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birdsofshoreHairway to Heaven part 1
Hairway to Heaven part 2
As he stepped out of the Floo, he saw Malfoy lounging against the wall looking tired and beautiful. His suit jacket was thrown over the back of a chair, and his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, exposing his pale throat. Heavy drapes had been drawn over the large windows at the front of the salon, and the lights were dimmed, but a lamp cast a soft glow around the room and illuminated the area where Malfoy was standing. The phrase "a long cool drink of water" wandered unbidden into Harry's mind.
"Potter," Malfoy didn't so much smile as bared his teeth, more predatory than affable. "Just the man to perk me up, after what's been an exceedingly long day."
Harry swallowed heavily, watching as Malfoy unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up a shirt sleeve. The same downy, white-gold body hair that had attracted Harry's eye before, caught the light and transfixed his attention. He stared, trance-like, as more of the pale golden skin was uncovered, and, as he watched, Malfoy began deliberately on the other sleeve. Harry realised he had not spoken since he arrived.
"Malfoy." His voice sounded rough and unsteady. "How are you?"
"I'm absolutely peachy, thank you, Potter. What about you?" He held the eye contact as the faded lines of the Dark Mark were revealed on his forearm in the flickering lamplight. It looked dirty and wrong against his otherwise flawless skin.
Harry couldn't hide his shiver, but Malfoy's face remained carefully blank and his voice was casual, as he displayed his arm with the appearance of nonchalance.
"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."
"Sorry? I– I don't..."
"'The more things change, the more they stay the same'. Some scars never disappear, Potter. They always remain, to remind us who we have been. And what we have seen."
"But you... you have changed. I've watched—"
"I'm flattered to hear that, Potter. But have I? Have any of us? Or have we just become better – or worse – versions of ourselves?"
"You're different. The Mark, the person you were then...."
"I'm not a vicious, scared little boy any more, Potter. But the person who took the Mark has not vanished or gone: he is still here, standing in front of you."
Harry tried to swallow down the large and painful lump in his throat. He, Ron and Hermione had talked all this over – it seemed a lifetime ago now – after Draco's trial. Harry and his friends had all shared the conviction that, no matter how much they disliked him, Malfoy had been trapped and manipulated during the war, and that he had suffered enough through his experiences. They had no appetite for vengeance, after the horrors they had witnessed. However it was hard not to feel a grim satisfaction when Lucius was sent to Azkaban. Draco and Narcissa were spared, and fled to France to escape the persecution which followed all former Death Eater families.
Draco raised his chin in the old familiar gesture of bravado, but Harry thought he saw a nerve jumping in his cheek. "And you, you are still here, too, Potter? Are you ready to get down to it? Pardon my impatience, but I find I really cannot wait any more to get cracking. If… you are still willing, that is."
Harry's voice felt too unsteady to trust, but he nodded resolutely. Malfoy gestured to one of the chairs next to the sinks, where the light was slightly brighter. "Then let's begin."
Harry took a seat and leaned back into the, by now customarily uncomfortable, sink.
"Aguamenti," cast Malfoy, and warm water began to trickle over his scalp. "Is that tolerable for you?" he enquired, as Harry squirmed his head slightly against the hard porcelain.
"Frankly, no, it's not," answered Harry, finding his words at last. "Have you ever tried leaning on one of these? It's like resting on a brick. Why does everything about the experience have to be so unpleasant?"
Malfoy bristled theatrically, and the water stopped abruptly. "Unpleasant? I'll have you know my salon is the height of luxury, Potter. People long for an appointment, like a child longs for Honeydukes." Harry squirmed again, this time with humiliation as Malfoy's words instantly recalled his actions that afternoon. Had he been spotted under the Invisibility Cloak?
Malfoy flicked his wand somewhat tetchily. "Will that suit the Boy Who Whinged any better?"
Harry sank back into a newly cushioned surface. His head was cradled firmly as water flowed once more, over his crown, and the sides of his head, down to his nape. His hair flattened and clung to his skull, revealing the shape of his head. Harry let his eyes close with a small sigh of satisfaction at the pleasurable sensation, then flicked them open rapidly to see if Malfoy had heard, but Malfoy's attention was elsewhere as he scanned the potion bottles lining the shelf above.
"Tempting as it is to keep meeting like this, this is my final attempt, Potter. You do know that, yes? You haave had more than enough of our time and expertise. I am beginning to think your brush with You-Know-Who while still an infant, must have affected your follicles at a crucial stage of development. It is true I have been known to work miracles, but I cannot be expected to reverse the consequences of brawling with Dark wizards. Aha! I wonder if we will find that this may do the trick at last."
Harry felt a satiny coolness slide over his hair, as Malfoy poured a generous amount of potion from the bottle. The heady smell of orchids filled the air around them, as his long fingers efficiently distributed the liquid.
Malfoy's hands felt quite different to a house-elf's, Harry realised. They glided over the sensitive areas of his scalp in a most unnerving way. Wild tingles crept over his skin and congregated somewhere in the region of his groin, as the smooth pads of Malfoy's fingertips swirled, kneaded, caressed and toyed with his hair. A small but mortifying groan escaped from Harry's lips. He clamped both his eyes and mouth firmly shut, in an attempt to pretend it hadn't happened, and to prevent further occurrences. It was high time to Think Ferret.
"Water too hot? You've gone rather pink."
A peep at Malfoy's face confirmed his suspicion: the other man wore an infuriating smirk. Harry had an unpleasant feeling that Malfoy knew only too well the effect his wicked, clever fingers were having. Maybe having one's hair washed always felt this way? Harry tried to remember a time when it had happened to him before, but failed. He supposed Aunt Petunia might have done it for him when he was younger, but only recalled being pointed from time to time in the direction of the Dursley's bathroom and told simply, "Wash."
"I – I don't think anyone else has ever washed my hair before. I mean... another human."
Malfoy snorted and the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. "Is that so? I can't deny I'm delighted to be your very first, Potter."
Inappropriate images flooded his mind and Harry decided to try a different tack: pretending this was not in fact happening to him. Someone else was having their hair washed. His mind cast about: perhaps Dolores Umbridge? Bizarrely, the thought of Malfoy attending to Umbridge's prissy, over-styled hair did actually help to relax him, and, smiling to himself, Harry shifted in the chair and allowed his legs to fall open slightly. His head tilted back further, lengthening his neck and allowing his mouth to relax, lips parting gently. Malfoy's hands moved wantonly over his head until Harry's nerve endings were alive with pleasure.
"Now we rinse. A cold rinse for you this time, Potter, I think." Again Harry could hear that blasted smirk.
Another stream of water, tepid at first, then becoming cooler, lapped at Harry's skin. Malfoy leaned in closer, until his chest was almost resting against Harry's face. Harry inhaled cedar, the faint tang of salt, and the fresh scent of clean linen, as Malfoy stroked and squeezed his hair until all traces of potion were washed away, and then gently smoothed the tangles with a wooden comb.
"Now. We'll do this the Muggle way, as far as possible."
"Why do you like Muggle stuff so much, these days? Like wearing Muggle clothes, even."
"I don't feel the need to cling to those old prejudices any longer, Potter. We're all equals now – post-war tolerance and all that. Besides, Muggle trousers flatter the arse so much better. Do come and have a seat in front of the mirror."
Harry lurched across the room feeling rather as if he'd been Jelly-Legged. He took a seat and watched mutely in the mirror, feeling powerless, as Malfoy stood behind him and gazed appraisingly at his reflection. What seemed like a very long minute passed, during which Harry tried, and failed, to Think Ferret.
Malfoy ran his hands gently over Harry's hair once more, pressing the wet strands down and lingering over the curls which bounced around his nape. Their eyes met in the mirror and Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. Why was Malfoy so bloody poised and... amused looking? Harry felt like a gangling idiot in the face of his cool scrutiny, and as if to prove it, managed to knock his glasses on to the floor while nervously pushing at their bridge.
"I'll take those, actually, Potter," said Malfoy, smoothly scooping them up, as Harry groped around on the floor to retrieve them. "They'll just get in the way of... what's to come."
