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birdsofshoreTitle: Hairway to Heaven
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
birdsofshore
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione
Summary: Harry's desperate for it. A good haircut, that is. And Draco's just dying to give him one.
Warnings/Content Notes: Shameless innuendo, and good honest smut
Word Count: ~12,000
Author's Notes: This was my very first attempt at writing a fic! Thank you so much toomi_ohmy for the brilliant beta job, and all the encouragement, laughs, and patience while I was writing this. There is no greater kindness anyone can do than laughing at my jokes. Big big thanks also to marianna_merlo who read this early on, reassured me and gave lots of great advice. Written for the 2012 ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hd_fan_fair Harry / Draco Career Fair. What a fabulous first fest to be involved in! Thank you to the mods for making it such a fun experience. ♥
"Ron! Hey, RON!" bellowed Harry, hurrying in pursuit of his old friend. He'd easily identified the head of red hair above the crowd, and was now puzzling over who Ron was walking with – hand in hand, no less. The dark, sleekly bobbed hair looked very familiar, but surely it couldn't be—"Pansy Parkinson?" Harry blurted in disbelief, as both heads swung around in response to his shout.
"Pansy who?" asked a very amused-looking Hermione Granger from beneath a chic and glossy hairstyle. Her face was framed by a heavy, side-swept fringe, with subtle shades of lighter browns threaded through to soften the effect.
"Blimey, Hermione, I thought it was Parkinson! What have you done with your hair? It's all smooth! I mean– it's not so– uh– it used to be a lot more– " Harry spluttered on tactlessly and then settled for "WOW. I like it!" and a kiss on the cheek.
"Good, innit?" asked Ron with a grin. "And wait till you hear who did it."
Harry looked from one face to the other questioningly.
"I think it's a story to be told while sitting comfortably, really." said Hermione. "We were going to Floo over later; shall we make it now instead? It's been ages since we had a chance to see you properly. And I've a totally brilliant surprise for you!"
*****
"You've booked me a what?"
"A makeover, Harry. No need to look like that. You'll love it, I promise! Such a treat."
"Now you're starting to talk like Parkinson, too. Is it 'Let's Confuse Harry' evening or something? Ron? Do you understand what any of this is all about?"
Ron shrugged. "Not much more than you do, mate. Hermione came back one evening looking like that – yes, yes, and very nice too, love – and since then she's been scheming– I mean, planning you this 'totally brilliant surprise'.... " Ron tailed off meekly and took a hasty gulp from his glass of Firewhisky.
"But... you said Malfoy did your hair? Since when has he been a hairdresser?"
Ron snorted. "You remember how he always used to muck about with his own hair. Bloody gel, fancy robes and all that. Princess La-di-da Malfoy," he sniggered as Hermione jabbed him sharply in the ribs. "Ouch, Hermione! Go easy on a fella, will you?"
Harry, laughing, passed the bottle for a refill. He enjoyed Ron's immature sense of humour.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Really, the two of you are so juvenile. And I can't believe you have so little interest in what's currently stylish. Draco has been the latest word in hair for over a year, and now he's finally returned to England and opened a salon here. It's been the talk of fashionable London, as you would both know, if you weren't so preoccupied with your Quidditch teams and stuffing yourself with Molly's fudge!"
Ron looked at Harry apologetically. "We're not long back from a weekend at the Burrow. Hermione's a bit... tired, I think."
"Quite," said Hermione, tartly. "Anyway, Draco is really quite the thing, and, as you see," flicking her hair in a pleased fashion, "can work wonders with... how did he put it? 'The more challenging head of hair'."
"Ok, so Malfoy's the bee's knees at tarting people up," said Harry. "Somehow not as surprising as it might be. " He added pleadingly, "but what has all this got to do with me, Mione?"
"Look, Harry, it's like this. We're none of us getting any younger. You left the Aurors two, no, nearly three years ago." Hermione put her hand up, "No, let me finish, Harry, I know you deserved a break, of course I do, but, you don't seem to have quite found a new niche for yourself. And... " Hermione hesitated and shifted uncomfortably. "I know it's been a while, since... well, you haven't had... you've not—"
"You've not had much luck in the bum chum department lately," said Ron cheerfully, topping up his glass from the bottle of Ogden's.
"Really, Ronald, are you in fact twelve years old?"
Harry grinned, entertained, at Ron's somewhat crude remark and Hermione's outraged reaction. This, at least, was something he was familiar and comfortable with.
"Oh sorry, mate. Sorry," said Ron. "Don't mind me. But what Hermione's trying to say is, since that thing you and Charlie had going, your love-life lately's been a long winter and no sign of spring."
Harry blushed as he recalled his brief, disastrous fling with Charlie Weasley, not long after he realised he was more interested in Ron's brothers, than his sister.
"I know it's tough," continued Ron, "but there's nothing actually wrong with you, you know. I realise you screwed things up with Charlie, but I reckon if you put yourself about a bit more, you could totally—"
Hermione interrupted quickly before Ron could wedge his foot any further into his mouth. "Harry, we thought you might appreciate a little assistance with your, erm, image—"
"Don't drag me into your plotting, Hermione!" said Ron, shaking his head.
"—Just to, freshen yourself up a bit. You know. Make the most of yourself. So to speak. We aren't students any more."
Harry looked down at his faded, baggy t-shirt and plucked at the uneven hem. "I don't know. I mean, I feel comfortable like this. I like the way I look. And—" he paused, the knut finally dropping. "You don't actually mean you want me to go to this– this salon of Malfoy's and let that prat dick around with my hair, do you? No way, Hermione!"
"I told her, Harry, I did tell her. S'all right for a witch, but," Ron said wistfully, "a bloke just wants to be left in peace, right? And no way is any sane man going to go and get himself touched up in Malfoy's boudoir– "
"You really are not helping, Ron. Look, just think about it, Harry. Honestly, loads of people go there, witches and wizards too. It's very difficult to obtain an appointment, in fact, but Draco said he had a cancellation next Thursday and I thought—"
"What is all this 'Draco' business, anyway? What's going on, Hermione? You look different, and you sound different, and... you know I hate it when stuff changes. Why can't we all just be happy as we are and not have to– have to get older and stuff? " Harry's sentence trailed off mournfully as he contemplated his scuffed trainers.
There was a thoughtful silence. Hermione and Ron exchanged glances over Harry's gloomy-looking head. Hermione sighed. "We'd better be going; it's later than I thought, and Ron and I have work in the morning. All I am saying is think about it. You might be surprised if you saw Draco. People change, you know? Whether you like it or not. And I think this might give you a lift." She hugged him tightly. "You seem in a rut, Harry, and not very happy as you are, or I would leave you in peace." She turned to Ron in indignation. "I would, Ron!"
"I'll take ol' bossy boots home, don' worry. Good to see you, so g'd to see you Harry," said Ron, who had been quietly and happily consuming Firewhisky since arriving at Harry's. He got to his feet rather unsteadily. "You're my– my bes' mate, y'are, even if you did boff my brother—" "RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!" barked Hermione, and yanked him into the Floo, ear first.
*****
Harry sat on a violently orange sofa, flipping through pages of photographs with increasing disbelief. He had been fervently welcomed into the salon by a house-elf, who showed him to the waiting area and handed him a bound folder. "Mr. Harry Potter is to be looking at the examples of Mr Draco's work, sir!"
