Chapter the Fourteenth: In Which Harry is Awfully Short for a Prince

Disclaimer: Can I just say 'Standard Archive disclaimer here' and be done with it? I've been trying to come up with original disclaimers for something along the lines of 140 distinct chapters in roughly 65 stories over about seven years. I'm slightly burnt out.

Warning: This chapter... has its moments. Don't let one catch you with tea in your mouth. Also, nudity. (Get used to hearing that last bit.)

As Prince Harry climbed the (promisingly) blonde braid up to the distant tower window, he hoped that his phenomenally bad luck with the maidens was at last ending.

"Please, don't let her be underaged... or weepy... or look like my mum (may she rest in peace)..." he whispered. It belatedly occurred to Harry that he ought to have his wand in hand and a disarming spell at the ready in case this was a trap. He paused just beneath the windowsill to gather his wits, leg muscles, and a helpful physics-defying spell for a push-off-the-wall-and-leap that would take him up and through the window.

It would have worked, too, had the room's sole occupant not chosen that moment to peek over the windowsill. Harry barreled right into a narrow pillar of expensive silk-linen blend that shrieked. Both of them rolled to the floor in a red-and-blue heap.

Harry popped up like a shot, apologizing profusely and helping the other up at the same time. He was so embarrassed it took him a moment to register that (thankfully) the blue-clad figure was not Moldyshorts. Depressingly, during those moments of close physical contact, Prince Harry also realized that there was one other eventuality he should have wished against during his climb.

"You... you're not a princess!" Damn it, this was adding insult to injury, being sent after a bloke. A pretty bloke. A pretty, dainty, blond bloke...with gray eyes nicer than Luna's.

At least when he'd rescued his best mate, there'd been no chance of finding him attractive.

"What do you mean, 'princess?' I'm Draco Severus Malfoy, damn it," the imitation princess said, still pink in the face and disheveled from their tumble, "and you'd better be a real prince, or my father will hear about it!" Draco folded his arms and stamped his foot for emphasis. "There's a contract, and I'm certain that Mummy included a clause pertaining to grooming. I shall have to insist that you at least do something with your hair, stop smelling of mutton, lose that garish cloak, and clean those godawful spectacles before I'll be seen anywhere with you! Oh, and STOP STEPPING ON MY ROBES!"

"I stand corrected," The Prince-Who-Lived said dryly. Maybe rescuing unconscious maidens was the way to go...

"You're supposed to be tall, dark, and handsome. All the stories say so," Draco insisted.

Being royal, Harry was not entirely immune to petulance. "Hey, two out of three's not bad," he protested. He also tried to stand straighter. "So, is this a rescue, or are you going to stand there being a prat all day?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Draco said with a sniff. "My mother taught me all the important points of etiquette."

"I'm guessing that your mother hasn't seen you in a few years," Harry pointed out. "She apparently didn't get around to teaching plain manners. Or that it's not all right to order people around as if they existed to do your express bidding. Unless you're really a prince or princess... and even then, it's kind of bad form to do it all the time." Harry, who had handled the obstacles with ease, was starting to break a light sweat and babble. This was not good. This was what usually happened around pretty girls.

"But... I thought Severus says that because he's foul-tempered and jealous of how young and pretty I am," Draco said, almost tearfully.

"Even if he is, it doesn't make him wrong," Harry asserted. He took in their surroundings in greater detail, frowning. "This looks awfully comfortable for a prison."

"Well... I'm more of an apprentice than a prisoner. There's a contract of some sort that keeps me here. I don't really know what it's about, except that I have to learn potions-making from Severus and I can only leave the tower if I'm rescued by a prince who is strong enough to protect me from Lord what's-his-name."

Harry contemplated this while he took off his glasses and cast a polishing spell at them, conceding that they could use a bit more care. It sounded as if he was once again up to his knees in Voldemort-related bullshit and manipulative adults. He put them back on to find Draco staring at him with an expression that, frankly, he was unaccustomed to seeing on another male. Harry recalled Luna once saying something about it being a shame that he hid his best feature. He hadn't realized at the time that she'd been talking about his eyes.

He cleared his throat, thinking that this whole carrying-down-the-tower business could get a tad awkward. "If you aren't mistreated, do you need to be rescued?"

