评《『综漫』亿载星光》

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters, places, items, spells, creatures, etc. residing in the world of Harry Potter belongs entirely to J. K. Rowling and I have no claim to any of it, not even a single hair on Draco\'s head (damn it all), nor shall I make a solitary penny from these scribblings.
Polyjuice Pastime
Harry lay on his bed and tipped the silver flask until it caught the light from the window. The flash of light cast a white reflection on the wall. Harry moved it slowly and watched the bright patch slide across the wainscoting.
The front door closed downstairs, signaling the start of Harry’s blessed solitude as the Dursleys made their exodus—off to some boring company function of Vernon’s. They wouldn’t be back until nearly midnight. Harry reveled in the silence. No blaring of the telly, no clink of dishes, no petulant whining from Dudley. When Harry grew up, he fully intended to live alone for quite some time, just to enjoy silence whenever and wherever he wanted it.
He knew, however, that with the quiet also came boredom. To that end, he examined the flask again, unsure if he should use it. The Tri-Wizard Tournament had been quite the adventure, with Harry’s unexpected entry, followed by the dangerous tasks, and then Snape’s astounding revelation that Mad-Eye Moody was actually someone else under the guise of Polyjuice Potion. Snape had apparently been alerted by the smell of the potion that the fake Moody had continually imbibed.
Dumbledore had questioned the man and discovered him to be none other than Barty Crouch, Jr., escaped from Azkaban and hidden in the home of his father until a loyal house-elf had engineered his escape. Crouch, Jr. had been set on a path to return Voldemort to power. Harry shuddered to think what would have happened if Snape had not uncovered the plot, loathe though he was to credit Snape for anything.
Harry had been present at the unveiling of the plot and the discovery of the real Moody in a large, magical trunk. Things had been rather chaotic, with Crouch Jr. screaming and vowing revenge; Snape threatening in a sibilant whisper to twist his mind inside out; Dumbledore rescuing the real Moody from the trunk; and Cornelius Fudge showing up at the worst possible time to have a semi-public nervous breakdown. In the confusion, Harry had noticed a large number of silver flasks stacked on a shelf. Silver flasks filled with the difficult and time-consuming to brew Polyjuice Potion.
One never knew when a Polyjuice Potion would come in handy. Valuable things, Polyjuice Potions. And Crouch Jr. certainly wouldn’t need his any longer. The rest would most likely go to Snape, to be locked up out of Harry’s reach forever. So Harry had reached out, taken one of the flasks, and slipped it into a pocket of his robes. As an afterthought, he had taken another.
Both had remained safely tucked away in his trunk until school ended. Now one still rested in his trunk and the other cast rectangles of light on the wall in his room at number four, Privet Drive.
Satisfied that the Dursleys were truly gone and would not return to fetch a forgotten item, Harry sat up. He left the flask on the bed and walked to his trunk. Rummaging through it, he delved into a deep corner and retrieved a tiny velvet box. Harry sat back on his heels and flipped the box open with a rush of excitement. He wasn’t sure why the thought of doing what he was about to do was so enticing.
Harry’s mouth was dry as he reached into the box and picked up one of the silver-blond hairs. He held it tightly, making certain not to lose it as he closed the box. He only had four of Malfoy’s hairs. Four hairs snagged from Draco’s head during an impromptu Quidditch match shortly before school ended. They had both been racing like lightning bolts, diving for the Snitch, as always. Malfoy had hitched sideways, knocking into Harry, trying to prevent the burst of speed that would send him past Draco, as always. Harry had hitched back, trying to knock Malfoy from his broom, as always.
But the Snitch had backtracked, skimming over Draco’s head, and Harry had caught the movement even as Malfoy tried to halt. Harry had reached while Draco had paused, jerking upward. Harry’s hand had caught nothing but a handful of platinum hair as the Snitch brushed his fingertips and was gone.
Malfoy had howled like the witch in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy had pitched the water. For a moment, Harry had thought the Slytherin to be mortally wounded, until the mad rage in Malfoy’s eyes had warned him that Draco was out for blood. Apparently, Malfoy hair was sacred.