The first few pages were bad enough – what seemed to Harry to be ludicrous shots of young witches and wizards with arty hairstyles and moody expressions. As he flicked through, he began to see the occasional face he recognised. Gwenog Jones, looking more like a starlet than a retired Beater, with her hair in glamorous curls, winking saucily out of the picture. Greg Goyle, reminding Harry of a Beat poet with goatee beard and what Harry supposed was artfully unruly hair. Harry's frown intensified as he looked at further photos. Hagrid, pictured with his hair in rippling waves, nodding almost regally at the camera. Snape - Snape! - no longer the customary greasy professor, but now appearing in his portrait tossing back clean, lustrous hair. Harry almost expected to turn a page and find Voldemort simpering from under a blond fringe.
"Potter. You astonish me. I never thought you'd actually turn up."
Harry dropped the folder, pages tumbling across the floor. His eyes travelled up and up over the long, lean form of Draco Malfoy, wearing an impeccably tailored Muggle suit. A faintly supercilious smile greeted him at the top.
"Apologies if I startled you – Busby, pick these things up for Mr. Potter – I got quite the surprise myself when I saw you walk in. What brings you here?"
"I– Hermione said you knew– she made the appointment? I– I thought—"
"Oh yes, we have you booked in, Potter, but as I say, I never dreamt you'd in fact deign to appear. I must confess I presumed you liked your hair looking that way, unlikely as that might seem."
Harry felt his hands bunching into fists and the old familiar, exhilarating, rush of blood pumping around his body as his temper started to ignite. "Malfoy, you– you want to be—"
"I want to be sitting down with my newest customer and getting to know him a little better, you're quite right, of course," Malfoy said smoothly, taking a seat next to Harry on the toxic-coloured sofa. "I'm delighted you're here, and we will do our utmost to make sure you leave feeling fully satisfied." He flashed him a brief, disarming smile and Harry exhaled slowly, the wind taken out of his sails by Malfoy's mercurial conduct. Malfoy gazed at him seriously. "So do tell me, what is it you are hoping for from us today? How can we best please you?"
"Well, I, er, I'm not sure really? Hermione said– well– she said you did her hair, and she liked it. I dunno. I was, erm, curious, maybe?"
Malfoy's expression remained solemn, but his grey eyes showed his amusement. "Ah, and one should always indulge one's curiosity, don't you think, Potter?"
Harry shifted awkwardly on the sofa, which was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. "So who are you going to try to make me into?" asked Harry with mistrust.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You make people into things they're not. You made Hermione look like Pansy Parkinson. You made Hagrid look like... I don't know! I like people to look like who they are, not your fancy version of them."
"Hermione Granger has a mind like a steel trap – yes, Potter, no need to look so surprised, I can credit intelligence where I find it – but until I got my hands on her, she used to have the hair of a deranged hobo. I make people more like themselves, I make them look like the best possible self they can be."
"I'm not surprised you know that Hermione's smarter than you: everyone knows that," bristled Harry. "I'm just amazed to hear you use her name instead of some insult. And I can't believe she came here and just sat back while all these poor house-elves you've got here run around after your customers! How did you get so many to serve you? And what exactly is so bloody funny, Malfoy?"
"Oh, Potter, you are a hoot. So righteous; so misguided. I have Granger to thank for my marvellous bevy of workers. You surely know of her tireless work on the matter of rights for house-elves? These days, it's quite à la mode to give your house-elf clothes, and then of course the poor creatures have nowhere to go and no-one to serve. So they come and work for me!" Malfoy beamed, gesturing to the small, neatly-uniformed figures hurrying diligently to and fro. "And I pay them very handsomely, Potter, so you needn't look so outraged, even though it does make your eyes smoulder quite agreeably. I'll be right back," he said, and he sauntered off, leaving Harry's mouth hanging ajar in his wake.
Malfoy had gone to greet an elderly witch who had just entered the building. While he was occupied, a house-elf escorted Harry to a chair in the main part of the salon, and seated him in front of a mirror. Looking around, he saw other customers sipping drinks, or reading magazines, as charmed scissors moved busily around their heads, shaping their hair into various styles.
Harry had not had his hair cut at a wizarding establishment before, preferring instead to use spells at home purely to keep his hair at a decent length, and never worrying too much about the results. He stared in naked amazement at the frantic pace of the bewitched scissors. It looked frankly dangerous. Not for the first time he regretted his decision to come. Malfoy's question had wrongfooted him: what was he hoping for today?
Harry had not given much thought to his hopes and dreams, since he'd left the Aurors three years ago. With Voldemort gone, and once all the former Death Eaters were either dead, imprisoned, or in hiding, the Aurors mostly worked with the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, either as back up for routine work, or as glorified bodyguards to the powerful and the rich. A year into his extended leave of absence, he found he had no more desire to return to the Aurors than to splinch himself. He also found there was little in his life to excite him or inspire him. The trouble was, he did not quite know what he believed worth fighting for, anymore.
And so, Hermione's words had cut deep. Harry knew at heart that his friend was right, he had been stagnating, and he rued his own lack of courage to deal with the situation. He didn't quite know how coming to have his hair done was going to redeem matters; wasn't that what girls did, as a symbol of big life changes and fresh beginnings? But he couldn't honestly think of where else to start, and so Hermione's plan had seemed as good as any.
Harry used the mirror to peek at Malfoy as he moved gracefully around the room, speaking to customers, directing house-elves, and occasionally stopping the charmed scissors in order to make an alteration by hand. He told himself that he didn't see what Hermione could have meant about him having changed. He seemed exactly the same old Malfoy – well, perhaps an inch or two taller, and slightly broader across the shoulders, with a new solidity in his upper arms. Still the same old bigoted manner – well, maybe not bigoted, exactly, but, condescending, definitely condescending. The same old patrician tones, with just a smidge of an intriguing new French accent. Not exactly the same old scrawny arse. That was now surprisingly fit. Really alarmingly fit, now he came to have a good look at it. Not quite the same pointy face, having lost some of its previous sharpness, while retaining the high cheekbones and delicately moulded jaw. But the same old white blond hair, that now flopped down in soft strands around his cheeks, making Harry's fingers itch for a moment to brush it gently back—
Malfoy, returning, caught his eye in the mirror, and raised an eyebrow as Harry looked away hurriedly. He placed a cup of tea on the shelf in front of the chair, and Harry sniffed it with suspicion, an unconscious hangover from Auror days.
"You can drink that quite safely, you know, Potter, it isn't a nose-biting teacup." Harry blushed. "Or– oh, you are simply too good to be true; you didn't honestly believe I was trying to poison you? Oh, Potter." Malfoy shook his head ruefully. "What are we going to do with you? Surely we can be a tad more relaxed around one another than when we were boys? Those days are long past, now, you know. You don't need to be watching my every move, even if I do miss having you as my own personal stalker sometimes."
Harry had to consciously stop himself from gaping at the other man's absolute cheek, as he struggled for a smart reply that wouldn't come. Malfoy had always had the capacity to make him feel like the village Squib.
"Excuse me one moment, Potter– " Malfoy broke off to address a house-elf, "Jizzy? Can you see if Mrs. Craddock's colours have taken yet? I left her under a Warming Charm about half an hour ago."
"Jizzy?" spluttered Harry. "Only you could have a house-elf called Jizzy!"
