Disclaimer:
I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.
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Warning:
This oneshot is extremely explicit. More details at the end.
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The past year had been good.
Has it even been a year? Harry glanced round the café, blankly. No—not even. Only ten months.
It had, in fact, only been ten months since Harry had found himself thrown into the future.
He shook himself out of a random, bitter shade of melancholy, dragging mind and eye back to the present—to the Dubai Mall, to the clatter of cutlery and espresso machines, to the absurd bustle of so many ordinary people drifting in climate-controlled air. That's when he caught himself: staring, inadvertently, at a girl seated a few tables down. The Dubai Mall was enormous, always bustling; he hadn't meant to gawk.
Before he'd quite realised, she sent him a small, crooked smile.
A year ago, he might have blushed, looked away, felt the hot shame of being caught. But the Harry in this chair was something different now: thinner at the edges, tired by loss, but sharper, almost reckless. Without missing a beat, he gave her a lazy, lopsided smirk and a wink—then, affecting total nonchalance, turned back to his newspaper. The magical kind, naturally.
His own face stared back at him from the front page—older, lined, hair with a streak of grey at the temple. Weird.
It seemed, when Harry had been flung into the future at the Ministry, something—a copy, perhaps even a sort of clone—had been left behind. He didn't really know, didn't much care. He felt much the same as always, or at least he told himself as much.
He skimmed the headlines. Drab, really. Nothing exciting, which was just as well. The wizarding world, in his opinion, had had enough excitement for a few decades.
Apparently, it had been twenty years since the war ended. All the things Harry had cared about in his fifth year were long gone, tidied away, forgotten.
His older self was the Minister for Magic—astonishing, really. Harry couldn't make heads or tails of it. He'd never fancied anything so ambitious. And married, apparently—to Ginny, with three kids thrown in.
Considering how things with Cho had ended, Harry couldn't fathom how his past self had wound up married to Ginny—but he'd figure it out in time. Eventually. Time is all he had these days.
Ron and Hermione were doing well, too; married as well, looking blissfully family'd up in a photograph he'd seen, possibly posed, but real enough for the world outside his own.
Harry was happy for them—even for that alternate, older self. They all seemed settled, surrounded by family, life trundling along without him.
And that was exactly why Harry hadn't bothered to contact any of them—not since the day he'd woken, face-planted on some cold English beach. He didn't even know what he was, really. Was he still Harry Potter? Or some other version—something different, loosed from Voldemort and past? He didn't know. Not yet.
He sighed and closed the paper. He wasn't even sure why he still followed wizarding news. Habit, he supposed, and it felt better than doing nothing. Or rather—when he wasn't working.
He tossed the paper aside, took a long swig from his mug, and found his eyes straying back to the girl. She was a bit flushed now, but that returning smile made it clear she wasn't at all shy.
Harry smirked. Perhaps he wouldn't have to wallow alone in his thoughts today.
In one quick movement, he gathered his paper and mug and stood. Quidditch had made everything physical easy—when the air was his playground, land felt like child's play.
To his delight, she had the decency to look startled. She'd probably only meant to dabble in the art of flirtation, but Harry felt as wild as a stag—nothing holding him back.
"Was it the paper, the coffee, or me that caught your eye?" he said, stopping by her table.
"W-what?!" she blurted, her friends breaking off their conversation to size him up.
"You know this guy?" asked a bloke in some other language, but Harry caught the gist—he didn't need a translation for suspicion.
Before the girl could answer, Harry replied, "Well, it was your eyes for me—so very catlike," with a quick gesture toward his own.
"I don't know what you mean—"
She never finished her sentence. He didn't let her. Harry, for once, felt no interest in explanation or pleasantry. He wanted heat, friction, noise—something immediate, anonymous, real. Something that didn't care for his surname or his story. Just now.
He stepped in. Two heartbeats and the gap between them was gone. Her friends—skeptical, a little sharp, but blurring to the edges—watched, sensing the current in the air; one gave a warning grunt, but she didn't flinch. Her gaze flicked from his face to his mouth.
"Go on, then," she said—defiant, shaky, lips twitching as if inviting him to dare her.
