Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Black and Fair	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4974 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Black and Fair
- 2-Fair and Trouble
- 1
- 2
Title: Black and Fair
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: Angst, a bit of dub-con, Hogwarts “eighth year”
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5500
Summary: Harry really should have been able to look away. So Malfoy’s hair had got dyed black. So what? He should have looked away.
Author’s Notes: An Advent fic for an anonymous request: By accident, Draco's hair ends up dyed black. And Harry finally notices the resemblance to the Blacks (and Sirius). Draco takes advantage of this.
Black and Fair
            Rumors said it was a potion, a prank, a dare, a spell gone wrong from Malfoy’s hawthorn wand, which had supposedly not been that reliable ever since Harry returned it to him. But no one outside the Slytherin dorms knew for sure, and none of them were about to say.
            What Harry knew—and since the war, he’d tried to separate what he knew from what he heard—was that he was sitting at the Gryffindor table eating when Malfoy walked into the Great Hall for the first time with black hair. And Harry looked up at him, casually, catching a glimpse of the movement from the corner of his eye and not knowing who this new student was, and dropped his fork on his plate.
            Malfoy looked around as though to call attention to his hair, or defy anyone to snicker at him. There was some laughter, but mostly from the younger end of the Gryffindor table. The Ravenclaws looked as though they wanted to know how he’d done it. The Hufflepuffs were whispering together. The Slytherins sat silent and turned away from him.
            Malfoy’s face was pale. His eyes seemed bigger, standing out. Harry recalled with startling clarity that their color was grey.
            His hair didn’t hang raggedly around his head; Harry didn’t think it would dare. Even if had to be black for the moment, it would stay sleek. But otherwise, he looked so much like Sirius that it made Harry’s throat ache.
            Malfoy’s gaze, traveling around in a circle that seemed to say he didn’t know how his hair had got black, either, and was looking for the culprit, suddenly locked on Harry. Harry returned the gaze, feeling as though he was a rabbit caught in a snake’s hypnotism, before Malfoy turned around and marched to the Slytherin table. He had a slight smile on his face.
            Well, why shouldn’t he, Harry thought, and passed a hand over one burning cheek. Seeing me gape at him like an idiot.
            He had. He shouldn’t have let Malfoy’s resemblance to Sirius strike him so forcefully, but he had, and now Malfoy would probably smirk at him and taunt him about it for the rest of the year. Harry could feel the anger already stirring as he thought of all the ways Malfoy would try to pun on the word “godfather” and hint about cousins and maybe even bring the name Bellatrix into play.
            I’ll hurt him if he does, Harry decided. He has no right to make fun of me for Sirius dying when he looks like that.
            It was stupid to think that, stupid to think that Malfoy’s hair had a bloody thing to do with Sirius dying, as though their blood relationship had changed somehow just because Malfoy’s looks had changed. But Harry had also discovered since the war that he could think stupid things all he wanted as long as he kept them to himself.
            Hermione called, “Harry!” and said something about Potions. Harry stood up, shaking his head and sighing. Potions was a lot easier under Slughorn—especially given Harry’s status as a war hero and Slughorn’s tendency to reminisce about their “shared battle experiences”—but it was still far from Harry’s favorite class.
            Harry glanced back as he left the Great Hall. He’d meant to look at Malfoy’s hair, maybe sneak another glance and convince himself that it didn’t remind him of Sirius at all.
            What he looked at instead was Malfoy’s face, still Azkaban-pale, still accented by those grey eyes that seemed to float and glow in the open air, and the way that Malfoy leaned across the table like a hunting dog. And looked at him.
            Harry turned away sharply. He doesn’t care about you anymore, not since you gave him the wand back. That was the last thing he had against you. Stop thinking he’s obsessed with you. You know he’s not. Too many other people are, anyway.
            That reminder of the “fans” who hung too much on his every word and gaped after him like baby chickens steadied Harry, and he was able to walk away.
