Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Summary: In which Harry loses a bet and has to pose for Witch Weekly. Wearing lacy underthings.
Note: Written for Short Precarious Anecdote Month. Also for sheccid187's birthday, for the prompt of possessive!Draco/clueless!Harry. Happy birthday! :D
"And it's in! It's in the Seeker's hand! What a game! Belarus carries the day, and there go our hopes of hosting the World Cup this year, Penelope."
Loud groans mingled with a few cheers filled the Leaky Cauldron and drowned out the rest of the broadcast. Harry's eye began to twitch. England had just lost the qualifier. Unless someone had messed with the WWN transmission. Yeah. That bore looking into. Definitely.
Ginny gave him an absolutely shit-eating grin. "Looks like you lose. You'll have to pay up now, won't you, Harry?"
"Come on," Harry pleaded. "I'll do anything else. Anything!"
"No deal," she said, downing a Firewhisky amid everyone else's -- exceedingly cruel, Harry thought -- laughter.
Note to self: do not make highly public bets with Ginny. Or anyone. About anything.
Harry took a deep breath, entered the Witch Weekly publication office in Edinburgh and found himself in a stifling, musty little room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases along the walls. The centrepiece was a massive oak desk with EDITOR embossed in gold on its side. Behind it sat a tiny witch with rainbow-coloured hair so frizzy it looked like dandelion fluff.
Harry coughed. "I'm here for the, uh."
"Ah, Mr Potter!" She bared her teeth -- some of which were missing -- in a smile Harry was sure could be described as predatory. "Our artist has been expecting you, go ahead, it's just down the hall to your left."
Artist. This just gets better and better. What are they going to do, paint me in oil on canvas in addition to the damned photographs?
He followed her directions and entered a much larger room -- at the front, near the door, it was dark, almost gloomy, but the very back of the room had a brightly lit area with white walls, floors, and a sofa to match. That must be where they take the pictures. The area in front of the door held several dressing tables with large rectangular mirrors. Things were piled on and around the tables -- make-up brushes, curlers, ribbons, corsets, combs, and all manner of scary-looking magical devices Harry assumed were used in preparing for a photoshoot.
"Are you going to stand there all day?" asked a querulous voice, and Harry realised that Draco Malfoy was in front of him, inspecting Harry's face as though it were a fly in his soup.
"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.
"Working, obviously, what does it look like I'm doing?"
"You're the artist?"
"Photography artist. There's a difference. Take off your clothes so I can have a look."
"Oh, did you expect to just put on some frilly knickers? No, the photos have to be perfect; we can't edit them after the fact, you know."
"We'll need to make sure your skin tone is even, get rid of any unsightly body hair, stuff like that."
"Yes, Potter, body hair. Haven't you got any?"
Harry's mouth worked helplessly. No one had said anything about body hair.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Just go behind that and get your clothes off, I haven't got all day." He pointed to a set of curtains right by the door.
"Right," Harry said, ducking through the curtains into a cheerful little dressing room with lots of hooks on the walls. He doffed his robes and hung them up.
He was about to reemerge when Malfoy called, "Everything, Potter."
Sighing, Harry removed his pants and socks. At least the photographer was Malfoy, not a woman. He mentally Witch Weekly points for sensitivity as he inched out from between the curtains.
Malfoy's wand was out; he tapped it against his cheek twice, directing Harry to stand in a triangular shape in the centre of the darker part of the room. Then he waved his wand, and bright light flooded everything, making Harry feel like he was about to be interrogated.
Malfoy walked around him in circles a few times, muttering to himself. "Spread your legs apart a bit. Good. Now, lift your arms. No tattoos, no major scars, good. What's this discolouration here?" Malfoy's wand pressed against a spot on Harry's mid-back.
"I dunno?" Harry said. Malfoy's dispassionate gaze was making him feel like a piece of furniture.
Malfoy murmured a spell, and the patch of skin on Harry's back flared in sudden irritation, which instantly vanished. "There, all gone. I don't need to do anything else below your neck, but those circles under your eyes have got to go. Hold still."
A brush laden with powder flew to Harry's face. By the time he was done coughing and sputtering, Malfoy was crouched in front of him, glaring at his crotch. "Don't you ever trim this thing? It looks like a forest."
Harry blushed. Which was really not the reaction he expected to have to Draco bloody Malfoy criticising his crotch-deforestation habits, so he covered it up with a shrug. "No one but you seems to mind," he said coolly.