Think Ferret. Think Ferret for Godric's sake. Harry thought it might be easier now he couldn't see properly what was happening. It wasn't. He could feel Malfoy's breath on his skin as the other man leant nearer, smell the intriguing cedar, salt, linen smell, hear his light footfalls as he moved around Harry, dexterously snipping and clipping as he went. His senses were filled with Malfoy, nothing but Malfoy.
"Do try to relax, Potter. It's like trying to groom a lump of mahogany. You're as stiff as a poker."
Harry felt a blush sweep across his entire body from the balls of his feet to the tips of his ears as he realised this was horribly, inarguably true. He was stiff. Very stiff. All over. And in one spot in particular. He felt sure that Malfoy must be aware of it, despite the loose gown draping his lap, and that he was teasing him sadistically, with full knowledge of his predicament, but thinking about that possibility only served to turn him on more. Think Ferret. THINK FERRET. Just as he felt he had never been so hard in his life, Harry felt a tickling, teasing breath blowing across his throat. It was almost more than he could take. He felt a pleasurable pulse of pre-come leak out onto his boxers. Think Ferret think Ferret think Ferretthinkthinkthinkthinkthink—
"Bit of loose hair...." murmured Malfoy faux-innocently, pouting his lips to blow again just behind Harry's ear, and something in Harry which had been hanging by a very tenuous thread, suddenly snapped. "Ruddy, pointy, git," thought Harry, and decided to give in and sod the consequences. Sod doing the right thing. Sod fighting this bizarre attraction. Sod what Ron would think if he knew. And sod pretending he didn't have a massive ruddy erection from Draco Malfoy giving him a ruddy haircut.
What felt like a blazing trail of sparks rushed through him. Harry's arm shot out, Seeker-fast, to grab Malfoy by the collar. Jerking him violently sideways, Harry attempted to mash his lips against Malfoy's face. However, he had badly misjudged the whole maneouvre, and instead Malfoy's forehead knocked into Harry's nose with sickening force. Harry howled in pain and frustration as Malfoy slid to the ground with an expression of shock on his face.
"Merlin, Potter! Have you gone quite insane?"
"Fuck!" Harry spluttered. "I think you broke my nose again, Malfoy, you bastard!"
"I broke your nose, you clumsy imbecile? I had little choice in the matter! Kindly refrain from using my face as a weapon with which to headbutt yourself!"
"Ugh! Malfoy!" spat Harry, tasting blood at the back of his throat. "Sodding...ferrety...fucker – my nose! Hurts!"
"You really are an unbelievable oaf. Hold still. Episkey. And here are your glasses. You can cease caterwauling now. Hells, you've dripped in a quite revolting manner all over my floor. What in Salazar's name was that assault in aid of, Potter?"
"Oh, you– impossible" raged Harry. "I– I– I– "
"Charming, absolutely charming. I waste hours of my time, trying to make something presentable from that owl's nest you call hair—"
"I was– Merlin, Malfoy, I was– ugh–"
"You have not changed one iota – all brawn and no finesse – how I ever thought differently I do not know—"
"Would you shut up, you pompous tosser, I was trying to kiss you, all right?"
There was an abrupt silence. Harry thought he had rarely, if ever, seen such unconcealed emotion displayed on Malfoy's face. An extraordinary hotchpotch of feelings – Harry thought he recognised astonishment, bewilderment, and panic among them – passed momentarily across his features before he regained his composure and resumed a more customary sardonic expression.
"I see. And what on earth makes you think I would be interested in exchanging saliva with you, exactly, Potter? Hmm?"
Harry's chagrin and confusion grew. This just got worse with every passing minute. He fumbled for words. "You– we– I thought— oh, nothing, Malfoy," he said bitterly. "Forget it– just– oh just forget it."
"Good. I'm glad we have that misunderstanding cleared up. Malfoys don't get grabbed, Potter, we do the grabbing. I assure you I'll make it abundantly clear to you should I wish to tussle with you further. Now. Back to work." Harry gaped as Malfoy took up the scissors once again and made a few precise passes at the hair above Harry's right ear.
"Malfoy, really, there's no need. I'll be going now. Let's ditch this whole thing. "
"I think not, Potter. I have a reputation to uphold, you know. I'm not inclined to let you walk out of here looking like that."
Harry glanced in the mirror to see his own slightly feverish, crumpled looking face, complete with blood smears, dishevelled, damp hair, and crestfallen expression. He felt utterly deflated, and disinclined to argue. "Go on, then, just– oh, whatever. "
His eyes closed again as he slumped in the chair, feeling as though he had just competed in a Triwizard Tournament. And lost. He barely registered Malfoy working around him with quiet, deft movements, occasionally letting out a small noise of satisfaction at his progress, in contrast to Harry's despondent thoughts. How could he have misread the situation so badly? How could he have lost his wits to the extent that he actually had been driven to lunge at Malfoy - he remembered vividly the desperate sensations that had led him to it. What happened to 'Think Ferret'? And how was he ever going to look Ron in the eye again?
The scissors clattered onto the shelf in front of the mirror, disturbing Harry's increasingly maudlin reverie. "Ventus," cast Malfoy, and directed his wand so that the resulting flow of air began to dry Harry's hair. Malfoy hummed in gratification. "I think we're finally getting somewhere now, Potter. For all my bold words, I wasn't truly expecting to have any luck with you tonight, you know."
The warm air current smoothed both Harry's hair and his ruffled feelings. Malfoy flashed his charming smile again and Harry wondered if he had dreamt the whole forehead meets nose encounter. He certainly felt as if he had been under the influence of a philtre– a horrible thought came to him—
"Malfoy, did you– was there something in that hair potion?"
"There were plenty of things in it, Potter. I brewed it myself. Orchid mainly, with nettle, elder, powdered moonstone...."
"Hmm. Well, you know potions were never my strong point."
"The orchid is a symbol of virility, Potter, did you know that?"
"No, no I didn't. "
"I used it here for its other qualities – it has incredible sticking powers, that I hope will tame your peculiarly resistant hair – but it's extraordinary how often one finds that the properties of a potion ingredient can be useful in so many different ways.... Moonstone, for example, has calming properties – which your hair most assuredly needs – but also is an ingredient in many—"
"Love potions," finished Harry, appalled.
"Ah, you do remember some vestige of your education!"
"Are you telling me that you've actually dosed me, Malfoy? You use potions on people that will affect their minds as well as their hair?"
Malfoy threw back his head and laughed. "Potter, Potter, you are priceless. Absolutely priceless. I don't need to use magic to have my clients throw themselves at me. Potions such as the ones I used on your hair can only... enhance the emotions of the person, they do not alter them. You remember, Potter, I told you that I like to make my clients their best possible selves. I don't try to change them into something they are not. But here you are, telling me that me washing your hair made you feel virile, and—"
"Are we nearly finished here?" Harry interjected in embarrassment. "I really do need to get going."
"Finished? No. This is far, far too interesting a subject to curtail. Your hair is dry, by the way, Potter. All you need now is a shave and you'll be ready for anything."
Malfoy twitched his wand at a nearby table on which various items were placed: a slightly curved, hinged object encased in mother of pearl; a flat, rectangular stone; lengths of leather attached to the table by metal rings and hooks; jars of different sizes, of the sort used to contain thicker consistencies of potions; and a bowl of fresh water. The table slid across the floor until it was standing at Malfoy's elbow. He selected the mother of pearl object and opened it, revealing a hinged steel blade which he unfolded carefully and held to the light by the pearly handle. The razor shone, cruelly sharp. Malfoy then began to drag and roll it backwards and forwards over the stone with a look of fierce concentration.
Harry felt a sweat break out on his top lip. "What are you...? I mean, there are spells for this, you know, Malfoy."
"As I've said, Muggles know a thing or two, Potter. I thought you of all people would agree. This way is highly superior to any spell."
"I– I'm not sure about this, Malfoy, I've never—"
"You've never had a proper wet shave? So many firsts, Potter. It's something every man should experience at least once in his life. " His eyes glinted fiendishly. "Now what possible objection could you have to me bearing down on you with a deathly-sharp blade?"
