The itch has not gone away. If anything, it's gotten worse.

And yes, Harry does know what this means. At this point it would be an exercise in willful ignorance to try and avoid the reality of the situation. He may only be able to see the little blue threads under the skin of his right wrist when the light is low enough, but that doesn't change the fact that they are becoming more solid, more contiguous every day. It doesn't change the fact that Harry is starting to pick up vague auras and impressions from Draco whenever they're close enough, like he's starting to feel his emotions and think his thoughts as an extension of his own.

And yes, Harry knows he should be talking about it, but every time he tries, he finds himself choked up. It's not in his usual nature to be so frightened of consequence, but he is. He is binding himself – perhaps completely one-sidedly – to Draco Malfoy, and it is wonderful, and terrible, and inevitable, and all he can think about is how Draco might react. Would he run? Would he be angry? Would he never speak to Harry again?

There is still a corner in Harry – small, fragile – that is still amazed that someone cares about him. Enough to give himself to Harry, enough to giggle over jokes about lemon sorbet in the early morning, enough to look past twenty years of scars and open himself up to him. It is the same corner of him that is terrified – so, so terrified – of losing it, because how on earth would he ever find it again? It's the part of him that never really left that cupboard under the stairs, the part of him that chokes his voice when he tries to say it – Draco, I love you. Draco, I'm beginning to bind myself to you. Draco, you are the puzzle I want to spend the rest of my life solving.

But there are silences that need filling, and if he can't bring himself to say that, he says the next best thing:

"You're beautiful."

Draco's shoulders jerk in surprise. He's facing away, arms pulled tight behind his back in a long, black arm binder, a single sleeve down his spine. A black silk blindfold is pulled tight around his eyes, and all he can do when he hears Harry's voice is turn his head in the general direction of the sound.

"You're exquisite. God, look at you."

He trails his fingertips along the span of Draco's back, which pulls a shiver out of him. He makes a soft sound and his head falls back, exposing the lines of his throat. He is kneeling on the floor on a small, black mat; there are leather shackles on his ankles that bind him to the cement.

Harry's cock aches. There are ten thousand things he wants to do to him, but the first thing he does is move across the room and tap a small clock with his wand. It immediately begins to tick.

The sound of it catches Draco's attention. "Harry?" he asks. "What's that sound?"

"It's an alarm clock," Harry answers. "It is going to count down a half-hour."

"What? Why?"

He looks so vulnerable there on the mat; Harry's sure he feels vulnerable, too. Thighs spread wide, knees pressed to the ground, arms bound behind him, rendered blind and immobile. His cock is hard and his chest is heaving.

Harry approaches slowly. "Open your mouth."

He can see the shiver run down his spine at the words. A lapse of silence, and he opens his mouth.

There's no reason to delay and every reason to take what he wants with both hands. He is already disrobed – this entire day had been planned out well in advance – and the moment he catches the flash of pink that is Draco's tongue, he grabs him by the hair and presses his cock inside.

Draco moans around his length, and Harry releases a long breath. Hand still tightly knotted in the silky cornsilk hair, he starts a steady, thorough rhythm, fucking into his mouth.

"Don't ask too many questions, Draco," Harry mutters over the wet sounds of his cock pressing ever deeper. "This is supposed to be a surprise. Head back, deep breath."

Draco knows what's coming; Harry knows he knows. Where by the subtle body language or by the early pulses of the filium around Harry's wrist, he can detect that sudden wave of arousal and anticipation. Draco obligingly tilts his head back, opening his throat – Harry grips tightly and fucks down into it.

Christ, Malfoy's throat. He's never seen someone inexperienced take it so well. Harry remembers being inside his head that first time, feeling the raw buzz of intense arousal, nearly as delicious as the feeling itself, of being buried so perfectly inside the tight, wet vise of his throat.

"This weekend is going to be a good one, Draco," Harry says as he starts the slow, deep rhythm. "I have a feeling you'll like what I have planned tonight. And tomorrow night should prove to be just as interesting."

Draco makes a soft sound as though he wants to say something. Harry takes the opportunity to give one long, thorough stroke down into his throat. He stays still a while, sinking into the sensation, and waiting for the first edges of dizziness to lap at the edges of Draco's mind.

He counts to twenty, then pulls out. Draco coughs and gasps, chest heaving, a line of precome glistening on his lower lip.