"They're just too nice to say anything," Malfoy said matter-of-factly. He lifted Harry's cock with two fingers and stuck his wand right up against Harry's scrotum, which instantly felt... cooler.
"What are you--?"
"Removing excess body hair," Malfoy said. "I told you to hold still."
The tip of his wand painlessly seared off much of the hair at the base of Harry's cock, cropped the upper part of Harry's pubic thatch all the way down to his groin, then did something to thicken and lengthen the line of hairs that trailed down from Harry's belly.
He was holding Harry's cock the entire time, and though he was just pinching it up by the foreskin, it was sort of making Harry a bit hot under his nonexistent collar. Harry was about to try and squirm away when Malfoy let his cock drop and stood to remove the three or so hairs growing on Harry's chest. He then peered closely at each nipple and defuzzed those too.
"Why my nipples?" Harry squeaked.
Malfoy grabbed his chin, lifted it up, inspected Harry's cheeks and neck. "They said not to make you wear a bra." He sounded like a father reading his morning newspaper while half-heartedly fielding an inquisitive child's questions.
"Oh no, and here I was looking forward to wearing a bra," Harry said dryly.
"I'm not interested in your strange fetishes, Potter," Malfoy said, evidently deeming Harry's morning shave above reproach and stepping behind him. "Bend over."
Malfoy pushed his upper body down unceremoniously and slid the tip of his wand along Harry's arse crack. Harry suppressed a shiver. That was new.
"Is this really necessary?" Harry complained as he straightened up. "I feel like a freshly plucked chicken."
"Good, maybe next time you'll think twice about expecting your girlfriend to remove her body hair." Malfoy crouched down by Harry's legs and started Vanishing the hair off his calves.
"I haven't got a girlfriend," Harry said sullenly.
Malfoy stood up again. "Oh? Lift," he commanded, picking up Harry's right arm and removing all the hair from his armpit. "I thought you and Ginny Weasley were an item."
"We broke up."
Malfoy lifted Harry's left arm. "Lift." Zap. "Good."
"Good that we broke up?"
"What? Oh, no, I was commenting on your freshly plucked armpit. All right, let me see which outfits you're supposed to be wearing in the photos."
"Do I get a choice?"
There were four outfits. The first was a simple pair of white cotton boy shorts -- they were a little tighter down his hips than Harry was used to, but it wasn't bad. He started to feel a bit more cheerful. He did have to stick his cock sideways so it wouldn't peek out at the top due to the pants' low cut, but he was decently covered, at least. Malfoy had him stand with his back to the camera, facing the white sofa in the photo room, with his hands on his hips and his legs slightly wider than his hips.
The second outfit dashed Harry's hopes for a prank gone kinder: a scarlet satin teddy with floral lace detail across the torso and an intricate meshwork pattern at the back. He stepped into the leg-holes, as instructed, and then laboriously pulled it up over his legs and manoeuvred his arms through the string-like straps at the top. Malfoy came over and made one of the straps dangle off his shoulder.
"Sit on the sofa," he said. "No, not like that, you idiot, sideways, with your knees bent. Stretch your right leg out, put the foot on the sofa arm. Lean back on your elbows. Look this way. Perfect! Now smile."
Harry gave him his best official-photo smile, and Malfoy groaned. "Not like that! God, I hate working with amateurs. A sexy smile, go on."
"What the fuck's a sexy smile?" Harry demanded, scowling.
"Ooh, that's even better!" Malfoy exclaimed. "Red and anger go well together, stay still now, blink once... twice -- excellent. Now face the other way and let's do that again, sweetheart."
Sweetheart? Sweetheart? It was the oddest feeling. He wasn't Harry Potter to Malfoy, not any more -- he was just a tool of the trade, a puppet to push and prod and drown in sweet platitudes to keep up its good humour. Is this what models feel like -- like sentient dolls?
The third outfit was a black silk thong that was basically just a triangle of fabric held together by spider-thin straps, plus a matching camisole that hung just above Harry's belly button. Harry's cock kept falling out of the triangle, ruining shot after shot, until Malfoy came over to bind it in place with invisible threads wound around Harry's hips, snapped the thong triangle back over it, and pinched Harry's thigh for good measure.
Being manhandled in this way was not what Harry had signed up for, but he had an idea that if he uttered even a word of complaint, Malfoy would be genuinely surprised, like a baker whose dough suddenly starts shouting obscenities as it slides into the oven.