He reached for one of the leather strops and pulled it taut. Again the razor was pulled and turned along the leather with a deliberate, fastidious action. Harry watched the hypnotic to and fro as Malfoy's fingers skillfully manipulated the razor to full sharpness. His mouth felt dry and he moistened his lips with his tongue before speaking.
"Malfoy. Where did you learn all this? You seem so... focused. You go to work every day and do what you enjoy doing. And you help people. I've seen them come shuffling in and then walk out with their heads high. I've done nothing... nothing useful, for years. I don't know what I want. It scares me, the nothingness of it all. I want to feel what you feel, I want to get up in the morning and know what I'm going to be doing, and believe in it." He laughed nervously. "I have no idea why I am telling you any of this."
"Potter." A reappearance of the feral smile. "You talk too much, and half of what you say is nonsense." He tested the razor by licking his thumb, and, with infinite delicacy, touching it to the blade. "Perfection."
Harry ran his hand nervously over his jaw, stubble rasping against his fingers. He had thought about using a shaving spell before he came out, but had decided against it at around the same time he'd chosen to wear the worn jeans and baggy top.
Malfoy twirled the razor between his fingers.
"So. May I? Or... are you scared?"
Harry had a vague notion that he was being played, but the words were like a red rag to a Hippogriff.
"Go right ahead."
Malfoy reclined the chair so that Harry was facing the ceiling. He placed a small folded towel over Harry's eyes and began to splash warm water over the lower part of his face. Harry heard one of the jars being unscrewed and Malfoy's fingers smoothed something oily and fragrant over his stubble. Harry had thought Malfoy's hands on his hair were distracting. Slow strokes massaged his jaw and throat, maddeningly sensuous.
"You shaved before I got here!" Harry blurted. He had suddenly realised where Malfoy's spicy, woody scent came from.
"Ten points to Gryffindor."
The image of Draco, alone in the darkened salon, watching himself in the mirror as he passed the razor lovingly over his own skin, flashed into Harry's mind. He pictured himself under the Invisibility Cloak, observing the intimate scene. His breath hitched a little and he had to make a concerted effort to steady himself.
A steaming towel pressed all over Harry's face and then a soapy paste brushed onto his hot, damp skin.
The sensations were overpowering Harry, leaving him inarticulate. It had been so long since another person had touched him like this – or at all.
"I– why– I didn't look at my hair. Have you– is it fixed? Are you... pleased?"
"All in good time, Potter. Ssh now. I need to concentrate."
He heard the snick of the razor opening. His palms were wet with perspiration. Malfoy leant nearer and spoke low and close to his ear.
"Don't. Move."
The first stroke went from his cheek down as far as the corner of his mouth. The razor was so impossibly sharp that it seemed to skate over his skin, hardly touching it. Malfoy wiped the lather off on a towel and firmed Harry's skin ready for the next stroke. He made each pass with precision. His cheek. The line of his jaw. The philtrum above his top lip. The underside of his chin. His adam's apple. The sides of his throat. The razor kissed each area as it glided over it, with Malfoy's hands holding him steady. Harry's heart was pounding beneath his rib cage as he struggled to remain motionless, feeling shaky from the adrenalin flooding through him. This was simultaneously the most terrifying and arousing thing that had happened to him for the longest time.
He heard the blade slide back into its casing, and a cold, wet towel patted his now astonishingly hairless skin. He opened his eyes abruptly to see Malfoy bending over him intently, examining his jaw.
"Yes," he whispered, moving closer. Harry could see the fine lines around his eyes, and each individual eyelash. His pupils were wide in the subdued light, only a sliver of grey showing. "Yes, Potter... I really think... " he leaned closer still, his expression ardent, "that is just about... perfect," and with a blissful inevitability, he touched his lips to Harry's.
Harry's world exploded in a burst of sensation. There was not room for a single thought in his head, just the awareness of his body. And Malfoy's mouth. It felt unbearably soft and precious. It made him want to crush it. He was still on his back with the chair reclined, and he needed to push against Malfoy and bruise their lips together and get him to open his mouth so he, Harry, could stick his tongue in and swirl it around and shut the fucker up for a while.
He pushed Malfoy hard in the chest, banging him into the shaving table and jolting half of the things onto the floor. Harry stood up in one big, clumsy, sweep, and more or less bunted Malfoy backwards with his body, pinning him against the mirror with the shelf behind him. His hands were in Malfoy's hair as he leant forwards to grind their faces together. An ornate glass jar slipped from the shelf and smashed. Malfoy's teeth collided with Harry's lips and he groaned against Malfoy's mouth with the pleasure, the pain of it. Glass crunched under his feet as he jostled against him, trying to get Malfoy's lips apart. He used his tongue to wedge them open and gloried in the fabulous moment when Malfoy allowed him in. His tongue slid inside and Harry was trembling and weak with it. The taste of Malfoy was unimaginable, Harry had no words for it, and his hands clutched tight, so he could shove his tongue into Malfoy's mouth as if he were trying to climb inside it.
Malfoy thrashed his head about and got it free to take a big gulping breath. "Potter. This is a surprise. I was beginning to think you had no spunk left in you at all."
Harry lunged to continue his attack on Malfoy's mouth, but this time Malfoy caught him by the arms and held him at a distance. "It may have escaped your attention, but I've got a glass shelf digging into my rear. I'd rather that wasn't the next thing you destroyed with your cloddishness." Harry felt a surge of anger as he panted for breath and wiped his chin with his sleeve. Malfoy was just dicking him about again, was he? And this way of getting under Harry's skin was even more effective than those he'd used at school.
"You're a fucking tease, Malfoy," Harry said, his lip curling aggressively. "Twice now you've got me all wound up for your own bloody amusement. What the hell do you think you're playing at?"
"I'm not suggesting we stop, Potter. I merely wish to move this somewhere a lot more comfortable."
Malfoy stepped sideways as he spoke and slid along the wall, away from the shelf. Harry followed him angrily.
"What the fuck, Malfoy? I can't stick this messing around. I don't even know what you want."
"I would have thought that was abundantly clear by now, Potter. In words of one syllable: I want you. Is that simple enough for you to grasp?"
"But you said – you said it was a misunderstanding!"
An elegant shrug. "I lied."
""But, but why– you've been blowing hot and cold for weeks! It confused the hell out of me!"
"It amused me."
"You– you– you're a complete tease—"
"What can I say?" Again the shrug. "I've always been a bit of a tart, and as I have told you, Potter, some things just don't change."
"If you have been flirting with me the whole time, why did you look so horrified when I said I was trying to kiss you?"
"I've had the horn for you since we were about fifteen, Potter, it came as a bit of a shock when you finally decide to reciprocate after all these years!"
Harry's mouth formed words, but no sounds came out.
"Listen, Potter, you do seem even slower than usual on the uptake, but I'll try to make it simple for you. You said you were looking for something to believe in, well, believe this." Malfoy stepped forward so that they were nose to nose, then reached out to give Harry's arse a thorough grope.
Harry inhaled sharply and butted him up against the wall again. "This will have to be comfortable enough for now," he asserted, launching himself in search of more of the intoxicating taste. Malfoy's lips felt swollen and ripe against his, as if they might burst, and Harry swiped his tongue over the smear of his own blood he found at the corner of Malfoy's mouth.
He pushed his thigh between Malfoy's legs, nudging insistently until they were slotted together hip to hip. Malfoy's cock was long and hard, all your basic best things a cock could be, and felt preposterously good when snug against Harry. Malfoy slid his hands into the back pockets of Harry's jeans and ground himself against Harry's leg, as Harry kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him some more. Having devoured his mouth, Harry licked a line along his jaw, relishing the frictionless glide from the wet shave. Malfoy's head was lolling back against the wall, his expression slack and vacant, and Harry took the tender skin of his throat between his teeth, making frantic hungry sounds, while running his hands down Malfoy's sides to his narrow hips.
"Can I- I want this off," he growled, pulling in frustration at Malfoy's shirt.
Malfoy appeared to gather himself back together and straightened up somewhat. With chin slightly raised, he slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, watching Harry's face as he did so. His hair was hanging in his eyes, and his neck and jaw were reddened and starting to discolour, where Harry's teeth had been. Harry hesitated, then yanked his own top over his head as fast as he could, throwing it roughly on the floor before resuming his stakeout of Malfoy's long fingers working on his shirt.
