Author: John Sexton
Genre: Harry Potter Slash
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Chapter Three ... Harry on the Run

It didn't take Harry long to reach the heart of London. The sensation of flying into the city along the River Thames brought back the stark reality of last week's horrible events.

The worst aspect of his plan ... if you could call it a plan ... was that it was taking him back to the scene of the crime, the Ministry of Magic.
However, Harry had rationalised that this was his one and only hope.

It was a crazy plan, but Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was infamous ... one might even say notorious ... for his foolhardiness, stumbling blindly from one catastrophe to another, year after year. Besides, he had already decided that he had no other choice.

When Harry was finally on the ground, he was standing near the same overturned skip in front of the battered telephone box. He stood stark still, faltering with the enormity of the risk he was about to take, and shaking with the sudden surge of foul memories that flooded his mind. He felt sick to his stomach. This was insane! But there was no other option, and time was surely against him.

Taking a deep breath that went some way towards calming him, Harry braced himself, before he had time to second guess his own sanity. He stepped into the old red phone box, and dialled six-two-four-four-two.

Harry glanced at his watch; it was quarter-past ten. Then, as the telephone dial whirred back into place, the cool female voice sounded inside the box.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Draco Malfoy," Harry replied, having decided on this tactic while he was flying down the river, "here to see the Deputy Head of the Department of Mysteries."

While Harry was pretty sure, from his two previous uses of the telephone box, that the female receptionist was simply some magically automated voice recording that never really paid any attention, other than to issue name tags, he was, nevertheless, quite worried that something would go horribly wrong.

"Maybe they've changed the security after last week's fiasco," he suddenly thought and panicked.

He had the urge to run; but, before he could open the door, a badge dropped into the metal returned coin chute.

"Thank you," said the cool female voice. "Please take your badge and attach it to the front of your robe.

"Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

"Thank you," Harry replied shakily, as he eyed the badge, which read: "Draco Malfoy, Department of Mysteries."

He slipped it into his jeans pocket, and adjusted his invisibility cloak to make sure that it hid his broom as well as himself.

Even though Harry knew what to expect, he still jumped with a nervous jolt as the floor of the telephone box shuddered and the pavement rose up past its glass windows. His stomach roiled as he sank down into the dark depths of the Ministry of Magic.

Just as he had last week, at the first sign of light hitting his feet, Harry bent his knees, held his wand at the ready and peered to see if anybody was in the Atrium.

His luck seemed be holding out; the area was empty and there were no fires burning under the mantelpieces.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening," said the woman's impassive voice.

The door of the telephone box burst open and Harry stepped nervously into the Atrium. The only sound was the steady rush of water from the golden fountain, where jets from the wands of the witch and wizard, the point of the centaur's arrow, the tip of the goblin's hat and the house-elf's ears gushed into the surrounding pool. Everything seemed to have been repaired and restored to normal working order.

Harry made his way as quickly and quietly as possible, down the hall and past the fountain, where a watchwitch sat at her desk ready to take Harry's wand. Fortunately she was busy, reading a copy of Witch Weekly, of all things, and she gave no indication of being even remotely aware of his presence.

Holding his breath, Harry crept past the witch, through the golden gates, then made his way to the lifts.

He was so nervous that he almost punched the nearest down button, but he restrained himself and pressed it, then waited anxiously as a lift clattered down the well and into sight.

Harry jerked his head back to the watchwitch when the golden grilles of the elevator slid apart with their usual clanking echo. To his great relief she was still engrossed in her magazine. That ironically made Harry more nervous; he couldn't help but worry that it was all going too smoothly, and the horrible events of last week were beginning to haunt him.

Harry stepped into the elevator carriage; he was about to press the number nine, when another elevator descended in the adjacent shaft and the grilles swung open with a loud bang. He hesitated when he saw a wizard step out of the lift, only to turn back towards the carriage.

"Sure you won't join us at the Cauldron, Alastor? You look like you could do with a belt or two of Firewhisky."