"I don't name them, Potter. Wait till you meet Spanky, Wanky and— "
"Spunky?" guessed Harry.
"Oh, you have met them. Or was that just a lucky guess? Why on earth would such things be on your mind, I wonder? You're obviously in the mood for talking dirty, but however diverting this is, we must reluctantly get down to business, mustn't we? Now, about this haircut...."
*****
Harry watched Malfoy's reflection as he assessed the results of the last hour's work. Harry had been fastidiously shampooed by a house-elf, ("Spanky is wondering if Mr. Harry Potter is going anywhere nice for his holiday this year?"), then settled back in the chair to face Trial by Magical Scissors. He had scarcely dared breathe in case he lost an ear, but after a very tense twenty minutes, when the scissors eventually ceased their activity and hovered respectfully near his head, he was relieved to find he had all his major appendages still attached. Then Malfoy had come back and made pleased noises, before setting a Drying Charm around Harry's head and bidding him to sit under it until done.
Now he scrutinised Harry with a curiously intimate focus. At such close range, Harry found he was captivated by the other man's intense, pale eyes. They were edged with a darker ring which emphasised their silvery brightness.
"Potter."
Harry startled as Malfoy broke the silence rather huskily.
"Your hair.... " Malfoy trailed off, sounding overcome by emotion.
"Yes?"
"It's a complete shambles."
"What?"
"Look at it. "
Harry looked at it. He saw shaggy black hair. He saw... Harry.
"Myself and my staff have just spent over an hour devoting ourselves to you. And. You. Look. Just. The. Same. "
"What?"
"You look the same ruddy mess that you did when you walked in here!"
Other customers were becoming aware of the disturbance. Malfoy appeared to get a grip on himself, at least on the surface. He smiled unpleasantly and lowered his voice.
"Tell me, Potter, did you do something to your hair before you came in here today? Hmm? Is this some elaborate joke? Or a shoddy attempt to discredit me?"
"What? No!"
"Stop saying 'what'!" hissed Malfoy.
"Malfoy! Calm down! Of course I haven't done anything to my hair. I don't know why it looks the same: it always does! My Uncle Vernon used to hack away at it, and the next day it was always back exactly as it was; it used to drive him mad."
"That does not surprise me in the slightest." said Malfoy glacially. "There is something about you that would drive the sanest of men to the Janus Thickey Ward."
Harry felt rooted to the spot, and sweat prickled at his temples, as the hypnotic grey eyes blazed into him. He wondered, not for the first time, if Malfoy was a Legilimens.
A very uncomfortable moment passed until Malfoy blinked, breaking their eye contact. When he spoke again his voice was steady and complacent.
"All right, Potter. I can see that you simply have absurdly tragic hair, another fact which does not surprise me in the least. I will take this as a personal challenge. Come back next week – Jizzy! Get me the appointment book. I want to squeeze Mr. Potter in to any available opening that I might have, as a matter of urgency."
He smiled devilishly and stalked off, rendering Harry unable to emit any sound other than an incoherent squeak.
*****
Harry was perturbed to find that his thoughts kept running along the same unpleasant path over the following days. And nights. He seemed to be spending an unreasonable amount of time obsessing over what had taken place at the salon: what Malfoy had said, what he, Harry, had said (or not said), Malfoy's tone of voice, how Malfoy had insulted him, Malfoy's expression, what Malfoy had meant by those things about Harry's eyes, and being curious, and... that thing about Malfoy's opening. Especially that thing about the opening.
The problem was, Harry decided, that he did not have a great deal to fill his time at the moment. His life revolved around a few well-worn pleasures: seeing Ron and Hermione, following the Quidditch season, a drink at the Leaky with Neville, having a takeaway on a Friday night. It was natural, therefore, that anything out of his normal routine was going to occupy his mind to an unusual extent. Yes, that was definitely the explanation.
After realising he had, yet again, spent a good half hour daydreaming about the clever retorts he could have made, to wipe the stupid smug smile from Malfoy's stupid smug face, Harry decided to take a shower. He felt rather restless for some reason and his t-shirt was sticking to his back with sweat.
Harry stripped off his clothes quickly, leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor and stepping into the shower. The water was still running cold, and Harry shuddered slightly as the spray hit his heated skin and ran down over his body. He closed his eyes, letting the water stream over his flushed face, into his mouth and over his chin.
As the water flowed warmer he began to mutter to himself. "So, Malfoy, you get your kicks from bossing around a load of house-elves?" He sighed. Pathetic.
He grabbed a bottle from the shelf and poured cool liquid into his hand. He quickly soaped his armpits and shoulders before rubbing in slow circles over his chest and stomach. "So, Malfoy, you think my hair is absurd, do you? The only thing that's absurd around here is that revolting sofa."
That was a little better. He massaged soap around his balls and reached back to clean his arse. His prick twitched and Harry realised belatedly that he was sporting a full erection. He stroked along the length, gasping at the sensation. His cock felt as sensitised as if he had been teasing himself for a long time. He seemed to have been wanking an awful lot this week. Probably boredom. There hadn't been much good on the telly.
"You think I was stalking you? As if you ever interested me in the slightest, Malfoy." Harry poured more soap into his hand and began to pump his cock in earnest. His face twisted with pleasure, and he leant his forehead against the wall as he looked down to watch his own movements.
"I bet you think you're pretty special with your fancy salon and your swanky new clothes." His hand moved faster as he thrust angrily into his soapy fist.
"You think I'd like to—" Harry's breath came in irregular bursts as his hand flew over his cock, "—talk dirty to you, do you? I assure you... nothing– uhh– is further– ahhh– from my mind... unnngh,." Harry grunted as semen spurted through his fingers and onto the tiles, his body bucking with the force of his orgasm.
Well, that was Malfoy told. 'Now to do it to his face,' thought Harry, and left the shower glowing with exhilaration.
*****
The day of Harry's next appointment finally rolled around, and he found himself feeling strangely anxious about what to wear. He told himself that he hadn't realised how smart the salon would be, and didn't want to look out of place on this visit.
He tried on several outfits before settling on his newest pair of jeans, and a soft grey shirt with a silvery sheen, that Luna had given him for Christmas. "Wearing the colour silver will lend you eloquence, Harry," she had told him, earnestly. "I think you sometimes struggle with words, you know." Mind you, she had also told him that wearing silver would strengthen the connection between his astral and physical bodies, but so far he had never felt the need for this.
Despite walking as slowly as he felt able, to kill time, he arrived at the salon twenty minutes early.
"So eager, Potter! Your enthusiasm flatters me!" called Malfoy, mortifyingly, as he spotted him perching uncomfortably on the sofa of doom.
Harry passed the time while he waited, watching the comings and goings in the salon, and he found his eye drawn more and more to the tall, slender figure moving among his customers and staff with grace and efficiency. Malfoy was everywhere: joking amiably as he put the finishing touches to a nervous-looking young wizard's new hairstyle, telling two of the industrious house-elves it was time to take a break, listening solicitously to an ageing witch's worries about her thinning hair.
He genuinely does care about all of this, realised Harry with surprise. He does want to – what was it he said? To help people be their best.