"It's just... I'm so lonely! Mummy scarcely reads my letters...I can tell. Father wants me to make connections for him and doesn't care whether it's with a real prince or that horrid snake-faced fellow. Severus ignores me outside of the laboratory and is nasty and critical to me in it. He makes me test my potions on myself to be sure they work."

"What a git. I'm glad we don't have to learn Potions," Harry remarked.

Draco heaved a sigh. "The house-elf is nice to me, but I think they have to be. I want someone to like me." He bit his lip and did something distracting with his eyelashes. "I want you to like me." One of the (relatively few) charming things about Draco was that, owing to his neglected social training and lack of interpersonal contact, he tended to say precisely everything that popped into his mind, in precisely the words he thought it. As a result, he was both rather inappropriate and bizarrely honest. "So... I don't know how...since the only way out of the tower is my hair...but get me out... Please?" He said the last word as if he wasn't quite sure what it meant.

Harry figured there was probably something about this in the Code of Chivalry, but he hadn't read it lately and Lady Hermione wasn't on hand to remind him. He is about as screwed over by the adults in his life as I am... oh, why not. "Not a problem. Nothing says the hair needs to be attached to your head." Harry whipped out the jewel-hilted sword that was one of the few items that had been saved from the massacre of the Royal Gryffindors, grabbed the long braid of Draco's hair, and sliced it off neatly above the shoulders. Perhaps it was something about the sword, or something about Harry; but at that moment, the Rampion Curse and everything connected to it...including Draco's unnaturally fast hair growth...ended.

Having been used to a considerable weight hanging from his head for the better part of a decade (even with lightening spells,) Draco stumbled at the sudden change in his balance. "What... WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" he shrieked, clutching at his head as if he'd been scalped rather than merely had a long-overdue haircut.

"You said you wanted out of the tower and that your hair was the only way down. Well, there's the hair..." Harry gave it a pull to check it was secure on the hook, "...so let's..." Prince Harry stopped in alarm as Draco sank to his knees, sobbing. "Not another crier," he sighed. He'd thought the Weepy Duchess Chang was bad.

"Look, doesn't it feel good to be rid of all that weight?" He knelt beside Draco, placing one hand awkwardly on his shoulder. "Besides... besides, wasn't it nearly impossible to keep clean? I mean, it was trailing on the ground and gathering dust. I'm sure the only reason there aren't bugs on your head is because of this potion. It's probably a pest repellent." Harry touched a strand of the hair still attached to Draco rather gingerly, as it was weighted down with a heavy layer of thick, viscous gel.

"B-bugs?" Draco sniffled, turning to Harry with his gray eyes wide and normally pale cheeks blotchy.

"They're rather difficult to keep out of anything that drags on the floor." Harry held up the end of the shorn braid with the flat of his sword. Gray streaks of dirt clung to the greasy places.

"Oh, EW! THAT has been attached to my head all these years? How vile! I'll bet Severus has been deriving some sort of perverse pleasure from making me treasure that manky wig. Merlin! I feel filthy just thinking about it!" Draco backed away from the braid in horror. He could not bear feeling filthy.

Draco also did not think anything of stripping and marching into the bath starkers whenever the mood struck him, since as has been previously demonstrated, his mother had indulgently never bothered to disabuse him of his nudist tendencies as a small child.

As a result, Draco immediately dropped his robes right in front of Prince Harry and had a quick stretch and shuddering shake to release the lingering creepies before pirouetting on his toes and prancing off to his bathroom.

Prince Harry was, rather understandably, struck dumb. Prince-Who-Lived status notwithstanding, it was not every day that that a perfectly proportioned, alabaster-skinned, slim, delicate, toned-to-just-the-right-side-of-softness boy of his age stripped, shook his, ahem, frontside practically in his face, then treated him to an extended view of his even more shapely backside.

Indeed, it was an occurrence so singular that, with all the other evidence, it was enough to make Harry think it was less important whether his paramour of choice was witch or wizard than if said witch or wizard was willing and blond. Draco certainly was the genuine latter; and judging from the pouting, blushing, and shrieking, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he might be the former.

Prince Harry contemplated whether he might be going insane, checked his reflection in the mirror, tried in vain to impose some order on his hair, took a deep breath, and followed his... princess... into the bathroom.

We're coming to the climax, folks.