"I—" Draco swallows, gulps down a few urgent breaths, "—I can't come tomorrow. You can't either. The party, remember?"

"Words cannot express the true, time-space-bending massiveness of the fuck I don't give about your father's party," Harry says.

"He'll be suspicious if you don't show up," Draco pants.

"Will he, though? I feel like he can't be too surprised if I don't come to a party thrown by Lucius Malfoy, lord of all dickheads."

"Harry," he whines.

He sighs. "Jesus, fine. Aren't I supposed to be the one dishing orders?"

"I just don't want to give him any reason to be upset," Draco says, turning his head away. "If this goes bad he'll personally blame me for it. I was the one who made the investments in the first place."

"But you have to at least make some time tomorrow," Harry says, moving forward again and threading his fingers through Draco's hair. He arcs up against his touch. "I can promise it will be worth your while."

Draco makes a sound that is, to Harry's ear, not dissimilar from a purring cat. "It can't be in the morning," he says in weak protest. "Maybe early afternoon, before the party?"

Harry bends down low. "I may keep you long," he says into Draco's ear.

He shivers. Harry sinks into a crouch, his hands ghosting down Draco's front, across the flat of his stomach, the shallow V-shape of his pelvis, until his fingertips slip around the base of his cock. The purring cat sound arrives again, a bit louder.

"Every time I have you, I'm tempted to just tie you up and never let you go," Harry continues, and Draco's hips jerk, shoulders straining against the arm binder. "To have you on a collar, to have easy access to your mouth, your cock, that perfect little ass—"

He lands a hard slap; Draco jerks and keens, body twisting, chest starting to rise and fall with more rapidness.

"Perhaps by the front door," Harry continues, "with a decent plug in you. I could come home to find you there, bend you over the end table, and you'd be ready right away—"

Draco moans loudly as Harry fists his cock – once, twice, then withdraws, leaving Draco's swollen, red shaft untouched in the cool air of the cellar.

"You like the sound of that, don't you?"

Draco whimpers, hands writhing in the arm binders, legs shaking.

Harry grips his hair tightly. "Answer me."

"Yes," he gasps. "Yes, yes."

"You'd like to be waiting for me when I come home from work, wet and open?"

Draco moans a second time, louder, head falling back. "Yes," he says.

"When I left you down here, I told you to stretch yourself and use a lubrication charm. Did you?"

Draco nods feverishly.

"Good."

Harry sits down on the mat across from Draco, taking a while to admire the expanse of smooth skin of his chest and stomach.

"Mind you, I know much you like it rough and dry," Harry says, fingertips on Draco's skin, and he writhes and gasps, the metal shackles attached to his ankles scraping on the floor. "But tonight we have to err on the side of caution. Like I said, we'll be doing something special."

Harry adjusts so he's sitting cross-legged. His hands move from his chest to his stomach to his waist, then grip hard and tug him forward. Draco stumbles toward him on his knees, chains rattling, and Harry very subtly casts a ring spell around the base of his own cock. Timing is everything tonight, and he has to stick to the plan.

The head of Harry's cock brushes the skin of Draco's thigh. Draco shudders visibly, tangibly under his fingertips. Harry reaches down and adjusts the position; the slick, loosened ring of muscle lines up, and Harry says—

"Down."

Draco groans heavily, swallows, and slowly sinks down, impaling himself on Harry's cock in one long, unbearably slow movement. The movement is so long that it is as torturous as it is wonderful; Draco's body is so hot and soft, and Harry lets his head drop back as he sinks down further and further, until he is pressed firmly into his lap, cock fully seated.

Draco is panting, shaking. Harry wants nothing more than to roll him over and fuck him into inarticulacy, but no, no, the plan is more important.

"Go on, then," Harry mutters into his ear.

Breathing out shakily, Draco starts to move. Bound as he is, it's awkward and stiff, but the eagerness is there, boundless but restricted by the arm binder, by the shackles around his ankles. Cock sliding against Harry's chest with each movement, he rolls his hips, slowly at first. Draco's body is like hot, wet silk, and Harry stares at his throat.

"I can picture a collar around your throat right now," Harry mutters to him. Draco whimpers, rocks his hips faster. "Marking you mine, mine only."

"Harry," Draco gasps.

"Deeper."

