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Chapter Text

Harry looks up at the dark sky and sighs.

No stars in London tonight. The city is simply too bright.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Luna says kindly, her warm hand rubbing his elbow in a gesture that is meant to be soothing. Harry tries not to flinch and slowly takes a step away with a shudder. He doesn’t like being touched, but he never knows how to tell people, how to make them understand that it’s not something personal. It just makes his skin crawl sometimes. “You’re still going to see that comet.”

“’S fine,” Harry mumbles, kicking a stone and nearly breaking one of Luna’s windows in the process. “I’m going to go home. I have to wake up early for work tomorrow.”

“Another raid?” Hermione asks with a little frown. She’s growing worried, and Harry can tell he’s soon due a bollocking session on the importance of looking after his mental health and blah blah blah—but he’s tired, and he’s stressed, and all he wants to do is feel like he is doing something different for one evening. Something meaningful. 

Bloody comet…

“I have a meeting with Robards first thing. Ron’s supposed to be there, too,” Harry replies, then drains his coke and waves at them. “I’ll see you next weekend.”

“Is Harry leaving already?” he hears Ginny ask as he steps inside Luna’s house and heads for the Floo. He stops in his tracks and decides to Apparate instead. Maybe a little walk is what he needs to release some of the nervous energy that is threatening to make his magic go haywire again. Maybe all he needs is some fresh air, although it’s highly unlikely he’s going to get any on an early summer’s evening in London.

He Apparates to a little street next to the park and starts walking. There are people gathered on the benches, staring at the sky and drinking beer from dark bottles. 

Muggles and Wixen alike are in a frenzy about the comet that is supposed to appear tonight, but Harry’s exhausted. He’s been up since five, partly because his brain decided that it was done resting and it was time to start worrying about everything instead. 

Harry groans, trying to ease the prickling feeling on his skin, to stop his palms from sweating at the thought of another difficult night. He considers taking some Dreamless Sleep, when someone yelps and a chorus of excited cheers makes him tilt his head up and look at the sky.

He sees it straight away, the white trail of the comet so bright despite the lights of all the buildings surrounding him.

Harry feels a lump in his throat as he stops and stares at the moonless sky.

Is he supposed to make a wish or a prayer?

The group of people on the benches starts to laugh loudly and cheer as they drink, but Harry can’t pry his eyes from the sky.

He checks that no one is looking his way and then he takes his wand and points it at the bright comet in the sky.

He wishes to feel whole again.

To feel happy and not so bloody lonely all the time.

He wishes for a new life.

❧ 🌵 ❧

  Draco groans, his head heavy as he blinks awake in the dark room. His brain is full of cotton wool, his mouth dry with a vague peppery taste on his tongue, exactly like it did when he used to take Dreamless Sleep. He didn’t take any last night, though, so he doesn’t know why he feels so shit. He stretches his body with his eyes still shut and finds the pillow pleasantly cool.

Maybe a nice wank is what he needs to feel human again, he muses.

He doesn’t remember wearing clothes to bed yesterday, but he went to sleep late and had a tumbler of limoncello after dinner, so he just puts it down to being tipsy and groans as he moves on the cool bed sheets. 

He lets his fingers travel down his body, slowly, because he has nothing pressing to do this morning, so he can take his time. Salazar, he loves a leisurely wank on Sunday morning. His lips part, and he inhales when his fingers slip under the elastic band of his underwear. He doesn’t remember wearing boxer briefs yesterday, but he couldn’t care less, not when his cock is getting harder as his brain provides images of naked bodies lost in the throes of passion. Hard nipples, soft lips, firm muscles and hard cocks. Draco conjures up some lube wandlessly and starts stroking himself. His addled brain notices that his cock is thicker than usual, but Draco whimpers as he imagines green eyes staring back at him from the floor. His pale fingers slide through thick curls as that luscious mouth wraps around his cock and sucks it for dear life.

“Hmmm,” Draco moans, speeding up his pace as he imagines the man on his knees whimpering around Draco’s cock. Draco pictures him naked and eager, fingering himself to get ready for Draco’s cock, green eyes never leaving his. “Fuck…”

He tips over the edge almost unexpectedly, coming harder than he has in a while, his body shaken by shudders as he spills over his hand and the sheets on a shaky gasp. It feels like his skin is sizzling from all the magic sparking to the surface, and Draco whimpers as he feels the waves of pleasure making white specks of light dance behind his closed eyelids.

Merlin, that was ridiculously nice…

He hums through the aftershock, his toes uncurling as he relaxes and rubs his face against the pillow. It smells different than usual, like apples and cinnamon. Strange.

Draco considers falling back asleep and spending the morning in bed, when a tap tap against the bedroom window startles him. He sits up in bed, wondering who on earth is owling him on a Sunday morning, when he freezes.

He definitely remembers closing the shutters last night, so why is the owl tapping against the glass?

His eyes adjust to the darkness, and he realises this is not his bed.

This is not his house.

Panic makes him open and close his mouth like a fish out of water as he grabs the wand from the bedside table and realises there are no shutters, so he magics the curtains open instead. A grey, faint light illuminates the room, revealing a pile of clothes on a chair, another messy mountain of clothes on the floor. There’s a cluttered mess on the chest of drawers, a mixture of photos and folders with documents, rolls of parchment sealed with the Ministry crest on them. 

Draco’s lungs constrict as he looks at the wand in his hand and realises with dread that it’s not his wand he’s holding.

Worse still, the one he’s staring at is not his fucking hand.   

“Fuck, shit, fuck,” he chants, pulling the blankets off his sweaty body and standing up to stare at hairy, muscular legs and dark skin. This is not his body. This is not his bloody body, and Draco must be stuck in a terrible nightmare.

“What the fuck?!” he cries out, realising that he’s shorter and he can’t see very well. He sports a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on the bedside table and takes them with trembling hands. When he finally finds the courage to put them on his nose, he can finally see the room with clarity.

“What in Merlin’s saggy balls is going on?” he asks out loud.

What if someone hexed him or spiked his potion? It could have been Madame Lefebvre – she was acting weird on Friday when she came to collect her order of fertility potions, lingering for too long in the bathroom when she excused herself. Draco’s potions cabinet is hidden by a Notice-Me-Not and locked with a strong spell, but he can’t be sure that the seemingly innocuous witch is not someone who is seeking revenge against him. Maybe Father killed one of her relatives, like it happened to that bloke who keeps on trying to send Howlers to Draco every Tuesday morning. 

Tap tap tap.

Draco notices the owl and shoos it away, but the bird seems to be so insistent that it might break the glass, so Draco opens the window with a frustrated huff and lets it fly inside. The owl offers its leg, and Draco thinks the message might contain a clue, so he opens it with shaking hands.

You could have at least said goodbye before leaving yesterday evening.

You missed my wedding proposal to Luna.

Wanker.

Gin

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Draco groans, throwing the letter on an already cluttered desk. 

His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. He takes a few steps towards the wardrobe, opening it to look for a mirror.

He gasps when green eyes and a mass of unruly curls greet him on the other side of the wooden door.

Potter.

He’s turned into Harry bloody Potter.

Of course, his life has to be a sodding mess. That fucking cow probably gave him some odd Polyjuice as a prank. Madame Lefebvre is in for a surprise in her next batch of potions, Draco thinks as anger bubbles inside him. No way he’s giving her a chance to reproduce, not with that evil temperament.

“Harry?” someone calls from downstairs, and Draco groans.

Okay, he needs to think. Calm down and think.

He’s been Polyjuiced to look like Harry Potter.

The potion is probably going to run out soon, and someone is going to think Draco did it on purpose to turn into the Saviour.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, feeling his palms starting to sweat as panic rises in his chest.

It slowly becomes clear to him that someone is trying to get him in trouble with the Aurors to make him pay for his past, despite the fact that Draco is already paying every single day of his life.

How in Circe’s name did they manage to make him travel to England? Maybe they Stunned him and used an illegal international Portkey, Draco thinks as he starts pacing around the room. Gods, Potter’s feet are small.

Draco pinches himself extremely hard just to double check this is not a dream and groans at the sharp pain on his arm. Well, at least he won’t bruise as easily with Potter’s dark complexion. He’s going to be blue and purple tomorrow morning, but that’s a problem for future Draco.

“Harry, are you there?”

That is if there’s going to be a future Draco...

He considers hiding under the bed, but then he hears footsteps quickly coming up the stairs and swears under his breath.

“Just a minute!” he calls, realising that he’s still covered in his own come. He casts a cleaning charm and then looks for clothes to put on.

“There you are,” someone says behind him, opening the door.

Draco turns, covering his underwear with the palm of his hand and pointing the wand at the intruder.

“Weasley?” he asks, dumbfounded, finding blue eyes and a freckled face staring back at him with evident surprise. Weasley’s wearing an Auror uniform, and Draco remembers reading that both he and Potter had joined the Forces after the war, back in the days when he still used to get the Prophet delivered to the remote corner of the globe he now calls home.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Weasley asks with a frown, taking a step towards him. He seems unperturbed by Draco’s raised wand, and swats it away with a nonplussed huff, as if Potter spends his days pointing his wand at his friends in moments of panic. “Robards is supremely pissed off. You’d better have a good reason why you’re two hours late for your meeting with him. I arrived ten minutes ago because Rosie’s got a tummy bug and my mum was under the weather herself, so we had to ask Hermione’s parents to look after her.”

Salazar, does Weasley ever shut up? 

“I regret to inform you that I am feeling rather indisposed,” Draco says with a loud sniff, improvising. Actually, that’s a pretty good idea, he tells himself. Yes, Weasley won’t be able to drag him to the Ministry if he pretends to be unwell. That will prevent his Polyjuice from running out in front of the whole Auror team, and Draco will be spared from a life sentence in Azkaban for breaking the strict conditions of his parole.

Weasley’s frown deepens, and he crosses the distance between them in three long strides - Merlin, his legs are bloody endless; how does Potter cope with being a shortie around a giant? – and he places a cool palm on Draco’s forehead.

“Sorry, I know you don’t like being touched,” Weasley apologises, shaking his head and looking extremely worried as he takes his hand back, “but you sound and look quite poorly. Did you eat something bad? ‘Mione told me that Luna’s dinner was a bit weird yesterday.”

“I think I might have the flu,” Draco replies, taking a step back and contemplating the constellation of freckles on Weasley’s face. He’s grown into a fine man in the years Draco has been abroad on his forced exile. Besides, Draco never receives any English press anymore. How was he supposed to know that Ron Weasley had become so fucking fit? He’s tall and definitely used to working out, but is still quite lean. Draco thinks Auror life definitely suits him.

“It’s probably burn out,” Weasley says, tilting his head and looking at him with something that resembles pity or concern. “You haven’t had a holiday in – what? Eight months? It was bound to happen.”

What a surprise, Potter is a workaholic, Draco thinks with a mental eye roll.  

“Indeed, I shall spend the rest of the day occupying myself with some light activities like reading and lounging on the sofa,” Draco says, hoping that will get Weasley to leave.

“Merlin, you do sound weird,” Weasley says, looking constipated as Draco shoos him out of this mess of a bedroom.

One thing is for sure, he will need to do some tidying up. There’s no way he’s spending the day hiding in this hellhole that Potter calls a house. Draco needs a plan, and he can’t think properly if he’s surrounded by mess.

They exit the bedroom, and Draco finds himself in a dark house that has definitely seen better days. He follows Weasley down the stairs, looking around curiously and finding the portraits of some familiar faces on the walls. By the time they enter the small room with brand-new sofas and a modern décor and Draco spots the tapestry on the wall, he knows exactly where he is.

Potter lives in the ancestral home of the Black Family.

Draco’s heard about it from Mother. She always described it as a magnificent house, splendidly decorated and deliciously decadent. It just looks like it’s decaying now, Draco thinks as his eyes wander around the room with a sense of dismay.

“I’ll be off then,” Weasley says, grabbing a handful of Floo powder from a pot next to the fireplace and making a mess of it on the floor. Great, more cleaning for Draco. As if he weren’t having a bad enough day as it is…

“Farewell, Ron,” he says, hoping not to see him again. Ever. 

“Godric’s saggy balls, you do sound strange. Did you catch some sort of dodgy bug that makes you talk like a posh wanker?” Weasley asks, looking extremely worried. Draco thinks he might need to convince the Gryffindor that he doesn’t need medical attention, otherwise Weasley might summon a bunch of Healers and Merlin knows what kind of fresh hell that would unleash.

“I’m fine,” he says in what he hopes comes off as a reassuring manner. “Nothing that a lovely cup of tea and some rest won’t cure. Now please, just bugger off and stop worrying.”

“That sounds more like the Harry I know,” Weasley huffs with a smile that illuminates his face. “I’ll speak to Robards and check on you later. Take care!”

Draco is about to tell him that he doesn’t need checking on, but Weasley’s already disappeared through the Floo, finally leaving Draco on his own.

Tea.

That’s definitely a start. 

Draco makes his way downstairs, still weary of the house and of the way the portraits look at him with distrust. He finds the kitchen and stops in his tracks when he opens the door. 

The room is cosy and warm, probably the only part of the house that feels like a home. There’s a long table, pots and pans left to dry and a pantry with all sorts of food under Stasis. Potter must like to eat, evidently. 

Draco rummages through the cupboards until he finds an old purple tin containing some Earl Grey tea bags. He inhales the familiar smell and lets out a little whimper.

Merlin, how he missed English tea. 

He nearly cries while the teabag brews – even if Potter, that barbarian, doesn’t appreciate the beauty of loose leaf – and then he hums in contentment when he finally pours a drop of milk and takes a sip.

“Fuck me, that’s divine,” he groans, feeling alive again.  

He threads his fingers through the mass of unruly curls on his head and falters when he realises they’re tremendously soft. Who would have thought, he muses, unravelling a dark curl on his forehead and watching it bounce back in fascination.

He stares at his other hand, wrapped around the mug, and notices a strange tattoo.

I must not tell lies.

Draco sighs, shaking his head.

How the fuck did he get himself in this situation? He’s been trying his best to toe the line for the past eight years. He has stuck to his tiny house in the middle of nowhere, made an honourable – if not meagre – living as a potions master. He set up his very legal business, never getting in contact with any of his old school friends nor his parents, as requested by the Wizengamot. He only has two years left, and then he’s free to finally visit his mother. 

But now…

Now he’s stuck in Potter’s house, in England, the last place on earth where Draco is supposed to set foot, looking like Harry Potter. 

What a sodding mess…

Draco’s stomach rumbles, so he summons some biscuits and finds himself nearly buried under an assortment of packets of all sorts of Muggle biscuits that fly out from the cupboards. He tries some chocolate ones and hums in appreciation before he decides that, sod it, his day has been shitty enough – he’s going to dunk the bloody biscuit in his cup of tea. He bets Potter does it all the time.

Where is he anyway? Where is the real Potter hidden?

Is he the one behind this plot?

Draco suspects that’s unlikely. Potter testified in his favour during his trial and was extremely pissed off when the Wizengamot decided to banish him for ten years without a chance of parole. He properly kicked off and blasted a few chairs to smithereens with a bout of stray magic, and Granger had to drag him away to get him to calm down. Draco also knows that it was only thanks to Potter that his mother got away with two years of house arrest and then a chance to move to France and Father got thirty years in Azkaban instead of a life sentence. 

So why would Potter suddenly try to get him done for no reason? Draco has kept out of trouble, and the elderly Auror who comes to check on him every six months is always complimentary of how well he has settled in spite of everything.

This must be a more devious plot. 

Draco keeps on munching on biscuits and ends up making himself another cup of tea before he decides to explore the house, looking for clues.

He doesn’t find any, but what he does find is a lot of dust. He casts cleaning charms around the whole house, scrunching up his nose in disgust when he enters rooms that have apparently been unused for half a century. Potter owns one of the most ancient and honourable houses in England and seems to only occupy three rooms.

By the time he gets back to Potter’s bedroom and checks the documents on his desk, Draco is hungry again (does Potter ever eat?) so he stumbles back downstairs for some lunch, but he’s interrupted by the Floo opening again.

“Harry?” a female voice calls from upstairs. 

“In the kitchen!” Draco calls, fearing that it might be Potter’s girlfriend coming to check on him and that Draco will have to – Merlin forbids – kiss her. Circe’s tits, can his day get any worse?  

“There you are,” the Weaslette says, ungracefully plopping into one of the chairs and helping herself to one of the tomatoes Draco was carefully slicing. They taste ridiculously acidic and are barely ripe. Draco forgot how dreadful tomatoes were in the UK. “I only have ten minutes, but I thought I’d check on you. Ron said you were poorly.”

“I’m feeling a bit under the weather,” Draco replies, hoping she won’t expect effusions from him. “In fact, I think I might have the worst stomach bug. I’ve been vomiting all morning.”

There, that should work.

“Eww, gross!” the Weaslette replies, chucking a tomato at him. “Anyway, I just wanted to apologise for my owl. I got a bit mad because you left before I got to propose to Luna yesterday evening, and she was upset that you weren’t there to enjoy our special moment, but if you’re unwell…well, sorry.”

Draco stares at her for a few seconds, taking in all the information at once.

Potter’s not with her, and she’s apparently queer and in a relationship with Lovegood.

“That’s quite alright,” he finally says, going back to his tomatoes and hoping that his Polyjuice won’t run out while Potter’s friend is still here. He needs to block the Floo, otherwise he risks all of Potter’s Gryffindor friends to come and check on him. 

“Alright, I’ll leave then,” she says, standing up and winking at him. “Don’t fancy catching your bug and spending my first day as Luna’s fiancée in the loo.”

“Enjoy,” Draco says, trying to look composed as he watches her leave.

He seals the Floo as soon as she’s gone, and then sighs and spends the afternoon tidying up and trying to find a reason why someone is trying to frame him for some unknown reason. Tea helps, and so does the vast assortment of biscuits Potter seems to have stashed in his kitchen. 

He considers taking a shower after all that cleaning, but he decides against it. He already feels bad that he wanked while Polyjuiced as Potter, but washing his naked body seems like another level of privacy breach. He tried not to gawk when he went to the toilet, Potter’s undeniably fit body a temptation that Draco valiantly managed to resist looking at. He’s unsure why the potion that turned him into Potter hasn’t run out yet. Draco knows Polyjuice is required to be taken at regular intervals in order to work, and he hasn’t drunk anything other than water and tea today.

What on earth did they give him?   

Draco resigns himself to making a light dinner and then settles on the sofa with one of the mysterious novels he found hidden under Potter’s bed. He gasps when he discovers that the Saviour has a thing for steamy gay romance. 

Interesting, Draco thinks with a knowing smirk. 

He’s halfway through the book when he starts yawning. He decides he might as well go to sleep after reading a raunchy scene between a pirate and his very keen prisoner. 

Draco rests his head on the soft pillow, inhaling what he has now come to recognise as Potter’s soothing smell. Apples and cinnamon, he thinks while his eyes drift shut and he feels sleep claiming him. He needs to find a way out of this situation tomorrow, he thinks. Maybe he should just contact his probation officer and confess the mess he’s found himself in.

“Mhhh…” he mumbles, burying his face in the pillow.

Apples and cinnamon. 

❧ 🌵 ❧

Harry wakes up to the sound of seagulls calling outside the window.

The room is pitch black, and Harry groans as he wonders what time it is. He stretches in bed and extends his arm towards the bedside table to retrieve his specs, but his hand collides with a glass of water that falls onto the floor.

“Shit,” he groans, his voice sounding odd and deeper than usual. He takes a peak to contemplate the mess he’s made on the floor, grabbing his wand to dry the carpet before it becomes a soggy mess, when he realises two things.

There’s no carpet on the floor, just white tiles.

He can see it perfectly well.

“What the actual fuck,” he mutters, flicking his wand to open the blinds. They won’t budge, and Harry frowns, wondering what the hell is going on this morning.

He casts a Lumos, then kicks the blankets and nearly slips on the water as he stands up, only to realise that he’s naked. And extremely pale.

“Fuck!” he shouts, screaming loudly when he looks at the long, milky-white legs that stretch for miles under him. His chest is covered in scars, pink and silvery, crisscrossing across his torso and slithering all the way down to his groin. There’s a perfectly trimmed trail of blond hair that leads to the cock between his thigh, and Harry swallows as a wave of panic threatens to make him hyperventilate. 

He looks at the wand in his hand and recognises it straight away.

Hawthorn, ten inches, unicorn hair core. 

He checks his left arm, and there it is, the skull and snake, so much paler than he remembers and partly covered in a flowery tattoo, but still visible underneath the floral explosion of colours.

The penny drops, and Harry swears really loudly. 

“This can’t be possible,” he mutters, walking towards the window and finding it barred. He finds an odd metal latch and struggles with it for a few minutes until he manages to open the wooden shutters that are keeping it shut. 

Harry’s eyes squint at the assault of bright light, turning his face the other way. When he eventually gets used to the sunny sky, Harry inhales a mouthful of sea breeze, filling his lungs with the smell of seaweed and aromatic trees and something that he can’t quite place. He spots the expanse of blue at the bottom of the hill he’s currently perched on, and remembers that day at the trial, the sentence that made him lose control and lash out at the Wizengamot.

 “Can’t be possible,” he murmurs again, leaving the window open as he looks for a mirror. There isn’t one inside the wardrobe, so he opens the door and looks for the bathroom. He finds it at the end of a narrow corridor, two closed doors on each side. Harry goes past the shower and a weird porcelain thing next to the toilet to stand in front of the sink.

“Shit,” he mutters as he stares at Draco Malfoy’s reflection in the mirror, grey eyes open wide and pink lips parted on a strangled breath. “Fuck. Oh god, what the hell…”

Hands on his face, Harry sees himself go even whiter than he thought possible.

Why on earth is he trapped in Malfoy’s body?

Is this a very vivid and awful nightmare? 

But Harry reasons that it can’t be, because he took Dreamless Sleep last night. 

Maybe he should have checked the expiry date before chugging it down like there was no tomorrow.

“Okay,” he says, then flinches at how odd his voice sounds. “I need to calm down and think. There must be a logical explanation to…this!” he adds, pointing at himself in the mirror. 

His bladder feels like it’s about to burst, so he sits on the toilet and sighs as he stares between his legs. Is this actually Malfoy’s body? He has barely any hair on his scarred chest, and the sparse hair on his legs is so pale it’s almost white. Harry studies the intricate pattern of blue veins on the inside of his wrists and elbows, then traces the pink scars on his chest. They don’t feel sore, just very smooth and soft. Harry runs his fingers along the one that leads to his – Malfoy’s, he reminds himself – chin, and then hears a rooster’s loud call from outside the window.

He wonders what time it is.

Shit, he has a meeting with Robards.

“Fuck, he’s going to be so mad,” Harry mutters, giving his cock a little shake and standing up to find some clothes to wear. He walks down the corridor again, wondering if there are going to be other people sleeping behind those doors and dreading being spotted completely naked and in Malfoy’s lanky body. Merlin, he’s so tall and slim that Harry can see the sharp jut of his hip bones and can feel his ribs under his fingers.

The bedroom looks exceptionally tidy when Harry ducks into it again, shutting the door behind him. He opens a few drawers and finds very neat piles of clothes arranged by type and colour. The day is hot, so he picks a pair of boxers, a blue t-shirt and shorts, then grabs the hawthorn wand he returned to Malfoy after the war and takes a deep breath before he explores the rest of the house.

Harry presses his back against the wall, wand securely clutched in his hand, and then knocks on the first door to the left, pointing the wand at it. A few seconds go by, but there’s no answer. Harry casts a quick diagnostic spell on both doors, but there doesn’t seem to be any curse on the frame or the doorknob. He takes a deep breath, and then opens the first door with a silent Alohomora, stepping in front of it with his reflexes ready to strike. 

It's empty, except for a bed covered in white sheets and a wooden wardrobe.

He tries the second door, and this time it’s full of cupboards containing carefully labelled jars in a language he doesn’t recognise. The stuff inside looks syrupy and thick, almost like honey, but Harry can’t be sure and he’s definitely not going to try it. This looks like a trap, and he has no way of analysing the contents of the jars. There are also sealed boxes that smell like flowers and oranges, but Harry decides to leave those before he explores the rest of the house.

He ducks down the corridor again and notices the steps that lead downstairs. He walks barefoot down the stairs, feeling the tiles cool and smooth under his skin. There’s a small living room with an old sofa and a Muggle telly, shelves packed with books in English and other languages, and a door that leads to what Harry realises must be another toilet. He checks and finds a bigger bathroom than the one upstairs, with a white tub and a window that opens to a well-tended vegetable garden. 

Harry finds another door that probably leads to the kitchen. Maybe the people who cursed him are hiding in there, Harry thinks.

He swallows loudly and braces himself to fight.

He opens the door to the kitchen, and then gapes at what he finds.

It’s a beautifully bright room, a big fireplace in front of him and a wooden table right in the middle. There’s a cosy-looking armchair with a knitted blanket carefully folded on it. A black cauldron sits in a corner of the table, chopping board and knives precisely aligned next to it, as if someone had prepared them the night before, ready to brew a potion in the morning. 

There’s still no trace of human life, so Harry checks the only place left to search, only to find a pantry full of potions ingredients, all carefully labelled and neatly organised. 

He wonders if he’s been locked inside, a prisoner of this house that seems to belong to someone else, but when he takes the keys that are dangling from a nail next to the door, they slide smoothly into the lock and get the door open to the outside world.

The air smells even more aromatic when Harry steps out, still barefoot. He finds a pair of bright green flip-flops on the floor by the door and slips them on, checking the garden for signs of life and only finding a plucky little hen that seems to come from the neighbour’s garden, where he can hear other hens clucking and a goat bleating as he peaks over the wall that separate the houses. 

There’s a red car parked under a decrepit little porch. It looks like it has seen better days, and Harry wonders if it actually works, and if it belongs to Malfoy.

 An elderly woman dressed in black with a grey apron on her skirt and a shawl over her head notices him from the neighbour’s garden and smiles, waving in a friendly gesture. Harry timidly waves back, ready to jump over the wall to question her, when she speaks another language at him and clearly waits for his reply.

That’s when he remembers.

Malfoy was sentenced to spending ten years on an island abroad. Where was it?

“Draco?” the woman asks, pronouncing the name in a weird way, with a prolonged ah that Harry finds a little silly. 

Italy! That’s where it was.

“Buongiorno!” Harry blurts out, one of the few words he remembers, and the woman looks at him with a puzzled expression before someone calls her from the inside of her house and she disappears behind the door.

He keeps his wand at hand and follows the path that leads down the small hill the house sits on, heading towards the sea. He spots cacti at the side of the road, dry gardens surrounded by whitewashed walls, a big black bin at the end of the road. A few people smile at him and wave, and Harry nervously waves back, then finds himself on a narrow path that gradually gets covered in fine sand. There are tufts of green plants here and there, a gentle breeze that ruffles the white-blond hair that reaches his shoulders.

Harry stands there, contemplating the vastness of the sea, the water so clear that he can see tiny fish swimming close to the shore and orange seashells partially buried in the fine sand. 

He has no clue what to do.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone keeping him hostage, and he’s still stuck in Malfoy’s lanky body.

Harry considers sending a Patronus to Ron, but he doubts it will travel all the way to England, even with his powerful magic.

He resigns himself to go back to the house he woke up in, and he wearily makes his way back up the small hill, making sure that he’s not being followed.  

Once he’s back in the house, he double checks no one is hiding inside again, and then locks the door with a powerful spell before he stares at the cooker and decides he needs some breakfast. He casts further diagnostic spells on the cooking equipment, then studies the food and sniffs at it, but it all seems innocuously delicious. Harry rummages through the cupboard and finds some tea bags.

“Lipton,” he reads on the paper packet. “Let’s hope it’s decent.”

It turns out to be absolutely vile, and furthermore there’s a serious lack of biscuits in Malfoy’s house. At least the bread is amazing, and what appears to be homemade jam is also spectacular. Harry’s about to make himself a sandwich with some ham he’s found in the fridge when a noise against the window makes him freeze and immediately reach for his wand in alarm.

It’s a cat.

Harry’s shoulders slump as he opens the window and lets the animal inside. It’s an orange tabby cat, but it doesn’t have a collar, so Harry has no idea if it actually belongs to Malfoy or if it’s a friendly stray. It seems to know its whereabouts, though, as it stands in front of Harry and starts meowing really loudly, clearly upset with him.