Snitch forgotten, Harry had spun on his broom and fled with the murderous Slytherin hot on the tail of his Firebolt. Luckily, the game had been called off by the timely arrival of mealtime, and Malfoy had been forced to end his pursuit. It wasn’t until Harry had dismounted from his broom that he noticed the fine hairs twined around his fingers. Four delicate, gossamer stands. Extract of Malfoy.
Harry had tucked the hairs away, carefully. It wasn’t until much later that he thought about the Polyjuice Potion. And concocted his plan.
He sat on the bed now, feeling nervous for no particular reason. He wasn’t really doing anything wrong, after all. It was just a bit… well, weird. Okay, more than weird, it was borderline obsessive. Harry scowled and defended himself. Although he realized defending himself to himself was nearly as weird as obsessing over… I’m not obsessing. I’m simply curious, he told himself sternly.
Carefully ignoring the reminder that curiosity killed the cat, he returned to the bed, unscrewed the cap on the silver flask, and pushed the long blond hair into the neck. He screwed the cap back on and shook it a bit. He glanced at his watch. Only 7:30. He had plenty of time before the Dursleys returned. Plenty of time and nothing better to do.
Simple curiosity, he reminded himself. He unscrewed the cap and drank. Immediately, the sensations overwhelmed him, forgotten since his second year: the taste (surprisingly good), the nausea (not-surprisingly bad), the frightening impression of his flesh melting… Harry doubled over onto the bed and willed the effects to pass. They died away quickly, and he sat up with a gasp of relief. Already he felt different.
Malfoy was a bit taller and a bit slimmer. Harry’s clothing felt looser… and his sleeves were slightly too short. He held out his hands and examined them. The skin was pale and fine, and the fingers were amazing. Harry had never appreciated that hands could be beautiful, but Malfoy’s were perfection. Each finger looked like a work of art. They were long and slender, and completely unmarred. It was nearly unbelievable. Harry had a hard callus on each thumb from gripping his broom. Draco flew as much as Harry, and yet he had only small, somewhat shiny spots in the same places. Harry sneered. No doubt the Slytherin had regular manicures to buff out any unsightly imperfections such as broom calluses.
Forgetting the hands, Harry suddenly hurried to the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door. He gasped at the sight of himself tall, blond, and regal. The grey eyes blinked at him and he stared in wonder. Something was not quite right… Ah, yes. He glared at himself, and lifted one corner of his mouth in an arrogant sneer. Exactly right! He really was Malfoy! Harry laughed in delight and the sight took his breath away. The silver eyes widened in surprise, and Harry turned the lips up into a smile again. Holy fucking hell, Malfoy was stunning when he smiled. Literally stunning. How could he not have noticed it before?
Oh yes, likely the fact that Draco Malfoy had never once smiled in Harry Potter’s presence. Smirked, yes. Sneered, absolutely. Snarled, often. But a genuine, pleasant, happy smile? Never.
Harry did it again, and felt his heart nearly flip over. He tossed his head slightly and marveled at the way the soft blond hair lifted, and then fell back to his head without a single hair out of place. It was miraculous. The lucky Slytherin bastard did not have to spend hours a day yanking at his hair, trying to flatten it into some semblance of order.
Harry licked his lips and then stared, shocked at the unexpected sensuality of the gesture. He did it again, and felt a lurch in his groin. Bloody hell, he was getting turned on by Draco Malfoy. Sort of. He gave himself a come-hither look and began to unbutton his shirt. His response was sudden and overwhelming—his cock was instantly hard. It occurred to him that the clothing was all wrong. Malfoy would never wear a blue button-up shirt patterned with white checks. It looked casual and comfortable on Harry—on Draco, it looked like a prince masquerading as a peasant.
Harry quickly took off the shirt and threw it on the bed. He had to admit, however, that Malfoy looked stunning in blue jeans. Harry unzipped them a bit and posed, feeling like a model for men’s cologne. The sight made him weak in the knees and he stepped back to sit on the edge of the bed for a moment. The jeans were too tight over his erection, so he removed them. Without thinking, he removed his briefs, too, wondering what Malfoy wore underneath. Probably something silk.
