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 12 Feb. '13

When the Time Comes

Chapter Three

Harry's brief visit to Diagon Alley fuelled a four-page spread in Witch Weekly and three separate stories (Harry refused to call them articles) in The Daily Prophet. He retreated into work and sleep, and – assisted by a flurry of pre-term physicals for the students preparing for Hogwarts – he nearly forgot why he'd gone in the first place. He surfaced on Saturday to visit Andromeda and Teddy. No matter how busy things got, he made certain he saw Teddy at least once per fortnight. He had faith in Andromeda, of course, but he wanted to make sure Teddy knew he had someone in whom he could confide if he wished and that Teddy would feel comfortable enough with Harry to take him up on the offer if it were necessary.

Having visited them and George and having missed dinner – again – the previous week, Harry knew he had to be at the Weasleys' on Sunday. It wasn't that he didn't love them – hell, it wasn't even that he thought he wouldn't enjoy it. It was just so awkward, the way conversations about the Ministry and especially the Auror division stopped when people thought he was paying attention, as though the subject would hurt him. The careful way they spoke when they asked about his work at the hospital wasn't much better. What he forgot – or rather gave less weight to – when he was away for too long was the love.

"Harry! Come here!" Molly hugged him. "We've missed you." More guilt wrapped around his heart as tightly as her arms enveloped him.

George, Ron, and Hermione were already there, as was Percy, but neither his children nor Bill's were present – a disappointment to Harry, since they were useful as a buffer. Ginny was on tour with the Harpies, however, and her upcoming match against the Chudley Cannons proved to be the recurring joke that got them through the uncomfortable moments.

Once the meal was over and the family began to disperse, George pulled him aside and handed him a vial. It was slightly larger than the ones they used in Potions class and filled with a thin, shimmering liquid. "One sip will do – definitely don't take more than a mouthful. When you want to switch back, place your wand on your throat and say 'vera forma.'" He grinned. "It wouldn't do to have the prank spoiled if you got called to the hospital early."

Harry stared in disbelief at the vial he'd been given before he looked back to George. "I hadn't expected anything to be ready for ages yet."

"He – We were focussing on projects that could be useful in the war, that last year, and it had potential as a disguise. Fred nearly had it done; the trickiest bit left was incorporating the cancellation spell."

"Thank you."

"Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes wouldn't have existed without you; I'm glad to be able to help." Harry started to demur, but George brushed aside his protestations. "Let me know how it goes. It has product potential, when you're done with it."

Harry was confused. "Why wouldn't you...?"

"Once I put this on the shelves, once people know about it, it's a possibility. People could suspect. Get what you need from it, and after, we'll see."

"Thank you," Harry said again.

It took another week before Harry could bring himself to try it.

Harry tilted the vial slowly, watching as the light caught and refracted. He couldn't have said what, exactly, was keeping him from trying it, any more than he understood what made him ask for it in the first place.

He removed the stopper and took a cautious sniff. It was far less pungent than standard Polyjuice, though not particularly pleasant. It smelled like creamed honey, he decided finally and tasted like cotton. The change was nearly instantaneous and more than a little disconcerting. Instead of putting him in a woman's body, George's potion seemed to transform his own features into something more traditionally feminine. As a result, he looked enough like 'Harry' that it didn't feel strange to look in the mirror, the way it had when he was Polyjuiced as Julia. But it's just different enough, Harry thought, that people wouldn't expect it to be me – I don't look like Harry done up as a girl. But if I'd had one, my sister might have looked like this.

His height and frame were the same; despite this, nothing Harry owned seemed to fit properly, and after years of Dudley's cast offs, Harry was fussy about things fitting. He decided that clothes shopping seemed like a safe first activity; it was a straightforward interaction with straightforward social cues. He was partially right: no one even looked at him twice – not people on the street nor attendants in the shops – but it was more complicated than he'd expected. He hadn't paid attention to how much more variety there was in women's clothing than in men's. As a woman, it was much easier to present an entirely different image of one's self particularly when hair and makeup were taken into consideration. His own unruly mop was generic enough that it didn't look out of place on his female form, but changing it would help divert suspicion.

When he had a break at work, he took advantage of the opportunity to investigate options. Bypassing the most obvious option, the magazines in the hospital lounge, Harry searched through clinical reference books until he found charms for makeup and hair.

