Archive of Our Own

Harry lands with a soft thud, too soft for the wooden floor of his living room. He looks down to realise there’s now a shaggy grey rug under his feet. It takes him a couple of seconds to stave off panic and go through the events of what just happened. Mere seconds ago, he was standing in his living room, grumbling to himself about too much work and debating whether to order take-away or just go to bed without eating dinner, and now he is standing in a room that slightly resembles his living room, but definitely isn’t his living room.

Even fighting through the disorientating feeling of the unexpected landing, Harry knows there really is only one possible explanation: the cursed trunk that, according to the crime scene folks, had been deactivated before the Aurors retrieved it that morning was, in fact, very much not deactivated and instead, working on a delay.

Which meant that, if the Curse-Breaking team was right about what the curse on the trunk entailed, Harry was somewhere in the future, the past or in a different timeline where a totally different Harry lives. Or doesn’t live. Merlin knows whose house this actually is. This is just what Harry needs on a Tuesday evening.

To be fair, this isn’t that different from any other work day. Harry ends most days thinking, “Fuck the Forensics Department, fuck the Aurors, fuck the Detectives, fuck the Curse-Breakers and most of all, fuck the fucking Unspeakables.” Just this time he’s doing it… somewhere else in time and space.

It doesn’t take long for his Auror instincts to kick in, and suddenly Harry’s wand is out and he’s cataloguing the house like a crime scene. Not that there’s a protocol for accidental time-hopping, or any kind of time-hopping at all, really. But Harry looks for clues. He needs to know when he is and who lives in this place in order to figure out his next steps. This is the Grimmauld Place he knows, only cleaner and lived in, much unlike the dreadful dark place Harry currently lives in. This place feels… joyful. There are pairs of shoes thrown about in the entrance hall, there are comfortable-looking pillows on cosy-looking sofas with soft-looking blankets hanging from their backs. There are pictures on the walls, books on the shelves, food in the pantry.

The pictures are the easiest clues to decipher, even if they leave him slightly baffled and breathless, somehow. There are pictures of Ron and Hermione holding a small girl with Hermione’s big brown eyes and hair, and a smile just like Ron’s.

Most of the pictures show him — or, well, it can’t be him, exactly. But a version of himself with long hair and a short beard.

Whatever timeline or dimension he is in, this Other Harry’s life isn’t that different to his, then. He went to Hogwarts, his group of friends seems to be more or less the same. And Teddy is a very tall lad, who looks to have been sorted into Hufflepuff just like his mother. This Other Harry looks different and it’s more than the hair and the beard and the much better tailored clothes. This Other Harry smiles. A lot.

It’s comforting that his house is still his, even if it’s a Harry he can’t recognise as himself. The biggest surprise is that this Other Harry seems to be extremely close to Draco Malfoy. Extremely close in the romantic sense of things, which Harry really, really can’t understand. Harry watches his Other Self tilt his face up towards (a jeans-wearing!) Draco Malfoy, who looks at him and smiles before leaning in and kissing him on a loop. It makes him feel dizzy. And he really doesn’t have the time to unpack whatever that means right now.

There’s a weight in his chest. A soreness that feels old, like a scar that still throbs from time to time or a broken bone that never healed quite right and gives him grief whenever the weather turns. He thinks of the joy in the face of Other Harry. Of the story told in photographs on the mantlepiece that tie clues together in his mind, of just how different this Harry’s life is. The photograph where he passes a Quaffle over to Teddy who flies towards Malfoy with it under his arm; the photograph where Hermione and Malfoy sit in a room he doesn’t recognise, and he stands in the background, holding a baby shaped bundle, smiling; the photograph of him and Malfoy with a small black kitten on the floor in front of them.

Harry hates Grimmauld Place. He has always hated it, despite not being able to let it go, this one last connection he has to Sirius. He has never considered he could be happy in this house. If he will be happy in this house, in his own version of Grimmauld Place? Happy with, of all people, Draco Malfoy? What a thought.

He shakes the ridiculous idea away and moves on with his inspection. For a moment, he debates whether or not this is the right course of action. Whether or not he should be rifling through people’s belongings, secretly invading their lives, their home. In the end, even if he feels a little guilty, he decides he needs to know more about the world he is in before he goes marching into the Ministry to ask them to help him go back to whatever universe he disappeared from.

A quick Homenum Revelio tells him he is alone in Grimmauld Place, but there is no guarantee it will remain that way for long, so he is perfunctorily efficient. He looks through drawers, deep into the back of wardrobes and high on shelves in the pantry, low into the boxes in the attic. Anything that will help him figure out when and where he is and who he can trust.

These are the things that stick out to him: there are two sets of uniforms in the wardrobe, and neither of those are the Auror Department’s familiar deep burgundy. Instead, there is a row of midnight blue robes with the requisite ‘D. M.’ from Mysteries embroidered on it in gold, an Unspeakable, and a row of bright lime green robes, the slighty lighter pastel of a Healer in training.

In the attic, the most curious item he finds is a painting of someone in an Auror uniform, slashed up so badly Harry would be tempted to described it as Sectumsempra’d, if that wasn’t a ridiculous idea. He can’t recognise the face but the painting makes him feel weird in his chest so he leaves the exploration of the attic for a later time.

A drawer in the entrance hall cabinet is filled with a peculiar assortment of things: a flyer for an exhibition at the Tate Magique, an embroidered handkerchief with the initials D. L. M. (of course, even in an alternative universe, Malfoy is the kind of poncy twat to have his initials stitched on a handkerchief), a deck of cards made of Hearts and Spades only, and a crumpled up recipe for a breakfast potato hash written in oddly familiar handwriting standing out to him.

The kitchen is bright in the exact way Harry wishes his was. Harry takes his time here — his eyes lingering on the way the sun shines through the clean windows, his hands feeling the warm wood of the big dining table on their palms. He smells the fresh bouquet of flowers on the white vase by the sink, and marvels at the rows of jars, tins and boxes full of food in the pantry. Harry loves this beautiful Grimmauld Place the other Harry has created. Harry hadn’t considered it was even possible to walk down these same corridors and not feel a shiver creeping up his spine, or with the fear that with every step the perpetually rotten floor will collapse under him and activate some ridiculous Black Family curse.