*
            Harry’s resolution not to stare lasted until the next afternoon, when he heard Malfoy laughing.
            It was nothing like Sirius’s deep and barking sound, but that was the point. It was free and gasping for breath, as though Malfoy was struggling against his own hilarity. It was the way Sirius should have laughed.
            Harry, coming around the corner from the Charms classroom, closed his eyes and stood still. He ached as though someone was taking his bones apart. Sirius had never got the chance to laugh that way. He had stayed in that bloody house until he died of it, died of the recklessness and the churning poison of his own hatred.
            “Harry.”
            It was Hermione, once again, drawing him back to reality. Harry opened his eyes and smiled wanly at her. “Thanks.”
            Hermione took his arm in the way she had been doing since she got together with Ron, as though some scarcely acknowledged source of tension between them had gone away after she and Ron officially started dating. “Are you remembering the war?”
            Harry shook his head. His throat was tight, but he did manage to say, “Sirius.”
            Being Hermione, she understood what he meant without him having to elaborate on that. So she nodded, said, “Ah,” and then walked around the corner, towards the sound of Malfoy’s laughter—no, the sound of its silence. It steadied Harry again, to know he wouldn’t be walking into the midst of it. He straightened his spine the way he had when he was ready to fight back against Voldemort, and followed her.
            Malfoy still stood around the corner, talking with a small group of Slytherins who had been in the year below him. He stopped when he saw Harry, and his eyes burned like arctic candles.
            This time, the resemblance was a little less startling, since Harry knew it would happen. He gave Malfoy a distant nod and moved past him.
            “I’ll talk to you later, Hughes,” Malfoy said, and jogged along after Harry. Harry fixed his gaze on Hermione’s back in front of him and moved a little faster. But Malfoy touched his arm, and Harry spun around and leveled his wand.
            Malfoy spread his hands out to the sides and grinned. “What am I doing that you have to curse me, Potter? You don’t think I’m your enemy anymore, do you? Not after you so nicely testified for me and everything.” He lowered his voice, and it was too much like Sirius’s, husky and compelling, still a part of Harry’s dreams. “Unless it’s something else you want from me.”
            Harry leaned near enough that no one else could hear what he was saying—a few of the Slytherins looked as though they didn’t need encouragement to gossip—and said savagely, “If you say one word about my godfather, I’ll hurt you. And I know curses now that don’t leave marks.”
            Instead of appearing at all intimidated, Malfoy only made a thoughtful noise under his breath. “Ah. So that was it. I thought you might merely find the sight of me with black hair alluring, but that’s not it. It’s Black hair.” And Harry could hear the difference in the capitalized letter.
            “I did warn you, Malfoy,” Harry said, and moved his wand down at his side.
            Malfoy seized his wrist and drew Harry towards him, and his eyes had never seemed so grey. Harry had sometimes thought they were blue, sometimes merely pale, and always that they were narrow and squinted in hatred. Now they weren’t. They were stormy, like Sirius’s.
            No. He’s nothing like Sirius. Sirius died for his beliefs. Malfoy didn’t even have the grace to do that.
            Harry wrenched himself free. But the moment of weakness itself seemed to be all Malfoy had wanted, because he walked back to his friends. Harry braced himself for the gusts of laughter that would follow.
            Malfoy didn’t say anything to them, though. He walked past them, in fact, his head still turned so he could keep part of his gaze on Harry. His mouth had curved up in a small smile that Harry knew.
            Of course he knew it. It was from the pictures of Sirius in the photo album that Hagrid had given him.
            Harry turned around and followed Hermione, the way he should have in the first place, forcing his feet to rise and fall.
*
            Malfoy left Harry alone for a fortnight. Harry would have been grateful if it was possible to be grateful to Malfoy. But honestly, between Quidditch and NEWT classes, he didn’t have that much time to worry about something that wasn’t on a broom or written down on a piece of paper.