He watched her breathe: shallow, quick, chest rising under the rim of a tight white blouse, skin flushed above the collar. If he hesitated—even a moment—she might laugh it off, slip away, return to her bright, ordinary life. Harry leaned closer, letting her see the hunger in his eyes.
He reached out, and she caught his wrist, bracing herself, perhaps to push him off—but she didn't move away. Her fingers brushed his pulse, searching. He didn't smile, didn't explain; he just let her look.
And then, maybe both of them, maybe only him, they crashed together—mouths messy, urgent. Cutlery scraped, a burst of laughter spattered behind them. Her tongue met his, her hands locking fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer, harder. He felt her exhale into his mouth, fierce—a gasp of shock turned to challenge.
Her friends barked a protest—someone cried, "Oi!"—but she only laughed into his lips, wild and breathless. For that second, neither of them could have been stopped. Harry palmed her jaw, thumb stroking the hollow below her ear, then slid his hand into her hair. Her breath hitched, grind of her hips meeting his, pressed right against the table's edge.
She broke the kiss, eyes wide and glassy, breathless as if finished with a run. A small huff of a laugh escaped, disbelief and delight tangled together.
"Bold, aren't you?" she panted, no accusation in it, only hunger. She pulled him closer, knuckles white at his collar.
He grinned, off-balance and dizzy. "You started it."
She arched a brow, defiance and invitation. The mall chilled around their heat; friends pretended boredom, but didn't look away. She didn't either.
Then, just like that, she dragged him down for another kiss—slower now, but hungrier. She tasted of cinnamon and sharp, expensive lipstick. Her leg curled around his calf—not enough to tip him, but promising, daring. Harry's limbs went hot, loose and charged.
His hand, broad and rough, skimmed her side, thumb drawing circles over a strip of exposed skin where her blouse had ridden up. She pressed into his hand, daring him further, gasping. Someone coughed; she barked something sharp at her friends, a torrent of syllables Harry barely registered. For now, words were irrelevant. Only the silent language of touch—her nails in his shoulder, his hand firm at the small of her back, the tension pulling their bodies closer.
It was idiotic, risky, right in front of the world, but nothing else mattered. She tugged his mouth to her neck, and he obliged, leaving a messy trail of open-mouthed kisses along her throat, tasting salt and fragrance and skin. Her grip on his wrist tightened, guiding his fingers into her hair, demanding more. They breathed together, two animals unhurried only because the risk added oxygen to the fire.
She turned, lips against his ear: "Come with me," she whispered, needy, command and plea together.
He didn't hesitate. Her hand found his, knuckles interlaced, and they slipped out from the circle of friends—past scattered tables, round a pillar, threading through the crowd with measured impatience. Harry followed, trainers squeaking a little on the polished tile, heart launching in his chest.
She led him through a narrow, shadowed service alcove—just out of sight, light buzzing overhead, far from the drone of afternoon crowds. A battered steel door loomed. She pressed her back to it, breath sharp, eyes shining.
"Now," she said, simple and entirely certain.
She smashed her mouth to his, teeth clashing, hands working at his buttons, chest pressed flat against him. He caught her hips, squeezed, kneading bone and muscle beneath cotton as she writhed against his thigh, rolling and grinding herself, searching for something fierce and hard.
He pressed her arms above her head, holding her wrists, pinning her. Her bracelets clinked and she shuddered, mouth hot and needy on his. She broke a hand free, dragged her nails down his arm, raking skin; the other snaked under his shirt, spreading warmth over his stomach and up—making every muscle stand sharp in relief.
She bit his jaw, tongue dragging over his pulse. Harry shuddered, a low groan escaping as he lost himself in the sensation—raw, as if something half-starved had finally been fed.
She clung to him, hips grinding. He undid her skirt in a rush, hands fumbling and desperate, tracing the bare line of her thigh. She spread her legs, bracing herself with a boot against the wall. He cupped her through the thin cotton of her knickers, and she keened, biting her lip, hips pushing back hard enough to leave bruises. Her hands dropped to his fly, popping the button, working him free. Their breaths pooled, humid and urgent.
He looked to her, a single question in his eyes. She arched in answer, dragging him close.
