Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic/Raincoast; the title is from "Kiss Me Slowly" by Parachute. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Nothing graphic is shown "on screen," so I didn't use the archive warnings, but it could be triggery for rape and assault.
Additional warnings for gender-bending and for Harry being stupid.
Additional notes: This was written and posted as part of the 2012 HD Holidays fic/art exchange on livejournal. My giftee was Amythystluna, who gave me such a fantastic set of prompts. I'm sorry I wasn't able to use them as plentifully nor in as much detail as I wanted.
Thanks also to my beta readers and to the fest mods for their patience and general awesomeness.
Originally posted for the 2012 hd-holidays fest on livejournal; posted on FF 05 Feb. '13
When the Time Comes
Chapter One
"Are you sure it's safe?" Harry heard Ron ask. He glanced quickly out the door and saw his friend gesturing at the door to the balcony.
Harry hadn't seen Ron or Hermione since he'd moved out of the house they'd shared since the end of the war and into his own flat. It was a bit more modern than he would have preferred, but there was a doorman, which kept wizarding folk from loitering about, and it was within walking distance of St. Mungo's.
"Yes, Ron. It's perfectly safe." Harry was relieved that Hermione sounded amused rather than frustrated. Tonight was going to be difficult enough without his best friends arguing the whole evening.
He picked up the strand of hair Hermione had provided and held it over a goblet filled with treacle-thick, sluggishly bubbling liquid. He stood there for several moments, considering. "Is this really necessary?"
"Harry, we never see you anymore!"
He hadn't thought he'd spoken aloud, but he looked up to see Hermione in the doorway.
"I've been busy. We've all been busy."
"You've been working non-stop." Harry turned to her incredulously, but she waved off his rebuttal. "Yes, I'm aware that sounds hypocritical from me, but you've spent years telling me that work can't be everything. Someone needs to do the same for you, and if it's bad enough that I can see it's a problem..."
"It's not a 'problem.'"
"Harry, you've made excuses for the last three dinners at the Burrow! It's not like you. If you were doing something, seeing someone, it might be different, but…. I know you don't go out, but in the month you've been living here, how many days have you been home before ... ten o'clock?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"Because it's most of them or too few to notice?" He blushed, and she continued. "Exactly. But if you don't want to, we don't have to go." She returned to the lounge without waiting for a reply, not that he bothered to dignify it with one. She'd been badgering him since before his move to join them for a night out, and if he backed out now, he fully expected Ron and Hermione to move in with him, or, more likely, he'd leave work tomorrow to find he'd been moved back into their house. He dropped the hair into the goblet.
The potion turned a sickly shade of yellow and began to smell somewhat like Aunt Marge's favourite perfume, though it tasted like mouldy grapes. The transformation was as painful as ever, and when it was finally over, Harry turned to the mirror.
"Hermione!" He carefully made sure the bathrobe was closed completely as he stepped out of the bathroom. "You are NOT allowed to obtain hair for Polyjuice EVER again." He crossed his arms over his unexpected breasts and glared.
"Oh." Hermione coughed a bit, trying to hold back a laugh. Ron had no such compunction and was doubled over, trying not to fall off the sofa. "It's a very thorough disguise."
He hadn't minded too terribly when Hermione insisted he go out dancing with them – one night would get her off his case for a while at least – but as a woman? "In this get up, I'll be pulling straight blokes and lesbians!" Pretty much all the groups in which he wasn't interested.
"Or possibly someone as open-minded as you are! But you're just doing this to get me off your back, so why does it matter?"
Harry began to protest lack of suitable clothing, but Hermione handed him a shopping bag. He took it from her with a put-upon sigh and headed for the bedroom.
In the bag, he found a skirt, stretchy black trousers, a couple of silky bits of material he would have appreciated as shirts on another body, and underthings. He vetoed the skirt – he thought it would require a type of awareness of his physical self he didn't have – but he wasn't certain the trousers were any better. "These don't fit," he said when he joined Ron and Hermione in the lounge.