He went back to the club twice in the following weeks. He felt sixteen again, stalking Draco Malfoy, but he couldn't ignore his misgivings about what he and Greg Goyle had been doing there. Greg had to be more intelligent than he'd appeared in school – the fact that Padma Patil had married him would be proof enough of that, even if Harry hadn't had his own conversations with the man to rely on – but Draco had always been the leader, and he was the one who had disappeared almost entirely from the wizarding world since the war.

The mystery wasn't as engaging as he'd expected it to be – proof that his career change had been a good idea or possibly just that it was less fun trying to solve it without Ron and Hermione. He certainly wasn't going to ask Hermione and Ron to join him, however: that would require confessing. Despite Hermione's goading him into it the first time, he was certain she wouldn't approve.

Eventually, he had to admit to himself that as much as he wanted to know what Malfoy was up to, he wanted to continue because he enjoyed the disguise – the freedom that came with not having to watch every person, every shadow, looking for hidden reporters or cameras.

The loud club wasn't really conducive to the sort of socializing he was preferred, however, and fearing a repeat of the incident with the drunk made it that much less comfortable, especially alone. He didn't see Draco again – which made it even less likely he'd rescue Harry twice – so there wasn't much point in continuing to go.

When the victims of the Knockturn Alley explosion began arriving at St. Mungo's in the early hours of Thursday morning, Harry knew there was no chance he'd be finishing his shift on time, and he was right. Four hours after he had been scheduled to leave, Jenouise handed him the next patient file with a sympathetic smile. "This will likely be your last, but it's a complicated one: an Auror with several broken bones, splattered with Swelling Solution. He's in examination room three." Harry knew it wouldn't be Ron – their friendship was too well known for that, especially when there were multiple Healers on duty, but he was worried now that Ron's name might be in one of the folders given to one of his colleagues: using Swelling Solution – the cure to which interfered with Skele-Gro – was a favourite weapon of a band of thugs Ron had been chasing recently. Distracted by his thoughts, Harry entered examination room three without reading the file Jenouise had given him. That was a mistake.

He saw Ron and Kingsley, both standing by the bed sporting what appear to be self-bandaged, minor injuries. That was a blessing, but before he could fully absorb his relief that his friend was all right, he realized who his patient was likely to be. "Elliot."

Elliot Carsey, Ron's recently assigned Auror partner and Harry's former lover, didn't say a word. That could have been because he was in a great deal of pain, of course, but it wasn't likely: he hadn't said a word to Harry since he'd accepted that Harry's decision to quit Auror training had been final.

"Harry." It was Ron who spoke, when the silence had stretched a bit too long, but Harry had already moved to begin his examination.

Three hours later, Harry was finally able to return the file to Jenouise and leave.

Elliot hadn't spoken a comprehensible word the entire time, grunting inarticulately when Harry made it clear a response was necessary, and any questions about Elliot's treatment had come from Kingsley. Unfortunately, the older man had sponsored Harry's application to the Auror program and had taken his departure personally. He addressed his words to the wall near Harry's head, making him feel invisible in a way he hadn't since he left the Dursleys'. Ron had stood by awkwardly, obviously torn between the loyalty he owed to his best friend and to partner and boss. Harry had understood, had even sympathized, but it hadn't made things easier.

By the time he'd returned to his flat, Harry was exhausted, but he was also too keyed up to sleep and desperate for simple social interaction. Under normal circumstances, he would have dropped in on Ron and Hermione; today, Harry swallowed George's potion, dressed, and left the flat before he'd consciously decided to do so.

He remembered seeing a pub when he'd been exploring the neighbourhood, a week or so after he'd moved in. It wasn't on the route between his flat and St. Mungo's or King's Cross, but it wasn't far away, and it looked congenial.

It was open, though not terribly crowded – not unexpected as it was early yet for dinner. There was a piano he hadn't noticed when he'd looked through the window and a corner with comfortable seating and selves of board games.

Harry made his way to the bar, which was tended by an older man with grey hair and twinkling blue eyes. Harry's heart clenched – he still missed Dumbledore – but he smiled warmly and placed his order.

"Haven't seen you here before," he said matter-of-factly as he handed Harry his drink. Harry had no doubt that the man remembered every face that came through.

"I've moved into a flat just around the corner," Harry confided. If he wanted to meet people, he was going to have to get used to being more trusting than he could be as himself. "I was in the mood for a bit of company, and this place looked friendly."

"Do you not have plans for dinner then?" he spoke with exaggerated shock.

Harry shook his head, grinning.