He stood before the mirror again and stepped closer. Wow. Malfoy was really incredibly gorgeous. Harry raised the perfect hands and slid them slowly over his chest, brushing the nipples. He gasped at the sensation. Harry’s nipples were not particularly sensitive, but Draco’s… god, someone’s mouth on them would likely send Malfoy straight to orgasm. Harry tweaked them experimentally and felt the jolt straight in his cock. He shivered and slid his new hands downward, over the ribs and flat abdomen. He looked down to examine the hard cock, appreciating the differences between Draco’s and his. The length was nearly the same, as far as he could tell, but Malfoy’s was slightly slimmer. It jutted from a mass of pale curls—definitely a natural blond, Harry thought with a giggle.
He wanted to touch it, but paused, wanting to prolong the game. He felt like he finally had Malfoy under his control, and he wanted to enjoy it as much as possible. He dragged the chair away from the desk and stood it before the mirror. Harry sat in the chair and tried to think back. How did Malfoy usually sit? There was something extremely unique about it. Harry pushed his arse forward until it was close to the front of the chair, and leaned back in a semi-slouching pose. He lifted one leg and crossed the ankle over his knee. Nearly perfect. He rested his hands casually on the chair arms and tipped his head slightly. A sneering smile curved the lips. Oh yeah, that was it. Casual, aristocratic grace.
“What do you want, Potter?” he asked, mimicking Draco. It took several tries to get it right, with that patrician inflection, and the harsh way Malfoy spat Harry’s name.
“I want you to wank, Malfoy, while I watch,” he answered in his own voice. He uncrossed his leg and reached down to—finally—grab the throbbing shaft. It was arousing beyond belief—Malfoy’s hand touching Harry’s cock, or Harry touching Malfoy’s, or something to that effect. Harry stroked, and watched the beautiful body in the mirror. The pale head tipped back and stared into the mirror through half-lidded grey eyes. The lips parted to reveal the edge of perfect teeth, and Harry suddenly wished he could kiss that mouth.
“You’re incredibly fucking hot, Malfoy,” Harry muttered.
“Thank you, Potter,” the blond whispered in the mirror and grinned with Harry. The smile was the last thrill Harry could take, and he felt blessed release soar through him as the thick liquid sprayed over his tight abdomen. He sagged in the chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment. The most erotic experience of his life had been with Draco Malfoy. He laughed aloud at the thought of what Malfoy would have said about that.
ooOoo
Draco lay on his bed reading about a Dark Arts spell that should have been interesting, but wasn’t. Not interesting enough to keep Draco’s attention, at any rate. He had read the same paragraph four times, and his memory still wasn’t retaining it. He wondered if other people were as bored during the summer. He missed Hogwarts. There was always something to do; there were always people to torment. Like Potter.
Draco had barely thought the name when a flash of movement drew his attention to the window. It was open to catch the breeze—beastly hot it had been, lately. His brows drew up in surprise. A white owl. Potter’s owl, if Draco wasn’t mistaken.
A parcel was attached to its leg. Draco rose and walked over to retrieve the package. He kept a wary eye on the bird, which seemed to be looking at him quite balefully. The bloody thing had better not peck him, or Draco would wring its neck and send it back to Potter in a box. Draco removed the parcel and stepped back. The owl did not wait around for a treat, but launched itself into the air and away.
“Guess he did not need a reply,” Draco muttered and looked at the brown package. He set it on the desk and walked as far from it as possible while remaining in the same room. It was likely set to explode.
Draco paced. Why the hell would Potter send him anything? Anything non-lethal, at any rate. He sighed and stalked over to rip open the package. Inside were a silver flask and a note. Draco almost laughed. If Potter expected him to drink anything he’d sent, the Gryffindor was stupider than Draco thought.
He opened the note.