The bedroom is what leaves Harry the most perplexed and makes his heart flutter in his chest madly. A neat wrought-iron bed is on the opposite wall to where Harry’s bed has always sat. The new olive green bedding looks fluffy and soft, even if Harry wants to scoff at the clearly Slytherin emerald-green-and-silver knitted blanket at the bottom of it. The room itself looks bigger somehow, but Harry can’t detect an expansion charm. It really is just the way the bed has been pushed to a different side to make room for a large chest of drawers, covered in small knickknacks. On the wall, instead of the photographs of family and friends Harry has encountered above the mantlepiece, there were two sets of four blue… photographs? Paintings? Harry remembers Hermione dragging him to an exhibition once and tell him about them, he knows they have a name he can’t remember, the paper getting exposed to light leaving it with that blue tinge. Whatever they’re called, there’s eight of them, arranged into two squares, simple floral motifs on each.

Harry’s exploring is interrupted by loud meowing coming from the upper floors. Soon enough, a gorgeous black cat leisurely makes its way onto the landing and down the stairs, complaining loudly about Harry’s presence. Harry’s well experienced with Crookshanks’ crankiness so he stays still and waits to see what this cat’s temperament is like. The meowing doesn’t stop, but at least it doesn’t turn to hissing. The cat stops right in front of him at the bottom of the stairs and watches him inquisitively, big green eyes looking at Harry’s own. Then, the cat must decide this Harry doesn’t smell or look too different from the Harry it knows, and it stretches on his back paws, front paws reaching up to Harry’s jeans.

“Hey,” Harry says, and bends down slightly to pet its soft fur. The collar reads ‘Petrol’, and he smiles at the name as he scratches behind its ears and the cat chirps contentedly.

Enamoured by the cat’s grace, Harry follows it back into the living room (lived, warm, inviting) where the shelves are covered in books — new and old, broken spines on most of them. Harry pulls a smaller story out, curiosity coursing through him, opens it to the dog-eared page and wonders if it’s his Other Self or Malfoy who has a penchant for reincarnation love stories.

Tucking the book back into its place on the shelf, Harry crouches in front of the cupboards under. He rifles around stacks of board games and what looks like an album of a sailboat holiday with too many pictures of a (admittedly, very good looking) topless, sun-kissed, shiny with sweat and salt Draco Malfoy.

Petrol hops off the sofa and comes closer to Harry, still lost in this album, in the sunshiney pictures of Malfoy alone and the many more of them together, selfies below deck in a white bed (the thought of them together in a bed makes Harry blush and he flips those pages as quickly as he can) and against bright blue skies; others posed with wine glasses in hand, bright smiles on both their faces. The cat watches him inquisitively, as if asking why he is so different to the Harry it knows, or perhaps asking why he is such a nosy bastard and won’t stop going through what isn’t really his.

After rubbing its soft fur against his legs until he gives into pets, Petrol walks over to the next cupboard door over and meows at it, rubbing its face against it. Not wanting to risk crossing the cat, Harry shuts the double doors with the albums and board games, and opens the small door.

As his hand touches the familiar almost-liquid-silky-soft fabric that he recognises as his Invisibility Cloak, he hears voices outside chatting animatedly, the old click-snick of the front door unlocking, and people stepping inside the house. Saying a prayer to thank whoever is in charge of his neverending luck, he pulls the cold fabric out of the cupboard, wraps it around himself and shuts the cupboard door, just in time for Draco Malfoy to walk into the living room.

Checking his feet are covered by the cloak, Harry presses himself against the wall and watches. Harry hasn’t seen Draco Malfoy in a while, if he’s being fair, but never in a million years he would have thought he could look like that.

It’s one thing seeing these things in photographs. In photographs, you can convince yourself things aren’t real. But this Malfoy, no matter how different to the idea you have of him, is very, very real, Harry thinks.

Malfoy’s hair is short, much shorter than it was during their Hogwarts days, cropped close on the sides, and falling loose onto his forehead. He’s wearing a thick navy coat with dainty silver buttons and embroidered cuffs. He hangs it neatly on the coat hook in the corner and, Harry’s eyebrows rise at the sight of Draco Malfoy in jeans.

He doesn’t have long to focus on that, though, because his other self walks in after Malfoy, babbling away words Harry’s brain can’t quite catch because he’s too entranced by what he’s seeing. None of the things Harry is bewildered by are unexpected. Of course, he’s seen the pictures. He’s searched the house. Not unexpected, but not easy to take in.

Harry calms his breathing and can finally make out some of the words being said, the fog in his head clearing, slowly.

“… and Ron says last time they took Rose in, they saw Healer Russo and he was two hours late,” Malfoy is saying.

“I know, you don’t need to tell me this, babe. Wait, you saw Ron today?”

Harry doesn’t know what to react to, first. This Other Harry referring to Malfoy as “babe,” Draco Malfoy willingly mentioning Ron, or the fact that, outside of the photographs, he thinks his other self is beautiful. Is that a little self-absorbed? He’s not quite attractive. He’s still him, still a little on the scrawny side. But Harry still wishes he was him. This Other Harry really does look happier. The word that comes to his mind is “shinier,” almost as if he’s glowing. Harry makes a mental note to start moisturising, like Hermione has been telling him to for ages.

Moisturiser or not, Harry focuses back on the conversation, silently following Other Harry and Malfoy to the kitchen.

Harry squeezes himself into a corner, hoping he is well out of the way and watches them. Malfoy takes the food out of the fridge, the cupboard, the pantry, and Harry is quite afraid his stomach will rumble at the sight of fresh fruit and veggies, and at the gorgeous smell of frying onions and garlic as Other Harry starts dinner.

“How did Ron seem?” Other Harry asks, tipping a can of tomatoes into the pan.

