Author: John Sexton
Genre: Harry Potter Slash
Love your feedback via: firstname.lastname@example.org
Please donate, to keep Nifty alive!
Chapter Four ... Carl and Black Draco
When Harry emerged from the toilet block, he looked around for the older lad and was frustrated that he could not see him.
Harry surprised himself with his own disappointment, because he had pretty much resolved, once his erection had begun to flag and his brain had regained some semblance of control, that the sensible thing to do was cut and run.
So, with the fit guy nowhere in sight, Harry sauntered towards the exit of Tottenham Court Station and contemplated his next move, which had to be food. However, exactly how he was going to achieve that, Harry hadn't the foggiest.
"Hi!" whispered a familiar voice from behind, which startled Harry so much that he actually jumped with fright.
"SHIT!" cried the young wizard, so loudly that a woman turned around and glared at him.
Harry simply ignored her and looked away quickly.
"Sorry," replied the guy, with a pleasant laugh, "didn't mean to startle you."
He smiled, as Harry turned to face him.
"You didn't startle me," snapped Harry in a faux-angry tone, "you only frightened six month's crap out of me!"
"Sorry," the young bloke cooed; then he smiled. "I'm staying at a Gay-friendly hotel just down the road, in Oxford Street. What would you like to do?"
"What I'd really like to do, is have a hot shower and something to eat," came Harry's serious reply. "I'm famished!"
Harry sniffed the air and re-evaluated his assessment of his current status...
"And I reek... in case you hadn't noticed."
The guy smiled and twitched his nose provocatively.
"I had noticed, actually," he quipped and winked at Harry. "Had a rough night, have we?" he asked playfully.
"You could say that," was Harry's taciturn riposte, "I've certainly had better!"
"What's your name? I'm Carl, by the way."
"Draco," came Harry's instant reply.
He'd decided that consistency was his best defence against being caught out. Besides... it seemed perversely ironic, given his new guise.
"That's an interesting name. What is it, Hungarian, Slavic?"
Harry's eyes widened.
"Not sure, really," he answered honestly; he'd never pondered the matter before.
"Oh," Carl shrugged, "know what it means, then?"
"Well that figures," Carl replied with a hearty laugh.
Carl leaned in towards Harry seductively and whispered into the shell of his ear.
"If that cock of yours gets any bigger it will be!"
"Will be what?" Harry asked, as he screwed up his face inscrutably at his seducer.
"Dragin'..." quipped Carl, with a wicked grin... "on the ground!"
As they neared the hotel, Carl instructed Harry on how to take the service elevator at the rear of the building.
"You're a bit too young, and a bit too obvious, even for a Gay-friendly establishment," he explained.
Harry wasn't sure that he really understood, but he was too embarrassed and nervous to ask for an explanation.
Carl was already in the room when Harry knocked on the door. He let him in and immediately enquired what Harry wanted to eat.
"I don't care," Harry shrugged, "as long as it's not moving I'll eat it! NO!..." he added an afterthought, "I'm so famished I'll eat anything... anyway it comes."
"Yeah, well I intend to eat this."
Carl grinned salaciously, as he reached down and squeezed Harry's cock through his jeans.
"While it is moving... and I intend to keep eating it until it cums..."
He reached up, and walked his index and second finger from Harry's mouth, down his chest to his stomach one word at a time...
"All... the... way... down... my... throat!"
"Sounds exciting!" Harry replied
He reciprocated Carl's grin, but made no further comment.
Carl picked up the phone, asked for room service, and placed an order for two Meat Lover's Club Sandwiches with chips and salad.
Harry's eyebrows rose, and he snorted at Carl as he hung up the phone.
"House special," Carl chuckled in explanation, "I did tell you this was a Gay-friendly establishment!"
Harry merely snorted again in amusement.
"Okay!" cried Carl enthusiastically, "how about we have that shower before the food gets here?"
"Sure," Carl licked his lips, "don't think I'd let an opportunity like that go to waste, do you?" he teased.
"Yeah, okay," Harry shrugged, "sounds interesting."
As soon as they were in the ensuite Harry started to unbutton his shirt.
"No," Carl whispered.
He reached over and undid Harry's belt, whipped it through the loops of his jeans, and threw it onto the floor.
"Leave your clothes on, we'll wash them too, and I'll dry them over the heater on the towel rack," he explained.
Harry blushed, but nodded and smiled.
"Yeah," he agreed, "not a bad idea."