"Hook your thumbs in the sides of the thong," Malfoy instructed. "Beautiful! Now, tilt your pelvis up and look away from the camera. Pretend you see a, uh, some heinous criminal, I guess, since you're an Auror and all."
"What happened to smiling?" Harry asked, doing his best to visualise Death Eaters on the horizon.
"Doesn't suit you," Malfoy said, snapping away. "You're more of a homme fatal type. It's the eyebrows."
"What's wrong with my eyebrows?" Harry asked, frowning.
"Perfection!" Malfoy crowed. "Stay still, blink once -- and done. Last outfit change."
The final ensemble was a black suspender belt with matching stockings and a dark green chemise that reached down to mid-thigh, hiding Harry's bits from view. The suspender clips were fashioned to look like dragonflies with translucent pale-green wings and sparkling emerald eyes.
When Harry was finished fastening the last one -- the damned things were bloody complicated -- he straightened up to find Malfoy staring at him as though seeing him for the first time.
"What?" Harry asked.
Malfoy dropped his gaze and began to fuss with the camera. "Nothing, it just occurred to me suddenly that you're Harry Potter. Would you believe I had almost forgotten?"
"Yes, I noticed that you'd forgotten a while ago," Harry said. His emotions were complicated. He didn't like being handled like a nameless circus animal, but in a way it had been a relief from being handled like a famous circus animal. In that way, Malfoy's "sweetheart"s and "beautiful"s had made him feel almost like being with one of his friends.
"Well, it's a good thing we're almost done, then," Draco said. "It's hard for me to work with people I like, let alone people I don't like."
"I don't like you either," Harry shot back.
"That's a good face. Keep that face. Now turn around and look over your shoulder at me."
Once Harry was back in his robes, feeling thoroughly humiliated as he replayed the poses he'd been striking in front of Malfoy of all people, he couldn't wait to get out, but Malfoy grabbed his sleeve as he muttered a perfunctory farewell.
"Since you were such a good sport and didn't end up having a tantrum, I'll let you vet the photos before I take them to the editor. Meet me at the Three Broomsticks at eight."
"Wow," Harry said, for the second time, gazing at the photographs fanned out before him. They were in a booth away from prying eyes, but he still shielded them with a strategically placed elbow, just in case. Malfoy was really an artist. Throughout the shoot, Harry had felt like an extremely awkward baboon, but if he hadn't known it was him in the photos, he would have thought he was looking at an actual male model. "These are -- wow."
"I'm glad you approve," Malfoy said, leaning back against the wooden bench. "So? Can I submit all of these to Witch Weekly?"
"Not the ones with the thong," Harry said quickly. "The others are fine." He was still extremely suspicious of Malfoy's motives, but a gift horse was a gift horse after all. "What'll happen after you turn them in?"
"They'll run in next week's edition, shipping out Wednesday. Then you can expect a surfeit of owls, offers of firstborn children and the like."
"Ugh," Harry said.
But next Wednesday came and went and there were no offers of firstborn children. In fact, none of Harry's friends commented on the issue. Was I just being vain, thinking they made me look gorgeous?
Then Ginny cornered him at the pub after work one night. "Has Witch Weekly sent you a complimentary copy of this week's edition?" she asked, twirling a strand of fiery hair between her fingertips.
"Yeah, I've already binned it," Harry said, quite honestly. Artistic photography or not, he did not want that lying around his house where anyone could look at it.
"That's a shame," Ginny said. "No one else I know seems to have a copy! It sold out within an hour of hitting the shelves, can you believe it?"
"An hour? Really?" Harry sat up a little straighter. "Well, I guess that's too bad for you, isn't it? I held up my end of the bargain, so we're square."
"Oh, I am sure we'll find it," Ginny returned, waving conspiratorially to Hermione and Luna at a nearby table.
They chatted for a bit longer, then Ginny rejoined the women, and Harry went back to sitting with Ron in companionable silence and wondering why the hell he couldn't stop thinking about Malfoy poking and prodding him, commanding him to turn this way and that, touching him everywhere...
"Ron," he muttered after a while of this, as the squirming in his belly grew difficult to ignore. "Do you think it's possible to be gay and not know it?"
"Sure," Ron said. "Mum's cousin Wexford had four kids with his wife before realising-- whoa, Harry, are you talking about yourself?"