The bartender shook his as well, but mournfully, though his attempt at gravity was belied by the twinkle of his eyes. "That's a shame, lovely girl like you." He patted the end of the bar. "Have a seat then. I don't mind telling you the food's simple but good and hearty." He winked and continued sotto voce, "And I'd say that even if it weren't my Ellie in the kitchen."

He placed a menu on the bar in front of Harry. "Give that a go over, and I'll be back to take your order after I've seen to Clyde." He nodded toward the man who'd just perched on the stool at the other end of the bar.

When the bartender returned to take Harry's order, he introduced himself as Pete, and Harry panicked for a moment. He hadn't decided on a name, though it was clear 'Harry' wouldn't be suitable. He'd been fingering the wand sheathed under his sleeve, and said the first thing that came to mind.

"Holly."

"Pleased to meet you, Holly. You've picked a good night to stop in. Mal will be in to play in a bit, and there's quiz night starts at eight." He started talking as he began washing glasses at the sink near Harry. He spoke about the pub he co-owned, about his wife, Eleanor, who worked in the kitchen, about some of the more colourful characters who patronized the pub. Harry's food arrived, and he was so focussed on not choking with laughter at Pete's commentary that he was nearly finished before he noticed the music from the piano. Whoever was playing was good – choosing pieces that added to the congenial atmosphere of the place without overpowering it. Harry probably wouldn't have thought more of it than that if the next song hadn't been so very disconcerting.

"Something wrong?" Pete asked when he noticed Harry's brow furrowed in concentration.

Harry shook his head. "Sorry. No, it's the song."

He grinned. "Don't even try to place it. He claims they're not original, but nobody's ever heard them before."

Harry had, though. On the wireless at the Burrow. Unless he was very much mistaken, the pianist was playing Celestina Warbeck's "You Stole My Cauldron but You Can't Have my Heart."

Harry excused himself, asked for the loo, hoping it would take him past the piano so he would get a decent look at the person playing. Depending on who it was, he might need to find a new retreat.

Pete pointed the way, then asked him to take a drink to Mal on the way.

Even better, Harry thought.

He reached out to put the drink on the coaster on the piano, and found himself unexpectedly looking once again into the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.

He nearly spilled the drink.

Draco caught it. "Thanks," he said with a flirtatious smile, "But, while I don't mind people falling at my feet in principle, I was hoping to drink it, not wear it." He winked, "And Pete's awfully touchy about his piano."

Two separate sightings of Draco Malfoy in two separate Muggle locations? Harry's intuition was screaming, and while he knew that wouldn't be enough for the Aurors to investigate, he thought he might have a way to do it himself. He smiled back. "But you'd protect me, wouldn't you?"

Pete was trying to coax Harry into ordering from the dessert menu when Draco finished playing and sat at the bar next to him.

"The usual for you, Mal?"

Draco nodded. "Please. And her name if you have it." He tilted his head toward Harry, in case he hadn't known whom he'd meant, and grinned.

Pete chuckled as he raised the hinged area of the bar – Draco's usual must include food – "If you can't manage that yourself, lad, you're not the man I took you for."

"I'm Mal."

Harry wished he'd chosen something less like his own name. "Holly."

Draco blinked but didn't denounce him as a wizard in disguise.

"You play well."

"Thank you, though that's more my mother's doing than mine." He looked as though he was going to continue speaking, but he was approached by one of the other patrons – an older woman who was obviously a regular – and drawn into a conversation. He tried to indicate that Harry would be welcome to join in the conversation, but Harry's lack of sleep had caught up with him. For that matter, he was too exhausted to be confident he wouldn't give his suspicions or his identity away. He knew where to find Draco now and could return when he was better able to process information.

When Harry stood, Draco turned from his conversation. "You're not staying for the pub quiz?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm knackered, and it's not really my sort of thing." He had too little in the way of education or experience in either the Muggle or wizarding world to be any good at that sort of thing.

"I'd like to see you again."

Harry hesitated. Despite his desire to know what was going on, he had a bad, bad feeling about this, one that may have resembled, just slightly, guilt. It had been years since the war, and there'd been no hint that Draco had been involved in anything nefarious. It would be wrong of Harry to say anything but no. Wrong and completely reckless.

"I'd love to."

Draco smiled, and Harry's insides squirmed again, though not unpleasantly this time.

"Saturday? I have a commitment in the morning, but perhaps at two? We could meet at the coffee shop across the street? I'm assuming that's convenient for you; if you're not from this area, anywhere you're comfortable."

Harry had assumed Draco had meant dinner, and it was a surprise – not an unpleasant one – to discover otherwise.

"That would be perfect."