Carl returned the smile, but did not embarrass Harry with a reply; he simply nodded and gripped Harry's slim waist then drew him closer.
But as he leaned in towards the young wizard, with the obvious intention of kissing him, Harry pulled back sharply and reddened again.
"Do you think I could brush my teeth?" he pleaded.
Carl smiled and nodded compassionately.
"Another good idea!" he quipped, eliciting a sigh of relief from Harry.
As soon as Harry had placed the toothbrush back onto the hand basin, Carl, who was already naked, swung him around and pulled him into a torrid kiss.
Harry immediately reciprocated, casting his last inhibition to the four winds. He smashed his soft, moist lips hungrily against the older man's.
Carl pushed Harry back against the shower wall, and his rock-hard cock pressed against the boy's quivering diaphragm and navel.
They deepened the kiss, as Carl dragged them both under the torrent of hot water. Their tongues wrestled for dominance, and their moans almost drowned out the splashing sounds of the shower.
Carl broke away first, then reached for the shampoo, and immediately began lathering not only Harry's golden locks but his clothes as well.
Harry leaned back against Carl, as the fit man massaged his scalp, using his strong fingers with alternately delicate and vigorous pressure, in ever decreasing circles.
Harry moaned with renewed delight at the sensation. His thoughts drifted back to Hogwarts and the Prefects' bathroom, with Cedric, which was the first time anyone had ever done that to him. But he fought the maudlin feeling that the memory engendered, and decided to give himself over to the moment, as Carl's massive cock now pushed into the small of Harry's back.
Carl slowly removed Harry's shirt and T-shirt. He scrubbed each of them thoroughly before throwing them into the hand basin. Then he knelt down and slowly undid the metallic button at the top of Harry's fly. He gently and sensuously dragged the zipper down over the boy's swollen cock, pressing his fingers hard against the throbbing monster as he did so.
"Fuck me dead!" Carl cried.
He ogled at Harry's hard flesh, which strained against his wet pants.
Harry stepped out of his jeans, impatiently kicked the saturated denim into the corner of the shower, then spread his smooth legs slightly for balance.
Carl dug his thumbs into the waist-band of the briefs.
"FUCK! ME! DEAD!" Carl repeated with almost reverential awe, when he finally slid the pants down over the straining cock, which flew up with an almighty force, and slapped the underside of the man's chin with an audible splat.
Harry almost burst into hysterics at Carl's reaction, and all the man could do in response was sigh and drool.
"Well that resolves two issues," Carl cooed salaciously, as he looked up into Harry's eyes and grinned like a maniac.
"Huh?" Harry responded with understated eloquence.
"It's fucking ginormous!" Carl groaned, "bigger than I could ever have imagined!"
"And?" Harry teased playfully, "issue number two?"
"You're not a natural blond!"
Harry baulked at this, with a burst of irrational panic, but dismissed it, as his raging, adolescent hormones overrode his anxiety.
Carl smirked, leaned forward and avidly devoured the cock in one smooth motion. But he groaned in profound frustration at his inability to complete the deep-throating of the boy wizard's titanic appendage.
"Shit!" Carl cried despondently.
He pulled back and sank down onto his haunches in defeat.
"That is one hell of a cock," he shook his head in awe. "That's the first time I've ever been stumped, by man or boy!" he cried again. "How old are you, Draco?" he asked sceptically.
"Fifteen," Harry replied with a casual shrug of his shoulders, "why?"
"Why?" Carl shrieked incredulousl. "Why? Do you have any idea how big you are?"
"Not really," Harry lied.
He knew exactly how big it was. After all, he'd been measuring its growth against his wand since he was thirteen. He was quite proud of the fact that both his wands were finally the same length. But, for some inexplicable reason, he figured it would be naff, or maybe conceited, to admit that he knew.
"I think it's only because I'm so skinny and short," Harry attempted a modest rationalisation, "I am only five-six, after all... so that just kind of makes it seem... I mean... I know it's big, but I've seen bigger."
"Bullshit!" cried Carl.
"No seriously... I've even had bigger," Harry replied emphatically.
But he refused to allow himself to drift back into maudlin thoughts of either Cedric or Sirius. He looked deep into Carl's eyes instead, and grinned wickedly.
Harry sniggered, then he knelt down and took Carl's rock-hard cock to the root, in a single gulp.
"Faaarrk!" Carl groaned, as he leaned back against the shower wall, closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief.
