Chapter 2
Harry Potter had always known what he wanted. He had spent too much of his life letting others dictate his choices, from the Dursleys to Dumbledore to the weight of being the Chosen One. But now? Now he had Draco Malfoy, and for the first time, something *belonged* to him.
It started small. A comment here, a touch there. Harry was careful—he knew Draco could be stubborn, but he also knew how much Draco *wanted* to be loved. That was the key. Draco had spent his whole life trying to prove himself, trying to be *worthy* of something. All Harry had to do was make sure Draco understood *this* was how he could be worthy of *him*.
*"Merlin, you’d look gorgeous with long hair,"* Harry had murmured one night, fingers threading through Draco’s silky strands. *"You should grow it out."*
Draco had hesitated, blinking up at him with those sharp silver eyes, but he had *agreed*. It was easy. The first request was always easy.
It didn’t take long before Harry was pushing just a little further. He bought Draco a green silk robe—nothing too different from his usual nightwear, but softer, more delicate. Draco resisted at first, but Harry kissed away his protests, whispering how beautiful he looked, how perfect he was. Draco blushed and wore it.
Harry learned the trick quickly: reward, praise, affection. Draco melted under it, eager for love, eager to be *wanted*.
*"You look like a princess with your hair like this,"* Harry mused one day, twirling a strand between his fingers.
Draco frowned. *"I’m not a—"*
*"But wouldn’t it be nice?"* Harry cut in, his voice warm and coaxing. *"You always liked being spoiled, didn’t you?"* He tilted Draco’s chin up, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. *"Let me spoil you."*
Draco’s lashes fluttered, uncertainty flickering in his expression. But he nodded.
Good.
After that, Harry pushed more. He replaced Draco’s clothes, one item at a time—so subtly that Draco barely noticed. Softer fabrics, looser cuts, robes that cinched at the waist. He started calling Draco his *darling*, his *princess*, his *pretty little girlfriend*.
At first, Draco would scoff and roll his eyes, but then Harry would frown, pulling back just enough for Draco to panic, to grasp at him and whisper, *Sorry, I didn’t mean it.*
It was *so easy*.
*"Draco is such a harsh name,"* Harry murmured one evening as they lay together. *"Too sharp, too cold. You’re soft, now. Beautiful."* He pressed a kiss to the side of Draco’s neck, feeling him shiver. *"You should have a softer name."*
Draco swallowed. *"Like what?"*
Harry smiled. *"Maybe Lia?"*
Draco’s fingers tensed against the sheets. *"I don’t—"*
*"You don’t like it?"* Harry sighed, pulling away slightly. *"I just thought—"*
*"I—no! I just—"* Draco bit his lip, looking torn. *"I guess it’s… alright."*
It was more than alright. It was *perfect*.
Draco barely argued anymore. He wore what Harry wanted, let his hair fall in soft waves down his back, let Harry tilt his chin up and call him *his girl*. The resistance was still there—Harry could see it, buried deep in those silver eyes—but it was crumbling, day by day.
Sometimes, Draco would stare at himself in the mirror, lips parted in something like shock, like *fear*. Harry would wrap his arms around his waist, pressing his chest against Draco’s back, and whisper against his ear, *"You’re so beautiful like this."*
And Draco would exhale shakily, forcing a smile. *"You really think so?"*
*"I know so."*
Draco never fought after that.
And Harry made sure he never *would*.
Draco—or *Lia*, as Harry called him now—no longer thought about the person he used to be. There was no point. That Draco was gone, buried under silk dresses and soft whispers, beneath Harry’s loving touch and firm hands.
He sat at the vanity, the candlelight casting a golden glow over his pale skin. His reflection was perfect—long, silver hair cascading in soft waves, delicate pink lips, lashes curled just right. The powder on his cheeks made him look ethereal, doll-like. Exactly the way Harry wanted.
He barely remembered how to dress himself in anything other than what Harry chose for him. He barely *wanted* to.
Harry stood behind him, strong hands resting on his shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror.
*"You’re breathtaking, my love."*
Draco smiled, tilting his head slightly, the way Harry liked.
*"Thank you, Harry."*
Harry leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to Draco’s exposed neck. The scent of his cologne wrapped around Draco like a fog, warm and intoxicating.
*"Good girl,"* Harry murmured.
A shiver ran down Draco’s spine.
It was so *easy* now.
To be soft, to be obedient, to be Harry’s.
The first time he wore a dress, he had been terrified. Now, he felt naked without one. The first time Harry called him *his girl*, he wanted to protest. Now, he couldn’t imagine being anything else.
Harry lifted his chin, forcing Draco to meet his gaze in the mirror.
*"You’re mine, aren’t you?"*
Draco’s heart skipped.
*"Yes, Harry."*
*"And you love me?"*
*"I love you."*
Harry smiled, pleased.
Draco felt warm, weightless, safe.
This was his life now. And maybe—just maybe—he was happy.
After all, Harry had made him *perfect*.
**The End.**