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Draco [Astronomy]

• A large northern constellation (the Dragon), stretching around the north celestial pole and said to represent the dragon killed by Hercules. It has no bright stars. 

It was unfortunate, really, that by his namesake, Draco was born to be dim. 

It was especially unfortunate, because Malfoys were meant to be many things. 

Powerful. 

Affluent. 

Pure.

That changed after the war. 

Now?

Death Eaters. 

Marked. 

Alone. 

And just as his constellation, Draco did not have much light left in him. 

When he made the decision to return to Hogwarts for his 8th year, it wasn’t because he felt he needed the education. He didn’t need the magical theory or spellwork practice—he had plenty of that now. It wasn’t because he missed his dorm room—he knew it would be too empty. It wasn’t even because he wanted to see his friends—he didn’t really have any of those. Not really .

No, he didn’t need any of that. 

But he did need it . 

The being there. The routine. The getting out of that house that once oozed riches but now breathed darkness, the house that was now tainted, with rotting holes in walls and creaky floors and wilted ceilings. He still wasn’t sure if he was imagining those weaknesses in what once felt like home, but everywhere he looked, he was there. And though he knew the doors were unlocked, and the windows were open most of the summer, he felt very much like a caged bird, with an open door. And nowhere to fly to.

When he received his letter inviting him back, he jumped on it, instantly. Before arriving on the train, he kissed his tall, straight-backed mother goodbye, and hopped on the train he’d been in hundreds of times, before finding an empty seat. 

He rode alone the whole way. 

He didn’t care. Not really. All he felt was a sense of relief that he was out of the place that held stories in every corner. That he was finally walking away from the things he’d done and the things he’d seen under that roof. His home that had turned ravenous, that grew teeth in its foundation and eyes in the paint, putting him in its rotten mouth. Not chewing, but marinating. Waiting. As if he would at some point become tender enough to fork off the bone. 

At first, he found comfort in knowing he was the only Slytherin who came back. At first, he was able to ignore the stares from those around him. At first, he didn’t even care that he would be sharing a special dorm with all the 8th years that came back. And at first, he certainly was relieved that Harry Potter and his little hero friends no longer gave him even a second glance. 

He wasn’t expecting to find ghosts in the castle, though. 

Not human ones. Luckily, no human soul from the war floated along with the rest of them. He doubted the Bloody Baron would allow anyone else to encroach on his space—he’d complained about the others already there too many times for any other option. But Draco found himself wondering, almost daily, if real ghosts would have been better than whatever was haunting the already-fixed halls and dorms and classrooms. It wasn’t spirits or souls or whatever people wanted to call them—it was grief. And sadness. Found in the eyes of almost every student, whether they’d been present for the final battle or trapped at home. Draco, somehow, felt he landed perfectly in the middle of that. Or maybe it wasn’t that he landed in the middle, but that he was perfectly split in half, firmly planted on both sides. And he understood that both sides were equally as painful, in different ways. 

The terrible thing about war was that it touched everyone. 

For the first month of being back, Draco kept his head down and focused on why he came. To get away . But by October, he couldn’t rely on homework assignments and watching quidditch practices from the window to be happy. Well, not happy , exactly. He hadn’t been that in a long, long time. But he needed something else to help him stay in control.

He started visiting the places that haunted him. Or rather, the places where he’d been the ghost. 

It started with the Astronomy Tower. It was the same as it always had been, with bobbles and maps of all kinds, a globe that didn’t show Earth but lit everything outside of it—where students could touch and its constellation would brighten the room itself. He observed his own star—dimmer than the rest—before continuing with what he planned to do. 

Clean. 

He didn’t use a wand. Didn’t feel like magic was brutal enough. Felt that if he used it, he was once again taking the easy way out. He scrubbed with rags and bleach water, the way Severus used to force during detentions. Only when his hands were rough, bleeding, raw, did he feel like he was finally doing enough. He went there daily for over a week, catching every nook and cranny, before it was almost all clean. 

And then, there was only one spot left. The place where Albus Dumbledore, the old fool, had fallen off of. When Draco had failed—thankfully, failed—to kill him. 

He walked over. Bleeding knuckles holding a half-filled bucket. And stared over the railing. 

It was a long fall. 

Albus Dumbledore had taken less than four seconds to hit the ground. It was quick. Much quicker than he’d expected from such a height. Draco wondered if it felt quick for Dumbledore. 

For a brief moment, Draco wondered if it would feel quick for him. 

The thought was so bizarre, that he dropped the bucket, and spilled bleach water all over the bottom of his robes. With a wand, he cleaned it all up, and left the Astronomy Tower, telling himself he wouldn’t return. 

Yet, the tower lingered in the back of his mind like a shadow under a candlelight. Flickering. Unsettling. There . 

He turned his attention to the potion’s dungeon, heading down at night when there were no classes, unafraid of being caught. He never was. Years of taunts he used to send people’s ways stained the walls. He did his best to scrub them off. When that was done, he cleaned Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, ignoring her whining and flirtations as he scrubbed. Ignoring the memory of getting scars he knew he probably deserved but hated Potter for nonetheless. A reminder that no one’s hands were clean. Not even the Savior of the Wizarding World, two-times champion. And when that was done, he moved to The Great Hall. Then the Quidditch pitch. The door of Umbridge’s old office. Every place he could think of where he’d hurt someone, he cleaned. Almost as if its symbol was magic enough to cleanse the memories.

It didn’t work. And soon, the flickering linger of the tower stopped lounging lazily in the back of his mind and started being interesting. 

And everything that Draco—a dim cluster of stars thousands of miles away from each other—had ever found interesting, always ended in either disappointment, destruction, or death. 

He had a feeling only the latter would apply here. 

He could handle that. 

Before he could go, there was one last place he needed to clean. 

The room of hidden things. 

He wasn’t sure if the room was still there after the destruction through fiendfyre, but he had to try—and was surprised to find a door appear when he walked past the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy three times, asking repeatedly: I need the place where I can repair it all. 

The room was exactly what he expected. A floor with a gigantic scorch mark, objects half broken, scattered through the room, glass, unidentifiable things and identifiable mysteries. A few shelves were left standing, where dust and ash gathered in between the cracks and even on the bumps of the walls. A room of forgotten destruction. A room of forgotten things. 

It was weird seeing this leftover wreckage. The rest of the castle had been carefully repaired over the summer, but he shouldn’t be surprised. Draco often broke things that couldn’t be fixed. Even as a little kid, if he made a mistake, shattered a glass, or ripped an object, he would never clean it—he would hide it, even from the house elves, refusing to get caught… only for the remnants to be found years later. Reminders that he broke things littered his home, scattered in the hearts and brains of people he knew, and now sat, empty, in the castle of Hogwarts. A part of him almost found it funny. 

A bigger part of  him understood its cruel truth. Almost as if this part in Hogwarts, the last part that needed to be fixed, was proof that he needed to go. Otherwise, he’d continue ruining everything he touched. 

But for now, he needed to clean. And as he started picking up trash and broken glasses, maybe what he needed to do was remember this place. He doubted anyone else ever would. He wondered how long the golden horn had sat there. Who last held that bowl? Who last wore the chainmail that hung half-hazardly over the corner? 

Maybe, what Draco was meant to do before he could go, was acknowledge them. To pick up each object and see it for what it was. To ensure that everything that had been forgotten would be cherished, just for a moment. One last time.

For over a month, he returned every night. Worked endlessly on piling trash and trying to get rid of the scorch marks. It was the only part he used magic on. He supposed that was futile, though—fiendfyre wasn’t gentle. Certainly wasn’t begging to leave the concrete. It, more than anything else in the room, refused to be forgotten. And eventually, he gave up on the marks and turned to wiping down the shelves that were left.

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when Potter started trailing him, hiding under his little invisibility cloak. 

The cloak that did not cover the sounds of his footsteps or annoyingly heavy breathing. And Draco refused to let Potter follow him beyond the 7th floor, not into the room, barely opening the door enough to fit his body and squeeze himself through. The last time they were in that room together, it was explosive, as the two of them together always were. Potter patiently waited for him on the outside for the hours he spent in the room at night. As if expecting him to slip up and be caught breaking down, or doing something wrong. 

Draco was tempted, on some nights, to randomly accio Potter’s shoe, or start singing Christmas jingles to surprise him into laughter and be caught. Then, maybe he could fight him. That would be a normal he could return to. But Draco didn’t want to fight anymore. Anyone. He was tired of hurting them, even if they deserved it. And Merlin knew Potter probably still deserved some of it. 

Still, he ignored Potter. But he couldn’t deny the strange hurt that was somewhere low in his gut that Potter still thought Draco was bad. 

Even now, even after the war , even after vouching for Draco in court. Even after their awkward nod at the beginning of the year. And surprisingly quiet classes with the 7th years. And the fact Draco didn’t even look at anyone else, knowing any wrong move would make everyone turn on him. 

Even after all of that, Potter still didn’t trust him. 

It shouldn’t surprise him. Not really. 

But it hurt. 

And it reminded him that he would never belong. 

And then, one terrible, annoying, frustrating night, Potter somehow managed to slip into the Room of Hidden Things. Draco’s shoe got stuck for a brief moment on the floor with the door open, and as he tried removing it, he heard Potter slip past. Draco debated on closing the door and just leaving, but he supposed there was no real reason for him to do so. He wasn’t hiding anything. So once his foot became suspiciously unstuck a few seconds later, he entered the room. 

But now that he was in there, he wasn’t sure he really wanted Potter to watch him clean like a common house elf or Muggle, rag and bucket in hand. Or to watch him try and get rid of the leftover dark magic the fiendfyre left behind. 

So instead, he closed his eyes, and asked the room: Give me something to upset Potter. Give me something to upset Potter. Give me something to upset Potter .

When he opened his eyes, the room was almost the same—except the black candles that were now on the shelf closest to him. He snorted at the ridiculousness of it, and then realized Potter was watching him laugh at black candles, which made him laugh harder. And then, he grabbed the black candles, set them up on the ground in a septagon, and laughed again, knowing Potter would hate this.

Without taking out his wand—he certainly didn’t want to accidentally create a real dark magic ritual—he grabbed a piece of chalk and started drawing lines and fake-runes, purposefully creating absolute gibberish. 

Once it looked convincing enough, he stood in the middle and said loudly, “Oh Great Creature, hear my cry!” 

The sound of the shelf being bumped made Draco huff out a laugh as he imagined Potter’s utter shock and possible panic. 

It always had been so easy to get a reaction out of him. 

There was a moment of silence, and Draco wondered if Potter would come out. But he didn’t. So Draco continued.

“Libenter ananas edo!” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. I gladly eat pineapples . “Heu! Semper ubi sub ubi! Oblitus es stulta tua specilla—” Hey! Always wear underwear. You forgot your stupid glasses.

Potter’s cloak was ripped off in an instant, and he held his wand in his hand, pointed straight towards Draco. He said, “Stop! What are you doing?” 

Draco lowered his arms, and offered Potter an amused smirk. 

“You really are a terrible spy,” Draco commented, dusting invisible lint from his sleeve. 

Potter frowned. “What?” 

“Oh you know,” said Draco dismissively, grabbing his waist with one hand and waving the other in the air, jutting a hip out with the movement. “Asking the dark gods for a really good pineapple kebab. What are you doing, having followed me for over a month. Find what you’re looking for?” 

A startled look passed Potter’s gaze behind the glasses. He looked quite like a gaped fish, and Draco wished momentarily that he’d provoked him a bit sooner. “You knew I was there.”

“Subtlety has never been your strong suit,” he said, offering mock understanding. “Maybe next time you want to stalk me, a silencing charm on your shoes may be more effective.”

Potter didn’t even have the gall to look embarrassed. “Did you do this to bait me?” 

Draco put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Me?” He scoffed. “I would never.” But then, at his smirk, Potter glowered.

“You were muttering Latin,” he said, observant as ever. “Drawing runes.”

“I was?” Draco drawled. “And tell me. What were their translations?” 

Clearly unable to answer, Potter narrowed his irritating, striking eyes. “There are black candles. They’re melting.” 

“Wax tends to do that,” Draco said, before reaching down and lifting a still-lit candle in the air, hot wax burning his already raw and scabbed hand. The sensation kept him strangely grounded. He really was losing it, but it wouldn’t be lost for long. “But I’d much prefer if you let me go back to what I was actually doing.” 

Potter finally lowered his wand, all the way to his side. “What were you doing?” 

Draco gave him a dubious stare. “I knew you were stupid, Potter, but every day I’m baffled by your inability to observe even the smallest of things.” Then, he crossed his arms. “I simply want my alone time. Peace and quiet isn’t too much to ask now, is it?” 

Slowly, Potter lowered his wand. Just a little. And to Draco’s utter irritation, there was something akin to understanding behind the bastard's eyes. Certainly not something that he wanted to see behind the proclaimed hero’s gaze. Before Potter could say something, especially not something that would leave Draco feeling pitied , he sneered and snapped: “Get out before I actually do something akin to what you were thinking.”

Potter deadpanned. “Do it and—”

“And what?” Draco interrupted, lifting his nose slightly. “Give me detention? Send me to Azkaban?”

“You should be thanking me for keeping you out of there.” His face was hard. The wand didn’t lower. It made Draco’s hands itch. 

“And why did you?” Draco asked, reaching for his own wand. “Why did you think keeping me out of there was best? When you clearly don’t trust me to stay away from it all?”

“You know why,” Potter said, eyes flickering to Draco’s own wand. “I explained it clearly in the trials.”

Draco sneered. “I know what you said. But sometimes, the things we say don’t always match up with the things we think . Or the things that we do .” His eyes flickered to the scorch marks. The memory of Crabbe’s death hit him again. They’d never been close, not in the way that it seemed Potter and his friends were. But there was a loss. And it tore Draco up to know he caused it. “Isn’t that right, Potter?”

Potter followed his gaze. Now they were both staring at the burn. Briefly, he hated Potter, because Potter would never know what it was like to physically hold the weapon that killed. Didn’t know what it was like to pull that final trigger. Sure, he probably felt the same survivor’s guilt that everyone else felt. But other than ending Voldemort himself, Potter wasn’t a killer . Not like Draco was. 

“That wasn’t your fault.” 

Draco’s head ticked right to Potter, ice as deadly as the fiendfyre filling his chest. “Whether or not you’re the Savior of the Wizarding World, you don’t have the authority to offer me absolution. I’d prefer it if you didn’t pretend to try.” 

Potter narrowed his eyes. “I’m not offering you anything. I’m assuring you.”

“Well, don’t. You don’t know me. And I never asked you to try and save me.”

Potter let out a small huff. If he was anyone else, Draco would be sure it was a laugh. “Are you upset I vouched for you?” 

“Maybe I am,” Draco shot back. And he hadn’t thought about it before—in the back of his mind, he supposed to through he was grateful. But he wasn’t. Draco Malfoy wasn’t grateful for this. He was angry. He hated Potter for vouching for him. If Potter hadn’t vouched for him, he wouldn’t be stared at in the hallways or in the streets, sneered at, looked down upon. If Potter hadn’t vouched for him, Draco could have gone to Azkaban, and he probably would have already been dead. Free of all of this. Draco was many things, but strong wasn’t one of them. Now, he was rotten. Completely, utterly rotten. And it was all Potter’s fault, for giving him a brief moment of hope that maybe things could end up okay. But they weren’t—and a dementor’s kiss would have been the kindest thing for him. But now, he was forced to stand here, trying to scrub off the last of the curse he’d left in the walls of everywhere he walked, and forced to face Potter’s ugly mug, and still be looked at with a mixture of distrust and fucking understanding . But Potter wouldn’t understand. He would never understand. “In fact, I wish you would have rallied against me. I wish you’d have begged them for the Kiss.”

Something flickered in Potter’s gaze. 

And there it was—pity. 

Draco hated himself. 

Before he knew it, he cast a curse. A small one—just a stinging, first-year curse. Nothing that would cause damage. Nothing lasting more than a speck of time. What was that in comparison to the rest of what he’d done, anyway? Look at the scorch marks on the ground. There was nothing he could do, anyway, to get rid of it all. 

They fought. Sort of. Neither of them sending anything worse than a jellylegs jinx. It felt more like the duel from their second year than the war they’d just waged. 

He doubted either of them really wanted to win. 

And then, he sent a curse Potter’s way, and Potter, smooth as always, ducked, but Draco’s curse hit a glass hourglass sculpture. It ruptured, and sand exploded everywhere. And worse, the glass shot forward, and sliced Potter’s open arm, across his upper forearm, blood dripping instantly onto the glass. 

Potter didn’t hiss, or more, or even seem to notice, but Draco was frozen, deep, horrible, terrible guilt welling within him. He stared at the injury, at the blood, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Potter, I—”

But he was interrupted. Not by Potter, but by something else. Rumbling, slow, shaky. And then Potter, too, was staring at the sand below, where blood met it. Like someone was pulling it on a string, like a puppet, the sand lifted from where the blood lay, and Potter lifted his face to Draco, and then the sand started spinning around then, filling the air, and then his lungs , and then, just like a portkey, something pulled Draco through a tunnel by a hook in his nose, squeezing his chest and everything else within him. 

He woke up on the ground, unsure how much time had passed. Groaning, he sat up, holding a hand to his head, feeling like something had hit him with a bat.

The second he opened his eyes, he froze. 

He was still in the Room of Requirement, but the one from before . Before the fire. Before the Death Eaters came through. No longer was it the half-burned room but rather a room that was filled to the brim with things . A diadem—which he now understood once held the Dark Lord’s soul—sat to his left. Objects and books and Muggle objects sat on the shelves and leaned on the sides. 

To his horror, the cabinet was there. Waiting. Mocking him. 

The only thing that didn’t belong from the before was the sand that still littered the ground. 

A groan sounded from behind him, and he twisted to look to Potter, who was sitting up, arm still bleeding, holding his head, expressing the same level of pain Draco was feeling.

“Merlin, Malfoy,” said Potter, sending a half-hearted glare his way. “You certainly don’t like to do things without a show.”

An easy sneer made its way to his face, before Potter’s eyebrows lifted and mouth fell open. He took in his surroundings, taking in each corner with the same confusion Draco felt. He was just a bit behind Draco in the process. 

Well, Potter had always been slow. 

“What in the world?” Potter muttered, as he made his way to his feet, holding his still-bleeding arm. Draco frowned. He shouldn’t be bleeding still, not that much. Even if no time had passed since they passed out. 

God, he hoped he didn’t hit an artery. 

That was the last thing he needed. 

He could see The Prophet now: Evil Ex-Death Eater Tries Killing the Savior After Doing Dark Magic . 

Maybe they’d include a picture of him behind bars. 

Maybe then he’d finally let go. 

The two of them headed towards the exit, Potter eyeing the diadem as well, skirting around it like it held a circular force field. Draco didn’t blame him. He tried to not acknowledge their awkward walk out the hall, only to run right into Nearly Headless Nick. 

“By Joe, who are you two?” 

Draco froze. “Excuse me?”

Potter frowned. “Sir Nicholas, it’s me.” He turned to Draco, an odd confusion on his face. “Did you hit me with a bee sting curse on my nose?”

Draco snorted, wishing he had. “No.” But Nearly Headless Nick was staring at the two of them with distrust and confusion, and Draco thought about how the time turner had broken, and they were attacked with flying time sand, and something in his chest jolted in fear. 

It was one thing to be out of time. To be dead. Gone. 

It was another thing to be misplaced in time. 

And then, before he could piece together any semblance of a plan, any concept of a plan, Potter spoke. “What year is it?” 

Draco glared over at him. Of course Potter would boldly express the possibility that they were trapped in a different time before they could figure anything else out. Did he not understand that any sort of meddling with time could have dire consequences? And yes, even asking a ghost any sort of strange question could possibly make it so that Potter’s great great great great grandfather was never born. 

Nearly Headless Nick’s head bobbed back, exposing a bit of the inner muscle for just a moment before landing back on its spot. And then, his lips tightened. And he said, “Oh, dear. Look at your robes.” 

Fashion aside, Draco was sure they probably did look out of place. And then Potter spoke again. Idiot. “What year is it?”

With a glance down the hall, and then a twist towards the back, Nearly Headless Nick centered himself back to the two of them. 

And then—

“1977.” 

Chapter Text

Harry [Given Name]

A Middle English form of Henry. Masculine. Meaning: Ruler. War God. Army Commander.  

Being a war hero was not as glorious as history made it out to be.

It was ugly. 

Wretched.  

Destructive.

And with its title, Harry had grown claws. 

He didn’t know when they started latching onto things. Maybe it was when he died and came back to life. Desperately clinging to the jaws of life, desperately searching for things that reminded him that he was still there , still alive . To keep him from remembering that he met death face-to-face. That he’d toyed with the grave. 

Sometimes, it scared him that he’d walked so easily into that forest. 

Sometimes, it scared him even more that he was carried out of it. 

It was easy at first. After a year of running, of fighting, of spending every moment desperately trying to survive , Voldemort was finally dead. That same night, after he, Ron, and Hermione had collapsed at Grimmauld Place—the rest of the Weasleys going home to grieve—Harry had slept more peacefully than he thought he ever had. Not even after taking the Dreamless Sleep Potion. That night, he didn’t dream, or have nightmares, or even move. There, huddled with his two best friends, he rested. The next day—over 24 hours later—he finally got up out of the bed, and made Ron and Hermione food. Woke them up from their sleep to eat together, and then they lounged about. Talking about nothing. Casual things. Calm things. About happy things. About whether bacon should be more soft or more crispy. And then, Ron went home to be with his parents to grieve Fred. And Hermione went to find her parents. And Harry was left behind. 

His isolation started with not wanting any sort of attention—specifically from The Papers. And because he just wanted to rest . At first, it was easy. It was calm. 

But there was something cruel about the desperation that followed the silence. 

It didn’t take long for the claws to start growing. He tried to soften them by spending time with Ron and his family, but somehow, it made them worse. 

That house had changed. 

George no longer laughed. Not once in the days that followed. Molly tried to keep things normal—she cooked, and she cleaned, and she was warm. But she no longer scolded them. And Harry couldn’t stand the tears that were always brimming her blue eyes. Arthur was busy trying to help fix Hogwarts, and when he wasn’t there or at work, he was figuring out the details of the funeral. It didn’t take long for him to bury himself into projects. Charlie and Bill came by every few days, but the thing about tragedy was… it didn’t stop anything. It didn’t let the world pause. Work didn’t stop needing to get done just because you were different. Ron lasted a few days in the silence before he asked Harry if he wanted to join Hermione in her search. 

“You go ahead,” Harry said, giving Ron a hug goodbye, fighting off the desire to sink his claws into Ron’s shoulders and beg him to stay. “I have some things I need to do here.” 

Ron understood. The next day, he left with spelled bags for the summer to Australia. And Harry hid his claws with a smile.

He tried talking to Ginny. Wanting to know if he could be there for her. To see if she was okay.

She wasn’t. 

They tried talking. She tried telling him she felt like she couldn’t breathe anymore. That she couldn’t handle thinking about her future beyond the next five minutes. He held her, tight. She sobbed into his shoulder. And then, they kissed. It was sad, and wet, and he just wanted her to be okay. But then, she asked him to leave. To give her some space. That she loved him, but him being there, around her, would make her hurt more. 

So he went back to Grimmauld Place. 

It felt like a mausoleum. 

And then there was Teddy. 

Harry stopped by Andromeda’s house once. Only once. She welcomed him happily, but there were dark circles under her wrinkled eyes, having just lost her only daughter and was now a guardian to a newborn. She invited him for tea, as Teddy was napping, but when he woke up, she held him out to Harry. To hold. He stared at Teddy. Not even two months. Innocent. Untouched by pain. 

He left. 

His claws were growing. He felt them as he walked the hallways of Grimmauld Place, for the first time feeling like he understood how Sirius must have felt growing up there. He ran his fingers along the wallpaper, imagining the scratches he could leave in the flowery pattern. He wondered how good it would feel to transform into a werewolf and chew on the railings by the stairs with big, great teeth. 

He didn’t know what to do. 

But he couldn’t sit there. 

It started off with going on walks, hidden under a Muggle sweatshirt, the hoodie covering his gaze. It was what he used to do when the Dursleys would kick him out when it was just a little too cold. He walked down the streets at all times—day, night, dawn. And then he started sitting in stores, just to watch people walk by. Imagined what it would be like to be them. Muggles who didn’t know what it was like to die and come back. Then he went to public parks. And then he walked around London. Just walking. He didn’t know where he was going, but he learned quickly that everywhere he went, he wouldn’t be understood. 

He debated on going with Ron and Hermione, wherever they were. But he was tired of being on the run. Tired of searching for things that had to be found. 

He wanted to feel found. 

He missed Hogwarts.

His home.

All summer, he ignored his mail when owls came knocking. Not only did it remind him that Hedwig was gone, and he no longer had his precious companion, but he knew the letters wouldn’t say what he wanted to hear. He knew it was just people thanking him for what he’d done—what he’d been prophesied to do—or the Ministry asking him to give a speech in support of the new minister.

He only answered two. 

The first, the summons to testify at hearings of Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. Without them, the entire war would have been lost. There had been several times where he’d been tempted to write to one of them. Offer his gratitude. Maybe, even But every time he lifted his pen, it got stuck. He’d never been very good with words. And nothing he said could possibly even reach the things he wanted to stay. 

The second, the invitation to return to Hogwarts for his eighth year. It was the easiest response he’d ever given. 

He was ready to go home. 

Ron and Hermione found her parents on an island somewhere off the eastern coast of Australia, and Ron stayed there until a few days before school. The three of them agreed to meet up on the train. 

Not a lot of people returned for eighth year. Hermione couldn’t pass up the opportunity to continue learning, and with Harry returning too, Ron begrudgingly joined, too. They were the only Gryffindors. Wayne Hopkins, Hannah Abbott, and Susan Bones were the Hufflepuffs. As for Ravenclaws, Michael Corner, Anthony Goldstein, and Sue Li.

Malfoy was the only Slytherin. 

Harry couldn’t imagine why Malfoy would want to return. 

He rode the train with something strange gnawing in his gut, and he couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. All he knew was that he felt off . Hermione spent the whole ride rambling about things she was excited to learn this year, but her hands shook, as if she was trying to keep control over her anxiety. Ron teased the other two incessantly, but there was something sallow, something shadowed about his gaze. Harry joked around right back, and asked questions to Hermione, but he couldn’t help but feel he was far away from them, despite their close proximity. He knew it wasn’t their fault. They were amazing as ever. 

It was him . 

He didn’t just feel far away from them; he felt far away from himself. And he was hoping, more than anything, that Hogwarts—having been completely fixed up over the summer due to rigorous efforts from the Ministry—would fix it. Would bring him back home. Would make him feel understood. 

School was rigorous, right off the bat. Maybe it was because it was technically their NEWTs year, or maybe it was because the teachers assumed they needed something to distract themselves with after everything. 

It didn’t feel like enough. 

Hogwarts felt different. 

At first, Harry ignored it. And he knew he wasn’t the only one who felt it. Behind every corner, there was always that fear that something would pop out behind it. Students were jumpy. People cried at seemingly random moments. Meals felt sticker, heavier, and Harry had a hard time eating. 

Ron and Hermione were concerned for him. Of course they were. Hermione tried forcing him to eat like she was his mother, while Ron tried distracting Harry with humor like he was a stubborn dog not wanting to take his medicine and needed to wrap it in cheese to swallow it down. It didn’t work, but Harry tried. For them. 

At nights, he took his invisibility cloak and started walking around. Searching for something. Maybe that feeling he used to have at the beginning of every year, that he was finally going home. The feeling that wasn’t there when he arrived. 

And then he saw Malfoy.

He didn’t know why he started following him. 

It wasn’t because he expected him to do anything wrong. Not after everything. He just… grew curious. Especially when he saw him go back to the Room of Requirement. The memory of the two of them back in there, fighting for their lives against dark, damaging magic, a moment where they were finally on the same page, replayed in his brain every time Malfoy squeezed through the door, as if afraid to let the energy from inside escape with a wide-open door. Every night, Harry imagined what Malfoy could possibly be doing. Wondered why he would want to go back in that room. 

Harry let his claws sink into his curiosity, and he snuck in through. Wanting—no, needing—to know what Malfoy was truly doing. 

And somehow, in his annoyingly desperate need to claw at something , he landed himself all the way back in 1977. With Draco Malfoy.

And if his math was right, his parents were probably still here. 

He hoped his math was right. 

He turned from Sir Nicholas and took in Malfoy’s irritated form. “We have to go talk to Dumbledore.” 

Malfoy froze. It was a few seconds too late before Harry remembered that the very last time either of them had seen Dumbledore, Malfoy was holding a wand to him, about to kill him. 

Malfoy had hesitated, then. 

He hesitated here, too. 

“It’ll be okay,” Harry continued, jumping on it before Malfoy could argue. “We just explain the situation; he figures out a way to get us out; and we’re good to go.” And hopefully, in the meantime, Harry could maybe have a conversation or two with a few someones. He quelled the hope, but it remained there like a fly buzzing in the air. 

Malfoy’s frown wasn’t quite a sneer—the expression reminded Harry of when they looked at each other, across the spacious, cold courtroom, as Narcissa and Draco were let off with only fines that Harry doubted would make much of a dent in their fortunes. For a moment, Harry thought Malfoy was angry about the fine. But right now, he didn’t think that was the case. 

He looked… unsettled. 

And he opened his mouth to say something, eyes narrowed and nose scrunched in something sour, but he closed his mouth just as quickly. Then, he turned to Sir Nicolas and said, “Excuse us for a moment.” 

The politeness surprised Harry, but he allowed himself to be pulled into the nearest empty classroom, away from the ghost who sat twenty years in their past, and locked the door behind them. 

“Are you mad?” snapped Draco once the click sounded.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Am I… what?

“Mad. Barmy. Absolutely bonkers. You choose the word, but why would you possibly think going to Albus Dumbledore is a good idea? He could kick us out for being intruders, or send us straight to Azkaban for messing with time.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “He wouldn’t do that. He was… is… logical.” 

“You were always his favorite,” Draco said bitterly. “You didn’t know what it was like being less than that.” 

