The only thing that announces his presence is the sound of soft footsteps on tile, barely audible over the sizzling frying pan. Harry glances back in time to see him come out from the hallway, one of Harry's robes pulled over his shoulders. It's far too big on him, which makes it less annoying and more endearing.

"Sleep well, Briar Rose?"

"This is Grimmauld Place," he says.

"Well spotted." Harry turns back to the frying pan. The sausage is just about done.

"I didn't even recognize it that first night I spent here," Malfoy continues, stopping by one of the walls of the kitchen to look over the decor, such that it is – a few framed photos from Ron and Hermione's wedding, decorative plates that Mrs. Weasley gave him as a housewarming gift, rumpled blue-and-white curtains on the window. "It looks so different from what I remember from my childhood."

It takes Harry a moment to remember what he means. "Did your mother grow up here?"

"It was never her legal address, but she and her sisters thought of it as home all the same," he answers. "I never understood why. Awful, dreary, ghoul-infested place."

"The ghouls are gone," Harry assures him. "Hungry?"

Malfoy doesn't answer. "I would have thought this place would be beyond saving. How on earth did you manage to make it livable?"

"Necessity," Harry admits. "Initially I was sharing a flat with Ginny, but then we broke up, and this was the only place immediately available. I moved my things in, thinking it was temporary, and, well – it wasn't temporary. So I made do."

Malfoy falls silent for a while. Harry tips the contents of the frying pan onto the two plates waiting on the counter.

"The decor is ghastly," Malfoy says after a minute.

"Well, I'm glad that cease-fire is over," Harry sighs.

"If you think I'm going to start holding back just because you can get me off, Potter, you're in for disappointment."

"Eat some breakfast. I used a lot of healing salve on you last night, so your blood sugar's probably low."

"I was wondering about that," Malfoy says, suddenly a bit guarded.

"Yes, this is what can happen when we don't talk about things beforehand." Harry sets the plates down at the small, round table by the large window. It takes Malfoy a moment of thought to decide that he should sit. "It's called aftercare."

"Aftercare?"

"What it says on the tin, basically," Harry says. "After a scene, it's a Dom's responsibility to make sure the sub is taken care of – healed and comforted as necessary. I cleaned you up, healed the welts, put you to bed."

Malfoy's nose wrinkles, though not at the food – he hasn't even looked at the food yet. "Always so chivalrous."

"It's not chivalry when it's mandatory," Harry says, spearing a sausage with his fork and taking a bite from it.

Malfoy picks up the mug of tea nearest his plate, sniffs it, frowns, and stirs in a spoonful of sugar from the bowl.

"We should talk about this," Harry says.

"Why didn't you fuck me last night?" Malfoy asks instead.

It had not been the response Harry had been expecting. "What?"

"Last night," Malfoy repeats. "Don't think I don't remember. I wasn't that deep in – what did you call it?"

"Sub space."

"Right, that. I wasn't so far gone. I heard you – you said you wanted to fuck me, and as I recall, I was amenable to the point of begging for it."

Memories resurface, unbidden, to the fore of Harry's mind. Bright red stripes on pale skin under a sheen of sweat – the fire-hot burn of his back on Harry's front, the perfect curve of his ass pressing back into Harry's crotch. He does his best to fight the memories away, but it's about as effective as fighting away a sunrise.

"You weren't in the position to be making that choice," Harry says after a moment, taking a pull of his own tea.

Malfoy laughs once, humorlessly. "Oh, fuck off, like you knew what I was thinking."

"I knew you were pretty delirious, Malfoy," he says. "And I knew that sex meant enough to you that you brought your virginity up to me before the first time you came home with me. I told you – consent above all things. If I have any doubt about anything I'm doing with a submissive, I'm not going to do it, full stop."

Malfoy rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his own tea. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Malfoy, I don't think all the riches of King Solomon could impress you."

"Do you know what your problem is?"

Harry sighs. "I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"Your problem is that you're taking it too seriously."