“I suppose you’d like to have breakfast too,” Harry says, kneeling down to open the cupboard the animal seems to be particularly interested in. He finds an assortment of tins containing cat food, but by the time he’s opened one and poured it onto a plate, another cat jumps in through the window, followed by two kittens and a black, skinny cat that purrs loudly and rubs its back against Harry’s legs before it decides to tuck in. Harry opens more tins and watches the animals in awe, unsure if this is a common occurrence or if he has somehow managed to summon all the neighbourhood’s feline population.

Most of the cats leave when they’re finished eating, but the kittens and the skinny black cat climb onto the armchair and curl up into a fluffy ball before drifting off to sleep.

Harry wonders what the hell is going on, if this is the worst ever organised abduction of an Auror in the history of criminality. He wanders aimlessly around the house, looking for clues. He finds a desk in the living room full of carefully organised orders for potions, with dates and recipients and costs recorded in a large, leatherbound book. The handwriting of the person filling in the documents is always the same, neat and slanted cursive with curling letters in a posh way. Harry recognises it from all the years staring at Malfoy in class, peeking at his notes in an attempt to catch something nefarious hidden amongst the boring Transfiguration techniques and History of  Magic dates.

Everything seems to be in order. Malfoy appears to lead a discreetly successful potions business, and to sell honey and soap to Muggles alongside it. Harry spots the Ministry stamps left by Auror Pollock on the recording book, and closes it shut with a big sigh. There’s a white computer on the desk, and Harry is temporarily surprised by the fact that Draco Malfoy uses Muggle technology. He spots a mobile phone, blue and chunky with Nokia written on it. Harry has no idea how to use it, and it looks switched off, so he lets it be. 

He doesn’t know what to think.

He seems to have randomly stumbled into Malfoy’s life, into his body, for no apparent reason.

By lunchtime, more cats gingerly enter the kitchen and start meowing at Harry, who shrugs and opens more tins, hoping he’s not overfeeding them. They seem quite content and a few of them let him pet their soft fur. 

Harry finds a container with tomato sauce in the fridge, so he boils some water and makes pasta, humming in appreciation at how lovely it tastes. After lunch, he decides to go out and explore the village, so he wears the green flip flops again, grabs a straw hat and a pair of sunglasses he finds on the kitchen counter and ventures outside.

It seems to be a terrible mistake. The sun is ridiculously hot, and Harry soon starts sweating profusely, wet and dark patches forming under his armpits and around his neck. 

“Sodding hell, is this the Sahara desert?” he wonders out loud as he walks around the empty streets. The village is tiny and seems to be surrounded by dry patches of yellow grass. Harry spots a few sheep resting in the shade of a tree and jumps in surprise when a dog starts barking at him from behind a gate. He follows the path that takes to the sea, finding a few beach umbrellas planted here and there in the sand, spotting Muggles doing the crosswords or sleeping in the shade. Harry considers diving into the sea in his clothes to freshen up, when someone appears behind him and slaps him on the shoulder.

“Eccoti qua, ma dov’eri finito?” a young man asks, a smile on his gorgeous face. He looks a little younger than Harry, but he can’t really tell. His skin is tanned, black hair trimmed short and blue eyes standing out under his dark and long eyelashes.

“Er…” Harry replies, unsure what to say.

“Ti sei dimenticato di passare stamattina,” the man insists, tilting his head when Harry makes a grimace and just stares blankly at him. “Beh? Il gatto ti ha mangiato la lingua?”

Harry realises he’s supposed to pretend he’s Malfoy, even though he hasn’t got the foggiest idea what’s going on, but at the same time he thinks he can’t simply leg it  and leave the man standing there. He’s acting friendly, so he probably knows Malfoy, which might give Harry some clues. What if it’s Malfoy who’s plotted all this?

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry blurts out.

“What do you mean?” the man replies with a very strong accent, sounding surprised. “You said you would bring the honey to my house on Sunday morning!”

“Oh,” Harry says, realising that those jars he found were actually honey. “Sorry, I…forgot. I was busy…”

“Hm,” the man grunts, then kicks some sand and stares at Draco’s legs. “Did you put sun cream on? You’re going to get sunburnt.”

Harry thinks that he’s right, and Malfoy’s legs and arms already look alarmingly pink after less than an hour in the sun.   

“Maybe I should go home,” Harry concludes, thinking the man is unlikely to provide any answer to his questions and seems to think he is the real Draco Malfoy. “I’ll bring the honey tomorrow.”

“Grazie,” the man replies with a smile. “I need to make torrone in time for the fiera on Wednesday, so don’t forget.”

Harry nods even though he doesn’t know what on earth torrone or a fiera are, and he heads back to the house before casting a cooling charm on his skin when he’s away from prying eyes.

By dinnertime it feels like his skin is sizzling, and cooling charms don’t seem to do the job anymore, so Harry climbs into the shower and groans in pleasure under the cold water. He tries not to gawk, but at this point he’s already seen all of Malfoy anyway, so what’s a bit more peaking going to do? And Merlin does Malfoy have a stunning arse, Harry muses as he contemplates his glorious behind in the mirror he eventually finds in the spare room (not that he was specifically looking for it – he just happened to find it when investigating).

He makes himself a light dinner and then stumbles into bed, tired and quite sore.

He thinks it’s going to take him ages to fall asleep, but the black cat from the morning and the two kittens climb in beside him, purring contentedly when Harry starts stroking their fur, and Harry’s eyes suddenly feel so heavy as he drifts off to sleep, thinking that tomorrow he definitely needs to find out what on earth is going on.

❧ 🌵 ❧

Draco wakes up and groans in pain.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, feeling like his skin is on fire. He opens the shutters and the window with a flick of his wand and looks at his arms and legs in dismay. How on earth did he get sunburnt?

It finally dawns on him that he’s in his house, in his body, and for a moment he forgets about the pain and sags in relief on the bed. Salazar, it was just a nasty dream, then.

Thank Merlin…

“I didn’t even leave the house yesterday, how the fuck did I get sunburnt?” he wonders out loud, making his way to the bathroom to rummage through his potions cupboard and look for the ointment he brewed for this eventuality. He used to get constantly sunburnt when he first moved to Sardinia, but luckily he’s getting better at sun protection spells. The ointment feels fresh and smells like eucalyptus, and Draco sighs as he slathers it all over his skin. Pure bliss, he thinks as he closes his eyes and breathes in the soothing smell.

There’s a soft sound near the door, and Draco finds Ophelia lingering there, looking uncertain and probably annoyed by the smell.

“Hello, little lady,” Draco greets her, and she meows back at him. “How are your tiny rascals? Let’s get you all some breakfast.”

Draco finds the kittens at the foot of his bed, then grabs one in each hand as they make their way downstairs. He deposits them on the floor and opens the window to let the other cats in, sorting out their breakfast before his own. He carefully prepares the coffee machine and then puts it on the stove, going to grab his mobile phone while he waits for it to be ready to pour the coffee into his mug of milk. 

Five unread messages from Matteo.

Draco frowns, thinking that’s weird, then his eyebrows go up in surprise when he reads the increasingly annoyed texts, asking where the fuck he is and if he’s changed his mind about delivering the honey and why is his mobile off?

“What the hell,” Draco mumbles, then checks the date on the phone, and his heart skips a beat.

It’s Monday today.

He’s missed a day.

“Fuck, it wasn’t a dream,” he murmurs, grateful that he’s sitting down as he suddenly feels like he might pass out. “Shit, fuck, bollocks. Circe’s tits, what does that mean?”

He wonders if he was part of some weird experiment. The Muggles are always rambling about alien abductions and whatnot. Maybe someone decided to pull the worst prank on him. Or maybe he’s simply losing the plot.

The coffee maker makes a gurgling sound, and Draco stands up to take it off the stove. He opens the fridge to look for some milk and frowns when he realises things are not where he left them. His tomato sauce is gone. The ham is nearly finished.

Maybe he is losing his marbles.

He eats some bread with Nutella and then grabs his car keys and loads the boot of the Panda with the jars of honey for Matteo. He drives there while muttering to himself that surely there must be a logical explanation for all this. He’s in his mid-twenties, and there’s no history of dementia in his family. Truth be told, Malfoys do have a terrifying record of megalomaniacs and war criminals, but that’s a different thing. Probably. Hopefully. 

“Finalmente!” Matteo exclaims when he sees him, a smile on his face, making Draco relax instantly. 

“I’m so sorry!” Draco says, opening the boot to unload the crates of honey manually. “I just…”

“At least you’re not sunburnt,” Matteo says with a wink, helping him with the jars. “When I saw you yesterday afternoon at the beach, you looked like a lobster.”

“You what?” Draco asks, frowning. He didn’t go to the beach yesterday. He never goes in the afternoon, because it’s too hot and his complexion doesn’t allow him to.

Draco stares at Matteo, rooted to the spot, his mouth open.

What the fuck is happening? 

“Ti è apparsa la Madonna?” Matteo asks, looking mildly concerned.

“No, I did not see the Virgin Mary,” Draco replies, then shakes his head. “Did I say or do anything odd yesterday when you saw me?”

“You were a bit weird,” Matteo admits after a beat, then shakes his head. “You looked lost, and you were wearing the straw hat my dad gave you, the one you said you’d never wear because it makes you look like a farmer. It actually looks great on you!”

Draco pales, placing the crate of jars on the floor before he drops it in shock. 

“Matteo, I…” he starts, but he doesn’t know what to say. How to explain to a Muggle that he left his body yesterday and someone else was using it? And for what purpose?

“Draco, come inside,” Matteo says, grabbing his wrist and dragging him in. “You look very pale. Let me make you a coffee.”

Draco sits in Matteo’s kitchen, asking him to remember everything about their exchange at the beach and coming up with nothing relevant.

He has no clue what happened, and he has no one to ask either because the only wixen he’s in contact with are his clients, and he’s friends with none of them.

By the time he comes home and gets started on the potions he needs to brew, Draco has come to the conclusion that he needs to keep his guard up, making sure he receives his clients in the living room and setting up tracking spells. He won’t let anyone use the bathroom or the kitchen, and hopefully that will protect him from further harm.

He sighs as Ophelia curls up on her armchair with her kittens and yawns before settling down for a nap.

“I wish my life were as uncomplicated as yours, little lady.” 

❧ 🌵 ❧

Harry wakes up early, but he realises straight away that he’s at home. His pillow smells like his shampoo, and the old clock in the hallway that he can’t seem to get rid of chimes softly.

He sighs in relief, thinking that whatever happened was probably a weird hallucination caused by an expired potion.

The weather is utter shit outside, rainy and grey, and for a split second Harry misses the sunshine from his dream and the vivid feeling of the hot sand under his feet.

He takes a shower because he feels a bit sweaty, but when enters the kitchen with only a towel around his waist, he freezes.

All his biscuits are carefully laid out on the kitchen table, as if someone had decided to create a colourful display, dividing them by type or size—Harry can’t really tell. Kreacher died years ago, and the only people who have access to his Floo are his closest friends, but they know Harry has odd boundaries, especially when it comes to taking his food. He doesn’t mind sharing, but years of having Dudley steal his food from under his nose without being able to do anything about it make him anxious about people taking his things without permission.

Harry casts a series of diagnostic and detecting spells on the house, moving from room to room and realising with increasing anxiety that the house is clean. There’s no dust; everything seems to have been tidied up, and re-arranged in the most obnoxious way.

He checks the Floo, finding it locked, and discovers that the only people who seem to have visited yesterday were Ron and Ginny, but he seriously doubts that either of them might have gone on a cleaning spree on his house. Hermione struggles to get Ron to tidy up his own shit at home, and Ginny’s a bit of a crazy mess herself. 

Harry feels worried, but his spells don’t seem to detect anything amiss. He has extremely strong wards to protect him from mad fans and all those annoying paparazzi who are constantly trying to catch a glimpse of his life. But his wards seem intact.

No one has broken in.

With his clammy palms and his legs a jittery mess, Harry goes to Ron and Hermione’s cottage to question them before he heads to the Ministry.

“Feeling better?” Hermione asks when Harry appears through the Floo. 

“Better?” Harry asks, confused, stopping in his tracks before he sits down next to baby Rosie and watches her gurgle happily and smear apple purée all over her cheeky face.

“Ron told me you had to take a day off work because you were feeling under the weather,” Hermione says while wiping Rosie’s face with a colourful cloth and making her squirm and complain loudly. “Ginny said you told her you spent the morning throwing up.”

“I…what?!” Harry asks with a deep frown.

What the hell is going on? He casts a Tempus and realises with dismay that today is Monday.

Where has Sunday gone? 

“The worst thing was the way you were talking,” Ron says, entering the kitchen in his bright orange pyjamas. “You sounded like a posh little lord.”

Harry freezes.

“What did you say?” he asks slowly.

“That you sounded so posh it was disconcerting,” Ron says, tilting his head and eyeing him with worry. “When I arrived you called me ‘Weasley’ instead of Ron, and then you were looking around the house as if you were expecting something to jump out from behind a painting or something. I have no idea why you blocked the Floo, so I couldn’t come in to check on you.”

The clogs move slowly in Harry’s brain, and he sits there, staring at his hands, when reality suddenly hits him like a brick on the head.

He knows who was in his house yesterday.

He swapped bodies with Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Draco grimaces as he sips on his tea.

“Utter shit,” he murmurs, pouring the contents of his mug into the sink. “I don’t even know why I bother.”

“Because you always say coffee is too bitter,” Matteo replies with a desolate sigh, as if Draco disliking coffee were an offence to his whole country. 

Matteo takes a chopping board from the drying rack and opens the parcel containing a white piece of torrone. It’s gooey and packed with hazelnuts and smells absolutely divine. Draco’s mouth waters as he waits for Matteo to cut a piece of the white nougat for him.

“It’s not my fault people here get offended if you don’t like espresso,” Draco comments, earning a scowl from his friend. “What?”

“You always add three teaspoons of sugar and milk!” Matteo points out in outrage. “What’s the point in drinking coffee if you can’t even taste it? You’re going to get early diabetes if you’re not careful.” 

“Aww, are you worried about me?” Draco asks, batting his eyelids and placing a hand on his heart. “How considerate. If I didn’t know you were extremely straight, I would think you have a soft spot for me.”

“Ma vaffanculo,” Matteo retorts with a huff, making Draco laugh. “Here you go. Fresh torrone made with honey from your beehives.”

Draco takes a morsel and brings it to his lips, humming in delight.

“Perfetto,” he murmurs.  

❧ 🌵 ❧

Harry’s eyes open, and the room is so warm that he knows straight away that he’s back. Plus, he’s naked, and Harry never sleeps without clothes.

He quickly gets dressed, then he grabs the hawthorn wand on the bedside table and sets off to cast every single spell he knows to check the house and its wards. It turns out that Malfoy also has particularly strong barriers to keep out magical intruders, but the kitchen window seems to have a neat little spell that only lets cats in. Harry’s never seen anything like it before and contemplates in fascination the threads of golden magic that his diagnostic spells have revealed.

His stomach rumbles in protest, and he’s about to open the fridge to find something edible when there’s a familiar meowling sound coming from outside. Harry opens the window and lets the cats in, noticing there are a few different ones from the last time he was here a couple of days ago. The black one greets him with a purr before it starts eating with the others, and Harry wonders if itt’s Malfoy’s cat. The kittens seem to follow it everywhere, so Harry assumes it’s their mother.

“I wonder what your name is,” Harry murmurs, stroking her behind the ears.

There are still no biscuits in Malfoy’s kitchen, and the tea tastes awful, so Harry warms himself some milk in the microwave and then eats some bread and jam like the previous time he was here. He notices a piece of paper on the kitchen table with a list of potions, probably the ones Malfoy was supposed to brew today. 

An owl suddenly flies inside from the open window, nearly landing on Harry’s plate. It looks exhausted and thirsty, so Harry gives it some water and casts a cooling charm on it before taking the piece of parchment attached to its leg.

Dear Mr Malfoy,

I shall collect my blood thinning potions at 9am instead of our agreed time, due to an urgent meeting at the Ministry in Rome. I apologise for the inconvenience.

Theodore Brown

Harry munches on his bread and swears internally. He was not expecting visitors. He was actually hoping to be able to do some investigating instead. He has three hours before Mr Brown is supposed to arrive, so he decides to go and look for the potions, hoping against hope that Malfoy has prepared them beforehand.

He finds a wooden crate, clearly labelled with both the type of potion and its owner, in the living room. Harry feels relieved, but he soon realises that there are more crates, and he wonders with dread how many people are going to turn up to collect their orders.

The wards signal the arrival of someone around 8, and Harry considers ignoring them, but then sighs and opens them with a flick of his wand to let the strangers in. It’s a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in expensive robes, massive jewels adorning her ears and neck. She looks at him in disdain and offers a gloved hand to Harry. He stares at it, then at her, wondering what the fuck she’s expecting him to do, but then realises there’s probably forty degrees outside, so he takes her glove off and hands it back it her. She huffs in indignation and mutters a series of unintelligible words under her breath.

“How can I help you?” Harry asks, cursing himself mentally. Was he supposed to kiss her hand or something? Sweet Merlin…

“I beg your pardon?” the woman replies shrilly. “You are the one who asked me to collect my fertility potions this morning, when I had a million more important things to do!”

“Oh,” Harry replies, remembering the crate full of purple vials labelled as fertility potions for one Madame Lefebvre. “One moment, please.”

She scowls at him, then her mouth opens in horror when Harry tries to hand her the crate.

“Surely you’re not…how in Merlin’s name…” she mutters, her tone going higher and higher. 

“Do you have a car?” Harry wonders, trying to peek behind her back.

“A car!” she splutters, as if Harry had suggested she might have haemorrhoids.

“Well, where do you want me to put the potions, then?” Harry asks, losing his patience. 

“Mr Malfoy, my carriage is waiting outside as per usual,” she replies haughtily, her nose up in the air. “I’m sure you are not expecting me to carry that crater there.” 

“You could have used magic,” Harry points out, shaking his head, which makes her snort inelegantly in dismay. Harry resolves to just deposit the crate in the back of her fancy carriage to get rid of her as soon as he can. The driver raises an eyebrow at him, but Harry just waves and watches the witch climb back into her carriage without a word of goodbye. The driver casts a Notice-Me-Not on it, and they disappear down the hill.

Harry groans and wonders if the rest of his morning is going to be as shit as this. It turns out that not all of Malfoy’s clients are twats. Most of them are English expats, but there are also some locals who get all sorts of potions from him. Harry feels like a fool every time someone turns up, because he has no idea who they are or which potion they need, and he has a feeling the real Malfoy is going to get extremely mad when he finds out Harry has made him look like an incompetent idiot.

Harry hands out the last crate before midday and sighs in relief, thinking that at least he has the rest of the day to uncover the mystery of his current predicament. 

He was supposed to go over the Monroe case with Ron in the morning, and Wednesday is always paperwork day for him, so he wonders how Malfoy is faring, if he called in sick again, while Harry actually worked his socks off to get his orders delivered.

The fridge is half-empty, and nothing he sees in there captures his attention (Malfoy seems really keen on aubergines and tomatoes), so Harry decides to pop to the local Muggle supermarket. He finds Malfoy’s wallet on the living room desk and puts it in his pocket, unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling that he’s behaving like a burglar.

He wears the sunglasses and straw hat again and groans as he steps outside. How do people cope with the heat here?

“Sun cream,” he remembers this time, so he goes back in and rummages through the kitchen cupboards but finds absolutely nothing. Oh well, Malfoy should have left it at hand if he didn’t want to get sunburnt.

He finds the supermarket quite easily because the village is tiny. The air conditioning is ridiculously strong, and Harry shivers as he walks among the small isles in his shorts and green flip-flops. He stands in front of the biscuits section and feels his heart beating madly in his chest. There are so many varieties he’s never seen before. Most of them are in yellow packets with a watermill drawn at the top. The names are obscure: Abbracci, Pan di Stelle, Tarallucci, Macine. Harry has no fucking clue what the flavour is, so he buys them all. The cashier looks at him in a funny way, but Harry just shrugs and struggles with the foreign currency, making a fool of himself yet again.

He gets so distracted by the biscuits that when he arrives home, hands full of bags that he couldn’t shrink because he was surrounded by Muggles, he realises he forgot to buy lunch. He ends up making himself a sandwich with a dark salami that turns out to be very aromatic and the most delicious tomatoes he’s ever had in his life. He misses his post-lunch cup of tea, but the biscuits really make up for it, and Harry concludes that Malfoy is an utter idiot. How can he live in a country where there are these amazing biscuits and not buy them? What a wanker…

In the afternoon, Harry starts checking the books in the library. He has spent the past couple of days searching in the Ministry library and even at Hogwarts to find out what in Merlin’s name happened to him, but the only thing he has discovered is that swapping bodies is not a thing in the wizarding world. He couldn’t find a single instance of the phenomenon being mentioned in any of the dusty tomes at work, and even Madam Pince looked at him in a funny way when he mentioned it to her. 

The only conclusion is that Malfoy might have used some form of obscure Dark Magic to swap their bodies. But for what purpose, Harry wonders. Malfoy’s behaviour has been impeccable in the past eight years - Harry’s checked and double-checked his file. He even spoke to Auror Pollock, who only had positive things to say about how Malfoy has settled brilliantly in the Muggle community and has set up a perfectly legal and successful business.

What would be the point in fucking it all up when he only has two years left to his sentence?

Besides, from what Pollock said, Malfoy seemed to be happy in Italy. When asked if he wanted to go back to the UK during his interim review, Malfoy said he didn’t think so, that he quite enjoyed living abroad actually.

So why swap bodies with Harry?

He flicks through book after book, trying to find any mention of spells or rituals, but Malfoy seems to only be interested in books about potions, historical novels and books on bees.

Harry loses his patience and throws a big tome on love potions across the living room, groaning in frustration. 

He needs a walk and some fresh air.

He decides to head outside, and discovers that there’s a gentle breeze that soothes his nerves, the village coming to life now that the scorching sun is finally setting and the day is gradually growing less hot. People nod at him and smile as they cross paths in the streets, and Harry inhales, wondering what kind of plants smell so nice that the air is permeated by their scent. He spots a little pizzeria on the outskirts of town, and when he walks by, he stops and looks at the menu, his mouth watering at the aroma that is wafting from the open door. 

He has no idea what the names of the pizzas mean and can only figure out a few ingredients, but he’s not a fussy eater and Malfoy’s wallet is still in his pocket. He figures he’s earned his dinner, since he worked in the morning, so he walks in and points at a random pizza on the menu, hoping for the best.

He walks home with the scalding carton in his hands, trying to be quick because he’s starving. When he gets back, he doesn’t even bother setting the table or getting a plate; he opens the carton, grabs a knife and fork to cut it into slices and tucks in with an obscene moan.

“Fuck, it’s out of this world, what the hell!” he blurts out with his mouth full. He even considers going back to buy a second pizza, but he’s ridiculously tired, and the black cat with her kittens has settled in at his feet on the sofa, so he continues reading one of Malfoy’s books on bees until his eyes starts fluttering shut, and then he calls it a night.

Harry hesitates in the bathroom.

Should he take a shower? He’s sweaty and his skin feels a bit prickly and tight because of the sun. It seems wrong to see Malfoy naked and to wash his body, but they’re both men. 

“Sod it,” Harry says, then quickly takes his clothes off and jumps under the warm stream of the shower with a satisfied groan. He tries not to look – not too much, anyway – but he can’t help but notice how gorgeous Malfoy’s body is, all lean and tall, his hair so fair and pale that it’s almost transparent, such a contrast to Harry’s body. He runs his fingers along the smooth scars, tracing the pain he left there with his magic and feeling a wave of guilt forming a lump in his throat. He steps out of the shower and dries himself quickly, then grabs a pair of clean boxers from one of drawers but doesn’t bother with a top because it’s too warm for it.

Harry stumbles into bed and is quickly joined by the cats, feeling their soft fur against his bare legs and chest.

“It’s nice having you here,” he murmurs, fingers idly stroking the black cat behind the ears as his eyes drift shut. “I bet Malfoy doesn’t feel lonely in the evening like I do. It’s lovely to fall asleep with you.”

Maybe he should get a pet, he thinks as he drifts off lulled by the sound of contented purring. 

❧ 🌵 ❧

“Not again!” Draco exclaims, finding himself in Potter’s bedroom. “What the fuck have I done wrong?!”

He groans loudly and throws a pillow across the room. His magic starts sizzling as panic rises in his chest, and Draco begins to worry, feeling sparks on the tips of his fingers. He hasn’t had a bout of stray magic since he was little, but he realises Potter has a lot more magic than him, which probably makes it harder to control. One of the blinds catches fire, and Draco yelps in alarm, casting an Aguamenti on it that turns out like one of those Muggle fire hydrants and nearly floods the room.

“Shit!” he shouts, then realises he needs to calm down, otherwise he’s going to set fire to the whole house. He closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.

He’s fine. He’s had panic attacks before, especially during the war.

He remembers Mother’s soothing voice, calmly telling him that everything was going to be fine, that Draco just needed to focus on his breathing, that she was going to protect him.

Draco feels a pang in his chest, missing her like a lost limb.

Two more years and then he can see her again, he tells himself. He just needs to toe the line and be good for a little longer. 

He focuses on Narcissa and the memory of her, on her pale eyes and reassuring smile, on the feeling of her fingers in Draco’s hair, telling him he needed a haircut. 

It gradually works, and Draco feels the whirlwind of Potter’s magic finally abating, the prickling feeling on his fingertips turning into pins and needles. He wiggles his fingers, then opens and closes his hands a few times until the unpleasant feeling is gone. 

“Breakfast,” he tells himself with a deep sigh. “A nice cup of tea will settle my nerves.”

He stumbles down the stairs, shivering as soon as he leaves the warmth of Potter’s bedroom. 

“Fucking British summer,” he mutters under his breath, catching a glimpse of the terrible weather outside. It’s pouring down and looks windy, and Draco hopes no one is going to come and drag him outside when he suddenly hears the Floo. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

“Harry!” Weasley calls, and Draco considers hiding in one of the dusty rooms no one ever seems to set foot in, but then he sighs and replies.

“In the kitchen!” 

He boils some water with a flick of his wand and pours it into a chipped mug with a teabag. Potter should seriously consider getting some loose leaf tea. 

“You’re still having breakfast!” Weasley blurts out when he sees him. He’s already wearing his Auror uniform, and Draco can’t help but appreciate the way it hugs his chest. 

Salazar, what the hell is wrong with him, lusting over Ron bloody Weasley. He really needs to get laid…

 Weasley sits at the kitchen table and starts spreading folders and official-looking documents.

“Doing your homework?” Draco teases with a raised eyebrow, but Weasley seems nonplussed.

“I’m just getting all the files for the Monroe case out, since we have to discuss it with Robards this morning - I didn’t get a chance to study them yesterday evening. Rosie’s going through some sort of sleep regression and keeps on waking up at night, so I crashed on the sofa at eight.”

Draco assumes Rosie is Weasley’s daughter, but he has no idea what the Monroe case is, and he suspects it’s too late to pretend to be sick again and stay at home. He sits next to Weasley at the kitchen table, sipping on his tea and reading the documents.

It appears to be a potions smuggling ring, and Draco frowns when he reads the list of ingredients a supposedly legal company has bought to produce standard potions.

“They’re probably using Acromantula venom and Chinese Chomping cabbage to produce hallucinogens,” Draco mutters out loud. “As for the Fanged Geranium seeds and Doxy eggs, my guess is that they’re creating some performance enhancers for the bedroom, which are illegal with those ingredients. They can make your family jewels fall off, you see.”

After a moment of silence, Draco raises his eyes only to find Weasley staring back at him with a confused expression on his face.

“How the hell do you know that?” he asks with a frown. Draco shrugs.

“Everyone knows that,” he declares. “It’s common knowledge among potion mas-“ he stops, then curses himself mentally. “I did a bit of research. For the case.”

“Check you out,” Weasley comments, looking impressed. “Do you know what the Murtlap tentacles are for? I asked Hermione and she wasn’t sure.”

“They’re stabilisers for highly flammable potions,” Draco explains calmly. “Maybe they’re trying to brew something new, which could be extremely dangerous.”

“Mhh,” Weasley murmurs, and Draco stands up to get something to eat, rummaging through the cupboards and retrieving one of the countless packets of biscuits that Potter seems to hoard. “Do you have any custard creams? I could have a second breakfast before we head off to the Ministry.”

Draco pales. He really doesn’t want to set foot in the Ministry. The only memories he has of that place are awful—of the days after the battle, when he had to sit in a cold Ministry cell while he waited for his trial, terrified of being sent to Azkaban like his father, and then the Wizengamot assembled to judge him and tell him he was banished from the country for ten years, no contact with his family and friends allowed. He still remembers the International Portkey Office, where he was escorted by the Aurors, a simple suitcase clutched in his hand and everything else left behind.