One button. Two. "Impatient, arent you, Potter?" Three. Four. "You always did rush in without thinking first...." Malfoy pulled open his shirt, exposing a slender, nearly hairless chest, petal-pink nipples, and—
Harry realised what he was going to see about a second before he saw it.
"Oh shit. Shit, shit, Malfoy, oh, Malfoy."
The white streaks of his scars lay in angry slices across his chest.
"Malfoy. Oh sorry. Oh, I'm so fucking sorry."
Malfoy's face contorted into a sneer. "What's this? Unmanned by a few scars, Potter?"
"I didn't– I never— "
Malfoy hissed at him. "Stop talking." He laid his palm over the bulge in Harry's jeans. "This is what I want. Not your out-of-date excuses."
He forced his hand down into Harry's jeans, sliding between his cock and the now sticky cotton of his underwear. "This is the only apology I need, Potter," reaching round with his other hand, to claim and squeeze the curve of his arse through the denim. "This, and this. And you're going to give them to me, just how I want it."
Harry's cock twitched in Malfoy's hand and he moaned and shuddered. "Malfoy... I think I'm going to... it's too much... "
Malfoy was reaching down to stroke his balls while loosening Harry's belt with the other hand. His lips fastened on the spot where Harry's neck joined his shoulder, and sucked.
"Merlin's fucking beard, Malfoy, I'm not going to last five seconds, I swear to you...."
Malfoy laughed, and nuzzled, and stroked some more, his hand half-trapped in Harry's jeans. Harry's breath came in arrhythmic gasps, leaning against Malfoy for balance, until he managed to get Harry's jeans and pants down far enough to let his cock spring out, just in time for him to come, copiously and with a kind of humiliated shout, all over Malfoy's bare stomach.
Harry's breaths were loud and rasping in the empty salon. Malfoy was still laughing, quietly, into Harry's neck.
"Malfoy, I...."
"Oh don't, Potter, please, you'll be the death of me. "
"Bloody hell, there's... lots on you, and... some on your shoes, Malfoy, I'm sorry."
"Potter. Listen to me." He took Harry's chin in his grasp and forced him to look at Malfoy's flushed, haughty face.
"This cock – this cock, Potter," yanking Harry's hand and placing it firmly on Malfoy's crotch, "is going somewhere inside you and I don't care where. Your mouth. Your arse. No more fooling around."
Harry gulped air shakily, nodded, moved his palm and fingers around the outline of Malfoy's erection, feeling its shape and heft through the fabric.
Malfoy let his hands trail down over Harry's chest, lingering briefly over his nipples. Harry's cock twitched immediately, nothing if not hopeful. Malfoy undid his own belt, the leather sliding smoothly out from the clasp, and shucked off his shoes and socks; his trousers and underwear were removed in one fluid motion and tossed onto the chair. He stood naked except for the linen shirt framing his pale torso and long, jutting prick. Harry watched, dreamlike, as his own fingers reached out to touch the sharp hipbone. His brain seemed unable to process the fact that this was actually happening. His hand in the tangle of silky blond hair around Malfoy's cock. His fingers tentatively stroking the shaft from base to tip. Reaching with his other hand beneath Malfoy's shirt tails to grip the cheek of his arse, feeling his own cock filling again, bending to kiss Malfoy's shoulder, to lick—
Malfoy placed his hands on Harry's shoulders and pressed down, not hard, but decisively, and without hesitation Harry sank to his knees, his jeans still bunched around his ankles. He could see his own semen drying on Malfoy's taut stomach. He was face to face – eye to eye – with Malfoy's prick. Even Malfoy's cock had a snooty look about it, he thought, sizing it up as he might an adversary. He thought Malfoy was longer, a little longer than his own. He squinted down at himself, trying to get a sneaky look—
"Potter," said Malfoy, warningly, and Harry promptly snapped to attention and obligingly tried to suck the whole length of him in at once. He gagged straight away, and drew back to take it in more gradually. He savoured the smooth, heavy pressure of it on his tongue, the head hitting the roof of his mouth, the mouth-watering taste of salt, musk, masculinity.
"I've got Draco Malfoy's cock in my mouth. I've got Draco Malfoy's cock. In my mouth," thought Harry, and then his mind blurred and sensation took over.
Technique and experience went out of the window, as he lost himself in the rapturous taste and weight of it. Just the smell of Malfoy's skin, and the soft tickle of hair as Harry's nose brushed against it, was overwhelming. He realised he could see an indistinct reflection of their figures in the mirror behind them, and let out a blissful sob around Malfoy's cock, feeling painfully aroused again. He realised that none of it, nothing up to this point, perhaps in his life, had really felt as good, as right, as this: down on his knees in front of Malfoy, with his mouth chokingly full.
Malfoy held his head caressingly, hands around the sides of Harry's jaw, and began to make the most extraordinary un-Malfoy-like noises – little whimpers and mewling sounds, which spurred Harry on past imagining. Harry himself ached with the need to be touched, his balls high and tight, but he concentrated on gripping Malfoy's backside and working his lips, tongue, and throat together in an attempt to swallow him whole. He felt a trembling tension in Malfoy's thighs, and tried to slow things down, to make this last longer, just a bit longer, but Malfoy held Harry relentlessly, driving into him and juddering. He spurted into his throat with a great keening cry, while Harry basked in the glory of making Malfoy fall apart so beautifully.
Malfoy moved to flop onto one of the sofas with a self-satisfied look on his face. He sank back and closed his eyes.
"Not so shabby, Potter. In fact really quite passable."
Harry nudged Malfoy's arm with his erect and leaking cock.
"Oi," he said, too hoarse for anything more.
"Oi? Oi? You silver-tongued charmer. Keen, aren't we? Do you mean, 'Would you be so very kind as to give me another mind-blowing orgasm, Draco?' "
Harry laughed. "Yeah. That's about it. Draco."
Their eyes met in mutual amusement. Malfoy looked positively philanthropic in his post-coital state, and Harry's chest swelled with pride and affection.
"I would think, being so benevolent and accomplished, Draco might, but he would want to know if Harry is prone to premature ejaculation – on other people's Italian loafers, I might add – or whether he might manage to last a bit longer this time."
"Hmmph. You didn't exactly last long yourself."
"Yes. Well. Foreplay eked out over more than a decade tends to have that effect on a person. Come here, then." Malfoy moved over on the generously-sized sofa to allow Harry to sit down and finally remove his trainers, socks and jeans.
He started to lightly, teasingly, squeeze Harry's balls. "Your hair's a total disgrace once again, in case you were wondering."
"Bugger my hair, Malfoy!"
"Tut tut. It's not your hair I'm interested in buggering."
Draco's hand slid further back and began to torment the sensitive skin of Harry's perineum. Harry moaned and his mouth hung slack for a moment, but his interest was piqued now.
"So, what did my hair look like, before? When you'd finished fussing with it, I mean?"
"It looked the same as always. It looked like a pile of shit."
Harry gaped. "But you said... you swore you could fix it!"
"I have come to the conclusion, Harry Potter, that your best self," Harry could see he was struggling to keep a straight face, "is a scruffy oik."
Harry took a nipple between his teeth and tugged lightly. "Your best self, Draco Malfoy, is an utter git."
"And there was me thinking Gryffindors prized honesty."
"Here's a bit of Gryffindor honesty for you: I hate your bloody sofas. They're the vilest shade of orange I've ever seen."
"That's a shame, because I intend you to be spending quite a while on this one. The next couple of hours, at least." Draco's hands were doing sinful, wonderful things.
"Oh well, you'll have to– mmm– distract me, so I forget how hideous it is."
"I hardly think there will be any difficulty with that. I told you my clients always leave feeling fully satisfied."
Harry hoped to imply, by way of lying back and letting his eyes roll back into his head, that he was resigned to his fate.
"Oh, and Potter? You look completely idiotic when you're coming, by the way. Just thought I'd mention it."
Harry didn't know whether he was shaking with laughter or outrage. All he knew for sure was that at this moment there was nowhere he would rather be, than in the very capable hands of Draco Malfoy.