Malfoy is at the table now, opening a bottle of wine. “Stressed. Rose hasn’t been sleeping well, and Hermione refuses to stop working even though she’s in her third trimester.”

Other Harry scoffs. “Don’t even get me started. I’ve known her for long enough to know there’s nothing we can say, but she really needs to rest.”

A few quick waves of Malfoy’s wand send plates and glasses gently flying out of cupboards, gracefully, in a way Harry never managed himself. The table is set and Malfoy walks out into the hall, shouting back, “I grabbed the Autumn brochure from the antiques place in the corner of Diagon Alley, there’s a couple things you’ll love.”

Harry almost laughs at the thought of ever looking through a brochure for an antique shop and finding something he loves, but Other Harry perks up as Malfoy walks back into the room.

He breaks off several leaves of fresh basil he gathers from a pot on the windowsill into the sauce, and turns to Malfoy with a, “What have we got, then?”

With the sauce simmering on a low heat and the fettuccine cooking away, Other Harry sits at the table, pulling a chair next to Malfoy and they go through the catalogue together.

Harry is in awe at this companionship they have, a peace that extends even to him (secret, quiet) under his cloak, something he never had even when Ron and Hermione were still at Grimmauld Place with him.

Harry doesn’t dare get closer from his corner, afraid he’ll be caught, so he can’t quite catch all the pages they stop at and the things they point at, but an unusual silver vase, an emerald green velvet chaise lounge, and a mid-century bed are definitely mentioned.

Malfoy is going on about where they could put the bed, and the white quilt he could bring from the Manor that would fit it perfectly, as Other Harry gets up to stir the sauce once more. He walks back to the table then, leaning over Malfoy who still hasn’t stopped talking about colour schemes and matching bedside tables.

Other Harry bends over, lower, and lower, until their faces are nearly touching and Malfoy still hasn’t stopped talking. Harry can’t decide if he finds it funny or endearing.

“Hey, Draco,” Other Harry says. “Furniture or kissing?”

Malfoy smiles, and Harry can’t help but feel like it’s an inside joke, like maybe this isn’t an unusual evening for them. In lieu of answering, Draco finally tilts his head up for his lips to meet Other Harry’s in a short kiss.

Harry watches so intently he keeps having to remind himself to breathe. His heart aches in his chest and Harry can’t explain why. Harry watches them eat dinner, clean up after and sit on the sofa — Malfoy doing the crossword, Other Harry reading a small book, cover bent back in a way that the title is impossible to read. Harry watches them get ready for bed — how they brush their teeth side by side, how Malfoy casts Harry’s hair into a neat plait, how they wash and moisturise their faces (why can’t Hermione just be wrong, for once?), and kiss each other.

In bed, Malfoy rolls over and asks, quietly, “Did you notice today’s date?” and Other Harry hums his assent.

“Are we sure?” Malfoy asks.

“I told you I wasn’t. There was so much going on back then,” Other Harry says. “But I think so. Either today or tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Malfoy says, and, crossword and pen tidily put away in his bedside table drawer, he gets up, picks up a small pile of clothing from the big armchair in the corner, and says to his bed companion, “I’m just gonna put all of these in the wash. Just in case.”

Other Harry grins in response, which only confuses Harry further.

The war inside Harry’s head sees this as a win to the curiosity side. The safety side would have left the room long ago, would have found the spare room, or the sofa in the living room or many of the other places he could sleep in that night. But curiosity wants to see more of this Other Harry and his Draco, so Harry takes the free space on the armchair and settles himself into it comfortably, once Draco is back in bed.

He takes his shoes off, quiet as he can, and tucks them under the sides of the chair, out of the way. He tucks his feet under himself and he watches, mesmerised, as Other Draco and Harry whisper their affections and goodnights, and cuddle up together under the duvet.

He watches Other Harry fall asleep on Malfoy's chest, turn around, Malfoy’s arm reaching for him, body wrapping around his, both falling asleep again, then both turning on their back, one leg over the other’s thigh — never not touching. Harry wants to keep watching; he needs to witness this never ending choreography of sleeping positions. The way they hook their ankles together, the way Other Harry’s hand grabs for Malfoy in the night.

But as their chests rise and fall, as the sound of their breathing quiets the room, the exhaustion of his long work day and his unexpected visit to another timeline catch up to him. And Harry falls asleep, too, head falling backwards onto the soft back of the armchair, one socked foot escaping just slightly from under the cloak.

Harry wakes up to Petrol pawing at his leg, which he realises is very much uncovered by the Invisibility Cloak. He barely has time to cover himself back up before Malfoy’s wand alarm goes off with the sound of twinkling bells that grates on his ears. His neck is stiff and his body is sore and Harry needs to find a way to go back home.

Nothing wrong with watching them some more while he waits though. The morning is softer and slower than the night had been. Harry focuses on their routines, avidly waiting for the moment one of the two gets their uniforms out of the wardrobe. Harry has many questions he wants answered about this other version of himself, and this other Draco Malfoy, but mostly he is curious to see what other job he could possibly have. He doesn’t particularly feel great about the Department of Mysteries (especially after this whole time jump debacle) but he knows some of his skills are highly desired in an Unspeakable. That said, Harry did consider Healing, after his NEWTs. Plus, he doesn’t know enough about Other Harry’s temperament. Maybe they’re nothing alike. Maybe this Harry has a big busy social life that would clash with the dreadful secrecy of being an Unspeakable. Maybe he lacks the empathy or the focus Healers need.

Malfoy is wearing black boxer briefs when he gets out of bed and makes for the bathroom, and if Harry’s pulse quickens at the expanse of exposed skin, no one needs to know. He would never know how to explain it, if someone asked him, but Draco Malfoy is unexpectedly beautiful in the way he speaks, moves, and carries himself.

His other self stretches in bed with a soft groan and rolls over to Draco’s side of the bed, to the lovely warm spot his lover left behind. As if in a choreographed move, Petrol hops up on the bed just then, tucking herself against Other Harry’s back, who pulls her in closer with something that sounds like a "good morning," which she returns with a deep purr.