Draco clenches his jaw, trying to relax and sip on his tea. He doesn’t think he’s under Polyjuice, because he’s been extra careful, unless the person who inhabited his body while he was in England did something to him. This must be part of a more sinister plot, he thinks. Maybe going to the Ministry as Harry Potter will give him the key to understand what’s going on. 

He skims through the rest of the files while he finishes off his breakfast, hoping he won’t have to do any field work or capture criminals, because that will definitely blow his cover and potentially be fatal for him. When Weasley starts packing the documents, Draco goes upstairs and changes into Potter’s Auror robes. 

It feels so wrong to put them on. They mean something that clashes with what Draco has done, with what his past represents. The Dark Mark is not there on his left arm, but it’s as if Draco can still feel it. 

He’s happy with his life, in spite of everything. He is proud of what he has achieved as a potions master, of his little business and his bees. He’s in love with his house and the cats and the little village that he now calls home.

But this life. This is not who Draco is.

He stares at Potter’s reflection in the mirror and can’t help but think that he looks breathtakingly gorgeous. His wild, untameable curls make him look like a bundle of raw energy, the power of his magic barely contained in his small body. He looks strong and lethal, and Draco wonders whether the real Potter would murder him if he found out Draco was inhabiting his body.

“Haaaaarry!” Weasley calls from downstairs. “Are you ready or what? We’re running late!”

Draco takes a deep, steadying breath and then closes the wardrobe, grabbing a pouch from the desk that jingles with the metallic sound of coins. He hopes he won’t have to use Potter’s money – the last thing he needs is to have theft added to his list of crimes – but he still has to eat lunch.

Draco is a bundle of nerves by the time he walks through the Floo for the first time in eight years. His throat constricts when he sees the crowd of Ministry workers storming in, several heads turning to look at him, some with a smile, others with a reverent nod. He reminds himself that he’s Potter now, that they’re not facing an ex-Death Eater, and that he’s with Weasley and he’s safe, at least for now. He has the urge to grab Weasley’s sleeve and pull, to tell him to take him home because he’s on the verge of having another panic attack, but then he ends up in an empty lift and finds that he can get some air through his lungs.

“You alright, mate?” Weasley asks, his ginger eyebrows knotting in concern. “You look a bit peaky there. Are you having one of your anxiety episodes?” Draco nods, unable to get words out of his mouth. “Wait, I have that…hang on a sec, where the fuck is it?”

Draco watches him rummage through the innumerable pockets of his robes to then emerge triumphantly with a tiny vial containing a ruby liquid. Weasley offers it to him, and Draco should know better than to accept unknown potions from strangers, but Weasley is Potter’s best friend and would never hurt him, so he brings the vial to his lips and swallows the strawberry flavoured liquid. 

He feels calm instantly unfurling in his body, making him relax, his lungs filling with oxygen.

A concentrated calming potion of the best quality. He looks at the vial again, and realises it’s familiar.

Draco makes those, adding the strawberry essence to make them more palatable, but his potions are transparent.

He checks the tiny label at the bottom, and his eyes widen in surprise when he spots the little bee engraved in the glass.

This is one of his. Draco brewed this potion.

“Where did you get this?” he asks before the door of the lift opens and he has to follow the other man out.   

 “Oh, Hermione buys them for you from that apothecary in Diagon Alley,” he replies. “Don’t you remember? The new one with the odd name…wait, what was it? Vials and Vapours!”

“Mhh,” Draco mumbles with a frown.

Selling potions that have been brewed by third parties is illegal in the UK, especially without explicit consent from the original brewer. And Draco most definitely did not agree to this.

He’s about to ask Weasley to go and check on the Apothecary, when he stops in his tracks and his jaw drops. Because right in front of him, clad in Auror robes and carrying a bunch of documents into an office, stands Pansy Parkinson.

“Auror Parkinson,” Weasley says, nodding at her, and she stops to raise an imperious eyebrow at him.

“Robards wants you and Potter to fill in and sign all these reports by the end of the day,” she announces, which makes Weasley groan and slap his forehead.

Draco can’t stop staring at her. She’s so tiny with her black ballet pumps and her dark hair cut just above her chin, her eyes fiery as they bore into him.

“Got a problem, Potter?” she asks with her chin in the air, and Draco is overwhelmed with nostalgia, with the need to cross the distance between them and just wrap her in his arms. Merlin, he’s missed her so much. She’s one of the few people he can’t wait to contact once his sentence ends. Pansy is the second person in his life that taught him what it feels like to be loved.

“Pansy…” he murmurs, and she freezes, her black eyes narrowing and red lips parting in surprise. “I mean…Auror Parkinson,” he tries again, and she still eyes him with suspicion, but she finally moves to deposit the huge pile of documents on a desk in a tiny office.

Judging by the mess on the desk and the open drawer packed with biscuits, Draco can tell straight away that it belongs to Potter.

“Man, I hate Wednesdays so much,” Weasley mutters, sitting down at the desk next to his and taking a handful of documents. The tower of paperwork sways precariously, and Draco is about to tell Weasley they should probably cast a stabilising charm on it, but then he has an idea.

“Auror Parkinson,” he says, trying to sound authoritative because he’s just spotted a golden desk plate sign amongst the mess that reads ‘Deputy Head-Auror Harry J. Potter’. “I require your assistance for a case.”

Both Weasley and Pansy stare at him as if he’d grown two heads, and Draco curses himself mentally.

“Moi?” she asks in disbelief, and Weasley chokes on thin air when Draco nods.

“Mate, are you sure?” he hisses to Draco. “What case is it?”

“Never you mind,” Draco says, waving his hand dismissively at him. “Let’s go.”

“Now?” Pansy asks, but Draco’s already out of the door, thinking that if he stays there one minute longer he’s going to blow his cover. 

“Yes, chop chop!” he says, spotting Weasley peeking from the door and shaking his head as Draco and Pansy head for the lifts. It’s full of people this time, so Draco doesn’t say anything to her, just glances at her minute body and notices how she’s biting on her bottom lip like she’s always done since she was little when she’s nervous.

“Where are we going?” she asks, trailing after him until they reach the Apparition Point.

“Diagon Alley,” he replies. “Vials and Vapours.”

Draco’s magic crackles – Potter’s magic, he reminds himself – and Draco finds himself in front of a small shop, the windows colourfully decorated in contrast to the miserable colour of the sky. Draco gets soaked in the couple of minutes it takes him to get the owner to open the door for him, so he casts a drying charm on himself and Pansy. Her hair puffs up in a comical way, and Draco can’t help but snort, but her glare is incinerating.

“I can do that myself, Potter, thank you very much,” she mutters through gritted teeth before casting a hair styling charm on herself.

Draco sees the products on the shelves, the prices so much higher to the ones he sets for the potions he sells.

“To what do I owe the honour of your visit, Auror Potter?” the owner of the shop asks, looking delighted to see him there. Draco doesn’t recognise him, but then he spots the slim lady who is arranging the vials of potions, ready for opening, and he remembers her straight away.

“Mrs Coombe,” he says, and the woman turns and blushes as she sees him. “Would you be so kind as to explain where you got this from?”

Draco gets the tiny vial out of his pocket and sees the woman pale and drop one of the potions she’s holding. It breaks as it lands on the floor, a green fume that smells like rotten eggs making Pansy scrunch up her nose. Draco knows it’s nothing dangerous, but the woman frets to clean everything with her magic, and then finally approaches them and smiles nervously at Draco.

“Auror Potter,” she mumbles. “I brew these myself.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” Draco replies straight away, without giving her a chance to retort. He shows her the bottom of the vial, his thumb brushing against the little bee. “This is one of Draco Malfoy’s potions. How come you’ve been selling them without his permission?”

Pansy gasps next to him, and Draco wants to beam at her, but his eyes are still locked with Mrs Coombe’s pale blue eyes, which are now filling with tears.

“We can explain,” the owner of the shop says, but Draco arches an eyebrow at him.

“Can you?” Draco asks, folding his arms in front of his chest. He imagines the way Potter looks like this, with his strong arms and his scarlet uniform. He must be a sight to behold by the looks of worry painted on the two apothecarists’ faces. “If you wouldn’t mind showing my colleague all the permission forms,” he says, because he wouldn’t have a clue if everything is in order or not, but Pansy clears her voice and takes a step forward.

“I’ll follow you to your office while Auror Potter checks the rest of the shop,” she says, and Draco is so grateful that he exhales and starts wandering around the little apothecary.

This used to be his dream. 

In the first days after the war, when he was still waiting for a trial, he used to lie awake at night and think that maybe he could have a small apothecary. He was certainly not going to have the grand future as a lord of the Manor as his parents had always predicted, but he had given up on that dream during the war. But maybe a shop would be something he could have. An honest business to clean the family name. Pansy could have joined him. They often dreamed about living together.

When they sentenced him to ten years in exile, Draco cried. Not because he had to leave his country, but because he was forbidden from contacting his Mother and Pansy. All his dreams had vanished in one day.

“I gave them a fine for now, and we’re shutting the shop,” Pansy says, snapping Draco out of his reverie. “It turns out they’ve been selling potions brewed by other potioneers without permission. We’ll open an investigation, and then the Wizengamot will decide what to do with them.”

“Good,” Draco murmurs, noticing how fierce she looks, how absolutely amazing she is as an Auror. “You’re brilliant, you know?”

Pansy stops in her tracks and scowls at him.

“What the fuck is up with you today, Potter?” she asks. “Did you bash your head or something?”

“I…” Draco starts, then turns and looks outside, spotting a café just opposite the apothecary. “I need to talk to you. Let’s get out of here.”

Draco wonders if it’s the right thing to do, considering all his options as he sits at a table in the corner, then casting a series of Muffliato after the waitress takes their order.

“Well?” Pansy asks, folding her arms on her flat chest.

“Pansy, it’s me,” he whispers despite the silencing spells. “Draco.”

“What?” Pansy asks, her frown deepening.

“I’m Draco. Malfoy,” he specifies, as if she knew anyone else with his peculiar name. “Someone cast some kind of dodgy spell on me, and now I’m stuck in Potter’s body.”

Her lips part, her dark eyes narrowing as she stares at him for a moment that stretches indefinitely.

“Da mi basia mille,” she starts. 

Draco’s heart skips a beat as he recognises the words straight away. 

“Deinde centum,” he continues.

It’s a poem by Catullus. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred more. They used to read them to each other, both in love with the Latin poet. It became a kind of secret code between them.

She swallows loudly.

“Odi…” she starts. I hate.

“…et amo,” Draco finishes. And I love.

Draco’s favourite poem.

“Mentula,” she says, her lips curling up at the rude word.

“moechatur,” he completes with a laugh.

“What did I tell you the day my mother got remarried?” she asks, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling and alive like he’s never seen them.

“That you would never marry anyone in your life because it was stupid and you look dreadful in white,” Draco replies, then adds softly. “And I said it wasn’t true, because you look dreadful in pink.”

“Fuck off,” she replies, kicking him under the table. “Draco!” she shrieks, “what the fuck are you doing in Potter’s body?! How is that even possible?”

“I have no clue,” he replies, and he wants to grab her and hold her, feel her close to him, but he’s aware of the looks of the people in the café, of the flashes of the photographers that the owner had to escort out of the shop when Pansy gave her a look that meant business.

“I’ve been waiting for so long,” she says, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Two more years and then I can finally come and visit you!”

“You’re an Auror!” he exclaims, pointing at her uniform, still dumbfounded by her career choice.

“And a very good one at that,” she replies with a smirk that makes him laugh. 

“I can’t believe you chose to work for the Ministry,” he says, shaking his head. The Pansy he remembers hated anything to do with Aurors and the forces. She wanted to work for Witch Weekly or become a reporter. 

“A lot of things changed after you left,” she says with a sigh, and she suddenly looks older. Draco looks at her with a lump in his throat, thinking of all the time they’ve lost, all the things he wishes he could have said to her over the years they’ve been apart. 

“I missed you so much,” he whispers, and Pansy smiles sadly at him, patting his hand gently. 

“You have no fucking idea how much I missed you,” she says, then pauses when she notices the waitress approaching with their order. Draco undoes the Muffliato, then casts it again once she’s gone.   

“Are we going to get in trouble for having tea while in service?” Draco asks, suddenly worried about making his situation worse, but Pansy waves her hand in dismissal.

“You’re Deputy Head Auror,” she explains. “I mean, Potter is. They’re going to put him in charge as soon as Robards moves to the US to work for MACUSA. Potter is always so serious and is constantly on duty. Between you and me, I think he’s working himself to the grave. He never takes time off, comes to work even when he’s sick. Sometimes I wonder if he actually likes this job, or if he just does it because everyone expects him to.”

Draco thinks about it for a moment as he sips on his tea. He never considered whether Potter enjoyed his life or not. He never thought about Potter’s feelings, or how this body swapping incident would impact on his life. 

“I have no idea who did this to us,” Draco says, pointing at Potter’s ridiculously fit body, “but I was hoping you could help me find out.”

“It’s your lucky day, Draco Malfoy,” Pansy says with a sly smile. “I happen to be one of the best researchers in the whole DMLE.”

“Good,” Draco says, and he can’t help but grin, because for the first time since this whole ordeal began, he feels actually grateful for getting swapped with Potter. “I will definitely need all the help I can get.”

Draco explains what has been happening to him, the strange feeling of waking up in Potter’s home, in his body. They finish their tea and give each other a quick update on their respective lives, and Draco still can’t believe that Pansy, his Pansy, is an Auror.

“I’ve been in touch with your mother,” she whispers as they leave the café, and Draco stops in his tracks, mouth agape as his eyebrows crease and heart clenches in his chest. “Don’t worry; she’s doing extremely well and can’t wait to see you. She’ll be ecstatic when I tell her that I’ve spoken to y-”

“You can’t tell her,” Draco interrupts her. “No one can know. If they suspect me for this whole ordeal, they can send me to Azkaban or prolong my sentence. You have to promise me, Pansy.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, zipping her lips in a childish gesture that sends Draco back in time to when they were kids. “My lips are sealed.”

By the time they get back to the Ministry, Pansy is ready to fill in a report on the apothecary and their wrongdoings, but Weasley looks like he’s about to set fire to the office.

“What the actual fuck, Harry?!” he hisses, dragging Draco in and shutting the door behind them. “Years of refusing to even come to the pub with us to avoid the press and now this? Have you seen it?”

He hands Draco a copy of a flash edition of the Daily Prophet with a picture of Potter and Pansy at the café, her hand over his and a lovely smile on both of their faces. 

“Uh oh,” Draco says, raising an eyebrow when he reads the title.

Potter’s New Flame And Her Redemption Arc.

“Is this some kind of early mid-life crisis?” Weasley asks, looking bewildered as he paces around the tiny office like a caged animal. “Because after all the drama of coming out to my parents and Hermione making me do a whole semester of her seminar on how to be a supportive mate to your gay best friend, I don’t honestly know how I will cope if you decide you like women, Harry.”

“Wait, Potter’s gay?” Draco blurts out in shock, then covers his mouth when he realises what he’s said.

“As gay as a rainbow,” Pansy declares, entering their office and smirking at Weasley. “Don’t you worry, Weasley. Potter was just consoling me because my boyfriend broke up with me. He was simply being a gentleman, and I’ve already explained everything to Robards. By the way, he says he needs to see you about that potions smuggling ring you’ve been working on.”

“Alright,” Weasley says with a nod, clearly calmer after hearing Pansy’s excuse.  

He leaves the office, and Draco lets out a relieved sigh.

“Gryffindors,” Pansy says, shaking her head. 

“Is it me or do they age particularly well, though?” Draco asks, pointing at Potter’s gorgeous body. “Every time I catch my reflection in a mirror, I feel all hot and bothered. Even Weasley’s a snack!”

“Wait until you see Longbottom,” Pansy says, biting on her bottom lip and pretending to fan her face. “Circe’s tits, he’s sex on legs, Draco. I’ve been trying to get Potter and Weasley to set us up on a date, but they’ve been over-protective or something. I think they assume I’m just going to shag him and then break his heart.”

“And that’s not your plan?” Draco asks, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“I want to be his girlfriend,” Pansy announces solemnly, and Draco gasps.

Things have changed.

“I shall try to put in a good word for you,” Draco says, and Pansy beams at him, then hands him a parchment full of her neat handwriting. 

“Sign here,” she says, pointing at the bottom of the document. “Wait, let me find one of Potter’s signatures for you to copy while Weasley is busy.”

She rummages through the huge pile of documents on Potter’s desk, and Draco feels a wave of anxiety at the absolute mess the man has made of his paperwork. Potter needs a secretary, or at least someone who can give him a hand with all these reports.

“How does Potter get away with not doing his paperwork?” Draco asks, pointing at the precarious tower that is threatening to fall on Pansy.

“Half of this is not even his,” Pansy replies with a shrug. “He likes to be helpful and gets dumped a lot of stuff that other people should do. If you ask me, they simply take advantage of his kindness. Gryffindors…”

Draco pauses to think about it before copying the inelegant scribble that should be the Saviour’s signature. 

Potter’s life sounds so stressful and complicated. Draco suddenly misses his cats and his bees, the smell of the sea and lazy sunsets spent on his balcony with a nice dinner on his plate. Potter would probably enjoy that.

“Can you…” he starts, thinking he is definitely going to regret it. “Can you help me sort out this mess?” Pansy’s eyebrows go up, and she looks at him like he’s grown two heads, so he feels the need to explain or at least come up with an excuse. “I don’t want to be dragged in to do field work, because I would fuck up for sure. It’s probably safer if I stay in the office today, and this pile of documents is making me anxious. I will need help figure out some of the stuff, but I’m a fast learner.”

“Okay,” Pansy says, an odd glint in her dark eyes. “Let me speak to my partner to check if he’s okay with me working with you today.”

Pansy leaves him for a moment, and Draco looks around the office. There are photos on Weasley’s desk: the whole Weasley family and Granger with a baby in her arms, her tired smile making her look older. There are no pictures on Potter’s desk, and it would look almost impersonal if it weren’t for the absolute mess on there.

There’s a knock on the door, and Draco contemplates hiding under the desk and pretending he’s not there, but then a woman comes in without waiting for his reply. She has extremely thin eyebrows, a tight ponytail and pointy glasses that make her look like the caricature of a stern Muggle teacher. 

“Here’s some more for you to fill in,” she simply says, depositing a tray full of pink forms on the desk and then leaving without a word.

“Rude,” Draco blurts out, and Pansy walks back in with a grimace.

“That’s Mildred,” she announces. “Can’t stand her. She’s forever trying to give her work to Potter and Weasley while she licks Robards’ boots to become deputy Head Auror when Potter takes his place. We all know Weasley is the man for the job, but Mildred is sly.”

“Hmm,” Draco mumbles, grabbing the first document of the tower and ignoring the tray with the pink forms. “Let’s get started, then.”

Four hours later, Draco’s stomach rumbles loudly as his hand cramps from all the time he’s spent holding a quill.

“Wowsers, mate,” Weasley comments, looking impressed. “You’re on fire today. Want to do some of my paperwork, too?”

“No,” Draco replies straight away.

When Mildred appears after lunch with another tray of pink forms and a surprised look when she realises the first one hasn’t even been touched, she huffs in annoyance and frowns at Draco.

“I have another lot for you,” she says, but Draco grabs the first pink form from the top of the tray and scribbles something on it before giving it back to her.

“Take a look at this, Mildred,” Draco says calmly. “It’s a picture of where you can shove all of your forms. And no, it’s not a peach.”

The witch pales, and her eyes widen comically. Pansy snorts and hides her grin behind the sleeves of her uniform.

“H-How dare you?” Mildred splutters, her fingers trembling as she clutches Draco’s rude but accurate drawing.

“How dare you dump your work on me all the time?” Draco asks, and Weasley beams from behind the woman, giving him a thumb up. “From now on, if you want your work done, do it yourself.”

Mildred shakes like a leaf and mutters something unintelligible under her breath before storming out of the office, banging the door behind her.

“Oh man, I wish I had taken a picture of her face,” Weasley says with a grin that lights up his freckled face. “You’re really on fire today!”

“Thanks,” Draco replies stiffly, but deep down he’s impressed with himself. Maybe it’s the Gryffindor blood coursing through his veins, but he feels brave and empowered today. “Would you mind setting up a date between Auror Parkinson and Neville Longbottom?”

Weasley’s grin freezes, and he looks at Pansy, then at Draco and wiggles his eyebrows comically.

“Are…you…sure?” he asks slowly, blinking several times.

“Absolutely positive,” Draco replies, grabbing a roll of parchment that looks like a list of expenses for an Auror mission. “I think she’s free on Friday evening.”

Pansy nods enthusiastically, and Weasley sighs, writing a quick message and heading for the owlery office to deliver it.

Draco looks at Pansy and gives her a high five.

“Circe’s tits, I missed you,” Pansy says with a grin.

❧ 🌵 ❧

When Harry wakes up in his bedroom the following morning, he groans as he looks at the rain from the window. 

Another day of dreadful British weather…

He mourns the lack of new biscuits as he eats breakfast. He remembers the clean, fresh air from the day before, the hot sun on his skin, the cats sitting on his lap and the beautiful weather. He didn’t even get to try all the biscuits he bought, which he thinks is highly unfair. 

The house looks spectacularly clean and tidy though, and Harry wonders if Malfoy spent the day at home again, but then he gets to the Ministry and discovers that his desk is clear.

Completely clear.

He freezes for a moment and wonders if he’s been sacked, or if he’s still dreaming.

“Morning, mate,” Ron says, slapping in on the back and sitting down. “I bet that feels nice,” he says, pointing at Harry’s desk.

“How…” Harry starts, shaking his head. “What?”

“I’ve never seen you fill in paperwork so quickly,” Ron comments, opening his bag and getting his planner out. “It probably helped that you sent Mildred packing and refused to sign Robards’ approval forms.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, dumbfounded. 

What the fuck was Malfoy up to?

Parkinson knocks on the door and stares at him, and Harry is extremely confused when she moves closer and whispers, “Passer, deliciae meae puellae…”

“I beg your pardon?” Harry asks, more and more confused as the day goes by.

“Never mind,” Parkinson says, leaving the office with a quick wave.

Harry stares at Ron, who simply shrugs.

“Don’t look at me,” he says. “You’re the one who was all friendly with her yesterday. Neville is super excited about going out with her on Friday. I really hope she’s not going to break his fragile heart.”

What the actual fuck, Harry thinks.

He spends the morning organising a raid with Ron, and then teaches a wandless combat class in the afternoon, feeling exhausted as he shows the trainees how to disarm an opponent without magic.

By the time he gets to leave the Ministry, Harry is worn out and stressed, contemplating the amount of work he still needs to do by the end of the week but glad that at least Malfoy got all his paperwork sorted (he still wonders how).

When he gets home, tired and hungry, he finds an owl from Luna, inviting him to dinner. Harry considers refusing, but in the end he figures at least he won’t have to cook dinner, so he takes a quick shower and then Floos there. 

“Ginny’s away with the Harpies,” Luna says as a greeting, “and I was feeling lonely. Thank you for coming to keep me company, Harry.”

“It’s alright,” Harry says, feeling relaxed as he sits at the kitchen table and watches her cook what looks suspiciously like vegan lasagne. It’s green and smells a bit funny, and Harry suddenly remembers the spectacular pizza he ate yesterday. He wonders if Malfoy ever eats proper Italian lasagne, and if they taste amazing.

“Congratulations on your engagement, by the way,” Harry says when he spots the ring on Luna’s finger. It’s simple and made of silver, runes carved all around it and making it shine every time she moves. 

“Thank you,” Luna says with a fond smile. “I’m so happy my wish for the comet came true.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, confused, as he brings a forkful of lasagne to his mouth and tries not to grimace at the odd taste.

“No one believed me,” Luna says airily, looking out of the kitchen window. There’s a wind chime that usually makes a lovely tinkling noise, but there’s no breeze today and the weather is grim. Harry can’t help but wonder if Malfoy’s ever considered buying a wind chime for his beautiful house. “I pointed my wand at the comet and quietly asked her to make me happy, to have Ginny by my side forever. They all laughed at me when I say it the day after, but Ginny went down on one knee and asked me to marry her.”

She looks delighted, a bright smile on her face, and Harry pauses for a moment as her words sink in.

The comet.

Harry did the same.

He pointed his wand at the sky, and asked for something, but what was it?

He remembers wishing to be happy, asking the comet to make him feel whole again and not so lonely anymore.

He wished for a new life.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, a trembling hand covering his lips as realises it’s all his fault.

He’s the one who caused the body swap.

There’s no other logical explanation, because no spell or potion could have caused it, since it’s an unprecedented phenomenon. 

It’s all Harry’s doing.

But why Malfoy?

Chapter Text

Draco finds a note on his kitchen table the following morning.

He spots an assortment of biscuits, wondering how much Potter paid for the sugary loot, and between a packet of Macine and one of Abbracci, there’s a creased piece of lined paper with a scribble in what Draco has come to identify as Potter’s peculiar brand of chicken scratch.

Malfoy,

I’m sorry I used your money to buy food. I sorted out your potions orders in the morning, though. The first witch was a right arse – how do you cope with her on a regular basis?

I’m trying to figure out what is causing our bodies to swap, but so far I haven’t found anything, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t you (was it? Please tell me you’re not that stupid).

Let me know if you find anything. I’ve written my address at the back of this piece of paper.

Harry

Draco stares at it. 

Potter doesn’t think Draco is responsible – thank Merlin! – and he’s left his address, as if Draco could go and visit him. Still, he thinks that’s rather friendly and finds himself re-reading the note several times as he butters some toast and munches on it. 

Potter dealt with all his orders, but Draco is behind with the potions he was supposed to brew in the afternoon. He finds a carton from the local pizzeria in the recycling bin and wonders if Potter spent all of his money on food. Draco felt so guilty the day before that he asked Pansy to pay for his meagre lunch of ham and cheese sandwich and an apple. Next time he’s in Potter’s body he’s going to get fucking high tea.

 As he gets all the ingredients ready while the cats have breakfast, Draco wonders if Potter’s been out in the sun again. His skin feels all prickly and red, so Draco sighs and summons his aloe vera ointment and covers himself in it.

He needs to do something about the body swap situation before he gets skin damage.

❧ 🌵 ❧

“Were you trying out a new handwriting the other day?” Ron asks, squinting as he tries to decipher Harry’s shopping list. “Merlin, it was so much more legible than this. Maybe you should go back to it.”

Harry doesn’t know how to explain that this is the only way he can write, that no one sat down with him when he was little to help him work on his handwriting, that the Dursleys couldn’t care less about his education. He can’t really explain that what Ron is referring to is actually Malfoy’s elegantly slanted cursive (which looks absolutely lovely, Harry has to admit), so he simply groans and grabs the list from Ron’s hand.

“Hermione said we need to get the ingredients for George’s birthday cake,” he explains, “since your parents are in Romania, and it’s down to us to make it.”

“I’m pants at baking,” Ron says with a grimace. “Can’t we buy one?”

Harry spots the aisle with flour and other baking ingredients and drags his best friend there.

“Apparently not,” he replies, grabbing a packet of organic flour, some dark chocolate and baking powder. “Something about making George feel loved.”

“I’m sure my brother would feel more loved if I didn’t give him food poisoning,” Ron points out, and Harry has to agree, but he also knows how annoying Hermione can be, so he buys all the ingredients on the list and then Apparates home with Ron.

“How hard can it be?” he asks.

Turns out it’s bloody hard, because the recipe Hermione picked is not detailed enough, and they end up forgetting to add the baking powder, so they have to start again, but it still looks like shit.

It’s past lunchtime when Harry decides that, sod it, they’re swinging by that lovely Muggle bakery next to the pharmacy to order a cake for George and pretend they made it.

“How very Slytherin of you,” Ron comments with a smirk, his t-shirt covered in flour and chocolate. 

“Piss off,” Harry replies, but he wonders if Malfoy is somehow rubbing off on him.

He wishes there were an easier way to solve the mystery of the body swap. He wishes he could talk to Malfoy to find out if he’s figured out something that maybe Harry has overlooked. 

Maybe Malfoy also wished for something when he saw the comet. Maybe it’s not just Harry’s fault.

He tried to ask Hermione about it, but she said it was all tosh and that Luna was delusional as usual. 

He suddenly has an idea.   

❧ 🌵 ❧

Draco wakes up in England and curses as he makes his way down the stairs. He had to finish brewing an important batch of fertility potion this morning, and all his work will go to waste since he won’t be at home to get it done. 