"Nah," Harry said, staring straight ahead. "Asking for a friend."
He hadn't thought he'd see Malfoy again so soon, but there he was, on Harry's doorstep, his white-blond hair slicked back and his robes a sombre grey.
"Would you like to come in?" Harry asked, wondering if maybe Malfoy wanted to talk in private. Maybe he was even hoping Malfoy wanted to talk in private. What the hell was wrong with him?
"No, I'd better not," Malfoy said. "It's just, Witch Weekly wants to run a reprint of the photos I took of you. I'm not obligated to agree, and I thought I'd check if it was okay with you."
"Not at all," Harry said. "I mean, it's not at all okay with me. Somehow, none of my friends managed to get their hands on that issue and I want to keep it that way."
"All right," Malfoy said. "I'll tell them no, then. See you, Potter."
"Wait!" Harry said, reaching out to stop him. "I, uh. Thanks, Malfoy. I'm not sure why you're doing this, though."
Malfoy turned back around and brushed Harry's hand away from his shoulder. "What do you mean, why am I doing it? I'm a professional. This is part of my work."
"Yeah, but we've never been friends. You don't like me. What's stopping you from ignoring my wishes and letting them reprint, just to annoy me?"
"Absolutely nothing is stopping me from ignoring your wishes, Potter," Malfoy said with a slight smile. "As for not liking you, that's a bit of an exaggeration. It's been twenty years since we became enemies, thirteen since the end of the war. If you still hold a grudge, that's certainly your business; all of my hatchets from those days have been in the ground for a long time."
"I-- mine too," Harry said. In truth, he hadn't even thought of Malfoy in years, maybe even a decade. If love faded over time, as his and Ginny's had, then so did resentment and hatred, it seemed. In the end, it had been the Malfoys who had tipped the balance in Harry's favour; Narcissa could have seen him dead at Voldemort's hands but had chosen to protect him instead.
"Good. I'm glad to hear it. Good-bye, Potter. If you start a career in modelling, maybe we'll see each other again." He walked away, and Harry felt like -- well, he felt like a teenager whose crush had just turned him down. Which really wasn't so far from the truth, was it?
"How about we have a few drinks before that happens?" he yelled, feeling ridiculous and terrified that Malfoy would ignore him.
Malfoy didn't. He turned around, and the wind swung his grey robes back, slicking them just like his hair. "Potter, are you saying you'd like to be friends?"
"I-- maybe? Something like that? Is that bad?"
Malfoy laughed. "I'll send you the address of my Edinburgh flat," he called, continuing to walk away. "I work out of it, so I'm usually home. Stop by any time; I've got loads of wine that just sits there unopened."
Harry, who had been spacing out over the way Draco's Adam's apple moved when he swallowed, shook his head. "Yes? Sorry, I was thinking about, uh, work."
"I said who do you think is going to win the qualifier finals this year, England or Germany?"
"Ginny's playing for England; there's no way they can lose."
"Germany's got Reich, though," Draco argued. "She's faster than Weasley."
"Yeah, but Reich's all they've got," Harry said. "Their other Chasers are shit."
Draco cocked an eyebrow at him. "So shit they made it to the final?"
"Shit compared to our team, obviously. Anyway, I shouldn't even speculate on Quidditch," Harry said. "Last time I bet on the qualifiers, I ended up posing practically naked in Witch Weekly.
A year had passed since their meeting; a reluctant friendship had turned into a sort of real one. Harry's crush on Draco had built into full-blown infatuation, but of course Draco would never know that.
"Do you regret it that much, meeting me again?" Draco asked, giving him a sideways look. "Oh, there's something on your face." He reached out and slid his thumb across Harry's cheek, sending Harry's heartbeat into overdrive. He was one of those touchy-feely people, Harry had learned; always picking lint off your robes or wiping smudges off your cheeks or removing food stuck to your chin and eating it absentmindedly. Leaning up against you to look at the newspaper and staying that way, as if forgetting that you were there. Insisting on washing your back when you went to the newly popular Turkish baths together.
That all these things made Harry giddy, confused, and occasionally erect was Harry's own problem; Draco never gave him a reason to expect anything except friendship.
"I don't regret that," he said. "I regret that somewhere out there there are photos of me striking sexy poses in lingerie. I've got to use the bathroom."