"Okay, Draco... I believe you," he laughed uncontrollably, "you've just made me feel like a twelve-year-old with a four inch prick."
Harry pulled back all the way to the knob, then thrust forward even more aggressively, pressing his face hard against Carl's rock hard abs.
Carl groaned in total ecstasy, as Harry rocked his head from side to side with increasing rapidity. He burrowed his nose hard into Carl's cropped pubes, and bit down equally resolutely on the very root of the rigid shaft.
"Mother of God!" cried Carl in absolute abandon, "make that a three inch pecker, as my Canadian friends would say!"
He looked at Harry with a deep frown.
"You've been hustling me all along... haven't you!" he accused the boy, but it was not a serious rebuff.
"Huh?" Harry frowned with patent candour.
"You've done this before!"
"Yeah," Harry squinted incredulously, "I just said that!"
"But..." Carl started... "in the cottage, you..."
"It's what Gays call the loo," Carl explained, "when we're cruising for sex," he expanded, "you made out it was your first time!"
"Ooh!" Harry grinned sheepishly, "yeah... well it was... I mean... I've never done it with a stranger before... if that's what you mean."
"So you ARE a newbie then!"
Carl grinned salaciously and wiggled his eyebrows playfully.
"Yeah, guess so," Harry grinned again.
"Okay then," Carl cooed at Harry, "let's get you cleaned up!"
He grinned as he spun the boy wizard around and lathered up his back, slipping his fingers down into Harry's arse, and scooping out his smooth, hairless hole with soapy fingers.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you are one hot fuck, Draco!" Carl sighed, as he flopped back onto the bed in total exhaustion.
They had been going at it for almost nine hours, fucking and sucking each other senseless, in between several showers and breaks for food and other refreshments.
Harry had never been naked for almost a whole day before. He had no desire to even think about getting dressed, despite the fact that his clothes had been dry for several hours. After all, what was the point?
They'd spent quite a bit of time talking, between the bouts of torrid lovemaking, and Harry had learned a great deal about the Gay scene in London.
Carl was only twenty-six, but he'd been doing the beats in and around London, Oxford and Manchester, where he'd lived for the last five years, since he was thirteen. He'd explained cottaging, cruising the beats, and told Harry where the best beats were in London, and where not to go as well.
In some ways Harry had learned more in the last ten hours, than he had from the last two years with Sirius and Cedric.
Carl was a software engineer for IBM, and he'd been down to London for the last week, running a planning conference for an "integrated transport system" for the government. Unfortunately, he had to return to Manchester tomorrow, but he'd offered to let Harry stay with him overnight, and have Sunday breakfast in bed before he left.
Harry had lost count of the number of times each of them had cum into one hole or another. He'd never even wanked this many times in one day before, let alone swallowed so many loads of spunk. But the last session had been hard on both of them, and neither had produced more than a dribble, despite the intensity of their orgasms.
Carl sighed then propped himself up onto his elbow and smiled at Harry. He leaned over and began to plant kisses on Harry's face, interspersing each one with a single syllable...
"You... are... an... in... cred... ib... le... lov... er... Dra... co!"
He finished with a passionate snogging of the young wizard, who responded with renewed enthusiasm.
When Carl finally pulled away, he smiled at Harry, then looked suddenly concerned.
"Auwe..." Carl cooed sadly... "look at your poor lips, they're all red and swollen."
He reached up to his own face and ran his hand over his mouth and jaw.
"You've got whisker burn, you poor little thing, you should have said something!"
"Nah! It's okay," Harry replied cheerfully.
"I'm really sorry," Carl cooed again, "I should have realised!"
He jumped up off the bed and ducked into the ensuite, then re-emerged with one of the hotel's complimentary satchels of moisturiser.
"Here," Carl smiled as he tossed it to Harry, "that should help."
Carl rubbed his hand over his face again and looked apologetic.
"I'm going to have a shit and a shave," he announced. "I'll call you when I'm finished, then we'll shower and have supper. How does that sound?"
"Sounds wicked!" Harry responded with a cheeky grin.
Carl beamed, then leaned over again and placed a gentle peck on the tip of Harry's nose.
"Then..." Carl teased.
He ogled at his young lover, as he slid his mouth down Harry's trim smooth body, kissing and nipping at each nipple then burying his tongue in Harry's navel. He grasped Harry's limp cock, gently rolled back the foreskin, and placed a kiss on the tip of his knob.