He finds a note on the kitchen table and what looks like a brand-new mobile phone right next to it. There’s a bubble of protective spells around it to prevent it from being damaged by magic, and Draco runs his fingers along the sleek surface as he reads Potter’s note. 

Malfoy,

Call your number if you wake up here. I need to speak to you.

Harry

Draco hesitates. What if it’s a trap? He has no idea what to expect, but his fingers shake as he turns the mobile on, a loud tune startling him as the light flickers and Draco dials his mobile phone number. He forgets the international prefix, so he has to dial twice, but then it rings, and Draco’s heart thrums in his chest as he waits and waits, the phone pressed to his ear.

“Come on, you bugger,” he finds himself whispering. “Pick up the bloody phone.”

“Hello?” comes a voice at the other end. 

It’s so weird. 

Draco knows that’s his voice, although it’s different from the way it normally sounds in his head. But it’s so odd to hear himself repeat a confused hello, and then a very anglicised buongiorno. 

“Potter, it’s me,” he says, and hears a loud intake of breath at the other end of the line. He wonders if Potter thinks this is as insane as it seems to him – Draco is basically speaking to himself on the phone, for fuck’s sake.

“Er…how are you?” Potter asks, and Draco taps his fingers on the table, shaking his head at the absurdity of the conversation.

“Your body is fine, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replies stiffly.

“Fuck, you’re making me sound so posh,” Potter says with a hysterical little laugh. There’s loud meowing in the background, and Potter mutters something to the cats, then curses under his breath. 

“I really hope you’re treating the cats well,” Draco says, then realises he’s being a bit of an arse, and that Potter is Deputy Head Auror and could get him in a lot of trouble, but Potter simply laughs and moves the phone so that the meowing sounds much louder.

“Does she sound okay to you?” he asks teasingly. “She was just annoyed because a tabby cat stole her breakfast, so I gave her another bowl. What’s her name, by the way?”

“Which cat are you referring to?” Draco asks, wondering why Potter is so interested in his feline companions. Potter doesn’t have any pets, but Draco remembers his white owl at school. He recalls following Potter around and being surprised at how often he was going to the Owlery to visit his familiar, so he must have cared for it deeply.

“The black one with the kittens,” Potter says, and Draco can definitely hear loud purring in the background, so he relaxes and starts making himself a cup of tea and some breakfast. “She’s your cat, isn’t she?”

“The cats do not belong to me,” Draco explains calmly. “Besides, you can’t really own a cat. I just provide them food and a roof if they want it. But that’s Ophelia. The kittens don’t have names yet.”

“Oh,” Potter says, and he’s clearly picked up one of them because Draco can hear its faint and high-pitched meowing and Potter’s soft whispered words trying to calm the kitten. “Can I help you name one? I really like the black one with white socks.”

Draco wonders for a moment why on earth they’re talking about naming the cats instead of trying to find a way out of the curse that is making them swap bodies, but he can feel a subdued purring on the phone, and his heart clenches in his chest.

“Sure,” he finds himself saying. “What were you thinking about?”

“Socks,” Potter says enthusiastically, and Draco snorts loudly at how predictable that was.

“How original,” he teases, and Potter grumbles something under his breath. “Fine, you can call him Socks.”

“How do you know it’s a he?” Potter asks, but he sounds excited, and Draco hears him whisper the name to the kitten, his voice muffled and followed by what sounds like a kiss. 

“I’ve been around cats long enough to be able to tell,” Draco explains. “Are we going to discuss the curse, by the way?” he cuts short.

“Oh, yes,” Potter says, suddenly remembering the original purpose of the phone call. “I think I found out what caused it, but I have no idea how to rectify it.”

“Was it a Dark Curse?” Draco asks, rummaging through the cupboard to look for  chocolate biscuits. “You need to sort out your cupboards, by the way – they’re an utter mess. How do you even find your things?”

“I know where my stuff is,” Potter replies, then he probably drops something because there’s a clattering noise followed by a swear word. “Sorry, I dropped a packet of biscuits. Anyway, it wasn’t a curse. It was the comet.”

“The comet?” Draco asks, remembering staring at it while lying on a picnic mat in his garden, Ophelia and her kittens curled up at his side. He remembers pointing his wand at it and making a wish.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure what to do, and I tried to breach the topic with Hermione but she doesn’t seem to believe the comet has any special powers,” Potter says with a sigh. 

“There was a story,” Draco mumbles, trying to remember Mother’s soft voice in the darkness, her smile turning radiant when she made her wand sparkle just to hear Draco gasp in fascination..

“A story?” Potter asks, sounding intrigued. 

“Mother used to tell me a story at bedtime when I was little,” Draco recalls fondly, suddenly missing her so much that his heart aches with it, reminding himself that he only has less than two years left to his sentence. “There was an old fairy tale her grandmother used to tell her about a comet granting wishes. I can’t remember much about it, and anyway it was just a story for children.”

“There’s some truth in fairy tales and fables sometimes,” Potter says slowly, as if mulling things over. “Wait, what time is it? Half past eight?”

“It’s half past seven here,” Draco replies, checking Potter’s wrist watch. “Italy’s one hour ahead.”

“Shit, Ron is going to come and get you around eight,” Potter explains, sounding a bit stressed. “We’re doing a stakeout all day.”

“Fuck,” Draco mutters, hoping it’s going to be a very boring and uneventful day at work because he’s extremely rusty when it comes to fighting spells.

“What would you like me to do this morning?” Potter asks politely, and Draco stares at the phone for a moment, surprised by Potter’s kindness.

“Could you please finish brewing my fertility potion?” he asks tentatively and hears Potter make a sound that he doesn’t know how to interpret. “The instructions are in the big red book on my desk. It’s the second potion, and I added notes on the sides that should help you. You just need to complete the last three steps, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Okay,” Potter says, sounding panicky. “What else?”

“Well, if you feel like it, you could brew some calming draught and heartburn potion. They’re in the same book.”

“I’ll try my best,” Potter promises, and then he spends the next twenty minutes briefing Draco on the stakeout. 

Draco wonders several times if Potter is breaking the law by sharing that kind of information with him, a reformed convict and member of the public, but if they want to keep up appearances, then he guesses there’s no other way. 

When he hears Weasley’s voice calling from upstairs, Draco says a curt goodbye and hopes for the best.

“Take the mobile with you!” is the last thing Potter says before Draco hangs up.

And that’s when it hits Draco.

He is not supposed to contact anyone in England except for Auror Pollock. What if the Ministry employees check his Muggle mobile phone and find out he’s had a thirty-minute chat with Potter?

“You’re still in your pyjamas!” Weasley accuses when he enters the kitchen.

“Give me a minute,” Draco replies curtly, pocketing the mobile and texting Potter as soon as he’s in the bedroom.

I’m not supposed to contact anyone as part of my sentence! Are you getting me in trouble?

He brushes his teeth and puts the Auror uniform on, stopping for a moment when he catches his reflection in the mirror.

Merlin’s pants on fire, Potter is so attractive…

Draco wonders what it would be like to see the real Potter undressing just for him, taking his uniform off slowly, with that challenging glint in his eyes that Draco still remembers from Hogwarts.

The phone buzzes and snaps him out of his Potter-induced sexual reverie.

Don’t worry. I’m deputy head Auror. Where’s the almond essence?

Draco sighs and wonders if his potion will be okay.

Third drawer in the little cupboard above the glass cabinet containing the plant-based ingredients. Everything is clearly labelled.

“Harry!” Weasley calls from downstairs, and Draco hides the phone in his right pocket and straightens his back. He stares at his reflection in the mirror and tells himself like a mantra that he can do it. He’s Potter now (sort of) and he’s brave, and competent and bloody hot – and how the fuck does Potter manage to pull off that birds nest on his head, and why is it so soft and sexy?

“Haaaaaaarrryyyyy! We’re running late, come on!”

“Coming!” Draco shouts back, a wave of panic-induced nausea making him squirm as he makes his way downstairs, praying that the criminals are going to behave today and that he won’t have to cast any defensive spells.

Luckily for him, the stakeout proves to be extremely boring. They’re hidden under a Notice-Me-Not spell, eating salt and vinegar crisps while sitting on flowery pull-out chairs that look like they belonged to Weasley’s grandmother. Draco always imagined Auror life to be more glamorous.

Weasley loses his patience after about five minutes and produces a chessboard from his robes, unshrinking it and challenging Draco to a game of Wizard’s Chess. He hasn’t played in years, but he enjoys the game, and it keeps Weasley busy so he won’t start asking him questions Draco doesn’t know how to answer.

The phone vibrates in his pocket, and Draco checks it while Weasley seems to be deep in thought as he stares at the board and hums.

Fertility potion done! Your notes were brilliant. What shall I have for lunch?

Draco shakes his head and taps quickly his reply.

Start the other potion, you bottomless pit. It’s only 10am.

Weasley makes his move, which is exactly what Draco was expecting, so he reacts quickly.

“Fuck, when did you get so good at this?” Weasley grumbles. 

But I’m hungry 😢  Ophelia says hi. 

Draco smiles, despite himself, and Weasley frowns when he looks at him.

“Who have you been texting all morning?” he asks, fingers lingering over his king, then hesitating and moving away to rub at the back of his neck instead. “And since when do you have a Muggle tellyphone?” 

“It’s called a mobile phone,” Draco corrects him, wondering if Potter’s friends are always so nosy. “And none of your business.”

Draco panics for a moment when Weasley looks up at him, thinking he’s been too harsh, but Weasley smirks at him and finally makes his move.

“Fine, keep your secrets,” he says, flashing him a grin. “You haven’t dated anyone for years, so I’m glad for you if you finally found someone.”

Draco’s heart flutters in his chest, wondering how on earth a bloke like Potter, so attractive and lovely and with a heart of gold, is still single. 

“Checkmate,” he says, and Weasley lets out an outraged, spluttering sound that makes Draco laugh.

“How the fuck did you do it?” he shouts, and Draco’s glad for the silencing charm they’ve put in place, because otherwise they would be in trouble by now. “I want a rematch!”

Draco’s about to win for the third time in a row when he gets a text from Potter.

Potions done. I’m off to the supermarket to get something for lunch. Do you need me to get you anything?

Draco stares at the screen for a moment. The message sounds so ridiculously domestic. It’s the sort of text someone would get from their partner. 

Potter is so bloody nice.

How in Salazar’s name is he still single?

“Harry,” Weasley says, “it’s your turn.”

Draco absentmindedly moves his bishop, thinking about what to reply.

I’m nearly out of bread. Could you please go to the bakery? Get some “pane al pomodoro” for your lunch. You won’t regret it.

His fingers linger on the keyboard for a moment before he adds a thank you. 

“Checkmate!” Weasley shouts, startling Draco and making him nearly drop the phone.

“Shit, I got distracted,” Draco grumbles, and Weasley pulls his tongue out at him.

“Yeah, yeah, you tell yourself that,” he says. “Keep on texting your beau. By the way, shall we have some lunch?”

“I’m starving,” Draco admits, wondering what on earth they’re going to eat – he completely forgot to bring lunch. 

Weasley produces some homemade sandwiches, and Draco thanks him before sinking his teeth into the typical shop-bought white disaster people call “bread” in England. He forgot how awful it was after being spoiled by Italian bread for eight years. He grimaces but eats his sandwich while listening to Weasley’s tales about his daughter.

Potter texts back just after lunch, and Draco can’t help but smile like an idiot.

Oh my god, that was divine! The food here is so nice. How are you still so skinny? I would spend my days stuffing my face.

“Do you have a date with him?” Weasley asks, probably noticing the embarrassing grin on Draco’s face. He shakes his head.

A date.

With Potter.

Who is currently in his body at home.

As if…

“Things are…” he starts, waving his hand in the air. “Complicated.”

He realises that’s the understatement of the century, and not just because of the body swap. Things between him and Potter have always been complicated. He can’t deny having been attracted to the bespectacled git since they were students at Hogwarts. It took Draco a long time to finally admit that to himself, and he wondered several times if Potter maybe felt the same, if there was some kind of electric chemistry between them. But then after the war, when Draco was shipped to Italy with only a suitcase full of his belongings, he had to forget about his old life and start afresh. 

He tried not to think about Potter, even though those green eyes and messy curls often featured in his wet dreams and wanking fantasies. 

But now…

Now he can see them every time he catches his reflection in a mirror. He can see those strong hands, can imagine what they would feel like running over his skin, closing around his length.

Draco swallows hard and fidgets in his chair, realising this is most definitely not the right moment to get hard while thinking about his former nemesis and current body swapper.

“Bring him over for lunch whenever you want,” Weasley says, offering him a plastic container full of strawberries.

“Thank you,” Draco says, dazed by Weasley’s generosity. 

It must be nice to be friends with him, Draco considers. It must be easy and lovely to feel cared for by someone who is probably willing to risk his life to save yours. 

Weasley’s freckled grin makes Draco blush, and he gets elbowed in the ribs with a laugh that makes him snort.

“Come on, tell me about him,” Weasley insists, and Draco tries his best not to hex him. “Do I know him?”

“Maybe,” Draco replies evasively.

The phone buzzes, and Weasley tries to take a peek, but Draco kicks him in the shin.

I’m off to the beach. The weather is amazing!

Draco fumbles with the phone and thinks Potter is absolutely mental to face the Sardinian sun in the early afternoon. With his body!

Don’t you dare, you utter moron! You’re going to get me sunburnt. Wait until it’s cooler, and make sure you cast sun protection spells (strong ones)!!! 

Bloody Potter and his enthusiasm. He’s the human version of a Labrador puppy, Draco concludes.   

“What does he say?” Weasley asks, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Draco’s screen.

Okay, I’ll go out later. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. 😛  

Draco scowls. Potter’s getting too cheeky.

Draco thinks about his collection of lacy knickers, the ones he hasn’t used in a very good while and that Potter would definitely find outrageous. He can’t suppress a chuckle as he types a reply.

Bottom drawer in my bedroom, under the blankets. Cast a revealing charm. 

It’s not like he needs to hide them. Draco can wear whatever the fuck he wants to feel sexy, thank you very much. He’s simply terrified that Auror Pollock might decide to do a house search and find them. The old wizard would probably have a heart attack if Draco were to explain they actually belong to him.     

A few minutes go by in silence, and then the phone starts vibrating repeatedly, making Draco laugh as he reads the answers.

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, MALFOY!!!

Wait, are they your girlfriend’s?

Do you have a girlfriend???

I didn’t find any photos when I looked around.

It’s not like I’m snooping, I swear. I just searched the house when I woke up here the first time. Because I’m an Auror. And I was panicking. But I’m not snooping.

Wait, are they yours?

Draco sighs and lets at least ten long minutes go by before he replies.

They’re mine. And I’m gay.

The phone remains quiet for the rest of the afternoon, and Draco wonders if Potter’s currently lying unconscious on his bedroom floor, but then Weasley challenges him to a game of Exploding Snap and produces some chocolate cake and pumpkin juice, and Draco hasn’t had pumpkin juice in so many years that he nearly cries when he tastes it.

The stakeout still drags for ages, and Draco has to jump up and down a few times to prevent his buttocks from falling asleep in spite of the cushioning charms. 

“How long until we can go home?” Draco asks, and Weasley casts a Tempus and groans.

“One more hour,” he sighs. “I’m going to make a fish pie for dinner. Want to come over?”

“As delightful as it sounds,” Draco says, “I’ve had enough of your pasty arse for today. I can’t wait to get home and have a nice cup of tea and a long bath.”

Weasley rummages through his pockets once more and unshrinks a thermos before he pours Draco a hot cup of Earl Grey.

“Fuck, I could marry you,” Draco groans as he sips on it, making Weasley laugh.

“I’ve been telling you that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” he says wisely, and Draco is seriously considering kissing him soundly on the cheek when the mobile vibrates in his trousers pocket.

Went to the beach. It was amazing! I’m getting a pizza for dinner, any suggestions?

Draco wonders if Potter is simply going to avoid talking about his lacy underwear and revealed homosexuality, but then he figures maybe he doesn’t really care. This whole body swap situation is probably a massive inconvenience for him, something he needs to get sorted as soon as possible so that he can go back to his busy life as the future Head Auror. 

It depends on what you like. I normally get the Quattro Stagioni. 

The last hour goes by too slowly, and Draco can’t stop thinking about Potter in his house, in his body.     

When the two Aurors who have come to replace them finally arrive, Draco feels tired despite not actually doing much all day. He waves at Weasley, thinking that Potter is lucky to have him as a best friend, and then he Apparates to Grimmauld Place.

The house is dark and gloomy, and Draco misses home like mad all of a sudden.

He misses his sun soaked kitchen, the warmth of his living room, the cosiness of his sofa, with a cat by his side. 

“At least the weather is shitty enough to take a hot bath,” he tells himself out loud, and the house creaks ominously around him, the pipes clanking loudly as Draco hears the water running in the bathroom. He completely forgot what it was like to live in a wizarding house attuned to its owner’s needs. He sighs in appreciation when he enters the bathroom and takes his clothes off to sink into the hot water. 

He tries not to look at Potter’s gorgeously naked body.

He really tries.

He summons a book from the bedroom, but one of Potter’s gay bodice-ripper novels shoots into his hand, and Draco finds himself hard and naked and terribly horny in a body that isn’t his. 

He’s already made a huge mistake once, when he wasn’t aware he was inhabiting Potter’s body and had a sleepy wank. He wonders if Potter is going to kill him when Draco finds the courage to tell him.

He climbs out of the bathtub, trying to ignore the big erection that simply won’t go down whilst simultaneously thinking cooling thoughts.

Blaise’s grandmother in her flowery nightgown.

The goat that keeps on escaping his neighbour’s garden to sit on Draco’s car.

His first attempt at making bread.

The phone suddenly buzzes, and Draco picks up the discarded Auror robes from the floor, trying to get the mobile out of the pocket before it stops vibrating. He wonders for a moment if anyone else calls Potter on his phone, but it’s his own number that appears on the screen when Draco finally extricates it from the robes.

“Hello?” he says, and Potter sighs from the other end of the line.    

“Thank god, I thought something happened to you,” Potter says, sounding extremely relieved.

“Were…” Draco starts, levitating the robes into the laundry basket and padding barefoot towards the bedroom. “Were you worried about me?”

“Well, you never know about those stakeouts,” Potter says with a huff, and Draco knows Potter is not really worried about him (why would he be?), that he’s only concerned about his body. He wonders for a fleeting moment what would happen if one of them died whilst stuck in each other’s body and shudders at the thought. There’s a strange noise in the background that Draco identifies as the neighbour’s goat. “I mean, Ron was there, but I was worried you might struggle if you ended up in a fight.”

“Is that bloody goat standing on my car again?” Draco asks, taking the towel off and looking for some clean clothes in Potter’s messy drawers. He’s going to have to sort them out later – they’re making him anxious.

“Wait, is that old banger your car?! Do you drive?” Potter asks, sounding bewildered.

“How dare you belittle my Panda?” Draco says, trying to confer how outraged he is. That’s his first car. It might be a bit dusty and old, and the steering wheel is hard as fuck to turn, but Draco loves it to bits. “Just because you’re filthy rich and could probably afford a Jaguar doesn’t mean that yo-”

Potter bursts out laughing, and Draco stops his tirade to gawk at the phone.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he says for the second time that day, then seems to realise it and starts coughing. “Anyway, I just got home from the pizzeria, and I wanted to suggest you get some food from the Indian restaurant around the corner.”

“Why?” Draco asks, wondering if Potter is also thinking about his lacy underwear collection after his comment. He wonders if he tried it on.

“Well, it seems only fair,” he says, sounding a little awkward. Definitely thinking about it, Draco concludes. “I’m having pizza. Anyway, you can find the leaflet with the menu in the kitchen drawer next to the sink, the one with the cutlery. Wait, I’m—oh, hello, little darlings. Give me a minute and I’ll get us in.”

Draco can’t suppress a grin when he realises Potter is talking to Ophelia and her kittens. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Draco says, but Potter swears under his breath as he drops the keys with a jingling sound.

“Wait!” he says. “Hang on. We’re in, okay. We could keep each other company while we eat. I can help you choose the best things on the menu.”

Draco pauses for a minute, looking down at Potter’s naked body. Oh, but it’s so gorgeous.

He groans, grabbing a pair of underwear and a t-shirt as the cold air makes him shiver. 

“Aren’t we paying a lot in international phone calls?” Draco asks, then realised Potter called him with Draco’s mobile. “What the fuck, I won’t have any credit left!”

“Call me,” Potter says, and then hangs up before Draco can argue.

He grabs a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a faded green hoodie that probably makes Potter’s emerald eyes stand out in the most beautiful way. He just can’t help himself and checks his reflection in the mirror, biting on his bottom lip as he contemplates how stunning Potter is. 

He calls back as he walks down to the kitchen, and Potter picks up straight away.

“Are you eating already?” Draco asks when he hears munching sounds in the background.

“Sorry, smells too good,” Potter mumbles, making Draco groan. “I didn’t want it to get cold.”

“You’re a wizard, Potter,” Draco reminds him. “Cast a fucking Stasis.”

“Sometimes I forget I have magic,” Potter confesses, chuckling sheepishly in a way Draco finds cute despite his efforts to ignore how adorable Potter is. There’s some loud purring in the background, and Draco imagines Potter lying on the sofa with Ophelia or one of the kittens in his lap. For a mad, fleeting moment Draco wishes he were there with him.  

“What do you recommend from the Indian restaurant?” he asks to steer himself from thinking about it too hard. He’s probably just feeling lonely because he’s away from home, in an unexpected and difficult situation. This has nothing to do with Potter.

“It depends on how spicy you like it,” Potter says, sounding excited, and then helps Draco pick a few things from the menu. He has to hang up to call the restaurant and place his order, but Potter texts him soon after to ask to chat again.

“Do you normally talk to your friends while you eat?” Draco asks while munching on a poppadom.

“No,” Potter replies sincerely. “I only bought the phone to speak to you. Most of my friends are married or engaged. Sometimes Ron and Hermione invite me to dinner at their place, but they have a baby, and…I feel like I’m intruding, you know?”

“Hmm,” Draco hums as he opens the food containers and inhales the aromatic spices, his mouth filling with saliva at the thought of the delicious meal he’s about to consume. “I haven’t had an Indian in so long. I’m really looking forward to this.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” he says, sounding excited, and Draco wonders why Potter is so friendly, why he’s spending the evening chatting with him. Maybe Potter is also feeling lonely and out of place. Maybe he always feels lonesome in his big, dark house without pets to keep him company and friends who all seem to have a family or a partner.

Draco knows what that feels like. He has a few friends in Italy, but most of them have girlfriends or wives, and the expats want nothing to do with him, too aware of his past to give him a chance to prove he’s changed.

“I’m sorry you had to swap bodies with me,” Draco admits as he starts eating his dinner, hearing Potter hum at the other end of the line. “I hope we can find a way out soon.”

“To be honest with you, I’m probably the one who got us in this situation in the first place,” Potter admits candidly, and Draco has a million questions to ask, like how do you know, and why, and how can you be so sure, but then the line cuts off abruptly, and Draco is left there, staring at the phone. He realises he has most likely run out of credit, and Potter texts him to say that Draco’s phone unfortunately has only a couple of euros left, too.

I swear I’ll get us out of this.

Draco stares at the screen several times before going to bed, wondering if Potter will manage to be true to his word.     

❧ 🌵 ❧

Harry wakes up feeling cold. He misses the warmth of Malfoy’s sun soaked room instantly, the feeling of soft fur under his fingertips, the smell of his pillow. He’s naked and shivers, but he stretches his limbs like a lazy cat and enjoys the feeling of the clean sheets against his bare skin, wondering if Malfoy stared at his naked body before going to bed or if he undressed in the dark and didn’t pay any attention to it.

Malfoy is gay, he reminds himself. 

Harry remembers the underwear he found yesterday, the lacy knickers in all shades and colours, so immaterial and soft between his fingertips. He got so ridiculously turned on thinking about Malfoy wearing them. He considered wearing them and staring at his reflection in the big mirror, cock stiff and pink under the delicate fabric, but then concluded it would have been wildly inappropriate and tried to get his erection down while reading the most boring essay on potions he could find. 

He doesn’t have to do it now, though.

He lies face down, eyes shut as he rocks against the bed sheets, a hand lazily reaching behind after casting a wandless cleaning charm. He loves the feeling of his own finger teasing his hole as his movements start picking up. And it’s always the same, naked bodies behind his closed eyelids, faceless men that fuck and suck and come, but this time it’s different. Pale limbs, grey eyes and a scarred chest. Harry moans helplessly, tries to resist but eventually gives in. He imagines Malfoy’s hands all over him, his long fingers wrapping around Harry’s cock and stroking hard and fast while his lips claim Harry’s mouth and whisper obscenities against his skin. 

“Fuck,” Harry comes with a whimper, too soon and too hard for the leisurely morning wank this was supposed to be. He lets his body shudder with the aftershocks of his pleasure, letting out a little moan against the pillow.

He looks at the mess he’s made, feeling rather embarrassed despite himself, and decides a cleaning charm won’t do the job, so he removes the bedsheets and puts the laundry on. 

He stares at his mobile phone while he has his breakfast, thinking longingly about the biscuits he tried yesterday. He really liked the chocolate ones with the little white stars and the round one that melted in his mouth when he dunked them in a glass of milk. He thinks about the sea, and the fresh air, about Socks playing with a ribbon Harry found in one of the drawers. He thinks about Malfoy’s texts, keeping him company all day, making him feel less lonely than he usually does, especially in the evening.  

The mobile is fully charged, but his credit has run out, and Harry considers that he probably has no reason to contact Malfoy today, since they’re back in their own bodies. He still leaves the house before Ron’s arrival to quickly go and get a top up. As soon as it’s done, he takes the mobile between trembling fingers and starts typing.

Hey, how are you today?

He stares at it long after, feeling completely stupid.

What kind of asinine question was it? Is he a fucking teenager with his first crush or something?!

“Get a grip, Harry…” he tells himself, catching his own reflection in the mirror that replaced Walburga’s painting as he walks back in. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright and hair even messier than usual. “Oh, god…”

The phone vibrates in his hand, and Harry clicks on the SMS to open it at the speed of light.

I’ve just found freckles on my nose. Bloody freckles, Potter!!! Can you not use sun protection charms???

Harry smiles and quickly types a reply.

I bought Muggle sun cream and covered myself in it. I bet you look cute.

He clicks on send and then feels like a colossal idiot for calling Malfoy cute. 

“Bloody hell,” he breathes out, imagining Malfoy’s pale face covered in freckles and swallowing loudly at the thought. 

The thing is, Harry spent a ridiculous amount of time staring at his reflection in the mirror yesterday. He admired the long lines of Malfoy’s lean body, the delicate ears, his straight nose and soft lips. He traced the scars on his chest with his fingertips, trying to be gentle. He couldn’t help but notice how breathtakingly gorgeous Malfoy is, with his loose hair falling in gentle waves around his face, wondering if Malfoy ties it with a hairband or still slicks it back. That would be a shame, Harry thought, threading his fingers through the white-blond strands and marvelling at their softness. It was even fairer than Harry remembered, probably because of the sun.   

The phone buzzes, and Harry blinks a few times before he finds the courage to read the reply.

Cute?! I look like a Weasley, for fuck’s sake! When I first moved to Sardinia, I spent a whole year covered in freckles, but then I learnt how to cast the strongest sun protection charm a wizard can master. I won’t let you ruin my hard work, Potter!

Harry chuckles and sends his reply.

Stop being such a dramatic twat.

He takes a shower and gets ready for work, checking his mobile every now and then, wondering what Malfoy is going to do today, which potions he’s brewing. Ron arrives to pick him up, and Harry considers for a moment if he should leave the phone at home.

He doesn’t really need it today.

“You alright, mate?” Ron asks, and Harry nods, his fingers closing around the small telephone and making it slide inside one of the pockets of his uniform. “You spent the whole day yesterday staring at that Muggle thing. Do you still not want to tell me who you’ve been messaging?”

“Nope,” Harry replies, mentally thanking Malfoy for acting reserved with Ron.

As soon as they get to the Aurors Headquarters, Parkinson approaches him and whispers something to him.

“Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque…” she murmurs, and Harry stares at her like she’s grown two heads.

“I have no fucking clue what you’ve just said,” he confesses.

“Never mind, bye!” she says, leaving him with an equally confused Ron.

“I swear weird things are happening lately,” Ron mutters, and Harry tries to reassure him that everything is fine. He could tell Ron, he thinks, but at the same time he doesn’t want to. 