He frowned. “He didn’t have favorites.” The memory of Dumbledore’s white, glowy self appearing when Harry died came back. “Dumbledore was fair.” Although, being the only person to escape death twice didn’t feel very fair.

Now Draco’s non-sneer became much more sneer-like. “Just as always, your boneheadedness is near stifling.” 

Harry let out a little huff, and he couldn’t tell if it was annoyed or humored. “My boneheadedness may be the only thing that brings us back to our time.”

“That doesn’t need to be through Albus Dumbledore.” His tone was cold. 

“Merlin, Malfoy, you didn’t hate him that much, did you?”

Malfoy bared his teeth. “Just because I didn’t want him dead didn’t mean I would ever trust him.” 

A beat of heavy silence. 

“He’ll listen,” Harry promised, though he wasn’t sure if he believed the words himself. “What other option do we have?”

“We can go back to the Room of Requirement and figure it out ourselves.” 

“I mean, we can certainly try that,” Harry said, making it clear he doubted the results. Which wasn’t entire fair. Truth be told, if he didn’t have the possibility of seeing his parents, he probably would have agreed.

But there was that possibility.

“If we can’t figure it out, though, then we go to him.”

Malfoy huffed, and without another word, stalked out the door, crossed the now-empty hallway, and started pacing in front of the Room of Requirement. Harry watched as several minutes passed, eventually deciding to sit, wand in hand, as he fought to appear calm, fought off the desire to go running down the hallway towards the Gryffindor common room and knock until he was allowed to see Lily Evans and James Potter. Instead, he lazily watched Malfoy as his pace sped up more, until he finally stopped, his breath leaving in quick movements, and let out a slow, calming breath. But his shoulders were rigid, his posture tense, his lips tight and jaw jutted forward. Through teeth, he grinded out, “Are you enjoying the show, Potter?” 

And then, a sting of guilt passed through Harry’s gut. He wasn’t there to mock Malfoy. 

He sighed and stood, putting his wand back into his holster, and opened his palms to the side. “Listen,” he said, hoping for a non-desperate tone. “I’m just… going to go talk to him. You’re welcome to stay here and figure this out, but I’m going.”

Malfoy scoffed and tightened his hand around his wand. “And leave me here alone? What if someone else finds me?”

“Then you hide. Or, join me. I don’t really care what you do, but I’m going to talk to the headmaster.” And with that, he turned and headed down the hallway. With a surprisingly colorful string of curses, Malfoy followed him, and Harry was momentarily grateful that it was the middle of the night, and they likely wouldn’t be caught by anyone. Except, maybe, Filch. 

They weren’t. He found his way to the gargoyle outside of the headmaster’s office, and stared at it. 

“I don’t know the password,” he commented, maintaining eye contact with the stony sculpture. 

“What a great plan,” Malfoy said bitterly. “I really love the way you think ahead.”

Harry sent him an annoyed glare, which Malfoy returned almost gleefully. Hermione’s words—-repeated hundreds of times over the years at Hogwarts—came to his head: He’s just trying to get a rise out of you . Well, Hermione, it was working, but it kept him in check to not shoot back; instead, he lifted a hand and knocked three times. 

At first, nothing happened. But then, to Harry’s surprise and relief, it jumped to the side, and the two of them made their way up the spindly staircase, up to the door. Harry lifted his hand to knock, but before he could, there was a voice: “Come in.”

Logically, Harry knew he would be hearing that voice again. The voice of the dead. But he hadn’t expected it to hit him like a switch, across his chest, on his back, in the muscles of his face. He forced himself to keep his composure, because Malfoy would certainly not coddle him in the panic that just gripped him. 

But he stole a glance his way, anyway, as he opened the door. 

Malfoy didn’t look any better. As the light of the office covered his face, Malfoy’s pale skin looked worse, and it was the first time Harry realized how… gaunt he had become over the past few months. There was a haunted look on his face, almost as if he, too, had touched death for just a moment. 

The two of them walked towards a very much still alive Albus Dumbledore, sitting behind a desk filled to the brim with objects. He didn’t look any different than before. Harry had to remind himself that wixen could live about twice as long as Muggles, and Dumbledore was probably around 100 right now. His beard was a bit shorter, but not by much. He was just as thin, just as tall, just as warm and surrounded by many of the same things as the Dumbledore that Harry knew—or thought he knew—so well. 

A strange wave of sadness flooded through his chest, and Harry was horrified to feel his cheeks turn pink and warm and burning behind his eyes. He stared down at a fizzing whizbee as he waited for them to dry, which luckily happened by the time he reached the desk. 

But the hole in his chest didn’t go away. 

How could he grieve for someone right in front of him?

Dumbledore spoke first. “Despite what the gargoyle told me, neither of you are my students.” 

Harry finally mustered the courage to look up to him, and his blue eyes twinkled with curiosity. It wasn’t distrustful. Which was good. Malfoy was looking away—Harry doubted he’d look at all. 

“Hello, Sir,” Harry said. “Er. My name is Harry, and this is M—Draco. We’re here by accident. I think that, um, we were sent back in time. We’re students, just, not in the right now .”

The corners of Dumbledore’s lips lifted briefly, but it was then that Harry realized his hand was on his wand, holding like a knife to cut steak. A subtle warning. But there was still kindness in his eyes. An odd combination. “I see.”

“We need your help to get back,” Harry said, deciding he didn’t really want to play word games. “We can’t get back into the Room of Requirement, where it all happened—a time turner exploded on us—and I know it’s easy to move back in time, but not as easy to move forward. I figured that you could maybe help? Send us back?” And hopefully, it would take more than a few hours, and Harry could at least get a glimpse of them. “If you can’t, at least give us a place to stay until we can figure it out ourselves.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flickered to Harry’s arm, which had finally stopped bleeding but was covered in drying and dried blood. “Did any of that hit the sand after it exploded?” 

Harry nodded. 

“I see.” He crossed his hands, his wand held between his fingertips. “You look remarkably familiar.” His eyes shifted to Malfoy. “You as well, Mr. Malfoy.” 

Finally, Malfoy glanced up, something dark and sullen in his light complexion. He supposed it wasn’t a surprise that Malfoy was recognized. Or Harry, for that matter. The two of them had always been famously similar to their parents. 

Malfoy didn’t say anything. 

Dumbledore turned his gaze back to Harry, and then he smiled, showing crooked, yellowing teeth under white beard. “I think the less I know about you two the better. But, I must say that my curiosity is quite piqued. What year are you from?”

Harry grimaced. The year after your death. “1998.”

“I see. Well. I’m afraid I’m not sure how exactly you two arrived, but I can assume it was the broken time sand mixed with some blood magic. I can begin the investigation immediately, but I must warn you… There isn’t much known about time magic. It’s complex and sometimes… chaotic magic. I am happy to lend you a place to stay as we figure it out, but I’ll need something from you in return.”

Harry nodded instantly. “Anything.”

“Don’t get caught.” 

Finally, Malfoy made a sound. A scoff. “I feel like that’s obvious.” His tone was dry and cold. “I assume we’ll need some polyjuice potion, new names, new backstories?” 

Harry’s head slowly turned to Malfoy, an eyebrow raised. 

Dumbledore responded: “I’m not quite sure what polyjuice potion is, but I think some glamours will be effective. Here. Let me get your glamours.” He stood, crossed his office, putting his hand in a treasure chest, and pulling out two long bracelets, crossing back over, and handing Harry and Malfoy each one of them. Harry put it on instantly. Malfoy hesitated. “These will obscure your faces,” he said to them, focusing his attention on Malfoy. “Anyone who doesn’t know you will be compelled to keep their eyes away from you. They’ll never notice your features.”

“Kind of like a house’s ward,” Harry noticed.

A small smile formed on Dumbledore’s face, and Harry’s stomach lurched again. To be looked at again with that simple care. Harry’s throat constricted, and he looked down at the bracelet, his eyes becoming wet again, feeling silly over it. “Just like a house’s ward,” Dumbledore agreed. “And in the meantime, we should probably get your injury cleaned up.” 

Harry glanced down to the cut on his arm. The reason the magic was enacted, if what Dumbledore said is correct. Harry nodded, and was about to stand to head to the hospital wing, but Dumbledore waved his wand, summoning a potion. He handed it to Harry, who drank it without reservation. The skin of his arm stitched together immediately. He shivered. He’d never get used to the feeling. And then, with another wave, his blood disappeared, except few spots along the edges, and then Dumbledore let out a small sigh.  

“So. Your backstories. The closer you keep to your real life, the easier it will be to keep track of.” 

Harry grimaced. For both of them. “Okay.”

“Or,” Malfoy suggested with a sneer in his voice, “we could just be our opposites so no one ever figures out the truth. I’ll be a bleeding-heart Gryffindor, and you’ll be a Slytherin with a brain. How about that?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “

“You could pretend to be brothers?” suggested Dumbledore.

Both Harry and Malfoy visually cringed at the idea. 

“No.” Malfoy shifted away from Harry somehow even more, having already been practically falling off the left side of his chair.  

“Friends?”

Malfoy snorted. “Definitely not.” 

“Well,” said Dumbledore with a smile in his voice, “it wouldn’t make much sense for two random strangers to show up in the middle of the night at Hogwarts. What could have possibly happened to bring you here?”

“We could pretend to be transfer students,” Harry suggested. “From Durmstrang or something.”

“Great idea,” said Malfoy sarcastically. “Because my posh accent and your ugly, muffled one wouldn’t give us away immediately. Tell me, Po—Harry, can you feign a Baltic accent? If so, for how long? Whatever, that much doesn't matter. Because I’m not forcing anything.”

“My accent isn’t ugly,” Harry said, huffing. He had a perfectly normal voice. “But you have a point. Um.. maybe we can say we were homeschooled, then?”

Malfoy scoffed again, but Dumbledore nodded his head. “That isn’t a bad idea. And it’s not entirely unheard of, especially not with the political climate the way it is.”

Harry blinked. And then frowned. And then remembered that Voldemort was already on the rise here, alive and well. 

He wondered if he could fix things. He tried tearing down the thought just as quickly as it came, but when Dumbledore kept talking, it stuck there. Present. 

They made up a backstory. They would keep their personalities, likes, dreams, interests all the same, but Harry and Draco—now Hershel Perry and Dawn Martin, names that Malfoy chose (apparently, Harry’s suggestion of Harold was too similar, but Hershel wasn’t)—were now apparently best friends who had been homeschooled together under the tutelage of Dawn’s parents. Tragically, both their parents were recently killed by Voldemort, as Harris’s parents were Muggles. 

“People don’t like asking questions when you pretend to be a sad orphan,” Harry commented at Malfoy’s scoff.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “How very… Slytherin of you.” 

Harry couldn’t tell if it was a compliment. 

Once their plan of attack was done, Dumbledore let out a tired sigh. “I’ll get to searching for a solution to your time problem as soon as possible. But for now, breakfast is in less than an hour,” he said. “We will have your sorting then.”

Something sour made itself known in Harry’s gut. Maybe it was his claws scratching at himself. “In front of everyone?” He turned to Malfoy, who looked equally as horrified—although there was a bit more disgust in his gaze. Then, back to Dumbledore. “Can’t we just do it here?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I believe a quiet sorting may be louder than a public one. Besides…” He smiled. “Where would be the fun in that?” 

Chapter Text

Hershel [given name]

Meaning: Deer, or young stag. A spirit of nature that offers a calming presence.

The Great Hall was the same as it always was. 

The same stars in the enchanted sky, the same candles, the same smell of sausage and bacon and toast. 

It was the faces he didn’t recognize. 

Harry and Malfoy sat together near the front of the Hall, in the shadows behind a pillar, close to the professors’ table but still with everyone in view. Somehow, Malfoy was leaning casually against the wall, his nose held high and one lazy eyebrow raised, his arms folded and one leg crossed in front of the other, with the expression of someone only mildly miffed that they were 20 years in the past. Harry wished he could be as calm, but he couldn’t stop moving. He shifted from left foot to right, kept bopping his left hand on his upper thigh, held his right hand tight in his pocket in a fist.

“I can’t believe that we have to pretend to be friends,” Malfoy said, without much venom. Just a sullen annoyance. “As if acknowledging your existence wasn’t enough.” 

Harry let out a huff of laughter, but it was shaky, and he kept glancing to the door of the Great Hall, eyes flickering around the room in search of certain faces. “I’m sure you’ll survive.” His voice sounded squeaky to his own ears. 

The sound must have been too strange, because Malfoy’s face slowly turned to him. Harry could feel his gaze, watching, observing. Probably seeing more than Harry wanted. 

“P—Hershel?” There was no sneer in the tone.

“Mhm?” 

“When did you say your parents finished school?”

Harry’s throat constricted. He doubted he’d be able to answer as it was, but just when Malfoy asked his terribly blunt question, there was a loud bark of laughter from just beyond the Great Hall’s doors, and Harry’s heart stopped. That familiar laugh. Happy and light and alive . And just then, Sirius walked right through the door, standing next to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. 

All of his nervous movements went away near instantly as he froze. It felt near impossible to breathe, and his vision went darker, as if he were about to pass out. But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring across the hallway. Far enough away where he couldn’t see them clearly, but Sirius was so loud in his laughter. And he could tell James was smiling, his head high. And Pettigrew walked on the other side of James, and said something too quiet for Harry to hear, but it made Sirius laugh, again. Remus walked behind the three, moving slowly, rubbing his face, clearly half-asleep. Harry also wanted to run straight for them, and hug Sirius, and hug Remus, and introduce himself to his dad, and maybe curse Pettigrew. But he couldn’t. Not because that would freak each of them out. 

But because they were strangers. 

None of them would recognize him. 

None of them would know him . 

“Potter?” 

Malfoy’s voice was so low Harry knew he was the only one who heard it. But he couldn’t respond. Because he had been waiting for this, had wanted this, and fuck, he still did, so much, but what could he do? What could he say? He hadn’t thought this far—what he would say, when he would say it. And a part of him wanted to run over and introduce himself, pretend he was the new student who would definitely be in Gryffindor, but there was another part of him that wanted to run out of the room—run back to the Room of Requirement, fix the time issue right now , and leave it all behind. Because what if, after it all, they hated this version of him? The version of him that touched death? 

He stayed, anyway. 

And then, Lily Evans walked in, too. 

She walked with two other girls—a Ravenclaw, and a Hufflepuff. She was talking animatedly to them, both of whom were clearly invested. Harry wondered what they could be talking about so intensely so early in the morning. And then, they dispersed to their own tables, and she was happily greeted by a big group of co-ed Gryffindors, on the opposite side of the group where the marauders were. 

Harry stared. 

He wanted to get sorted, now , so he could have an excuse to go over to them.

“Merlin, I just realized that Severus will be here.”

Harry looked to Malfoy, who had barely moved from his position against the wall. He still had a hand up, as if he were checking for dirt under his nails. But Harry had known Malfoy for a long time. He’d seen him angry, prideful, dramatic, ridiculous. Seen him scared. Seen him lie to Voldemort’s face. Seen him standing in front of a court deciding if he should live the rest of his life in Azkaban. Seen him bleeding out because of Harry. 

At Harry’s look, he lifted his nose. Half an inch. And it suddenly dawned on Harry how… contradictory Malfoy was. The dramatics Harry had been so accustomed to from their school years—dressing up as dementors, complaining about his arm for a month longer than he needed to, making annoying buttons just to upset Harry—didn’t express how much Malfoy tended to hide. And then Harry realized how much of a liar Malfoy was. Not just about stupid things, like his arm. Not just about brave things, like when he lied to Voldemort’s face. But also in weird ways that Harry had never quite thought about before. Like when he stood in front of the tribunal, he held his nose just as high as he held it now. At the time, Harry had assumed he was just trying to hold his composure, or maybe that he was irritated, or, well Harry didn’t know what to think. Because Malfoy was hiding . And since school had started, Malfoy walked in the hallways like a ghost, like he moved behind closed doors. He didn’t look at people, didn’t draw attention to himself. 

And maybe it was a bit too late to realize it, but Harry didn’t know much about Malfoy. Not really. In the back of his mind, he knew there was more inside Malfoy that he didn’t show people—otherwise, he wouldn’t have saved Harry’s life in the Manor. If everything he’d boasted of was true, Harry would be dead. But it was more than that. Harry didn’t know where his friends were, or why he didn’t receive letters in the mail at breakfast, or how he felt about his father being in Azkaban, or if he enjoyed spending time with his mother. Harry knew what set Malfoy off before a fight, but he didn’t know what he cared about inside. 

He’d always assumed things, of course. That Malfoy’s favorite class was Potion’s. That he only listened to high-brow classical music and didn’t know who the Weird Sisters were. That he loved being Crabbe and Goyle’s ringleader like the antagonist of a Muggle teen flick. That his favorite color was Slytherin green. 

But he didn’t know any of these things. 

Maybe a little late for the realization, but Harry realized that Draco was a mystery.

And if there was something about Harry, it was that he didn’t like a mystery unsolved.

“Were you, er, close?”

Great segue, Harry , he chided himself. Let’s talk about the dead professor .

Malfoy nodded sharply, and then lifted his nose a bit higher. “He was my godfather.” 

Harry’s eyes flickered to Sirius, who was already stuffing food into his mouth, and then barked out a laugh over something that James said. 

It seemed they’d both lost important people to Voldemort. 

“Are you looking forward to seeing him?” Harry asked, and the shifting between sides suddenly resumed.. 

A beat. Malfoy didn’t look away from the Slytherin table, still devoid of Severus Snape. “I’m not sure.” 

Harry understood the sentiment. 

A few minutes later, Snape came through alone, his head lowered and shoulders hunched, reading a book as he sat at the table. He didn’t get any food on the plate that appeared in front of him. He didn’t talk to anyone. As if he was begging the world to not notice him. It made Harry’s chest stir slightly, remembering when he used to stand like that on the playground when he was worried about Dudley and his friends coming to bother him during recess. He looked back to his parents. 

They weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary for 17 year old Hogwarts students. They chatted with their friends and piled food onto their places and laughed. Remus had his head down, as if he’d fallen back to sleep. Students from all houses continued to pile in, which Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for. 

No one seemed to notice Harry or Malfoy at the front of the Great Hall. Harry wasn’t sure if that was due to them sitting practically behind a pillar, or if it was because of their glamour bracelets. Either way, Harry was relieved. Until, of course, Dumbledore stood, silencing the Great Hall, students’ heads turning to him almost-somberly, as if this was a regular occurrence, and they expected bad news. It dawned on Harry that Voldemort was still alive, here. But before he could dwell on that Dumbledore continued. 

“Good morning, students,” he said, voice carrying to the corners and edges of the hall. “This morning, I have good news.”

Relief flooded the room with a sea of exhales. 

Dumbledore smiled. “We have two new students who will be sorted into 7th year houses today. They have recently experienced quite a tragedy, much like many of our other friends here have during these trying times.”

It was only then that people’s heads turned to the two of them. Harry felt his cheeks go red, which felt silly, all things considered. He was no stranger to stares. But it wasn’t that they were looking at him because of who he was in relation to Voldemort; they were looking at him because he was new . It felt strangely just like the first day of third grade when he was forced to transfer classes halfway through the school year because Vernon had deemed Harry’s teacher Mr. Thumb as a “no-good, nosy old coot.” Harry had stood in front of the other 8-year-olds, all friends with each other, giving Harry no chance to try and wedge himself in somewhere before Dudley threatened them into ignoring him.

He hadn’t made any friends that year. 

Or any other year of primary school, for that matter. 

He had to remind himself that that wouldn’t be the case here, too. Because if nothing else, he was going to befriend his parents. 

“I expect each and every one of you to welcome them warmly, with open arms,” Dumbledore continued. “In times like these, although it is important to be diligent, to be careful, to protect those we love, we must remember something. We don’t win battles alone. Old friends help us grow wise, but new friends help us grow bright.” He looked over to Harry and Malfoy, who now had everyone’s eyes on them, and then waved a hand forward. A professor that Harry didn’t recognize stood from his chair, small yet surprisingly menacing as he carried the sorting hat from somewhere behind the table and onto a lone chair in front of everyone.

“Dawn Martin,” the man said with a shockingly low voice. 

Harry watched as Malfoy walked up to the stool and sat down, his back held high, the picture of grace that he always was, even as an 11 year old whose hat barely touched his blond hair before being sorted straight into Slytherin. Harry waited for the instant shout of Slytherin , just as it had years ago, but there was a surprisingly long amount of time as Malfoy sat there, his face turning almost entirely red, a sneer making its way to his face. And then, finally, to no one’s shock except Harry’s :

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry’s jaw dropped as the Gryffindor table erupted into cheers and polite claps from the rest of the houses, even Slytherin. But Harry couldn’t look away from Malfoy, even as he stood up and headed to the table with students wearing red and gold ties, immediately welcomed by the people that Harry was looking forward to seeing. Malfoy’s head was held high, but his face was red, as if he was holding back his anger or disgust or embarrassment. Harry was just as shocked. Because if there was a single poster child for Slytherin House—besides Tom Riddle, maybe—Draco Malfoy would be it. His face practically belonged on the green and silver posters and hanging tapestries. And now he was to wear red and gold? With Harry ? 

And with that thought, a rather unsettling thought crossed Harry’s mind. 

If Malfoy was placed in the wrong house, then…

No. He couldn’t think it. He was Gryffindor through and through.

Once the eruption of excited shouts and woots and welcomes calmed down, the professor continued: “Hershel Parker?” 

With shaky legs, Harry made his way to the chair, sitting down, his eyes flickering to his parents, trying to make it seem like he wasn’t staring but maybe was failing. Their eyes were on his own, as was Sirius’s. Even Remus had awoken due to the loud celebratory shouts, his face looking way more young that Harry had expected. His chest ached as the hat was placed over his head, not as big as it had been when he was still a kid, and it didn’t hide his eyes. 

Ah! the hat exclaimed. Another one of you .

Harry swallowed. Another one of… what, precisely?  

Another one of you so sure that you know where you belong. But I could feel the ambition, the cunning, the resilience the second I touched the top of your hair. Of course, there’s plenty of courage within you. And you’re always on the edge, ready to fight. It’s interesting. But the ambition… 

A frown formed on Harry’s face. I wouldn’t say I’m very ambitious, he tried reasoning. I turned down Auror training before it even started. 

This is true , the Sorting Hat agreed. That’s another interesting thing. You crave control, you crave calmness. Yet you create chaos. A very contradictory person indeed… Which house to put you in? This is hard. 

It doesn’t have to be, Harry thought quickly . Just let me choose.

The hat laughed, an eerie sound. Harry didn’t remember the hat being so intimidating. What house would you want to be in?

Gryffindor , Harry thought without hesitation. It’s where I’m supposed to be.

You don’t believe that.

Harry blinked. Yes, I do.

You don’t, he repeated. I think you’ll do best in a house that will help you grow in new ways. Help you find that calm that you so desire. And with that—

“SLYTHERIN!”

No!

Harry’s blood went cold as the hat came off his head. The applause was significantly quieter. Way more subdued. Almost like the applause that would come at the end of a funeral, if they did that.  He felt strangely frozen as he stiffly moved his limbs into a standing position. And then, he felt even stiffer as he headed to the wrong table. The Slytherin table. And he looked down, and there was a green and silver tie on his neck, having been transformed the second the Sorting Hat opened its mouth. 

Harry walked to the first empty spot he saw, sufficiently far enough away from everyone that he wasn’t forced to talk with any of them. He wasn’t ready for that. 

Instead, he was forced to look across the hall, where Draco Malfoy sat with the Gryffindors. With his parents.

And not since the first time since the war ended, Harry wanted to cry. 

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. 

Instead, he watched.

_______________

Before the sorting, Draco had been sufficiently amused with the terrible name he’d come up for Harry. 

Hershel. He didn’t know its meaning, but one of Pansy’s pig-nosed cousins was named Hershel. The ugly boy and comparing it to Potter was hilarious. The fact that they looked nothing alike didn’t ease his amusement. It was a sufficient distraction from the terrible feeling that had settled into his gut the second he realized they were in the wrong time. 

That amusement, of course, went away the second that he and Potter had somehow ended up in the wrong houses. 

The first thought that went through Draco’s mind when he was sorted into Gryffindor was, Not only do I have to pretend to be friends with Potter, but now I also have to share a room with the bastard?  

The second: I’m not a Slytherin anymore.

The third: Fuck me.

He joined the other Gryffindors feeling like someone had sent a heating hex throughout his hands and face. He didn’t look at anyone as he sat in between loud, cheering, annoying Gryffindors, opting to stare at the cup of tea in front of him. How could he possibly be Gryffindor? He had never done anything reckless, or endangering, or stupid in his entire life. He wasn’t made for their chaos, despite what the sorting hat said would be good for him. He liked having rules he knew how to follow. He enjoyed knowing the right things to say and the easy way to make it to the top. 

Gryffindors didn’t like to play by those rules. 

They didn’t like to play by any rules. 

“So, you’re new,” said a boy with long, curly black hair, and Draco couldn’t deny how handsome he was. That was, until he said, “The name’s Sirius Black. What about you?” 

Draco’s face went sour almost immediately, and he was grateful for the glamour that kept Sirius’s blue eyes away from his face. He knew about Sirius, having been completely erased from the family tree, long before Draco was born. But he forced a polite smile and said, “Dawn Martin.” A horrible Muggle surname, but one Dumbledore insisted on, as any pureblood name would make it easy for people to figure out the lie. At the very least Draco could choose his first name. Dawn.

A random piece of toast hit Draco’s head. He swiveled to its perpetrator, wishing he didn’t have a glamour so they could see his glare—only to stop in his tracks and stare. This was clearly James Potter. He’d seen portraits, of course, in history books, but pictures never reached every curve of an individual. James Potter really did look just like Potter—well, Harry. He supposed he’d have to start calling him Harry, if he were to distinguish between the two Potters. They had the same hair and glasses, the same chin, cheekbones, and nose. 

But where Harry’s eyes were green and wide, James’s eyes were brown, downturned. And Harry had a shorter forehead, much unlike five-head over here. And, well, Harry was… darker. Physically, he was tanner, as if he’d spent hours playing quidditch and swimming and having fun in the sun, his skin almost golden. But more than that, his entire countenance was darker. Always had been. Even when they were kids. James smiled with the ease of someone who had never experienced pain. . Po—Harry had always seemed a bit more… tragic. Which Draco knew came from being an orphan and having Voldemort after him from the first day of school. Even when Harry laughed with friends, a straight brow always formed once the laughter was over, as if happiness was something that couldn’t be held for longer than a moment. It was something that had always made Draco’s chest squeeze with discomfort, before he shoved it down and covered it up with insults and mocking jokes. 

That gaze was more common now that the war was over.

James was boyish, and a dimple popped through as he smiled under bright eyes, as he said, “Sorry about that, Dawn. That was meant for Sirius and his nosiness.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Asking someone’s name isn’t nosey, James.” He smirked over at Draco and pointed to James. “Can you believe this guy?” 

“It isn’t the question that was nosy,” said James as he laughed heartily and threw another small piece of toast. “It’s the fact that you didn’t even give him two seconds to breathe before you asked it.” 

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Remus Lupin, so quickly and smoothly that Draco was sure he was trying to stop something else from happening—and from the way Sirius’s hands were reaching for his own plate without silverware, Draco could imagine what. Remus gave a weary smile to Draco. “I’m Remus. I can’t imagine how stressful it must be to start school this late into Hogwarts.” He scooped some eggs onto his plate.  

“Hogwarts is nice,” said Draco in a vague response, turning back to his tea. He lifted it to his face, and took a sip as James and Sirius started bantering about something Draco wasn’t listening to, and Remus turned back to his food, and Draco wasn’t sure if he really wanted to look at anyone else at the table, not at least until he’d gathered his bearing and accepted the fact that he was in Gryffindor. Although, that could take the entire time that they were stuck in 1977. 

And then, before Draco could even finish his tea, there it was. The voice that made Draco’s appetite go away instantly. 

Peter Pettigrew. 

That rat. 

The rat who was now dead. 

“What year are you in?” 

The reality that he was eating breakfast with a bunch of ghosts crunched all his ribs together, and he fought back the desire to throw up. Which was ridiculous. Ridiculous enough that he was able to hold down the bile before he turned his gaze across the hall to Harry, who was staring at an empty plate with an equally empty expression. 

“Seventh year,” Draco said after too long of a beat passed, holding his hands tightly in his lap. “Me and… Hershel both.”

The name wasn’t as funny with that look on Harry’s face, and guilt joined his the horror and disgust that swirled in his gut like the spell house elves used to wash clothes. 

They followed his gaze. “That your friend?”

Draco nodded his head stiffly, sticking to their plan. He might as well lean into it. He knew Harry Potter would never actually have Draco as a friend, but they would pretend. “Yes. Grew up together. We were homeschooled. Until, ah, the attack.” Then, remembering what Harry said about how people didn’t ask questions when you pretended to be a sad orphan: “Both our parents are dead now.” And then, to really drive it home to not talk about it: “He’s all I have left.” 

There was a beat of silence. And the teasing, light nature that had been dancing in the air between the four of them disappeared.  

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Remus Lupin, his fork hovering over his egg. 

Pettigrew nodded, and Draco’s skin crawled. Though, his next words made him pause. “My parents were also killed. Two years ago, but I know what it’s like. If you want to talk about it.”

Draco nodded slowly, unsure how to take that. And he finally looked at Pettigrew. He was much shorter than the other Gryffindors, but he had the most striking difference between them all. It seemed that living as a rat for 12 years hadn’t done him any good. Here, at age 17, he looked… young. Happy. His two front teeth were still much too big for him, so much so that he seemed to struggle to keep them in his mouth even as they were closed, but his sandy blonde hair was shiny, and his eyes were still full of life. 

What had happened to him that made him turn to the Dark Lord?

The fact that he was here like this made Draco envious, a feeling Draco was used to but never enjoyed. If he’d had friends like these, Draco never would have done what he’d done. He would have found a way to save his mother—and his father, if he’d needed to. But Lucius didn’t want to be saved. Lucius Malfoy enjoyed the darkness that had drowned Narcissa and Draco like the black lake, dragging them both down until they couldn’t breathe. 

They hadn’t been able to leave. 

