Chapter Text
During the two weeks after Draco vacates Harry's body to resettle into his own, he is prodded, poked, probed, and—one time—pushed by Unspeakables, Ministry forensics techs, and Hermione Granger in equal measure. Diagnostics are run, tests are performed, and by the end of it, no one is any wiser as to why, exactly, the swap happened in the first place.
"I just don't get it," Granger says as she stares down at a tabletop filled with notes, her hair tangled about her fingers as she pushes it back from her face. "I mean, I can understand the interaction from the Mopsus—your instincts were spot-on with that one, Malfoy, honestly—but why would it respond in exactly that way? Even if William used one of the more devastating curses, I don't understand why the potions wouldn't have just healed you."
"That's the wonderful thing about magic, Granger," he says as he leans back into his chair. "It doesn't always make sense."
The aftermath of all of it makes as little sense to Draco as the actual swap. After the poking and prodding is over, Draco goes back to his day-to-day at the store and tries to pretend like nothing has changed. He finishes the pointless Polyjuice, which at least keeps his hands busy, and sells it and other potions in the front, and when he goes back to his flat in Covent Garden in the evenings, he does his best to not miss those few days with Harry too close and too familiar, his skin as comfortable as Draco's own.
Draco shouldn't miss being in Harry's skin, or the way Potter’s dark hair curled just past the edge of Draco’s vision. He shouldn't be pushing up a pair of glasses that aren't there, ones that he only just started to become comfortable wearing. And he shouldn't long for the shape of Harry's body beneath his clothes, or the way it moved when Draco was the one guiding it. It's too familiar, too fresh, and it only adds to the pain of not hearing from the bastard since that kiss in the hospital.
And that kiss… Draco tries to ration his reminiscence. Only once or twice a day, at most, does he allow himself to linger in the memory, but it sneaks up on him. He'll be waiting for a cauldron to boil, and the steam rising from it will recall Harry's breath against Draco's lips. Or he'll be decanting potions into bottles, and the green glass will remind him of eyes in the dim light of a hospital room. Sometimes, when he's restocking the loose ingredients, he'll take in a deep breath of cedar and sandalwood, and all he can remember is the smell of Harry's cologne and the way it clung to Draco's clothes after, even though they'd only touched for a few, agonising, glorious seconds.
Draco pushes one last bottle onto the shelf, finally done with the restocking. He's doing it because it's absolutely necessary and not just a way to keep his hands busy, or at least that's the lie he's comfortable telling himself. It's late. The store's been closed for hours, but Draco needed to finish putting out his new line of healing potions, and the loose ingredients needed to be resorted, and sometimes, when Draco is feeling fanciful or morose, he just wants to stay in this place, where he feels like he's safe to be himself, where he belongs. And tonight, he's feeling more than a bit morose.
A full month after everything, and he hasn't heard a word from Potter. No owl, no Floo call, not even a note stuck under the door of the shop. It's not like Harry doesn't know where Draco is, for Salazar's sake. The store hasn't moved. Its open hours are the same as they were before. Draco hasn't suddenly quit potioneering to become a jazz musician in a Muggle cafe in Peckham. He's right here, and there's been no word.
Of course, Draco hasn't exactly reached out either. Something about that kiss has made him more of a coward than he already knows himself to be. There's a pile of crumpled up parchment in his study to attest to that, a hundred different versions of "Hello, Harry. I'd really like to kiss you again (maybe for forever). Please contact me as soon as possible so we can get on with it already. We're not getting any younger, and I’m starting to feel a bit desperate." left in his waste paper basket.
It's juvenile, this inability to go after what he wants, when he wants it because he might fail, but it is, at his core, part of who Draco Malfoy is. And as far as Harry Potter is concerned, Draco is unlikely to make the first move. After all, wanting Harry Potter has been a habit of his since before they graduated from Hogwarts. But Harry Potter wanting him back?
The idea is unbelievable.
Draco refuses to pine, no matter how good it feels to sit in the ache of it all. He can move past this, can appreciate the bright moment of his life when he learned the feel of Harry’s mouth against his, the tangle of his hair around Draco’s fingers, the desperate press of Harry’s hand against the pulse racing at Draco’s throat.
It’ll have to be enough for him to get through.
He’s about to walk into the backroom when there’s a tentative knock on the door. The glass rattles in the frame, and Draco considers ignoring it for a moment. But then the knocking increases in its insistency, and with a sigh, he turns around.
It is, of course, Harry. He waves tentatively, his head ducked as he looks past the logo on the front door. The street lights outside cast his skin in a golden glow, his hair artfully tousled and hanging just over his eyes, his grin both charming and sheepish. Draco holds up two fingers and turns to go into the backroom.
"Hey, Malfoy!" Harry's banging on the door is frantic. "Draco! Let me in, you prat!"
"I'm the prat?" Draco turns around storms to the front door. "I'm the prat?"
"Yes! Now, let me in before we make a spectacle of ourselves."
Draco unlocks the door and flings it open, scowling as Potter laughs on his doorstep.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." Harry pushes his way inside and forces the door shut behind him, locking it before crowding into Draco's space. "Hi."
Draco puts on his shopkeeper's voice, straightening his shoulders as he does. "Good evening, Auror Potter. How can I help you this evening?"
"There are a few things I could think of."
"Of course. Might I offer you a Calming Draught or an Oblivious Unction?"
"No?" Harry frowns. "Why would I need those?"
"Because either you've lost your mind and need something to soothe your damaged psyche, or I'm going to kill you with my mind, in which case the other potion will be necessary."