Time passed, and Harry sat, watching and noticing. He noticed Malfoy's sincere, charismatic smile as the young wizard left feeling happy and confident. He noticed his elegantly-tapering fingers running through another client's hair. He noticed how Malfoy's once bony backside now curved pleasingly into what looked like a seductive handful—
What in the name of Merlin had got into him? Was he so hungry for thrills, that he needed to ogle Malfoy now? He dragged his gaze forcibly away from the other man and gave it a stern talking to. From now on, he would only look at neutral things, like... like the back of Malfoy's head. The back of Malfoy's head was harmless, surely? It wasn't erotic in the least. He allowed himself to notice the floppy hair which looked infinitely fine, rather like moonlight would be, if it was spun into strands.
Malfoy's neck didn't interest him one bit, either. It merely bridged (in an admittedly not unattractive way) the gap between the beautifully-shaped head, and the firm-looking shoulders. The faintest fuzz of white-blond downy hair on Malfoy's neck, which disappeared down beneath the collar of his shirt, was only interesting in that Harry wondered if it would feel as soft as it looked, if he were to brush it with his lips....
Harry cleared his throat abruptly and got to his feet, not trusting himself to do any more noticing. He called out before he had time to think about what he was going to say.
"Malfoy! I– think I'm going to be off now. I've just remembered somewhere else I'm meant to be. Sorry for– er– sorry." So much for the eloquence of silver, he thought.
Malfoy cleared the room in a few strides and was at his side. "What's this? Not cold feet I hope?" He wore a concerned frown. "I'm truly sorry we kept you waiting. I'm free now; we can get you seen to immediately. You look far too delicious in that shirt to be allowed to leave us. You're in luck today, Potter – I'm going to leave you in Spunky's competent hands in a moment. Just let me check a couple of things first. Now, have you been using any potions on your hair regularly since we last spoke...?"
*****
It was no good. Whatever Malfoy and the hapless Spunky tried, Harry's hair remained the same unmanageable thatch. They threw first potions, then spell after spell, at it, until his scalp burned and he begged for mercy. He was cleansed, spruced, buffed, straightened, conditioned, tweaked and titivated, to within an inch of his life, but to no avail. And during it all, Harry felt a disconcerting tingling throughout his whole body: in part stirring, in part unsettling, like blood rushing painfully into a part of one's body where the circulation has been cut off for some time.
Malfoy became first perplexed, then crotchety, and finally, disappointed. This last made Harry's heart hurt. No – somewhere deeper, like his gut. It ached with longing, while Malfoy's vulnerable expression made him look years younger, and filled Harry with a tender yearning for something nameless – something lost, but urgently desired, that he knew he could not have.
"I simply can't think– this has never happened before. I must consult my books– perhaps Ubbly's Shimmering Fumes would have something... or possibly I should have brewed that Smoothing Potion when the moon was dark, not full...." He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and his voice sounded weary.
"Oh well, Potter, I must confess defeat – temporary defeat – I shall look into this matter most thoroughly, I assure you." He sighed. "I have to go and attend to Lady Wimborne's little moustache problem now, but, hmm, let me see. I think it's essential to devote myself to your requirements, at a time when we will not be interrupted." He regarded Harry consideringly, his grey eyes clear and challenging. "Come back on Friday evening; we'll have the place to ourselves and I am confident I will be able to give you what you need."
*****
"So how's it going with the old 'get Harry a shag' – oh, sorry mate, I mean 'stop Harry being such a scruffbag' – er, well, how's it going, anyway? Your hair looks just the same to me, for what it's worth."
"Oh, I don't know," sighed Harry, not even noticing Ron's well-meaning blunders. "Ron – have you ever, you know, fancied someone you shouldn't really fancy?"
"What? Yeah, course! All the time. I wasn't meant to fancy our best mate at Hogwarts, if you put it that way, was I?" laughed Ron, passing Harry the biscuits.
"No, I don't mean Hermione, I mean, someone like... someone who's not your friend. Someone who... you don't even like, maybe."
"Well, yeah. It happens sometimes, you know?"
"Really? I mean, what did you do about it?"
"Do about it? Nothing! Just 'cos you notice someone's fit, doesn't mean you have to be great pals with them. And I wouldn't do anything anyway, because of Hermione, course." Ron crunched happily on a digestive.
Harry sighed again.
"Ok. So. What would you do, if you were me... well, if you were single, and you'd not been with anyone, well, for ages, and you sort of started to like someone, to really, really like someone, and... they used to be a bit of a git, and your friends couldn't stand him - oh, well, except Hermione seems to think he's ok now...."
"We-elll...." said Ron, consideringly. "I'd probably— hold on. Harry. Oh, Harry. This isn't a hypothetical question, is it? Oh Merlin. Harry." Ron's face contorted, appalled, as the truth finally dawned on him. Harry could see bits of biscuit in his mouth. "You've got the bleeding hots for Malfoy, haven't you?"
Harry shook his head helplessly. "Yes. No! I don't know. I just keep thinking about him. All the time. And when I see him– when I see him, Ron, it's worse. I get tingles, Ron. " Harry gestured. "Like, all over."
"Bloody hell, mate, there's no doubt about it: you've got it bad. But Harry, really? I mean, Malfoy? Honestly?" said Ron with a visible shudder. "I knew you were hard up, but that's going too far. "
"I know Ron, I know. Believe me, I know what you're thinking. But he's not like he used to be."
Ron interrupted, his voice tinged with desperation. "Listen, Harry, there's someone I work with. Lovely chap. He likes blokes. I could introduce you!"
Harry went on, completely oblivious to Ron's attempt at distraction. "He looks... he's all kind of… and his eyes, they... you know?" Harry's own eyes were gazing into the middle distance. "And Ron, I never noticed before, but he's got the most fantastic—"
"Harry! Mate! Spare me the details! You know I've got no problem with you liking it up the – oh, sorry mate. But you've got to put this out of your mind. " Ron was almost pleading now. "I know what it's like, what bloke doesn't? Mr. Trouser Snake sees something he likes and your brain kind of falls out of your ears. But this is Malfoy we're talking about. Just think what a total nob he's always been. Think about how much you and he hated each other's guts at Hogwarts. Think... think about when he got turned into a fucking ferret. Yeah, that's it, just think Ferret!"
It seemed a good plan, while sitting there in Ron's front room, on Ron's patchy old faded sofa, drinking Ron's builder's tea from Ron's Chudley Cannons mug. Everything seemed reassuringly ordinary, and thoughts of Draco Malfoy's frankly sensational arse, and what Harry might or might not be wanting to do to it, retreated into the corner of Harry's mind reserved for 'Troubling Things to Worry About Later.'
"Er, Ron? 'Mr. Trouser Snake?' Really?"
*****
The day of the appointment dawned in a haze of adrenalin, as Harry lurched between an anticipatory buzz, and feeling wretched and queasy. He took a walk to calm himself, but somehow ended up walking past the salon. Wearing his Invisibility Cloak. And staring in through the window with his face pressed up against the glass, as he once had done as a young boy at Honeydukes, eyes wide and mouth agape at all the beguiling sights on offer.
Once safely home, he considered the contents of his wardrobe, but this time he ended up defiantly changing back into his scruffiest jeans and hoody. As for his hair, he glared at it in the mirror for some time before turning away with a grimace.
Although strangely eager to get to the salon, he forced himself to wait until the exact time Malfoy had named, before stepping into the green flames. In the few seconds of travel, with different locations flying past, Harry thought how strange it was that he had never – not for a minute – considered not going. He was trembling with nerves – and feeling more thrillingly alive than he could remember.