"Am I."

"All this heavy-handed wanting to talk, commitments and expectations and boundaries – you're trying to make this some grand thing, and it doesn't have to be."

"Yes, it does, Malfoy," Harry says, perhaps a bit too severely. "We're talking about a relationship in which physical pain plays a not insignificant role. We have to at least outline what we both want, where the limits are, how—"

"I don't know any of that, do I? I only learned the term BDSM two weeks ago. I don't know what I want, I don't know the nuances, I don't know what half those fucking sex toys back at Nox did!"

"Ignorance isn't an excuse," Harry says. "Consent has to be informed, so it's both our responsibility to know—"

"Merlin's sagging tits, Potter, I have enough responsibilities already! I don't need to add to the list!"

Harry frowns. "You do realize we are talking about your physical safety, right? How can you be so dismissive about it?"

"I trust your expertise. And it's not like I won't let you know if I want to stop."

Harry groans, leans back in his chair and rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Time had changed both of them, but not entirely, because Draco Malfoy could still be the most irritating thing on the planet when he wanted to be.

"I don't want this to be serious," Malfoy says after a moment. "I don't want this to mean anything."

Harry does his best to pretend that the words don't sting. He drops his hand and looks at him over the breakfast table. Malfoy is holding his mug of tea in both hands, eyes fixed firmly on Harry's.

"What I want," he says, voice low, "is for you to fuck me."

If there's such a thing as emotional whiplash, Harry's sure he's experiencing it now. To go from weirdly hurt to incredibly turned on so quickly cannot be healthy.

"What I want," Malfoy repeats, "is for you to fuck me right here on this table, because it doesn't matter, because it shouldn't matter."

Well, Harry supposes that if it was sober and explicit consent he wanted, he's gotten that now. Malfoy is staring at him hungrily, fingernails softly scraping the painted porcelain mug.

"And hey," he adds, "if you want to tie me up while you do, I wouldn't say no."

Harry should not do this. He really, really should not do this.

"You're quite a slut for bondage, aren't you?"

"If bondage is the part where you get tied up, then yes, I think that's a fair descriptor."

And there are still parts of Harry's brain warning him not to do this, reminding him that open communication and ample forethought are the absolute cornerstones of a responsible Dom/sub relationship, but the problem is that the parts of Harry's brain that want to fuck Draco Malfoy into the floor – that have wanted to fuck him into the floor since they were both sixteen – are quite a bit louder.

"Stand up," Harry says, softly.

Malfoy sets down his mug of tea and rises, and Harry's bath robe ripples around him with the movement.

"Come here."

Malfoy moves around the table, stopping when his knee knocks lightly against Harry's. Harry unfolds Malfoy's arms and gingerly opens the robe.

He did a good job last night. The welts hadn't been that severe to begin with, of course, but Malfoy's chest looks like driven snow – expansive and smooth and white, as though nary a finger, let alone a hex-whip, had ever graced it before this moment.

Except…

He'd never really seen it in proper lightning, but now with the sunlight shining on it, he can make it out – long and thin and silver, extending from the crux of his jaw, down his throat, and across his breastbone, stretching down toward his hip. Harry is nearly knocked flat when he remembers—

"The scar."

Malfoy frowns. "What?"

Harry presses his thumb to it and drags it down. All at once, Malfoy starts to tremble.

"Potter," he says, voice tense.

"Do you remember the night I gave you this?"

Harry looks up at him, but Malfoy is looking away, one hand braced on the table.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says.

"Why not?" Harry asks him.

"It doesn't mean anything."

"You keep saying that," Harry says.

"Spare me any of your armchair psychiatry, Potter—"

Harry shuts him up by tugging him forward by the waist and wetly kissing the long, silver scar. The sound it pulls out of him is sinful, and Malfoy's bracing hand on the edge of the kitchen table suddenly starts bearing a lot more weight. Harry feels that familiar surge of adrenaline, the base instinct that had terrified him for so long – take, own – and with a controlled burst of wandless magic, every dish on the table goes flying onto the floor with a great clatter. He sweeps Malfoy around and pins him onto the newly-barren table.