Even when Draco asked her, one hushed night. 

And here Pettigrew was, with friends who clearly loved him, with no parents to try and protect. Light in his eyes and nothing holding him back, a Gryffindor, the loved house. 

Why had he done it?

It made Draco hate him more. 

“Thanks,” he said finally, the word tasting like a popsicle made of gnats. When in Rome... “I’ll let you know.”

And then, the mood suddenly shifted right back, as if Draco hadn’t said something incredibly depressing, and they continued eating and buttering pieces of toast and ignoring the fact that more crumbs were already being sent across the table. 

“Anyway, since you’re going to be our roommate,” said James with a grin, “what do you say we… inaugurate you with some fanfare.”

“Your tone suggests,” Draco said with his nose in the air, “that I should be quite concerned.” 

Sirius and James both gasped dramatically, and then looked at each other in mock offense. “How could he say that about us, James?” Sirius asked, holding a hand to his chest. 

“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” said James as he wiped a fake tear from his eye. “We bring him in, offer him toast, and he slanders our good name.” 

“Just look at him,” said Sirius, leaning across the table and stage-whispering to James. “Back straight like he swallowed a ruler. Hair parted like he’s due at the Ministry in an hour.” 

Merlin, every single Gryffindor was born to be insufferable. 

James nodded seriously as Remus shook his head with a small smile on his face. “Leave him alone,” he said, though there wasn’t much umph behind it. “Let him in easy.”

Sirius scoffed, but he put an arm on Remus’s shoulders, leaning in too close to another bloke to be completely platonic, nose inches from his cheeks. “You know we can’t do that, Moony. If he’s gonna dorm with us, it’s trial by fire.” 

Remus rolled his eyes and took another bite of his food, pushing Sirius off of his shoulders, a slight pink to his upper cheeks. Draco raised an eyebrow, for two reasons. The first, that Sirius Black was an obvious flirt. The second, what werewolf in their right mind would let themselves be nicknamed Moony ? He might as well just called himself Wolfwere , for all of its subtleties. 

“You’d be surprised at how good I am at dodging fires,” Draco said, turning his nose up. “I suggest you do trial via lukewarm water.” 

It made Sirius bark out a laugh, a shocking, loud sound that stung Draco’s ears. “Don’t worry, Dawn. You’ll get the royal treatment.”

James nodded solemnly. “He does have the whole tragic aristocrat thing going for him.” 

“Tell me,” Sirius continued, “what’s a good nickname for you?”

“I—what?” 

“Sir Broods-a-lot?” James suggested. 

Peter’s head—which had been bobbing back and forth between them like a quidditch spectator—said, “Oh! What about Mr. Posh?”

James shook his head. “Definitely not. He’s much more of a Captain Cravat.”

Draco drank the last of his tea as even Remus laughed. He wasn’t used to this type of teasing, and he couldn’t quite decide if they were being cruel or not. He probably would assume cruelty if he hadn’t seen them speaking to each other with the same tone and easy smiles. It made him wish to go to bed. 

Draco scoffed. “Captain Cravat?” He lifted his head higher and reached for the spelled kettle. “Darling, if I’m a captain, you’re barely the cabin boy.” 

There was a beat of silence, before the four of them burst into laughter, loud, rambunctious, and Draco paused at the lack of subtlety. 

“This one can hold his own,” Sirius said, smacking the table with his laughter. “Think we can recruit him tonight?”

Before Draco could decide whether to throw more remarks, or simply drink his tea, a new voice broke through across the table. 

“Will you please behave ?”

Draco turned to the annoyed girl’s voice, deep but smooth. He paused when seeing her. Lily Evans. The books didn’t do her beauty justice, and a thought crossed Draco’s mind before he could hush it down— That’s where Harry got his beauty . 

He pushed down the thought just as quickly as it reared its ugly head up. Just another one of those annoying thoughts he was always fighting off.

But it was true. Harry was… not an ugly person. And actually, the more he looked at Lily, the more he realized how much Harry looked like her, despite his coloring, hair, and cheek bones matching James. Truthfully, their eyes were the exact shade of deep emerald green. Intense, striking, circular and wide. Her wavy, fiery red hair—elegant, as opposed to the terrible orange of the Weasleys—was pulled into a messy braid. And vaguely, he noticed the freckles on her nose. 

But those eyes. 

He wanted them to look at him. 

But thanks to the glamour, she wouldn’t.

“Sorry, Lily,” Sirius said with mock penitence. “But can you blame us? Seven years without a single transfer student, and suddenly we get a blond, shiny new toy to play with.”

“He isn’t a toy,” she said, huffing, rolling her eyes, and looking at the bottom of Draco’s chin. Probably the closest he could get to actually looking at him. “He’s a person, who’s probably overwhelmed, and your annoying loudness will certainly not help anything.”

James leaned forward on a hand, looking at her like she was made of stars. “Awh, Flower. Don’t be so serious. He likes it. Isn’t that right?” The patronizing tone made Draco sneer. 

“Don’t be a prick,” she said, tone much more scathing than before, narrowing her eyes. Certainly not what Draco had expected from Harry Potter’s two parents . Then, she turned to Draco, offering an empathic look behind the fire for James. “Ignore them. If they bother you, let me know. I’ll ensure they’re taken care of.”

“I’ll happily let you take care of me,” James said, a suggestive look crossing his smirk. “You let me know when and where.” 

She let out a strangled cry of outrage, and suddenly, her friends were all shouting at James Potter for his terrible comment, and Draco saw Lily reach for a cup. Before it was too late, Draco scrambled from his seat and took a step back right as she hit James with the cup of pumpkin juice, who simply raised his wand and cleaned it up just as quickly with a grin as if he’d done it hundreds of times, which seemed to piss her off even more. 

Draco watched it unfold with fascinated horror. This wasn’t awkward flirtation, at least not on her end—and if it was, then it was definitely the strangest sort of flirting he’d ever seen. But she wasn’t looking at him with the embarrassment of trying to hide her feelings. She was looking at him with disgust . 

Lily hated James Potter. 

And James, it seemed, was too bloody charmed with himself to notice or care. 

Draco sat back down slowly, blinking hard. A single, loud thought crossed his mind as they sat there: If they don’t get together, then Harry is never born . 

And he cared that Harry was born. 

Because if he wasn’t, then when they returned back to the present, Voldemort would never have been stopped when they were young. He would have simply risen to power. Maybe he would have completely taken over theWizarding World, would have already killed every Muggleborn. Maybe killed thousands of Muggles. 

And just because Draco had been told his whole life he was superior to Muggles and their magical posterity, that didn’t mean he believed it. Draco had long since realized the terror that stemmed from thoughts of superiority. Had felt the self-hatred and disgust and horror as he’d been forced to torture and kill Muggles, Muggleborns, and Wixen alike. 

They all bled the same red. 

He needed Harry Potter to be born. Without him, nobody would defeat Voldemort. No Boy Who Lived. No final battle. Just a reign of darkness and death. 

Draco would have to ensure that didn’t happen.

He wasn’t someone who liked to meddle, and truthfully, he knew he could get in a lot of trouble for meddling with time, if he was caught. But if his math was right, Lily and James had less than a year to fall deeply, madly in love. He knew, having read in history books, that they’d gotten married young , right out of Hogwarts, and had given birth to Harry almost immediately after.

He didn’t make a grand plan during the rest of breakfast. But ideas crept in as he sipped his tea. 

His eyes went back to Harry, across the hall. It was weird seeing him from this side. Harry still wasn’t eating. 

“We have Charms first thing,” Remus said as he emptied his plate and closed the book that had been hiding in his lap. “Ready to go?”

Sirius groaned, but James grinned up at him and said, “What’s your problem, Black? Not charming enough for it?”

Sirius laughed sarcastically, and then immediately dropped his face flat. “That joke was funny the first 300 times.”

James grinned, but Pettigrew said, “I thought it was funny.” 

“See?” James stood and patted Pettigrew on his back. “This guy gets it.” 

Despite himself, Draco let out a huff of air, which he played off as a cough. He certainly didn’t need to play into the ego of James Potter. 

As they walked to Charms and the other four Gryffindor boys joked around and started plotting a prank—annoyingly just like the Weasley twins—Draco was sure he didn’t like James Potter. He was an arrogant prick. If this had been a few years ago, Draco would say something about how he could see where Harry got it all from. 

But now, after the war… he wasn’t sure that arrogant was how he would describe Harry.

Nosy, sure.

Annoying, absolutely. 

Dark, under the surface.

But not arrogant. 

He thought about Harry’s hollowed face as he stared at his empty plate. And random flickers of memory passed his mind, unwarranted but making Draco interested and curious. Memories of Harry returning from school the beginning of each school year, tanned and thin. With that same hollowed look, when his friends weren’t looking. The look that Draco used to laugh at inwardly and assumed he was just upset to be away from his beloved Muggle family. He loved relishing in the knowledge that Harry was sad. Haunted. 

Now, he hated that he had that cruelty within him. 

It made him wonder if he was born to be cruel. Or if his father had somehow successfully iced it into him with his cold stares, stitched it into his heart every time he held the cane to the bottom of his chin to force it up high when he cried. Or maybe it was a mixture of both. Maybe he was born to be cruel, and his father just helped guide him into becoming the person he was meant to be. 

He hoped it wasn’t the case. 

Sometimes, he deluded himself into thinking maybe there was light within him. Goodness, somewhere deep inside. But being a constellation of dim, dying stars made that light hard to find. He could remember moments when he was little, before he could even see above the counters, when he tried to befriend the house elves that were his height. It was foolish. They didn’t look at him beyond a passing glance. None of them said his name. Just called him Master. 

Except Dobby. 

Dobby had brought him extra treats, against Narcissa’s wishes. 

Dobby played with him, despite his father’s commands. 

Until they got caught. 

Dobby had been beat with Lucius’s cane. Tears stained Draco’s cheeks as his father kicked his only friend.  And when it felt too much, he ran to his father, to implore him to stop, but in the movement, Lucius had turned and instinctively hit Draco with the cane. 

They both froze. 

Lucius stood tall, then, and looked down at Draco, who had been so stunned at the hit across his cheek that all he could do was hold it. He stared at his father who looked down at him coldly, a moment of regret passing through his eyes before they hardened. 

“You do not make friends with vermin less than you,” he said. “Don’t you ever forget it.” 

The next day, he introduced Draco to Gregory and Vincent. Told him he could do what he wanted with them, that they would be his friends if he wanted them so badly. That they could play what Draco wanted. 

They didn’t play what Draco wanted. In fact, they didn’t care much for what Draco had to say. He tried talking to them about stories his mother had read to him. He tried showing them his finger paints. He tried to get them to fly on his tiny broomstick collection with him. They didn’t care. They wanted to build with his blocks. Or run outside where there was mud . Sticky, dirty mud. 

Then, one day, Dobby walked into his bedroom as the three of them built blocks, his ears lowered as he carried snacks in his hands. He still had a bandage over his left ear from the beating. It made Draco feel funny, in a bad way. At the time, he didn’t have the words for it. 

But then Gregory guffawed. Pointed a finger. And said: “Your elf did something bad, haha, bad elf!”

Dobby’s eyes flickered to Draco’s briefly, a look of sadness passing through it. But then Vincent started laughing, too. And Draco needed a friend. So badly. 

So he said, “Maybe next time, father will get his eye.”

Dobby’s face went red as his friends laughed, and he lowered his head. Dropped off the snacks. And left. 

That funny feeling didn’t leave his gut with the exit. The door closing didn’t shut it off. But then he turned back to his friends, who were still laughing. And he went back to blocks. 

Dobby was a lesson he wouldn’t forget. 

Not that that mattered, Draco reminded himself as he walked into the Charms classroom, where Professor Flitwick was still the professor, looking like he’d just graduated. He stood on several books and smiled as students walked in, stopping when Draco passed through the door and ran over. 

“Hello, Mr. Martin!” he squeaked joyfully. “We’re so happy to have you. Let’s see… who can we sit you with?” He turned and stared out at the students sitting down at their desks of 2-3 students per group. He stopped on one of them. “Miss Evan’s!” He exclaimed. “Come here.” 

Lily turned her head quickly at the call, and stood just as quickly, her head held high as she looked up at Draco‘s chin, offering a grin. He decided he would get very tired very quickly over people not being able to look into his eyes. 

“This is Lily Evans,” Flitwick stated happily. “She’s our head girl. What do you say to her being your partner?” 

Draco jutted a hip to the side as he lazily lifted a hand. “I suppose that should do.” 

To his surprise, having expected her to react the same way she did to James, she laughed. “Come on,” she said as they headed to an empty desk. “It isn’t too bad.” 

They sat in the chairs. Draco tried to not feel strange that he didn’t have any supplies yet and would be spending today’s classes empty-handed. Dumbledore was planning on getting him and Harry clothes and supplies today, and they would all show up on their respective beds before the end of the day. For now, Draco didn’t have anything. Except his wand. 

Not that his wand truly was his. 

He refused to dwell on that. 

“I’m sorry you have to deal with them ,” she said as she pulled out her quill, ink, and parchment, before nodding her head towards James Potter and his friends. “Remus and Peter aren’t too bad. But James and Sirius? Insufferable.” 

Draco held back a sigh. He couldn’t believe he had to meddle. “They can’t be that bad, can they?” 

She glowered. Before she could respond, Flitwick started to give instructions for a new charm, and they set to work, practicing on a block of dirty, unrefined gold. They were supposed to be doing a purification charm. Something Draco doubted he could do. Everything he touched became worse. He didn’t want to make the gold worse.

He pretended to try to pass the time. In reality, he was sending blank spells for about twenty minutes before Lily continued. 

“And not only do you have to deal with them,” she continued as if no time had passed, “you have to room with them. If you want, I can try and convince Dumbledore to let you room with a different year.”

Draco sneered. “I’d rather have my own room.” Or one with Harry.

The thought made him jerk his hand back and accidentally send a stinging curse to the back of Remus’s head, who turned and searched for the culprit. Lily grinned sheepishly and said, “Sorry, Remus. I tripped.” 

Bloody Gryffindors. Always playing the martyr.

Remus offered a small smile. “No worries.” His eyes flickered to Draco’s chin. “Be careful about her. She’s scary.” 

Lily scoffed. “I wouldn’t need to be scary if you kept your friends in check.” 

James heard that, and from two desks ahead, he turned, and sent a small charm to Lily’s piece of gold, which immediately turned to the specific shade of gold they were all searching for. “You’re welcome, dear,” he said loudly. 

Which made Lily’s face turn the same red as her hair. “James Potter, you foul, irritating creature. Can you just make one day go by without making things about yourself?”

His smirk deepened. “I could make every day about you , if you let me.” 

“Fuck off,” she said angrily. 

Draco watched them with an unfortunately growing level of horror, as James offered another cheeky grin and turned back to his own work and called for Flitwick to check it over, and Lily turned back to her own work, glaring at it harshly. 

How was he supposed to fix this ? 

Well, how did you get Harry to stop hating you so much?  

The thought was annoying. Once again, an annoying thought about Harry James Potter. Draco shoved it away. Because while Harry didn’t want him to rot in Azkaban, and they had an awkward truce, that didn’t mean Harry didn’t hate him. It just meant he didn’t want him dead. 

A reality that Harry wouldn’t have once they got back to 1998. 

But it did make him think what he could have done differently over the years for Harry to not hate him. Maybe not put down his friends for being poor. Or Mud…

…

His eyes flickered back to Lily.

…

… Muggleborns. Or make fun of anything bad that happened to Harry. Or join the Inquisitor's Squad. Or breaking Harry’s nose on the train, despite how warranted it was. Or done a plethora of other things. 

Not that Harry was blameless. Beyond just rudely snuffing him on their first day of Hogwarts, Harry had held his own. He’d reacted, called Draco a thousand names, spied and made it his mission to make Draco’s life miserable, and had fought back with even more vigor. Especially when his friends weren’t around to watch him. He’d given him scars that made Draco avoid mirrors now—something he used to spend hours in front of, obsessively fixing his hair, obsessively pouring over a red spot on his face, obsessively freaking out when he started filling out in places he didn’t want. Now, he avoided looking. 

Which. Again. Didn’t matter. Because right now, he was in Charms class. 

“Here, just take mine to practice,” Draco said, as he pushed it over to her. “I’m not going to get this one, anyway.” 

She looked up at him, a flicker of concern crossing her gaze. Her eyes crossed from ear to ear, never once landing on his eyes. “You said you were homeschooled, right? Will you need extra tutoring? There’s no shame if you do, I just… I’m here if you need extra support.”

He snorted. He definitely did not need extra tutoring. “No, it’s fine.” He nodded towards James. “Is he always like that?” 

She frowned, furrowing her brows. “Unfortunately. Thinks he’s so charming with his stupid grin and little jokes. They infuriate me. I would do anything for someone to humble him.” 

He raised an eyebrow. So. Maybe she didn’t hate him as much as it seemed. Sometimes love was easiest to swallow when blinded by hate. That’s what his mother told him sometimes, completely unprompted. “Well. I’ll see what I can do,” he said sardonically. 

“Please do,” she said hotly. Then, she turned her head down to the unrefined gold that he’d pushed to her side of the table. “Here, let’s do it together. Lift your wand up.” 

He rolled his eyes, but decided placating her would be the best way to keep her off his back. He had a feeling she would fight him if he said no. 

“Okay, so Flitwick said we use the same movement as leviosa, just with an extra flick at the end to the right. And then, the spell has to be said after the wand movement, but somehow we need to connect the magic to each piece, even though it isn’t at the same time. I think that’s my problem.” She huffed and mimicked the movement with her wand, but didn’t say the spell. “How do we do that?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “By feeling it.” 

She blinked. “Feeling what?”

He blinked right back. “The magic. You know, when it rushes through your wrist. Right—” he went to point to his left arm, in the inner forearm, the spot that always rushed with energy when he casted spells.

But he froze as his finger hovered over the spot. For almost a moment, he forgot he had the Dark Mark. He hadn’t felt it burn in months. But now that he was thinking about it, he felt the phantom burn. The calling. 

He dropped his hand. 

The magic in that spot wasn’t because of the Dark Mark. He’d always felt it, from the first case of accidental magic. And he’d always just assumed that Voldemort chose that spot to put the Dark Mark because of the magic that could be felt there. 

But at Lily’s confused look, he wondered if maybe it was a pureblood thing. 

“—in your wand arm,” he finished, feigning an implied obviously at the end. 

She looked down to her right arm. “I’ve never felt that.” 

He shrugged. “Maybe you just haven’t been paying attention.” 

She hummed. “Okay, well. Show me what you mean by connecting the magic, then. Maybe if I can see it…” she trailed off.

He stared at the unrefined gold. I can’t do it , he thought. I can’t purify things. “I’d rather not.” 

She turned and leaned her hip against the desk, facing him. “Just try,” she asked, grinning with a wide smile. And with a jolt, Draco realized that Harry had her smile, too. The same slightly crooked canine teeth and everything. 

Needing his thoughts away from those , he lifted his left arm, wand in hand. Waved it with a flick at the end. Felt the magic rushing through him, waiting for the words. And said in a bored tone, “Ablutio aurum,” towards the object, knowing it wouldn’t work. 

But it did. 

There, in the place of the unrefined mineral, was a perfectly purified gold nugget.

Something he couldn’t name lifted something within his chest. It wasn’t pride, exactly—that was something he could recognize at any moment. It wasn’t happiness, either. 

“See?” Lily said, her smile widening somehow. “I knew you could do it.” 

Draco continued staring. What was that feeling that lit his chest? 

“Anyways, I better go ask for Flitwick for a new piece so I can keep practicing,” she said, grabbing both gold nuggets off the table. “Be right back.” 

As she walked away, it hit him. 

He recognized that feeling. 

It annoyed him. 

Hope. 

Chapter Text

Dawn [Noun]

The time of day when light first appears in the sky, just before the sun rises. 

Harry watched Malfoy leave the room with the marauders, feeling jealous and empty and confused. It still wasn’t processing that he was wearing green and silver. That he was sitting across from the table that he’d found home in. Being in the wrong year was less comprehensible than being in Slytherin. 

Just as breakfast was coming to an end and Harry realized he had no idea where he was supposed to go and what he was supposed to do—a twinge of annoyance at Dumbledore for probably having some plot about him making friends instead of just giving him a class schedule—Professor Slughorn walked over to his table, where he looked down at Harry with an empty smile and disinterested stare, the exact opposite of the look he’d given him years ago. 

“Mr. Parker,” he said, cheeks and nose just as rosy as the last time Harry saw him, and just as wrinkled, too. “Welcome to Slytherin house. I know we only have a little less than a year to get to know each other, but I look forward to doing so.” He smacked his lips and then suddenly disappeared from beside Harry’s side. Harry followed him with his eyes, as he walked over to… Severus Snape. 

Harry’s throat felt tight as Snape—Severus stood, shoulders hunched and book tight in hand, and followed Slughorn back to where Harry was sitting. 

It was impossible not to stare. Severus looked radically different, but way less different than Harry might have imagined so up close. There were no wrinkles on his face, and his nose was just as large and hooked as it was the last day he saw him. Here, his skin was less sallow, tighter, but he didn’t see any happiness behind those heavily lidded, onyx eyes, dark circles decorating them like paintings. And where he looked unbidding and threatening as an adult—at least to Harry’s 11-year-old self—here, he looked almost… artistic. Like he was stepping out of one of those paintings he saw in one of his field trips during primary school at a Muggle museum. Still, unmoving, unlike the paintings that littered the Hogwarts hallways. Still as he was in death. But unlike in the Shrieking Shack, where he’d looked like a tormented soul finally being let free as he said goodbye to Harry, here, he looked… like he was still ready to fight. 

“This is Severus Snape,” introduced Professor Slughorn with a grim smile. Completely uninterested in Severus. “He’s your roommate, and the only other seventh-year Slytherin, so I expect him—” he gave a sharp look to Severus— “to guide you to and from classes until you get the hang of everything.” 

Severus didn’t say anything. Just gave a sharp nod, not looking at Harry. He couldn’t tell if it was due to the glamour or something else. 

Feeling strange and recognizing how weird it was that he was staring at Severus—whether or not he could tell—he cleared his throat awkwardly and held out a hand. “I’m Ha—Hershel.” 

Finally, Severus looked up, gaze landing on his chin, one mocking brow lifting high. “Hayershel. Well. Welcome to Slytherin.”

There was something jeering in his tone, and Harry wondered if he’d been born with it. 

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “Glad to be here.” 

The other eyebrow rose, as if he caught onto his clear dislike of his current housing situation. 

Harry cleared his throat, not wanting to make an enemy out of Severus. “So, er, classes?” 

Professor Slughorn gave a swift nod. “Right. I’ll let you two to it.” 

And then it was just Severus and Harry. 

“Herbology first,” Severus said shortly. “Then potions. And I suppose…” he drawled out the word. “… I’ll show you Slytherin common room and where you’ll sleep. You can figure out the rest.”

It was not as helpful as Harry would have liked, but he accepted it. Harry feigned ignorance by moving to the wrong hallway as they walked to the greenhouse, Severus giving him an odd look when he did, but to Harry’s surprise, he didn’t send any scathing remarks his way. Professor Sprout introduced them to their assignment, which would essentially be boring work, picking the perfectly ripe herbs, citing the need for some exciting potions assignments that would be happening in the near future. Harry tried to not think too hard about that. 

“So,” said Harry as they finally got started on picking. “You’re the only other Slytherin 7th year.”

Severus plucked a leaf and then began slowly cutting it with scissors in a perfect spiral movement. “I believe we established that.” 

Harry grimaced. Since Snape’s death six months ago, Harry had spent hours awake at night, trying to sleep, fighting off the things he wished he could say to the dead. Wishing he could say sorry for causing so many problems. Wishing he could tell Snape that he wished things had been different. Wishing he could just have a conversation with the man. Knowing he never would. 

And now, he was alive in front of Harry. But he still couldn’t say those things. Because although Severus was in front of him, none of that mattered. To this Severus, none of those things that Harry wanted to apologize for, to talk about, had happened yet. 

“True,” Harry said finally, trying for a sheepish grin. “But, um. Well. Er. Tell me about yourself.”

Severus didn’t look up as he plucked another leaf. “No.” 

Oof. Okay. 

Harry looked around helplessly. He didn’t want to force an awkward friendship with the man, but… he had so much he wanted to say. 

And if he couldn’t say them, then couldn’t he at least connect?

How was he supposed to make friends with Severus Snape? He thought of his current friends, how they became close. Maybe he could recreate it. 

Two seconds of that line of thinking, and he threw it out the window. Fighting a troll was out of the question. So was breaking into the Ministry. And, well. Probably playing Exploding Snap, too. 

What else could he do?

He tried to remember everything he knew about Snape up to this point. Okay. He’s 17, he thought. He’s already become the self proclaimed half-blood prince. 

He’s already become interested in dark magic. 

He may already be a death eater. Or at least close to it. 

Great. 

But Harry still had much to say. 

 “Er, okay. Well, ehm, I’m. Er. What’s your favorite class?” 

“Dark Arts.” 

Harry blinked. “Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

Severus moved the scissors as smoothly as water. “I said what I said.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Cool.”

A beat. 

“You’re pretty good at that,” Harry said, pointing to the spiral leaf. “Meticulous.” 

“What an advanced word,” Severus said sardonically, not even offering a glance his way.

Harry fought off a large sigh. He shouldn’t be surprised it wasn’t easy to talk to him. 

But he knew there was more to him. 

Severus had been a child once. In front of him, he was a teenager. Probably full of fiery rage, in some moments. And softness, in others. 

Right now, he was just… closed off. 

Harry didn’t like it. He almost wished Severus would make fun of him, the way Harry was used to. Call him a dunderhead or something. 

“So,” Harry continued after a few minutes of awkward silence. “We’re roommates.”

Severus nodded. Once. “Yes.” 

Harry let out a strangled laugh, and his smile felt tight. “That should be fun…” 

What in the world was he supposed to say to a 17-year-old Severus Snape? The boy of a man he was still grieving? 

“For whom?” 

Harry snorted, despite the awkwardness. “Both of us, hopefully.” Then, when he didn’t respond: “So, Slytherin. What’s that like?” 

For the first time, Severus’s eyes flickered up to him, but just before it landed on his face, they circled from his chin to his ear to his hair, before landing back on his chin, a small frown forming on his face. His lips formed into a small o, and Harry could read the word glamour on his lips as they moved, making Harry’s eyes widen and his heart stop. 

He couldn’t believe he’d been suspected on the first day. 

Severus didn’t say anything about it. But he did sound slightly more interested when he said, “Slytherins are everything they expect us to be. And more.” 

It was vague enough, but Harry’s eyes flickered to Severus’s left arm. Wondered, once again, if he’d already taken the mark. And then looked back to Severus’s face, which had turned back to his cutting, his profile almost artistic. There was something very striking about the way he looked when he wasn’t barking orders or snapping at students in a foggy Potion’s classroom. When he was just…. Quiet. 

He looked like he’d been made from clay, with chunks missing underneath his cheekbones, and like someone had used fingers to claw and mold it. Harry had always avoided looking at Snape’s face for the most part, mostly out of disdain while he was still alive, and while his nose was still just as hooked and bumpy as always, Harry wasn’t sure if he’d ever truly allowed himself to notice the rest of his face.Thin lips under a weak chin, and deep-set, dark eyes looking intensely at the leaf in front of him. He looked like he was born to be in one of those claymation films Dudley was scared of as a kid. Animated. Alive. 

His features were almost the opposite of Malfoy’s, whose every feature seemed to come to a particular, precise point, almost as if he’d been sculpted out of marble. His long, sharp chin, and pointy nose made him look like he belonged in the high society he grew up in. Regal and tall, back straight at every moment, even when he leaned against walls. In a way, he seemed fragile. The way that a chopstick was fragile—put too much pressure, and he’d snap. He was—and Harry would kill anyone who used Legilimency on him to hear him say this word—pretty. 

He shook his head and zeroed in on his own leaves. He didn’t know why he was thinking about Malfoy right now. 

“Cool,” Harry said finally. “I’m so pumped to be a Slytherin.” 

The rest of class passed slowly and silently. Severus didn’t look at Harry again, and Harry didn’t look at Severus. They focused on cutting leaves into perfect spirals for the last hour and a half, prepping for Potion’s. 

Which was their next class. 

Harry walked down to the dungeons, feeling strange walking next to Severus’s side, as opposed to entering into the room and having to settle in under his unnerving gaze. They didn’t have to wait outside of the classroom, as the door was already open, and Severus entered with Harry, into an already half-full classroom, with students from all four houses.

His eyes landed on dark red hair almost immediately, sitting in the second row as she chatted with her partner happily and animatedly. Harry felt an odd ache in his chest, a throb, a pang, with each step he took towards Professor Slughorn’s desk. He barely even noticed when Severus sat down with someone else, and only looked up when the light from the candles flickered across Malfoy’s blonde hair and caught his eye. He stood next to Professor Slughorn’s desk, a hand lazily lifted in the air as his arm rested against his hip.

“Mr. Parker,” said Professor Slughorn as Harry reached him, his cheeks rosy and high. “Since you and Mr. Martin have shown up so late into the year, I’m taking it on Dumbledore’s word that you’re prepared for this class. I’ll put you two together and see what you’re made of, yeah?”

Harry smiled grimly. But then, when he sat next to Malfoy at the desk, he felt a moment of relief. 

“I never thought I’d say this," Harry said. “But I’m glad to see you. Severus is as intimidating as ever.”

“Hm.” Malfoy started pulling out the ingredients that Slughorn began writing on the board. “I can’t relate. I fear your parents are rather… entertaining.” Then, after a moment: “Though your dad’s a dick.” 

Harry looked away, irritation forming in his chest. He couldn’t tell if Malfoy was trying at a joke or not, but Harry didn’t want to hear about how his father was a dick. “So I’ve heard,” he said darkly. 

Malfoy raised a slow eyebrow. “Touchy.”

“You just told me that my dead father is a dick,” Harry said dryly. “Should I say thank you?”

“I was expecting more of a fight, actually.”.

“Ah, well.” He reached for the beetroot and started slicing. “Next time I’ll throw a punch.” 