The comet gave him this. It made Luna’s wish come true, so it could do the same with Harry’s. Hermione would never believe him, and she would most likely get the Department of Mysteries involved to investigate if Harry told her about swapping bodies with Malfoy. But Harry doesn’t want to be treated like a lab rat. He wants to find out where this whole thing leads, if there’s a purpose to the body swap, if there’s a reason why he’s swapping with Malfoy of all people. Malfoy, who is so gorgeous and carefree in his house near the sea, with his cats and his potions and his honey. Harry can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy when he thinks of Malfoy’s life, even though it’s absurd, because Malfoy is stuck there, and he didn’t choose it. But despite everything, it still feels like a pretty decent life.

Harry thinks about him, and automatically reaches for his phone.

Do you have any idea why Parkinson keeps on talking to me in a language that sounds like Latin?

There’s no reply for a while, and Harry gets on with his work, filling out paperwork and organising his notes for a meeting with Robards about a murder case, when the phone suddenly comes to life in his pocket.  

It’s a code. She’s checking if it’s me. I forgot to tell you that she knows about the body swap. Sorry.

Harry feels annoyed and disappointed as he reads the message. He can’t figure out if he’s more irritated by the fact that Malfoy didn’t tell him Parkinson knew or if it’s because it’s no longer a secret shared just between the two of them. He considers telling Ron out of pettiness, but then decides against it.

“Auror Parkinson, a word,” he calls, standing next to her cubicle, and he notices the way her shoulders stiffen and eyebrows knot in concern. He takes her to one of the empty interrogation rooms and motions for a chair in front of him.

“Have I done something wrong?” she asks, arching an eyebrow at him. Her behaviour has been absolutely impeccable since she joined the Aurors, and she’s extremely hardworking, so Harry could never find fault in her work. He sighs, feeling like a twat for making her nervous. It’s not her fault Harry is a jealous bastard.

“No, this is about Malfoy,” he starts, and Parkinson’s eyebrows go up in alarm, her dark eyes widening. “He told me you know about us…about the body swap.”

“Oh,” she breathes out in relief, then smiles at Harry for the first time since they started working together, and Harry relaxes. He hadn’t even realised he was so tense. “I’ve been carrying out some pretty intense research at the Ministry Archives. I even went to Hogwarts and got special permission to search the Forbidden Section and the Headmistress’s private collection, but nothing so far.”

“Thank you for doing that,” Harry says, running his fingers through his hair and messing up his curls as he decides whether to share what he knows with her. “I…I think it was due to the comet.”

“The comet?” she asks, her red lips parting in surprise, and Harry thinks she’s going to call him a delusional idiot and laugh at him, but instead she gets a pad out of her pocket and starts taking notes. “What have you discovered?”

“I don’t know much,” Harry confesses, “just that apparently it could make people’s wishes come true. It happened to my friend Luna. She pointed her wand at the sky and made a wish that came true, so maybe…I don’t know…”

“What did you wish for?” Parkinson asks quickly, not leaving Harry time to think.

“I don’t want to tell you,” he blurts out, and she stares at him with a look Harry thinks must work wonders on criminals. Unfortunately for her, Harry is an experienced Auror, and he has no intention of revealing his secrets. “But I think Malfoy also made a wish. Maybe…they might be related.”

“I’ll speak to Draco when you swap again,” she says, closing the pad and putting it back in her pocket. “I shall see if I can find anything about comets in the meantime.”

“Thank you,” Harry says stiffly, and they both stand up at the same time, staring awkwardly at each other, then at the door. “Alright…I should…”

“What was that about?” Ron asks when Harry walks back into their office. “How come you’re so friendly with Parkinson all of a sudden?”

“She’s a great Auror,” Harry points out, and Ron eyes him curiously. “We’re working on a special case together.”

“The apothecary one that was selling Malfoy’s potions illegally?” Ron asks, and Harry stops in his tracks, looking at the small pile of unsigned documents on his desk. He makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat and gets the mobile out of his pocket.

Care to explain why you’ve been working on a case with Parkinson in my absence?

He probably sounds annoyed, but he doesn’t give a shit. He flicks through the pages of reports until he finds the one he was looking for, written in Parkinson’s neat handwriting and dating back to the second day they swapped.

Malfoy replies by the time Harry’s finished reading it.

That apothecary was selling my potions! I can’t sell my products in the UK because it goes against my sentence, so I could risk Azkaban or an extended exile. I’m sorry I went there without your permission, but I had no way to communicate with you.

Harry wants to know how on earth Malfoy figured out that the apothecary was selling his potions, so he asks.

The calming potion Weasley gave me is one of mine. Check the bottom of the vial and you’ll see the bee.

Harry does, because he always has a stash of those potions in his drawer, and he realises that he’s been taking for months potions that Draco Malfoy has been brewing. That he’s the person Harry needs to thank for creating a potion that finally works on his anxiety when the relaxation techniques and the meditation don’t work.

He taps his hands on the table, conscious of the fact that he would have done the same. Had he been in Malfoy’s shoes, he would have stormed in and arrested the owners of the Apothecary. Malfoy took Parkinson and let her deal with all the paperwork to make it look official. He was cautious and cunning. 

Are you mad at me?

Just five words that make Harry’s heart clench in his chest. He can imagine Malfoy in his kitchen getting worried, thinking he’s in trouble, and Harry doesn’t want him to panic, because he’s grown to like the pale bastard. An awful lot.

It’s okay. I’ll deal with the apothecary and make sure your name is cleared. Don’t worry.

Malfoy sends a thank you straight away, and Harry relaxes, thinking that he doesn’t want to mess things up between them, that he likes the weird kind of relationship they’re somehow building. He enjoys Malfoy’s dry sense of humour, the way he’s leading his life. He likes talking to him and feeling the phone vibrate in his pocket every time there’s a message from him.

He finds himself calling Malfoy as soon as his working day is over, walking to the supermarket and whispering to himself, “Come on. Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up…”

“Hello?” Malfoy replies, sounding formal and haughty, and Harry smiles, imagining his pale eyebrows arching up.

“I was thinking,” Harry says, wanting to get rid of the morning’s awkwardness.

“Potter, you need a brain to think,” Malfoy retorts straight away, and Harry rolls his eyes with a smile.

“You have a computer, right?” he says, an idea forming in his head.

“Correct,” Malfoy replies, the sound of seagulls in the background and the wind so strong that Harry hears it over his voice. 

“Are you at the beach?” he asks, and Malfoy hums. 

Harry is suddenly filled with the desperate need to be there with him, to smell the air and close his eyes, letting the wind ruffle his curls into an even bigger mess, Malfoy’s body next to his, warm and solid. 

“You were saying?” Malfoy encourages him, and Harry clears his voice, staring at the Thames and frowning at its grey platitude.

“I remember Dean telling me he could call Seamus with his computer while he was in America. They could see each other, and it was really cheap,” Harry says, stopping to lean over the balustrade and stare at the murky water. Merlin, he wishes he were in Sardinia right now, the sea so clear that he can see the tiny fish swimming around his feet.  

“Hmm,” Malfoy hums, his finger tapping against the receiver. “I know what you’re talking about. It’s a new thing called Skype. You can video call people, but you need a computer for that, and you don’t have one.”

“Yeah, about that,” Harry says, the decision clear in his head as he looks for a secluded corner where he can Apparate. “I think I might get a laptop.”

❧ 🌵 ❧

Draco stares at the screen, legs bouncing under the desk, wondering if he’s going to get in trouble for this. Potter keeps on saying not to worry, that he’s got everything under control, but Draco is still bloody terrified.

He has no idea why Potter wants to see him, a hundred different scenarios forming in his head since that call yesterday evening.

Getting it sorted. Give me a sec.

Draco stares at the phone screen and feels a fresh wave of panic. He doesn’t even know why he’s so anxious about this, but when his computer comes to life and a cheerful tune erupts from the speakers, Draco grabs the mouse and clicks on the green phone, and Potter’s face appears there, his green eyes blinking a few times before a smile blooms on his gorgeous face.

“Hey,” he says, and Draco just stares at him for a moment, unable to utter a single word. “Can you hear me? Have I fucked up something?”

Draco nods, then clears his voice, and Potter’s fingers start tugging at his curls, his smile turning sheepish as he looks at Draco, who finds it all so terribly endearing.

Fuck, he can’t be falling for Harry Potter.

One thing is liking his body, another thing is liking him.

“Good evening, Potter,” he finally says, straightening his back and tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“I’ve been wondering how you wear your hair at home,” Potter says, tilting his head and just staring at him with those big green eyes that have always made Draco mad with desire, even back at school. “I really like it like that.”

Draco feels his face heating up, dreading the embarrassing splotches of red on his cheeks. Thankfully Ophelia decides it’s the right moment to jump into his lap for a cuddle, and Draco immediately relaxes, his fingers stroking her soft fur. 

“Well, I’m glad you approve of my hairstyling choices, Potter,” he comments drily, and Potter chuckles nervously.

“You could call me Harry,” he says, a curl wrapped around his index finger, bouncing back when he slides his hand through the rest of his unruly mane. “I mean, you should…I’ve been in your house and everything. Merlin, I’ve been inside your body.”

Draco blushes at the statement, his mind conjuring images of Potter being inside his body in a completely different way.

“Well,” he says, tapping nervously on the desk, “I supposed we could call each other by our first names. If it doesn’t bother you to be on friendly terms with an ex-Death Eater.” 

Draco’s eyes automatically go for the Mark on his arm, covered in flowers. Narcissi, camellias, chrysanthemums and ranunculi crowding the skull and drowning it in colour. It’s still there, though, like a painful reminder of Draco’s mistakes. 

“You’re not that anymore,” Potter says, then adds a timid, “Draco.”

Draco swallows loudly, then wets his lips with his tongue, watching Potter’s gaze follow his movements. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “Harry.”

Circe, it sounds so weird coming out of his lips. Potter’s smile is so radiant, though.

“I can’t believe it was you brewing my calming potions!” Potter – no, Harry – suddenly exclaims, and Draco smiles at the thought. “What the fuck am I going to do now? All the others that I’ve tried were shit or tasted horrible.”

“I can teach you how to brew it yourself,” Draco replies easily. “You did a good job with the potions you prepared the other day for me.”

“It’s because your instructions were brilliant,” Harry replies, making Draco blush at the sudden and easy compliment. “I have a theory about the fact that I was pants at potions because Snape was a crap teacher. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I now sort of appreciate him as a person after everything I found out about him, but…his teaching methods were appalling, let’s face it.”

“Maybe you were just not ready for his genius,” Draco teases, and Harry makes a funny grimace that pulls a laugh from Draco, startling Ophelia, who complains loudly. 

“Is that Ophelia?” Harry says, craning his neck in a pointless gesture to see Draco’s lap. 

“Yes, we’re having a cuddle,” Draco admits, and Potter groans.

“I wish I had her here with me,” he says petulantly.

“You could always get a pet, you know?” Draco says, letting his fingers slide along the cat’s back, loving the way it vibrates as she purrs loudly. 

“I’m always at work,” Harry replies, looking a bit miserable as he stares at his own hands and scrunches up his nose. There’s a beeping sound in the background, and Harry stands up to check on something. Draco realises he’s in the kitchen, and then Harry appears again with a plate full of pasta in front of him.

“Oh,” Draco says. “You haven’t had dinner yet. It’s quite late, isn’t it?”

“I was trying to get the laptop to work,” Harry explains before he brings a forkful of food to his mouth. “And I hate eating on my own. I hope you don’t mind…”

“No, it’s fine,” Draco replies, because he actually doesn’t like eating on his own either, even if he does it most days. “We could arrange to make it a date next time,” he jokes, but Harry’s eyebrows go up, and a grin appears on his face.

“That would be great!” he exclaims, showing an enthusiasm Draco was definitely not expecting. He wonders for a moment why Harry doesn’t meet up with his friends since he appears to have plenty of them. He’s sure Weasley wouldn’t mind – they still look so close – but then he remembers that he has a young child, and he realises that Harry probably feels like he might intrude on his friend’s family time. 

Harry probably feels lonely.

All day at work saving lives and then on his own every evening.

“What’s with your obsession with biscuits?” Draco suddenly asks, because he wants to find out more about this Harry Potter that he didn’t think he would get to know. A Saviour who wants company and who likes pets, a man who is willing to work himself to the grave but who won’t ask his own friends for company.

“Oh,” Harry says, playing with the fusilli on his plate for a moment. “I…my Muggle relatives were awful to me when I grew up…my aunt wouldn’t let me eat any biscuits. She only bought them for my cousin.”

“What?” Draco breathes out, confused as a frown appears on his face. He doesn’t mean to pry, and Potter is clearly ill at ease, but he’s sure he must have misheard.

“Well,” Harry starts, his fork moving the pasta around the plate and then stabbing it forcefully a couple of times. “The biscuits were not the end of the world. They made me sleep in a cupboard under the stairs for years.”

“What!?!” Draco nearly shouts, startling Ophelia and making her jump off his lap and dart across the room.

“And they made me cook for them when I was too young to know what I was doing,” Potter adds as if he were talking about the weather. “I didn’t have any toys or new clothes. They wouldn’t even let me borrow books from the library because they said it was undignified or some crap like that.”

Draco’s heart beats madly in his chest.

This can’t be possible.

He spent years making fun of Potter, teasing him mercilessly about his appearance and his clothes, thinking that he simply didn’t care about his appearance, that he had grown up in some safe place carefully picked by Dumbledore, where he was spoiled and pampered by Muggles.

But this.

Draco was not expecting to find out that Harry was neglected as a child.

“Harry, I…” he mumbles, tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes, but Harry shakes his head and smiles at him, a sad little smile that threatens to shatter Draco’s heart. 

“It’s fine,” he says, waving a hand in front of the camera. “I’ve done lots of therapy, and I’ve come to accept the fact that nothing will ever bring back the parents or the childhood I didn’t get to have. But the biscuits…those I can do something about.”

“Sure,” Draco thinks, a plan already forming in his head. “Buy all the biscuits you can.”

“The Italian ones are super nice,” Harry says excitedly. “Can you tell me what the names mean? I have no clue.”

“Sure,” Draco says, eager to do something, to find even a tiny little thing he can do to start redeeming himself. He spent years feeling dirty and awful about his past, working on himself to be better, to show that he had changed. And yet, he suddenly feels back to square one right now.

He flicks his wand and summons all the packets of biscuits, and they come flying through the living room from the kitchen, landing in his open arms.

“Oh, I loved the half-cream, half-chocolate ones,” Harry says excitedly.

“These are called ‘Abbracci’, which means ‘hugs’, because it’s as if the two parts were hugging each other, I guess,” he explains, and Harry makes a knowing noise and resumes eating his pasta. 

“What about the chocolate ones with the stars?” Harry asks with his mouth full.

“Those are ‘Pan di stelle’, which translates as ‘star bread’, I guess,” he says with a frown. “I have no idea what they were thinking when they named them, to be honest.”

“That sounds cute,” Harry says with a smile, and Draco smiles back.

He watches Harry finish his dinner, then munch on an apple as they talk about their lives, and the day draws to a close, the night sky filling with stars, but Draco has never felt less interested in staring at it than he does now.

Harry is all he can see and think about, making his heart beat faster and faster.

That night he falls asleep with a plan in his mind, green eyes and a sheepish smile behind his closed eyelids.

“I’m so screwed,” he murmurs as he turns around in bed.

Chapter Text

Harry opens his eyes and grins when he realises where he is.

It’s Saturday, which means that he doesn’t even have to prepare potions and receive Draco’s customers, so he turns around in bed and opens the shutters and the window with a flick of Draco’s wand. He breathes in the cool, aromatic air and stretches his long limbs against the soft bed sheets. 

He’s a bit sweaty, so he decides to take a quick shower, which turns out to be the worst idea ever because he gets impossibly hard when he’s confronted with Draco’s gloriously naked body and lovely pink cock. He washes it carefully, pretending he’s pulling back the foreskin just to make sure it’s all nice and clean, cupping his balls because a man always needs to double-check everything is fine down there, thank you very much, and what if Draco is not looking after himself properly? Harry is only doing him a favour and—fuck, he’s so ridiculously turned on that he has to turn the water temperature down unless he wants to end up doing something indecent while in Draco’s body.

“Phew, that was close,” he tells himself as he chooses a red t-shirt and a pair of linen shorts before he pads downstairs for breakfast.

Harry stops when he finds a small parcel under Stasis on the table. There’s a note in Draco’s neat handwriting. 

Harry,

These are typical Sardinian biscuits. I got some from the local patisserie, and my neighbour baked the rest.

I hope you like them,

Draco

Harry reads the message twice, his stomach full of butterflies.

Draco got him biscuits.

No one ever gets him anything, except for Ron during steakouts. His friends make fun of his obsession with sweets and biscuits, and Ginny always gets him a packet of digestives for his birthday just to take the piss, but this…this is so kind and considerate that Harry feels like he might start crying. He peels off the cling film instead and starts contemplating the beauties in front of him, filling his nostrils with the mouth-watering smell.

There’s a dark biscuit shaped like a diamond and covered in white icing, a flower-shaped little cake that smells of lemon, then a double layered biscuit with a hole and jam in the middle. He doesn’t know where to start, so he grabs a round, cracked thing covered in sugar with an almond on top and brings it to his mouth, moaning indecently as the little delicacy melts on his tongue. The almond flavour is so delicious that Harry closes his eyes and just chews until it’s gone and he’s desperate for more.

He demolishes the whole tray, then summons Draco’s phone and texts him with sticky fingers.

Oh my god, the biscuits were AMAZING! Thank you so much!

The reply comes straight away, and Harry smiles, imagining Draco’s blushing cheeks, then realising that Draco looks like him at the moment, which is still so weird even after they’ve swapped a number of times.

I’m glad you enjoyed them. 

A couple of seconds go by, and Harry is making himself a cup of coffee when the phone buzzes again.

Shit, it’s Saturday morning! You need to get ready for the market!

“What?” he says out loud, sliding a hand inside his shorts to scratch his bum because it’s suddenly itchy. And fuck, Draco’s arse feels rather amazing…

The phone rings, and Harry picks up while fumbling with the moka pot. Draco showed him how to use it on Skype, but Harry’s still learning and doesn’t want to forget to put the ground coffee in like last time and end up with hot water instead of a nice coffee. 

“You need to load the car with the crates,” Draco says quickly, a panicky tone in his voice. “Shit, you can’t drive. Oh fuck, what are we going to do?”

“Calm down,” Harry says, twisting the top part of the pot and making sure it’s tight enough before he puts it on the stove. “Why do I need to go shopping at the market? Can’t I go to the supermarket in town?”

“You are not going shopping,” Draco clarifies, his voice still hurried and tones clipped. Harry’s noticed that the more Draco gets anxious and the posher he sounds, which Harry always finds surprisingly adorable. “I have a stall at the local market on Saturday morning. I sell my honey and soap bars.”

“You do what now?” Harry asks, staring at the moka pot and saying a mental goodbye to his plans for a lazy morning at the beach. 

“You could ask Matteo for help,” Draco mumbles, his mind clearly running at a million miles per hour to find a solution to his problem. “He owes me a favour after I took his grandmother to the hospital last week. Okay, text him and say the car won’t start and you need a lift to the market.”

“I can’t even speak Italian!” Harry points out, hoping he can sneak away from this situation while he opens the window for the cats and prepares their breakfast.

“He speaks English,” Draco replies dismissively, “and you don’t need to make small talk with people unless you want to. You can pretend I have laryngitis and my voice is gone. Let’s do that. Come on, send Matteo a text.”

“Bossy,” Harry mutters under his breath, and Draco snorts at the other end of the line. “I’m only doing it because you bought me the most amazing biscuits and because your cats are adorable.”

“I told you,” Draco says. “The cats don’t belong to me.”

“I’ll speak to you in a bit,” Harry says because the moka pot is making that noise that never fails to startle him, and the cats are meowing loudly because he’s not fast enough with their breakfast, and he has to find the courage to text Matteo and ask for a favour.

“Will you come with me?” he asks Socks, but the kitten just tilts his tiny head and then rubs it against Harry’s hand. “I wish I could take you in my pocket.”

Matteo simply replies he will be there in fifteen minutes, and Harry barely has time to brush his teeth and call Draco to find out what he needs to bring before the noise of Matteo’s car driving up the hill makes him swear under his breath.

“Everything will be fine,” Draco promises. “Just call me or text me if you have any problems. The prices of things are on the boxes, and Matteo will help you set up the stall if you ask him nicely and give him a jar of eucalyptus honey. It’s his favourite.”

“You two seem really close,” Harry points out with a pang of jealousy, feeling annoyed as he watches Matteo wave at him from the car with that impossibly good-looking smile and body. Harry doesn’t fancy him one bit. He is just scared that Draco might.

“He’s straight,” Draco comments offhandedly, and Harry doesn’t know if there’s a tinge of regret in his words, or if he’s just imagining things. “And besides I’m not interested. He’s just a friend. My first friend on the island.”

Harry relaxes instantly, letting out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

“Alright,” he says, not even knowing if he’s trying to reassure himself of Draco. “I’ll speak to you later.”

Matteo grins at him and helps him load the boot with all the crates and the things Harry will need to set up the stall. He turns the radio on, and some incomprehensible Italian music blares from the car, making Harry relax at the thought that at least he doesn’t have to chat with him. Matteo drives like a lunatic, and Harry curses under his breath as they nearly run over a sheep, which makes Matteo laugh and poke fun at him.

“It’s like your first time driving with me,” he says, winking at him, which Harry finds annoying, wondering if anything happened the first time they drove together, trying to remind himself that Draco said Matteo is straight and his friend. 

He looks outside of the open window and admires the raw beauty of the countryside, the yellow patches of dry grass and cacti on the sides of the road. There’s a strange, rudimentary tower in the middle of a field, coarse blocks of dark rock that look like they’re about to tumble down any moment.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing at it.

“Nuraghe,” Matteo replies, sounding surprised. “Can’t you recognise them by now?”

Harry makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat because he has no idea what that word means. He texts Draco to ask, and he replies straight away.

They’re prehistoric buildings that you can find scattered around Sardinia. Some of them are really cool. I wish I could take you to see them. 

Harry stares at the screen, his heart clenching in his chest.

He wishes Draco were here.

He’s spent the past two months wanting him here with him, or in England at his side. 

“Here we are,” Matteo says, parking the car in a town square that has already got lines of stalls selling food and clothes. 

“Could you help me, please?” Harry asks, trying to sound as posh as Draco would, and Matteo elbows him and points at his mobile phone.

“How are things with your flame?” he asks, unfastening his seatbelt and getting off the car to open the boot. “You keep on staring at that phone. You used to forget it at home all the time, and now…”

“Err…” Harry mumbles, helping Matteo with the table and the poles for the small awning he’s supposed to put above his head as a shelter from the merciless sun. Harry remembered to cast the charm Draco taught him to protect his fair skin and avoid the dreaded freckles, but he still spotted some on Draco’s shoulders this morning. He traced them in front of the mirror with his fingertips, dying to kiss them one by one.

“All sorted,” Matteo says, wiping his sweaty forehead and smiling that disarming smile that Harry finds so infuriating. 

“Here,” Harry says, handing him a jar of his favourite honey as Draco suggested. “Thank you for your help.”

“Prego,” Matteo says. “No need to be so formal. Text me when you want me to come and get you. Ciao!”

Harry waves at him, wondering if he’s always so nice or just with Draco, but then the first customer approaches, saying something in that melodious tone that Harry can’t unfortunately understand. The woman points at one of the jars, then lifts two fingers, and Harry relaxes and nods, grabbing a bag for her.

The morning goes by quickly, and Draco’s stall is actually quite popular.

Where do you keep your bees?

Harry’s curious because he hasn’t seen any beehives in Draco’s garden.

I have an allotment in the countryside. It used to belong to my neighbour – he taught me everything I know about bees. He was elderly, so I helped him, and when he passed, he left them to me.

Harry wonders what it would be like to get in Draco’s decrepit red car and drive with him to the countryside, to watch his profile as he stares at the road, stealing glimpses of his beautiful eyes and lips and chest. He imagines standing next to him, their hands brushing against each other, curling up his little finger to hook it around Draco’s.

“Quant’è il miele di castagno?” someone asks, pulling Harry out of his reverie.

“Uh?” he asks, and the man frowns at him, pointing at one of the jars.

Harry slaps himself mentally. What is he doing, daydreaming about Draco?

He needs to find a way out of the body swap, but their research has long come to a dead-end. Harry can’t find anything; Parkinson has nearly given up her research, and Draco seems to be suspiciously aware of the fact that Harry won’t tell him about his wish to the comet. 

The thing is, Harry knows it was his fault. The other thing is, Harry has come to the realisation that he actually enjoys swapping bodies with Draco – not that he’d admit to anyone out loud. Even admitting it to himself was hard enough. But the truth is that Harry’s enamoured with Draco’s life and his house and his cats. And he knows, deep down, that there’s something more that he still doesn’t dare to confess.

How are things going at the market? What do you normally do on your day off, by the way? I’m getting bored.

Harry looks at the phone and the simple truth is that he longs for Draco to be here with him.

I usually clean the house, but you got that done when we swapped on Thursday. Sometimes I go to work and get paperwork sorted.

Harry knows his life is boring, that compared to Draco’s routine his own consists mainly of work, work and more work. But his friends all have partners or families, and Harry feels like he’s intruding. He can’t even go out for a jog without the paparazzi following him to catch a glimpse of something odd or unusual so they can slap it on the front cover of a paper. And Harry doesn’t like hook-ups. He spent years thinking there was something wrong with him, with his friends saying that he was just a bit prudish or traumatised by the war. But the truth is that he dreads going to a club and having people trying to take him home. He doesn’t feel attracted to other people the same way his friends do. He doesn’t want to be touched by someone he doesn’t know, and is repulsed by the idea of being intimate with a complete stranger. That’s not him. That’s not the way he works.

He talked to Draco about it a few days ago, candidly admitting it when he was lying in the dark on Draco’s bed with his phone pressed against his ear. And Draco just hummed in understanding, saying that it made sense to him, that Harry simply needed to know someone, to feel some kind of deeper connection before being able to trust them and let go. And Harry felt seen. Understood, for the very first time. It brought tears to his eyes, and Draco pretended not to notice the way his voice cracked when he said he was tired and needed to sleep, sinking his face into the pillow and inhaling Draco’s familiar and soothing smell.

I miss you.

Harry types it, but then deletes the message, because it makes zero sense.

How can you miss someone you haven’t actually been with for the past eight years?

I’m so sorry. I went out for a walk to buy some loose leaf tea, and I got cornered by a bunch of reporters. I think you’re going to be on the papers tomorrow. I was wearing your orange hoodie that says ‘silly sausage’.

Harry sighs and looks at the other people packing up their stalls, then texts Matteo to ask him to come back and get him before replying to Draco’s message.

You could have picked something less incriminating.

It’s not my fault it’s bloody freezing here and that hoodie is so warm and comfy!

It’s okay. It’s my favourite hoodie. I bought it in Camden Market the first time I learnt how to cast a proper Glamour. 

You’ll need to teach me.

Harry sighs, then starts putting the jars back in the crates and packing the soap bars neatly, like Draco would do. He gets something to eat from another stall and then waits for Matteo to come and pick him up.

The drive back is relaxed, with Matteo singing in tune to a song Harry doesn’t know, the windows down ruffling his hair and his eyes lost on the horizon. 

The cats greet him with a chorus of meowing, and Harry swears he can see traces of Draco in every corner of the house as he pads through the rooms, putting the things away where they belong, sliding into Draco’s life smoothly as if he actually belonged there. 

Skype?

He hesitates for a moment before sending the message, because he doesn’t want to be a nuisance, but Draco’s yes comes instantly, making him smile as he turns the computer on, waiting for it to be ready. 

“Come on,” he mutters to the machine, wishing it were faster. Maybe he should buy Draco a laptop like his, but he knows him well enough to figure out he would probably panic and think Auror Pollock would find it suspicious (as if Auror Pollock knew what a computer is).

“Hello,” his own face greets him on the screen. It’s still so weird to see himself, and of all the times they Skype, Harry definitely prefers doing it when they’re in their own bodies so that he can look at Draco on the screen. “Look at this.”

The front cover of the Prophet looks a bit blurry, but Harry can make out the words Silly Sausage Potter On The Loose. 

“Merlin, fuck,” he groans, wiping his face with his hand – which he has to admit is a lot easier without glasses on – “What did you do?”