            He did leave the Gryffindor common room after a particularly intense study session when Hermione had started to tell him earnestly all about the virtues of color-coding individual passages in his books so he could find them when he needed them. Her books looked like a broken rainbow, and Harry didn’t want his to. He thought he would actually have more trouble reading them that way.
            He walked back and forth in front of the Room of Requirement, mentally asking for a place he could relax. The door had barely started to form when someone touched his shoulder, not with a hand but with the inside of a wrist.
            Harry swore and spun around. Malfoy stood behind him, and the color of his hair was even deeper than before.
            Harry drove himself through his immediate reaction the way he’d driven himself through so many of those first confrontations with Voldemort: sheer energy and refusal to surrender. “Who keeps dyeing your hair like that? And why haven’t you started marching up and down swearing your vengeance?”
            “The first time was an accident,” said Malfoy. “But this time, I did it to myself.” He looked into Harry’s eyes and moved towards him, in parallel with Harry’s retreat. It was only odd places on his body that touched Harry, though: brushes of his wrists against Harry’s shoulder, his knee against Harry’s, the side of his leg against Harry’s ribs. “I wanted to see if you would react to me if I looked more Black.”
            “It’s not fucking working,” Harry snapped, but he would have made a more convincing case if his voice hadn’t reflected his rushing heart, and if the blood in his veins hadn’t chosen that moment to stand up and beg.
            “Yes, it is,” said Malfoy, and Harry’s back hit the wall. Malfoy hovered in front of him, close enough so Harry could feel his heat, far enough away that Harry could feel nothing else. Harry could feel his skin and hair straining towards Malfoy, and other things he would not think about.
            “Get away from me, Malfoy!” Harry said. He couldn’t even lift a leg to kick Malfoy in the groin, because he couldn’t look away from that pale, taunting face. This was disgusting.
            “I’m not toooouching you,” Malfoy sang, and if anything could have, that should have broken the spell, the taunting voice Sirius never would have used on Harry. Except he sounded like Sirius taunting Snape in Grimmauld Place, that night of the Order meeting, and Harry was hard.
            “Yes,” said Malfoy, in response to which part of this whole stupid mess Harry didn’t know, and he leaned forwards and gave Harry a kiss that was the touch of his lips in the way that he’d touched Harry when he trapped him. Harry could feel its shadow, not the kiss itself. The heat brought his body springing to life, and he drove his hands against the wall and broke his nails to keep himself from reaching out, not to get away.
            “Yes,” said Malfoy again, and he pulled back and smiled at Harry, and then turned and strolled down the corridor. Even his walk was an echo of Sirius, the way he had walked when he was pleased about angering Snape.
            Harry closed his eyes. He was sick, sick, sick, and the first thing he was going to do was look up the appropriate charms tomorrow to take care of something like this.
            As it was, not yet knowing those charms, he had to wait a few minutes before he could walk without looking wounded.
*
            The next morning, Harry happened to see Malfoy’s smile out of the corner of his eye as he moved into the Great Hall. Malfoy was sitting at the Slytherin table, nibbling on a piece of bacon and talking to a sixth-year without much interest. The instant he saw Harry, he put down the bacon and got to his feet.
            He’s going to do it in public? Of course he’s going to do it in public. Just because Malfoy had chosen to indulge his taste for cruelty in private last time, that didn’t mean he would be less than sadistic.
            But Harry had spent most of last night researching the appropriate charms, even using his Invisibility Cloak to sneak into the library and read books that weren’t in the Restricted Section. He kept calmly and confidently walking to the Gryffindor table, and had actually sat down and taken a bite of an apple when Ron nudged him urgently in the ribs.
            Harry swallowed the apple in his mouth and looked straight up at Malfoy’s face. “Yes, Malfoy? Can I help you with something?”