Hairway to Heaven part 2
Author:
birdsofshoreRating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione
Summary: Harry's desperate for it. A good haircut, that is. And Draco's just dying to give him one.
Warnings/Content Notes: Shameless innuendo, and good honest smut
Word Count: ~12,000
Author's Notes: This was my very first attempt at writing a fic! Thank you so much to
omi_ohmy for the brilliant beta job, and all the encouragement, laughs, and patience while I was writing this. There is no greater kindness anyone can do than laughing at my jokes. Big big thanks also to marianna_merlo who read this early on, reassured me and gave lots of great advice. Written for the 2012 hd_fan_fair Harry / Draco Career Fair. What a fabulous first fest to be involved in! Thank you to the mods for making it such a fun experience. ♥ "Ron! Hey, RON!" bellowed Harry, hurrying in pursuit of his old friend. He'd easily identified the head of red hair above the crowd, and was now puzzling over who Ron was walking with – hand in hand, no less. The dark, sleekly bobbed hair looked very familiar, but surely it couldn't be—"Pansy Parkinson?" Harry blurted in disbelief, as both heads swung around in response to his shout.
"Pansy who?" asked a very amused-looking Hermione Granger from beneath a chic and glossy hairstyle. Her face was framed by a heavy, side-swept fringe, with subtle shades of lighter browns threaded through to soften the effect.
"Blimey, Hermione, I thought it was Parkinson! What have you done with your hair? It's all smooth! I mean– it's not so– uh– it used to be a lot more– " Harry spluttered on tactlessly and then settled for "WOW. I like it!" and a kiss on the cheek.
"Good, innit?" asked Ron with a grin. "And wait till you hear who did it."
Harry looked from one face to the other questioningly.
"I think it's a story to be told while sitting comfortably, really." said Hermione. "We were going to Floo over later; shall we make it now instead? It's been ages since we had a chance to see you properly. And I've a totally brilliant surprise for you!"
"You've booked me a what?"
"A makeover, Harry. No need to look like that. You'll love it, I promise! Such a treat."
"Now you're starting to talk like Parkinson, too. Is it 'Let's Confuse Harry' evening or something? Ron? Do you understand what any of this is all about?"
Ron shrugged. "Not much more than you do, mate. Hermione came back one evening looking like that – yes, yes, and very nice too, love – and since then she's been scheming– I mean, planning you this 'totally brilliant surprise'.... " Ron tailed off meekly and took a hasty gulp from his glass of Firewhisky.
"But... you said Malfoy did your hair? Since when has he been a hairdresser?"
Ron snorted. "You remember how he always used to muck about with his own hair. Bloody gel, fancy robes and all that. Princess La-di-da Malfoy," he sniggered as Hermione jabbed him sharply in the ribs. "Ouch, Hermione! Go easy on a fella, will you?"
Harry, laughing, passed the bottle for a refill. He enjoyed Ron's immature sense of humour.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Really, the two of you are so juvenile. And I can't believe you have so little interest in what's currently stylish. Draco has been the latest word in hair for over a year, and now he's finally returned to England and opened a salon here. It's been the talk of fashionable London, as you would both know, if you weren't so preoccupied with your Quidditch teams and stuffing yourself with Molly's fudge!"
Ron looked at Harry apologetically. "We're not long back from a weekend at the Burrow. Hermione's a bit... tired, I think."
"Quite," said Hermione, tartly. "Anyway, Draco is really quite the thing, and, as you see," flicking her hair in a pleased fashion, "can work wonders with... how did he put it? 'The more challenging head of hair'."
"Ok, so Malfoy's the bee's knees at tarting people up," said Harry. "Somehow not as surprising as it might be. " He added pleadingly, "but what has all this got to do with me, Mione?"
"Look, Harry, it's like this. We're none of us getting any younger. You left the Aurors two, no, nearly three years ago." Hermione put her hand up, "No, let me finish, Harry, I know you deserved a break, of course I do, but, you don't seem to have quite found a new niche for yourself. And... " Hermione hesitated and shifted uncomfortably. "I know it's been a while, since... well, you haven't had... you've not—"
"You've not had much luck in the bum chum department lately," said Ron cheerfully, topping up his glass from the bottle of Ogden's.
"Really, Ronald, are you in fact twelve years old?"
Harry grinned, entertained, at Ron's somewhat crude remark and Hermione's outraged reaction. This, at least, was something he was familiar and comfortable with.
"Oh sorry, mate. Sorry," said Ron. "Don't mind me. But what Hermione's trying to say is, since that thing you and Charlie had going, your love-life lately's been a long winter and no sign of spring."
Harry blushed as he recalled his brief, disastrous fling with Charlie Weasley, not long after he realised he was more interested in Ron's brothers, than his sister.
"I know it's tough," continued Ron, "but there's nothing actually wrong with you, you know. I realise you screwed things up with Charlie, but I reckon if you put yourself about a bit more, you could totally—"
Hermione interrupted quickly before Ron could wedge his foot any further into his mouth. "Harry, we thought you might appreciate a little assistance with your, erm, image—"
"Don't drag me into your plotting, Hermione!" said Ron, shaking his head.
"—Just to, freshen yourself up a bit. You know. Make the most of yourself. So to speak. We aren't students any more."
Harry looked down at his faded, baggy t-shirt and plucked at the uneven hem. "I don't know. I mean, I feel comfortable like this. I like the way I look. And—" he paused, the knut finally dropping. "You don't actually mean you want me to go to this– this salon of Malfoy's and let that prat dick around with my hair, do you? No way, Hermione!"
"I told her, Harry, I did tell her. S'all right for a witch, but," Ron said wistfully, "a bloke just wants to be left in peace, right? And no way is any sane man going to go and get himself touched up in Malfoy's boudoir– "
"You really are not helping, Ron. Look, just think about it, Harry. Honestly, loads of people go there, witches and wizards too. It's very difficult to obtain an appointment, in fact, but Draco said he had a cancellation next Thursday and I thought—"
"What is all this 'Draco' business, anyway? What's going on, Hermione? You look different, and you sound different, and... you know I hate it when stuff changes. Why can't we all just be happy as we are and not have to– have to get older and stuff? " Harry's sentence trailed off mournfully as he contemplated his scuffed trainers.
There was a thoughtful silence. Hermione and Ron exchanged glances over Harry's gloomy-looking head. Hermione sighed. "We'd better be going; it's later than I thought, and Ron and I have work in the morning. All I am saying is think about it. You might be surprised if you saw Draco. People change, you know? Whether you like it or not. And I think this might give you a lift." She hugged him tightly. "You seem in a rut, Harry, and not very happy as you are, or I would leave you in peace." She turned to Ron in indignation. "I would, Ron!"
"I'll take ol' bossy boots home, don' worry. Good to see you, so g'd to see you Harry," said Ron, who had been quietly and happily consuming Firewhisky since arriving at Harry's. He got to his feet rather unsteadily. "You're my– my bes' mate, y'are, even if you did boff my brother—" "RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!" barked Hermione, and yanked him into the Floo, ear first.
Harry sat on a violently orange sofa, flipping through pages of photographs with increasing disbelief. He had been fervently welcomed into the salon by a house-elf, who showed him to the waiting area and handed him a bound folder. "Mr. Harry Potter is to be looking at the examples of Mr Draco's work, sir!"