Harry didn't know the wizard, but he recognised his companion's name. He went rigid as he waited for the sound of the last voice he wanted to hear right now, the only wizard alive who could pose a serious threat to his plans: the one person, apart from Albus Dumbledore, who could see right through his invisibility cloak& ex-Auror,  Alastor Mad-Eye Moody.

"Nah,  fraid not, Douglas," came the familiar, gravelly reply.

Harry's heart plummeted.

"Still gotta check out the Department of Mysteries," Moody explained, "promised Kingsley it'd be done by t'day."

"Alright, goodnight to you then, Alastor."

Moody made no reply as the grills to his carriage slammed shut and the elevator rattled its way down to the floor below.

All of Harry's fears began to snowball as his heart thumped with renewed vigour. He had no choice: he had to get out of there as quickly and quietly as possible. Mad-Eye would certainly detect Harry's presence if he was stupid enough to follow the ex-Auror.

Harry listened closely, as the grilles of Moody's lift clunked open with their usual clatter. He held his breath, for what seemed an eternity, until he heard the thump, thump, thump of Moody's artificial leg down the ninth floor corridor and away from the elevators.

Harry hurriedly made his way out of the carriage, through the golden gates, past the watchwitch ... still engrossed in her reading ... and around the fountain.

He ran the last twenty feet across the polished marble floor to the nearest mantelpiece, grabbed a handful of Floo Powder from the receptacle on the wall, then jumped into the hearth.

"The Leaky Cauldron," he almost shouted, as he threw the powder down in desperation.


Disoriented from the sickening experience of Flooing, and coupled with his already traumatised state, Harry staggered into the bar of the wizard pub and leaned on his broom to regain his footing.

As soon as Harry was able, he raced out of the Cauldron and onto the streets of Muggle London. Another glance at his watch told Harry that it was nearly half past ten.

Still wrapped in his invisibility cloak, Harry slipped his broom between his legs and took off high into the night sky. Muggle London was his sole remaining option, and he would have to utilise the limited amount of time he still had before a good description of him was released to the Muggle media.

Time was heavily against Harry now, and he was really feeling like shit.

Harry headed back towards the Thames, above the busy cityscape, as he tried to take stock of his predicament. The more he thought about his plight, the worse he felt. The enormity of all that had happened over the past few hours began to catch up with him and he felt suddenly more nauseous.

The desperate young fugitive dropped like a stone into a small park on the north side of the river and immediately threw up. He was dry-retching, of course. He'd barely vomited anything the first time, back in the Dursley's yard, but he now felt infinitely worse than at any other stage of the night.

The park was fenced off and barely lit, so Harry was confident that he was unlikely to be disturbed there. Never-the-less, he stayed under his cloak, even while rinsing his mouth at a drinking fountain on the edge of the grassed area.

With the near-disaster of an encounter with Moody still weighing heavily on his mind, Harry realised, sadly, that his plan of stealing a Time-Turner from the Time Room, in the Department of Mysteries, had been totally naff. He rationalised that it was a futile plan that he hadn't really stopped to think through to its logical conclusion.

"So what's new!"

Harry cursed to himself as he slumped to the ground, then thumped the grass angrily with his fist.

The more he thought about it, the more stupid the idea became. It might have worked with Buckbeak and Sirius, but how he could use it to resolve his current dilemma became less clear the more he considered it. After all, no amount of time reversal could resolve his major problem: put quite simply& he was dangerously out of control.

Even if Harry retrieved a Time-Turner, he wasn't really sure how to use it. And even if he managed to go back to before the fiasco of last week, he still wasn't sure he'd be able to change anything without upsetting the whole time thingy& whatever!

He simply sighed dejectedly, with the sad reality that he was woefully out of his depth. He resolved that he could not risk an encounter with Moody, so the Time-Turner was out. A new, more realistic strategy was required, and quickly!

First, and most important, was his scar. It was a dead give-away to any wizard, and it would be the one distinguishing feature to sink him in the Muggle world, once the police released his description. A Muggle chemist might be able to help with that.

So& then& once I fix my scar, he thought, I need to do something with this hair, he ruffled the bird's nest bitterly, not much chance of that happening tonight, he huffed. Then again, he sat up and twisted his mouth into a wry grin, maybe the chemist might be the answer to that as well.