            Malfoy’s face was still haunting, the grey eyes not Sirius’s but with just enough of a different edge to make Harry’s throat dry out. But the point was, the point was, the charms Harry had cast would prevent the physical reactions that Malfoy was seeking. No matter how much Malfoy tried, Harry’s face wasn’t going to flush; his hands wouldn’t tremble, and a small flash like a miniature lightning bolt would sting him if he stared at Malfoy for too long.
            And he wouldn’t get hard.
            For a second, a spasm of uncertainty passed over Malfoy’s face, but it was gone as fast. He leaned near to Harry and whispered into his ear, “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”
            “I don’t think I’m particularly clever, no,” Harry said. He kept his head turned away. He wanted to cheer himself on. This was easier than he’d expected. All he had to do was not act like an idiot, and Malfoy didn’t have a leg to stand on!
            “Why do you think I approached you?” Malfoy whispered, his lips as close as they had been last night, when Harry was so troubled about them.
            Harry shrugged a little, and said, “I thought you wanted to thank me for giving you your wand back.” Refer to something that had to humiliate Malfoy at least a little, and he might back off.
            “You have no idea how badly I wanted something to make me feel alive again,” Malfoy whispered to him. “Something that blazed with color in this fallen world. Something interesting. And you’re it. I’m not about to let you go, Potter.”
            “Back the fuck off, Malfoy!” Ron snapped. Harry reckoned he would have said something earlier, but he’d sat there expecting Harry to take the initiative, and acted only when it became obvious that Harry was too mature for that. Or foolish, as Ron would have said.
            “Oh, for now I will,” said Malfoy, and he eased away from the table, eyes liquid with heat and still on Harry. It made him look less like Sirius, because of course Harry had never seen such emotions on Sirius’s face. “There’s one thing you’re right about, Potter. A struggle like this is best conducted in private.”
            He sauntered back to the Slytherin table. Harry rolled his eyes. Git just doesn’t want to admit that he’s beaten.
            “What was he talking about, Harry?” Ron demanded, and handed Harry the plate of scones when he gestured for it. “Is he bothering you in class? You know that McGonagall will do something about it if he is.” He cast a loyal look at McGonagall, now seated in Dumbledore’s old chair and talking about something with Professor Sprout on her left.
            “Oh, I know,” Harry said calmly. “But it’s not in class. Malfoy had to take time to think about it, but now he seems inclined to blame me for the loss of his family’s fortune.”
            “But you testified for him!” said Ron.
            Harry shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He hates owing me a debt even more than he would have hated going to prison, I think. And he’s going to make a right nuisance of himself in the process.”
            “Well, if he does something, I still think you ought to go to the professors about it.”
            Harry snorted this time. “I get enough attention from them as it is.” And that was true. Not only was McGonagall concerned that he wasn’t recovered from the war, not only did Slughorn still think he ought to be a Potions prodigy, but the other professors were a bloody inconvenient mixture of stern, fawning, and overprotective. “No, he’s right about one thing. It’s best handled by the two of us.”
            “Promise me you won’t hex him in the corridor, Harry,” Hermione muttered, turning a page in her book.
            “Not unless he hexes me first,” Harry promised her.
*
            As it turned out, Malfoy did hex him first, but it was in the library, and in a secluded corner, and not exactly the kind of spell that Harry could retaliate for.
            “Finite Incantatem,” said Malfoy’s voice behind Harry as he bent over one of the interminable tomes Hermione thought he ought to study, struggling to make out what it was saying about the Transfiguration of living animals to statuary. “Finite. Finite. Finite.”
            Harry spun around, wand out, but Malfoy was right there beside him, and gripped his wrist, forcing his hand down. “Now, now,” Malfoy murmured. “I don’t think you could convince any of your professors that you just had to curse me because I ended some persistent spells on you that I was concerned about, could you? It’s practically my duty as a prefect to free students from the presence of harmful magic.”
            “Go…to…hell,” Harry said, panting as feeling returned to him in a rush. He could feel the separate warmth of each finger on his wrist, the slick hardness of the table behind him, and most of all, his own burgeoning erection. This time, Malfoy wasn’t bothering with subtle touches. This time, his groin was against Harry’s.