The first few pages were bad enough – what seemed to Harry to be ludicrous shots of young witches and wizards with arty hairstyles and moody expressions. As he flicked through, he began to see the occasional face he recognised. Gwenog Jones, looking more like a starlet than a retired Beater, with her hair in glamorous curls, winking saucily out of the picture. Greg Goyle, reminding Harry of a Beat poet with goatee beard and what Harry supposed was artfully unruly hair. Harry's frown intensified as he looked at further photos. Hagrid, pictured with his hair in rippling waves, nodding almost regally at the camera. Snape - Snape! - no longer the customary greasy professor, but now appearing in his portrait tossing back clean, lustrous hair. Harry almost expected to turn a page and find Voldemort simpering from under a blond fringe.
"Potter. You astonish me. I never thought you'd actually turn up."
Harry dropped the folder, pages tumbling across the floor. His eyes travelled up and up over the long, lean form of Draco Malfoy, wearing an impeccably tailored Muggle suit. A faintly supercilious smile greeted him at the top.
"Apologies if I startled you – Busby, pick these things up for Mr. Potter – I got quite the surprise myself when I saw you walk in. What brings you here?"
"I– Hermione said you knew– she made the appointment? I– I thought—"
"Oh yes, we have you booked in, Potter, but as I say, I never dreamt you'd in fact deign to appear. I must confess I presumed you liked your hair looking that way, unlikely as that might seem."
Harry felt his hands bunching into fists and the old familiar, exhilarating, rush of blood pumping around his body as his temper started to ignite. "Malfoy, you– you want to be—"
"I want to be sitting down with my newest customer and getting to know him a little better, you're quite right, of course," Malfoy said smoothly, taking a seat next to Harry on the toxic-coloured sofa. "I'm delighted you're here, and we will do our utmost to make sure you leave feeling fully satisfied." He flashed him a brief, disarming smile and Harry exhaled slowly, the wind taken out of his sails by Malfoy's mercurial conduct. Malfoy gazed at him seriously. "So do tell me, what is it you are hoping for from us today? How can we best please you?"
"Well, I, er, I'm not sure really? Hermione said– well– she said you did her hair, and she liked it. I dunno. I was, erm, curious, maybe?"
Malfoy's expression remained solemn, but his grey eyes showed his amusement. "Ah, and one should always indulge one's curiosity, don't you think, Potter?"
Harry shifted awkwardly on the sofa, which was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. "So who are you going to try to make me into?" asked Harry with mistrust.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You make people into things they're not. You made Hermione look like Pansy Parkinson. You made Hagrid look like... I don't know! I like people to look like who they are, not your fancy version of them."
"Hermione Granger has a mind like a steel trap – yes, Potter, no need to look so surprised, I can credit intelligence where I find it – but until I got my hands on her, she used to have the hair of a deranged hobo. I make people more like themselves, I make them look like the best possible self they can be."
"I'm not surprised you know that Hermione's smarter than you: everyone knows that," bristled Harry. "I'm just amazed to hear you use her name instead of some insult. And I can't believe she came here and just sat back while all these poor house-elves you've got here run around after your customers! How did you get so many to serve you? And what exactly is so bloody funny, Malfoy?"
"Oh, Potter, you are a hoot. So righteous; so misguided. I have Granger to thank for my marvellous bevy of workers. You surely know of her tireless work on the matter of rights for house-elves? These days, it's quite à la mode to give your house-elf clothes, and then of course the poor creatures have nowhere to go and no-one to serve. So they come and work for me!" Malfoy beamed, gesturing to the small, neatly-uniformed figures hurrying diligently to and fro. "And I pay them very handsomely, Potter, so you needn't look so outraged, even though it does make your eyes smoulder quite agreeably. I'll be right back," he said, and he sauntered off, leaving Harry's mouth hanging ajar in his wake.
Malfoy had gone to greet an elderly witch who had just entered the building. While he was occupied, a house-elf escorted Harry to a chair in the main part of the salon, and seated him in front of a mirror. Looking around, he saw other customers sipping drinks, or reading magazines, as charmed scissors moved busily around their heads, shaping their hair into various styles.
Harry had not had his hair cut at a wizarding establishment before, preferring instead to use spells at home purely to keep his hair at a decent length, and never worrying too much about the results. He stared in naked amazement at the frantic pace of the bewitched scissors. It looked frankly dangerous. Not for the first time he regretted his decision to come. Malfoy's question had wrongfooted him: what was he hoping for today?
Harry had not given much thought to his hopes and dreams, since he'd left the Aurors three years ago. With Voldemort gone, and once all the former Death Eaters were either dead, imprisoned, or in hiding, the Aurors mostly worked with the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, either as back up for routine work, or as glorified bodyguards to the powerful and the rich. A year into his extended leave of absence, he found he had no more desire to return to the Aurors than to splinch himself. He also found there was little in his life to excite him or inspire him. The trouble was, he did not quite know what he believed worth fighting for, anymore.
And so, Hermione's words had cut deep. Harry knew at heart that his friend was right, he had been stagnating, and he rued his own lack of courage to deal with the situation. He didn't quite know how coming to have his hair done was going to redeem matters; wasn't that what girls did, as a symbol of big life changes and fresh beginnings? But he couldn't honestly think of where else to start, and so Hermione's plan had seemed as good as any.
Harry used the mirror to peek at Malfoy as he moved gracefully around the room, speaking to customers, directing house-elves, and occasionally stopping the charmed scissors in order to make an alteration by hand. He told himself that he didn't see what Hermione could have meant about him having changed. He seemed exactly the same old Malfoy – well, perhaps an inch or two taller, and slightly broader across the shoulders, with a new solidity in his upper arms. Still the same old bigoted manner – well, maybe not bigoted, exactly, but, condescending, definitely condescending. The same old patrician tones, with just a smidge of an intriguing new French accent. Not exactly the same old scrawny arse. That was now surprisingly fit. Really alarmingly fit, now he came to have a good look at it. Not quite the same pointy face, having lost some of its previous sharpness, while retaining the high cheekbones and delicately moulded jaw. But the same old white blond hair, that now flopped down in soft strands around his cheeks, making Harry's fingers itch for a moment to brush it gently back—
Malfoy, returning, caught his eye in the mirror, and raised an eyebrow as Harry looked away hurriedly. He placed a cup of tea on the shelf in front of the chair, and Harry sniffed it with suspicion, an unconscious hangover from Auror days.
"You can drink that quite safely, you know, Potter, it isn't a nose-biting teacup." Harry blushed. "Or– oh, you are simply too good to be true; you didn't honestly believe I was trying to poison you? Oh, Potter." Malfoy shook his head ruefully. "What are we going to do with you? Surely we can be a tad more relaxed around one another than when we were boys? Those days are long past, now, you know. You don't need to be watching my every move, even if I do miss having you as my own personal stalker sometimes."
Harry had to consciously stop himself from gaping at the other man's absolute cheek, as he struggled for a smart reply that wouldn't come. Malfoy had always had the capacity to make him feel like the village Squib.
"Excuse me one moment, Potter– " Malfoy broke off to address a house-elf, "Jizzy? Can you see if Mrs. Craddock's colours have taken yet? I left her under a Warming Charm about half an hour ago."
"Jizzy?" spluttered Harry. "Only you could have a house-elf called Jizzy!"