“I was just trying to get some decent tea!” Draco whines, putting the paper down. 

“What was wrong with the one I have at home?” 

“Loose leaf is so incomparably better,” Draco proclaims in posh tones that make Harry sound like an utter wanker. He wonders what Ron must think when Draco is inhabiting his body and goes to the Ministry. “Even an uncouth man like you should know that.”

“Fuck off,” Harry replies easily, pulling two fingers up at him

“Ah, such a distinctively British gesture,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “I missed it so much in my exile.”

They tease each other, and chat about their respective mornings, and then Draco shows him how to cast another sun protection charm and tells him to go to the beach and enjoy himself.

“Are you going to be okay?” Harry can’t help but ask, biting on his bottom lip and feeling guilty for leaving Draco alone.

“I found an interesting book on the history of the Black family in your library,” Draco says, showing him an old, thick volume. “This bad boy should keep me company until dinner time.”

“If you say so,” Harry says, and waves goodbye before he gets ready for the beach. But even though his eyes are blinded by the sun, and his feet sink into the warm sand, the clear water surrounding his body and enveloping him in a liquid hug, Harry can’t stop thinking about him.

He dives underwater, watching the blond strands of hair float under the surface of the sea, ethereal and pale. He stares at the rivulets of water sliding down his scarred chest, running the pads of his fingers all over them in fascination.

“Hey,” someone calls, another man who winks unabashedly at him and makes Harry blush as the man’s eyes run in a lascivious gesture all over his body – all over Draco’s body – making Harry feel jealous and uncomfortable and furious at the same time.

“Not interested,” he snarls and storms out of the sea, grabbing the towel he’s left on the shore and drying himself quickly.

He misses him.

It’s stupid and absurd and ridiculous, but Harry misses Draco so much.

How is the book?

He holds the phone in his hand as he stares at the blue sky, droplets of water running down his back from his wet hair.

Boring and unsurprisingly gory. How’s the sea?

A man just hit on me. Should I have given him your number? 

Harry taps his foot on the sand, waiting for Draco’s reply that thankfully doesn’t take too long to appear.

No. Get a pizza and then Skype, if you want.

Harry grins, then grabs his towel and bag and heads for town.

“I’m not that easy, Potter,” Draco says when he appears on the computer screen, ladle in hand as he stirs some sauce on the stove. He has a towel on his shoulder, and Harry thinks he looks rather nice like that. 

Harry shoves a slice of pizza into his mouth and hums, “I wasn’t trying to suggest you were,” he mutters with his mouth full, which makes Draco grimace and tut at him for his bad manners.

“I can count the number of people I’ve slept with on the fingers of one hand,” Draco replies, still busy cooking and looking at ease in Harry’s kitchen, as if he belonged there, in Harry’s life. “And I’m not interested in meaningless hook-ups at the moment, thank you very much.”

“Okay,” Harry says, a weight lifting from his chest as he exhales and smiles. “What are you cooking?”

“Amatriciana sauce,” Draco replies, putting the pasta in the pan. “I’ve made enough for you to have leftovers for tomorrow evening.”

“Thanks!” Harry says, getting excited at the thought of Draco cooking for him, being so considerate that he is leaving some food so that Harry can have it tomorrow. “You’re really good at cooking. Where did you learn?”

Draco tenses up, and Harry stares at his own stiff back, tilting his head and wondering what he said wrong.

“I most certainly did not learn during my pampered life in England, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Draco explains, “since the house elves took care of all the cooking. I doubt Mother knew any cooking spells.”

“Oh,” Harry says, realising Draco thought Harry was teasing him. “I was just genuinely curious. I don’t like cooking because it reminds me of all the times my Muggle family made me cook for them,” he offers. The little snippet from his awful past seems to mollify Draco, who sits down in front of the laptop and finally looks at him properly.

“My neighbour taught me the basics,” he replies, tucking a lock behind his ear and then looking surprised when it bounces back. “The one who died. He was a widower, and he was also on his own. He told me he had to learn how to cook when his wife got sick, that he knew what it felt like to be on your own and feel helpless. Then Matteo’s mum took pity on me and gave me some proper cooking lessons.”

“Sounds lovely,” Harry says, picking up another slice of pizza.

They eat together, then chat about inane things, about Harry’s shit work-life balance and Draco’s cats and potions, about the bees and how Draco looks after them.

“You look tired,” Draco says when the night is dark and Harry yawns a couple of times. “Take a shower and go to bed, come on.”

Harry does as he’s told, wondering if Draco is washing too, if he feels the same flame of desire licking in his veins when he looks at Harry’s naked body. He wonders if it’s just him or if Draco finds him too hairy and unattractive. 

He lies on the bed, naked and still a bit damp, running his hands over the scars on his chest and purposely avoiding Draco’s stirring cock, flushed and stiff and begging to be touched.

He grabs the phone from the bedside table and dials the number without thinking.

“Hey,” comes Draco’s deep voice, like a rumble from his chest, and Harry wonders if he’s also in bed, thinking about him.

“I was wondering…” Harry starts, not really knowing what to say. He has no idea why he’s called Draco.

“I have something to confess,” Draco murmurs, and Harry waits for him to continue, still looking at his lap and spreading his legs in appreciation. “The first time we swapped bodies…I woke up, and I didn’t realise I was you, and I…I wanked.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes out, a quick exhale followed by a loud intake of breath.

“I’m so sorry,” Draco quickly adds. “I really didn’t mean to. I know it’s not appropr-”

“No, it’s fine,” Harry interrupts him, heart thrumming in his chest like a mad tambourine. “It’s completely fine.”

He can’t help but imagine him, but not in his own body. He pictures Draco in this bed, long and pale limbs naked as they writhe on the sheets, hands moving fast as a moan rips from his mouth. He imagines long fingers sliding under lacy knickers, the tip of his wet cock peeking out. 

“You could…” Draco whispers, sounding unsure. “I owe you one. You could do it in my body…if you wanted…I mean, if you find me…never mind, I-”

“Fuck, can I?” Harry asks, too eager and too horny for his own good, hearing Draco’s loud gasp on the other end of the line. “I mean…to be honest with you, this evening I’m feeling a bit…”

He swallows loudly, fingers idly moving down, still not believing that Draco just gave him permission to touch himself whilst in his body, and then his hand wraps loosely around Draco’s pink cock, giving it a lazy stroke that makes him moan indecently into the phone.

“Oh,” Draco breathes out, his voice sounding strained. “I didn’t think…you’ve already started.”

“Sorry,” Harry replies, suddenly embarrassed, thinking that he was probably supposed to hang up and Draco is going to think he’s one of those weirdos who make those awkward phone calls while panting against the receiver.

“My nipples are very sensitive,” Draco ventures, his voice wavering towards his last word, but Harry takes it as an invitation, so he slides his left hand up his chest, to brush against his right nipple and gasps at the sparks of pleasure the simple touch sends through his system, arching his back as he does it again, then a bit firmer. Draco says, breathless, “Pinch it.”

Harry complies, and a whimper escapes his lips at how amazing it feels, the pain mixing with the pleasure as his hand moves faster along the stiff length. 

“Draco…” he whines, closing his eyes and then opening them again, because he wants to see it all, wants to drink in the sight of Draco’s naked and beautiful body.

“Lube’s in the first drawer of the bedside table,” Draco instructs, and Harry fumbles with it, finding a small vial with a bee at the bottom. The realisation that Draco brews his own lube makes him snort, imagining Draco all serious as he pours over a cauldron full of lube.

“What are you laughing at, you menace?” Draco asks, his voice deep.

“You brew your own lube,” Harry says with a chuckle, but then notices how perfect the texture is when he pours it over his fingers, how lovely it smells. 

“The stuff you conjure is subpar,” Draco mutters, and Harry’s heart surges for him, a wave of affection and desire filling his veins and threatening to make his heart overflow.

“I want you to do it too,” he blurts out. “If…if you want…”

“Do you mean you want me to…” Draco asks softly, and Harry hums, his breathing coming up ragged when he hears the familiar rustling sound of fabric, the soft thud of clothes landing on the floor in a haste to get rid of them. “Fuck, I can’t believe…Salazar, you’re…”

Harry doesn’t know what Draco was about to say, because the next sound he produces is a debauched moan, then a shuddered gasp, and all Harry can do is focus on the sounds Draco is making and stroke himself as his face lies against the pillow, ear pressed to the phone while he runs his hand all over Draco’s scarred chest.

“Touch my balls,” Harry whispers, feeling already so close to coming when Draco makes a helpless little sound that makes Harry’s insides melt.

“Fuck, how are you so sensitive…”

“Draco…” he whimpers, feeling the orgasm approaching.

“Stop,” Draco suddenly says, and Harry freezes, thinking with dread that Draco must have changed his mind, that he is finding this too weird or gross. “Now start again, slowly this time, very slowly. You don’t want to come straight away, do you?”

“Hmmm…” Harry whimpers, realising that, of course, Draco is a tease even in bed. He imagines what it would be like to have sex with him, feels too close to coming just imagining Draco’s hands and mouth on him, his grey eyes linked with his as Draco sucks on his cock or fucks him deep and slow.

“Stop,” Draco says again, his voice breathless and overwhelmed. “Mhh, this feels too good. It’s like my skin is tingling all over. Wow…feels good to be you.”

“I want to come,” Harry pleads, realising how wrecked and desperate he sounds, but still waiting for Draco to tell him to move. “Please, Draco. Please…”

“Start stroking yourself,” Draco murmurs, his voice hoarse and velvety. “Like that, twist the foreskin at the top…fuck, that feels out of this world…oh, Harry…I’m going to…”   

Harry thinks that he won’t last this time, that there’s no way that he can stop now, his toes curling up as the leadup to pleasure seems to stretch endlessly and deliciously until he hears Draco’s helpless moan and he finally lets go, too. He comes all over Draco’s chest, long ribbons of white come painting his belly and scars, and Harry whines and gasps as he shudders in pleasure. It feels stronger, different than usual, and Harry closes his eyes and hums as the last flickers of desire wash over him while he tries to catch his breath.

“Wow,” he mumbles, then swallows and grabs the glass of water he left on the bedside table to have a drink. There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Harry starts panicking for a moment, thinking that Draco realised this was too weird, even for them.

“Mhhh…” Draco hums instead, then lets out an elated little laugh and breathes against the receiver. “You’re so sensitive. It was out of this world, so intense.”

Harry chuckles and relaxes, thinking that Draco’s body is so lovely as he runs a finger over the come on his chest and brings it to his lips. 

“Thanks for that,” he mutters, and Draco snorts inelegantly before he casts a cleaning charm.

“Why are you…” Draco starts, then seems to think about his words, and Harry just listens and waits for the silence to end. “Why do you not seem worried at all about the body swap and the comet? I mean…I spoke to Pansy the other day when we swapped, and she is so concerned that we might get stuck or that this is a terrible curse, but you…you don’t seem worried at all.”

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and he considers how to answer, if he should just tell Draco the whole truth or lie, but then he settles for the first, because he owes it to him.

“Luna’s wish came true,” he murmurs slowly. “She asked the comet to be happy and to have Ginny by her side forever. She pointed her wand at the sky like I did, and then Ginny proposed to her. I mean, it could just be a coincidence, but…”

“I don’t think it is either,” Draco concludes, clearly mulling things over as he takes a moment to just breathe calmly. “So it all comes down to what we wished for. Because our two wishes are clearly linked.”

“Yes,” Harry admits, fingers idly moving on his chest, following the gentle slopes of Draco’s ribs, dipping inside his belly button and then tracing a scar. 

“I didn’t wish for anything bad,” Draco says softly. “Mine was…a lovely wish, if I may say so myself.”

“Mine too, I think,” Harry whispers, and they just lie there in silence for a moment, neither of them daring to ask the question they’re both clearly dying to ask.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Night, Draco.”  

❧ 🌵 ❧

Draco opens his eyes and groans. He’s back in his body, and Harry forgot to close the shutters so the room is too bright and it’s probably really early. Draco stretches in bed and wriggles his toes, then blinks a few times and notices something on his left palm. He opens his hand and finds something written in Harry’s messy handwriting.

Thank you.

Draco stares at it, wondering if Harry meant to thank him for the mind-blowing orgasm or for the chat they had or for the relaxing day. He has no idea, but he still gets up and casts a preservation charm on the ink before jumping into the shower. Harry clearly cast a cleaning charm the night before, but Draco feels a little sticky and sweaty, so he washes away the heat of the night while humming under his breath.

He feels the urge to text Harry and check if everything is okay between them, but he barely has any credit left on his phone and it’s too early for the shops to be open. He opens the kitchen window to let the cats in and starts making himself some breakfast when an owl suddenly flies in, startling him. 

“It’s Sunday,” he mutters to himself, thinking that none of his clients ever owls him on the weekend. 

There’s a small parcel attached to the bird’s leg, and Draco unfastens it carefully. It’s a box that fits in the palm of his hand, wrapped in elegant green paper that sparkles when he turns it around. Draco opens it and finds a tin box with loose leaf tea inside. He inhales the familiar smell of Earl Grey and pauses to think.

There’s no message, nothing that points to the gift giver, but Draco knows that it must be from Harry. He has no idea how he managed to send him tea so quickly, but then he reads the label at the bottom of the tin and realises it’s an English tea house based in Rome. 

“Rich wanker,” Draco mutters, unable to suppress a smile, feeling giddy and touched by Harry’s thoughtful present. He feels spoiled for the first time since the war started. He feels cared for and…well, maybe he’s imagining things, but he swears it almost feels like Harry has fond feelings for him. Maybe they’ve become friends because of this weird body swap - or maybe, a tiny voice in Draco’s head suggests, he is the one who is developing another kind of feelings for Harry.

Draco sighs, staring at his mobile phone with longing, wondering if what happened yesterday evening means anything to Harry or if things are going to be awkward now between them. He thinks about Harry’s difficulties at being touched, about him admitting over the phone one evening that he’s only ever had sex once with Ginny and it felt so wrong that he couldn’t even go through with it, that it made him realise that he’s gay. He hasn’t touched anyone since then, and Draco feels a wave of want rush through him at the thought of being the one who gets to be with Harry like that. 

“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” Harry had explained slowly, his voice barely audible. “Sometimes I crave it like mad, when I’m lying in bed alone. I just wish I had someone who cared for me wrap his hands around me and hold me close, but…when it comes to physical contact, I can’t relax enough to let someone close unless I trust them.”

Draco wondered if it was all due to the war, the trauma eating away at his own sanity sometimes, making him feel all wrong and useless, struggling to get out of bed even on the sunniest of mornings. But Harry had confided in him, revealing a snippet of his past that made Draco cry later on that night, and then the following day, making him shake with anger at the injustice of the world.

“One of my earliest memories,” Harry had recalled softly, his voice a murmur in the darkness against Draco’s ear, “was of my aunt. I remember her holding my cousin on the sofa, peppering his face with kisses and telling him that he was precious and she loved him. And I remember asking, stupidly, if I could please have a cuddle too.”

There was silence afterwards, as if words were not necessary.

Draco could imagine what her answer had been.

He had heard enough about Harry’s family to wish them all dead.

But that evening, with Harry’s breathing getting ragged and irregular on the other end of the line, all Draco wanted was to be there with him in London, to hold him close in the darkness and make him feel loved and cared for. To give him that cuddle that he never got when he was little. To give him all the cuddles in the world he had always deserved. 

But Draco couldn’t, because he was stuck on his island, and Harry was stuck in England. At least for that night.. 

He waited until Saturday, when he knew Harry did not have to work and he would be expected at the market. The few days prior, he searched the Ministry Archives during Harry’s lunch breaks, preparing for what was probably one of the maddest plans he had ever come up with. He knew that he would be risking a lot, but for once what little courage he possessed did not leave him..

Finding Privet Drive had been easy. Ringing the doorbell took far more courage.

The woman who opened the door was skinny and looked inoffensive enough, her eyes opening wide as she froze and stared at him with her mouth agape. The man who appeared behind her had screamed, his face turning red and then puce as he squinted and spat, telling Draco to go away and leave them alone, calling him a freak and a nuisance.

Draco had reached for his wand automatically, pointing it at them. The man stopped shouting, and the woman let out a tiny whimper, covering her face with her hands. It was then that Draco realised there was nothing he could do. Nothing could bring back Harry’s childhood or make the pain go away. Nothing would repair the rips or seal the wounds.

He Disapparated, then spent the rest of that morning in tears, feeling useless and awful, wishing he could be with Harry, that he could hold him and confess what he’d done without the fear of upsetting or angering him.

He looks at his hand now, at the two words written there, wondering if Harry would still thank him if he knew Draco visited his Muggle relatives.

He leaves the house and walks into town, stopping by the shops to buy some bread and a top up for his mobile phone and then walking past the church, the bells singing a joyful song that makes him wish Harry were here with him.

Are you at work?

He waits for an answer, but Harry doesn’t reply straight away, so Draco starts worrying, thinking that he’s fucked up or that Harry somehow found out about his little trip to Surrey, but then the phone buzzes.

Yes, sorry. Planning a big raid with Robards. How are you? 😊

The smiley face makes Draco’s heart melt, relief washing through him, then guilt.

I’m okay. Can I please call you? I’ve done something stupid.

The phone rings straight away, and Draco nearly drops it in panic. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks quickly, and Draco hums, making him exhale in relief. “What happened?”

“I…” Draco starts, swallowing several times. “I was angry, and in a vengeful mood, and probably extremely stupid, but…I visited your uncle and aunt yesterday. I’m sorry.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Draco feels a wave of anxiety gripping his throat, making his chest constrict as he waits for Harry to start shouting at him or telling him that he was out of line and should have minded his own business, but all that escapes Harry’s lips is a soft, “Oh…”

“I’m sorry,” Draco repeats. “I…nothing happened, and your uncle shouted at me, so I just raised my wand and Disapparated. No one saw me, and I cast a Notice-Me-Not before knocking on their door just in case. I’m so terribly sorry, Harry.”

“Wow…” Harry whispers, then there’s a background noise, and Harry must move because there’s suddenly complete silence except for the sound of his breathing, reminding Draco of what they did the night before, of Harry’s pants and gasps against his ear. “That was very Gryffindor of you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco says in outrage, simply out of habit, and Harry laughs, a nervous, breathy thing that makes Draco’s heart clench in his chest.

“You could have risked getting your sentence prolonged,” Harry points out. “You could have made me extremely angry. You could have got caught and then what?”

“I know,” Draco admits sheepishly, because he’s a Slytherin, and he thought of all the ifs and buts before going there, “but I was still dying to go there and hex them. I wanted them to pay for what they did to you. I was feeling so angry, Harry…I’m sorry.”

“I did the same,” Harry admits, and Draco pauses in his stream of apologies, sitting on a bench and watching the rest of the world passing by as he waits for Harry to continue. “I went to see them after the war, wanting answers…wanting something back, anything, but…the awful truth is that there are no answers, and they can’t give me back what they never had in their hearts. I wish someone had done something when I was little. I wish someone had called social services, that Dumbledore had realised he put me through years of neglect and trauma for the sake of keeping me safe. I wish I could turn back time and save my parents and have a normal childhood and feel loved, but it’s never going to happen. And  the truth is all I can do is accept that and move on. I can try to find someone who makes me feel loved. I can hope one day to have my own family and shower my children with love and affection.”

“I’m sorry I was a dick to you at school,” Draco says, feeling wretched and miserable. 

“You’re making up for it now,” Harry replies easily, then pauses and taps his fingers against the phone. “Listen, I need to go back to work, but I’ll call you as soon as I get home, okay?”

“Yes,” Draco says, his heart feeling lighter and heavier at the same time. “Please.”

“Alright,” Harry says, then seems to be about to add something, but he just breathes out and whispers, “Talk to you later.”

Draco goes home and thinks about their conversation, about Harry wanting a family and how much Draco craves that too. He dreams of the domesticity of coming home to someone who cares for him, of caring in return and doing what he can to make his partner feel loved and seen. He wants children, even though he’s terrified of turning out like his father and screwing up everything, but he’s sure Harry would be a brilliant dad. 

When he gets home, he suddenly has an idea and starts searching for that little blue notebook he used to take notes in when he first moved to Sardinia. He finds it and flicks through the pages, then texts Harry with a list of things to buy before he gets home in the evening.

“Why are you sending me a shopping list?” Harry asks as soon as he gets off work.

“Surprise,” Draco says mysteriously, hoping things are fine between them and he can be playful and teasing again with Harry. The other man laughs and tells him he’s on his way to Tesco’s, but he doesn’t hang up and tells Draco about his day instead, which makes him finally calm down. 

“I suppose I should tell you about the raid, just in case we swap tomorrow,” Harry says as he walks around the supermarket aisles. 

“Oh gods, more confidential information that I seriously don’t want to hear,” Draco groans. The list of things he is not supposed to be aware of as a civilian in exile is growing every day, which is doing nothing to ease his anxiety. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry replies, sounding genuinely upset about it all. “But I can’t risk you getting hurt because you don’t know what to expect. 

“You mean you don’t want me to get your body hurt,” Draco teases.

“Uh?” Harry replies, sounding confused. “I hadn’t even thought of that…no, I meant I don’t want you to end up in St Mungo’s. Ron and Parkinson will have your back, and there’s always a big team of Aurors when we do these raids, but some curses hurt like hell.”

Draco is speechless for a moment, feeling a wave of emotions clouding his eyes and making his heart beat faster and faster. 

“Why aren’t you here?” he whispers sadly, so low that Harry doesn’t hear him and asks him to repeat. “Nothing. Hurry up with the shopping and Skype me as soon as you get home.”

“Your wish is my command,” Harry jokes, but Draco closes his eyes and clenches his fist really tight.

Why does he always want what he cannot have?

Why does he always end up heartbroken?

One of the kittens meows loudly, clearly asking to be picked up and put on the sofa with Draco. He lets his fingers idly stroke the soft fur, summoning a ribbon to let her play with it. Socks arrives and meows to be picked up too, and Draco wishes that Harry were here. He would make him a nice dinner, then take him for a walk on the beach to watch the sunset on the sea. Draco would hold his hand and bring it to his lips to kiss it.

I’m home. Why are you not on Skype?

Draco lets out a deep sigh before he stands up and turns the computer on, waiting for it to warm up and start functioning. It’s an old machine, one of the first things Draco bought with his savings, and he still loves it in spite of the fact that it’s a bit slow and outdated. 

Harry’s smiling face appears on the screen, and Draco thinks he looks so tired and worn out. He longs to make Harry a nice cup of tea, to tell him to sit down with a cat on his lap while Draco prepares dinner. 

“Have you got everything I asked you to get?” he asks instead, and Harry nods. “Okay, we’re going to make amaretti biscuits.”

“What?” Harry asks, his eyebrows going up comically as his jaw drops.

“You said they were your favourites,” Draco points out slowly, “and I managed to find my neighbour’s family recipe, which is absolutely divine. I’ve done them before, so I can guide you through the instructions.”

“But I’m crap at baking,” Harry says feebly, his fingers playing with the packet of almonds, opening it and picking up one to munch on.

“You’re going to be fine,” Draco says calmly, hoping he’s reassuring Harry. “I can tell that you’re fed up with the biscuits you’ve got there because you stopped buying them and instead your stash here is just getting bigger and bigger.” Harry blushes, but Draco shakes his head. “You don’t need to feel embarrassed by it. It’s fine, Harry.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles, summoning the scales and a bowl from the cupboard. “Right. What do I need? I don’t have any plain flour in the house, and it wasn’t on your list.”

“You don’t need flour,” Draco explains, “just almonds, sugar, eggs and orange blossom water. Let’s start grinding these almonds, come on.”

Draco pulls his short sleeves up just for show, and Harry finally grins back at him, shaking his head as he summons a mixer and starts making an awful lot of noise while he grinds the almonds with the sugar into a fine powder.

“They sold ground almonds at the supermarket,” he complains after a moment. “Why did you not ask me to buy those?”

“They don’t taste of anything,” Draco explains, and he swears he can hear Harry mutter posh twat before he turns the loud machine on again. Draco tells him to add the rest of the ingredients little by little.

“How many egg whites?” Harry asks.

“It depends,” Draco replies, and Harry rolls his eyes. “When the mixture is neither too dry nor too sticky.”

“Well, that’s really helpful,” Harry grumbles, his fingers all sticky and covered in sugar. “You should be here with me, you know?”

Draco holds his breath – it’s the first time Harry has openly said he would like to see him, and Draco knows it’s just because he wants some help with the biscuits, but then Harry looks at the screen, his green eyes clouded over.

“You know I’m stuck here,” Draco replies softly, wishing he could get a Portkey right now, or a plane ticket, or that he could get his car and get on a bloody boat for the mainland and dive all the way to England. 

“It still sucks,” Harry mutters, adding a bit more ground almonds and making a small ball with the mixture between the palms of his hands. “Would this be okay?”

“Looks good,” Draco says, a lump the size of a stone in his throat.

He wants to be there so badly, or for Harry to be here.

“What do I need to do now?”

“Roll half of it in sugar, then put an almond on top,” Draco instructs.

“Why only one side?” Harry pouts. “I like sugar.”

“It’s going to get burnt otherwise,” Draco explains, and then watches Harry prepare the rest of the amaretti until they’re all ready to go in the oven. 

“What if they’re shit?” Harry asks while he waits for them to bake, eyes fixed on the oven with his eyebrows knitted in concern. 

“They’re going to be great,” Draco promises. “And if we swap tomorrow, I’ll have them all for breakfast.”

“Don’t you dare,” Harry says, finally looking at him with a determined expression on his face. “I’m hiding half of them just in case.”

“I was joking,” Draco says with a smirk. “Besides, I don’t want to do that raid, thank you very much.”

Harry chuckles and taps his fingers nervously on the table until the oven finally beeps. Draco has to remind him to wait until the amaretti cool down before he tries them, but all the grumbling and the loud protests are worth the absolutely ecstatic expression Harry makes when he finally gets to taste the products of his hard work and realises they taste better than he expected.

“Oh my god,” he says, mouth full as he moans indecently, making Draco blush. “These are sooo good!” 

Draco smiles, so ridiculously happy to see Harry grin like that for something so little. He wishes he were there with him right now, to spin him around the kitchen and push him against the counter to kiss him breathless, to hold him in his arms and make him feel loved and cherished like Harry deserves, like Draco craves to make him feel.

That night, before falling asleep, Draco looks at the phone on his bedside table, Harry’s text to wish him goodnight still visible on the bright screen.

He opens the drawer of his bedside table and fishes a pen out of it. He opens the palm of his left hand and writes something neatly on his skin.

Wish you were here with me.

Chapter Text

Harry is for once relieved to wake up in his body. He had a sense of dread before going to bed at the prospect of making Draco take part in the raid and getting hurt. He turns around in bed, and it’s still quite early, but not as early as he used to wake up before he started swapping with Draco. He wonders if the comet is to thank for this strange side effect or if it’s all down to his stress levels reducing because he spends half of his days in Draco’s life.

He turns the mobile phone on and finds a text from Draco.

Bummer, I won’t get to eat your amaretti.

Harry smiles, then he sends Draco a smiley face and one sticking its tongue out. He hits the shower and then goes to the kitchen, staring at his laptop on the table and opening it automatically. Draco is on Skype, so Harry calls him straight away, not expecting to find him without his t-shirt on and with his white-blond hair beautifully tousled from sleep.

“Hey,” Harry says, his mouth suddenly dry, but what he’s actually thinking is fuck, you’re gorgeous. And he’s used to seeing Draco’s body by now – he has stared at himself in the mirror countless times during swapping days – but it’s still different to see Draco in his breath-taking glory from afar. Harry is suddenly filled with want; a consuming fire that threatens to burn him from the inside as Draco tilts his head and a lock of hair falls onto his face. Draco brushes it back absent-mindedly, making Harry’s brain short-circuit.

“Are you still mad at me for going to see the Dursleys?” Draco blurts out, looking a little sheepish as his cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink that Harry wants to kiss so badly that his heart hurts.

“What?” he says with a frown. “No, of course not.”

“Are you sure?” Draco asks, looking anxious. “Because you’re behaving in a funny way, and you’ve gone all quiet all of a sudden. I can understand if you’re angry.”

“No, Draco,” Harry replies, shaking his head. “I…I know this sounds really weird, but I actually appreciated you going.”

Draco’s grey eyes widen, staring at him from the screen. Harry can’t help but let his eyes roam over his scarred chest, admiring the way his soft hair falls in gentle waves over his collarbones, craving to run his fingers through it. 

“You did?” Draco finally asks, and Harry nods.