A small huff of air left Malfoy’s nose, and the pride that passed Harry’s chest felt completely unwarranted over making Malfoy laugh. 

Professor Slughorn finally turned back to the class. “Today, we’re going to be doing the first half of the Clarum Mentis Draught—the Clarity of Mind potion. Its name is pretty descriptive of its properties. Perfect to take right before important tasks, illegal to take for exams, and highly addictive. However, when taken in the right place and the right time, it can do the drinker a lot of good.” He picked up the Potion’s book. “On page 126, you’ll see the form in which the marble leaves need to be cut, in perfect spirals. We’ve had our herbology students help with that, but ensure that they’re cut just like the diagram; otherwise, your potion could have some unexpected consequences.”

They started picking through the best ingredients, and Malfoy lifted up one of the tiny, spiral leaves. “This what you did all morning?” he asked, clearly unimpressed.

“Sure did. Did it perfectly, too,” Harry shot back. 

Malfoy grabbed another one, jagged. “I’m sure.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Just pick the one you like best and we can get started.” 

They continued working on their potion. Harry couldn't help but keep his earlier thoughts out of his head, the realization that Malfoy was annoyingly carved from marble. His gaze landed on Malfoy’s hands as he worked on putting the ingredients that Harry prepared at the perfect bubbling heats, at the precise moments, at the particular angles they needed to be. They worked in fairly pleasant silence, as only passing words related to the potion, until it was time to simmer. Once it was done simmering for a minute, they’d add in some cardamom and let it simmer for another hour. Then, three more pinches of mint before class ended; the rest of the potion would be completed after it had enough time to be placed under falling snow for exactly 7 days. 

“You’re kind of good at this,” Harry said as they stared at the bubbling liquid.

Malfoy looked up, vaguely affronted. “I’ve always been good at this. Are you just now noticing?”

Harry shrugged, a small humorous smile forming on the edges of his lips. “Possibly.”

“Hmph.” Malfoy huffed again as he smoothly reached down for the hard cardamom and grinded it up in three smooth swipes. “Well, I’ve always noticed your dimwittedness in this subject.”

Harry snorted, and quietly, under the hum of students talking, said, “Wow, we’re going to make such great friends.” 

Malfoy frowned, and when he threw the next three pinches of cardamom into the cauldron, his movements weren’t as smooth. “Please,” he said airily, contrasting with the irritated movement. “There’s no way you’d want to be friends with me, Potter.”

That word made Harry pause. Not the accusation. His name. 

Potter.

Harry blinked, the name echoing in his head, ringing oddly loud. 

Fuck. 

The Map.

“Shit,” he said suddenly. 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

“No—not that,” Harry said as he leaned closer, and he was surprised to see a flicker of disappointment cross Malfoy’s face before being quickly replaced with a cold sneer. Harry shook his head again, deciding that was a later problem. “I need you to help me get into Gryffindor Tower, he whispered. 

Malfoy leaned back, his sneer deepening as he said with disgust, “Why would I help you do that?” 

“I…” Harry huffed. “It’s a long story. But I promise I’ll explain it if you take me there.”

“Explain it to me first.” 

Harry frowned. “M—Dawn.” 

Malfoy sneered deeper. “Fuck you.”

Harry huffed. “Fine. I’ll explain it, but not here.” He looked around, seeing Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew in the back corner, laughing quietly over something on their desk. They were here, but Harry didn’t know where James and Sirius were—they could be anywhere. Hopefully class. “We should probably go, like, now.”

“Now?” Malfoy huffed. “We’re in the middle of class. I’m not sneaking you into my room in the middle of class.”

“The middle of class is the perfect time to sneak into your room,” he said plainly. “We need to go when no one else is there. Before tonight.” At Malfoy’s unimpressed look, he emphasized: “Before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” 

“I told you,” Harry said, fighting for control, “I’ll tell you when we aren’t here.” 

“And what do you suggest I do, Hershel?” he said, his name sounding like a curse on Malfoy’s tongue. “Raise my hand and ask politely to leave in the middle of our potion?”

“No,” Harry said as if it were obvious, even though he himself didn’t yet have a plan. Harry glanced around the room, searching for a distraction. There was only one idea that came to his mind, and he sighed a long, long sigh before looking back to Malfoy with a tired grin. “I’ve got an even better idea.” And then, in one quick movement, he took one of the ladles, scooped a small amount of the potion, and put it in his mouth. 

Malfoy’s seeked skills were apparently delayed as he smacked the ladle out of Harry’s hand. It was too late. Harry already swallowed the foul-tasting potion, it tasting more like chunky sludge than pumpkin juice, and Malfoy immediately rounded on him.

“Are you STUPID?!” he shouted, and the rest of the room turned immediately silent as heads turned to the two of them. “Who taught you to do that?”

Harry grinned, feeling everyone’s eyes on them. “Your parents.” 

Malfoy’s wide eyes twitched as his nostrils flared, his face turning red almost instantly. With clenched fists, he turned to Professor Slughorn and said, “I swear I am not this incompetent. And, we should probably go to the hospital wing.” 

Professor Slughorn walked over from where he’d been talking with Lily Evans, and Harry let himself have a selfish moment where he looked at her, almost looking directly at him, and took in as much of her as he could in the split second. She was so lovely, her skin pale and with a few freckles across her nose, but before he could let himself memorize each of her features, Slughorn stood in between them, looking down at them with a confused smile.

“What’s the issue?” he asked, putting his hands on his belly. 

“Your student,” Malfoy said as if trying to emphasize that the word student was a generous term, “took some of this unfinished potion.”

“I was taste-testing it,” Harry said, smiling innocent, and he could swear he heard steam leave Malfoy’s ears. 

“Oh, dear,” said Slughorn, his smile not wiping from his face, looking down at the top of Harry’s head. “How are you feeling, dear boy?” 

Harry shrugged. “I feel fine.” And he did. But then, he kept talking, something he did not mean to do. “Did you know that you have a booger in your nose?”

He blinked. So did Slughorn. Then, students started giggling. So did Slughorn. 

“The effects have begun,” he said in a jolly tone. Harry was relieved he wasn’t angry, but he was deeply confused as to why he said that. “An early stage of this potion is actually known as another potion. The Aperta Mentís. In other words, The Open Mind potion.”

Harry froze. “Open mind?” 

Slughorn nodded, and turned to the class. “The effects of letting it chill in the snow is what makes the drinker become internally clear, and not externally clear. Before the snow-chill, the drinker will gain effects, such as sharing most thoughts that come to their head. There’s not much you can do except wait it off for now.”

Harry’s heart stopped. “Like Veritaserum?”

Slughorn shook his head. “Not exactly. What you think isn’t necessarily the truth. It’s just… your thoughts that come out. Although, if what you said about my nose was the truth, I suppose I should excuse myself for a moment.” He chuckled, and the students giggled, too. 

Harry could feel his face almost as red as Malfoy’s. “How long will it last? There’s a lot I don’t want people to know.” He glanced to Lily, and then accidentally said out loud, “Like about my dead parents.” 

Slughorn’s smile dropped almost as instantly, and then he glanced to Draco. For all Slughorn knew, Harry was referring to both their dead parents. Not that there was currently one of Harry’s dead parents sitting in that room. “I’m glad that thought didn’t come out. Oh, my God, Harry, shut up.” 

His eyes flickered to his mom, who was looking at him with a mixture of sadness and humor. Sadness in the eyes, her lips twisted in a smile. “I have to get out of here,” he said, standing up, and heading right out the door. 

“I suppose I should follow him,” Malfoy said, standing and following Harry out. “I’ll be back. Sorry, Professor—he doesn’t handle these kinds of things alone very well. A bit attached, if you ask me.” 

“I am not needy,” Harry said loudly, and the students behind him heard. 

And then, the two of them were walking in the empty hallway together, Harry with his hand clamped over his mouth, inwardly begging himself to not say anything. At the very least, they got out of class. Once they got the Map, he would find the best place to hide until the effects wore off. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco couldn’t believe Potter actually drank it. 

Was he truly stupid? Draco said it often, generally just to get a rise out of the Chosen One, but truthfully, he couldn’t imagine Harry being anything else now that he knew he would drink an unfinished potion on a whim. 

“I cannot believe you drank the damn thing,” he said, words coming out sharp, the disbelief evident. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”

Harry laughed, an almost giddy sound. “What am I gonna do? Die?”

Draco flinched before he could stop himself. He hated it, his muscles automatic and twitchy. A muscle memory. Or maybe it was jealousy at the thought. He couldn’t tell. “Yes, actually, you could have,” he said through teeth. “The issue with potions after sixth year is that yes, they can kill you.”

Harry didn’t seem fazed. Just shook his head, all casual carelessness. “Slughorn would have given me a bezoar before it got too bad.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “How are you so sure?”

But it seemed that Harry didn’t process the question. Seemingly random, he said: “Your legs are much longer than mind. By a longshot.” They turned another corner. “I’m surprised you're struggling to keep up with me.”

Draco made a noise of protest. “Struggling isn’t the word I’d use. I just don’t want to sprint. Can you slow down?” 

He reached out, grabbing Harry’s arm to tug him back, but Harry flinched intensely. Likely a symptom of the potion.

“Don’t hit me,” Harry said. 

Draco let go, but he rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to hit you, Potter. Don’t be so melodramatic.” 

Harry continued walking. “My uncle used to hit me.”

Draco stopped walking almost instantly. He stopped thinking for a second. Was that true, or was that just the potion spitting out intrusive thoughts?

“I hate this thing. Can we just go?” 

Draco stayed silent. How could he respond to that?

“I’m glad you’re not saying anything about that,” Harry said not even a moment later, but the words were strained, like he was fighting against the words. “I don’t think I could handle some weird attempt at pity. But I would also appreciate it if you didn’t look at me like that.”

Draco didn’t know what face he was making, but he forced a completely blank expression. The kind he would hold in front of The Dark Lord. 

Harry sighed. “Please start talking so I can shut up. Do you remember when we first met?”

The staircase beneath their feet rumbled and moved. Draco didn’t answer immediately. He watched Harry instead. 

“Yes,” he said dryly. “I remember the day you rudely rejected my offer of friendship. How could I forget?”

But Harry shook his head, as if it were the wrong answer. “No, I mean before that. In Madam Malkin’s.”

Draco blinked. “No?” He remembered only practicing the night before school, how he was going to talk to Harry James Potter, the best ways to impress him. He’d even practiced with his father. And when his father tired of it, he practiced with his mother. 

Harry didn’t stop. “You were a dick. Did you know the sorting hat originally tried putting me in Slytherin? My first year? But by then, I’d met you twice, and you were such a dick, so I asked it to put me in Gryffindor.” 

Draco’s jaw clamped shut, the words stinging more than he liked to admit. He let a moment pass to compose himself before saying, “Glad to know I always had such an influence.” 

“Do you regret it?” Harry said in response, quickly. He seemed like he was spiraling away, his hands jittery, talking fast, laughing weirdly. His eyes flickering. The burn of mania, that rattling in your feeling in your bones like you’d shatter if you stopped moving. He’d seen it in his mother. 

It made him want to stand closer to Harry. Maybe soothe it down, the way he would attempt with his mother.

The rest of the questions came in waves. 

 “Do you ever regret being like that? Those first few years? Or any of those years?” He sounded fuzzy, but Draco’s chest ached even worse with the questions. “I’m sorry I can’t stop asking questions. I wasn’t allowed to ask questions growing up, or I’d not be allowed dinner. Oh Jesus fuck, stop talking, Harry. Malfoy, please fill the silence.” He opened his mouth like he was going to say more about it, but then the two of them came into contact with a portrait of a large, pretty woman with brown curls and red lipstick. “Oh, thank Merlin. The entrance. Your turn to talk. Tell me your secrets.”

Draco crossed his arms once they arrived at the entrance. “I’d rather hear yours.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” Harry said just as quickly. “I mean, besides the whole stuck in the wrong time period thing.” 

“No secrets, hm?” It was a challenge. He didn’t mean to challenge Harry, but challenging Harry had always been so easy, so tempting. 

Harry had always been tempting. 

Harry huffed. “Don’t push it.” But then: “I once ate an entire bar of soap.” 

Draco blinked, his smirk turning into a confused smile. “Sorry?”

“I was five and hungry.” 

Draco snorted. “Surely you weren’t hungry enough to eat soap.”

“Oh, I was,” said Harry. “I threw up bubbles for about twenty minutes afterwards.” Draco imagined Harry Potter throwing up bubbles. “You’re mental.” 

Harry held up both hands helplessly. “I can’t control the spill. If I try to hold it in, it just… reroutes.”

“Reroutes?” 

Harry nodded. “I try and not think about something, and something else comes out. Did you know I’m not ticklish? Even a little?” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t?”

Harry shook his head. “Nope. It’s a funny story how the ability stopped, actually.”

Draco smiled. What could make someone not ticklish? “Funny?”

Harry laughed, a barking sound. It didn’t hold much humor, and Draco was secretly grateful when Harry said: “What’s the password?” 

Draco looked at him. Blinked twice. “How am I supposed to know?”

Harry blinked. “You don’t know?”

“I got here the same time you did, Potter,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “How am I supposed to know the password?” 

Harry groaned. “What the fuck, Malfoy? What the actual fuck? Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t know the password?” 

Draco shrugged. “I assumed you knew.”

“I told you that I needed you to sneak me into the Tower.” He groaned, and put a hand to his face. “You’re a real prick, you know that?”

In spite of it all, Draco laughed. And then, he started laughing harder, and after a few moments, Harry said, completely unprompted: “Once in first year, I accidentally called McGonagall ‘Nana.’ I don’t know why—I’ve never even met my grandparents.” 

It made Draco laugh harder. 

“Stop laughing,” Harry said, feeling hot and flushed and irritated. “I kind of despise that the first time you ever let out a genuine laugh in front of me is because of my embarrassment. Can’t you laugh cause I’m funny?” 

“You are funny,” said Draco through snorts, and he laughed so hard he would have sat on the floor if it wasn’t so dirty. “I think you may be the funniest person I know.”

“This is not funny,” said Harry hotly. “Once I had a dream where I married Lockheart and we opened a bakery together.” He shook his head. “That’s not true. Yes it is. But I assure you I woke up in fear. It wasn’t as bad as the dream where Voldemort was my dad and he tucked me into bed with a lullaby. Oh, God, I think my symptoms are getting worse.” 

Draco clenched his stomach through hard breaths, waving a hand in front of his face as if he were trying to find air. 

“I’m leaving,” Harry announced, turning and immediately heading towards the stairs. “You don’t get to hear anything else. I’ll come back later and figure it out myself.” 

“Wait,” Draco said, calling after him. “Tell me what we’re here for.”

“The Marauder’s Map,” Harry said before he could stop himself. “And fuck you for making me say that so loudly.” 

He was at the top of the stairs when Draco, who was still chuckling, reached Harry and put a hand on his shoulder. But then, Harry flinched back again, a moment of fear passing through his eyes, sucking the humor right out of Draco’s entire being. 

“Stop touching me,” he said, taking a step back, his back hitting the edge of the stairs. But in the movement, he tripped over the edge of the top stair, and almost fell backwards. Almost falling down the stairs. Draco reached out instantly, grabbing him, the idea of losing Potter in this godforsaken time debacle worse than having him in it. All trace of laughter was gone, fear replacing it. Draco’s eyebrows were flat, his hand firmly gripping Harry’s shoulder. Harry clung to Draco’s arm, his fingernails digging painfully into his skin.

“There’s something wrong with me,” Harry said, suddenly, and the words sounded strangely desperate. Making Draco’s chest squeeze. “There’s a lot of things wrong with me.” 

Malfoy frowned, and he pulled Harry a bit further from the stairs, until he gained his footing. They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Draco waited for Harry’s potion to make him say something else, but he didn’t say anything. So Draco spoke.

“Let’s just go… sit somewhere, okay? Empty classroom?”

Harry turned away from him, facing the stairs. “Leave me alone. I don’t want you to know anything else.”

Draco’s frown deepened. Then, he gently reached for Harry’s wrist instead of his shoulder this time. More cautious, more careful. He didn’t yank. Or tug. Just waited. 

Harry let himself be led. 

The nearest empty classroom was less than twenty seconds of a walk. Draco pushed it open, cast a silencing charm, and locked the door behind them. Harry slumped onto the floor, against one of the walls. 

“I feel stupid,” he said. “And I hate that you know I feel stupid. This is stupid. You’re stupid. Everything is stupid.” 

Draco didn’t say anything. He just walked over, surprisingly close to Harry, and sat next to him, his long leg landing straight in front of them both. 

“I bet you think this is so funny,” Harry said bitterly. 

Draco frowned further. “I did.” He sighed. “I don’t much now.” 

Harry let out a tch in frustration, and he looked down at his hands, as if they were telling him something. “Why not?” 

Draco pulled his legs up to himself, crossing his arms over them, and then put his head against his knees. He could tell Harry he felt guilty, but something told him that wouldn’t do him any good. So he just shrugged. “I just don’t.”

Harry looked away, narrowing his eyes at the floor. “Where was your empathy five minutes ago when you were laughing your stupid ass off?” 

Draco shrugged. “Dunno.” Then, his eyes flickered up to Harry’s. 

“You have surprisingly long eyelashes,” Harry said angrily. “And I hate your hair when you use gel.”

Draco blinked. Then, his lips tightened. Trying to hold back a smile. This was a much less overwhelming conversation than Harry’s uncle or Draco’s regrets. It was time to monopolize on it. “Notice my hair a lot, do you?”

Harry shook his head no, but his words betrayed him. “It looks stupid when you use gel.” 

Draco made a small, amused noise in the back of his throat. He didn’t push it too hard. Instead, he said softly, “Noted. I’ll ditch the gel.”

“You don’t have to ditch it,” Harry said quickly, sharply. “It’s your hair. Do what you want. Just—don’t talk to me when it’s all crispy.”

With that, Draco really did laugh, but he pushed it back down when Harry scowled. 

“You’re strange,” said Malfoy after a beat of silence. 

Harry scowled harder. But the anger in his eyes was quickly ebbing away into something else. Something sad. The quick emotional switches were probably more interesting than traveling back 20 years in time, and Draco shifted his head into a more comfortable position. 

“Yeah. Well.” Harry turned his head away from Draco. “Maybe if you grew up in a cupboard, you’d be strange, to.” Harry blinked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.” But then: “My guardians really sucked. Did your parents suck? Don’t answer that.” He clunked his head on the wall. “But I think it would be fair if you told me one of your secrets.” 

Malfoy huffed a laugh again, but he felt sick. What did Harry mean by his guardians being bad? Because up until two minutes ago, he’d always assumed Harry had been painfully pampered, raised in a golden cradle, adored by everyone, wrapped in safety and praise. It had always been easier to believe that. But now, he thought to the beginning of school, after summer, when Harry looked so gaunt and haunted over the summer. And suddenly, the times he’d laughed seemed much more cruel than before. 

He hated himself more for it. 

“I don’t have any secrets you’d find very interesting,” he finally said. 

“I have never disagreed with a statement more,” Harry said dryly. “I wish I could read your mind sometimes. A lot of the time.”

“Is that why you stalk me?” Draco said dryly, the corner of his lip lifted. He said it as a joke, but the idea of someone wanting to see him, to know him, made something terrible well in his chest. Something angry. Hurt. Like some sort of mammal was under the water, and it finally realized it was drowning, and it needed to swim up to grab air, but realizing it was too deep, and wouldn’t be able to reach the surface in time. 

“No.” Harry huffed. “I don’t know. Maybe. You’re just… easy to watch, I guess.”

Draco raised a brow, his mouth twisting in humor, feeling something else—almost dark, but not bad—forming behind his eyes. A terrible emotion. Desire. Trying to swim to the surface, making his heart stutter. 

Draco pushed it back down to choke. 

“I don’t mean in a bad way,” Harry clarified, completely misreading Draco’s expression, thank Merlin. “I just. I don’t know. You’re the most confusing person I’ve ever met.” 

Draco scoffed softly, his eyes not looking away. “You think I’m confusing?” The irony was insane. “I’m no such thing.”

Harry continued looking forward. “You are,” he insisted. “You make no sense.”

Draco looked away. Wishing he could vanish away, but also wishing he could reach forward. 

And then, Harry continued talking. Blurted it out like he’d been fighting it for quite a few moments. “I almost wrote to you this summer. You and your mother. Like, a bajillion times.” 

Draco stopped breathing. 

He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or cry, maybe. Because he’d finally accepted that there was nothing more for him in this godforsaken world. That his rotting home and rotting heart and rotting self had nothing left to look forward to. That no one would think twice if he was gone. Except his mother, of course. But she would be okay without him. She had her friends, and extended family. 

Draco had no one. 

But here Potter was. Telling him he almost wrote. Like he wanted to say something to Draco. 

Draco didn’t know if he wanted to listen anymore. 

He did, anyway. 

He became more still. He swallowed loudly. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Opened it again. And his tone came out way more vulnerable than he’d have liked as he said, “Why didn’t you?” 

Harry shrugged. Not looking at him. “I don’t know. I guess… I found a bajillion and one reasons not to. Thought you’d make fun of me. Or maybe I wouldn't be able to say the right thing. Or maybe I wouldn’t be able to… I don’t know. I’ve never been very good with words.” 

Draco didn’t look away. If Harry looked at him now, he swore he’d find a way to live after they made it back.. “What would you have said in it?” 

It was Harry’s turn to laugh. But it was shaky. Draco decided he’d blame the potion. Because there was no way Harry could feel anything other than contempt. Or apathy. Or annoyance. 

But then.

“A lot.” Harry let out a shaky breath. “Or maybe not very much. I’d say thanks. And apologize.”

Draco stared at the floor. “For what?”

“For… everything, I guess.” Harry exhaled again. “For the bathroom. That spell.”

A pause.

Oh. 

That. 

He wanted to tell Harry he hated him. That even after he jumped off the tower, he wouldn’t forgive Harry for it. That he could rot in his misery and his guilt for having done exactly what Draco deserved, make him bleed out in that fucking bathroom that Draco had spent too many hours crying in. 

But he didn’t. 

He couldn’t. 

Because if he wanted to leave things cleaner than the mess he’d made, he’d need to let Harry Potter absolve himself of his guilt. 

So he gave a noncommittal shrug. “It doesn’t matter now.” 

But Harry responded too quickly: “It does.” 

For the first time since they’d sat down, Draco lifted his head slightly, and rested his chin on his knees, looking forward. Away from Harry now. “It’s ancient history, Potter. I’ve let it go. Besides, I’ve done worse.” 

He felt Harry’s eyes on his face. Searching. “I can’t read what you’re thinking,” he said out loud.

Good. Don’t try.

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

Draco let out a small huff of a laugh. “No,” he said, hoping it sounded convincing.

“I don’t believe you.” 

Draco twisted back to him, a dry smile under dead eyes. He was so close to Harry, it almost hurt to see that green in his eyes. Not the green of Avada Kedavra. But the green of life. Of forests and mossy waters and beetles. So different from Draco’s dull, grey eyes. The dim star. “I don’t have the energy to hate anyone anymore,” he said, staring into that green. “Even if they did almost kill me.” He tried to smirk, but it felt crooked. “It’s not like I never did anything similar.”

“You never tried to kill me,” Harry said quietly. 

Draco turned his head. It was true that Draco hadn’t even tried killing Harry. But he had killed others, under The Dark Lord’s watchful gaze. He’d tortured people. He’d done things he couldn’t think of without feeling the dirtiness in every single cell of his body. 

“Would attempting to now absolve you of your lasting guilt?” Malfoy responded dryly. 

Harry let out a small laugh. “No. But maybe I’d stop seeing it in my nightmares.” A beat. “I didn’t mean to say that.” 

Draco swallowed. “You have nightmares about that?” About him?

Harry nodded. “I do. More often now that Voldemort’s dead. Like it was waiting in the back of my mind for him to die to remind me it was there.” He shrugged, but then looked back into Draco’s eyes, and the life suddenly seemed more fierce. Like it was ready to face a fire and not burn. “I mean it, Malfoy. I’m sorry.”

Draco lips tightened. “Would it help if I said I don’t think about it at all?”

“No,” Harry said. “I’d know you were lying.”

Draco sighed and sat up a bit straighter, leaning the back of his head against the wall. “Go back to telling me your fun secrets. Tell me your most embarrassing romantic endeavor.”

He expected Harry to refuse, but he spoke almost instantly. “It’s a toss up between my first kiss with Cho, and the time I high-fived Ginny after our first official date.” He blinked. “Fuck this potion.”

Draco snorted, and then he laughed, and he felt his body warm slightly with the humor. Just a moment of reprieve he could let himself have. “Merlin, Potter. I knew you were a mess, but that’s much more of a mess than I realized.”

A crooked grin made its way to Harry’s face. “Come on. Like you never had any awkward dates?”

Draco put a light hand to his chest. “I have always been the perfect gentleman.” It was true, just maybe not in the way Harry was imagining. 

“Come on,” Harry said, grinning. “Never accidentally kissed someone’s teeth? Never gotten food on your face during a dinner? Nothing?”

Draco hesitated. Then sniffed, lifting his nose into the air. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Come on. I know you have something.” 

“I really didn’t.” There was no sarcasm in it. “Believe it or not, Potter, some of us didn’t get the luxury of awkward teenage romances. I was a bit preoccupied with a Dark Lord in my home.” 

Harry blinked. “Er—but what about before then? Didn’t you and Pansy date?” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Defintely not. We were hardly even friends.” 

“But she was always hanging all over—”

“I know what it seemed like,” he said sharply. Then exhaled sharply. “We just… pretended. I suppose. To please our parents.” 

Harry blinked. “Why would you need to do that?”

Draco shrugged. It wasn’t like a complicated Arithmancy equation. “They wanted us to get married someday.” He looked to the ceiling again, tired. “Well—my father did. My mother was a bit more, ah, aware.”

“Aware of what?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Are you taking the piss right now?” 

A burst of laughter escaped Harry. “What Muggle taught you that phrase?”

The corner of his lips lifted. “Read it somewhere, probably.” 

“So?”

“So… what, Potter?”

“So,” Harry pressed, “what exactly was your mother aware of?”

Draco gave him a long look, rather unimpressed. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

Harry blinked. “Say what?”

Draco rolled his eyes again, much more dramatically as he exhaled slowly, as if Harry was the stupidest person he’d ever met. “That I’m gay, Potter. Now go take the piss somewhere else.” 

The stunned look on Harry’s face made him laugh despite himself. And it felt good to laugh. Not bitterly, or defensively, or a cover-up for a lie. But because Harry Potter was truly that daft. 

“You’re… what?” He blinked twice. “I’ve never met a gay person before,” he said, and then slammed a hand to his face.

Draco couldn’t stop laughing. “Merlin, Potter. You’re so... absent-minded.”

Harry’s cheeks turned enflamed. “I am not.”

“Bloody—you lived with two bloody gays for 6 years. You never noticed?!”

“Huh?”

“Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan!” Draco repeated, still half-laughing. “The whole bloody school knew. What did you think they were doing all the time? Practicing dueling footwork?”

Harry blinked. “I thought they were just… close. I mean, they argued a lot.” Draco laughed harder as something seemed to click in Harry’s stupid head. He narrowed his eyes. “But the sleepovers in each other’s beds was kind of weird. I just assumed one of them had nightmares or something.”

Draco couldn’t stop laughing. 

“How did you know, though?”

Draco glanced over at him, fighting to gain air. Through chuckles, he said, “About Finnegan and Thomas?”

“No. That you were—” Harry gestured vaguely. “You know.”

Draco let out a short breath. “Well, the sorting hat certain’t didn’t tell me, if that’s what you’re imagining.”

Harry flushed. “No, I didn’t think that.” 

Draco chuckled a little more, before becoming a little pensive. “I think  I just… always knew, I suppose. Thought about boys the way I was supposed to think about girls. But I didn’t know know until second year, during Quidditch. Locker rooms. You know.” He grinned at Harry. “Wandering eyes speak louder than vocal tongues.” 

Harry let out a strangled gurgle. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “But, like, everyone gets thoughts like that sometimes. It doesn’t mean you’re… that.” 

Draco’s smile froze, only to suddenly become a bit more devious. Something clicking in his mind, now, too. “Tell me, Potter. What kinds of thoughts do you think I'm referring to?” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “You know. Just… thoughts. God, Malfoy, I’m not giving you a list.” 

“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning in. “Just one. Who was it?”

“No one.”

“So not Diggory, then?” 

Harry sputtered. “What? No! I mean—he was just objectively attractive.” 

Bingo. Draco’s eyes narrowed as his grin widened. That was all it took, then. “Huh. Interesting.”

“I’m not gay, Malfoy,” Harry insisted. A little too fast, in Draco’s opinion. “I like girls.”

“Yep. And I like vanilla. Doesn’t mean I don’t gag at chocolate.” 

Harry squinted at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means that most blokes don’t get those kinds of thoughts.” He turned his head. “Do you think Weasley does?” 

Harry frowned. “Probably. I mean—he was obsessed with Victor Krum.” 

Draco shrugged. “So was half the castle. I’d bet my manor that he never once imagined what it would be like to kiss him.” 

Harry went quiet. Draco watched it happen in real time, the freezing up and panicked realization arriving at Harry’s thoughts even later than it did to Draco. He decided he’d have some fun and push it. Besides, he was doing Harry a favor. “Did you? Have those kinds of thoughts?”

“They’re just thoughts,” Harry said quickly. “They didn’t mean anything. Curiosity. It’s normal.” 

“Is it?” Draco asked, voice silken. “Did you imagine what his hands would feel like? What his mouth would taste like?”

Harry flushed scarlet, and for just a moment, Draco wanted to know what his mouth would taste like. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever thought the thought before, but it was the first time the thoughts felt fun and not miserable.

“I—shut up,” Harry said, face dark red.

And then, Harry’s eyes flickered to Draco’s lips. 

Just for a moment. 

But if it was enough to make Draco’s heart jump to his throat. Something pleasing, and desirable, and interesting. And a single thought crossed his mind: My last selfish act will be to snog Harry Potter. 

He let his eyes flicker to Harry’s lips, too, offering a whisper: “I think this is the first time I’ve been happy to be wrong about something.” 

