King's Cross Heat

Harry wasn't really surprised when there was no one to meet him at the station. This had been his last year after all, and it wasn't exactly strange if the Dursleys didn't expect him to return to them. He had decided to wait an hour or so, just in case, before he would hail the Knight Bus to get back to Privet Drive. Not that he wanted to, but Dumbledore had been most adamant about him having to stay with the Dursleys until he turned eighteen. Harry sighed, and downed the rest of his third sodawhizz, thankful for the café that had opened on platform 9¾. He wasn't all that keen on having muggles stare at Hedwig, who was hooting restlessly in her cage. The Dursleys would hardly turn up to collect him anyway, so it really didn't matter where he waited. And besides, wizard's lemonade was just so much better than the muggle thing.

It was a hot day, and Harry felt incredibly thirsty. Now he needed to go to the bathroom too. He asked the girl behind the counter to keep an eye on his things, and headed for the gentlemen's.

Cool air hit him as he opened the door, and the only sound heard in there was the faint dripping of a leaky tap, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. Harry took his time, relishing both the lower temperature and the relative silence, after having sat in the noisy heat of Kings Cross Station for almost an hour. Even though all of the other students and their families had left long ago, the station was filled with an incredible cacophony; a mixture of grating and grinding of metal, whistles and voices echoing throughout the building.

While he washed his hands, he looked around a bit, noticing how much nicer wizard's bathrooms always were. Probably had something to do with the magic cleaning, always keeping the tiles spotless, and the air fresh. Suddenly he noticed a camera sitting on one of the other sinks. He picked it up, gingerly, and turned it over, and read the hand written label on the back of it.

"Property of Colin Creevey"

Trust the geek to properly name tag his belongings. Harry giggled. Suddenly he got curious. Colin had been zapping his flash in the face of people all the time over the years, but he seldom showed the pictures he'd taken to anyone. Somehow everyone had got used to it, and didn't even notice him doing it any longer. This was a wizard's camera, and in one of their last charms classes, Professor Flitwick had thought it fun to teach them a couple of the more modern spells, like developing wizard's film. Harry was a fully trained wizard now, and he was allowed to do magic out of school. A mischievous grin spread across his face, and he pulled his wand out of his back pocket.

Harry sat down on the floor, spreading the pictures in front of him. For a moment his mind went blank, and he momentarily forgot to breathe. The pictures - all of them - were of himself. Himself eating breakfast in the great hall, doing loops over the quidditch pitch, studying in the library with Ron and Hermione, fighting with Malfoy and...

Pictures of someone in the quidditch changing room showers. Harry swallowed thickly as he watched a lean boy rub soap over his body. His back was turned to the camera, and he was partly covered in suds, but it didn't cover the fact that he had a nice body. A very nice body. Harry swallowed again, and wondered if the boy in the picture had been aware Colin had taken those pictures. Probably not, as in the next picture he concentrated his rubbing to regions below his abdomen. Harry felt his throat run dry, and he licked his lips, as he watched the boy tilt his head backwards a bit, obviously enjoying the feeling of his own hands.

He flicked through the next four or five pictures, all resembling the second one, before he suddenly stopped. In this picture the boy had braced himself against the wall with one hand, the other one still occupied, leaning slightly forward and breathing heavily. Harry ran a finger along the boy's spine, and down his left leg, thinking he could almost hear the boy sigh and moan. He felt dizzy. Merlin, he wanted that boy.

Harry lined up the next few pictures on the floor. His own breath became shallow as he watched, in rapt concentration, how the boy helped himself to release. Over and over again.

Suddenly he heard the door to the bathroom open, and he scrambled to his feet, gathering the camera and the pictures as quickly as he could. He left hurriedly, not bothering to look at the man who had come in, afraid that his face would show what he had been doing.

Sitting again in the café, with a fresh sodawhizz in front of him, he ventured a look at the pictures again. He quickly skipped past the ones he'd been looking at before, and now saw pictures of the beautiful boy washing his hair. He massaged his scalp thoroughly, and while he was doing so, he gradually turned around, until he faced the camera. Shampoo was streaming down his face, as he stepped under the spray of the shower. When the soap cleared off his face, and he ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it back from his face, Harry let out a gasp.

On the boy's forehead, over his right eye, was a vividly red, lightning bolt shaped scar.