            The one thing that let Harry keep his head, instead of drowning in the sensation and his own stupidity, was the fact that Malfoy wasn’t hard. Malfoy didn’t want him, wasn’t drawn to him as anything other than a toy to ease his own boredom. Malfoy was only using him.
            Harry leaned back against the table, then kicked hard forwards, making Malfoy stumble away from him. But Malfoy kept the hold on his wrist, and his eyes were brilliant as he swung Harry around and pinned him against the bookcase next to the table instead.
            “If you want to do it this way,” Malfoy said into his ear, lips moving in the shape of a kiss, and his hand gripped Harry’s cock.
            Harry spasmed with impatience, longing, desire, hatred, and then snapped, “E-even if you make me come, b-bastard, it won’t matter. You d-don’t care, and it’s only going to m-matter when it’s with someone who cares—”
            He bent over with a groan as Malfoy’s hand continued moving. It felt wonderful. It was stroking not only his erection but a place inside him that he had never known existed, some part of his soul that had only been waiting to light up with pleasure.
            “You think I don’t care?” Malfoy shook his head and crowded closer, dropping Harry’s wrist and gripping Harry’s leg instead. He couldn’t lift it around his waist with the angle he was stroking Harry’s cock at, but he made it clear he would have liked to. “Fine. I suppose my most persuasive efforts are needed. Finite.”
            The spell coiled around Malfoy. Harry stiffened, not having even realized that Malfoy had his wand out. But Malfoy curled close to him, and rubbed his erection against Harry’s hip. He’d been using the spells Harry had found, too.
            “You have no idea,” Malfoy whispered, hot into his ear. “I’ve been looking for something. Something to change my mind, get it off things, persuade me life is worth living. And I should have known it would be you. Looked in the direction of what intrigued me all along.”
            “I’m—a diversion?” By spacing his words out as Malfoy worked and tugged him, Harry at least managed to keep from embarrassing stammering, even if he couldn’t keep from pushing into Malfoy’s palm or tear himself away. “So—flattered, Malfoy. It could have been anyone. It could have been—”
            “It could have been anyone,” Malfoy agreed in a whisper. “But I’m glad it was you.”
            And he lowered his other hand from Harry’s hip to his cock and pulled him off with both hands, while he rubbed against Harry arse and leg and thigh and anything he could reach from this awkward angle. A second later, Harry felt the spreading wet patch from Malfoy’s trousers press against his own.
            The triumph seared him. I came after he did—
            A moment before the orgasm did the same, and Malfoy locked his lips on top of his and drank Harry’s cries.
*
            “You’re going out at night, Harry? Again?”
            Hermione’s disapproval was palpable, but at least it wasn’t Ron’s; Ron was snoring his head off in their bedroom currently, sleeping off a curse that had struck him in Defense and made him slam his head into the wall. Harry had taken the Cloak and crept out of his bedroom unobserved, and had forgotten that Hermione was studying in the common room.
            He should have put the bloody Cloak on right away.
            “I have something I want to do,” he said, purposely vague, avoiding her eyes. He didn’t want to think she would hate what he was trying to do too much, but he knew she had already guessed more than Ron.
            “If you get caught…”
            Harry lifted his Cloak in silent reassurance. Malfoy had promised to meet him at the top of the stairs leading to the dungeons. He said he knew several refuges, and Harry depended on him to make sure of it. Malfoy would be even more humiliated than Harry if word got out of what he was doing.
            “I don’t like it.”
            Harry met Hermione’s gaze, and smiled a little. “I know, Hermione. But for once, I’m going to do what I want.”
            “You’re sure that you know what other people might want?” Hermione’s eyes were narrowed, and she reached out and put her hand on his arm.
            “Yes,” said Harry, and they stared at each other until she snorted and turned away, waving an irritable hand.