Harry groaned, and put his head in his hands. “You’re wrong about whatever you think you’re now right about.”

Draco tilted his head. “And where is Miss Ginevra? You haven’t mentioned her once since we’ve arrived in 1977.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were still bright red. “It’s been six hours, Malfoy. I’ve had other things to worry about in the last six hours.” He turned away. “But, er. She ended it. Said being around her was too hard.” 

“I know something else that could make you hard.”

Harry huffed again. “I like girls.” 

“You know people can like more than just one gender, right?”

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

“Merlin’s beard, Potter.” The words came out with a breathy laugh at the same time. How could someone who’d escaped death so many times be so staggeringly oblivious? “Yes. Both. All. More than one gender. Some even none. You’ve really never considered the possibility?”

Harry shook his head. “If I had, my uncle would have beat the stuffing out of me. Once he—” He cut himself off suddenly, clearly catching himself, the words closing off like a trapdoor slamming shut. 

Draco didn’t miss the ways Harry’s face closed with it. The mask was slipping back on—whataever the potion had peeled away. Harry was fighting to recover it, the battle clear on his face, before Harry finally let out a strangled: “So, who did you like?”

Draco tilted his head. Almost wanting to go back to the uncle topic. But knowing that Harry would never trust him with that. A good snog, sure. Draco was handsome enough. But trust?

Draco wasn’t deserving of that. 

Instead, he smirked. “Asking for research purposes, Potter?”

“What?” He flailed like a guilty first year under Snape’s gaze. “No. Just… curiosity.”

“Ah, yes. Curiosity.” Draco leaned back, eyes glinting. “The thing that doesn’t mean anything, right?”

Harry groaned again. “Just answer the question.” 

Draco put a finger to his chin as if he were thinking hard. “Lockheart.” 

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Ew!”

Draco snorted. “I’m kidding. He is definitely not my type.”

Harry deadpanned. “You’re impossible.” But there was a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “What is your type, then? I don’t think I have one.” He frowned, but before Draco could respond, Harry said, “Maybe I like Quidditch players?" 

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Interesting,” he mused. “Are you sure it wasn’t the uniform?” 

Harry shrugged. “Maybe it was. But, er, enough about me. What’s yours?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Draco said, amused Wishing Harry wanted to truly know beyond just morbid curiosity.

“Obviously,” Harry said. “That’s why I asked.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. In time.” 

Harry frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s not meant to be,” said Draco, grinning again. Knowing it would make Harry more curious. “Consider it an invitation.” 

Harry sighed. “I hate when people leave me hanging like that. Hermione does it all the time. Is it really just so hard to tell me?” He sighed again. “I think the potion’s starting to wear off. Think you can find a way into the common room?” 

There was a beat of silence as Harry stared forward towards the other end of the room. Draco was too busy looking at him, his profile. 

He hadn’t really let himself look at Harry since the school year had started, not in the way he used to stare and stir in anger and hatred and—he could now admit—lust, which created even more anger. He’d spent years memorizing every freckle, every color, every strand of hair that he could see without getting too close, had always told himself that one day he would flay each of those pieces out on an altar and destroy them. 

He didn’t want to do that, here. 

Here, under the candlelight, he saw Harry’s face. His scruffy hair. A bit of stubble already forming on his chin. He didn’t just see the parts, but he saw the marks, the way his eyebrows were knitted forward, and the corner of his mouth turned down. The slight tension in his jaw. The long, dark eyelashes that Draco had always been annoyingly jealous of. 

He was… beautiful. 

Not in the way that Draco had been taught that beauty meant. Harry didn’t look like something out of Le Louvre. He didn’t look like a sculpture or a painting or a sketch.

He looked human. 

Touchable. 

Which meant Draco couldn’t touch him. 

Not yet. 

He would snog Harry Potter, but he wouldn’t kiss him. Especially not now. Not when he was real. He’d only snog him when Harry was strong. Fiery. Full of… rocks and masks and intensity. Not real. Because if Draco touched the part of Harry that was real, he would ruin him for life. Draco couldn’t do that. Couldn’t leave that last stain on the world. 

He’d already ruined enough people. 

He wouldn’t add Harry to the list. 

So Draco didn’t move. And finally, he said, “I’m sure I can find a way.” His voice was lower. Smoother. And then, he leaned a little in closer to Harry, who seemed to tense with the movement. “What do you say to a game of Quidditch afterwards?” 

Harry blinked. “A… game?” he repeated, his voice catching slightly at the end. “Now?”

Draco tilted his head. “Unless you’re afraid I’ll win?”

“I’m not—” Harry shook his head, confused, his stomach doing a weird flip. “You know what? Sure. We can play.”

Draco stared at him for a moment longer, before standing suddenly, quickly, making Harry jump back. 

“I’ll find the map,” Draco said, tone light. Letting the moment pass. Then, he hummed. “Actually, I have an idea… Accio Marauder’s Map.” 

The two of them stood there for a moment, before suddenly, the map was in Draco’s hand. He grinned down at Harry. “Ah. Easy as Leviosa-ing a feather.” 

Harry deadpanned. “I can’t… I can’t believe I didn’t think to do that.” He huffed. “But I do suppose it gives us some time to play Quidditch.” Then, after a beat: “Think Slughorn will be willing to let me back in class?” 

Draco smirked. “Not a chance.

Chapter Text

Acatalepsy [Noun]

The idea that it is impossible to truly comprehend anything.

This was fine. 

Harry was completely, utterly, tremendously fine, he decided as he and Draco walked down the stone-walled corridors, the potion finally out of his system. He was completely normal over the realization that he had had different thoughts for years, and never even thought they were different. 

It still didn’t fully compute in his head. His brain felt like the loading screen of Dudley’s giant boxy computer. 

He liked girls. At least, he thought he did. 

Was he gay? 

No… he had genuinely liked Ginny. Maybe could have even come to love her, if there hadn’t been a war that kept him occupied before Voldemort’s death, and kept her cold after. The love could have been there. The like had definitely been there. 

So. He liked girls. 

But he thought of Cedric, and how his heart had practically short-circuited every time the Hufflepuff smiled down at him. And the shock when he’d invited him to use the prefect’s bathroom. He’d been nice, and cool, and noble. But he’d died. Even now, the memory brought a pang to his chest. Cedric was the first spoil of war. The grief that followed had been monstrous. Maybe it was the first time Harry had felt his claws come out. The following nightmares had kept him awake, with wet and dried tears on his cheeks. They hadn’t been close. Just sort-of friends. But Harry remembered Dudley teasing him, calling Cedric his boyfriend. It had felt especially cruel when he’d done so. Maybe Harry had wished there could have been another life where it had been true. 

So. He liked girls. And guys. 

Malfoy said that some people liked more than one gender. Harry, well. Harry was riding the line between the two. Was there a word for what he was? He wracked his brain, trying to think if he’d ever heard one. But the only other words he could think of were… not very favorable. Words he’d heard Vernon and Petunia say over dinners, while watching the news, when the new neighbors moved in with a ‘freak daughter’. 

Oh, Merlin. And there was Bill. Bill was a bit easier to accept. Even easier to pinpoint the exact moment he’d felt different about him. He’d been sitting in the tent after the Quidditch World Cup. Bill walked into the tiny kitchen, passing the twins with a wide grin, and ruffled Harry’s hair. It had made him buzz. Which, at the time, he’d attributed to the game. Or, well. Tried to, anyway. If he’d believed it, he probably would have forgotten it by now. 

Malfoy had said it all so casually, too. Like it was nothing to be ashamed of. Were wizards okay with it?  Hermione had said plenty of times that there were some very interesting cultural differences between Muggles and wizards. Harry had agreed, but he hadn’t thought too much about it. 

Harry felt like he had missed a few steps somewhere. 

Maybe he’d liked Krum. He was a little less sure on that one. But there had been a time or two when Krum had looked at him intensely, making Harry’s stomach swoop the same way it had with Cho. 

Harry felt stupid for never having noticed. But how was he supposed to figure it out? 

It wasn’t like he had a lot of opportunities to really think about it. Up until this summer, Harry had spent pretty much every moment of his life fighting for his life, his future. 

He supposed he was glad he hadn’t realized it before, when he was still under the Dursley’s roof, while he was stressing about Voldemort. He wasn’t sure if he would have handled it very well had he realized earlier. 

He’d never had any of those thoughts with Ron. Or any of his other house mates. Or, well, even anyone on his own Quidditch team. But… He’d had them. He was almost too ashamed to admit it. 

Specifically, he was too ashamed to admit the one in particular.

The worst one of them all. 

They turned down another set of stairs, Malfoy’s gaze far away. Harry only looked at him for a half moment before feeling like he was looking into the bloody sun, burning his eyes. 

The prick.

He couldn’t believe he had to go back in time and apologize to Draco Malfoy of all people before he could finally realize what he was. 

Not straight. 

Malfoy’s dry drawl pulled Harry out of his thoughts. “Bit quiet over there.” 

Harry shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “Just thinking about how we’re going to get home.” He shrugged again.

Malfoy lifted his gaze up to Harry’s. And seemed to find what he was looking for, as a smirk formed on his face, accompanied with a single high brow. “Awh, don’t be like that. Tell me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.” 

Harry stumbled a step, catching himself before he could tumble. “Huh?”

Malfoy’s eyes flickered down to Harry’s hand, which was gripping the side of the stairs like a lifeline, and Harry pulled it away like it burned him, feeling that same burn travel to his cheeks. Malfoy’s smile deepened, showing his front teeth as his eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to say something, and Harry wasn’t really sure he was quite ready to hear what it was, when a completely different voice took its place. 

“Oi!” 

It was Sirius. 

Of course it was Sirius. 

Harry couldn’t look at him as he came around the corner—joined by James, Peter, and Remus, all standing right outside of The Great Hall, as if waiting for something, the buzz of students sitting at tables for lunch. The four of them were huddled around an object in Sirius’s hand, spinning around like a top. 

“And there goes my good mood,” muttered Malfoy. 

Harry completely disagreed. The fates had aligned perfectly for him to finally meet his father. To have their first conversation. He was going to jump on this opportunity like a lioness. 

“Didn’t expect to see our roommate already corrupted,” said Sirius with a grin. “Did the Slytherin catch you in a net, Dawn?”

Draco frowned. James laughed: “He’s got that predatory look,” he said teasingly. But the closer he got, Harry saw something beyond just humor behind his eyes. Like he meant it. 

Malfoy deadpanned, and he put a light hand on Harry’s arm. “Hershel is my friend,” he said, raising his nose high. Which, annoyingly, made Harry’s stomach do that weird swoopy thing. Which Harry, of course, shoved down like it was a zombie trying to get out of its grave. 

But Harry cleared his throat, deciding to play along. “I’d say I’m corrupting him fairly well.” 

James’ smile twisted into something else. Interest. Like Harry was a bit of fascinating spellwork. “Are you now?” 

Harry grinned, his heart pounding. He was here. Talking to his dad. “Yeah, you know. Teaching him how to lie, cheat, and use his charm for evil.” He leaned forward, loudly whispering like it was a secret. “Though truth be told, he was already halfway there. I’m just helping him commit.” 

Draco scoffed while Sirius let out a loud, barking laugh. “Man, I think I may like him,” Sirius said.

James looked at him, tilting his head, before looking back to Harry—well, at his ears—and said, “You got a permit for all that sarcasm, Slytherin?” 

Harry raised an eyebrow, challenging. “Yeah, but it’s a part-time thing. Ministry regulations. I’m only allowed one bite per day.” 

The Marauders all laughed. Sirius’s was the loudest of them all.  “You sure you’re not Gryffindor? We could probably squeeze you in.” 

Malfoy, without missing a beat, said, “Yes, please.” 

It made Harry’s stomach swoop again. “I doubt Dumbledore would be too pleased about that.”

Malfoy hummed. “When has that ever stopped you? It may be a little snug, but…” He shrugged, the smirk ever present. 

Sirius nodded. “You can be our new pet.” 

Harry laughed at the irony. “I won’t be your dog, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

The Marauders all laughed. Sirius gave him a dazzling grin as he said, “You’re wasted in Slytherin. Plus, it’s a shame you have to room with Snivellus.” 

Harry blinked, eyebrows scrunching together, irritation sparking in him. “Who?” 

James and Sirius started snickering, but it wasn’t the same light-hearted snickers as before. And just then, Severus Snape turned around the corner, his nose stuck in a book, his wand in hand, not in his holster like it should be. 

“Speak of the devil,” said James, and within a moment, he sent a hex Severus’s way. Snape moved quickly out of its way, the book behind him with his non-dominant arm, his wand arm out and ready to fight, a twisted look in his gaze. James and Sirius laughed, while the rest of the room seemed to freeze. At least, for Harry it did. 

Harry stared, anger hitting him like the Knightbus. 

Severus was outnumbered. And his dad was laughing. 

He knew his dad had bullied him. But still? Right before they became adults? 

He turned. Remus was watching with drawn eyebrows, frowning slightly. Peter was holding back a laugh. 

They just watched. 

So when James said, “Hey, Snivellus, which should it be today? Pantsing or voice-catch?” Harry’s entire body went from cold to lava-hot rage in an instant. Instinctually, he threw a spell out—it was the one Hermione had taught him during one of the nights where she and Harry had been alone in the tent, missing Ron. This defensive spell required a lot of magic, but it caused certain spells (specifically, non-dark-magic spells) to slow down in mid-air. 

That’s what it did here. He watched as the pale light that James had expelled from his wand near-paused, before Harry used the Levicorpus spell—ironically, the same spell James had cast—to move Severus about three feet to the left, sending Severus stumbling out of the way as the spell hit the wall behind him. 

Harry rounded on the dead. 

“You think six against one is brave?”

James blinked, taken aback for a second—only for his face to almost instantly twist, with a flash of something underneath. 

“Oh, what’s this? Our new little Slytherin’s going to side with dark-magic, future-death-eater, baby Snivellus?”

Harry flinched back, something he’d never done before in a fight. 

But this was his father. And James was looking at him… with disgust. A spell of shame plunged in his gut, but he didn’t back down. His wand shaking in his trembling hands, Harry frowned. “He’s alone, so just… leave it there. He didn’t do anything to provoke you.” 

James narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t need to.” 

Harry felt his heart pump in his fingers. In his legs. In his stomach. He felt like he’d been punched by James, which at this exact moment, felt worse than crucio. He floundered for the words. “You don’t need to be cruel for no reason. That’s… that’s wrong.” 

James let out a strange laugh. “Stay out of things you don’t understand.” 

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t lower his wand. Neither did James. It was just the two of them, facing each other. Severus was just… sitting there, in the corner of his eye, frozen. Everyone was frozen, watching the two. Remus didn’t say anything. 

Neither did Draco.

That, strangely, felt worse. 

Then, from the Great Hall’s entrance, Lily Evans appeared, her eyes wide, her voice sharp. 

“James Potter, what the hell are you doing?!” 

James immediately looked away from Harry to Lily. His eyes widened slightly, and his glare turned into… pleading. “Lily, it’s just—”

“Don’t.” Her tone was absolute. She turned to Draco. “Stay out of all this. Let’s all just go to lunch.” 

Draco hesitated. His eyes flickered to Harry’s. The only other eyes in this godforsaken school that could even possibly reach Harry’s eyes. 

And then. James moved first, walking swiftly into the Great Hall. His friends followed. And then, at Lily’s expectant stare, Malfoy moved, too. He went. Quietly. Following the others. 

Harry watched him go. 

The anger in him cracked. Something hollow opened up beneath it. 

He felt the monster in him, the one with claws, itch to tear himself apart. 

He couldn’t even react. Because Severus suddenly pushed himself to his feet, and snapped, “Do you think you’re helping? That you’re noble?” He sneered, too. It was the Snape that Harry knew, but it felt worse than it ever had before. “I don’t need your charity.” And then, he, too, was gone, the opposite direction the Marauder’s went, back down the hall. 

And Lily was still there. Still standing, her arms crossed. Her jaw set. She was looking at the place that Severus had disappeared, sadness and something… withdrawn in her eyes. Acceptance. It made Harry’s chest ache more. 

“You’d do well to not stick around him,” she said, softly but cuttingly. 

And she, too, turned and walked away. 

And then Harry was alone. 

He stood in the echoing hallway. The sounds of laughter and discussions and eating and lighthearted happiness coming from the mostly-full Great Hall. He was there, on the outside. 

His father hated him. Lily dismissed him. Severus lashed out. 

Malfoy just… walked away. 

He felt… 

Everything. 

Cold. Misunderstood. Angry. Hot. 

Harry had thought his father was a hero. He’d dreamed of his mother’s warmth. He’d imagined apologizing to Snape. There’d been a moment where he felt like he and Malfoy had connected. They were going to play Quidditch together. Just for fun.  

He was wrong about it all. 

Too full. Too empty. 

Fine. 

Fine. 

He was still going to go flying. By himself. 

~~

Draco waited at the table, sitting with Harry’s father and his friends, waiting for Harry to come through the doors. He waited five minutes, but Harry didn’t come through. 

He was… appalled to hear the way that the four 7th year Gryffindors continued with their lunch like nothing had happened. They didn’t even mention the interaction. They didn’t say anything about it. They just… kept going. 

He could let it slide. He’d let thousands of things like this slide before. Hell, he’d been the James a hundred and one more. He could let it go, and ignore it. 

But he couldn’t. 

Not doing something felt like poisoning it. Not just the castle, as he would be doing in about 20 years from now. Not poisoning himself—he already was full of that. 

But if he didn’t do anything, it would poison Harry. 

He felt sick. 

Do you regret it? Do you regret being like that? All those years? 

He hadn’t answered Harry when he’d asked. 

But he’d wanted to. 

I do. Yes, Harry. I do. 

Peter was in the middle of a story when Draco’s voice snapped through the drivel. 

“What did he ever do to you?”

Sirius turned. An eyebrow raised. “Who?”

Draco gave him a flat look. “Snape. What did he actually do to deserve that?” 

Lily’s hand, which had been scooping up a spoonful of soup, froze.

James rolled his eyes. “Well, first of all, he’s Snivellus.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. 

At his look, James narrowed them right back. And he leaned forward. And he spoke quietly, like he was letting Draco in on important information. The way he’d seen Harry do hundreds of times with his Gryffindor friends. But while Harry had realistically been talking about their stupid misadventures and Voldemort and the like, James was being cruel. “Second of all,” he continued, voice quiet, “He’s a death eater. And if he isn’t a death eater, he’s on the edge of becoming one.”

Draco nearly laughed. Bitterly. But it wasn’t funny. 

You don’t know anything, he wanted to say. You haven’t even experienced the war yet. You don’t know anything about Death Eaters. Or Snape. 

Or what desperation does to someone. 

But he had a strong impression that if he said anything like that, James would brush it off. It wouldn’t do anything. No good, no bad. Just. Nothing. Calling him out would be ignored faster than if Draco told him that the sky was green and the ocean was orange. 

So he went for the gut. 

“And whose fault do you think that will be?” he said coldly, his face downturned. Serious. Telling James things that words could never express. “If he becomes a Death Eater? From what I saw, you’re pushing down someone who wasn’t even fully standing. And when people are pushed down far enough, long enough, they’ll take any hand that reaches down to pull them up.” As Draco understood too well. He’d had no other hands reaching for him. 

For a moment, his eyes flickered to Peter, who was watching Draco with a deeply serious expression. Listening. 

He pushed his uneaten plate forward. “I’m going to find my friend,” he said, as he stood. “He’s been through hell lately. And if I were you…” He looked down at James, who—thank Merlin—wore a slightly troubled gaze. “I would spend less time making enemies and instead focus on ensuring my friends feel loved enough that they never have to find other hands to reach for.” 

With that, he left. He heard Sirius call something after him, but Draco didn’t look back. 

He was halfway down the hall to the front doors when Lily Evans caught up to him. 

“Wow,” she said, a little breathlessly. “You’re settling into Gryffindor quite nicely.” 

Draco swallowed. Feeling something buzzing under his skin. 

That damn, pesky hope. 

"Take that back,” he said dryly as they walked, not caring that she wouldn’t get his joke. He thought it was funny. 

“I think you’re the only person who’s ever managed to shut James Potter up,” she said as they reached the front doors, Draco opening it without hesitation. “Jesus, it’s freezing out here.” 

Draco couldn’t help but let out a sharp huff of laughter. “I’ll be sure to include the accomplishment on my tombstone.” 

Lily Evans laughed. It was a warm sound, but also kind of ugly. A happy sound. It was the same laugh that he’d overheard between Harry and Weasley more times than he could count. Open and free. Draco wasn’t sure he’d ever let himself laugh like that. 

“He reminds me of who I used to be,” he said as they crunched over dying grass. It was the kind of cold that could come only before the snow. 

She glanced at him. His ear. “What do you mean?” 

He shrugged. Drew in his arms closer as a shiver of wind interrupted the warmth of his cloak. “You know. Was shitty. Cruel. Stepped on people lower than me.” 

Her eyebrows furrowed. He wasn’t looking at her, but he could see it from the corners of his vision. “What changed?” 

He swallowed. “The wrong people reached out to me.” Memories of things he’d done staining him forever. The Mark burning. The bodies. The begs. The way he hadn’t been able to say no, no matter how much he wanted to. “Hurt a lot of people. I’m still shitty as ever. But I’m trying to clean things up, before—” He caught himself. “Before I graduate.”

He glanced up. He could see Harry flying around, slower than he ever had with his firebolt. 

He shrugged. And wished the next words weren’t simultaneously a hilarious lie and painfully honest. “Hershel is kind of the only reason I’m still here.” He wished it was for other reasons than being forced into 1977. 

The two of them stared up at Harry, high above, still not having seen them from so far down below. 

“I’d like to meet him, then. Bet he’s good conversation.” 

Harry would like that. “Library later? Or tomorrow after Arithmancy?” 

A smile formed on her lips. “I’d like that. Tomorrow after Arithmancy, though. I have prefect duties today.” 

Draco nodded again. They stared at Harry for a moment longer. and then he cleared his throat, lifting his nose slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go fly.” 

She smiled. “Okay. See ya.” 

Draco grabbed an old Comet 100 and was in the air next to Harry. Harry didn’t look at him, but he snapped, “You ate fast. Don’t get sick on me.”

Draco wasn’t about to apologize. Malfoys didn’t do that. But he did say, complacently, “Figured there would be better company here.”

They didn’t speak after that. Harry sped off, his angry face enough to keep Draco’s lips tight. But he didn’t argue when Draco took his turns catching the snitch. And then, after an hour of flying, Harry finally spoke. 

“I miss my firebolt,” he said while they hovered in the air. 

Draco snorted. “Yeah, I could stand to get a new broom, too.” He shrugged. “But I suppose this isn’t too bad. It’s been a while.” 

Harry frowned over at him. “When was the last time you flew?”

He thought about it. “Fifth year.”

Harry hummed, his large green eyes watching Draco, seeing stuff he didn’t want Harry to see. And then, suddenly, Harry blurted, “Race you to the bottom!” 

He sped downward. 

Draco was on his heel in an instant, and then Harry pulled up, and Draco followed him. They raced around the pitch for several hours, sometimes Harry in front, sometimes Draco, the snitch forgotten. No one bothered them. It felt… normal. Good. Exhilarating. Draco had forgotten how good it felt to fly, without the pressure of winning a game. Just going. 

And there was a moment, when he paused under the keeper’s post, taking a breath, looking out at the pitch, where Harry was still zooming under its sunset, where he felt his throat tighten. 

Because for months, Draco had been feeling like an open-caged bird who was too tired to fly. 

And here he was. 

Flying. 

The bird’s cage inside of Draco’s heart changed. Just a little. The bars between them widened. Just enough for him to fit through. The little bird got off her perch and stood next to them. Just watching. Just waiting. 

But knowing she moved was enough. For now. And he sped off again.

Eventually, they slowed down when the sun set over the Forbidden Forest. They were both breathing hard, sweaty, gross. Happy. Draco followed Harry to the ground, and Harry, with a giant, crooked, toothy grin, said, “I won.”

Draco’s jaw dropped half an inch as he scoffed. “You won nothing.”

“I did, and you know it.”

“We weren’t competing.”

“We were. And I won.” 

“Not true,” Draco said as they reached the Gryffindor locker room. Harry entered it easily, clearly having forgotten he was now a Slytherin. “Besides, there were no spectators. It doesn’t count.” 

Harry laughed. “Whatever.” He walked into one of the showers fully clothed and closed the curtain, robes rustling as he started to disrobe. First, his shirt was thrown onto the floor outside of the curtain. Draco felt himself freeze, as he stared at the shirt, crumpled and sweaty on the disgusting floor. He was… almost tempted to grab it. Keep it, or something. 

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Luckily, his thoughts were interrupted as Harry started talking again, voice sounding casual in the room. “I’m thinking of getting a long-term pass from Dumbledore to get to the restricted section. There’s gotta be something there on time sand, right?” 

Draco nodded slowly, as he himself got in the closed shower on the far right of the room,a s far away from Harry as possible, closing the curtains behind him, his stomach feeling hot. “Not a bad idea,” he muttered. 

Harry froze for a moment before turning the water on. Over the sound of rushing droplets, he said, “What, no comeback? No ‘You’d need to have a brain to read in there, Potter’?” The mimicking tone was annoyingly on point. 

Draco scoffed, stepping under the burning-hot water. Maybe it would burn off his desire. “I do not sound like that.”

Harry laughed, but they didn’t say anything else. Draco couldn’t decide if that was better or worse. He could hear the spray of water from Harry’s shower. The shuffling of his feet as he moved. The wet sounds of shampoo being scrubbed into his hair. 

Draco’s eyes were stuck on the tile in front of him, trying to focus on the water cascading over his back. Trying very much not to think of Harry being naked several feet to his right. 

He wasn’t very successful.

With strangely wobbling legs, he grabbed his clean washrag, poured a generous helping of soap into it, and started scrubbing himself. Hard. Avoiding touching any areas for too long that he might enjoy. His heart was pounding. 

A flicker of a thought passed his mind—just a peek. Just a little one—

Nope. 

He shut down the thought before it could continue. He was many things, but pervert wasn’t one of the things he wanted to add to the list. 

Tempting, though. 

He snorted to himself at the absurdity. 

The water in Harry’s stall turned off, and Draco froze, ears straining over his own water. There was the rustle of a towel, of fabric sliding over damp skin. 

And then, Harry’s voice. 

“I think you’re right,” he said, unsuccessfully attempting at light-heartedness. “My dad’s a dick.” 

Draco turned off his own water. He was feeling so in his own body that he accidentally said, “Sorry to hear that.” 

Harry moved to the area of the sink while Draco dried off. He debated on going out and letting Harry see him half-dressed, but just one glance down, and he decided against it. The scars. The ribs. He looked sick, and there wasn’t really much to look at and enjoy right now. . 

“But I think he can change.” 

Draco paused, before starting to button up his shirt. “Hmm.” 

“I do,” Harry added. “I know he will.” 

Draco sighed, before making it to the top button. “You may be putting too much faith in people’s ability for metamorphosis.” 

Harry didn’t respond immediately, and it let Draco finish getting his robes on. Draco stepped out of the stall, covered from next to toe. Feeling strange, and still a little warm in his lower belly. 

“You changed,” Harry said once Draco was in view. “Didn’t you?”

He looked at Harry before he had the chance to steel his expression. He froze, the expression on Harry’s face sharp and real again. Tangible. His eyes were wide and green and open, and it made Draco’s chest ache in a familiar way.  

Once during his sixth year, when Draco was awake for hours trying to fix that fucking cabinet, he angrily went for a walk around the castle at night time. It was a new moon. The grounds were dark, and he was angrily stomping through the snow. Quickly, he regretted sneaking out. It was cold, and he couldn’t see two inches in front of him, and he was straining to see the ground, to ensure he didn’t trip on anything. Twisting an ankle was the last thing he needed. 

And then, he twisted it. Of course.  

He fell sharply, but the snow cushioned any injury to his knee. He could have easily stood back up. But he didn’t. He was tired, and he briefly thought he should  just lay in the snow and hopefully freeze to death. 

He laid down on his back, closing his eyes. He lay there for so long that his neck burned under the cold, turning snow to ice. Wishing it would end him. 

But the image of his mother’s fearful gaze as The Dark Lord walked through his living room like a pariah that believed he was a king came to his mind. He had to get up. 

His limbs felt heavy. 

He opened his eyes. That much he could do. At least, to start. 

Above him was a sky full of glittering stars. 

He looked for his own constellation—it wasn’t hard to find geographically. But it was hard to see. Dim and dull and boring, the worst of the constellations. He couldn’t look at it. 

But to its left, was a bright star. 

It had a slightly blueish tint to it as it flickered under the Milky Way. He stared at it. It was small, but it was bright enough for him to see. To keep him going. To get the strength to stand up and continue on. 

Harry looked like that star. 

It made Draco want to run out of the room. 

Instead, he scoffed. “Changed? No, Potter. I’ve just found more creative uses for my mouth.” His gaze flickered down. “Care for a demonstration?” 

Harry’s cheeks turned red, his hair wet and messy, and Draco was relieved to see that some of those walls came up. He no longer was looking at Draco with that fucking understanding. Now, his jaw was tight, looking like he couldn’t decide between spitting something back at Draco or just leaving. 

“Don’t—” his voice cracked before he paused and continued. “Don’t mock me for that. Don’t take something I said when I wasn’t in full control of myself and turn it into one of your cheap laughs.” 

Guilt made its way to the surface. Draco opened his mouth to say something cutting and cruel, a habit he’d held since he was small, but he reminded himself one thing. He didn’t want to poison Harry Potter. He just had to make it through however long he was here in 1977, control himself until he got home and could disappear. 

He chose a different tactic. 

He let a smirk slide into place, slow and deliberate, as he leaned against the side of the sink, his hip bone colliding painfully with porcelain. “I’m not mocking,” he said, with a slow drawl. “I’m…” his eyes flickered up and down Harry’s body. “Appreciating.” 

When his eyes landed back on Harry’s face, he felt a jolt of desire. Harry was sufficiently flushed, eyes wide and looking like prey. Merlin, if Draco had known he could have this effect, he would have tried this ages ago. It was much more fun than fighting.

