Disclaimer: Characters belong to Rowling & WB. I make no profit, other than my favorite: pride in a job well done. Enjoy!
He slid his hands through the hair on the head beside him. Dark hair; inky black in color, stark against the crème-couloured pillow case. He marveled at the way his fingers glided through the fine strands, as if they were spun gold and not simply pieces of hair growing out of a scalp. The hair was soft; fine satin against his roughened fingertips. It was overly straight, as though pressed in an iron. It was very nearly warm, holding some of the heat radiating off of the head from which it grew. Although each strand was thin, there was an abundance of it, and even in the darkness of the early morning hours, he could see the multitude splaying across his palm. He caressed it; he stroked it lovingly, like it was alive, like it needed to be soothed after a long, hard day. He inched his nose close enough so that he could inhale the scents that lingered in the hair. Scents of potions brewed: some to perfection, others gone wrong. Scents of aftershave and shampoo, and other innocuous smells that to the untrained nose would go unnoticed – unappreciated. But to him, these scents were like a fingerprint: one of a kind, only held by this hair, this hair that fanned out next to him in the bed. He rolled the strands between his forefinger and his thumb, his eyes closed, smiling as he thought about how very much he loved this hair. And not just the hair, but the person to whom it belonged. He sighed contently as he withdrew his hand from the curtain of blackness. Severus grunted softly in his sleep and stirred lightly. Harry wrapped his arm around the waist in front of him, falling asleep with his face buried in the head of hair before him.