjured human arsehole. The flesh was white and looked about as soft as cotton, and the hole, pink like a carnation.

“This is fucking incredible,” Harry whispered, his fingers positively quivering.

He had never heard of a sex toy of such a stunning caliber. Sure, he knew that Muggles had made a sort of portable, pocket vagina and anus to use for masturbating, but from what he could tell those were silicon and impersonal. The mirror seemed similar in concept, but magic really was a game changer, wasn’t it? He swore that little opening was twitching and trembling, surrounded by nearly translucent blond fuzz.

Where had Malfoy obtained such a thing? How had Harry never heard of this before?

Without thought, he leaned close to it and blew softly.

The hole clenched.

He was so hard he couldn’t stand it. Nevermind that it was the most intricate sex toy Harry had ever laid eyes on. It was Malfoy’s toy, meaning that Malfoy had likely shoved his cock into that little fleshy hole and fucked it ruthlessly the way only a teenage boy could. Harry wanted to share that space, to occupy that which Malfoy’s prick had— if for nothing more than the memory of having done it.

He cast a Tempus. Malfoy and Ron’s class had only just begun.

Harry had time.

The first thing Draco noticed was a sudden chill below the belt. It was a bit uncomfortable, but not nearly alarming. He’d cast a silent warming charm on himself and that seemed to do the trick. Maybe the bench had been holding on to the cold from the coming winter. Nothing to think twice about.

Then there was a soft puff, like a rush of air between Draco’s arsecheeks. A mere day before, he wouldn’t have had the slightest idea what to think at such a sudden and foreign sensation, but now…

He recognized it. It was the same soft tickle he’d felt when he’d blown gently on his own hole not even an hour before. Now that set off a few alarm bells.

Slughorn was deep in the throes of the many uses of Snakeweed, so he didn’t notice when Draco sat up straighter rather suddenly.

But Weasley did.

“Alright, Mate?” he whispered beside him.

Why in Merlin’s name had Draco decided that it would be acceptable to be on amicable terms with the ginger? It wasn’t as if he could say No. In fact, I’m quite certain I just felt somebody blow on my arsehole.

“Fine,” he snipped, clenching his fists.

Weasley, thankfully dim, shrugged and resumed the pretense of paying attention to the lesson.

Then, to his absolute horror, something firm and round pressed against his hole like the pushing of a button.

Merlin, was that a thumb?

This couldn’t be happening. It really, really couldn’t be. The mirror was stashed safely away. Weasley, the only other person who could have conceivably been in Draco’s room, was right beside him, none the wiser to his rapidly escalating predicament.

In a way, Draco was quite glad Weasley was in class with him, or his first thought would have been that it was he who was knocking gently against Draco’s opening, and the thought alone nearly delivered him to the afterlife.

Perhaps it was a side effect of the spell. Aside from the words, the mirror gave no real instruction or warning to its use. Maybe phantom sensations were normal.

Draco’s hands shot to his mouth, holding in a wild gasp.

That was, without a sliver of a doubt, a wet and hot tongue swiping broadly across him. A tongue, tracing the furled edges of him— poking tentatively inside. Pushing. Forcing Draco to open up and let it in.

His thighs rattled— breath growing ragged. Somebody was fucking into him with their tongue.

Somebody was fucking into Draco with their fucking tongue, all while Draco sat like an absolute buffoon through Slughorn’s overly enthusiastic lecture.

Merlin, Draco would need a mind healer to undo this amount of psychic damage.

The tongue, wily and cruel, did not bother starting slow. It lapped and burrowed and flexed within his channel enthusiastically. It dismantled him brick by brick, until his cock was full and aching and his brow was beading with sweat. Occasionally it strayed down, slobbering over his perineum.

Something sharp nicked the tender flesh and Draco nearly screamed.

“You don’t look so good,” Weasley said.

It took all of Draco’s willpower not to hex him for the hell of it. That, and the fact that he wasn’t sure if he could manage an incantation if he tried. His mouth was bone dry.

Draco stood up and bolted.

Surely the look on his face alone was convincing enough that he was ill and needed immediate reprieve. If not, he’d take whatever consequences Slughorn dolled out with his head held high— after he’d murdered whoever had gotten their hands on his magic mirror.

And he was absolutely going to murder them.

Each stroke, each slobbering dive, his knees threatened to buckle as he rushed through the halls.