“Trust me, Potter,” he said, voice low, “I wouldn’t waste my breath on cheap laughs when there are so many better ways to use it.”

Harry’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. And he started doing that shifting thing, one foot to another, his eyes flickering to the door. 

“Right. Well. Uh—” His hand came up to rake through his still-sopping-wet hair. “I’m gonna go talk to Dumbledore.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Scared, Potter?”

Harry seemed to inhale sharply. And before Draco knew it, Harry said, “You wish,” but he was out of the locker room bathroom before Draco could respond. 

Draco watched the spot that Harry had disappeared to for a long, long time. 

Later, after the sun had set, Draco went back to the Gryffindor common room. Still unsure about the password. At the very least, Harry had shown him the entrance. The Fat Lady. 

“Er, I’m a new student,” he said to her. “Can you give me the password?” 

She looked down at him, her gaze watchful. “Headmaster Dumbledore told me we’d have a new student. You have the tie… The look… Well… I suppose… It’s Waxburn.” 

Draco frowned. What a stupid name. 

He didn’t say that as he repeated the password and clamoured through the portrait hole, annoyed that there was a one foot gap between the portrait and the floor. Did Gryffindors really have to make everything so difficult? Merlin. He was exhausted already. 

He held his nose high, passing other Gryffindors and ignoring their welcoming ‘hellos’ before he realized he didn’t know where his room was, either. 

“You there,” he said to a girl with poofy brown hair. “Where is the room for 7th years?” 

She raised an eyebrow at him, a small smirk forming on her face. 

“Up the stairs and to the right,” she said, giggling a little. “Try to not get lost. We’d hate for the new prince to end up in the first-years’ room.” 

Draco blinked several times before his eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

But she’d already turned away, humming casually and facing her friends who giggled after him.. 

He sniffed, lifted his chin higher, and swept towards the staircase, feeling eyes on him. He had had eyes sharper than theirs on him. 

He found the room, hearing the sound of laughter on the other side. Internally, he braced himself by lifting his chin higher, and he walked through the door, past the Marauders, who went annoyingly quiet as soon as the door swung open. 

It wasn’t hard to find his bed. It was the four-poster bed with luggage and no decorations, unlike the chaos of the other boys’. He tried to not take note of the others’ beds as he began putting the clothes Dumbledore had gotten for him into his respective drawers, but he couldn’t help it. James and Remus were both surprisingly clean. James was almost… meticulously clean. But Sirius and Peter both looked like they’d experienced a niffler go through their things, their unmade beds and objects in piles around their bed. There were wrappers next to Peter’s bedside. Draco tried not to sneer. 

Finally, the awkward silence of the room was too annoying, and Draco put his objects into his drawers. He was going to spend the rest of his night in his bed. Trying to sleep. Maybe thinking about how to get back home. Or brainstorming tactics to get Harry to kiss him. 

With a casual hand, he pulled open the hanging over his bed, and froze. 

A violent explosion of red and gold flowers, ranging from the size of galleons to quaffles, erupted from his perfectly tucked in sheets. 

“What the—” 

“WELCOME TO GRYFFINDOR!” the flowers bellowed in perfect, magically amplified unison. Shaking the walls. 

Draco immediately closed the curtain, hoping it would disappear if he did so, as the other four Gryffindors burst into laughter. But the flowers then started singing a horrendous welcoming song that was so loud it made Draco wonder if they had banshee magic in them. 

He twisted around, face flushed. “Shut them up!” 

The Gryffindors were no help, of course. Sirius was doubled over, and James had fallen off his bed in a roll. Remus was smiling, his chest moving with chuckles. Peter was laughing, too. 

Finally, when two Gryffindor girls—that girl with poofy dark hair and Lily—barged in, trying to yell over the sound, James finally lifted his wand and said a counterspell in a grandiose manner. 

It didn’t work. 

He clearly tried again. 

And then Sirius jumped in, too. 

And Remus. 

And Peter. 

Nothing worked. 

And soon, there were Gryffindors huddled around their door, with various expressions of annoyance and humor and interest, and Draco’s face was left very, very warm, as the sound came from his bed. 

And then, Professor McGonagall came through, her eyes fiery and zero-ing in on James and Sirius, who raised both their arms in surrender. 

“What spells did you use?!” she shouted. 

James shouted something back, just at the exact moment a new welcome song started up, assaulting Draco’s ears. He grabbed two of his socks and transfigured them into earplugs, stifling the sound but nowhere near blocking it. 

And then, suddenly, it stopped. Finally. McGonagall’s wand was raised towards the bed. Draco stared at it, before opening the curtain. 

The flowers were still there, still moving, still with their wide mouths, but there was no sound coming out. They disappeared with another flick of her wand, before she turned on James and Sirius again, her lips pursed and hard. 

“Explain.” 

The sharp word had more of an effect than 10 years of scolding would have had. 

“Sorry, professor,” James said, smiling sheepishly. “It was, er, a welcome gift for our new—”

“Gift?!” Her gaze swept the room before landing on Draco for a moment, and then turning back to James. “Are you trying to frighten your new housemate?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. Frightened was quite the word. He was annoyed, sure. Certainly not frightened. 

Remus spoke next. “We were trying to apologize for something that happened earlier,” he said, looking sheepish and sincere. “We were, er, not as welcoming as we meant to be. We’re sorry, Professor.” And then he turned to Draco, looking genuine. “We’re sorry, Dawn.” 

The apology made Professor McGonagall frown slightly. But they were all looking at him, as if expecting him to answer.  

And. Well. He certainly wasn’t one to leave people hanging. 

“It’s just fine,” he said sweetly, deciding that manipulating them was probably his safest option if he wanted to avoid being attacked in his sleep. “More than fine, really. I feel… so deeply touched that my new roommates care enough to do this for me.” He fought to bring fake tears to his eyes. “I feel welcome already.”

She pursed her lips tighter. Clearly not buying it. But he smiled widely, and though she couldn’t see the details of his face, she seemed equally unwilling to punish someone who claimed to be flattered. “Very well,” she said. “But clean this up.” 

Her eyes swept the room before leaving out the door, telling all the watchful eyes of other students to go back to their own activities, closing the door behind her. 

As soon as the door shut, the other four burst into laughter. James doubled over, and Sirius joined him, clutching his ribs. 

“That was some good acting,” said Sirius through his barks.

James agreed. “We may need to get him a crown and cane to bow.” 

“The Gryffindor Prince,” Sirius said through laughs, and the two of them roared with laughter. 

Draco looked over at Remus, that stupid name irritating him. Remus shrugged. “They are sorry. We all are. They’re too prideful to say it, but they’re sorry for being punks.” 

Sirius blew a raspberry. James snorted. 

Neither of them denied it. 

“Doesn’t mean my little nickname didn’t stick,” Sirius said, grinning wider. “The girls have already started calling you it.” 

Draco stared at them all. Chaos incarnate. 

Merlin. Did every Gryffindor like keeping Draco on his toes?

But as the laughter ricocheted around the room, and Sirius started teasing Draco in that same lighthearted way as they had this morning, something loosened in his chest. 

It hit Draco, then, that he wasn’t a Malfoy any longer. These people were looking at him like he wasn’t an arrogant Slytherin or terrible Death Eater. They took him at face value. Laughed when he played along. He was… just himself. Well, Dawn. But only by name. Here, he was just Draco.

What, exactly, was he supposed to do with that?

Chapter Text

Malesuete [Adjective]

Accustomed to poor habits.

“Sit anywhere.” 

The professor that had brought out the Sorting Hat—whose name Draco learned was Professor Maevl—waved a lazy hand before walking away. Feeling slightly affronted, Draco turned, searching for an empty spot, only to get distracted by a red-haired girl waving him over. He followed it.

Lily was sitting in a group of 3 other girls, two Hufflepuffs and another Gryffindor. His nose held high as he paused by the empty seat next to her. 

“Hello, Lily,” he said formally. “Nice to see you this morning.”

The two Hufflepuffs giggled. Lily smiled, ignoring them. “You too. Take a seat. These are some of my friends. Marlene, Rebecca, and Jann.”

Draco offered short nods to each one. 

Professor Maevl started class. Something about something that Draco had already learned last year. He zoned out for a while, opening the textbook. Maybe there was something in here he could use to figure out this time travel issue. Maybe something about reversal runes? 

He skimmed the index, before finding what he was looking for. Page 59. The section on advanced reversal runes. He opened the book to a random page. 102. He split the pages halfway through. 52. 

He frowned. 

Flicked to another, random page. 

Something was wrong. 

Draco shuffled through the pages, the pages he should know, that he should recognize. The topics he had already so endlessly studied and memorized. 

It wasn’t that they were too advanced. Runes was a subject Draco was particularly confident in. But when he turned to the first 10 pages of the textbook, the pages that should hold the elementary-level marks and basic syntactical reminders, he realized something was deeply wrong. 

He didn’t recognize a single one. 

Not one. 

The marks were wrong . 

Blinking quickly, he leaned forward and tapped Lily’s shoulder. She turned her head to him and nodded in question. 

“Can I borrow your notes?” he whispered. 

She handed him her parchment notes without a question. He looked over them. And the more he looked, the more he realized how well and truly fucked he and Harry probably were. 

He poured over the notes and textbook the rest of class, not paying a single iota of attention, his fingers practically pulling his hair out of his head. 

Once class ended, Draco headed straight towards the lunch room, hoping Harry was already there, hoping he wouldn’t have to go searching for him. He didn’t even know what class Harry had right now, just that he was too far away from where he needed him right now. Next to him.

Lily caught up to him. 

“Where’s the rush, blondie?” she asked, grinning up at him with Harry’s smile. “Didn’t enjoy Maevl’s class?” 

Draco let out a shaky breath. “His class was fine. I just… need to find Ha—Hershel.” He almost slipped on the name. Almost said ‘Harry’. Not even Potter . 

How pathetic. 

“Groovy,” she said, and she let out a huff of air, trying to keep up with Draco’s long strides. It took everything in him to slow down, which she smiled gratefully. “Let’s say we grab lunch and then all head to the library together?”

Draco hesitated. He wanted to tell Harry his strange realization now . But he’d already set it up for them to meet. And. Well. He bet Harry would be happy to meet her. And the memory of Harry’s empty expression as he stared down at his eggs this morning made him let out an annoyed sigh. “Yes, that’s fine.” 

She smiled as they turned a corner, her friends behind her, giggling. Draco forced himself to not look behind at them. He knew why they were giggling. Sirius had explained it last night. Gryffindor Prince had, apparently, started off as a mocking term after their little tiff yesterday, but some of the girls took it and ran. The term itself made Draco cringe a little, but more than that, he just felt… confused. No one—except Harry and Dumbledore—had seen his face. 

He supposed he could understand it, vaguely, in a way. Draco was tall and lithe, though currently much too thin to feel as confident as he was before the Dark Lord entered his home. But he’d noticed, upon eavesdropping in Pansy’s and other girls’ conversations, that girls didn’t usually like someone conventionally attractive . They liked interesting . 

He supposed not really having a face, and starting school so late, made him interesting. 

Too bad for them, Draco wasn’t interested in being anyone’s prince . He was interested in jumping off the astronomy tower. And getting a really good snog from Potter before doing so. Maybe two.

He snorted at the thought. 

“So I was wondering,” Lily said, as if she had been reading his thoughts. “There’s gonna be a Hogsmeade trip in like three weeks. Do you want to come with me?” 

His brain still on Harry, he spoke: “I suppose.”

She smiled widely. “Great! Now I can finally get James to stop asking me out.” 

The words caught up to him. “Wait, you don’t mean as a date, do you?”

Her smile froze. “Huh?” 

Draco let out an audible groan, which made her cheeks turn pink. He sighed. Felt a moment of guilt. And tried to clarify. “I appreciate the invitation, Lily, and I would love to see this ‘Hogsmeade’ place. But I should probably inform you now and not later that I’m not interested in anything romantic. No offense.” 

The silence that followed suggested that she may have taken offense. “Oh! That’s okay!” she said, trying—and failing—to sound happy. 

“You’re very pretty,” he continued truthfully. Especially her smile and her eyes. “However, you’re not really my… type.” That was ruder. He sighed again. It was hard trying to be nice all the time. “I’ll state it bluntly. I like men.” 

“Oh!” She let out a shocked yet relieved sigh. “Okay.” Then: “But if you’re just saying that because you feel bad about saying no, then just… you don’t need to feel bad. I know what it’s like when people don’t take no for an answer.” 

Draco scoffed. “I assure you, I have never once felt bad over rejecting someone.”

She laughed, a much lighter sound than before. “That’s good.”

“Glad to have your approval,” he said sardonically. 

She laughed. Then sobered just as quickly. “But, um. Can we call it a date so that James can stop asking me?” 

Draco debated mentally. “He may kill me.” 

“He won’t. Please?” 

“I’m the one that has to sleep next to the guy,” he said, annoyed. But then she smiled up at him. And. It was that same fucking smile. “But if you can ensure my untimely demise doesn’t occur, then I suppose you can call it that.” 

She exhaled sharply, a relieved sigh crossing her gaze. “Awesome. And maybe we can invite Marlene with us, and one of her, er, bold friends. Maybe it could turn into someone you like.” 

He didn’t respond. He didn’t care enough about it to. 

Lily cleared her throat. “Um… Unless someone has already caught your eye?” 

They entered the Great Hall, the sounds of laughter reverberating throughout the room. His eyes searched the hall, over the Marauders, past the four tables until he found a sea of green, searching for Harry. 

He found him in an instant. As he always had. 

Harry was sitting there, staring at the plate in front of him. Staring with a far-away expression. His hands were in his lap, the food untouched.

He looked tragically beautiful. As he always had. 

Like someone who was painfully human and knew it all too well. 

And maybe it was because he knew he had limited time. Maybe it was simply because he was selfish. But he let himself want Harry. Not the way he wanted toys or books or good grades. Not covetous. Not to take him whole and devour him as he was wont to do with his things .

No. Not like that. 

Instead, Draco let himself want Harry the way that widows wanted to bring back the dead. With every emotion tangled inside, and every bit of understanding that he could not have him wholly. 

He lowered his chin slightly. And said, “I think someone caught my eye a long, long time ago.”

~~~

The sound of Hermione’s voice was rampantly monologuing in Harry’s head. 

Harry James Potter, you haven’t eaten in over 48 hours. You have to eat if you want to keep those muscles of yours. Come on. Grab the fork—eat the toast—slurp the soup. Look at Ron; he can’t even seem to stop eating, which we love him for, of course, but—just—you—come on. You need your strength. You need to do this. Pick up your fork. Or spoon. I’d even take chopsticks at this point. Just do it. What happens if you’re attacked? What will you do if someone tries to hurt you, or Voldemort in this time period walks through those doors? You. Need. To. Eat. 

It was hard to grab his fork, though. And even easier to ignore her words and just focus on the imaginary voice in her head. It didn’t help that Ron wasn’t there to help set the pace.

He missed them.

He wondered if they were worried about him. They probably were, if time was passing the same there. He hoped they’d be able to figure out a way to pop back in at the exact moment he’d left, so they wouldn’t have a chance to miss him. The last thing he wanted was to make them worry. 

Merlin. He missed them so much. 

He didn’t belong in 1977. 

But if the last few months were anything to go by, he didn’t belong in his time, either. Where was he supposed to go? What was he supposed to do? He didn’t want to be an Auror anymore—that much was true. He never wanted to fight another dark wizard in his life. Maybe he was supposed to just accept the fact that he wouldn’t feel at home anywhere ever again. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could simply become some sort of wise traveler that hiked from town to town in mountains and villages, like the wizards in the Muggle books his primary school teachers had talked about. Minus the wisdom, of course. 

“Hershel,” said a familiar drawling voice. Harry looked up immediately to find Draco looking down at him with a smirk. 

He wasn’t alone. There, next to him, was Lily.

Harry’s heart jumped into his throat. She’d dismissed him so quickly yesterday, but here she was, wearing a golden smile. His heart beat harder when he realized he shared her too-high, crooked canine teeth. 

“Hi,” he squeaked, then flushed, grateful she couldn’t see his face. He cleared his throat. “Er. Hi. Hello.” 

“This is my housemate,” said Draco from outside of Harry’s gaze. “Lily Evans.”

Harry scrambled to his feet, shifting from left to right. Wanting to make a better impression than fighting James and impulsively drinking an unfinished potion. “Hello,” he said again, holding out his hand quickly. “I’m Ha—Hershel.” 

“Well, Hayrshel,” she said with a teasing grin, taking his hand firmly. The first time he could remember touching his mother. Her hands were warm and soft, unlike his sweaty ones, shaky from nerves. And probably lack of nutrition. “Wanna eat quickly and head to the library with us?” 

Immediately, Harry picked up an apple. And then a piece of toast. 

She laughed. Draco gave a drawl of a laugh, too, and then said, “Let’s go,” before turning on his heel and walking away, expecting Harry and Lily to follow him without argument. Which, of course, they did. 

Once they passed through the door frames, Lily let out a relieved sigh. “Ugh, it was so loud in there.” She sighed again, then turned to look at Harry. At his ear. Not his face. He was immediately tempted to take off his bracelet. “So, Hershel. How are you settling into Slytherin? Dawn seems to be handling himself decently enough.” 

Draco scoffed. “I am thriving, thank you.” He turned to Harry. “Shame you aren’t there, too.” 

Harry kept his eyes off Draco and put them on his mother. Glued there. 

Why won’t he stop being weird?

“It’s fine,” Harry said, putting the toast up to his mouth. “I’m looking forward to Defense.” He took a bite. 

She smiled. “Yeah? I think we have that one together, on Wednesdays. We’ll save you a seat.” 

Harry smiled. “Okay. Cool.” 

It was all he could say.

But although words didn’t come to his lips, Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off his mother as they walked, chatting lightheartedly, memorizing her features. A few freckles on her nose. His eyes. Button nose. Thin chin. She was short, a few inches shorter than him but not by much. Throughout the staring, he tripped three times. It was only on the last one—when he accidentally choked on now-cold bread—did he force himself to watch where he was going. 

“Oh!” She exclaimed right before they reached the library. “Dawn and I are going to be going to Hogsmeade together next weekend. You’re joining us.” 

Harry let out a strangled laugh. “Okay,” he said, too quick, too earnest. Weird. But she didn’t look at him like he was weird. Her green eyes were bright as they smiled at him, and his heart jolted when she elbowed him lightly. 

It was barely a touch, but it made his stomach lurch. 

“Sit,” she ordered, and Harry did immediately, flushing. He was grateful that Draco didn’t laugh at him. Instead, Draco sat on the couch, next to Harry, casually pulling out his textbooks. They settled in easily. Harry wanted to ask her a thousand questions, but she was already reading, and writing her name on the top of a piece of parchment, sitting back with a leg crossed and casually writing like studying came as easy as breathing. It was different from the way Hermione studied, who hunched over like a shrimp when she found something interesting, who let out random gasps of intrigue, who had to share every bit of slightly interesting information. Instead, the three of them sat in silence. 

He couldn’t help but stare. 

He was happy to see her. Glad to be here with her. That he had the opportunity to be bumped by her elbow. Where he could sit across from her in the library. Momentarily, he thought of what it would have been like if she’d survived it all. If she would have taken him to Library Talks, like Petunia had with Dudley. It was too easy to picture her, holding him, young and beautiful, on a rocking chair. Maybe she sang lullabies. He wondered if she had a beautiful voice when she sang. She had a beautiful voice when she spoke. 

Eventually, she set her finished 6-inch essay to dry, and she looked over to Harry—who had been staring shamelessly—and Draco—who had been reading his Arithmacy textbook, eyebrows drawn in close, the corner of his lips turned down, doodling on a piece of parchment. 

“So, Dawn,” she said lightly, breaking the quiet. “You didn’t tell me Hershel was this quiet. I would have thought you liked people who could keep up with your mouth.” 

Draco’s quill didn’t pause. “Don’t start.” 

She grinned, snorting at the same time. But Harry let out a choked laugh. “We’re in a library,” he stated planely. “Can’t talk too much, here.” 

“Please,” Draco drawled. “You’ve never had issues being loud in quiet places before. What changed? Are you, perhaps, in awe of how beautiful I am in my gold and red tie?” 

Harry spluttered. “Huh?”

“Close your mouth, darling, you’ll catch a fly,” he said.  

Harry flushed, snapping his jaw shut. What was he playing at?If Draco talked to him like that where others could hear, there would be rumors spreading faster than wildfire. And Harry had dealt with more rumors than he’d like to for the rest of his life. “Oh, fuck you,” he said, but it didn’t hold the irritation he wished to portray. 

“Not in the library, sweetheart.” 

Harry groaned, flushing as his mother watched them like a television set. “Why are you like this?”

“Would you like that list in alphabetical or chronological order?” He finally looked up from his paper. Smirking. 

Harry rolled his eyes, and scooted a few inches further from Draco. Draco, in turn, lifted his legs and put them on Harry’s lap. If he wasn’t in a library (and for no other reason), he would hex Draco’s legs clean off of him. Instead, he rested his hands on Draco’s shins. There was nowhere else for them to go, really. 

Lily was watching them with an amused expression, her eyes sparkling and lips crinkling upwards at the corners. “You guys grew up together, right?” 

Harry and Draco gave each other a look. 

“Sort of,” Harry said, before Draco could. This was something Harry was good at. Lying. “Our parents were close. They met through some family or something.” 

He shrugged, but instead of leaving it there, he wanted to put some truth into the story. Just enough. Just enough so that he knew that his mom knew something about him , just a little. “But we didn’t really meet until we got our Hogwarts letters. Before that, I didn’t even know magic existed.” 

Draco looked at him. “Is that true?” 

Harry nodded. “Yep. Didn’t know I was a wizard until my 11th birthday.” He shrugged, then went back to spinning their story with more feigned detail, not wanting to dwell. “But then, I got my letter, and his dad found out somehow, and they talked with my parents about not going to Hogwarts. Because. Well. It’s a long story.” He huffed out a dramatic breath of air, making it sound like it was something painful. 

In reality, he simply hadn’t thought of that part of their backstory yet. 

“So we were homeschooled together,” he concluded. “Dawn’s parents taught us everything we know.”

“We hated each other at first,” added Draco with a smirk. “For quite a while, actually.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And they still made you study together?” 

Harry snorted. “You know how parents are.” Though he did not, in fact, know how parents were. 

She nodded. “I get it. Kind of. I’m also Muggleborn and didn’t know that I was a witch until I was like 9.”

Harry knew this, of course. Knew Snape had been the one to tell her about magic, and that was how their friendship started. Knew that was why Petunia had been so cruel. 

But he wanted the details. 

“Yeah?” he asked, voice shaky, having to pretend he didn’t know this part. “How did you find out?” 

Her smile slipped. And something hollow landed behind her eyes, for just a moment. Before she offered a fake smile, squinting her eyes tight, but they’d lost some of that warmth. 

He really did have his mother’s eyes. 

“I made a flower open. Showed my mom afterwards what I could do. She was pretty freaked out at first, but quickly adjusted. She’s always loved magic since.” 

Harry swallowed. “Your mom. What’s she like?” His grandmother.

Draco’s gaze turned to him instantly. Harry’s face burned with the look. 

Lily didn’t seem to mind the question. “Oh, she’s funny as hell. Pretty nerdy. Loves to read. Is a Career Woman.” She huffed out her chest, like it was an important accomplishment. Harry had to remind himself they were still in the 70s. “Part-time nurse.” 

Harry nodded. “Your dad?” 

She rolled her eyes. “He’s… a lot. I love him, don’t get me wrong. But he definitely is a bit, er, uptight sometimes.” She snorted. “Perfectionistic.”

Harry tried picturing them. Wondered if he’d be able to ask her for pictures of them. 

He didn’t get the chance to ask before she continued. “What about you?” she asked, glancing between them. “What are—er—were…” Her gaze turned serious again. Empathetic. “... your parents like? If it’s hard to talk about, I can switch topics.”

Both Harry and Draco froze. Pausing in time, together. A strange tension settled over them, the way heaviness does when grief walks into a room and reminds you that it was there, and it would always find its way back, no matter how many times you looked at it and pleaded with it to go away. 

Harry stared into her green eyes. They weren’t looking into his own. He hated it. 

“My parents were brave,” he said quietly. It was all he could say. 

A beat passed. Harry turned his gaze down, to his hands resting on Draco’s legs. It felt weird to say it, but he was grateful for them being there. Something about the pressure, or the fact that he was another person from his time to remind himself that it was all real, that this was really happening, that he was here . 

But he looked back to his mother, and something cold and hot gripped at him all at once. In three years, she would be dead. 

God. She was right in front of him, and he was grieving her already. 

Was that selfish? Or cruel?

Maybe he could fix things. Fix this timeline. Kill Voldemort again, with his own bare hands, with the knowledge he had now of horcruxes and sacrifice and prophecies that hadn’t happened yet. 

He could give them all the happy endings he deserved. 

He would likely stop existing. He understood that. But he’d touched death before and survived it, so maybe he could return the favor for them. And sure, maybe he’d ruin the entirety of their world’s timeline, but would it really matter, if the future never existed as it was?

“My parents loved me,” Draco said, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “They were brave, too. In a different way. But they did everything they could to keep me happy.”

Something about the way he said it hinted at the fact that they weren’t very successful in that endeavour. 

Lily was watching them with the intensity and care of someone who heard beyond the words that were said. And when it was clear they weren’t going to say anything else, she nodded, and swallowed hard. Then, let out a shaky breath. 

“Well,” she said. “I’m glad you had them.” 

Harry’s throat tightened. Draco saved him from having to say anything. “Me, too.” 

They studied in relative silence the rest of the time. Harry thought. Too much, probably. He pretended to work on his Herbology essay, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. Not if Draco’s glances to his empty parchment were anything to go by. 

About an hour before dinner, Lily sighed and closed her books. “I have to go to Slughorn’s Slug Club meeting. So, I’ll see you two at dinner?” 

Harry smiled. Knowing he’d be on the other side of the hall, away from them as he had at every meal so far. “Yeah.” 

She bid them farewell, and he watched her go, that grief ever present. He forced himself to focus on the weight of Draco’s legs, reminding himself that she wasn’t dead yet. 

That yet was heavy. 

Draco suddenly lifted his legs off of Harry, standing and brushing the wrinkles off his shirt. 

“Dinner?” 

Harry blinked. “Dinner’s not for another hour.” 

Draco smirked. “We can walk slow.” 

Frowning, Harry stood. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” 

They left the library, shoulder to shoulder. They made it halfway down the corridor when suddenly Draco walked into an empty classroom. His confusion grew, but he followed him in, anyway. 

The door shut behind him with a click, and Draco drew his wand. “Muffilato.” 

Harry’s frown deepened. “What happened?”

“I have some possibly unfortunate news,” Draco said, offering a sigh as he reached into his bag and pulled out the arithmancy book he’d been reading, opening it to to the first page. “I’ve been looking at this arithmancy book, which I know you know nothing about—” Harry deadpanned. “—But I noticed something a little… Ah… Concerning.” 

Harry didn’t like the casual way that Draco was speaking. He sounded like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and trying to convince himself that he wasn’t scared of falling. “And I’ve come to the realization that they’re not… the runes that I know.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” 

Draco pointed to one of the runes. “This is the protection tilde. As you can see, it looks kind of like a question mark. Right?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Harry said. “But yes, I see it.” 

“Well. It’s wrong.” He pulled out a piece of parchment, quill, and ink. And made a mark that looked like a mini house fan, or three-petal’d flower. “ This is the protection tilde that I’ve used since 3rd year. In every single rune created, this is what I’ve made. 

Harry didn’t get the point of Draco telling him this. Maybe Draco was correct in patronizing him. “... And?” 

“ And ,” he said gesturing between the two, “I don’t know if something happened in the last twenty years, but either we’re having a shared hallucination, the entirety of magic has been rewritten since 1977, or we’re in some kind of…” He gestured vaguely. “Of some kind of fucked up not-our-world.”

Harry stared at the runes. 

“Okay,” he said. “That’s not what I expected you to say.” 

Draco’s mouth twitched, but his voice stayed brisk. “Ancient runes are stable. Universal. These are the basics , and there’s no reason for them to be… like this.” 

“Fake?”

Draco nodded, and then leaned against the desk. “Some of these runes are upside down, and some are mirrored where they shouldn’t be. Some are just… completely made-up, strange squiggles I’ve never seen before. And I experimented on this parchment while we were in there—” he pulled out another piece of parchment from the bag “—to see if they’d work their magic. But… They don’t hold. They don’t even touch magic. No trace. It’s just… ink.” 

Harry felt something heavy on his chest. “So… What are you suggesting?” Harry had a feeling he knew what he was suggesting. But he didn’t want to be the one to say it.  

Draco’s eyes flickered up to his own, sharp and… concerned. “I have a theory. One I don’t like very much.” 

“Go ahead.”

“I think it was the fake ritual,” he said, surprisingly quiet. “Because I recognize this one, and this one here, as one of the doodles I did… I think it may have connected to something that… isn’t ours.” 

Harry’s stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. “You think you… changed reality?” 

Draco sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Either it changed reality, or the ritual—mixed with the time sand and your bloody Gryffindor blood—-sent us into an alternate universe. Some kind of parallel world, or something. I don’t know.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, too. “Right. Brilliant.” He shifted to the other foot. “Great.” 

Draco’s mouth quirked in a small smirk, but the worry was still there. “What? I’d have thought you’d be excited to solve a mystery.” 

Harry let out a huff of air. “Believe it or not, I’ve never purposefully gone looking for trouble. Trouble finds me.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe that for a second.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Whatever. So, then. We have to figure out what to do. What do we know? You know, to reverse that kind of ritual?” 

The parchment shuffled as Draco pulled it back up to his face. “I think we might need to find out what runes I used, first and foremost. But the problem is, I don’t remember any of it.” 

“We could use a pensieve,” Harry suggested. 

Draco blinked. His lips pierced. He lifted his chin. “That’s a possibility.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Er—do you know what a pensieve is?”

Draco lifted his chin a little more, looking down at Harry. “Of course I do.” 

Harry could smell the lie. “Right.” He looked back down. “So we use a pensieve to look at the memory of your apparently-non-fake ritual, write it all out, maybe try to translate it into, er, this world’s runes, and then reverse it? Does that sound right?” He shrugged. “We can find a way to get some time sand or something;I cut my wrists over it, and the whole thing sends us back.”

“Merlin’s tits, Potter,” Draco said, who had flinched when Harry mentioned his wrists. “Don’t be so fucking ominous.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s not ominous. It’s realistic. Or at the very least, the beginnings of a plan.” 

Draco huffed. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Pensieves, runes, time sand, wrist-slitting. On the list. Though, I would like to request that you don’t bleed to death when the time comes.” And then, something in the air seemed to shift, and he took a step forward. Just one. But it made it so that suddenly, Draco was right there, in his space. “I find you marginally more interesting to me alive.” 

Harry’s heart started up a bit as his stomach went hot. “I thought I asked you to stop mocking me.” 

Draco tilted his head to the side. “And I thought I told you I wasn’t mocking you.”

Harry swallowed, feeling his cheeks heat up. “But you’re playing games with me.” 

Draco’s mouth lifted up in what was almost a smile. “I love playing games,” he said, voice low. “Would you like to play one with me?” 

Harry stared. Debated, in the back of his head. 

And just as impulsively as he’d taken the potion, he thought: 

You know what? 

Fuck it. 

In an instant, their lips met with a crash, abrasive and careless. The bottom of Draco’s teeth met Harry’s upper lip with enough force that it forced a sharp breath to escape Harry’s throat. But Harry didn’t turn away, and Draco didn’t retreat. Instead, he chased the space, putting his hands on Harry’s chest and grasping the shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space between them, the smell of minty breath and expensive cologne filling his nose with a burning heat. 

The kiss was all heat, and stubbornness, and intensity. Harry’s own hands reached up to the back of Draco’s neck, leaning down more than Harry would have thought he’d have to. He tried to push down the moment of insecurity over his height, instead putting one hand up through Draco’s silky hair and the other on the side of his neck, sitting there. Holding. Fighting off the desire to squeeze and push and devour. 

And then, Draco’s mouth opened slightly, his tongue flicking the bottom of Harry’s top lip. Quickly, they were moving in sync, and Harry instinctively grabbed at the bottom of Draco’s hair, and pulled. 

He seemed to take it as a challenge. Draco’s fingers trailed up Harry’s neck, slow and deliberate , contrasting against the intense heat between them, before he brushed a finger on the spot right underneath Harry’s ear, sending something heavily pleasant through Harry’s body, forcing a weird sound to escape the back of his throat. 

Draco’s lips upturned, and Harry felt something inside of him intensify, something hungry. Those claws. But right now, they weren’t full of anger and hatred and hurt—these claws were hungry, needing more . 

If they were playing a game, then Harry wanted to win.  

He went to move, to push Draco against the wall, but it seemed that Draco had simply been waiting for the exact moment that Harry lost control before he himself pulled back. Harry tried pulling him back down, but Draco was just as stubborn. Harry opened his eyes and found Draco looking down at him with heat and something annoyingly smug . Harry wanted to fill the space between them, but he forced himself to loosen the grip, letting Draco take a step back, before crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. 

“Did I win?” 

The words were confident, empty, but his voice was shaky. Hair was mussed. Cheeks pink. Lips swollen. 

It made him seem just as weak as Harry felt. 

Harry himself let out a shaky breath. 

“You wish.” 

Chapter Text

Fungus [Living Organism]

A spore-producing organism that feeds on organic matter. It is not a plant or an animal, but it is alive.

It lives to decompose.

The days of the Draco Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoys’ trials were long. 

Harry could remember them well. Vividly. Especially because for a few weeks, it had been the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning, one of the only things that had made him feel like he had something to live for again. 

“I know he isn’t innocent,” Harry said in his final statement. “But without him, I wouldn’t be alive. Not just me, but the entire wizarding world. We all should be grateful to him—and Narcissa Malfoy—for our presents and our futures.” He raised his head, eyes glancing around across the entire Wizemagot. At the reporters. At the rest of the spectators. Never having been as confident about anything before. “I hope you will consider this, and pardon Draco and Narcissa Malfoy with complete grace and forgiveness. As is deserved.” 

And then, he moved his gaze to Draco. Draco had sat there, looking hollow, tired, but still kept his head held high. He sat there, surrounded by the darkness of the tribunal, light shining directly on him like a theater’s spotlight. He was the only bright thing in the room. Looking, again, like the sun, the light reflecting off of his pale skin and blonde hair like god’s rays. 

Right now, watching the spot where Draco left the empty classroom, his robes following him like the feelings that hit Harry like a blazing fire, Harry knew he made the right move in fighting for him. 

Because for the first time in months, Harry felt alive . 

And fuck, it felt good to feel alive again. 

His stomach was twisting in all sorts of ways, as years of angry feelings turned over into something else. Harry had always kept a careful eye on Malfoy, always watching.

But now, the watching felt different. It was… sharper. Hotter.. He felt it like a physical pull in his stomach, like something inside of him was playing tug-of-war, and the other side was winning. 

The worst part of it was, the realization happened quickly. All at once, like Harry had been sitting underneath an icicle, with droplets of water hitting the top of his hat, unable to feel it. And then, suddenly, Draco decided to shake the house with one movement—that kiss —and it rattled the icicle enough to fall straight into Harry, puncturing him. He felt like he could bleed out right now over it. He wanted to bleed out over it. 

Merlin. What was he supposed to do now ? 

Harry dragged a still-shaky hand down his face, feeling like something inside of him had shifted. And fuck. Harry was so quick to jump into things, that it was hard for him to not run after him right this second and ask him on a proper date right then and there. But he forced himself to take a deep breath. Take a step back. Not run out the door. Because jumping into things had never left him without painful consequences—the memory of Sirius’s death sent a pang through his chest—and he doubted it would start now. 

And then, like an assault on his brain, Harry wondered what their lives could be like 10 years in the future. It felt weird that his brain was jumping around that far. It had never done that with Ginny. Not that that was her fault. She was amazing and cool, funny and beautiful. Being with her made him feel like he could finally have some normalcy, in the midst of a time where he was spending every moment thinking of Voldemort, of fighting for his life, of grieving after Sirius died. She’d brought him back down to Earth in the moments where he felt like he was falling away, falling apart. It was the happiest he’d ever been, being with her during 6th year. On top of it all, she was his last thought before he walked into that forest, ready to die. She’d represented something he thought he’d never be allowed to have: a future. And he’d probably always hold that piece of love she’d gifted him until he died. 

But now the future was here, and she didn’t want him. 

And Harry couldn’t—wouldn’t—blame her. She loved him, said she always would, but every glance at his face was a reminder of what they’d lost. Of who hadn’t made it back. Merlin knew he saw the same thing when he looked in the mirror. And Harry—Merlin, he couldn’t handle the idea of being something that caused someone else pain. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to be with him. Not after everything they’d been through. And Harry refused to be someone who made someone else hurt just by looking at him.

So he let her go. 

It had hollowed out something more in him, knowing he lost just another person to the war. But he accepted it. Loved her enough to stay away. 

But standing here, Harry felt some of that hollow space fill. Like that emptiness had been waiting for something—or someone—alive to fill it. 

And. Well. It seemed that that someone had blond silky hair and grey eyes that raged a storm. That someone held himself with the grace of someone who could face a tribunal debating his fate and still look like the sun. 

Harry didn’t know what the kiss meant. Draco made it clear he was playing a game. But… he’d also stood there, clearly just as affected by the kiss as Harry had been. And Harry knew that Draco was a bad liar. And fuck. Maybe they’d never work. Maybe they’d burn each other down. And maybe this was just another terrible idea in a long list of them. 

But Harry knew two things. 

The first: he wanted more. 

The second: that fact both terrified and excited him. 

He forced himself to move his feet and leave the classroom, feeling strangely hungry in a way that he hadn’t in a long time. He went to the Great Hall, arriving early, and sat at the Slytherin table, stuck in his head. He forced himself to stop thinking all about Draco and move his thoughts to what they’d talked about. The runes. The possibility of getting stuck in a parallel world, or something akin to it. After dinner, he’d go to Dumbledore. He’d know how to help. Or at least more than Harry and Draco could by themselves. 

Students slowly trickled in, and the second the food appeared, he ate. He ate a spoonful of peas, mashed potatoes, and even a couple bites of chicken, until he felt on the edge of uncomfortably full. 

How’s that, Hermione? 

Once he’d finished eating, he jealously watched Draco from across the hall sitting with the Marauders. They were clearly having the time of their lives, while Draco looked like a Maypole, nearly unmoving while the marauders ran around him with colorful ribbons, dancing, and laughter. Draco opened his mouth and said something that Harry was sure was sarcastic, and it made the four of them burst out laughing. 

Harry wished he could sit with them. All of them. He’d even accept sitting with Pettigrew if he could. 

After dinner, Harry spent his time in the restricted section of the library, by himself. Needing to just think , and he feared that if Draco was with him, he wouldn’t be able to think the way he wanted to. By the end of the night, right before curfew, Harry felt like he had a pretty solid plan for how they could get back to their time. 

First, figure out the runic ritual that Draco had done. In order to do that, they’d need a pensieve—Harry decided he’d go tomorrow morning, early—and write down the runes that Draco used. They’d translate it back to the other world’s magic. Draco would know what to do with that better than Harry, so he pre-assigned it to the blond and doubted Draco would argue. 

Second, find a way to reverse the time sand. Somehow. Because it only made sense to Harry that they would have to reverse sending someone into the past by sending them into the future. He didn’t know how, exactly, it would work. Maybe he could use some reversal potion and let the sand soak in it? Or something? He wasn’t really good at potions—even more so potions theory—but he could figure it out with some studying. Probably. 

And third… mix in a little bit of sacrifice. 

He didn’t like it very much. Not at all, actually. But here he was, reading about it. Blood magic. He came across it in one of these Defense Against Dark Magic books. It didn’t give much detail into it, but apparently, using human blood in any kind of spell, ritual, potion… was Dark Magic.

He tried picturing Hermione’s voice in his head. 

Well, it would make sense, wouldn’t it, Harry? If this really is an alternate universe, it would only make sense that this was the one you were sent to. The one where your parents are the same. If it’s one of the closest universes, then your blood—which already holds sacrificial magic in it, I might add—would send you to the closest one to your blood. With your parents, but also the annoying difference thanks to the different runic magic. It’s all theory, of course, Harry, but doesn’t it make sense?

He didn’t know if he was doing her thoughts justice, but he felt he could think clearer with her imaginary self there. 

Man, he really missed her. 

What was he supposed to do here without her? Draco was smart, obviously. He’d always been barely behind Hermione in grades. It was part of why he hated her so much, Harry was convinced. But he missed her bossy, logical, supportive self. He wished 

He wished Ron was here, too. It would make being alone in Slytherin so much easier. He’d have someone to sit with at lunch. 

How was he going to do all of this? 

Maybe he could get Severus’s help. He said he liked Dark Magic, so it wouldn’t be too weird if Harry brought it up, right? He knew it was a long-shot, but Severus had already made several spells by this age. In a few years, he would have created Wolfsbane. Who knew what else he was capable of? 

He wouldn’t do it right away, of course. Would have to be careful. Severus already knew that Harry was wearing a glamour, and it would make him quite suspicious if he just came out, saying, “Hey, want to help me figure out blood magic? Or maybe, since I suck at potions so much, you could possibly help me with figuring out how to reverse time sand?”

No.

What would a Slytherin do? 

He thought of how Draco spoke to others. Never saying exactly what he meant, as if words were games just as much as their kiss had been. Maybe what Harry needed to do was find a way to make Severus interested . To get him curious enough that he’d try and figure it all out for himself.  

He would figure it out. Somehow. 

Entering the Slytherin common room, Harry shivered with the cold. From the one time he’d snuck into Slytherin common room in 2nd year, he could have sworn it wasn’t that cold. He remembered specifically feeling rather too-warm, actually. But maybe that had just been because he was in Goyle’s sweaty body. He wondered if Slytherin was cold because they were underneath the lake, or if they were cold because they liked it. Gryffindor was always warm, its fire blazing all the time. But Slytherin was… verging on uncomfortable. 

You were always his favorite. You didn’t know what it was like being less than that.

Draco’s words came back to Harry with a depressing hue. He sighed. Had Slytherins always been treated like this? 

He entered the 7th year dorms, tiredness already ready to take him over. It had only been two days since they’d arrived, and he felt like everything had happened. 

He turned, ready to grab his pajamas… 

And froze. Something strange settled in his chest. 

Severus was at the desk, his head resting on his folded arms, his folded arms resting on an open book. There was a now-dried quill still in his hand, casting flickering shadows under the single candle lit. He was breathing deeply, the way Ron did when he was on the verge of snoring but not quite there. Something squeezed inside of him when he realized that Severus was shivering. 

Harry watched him. How could he not? Again, Harry had the distinct understanding that the professor had once been a child, too. Had once been Harry’s age.

What a strange understanding. Too late. Always, always too late. 

And again, Hermione’s and Ron’s voices came to him. But not as his internal dialogue. Rather, their words were memories. 

Harry James Potter, you need to start taking care of yourself! Go shower, go eat something other than sweets, and definitely don’t forget to brush and floss your teeth! 

Harry, mate, I’m kinda with ‘Mione on this one. Go sleep. This will all be here in the morning.

Harry had woken up on Gryffindor couches more times than he could count, when he was too exhausted to keep studying or working on some project. He’d always felt safe. Especially because he knew Ron and Hermione would be there, looking out for him. It was what made it feel like his home . 

He missed that feeling. Not just here, in 1977’s parallel world. But he hadn’t felt that same level of safety since he’d arrived for 8th year. It was just another thing he’d lost to the war.

But it had still been there, for all those years.

Severus didn’t have that. 

He was here. 

Alone. 

Swallowing hard, Harry grabbed an extra blanket and gently put it over Severus’s shoulder, praying to the fates that he wouldn’t wake him up, and cast a warming spell over him. Severus suddenly stopped breathing heavily, and Harry froze, worried he’d woken him up. Afraid of any sort of lashing out. 

He didn’t stir. 

So Harry quietly changed into pajamas, blew out the candle, and lay down. 

Only to not be able to sleep. 

Because of course he couldn’t. 

The reality that they were possibly in an alternate universe made Harry feel… a lot. Mostly, hope. Because if they were in an alternate world, he could mess with time without it affecting his future. They could fix things. Harry could fix things. 

He could kill Voldemort. 

He had an idea of where all the horcruxes were. And at this point, there were either only four or five. 

The diary was somewhere in Malfoy manor, probably. 

The ring—that grave. 

The cup… he didn’t know, but he could find it. He knew Voldemort had it, but he doubted it was already in Bellatrix’s vault. Even if he couldn’t find it, though, he could do the rest. Kill Voldemort, and leave Dumbledore to find the cup. He didn’t need to do it all himself. 

The locket… was it already with Kreacher? No, that wouldn’t add up. Maybe Voldemort still hadn’t made it. But if he had…

The diadem, Harry knew, was in the Room of Requirement. He’d seen it when he and Draco had arrived. But seen as they hadn’t been able to get into there, he’d leave that one for Dumbledore to find, too. 

The easiest one to get to was likely the ring. And before he knew it, Harry was picturing himself back in that graveyard, fear and pain and terror overwhelming him. At first, he flinched from the idea of being back there. But almost just as quickly, he imagined a world where that never had to happen . He could use the sword of Gryffindor, or kill the sleeping basilisk, and destroy them. 

If he could get to them….

Go to sleep, mate , said Ron in his head. Figure it out tomorrow. First you have to figure out if this really is an alternate world. 

Harry sighed. Mind-Ron was right. He needed to sleep. He closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind off of the horcruxes. 

That night, he dreamed about a sun with blond hair bringing down a flaming sword upon a dark ring. 