"Then," Carl repeated where he'd left off, "I'm going to dance around this Maypole one last time before we call it a night and get some sleep!"
Carl reached over to the night stand and tossed the remote to Harry.
"Call you in five," he chirped, before heading back to the ensuite.
Carl closed the bathroom door just as Harry clicked the remote, and the familiar signature tune of the BBC filled the room.
"The Nine O'clock News from the BBC, with Mike Rowley and Fiona McGregor," came the voice-over, as the logo appeared on the screen.
"Good Evening," the woman newsreader stared grimly into the camera. "The search continued today for Harry Potter, the fifteen-year-old serial killer, who is still missing..."
Harry sat bolt-upright and froze, as his stomach plummeted in despair.
"...after brutally murdering his uncle, at around this time last night, in the normally quiet village of Little Whinging, in Surrey."
With his eyes squeezed tightly closed, Harry felt the room begin to spin, as the woman's voice filled his head...
"The Home Secretary became involved today," the newsreader continued, "and, in an unprecedented move, announced a one hundred-thousand Pound reward for information leading to the arrest of the boy, who has been labelled by the tabloid press: a deranged psychopath.
"The Home Secretary admitted that the boy has a long history of violent antisocial behaviour, and warned the public to be on the lookout for any suspicious activity."
Harry squeezed his eyes more tightly and began to tremble, whether from rage or fear he wasn't really sure; but he sat transfixed by the television newsreader's voice, and prayed to Merlin that he would not lose control of his Magic again.
"Only last week," the woman continued impassively, "Potter was involved in another violent altercation that resulted in at least one death, at a private institute in London. He was expelled last year from an exclusive public school in Scotland...which cannot be named for legal reasons...after the suspicious death of one of the students. Twelve months ago he was responsible for a violent attack on his cousin, the son of the man Potter is accused of murdering last night.
"Another source has informed the BBC that, four years ago, when Potter was only eleven, he was suspected of the murder of one of his teachers, but the headmaster had covered it up. The Headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore, was sacked earlier this year. He is currently at the centre of a separate police investigation. All in all Potter is suspected of involvement in at least four separate murders."
Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing, and the worst aspect of it all was that every incident that the newsreader had cited was factual!
He opened his eyes and looked at the newsreader intently, as she continued...
"Through the direct intervention of the Home Secretary, police have been ordered to step-up their efforts to apprehend Potter, as it is believed that he may strike again without provocation. The Home Office has issued a warning that the boy is on the run and is armed and dangerous.
"Potter is believed to be hiding-out somewhere in Greater London. Members of the public are warned not to approach the youth under any circumstances, but are urged to contact the special police hot-line, displayed on your screen."
Harry was stunned when a Wizard photo of him, almost certainly taken from the Daily Prophet archives, flashed up on the screen, with the hot-line number superimposed over it.
The woman continued as a voice over.
"An hour ago, the Home Secretary released this grainy video footage of the boy. He is described as being five foot, six inches tall, with emerald green eyes, long black unruly hair, fair complexion and a slight build. He wears spectacles and has a unique distinguishing mark on his forehead: a vivid scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.
"We repeat that the boy is believed to be armed and is considered extremely dangerous!
"He should not be approached, under any circumstances, and should be avoided at all costs. Members of the public should contact this hot-line if they encounter any suspicious activity, or have any information about this boy.
"Guildford Area Commander, Chief Superintendent, John Sutton, told the BBC that the most recent victim suffered horrific injuries."
Footage of the Chief Superintendent speaking to reporters, with Number Four Privet Drive in the background, appeared on the screen. Harry recognised him immediately.
"This," CS Sutton announced solemnly, "is one of the most savage and brutal murders that I have witnessed in recent times. The victim suffered massive injuries, with no less than ten separate trauma points on the body, each potentially lethal. This is indicative of a violent, relentless assault. Details currently to hand indicate that this child is the youngest, and one of the most violent, mass murderers in British criminal history," he declared.
"Even more to the point is the pattern of these murders associated with this boy: five years ago, last year, last week, last night!" CS Sutton declared in strained tones. "We need to apprehend this killer before he strikes again," Sutton stressed the urgency of his case.
The woman newsreader reappeared on the screen, as tears began to streak down Harry's face, but he barely noticed them.
"We will return to this news item, at the end of the bulletin, with an in-depth report from BBC Special Crime Reporter, Adrian Mannix. Adrian will be presenting an exclusive interview with the boy's cousin, who has already been hospitalised twice, at the hands of this psychopath. But first let's take a look at the rest of the day's news."