Both of Harry's highest priorities required the one thing he didn't have, Muggle money. He'd brought all of the wizard money that he'd had in his trunk, it hadn't been much.

He opened his money pouch and checked; twelve Galleons and five Sickles, just under sixty Quid's worth by his reckoning. So then, Muggle money became priority number one; scar, two; and hair, three...

Harry shook his head and laughed at his naivety. There he was, on the run in both worlds, for murder no less, with a damned invisibility cloak& and he was contemplating how to get enough money to pay for what he needed?

"Get real!" he chided himself.

"Okay," Harry decided, "forget the money, Muggle or otherwise, just get what you need and get the fuck out of there! Stuff paying for it, you're fighting for your life here, you tosser!"

His glasses were another issue, but he doubted he'd be able to do anything about that without professional help, and that would only compromise his anonymity unnecessarily.

So now he had his new priorities set.

"Scar, hair& "

Just then his stomach rumbled loudly&

"Scar, hair, food& "

Harry sighed, then yawned so hard that his jaw almost locked up.

"Okay! Scar, hair, food, SLEEP!"


Harry began to fly around London, looking for where shops might still be open at close to eleven o'clock.

By the time he'd drifted back over the Thames, Big Ben thundered its chimes, just as Harry glided past the Houses of Parliament. He soared up over the river and Westminster Bridge. From the higher altitude he saw an area off to his left, just past Trafalgar Square, that looked as if it was still active.

As Harry glided towards the lights, he circled Nelson's Column, and could not resist tweaking the old boy's nose, as he flew past for the second time.

He yelped when a pigeon, which must have been on Nelson's hat, was startled into a panicked flight. It flew straight at Harry's invisible face, nearly knocking him off his broom.

"Fuck!" he cried.

He drew a deep breath and struggled to bring his pulse back to somewhere below a hundred.

He laughed with nervous relief, then frowned, as he wondered why on earth he'd done something so childish. He was on the run for murder, for Merlin's sake, and he was acting like a two-year-old!

When Harry refocused on the bright area ahead, he suddenly realised where he was.

"Trafalgar Square& of course! Charing Cross Road& The Leaky Cauldron!" he berated himself.

He'd done a full circle! But he definitely didn't want to go there again, probably not ever, he realised sadly.

Another tear, the first in over an hour, tracked down Harry's cheek, as that sad rationalisation hit home. His life had changed forever, as dramatically, and in just as short a time, as when Hagrid had revealed his true identity on his eleventh birthday, all those years ago.

But this time Harry didn't wipe the tear away in anger, instead he let the floodgates open and wept like a baby for his lost innocence and his lost hopes, for himself and for his friends, those living and those who had already paid the ultimate price.

He circled Nelson's monument for what seemed like ages, but was in fact less than ten minutes, while he let himself grieve.

Finally Harry regained his composure and, with renewed resolve, headed west towards Piccadilly and Soho, away from the Leaky Cauldron.

He eventually turned back east, where he found a Muggle chemist, Parsons Pharmacy, on New Oxford Street.

He hid his broom in a nearby alley then carefully made his way there, trying to ensure that he avoided the theatre patrons from the West End, who were drifting towards the Circus and the Soho pubs and clubs. He had to be on his guard, for the area was still busy, despite it being well past eleven o'clock.

Perusing the shelves, even daring to look behind the counter, Harry found a hair colouring solution, a small mirror and a cosmetic compound called "Second Skin," to cover his scar. He was so relieved, because he was still worried that using his wand to hide his scar, with a disillusionment charm, was too risky.

The pharmacy was almost empty, so Harry spent a little longer checking the shelves. He couldn't believe his luck when he found cosmetic contact lenses and non-prescription glasses.

He grabbed a set of contacts that had light blue irises, delighted that he had discovered a way to disguise his distinctive green eyes. He was almost tempted to grab a pair of cat's eyes contacts and even considered a pair of Union Jack lenses, but decided to err on the side of caution and go for the least distinctive.