"Draco, honestly." Harry reaches for Draco's hand, grabbing it before Draco can pull it away. Harry presses his thumb to the ridge of Draco's knuckles, dragging it across the bones and leaving a trail of fire in his wake. "I would've called sooner, but Mysteries had me under quarantine."
"What?"
"Yeah, it's been… interesting, to say the least."
"They didn't… I wasn't…"
Harry flushes, dropping his head as his thumb keeps moving across Draco's skin. "I might have told them to leave you out of it. You didn't need any more trouble because of me."
"You didn't have to… Why did you?" Draco swallows. "Why didn't you owl?"
Harry looks up through his lashes, that sheepish smile back in place. "What I wanted to say to you? It needed to be said in person."
Draco swallows again, throat tight. "Say what you need to say, Potter. I've a shop to close up."
"Right. Here goes." Harry takes a deep breath, then continues. "I'd like to say thank you. For stepping in front of that curse and for saving my life again, whether you meant to or not for either event. I think I'd be dead twice over if it weren't for you, and I don't know that I told you that the last time I saw you."
"You didn't, no."
"And," he continues, "I wanted to thank you for keeping our… situation a secret as long as you could. There are other people who might've taken advantage of being the Boy Who Lived all of a sudden, but you didn't do anything other than try to get us back where we belonged. That was rather upstanding of you. And"—he laughs quietly—"for not being too much of an arse to Ron, though I'm sure he deserved it some of the time. And, finally, I wanted to ask you… If you don't have any plans this Friday, I'd like to take you to dinner."
Draco nearly laughs. "You what?"
"Dinner. It's a meal traditionally eaten in the evening. I would like you to join me for it, preferably at a restaurant so I don't scare you off with my cooking."
"I know what dinner is." Draco twists his hand so that his palm presses against Harry's. "But you want to have it with me."
"Yes. I did say it was a date." Harry smiles, the edges of his eyes wrinkling with it. "I was thinking Indian."
Pulling his hand back far enough so that he can tangle his fingers with Harry's, Draco can't stop the grin from spreading across his face. "Indian sounds lovely."
"Good." Harry takes another step closer. "One other thing. I'd like to kiss you. Again."
"Oh. That's rather forward of you."
"I think you like it."
"Perhaps."
Harry's mouth is curving up when it presses against Draco's, and for a brief second, Draco thinks he can taste the laughter on Potter's lips. But then he's overwhelmed by heat, and his hand tangled with Harry's tightens almost to the point of pain until Harry takes a final step closer, slides his hand free, and buries it in Draco's hair, holding him close.
Harry feasts on Draco's mouth, and Draco lets himself be devoured. His hand rests at the dip of Harry's waist. Draco knows what that expanse of muscle and skin feels like, knows how sensitive it is from experience, and when he slips his hand through the open front of Harry's robes and under his shirt so that Draco can touch bare skin, Harry groans into Draco's mouth. The star-shaped scar is barely perceptible beneath Draco's touch. He scrapes his fingers over it and the muscled curve of Harry's side and hip, pulling him close enough that Draco can feel the quickly hardening line of Harry's cock pressed against Draco's own.
"Who's being forward now?" Harry asks, sliding his lips to the hinge of Draco's jaw, then the cords of his neck. He nips there, then soothes the ache when Draco lets out a shocked gasp.
"If you'd like me to stop"—Draco tilts his head to the side, eyes sliding shut as Harry takes the lobe of Draco's ear between his teeth—"I can oblige."
"I'll hex you if you even think about it."
Harry kisses Draco again and again and again. Soft, gentle touches as delicate as an errant summer breeze, followed by deep, bruising caresses that Draco can feel to the tips of his toes. He can't decide what part of Harry's body he wants to touch most, so Draco lets his hands roam all of it. Across Harry's back, his chest, his neck. Fingers twining with hair and clothes, slipping beneath hems and waistbands, pulling Harry closer, closer, closer, so that Draco can remember the feel of Harry's body when it moves and learn the weight of it beneath Draco's touch.
He loses track of time, his entire being subsumed by the sensation of Harry pressed against him and the glancing brush of lips against lips. Harry's hand on Draco's cheek is soft and tender, and it makes something bloom in Draco's stomach, a green, growing thing that makes him ache for early mornings in bed and cups of tea in the afternoon and quiet evenings spent in each other's company. It's more than physical, and he wants it so much he thinks he might choke on it, tasting grass on the back of his tongue.
When Harry pulls away, Draco knows it will be written across his face, the way he yearns for this, for more. But instead of ridicule or mocking scorn, all Draco sees in Harry's eyes is the same desire, reflected back.
"Fuck Friday," Harry says softly. "Let me take you to dinner tonight."
Draco doesn't know why he says, "I've got plans," but Harry's barking laugh likely counts for at least ninety-five percent of his motivation.
Harry kisses him again. "Break them. Come have dinner with me, Draco. Please."
"Fine," Draco says with feigned indignation. "If you're going to make a fuss about it."
Walking side by side with Harry Potter down the center of Horizont Alley, its street lights banked for the evening and their footsteps echoing down the empty street, Draco has to admit this isn't where he thought his life would lead him. But with the heat of Harry against his side and the way their arms brush as they head towards Muggle London and Draco's favourite Indian place, Draco can't help but think this is yet another thing he doesn't deserve. But as he's done with all the others, he's going to hold onto it with both hands and refuse to let go. Lacing his fingers through Potter's is just the first step.
He'll see where all the others lead them.