Malfoy doesn’t take long in the bathroom but comes out fully dressed, with no sign of work robes. He bends down over Other Harry on the bed to kiss his face and when Harry groans again, he says simply, “Wednesday. Breakfast with Pansy before work. Get up soon or you’ll be late.”

The weird siphoning empty ache on Harry’s chest comes back when Other Harry mumbles a, “Love you,” in the vague direction of the bedroom door as Draco Malfoy leaves.

He eventually does get out of bed. Harry doesn’t dare follow him into the shower even though there wouldn’t be anything weird about it (would there? It’s just… himself). He does follow Other Harry down to the kitchen, watches him prepare breakfast for himself and feed Petrol, after fussing with her a little, each “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” rewarded with a loud purr. Other Harry eats a bowl of cereal with a steaming cup of tea on the side and makes what smells like the prep for a fish pie, leaving it in the fridge before heading out of the front door. Much to Harry’s disappointment, Other Harry grabs a leather jacket off the hook by the door, and Harry is still left to wonder which of them is the Healer and which is the Unspeakable.

Harry realises he doesn’t quite know where to go from here. He could do with a slow day. He can do slow. He can allow himself one more day of finding more about this life Other Harry and Draco share, and tomorrow he’ll find a solution to his problem.

He pulls a bowl out of the cupboard he saw Other Harry go into and eats the same cereal Other Harry has just eaten. He doesn’t recognise the brand, but it’s lovely and sweet, and he wonders if he could attempt to find it once he gets back. He realises he didn’t have dinner the night before, too confused with this situation he was dropped into. Confident neither Draco nor Other Harry will be coming back any time soon and unsure about when he’ll get to eat again, Harry raids the cupboards, the fridge, and the pantry. He makes himself some toast after he finishes his cereal.

The butter melts on the bread and he breathes in slowly, letting himself enjoy it. He waits for the kettle to boil. He finds a jar of honey in the pantry and brings it out, slathering it on his second piece of toast.

He eats a nectarine standing up, juice running down his chin and forearm, dripping into the wide white ceramic sink. Petrol enters the kitchen then, a quick panther-like prowl. She eyes him and his nectarine and lets out a loud yelp. Harry doesn’t know if nectarines are safe for cats, so he apologises instead.

“I’m sorry, baby girl,” a mimic of Other Harry. Harry is quite sure he’s never in his life called anyone, human or cat, “baby girl.” He giggles to himself at the realisation.

He washes the dishes after — by hand, the way he saw Draco doing the night before — and puts everything back exactly the way it was.

He climbs up the stairs and stops on the landing, unsure about what his next step should be. His back twinges with pain just as Petrol comes dashing through his legs and jumps onto the unmade bed in the bedroom.

Well. He did say he’d allow himself one more day. Petrol is soft and warm against him and the bedsheets, pillows and duvets smell sweet and fresh, like lemons and pine.

When Harry wakes up again the sun is high up in the sky. The wristwatch — which Harry recognises as The Prewett watch he still wears — on the bedside table tells him it’s nearly three o’clock. He’s slept nearly eight hours and lost most of his free time to explore. He’s tempted by a shower, but he can go without. He strips down, lays his clothes flat on the lovely patterned rug and casts laundry charms on each item until they smell clean and look properly ironed. He throws a Scourgify on himself, which he really, really hates resorting to but he doesn’t cringe or recoil at it anymore after too many stakeouts, not to mention his War days.

Harry takes to inspecting the rooms he didn’t pay much attention to the day before. He looks through the bathroom cupboards — much better stocked than his both in general toiletries and everyday potions. He turns the shower head on just to check the pressure and is left in wonder at the steady spray, questioning how they managed it, if this is indeed the same Grimmauld Place with its shitty Wizarding plumbing from centuries ago.

He looks at the bathtub with curiosity. It’s a thing of beauty, it really is. Bigger than any that Harry has ever seen, a beautiful swirl pattern of pink and beige veins through white marble. Harry traces the edge with his index finger just to feel the cold stone.

Harry can count all the baths he’s ever had on one hand, and none of them a particularly amazing experience. He knows Hermione loves them, to the point Ron has gotten George to start making bath bombs and bubble mixes for the shop. Harry reckons he’d get too restless, sitting there on his own in slowly cooling water, staring at nothing. He doesn’t know how people do it.

The bedroom doesn’t come with big surprises, except for the ring box he finds in the bedside table on Other Harry’s side. Two thin silver bands with the words ’til death do us part’ engraved on the inside. That spot in Harry’s heart hurts at this love, again.

The landing gives him no clues, and he goes through the spare bedrooms, the study, the library and the kitchen. He heads down to the cellar from there and doesn’t find the cubbyhole where Kreacher used to sleep, assuming either Kreacher doesn’t exist in this world, has passed away or agreed to go to Hogwarts full-time. Somehow it’s easier to believe Kreacher simply doesn’t exist in this scenario.

Luckily, he is back upstairs when the Floo flares to life with a loud whoosh. Harry goes back to the bedroom as quickly as he can without making a sound and wraps the Cloak back around himself. After he does so safely, he focuses on the voices.

“… you’d think you’re a bloody Auror with the amount of dangerous things that happen to you at work,” he hears Draco say.

Harry’s heart threatens to spill out of his parted lips.

“Doesn’t feel much different, let me tell you.”

Other Harry’s voice is raspy, but he sounds better than Harry’s panic was already imagining.

“Imagine! Getting called to come fetch you because of something like this! It’s ridiculous,” Draco continues.

“Stop, you prat,” says Other Harry. “We knew this would happen. I took every precaution. They just don’t know that.”

Harry hears their steps coming up the stairs, and tucks himself into a corner of the bedroom, under a big framed photograph of Teddy, between the wall and the bathroom door.

Other Harry continues, “You know, you could stay home with me? Bedrest and all that. Anything to stop you from spending any time with that dickhead coworker of yours.”

Draco snorts.

They’re stepping into the bedroom when Draco says, eyes fond and smile soft, “You really are an awful sharer.”