However, Harry's biggest surprise had come with the non-prescription glasses, because they were actually better than his own. Better still, they were a completely different design to his tortoise-shell wire frames. They were rectangular gold frames and, with his contacts, gave him a totally different look. He was beginning to think that this might just work, as he grinned at his reflection in the mirror that he held under his cloak.

It had been so long since Harry had actually been to an optometrist that he'd never realised just how much his eyes had deteriorated in that time. It was like he'd been looking through a dirty window all those years, and he wondered how he had ever caught the Snitch in Quidditch.

When Harry had acquired everything he needed he made his way back to where he'd hidden his broom.

After passing a few lads, who'd had a few too many, Harry decided that, after all he'd been through, he too could do with a belt of something stronger than Butterbeer. So he nicked a quarter-flask of Black Douglas from a bottle shop, to round off his little shopping spree.

Harry finally made it back to the seclusion of the park, in the centre of Bedford Square, where he'd first landed in London, just a few blocks from the chemist.

He had even snagged a couple of beef and burgundy pies from a street vendor, while the poor fellow had been serving someone else.

So the first item on Harry's new agenda in the park was food. He greedily devoured the two pies and took a couple of swigs of the scotch.

He'd tried Firewhisky once before, courtesy of the twins, but hadn't really liked it. The Black Douglas was not much better, but at least it was a lot smoother and, after the fourth or fifth hit, it began to numb the pain of his dilemma.

In the distance, Big Ben rang in Midnight just as Harry finished applying the colouring agent to his thick, black, unruly mane. He'd decided to do the hair before applying the Second Skin to his forehead, since the colouring promised to be messy. He worried that it might ruin the cosmetic skin, especially since he'd also decided to do his eyebrows.

Harry had to leave the cream in his hair for thirty minutes, according to the instructions on the bottle. So, in the seclusion of the park, he had a few more swigs of The Douglas, then laid back to listen for Big Ben to strike the half hour, when he'd rinse the solution out of his hair, at the drinking fountain.

As the tension began to ebb away, and the stress of the last week finally caught up with him, Harry started to drift off; he could fight his need for sleep no longer. But, just as the quarter-hour struck, Harry was screaming and bolt upright, after another link with that foul bastard, Voldemort.

Harry tried to stagger to his feet but barely made it to his knees before his two beef and burgundy pies made a sudden and dramatic reappearance.

When he eventually stopped dry-retching, for the third time that night, he slumped onto his back, exhausted and sore. His head was reeling, and he felt worse than shit. He wanted to rinse his mouth but was too exhausted to make it to the drinking fountain that was mere feet from where he lay. He dared not close his eyes for fear of triggering another nauseating giddy spell or, worse still, another vision.

Tonight's vision had been the strangest to date, and for Harry Potter that was really saying something! It was not particularly violent but was quite disturbing. What made it so was that it had involved Draco Malfoy, of all people.

It was clear to Harry, even in his addled state, that Voldemort had been unaware of his connection. But it had been particularly vivid, and Harry had witnessed the entire event, not just through The Dark Lord's eyes, but through his foul mind.

Although other Death Eaters had been present, the conversation between that monster and Malfoy had been private.

It was obvious that Malfoy had never seen Voldemort before and he'd failed miserably to hide his horror and disgust at the hideous creature before him. Riddle had raped Malfoy's mind ruthlessly.

Harry had never experienced Legilimency where he was not the victim. He decided that this was far worse than enduring Snape.

As disturbing as the vision had been, Harry could not help but grin with perverse satisfaction as he recalled that Malfoy had been utterly oblivious to the fact that he was being probed by his Dark Lord and Master. In fact the arrogant prat had convinced himself that he'd succeeded in Occluding Voldemort.

But Harry's retrospective revenge through Draco Malfoy's predicament was at best half-hearted, because Harry already knew the outcome of the encounter. Armed with that knowledge he realised, deep down, that he actually felt sorry for the boy.

Harry was startled by the fact that Voldemort had been neither angered nor surprised by Malfoy's fear and loathing. The bastard had been amused, almost delighted, more than anything else, by the blond boy's reaction. Harry began to suspect that this was the precise outcome that The Dark Lord had intended.