M~ I’ve been playing a game and felt a bit guilty having all the fun at your expense. That Gryffindor nobility you’re always going on about, I expect. I thought you might want to join in. Use in private. ~P
The words in private had been underlined three times. Draco was thoroughly puzzled. What game? At Draco’s expense? Perhaps Potter had finally parted ways with sanity. It was bound to happen sooner or later, being targeted by an evil, undead wizard and all. Draco unscrewed the cap and took a tentative sniff. His brows rose in astonishment. Polyjuice Potion. What the hell?
Draco looked at the note again. Attached to the bottom of the note with a Sticking Charm was a single, black hair. Draco’s eyes went from the potion to the hair while his mind struggled to follow Potter’s logic. A game. At your expense. It came to him suddenly, and he backed up to sit on the edge of his bed.
Bloody hell, Potter had been using Polyjuice to turn into Draco! And then what? Traipsing around Diagon Alley? No… from all accounts, Potter was a virtual prisoner during the summer. He was barely allowed to visit the Weasley’s without supervision. Draco’s eyes narrowed. It had to be a trick. The bloody Gryffindor wanted Draco to pretend to be Harry, hoping his father or one of the other Death Eaters would stumble on him and murder him accidentally, thinking him to be Potter. The words in private seemed to negate that idea, but Draco dismissed it.
Having satisfactorily established a motive, Draco firmly set the potion aside and tucked the note with the hair into the bottom of his school trunk. He would take both back to Hogwarts in the fall and put them to good use. It would be quite a prank to pretend to be Potter at school. Draco had more than a month to calculate a suitable use for it.
He put out the light and went to bed.
At just past two o’clock in the morning, Draco sat bolt upright in bed. In the midst of a sweat-soaked dream, it had occurred to him exactly what Potter might have been doing while masquerading as Draco. The thought was mind-boggling.
“No,” he muttered. “It can’t be. The Gryffindor Virgin would never… especially not with my body…” But at that hour of the morning, it not only seemed plausible, it was the only explanation. The idea should have nauseated Draco, but he was strangely turned on by the thought of Potter’s hands sliding over his body… in a manner of speaking.
Draco flung the blankets aside, lit a candle with a spell, and hurried to his trunk. He retrieved the hair carefully and inserted it into the Polyjuice Potion, hoping it wasn’t some sort of devious trick. Only the fact that Potter had never cooked up a devious trick in his life allowed Draco to lift the potion to his lips and swallow.
The effects were unpleasant, but no worse than expected, and Draco was fascinated when his flesh began to change, thickening and darkening in most areas, and shrinking and tightening in others. He walked to the nearest full-length mirror and gaped at himself.
Harry Potter stared back at him, looking quite odd without the spectacles. Draco raised a hand and combed the thick hair from his forehead. The black locks were surprisingly soft for all that they were unruly. The scar was clearly visible. Draco touched it with a finger, and then slid his fingers over the smooth face, feeling the chiseled cheekbones, the strong jaw, and the soft lips.
Potter looked silly in Draco’s black silk pyjamas. The sleeves were too long. And a bit too tight in the shoulders. Draco unbuttoned the shirt and took it off. Potter had quite a nice chest, and a perfect, Quidditch-honed abdomen. The idiot certainly had no sense of self-preservation, however. He had numerous scratches and scars, including a long, ugly-looking scar on his right arm. Draco wondered how he had gotten that one.
Draco touched both hands to his face again, and drew them downward, over Harry’s neck and torso, following the downy soft line of hair to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, which were suddenly in the way. Draco tugged them off immediately.
His brows rose again at the sight of a nude Harry Potter. He had vainly hoped that Potter would be under-endowed, but supposed the Gryffindor would never have sent the potion if that were the case. Potter was just as long as Draco, and perhaps a bit thicker. The curls were as dense as those on his head, and Draco tentatively pushed his fingertips into the dark hair. He inhaled sharply as he slid his fingers over the hardening shaft, surprised at the odd sensation that he was touching himself, and Potter as well.