"I don't name them, Potter. Wait till you meet Spanky, Wanky and— "
"Spunky?" guessed Harry.
"Oh, you have met them. Or was that just a lucky guess? Why on earth would such things be on your mind, I wonder? You're obviously in the mood for talking dirty, but however diverting this is, we must reluctantly get down to business, mustn't we? Now, about this haircut...."
Harry watched Malfoy's reflection as he assessed the results of the last hour's work. Harry had been fastidiously shampooed by a house-elf, ("Spanky is wondering if Mr. Harry Potter is going anywhere nice for his holiday this year?"), then settled back in the chair to face Trial by Magical Scissors. He had scarcely dared breathe in case he lost an ear, but after a very tense twenty minutes, when the scissors eventually ceased their activity and hovered respectfully near his head, he was relieved to find he had all his major appendages still attached. Then Malfoy had come back and made pleased noises, before setting a Drying Charm around Harry's head and bidding him to sit under it until done.
Now he scrutinised Harry with a curiously intimate focus. At such close range, Harry found he was captivated by the other man's intense, pale eyes. They were edged with a darker ring which emphasised their silvery brightness.
"Potter."
Harry startled as Malfoy broke the silence rather huskily.
"Your hair.... " Malfoy trailed off, sounding overcome by emotion.
"Yes?"
"It's a complete shambles."
"What?"
"Look at it. "
Harry looked at it. He saw shaggy black hair. He saw... Harry.
"Myself and my staff have just spent over an hour devoting ourselves to you. And. You. Look. Just. The. Same. "
"What?"
"You look the same ruddy mess that you did when you walked in here!"
Other customers were becoming aware of the disturbance. Malfoy appeared to get a grip on himself, at least on the surface. He smiled unpleasantly and lowered his voice.
"Tell me, Potter, did you do something to your hair before you came in here today? Hmm? Is this some elaborate joke? Or a shoddy attempt to discredit me?"
"What? No!"
"Stop saying 'what'!" hissed Malfoy.
"Malfoy! Calm down! Of course I haven't done anything to my hair. I don't know why it looks the same: it always does! My Uncle Vernon used to hack away at it, and the next day it was always back exactly as it was; it used to drive him mad."
"That does not surprise me in the slightest." said Malfoy glacially. "There is something about you that would drive the sanest of men to the Janus Thickey Ward."
Harry felt rooted to the spot, and sweat prickled at his temples, as the hypnotic grey eyes blazed into him. He wondered, not for the first time, if Malfoy was a Legilimens.
A very uncomfortable moment passed until Malfoy blinked, breaking their eye contact. When he spoke again his voice was steady and complacent.
"All right, Potter. I can see that you simply have absurdly tragic hair, another fact which does not surprise me in the least. I will take this as a personal challenge. Come back next week – Jizzy! Get me the appointment book. I want to squeeze Mr. Potter in to any available opening that I might have, as a matter of urgency."
He smiled devilishly and stalked off, rendering Harry unable to emit any sound other than an incoherent squeak.
Harry was perturbed to find that his thoughts kept running along the same unpleasant path over the following days. And nights. He seemed to be spending an unreasonable amount of time obsessing over what had taken place at the salon: what Malfoy had said, what he, Harry, had said (or not said), Malfoy's tone of voice, how Malfoy had insulted him, Malfoy's expression, what Malfoy had meant by those things about Harry's eyes, and being curious, and... that thing about Malfoy's opening. Especially that thing about the opening.
The problem was, Harry decided, that he did not have a great deal to fill his time at the moment. His life revolved around a few well-worn pleasures: seeing Ron and Hermione, following the Quidditch season, a drink at the Leaky with Neville, having a takeaway on a Friday night. It was natural, therefore, that anything out of his normal routine was going to occupy his mind to an unusual extent. Yes, that was definitely the explanation.
After realising he had, yet again, spent a good half hour daydreaming about the clever retorts he could have made, to wipe the stupid smug smile from Malfoy's stupid smug face, Harry decided to take a shower. He felt rather restless for some reason and his t-shirt was sticking to his back with sweat.
Harry stripped off his clothes quickly, leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor and stepping into the shower. The water was still running cold, and Harry shuddered slightly as the spray hit his heated skin and ran down over his body. He closed his eyes, letting the water stream over his flushed face, into his mouth and over his chin.
As the water flowed warmer he began to mutter to himself. "So, Malfoy, you get your kicks from bossing around a load of house-elves?" He sighed. Pathetic.
He grabbed a bottle from the shelf and poured cool liquid into his hand. He quickly soaped his armpits and shoulders before rubbing in slow circles over his chest and stomach. "So, Malfoy, you think my hair is absurd, do you? The only thing that's absurd around here is that revolting sofa."
That was a little better. He massaged soap around his balls and reached back to clean his arse. His prick twitched and Harry realised belatedly that he was sporting a full erection. He stroked along the length, gasping at the sensation. His cock felt as sensitised as if he had been teasing himself for a long time. He seemed to have been wanking an awful lot this week. Probably boredom. There hadn't been much good on the telly.
"You think I was stalking you? As if you ever interested me in the slightest, Malfoy." Harry poured more soap into his hand and began to pump his cock in earnest. His face twisted with pleasure, and he leant his forehead against the wall as he looked down to watch his own movements.
"I bet you think you're pretty special with your fancy salon and your swanky new clothes." His hand moved faster as he thrust angrily into his soapy fist.
"You think I'd like to—" Harry's breath came in irregular bursts as his hand flew over his cock, "—talk dirty to you, do you? I assure you... nothing– uhh– is further– ahhh– from my mind... unnngh,." Harry grunted as semen spurted through his fingers and onto the tiles, his body bucking with the force of his orgasm.
Well, that was Malfoy told. 'Now to do it to his face,' thought Harry, and left the shower glowing with exhilaration.
The day of Harry's next appointment finally rolled around, and he found himself feeling strangely anxious about what to wear. He told himself that he hadn't realised how smart the salon would be, and didn't want to look out of place on this visit.
He tried on several outfits before settling on his newest pair of jeans, and a soft grey shirt with a silvery sheen, that Luna had given him for Christmas. "Wearing the colour silver will lend you eloquence, Harry," she had told him, earnestly. "I think you sometimes struggle with words, you know." Mind you, she had also told him that wearing silver would strengthen the connection between his astral and physical bodies, but so far he had never felt the need for this.
Despite walking as slowly as he felt able, to kill time, he arrived at the salon twenty minutes early.
"So eager, Potter! Your enthusiasm flatters me!" called Malfoy, mortifyingly, as he spotted him perching uncomfortably on the sofa of doom.
Harry passed the time while he waited, watching the comings and goings in the salon, and he found his eye drawn more and more to the tall, slender figure moving among his customers and staff with grace and efficiency. Malfoy was everywhere: joking amiably as he put the finishing touches to a nervous-looking young wizard's new hairstyle, telling two of the industrious house-elves it was time to take a break, listening solicitously to an ageing witch's worries about her thinning hair.
He genuinely does care about all of this, realised Harry with surprise. He does want to – what was it he said? To help people be their best.