However, the most disturbing aspect of Harry's recollection was what had transpired between the Slytherin upstart and his fell master. For what Voldemort had demanded of Malfoy was beyond belief: he had charged Harry's long-time rival with a brace of tasks that were both dangerous and all but impossible.

So dangerous, in fact, was Malfoy's mission that Harry doubted that his schoolboy nemesis would survive the ordeal, even in the unlikely event that he managed to succeed.

But what most surprised Harry was the realisation that, after seeing into Malfoy's mind so clearly, he actually felt for the boy. This was something that he would not wish on his worst enemy, not even the son of Lucius Malfoy, not even the boy who only last week had threatened to wreak revenge upon him and, only yesterday, had tried to hex him.

"Only yesterday," Harry whispered to himself in a voice so hoarse that he hardly recognised it as his own.

It barely seemed possible that it was less than six hours ago; it seemed more like six months.

Another tear streaked Harry's cheek, in sympathy for his rival, who was only a boy like him and too young to have to face such horrors. They should have been back at Hogwarts, teasing each other with name-calling and childish pranks, instead of fighting to the death for and against a madman.

But life was not so benevolent, and reality was shit.

Harry wiped the tear across his cheek with an angry swipe of his knuckles. He was furious with his own weakness; besides& Malfoy was nothing more than a spoilt little turd who deserved everything he got!& or maybe not!

Big Ben's siblings struck the half hour, startling Harry, even though the chimes of the quarter bells were a mere distant peal wafting over London on the still night air. It was enough to turn his attention back to his own dilemma and his most immediate need: to rinse the now pasty colouring solution from his hair. He staggered to his feet unsteadily and made his way to the drinking fountain.

Feeling only slightly better after flushing the gunk from his hair and eyebrows, and the bile from his mouth, Harry staggered back across the lawn to his scattered belongings.

"Shit!" Harry cried, when he looked at himself in the small mirror that he had purloined from the chemist.

A shock of unruly platinum-blond hair stunned him, and shock was his response.

"Fuck me dead!" he cried in utter disbelief, at his own reflection in the glow of the lights of London reflected off the low, overcast sky&

What stared back at Harry was a face that was almost unrecognisable, even with his scar.

The sight of his deep blue eyes and blond hair, brought a low rasping chuckle to his throat. But the light, both behind him and reflected onto him, caused the sylvan locks to shine, such that his hair had an ethereal and almost unreal appearance.

"Eewe! Fuck! I look like Malfoy!" Harry groaned in faux-disgust.

Then he peered harder at the dim image and grinned wickedly.

"This is good," he congratulated himself.

Harry's elation was fuelled, no doubt, by his inebriated state and the relief that he might actually have acquired a degree of anonymity. It was the first thing to have gone right since leaving the Hogwarts Express.

Harry wanted to celebrate his moderate success; but the thought of replenishing the contents of his stomach with food was vetoed by his lingering nausea, despite the pangs of hunger.

He opted instead to drown his sorrows completely, thus minimising the chance of another dream or vision. So he retrieve The Black Douglas and proceeded to consume the remaining three-quarters of the flask of potent amber liquid.


Harry woke slowly to the faint Quarter Bells of Big Ben in the distance.

He refused to open his eyes because, despite the remoteness of the clock tower, he swore that the bells were inside his head! He knew it was day, by the sounds of the first stirrings of city traffic and the painful stinging sensation of the sunlight that was burning through his eyelids.

Then all hell broke loose, as each of the six pounding chimes of Ben announced the morning hour with ever-increasing, head-splitting crescendos. It was a toss-up between Harry's head and his stomach as to which felt worse.

When he finally relented and opened his eyes, the pain shot through his head like the after-effects of the Cruciatus curse. Only then did the stench hit his nostrils; they flared with the acrid odour of stale vomit.

"Faaarrk!" Harry groaned with the realisation that, sometime during the night, he had thrown-up all over himself. But his plight was far worse than he could ever have imagined. He flayed around blindly for his new glasses.

When Harry finally managed to locate the gold-framed specs, the reality of his predicament hit home with a vengeance.