He didn't, in fact, but thinking about those outfits and the posing always made him think beyond the posing, to his many and varied fantasies of what it might have been like if he'd gone into that shoot with these feelings, and if Draco returned them. Basically, splashing icy water into his face was a regular part of Harry Potter's daily routine.
He opened the bathroom door and walked inside to realise that he wasn't in the bathroom -- it was Draco's dark room, the one he always kept locked because it was so close to the bathroom. He was just about to back out and inform Draco of his lapse when he saw the mannequin.
The mannequin wore a black suspender belt with matching stockings and a dark green chemise that reached down to mid-thigh. The suspender clips were fashioned to look like dragonflies with translucent pale-green wings and emerald eyes that sparkled in the semi-darkness of the room.
Harry remembered it well; he'd had many extremely graphic fantasies involving its removal. Underneath the mannequin lay a massive pile of glossy magazines; there were so many they covered nearly half the room; the mannequin was half-buried in them. All of them featured Harry, glaring off the cover, dressed in a pair of white boy-shorts.
Oh. Oh. So that's where they disappeared. But why would Draco--?
All the touching. There had been nothing innocent about it, had there? All this time, Draco had -- oh.
Harry stuck his head around the door to see if Draco was still in the sitting room.
"What took you so long?" Draco asked. "Why's your face so-- oh my God."
Harry had stepped into the room in the meantime. He was dressed in the green chemise number, feeling mortified and elated at the same time. The green fabric rose atop his massive hard-on, and he knew he was taking a huge chance -- perhaps he'd misread the situation, perhaps Draco had kept the outfit as a memento, and had bought all the magazines out of courtesy, having seen how uncomfortable the whole photoshoot incident had made Harry.
Draco's face turned pink; he hid it in his hands. "Shit, Harry. Don't do this to me."
"I, um, Draco, it's okay," Harry said, stepping over to the sofa. He put a hand on one of Draco's forearms. "I-- I feel the same way, so, you know."
Draco looked at him. "Since when?"
"Since the day I last wore this," Harry said. "It just took me a few months to figure it out."
Draco ran his hands up Harry's legs, over the suspenders, squeezed his hips.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you in this," he breathed. "The way it clings to you. Knowing I can just lift the front and find... your... cock." He did just that, not with the disinterested touch of an artist that Harry remembered but delicate, slow, purposeful. It felt so good that Harry moaned, rocking forward into Draco's touch. Draco pressed his face against the gauzy chemise bunched at Harry's groin and kissed blindly through the fabric, then drew Harry's cock into his mouth without warning or preamble. Harry came so violently his knees stopped working; he would have collapsed but Draco held him up, not letting him out of his mouth until Harry started to get soft again.
Then he eased Harry down to the floor and kissed him, which struck Harry as funny -- usually people started with kissing and then went on to blowjobs, but then again, he and Draco had started out as enemies. He couldn't actually laugh, though; Draco's kisses were too intense.
"I want you to fuck me," Draco whispered against Harry's cheek when they pulled apart to breathe.
"What a coincidence," Harry mumbled, stroking Draco's hair with both hands. It was exactly as soft as Harry had imagined. "You'll have to get out of those clothes, though."
"And you'll have to get out of yours." Draco loosened the collar of his robes and pushed the sofa back so he could stand up.
"Oh?" Harry asked, sitting back to start undoing the dragonfly clips. "I thought you liked me in this."
"I like you better naked. This was just what made me figure that out." Draco pulled his robes off over his head, and Harry stared at the bulge in his pants for a good thirty seconds before reaching up to rub him through the fabric.
"Don't encourage it," Draco said, batting his hand away. "I'd like to last a little longer than you did just now."
Harry pushed a stocking down his leg. "Now I'm going to make sure that doesn't happen."
Draco snorted, sitting back down to remove his pants. "I'm shaking in my shoes."
"You're not wearing shoes." The second stocking joined the first atop the sofa arm.
"Neither are you," Draco said, pulling the chemise off Harry.
"What time is it?" Harry asked. In all the hours he had spent in this room, drinking wine with Draco, he had never actually seen its ceiling. He hadn't been missing much.
"Time to take a shower," Draco said. "Find some food. Then--"
"You sound like we're done here." Harry turned to him, propping his head up on his elbow.
"Oh?" Draco turned to look at him as well. "We aren't?"
"Do you want to be?"
Draco looked aside. "If we do this too often you'll get sick of it."
"Let's make a bet. If England wins--"
Harry kissed him. "Not a chance."