Hairway to Heaven part 2
As he stepped out of the Floo, he saw Malfoy lounging against the wall looking tired and beautiful. His suit jacket was thrown over the back of a chair, and his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, exposing his pale throat. Heavy drapes had been drawn over the large windows at the front of the salon, and the lights were dimmed, but a lamp cast a soft glow around the room and illuminated the area where Malfoy was standing. The phrase "a long cool drink of water" wandered unbidden into Harry's mind.
"Potter," Malfoy didn't so much smile as bared his teeth, more predatory than affable. "Just the man to perk me up, after what's been an exceedingly long day."
Harry swallowed heavily, watching as Malfoy unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up a shirt sleeve. The same downy, white-gold body hair that had attracted Harry's eye before, caught the light and transfixed his attention. He stared, trance-like, as more of the pale golden skin was uncovered, and, as he watched, Malfoy began deliberately on the other sleeve. Harry realised he had not spoken since he arrived.
"Malfoy." His voice sounded rough and unsteady. "How are you?"
"I'm absolutely peachy, thank you, Potter. What about you?" He held the eye contact as the faded lines of the Dark Mark were revealed on his forearm in the flickering lamplight. It looked dirty and wrong against his otherwise flawless skin.
Harry couldn't hide his shiver, but Malfoy's face remained carefully blank and his voice was casual, as he displayed his arm with the appearance of nonchalance.
"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."
"Sorry? I– I don't..."
"'The more things change, the more they stay the same'. Some scars never disappear, Potter. They always remain, to remind us who we have been. And what we have seen."
"But you... you have changed. I've watched—"
"I'm flattered to hear that, Potter. But have I? Have any of us? Or have we just become better – or worse – versions of ourselves?"
"You're different. The Mark, the person you were then...."
"I'm not a vicious, scared little boy any more, Potter. But the person who took the Mark has not vanished or gone: he is still here, standing in front of you."
Harry tried to swallow down the large and painful lump in his throat. He, Ron and Hermione had talked all this over – it seemed a lifetime ago now – after Draco's trial. Harry and his friends had all shared the conviction that, no matter how much they disliked him, Malfoy had been trapped and manipulated during the war, and that he had suffered enough through his experiences. They had no appetite for vengeance, after the horrors they had witnessed. However it was hard not to feel a grim satisfaction when Lucius was sent to Azkaban. Draco and Narcissa were spared, and fled to France to escape the persecution which followed all former Death Eater families.
Draco raised his chin in the old familiar gesture of bravado, but Harry thought he saw a nerve jumping in his cheek. "And you, you are still here, too, Potter? Are you ready to get down to it? Pardon my impatience, but I find I really cannot wait any more to get cracking. If… you are still willing, that is."
Harry's voice felt too unsteady to trust, but he nodded resolutely. Malfoy gestured to one of the chairs next to the sinks, where the light was slightly brighter. "Then let's begin."
Harry took a seat and leaned back into the, by now customarily uncomfortable, sink.
"Aguamenti," cast Malfoy, and warm water began to trickle over his scalp. "Is that tolerable for you?" he enquired, as Harry squirmed his head slightly against the hard porcelain.
"Frankly, no, it's not," answered Harry, finding his words at last. "Have you ever tried leaning on one of these? It's like resting on a brick. Why does everything about the experience have to be so unpleasant?"
Malfoy bristled theatrically, and the water stopped abruptly. "Unpleasant? I'll have you know my salon is the height of luxury, Potter. People long for an appointment, like a child longs for Honeydukes." Harry squirmed again, this time with humiliation as Malfoy's words instantly recalled his actions that afternoon. Had he been spotted under the Invisibility Cloak?
Malfoy flicked his wand somewhat tetchily. "Will that suit the Boy Who Whinged any better?"
Harry sank back into a newly cushioned surface. His head was cradled firmly as water flowed once more, over his crown, and the sides of his head, down to his nape. His hair flattened and clung to his skull, revealing the shape of his head. Harry let his eyes close with a small sigh of satisfaction at the pleasurable sensation, then flicked them open rapidly to see if Malfoy had heard, but Malfoy's attention was elsewhere as he scanned the potion bottles lining the shelf above.
"Tempting as it is to keep meeting like this, this is my final attempt, Potter. You do know that, yes? You haave had more than enough of our time and expertise. I am beginning to think your brush with You-Know-Who while still an infant, must have affected your follicles at a crucial stage of development. It is true I have been known to work miracles, but I cannot be expected to reverse the consequences of brawling with Dark wizards. Aha! I wonder if we will find that this may do the trick at last."
Harry felt a satiny coolness slide over his hair, as Malfoy poured a generous amount of potion from the bottle. The heady smell of orchids filled the air around them, as his long fingers efficiently distributed the liquid.
Malfoy's hands felt quite different to a house-elf's, Harry realised. They glided over the sensitive areas of his scalp in a most unnerving way. Wild tingles crept over his skin and congregated somewhere in the region of his groin, as the smooth pads of Malfoy's fingertips swirled, kneaded, caressed and toyed with his hair. A small but mortifying groan escaped from Harry's lips. He clamped both his eyes and mouth firmly shut, in an attempt to pretend it hadn't happened, and to prevent further occurrences. It was high time to Think Ferret.
"Water too hot? You've gone rather pink."
A peep at Malfoy's face confirmed his suspicion: the other man wore an infuriating smirk. Harry had an unpleasant feeling that Malfoy knew only too well the effect his wicked, clever fingers were having. Maybe having one's hair washed always felt this way? Harry tried to remember a time when it had happened to him before, but failed. He supposed Aunt Petunia might have done it for him when he was younger, but only recalled being pointed from time to time in the direction of the Dursley's bathroom and told simply, "Wash."
"I – I don't think anyone else has ever washed my hair before. I mean... another human."
Malfoy snorted and the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. "Is that so? I can't deny I'm delighted to be your very first, Potter."
Inappropriate images flooded his mind and Harry decided to try a different tack: pretending this was not in fact happening to him. Someone else was having their hair washed. His mind cast about: perhaps Dolores Umbridge? Bizarrely, the thought of Malfoy attending to Umbridge's prissy, over-styled hair did actually help to relax him, and, smiling to himself, Harry shifted in the chair and allowed his legs to fall open slightly. His head tilted back further, lengthening his neck and allowing his mouth to relax, lips parting gently. Malfoy's hands moved wantonly over his head until Harry's nerve endings were alive with pleasure.
"Now we rinse. A cold rinse for you this time, Potter, I think." Again Harry could hear that blasted smirk.
Another stream of water, tepid at first, then becoming cooler, lapped at Harry's skin. Malfoy leaned in closer, until his chest was almost resting against Harry's face. Harry inhaled cedar, the faint tang of salt, and the fresh scent of clean linen, as Malfoy stroked and squeezed his hair until all traces of potion were washed away, and then gently smoothed the tangles with a wooden comb.
"Now. We'll do this the Muggle way, as far as possible."
"Why do you like Muggle stuff so much, these days? Like wearing Muggle clothes, even."
"I don't feel the need to cling to those old prejudices any longer, Potter. We're all equals now – post-war tolerance and all that. Besides, Muggle trousers flatter the arse so much better. Do come and have a seat in front of the mirror."
Harry lurched across the room feeling rather as if he'd been Jelly-Legged. He took a seat and watched mutely in the mirror, feeling powerless, as Malfoy stood behind him and gazed appraisingly at his reflection. What seemed like a very long minute passed, during which Harry tried, and failed, to Think Ferret.
Malfoy ran his hands gently over Harry's hair once more, pressing the wet strands down and lingering over the curls which bounced around his nape. Their eyes met in the mirror and Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. Why was Malfoy so bloody poised and... amused looking? Harry felt like a gangling idiot in the face of his cool scrutiny, and as if to prove it, managed to knock his glasses on to the floor while nervously pushing at their bridge.
"I'll take those, actually, Potter," said Malfoy, smoothly scooping them up, as Harry groped around on the floor to retrieve them. "They'll just get in the way of... what's to come."