Harry's book bag was lying three or more feet away and it was obviously empty. His photo album, map, Wizard money, invisibility cloak, broom and his Gringotts key were all gone. Even his wand was missing from his back pocket; the bastards had even taken his watch and Malfoy's badge.

All that Harry now possessed was his bag, his new glasses, the empty Black Douglas bottle and a stinking hangover.

"Oh, no& Merlin, no& please& no, no, no& this can't be!" he cried.

Everything, EVERYTHING was gone! He had nothing& NOTHING!

He shook his head but stopped almost immediately, as the excruciating pain between his ears intensified. He felt like shit. His mouth tasted like the bottom of an owl's cage; the sensation was absolutely vile. And he reeked!

The bright sunlight was in fact an overcast, almost black sky, and the air was chilled. Yet even so, the dull light still hurt Harry's eyes, and his head ached more than ever.

Harry began to shiver; then, when he swallowed, the taste in his mouth seemed even more pronounced, which caused him to throw up yet again. But this was mostly bile, an almost clear, disgustingly viscous, yellow-green liquid. The intense pain from the cramping in his stomach, and the gag reflex that he could not suppress, only made things worse.

When Harry flopped back down onto the damp cold grass, the reflex finally subsided. He was exhausted, almost hysterical, as the previous night's events came crashing down on him, and he was starving.

Suddenly, Harry heard a loud roaring noise moving in his direction. It was growing louder and moving swiftly towards the Thames. He began to panic. But, even before he had managed to sit up, the source of the din became obvious, as he was pelted, without warning, by the most torrential rain and hail that he had ever seen.

Fortunately, the hail was minuscule and Harry collapsed back onto the sodden lawn at the edge of the near-empty park, in the blackness of the deluge, and laughed with hysterical relief.

He had thought the worst ... something between a Dementor attack and the end of the world ... but now he was simply too relieved and too exhausted to bother trying to move. He was merely thankful that the stench of his own vomit would at least be rinsed from his clothes.

The torrent eventually subsided and Harry decided that he should get up and try to dry off. When he staggered to his feet, to brush himself down, a reflection in the grass caught his eye. He realised with delight that it was his father's Marauder's Map, which had been discarded by the thief; it was soaked, torn and partially unfolded. Then, to his great relief, almost next to it lay the unopened jar of Second Skin, but his mirror was nowhere to be found.

They were the only items that Harry was able to retrieve, despite scouring the area thoroughly in the rain that continued to fall. He took a leak in the dense bushes at the far end of the park, before making his way to the small rotunda in the opposite corner.

Harry spent the next few hours of that dreary morning sheltering from the deluge, which barely let up. He was actually thankful for the rain, because it kept most people out of the park.

Being a Saturday, the park would normally have been inundated with local kids and their nosy parents, no doubt of that.

Harry suspected that the gates to the park had been opened shortly after dawn. He was sure that they'd been locked last night, because he remembered having to fly over the fence on his broom to get into the park in the first place.

Those next few hours passed painfully, as Harry wrestled with his huge dilemma. What had troubled him the most was trying to work out how his possessions had disappeared and, more importantly, who had taken them.

"It couldn't have been a wizard," he concluded his deliberations, "because they'd surely have recognised me, and I'd be in the hands of the Ministry of Magic by now& surely!

"But if it was a Muggle," he countered in frustration, "why did they take my broom and wand? They wouldn't have had a clue what they were," he sighed in abject frustration, "they should have considered them worthless. The cloak I can understand, even a Muggle could work that out and see its value."

However, in the final analysis, Harry considered it a pointless exercise; the bottom line would not change: regardless of the whereabouts of his possessions, he was wanted for murder in two worlds, penniless, starving, bitterly exhausted and frightened& terrified of what lay before him.

When the rain eventually subsided, Harry's clothes were dry enough to be considered semi-respectable, at least they no longer reeked.

He decided to move. He'd already spent too much time in one place in broad daylight.

He looked up at the heavens; make that a dismally overcast sky! His scar was still clearly visible. He needed to find somewhere that had a mirror, so that he could apply the cosmetic skin.

Harry left Bedford Square and made his way down Tottenham Court Road to the Underground. He ducked into the loo, which was unattended, as luck would have it, after watching a young guy force his way through the turnstile without paying.