"Nonsense!" Hermione replied. "They fit perfectly. You look lovely."
Harry gaped at her. "You're insane."
"I am not! Ron, don't you think—"
Harry raised a hand at Ron. "Don't answer that, Ron. Please." Ron nodded gratefully, and his jaw, slack since Harry had entered the room, snapped closed. Harry turned back to Hermione. "I didn't mean you personally. I meant girls generally. Women. You're all insane. How can you breathe in these?" Realizing a bigger problem, he cut off her attempt to reply. "And how am I supposed to hide a wand in this outfit?" He looked up at Hermione in a panic. "I am NOT going out without a wand."
"Of course not," Hermione assured him. "We all know that would be a bad idea." There was an awkward moment of silence as each of them remembered why but no one spoke of it. They still pitied him, Harry knew, and he despaired of his friends ever accepting that his decision to leave the Aurors – despite the hellish catalyst – had engendered something good, something better. "We can disguise your wand as a wrist watch. You'll be able to get it easily."
He held the wand out to her, and she transfigured it, then set about charming his hair and makeup into something appropriate for the evening.
When she'd finished, she handed him a small purse. "I've put an Extension Charm on it," she said, "so there's room to keep quite a few hours' worth of Polyjuice. I've put the extra hair in there as well, in an envelope."
The purse wasn't the one she'd taken with them when they were on the run, nor was it much heavier than he expected it to be. "I'm not going to knock over a library trying to find it, am I?" he asked regardless.
She smiled. "The Charms aren't nearly so elaborate."
In a moment when neither Ron nor Hermione were watching, Harry slid the miniature portrait of Healer Taeri into the purse, so that, in case of emergency, St. Mungo's would be able to contact him. He did have obligations, even if he could grudgingly concede that Hermione was right about needing to have a life outside of work.
Even if it isn't exactly my own, he thought, considering his reflection. She was pretty, the woman he'd become, with honey-coloured hair, wide brown eyes, and a generous mouth. She's also, Harry realized with some disgruntlement, taller than I am. "So I'm all set. As long as I don't meet someone who knows her. Or the woman herself."
"Not much chance of that, mate."
Harry would have let it go at that – Ron was probably right, after all – if Hermione hadn't hissed "Ron!" so quietly Harry thought he wasn't supposed to have heard.
"Her-mi-o-ne." He drew out each syllable of her name. "Whose body am I wearing?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but it was probably best he did.
She glared at Ron before answering. "Julia's."
'Julia'? Who was – "Your mate from primary, Julia?" Hermione nodded, but Harry continued. "Julia, whose wedding you attended last weekend? Does she know I'm taking her body clubbing on her one week anniversary?"
"Of course not! But she's in South Africa for the next month, and she's not been to London since her family moved to York when we were twelve."
Less confident than she, Harry nevertheless allowed himself to be drawn out of the flat.
The club Hermione had found was dark and loud and crowded.
It would take more than the pint of ale Harry had ordered to get him to agree to dancing, so the three of them found a small table not far from the dance floor. It was too loud for any sort of real conversation, but when they weren't making eyes at each other, they were scoping possible pulls for Harry. It was highly uncomfortable.
Harry finished his drink and gestured with his empty glass toward the bar. Ron nodded, but Hermione began to stand. "I'll go with you. You'll watch my glass, won't you?" Ron nodded, but Harry waved her back.
"I'll be fine, Hermione. And if you're so determined that I meet people, I'm better alone – much less terrifying to approach – something you girls never seem to realize." Remembering the horrible days leading up to the Yule ball, he shared a grin with Ron.
"Be careful, Harry." It was a serious warning, more so than Harry thought a simple trip to the bar warranted, but he responded in kind.
"Of course." He touched the watch. "I'll be careful."
She didn't seem entirely reassured.
Fifteen minutes later, he found out why.