"Aah – Potter—"

"You're lucky I like you mouthy," Harry says into his stomach. "Incarcerous."

Silvery threads of magic slither up his arms, snarl around Malfoy's wrists, and – thump – attach them firmly to the underside of the table. Malfoy's arms are over his head, bent at the elbow over the edge.

"Wandless magic," Malfoy pants. "Showoff."

"Caecus," Harry answers, and the same silver threads that bound his hands snake up and cover his eyes, eventually taking shape as a satin blindfold.

Malfoy moans deliciously. "Potter—"

"Why is it that nothing between us is ever simple?"

Harry drags his hands down Malfoy's sides, feeling the tenseness in his muscles.

"From the word go, it was always like this."

Harry's hand curls around his left thigh and pushes his thigh up. Malfoy's breathing has picked up.

"Always so complicated. Always at each other's throats. There were times when I don't think either of us knew why."

Slap, hard to the underside of thigh. Malfoy yelps once, wrenches to one side.

"Stay still," Harry says firmly.

Malfoy whimpers, but settles down again, body still taut. Harry can see the physiological reactions – the flush rising on his chest, the heightened reaction time, the swell of his cock.

"Eleven years old and calling each other rivals. Mutual obsession under a flimsy veneer of hatred. What did we know about hatred? What did we know about rivalry?"

Slap, higher, to his hip, and Malfoy strangles on his shout, arcing off the table.

"Voldemort was my rival."

Malfoy makes a low whine. "Potter—"

"Voldemort was the one I hated. You were the one I snuck off to duel at night, the one I all but stalked for an entire year. If we hadn't been born into an inheritance of war, I'd have been pulling your hair and chasing you around the playground."

Slap to his backside, now wrenched high off the table. Malfoy shouts hoarsely, back arced high and taut.

"Do you ever think about that, Malfoy? About how different things would have been if we'd been allowed to be children at any point in our lives?"

Malfoy doesn't answer, though Harry can tell by the way he's biting down hard on his lower lip that there is an answer, just one he's holding back.

"I do," Harry says. "Especially lately. And maybe it's useless to speculate, but I can tell you one thing."

A few more subtle wandless spells – the usual rigmarole for protection and cleanliness and lubrication.

"It doesn't mean nothing," Harry says. "It never has and it never will."

Harry pushes two fingers past the taut ring of muscle before Malfoy can say anything. The reaction is immediate – and very, very loud.

"Hnnhaaaaahh—!"

"Deep breaths," Harry says. "It's easier if you're relaxed."

Malfoy makes a choked sound. His legs are spread wide now, and his cock is full on his stomach. He looks absolutely edible, and it wears thin on Harry's self-control, because he has never wanted anything quite so badly in his life.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Malfoy's response isn't as immediate this time. A lapse of silence passes before he shakes his head. Harry sees the lines of his throat roll as he swallows.

"Talk to me, Draco Malfoy," Harry says. "If you're uncomfortable, let me know."

It once again takes some time for him to respond.

"Feels – different."

"I imagine so." Harry begins a gentle movement in and out, and Malfoy makes a soft, strangled noise. He presses in a bit deeper and, almost experimentally, curls them upward.

At once, Malfoy bucks his hips up, yelping in sudden surprise.

"What – what was that?" he asks, arching his neck as though trying to look down, despite the blindfold.

Harry grins to himself. The little swell of flesh under his fingertips is hot and soft, and he pushes into it a second time, more firmly, and to an even louder shout.

"Fuck," Malfoy says, body writhing. "Fuck – Potter, wh-what was—"

"It's your prostate, Malfoy," he answers shortly, before slowly returning to the back-and-forth motion, now with a razor-sharp focus of where the pressure needs to be.