The camera switched to the male newsreader, who took over with another story.
"Yesterday it was the destruction of the Brockdale Bridge, today The West Country of Somerset suffered its worst hurricane in over fifty years..."
Harry clicked the television remote; then, just as he heard Carl flush the toilet, he leapt off the bed as if it was on fire. He hurriedly dressed and raced over to the small table at the side of the room.
Carl's trousers were draped over the chair. A biro and a hotel stationary pad were on the table.
Harry rifled the trouser pockets until he found Carl's wallet. It contained over ninety Pounds and a series of credit cards. Harry took forty Pounds, then dropped the wallet onto the table. He scribbled a quick note, not even aware of the tears that splashed onto the page as he scrawled across it...
"Please forgive me, but I really have to go. I expect you'll know why soon enough. I had everything stolen from me this morning, so I've taken forty Quid from your wallet. I wish things could be different, but life's not like that. Try not to think too badly of me.
"Sorry for being such a tosser, you really are a great guy.
Harry felt absolutely miserable as he scurried east along New Oxford Street, then down Drury Lane towards the West End. He'd really liked Carl; he was fit, he was intelligent and he was hot. Carl was the sort of bloke that Harry knew he could really grow to admire; he felt miserable for having returned his kindness with betrayal.
But Carl was returning to Manchester tomorrow, and he couldn't have helped Harry even if he had wanted to. After all, what could Harry have told him: the truth?
"I'm a Wizard, Carl, and I'm on the run because my Wild Magic sort of got out of control, you see, and I got really angry with my uncle and I kind of zapped him with lightening that flew out of my fingers. I didn't mean to, it's just that I'm so powerful..."
Tears were streaming down Harry's face quite freely now, but he could not stop them and he really didn't care anymore, anyway. He simply kept his head down and tried not to draw attention to himself.
Harry wasn't really sure where he was. He did recognise the name, Drury Lane; so he assumed he must be heading towards the theatre district. He had simply headed east, because he had wanted to get away from Charing Cross Road and the Wizard Quarter.
"Not that it really matters that much now anyway," Harry snorted derisively, "after that fucking news report!"
He was not safe in either world, but at least in the Muggle world he was only a recent celebrity.
"Celebrity!" Harry spat bitterly, more loudly than he had intended, such that he startled a couple who were passing.
The woman shied away from him, while the man scowled at Harry aggressively and put his arm around her protectively. They sidestepped Harry and quickened their pace.
"Sorry!" Harry cried out apologetically.
He never looked at them, but rather kept his head down, feeling like the prat they obviously thought he was... a dangerous prat!
By the time Harry reached Stukeley Street, he realised his mistake: just past nine on a Saturday night, in London's theatre district! What was he thinking! He might just as well march into the nearest theatre, jump up on the stage and announce his presence to one and all.
"Here I am, Harry Potter, the notorious mass murderer... come and get me!"
Harry did an about-face and began wandering aimlessly back up towards New Oxford Street, until he came across a tiny open square, a triangle really, with a low brick bench at its centre. It was still pretty close to the theatre district, but it was surprisingly quiet, despite its exposed setting.
Two black men walked down Shaftesbury Avenue towards Harry, as he slumped down onto the bench. They were talking loudly; it was obvious that they had been drinking. One of them pushed the other's shoulder and laughed.
"No way man," he pushed his mate again, "y`all pullin` ma chain!"
"Nooo! Nooo!" his mate protested, before he broke into another laugh, "I aint lyin`, I swear it be true; how y`all think Michael Jackson got de way he is, man? He been takin` dat shit for years, way before it been legal. Photo... Photo-Mela... Photo-Mel...'
"Yeah, dat de shit."
"You crazier dan a dog in heat, man," his mate protested, as he stopped and grabbed the other's arm, "dat shit is for white dudes too lazy to get out in de sun... it for gettin' de tan widout de rays, man."
They certainly weren't English; Harry thought they sounded African-American or possibly West Indian. He had considered moving when they'd stopped to argue, but he suddenly found the topic interesting. He decided to stay put for as long as the men failed to notice him.
"I knows dat, ya mudda fucka," argued the other, "don` ya dink I be knowin` dat?"
"Ya don` know shit, man. In case you ain` noticed Jackson got no tan!"
"You missin` de point, dude," the other persisted, "he didn` just take dat shit, he be usin` id with some hair bleachin` shit."