He pressed inside her, awkward and hot, her hands clawing at his neck as she guided him. The first stroke was blinding, sharp enough to make both gasp. Hips found a rhythm—nothing sweet, nothing measured; just hunger, wild and ragged. Her leg braced high, back slamming into the door; Harry gripped her thigh, thrusting deeper, their bodies colliding as if to burn away the world.
She muffled a cry at his shoulder, nails scoring fire down his back. Her body tightened, tension spiralling, sweat and perfume mingling in the air. Harry's mind dissolved, the edges of the world rippling and coming apart as he came, groaning into her hair.
They sagged together, breathing ragged, hearts pounding in time. He tucked himself back in, lips brushing her forehead, and she giggled, punch-drunk, head thrown back against the door. Her lipstick was ruined, eyes wild, skin shining.
But she wasn't finished.
As the adrenaline faded, she caught his hand, pressed it to her thigh. No words—only a daring look, a wicked curl at the edge of her mouth.
He leaned down, gentler now, something kept back for savour. Kissed her hard, tongue slow, hands smoothing the mess of her hair. Her touch went feather-light, sliding beneath the band of his jeans, stroking him back to life with maddening patience.
It didn't take long. Her hand stroked him, grounding him, stoking him as she teased her own damp, sensitive skin with his fingers, letting the urgent need ramp again. She rolled the condom down—a flash of deft, practical movement—then drew him back, capturing him again.
This round moved slow—savouring. He cupped her arse, pulling her close, pressing in with long, measured strokes. Her mouth found his, tongue seeking, lips bruised as she bit at his lower lip, matching him sigh for sigh. He reached between them, thumb brushing over her, drawing sharp gasps. His other hand tangled in her hair, tugging her head back so he could kiss her throat.
She built to climax in a slow, relentless arc, her moans low and dangerous as she locked her arms behind his neck, lifting her hips to meet every thrust. When she broke, it was with a shudder, face pressed into his shoulder, every muscle tensed—he followed, body jerking tight, trembling as he emptied himself into her, barely stifling the sound that wanted to rip from his chest.
This time, as their bodies came down, she melted into him. Her arm slid around his waist. For a moment they were just two bodies, hearts calming, skin sticky with sweat, laughter bubbling up.
She caught his mouth for one last kiss—slow and soft and searching. When she broke away, she traced his lips with her thumb, searching his face with quiet awe. Her bravado had slipped; her voice was hushed now, unsure.
"You're not from around here, are you?" she asked, thumb lingering on his cheek.
He smiled, hair falling over his eyes, not quite sad but not quite hopeful either. "Not exactly."
She hesitated, the crowd and the noise of the world hovering right outside this small bubble of steel and heat. "Maybe I'll see you again."
Harry drank her in—wild hair, eyes gone soft, skin flushed with triumph and wonder. Something tugged at him, a plea for meaning, for the illusion of tomorrow.
He stepped in one last time, cupped her jaw with both hands, and kissed her deep—slow, with all the wild gratitude and sorrow he had left. He kissed her like an answer, for all the words he'd never say.
He broke away, lips brushing her cheek as he breathed out, tender but final: "No."
He let her go, gently, smoothing her hair back. With a last soft stroke down her arm, he stepped out of the alcove, melting into the wider, thrumming corridor, and then to the endless river of the crowd. He didn't look back.
For one shining, giddy heartbeat, Harry felt himself—only himself. Not Potter, not The Boy Who Lived, not a stranger in his own skin. Just hunger and breath and the echo of memory: the taste of sweat, laughter, and a stranger's wild, open eyes.
And in that, for a moment, nothing mattered.
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Author's Note:
That was unnaturally awkward. Truly, smut writers are a species unto themselves.
I wrote this scene as practice for a new story I'm developing, which features quite a few intimate moments. While my current ongoing fic—Minor Paradoxes & Major Inconveniences—also includes explicit content, it's nowhere near this level of detail.
Well, if you managed to read it all the way through and didn't want to fling yourself into the nearest well, let me know what worked and what didn't. I'm genuinely curious.
As always, thank you!
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You can find a free illustration for the chapter over at my Patreon!
patreon.com/MoonyNightShade