Draco swallows hard, arcs his back, bucks his hips faster. Skin hits skin again and again, and he starts to writhe as he bounces on Harry's cock eagerly.

"A beautiful specimen like you would need to be kept on a short leash," Harry mutters. "God knows what I'd do to any other Dom who even looked at you overlong."

The muscles in Draco's chest start ot tighten. "Harry—"

"Faster."

It's an order that Draco is clearly eager to obey, but one that his bindings do not make easy. He rolls and bucks and arcs his neck. Harry lies back on the mat and watches him – Christ, he's beautiful, fucking himself so eagerly and desperately on Harry's cock, the leather arm binder groaning in protest as he writhes in it. Harry rests his hands on his waist and bucks his own hips to meet him halfway, and Harry watches as his cock disappears over and over inside Draco's hot, pliant body.

Thank God for the ring around the base of Harry's cock, or the sheer, ecstatic beauty of it would be too much for him to take. There's a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his stomach and chest as Draco desperately rides his cock.

"All you'd have to do it say it, Draco," Harry says. "Say you want it, say you want this, and I'd make you mine."

His movements start to get erratic. Harry can feel Draco's nearing climax in every muscle of his body, and abruptly, he grabs him by both hips.

"Stop," Harry says.

"Nnnn," Draco gasps. "Harry—"

Ring-ring-ring, goes the alarm clock on the far side of the room.

"Settle down," Harry mutters, stroking his thighs. "Back from the edge, Draco. We're just about to get to the good part.

Ring-ring-ring, goes the alarm clock. Ring-ring—

There's a sudden clicking sound, and the alarm clock goes quiet.

Draco wrenches around – it's a useless gesture, of course, with the blindfold, but it's an instinct that won't go away, even with blindness.

"Who's there?" Draco asks. "Someone shut off the alarm clock."

There comes no answer. The same someone resets the alarm clock. Then Draco can hear footsteps, and he feels a sudden surge of alarm.

"Harry—?"

"If I told you, Draco," says – Harry? Is that Harry? The voice isn't coming from the right place – it's coming from the side of the room, but he knows Harry's underneath him; his cock is still buried inside him, how—? "that I nabbed a confiscated Time Turner from the Auror stores, would you promise to keep it a secret?"

It takes a moment for Draco to put it together. "Oh – oh. Oh, my—"

A hand in his hair, the head of a very familiar cock in his mouth again – Draco groans heavily – it's definitely Harry, the cock has the same heaviness, the same shape, and it's moving with the same enthusiasm in and out of his mouth, pushing in the same demanding way at his throat.

Draco's mind buzzes with the familiar pleasure and the Harry-under-him begins to buck his hips off the ground and – fuck – Draco's mind nearly blanks with ecstasy. His cock absolutely aches – Merlin, it's so good, it's so good—

"Just as good the second time around," Harry-above-him mutters, fucking into his throat, and Draco nearly gags at the suddenness, but yes, yes, yes yes yes yesyesyes. He relaxes his throat and bobs eagerly, frantically, rolling his hips, keeping time as best he can. Harry's cock is perfect on his tongue, in his throat, and his own cock aches unbearably with the stimulus. Harry-under-him fucks upward harder, deeper, and Draco feels like he's about ready to fall apart.

Harry-beneath-him abruptly grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls harshly down, off the cock of Harry-above-him, and kisses him feverishly. Draco misses the feeling of the cock on his tongue, but he kisses back, pressed flat into Harry-below-him, writhing on the cock still buried inside him—

Then, fingers – first trailing down his spine, then to his entrance. Harry-above-him traces the stretched ring, then—

"Aa–aaaaaaahhh–-!"

"Sssh," says Harry-above-him.

His fingers are slipping in alongside the cock already buried in him, stretching him to limits Draco did not know he was capable of. His body seizes, his heart pounds – surely he isn't – that isn't even – is it—?

"Perfect creature," Harry-below-him whispers, lovingly, into his ear, as fingers widen him. "Lovely, beautiful creature. Ssh, relax. You can't even imagine everything you're capable of."

"Harry," Draco gasps, or perhaps sobs. He's not sure. The fingers probe deeper – Merlin – it's so good, but it's so much. He's handled long with many of Harry's toys, but thick – it's so thick, it's so much, he feels like his body might split in two, but somehow, he doesn't want it to stop – feebly, almost without meaning to, Draco rocks his hips back.