“Everyone is always blabbering about the Saviour and how good he is, saving people’s lives, finding a purpose in his life after all the bad things that happened to him,” he explains bitterly. “But the truth is that I’m not like that. I am full of anger and resentment, and…sadness. For what I didn’t have, for what I lost and can never get back. I want to forgive and forget, but the wounds hurt too much, Draco.”

“Harry…” he mumbles, but there’s no pity in his voice, just understanding and something else. 

Care, affection, longing.

Harry’s heart is so loud in his ears, beating madly in his chest.

He wants Draco to understand, to know this ugly part of him that no one ever sees. He needs Draco to look at the cracks in his faulty heart and touch them with his fingers.

“I want to kill Voldemort, over and over again,” he blurts out. “I want to make my Muggle family pay for what they’ve done to me. I want to scream at Dumbledore and tell him all the things I didn’t get to say when he was pretending to watch over me, but I can’t. So I catch criminals instead, because it’s the closest thing I can get to some kind of justice. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. But it’s slowly killing me…”

He feels like the tears are so close to coming, but at the same time he’s so immensely relieved for finally saying it out loud to someone. He feels lighter and wishes Draco could be here to hold him, to stick the pieces of him back together and make him feel whole again.

“I wish I could give you that,” Draco murmurs, “but more than anything, I wish I could be there with you now.”

A single tear falls down Harry’s cheek. The kettle whistles, but he lets it continue.

“Do you still hate me for what I did to you?” Harry finds the courage to ask, eyes lingering on Draco’s scars and wondering for a moment if Draco feels the need for revenge, too—if Harry could offer some solace.

“I never have,” Draco replies immediately, shaking his head. “Harry, I…that year was so fucked up. I was sixteen, and I was convinced I was going to die. I knew I was doing something awful, but he said he was going to kill my mother, and I couldn’t let him. And then you…”

He gestures vaguely at his chest, and Harry can taste the salt of his tears on his lips, sniffing loudly while he quickly wipes his cheeks with the sleeves of his pyjama top.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“Don’t be,” Draco replies serenely, his voice calm and sweet. “Because it was the only thing that felt real. It was the only thing that I finally felt I deserved that year. A way to pay in advance for the horrible thing I was trying to accomplish.”

“No,” Harry mumbles wetly. “I didn’t know what that curse was going to do-”

“Harry, it doesn’t matter,” Draco says simply. “I was about to cast an Unforgivable on you. It’s all water under the bridge.”

“How can you say that?” Harry asks wetly, but Draco just smiles. 

“Are your amaretti still nice?” he asks, pointing at the tin on the table. “Come on, make yourself a cup of tea and have one. It’ll help.”

“Okay,” Harry says shakily, getting up to make himself a cup of tea.

“I wish I could make you one myself, you know?” Draco says softly, his smile turning sad, and Harry feels his chest tightening, fresh tears threatening to fall. 

“I know,” he says, because suddenly he does. He feels it deep in his bones. Draco would care for him and do lovely things just to make him feel better, like he did yesterday when he baked with him. 

The thought won’t leave his head as he gets ready for work, putting his Auror uniform on and pointlessly trying to tame his hair into submission. He thinks about it while he Floos to the Ministry and meets the other Aurors, checking that everyone knows what they’re doing. He slides his hand in his pocket to feel the phone against his palm, the only solid presence that links him to Draco. The phone suddenly vibrates right after they Apparate to the warehouse where the smugglers are hiding, and Harry fishes it out of his pocket to check the message quickly.

I wish I could see you. For real, I mean. Maybe you could come and visit when my sentence is over, if you want to.

It suddenly hits him like a brick on the head. He won’t be able to actually meet Draco for another two years. Twenty-four months without being able to see him and touch him and tell him how Harry feels.

“We’re ready when you are, Auror Potter,” someone says, and Harry’s heart flutters madly in his chest at the realisation that he wants to be anywhere but here. No, he tells himself. That’s not true. There’s only one place he wants to be right now, where he has longed to be for a while.

“Let’s go,” he says, but all he can think about is grey eyes and pink lips and silvery scars, until a sudden flash of blue light fills his vision, and Ron screams behind him, and then it’s all black.

Darkness envelops him quickly, and then there’s silence.

Harry hates the quiet darkness; it reminds him of being stuck in the cupboard at night, shivering and scared. He used to pretend there was a friendly spider to talk to, just to feel less lonely.

There’s pain too now, physical agony that makes him whimper and groan, then frantic voices around him, a cold hand on his forehead, and silence again.

When he finally opens his eyes, the only sound he can hear is Ron’s soft snoring. The sun is setting, and the warm light filtering from the thin curtains of his hospital bed makes him wonder what time it is.

“Ron,” he croaks, his throat like sandpaper as he groans again, making Ron wake up with a start.

“Shit, how are you feeling?” Ron asks, moving closer to the bed and taking his hand, patting it gently. “You gave us a real scare, mate.”

“Can’t move,” Harry complains, his limbs feeling so heavy that he can’t even shift them, his head throbbing with pain. A sudden thought fills his head, and Harry turns his head towards Ron. “Where’s my phone? What time is it?”

“It’s six o’clock,” Ron says, rummaging under his chair to get a bag full of Harry’s belongings. “The Healers had to keep you in a magically induced coma while they found a way to treat you. What do you need your tellyphone for?”

“I need to call him,” Harry says, thinking about how worried Draco is going to be, about the last message he sent Harry and how it must have made him feel not to receive an answer. 

“Your mysterious boyfriend?” Ron asks with a raised eyebrow. “Merlin, this thing between you two must be serious.”

“Whad’ya mean?” Harry mutters, his throat so sore after uttering only a few words.

“Well,” Ron says while he searches the pockets of Harry’s uniform and finally fishes out his mobile. “He’s the first person you thought of when you woke up in a hospital bed. When it happens to me, my first thought always goes to Hermione and Rosie, then you, obviously.”

The realisation that Ron has figured out Harry’s feelings makes him blush, calling himself an idiot for falling so hard for Draco, wondering if there’s even a tiny chance his feelings might be returned one day.

“Press the button at the top,” he instructs Ron, cursing himself for not being able to use his hands and call Draco himself.

“It says here you have seven unread messages,” Ron says with a smirk. “You’re rather popular, aren’t you?”

“Don’t read them,” Harry says quickly, not wanting to reveal Draco’s identity. “Click there, no, to the left where it says ‘contacts’.”

“Mate, there’s only one,” Ron points out. “Busy Bee. Aww, cute,” Ron teases him, and Harry huffs in frustration, and also because the pain is starting to get worse and he doesn’t know how long he will last before he has to call a Healer to beg for some relief.

“Come on,” Harry urges him, and then as soon as Draco answers, Ron presses the phone to Harry’s ear. 

“Hello?” comes Draco’s familiar, lovely voice.

“Hey,” Harry croaks, his own voice a horribly raspy thing that makes him flinch.

“Harry, what happened? Are you alright?” Draco asks, sounding frantic and so worried that Harry’s usual storm of butterflies reaches epic proportions.

“I’m at St Mungo’s,” he explains, then he looks at Ron. “I don’t actually know what happened. Forgot to ask.”

Ron rolls his eyes, and Draco splutters against his ear.

“What the fuck do you mean you forgot to ask?!” he shouts.

“Ouch, calm down,” Harry mutters. “My head’s killing me.”

Ron takes the phone and presses it against his own ear, to Harry’s utter dread.

“Hello, Auror Ron Weasley speaking,” he announces with his most serious tone. “I’m Harry’s best friend. He is okay, but he’s in a considerable amount of pain because he was hit by a powerful curse of unknown origin. The Healers say he won’t be able to move his limbs for at least another couple of hours, but he’s going to be as good as new by tomorrow morning. The Healers are brewing an experimental potion that should be ready in the morning and will hopefully sort him out. In case you’re worried, his dick is all in one piece. Not that I’ve checked, mind you. Harry, can you still feel it?”

Harry groans and closes his eyes to avoid seeing Ron’s shit eating grin.

“Pass me back the phone,” he says grumpily, and Ron complies. “It’s me again. Sorry for giving you a fright.”

“As long as you’re fine,” Draco breathes out, then pauses for a moment. “Gods, Harry, I was worried sick. I thought you had died, and then I assumed you were mad because of the text I sent you this morning. If you haven’t read it, then ignore it. Please also ignore the other million panicky messages I sent you.”

“No, I…” Harry mumbles, then he gathers the courage to say it. “I want to see you, too. Not just on the computer, I mean for real…”

Ron swishes his wand with his free hand, and a shower of pink hearts rains on Harry’s bed, making him glare at his best friend in the most menacing way he can master.

“Oh,” Draco murmurs, then seems to pause for a moment before he adds, “I wish I could be there with you.”

“Me too,” Harry replies, his heart fluttering like a scared little bird in his chest. “I…I miss you…”

Ron swishes his wand, and a big sign saying ‘I wuv you, Busy Bee’ floats above Harry’s extremely annoyed face. He mouths a piss off at Ron, but then he’s distracted by a sound against his ear, a soft meowing that gets louder and makes him smile. 

“Socks says hi,” Draco tells him, then he sighs and puts the kitten down. “You probably need to rest. I hope you’re not in too much pain.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says, wincing as he shifts a bit and a stabbing pain in his arms makes him gasp. “I should probably call a Healer and ask for some pain relief. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Take care,” Draco says, and then seems to hesitate before he adds, “I hope you feel better soon, Harry.”    

Harry closes his eyes, letting Draco’s voice soothe him as the pain gets more intense with every breath he takes.

“I’ll call the Healers,” Ron murmurs, sounding worried, and then Harry winces when he feels unfamiliar hands touching him, moving him around so that they can lift him up and pour a cold potion down his throat until he whimpers in pain and the darkness envelops him again. 

❧ 🌵 ❧

Draco winces when he comes about, opening his eyes to a foreign room with green walls and a white door. The awful smell of dittany sends him back on an unpleasant trip down memory lane, when he suddenly feels a warm hand on his forehead, gentle fingers threading through his hair.

“You gave us a fright,” a female voice says, and Draco turns his head to find bushy hair and a gentle smile. He hasn’t seen Hermione Granger in eight years, but she hasn’t changed much, not really. 

“Hmm,” Draco hums, because he doesn’t really know what to say to her. He’s used to Ron by now, to the playful banter with him and the easy way he shows his affection to Harry every day, but he’s never had to deal with Granger, so he just lies there and stares back at her, feeling the pain stabbing at his joints.

“I’ll ask the Healers for more pain relief,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t move. “Harry, I…I’m sorry. You must have felt lonely and left out since Rosie was born. Maybe since Ron and I got married. I know I haven’t been the best of friends, and I’m always so busy, but you do know I love you dearly, don’t you?”

Draco lets her words sink in, and then he nods slowly. Harry would tell her that everything is forgiven, that he loves her too, but Draco doesn’t know how to.

“Tell me again later,” he murmurs instead, “when I wake up the next time. I will forget, so please tell me again.”

She smiles sweetly at him and nods, her fingers careful in his curls.

“I will.”

❧ 🌵 ❧

Harry opens his eyes and finds himself in Draco’s living room, the dim light from a lamp illuminating the dark living room. His head feels like it’s full of cotton wool when he casts a quick Tempus and realises it’s past dinner time. 

“What the-” he mutters, but when he sees the uncorked vial of Dreamless Sleep on the table he immediately understands what Draco has done. The vial is almost full, so Draco must have taken just a sip to swap with Harry and relieve him from the pain he was in. 

Harry wipes a hand over his face tiredly, and notices the ink on his palm. Ophelia jumps in his lap, demanding a cuddle, and Harry feels tears at the corner of his eyes as he reads the message written in Draco’s neat handwriting. 

Wish you were here with me.

❧ 🌵 ❧

Draco wakes up in his own bed, the sharp morning light filtering from the half-open door of his bedroom.

He wonders if Harry’s feeling better, if his potion is ready. He felt so powerless yesterday, so worried that Harry would die or be in too much pain. He wanted to be the one brewing the potion that would make him feel better. He needed to be there and comfort him. Pacing around the house, the only solution that came to mind was taking a nap and hoping for the best. He had a feeling in his chest that the swap would happen, that every time Harry was feeling down or overwhelmed by his life he ended up in Draco’s instead.

He is glad that it worked, and when he opens the shutters with a flick of his wand, Draco finds some scribbles on the palm of his left hand, extending all the way down his wrist, until the letters almost reach his Mark.

Draco, I can’t wait two years to see you.

He reads it again and again, the words sinking in painfully, and he wonders what it means.

Is Harry trying to say that he needs to move on? Draco would understand – it’s not like they’ve started anything anyway. Two years is a long time for a budding romance that began in the oddest possible way—a romance that hasn’t even blossomed. It’s probably easier to just nip it in the bud.

Draco gets up, his heart sore and eyes wet despite himself. 

He knew his wish for the comet would never come true. It was simply too much to ask for, even to a cosmic rock with unexpected magical powers.

Draco puts a pair of shorts and a t-shirt on and then goes to the bathroom, washing his face to feel human again. He slaps himself as he stares at his reflection in the mirror.

“You’re just a hopeless idiot,” he mutters, casting a shaving charm that leaves his skin smooth and fresh but does nothing to help him feel any better.

He opens all the windows in the house with a flick of his wand, then checks the list of potions he needs to brew in the morning to keep himself busy. The cats meow loudly in the kitchen, desperate for his attention, so Draco gets their breakfast sorted as tears run down his cheeks, calling himself stupid over and over again.

“Utterly pathetic,” he mumbles wetly. “What the fuck were you thinking, falling in love with Harry Potter?”

He sniffles as he prepares the ingredients for the potions, his vision swimming and fingers shaking as he holds the knife.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he tells himself, wiping his face with his t-shirt and letting out a shuddering breath. “I need to get out of the house. I’ll mess up all the potions in this state anyway.”

Draco casts a Stasis on the ingredients, then grabs the car keys and ventures out. There are grey clouds in the sky, the day still hot despite the looming rain. Draco gets in his Panda and starts the engine, the radio blasting a song he’s never heard of before. He turns it off and starts driving aimlessly, out of the village and into the countryside.

The car window is down, and the warm wind ruffles his hair as Draco just drives, past yellow fields of dry grass, past sheep asleep in the shade of a tree, past cacti and nuraghe. He drives and drives until the noise of the engine drowns his sorrows, making his heart bleed out like a wounded beast as Draco tries to come to terms with his feelings, with all the love he held inside him and now needs to let go.

He spots saltworks as he drives past the sea, wondering immediately if Harry would want to see them, thinking about all the things he had catalogued in his mind and wanted to show him. Tears fall down his cheeks as he takes a sharp turn and drives back home.

Two more years.

Twenty-four months and then he can see his mother and Pansy. He doesn’t want to leave the island and his house, even though it feels like too much now that his heart is breaking into a million pieces. He wishes he could dive into the sea and just disappear, let his sorrows drown with him, but in spite of everything Draco still wants to live. He’s fucked up his past, paid for his mistakes dearly, but there’s never been a moment when he wanted to give up on it all.

So he slowly drives back, past people collecting prickly pears from a cactus with a wooden stick, past women all dressed in black with their heads covered with a shawl. He drives past children splashing in a stream, their faces so full of joy that Draco’s heart clenches in his chest. 

As he drives up the hill that takes him home, Draco wonders what he will do now, what he will tell Harry when he next speaks to him. Will there be any more swaps?

He parks the car and takes a deep breath before climbing out of it, and then he sees him.

A lonely figure dressed in light colours, standing against his front door, a backpack at his feet; a smile lighting up his beautiful face and those emerald green eyes that have always driven Draco mad with want.

“Harry…” he mumbles, thinking he must be dreaming, rubbing his eyes and then finding him still there, smiling back at him in that maddening way that Draco never thought he would get to see in this lifetime. 

“Took you long enough,” Harry mutters, taking a step towards him and getting the keys that are dangling from Draco’s frozen fingers. “I’m boiling, let’s get in.”

Draco’s mouth opens, his eyes following Harry as he opens the door and then kicks his trainers off to step inside, sighing in delight when the cooling charms soothe his heated skin. Draco takes Harry’s surprisingly heavy bag and follows him inside, his body moving almost automatically, still not believing that what is happening is real.

One of the cats jumps when he sees Harry, and they all escape through the open door in alarm, except for Ophelia and her kittens, who are hiding under one of the chairs and staring at Harry as if they were unsure what to make of him.

“They just need to get used to your smell,” Draco mumbles, and Harry kneels down, offering his hand to Ophelia, then to Socks, who sniffs at him cautiously.

“By the way, before you start panicking, the Minister knows that I’m here, so you won’t get in trouble,” Harry says, meeting his gaze with a nervous look. “You’re not breaking the terms of your sentence.”

“Thanks,” Draco blurts out, and the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’s still trying to come to terms with the fact that Harry is here, in his house, and looks happy and alive and—“Wait, how are you feeling? What about the curse that hit you?”

“Oh, I’m good,” Harry says with an easy grin. “The potion worked wonders. They wanted to keep me in for another day, but I told them that I had more important things to do.”

“Are you sure taking an International Portkey was a sensible decision?” Draco asks as it slowly sinks in. Harry was discharged from the hospital in the morning, and apparently the first thing he decided to do to celebrate is travelling all the way to Sardinia. 

Maybe he needed a holiday, Draco reasons. 

Maybe he’s lost the plot.  

“They said I was cured,” Harry replies with a shrug, and he looks okay, so Draco tries to relax and stop worrying, his brain still moving around in circles, wondering why Harry is here, of all places, and why now, after he said he couldn’t wait for two years. 

Harry steps closer, tilting his chin up to look at Draco when they’re a mere few inches apart.

“Hey,” Draco murmurs, his heart beating so madly that he has to close his mouth in the stupidly irrational fear it might try to escape from him.

“Blimey, you are tall,” Harry blurts out with a startled laughter.

“And you’re as short as I thought,” Draco teases, a playful glint shining in Harry’s eyes at his comment. “How do you even manage to reach stuff at the Muggle supermarket you insist on sending me to without using magic?”

“Have you been using magic when we swap?” Harry asks, his eyes narrowing.

“No, I’ve been climbing on the bloody shelves like a fucking mountain goat,” Draco replies, and Harry laughs, the beautiful sound filling Draco’s kitchen to the brim, making him smile, finally relaxing, daring to reach for Harry’s arm and placing his palm against his warm skin.

He’s real.

Harry is really here with him.

“Merlin, I never thought I’d get to see you,” Harry mumbles, letting his fingers brush against Draco’s cheek, his touch featherlight as he traces the line of his jaw, dripping down as he follows a scar. “W-would you like something to drink?”

Draco’s mouth is suddenly dry, and he nods, not even knowing why. He doesn’t want Harry to move, doesn’t think he can stand seeing him slip away from his grasp now that he’s so close and so real.

But Harry takes a step back, a nervous smile still painted on his face as he grabs the moka pot and starts preparing it, automatic movements that feels surreal. No one except for Draco ever prepares food or drinks in this kitchen. It’s his realm, his safe place. To see Harry grab things and move around with so much confidence, as if he truly belonged here, in Draco’s little corner of the world, in his life, it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. 

Harry takes a glass from the drying rack and then opens the fridge, getting some iced tea that he must have prepared the night before, because Draco doesn’t remember putting it there. He fills the glass and hands it to Draco, then puts the moka on the stove and sits on the kitchen counter, legs dangling as he stares at his socked feet, then finally at Draco.

“You said you couldn’t wait two years,” Draco says, his voice low in the quiet kitchen. Harry shakes his head, his gaze so fond that Draco thinks he’s going to melt under it.

“I couldn’t. You see…” Harry mumbles, then wets his lips with the tip of his pink tongue and motions for Draco to come closer. “I’m a rather impatient person. I spent years with nothing, and now…now I simply cannot wait to get the things that I truly want. Not when they’re within reach.”

Draco moves, almost like in a dream, until he’s standing right in front of Harry, between the v of his parted legs, their noses almost touching.

“I can’t believe that you’re here,” Draco murmurs, which makes Harry smile again.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry says, and then pauses, probably waiting for Draco to make a sassy comment about that, but Draco stays really still, holding his breath as he waits for Harry to finish his sentence. “I’ve been thinking a lot, and I’ve realised a few things. First, that I had to come and see you, because two years is too fucking long, and I’m not a saint.”

Draco smiles, and Harry’s lips curl up, mirroring his expression. He takes his glasses off and puts them on the counter, and his gaze is so intense now, but Draco doesn’t avert his eyes.

“What else?” he asks, stepping an inch closer, his waist brushing against Harry’s knees. Draco thinks he’s going to spread them further, but Harry closes them instead, trapping him between his thighs, letting his arms rest on Draco’s shoulders.

“Secondly, that I hate my job. And I hate living in England,” Harry adds, tilting his chin up and brushing his nose against Draco’s. “I hate London and the weather. And I hate my house, I just…”

“You like it here,” Draco whispers, a sudden realisation that hits him just as strongly as Harry’s reply.

“I do…so much…but I like you more,” Harry says softly, nuzzling his cheek, letting his lips press featherlight for a fleeting moment against Draco’s.

“When’s your return Portkey?” Draco asks softly, so close to Harry’s skin, inhaling his familiar and soothing scent.

“Tomorrow,” Harry replies, sounding a little breathless, and Draco brushes a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth, feeling his lips part, chasing Draco’s as he moves again. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks, and Harry nods, taking Draco’s hand and bringing it to his cheek. 

“There’s nothing I want more,” he confesses, and that’s all Draco needs to finally break the infinitesimally small distance between them and press a soft kiss against Harry’s lips, feeling him shudder and cling to his t-shirt, pulling him closer to drape his arms around Draco’s neck, fingers sliding through his hair with a soft moan. Harry’s lips part, and Draco deepens the kiss, tasting him and marvelling at how open and eager Harry is, how intense he is in his desire as he wraps his legs around Draco’s waist and pulls him against him in a searing kiss that leaves them both panting and flushed.

Draco doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t have the words to express the surprise and awe at having Harry in his arms, mouth hot and wet and so sweet against his. Harry’s tongue slides languidly along Draco’s top lip, teasing him in a way that sets Draco’s blood alight with desperate need. He’s wanted this for so long, and now that he has it, he doesn’t even know where to start.

He is very conscious of Harry’s boundaries, of the way he struggles with people touching him, so he lets him lead, waiting for Harry to take Draco’s hand and move it lower, under his own t-shirt, to touch his bare skin with trembling fingers. 

The moka pot starts croaking, startling them both, but Harry flicks his hand at it to turn the hob off, sparks flying out of his fingers in a careless display of wandless magic that makes Draco so impossibly hard and flustered.

“Come here, you fucking menace,” he mutters under his breath, capturing Harry’s lips again and again, until they’re both panting and hard, and Draco thinks he might explode or come in his pants like a horny teenager.

“I lied,” Harry confesses, then reaches for his lips once more, as if he couldn’t have enough. “I haven’t actually bought a return Portkey.” 

Draco’s smile widens, and Harry’s eyes light up at his reaction.

“Good,” Draco whispers, running his fingers along Harry’s spine, feeling him shudder under his hands.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Draco says, kissing him softly and closing his eyes. “I want you here. I’ve wanted you here for so long, Harry.”

“Me too,” Harry says. “There’s something else I have to confess.”

Draco huffs in fake indignation, rolling his eyes and waiting for Harry to continue.

“Are you on the run or something?” Draco asks playfully. “Do you need a place to hide?”

“I may have convinced the Minister to shorten your sentence,” Harry says carefully, watching Draco’s reaction as his lips part and eyes widen in surprise. “You only have two months left, instead of two years.”

“Harry, I…” he mumbles, feeling overwhelmed and so happy that his heart is threatening to burst.

“And then I may have handed in my resignation letter,” Harry says sheepishly. “The Minister wasn’t too pleased, so I kind of legged it.”

Draco’s lips open and close a few times, like a fish out of water.

“You escaped here?!” he asks, still dumbfounded.

“No, I had already bought the Portkey,” Harry explains. “That’s the first thing I did when they discharged me from St Mungo’s.”

“Are you sure you haven’t hit your head?” Draco asks, because he needs to check that Harry isn’t losing it. This is too good to be true. Draco never gets what he wants, so there must be a catch somewhere, he’s sure of it. 

“Positive,” Harry says with a laugh, cupping his cheeks and kissing his lips chastely, a tender gesture that makes Draco relax in his arms again. “All I knew is that I wanted to be here with you. Nothing else mattered, Draco. Only you.”

Draco wants to ask a million questions, like what about your friends? What about the Weasleys and your life in the UK? But Harry’s mouth is so sweet, and his kiss so lovely that all thoughts and worries vanish like snow in the sun as Draco lets Harry kiss him and touch him, hands exploring until his fingers sneak under Draco’s top and map his body slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. And it feels so good, terribly familiar in an odd way, as if Harry knew exactly where Draco is most sensitive, where to touch him and how.

Harry’s stomach suddenly rumbles really loudly, and Draco breathes out a laugh when the other man groans and blushes. 

“Let’s get you something to eat,” Draco says, stepping away from Harry and trying to ignore his straining erection. 

He wants to take things slow with Harry. It feels like the right thing to do. Draco doesn’t want to rush this, craves to savour every moment, not wanting Harry to think that all Draco wants is to have sex with him. Draco wants so much more, needs everything.

“Can you show me your bees?” Harry asks timidly, and Draco smiles at him, so happy that his cheeks hurt from how much he’s been grinning like a lunatic.

“We’ll get you some pane al pomodoro from the bakery,” he says, giving Harry his glasses and helping him down from the counter. Draco holds his hand as they walk around the table and back to the door. “I’ll take you to see the bees, and then I’ll cast every sun protection charm I know on both of us, and we’ll go to the beach together.”

“Sounds amazing,” Harry says, pulling him closer for another kiss, and Draco still can’t believe his luck, still struggles to come to terms with the fact that Harry has really come to visit him.

“What’s in your bag?” Draco asks as Harry rummages through it to emerge with a pair of sunglasses and a hat. 

“Pretty much all the important things I own,” Harry replies, looking embarrassed. 

“Good,” Draco says again in disbelief.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, tilting his head. “I can get a Portke-”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Draco says, taking his hand and opening the door, letting the warm air heat their skin as Harry whoops and lets Draco take him to the car.

“I finally get to ride in this ramshackle car of yours,” Harry teases, looking around in clear amusement. 

“Shut up and kiss me again,” Draco urges him, because he desperately needs to pinch himself or ask Harry to do it for him, but a kiss will also do, soft and tender as he loves it. 

“We forgot to bring something to drink,” Harry murmurs against his lips.

“Accio iced tea,” Draco says, and the bottle flies out of the open window and into his outstretched hand. “There you go.” 

“Show-off,” Harry teases with a raised eyebrow.

“Said the man who turned off my moka pot with a wandless and wordless spell,” Draco points out as he turns the engine on. 

“I forgot to drink my coffee!” Harry says, sounding genuinely upset about it.

“Do you actually like that bitter concoction?” Draco asks, turning to check there are no cats in his way and honking just in case. 

“Oh god, you’re like one of those mad Italian drivers that can’t stop honking and drive like lunatics,” Harry says, sounding strangely delighted about it.

“I shall let you know that I’m a very sensible driver,” Draco points out haughtily, which makes Harry snort and turn his face towards the window. “But I did get my driving licence here, so I’ve never driven a car in England.”

“Where did you go this morning?” Harry suddenly asks, the wind causing a mess of his curls and making him look so loose and lovely that Draco considers stopping the car to pull over and kiss him senseless. “I thought you had to brew the potions for Mrs Johnson. You know what she’s like if you’re late with them.”

“I…” Draco starts, taking a sharp turn that makes Harry yelp and clutch the handle above the window in fright. “Sorry, I just…when I read the message you left on my hand, I thought it meant that you didn’t want to wait for me…so I went out for a bit because I was feeling like shit.”

“Oh, Draco…” Harry murmurs, fingers reaching for Draco’s arm, curling around his wrist as Draco continues driving. 

“But I’m so glad that you decided to come,” Draco says, turning for a second to look at Harry. “I’m honestly over the moon.”

“Me too,” Harry says, and then Draco has to pull over by the dusty side of the road to kiss him, because he’s going to go mad if he doesn’t do it now that he can. Harry smiles against his lips, fingers sneaking under Draco’s t-shirt to trace the scars on his chest, travelling all the way up to his shoulders.

“We’re going to get arrested for indecent exposure if you keep that up,” Draco warns him, sucking on Harry’s bottom lip and making him whimper. 