Other Harry grins. “That I am.”

Draco is still in the outfit he was wearing that morning, but Other Harry is wearing a large white tunic that stops just under the knees and looks ridiculous with his shin-high black socks and white trainers.

“Right,” Draco says. “Wait here and I’ll draw the bath.”

Draco looks around the room as if looking for something he’s lost. Harry wonders if he accidentally misplaced something.

Finally, Draco’s eyes land on the armchair Harry has claimed as his bed. “Don’t sit on anything, just in case.”

Soon enough, the bath is full of water, steam curling above it, perfumed with lush florals and fresh citrus. “You can get in,” Draco announces.

And that’s when Harry first sees Other Harry fully naked, noticing a few scars on his torso he doesn’t recognise, and a few new tattoos that make him smile. Other Harry climbs into the bath and sighs, contentedly.

“I’m going to grab you a drink and put the pie in the oven. Can I get you anything else? Do you want me to read to you?”

Harry thinks he’d quite like to be read to in the bath.

“Wine?” Other Harry asks.

“Sure.”

“Then just you, please. No book needed.”

Other Harry summons a small dark wooden side table from the corner of the bathroom and levitates it down gently until it’s right by the bath. Draco comes back up the stairs, two glasses of white wine levitating in front of him and a bowl of strawberries in his hand.

Draco sets the glasses on the edge of the bath and bowl on the table and starts stripping carefully. Harry feels like maybe this moment is too much — not only seeing Draco Malfoy naked without him knowing, but this intimate moment between Draco and the Other Harry.

Because while blood does flow south at the eyeful that is a fully naked Draco Malfoy, Harry’s pulse quickens at the soft gazes between the two men in the bath. The way they look at each other, full of affection, hands linking between them.

It’s almost too much.

Draco and Harry are gentle kisses and soft touches for the rest of the day, hushed whispers between them, faces nuzzling into necks and hair, hands cradling faces.

It really is almost too much.

At night, Harry watches them get into bed and curl into each other again, Draco on Other Harry’s chest first, asking Other Harry questions that he only gets nods for. Once more, Harry gets that weird feeling that this peace they share somehow extends to him, that the safety Other Harry must feel with Draco’s arms around him, his hands gently carding through his hair, can be a little his, too. They twist and turn around each other, never not touching and Harry falls asleep again to the calming sounds of their breathing.

He sleeps the whole night through and, even though he wakes with a jolt as what he now recognises as Draco’s alarm goes off, he did remember to bring a pillow with him and his neck isn’t as ruined as it was the night before. He wonders if it’s time and dimension hopping that is so tiring, or if it’s just the conflicting feelings he now has about Draco Malfoy.

Either way, he moves carefully and quietly under the Cloak, pulling his shoes from where he’s stuffed them in the sides of the chair and sliding his feet into them. He sits back on his armchair, knees pulled to the chest, chin propped on them, and he watches. It’s impossible not to, at this stage.

Harry doesn’t feel guilt about it — he knows he’s not learning anything about his future that he shouldn’t. In his world, there isn’t any chance that he’d ever call Draco Malfoy “babe” and even less chance that Draco Malfoy would call him ‘love’ and ‘sweetheart’ like he does here. His eyes roam over the two shapes under the duvet, unable to figure out where one ends and the other starts.

Other Harry is… well, soft, for lack of a better word. Harry would be lying if he didn’t admit how much he likes watching them together. Harry isn’t like that. He has never been like that. Draco Malfoy makes Other Harry soft.

It’s hard to stop watching. Harry has fully claimed the armchair in the corner, he has claimed the reading nook by the window in the living room, he has claimed the corner by the cat bowl in the kitchen. These are the places where he sits and watches them. It’s where he watches them in the morning. It’s where he gets acquainted with the ways Other Harry and Draco interact.

Other Harry is as tactile as Harry himself. He’s always reaching for Draco’s hand, or running a hand through his hair, linking their legs together when they sit on the sofa. Draco is gentle with Other Harry. Gentle in his words, gentle in his actions. Like the way he’d washed Other Harry’s hair the night before, or how he works around Other Harry in the kitchen. Draco is full of gentle, genuine praise for Other Harry and Harry can feel his own heart swell at the words, even if they’re not for him. Even if it aches knowing no one loves him quite like that.

Despite the alarm, they wake up slowly today. Other Harry curls around Draco, bearded face nuzzling against Draco’s pale neck, against his face, subtle quiet whines leaving both their throats, loud sleepy exhales leaving their mouths in unison. Draco turns to Other Harry, and their lips find each other. It’s not a heated kiss. It’s nothing like all of Harry’s latest kisses, the men and women he picks up in clubs sometimes, the ones he brings home from Ministry events — there are no emotions beyond lust, then. Harry doesn’t actually know if he has kissed the way Draco and Other Harry are kissing. Slow, soft, gentle.

Their bodies mould against each other under the covers and Harry finds himself wanting more. He wants to see how they fit against each other. He watches Other Harry snake his hand under the duvet and pull Draco closer. Draco moves but Harry can’t tell what he’s doing, until Draco breaks away from the kiss and asks, quiet and sleep-lovely, “Yeah?”

At Other Harry’s breathless, “Yeah,” Harry realises he’s in for more than he bargained for.

There is no rushing, though. The kisses get deeper, dirtier even, but never quick and desperate, the way Harry is used to. Harry is entranced, ashamed and completely and utterly ruined by the fact he can’t look away, not even when his cock (wilfully ignoring Harry’s inner turmoil) finally comes to life when Other Harry throws a leg over Draco’s body and bends down to kiss him, again.

It’s not until Draco switches them around so he’s on top, kicking the duvet onto the floor as he does, that Harry is way too uncomfortable not to move from his half bent position. Carefully, (not that the couple on the bed would notice, the way they’re engrossed in each other) Harry slides the Cloak down until the edge touches the floor, and places his feet right behind the curtain of sparkling fabric.