"Oh – f-fuck," Malfoy chokes, legs curling, heels scraping along the edge of the table, squirming against the magic binding his wrists. Harry slowly picks up his pace. "Fuck – oh, Merlin. Thhhhhhhhaaaaaaa—!"

"Better?" Harry asks lowly.

Malfoy doesn't answer – at least not with anything that could be called words. As Harry moves his hand with even more speed, he relishes in watching him slowly fall apart. His hips start bucking, gasping, writhing, and it eats away at Harry's self-control.

"You're doing so well," Harry mutters in approval, bending forward to brace his free hand on the table, allowing him to move faster. "Look at you, you flawless creature, I could have you coming off the tip of my finger, couldn't I?"

Normally, Malfoy is able to get out a complete word every now and then, but Harry has managed to get him entirely incoherent, which is an answer all its own. Watching him makes him feel ravenous, and when Harry feels that telltale clutch of nearing orgasm, he abruptly pulls out and takes a few steps back.

Malfoy lies supine, sprawled out on his kitchen table, hands bound and eyes covered, so close to the peak but not quite close enough. Harry takes a few very slow, very deep breathes.

"Hnngmmnn – Potter – wh-what—"

Quietly, he pulls his shirt up and over his head in one movement. Malfoy must not hear him, because Malfoy makes a keening sound, arcing his hips desperately up off the table.

"Potter, you bastard, you can't just—"

"Ssh."

He's as undressed as he needs to be – or perhaps as undressed as he has the patience to be – jeans on but open, cock free – and God, what a relief that had been, he'd been so focused that he'd barely even noticed the pain of it, trapped behind denim – and slowly, he climbs onto the table.

"What, did you think I'd abandon you?"

He slips his fingers through Malfoy's now sweat-streaked hair; the touch catches him off-guard with the blindfold still in place, and he takes in a sharp breath.

"A lovely, naked, open, thoroughly fuckable blond tied up on my kitchen table, and you think I'd keep my hands off you for more than a few seconds at a time?"

He rolls his hips forward; the shaft of his cock slides along Malfoy's inner thigh, and God, it feels like satin.

Malfoy releases a shuddering breath that ghosts along Harry's jaw. The hand in his hair tightens.

"Ten years of foreplay, and you think I'd sacrifice the opportunity to fuck you open?"

Malfoy makes a helpless, desperate sound. Harry uses the grip in his hair and pulls sharply; Malfoy yelps and his neck arcs under Harry's mouth, all long, thin lines, sweat-streaked, pulse thundering just under the skin. He rolls his hips again, a slow and easy rhythm against the supernova-hot skin of Malfoy's thigh, the crux of his pelvis, the skin of his perineum. Malfoy starts to respond, though his movements are shaky with anticipation.

"Potter, please," he rasps.

His cock pulses as the word. "Tell me what it is you want, Malfoy."

Malfoy whines desperately, trembling hips bucking off the table. "Fuck me," he whispers, plaintive but deeply urgent. "Please. Potter, please."

Harry grips his hair tighter. God, he could come off nothing but the sound of him begging.

"Again."

He sobs, thrashes against his bonds. "Please!" he says, more loudly. "Please, I can't take it – please f—" —Harry hurriedly reaches down to line himself up— "—ffffffaaaaahhhnn—!"

All at once, he is buried to the hilt – all at once he is fucking Draco Malfoy, who is hot and pliant and a perfect satiny vise gripping his cock, who is screaming so loudly that he'd be waking up neighbors if there were neighbors to wake up. Harry grips hard on the edge of the table, and it takes far more self-control than he thought he was capable of to tell himself stop, stop, wait, let him adjust, all thoughts interspersed with fuck, yes, God.

"Malfoy," he says, low into his ear, "listen to me very carefully."

It's doubtful Malfoy can hear much over the sounds he's making, but he seems to make some effort to keep quiet, to listen.

"If I go too quickly, if I start to hurt you, you have to say desino. Do you understand?"