"You crazy, man, I swear," his mate taunted, "where ya get dese crazy ideas?"
"I ain` crazy," the other retorted, "Willy Mason tol` me `bout dis dude in Brixton, a wannabe white boy call Jasper, now dat dude, he be crazy. He done mixed dat Photo shit wid some udder shit call `Colour Tone,' or whadever, an` he be whiter dan ol` Maggie Datcher now."
"Well if y`all believe Willy, I guess y`all believe any ol` shit," his mate sniggered.
They started walking down Shaftesbury again.
"No, man, Willy swear it be true," his mate protested as he staggered after him, "fuckin` near killed de dumb cunt, an` he shit grey bricks for a week, but he be a white boy now!"
Their voices faded as they continued to argue the toss, but Harry's mind was spinning with the implications of this revelation. What had really made him sit up and take notice was the brand name, "Colour Tone," which was what he had used last night on his own hair.
Harry's adolescent brain was teeming with possibilities. He refused to believe that this encounter with the men was an accident, it was a lifeline that might just save his skin... if he could only change its colour.
"Shit... I've taken Polyjuice for fuck's sake!" Harry argued aloud with himself, trying to make his case more forceful. "How bad could it be? And... it could just be the light at the end of the tunnel."
"Or that light could be the Hogwarts Express... hurtling down that tunnel at a rate of knots!" his more rational side countered.
"Fuck it," Harry decided boldly, "even if it kills me, I'd still have to be better off than I am now."
Parsons Pharmacy was almost just around the corner, and Harry was so relieved that he'd taken the forty quid from Carl's wallet, despite still feeling like a proper little shit for having done so.
The chemist had eyed him pretty suspiciously when he'd asked for the Photo-Melanotide, but he'd handed it over anyway.
What had really hit Harry for a six was the fact that it had cost him thirty-three Quid for the Photo-Melanotide. So he'd ended up with very little change after he'd bought the Colour Tone as well.
The choice of colour had been the most difficult part of the exercise, but in the final analysis Harry wasn't really sure that it mattered, as long as it worked.
Obviously Harry didn't want his skin lighter, but darker. But if this really would work, then he was banking on the colour of his skin to match the colour of the hair dye. It seemed logical enough but, like everything he ever seemed to do, there was going to have to be one hell of a lot of luck in play.
Harry wandered the streets of London, not really knowing where he was going, until he eventually had absolutely no idea of where he was. He had deliberately avoided the main thoroughfares in his search for somewhere quiet to perform this ridiculously risky experiment.
Eventually he found himself at the end of a narrow, unlit alley, littered with debris from an upturned skip. It reminded him of the entrance to the Ministry building, and that made him even more depressed. The site was certainly quiet, but could hardly be classed as safe. But he'd been walking for what seemed like hours, and he was exhausted.
The sounds of the city were much less noticeable; but whether that was because of the location or the time, Harry could not tell. He was certainly well out of earshot of Big Ben, and without his watch it could have been past midnight and he would not have known.
The back of the Colour Tone bottle had carried a warning about seeking medical assistance if swallowed, and something about inducing vomiting until medical assistance was available. But Harry had ignored that when he'd purchased it, and even though he couldn't see the bloody label in the blackness that pervaded the alley now, he would have ignored it even if he could. He'd decided that whatever the outcome, it had to be better than any other fate he was likely to encounter if he opted out.
So, with grim determination, Harry slumped down behind the skip and swallowed the contents of the Colour Tone in one foul swoop.
If he had thought Polyjuice was bad, this was indescribable. He sucked in as many deep breaths as he could and strained not to spew it all back up. He was tempted to roll over into a ball and scream, but his resolve was now as strong as in any encounter that he'd ever had with Voldemort.
Harry's hands were shaking and he trembled violently, struggling with the bloody child proof cap on the Photo-Melanotide bottle. But he eventually won out and, with tears and sweat already streaming down his cheeks, he downed the foul concoction with the same resolution. Then he promptly lapsed into unconsciousness.
A sharp pain forced Harry's eyes open in shock. He felt terrible, but it was so different from the experience of waking up with a hangover. His entire body was alert, his head was thumping violently and the pain in his gut was excruciating.
Harry had the sudden and urgent need to evacuate his bowels. He rolled over and only just managed to pull his jeans and pants down in time, before he was overcome with an unbelievably painful, but simultaneously cathartic, bout of projectile diarrhoea. He had no idea of the time, but it was still night.