He’d seen them both naked the day before, but this is so much different. Right in that moment, this is everything Harry has ever wanted. Draco is, in bed, the same he is with Other Harry in every other way. Gentle, full of praise. His hand grabs a hip — firmly, but his thumb never stops rubbing the skin under, he runs his hand through Other Harry’s hair — passionately, but he bends down to press a kiss to his temple as he does.

If Harry feels a little dizzy at how hypnotised he feels, at how all all the blood leaves his head and travels south, towards both heart and crotch.

Other Harry is pliant under Draco’s ministrations, and Harry struggles not to loudly let the air in his lungs go all at once when Draco flips him around in bed so he’s on his stomach, still sat above him, thighs over Other Harry’s own.

With Other Harry flat on his front like this and Draco sitting above him, Harry can see Draco in all his glory and his stomach flips with want.

“You know he—“

“Just fucking get on with it, Draco, please.”

Harry didn’t know his voice could sound like that. In fact, he is pretty sure his voice can’t sound like that.

Draco bends over Other Harry, lips to the shell of his ear, and asks, softly, “Are you sure, sweetheart?” but Other Harry only nods.

“Can you do the spells?” Draco asks then, and Harry wonders exactly what it means until the distinct scent of a cleaning spell hits his nostrils.

A pillow is grabbed from the head of the bed, and slid right under Other Harry’s crotch so his hips are lifted slightly. And that’s when Draco moves down his body and lowers his mouth between Other Harry’s cheeks. That’s also when Harry makes a very undignified and unadvised squeak and Other Harry lifts his head towards the armchair. He only looks for a second or two, head falling forwards again due to Draco’s attention, but those two seconds are enough for Harry to feel like he was not seen through, like he knew Harry was there. Their eyes had locked.

The thought doesn’t last long. Other Harry is whining, Harry is trying not to. Draco’s gorgeous, long, pale fingers are dipping into Other Harry, Harry’s breath is coming out in quiet pants that shake his whole chest.

When Draco finally slides into Other Harry with slow, short thrusts, Harry’s vision blurs with want. It’s all too much and he has to bite on his knuckles to stop himself from joining Other Harry in his moaning.

Harry never wants it to stop. Despite his guilt, despite the fact he desperately wants to whip his cock out and wank to the scene before him and just can’t bring himself to, Harry never wants this to end.

He is lost in the way Other Harry’s back arches, and his hands grasp for the bedsheet under him, the way Draco whispers praise to him, and his hands run over Other Harry’s side reverently. Draco pulls Harry up by the hips until he’s on his hands and knees and Harry feels the urge to grab Other Harry’s hands. To close the distance between them and just hold his hands down while Draco fucks into him, hips stuttering, eyelids fluttering in pleasure. He very nearly does, when Other Harry looks up like he’d done earlier and his eyes stop exactly where Harry is, even though Harry knows the Cloak can’t fail.

Harry’s cock is so hard it hurts and if he makes a desperate sound of need of his own when his Other Self comes, panting and whining through it, it gets lost in the noise of the room. Harry’s chest aches with the intensity of the affection they share after, bodies flopping back into the mattress.

Draco’s fingers trace Other Harry’s spine, making him squirm and giggle, softly. Other Harry waves a hand gently over his own body and Draco’s but it’s only when Draco says a quiet “thank you” that Harry realises it must have been a Cleaning Spell.

Other Harry turns on his side slowly, tucks his head under Draco’s chin. Harry can’t help but notice the fingermarks on his hips, wondering if they’ll turn to bruises the next day. A sunbeam pokes through the curtains, muted by the gauzy fabric but glowing on the two sweat-shiny bodies on the bed. Draco’s hair gleams in the light.

As if involuntarily, Harry’s eyes shut. His heart swells and his head swims. His body is stuck between lust and shame and guilt and want. He takes this time to calm his breath, and sits with the overwhelming feelings storming his chest.

He opens his eyes back up to Draco holding both of Other Harry’s hands to his face, slowly placing a kiss on each of his fingers, pinky to thumb on the left and thumb to pinky on the right. Harry thinks he is blushing, but doesn’t dare brings his hands to his face to check the heat on his cheeks.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Other Harry asks against Draco’s lips, once he lets go of his hands.

“I’ve already missed the whole afternoon yesterday. You can’t expect me to stay at home when you’re not even ill,” Draco says.

“Oh, but they don’t know that. I got sent home yesterday,” Other Harry grins, “I could be terribly unwell.”

“Behave yourself, Potter.”

Harry chokes a little, stifles a cough. Draco sounds like his Malfoy, the one back in his world, the one that Harry knows. Sounds so much like him that Harry wants to bolt from that chair and leave the room, heart beating so loud he’s convinced everyone in the room can hear it.

Other Harry doesn’t react to the use of his last name with anything other than a smile.

“Five more minutes, then?” He asks, simply.

“Five more minutes,” Draco agrees.

And they kiss, naked bodies pressed together, hands resting comfortably on hips, and shoulders, on the crook of the other’s elbow, or knee. Their lips follow the shape of the other’s own, and Harry wonders what it’s like to know another body as if it’s your own.

After, Harry watches Draco get ready. He leaves Other Harry in bed and walks to the bathroom across the landing, emerging five minutes later, coiffed and perfumed — but not wearing the Healer nor the Unspeakable robes. Harry decides this is the mystery he must solve today.

Draco Malfoy is objectively beautiful. Harry can’t say he has ever considered it before, but he can’t deny it now. Not after what he’s seen.

Other Harry leaves the house shortly after Draco, and Harry rushes into the bathroom for a shower (and if he indulges in a ridiculously short wank, he can’t bring himself up to feel much guilt after his earlier actions) and down to the kitchen to eat.

He barely has time to clean up his bowl of cereal and the honey and butter-splattered plate when Other Harry is back, covering the table in fresh fruit and veg. Harry moves away from the sink and back to the corner, wishing he could pet Petrol’s soft fur when she meows at him. He’s always been convinced cats can see through the bloody thing, ever since his very first encounter with Mrs. Norris.