Finally, the Eighth year dormitory was just ahead.

He was almost there, damn it, when it became too much to bear. The probing, pulling, tugging— stretching him wider and wider. Then, fuck, a finger slid inside, the passage smoothed by copious amounts of spit.

Draco couldn’t stop himself. He collapsed onto all fours right there in the hall, where anyone could wander by, and let loose a feral moan.

He was so close to the dorms, but he would never make it. It was too late. His prick was too hard— his hole far too sensitive to each bending knuckle.

Draco dragged himself to the nearest door and thanked his stars it was a storage closet. He pulled himself inside, settled down amongst stacked boxes of dusty parchments and charmed the door shut. Somehow, in his delirious state, he even managed to cast a silencing charm.

Two fingers. Then Three. His own had never reached such places. Then it was just the tongue again, wetting the way. Lips, kissing and sucking, drawing beastly noises from the depths of Draco’s chest. He curled on his side, letting the sensations overtake everything.

There it was again, that sharp jab. Cool, like metal—

Like wire-rimmed glasses.

“Fuck!” Draco screamed, folding in tighter.

The floodgates opened. Every last shred of resistance he had held onto was out the window and Merlin, he was harder than a fucking broomstick. His cock was sobbing.

It was Harry.

Had to be. Harry’s tongue, fucking him open. Harry’s fingers, thrusting and curling and jamming into Draco’s sensitive spot.

“Harry!” Draco cried out.

Holy fucking shit. Harry fucking Potter pressed the head of his prick to Draco’s hole. It nudged and pushed, trying hastily to climb inside him.

But it was too dry. The spit was not enough.

Thankfully, Harry must have come to the same conclusion because there was a sudden rush of magic and Draco’s arse was dripping in lubricant.

Somebody was quite overzealous.

Then that cock was back, sinking into Draco like it lived there. The stretch, unholy and promising— so promising as it sunk deeper and deeper. Draco could hardly spare a garble with how full he felt, right up to his guts.

He managed somehow to roll onto his back, to spread his thighs as wide as the closet allowed. It didn’t matter that he still wore his trousers, he’d never felt more naked. More on display. Harry withdrew ever so slightly, only to rush back in— to stab right into his core.

Holy fucking shit, Harry Potter had a huge cock. Draco knew it. The bastard had always carried himself like a well-hung prick, and Draco was finally having his many, many fantasies about its girth confirmed first hand.

He was gaping— speared open. Draco wasn’t sure how he was supposed to acclimate to such a size, but it didn’t matter. The thrusts began whether he was ready or not.

“Oh fuck me, Potter,” Draco wailed, his words begining to slur. “Oh— Oh c'mon. Do it. Do it.”

He didn’t imagine that Harry could actually hear him, but as if he did, the thrusts intensified, pummeling mercilessly while Draco just held on for the ride. His thighs trembled— his bottom lip bitten viciously between his teeth in an attempt to keep the noises locked up. It was all in vain. Whimpers and whines bled through his teeth like an overturned ink well.

Every few strokes, Potter jabbed his sweet spot or glanced along it. Each touch made Draco see fucking stars, but it was scattered. Not purposeful. Potter wasn’t trying to touch it, he was just using Draco’s hole for his own pleasure. And sure, Draco had started to guess that, but the sudden realization that he was essentially being used as a sex toy by the boy he was in love with— Draco had never been so aroused in his entire life. His prick was slobbering, dribbling all into the front of his trousers.

Harry Potter using Draco Malfoy. Fucking him senseless. Merlin, was he going to come inside him? Was Harry Potter going to come inside his arse? What did Harry look like, holding that little mirror? Fucking himself with it, like it didn’t matter whose hole it was as long as it was warm and tight.

Draco stuttered and writhed as he spilled into his trousers— could feel his arse clench tightly along that generous prick. But Harry kept going. Kept fucking into Draco, through the leaking whines and whimpers— through him outright thrashing on the floor as the overstimulation became unbearable.

Anytime now, Potter, he thought deliriously, unable to take a full breath before it was punched out of him again.

And then finally, finally Potter’s prick faltered and he was coming, rushing Draco’s insides with his spend.

Draco would remember that moment for the rest of his life, spread out on a dusty floor, fucked stupid by the object of his obsession.

Then he was empty.