“Let’s get going then,” Harry says, pulling him closer to slide his tongue inside Draco’s mouth before he moans in an indecent way that makes Draco swear under his breath. 

“Fuck, you’ll be the death of me,” Draco mutters as he starts the car again, honking at someone who drives past at full speed and nearly crashes into them.

“Merlin, I think I much prefer flying my broom,” Harry mutters as he watches the man in front of them put his middle finger out. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Draco replies absentmindedly, but then he wonders for a split second if Harry is planning on staying, if he’s just visiting Draco for a day or two and then returning to his life. He reminds himself he shouldn’t get his hopes up – the fact that Harry is here doesn’t mean that he’s going to stay.

“I’m sure I will,” Harry replies easily, and Draco lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. 

“Here’s the bakery, wait in the car,” Draco says, but Harry unfastens his seatbelt.

“I want to hear you speaking Italian,” he says offhandedly, and Draco probably blushes to the tip of his ears, because Harry stares at him with a shit-eating grin and follows him inside, standing next to him as Draco chats with the baker while Harry interlaces their fingers together and gives him the goofiest smile.

“Well?” Draco nudges him when they get back into the car. “Enjoyed the show?”

“You sound so hot,” Harry murmurs, looking a little overwhelmed, and Draco groans, not caring one bit if anyone can see them when he grabs Harry by the front of his t-shirt and pulls him for a kiss that leaves them both breathless. “Fuck, shall we go back home?”

“You said you wanted to meet my bees,” Draco reminds him, and he starts driving again, thinking about how dreadful he felt a couple of hours ago and how elated and mind-bogglingly happy he feels now. All thanks to Harry, who seems to hold the keys to Draco’s heart and has finally decided to use them.

“Wow,” Harry says when they eventually get there, staring at the colourful beehives scattered around the field, buzzing around noisily as Draco hums and takes his hand. 

“I’m going to have to move them soon,” Draco explains. “When autumn comes, I need to take them where the strawberry trees are.”

“Strawberry trees?” Harry asks, confused, as Draco guides him towards a patch of shade and summons a picnic mat from the boot of his car, sitting down on it as they look at the busy insects flying around. 

“They’re not actually strawberries. It’s a plant called corbezzolo in Italian,” Draco explains, handing him a piece of bread with tomatoes. “It starts flowering in October, and it’s the only honey the bees produce so late in the year. The honey is bitter and tastes a bit weird to me, but it’s really good for you and the islanders swear by its amazing properties. And they use it to drizzle it on seadas, which are these honey and cheese pastries that I think you would love.”

“I can’t wait,” Harry says, filling his mouth with the bread and humming in delight around it. “So fucking good.”

Time freezes when Draco realises Harry has just basically said he would like to be around at the end of the autumn. He wonders what it means, if Harry will continue visiting him, if he thinks Draco will eventually move back to England or will go to Grimmauld Place to visit him.

“I…” he starts, because he wants to make things clear— he needs to. “I’m going to stay here, even after my sentence ends. I’ll visit my mother in France and maybe ask Pansy if she wants to come over for a short holiday, but my life is here now. I don’t want to go back to England, Harry.”

There’s a pause, when Draco stares at a tiny piece of tomato on the corner of Harry’s lips and craves to lick it off, but then Harry’s tongue flicks out to clean his own mouth, his eyes so green in contrast to the dry grass all around them. 

“Good,” Harry simply says, then he smiles and grabs the bottle of tea, taking a large gulp of it before he leans forward and kisses Draco’s lips with his sweet mouth. “Sounds perfect.”

Draco feels lightheaded with it all, with the feeling of Harry’s mouth on his, with the perfect fit of their fingers, interlaced together as they walk down the beach much later, with the feeling of Harry’s half-naked body wrapping around his underwater.

“It’s much nicer to be here with you,” Harry seems to conclude to himself. “But if that wanker doesn’t stop ogling you, I’m going to have to go and hex him.”

“People tend to stare a lot more here,” Draco explains, eyes still on Harry, his stomach doing a little backflip at the realisation that Harry is jealous over him, that Harry wants him. “I thought we could get something to eat and head home.”

“Yes,” Harry says, his eyebrows unknitting instantly as he takes Draco’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the saltiness of the sea on his skin before he presses his mouth against Draco and hums. “We could take a shower…together…”

Draco groans, grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him out of the water while the other man laughs and follows him to the shore. They dry themselves quickly, sharing the only towel Draco had in his car, and then transfigure their swimming trunks back into shorts before they get back in the car. Harry’s cheeks are sun-kissed and his eyes crinkling at the corners as he stares at Draco while he drives.

“What?” Draco asks, quickly taking a peak at him before he stares back at the road.

“Nothing,” Harry replies.

“Why are you making that face?” Draco asks, thinking that he’s never thought he’d be this happy in this lifetime, that he never even considered for a minute that it would be Harry making him feel this way, like his heart is spelling out his name in Morse Code and his veins are pumping out blood just to make him blush and smile and love with everything that he is.

“I’m in love with you,” Harry murmurs, and Draco nearly crashes into a giant cactus, swerving abruptly and making Harry yelp and then laugh when Draco curses loudly in Italian and people honk behind them.

“Are you trying to kill us both?” Draco asks, his face on fire as he feels like he’s about to explode from how happy he is. “Fuck, Harry…”

“Eyes on the road,” Harry reminds him playfully. “You can make heart eyes at me when we get home, but I would like us to get there in one piece.” 

As soon as Draco parks the car, Harry’s hands reach for him, sliding through his hair and pulling him closer for a bruising kiss, until Harry somehow manages to unfasten his seatbelt and climb over the gear stick to sit on Draco’s lap and moan against his mouth. 

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” Draco mumbles, kissing him until his lips are puffy and Harry is rocking against him and making desperate little sounds that turn Draco’s blood into fire. “Let me…let me get us inside, please. Harry…fuck, please…”

Harry lets out an indecent moan when Draco thrusts his hips forward, his green eyes clouding over as he looks down and stares at Draco’s tented trousers. He bites on his lips and then lifts his gaze to meet Draco’s.

“Shit…” he mutters, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Draco says, trying to get a grip and calm down, because the last thing he wants is to spook Harry or make him think Draco only wants him for  sex. 

“Let’s get inside,” Harry says, opening the car door and nearly falling out in a haste to get going. Draco follows him, waving at his neighbour who calls his name and asks how he’s doing.

“Una meraviglia,” he replies, and Harry snorts, dragging him in by the hand. “Mai stato meglio!”

As soon as they cross the threshold, Harry pushes him against the closed door, trailing open-mouthed kisses down his neck, pulling at Draco’s t-shirt until Draco takes it off, his fingers getting lost in Harry’s thick curls, still wet from the beach. Harry kisses him down his chest, licking his way up a scar, his mouth closing around a nipple and making Draco keen. Harry lands on his knees on the hard kitchen floor, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he stares up at Draco, his irises reduced to a thin ring of green as his fingers work Draco’s fly open, slowly pulling down the elastic band of hiss underwear, as if he suddenly decided to stop and take things slow.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice low, almost hesitant. 

“More than,” Draco whispers back, overwhelmed with how much he wants this, wants Harry. “I’m…I’m clean, but we can use a condom if you prefer. And Harry…we don’t have to do anything unless you’re sure.”

Harry’s answer is a simple groan, muffled by the sound of his mouth against the fabric of Draco’s boxers, then moving to trail kisses under Draco’s belly button, his fingers sneaking under the elastic band and pulling down gently, freeing Draco’s hard cock, which is already leaking at the tip. Draco gasps, and Harry just stares at him for a long moment, until he kisses the tip, just a sweet and chaste peck that makes Draco whimper in anticipation, a shiver running down his spine. Harry looks up at him and smiles sheepishly, and then he flicks his tongue out and tentatively licks his way up, as if wanting to savour him, to better taste the saltiness of Draco’s skin.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Harry mumbles before suckling on the head of his cock, making Draco let out a debauched sound as Harry lowers his mouth, swallowing him whole with a satisfied hum.

Draco can feel that Harry is inexperienced, that he’s checking his reactions to decide what to do next, cataloguing what makes Draco moan the loudest or tug at Harry’s hair in desperation, and Draco loves him more than he ever thought possible as Harry’s hot and wet mouth makes him lose all control and pant and gasp and whimper. His fingers sink into black curls, a litany of praise escaping his lips as Harry makes him fall apart.

“You’re so good at this, darling,” he mumbles, the pleasure increasing as he feels closer and closer to his orgasm. “You’re perfect, absolutely perfect. Making me feel so good—oh fuck, Harry...you’re going to make me come so hard, love.”

Harry whimpers, closing his eyes and taking him even deeper, and Draco tugs at his hair, but Harry shakes his head minutely and just keeps on bobbing his head up and down until Draco cries out and spills his come deep down his throat, his eyes drifting shut as he feels the pleasure radiating through his body, making him shudder and moan indecently as Harry keeps him in his mouth, still moving slowly around his softening length. 

When Draco finally opens his eyes, he finds Harry staring back at him, green eyes so bright. Draco runs his fingers through his hair, stroking it gently and then brushing it along Harry’s temples, and his cheek, thumbing at the corner of his swollen lips. Harry finally lets go of him, peppering Draco’s spent cock with tiny kisses that are so tender that Draco’s heart feels like it’s about to break into a million pieces.

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” Draco says softly, and Harry’s cheeks turn crimson as he looks down at his crotch and shakes his head.

“I…” he starts, voice hoarse and husky in a way that sets Draco’s blood alight. “I already…”

Draco groans, falling to his knees and kissing him, hard and desperate until Harry is moaning into his mouth, arms around Draco’s neck to pull him closer.

“Later…” Harry says between kisses. “Can you…will you…touch me later?”

“Yes,” Draco says, sucking on Harry’s bottom lip before he pulls him in for another kiss. “Everything you want. Anything, my darling.”

Harry chuckles, and Draco smiles against his lips, so happy that he concludes this must be the best dream he’s ever had in his life and he never wants to wake up.

Harry casts a wandless cleaning charm on himself, and then Draco hauls him up and suggests taking a shower.

“Together?” Harry asks, sounding hopeful.

“As if we’ve never seen each other naked before,” Draco says with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, which makes Harry elbow him before he takes his t-shirt off.

“I can finally see your glorious arse properly,” Harry mumbles, and Draco snorts.

“Oh, it’s glorious now, isn’t it?” he teases.

“Shut up and get naked,” Harry says, unceremoniously shedding his own underwear and leaving Draco gaping and blushing as he contemplates the beauty that is a naked Harry Potter, curls messier than usual after Draco’s had his way with them, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Draco mutters, and Harry smiles, standing on tiptoes to kiss him softly. 

“Get in the shower with me, come on,” he murmurs sexily, and Draco can do nothing but follow.

Draco runs his fingers on him, stroking and exploring every part of Harry’s lovely body as if he were seeing it for the first time, watching Harry’s lips part and eyes flutter shut as Draco kisses his neck, then slowly makes his way down, watching in awe as Harry’s cock stirs and shows its appreciation. 

“Merlin…” Draco whispers, hands going down, cupping Harry’s buttocks and massaging them gently. “The things I would do to you…”

Harry visibly shudders, huddling closer and wrapping his arms around him, kissing Draco’s collarbone, then a sensitive spot under his ear.

“Later,” he murmurs in Draco’s ear, “in bed. I want you to take your time with me.”

“Yes,” Draco replies, desperate to have him in any way Harry would want him. “I’ll take my time with you. We have all the time you need, my darling.”

They’re both hard again, but they try to ignore it as they wash each other and then step out of the shower and cover themselves with Draco’s soft towels. 

Harry starts rummaging through his bag, casting a few enlarging spells and then reducing things again, until he finally fishes out some clean clothes. Draco is dying to suggest getting everything out, helping Harry sort out his things in Draco’s wardrobe and in his chest of drawers. He will make space for Harry, all the space he wants. 

Draco has a love confession on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t know how to get the words out. 

He’s never said it to anyone, not even his mother or Pansy. 

Father used to say only Muggles express their feelings so openly, that it was a weakness. Draco heard Weasley saying it to Harry, though. That ‘I love you, mate’ that made him choke on what he was eating and nearly fall on his arse when Harry’s best friend was so candid about his feelings. He wondered if Harry would have been just as sincere, if he was brought up in a house where saying those words was normal. He now knows that there was anything but love in the dreadful place where Harry grew up, that he deserves so much more. Draco wants to shower Harry with all the love that is making his heart spill.

He opens his lips to get the words out, but nothing happens.

“Dinner?” Harry asks as he struggles to get the t-shirt around his head, then frowning when he notices the expression on Draco’s face. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“Yes, I…just…” Draco fumbles, then feels like an idiot. Harry told him that he loves him, so why can’t he do the same?

“I know that expression,” Harry says, moving closer and cupping his cheeks. “You’re getting all flustered and anxious about something. Have I done something wrong? Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Draco replies with force, startling Harry and then making him smile. Then he repeats softly, “Never. I’m so happy you’ve decided to come, Harry.”

“Good, so let’s prepare something to eat,” Harry says easily, taking his hand and guiding Draco downstairs. And it still all feels like a dream, seeing Harry rummage through his fridge and cupboards as if this were his house, as if he were at home, preparing the food for the cats as if it were part of his evening routine.

Draco makes tomato sauce in a daze, stopping to look at Harry and finding him smiling back at him, leaning closer for another kiss, because neither of them seems to ever have enough. Draco makes him taste ricotta drizzled with honey on a slice of fresh bread, and Harry’s eyes light up, his lips so sweet when he leans in for a kiss before he fills his mouth with more food. 

“So you left your job,” he starts, noticing the way Harry’s shoulder tense up a little. “I’m honestly glad you did. You were working yourself to the grave, and…you didn’t look happy.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, shoulders slumping again when their eyes meet. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now, to be honest with you. But I knew that was not the life for me. I was just…unhappy all the time before we started swapping.”

“Hmm,” Draco hums, stirring the sauce with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “What about now?”

“I’m happy now,” Harry says with a small voice, as if he were scared to say the words out loud, worried that someone might take it all away from him. Draco thinks he would fight tooth and nail to protect Harry’s happiness and make sure he has everything he deserves.

“Good,” he says, winking at him before he drains the pasta.

They eat at the kitchen table, fingers brushing every time they’re resting close enough to do so, and Draco has an idea. He takes Harry to bed after dinner, casting a charm to take care of the washing up, and when they get in the bedroom, Draco grabs a sharpie from one of the drawers. 

They lie on the bed, still wearing their clothes, and Harry is clearly a bit nervous, because he won’t stop playing with a curl just above his right ear, so Draco takes his hand gently and smooths out the palm before he places the wet tip of the black sharpie against it. 

The ink looks stark against Harry’s skin, so definite and real as the words take shape against his life line, then move down under his thumb.

Harry stares at him curiously, letting Draco curl the letters elegantly, wanting every single one of them to be perfect. Because if he can’t say it with his voice, then at least he wants his fingers not to waver. He loops the bottom part of the y, linking it to the o and then curls up the end of the u. Harry looks at him, mesmerised, until Draco is happy enough with the results and gives Harry his hand back. 

Draco bites on his bottom lip as he observes the surprise and then joy painted on Harry’s face, the way his eyes widen and mouth opens.

“You love me,” he whispers, making it sound like a shocked question, as if he couldn’t believe that Draco returns his feelings. Draco nods, once, then twice, and Harry pulls him close for a tender kiss, humming against his mouth and then moving so that he’s straddling Draco, their bodies pressed together as the kiss turns more heated and desperate.

“Harry…” Draco moans against his lips when Harry starts rocking against him, spreading his legs and hooking his ankles around Harry’s waist to make the friction even more delicious.

“I want you,” Harry murmurs, a little helpless, rutting against Draco and closing his eyes when Draco thrusts up. “Please, Draco…I need you…”

“We don’t have to,” Draco says, because he knows Harry struggles to be touched. He’s also aware of the fact that Harry doesn’t have much experience and wants to take things slowly, doesn’t want him to think they have to have sex. “I’m happy to wait.”

“What if I want you so badly that I can’t wait?” Harry whispers heatedly, tracing wet kisses down Draco’s neck. “What if I want to touch you, and…I want you to touch me? Because I do, Draco. So badly, you have no idea. I know we’re rushing things, but I’ve been wanting this for a long time.”

“Fuck, please let me,” Draco says, and Harry vanishes all their clothes with a wandless spell, leaving Draco gasping at the suddeness of their skin coming in contact, the velvety feeling of Harry’s wet cock nestled against Draco’s, leaking precome all over his own erection. “Gods, you’re so hot…”

“I want you inside me,” Harry pleads in a desperate voice that makes Draco nearly lose all control. “Please, Draco…want you to fuck me tonight, and then again tomorrow morning. I want to wake up in the middle of the night and still feel your come inside me.”

Draco has no idea where Harry has learnt all that dirty talk, because he looks extremely embarrassed by the words that have tumbled out of his mouth, but Draco is certainly not going to say no, so he flips them around and starts kissing his way down Harry’s chest, feeling him shudder and moan, the vibrations reverberating on his skin as Draco laps at it, his mouth wet and hot and hungry. 

“Going to make you feel so good,” he promises, trailing kisses down Harry’s belly, pinching one of his nipples playfully before he comes back up and sucks on the other one, watching Harry’s lips part on a shuddered gasp. Harry bucks his hips, but Draco arches his back, not wanting him to get release so soon, wanting to prolong the pleasure for as long as possible. Harry groans in frustration, and Draco licks the tip of his cock, making him swear under his breath.

“Draco…” Harry whines.

“What would you like, darling?” Draco asks, and Harry’s face turns a darker shade of red as he averts his gaze for a moment before coming back to Draco.

“I…I don’t know what I like…” Harry confesses. “I don’t have any experience, sorry…”

“Why are you apologising?” Draco asks sweetly, moving up to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth, then that sweet spot just underneath his bottom lip, until Harry is letting out a needy little sound and Draco can’t help but bring their mouths together. “We’re going to find out together what you like. I’ll make you feel so good, darling.”

Harry hums against his lips, and then Draco spreads his legs slowly, marvelling at the sight in front of him. His fingers roam across Harry’s chest and arms and belly, featherlight and yet possessive as they explore him. Draco’s lips grow more daring and desperate as he moves down, capturing the tip of Harry’s cock into his mouth and running his tongue along it until Harry gasps and curses under his breath. 

Draco takes his time, licking and sucking, leaving open-mouthed kisses on the inside of Harry’s thighs, lapping at the length of his cock slowly, then dipping his tongue inside the slit to have a taste of his precome and hum at how intimate and earth-shattering this feels. 

“Please…” Harry murmurs, fingers threading through Draco’s hair as he wraps his lips around one of Harry’s balls and runs his thumb along his cock, wet with Draco’s saliva and so hard. 

Draco lifts Harry’s legs with both hands under his knees and spreads him open, then peppers his thighs with kisses until he reaches his hole. 

“Cast a cleaning charm for me, darling,” Draco says, wanting to see Harry’s careless displays of powerful magic again, and Harry mumbles something in confusion, cheeks flushed and eyes cloudy as he mutters a spell. Draco flicks his tongue over the furled hole and Harry gasps, sitting up in bed to look at what Draco is doing. “Is this okay, my love?”

“Uh?” Harry asks, brushing sweaty curls from his forehead as he stares between his legs. “God…I…can you try that again?”

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Draco says, before placing a palm on Harry’s chest and encouraging him to lie down again before he runs his tongue over that bundle of sensitive skin again, making Harry keen and arch his back when Draco starts licking and sucking him there.

“Oooh, fuck,” Harry moans, fingers sliding through Draco’s hair and tugging at them. “You’re going to make me come like that, Draco…”

“Would that be so bad?” Draco teases between licks, pushing with his tongue until he breaches the tight ring of muscles and Harry cries out in surprise and pleasure.

“Want you to fuck me,” Harry reminds him, sounding a little too desperate and like he’s not going to last. Draco wants him too, wants to sink inside this promising tight heat and get lost in the feeling. He wants to feel like he doesn’t know where he starts and Harry ends. “Please…”

Draco begrudgingly gives one last lick and then sits up between Harry’s legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he reaches for his wand to cast a proper cleaning charm on his mouth and grab the vial of lube from his bedside table. 

“I brewed this with you in mind,” he confesses, spreading some on his fingers and letting it warm up before circling Harry’s entrance and gently pushing until his middle finger is slowly sinking inside. He watches Harry’s mouth open and his eyebrows knit as Draco slides all the way inside, then starts moving lazily, drinking in all the indecent sounds that escape Harry’s lips and the way his eyes flutter shut as his lips quiver when Draco adds a second finger.

“I’m ready…” Harry mumbles before he gasps when Draco brushes against his prostate. “Oh shit, Draco…”

“One more finger, love,” Draco coos fondly. “You should see how desperate you look.”

“Please, Draco, please…” he mumbles, then whimpers when Draco adds a third finger and starts hitting his prostate until Harry is a babbling mess.

“You’re so good, begging me to fuck you,” Draco murmurs. “I could come just looking at you like this, so loose and wet for me, love. I could spend my days fingering you.”

“Fuck me, please…” Harry whines, and Draco’s finally had enough of waiting, so he gently slides his fingers out, looking at Harry’s pink and wet hole and wanting to be inside it right now. 

“Do you want to turn around?” he asks softly, teasing Harry’s entrance with the tip of his slicked-up cock and moaning at how good that already feels. “It might be easier.”

“No,” Harry says, spreading his legs even further and placing his hands on Draco’s waist as he looks down at their joined bodies. “I want to see…and I want to kiss you while we…oh fuck, Draco…”

Draco sinks inside, slowly because he wants Harry to enjoy it and feel good. They both watch as Draco’s cock slides all the way in, then Harry arches his back and closes his eyes, letting out short puffs of air as Draco slides out, then back inside, so carefully that his arms are trembling with the effort of not going too fast.

“You feel amazing,” he whispers against Harry’s neck, nuzzling the hot skin there as he bottom outs and groans at how tight and hot Harry is.

“Fuck me,” Harry murmurs, his grip on Draco’s thighs tightening to the point of bruising. “I can take it Draco…please…”

Draco can’t resist, and he starts moving, thrusting into that delicious heat until he’s short of breath and so close to coming, Harry’s leaking cock pressing against Draco’s abdomen and smearing precome on Draco’s scars. He kisses Harry again, swallowing his moans and needy sounds until all there’s left is pleasure building up, and heat, and Harry’s hands moving up Draco’s back until they slide through his hair and cup his cheek.

“Harry…” 

“I love you so much,” Harry murmurs between kisses, and Draco finally starts stroking his neglected cock, feeling him shudder and tense up around him until Harry’s coming with a hitched breath and a litany of indecently delicious moans, his eyes closed and eyebrows creased in pleasure, and Draco’s never found him more beautiful than this.

Harry’s lips part on a shuddered gasp when Draco moves slowly, working him through the aftershocks of his orgasm until Harry lets out a little whimper and flinches. 

He slowly pulls out, and Harry groans, eyes opening in confusion.

“Hmmm…” Draco hums at the sudden loss, already missing how amazing it felt to be inside Harry.

“You haven’t come yet,” Harry mutters. “What are you doing?”

“You’re going to get sore,” Draco explains, then dips his fingers into the mess on Harry’s chest, coating his hand in Harry’s come and covering his own cock in it with a groan. He starts stroking it fast, and the wet sound is so debauched that it goes straight to his groin. 

Harry watches him, green eyes taking it all in as Draco kneels between his parted legs and pleasures himself unabashedly, looking into Harry’s eyes until it all feels too much and the tightness in his groin builds and builds until he’s coming all over Harry’s chest, thick ropes of come painting him as Draco moans through it and wants it to never end.

“Fuck, that was so hot,” Harry says, as Draco tries to catch his breath and chuckles as he stares at the mess they’ve made. “Come here and kiss me. Please, Draco…I need your mouth…”

Draco complies, the sticky mess between them an unpleasant afterthought when it comes to licking inside Harry’s mouth and feeling him close and loose and his.

Harry’s cleaning magic is like a lovely caress between them, and Draco hums against his lips as he feels dry and fresh, tumbling down alongside Harry and wrapping his arms around him.

“Was it okay?” he asks, kissing Harry lazily. “Are you very sore? I can cast a healing spell.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says, and then runs his fingers along a scar on Draco’s chest, tracing its long and irregular contours. “It felt amazing. I’m a little sore, but…I like the feel of it, knowing that you were there, inside me…” 

“Hmm,” Draco hums, pressing their lips together and kissing Harry languidly, until they’re both running their fingers slowly on each other’s naked bodies, a lassitude settling over their limbs as Harry looks at him and smiles, fingertips gentle on Draco’s scars.

“I love this,” he mumbles, kissing Draco’s cheek, then his chin. “I love feeling so close to you. It feels like a dream come true.”

“Yes,” Draco replies, running the back of his hand over Harry’s hip bone and then down his thighs. He thinks about his own dreams, about his wishes, and he finally finds the courage to ask something that has been in a corner of his mind for a long time now. “"What did you wish for when you saw the comet, Harry?”

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, green eyes narrowing before he sheepishly looks back at Draco’s and sees something there that makes him relax again, then licks his lips before he answers.

“To be happy,” Harry replies slowly. “To feel less lonely and broken. I wished for a new life. That’s all I wanted.”

“I think my own wish has come true,” Draco confesses, heart beating madly as he shifts a little closer, hands digging into the soft flesh of Harry’s buttocks to press their bodies flush.

“What did you wish for?” Harry asks in a murmur, his lips soft and a bit puffy as his teeth bite on them, clearly anxious about Draco’s answer.

“To find someone to love who could love me back,” Draco replies, staring fondly at him, brushing a wild curl from Harry’s forehead and placing a kiss there instead. 

“I think it has definitely come true,” Harry whispers, his voice betraying his emotions. “At least the second part.”

“The first one, too,” Draco says, his heart unable to contain all the happiness and love, spilling like a jar full of sweet honey as he cups Harry’s cheeks and kisses his lips tenderly.

Harry moans into it, clinging to Draco and melting into the kiss as he hooks a leg over Draco’s thigh and rocks gently against him.

“Salazar, I really love your body,” Draco says, noticing how Harry’s hard again, loving the look of his ruddy cock, glistening at the tip. “But I must admit I much prefer it when I’m not inhabiting it.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen anymore,” Harry says, sounding already wrecked as he looks at Draco’s chest, then down at his hardening cock.

“It’s a shame, I was looking forward to finding out what was going to happen in that steamy gay novel hidden under your bed,” Draco teases, grabbing Harry’s buttocks and pressing them close, slowly thrusting his hips forward and enjoying the desperate sounds that are escaping Harry’s lips.

“I brought it with me,” Harry replies. “I kind of brought half the house because I didn’t know if you—if I…” 

“You could stay,” Draco says, finding the courage to look Harry straight in the eyes and bare his heart, making himself vulnerable for the only person he feels he can be fragile with. “If you want, you could stay here.”

“I don’t really know what to do with my life,” Harry says, the shadow of guilt on his face, but Draco shakes his head.

“You deserve a break,” he says fondly. “And we can figure it out together.”

“I could look for a house in the village,” Harry replies, sounding hopeful and sheepish.

“I have an extra room,” Draco points out, and Harry’s smile is so bright when he nods, but Draco still feels a little foolish when he adds, “and my bedroom’s pretty huge. Big enough for two.”

“Yes,” Harry whispers. “This bed is definitely big enough for two.”

“And the nights get cold in winter,” Draco explains, feeling Harry’s hand nestling on his chest, probably marvelling at the frantic thump thump thump of his heart.

“I bet they do,” Harry murmurs, his lips stretched in the biggest smile Draco’s ever seen. “Wouldn’t want you to get cold, especially if you’re wearing that lacy underwear that has been driving me insane since I saw it.”

“I will need someone to fuck me hard to warm up,” Draco adds and watches in fascination as Harry’s cheeks turn red and his cock starts sliding against his own with renewed energy. “And the Christmas biscuits are to die for,” Draco adds, which makes Harry laugh and pull him closer for a kiss.

“You could have said that straight away.”

“The part about fucking me or the biscuits?” Draco teases, kissing the corner of Harry’s smiling lips.

“Both,” Harry says, then seems to mull things over. “Can I name more cats?”

Draco smiles.

“You can name all the cats that you want, darling. Just remember that the cats don’t belong to us.”

“I’m glad I made a wish when I saw the comet,” Harry concludes, fingers playing with Draco’s hair and eyes finding his again.

“Me, too,” Draco replies softly. “It was the best wish I could have ever made.”