            “All right. But don’t come crying to me if you do get caught. And I’m not breaking the news to Ron.”
            Harry grinned, waved at her, and slipped the Cloak over his head. The Fat Lady gave only a sleepy murmur as he ducked past her.
            The closer he went to the dungeons, the more the hot, dim atmosphere under the Cloak reminded Harry of what he and Malfoy had got up to that afternoon in the library. He licked his lips, and wondered if it would be exactly like that. Or if they would do—something else. Go—further.
            He barely knew what would happen. But he did know that Malfoy’s confession was good enough for him, and that he wanted the pleasure of it. Wanted something that was darker, more on edge, something that involved the sort of plunging risk he had thought would remain for him only in Quidditch games when the war had ended.
            He easily avoided Filch and the few patrolling prefects, and reached the top of the stairs. A small movement stirred near a wall, and Harry realized Malfoy stood there under a Disillusionment Charm. He followed him rapidly down the steps and around the corner, licking his lips a little to keep from panting.
            Malfoy led him through enough corridors that Harry gave up thoughts of trying to find his way back on his own. And then they were in an alcove with a tingle of enchantments that parted to let Harry in, and he blinked in surprise at the small fire, burning on air, that met his eyes. The enchantments must have prevented any sensory information inside the alcove from getting out, because Harry hadn’t seen or heard or smelled it before now.
            And on the floor was a Transfigured pallet.
            Malfoy ended the Disillusionment Charm and turned to him, and his eyes were cloud-grey. Harry slipped the Cloak back and stared as intently for a moment, then reached for the collar of his robes.
            Malfoy was on him in seconds, slamming him back against the wall as he had a habit of doing, and biting at Harry’s lips. Harry lifted his head and furiously gave as good as he got. If Malfoy thought he was going to be yielding or passive, he was an idiot.
            Malfoy was wrestling him out of his clothes, and if he had complaints about Harry not being yielding or passive, he wasn’t voicing them. In fact, the litany of murmured and thick words into his ears was about something entirely different.
            “I don’t care if you do want me because I’m black and Black, I’m flattered. The one who can make the great Harry Potter lose his head and come down here to be with me. The one who can take his robes off—”
            And Malfoy did, with hands that once more seemed to burn, and then he took off Harry’s pants. Harry glared back at him, and Malfoy reached out and stripped off his own clothes. His body was long and pale.
            Harry had sort of wondered if he would stop wanting Malfoy once he saw him naked. After all, it wasn’t as though he had ever seen Sirius like this, so he didn’t have any “experience” to support him through it, and he hadn’t wanted boys before.
            But the sweep of Malfoy’s pale, pointed body only increased Harry’s desire to touch it, to see what he felt like. He reached out and put his hand on Malfoy’s breastbone, and Malfoy flushed a deep pink and wrestled him to the pallet.
            It seemed like they traded more blows than kisses in the next few moments. Malfoy wanted to get something from beside the mattress and hold Harry down at the same time, and Harry objected to this plan. He wanted to kiss Malfoy’s knuckles, or bite his fingers, or at least nip his chin, and he kept trying to drag Malfoy down every time Malfoy loosened his hold on Harry’s wrists.
            “You’re—a handful,” Malfoy finally snorted, and picked up his wand and cast spells at Harry’s arse instead of picking up the lube, or whatever else it was he had wanted. Harry gasped from the coolness of the spells, and Malfoy gave him a frown. “It wouldn’t have felt that way if you’d let me stretch you.”
            “I can—do whatever I want,” said Harry. “More—fun to make you yield this way.” He had to gasp out the words the way he had when Malfoy was stroking him, because once again Malfoy’s fingers were busy, and had slid into his arse and opened it to Malfoy’s intense stare. But that didn’t matter so much to Harry, not against the gaze that Malfoy snapped to him.