Malfoy doesn't say anything, but Harry thinks he can detect him nodding. It's getting harder and harder for him to focus on anything, for him not to hold him down and fuck this beautiful, perfect creature lying open and desperate for him.

"It's very important for reasons I cannot adequately explain at the moment, but suffice it to say that it is about to get very difficult for me to focus on anything or really hear anything so if something goes wrong, say desino. All right?"

Harry wants to wait for acknowledgment – he really does – but God, he just can't; Malfoy feels incredible and he just can't — he reaches down, grabs his thigh, and he rocks forward and fucks him, a deep and thorough rhythm. He grips hard and he fucks deep and he can feel that familiar thrum in the back of his head—

And God, he's perfect – hot and pliant and bucking back against him so eagerly, moaning and shouting himself hoarse while Harry fucks him open, every nerve in his body surging with a potent cocktail of magic and adrenaline. There's a fire burning in him, raging quickly through his blood, and the table rattles with every thrust, and Malfoy shouts things that Harry can't understand.

He releases his grip in Malfoy's hair and holds him by both hips, straightening, thrusting faster. He can feel his own nearing climax in every nerve in his body – Malfoy takes it so beautifully, and his body is so perfect and responsive as Harry fucks into it, and every ounce of tenseness in his body coalesces, collapses, into an impossible knot that rips out of him—

—and he's coming – intensely, all-consumingly – emptying wave after wave into Malfoy, who is shaking and gasping with pleasure, head thrown back, his own stomach striped with come.

And Harry slowly comes back down and – God – it's been ages – how long had he—?

"Malfoy—" His voice is raspy, unwilling. "Malfoy, are you all right?"

He doesn't hear an answer. Harry forces his eyes back into focus and – well, he must be all right, he's pretty far gone. Harry releases a breath, reluctantly pulls out of him, a line come trembling and then breaking along Malfoy's inner thigh.

He is open, debauched – and probably the most ecstatically erotic thing Harry's ever seen. He takes a few breaths, centers, then moves to clean up his half-destroyed kitchen.

Well-fucked. Not a thing Draco would have ever thought he'd experience in his lifetime, but there it is.

The past few times, sub space had always ended with sleep. But now it was morning, and he got to come down naturally. He felt soft and pliant, loose, and very, thoroughly, incredibly well-fucked.

He watches for a while as he comes down as Potter putters about the bedroom, redressing, straightening up. When he trusts his own tongue enough to speak—

"Desino?"

The word seems to have a physical effect on Potter – he actually stumbles, and for a moment it looks like he might fall over but for a quick grip on the nearby armoire.

"Jesus," he says. "Don't – don't say it unless you need to, Malfoy."

He's still pretty hazy, but it's been at least a half-hour, and most of his faculties have returned to him – or at least all the ones that make him realize the peculiarity of the situation.

"What is it?" he asks, rolling onto his side to get a better view.

"It's a trigger-spell," he says. "A safe word, of a kind, except it has a physical effect on me. I only really need to use it when…"

Draco watches in silence, more curious than he thought he'd be.

"It hasn't happened in years," he says after a pause. "Dom space. Not really the same effects of sub space, but similar processes. Floods of friendly chemicals. It gets almost impossible for me to focus, which can be pretty dangerous for a Dom. So I came up with the trigger-spell as a last resort."

Draco hums. Normally he'd come up with a clever insult, but the best he can do under the circumstance is, "Always so careful."

"You're all right, then?" Potter asks.

"I'm better than all right," he answers. "And apparently so are you."

"I don't normally share the trigger-spell with people who aren't my submissive," Potter says, stopping at the edge of the bed.

Draco looks up at him in silence. He knows what Potter wants, of course. He's all but spelled it out for him. And there is, at least, some part of Draco that feels bad for keeping him hanging, but there is a much larger part of him that doesn't want to give this thing in him, between them, any sort of formal acknowledgment.

Potter crouches down in front of him on the bed.

"Do you want to see my sex dungeon?"

After a moment, Draco grins.