He relieved his bladder with another leak, then took an inordinate amount of time washing his hands, while he waited for the young guy to leave.

Once he was alone, Harry proceeded to apply the Second Skin compound to his forehead, making sure that he carefully followed the instructions on the jar. This really had to work, or he was sure to be identified. His scar was so distinctive that even Muggles would have little trouble recognising him, once he was in the media.

Thankfully the loo remained empty, right up until Harry was applying the finishing touches.

Just then a man entered the lavatory and crossed to the urinals.

Harry dabbed at the application nervously, cautiously watching the man in the mirror throughout the final procedure.

The guy seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time just taking a leak. He was starting to make Harry nervous, especially when he looked over his shoulder at Harry several times and smiled, while his body was still facing the urinals.

Harry's eyes nearly popped out of his head when the man turned side-on. He was almost facing Harry now, and he had an enormous hard-on in his hand.

They locked eyes; the guy smiled at Harry then looked down at his raging cock and began to masturbate slowly. Harry tried to remain calm and dabbed at his camouflaged scar. But his eyes betrayed him, as they drifted back down to the reflection of the man's pulsating cock.

While Harry's mind screamed at him to get the fuck out of there as fast as possible, his cock had ideas of its own. The bulge in his jeans betrayed him. His feet similarly refused to obey his brain, as all of his thought processes were quickly transferred to the tiny intellect in the head of his own dick.

The man smiled seductively and licked his lips, in obvious appreciation of Harry's attention. He flicked his eyebrows in an unmistakable invitation to join him at the adjacent urinal. Harry's feet still refused to move but his right knee began to jerk in an uncontrollable nervous spasm and he dropped his gaze to the hand basin in embarrassment.

Harry froze as the man turned from the urinal and made his way over to him. His cock bobbed from side to side as he continued to masturbate it in a slow deliberate rhythm.

A panicked voice screamed at Harry to run for his life, but his adolescent hormones had taken control of all his senses, except his ragged breathing and thumping heart, which were totally out of control.

"You new to this?" whispered the man, who broadened his smile as he stopped within an arm's length of Harry.

The young wizard could only shrug his shoulders and respond with the barest of breaths that could have been interpreted as almost anything, in just about any language& other than Parseltongue.

Then again, looking at the massive python jutting out at him, Harry considered that he might burst into snake language at any moment. He smiled at that thought, then his mouth went dry, as he realised that the guy obviously had an entirely different interpretation of Harry's reaction.

The man was quite good looking, and Harry figured he was in his mid-twenties. He had soft, curly, strawberry-blonde hair and green eyes, that were ironically very similar to Harry's, except that the man would have no way of knowing that. He had to be close to six foot tall and was a very fit lad.

He responded to Harry's grin by reaching out slowly ... obviously ensuring that he didn't spook his quarry ... and squeezed Harry's cock through the denim.

"Phwoah! Aren't you a little surprise package!" he cooed.

He licked his lips slowly, then beamed another salacious grin at Harry's reflection.

"Or should I say, big surprise package!" he finished rhetorically.

He began to massage Harry's cock in a slow, deliberate rhythm, in synch with his own. He placed his hand on Harry's hip and gently swung the boy around until they were facing each other.

Just as he reached up and fingered Harry's fly, searching for the top of his zipper, a set of heavy footsteps approached the entrance to the loo.

The guy quickly stuffed his own cock back into his trousers, as Harry froze in sheer panic.

"Meet me outside," he whispered.

He immediately turned and exited the loo, just as a large man in a business suit passed him at the entrance.

Harry quickly turned on the tap, faced the mirror and washed his hands quite thoroughly, while he contemplated his course of action.

He had completely forgotten his scar. But, when he finally looked up at his own reflection, he smiled at the results of his work, which had all but rendered the accursed gash invisible.

Glancing quickly across to the urinals, where the man in the suit was busy urinating, Harry checked that he was not being watched.

Harry quickly turned back to the mirror, gave his forehead one final nod of approval, then headed towards the exit.

Out there, on the concourse, the sexy blond was sure to be waiting for him.