Harry nearly threw up, not from the feeling in his gut, but from the foul stench that immediately assaulted his nostrils. Another stabbing pain tore through his abdomen, and all he could do was lay on his side in a foetal position, while his bowels exploded yet again. It was more painful than Harry could ever have imagined; Voldemort's Cruciatus was a refreshing breeze in comparison.
He closed his eyes and lost count of the number of times he experienced the painful gut-wrenching sensation. He thought he was going to die and wondered when... make that if... it was ever going to stop.
The faint light of pre-dawn was barely detectable when Harry re-awoke. There was no way that he was going to try to stand up, so he more-or-less crawled on his side to get within reach of several scraps of newspaper that he could just make out lying near the skip.
He cleaned himself as best he could, then managed to pull his shorts and jeans back up, but barely found the strength to even kneel. He crawled on his hands and knees to the other side of the alley, squinting with the pain and exhaustion that wracked his body; but he had to get as far away from the stench as possible. Finally he collapsed behind another skip and fell back into a deep sleep.
Harry had no idea how much time had elapsed, but he guessed it had to be close to noon. He could hear church bells in the distance, so he guessed it was still Sunday and he must have been asleep for about twelve hours all-up. He'd been in so much pain, when he'd had the gastric attacks, that he hadn't even thought about why; that had been the last thing on his mind.
But now, in the cold harsh light of day, Harry held up his hands and ogled at them: they could easily have belonged to Dean Thomas. The black man had not been lying, the concoction had worked!
IT HAD WORKED! Harry had felt so sick, earlier, that he'd wished it had failed, he'd almost wished that he was dead. But now, even though he felt far from brilliant, he was elated.
He struggled to his feet and staggered over to the other side of the alley to retrieve his book bag. He was stunned to see that his diarrhoea was even darker than the colour of his skin, it was the colour and texture of tar, and it nearly made him sick all over again. The black guy had been right on all counts, so it seemed.
Despite all that had gone wrong over the last two days...had it only been that long?...Harry actually began to believe that he might be safe: he may just have attained the anonymity that he so desperately craved... that he'd actually craved for the past five years.
Harry staggered out of the alley and started walking. He had no specific destination in mind, which really didn't matter since he had no idea where he was anyway. He just walked until he came to a McDonald's restaurant.
The first thing Harry did was head straight for the loo, and its mirror. He could not believe his eyes: he didn't even recognise himself! However, his response was not quite one of jubilation. At best it could be described as mixed.
The biggest distraction, but also the biggest plus, was Harry's hair, which had not only returned to its natural colour, but was so curly that it could best be described as an Afro! He shook his head in disbelief, despite the pain that the movement caused.
"This can't be riigght!!" Harry wailed at his reflection.
A mixture of awe and suspicion laced his raspy voice; but the overriding feeling was one of utter disbelief. He seriously doubted the concoction had been responsible for this part of his transformation.
"Okay, the colour maybe," Harry argued with his own reflection, though even that seemed highly unlikely. But the CURLS? "No fucking way!"
But then Harry recalled how his hair used to regrow overnight, whenever his aunt had tried to have it cut too short. Harry sneered at that thought; she had been a cruel bitch over the years, and he was glad to be rid of her.
"No!" he berated himself, he was not going to allow himself to think about that part of his life... never, ever again! He was genuinely sorry for what had happened to his uncle, but he...
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then he repeated out loud, "never, ever again! Time to move on," he reprimanded his image.
Hair colour was something that Harry had not even considered until now. He had forgotten that he'd dyed it only last night. But he was really glad of this latest result, because, let's face it, he would have looked bloody stupid, ridiculous in fact, if it had still been platinum blond.
He snorted in amusement at that thought, then shuddered at the mental image... he really would have looked a right git!
Harry pinched his hands and face; the change was totally mind-blowing. He was black!... well not actually black like the Slytherin, Blaise Zabini, but more of a deep rich chocolate colour, like his own house-mate, Dean Thomas.
Harry had never had any body hair, not even on his arms or legs, and he remembered that Dean hadn't either. He closed his eyes for a tic and revelled in the images of Dean's long smooth body; he'd checked him out often enough in the Gryffindor showers.
A wicked thought flashed across Harry's mind and he quickly ducked into a cubicle, undid his belt and whipped down his jeans and pants. He just had to know.