He stroked down the velvety shaft to the testicles, inhaling sharply. Wow, Potter had sensitive balls. Just fondling them sent little thrills of delight dancing through Draco’s body. He played with them for awhile, until he felt remarkably close to coming, and backed off. Draco moved to the bed and spelled the dark wooden canopy into a mirror before brightening the light. He splayed Potter’s legs and stroked the turgid cock lazily with one hand.
Draco laughed. “Look what I’m doing with your fingers, Potter. I’m going to fuck you with your own hands.”
With that, Draco cast a lubricating spell and pushed one of Harry Potter’s fingers into Harry Potter’s arsehole, but it was Draco Malfoy that arched with shuddering surprise at the incredibly erotic sight. Harry Potter was indescribably hot.
“Fuck me, Draco,” he whispered, and Draco obliged, watching every pant and thrash until Harry Potter’s body came on Draco’s bed.
The damned Gryffindor had managed to come up with a good idea, for once.
ooOoo
The summer passed relatively uneventfully for Harry, but for his rare uses of Polyjuice whenever the opportunity allowed. He felt extraordinarily nervous for sending the potion to Malfoy, and was not certain how it had been received. Most likely, he would be hexed into oblivion, punched into a bloody pulp, or set upon by massive, goonlike minions the instant he boarded the Hogwarts Express.
Harry felt ill for a moment, standing with the Weasley’s and waiting to board the train. Molly Weasley patted his arm.
“Are you all right, Harry, dear?” she asked.
Harry nodded, and then spotted a flash of silver hair. His heart nearly seized up into his throat, until he noticed Malfoy had his back to Harry.
“Er… you guys get on without me. I want to say hello to Neville for a moment,” Harry said. “Save me a seat.”
Harry did not wait for acknowledgment from Ron and Hermione, but bolted in the opposite direction of Malfoy, losing himself in the sea of students boarding the train.
Harry was one of the final few to enter the train. He figured Malfoy and Company would have commandeered a compartment by now, so he made his way down the corridor, seeking the last car. He was nearly there when a door opened and he came face to face with his blond nemesis.
The door shut behind Draco, leaving them alone in the corridor, staring at each other with identical expressions of speechless shock. Harry’s eyes moved over Malfoy’s face. He had memorized every plane of it, every contour. He had seen those lips gasping with passion and the silver eyes liquid with desire. He knew the platinum hair was softer than cornsilk. He knew every inch of the body beneath the prim school robes and the Prefect’s badge.
A thundering herd of younger students suddenly galloped down the corridor, causing Harry to leap aside or be trampled. He found himself roughly jostled straight into Malfoy. Oh god… Their eyes were still locked, and Malfoy had not yet hexed him, or even punched him in the face. Doors banged behind the students and all was silent again.
Unable to stop himself, Harry slid a hand into Malfoy’s robes, knowing he could be murdered at any moment, but simply not caring. He quested quickly until he found one of Malfoy’s nipples, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Malfoy’s head snapped back and hit the corridor wall with a bang. Harry brazenly raised his other hand and slipped it into the soft hair to massage the spot Malfoy had just bruised.
“Potter,” said Malfoy, sounding almost amazed, and then his lips crushed down on Harry’s. Those hands, oh god, those incredible, beautiful hands, were all over Harry, kneading over back, waist, arse, thighs, and Malfoy’s lips… well, kissing him was a thousand times better than Harry had imagined during his heated groping of Malfoy’s body in the mirror. Harry was lost, so lost.
“Have… Prefect meeting,” Malfoy groaned, lapping and biting at Harry’s neck while Harry tried to remove Malfoy’s earlobe through determined suction. His hands were tangled in Malfoy’s angelic hair.
“Meet. After… Meet me after?” Harry gasped.
“Baggage car?” Malfoy murmured.
“Fuck, yes.”
“You should have been in Slytherin, you bastard,” Malfoy said raggedly and pushed Harry away.
“I know.” His eyes caressed the slim form as Malfoy attempted to straighten his garments with shaking hands. The blond tried to sneer, but could not quite manage it. Harry grinned. Malfoy shut his eyes, groaned, and turned away. He strode down the train car without looking back.
Harry leaned against the wall, slightly dazed. It was going to be an interesting year.

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