Once he had his wits about him, Draco shoved his trousers to his knees and reached down to prod at his hole. It was loose— well-fucked and slick with lube and ejaculate. His fingers sank in with no resistance at all.

Draco nearly blacked out.

By some miracle, he stayed conscious enough to adjust his trousers and clamber his way up a stack of crates. Thankfully, they held his weight because his legs could not.

Eventually, after what felt like ages but was likely minutes, he stumbled his way out of the storage closet and raced to his room.

Harry, Potter, as he should be when not balls deep in Draco’s arse, practically leapt into the air when Draco slammed the door open. He set the mirror down, reduced to its glamoured state, on Draco’s bedside table.

The bed was rumpled and molded to the shape of Potter’s body. Potter had laid in Draco’s bed and fucked his disembodied hole. If he wasn’t so delirious, Draco could have lost his last few knuts in a fit of laughter.

“Malfoy, I was—”

“You arsehole,” Draco snarled, rushing to get in Potter’s face.

“I was grabbing something from Ron. I’m just gonna—”

Draco shoved him, knocking Potter off balance.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?”

“Whose fucking arsehole did you think you were sticking your dick into?” Draco hissed, grabbing the collar of Potter’s robes and yanking him close.

Their noses bumped, and it took all of Draco’s willpower not to let that derail him.

“Please, enlighten me.”

Potter looked like he’d swallowed an entire Hippogriff.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God.”

Potter’s entire face lit up a rich scarlet.

“You don’t mean— I didn’t know,” he stuttered. Had the gall to fucking stutter after he’d just railed Draco halfway into next week. “I thought it was a toy!”

Draco’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head.

Draco, Harry’s toy.

Potter practically choked on his words.

“Does that mean that I…” he trailed off, his eyes dancing up and down Draco’s body as if that would somehow confirm or deny his suspicions.

Draco would confirm them, alright.

“You’re insufferable,” he said, pulling away and beginning to strip— first of his robe, then jumper, then trousers. The pants went last, while he stalked to his bed and climbed into it on all fours. “You just stick your prick in the first hole you find, like a bloody animal.”

Draco reached back with one hand, pulling an arsecheek aside to show Potter his abused hole— to let him see the dribble of his own spend.

The breath that tore out of Potter was pained and starving.

“You made the mess,” Draco sneered, fighting down the flush that climbed up his neck. “Come clean it up.”

Potter was on the bed as if he’d apparated there, enthralled by the sight Draco made. He traced along the globes of Draco’s arse, squeezing and spreading them impossibly further. He licked into that fucked out rim— lapped up his own ejaculate like it was his only antidote.

Draco was stone hard again, toes curling and flexing under the thrash of Potter’s tongue.

“I imagined it was you,” Potter confessed into his recesses.

Draco sobbed, in pleasure and something else far more ominous.

Potter pulled away, rolling Draco onto his back. He couldn’t resist if he wanted, and he would never, ever want to. Then Potter kissed him. He kissed him, and his mouth tasted like salt, like spend— like the most potent Amortentia.

“Please, I wanna do it again,” Potter pleaded. “I want to come inside you knowing it’s you.”

Draco moaned savagely.

“Fuck,” he cried. “Do it, you bloody prick.”

Then Harry fucked into him again, and he was complete.

When Draco woke up, Harry was gone.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Potter probably had classes to get to. Draco had certainly missed his own.

Still, it was odd, to wake up alone after they’d fucked each other’s brains out. Potter was indeed the snuggling type as Draco had always fantasi— predicted. He’d clung to his torso like his life depended on it, and had done so up until Draco had inevitably drifted off.

Surely Harry should have at least woken him to let him know he was leaving.

Draco didn’t want to overthink it. They would have to see each other eventually. Potter would have to look into his eyes and know he’d barebacked him.

Twice.

The mirror, that little devil that started it all, wasn’t on the bedside table anymore. He did, however, find it tucked away in the drawer.

Draco took it out and activated it, out of morbid curiosity if nothing else.

But it wasn’t his arsehole he was looking at. He hadn’t looked at his own for very long but this was far from the milk-skinned, pink rimmed little hole that had been there. It was tanned and peppered with fine, dark hair— the sweet rim a warm taupe.

Draco’s heart hammered in his chest. His hands shook.

What else could he do? He leaned down, closing the inches between him and that ripe little bud—

And he gently blew.