~~~

Draco woke up to the first snow of winter. 

Followed, of course, by the loud, annoying, excited talks from his dormmates. 

It had been about two weeks since he’d arrived, and it was the day before the Hogsmeade trip. He and Harry had spent most of their free time doing two things. 

The first? Reading everything they could about this world’s runes and potions and blood magic. 

Harry walked up to him right before breakfast, before Draco passed the Great Hall’s doors. “I have procured us a pensieve.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” Then he remembered what a pensieve was. “How did you manage to do that?”  

Harry grinned wider. “Lucky for us, Albus Dumbledore had one by the 70s, and he says he’s more than happy to share it with us.” 

“Huh,” Draco said. “I suppose that’s one of the plus sides of being Harry Potter, isn’t it?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he continued to tell Draco his plan for going home, about runes and potions and blood magic. He promised Draco he would be subtle (“You don’t have a subtle bone in your body, Potter. But go ahead.”), and he was going to try to get Severus Snape’s help. He ended it by saying that Dumbledore agreed with the plan. 

“So you do have a brain in there,” Draco said sardonically. 

Harry grinned. “Sometimes. And even better, it sometimes works.” 

Since then, Harry had tried—unsuccessfully—to befriend Snape. Draco had watched him with light humor. He’d sit with him at meals and classes, which Snape seemed to begrudgingly accept. But talking? No. It seemed to Draco that every time Harry tried to connect with Snape, he shut it down quickly. 

But he was working on it. And Draco was working on figuring out the runes. He’d gotten fairly far into actual translation. He realized pretty quickly that the actual rune translation wasn’t going to be very difficult—but he did realize, rather quickly, that the potion would probably be a hassle. 

So that was the first thing they’d spent most of their free time doing. 

The second?

Snogging. 

Lots and lots of snogging.

“Let’s just skip Herbology,” Sirius said with a large grin as he sprawled over the wolf’s bed.  “Come on, Moony. Let’s do it. Pleeeeease?” 

Remus pushed him off the bed with the force of a wolf. Cheeks slightly pink, hair mussed, and looking as exhausted as Draco felt. “No. Stop asking. Besides…” he looked out the window. “It’ll be more fun the more snow is on the ground. Going to class will give it more time to build.” 

Peter frowned. “If it melts before then, I’m blaming you for our lack of enjoyment.” 

“I mean, we could always go tonight ?” 

James let out a huff. “We could , if someone hadn’t lost—”

“I didn’t lose anything,” snapped Sirius. 

Draco fought off the grumpiness that was inside him, his eyes feeling heavy in the exhaustion as he sat up and glared at everyone. “Whatever you have or have not lost—and whether or not you choose to prance in the snow like little bunnies—let’s keep our voices down. Some of us are trying to sleep.” 

“Awh, don’t be like that, Dawnie-Poo,” said James with a grin. Draco made a disgusted noise and knew his face matched it. “Let’s have a good morning. Maybe a snowman will turn that frown upside down.” 

“No.” 

Peter jumped off his bed. “You don’t like snow?” 

Draco didn’t look at him. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s the people that come with it that are the problem.”

Sirius grabbed his chest and rolled on the floor. “You wound me.” 

“Get off the floor, it’s disgusting,” he said, gazing at the spot where pants met stone. “I would hate for you to get fleas.” 

For some reason, the comment made everyone laugh much harder than Draco felt was warranted. He narrowed his eyes. If they were mocking him, then, fine. He wasn’t going to dignify them with an answer. 

He huffed and turned back under his covers. Breakfast would be waiting for him when they were all finally gone. 

“Come on, let’s go to breakfast at least,” said Sirius sitting up, pressing his hands on the floor. “Dawn. Da~wn!”

“Go bark somewhere else,” Draco said into his pillow. “You lot are insufferable.”

They all laughed harder, but after a threat to bring the snowball fight into their room, Draco got dressed. They teased each other—and Draco, annoyingly joined them—as they finished getting ready and headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast. 

Draco watched Harry at breakfast, who sat reading a potion’s book that he said he’d gotten from the library and taking only a bite of his food before focusing his full attention on the book. Draco narrowed his eyes. He knew it was ironic, considering he himself was much skinnier than he liked, couldn’t eat when he was stressed, but it was different. Maybe Potter had the same reaction to stress, but the difference between them was that Draco was going to get to wither away anyway soon, while Harry had many years ahead of him. Besides, he’d already been named Most Eligible Bachelor by Witch Weekly, and if he didn’t eat, he was going to undo all his hard work. And Draco would hate to see some of those muscles disappear. 

That strange concern for Harry followed Draco to Herbology. 

“Good morning, good morning, everyone! The sun is high, and once again, I’m ready for us all to have a good day. Now, today! Let’s talk about mushrooms,” said Professor Sprout happily. “Interesting things, as we all know. But I’d like for us to think about their properties before we get into this one. So, what is a mushroom?”

Lily raised her hand, quickly but casually, relaxed fingers and a tilt of her head. “They’re the fleshy, spore-eating fruiting body of a fungus,” she said. “They’re pretty complicated in structure and growth, 

“Exactly,” Professor Sprout said joyfully. “Two points for Gryffindor. Who else knows about mushrooms?” 

Another student—a Hufflepuff—raised his hand. “Their purpose is to decompose. Professor Slughorn said that’s why we use them in potions.”

“Precisely!” she agreed. “Two points to Hufflepuff. Now, I know this is just review, but let’s review anyway, for the purpose of today’s mushroom that we’ll be working with. The first thing to know is that 50% of all known mushrooms are edible, 20% can make humans sick, and 1% are fatal. It’s why it’s so important when foraging for potion’s ingredients that you find the correct ones, because sometimes, an edible and poisonous mushroom can look all the same. Go ahead and lift the lids off of the boxes in front of you, but make sure you don’t touch them.” 

She lifted hers, and everyone else followed suit with their own. It was an arrangement of white and yellow mushrooms, blending their colors together, and coming back together into one branch down at the base of its foundation, browning and covered in dirt. 

“This is a Spongos Duplare. A rare species of fungi. Difficult to find in most of the world, but found in extensive mass in abandoned foundations of Antarctica. Invisible in the sub-zero temperatures, a researcher explored . However, what’s so interesting about the duplare is that its magical properties can make it completely edible—and extremely tasty, for that matter—or fatal within minutes.” She grinned widely. “It all depends on how you use it!”

Draco frowned, eying the mushroom in front of him, its fate unspoken for it. Could be edible. Could be poisonous. 

It all depended on how it was used. 

The thought followed him all the way through lunch. He fought off the internal shakiness it elicited, inviting some kind of pressure to grow within him. 

He stood and headed to Defense before the others could follow. It wasn’t until he reached the door did he remember that it was suppose to only be his second week at school. He wasn’t supposed to remember where everything was, so he sighed and waited by the door. 

It was Lily, unsurprisingly, who caught up to him. “Hey!” she said, carrying a bag that looked like it held two whole libraries in it.

“Don’t you have any other friends?” he asked, feeling weirdly annoyed by her positive welcome. 

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone is my friend, Dawn. What, are you not glad I’m here?”

He sniffed. “You’re just very…” He searched for the word. “Persistent. Like a hummingbird. Or a shrew.”

She grinned. “They didn’t make me head girl for nothing.” 

The Defense classroom was bare, its desks pushed across the walls, with weird mannequins scattered throughout the room. Draco raised an eyebrow, and he and Lily waited by the desks, Draco with his arms crossed and Lily saying hi to everyone as they came in, which was helpful when Harry came in alone.

“Hershel!” she said, waving him over. Harry flushed and walked right over, looking pleased to hear his mother call him to her. Draco blinked, something tightening in his throat at the look. It made him think, briefly, of his own mother, calling to him. 

He pushed the thought away. 

“Hi,” Harry said, painfully awkwardly. “How are you two? Er, today?” 

Draco snorted. “Better now you’re here to make fun of.” 

It seemed to smack the awkwardness right off of Harry, who stood a little straighter, and gave Draco a dry look. “What’s there to make fun of, hm?”

“You own a mirror?”

Annoyingly, Harry laughed. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet, here you are.” 

“Lily called me over,” he pointed out. “I came to her . Not you.”

“Poor girl,” he said, looking Harry up and down. “Be careful, though. She  may notice you’re withering away.” 

Harry paused. “What?” 

“You know,” said Draco, and a panicked look passed Harry’s gaze as his eyes flickered to Lily, who was watching them interestedly. “How you don’t—”

Harry jumped forward and put a hand on Draco’s mouth, as subtle as ever that he wanted Draco to be quiet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, face inches from Draco’s own. There was a threat there: Don’t say it. I don’t want her to worry. 

Lily’s eyebrows were high as she watched them, especially as Harry let go and took a step back, frowning. Clearly annoyed. He cleared his throat. “You want to talk about something to make fun of?” 

Draco smirked. “Your disgusting hand?” 

“Not quite,” he said, then grinned with narrowed eyes. “I was thinking more of… your new nickname.” 

For a second, Draco thought Harry was referring to being called Dawn , and he was confused more than anything as to why Harry was bringing it up. 

Until he continued, of course. 

“... Gryffindor Prince?” 

Draco forced himself to not visually cringe. “Hm. I don’t think there’s much to make fun of. What an honor it is to be something people bow to.”  

Harry raised an eyebrow. Draco stared back. He could almost hear the temptation Harry had to hit it, hard: You’d know all about bowing down, wouldn’t you?

But he didn’t. 

That made it worse. 

They were spared from continuing when the professor walked in, her hair in long-messy braids, wearing loose, comfortable clothes, and bouncing around like she was ready to run a marathon, something that Draco had recently learned Muggles do for fun .

“Today,” she said once everyone came through, “we’ll be working on some self-analysis. As this is a Defense class, it’s important we can know our own personal styles of fighting, where our weaknesses lie, and how we can face them. I’m pairing you off for an exercise, where you’ll face one of these—” she pointed to one of the mannequins. “These are spelled to read your primary combat weakness and use it against you. The only way to win is to recognize that weakness—and adapt.” 

The room hummed with interest.

“Remus and Peter,” she said first. Remus gave Peter a low high-five. 

“Sirius and Severus.” Sirius made a horrified face, while Severus’s lip sneered in disgust.” 

“Lily and Dawn.” He looked down at her, where she grinned up at him happily. 

She continued down the list. Finally, she landed on the last pair, the last two without partners: “Hershel and James.” 

For a moment, Harry looked almost… excited. Then uncertain. And then, that ridiculous determination slid into place as he set his jaw. 

The professor put down her clipboard. “You’ll have two minutes to discuss what you think your own weaknesses might be. Your partner may be able to help you. Use this time humbly and wisely.” 

Harry left, and it was just Draco and Lily. 

“I don’t have any weaknesses,” he said before she could ask. 

Her mouth twitched. “You think so?”

He scoffed. “Name one.” 

“Well,” she said slowly, “from that little tiff you just had with Hershel, I’d say your pride may get to you.”

Draco scoffed. It wasn’t the first time someone said he was prideful. “I’m not prideful, Evans. I’m confident.” 

She snorted. “Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, anyway, I think my problem will be that sometimes I can let my anger blind me. I suppose I can be a bit ruthless at times.”

Draco smirked, thinking of the way she’d thrown a drink on James his first day. “You? But you seem so controlled.” 

Her laugh was sharp. “Funny.” 

He smiled. “So what will you do to overcome that?” 

She shrugged. “Not get mad?” 

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.” 

Draco glanced to Harry from the corner of his eye, who was in conversation with James, who let out a loud laugh over something that Harry said. That was good. 

He also noticed Sirius and Severus—both facing each other with two angry stares—one fiery, looking like he was a wolf facing his next meal of rabbit—the other cold, defensive, ready to fight at any moment’s notice. 

“They hate each other,” he noted. 

She nodded seriously, looking at Severus with something like… longing. Or cold acceptance? Somehow, she held both behind her eyes.

Draco became very, very curious. 

But before he could do anything about it, they were told to start their battles on their mannequins. To Draco’s relief, everyone would fight at the same time, so he wouldn’t have to have anyone’s gaze on him while he faced the thing. 

Lily went first. While she fought, sending spells back and forth between the moving object, he couldn’t help but notice things. Remus went first between him and Peter, and… Peter was cheering him on, all smiles, all modes of support. It didn’t settle well in Draco’s gut. He found himself staring, one question circling in his mind… How does he become a Death Eater? What could possibly have happened that made him turn to Voldemort? 

He had to look away into something more palatable. And naturally, his gaze made its way to Harry. Which quickly turned to James, who was running around the mannequin like he was ready to wrestle it to the ground. He was practically buzzing, and from the spells he was using, Draco could already tell what his weakness was. Showiness. 

Harry, on the other hand, watched James with a smile. 

He had to look away again, deciding Lily was probably the safest option.  

Lily was—

Oh. 

She had already vanquished hers. 

She faced it, a triumphant smile on her face, wand lowering with a practiced ease as she turned back to Draco. 

“Your turn.” 

Draco blinked. But he lifted his nose and said, “Thank you for the permission, Evans.” 

She rolled her eyes, that light still there. Draco lifted his wand, hating the feeling of it in his hand. Missing his old wand. 

The fight started off easily. He did know that it was his ego that would get to him; he just wasn’t going to admit it out loud. So when the mannequin tried to lull him into a false sense of security, making it seem like it wasn’t as strong as it really was, he simply rolled his eyes and kept fighting with the same vigor, the strong feeling of magic in his wand arm, coming out his left wrist, underneath the dark mark. He sent spell after spell, and then—

The duplicate tilted its head, just slightly, and moved its body backwards, as if scared of Draco. As if it no longer wanted to fight him, but wanted to be free from him. 

Greyback’s breath on his neck. 

His voice in his ear. 

“Make them scream.”

It was the same stance. The same body that knew he was going to cause it pain. 

He knew he could duel better than most of the people in this room with his eyes closed and one broken arm, but now, his chest was tight. And the floor started to tilt from under him, as if following the tilt of the mannequin’s head—faces flashing where wood was meant to be, faces wide and afraid, faces terrified of him . 

“Dawn?” Lily’s voice broke through, past his thoughts. 

He took a few steps back, feeling lightheaded, breath feeling like it was too heavy on his chest, like gravity had increased tenfold over his pale skin. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” The words scraped out of his throat without his permission, barely audible, and his wand fell to the ground, silenced under the noises of the other students shouting and running around.  