He looked down and laughed, they were still straight. He knew that they'd be curly eventually, just like everybody else's; but his were just a wisp of short straight hairs that hadn't even started to get that thick wiry texture yet like Sirius, Cedric or Carl.
The morose regrets of a lost past, distant and more recent, threatened to dampen Harry's enthusiasm, and he shrugged it off with grim resolve.
He ran his fingers over the smooth dark skin of his firm abs, and smiled with erotic satisfaction: it looked and felt natural, not like it had been smeared with some sort of cream or make-up, but real.
Harry sniggered; despite the fact that Dean was nearly a foot taller than him, Harry reckoned they could almost pass themselves off as brothers. Then he laughed out loud at the pun. He tucked in his shirt and returned to stand before himself once more, at the mirror over the hand basin.
"Okay," Harry thought, "the skin and hair might be brilliant, but..."
He peered hard at his reflection and focused on the downside of his makeover: his eyes and his scar.
The eyes did not look natural.
"How many black guys do you see with pale blue eyes?" he asked his own reflection.
He regretted that he hadn't nicked the cat's eyes, or the Union Jack contacts now, because he doubted that his green eyes would look any better.
Then there was the scar, the Second Skin now looked like a Johnson & Johnson's Band-Aid, because it was still his original skin colour. At least it still hid the damned scar but, like his eyes, it just didn't look right!
The other problem with Harry's eyes were that they were starting to sting. He recalled one of the Dursley's friends getting an ulcer on their eye from contacts, and he remembered the woman telling his aunt it was because she hadn't sterilised her contacts properly.
Harry decided that was not a risk he wanted to take, then he laughed at the idea of him being worried about taking risks! But he decided: the contacts had to go, and he rationalised that, blue or green, it wouldn't really matter one way or the other.
He washed his hands thoroughly, then bent over the basin, carefully removed the contacts and washed them down the drain.
As Harry flushed his eyes and face, he immediately sensed a burning-stinging sensation. He began to panic, but the cool water started to sooth the stinging eyes, until he felt suddenly so much better.
But when Harry looked up at his reflection, he was totally gob-smacked again, because his eyes weren't green, they were brown, almost BLACK!
Harry felt a sudden flush of remorse at this, and he actually felt faint; it cut to his core unlike any of the other effects of his transformation.
Part of his soul had just been ripped out of his body, and his eyes began to burn and ache. However, it had nothing to do with the contacts or the stinging that he had experienced earlier: he felt suddenly disconnected from his mum, and it hurt like no other pain he'd ever felt before.
Whether this was the result of his Magic, or the concoction, was of little consequence.
Harry raced into the nearest cubicle, locked the door and flopped down onto the lid of the toilet seat. He wept for several minutes until he felt composed enough to return to the mirror.
He stared intensely, before he grabbed a couple of paper hand-towels, soaked them under the tap, then returned to the cubicle, dropped his pants and cleaned himself up as best he could. At least it was better than his earlier attempts with the newspaper. He stayed in the cubicle a while longer, while he let the trauma of the last few days, especially the last half hour, wash over him.
When Harry finally emerged, he stood before the mirror and peered once more into his dark-brown eyes. They were still reddened and slightly teary. The result was good, he tried to rationalise: it was what he wanted, what he needed. But he doubted that he would ever be comfortable with the loss. It felt as if his mum had just died all over again!
Harry sniffed back another threatening tear, took a deep breath to regain his composure, and decided that his mum would want him to be strong enough to get over it and move on.
So Harry focussed on the scar instead. He peeled the Second Skin from his forehead, and was pleased and surprised that the wretched scar actually looked less prominent against his black skin. It was still visible, of course, but nothing like it had been.
Harry retrieve the jar from his bag and gingerly reapplied the compound to his forehead. He was delighted with the result, as it seemed to blend with the darker skin tone better than before: the result was almost perfect.
Taking another deep cathartic breath, Harry stood up straight and looked at himself in a totally new light.
Harry Potter was dead, and Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be seen either. However, Harry decided to stick with the moniker, adhering to his original premise: that consistency was his best defence against being caught out. Besides he felt pretty certain that the name of Draco Malfoy was hardly likely to be known to any Muggle.
A smile spread across Harry's face, and he decided that he liked what he saw; his transformation was complete. He felt invigorated... almost liberated... and the nausea had dissipated as though the weight of the entire world had just been lifted from his shoulders.
The young fugitive strode out of the loo and up to the counter, where he ordered every piece of crappy fast food that he thought his stomach could tolerate.