Rather than getting another drink straight away, he'd decided to take a walk around the club. It wasn't large, but it was sufficiently crowded and dark that it was difficult to see much of anything further than a few feet away, and he was curious. Between Voldemort and training – first as an Auror, then as a Healer – he hadn't had much opportunity for this sort of social experience, and in the wizarding world, at least, he'd have been mobbed, photographed, and written about if he'd even tried. What 'normal people' considered a normal evening out was exotic to him, and he wanted to experience it – the good and the bad.
He thought he understood now at least part of the reason why girls travelled in packs and why Hermione had warned him about going off on his own. The club was crowded, certainly, but not so much so to warrant the number of hands 'accidentally' brushing against his – her? Pronouns were confusing but he felt like 'Harry' still, despite being in female form so he decided to keep 'his' – breasts and arse, and that certainly didn't account for the pinching of the latter. It was intrusive and discomfiting, but there were also a number of admiring looks and smiles which, even if they were intended for Julia, were flattering to receive.
But he hadn't expected to be grabbed from behind by a drunken idiot.
The garish lights and deafening noise faded into black and the pounding of his heart. He wanted to thrash, to fight, to pull away, and he felt his magic, a tidal wave rising to answer his call. He knew what that would mean, knew what would happen, knew it had happened before, and he would Not. Let. It. Happen. Again.
He was not going to kill anyone else.
Caught up in the desperate battle being fought inside his head, Harry didn't notice, didn't resist when the stranger turned him around.
As he knew it would, as it always had, the black melted, giving way to sprays of blood and barely recognizable bits of flesh. He focussed on the body he knew to be Ron's though there was nothing recognizable left; on the flat, lifeless gaze that had belonged to the man who had taught him that sex could be joyous; on the charred remnants of the robe that had belonged to his most formidable instructor.
Remember to breathe, Harry. The memory of Healer Pallia's voice was as low and calming as it had been in each of their sessions and just as effective.
He forced himself to take a slow, deep breath, and then a second. Then he made himself to examine the details of the scene, to face and to accept the carnage. It was no less real for being made of mind and memory than the original incident had been for being constructs and Glamours. It had been a simulation exercise that had gone horribly, horribly wrong because when Harry was restrained against his will, his magic tried to free him in an explosion of power. It wasn't an isolated incident, and the more frequently it was tested, the more difficulty Harry had restraining it. That had ended any chance of a career as an Auror. It had been devastating, but it had also obligated him to develop the precision and control that were the key to containing his magic and the cornerstone of his future as a Healer. Remembering it in detail reminded him that he could control it, and what could happen if he failed to do so.
His wand was a tangible reminder that his magic was a tool he could control and a means of directing it. He reached for the familiar length of holly – or tried. The hand wrapped around his wrist wouldn't release him. The wavering of his concentration cost him a measure of control, and his magic broke, a wave rushing to escape the confines of Harry's body that he kept contained by sheer force of will.
Once he had recovered sufficient control of the magic unleashed, his awareness of his physical self and surroundings returned. He was being held, tightly, by a man who resembled Marcus Flint to an unfortunate degree. Nearly twice Harry's size, the man was trying to nuzzle Harry's neck but wasn't managing much beyond smearing slobber and sweat on Harry's exposed skin.
Before he could panic again, Harry brought his free hand to the stranger's chest to push him back. "I'm flattered, thanks, but I'm with someone."
"He can't be that into you if he's gone wandering." The man leered, proud of his logic, and grabbed Harry's other wrist. Harry's magic swelled again.
As the power coursing through his veins swelled again in escalating waves, Harry fought to contain his magic, wondering if women had to deal with this sort of thing often and what the hell he was supposed to do without magic. Julia may have been taller than Harry, but she wasn't much sturdier. Harry hadn't felt so powerless in years, and the threat of Child Protection Services wouldn't prevent this man from leaving visible bruises – or worse.
"I assure you I'm very into her, and I'll thank you to get your hands off my girlfriend."
