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It’s the look in Teddy’s eyes when he says it, that lightning kaleidoscope that plummets the colour from hazel to onyx and soars up to glacier blue. It’s the way he gasps out Harry’s name, gossamer-thin, half choked and half wept, when Harry comes inside him.

Harry’s hands tighten around his hips, fitting over the budding bruises he’d sown the night before. “I’ll take you right here if you keep doing that.”

“Yeah?” Teddy grins and grinds down harder, cruel and purposeful figure-eights custom-designed for torture. “In front of the window, for all of London to see?”

“No one can see into Number Twelve,” Harry reminds him in his professor voice, because Ted’s a bit pervy that way.

It works. Teddy whimpers. Six months and still Harry can’t believe his luck.

“They can if you want them to,” Teddy counters.

Harry blinks. “Do you want them to?”

The grin expands. What a perfect slag.

“You do, don’t you?”

Teddy’s eyes darken. “Take down the wards.”

“Ted…”

“Do it. You know you want to.”

That’s precisely the sort of manipulative rubbish that first got Harry into his unfairly shaggable godson’s pants. Not that he’s complaining, mind.

“Christ, you really are a tart,” Harry sighs.

”I believe the word you’re looking for is exhibitionist.”

“The word I’m looking for is far less appropriate.” As if they've ever once been appropriate. Harry lifts up the armful of boy in his lap and surges them both to their feet.

“Harry,” Teddy gasps, and yeah, that’s the one. “Please.”

“Please what?” Harry strips the spells from the window panel, drops his wand to the now-empty chair, and bends Teddy over, palms to the glass. “Is this what you want, sweetheart?”

Teddy moans.

“You want them to see what they can’t touch?” Harry shoves his trousers down to his knees, just far enough, no second spared. “See what they’ll never have, because you belong to me?”

“Yes. Fuck. Shit. Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Yours. Yours.” Spine bowed deep, neck thrown back, swan-arched and begging. “I’m yours.”

“Good boy.”

One hand to his arse, prying him apart like plumped-ripe fruit for a peek at the centre. Of course, of course he’s already slick.

One hand to his throat, fingers moulding around the pulse. Gentle. No pressure. No need. The claim is rooted in Harry’s voice. The touch is just a bonus.

“Do you know how much I love you?” Harry whispers in his ear.