Time passed, and Harry sat, watching and noticing. He noticed Malfoy's sincere, charismatic smile as the young wizard left feeling happy and confident. He noticed his elegantly-tapering fingers running through another client's hair. He noticed how Malfoy's once bony backside now curved pleasingly into what looked like a seductive handful—
What in the name of Merlin had got into him? Was he so hungry for thrills, that he needed to ogle Malfoy now? He dragged his gaze forcibly away from the other man and gave it a stern talking to. From now on, he would only look at neutral things, like... like the back of Malfoy's head. The back of Malfoy's head was harmless, surely? It wasn't erotic in the least. He allowed himself to notice the floppy hair which looked infinitely fine, rather like moonlight would be, if it was spun into strands.
Malfoy's neck didn't interest him one bit, either. It merely bridged (in an admittedly not unattractive way) the gap between the beautifully-shaped head, and the firm-looking shoulders. The faintest fuzz of white-blond downy hair on Malfoy's neck, which disappeared down beneath the collar of his shirt, was only interesting in that Harry wondered if it would feel as soft as it looked, if he were to brush it with his lips....
Harry cleared his throat abruptly and got to his feet, not trusting himself to do any more noticing. He called out before he had time to think about what he was going to say.
"Malfoy! I– think I'm going to be off now. I've just remembered somewhere else I'm meant to be. Sorry for– er– sorry." So much for the eloquence of silver, he thought.
Malfoy cleared the room in a few strides and was at his side. "What's this? Not cold feet I hope?" He wore a concerned frown. "I'm truly sorry we kept you waiting. I'm free now; we can get you seen to immediately. You look far too delicious in that shirt to be allowed to leave us. You're in luck today, Potter – I'm going to leave you in Spunky's competent hands in a moment. Just let me check a couple of things first. Now, have you been using any potions on your hair regularly since we last spoke...?"
It was no good. Whatever Malfoy and the hapless Spunky tried, Harry's hair remained the same unmanageable thatch. They threw first potions, then spell after spell, at it, until his scalp burned and he begged for mercy. He was cleansed, spruced, buffed, straightened, conditioned, tweaked and titivated, to within an inch of his life, but to no avail. And during it all, Harry felt a disconcerting tingling throughout his whole body: in part stirring, in part unsettling, like blood rushing painfully into a part of one's body where the circulation has been cut off for some time.
Malfoy became first perplexed, then crotchety, and finally, disappointed. This last made Harry's heart hurt. No – somewhere deeper, like his gut. It ached with longing, while Malfoy's vulnerable expression made him look years younger, and filled Harry with a tender yearning for something nameless – something lost, but urgently desired, that he knew he could not have.
"I simply can't think– this has never happened before. I must consult my books– perhaps Ubbly's Shimmering Fumes would have something... or possibly I should have brewed that Smoothing Potion when the moon was dark, not full...." He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and his voice sounded weary.
"Oh well, Potter, I must confess defeat – temporary defeat – I shall look into this matter most thoroughly, I assure you." He sighed. "I have to go and attend to Lady Wimborne's little moustache problem now, but, hmm, let me see. I think it's essential to devote myself to your requirements, at a time when we will not be interrupted." He regarded Harry consideringly, his grey eyes clear and challenging. "Come back on Friday evening; we'll have the place to ourselves and I am confident I will be able to give you what you need."
"So how's it going with the old 'get Harry a shag' – oh, sorry mate, I mean 'stop Harry being such a scruffbag' – er, well, how's it going, anyway? Your hair looks just the same to me, for what it's worth."
"Oh, I don't know," sighed Harry, not even noticing Ron's well-meaning blunders. "Ron – have you ever, you know, fancied someone you shouldn't really fancy?"
"What? Yeah, course! All the time. I wasn't meant to fancy our best mate at Hogwarts, if you put it that way, was I?" laughed Ron, passing Harry the biscuits.
"No, I don't mean Hermione, I mean, someone like... someone who's not your friend. Someone who... you don't even like, maybe."
"Well, yeah. It happens sometimes, you know?"
"Really? I mean, what did you do about it?"
"Do about it? Nothing! Just 'cos you notice someone's fit, doesn't mean you have to be great pals with them. And I wouldn't do anything anyway, because of Hermione, course." Ron crunched happily on a digestive.
Harry sighed again.
"Ok. So. What would you do, if you were me... well, if you were single, and you'd not been with anyone, well, for ages, and you sort of started to like someone, to really, really like someone, and... they used to be a bit of a git, and your friends couldn't stand him - oh, well, except Hermione seems to think he's ok now...."
"We-elll...." said Ron, consideringly. "I'd probably— hold on. Harry. Oh, Harry. This isn't a hypothetical question, is it? Oh Merlin. Harry." Ron's face contorted, appalled, as the truth finally dawned on him. Harry could see bits of biscuit in his mouth. "You've got the bleeding hots for Malfoy, haven't you?"
Harry shook his head helplessly. "Yes. No! I don't know. I just keep thinking about him. All the time. And when I see him– when I see him, Ron, it's worse. I get tingles, Ron. " Harry gestured. "Like, all over."
"Bloody hell, mate, there's no doubt about it: you've got it bad. But Harry, really? I mean, Malfoy? Honestly?" said Ron with a visible shudder. "I knew you were hard up, but that's going too far. "
"I know Ron, I know. Believe me, I know what you're thinking. But he's not like he used to be."
Ron interrupted, his voice tinged with desperation. "Listen, Harry, there's someone I work with. Lovely chap. He likes blokes. I could introduce you!"
Harry went on, completely oblivious to Ron's attempt at distraction. "He looks... he's all kind of… and his eyes, they... you know?" Harry's own eyes were gazing into the middle distance. "And Ron, I never noticed before, but he's got the most fantastic—"
"Harry! Mate! Spare me the details! You know I've got no problem with you liking it up the – oh, sorry mate. But you've got to put this out of your mind. " Ron was almost pleading now. "I know what it's like, what bloke doesn't? Mr. Trouser Snake sees something he likes and your brain kind of falls out of your ears. But this is Malfoy we're talking about. Just think what a total nob he's always been. Think about how much you and he hated each other's guts at Hogwarts. Think... think about when he got turned into a fucking ferret. Yeah, that's it, just think Ferret!"
It seemed a good plan, while sitting there in Ron's front room, on Ron's patchy old faded sofa, drinking Ron's builder's tea from Ron's Chudley Cannons mug. Everything seemed reassuringly ordinary, and thoughts of Draco Malfoy's frankly sensational arse, and what Harry might or might not be wanting to do to it, retreated into the corner of Harry's mind reserved for 'Troubling Things to Worry About Later.'
"Er, Ron? 'Mr. Trouser Snake?' Really?"
The day of the appointment dawned in a haze of adrenalin, as Harry lurched between an anticipatory buzz, and feeling wretched and queasy. He took a walk to calm himself, but somehow ended up walking past the salon. Wearing his Invisibility Cloak. And staring in through the window with his face pressed up against the glass, as he once had done as a young boy at Honeydukes, eyes wide and mouth agape at all the beguiling sights on offer.
Once safely home, he considered the contents of his wardrobe, but this time he ended up defiantly changing back into his scruffiest jeans and hoody. As for his hair, he glared at it in the mirror for some time before turning away with a grimace.
Although strangely eager to get to the salon, he forced himself to wait until the exact time Malfoy had named, before stepping into the green flames. In the few seconds of travel, with different locations flying past, Harry thought how strange it was that he had never – not for a minute – considered not going. He was trembling with nerves – and feeling more thrillingly alive than he could remember.
Hairway to Heaven part 2