Other Harry is chopping onions and Harry decides to get closer, walking around the table quietly and standing at the edge of the table opposite the counter Other Harry is working on.

Other Harry has a busy mise en place going on — something Harry is trying very hard to get better at.

Maybe there’s hope for me, he thinks.

A couple of cloves of garlic follow the onions and then Other Harry is looking around the kitchen, eyes stopping on Harry. Harry knows he can’t see him, but it still makes him feel antsy. Odd. Watched. Just like earlier.

Then Other Harry takes a few steps closer, and pulls a chair out, as if to sit on. But he doesn’t. He just leaves the chair there, almost like he’s offered it for Harry to sit on, and turns back to his lunch prep.

Harry doesn’t sit, but his heart is beating wildly in his chest as he watches Other Harry.

Then Other Harry starts talking.

“Well, uh… Jesus. I’ve wondered for seven fucking years how awkward this would be. Told myself when I got to it I’d know how to do it and just get on with it, but this is actually excruciating.”

He’s still facing the pot on the hob, pouring a generous glug of olive oil into it.

He looks back over his shoulder and right through Harry, making him tense up.

“You still haven’t sat down, have you? Stubborn bastard.”

Harry doesn’t reply. Because — well, what would he say to that? For all he knows, he got hit with a weird curse and is actually lying in St. Mungo’s stuck in a bizarre dream. Other Harry is probably not talking to him and this just happens to be an insane coincidence. Harry doesn’t reply, but after a few minutes of watching Other Harry stir the onions in the pan, he sits.

He tries to distract himself from this weird situation by trying to decipher what’s for lunch solely by the ingredients on the counter, but the collection leaves him stumped. Maybe Other Harry has yet to bring a crucial ingredient out of the fridge.

“Right,” Other Harry starts again, wooden spoon waving in the air as he speaks. “This is awkward as fuck, but we both need it. You hate your life, and I love my life, and the only way for you to stop hating your life and to get from where you are to where I am is through me saying this and you hearing it.” He stops stirring, and wipes his hands on the checkered apron on his front, before his left hand dives into his pocket and brings out a very old, folded many times over, piece of paper. “Merlin, this is dumb.”

He takes the pot off the heat, leaves the spoon in it, and wipes his hands on the tea towel over his shoulder, again. He flattens the piece of paper down on the counter numerous times, but it always folds back over slightly every time his hands leave the worn-yellow surface.

“Harry,” he says, and Harry startles and sits very still. “I know what you’re thinking right now. I do, because I was in your position not long ago. Believe it or not, you’re not in a different universe, or timeline, or dimension. Whatever you’ve been trying to convince yourself you’re in is wrong. You can keep giving yourself all kinds of arguments as to why this can’t be real, but all you are is a good few years into the future.”

Other Harry’s hands shake in front of him and he runs his right one through his hair. “Okay, that’s good,” Other Harry says to himself, and turns to the page on the counter again, picking it up and bringing it closer to the hob where he resumes his cooking.

Harry focuses on the room around him, to stave off the panic building inside his chest: the white tiles of the backsplash, the fruit bowl on the counter, the plant on top of the fridge. All the cast iron pots and pans on the shelf above, the wood of the table.

“Are you panicking now? I can’t remember anymore. Christ, don’t panic. This is good. Everything is going to be okay, okay? Breathe. Breathe, Harry.”

Harry does. He doesn’t care if this is weird as hell, he does. And he knows Other Harry can hear it, there’s no way he can’t but Harry can’t stop himself from hyperventilating, because it’s real. It’s all real. Other Harry is… Harry, and apparently, he has a lot to say.

“I hope you’re breathing. Listen carefully, okay? This sounds ridiculous but I want you to remember so I’ll say it first: lean on Narcissa. She is going to be your biggest supporter.”

Narcissa Malfoy? Harry sucks in a harsh breath. He remembers the last time he saw Narcissa Malfoy, crying into a handkerchief trimmed with dainty lace, as the Ministry delivered her house arrest sentence.

“While on the subject of leaning on people. Talk to Ron and Hermione. Stop saying no to dinners and drinks. Go Muggle, if you need to avoid the press. Stop closing yourself off to the world just because you don’t think you’re worthy. Trust your friends. They need you just as much.”

He’s tempted to reply, to explain that it isn’t that simple, but he realises there’s no point. This Other Harry is him. He knows.

“Now, we need to talk food. Food goes a long way when it comes to Draco. Chocolate. Aplenty. And tea. Good tea, loose leaf. Learn how to make a London Fog. Also, learn how to make Molly’s mocha. Buy peppermint syrup for it, too. I know none of this makes sense, but let yourself enjoy food, too. Don’t be afraid to try new things. It’s probably best you let Draco guide you when you’re unsure. He is fussy but has very good taste.”

“Oranges need to be peeled and all the pith needs to be removed. Don’t use a spell. He likes the smell on your hands. Nectarines and peaches stain. Be careful. And learn stain removal charms for when you can’t be careful. Learn the spell to cut the tops of strawberries off with the little zigzag shape, too.”

“Fruit tarts and soup are going to become the foundations of your diet. It’s really not as bad as it sounds.”

Harry’s mind spins with all this new information.

“I’m not here to tell you what your future is going to be like. I’m not here to tell you what you’re doing wrong. Life hasn’t been what you’d call ordinary for m— for you. For us. But you have to let yourself live, Harry. You have worked so hard, your entire life, and you won’t let yourself rest. Give yourself time.”

Other Harry turns back to the pan and adds the bay leaf, a shot of port and a dash of Worcestershire sauce. Harry still has no idea what dinner he's making, but he inhales deeply, letting the fragrant scent calm him.

“Believe it or not, this is just as awkward for me as it is for you,” he says, still stirring, with a glance at his list on the counter.

“Ah. Right,” he starts. “Look, you’re gonna fuck up on the Northern Lights trip. In fact, you’re going to fuck up a lot. He really is still Draco Malfoy. You’ll clash and argue and you’ll make up just as fiercely. It’s going to be particularly bad on that trip. He’s been waiting for it all his life. Not much you can do about it. Just fix it, right after. You’ll know how.