Think Ferret. Think Ferret for Godric's sake. Harry thought it might be easier now he couldn't see properly what was happening. It wasn't. He could feel Malfoy's breath on his skin as the other man leant nearer, smell the intriguing cedar, salt, linen smell, hear his light footfalls as he moved around Harry, dexterously snipping and clipping as he went. His senses were filled with Malfoy, nothing but Malfoy.
"Do try to relax, Potter. It's like trying to groom a lump of mahogany. You're as stiff as a poker."
Harry felt a blush sweep across his entire body from the balls of his feet to the tips of his ears as he realised this was horribly, inarguably true. He was stiff. Very stiff. All over. And in one spot in particular. He felt sure that Malfoy must be aware of it, despite the loose gown draping his lap, and that he was teasing him sadistically, with full knowledge of his predicament, but thinking about that possibility only served to turn him on more. Think Ferret. THINK FERRET. Just as he felt he had never been so hard in his life, Harry felt a tickling, teasing breath blowing across his throat. It was almost more than he could take. He felt a pleasurable pulse of pre-come leak out onto his boxers. Think Ferret think Ferret think Ferretthinkthinkthinkthinkthink—
"Bit of loose hair...." murmured Malfoy faux-innocently, pouting his lips to blow again just behind Harry's ear, and something in Harry which had been hanging by a very tenuous thread, suddenly snapped. "Ruddy, pointy, git," thought Harry, and decided to give in and sod the consequences. Sod doing the right thing. Sod fighting this bizarre attraction. Sod what Ron would think if he knew. And sod pretending he didn't have a massive ruddy erection from Draco Malfoy giving him a ruddy haircut.
What felt like a blazing trail of sparks rushed through him. Harry's arm shot out, Seeker-fast, to grab Malfoy by the collar. Jerking him violently sideways, Harry attempted to mash his lips against Malfoy's face. However, he had badly misjudged the whole maneouvre, and instead Malfoy's forehead knocked into Harry's nose with sickening force. Harry howled in pain and frustration as Malfoy slid to the ground with an expression of shock on his face.
"Merlin, Potter! Have you gone quite insane?"
"Fuck!" Harry spluttered. "I think you broke my nose again, Malfoy, you bastard!"
"I broke your nose, you clumsy imbecile? I had little choice in the matter! Kindly refrain from using my face as a weapon with which to headbutt yourself!"
"Ugh! Malfoy!" spat Harry, tasting blood at the back of his throat. "Sodding...ferrety...fucker – my nose! Hurts!"
"You really are an unbelievable oaf. Hold still. Episkey. And here are your glasses. You can cease caterwauling now. Hells, you've dripped in a quite revolting manner all over my floor. What in Salazar's name was that assault in aid of, Potter?"
"Oh, you– impossible" raged Harry. "I– I– I– "
"Charming, absolutely charming. I waste hours of my time, trying to make something presentable from that owl's nest you call hair—"
"I was– Merlin, Malfoy, I was– ugh–"
"You have not changed one iota – all brawn and no finesse – how I ever thought differently I do not know—"
"Would you shut up, you pompous tosser, I was trying to kiss you, all right?"
There was an abrupt silence. Harry thought he had rarely, if ever, seen such unconcealed emotion displayed on Malfoy's face. An extraordinary hotchpotch of feelings – Harry thought he recognised astonishment, bewilderment, and panic among them – passed momentarily across his features before he regained his composure and resumed a more customary sardonic expression.
"I see. And what on earth makes you think I would be interested in exchanging saliva with you, exactly, Potter? Hmm?"
Harry's chagrin and confusion grew. This just got worse with every passing minute. He fumbled for words. "You– we– I thought— oh, nothing, Malfoy," he said bitterly. "Forget it– just– oh just forget it."
"Good. I'm glad we have that misunderstanding cleared up. Malfoys don't get grabbed, Potter, we do the grabbing. I assure you I'll make it abundantly clear to you should I wish to tussle with you further. Now. Back to work." Harry gaped as Malfoy took up the scissors once again and made a few precise passes at the hair above Harry's right ear.
"Malfoy, really, there's no need. I'll be going now. Let's ditch this whole thing. "
"I think not, Potter. I have a reputation to uphold, you know. I'm not inclined to let you walk out of here looking like that."
Harry glanced in the mirror to see his own slightly feverish, crumpled looking face, complete with blood smears, dishevelled, damp hair, and crestfallen expression. He felt utterly deflated, and disinclined to argue. "Go on, then, just– oh, whatever. "
His eyes closed again as he slumped in the chair, feeling as though he had just competed in a Triwizard Tournament. And lost. He barely registered Malfoy working around him with quiet, deft movements, occasionally letting out a small noise of satisfaction at his progress, in contrast to Harry's despondent thoughts. How could he have misread the situation so badly? How could he have lost his wits to the extent that he actually had been driven to lunge at Malfoy - he remembered vividly the desperate sensations that had led him to it. What happened to 'Think Ferret'? And how was he ever going to look Ron in the eye again?
The scissors clattered onto the shelf in front of the mirror, disturbing Harry's increasingly maudlin reverie. "Ventus," cast Malfoy, and directed his wand so that the resulting flow of air began to dry Harry's hair. Malfoy hummed in gratification. "I think we're finally getting somewhere now, Potter. For all my bold words, I wasn't truly expecting to have any luck with you tonight, you know."
The warm air current smoothed both Harry's hair and his ruffled feelings. Malfoy flashed his charming smile again and Harry wondered if he had dreamt the whole forehead meets nose encounter. He certainly felt as if he had been under the influence of a philtre– a horrible thought came to him—
"Malfoy, did you– was there something in that hair potion?"
"There were plenty of things in it, Potter. I brewed it myself. Orchid mainly, with nettle, elder, powdered moonstone...."
"Hmm. Well, you know potions were never my strong point."
"The orchid is a symbol of virility, Potter, did you know that?"
"No, no I didn't. "
"I used it here for its other qualities – it has incredible sticking powers, that I hope will tame your peculiarly resistant hair – but it's extraordinary how often one finds that the properties of a potion ingredient can be useful in so many different ways.... Moonstone, for example, has calming properties – which your hair most assuredly needs – but also is an ingredient in many—"
"Love potions," finished Harry, appalled.
"Ah, you do remember some vestige of your education!"
"Are you telling me that you've actually dosed me, Malfoy? You use potions on people that will affect their minds as well as their hair?"
Malfoy threw back his head and laughed. "Potter, Potter, you are priceless. Absolutely priceless. I don't need to use magic to have my clients throw themselves at me. Potions such as the ones I used on your hair can only... enhance the emotions of the person, they do not alter them. You remember, Potter, I told you that I like to make my clients their best possible selves. I don't try to change them into something they are not. But here you are, telling me that me washing your hair made you feel virile, and—"
"Are we nearly finished here?" Harry interjected in embarrassment. "I really do need to get going."
"Finished? No. This is far, far too interesting a subject to curtail. Your hair is dry, by the way, Potter. All you need now is a shave and you'll be ready for anything."
Malfoy twitched his wand at a nearby table on which various items were placed: a slightly curved, hinged object encased in mother of pearl; a flat, rectangular stone; lengths of leather attached to the table by metal rings and hooks; jars of different sizes, of the sort used to contain thicker consistencies of potions; and a bowl of fresh water. The table slid across the floor until it was standing at Malfoy's elbow. He selected the mother of pearl object and opened it, revealing a hinged steel blade which he unfolded carefully and held to the light by the pearly handle. The razor shone, cruelly sharp. Malfoy then began to drag and roll it backwards and forwards over the stone with a look of fierce concentration.
Harry felt a sweat break out on his top lip. "What are you...? I mean, there are spells for this, you know, Malfoy."
"As I've said, Muggles know a thing or two, Potter. I thought you of all people would agree. This way is highly superior to any spell."
"I– I'm not sure about this, Malfoy, I've never—"
"You've never had a proper wet shave? So many firsts, Potter. It's something every man should experience at least once in his life. " His eyes glinted fiendishly. "Now what possible objection could you have to me bearing down on you with a deathly-sharp blade?"