Gratefully, Harry began to twist so he could see the speaker. It would be worth even the hassle of trying to explain why Julia wasn't on her honeymoon to her…. Oh, Merlin, it was a case of mistaken identity, and the man who'd spoken would apologize in a minute. Harry tried frantically to figure out how to convey that Harry needed him to play along.
His panic was nothing compared to the shock of seeing the idiot turn around to confront his saviour: Draco Malfoy.
The stranger was significantly larger than Draco and trying to use his bulk to intimidate, but whatever Draco had been doing in the years since the war, it hadn't lessened his arrogance in a confrontation. His biting remarks were recognizable as insults even to someone as drunk as Harry's captor. They were also successful in getting the man to release Harry's hands, if only so he could clench them into fists and wave them menacingly in Draco's face.
The situation was building to a fight, and Harry wondered how to stop it without getting the Ministry involved. While it would be better than Harry's magic decimating the building, it would take far longer than the Polyjuice would last.
When he stepped forward to try and calm things down, however, Draco glared and waved him away. Harry would have gotten upset, but between the two of them they'd drawn the drunk's attention back to Harry, and he grabbed again for Harry's arm. He missed, but only because Draco caught Harry first and pulled him out of the other man's reach.
Instinctively, Harry glared and tugged to free his arm. Draco let it go easily.
"She doesn't look that into you."
"I'm very into him." Harry wound an arm around Draco – not something he'd ever thought he'd do. Or like. Draco was tense, as expected under the circumstances, sinewy and firm. Unfortunately, the show of unity didn't make the drunk back off, it just made him more aggressive.
Before punches were thrown, before either wizard got so frustrated he drew his wand, two men pushed their way through the gathering crowd. They were obviously friends of the man who'd taken a fancy to Harry and far less drunk. Apologizing profusely for their friend's behaviour, they led him away, despite his protests.
Leaving Harry alone with Draco. Around whom he was still wrapped.
Harry pulled back and ignored the regret he felt at having to do so.
"Thank you."
"You're very welcome." Draco smiled. It was soft and genuine, Harry thought, and sexy as hell a little creepy. "Are you all right?" He touched Harry's wrist lightly. Unfamiliar muscles clenched, and Harry pulled his wrist back reflexively.
Draco's expression closed slightly. "Should we find that boyfriend of yours?"
He needed to get the slobber off his neck and to take a second dose of Polyjuice. He also needed to know what Draco Malfoy was doing in a Muggle club. His former rival had kept a very low profile since the war had ended – grateful, no doubt, that he'd gotten off as lightly as he had in the trial. "There's no boyfriend, actually." He considered mentioning he'd come with friends, but that might lead to Draco Malfoy insisting on taking Harry to them. He smiled instead. "And I owe you a drink at the very least."
Draco's expression warmed again, but it was tempered with concern. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, gesturing to the arm Harry hadn't realized he was still cradling to his chest.
Harry shook it out and wiggled his fingers. "It's fine. I just need a minute to freshen up, I think, and I'll be right as rain."
Draco walked her to the nearest ladies'. "I'll wait here."
Deciding the Polyjuice was the more pressing concern, Harry queued for a stall. Once inside, Harry opened the purse.
"It's about time!" Healer Taeri hissed. In truth, he was yelling, but it was a loud room and a very small portrait. "I've been trying to reach you for twenty minutes."
Heading for the door, he collided with a woman; he apologized and tried to continue but was stopped by a hand on his arm. He looked up into Hermione's exasperated face.
"I've got to go to the hospital," he said.
"Harry!" Her exasperation was obvious, and he cut her off before she could reproach him, explaining. "It's Padma."
Hermione tightened her hand, then released him, nodding. "Go. Give her my best."
He nodded.
He had no idea what he was going to say to Draco, but the point was made moot when he discovered Draco wasn't waiting for him in the appointed place. Harry was insulted on Julia's behalf, but grateful on his own, since he didn't know what sort of excuse he could have given for leaving.