“He will stand by you, always. I know you don’t believe me now, but he will. Make an effort with his friends, too. Right now, where you are, he’s hiding himself just as much as you are. And Parkinson is really not bad once you get to know her.

“If you’re ever in a pickle, a can of cherry coke and a bunch of sunflowers will help.

“Brush up on your Astronomy. You’ll go star gazing. A lot. And when it comes to star gazing and the many other outings he will drag you to, pack an extra jumper. Fleece-y. The thick kind. He is always cold, but refuses it to admit it.

“You have a lot to learn about Grimmauld Place. You can start now. Read about the Black Family history, find the books in the attic. In fact, anything you can find about magical houses will help the renovation job. Draco will still guide you through it. Don’t question him. Trust me, just let him do his thing. You’ll be grateful for it, in the end.

“Now, I know this has been your main question and I know you want an answer, and you’re not going to like that I’m not giving you a clear one. You need to hear it anyway. The job change? Go with it. Don’t force it. Things will change, and you’ll be lost and confused, but you’ll be happier after.”

Harry’s hands shake, his head aches and his heart is still attempting to escape his chest. There are rules. Everyone knows you’re not meant to know what your future is like.

“Harry. I know what you’re thinking, remember? Let it happen. Your life is no longer controlled by prophecy. Allow yourself happiness. This is all you need to know. And.” He pauses, then, still stirring, and lets out a long breath. “Trust him, okay? I know you don’t want to hear this, but find him, and trust him. Me — you, us. With him? This is the happiest we’ve ever been.”

Harry doesn’t bother being careful or silent as he gets up from his chair and leaves the kitchen in a daze, not knowing what to do with himself. He sits, staring at the photograph-covered wall, eyes jumping from familiar smiling face to familiar smiling face, processing all he’s learned. He hears Draco get home and wonders just how long he’s been sitting there.

“Did you—?” Draco asks, in the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice flat.

“How did it go? How do you feel?”

Other Harry mumbles an answer Harry can’t catch from the other room. Then, “… I feel weird,” he says.

Harry very nearly laughs. Weird. That’s exactly how he feels, too. He wishes he’d stayed. He wishes he could see them right now, the way Draco is no doubt holding Harry tight, or cradling his face, or caressing his hair.

Petrol jumps up onto him, curling up on his lap. Harry has no idea what the next few years will bring him, despite knowing it somehow ends here, but his chest warms up at the idea of seeing Petrol again. “I’m looking forward to meeting you in the future,” he tells the cat, and pets her soft fur until she’s purring.

Harry barely has time to realise what is happening before he’s assaulted by the nausea and the disorientating feeling. When he finally realises what the pulling at his gut and the tingling on his fingers and toes means, he’s falling on his arse, already back in the dark old Grimmauld Place he knows, face to face with Hermione’s bright, worried eyes.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” he hears Ron say from somewhere behind him.

“Harry! Harry, are you okay?” Hermione asks, stretching a warm hand towards Harry and helping him back on his feet, pulling him into a hug.

He looks at her, and then turns to Ron who steps forward to hug him, too. Harry’s heart is still beating in his ears but his panic is subsiding as understanding slowly dawns on him that he’s just back home, where it all started.

“Where did you end up?” Hermione asks, frantic. “We didn’t know if you’d gone forward or backward, didn’t know what to do. We had to get the Unspeakables on it. God, we were so worried.”

“Forward,” he says, voice strained with disuse. “Future,” he says, part of him still unwilling to believe all of it was real.

He is sandwiched between Hermione and Ron in a tight hug and he sinks into it, the warmth of it, the love of it. His friends. His friends who, in a few years, will have a tiny little smiley toddler and another baby on the way. His friends who, if the photographs in the wall are anything to go by, if what Other Harry has said is true, not only accept but approve of and love Draco Malfoy. His friends he keeps pushing away, despite needing them more than ever.

Ron lets go, and Hermione is fussing with his hair and his clothes, and making sure he is, in fact, all in one piece, but Harry knows he’s fine. He knows what he has to do.

Hermione ushers him into the kitchen, and suddenly gasps, almost panicked, “I have to let the Ministry know. Ron, you warm up the soup and make sure Harry eats! I’ll be right back.”

Harry doesn’t want soup, though.

“Ron, can you find me a pen?” he says. Ron looks confused but dashes out of the kitchen for a pen, as Harry tries to find a piece of paper and fails the first two tries, going, stupidly, for the wrong cupboard at first and realising he is confused about his own kitchen layout.

He looks at his dirty old kitchen with new eyes, now. He sees possibility. He sees a world in which Draco Malfoy smiles at him as if the sun rises and lies with Harry, a world in which he makes dinners with the Wireless on.

He can’t find a blank piece of paper but does find a French Onion Soup recipe Luna gave him months ago and he’s never even tried, that happens to have a blank back. Harry smiles fondly after a quick glance at the ingredients: onions, garlic, bay leaf, Port, Worcestershire sauce.

He’s sitting down to write when Ron comes back, passing him a quill and sitting across from him, a confused look on his face.

“Mate, are you sure you’re okay?" He asks, but Harry is okay.

He is. He just knows he can’t forget. He can’t let himself forget.

“Yeah,” he says, and stops himself, watching Hermione walk back into the room, face still just as worried as when she left.

He is unsure about how much he should tell Ron and Hermione about the future, so he settles for a, “There’s something I have to make sure I write down. I promise I’ll answer your questions and eat your soup, after.”

He starts at the top.

Narcissa.

Hermione. Ron. Friends.

Food. Chocolate. Tea (Loose leaf). Mocha with peppermint syrup. Fruit. Tarts. Soup.

Northern Lights trip. (Fix it).

Stargazing.

Cherry coke.

Trust him.

Find him. And trust him.

Then, at that thought, his quill stops as his breath catches, a big blot of ink forming at the end of his last sentence.

Finally, he looks up at his friends.

“I— err, do either of you know where I can find Draco Malfoy?”