He reached for one of the leather strops and pulled it taut. Again the razor was pulled and turned along the leather with a deliberate, fastidious action. Harry watched the hypnotic to and fro as Malfoy's fingers skillfully manipulated the razor to full sharpness. His mouth felt dry and he moistened his lips with his tongue before speaking.
"Malfoy. Where did you learn all this? You seem so... focused. You go to work every day and do what you enjoy doing. And you help people. I've seen them come shuffling in and then walk out with their heads high. I've done nothing... nothing useful, for years. I don't know what I want. It scares me, the nothingness of it all. I want to feel what you feel, I want to get up in the morning and know what I'm going to be doing, and believe in it." He laughed nervously. "I have no idea why I am telling you any of this."
"Potter." A reappearance of the feral smile. "You talk too much, and half of what you say is nonsense." He tested the razor by licking his thumb, and, with infinite delicacy, touching it to the blade. "Perfection."
Harry ran his hand nervously over his jaw, stubble rasping against his fingers. He had thought about using a shaving spell before he came out, but had decided against it at around the same time he'd chosen to wear the worn jeans and baggy top.
Malfoy twirled the razor between his fingers.
"So. May I? Or... are you scared?"
Harry had a vague notion that he was being played, but the words were like a red rag to a Hippogriff.
"Go right ahead."
Malfoy reclined the chair so that Harry was facing the ceiling. He placed a small folded towel over Harry's eyes and began to splash warm water over the lower part of his face. Harry heard one of the jars being unscrewed and Malfoy's fingers smoothed something oily and fragrant over his stubble. Harry had thought Malfoy's hands on his hair were distracting. Slow strokes massaged his jaw and throat, maddeningly sensuous.
"You shaved before I got here!" Harry blurted. He had suddenly realised where Malfoy's spicy, woody scent came from.
"Ten points to Gryffindor."
The image of Draco, alone in the darkened salon, watching himself in the mirror as he passed the razor lovingly over his own skin, flashed into Harry's mind. He pictured himself under the Invisibility Cloak, observing the intimate scene. His breath hitched a little and he had to make a concerted effort to steady himself.
A steaming towel pressed all over Harry's face and then a soapy paste brushed onto his hot, damp skin.
The sensations were overpowering Harry, leaving him inarticulate. It had been so long since another person had touched him like this – or at all.
"I– why– I didn't look at my hair. Have you– is it fixed? Are you... pleased?"
"All in good time, Potter. Ssh now. I need to concentrate."
He heard the snick of the razor opening. His palms were wet with perspiration. Malfoy leant nearer and spoke low and close to his ear.
"Don't. Move."
The first stroke went from his cheek down as far as the corner of his mouth. The razor was so impossibly sharp that it seemed to skate over his skin, hardly touching it. Malfoy wiped the lather off on a towel and firmed Harry's skin ready for the next stroke. He made each pass with precision. His cheek. The line of his jaw. The philtrum above his top lip. The underside of his chin. His adam's apple. The sides of his throat. The razor kissed each area as it glided over it, with Malfoy's hands holding him steady. Harry's heart was pounding beneath his rib cage as he struggled to remain motionless, feeling shaky from the adrenalin flooding through him. This was simultaneously the most terrifying and arousing thing that had happened to him for the longest time.
He heard the blade slide back into its casing, and a cold, wet towel patted his now astonishingly hairless skin. He opened his eyes abruptly to see Malfoy bending over him intently, examining his jaw.
"Yes," he whispered, moving closer. Harry could see the fine lines around his eyes, and each individual eyelash. His pupils were wide in the subdued light, only a sliver of grey showing. "Yes, Potter... I really think... " he leaned closer still, his expression ardent, "that is just about... perfect," and with a blissful inevitability, he touched his lips to Harry's.
Harry's world exploded in a burst of sensation. There was not room for a single thought in his head, just the awareness of his body. And Malfoy's mouth. It felt unbearably soft and precious. It made him want to crush it. He was still on his back with the chair reclined, and he needed to push against Malfoy and bruise their lips together and get him to open his mouth so he, Harry, could stick his tongue in and swirl it around and shut the fucker up for a while.
He pushed Malfoy hard in the chest, banging him into the shaving table and jolting half of the things onto the floor. Harry stood up in one big, clumsy, sweep, and more or less bunted Malfoy backwards with his body, pinning him against the mirror with the shelf behind him. His hands were in Malfoy's hair as he leant forwards to grind their faces together. An ornate glass jar slipped from the shelf and smashed. Malfoy's teeth collided with Harry's lips and he groaned against Malfoy's mouth with the pleasure, the pain of it. Glass crunched under his feet as he jostled against him, trying to get Malfoy's lips apart. He used his tongue to wedge them open and gloried in the fabulous moment when Malfoy allowed him in. His tongue slid inside and Harry was trembling and weak with it. The taste of Malfoy was unimaginable, Harry had no words for it, and his hands clutched tight, so he could shove his tongue into Malfoy's mouth as if he were trying to climb inside it.
Malfoy thrashed his head about and got it free to take a big gulping breath. "Potter. This is a surprise. I was beginning to think you had no spunk left in you at all."
Harry lunged to continue his attack on Malfoy's mouth, but this time Malfoy caught him by the arms and held him at a distance. "It may have escaped your attention, but I've got a glass shelf digging into my rear. I'd rather that wasn't the next thing you destroyed with your cloddishness." Harry felt a surge of anger as he panted for breath and wiped his chin with his sleeve. Malfoy was just dicking him about again, was he? And this way of getting under Harry's skin was even more effective than those he'd used at school.
"You're a fucking tease, Malfoy," Harry said, his lip curling aggressively. "Twice now you've got me all wound up for your own bloody amusement. What the hell do you think you're playing at?"
"I'm not suggesting we stop, Potter. I merely wish to move this somewhere a lot more comfortable."
Malfoy stepped sideways as he spoke and slid along the wall, away from the shelf. Harry followed him angrily.
"What the fuck, Malfoy? I can't stick this messing around. I don't even know what you want."
"I would have thought that was abundantly clear by now, Potter. In words of one syllable: I want you. Is that simple enough for you to grasp?"
"But you said – you said it was a misunderstanding!"
An elegant shrug. "I lied."
""But, but why– you've been blowing hot and cold for weeks! It confused the hell out of me!"
"It amused me."
"You– you– you're a complete tease—"
"What can I say?" Again the shrug. "I've always been a bit of a tart, and as I have told you, Potter, some things just don't change."
"If you have been flirting with me the whole time, why did you look so horrified when I said I was trying to kiss you?"
"I've had the horn for you since we were about fifteen, Potter, it came as a bit of a shock when you finally decide to reciprocate after all these years!"
Harry's mouth formed words, but no sounds came out.
"Listen, Potter, you do seem even slower than usual on the uptake, but I'll try to make it simple for you. You said you were looking for something to believe in, well, believe this." Malfoy stepped forward so that they were nose to nose, then reached out to give Harry's arse a thorough grope.
Harry inhaled sharply and butted him up against the wall again. "This will have to be comfortable enough for now," he asserted, launching himself in search of more of the intoxicating taste. Malfoy's lips felt swollen and ripe against his, as if they might burst, and Harry swiped his tongue over the smear of his own blood he found at the corner of Malfoy's mouth.
He pushed his thigh between Malfoy's legs, nudging insistently until they were slotted together hip to hip. Malfoy's cock was long and hard, all your basic best things a cock could be, and felt preposterously good when snug against Harry. Malfoy slid his hands into the back pockets of Harry's jeans and ground himself against Harry's leg, as Harry kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him some more. Having devoured his mouth, Harry licked a line along his jaw, relishing the frictionless glide from the wet shave. Malfoy's head was lolling back against the wall, his expression slack and vacant, and Harry took the tender skin of his throat between his teeth, making frantic hungry sounds, while running his hands down Malfoy's sides to his narrow hips.
"Can I- I want this off," he growled, pulling in frustration at Malfoy's shirt.
Malfoy appeared to gather himself back together and straightened up somewhat. With chin slightly raised, he slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, watching Harry's face as he did so. His hair was hanging in his eyes, and his neck and jaw were reddened and starting to discolour, where Harry's teeth had been. Harry hesitated, then yanked his own top over his head as fast as he could, throwing it roughly on the floor before resuming his stakeout of Malfoy's long fingers working on his shirt.