Harry-beneath-him groans heavily. "Do you want it, Draco?"

Draco half-sobs. "Y—" (he swallows hard) "Yes."

Harry-beneath-him grips his hips tightly, gives a particularly deep thrust. Behind, Harry-above-him slips in a second finger, works him open wider. "Again."

Draco shakes, tightens, writhes. "Yes," he gasps. "Please. Please, yes."

There's shifting behind him. Draco's heart is suddenly beating in his throat. Those fingers stretch him open and oh, oh, Merlin, there's no possible, physical way it can fit, but he wants it so badly—

Harry-above-him places a hand on his back, bends him forward. Draco's head spins as he feels a second cock gliding along his thigh.

"Easy," Harry-above-him mutters, and oh Merlin oh fuck he lines himself up against the loosened ring of muscle, "easy, now. I wouldn't be here if you didn't love it."

"Harry—"

The hand on his back curls, fingertips dig into his skin, and he pushes—

For a moment, Draco's mind clears of everything, going completely white. It burns, and it aches, and it is absolutely impossible, and it is perfect. He feels as though he's being split in two as that second cock pushes into him; he presses his forehead onto the mat as Harry-below-him smooths his hands up his sweat-streaked back.

"Fuck," Harry-above-him mutters. "Fuck. Just as – God – just as fucking perfect the second time."

Harry-below-him grips him by the sides. Harry-above-him bends forward slightly, grips Draco by the shoulder and—

Draco screams, and how is he not splitting open, and yes yes more yes more please more oh Merlin more they start to move, and Draco feels stretched to his absolute limits. His own cock is throbbing in the most exquisitely perfect combination of pleasure and pain he's ever felt. He shakes, and he gasps, and he rocks his aching, trembling hips back.

Harry-below-him groans heavily. "You're fucking perfect," he mutters, and he kisses wetly at the side of his mouth. "God, Draco, you take it so fucking well. You're so tight, so perfect."

Draco sob-moans into the skin of Harry's shoulder. The movement mounts. Draco's cock has never been so hard, nor indeed in this much pain. He needs to come badly. He needs to come soon, or he feels as though he might pass out entirely. The sensation is entirely too much – their strokes are never quite even with each other, there's no familiar rhythm, just the delicious, terrible, wonderful, unbearable aching burn as his shaking body is pushed to its absolute limits.

Harry-above-him pulls him upright suddenly, kisses ferociously at the side of his neck, fucks him harder. He grips Draco's throat tightly with one hand, his cock with the other, and Draco shouts in delirious pleasure-pain, bucking frantically against the movements.

"Beautiful—" Harry-above-him whispers harshly into his skin. "Fucking beautiful – take it—"

He thrusts – hard – and Draco screams, and his body seizes up. He is on fire. He is burning. He's so close – he's either going to come or burn into ash. Harry-above-him fists Draco's cock roughly, fucks him hard, and Draco shouts, and sobs, and yes, yes, yes, he begs, more, yes, so close, yes, more.

Harry-above-him grips his throat harder; Draco loses his breath. He's dizzy. He's close. He can't breathe, and he feels like he doesn't need to. Closer, closer, inexorably, inevitably, higher and higher to a peak—

Harry-above-him shouts, strangled, into his ear— "Draco!" —and Draco shatters like so much glass, coming so intensely that it should not be possible. His body bucks and spasms; Harry-above-him empties heat into him, and yes, yes, he comes into the hand on his cock, entire body surging in time to the impossible, dizzying waves of climax, coming, burning, falling—

"Draco," Harry-above-him whispers, roughly, hoarsely, as Draco disintegrates in his arms. "Draco, God, you're perfect…"

Draco is dropping quickly, but in the haze, he hears something that sounds like—

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Draco dreams vividly, of shifting colors and impossible geometry. He dreams of Harry, smiling, strong, powerful, deliberate, gentle, whispering I love you, I love you, I love you. Draco is warm, collared, owned. Draco is in love.

Draco also dreams of his Father, harsh, unforgiving, unbowing, disgusted. How could you, how could you, how could you, how could he? How could Draco do this? How could he allow this shame? Draco is a pariah.

Warm love, cold fury – they meet, they clash, they fuel the storm inside him. The collar of glowing blue threads around his neck pulses, burns – from shame, or from love? Draco doesn't know. Draco wonders if he ever will.