            “Shut up,” Malfoy whispered, and leaned over to fill Harry’s mouth with his tongue and Harry’s arse with his fingers at the same time.
            Fine with me, Harry tried to tell him, although he didn’t think Malfoy was listening. He spread his legs encouragingly, and Malfoy drew back, muttered something that sounded like, “Why not, I prepared him enough,” and entered in a rough rush.
            Malfoy hesitated in the next second, and Harry gathered that he was expecting complaints. But it felt brilliant, and Harry had no time to complain when he could disconcert Malfoy even more by enjoying it.
            “I don’t know if you’re man enough to take me the way I want,” he said, and locked his ankles together behind Malfoy’s knees to see if it would make him do what Harry wanted.
            Malfoy looked caught, for a second, halfway between his own desire and the desire not to oblige Harry. But either the way Harry was moving him with his legs or the sheer pleasure overwhelmed him, and he began to thrust, gasping out shakily and turning his head from side to side in a way that was extremely pleasant for Harry to watch.
            “Sometimes—I hate you,” Malfoy said, and his hair swayed alongside his cheeks as he shoved and shoved and shoved into Harry.
            “Of course you do,” said Harry. “Still, you’re the one fucking me. Maybe that can give you some internal peace if you—think about it.”
            Then he cried out, and saw the smugness in Malfoy’s eyes. Well, that didn’t matter much, not next to how good this still felt.
            Harry had thought a lot about sex, about how it would be his first time being that intimate with someone. He had envisioned romance and the way that he would tenderly undress—someone. He hadn’t been able to picture a face very well.
            But this way worked, too.
            Malfoy fucked him with long, deep, pounding thrusts, and by the end, Harry was more than ready for the orgasm that consumed him. He was greedy for it, tossing his head back to welcome it, letting out a sharp shout when it happened.
            If Malfoy thought that shout was for him, as his slightly glazed look seemed to indicate, he was welcome to think it. And revel in it, even, the way he seemed to as he hesitated again and then shuddered his way to his climax.
            He lay down on top of Harry for a second, breathing harshly. When Harry objected to that with a grunt and a suggestive roll, he lay down beside him. He still didn’t take himself out of Harry. Harry raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. What the hell. He didn’t know a lot about what men normally did together, and it was stretching the definition a lot to call this “normal.”
            “I meant it,” Malfoy whispered.
            “You said lots of things, and did lots of things.” Harry stretched luxuriously, wriggling his arse a bit to watch Malfoy flush. “Which one are you talking about?”
            “The one where I said I wouldn’t let you go.” Malfoy flattened his hand out on Harry’s chest. “Even after this fucking potion wears off and my hair goes back to normal. I don’t care if you don’t want me any more when I’m blond.”
            Harry paused and looked at him. “So it was a potion.”
            “React to something else,” Malfoy whispered, and dug his fingers so harshly into Harry’s ribs that Harry grunted and curled up around the touch.
            “Fine,” Harry said, when he could get his breath back. “But this was pretty good, you know, and it was nothing like anything I experienced with Sirius.” To his surprise, it was easier to speak his godfather’s name now than it had been at any time since Sirius died. “I think I might still want you when your hair’s as golden as your very small Lumos Charm again.”
            Malfoy paused, then said uncertainly, “Well. Good.”
            Harry snickered and glanced towards where they were joined. “Don’t you need to get out?”
            Malfoy lifted his head haughtily. “Not if I don’t want to.”
            Harry leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Well, then. We can discuss about what kind of reputation you have to live up to now.”
            “Reputation?” Malfoy squinted at him. “Don’t tell me you plan to gossip about this.”
            “No.” Harry grinned at him. “You’ve fucked me once, pretty well. What are you going to do for an encore?”
            Apparently, certain devious tendencies were inherited from the Blacks in the form of what one of their descendants could do with his tongue, along with pranks and serving Dark Lords. And Harry, who thought that he might like to get to know one of them better, had no objection this time.
  The End.
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Black and Fair