One button. Two. "Impatient, arent you, Potter?" Three. Four. "You always did rush in without thinking first...." Malfoy pulled open his shirt, exposing a slender, nearly hairless chest, petal-pink nipples, and—
Harry realised what he was going to see about a second before he saw it.
"Oh shit. Shit, shit, Malfoy, oh, Malfoy."
The white streaks of his scars lay in angry slices across his chest.
"Malfoy. Oh sorry. Oh, I'm so fucking sorry."
Malfoy's face contorted into a sneer. "What's this? Unmanned by a few scars, Potter?"
"I didn't– I never— "
Malfoy hissed at him. "Stop talking." He laid his palm over the bulge in Harry's jeans. "This is what I want. Not your out-of-date excuses."
He forced his hand down into Harry's jeans, sliding between his cock and the now sticky cotton of his underwear. "This is the only apology I need, Potter," reaching round with his other hand, to claim and squeeze the curve of his arse through the denim. "This, and this. And you're going to give them to me, just how I want it."
Harry's cock twitched in Malfoy's hand and he moaned and shuddered. "Malfoy... I think I'm going to... it's too much... "
Malfoy was reaching down to stroke his balls while loosening Harry's belt with the other hand. His lips fastened on the spot where Harry's neck joined his shoulder, and sucked.
"Merlin's fucking beard, Malfoy, I'm not going to last five seconds, I swear to you...."
Malfoy laughed, and nuzzled, and stroked some more, his hand half-trapped in Harry's jeans. Harry's breath came in arrhythmic gasps, leaning against Malfoy for balance, until he managed to get Harry's jeans and pants down far enough to let his cock spring out, just in time for him to come, copiously and with a kind of humiliated shout, all over Malfoy's bare stomach.
Harry's breaths were loud and rasping in the empty salon. Malfoy was still laughing, quietly, into Harry's neck.
"Malfoy, I...."
"Oh don't, Potter, please, you'll be the death of me. "
"Bloody hell, there's... lots on you, and... some on your shoes, Malfoy, I'm sorry."
"Potter. Listen to me." He took Harry's chin in his grasp and forced him to look at Malfoy's flushed, haughty face.
"This cock – this cock, Potter," yanking Harry's hand and placing it firmly on Malfoy's crotch, "is going somewhere inside you and I don't care where. Your mouth. Your arse. No more fooling around."
Harry gulped air shakily, nodded, moved his palm and fingers around the outline of Malfoy's erection, feeling its shape and heft through the fabric.
Malfoy let his hands trail down over Harry's chest, lingering briefly over his nipples. Harry's cock twitched immediately, nothing if not hopeful. Malfoy undid his own belt, the leather sliding smoothly out from the clasp, and shucked off his shoes and socks; his trousers and underwear were removed in one fluid motion and tossed onto the chair. He stood naked except for the linen shirt framing his pale torso and long, jutting prick. Harry watched, dreamlike, as his own fingers reached out to touch the sharp hipbone. His brain seemed unable to process the fact that this was actually happening. His hand in the tangle of silky blond hair around Malfoy's cock. His fingers tentatively stroking the shaft from base to tip. Reaching with his other hand beneath Malfoy's shirt tails to grip the cheek of his arse, feeling his own cock filling again, bending to kiss Malfoy's shoulder, to lick—
Malfoy placed his hands on Harry's shoulders and pressed down, not hard, but decisively, and without hesitation Harry sank to his knees, his jeans still bunched around his ankles. He could see his own semen drying on Malfoy's taut stomach. He was face to face – eye to eye – with Malfoy's prick. Even Malfoy's cock had a snooty look about it, he thought, sizing it up as he might an adversary. He thought Malfoy was longer, a little longer than his own. He squinted down at himself, trying to get a sneaky look—
"Potter," said Malfoy, warningly, and Harry promptly snapped to attention and obligingly tried to suck the whole length of him in at once. He gagged straight away, and drew back to take it in more gradually. He savoured the smooth, heavy pressure of it on his tongue, the head hitting the roof of his mouth, the mouth-watering taste of salt, musk, masculinity.
"I've got Draco Malfoy's cock in my mouth. I've got Draco Malfoy's cock. In my mouth," thought Harry, and then his mind blurred and sensation took over.
Technique and experience went out of the window, as he lost himself in the rapturous taste and weight of it. Just the smell of Malfoy's skin, and the soft tickle of hair as Harry's nose brushed against it, was overwhelming. He realised he could see an indistinct reflection of their figures in the mirror behind them, and let out a blissful sob around Malfoy's cock, feeling painfully aroused again. He realised that none of it, nothing up to this point, perhaps in his life, had really felt as good, as right, as this: down on his knees in front of Malfoy, with his mouth chokingly full.
Malfoy held his head caressingly, hands around the sides of Harry's jaw, and began to make the most extraordinary un-Malfoy-like noises – little whimpers and mewling sounds, which spurred Harry on past imagining. Harry himself ached with the need to be touched, his balls high and tight, but he concentrated on gripping Malfoy's backside and working his lips, tongue, and throat together in an attempt to swallow him whole. He felt a trembling tension in Malfoy's thighs, and tried to slow things down, to make this last longer, just a bit longer, but Malfoy held Harry relentlessly, driving into him and juddering. He spurted into his throat with a great keening cry, while Harry basked in the glory of making Malfoy fall apart so beautifully.
Malfoy moved to flop onto one of the sofas with a self-satisfied look on his face. He sank back and closed his eyes.
"Not so shabby, Potter. In fact really quite passable."
Harry nudged Malfoy's arm with his erect and leaking cock.
"Oi," he said, too hoarse for anything more.
"Oi? Oi? You silver-tongued charmer. Keen, aren't we? Do you mean, 'Would you be so very kind as to give me another mind-blowing orgasm, Draco?' "
Harry laughed. "Yeah. That's about it. Draco."
Their eyes met in mutual amusement. Malfoy looked positively philanthropic in his post-coital state, and Harry's chest swelled with pride and affection.
"I would think, being so benevolent and accomplished, Draco might, but he would want to know if Harry is prone to premature ejaculation – on other people's Italian loafers, I might add – or whether he might manage to last a bit longer this time."
"Hmmph. You didn't exactly last long yourself."
"Yes. Well. Foreplay eked out over more than a decade tends to have that effect on a person. Come here, then." Malfoy moved over on the generously-sized sofa to allow Harry to sit down and finally remove his trainers, socks and jeans.
He started to lightly, teasingly, squeeze Harry's balls. "Your hair's a total disgrace once again, in case you were wondering."
"Bugger my hair, Malfoy!"
"Tut tut. It's not your hair I'm interested in buggering."
Draco's hand slid further back and began to torment the sensitive skin of Harry's perineum. Harry moaned and his mouth hung slack for a moment, but his interest was piqued now.
"So, what did my hair look like, before? When you'd finished fussing with it, I mean?"
"It looked the same as always. It looked like a pile of shit."
Harry gaped. "But you said... you swore you could fix it!"
"I have come to the conclusion, Harry Potter, that your best self," Harry could see he was struggling to keep a straight face, "is a scruffy oik."
Harry took a nipple between his teeth and tugged lightly. "Your best self, Draco Malfoy, is an utter git."
"And there was me thinking Gryffindors prized honesty."
"Here's a bit of Gryffindor honesty for you: I hate your bloody sofas. They're the vilest shade of orange I've ever seen."
"That's a shame, because I intend you to be spending quite a while on this one. The next couple of hours, at least." Draco's hands were doing sinful, wonderful things.
"Oh well, you'll have to– mmm– distract me, so I forget how hideous it is."
"I hardly think there will be any difficulty with that. I told you my clients always leave feeling fully satisfied."
Harry hoped to imply, by way of lying back and letting his eyes roll back into his head, that he was resigned to his fate.
"Oh, and Potter? You look completely idiotic when you're coming, by the way. Just thought I'd mention it."
Harry didn't know whether he was shaking with laughter or outrage. All he knew for sure was that at this moment there was nowhere he would rather be, than in the very capable hands of Draco Malfoy.