He was going to fall. He couldn’t—he couldn’t be here. Not with everyone watching. Not with Harry watching. If he saw, he would try to fix it. He would try to save him, but—Draco—Draco had hurt too many people to be saved. He’d ruined too much to be saved. He couldn’t. Couldn’t. Be saved. 

He stumbled back some more, bumping into a student, before heading out the door—it was all he could see, all he could—that door. He needed it open, needed to get out of there. Needed to be away from people he would hurt. 

Before he reached the door, though, a hand made its way to his elbow, steering him out of the room. He didn’t remember walking, really, but he did remember trying—and failing—to pull his arm out of the hand that refused to let go, until he was pulled into another room, the door shut immediately behind them. 

He leaned against the wall, trying to hold himself up. Begging to hold himself up. But then, he remembered that he was going to sully the walls if he touched them, so he let go, and found himself swaying, and hyperventilating, and he wanted to lay on the ground, but he’d ruin that, too. So he just found himself swaying, begging himself to hold himself up, and mumbling at the other person in the room, the lights too bright for him to see anything, too much to keep his eyes open as his breaths increased in speed.

“Leave me alone, Harry,” he said through mumbled, breathless words. “Leave. I don’t—leave me.” 

There was a hesitation, before a girl’s voice spoke: “Dawn, um, do you need Hershel?”

He vaguely registered that it was Lily—not Harry—that had taken him into the room, and he couldn’t decide if he was happy or upset about that. 

“No, I don’t—I don’t want him to see me like this. Just… leave me alone.” 

To his greatest annoyance, she didn’t. 

Instead, she transfigured a table into a bed, and practically forced Draco to lie down onto it. He would argue, but he was quickly losing the ability to stand as he began hyperventilating, the eyes of the people he’d killed, the people he’d tortured watching him. Always, always watching. 

But then, he opened his eyes, too, and she was looking at him—with concern, and something like care. Which wasn’t fair. He didn’t get to have that. Not wth those green eyes. Not with someone who would be dead in just a few years because of the very person Draco had bowed down to. 

“Get out of here,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Leave. Me. Alone.” 

She narrowed her eyes stubbornly. “No, you need a friend, and if it’s not going to be Hershel, then I think I may be best for second place.” 

Draco gritted his teeth more, as his breaths became heavier as she watched him. As she stared at him. With those eyes. They’d looked at him at the Manor, that day Draco had lied to Voldemort that he wasn’t sure it was Harry. But he’d known. He’d known it was Harry. Because of those eyes. 

And now, they were looking at him with care? 

Fuck her. Fuck him. Fuck them all. 

He needed her gone . 

“You’re not my friend,” he spat. “You’re not. Anything. Just… A filthy… Little… Mudblood.” 

She flinched. He could see it. The way it stung. The way it punched her, the way he’d meant it. 

She left. 

He didn’t have the ability to be relieved. The only thing that joined his heavy breaths was even more guilt, that he’d done exactly what he’d been afraid of. He’d already ruined this time. 

It was heavy. So heavy. And then, the panic got worse, and he was stuck there, and he couldn’t breathe , and soon the cot was unmade, and his shirt was being torn at with his sharp fingernails across his chest, wishing he could open it up, could fill up that space behind his ribcage that was screaming and crying and begging to be filled, to be whole, but Draco would never be whole. He wanted it to end. All of it. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t keep feeling like this. He didn’t want this for his life, but it was his life now, and nothing he did would ever fix it. He couldn’t breathe . 

Eventually, somehow, it ebbed. He was left shaking. Panicked tears painting his cheeks. Feeling weak. He hated this. All of it. He hated it all. 

He lay there for a few minutes like that. And soon, the tears slowly started up again. But they weren’t panicked tears any longer. They were sad. 

And there were a lot of words that Draco had read in books that could describe the word. Sorrowful. Unhappy. Dejected. Depressed.  

But none of them were as strong as the word sad .

This was why Draco was going to jump. He’d had it all planned out perfectly. Clean that dastardly room. Remember the forgotten objects. End it, and stop his contagious putrescence.

Potter just had to interrupt it. This was all Potter’s fault. Ruined it. Always had to ruin it. Always. Fuck him and his fucking… him. 

They’d only been there two weeks. It had only been two bloody weeks. But in those fourteen days, he had started to feel… buoyant. Full, maybe. Draco had forgotten that he wasn’t a full person. Had gotten distracted that he was empty, and rotting, and terrible. 

The moments of hope he’d had in just 300-something-odd hours were lies that Draco had momentarily fallen for. 

He needed to get back to his time. Back to where he was the stain, where he was truly himself , where he could let it all go.

Angrily, he wiped the tears from his eyes

Eventually, he calmed down. Eventually, instead of feeling bone-crushing pain in his chest, he felt the remnants of a squeezing ache throughout all of his muscles, exhaustion overwhelming him as he lay there.

He didn’t know how long he lay there. A long time, he knew. He listened as the class left, overheard their excited chatter.

“That was awesome, Hershel!” Draco couldn’t pinpoint the voice. “I’m still not over how you managed to take two at once!”

“I did a lot, too,” another replied, a bit of a whine in his voice. That one was definitely James. 

They stood outside the classroom, laughing and joking. 

Good for Harry , Draco thought, frowning. He did it again. Got everyone to like him because he’s so bloody good at everything . 

“Ready to go?” one of them asked. 

“Nah, gotta wait for Dawn. Did you see where he went?” There was a beat. “What about you, Lily?” 

“He went to the bathroom.” 

It was Lily. Her voice was low and deadpan. Hurt. But she was clearly standing outside the door, keeping watch. 

Now, Draco felt the guilt again. He chose to stand up, transfigured a painting into a mirror for just a moment, just to ensure his eyes weren’t red and puffy—they were, but Harry hadn’t looked at his face since they’d started making out on a daily basis, and no one else could see past the glamour. 

He ironed down his shirt. Straightened out his tie. Transferred the mirror and the bed back into their original forms. And left the door. 

Six eyes were on him in an instant.

He lifted his nose higher, looking down at them all. 

“Hershel, come.” 

Harry hesitated, looking at Draco’s face. Draco glared. A threat. 

“Okay?” 

He pulled Harry into the room, snapped at them all to leave angrily, and then locked the door, casting a silencing charm. He waited by the door, listening for them to leave. They left, with James asking Lily—again—to go with him to Hogsmeade tomorrow.

He stayed with his back to Harry for a moment, hand against wood. Trying to steady… whatever was going on inside of him. 

He needed…

He needed Harry’s light. 

Just until he could get back. Just until then, he needed Harry’s flicker of light in his darkness. 

He wasn’t delusional—he knew Harry couldn’t drive away the darkness. He didn’t need him to. Didn’t want him to. But he needed that part of Harry that made the shadows look a little bit more beautiful. Let himself look at that star before, before the night swallowed him whole.

He turned. Finally. Harry was watching him, warily, the hesitation in his eyes infuriating. But Draco didn’t want questions—didn’t want Harry to ask why his eyes were rimmed with red. He wanted that fire. 

He swept to Harry in an instant, meeting full lips to his own. The contact was hard. Insistent. A demand. He pressed his mouth to it again, trying to move, but Harry wasn’t moving. He was firm. Solid. Draco squeezed at his arms, and it really was such a wonder how he had as thick of muscles as he did, considering he hadn’t seen him eat since they arrived. Despite it all, he had the body of a professional Quidditch player. 

Draco tried kissing him more, but Harry didn’t move—not in the way that Draco needed him to. His lips parted slightly, but it was… careful. 

It made him angry. 

He pulled his hands to the back of Harry’s messy hair, pulling it roughly, and he leaned down further, pulling him close, until his lips were right by Harry’s ear. 

“Kiss me, damnit,” he said, before nibbling the lobe, just a nip. “Do it like you mean it.” 

Harry made a low sound in the back of his throat, but… he still held back when Draco tried again. 

Draco’s chest tightened with something that was equal parts desperation and fury. In a rush of irritation, he grabbed Harry, pulled him a few steps to their left and pushed him to the wall, rocking him, hard, against it. Harry’s eyes widened slightly—in them, there was the desire that Draco was looking for, the mask of want. 

Harry finally moved, lifting his own hands up, and his mouth finally crashed into Draco’s, hotter, hungrier, his hands suddenly everywhere—curling at Draco’s jaw, down his sides, pulling him closer. And even though Harry was the one against the wall, Draco could feel the energy shift, and suddenly, Harry had the control, as he moved his lips from Draco’s to his neck instead, moving his lips in a way that made Draco feel all fire and all heat, like a star so many miles away. 

His knees started threatening to make him fall, and then, Harry’s teeth grazed skin, just under his jaw, making Draco’s breath stutter. He clenched his hands in Harry’s hair, intending to pull him closer, but—no. That would be giving in. 

Instead, he grabbed Harry’s wrists in a swift motion, and pulled them away from his sides, making Harry look up at Draco, a moment of startle crossing his gaze, only to instantly be replaced by something hungry. Animalistic, something dark and heavy and beautiful . 

His grin was infuriating. “Scared I’ll win?” 

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed him again, hard, pushing Harry’s wrists further into the wall. Pushing his body against his, where he could feel Harry’s hard member through his robes on Draco’s thigh. Draco shifted his hips so that it was perfectly placed underneath him, and he grinded, until Harry let out a shaky breath, followed by a deep groan. 

Draco smirked and continued the movement, before he reached with a hand and grabbed Harry’s jawline, forcing him to move from his neck and force his head up. Not to look at Draco—Draco didn’t want to be seen right now. He wanted control. And Harry was giving it to him. 

Until he went to move his face down to Harry’s again to kiss, and Harry grabbed Draco’s waist, spun them around, and now it was Draco pressed into the cobblestone walls, Harry’s thigh wedged between his. 

It went like that—back and forth. Shoving and spinning and mouths meeting with too much force. He tasted blood from one of them, from a moment when their teeth hit the others’, but they kept on. It was a battle for who could take control, who could please the other more, who could win . 

Draco wanted to make Harry weak. Maybe that was the point. To watch him come apart, to take him to the edge, to make him break like Draco was about to. 

And then Harry shoved him onto the table. 

Draco wished, momentarily, that he hadn’t changed it back into a table. 

But he resisted, planting his feet, twisting them around again. He pressed Harry down, for just a moment, but even though Harry was shorter than he was, he was stronger—not by much, but it was there—and they twisted until Harry came out on top, leaving Draco with his back against the bed, his arms held above his head, Harry straddling him like he was ready to ride. 

Draco’s chest heaved as he fought to break free. 

“Stay,” Harry said, his voice rough. 

If Harry had said anything else, Draco would have probably fallen in love right there. The intensity. The desire. It was hot.

But that word?

Stay.

It felt like a blow. And the weight didn’t leave his ribs as the seconds passed, the two of them there, breathing heavily with the motion. 

Draco wanted to sneer. If he gave into it, he would crack. He fought again, but Harry’s grip didn’t move. That part didn’t bother him as much—in fact, he found he rather liked it—but that look in Harry’s eyes… 

It was too much. 

Too warm. 

Too close. 

“No,” Draco said heavily, the word sounding much more like a wail than something that was going to get Harry’s dick hard. “I won’t stay.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Harry’s face. “Dra—”

“Just—get off of me.” 

To Draco’s great relief, Harry complied. He sat up, and gave a sharp glare to Harry, who was standing there with flushed cheeks and quite possibly the most confused expression he’d ever seen Harry wore. And there it was. More of that fucking care . 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, snapping. 

“Like… Like what?” 

Draco sneered as he straightened his tie and started patting down his hair flat. “Potter, I just called your mother a Mudblood.” 

In an instant, Harry’s gaze darkened. He didn’t move.  

“There we go,” Draco said, feeling very much like he was about to break apart with any other look, be it caring or hateful. “That’s the look you should wear. Thank you very much. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He stood and headed right towards the door. Before he could shatter. “I’m going to finish figuring out the runes. Then, we can go home. Just like we’re meant to do. That way, you can go back to your friends, and I can leave.” 

He put a hand on the door, ready to leave, but as soon as he opened it, some magical force pulled it shut. He tried to open it again with empty hands. Jiggled at the handle. But it wouldn’t open. 

He turned around, feeling that simmering anger too close to the goddamn surface. He was ready to fight. Needed to fight. It wasn’t until he saw Harry’s own wand in hand did he remember that he left his  wand back in the Defense classroom. And finally, he lifted his glare to Harry’s, expecting a look of hate for calling Lily a Mudblood. 

But that wasn’t what he found. 

He didn’t find warmth, either. 

He saw something else there, wide, open. Readable. Something full of wariness and an unsettling understanding that Draco didn’t know how to pick apart.

Until, of course, Harry spoke. 

“... What do you mean you can leave ?” 

Draco blinked. Had Harry caught on to his double meaning? No, he couldn't have. Harry wasn’t that smart. He swallowed. 

“Well, leave 1977 and this godforsaken parallel world,” he lied, lifting a nose high. “It’s really such a drab being here. Though I must say, the snogging has been quite nice.” 

Harry didn’t flush as Draco had intended. He was looking at Draco like he saw past the lie, clear as day. “Say it again.” 

Draco smirked. “Say what, Potter?” 

“What you meant by leaving.”

Draco huffed and lifted his nose even higher. “You heard me, but I’ll say it again if it loosens your balls. I’m ready to be out of 1977.” 

“There.” Harry lifted a finger with his left hand, putting the right one—the one with his wand—down. “You just lied to me.”

Draco scoffed. “I did not.” 

“You did , Malfoy. You’re a terrible liar.” He took a few steps closer, body turned slightly to the side, as if he were approaching a wounded animal. 

Draco rolled his eyes and stiffened his back, leaning against the walls and crossing his arms. “And you’re dramatic. I’m fine.” 

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” 

Damnit.

“You didn’t need to,” Draco recovered. “Your eyes say so much. Mr. Golden Boy with his expressive green eyes. Always ready to say so much with them.” He scoffed. “They're exhausting, really. I’m really much too tired of them.” 

Harry frowned, but he took another step closer. “Tired of my eyes?” he murmured, looking up at Draco in a way that made Draco too fragile, too close to the edge. “Look into them.” 

Draco huffed. “Why? Ready for another go?” He nodded to the table, putting on a sultry smile instead. “I can be really good for you if you ask nicely.”

Something flashed behind Harry’s eyes. That animal. Clawing to the surface. It wasn’t desire this time, though—it was… some kind of need that went beyond desire. Or—burden.  “I don’t think this is the game you’re pretending it is, is it?”

Draco felt the air fight to stay in his lungs, and he made a conscious effort to breathe normally. “This is the greatest game I’ve ever played.” 

Harry shifted, leaning on the other leg as he turned his head to the other side, his face so… vivid. Draco looked away. Maybe it wasn’t some sort of selfish indulgence to let himself stare at that star. Maybe it was a self-inflicted injury. A reminder of what he wasn’t . 

“Do you think it’s your last one? The Last Game?”

“Nope.” 

“Draco,” he said, and it was the first time Harry had ever said his first name. It made Draco tighten. Closer to the surface. “Look at me.” 

“No, thank you,” Draco said, sneering, eyes moving to look out the window, its light streaming in onto the stone floor. Out of his reach. “If you’ll excuse me, I would like to leave.” 

“No.” It sounded so final that Draco glared up at Harry, who was looking at him with one of the most serious expressions he’d ever seen. But it wasn’t full of a mask. It was open. Vulnerable , in a way that Draco wasn’t quite willing to be. His own face tightened. “Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Who said there’s anything wrong ?” he snapped.

“You don’t… Draco, if something wasn’t wrong, you wouldn’t have said what you said to my mom.” 

Draco sneered. “Oh, Potter. That’s the exact thing you would hear from me, no matter how fine or not fine I am. I’ve said it before. What makes this so different?”

Harry’s expression didn’t move. The intensity of the gaze made Draco look away. He was glad he did when Harry said, “But you’ve changed.”

“I haven’t, Potter. Don’t pretend like I have.” 

“Draco, I—I know you have. I’ve seen it.”

“You’re seeing what you want to see.” he said narrowing his eyes at a spot on the floor. “Sometimes, I wonder if you Gryffindors ever feel distraught when your rose colored glasses finally come off.”

“I see what’s real.” It was a statement. “And you’re real. And I—” He swallowed. Draco braced himself. “I care if you’re okay or not.”

Okay. Not as bad as he expected. He let out a soft exhale. “Well, then, you can rest easy. I am more than okay. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been quite as okay as I am right now.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Good thing I don’t go to you to confirm my emotions then, isn’t it?”

There was a beat of silence between them. 

“Draco—”

“Don’t.” 

“Why?”

“I can’t.” The words ripped from his throat, and he felt himself tightening even more. Building, building, building into something that would break in a moment. 

“I just can’t.” The words were final.

Harry, apparently, didn’t know what final meant, however. “Well… Can I help you can ?” 

“You and your fucking hero complex,” Draco said, finally looking down at Harry, knowing Harry could see the anger. “And how are you dealing with things? I’ve seen you. You don’t eat. You have bags under your eyes. Why’s that, Potter? Can’t sleep? What’s keeping you awake? Is it that you no longer have a purpose? That you have no one to save anymore? Well, I don’t want to be your bloody project. I don’t want to be the new thing you save. I don’t want to be your next poison. I want to be nothing .”

The last sentence left before he could stop it, and his breath caught in his throat when it ended. 

There was a beat. 

Harry’s face didn’t change. Not even a little bit. He looked like he already knew exactly what Draco meant by that, and it didn’t surprise him. But when he spoke, his voice was strangely fragile, like it was ready to crack, too. “You don’t really mean that… Do you?” 

Draco huffed out a small laugh. It was so funny that Harry James Potter was standing there in front of him, being his very Harry James Potter self. “Of course not,” Draco lied lazily. “I’m too grand to ever stop being .” 

Harry didn’t move. He didn’t blink. But his breath sounded a bit more labored. And he opened his mouth. 

“Draco, I care—”

“Don’t tell me you care about me,” Draco said, teeth bared. “Don’t do that to me.” 

Harry’s eyebrows scrunched together. As if he couldn’t fathom the reason behind the anger. As if he wasn’t the cause of half of it. “Why?” 

“I’m rotten, Potter. You know it.” Harry didn’t flinch back. “There’s dark magic in my very veins. That I took on willingly. Things I’ve done to others. I’ve killed. I’ve put more people under crucio than people who admire you. I’m a murderer, and a tormenter. How dare you try and tell me you care about me.”

“But I do.” 

Draco sneered. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you more than anyone, I think,” Harry said. “And even if I didn’t… I don’t want to live in a world where Draco Malfoy doesn’t live. I don’t think you—I don’t think you get it.” And he finally moved, shifting hunching his shoulders forward—not out of defense. Rather, he shifted to one that… God, if he had wings, they would be surrounding the two of them. 

It was too much for Draco to bear. 

“No, you don’t get it. I’m tired of decomposing. I’m tired of rotting. I’m tired of ruining the things that I look at, the things that I want, the things that I love.”

Harry frowned. “Your love is… Your love is the exact thing you should live for.” 

“What do you know of love, Potter?” he asked cruelly. “You never had a family.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed. “I have a family,” he said, somehow firmly and shaky all at once. “Ron and Hermione are my family.”

“You’ve been left behind,” Draco responded cruelly. Knowing it would hurt. Knowing it would hit deeper than need be. “They have each other, and you—what? You’re spending your time trying to fix a universe that isn’t yours.”

“And you’re spending your time trying to get out of any of them,” he said, cheeks flushing deeper. “That isn’t fair to do.” 

“Fair?” Draco scoffed, but it sounded more like a growl. “Nothing in this life is fair, Potter.” 

“What about your mother?” Harry asked, the words seemingly out of nowhere, stinging like ice on salty skin. “She loves you.” 

Draco sneered. How dare he bring his mother into this. How dare he? Like Potter would ever understand. “Of course she loves me, Potter. But, again, what do you know of love?” He brought his arms down, by his sides. They clenched into fists. “There’s a price that comes with love, Potter. It’s why my father did what he did. It’s why my mother stayed. If they hadn’t loved me, with their whole beings, they wouldn’t have become as they were, would they? Wouldn’t have followed that fucking dead bastard.” He huffed out an angry breath and shook his head, hands tightening even more, until it hurt. “The fact remains, Potter, that children must be raised by their parents. And you turned out as bloody heroic and good as you have because yours died.” He thought of the fungus. “I, on the other hand, became a poison, because they lived, and because they loved me.”

They stared at each other for several moments. Draco glaring. Harry with that intensely serious expression. 

And then—

“You’re so much more than that.” 

And for some reason, when Harry said that, Draco realized that Harry was right. He wasn’t just poison. Poison was something that needed to be ingested. Or inhaled. Or absorbed. He was his parents’ poison. His parents had spent all his life filling him and consuming him and loving him and expecting from him, that all he could ever be was what they’d made him to be, and just the mere presence of his existence and their love for him meant that they’d made mistakes that he could never atone for. Through his poisonous nature, he hadn’t had the strength to fight for what was good, and he’d passively delivered misery to others, through his silence underneath their love. 

But whereas poison was a thing , a substance that hurt or killed passively, Draco was more than that. He didn’t just destroy things because of his unresisting complacency. 

Draco also had fangs. 

He was venomous, too.  

He snapped. 

In an instant, Draco raised his fist, landing right on Harry’s nose, a horrible crunching sound following it. It didn’t take away the anger, though—it made it worse .

“You want to take another swing?” said Harry, wiping the blood that already was flowing out. He had that same serious expression. “Go ahead. If it’ll make you feel better.” 

Draco punched him again, his vision going fuzzy, and he kept punching until somehow, they were on the ground, Harry laying underneath him.

“I HATE YOU,” Draco screamed, landing punch after punch. Harry lay there, masks raised high, too high for Draco to see over. His face was sharp, and he didn’t punch back. He didn’t fight. “I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU. YOU HAD EVERYTHING, AND NEVER SHARED! YOU SAW ME MISERABLE, AND YOU HURT ME! YOU TOOK MY WAND FROM ME, AND NOW I HATE USING MAGIC! I HATE IT! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

He finally stopped, breathing heavy, looking down at the monster he’d created. Harry’s face was purple and swollen and bruised. 

Near unrecognizable . 

Draco raised his fist again. 

Worse than when he’d been at the manor.  

Draco hesitated. 

“Do it again,” Harry said, voice muffled with the swelling. 

And Draco did. 

“Again.” 

Draco did. 

“Do it every moment until you don’t have to anymore,” Harry said then. Draco didn’t know where his glasses had gone, when they’d fallen off. “But do it. I’ll take it every day if it means you are still here.” 

Instantly, Draco deflated. 

And he realized, he very much did not want to punch Harry anymore. 

Or ever again, for that matter. 

But there was something… terribly relieving in letting it all out like that. Like he’d been able to get rid of the venom that was inside of him, so much so that he could breathe. He sat back, landing on Harry’s thighs. Letting go of the fistful of his shirt, where Harry’s head bounced down on the floor harshly. 

“You are so…” But Draco was too tired to come up with a proper insult. “Harry.” 

Harry grinned. Blood staining his teeth. Not looking like Harry. Reminding Draco that he was dealing with a fucking masochist. 

“If it means you’ll stay,” Harry said, “then I will happily be Harry.” 

Chapter Text

Whelve [Verb]

To bury something deep; to hide.

Harry didn’t go to the hospital wing. 

There were a lot of reasons for this. He didn’t want Pomfrey asking questions. He was concerned she would somehow piece together his parentage. He hated the hospital wing. And others. But it essentially boiled down to one thing. 

He didn’t want to. 

Instead, he made a plan to brew himself some essence of murtlap—it was surprisingly easy, Hermione had shown him—and put it on his face once he got back to his room. 

For now, however…

He walked confidently through the halls, grateful for his glamour, though not necessarily enjoying the weird fuzzy way his brain was feeling. He found himself walking to the second floor, into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, bracing himself to be bombarded with her whining. 

To his surprise, she wasn’t there. 

Maybe , he thought as he opened the Chamber of Secrets and jumped down the shoot, she was taking a nap . Ghosts probably did that, right?

Turned out, basilisks didn’t just shed skin. They shed fangs, too. So Harry was able to easily pop in and out without disturbing the hibernating creature. He’d let her sleep for another 20 years.

Harry entered the Slytherin common room looking dusty and musty and smelling very strange, but there was a basilisk fang carefully wrapped up in many layers of fabric sitting in his pocket, ensuring it wouldn’t accidentally stab through—he certainly didn’t want to have to explain to Dumbledore why he needed to borrow his phoenix. He kept his head down as he made his way through the room and walked straight into his room, his head and face still pounding, his brain feeling a little fuzzy, but overall feeling rather proud of himself that he was able to pull it off so easily. 

The door opened with a creak, and he was surprised to see Severus there, writing something in a book. 

“Hey,” Harry said, closing the door and trying to nonchalantly walk to his bed and pull out his trunk. The trunk had about 20 locking charms and passwords to get past before it could be opened, and he didn’t really fancy the idea of Severus seeing him work on it. He was probably just clever enough to figure them all out if he watched. 

Snape didn’t respond. Just kept writing in his notebook. 

For the first time since Harry arrived, he was glad instead of disappointed that Severus seemed to have no interest in him. He started on the unlocking spells, saying them silently, rotating his wand this and that way, each lock sounding too loud in the silence. 

Click. Click. Click.

Harry spent the time reviewing his plan. Click . He tried thinking like Ron as he figured out the best strategy to confront the horcrux. Click . The best spots to apparate to. Click . He tried thinking like Hermione and think of all the possible drawbacks. Click . 

He thought of all these things, and he most certainly did not think about the fact that Draco didn’t want to exist. 

I want to be nothing.

They’d left Draco’s lips like he’d been given Aperta Mentís. Like he’d been out of control of himself when he said it. 

Click .

And that look he’d given Harry once he realized he’d said it. 

Click. 

Everything else he said. 

Click. 

It hurt. 

Harry hadn’t even… he’d never considered the possibility of a world without Draco Malfoy in it. Certainly not one where Draco took himself out. 

He’d thought Draco held himself in higher regard than that.

Click.

He was wrong, apparently. 

Briefly, he had a terrible image of finding Draco’s cold body, paler than it was in life, with eyes closed and blonde hair glowing under moonlight. Maybe he was bleeding. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just lying there , unable to move. 

Harry couldn’t stand it. 

Click.

Finally, the trunk finally opened. With one last annoying click . 

Severus spun around. “Merlin, Parker, how many—” 

He paused. 

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” 

Harry looked up, eyebrows pushed together. “What do you mean?”

Severus sneered. “What do you mean, What do you mean ? I mean your face looks like it was just on the receiving end of a blast-ended skrewt.” 

Harry blinked. “You…?” He looked down at his wrist, and his heart sunk. There was a long red scratch on his forearm, where random droplets of dried blood had scabbed over in between ripped skin. And at the end of the forearm, where his hand met arm, was a completely empty wrist. 

He didn’t have the glamour bracelet on. 

“Huh,” he commented. “Well. I suppose I got in a fight.” 

Severus narrowed his eyes. “A fight? With what? A Quantiped?” 

“Close.” He put the wrapped up fang quickly into his trunk, right next to the empty, folded up Marauder’s Map. 

“What is… Accio ,” Severus said pointing to the fang. 

And to Harry’s absolute, utter horror, the fang left his trunk. Harry went to snatch it in the air like he would a snitch, but the reality that he could accidentally cut himself made him hesitate just long enough for him to miss it, and in an instant, it was hovering in the air in front of Severus’s face.

Harry got to his feet and sprinted to grab it, but Severus just waved his wand, and it unwrapped in the middle of the air. 

There was a beat. 

“A basilisk fang?!” 

The genuine surprise was such a contrast to Severus’s usual generally cool and uninterested exterior that it almost made Harry smile. Except, he was on the receiving end of having just been found with a basilisk fang. So he did not smile. 

“Er, I’m just gonna wrap that back up,” he said, reaching for it. 

“What are you doing with a basilisk fang?” 

Severus stared at him, his mouth open slightly. He raised the fang even higher. Harry knew he could get out his wand and Accio it, too, but he didn’t know how to make it hover in the air like Severus did. The idea of it landing wrong wasn’t too exciting. And again, he really didn’t want to ask to borrow Dumbledore’s phoenix.

“Er—because it’s cool?” Harry suggested. 

Severus narrowed his eyes. “You’re not very clever, are you?” 

Harry almost made another joke, but the word clever ricocheted in his brain, which still felt rather fuzzy. He could find a clever excuse. A Slytherin reason. Or at the very least, a Slytherin way to handle this situation. 

Harry widened his eyes, putting on the face of someone who was trying very hard to keep a secret. 

“Why should I tell you?” he asked, swallowing loudly and speaking quickly. His eyes darted to the side. He brought his fingers together, starting to pick at a fingernail. “It isn’t anything important.” 

Hopefully he wasn’t overdoing it. 

Severus narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell Dumbledore you have an incredibly illegal object on you.” 

Harry’s eyes darted to the basilisk fang, still hanging in the air and rotating like a chicken at one of those stores that Petunia liked so much. “I don’t—don’t tell him. Please.” 

Severus looked pleased with himself. “Then tell me why you have it.”

Harry swallowed again. “I don’t…” He hesitated, and glanced to the door. Severus waved his wand again, to lock the door. Harry tried to not roll his eyes. “I shouldn’t tell you,” he said quietly instead. “Certain people can’t learn… can’t you just… trust that I need it?”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Trust? You?” 

Harry nodded, widening his eyes more. He probably didn’t look very cute and innocent with his face looking like a plum. “I need it.”

“For?” 

“For…” Harry swallowed again. “If I told you, and you told anyone else, bad things will happen .” 

Severus blinked. And then, slowly, said, “What… do… you… mean?” 

Harry huffed. “I…” His eyes flickered up to the fang again. And then to the door. “You won’t believe me.”

Severus leaned forward. “Try me.” 

The fuzziness in Harry’s head was getting worse, and his face was pounding even more. He debated on telling Severus the truth, just so he could lay down and not perform this stupid manipulation show. Except, telling the truth would not give him the relaxation he so desired. 

“I’m a Seer,” Harry whispered. Severus raised a slow eyebrow. “See? I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Never mind. I made it all up. Ignore me.” He turned to his bed, shoving the trunk shut. 

It must have been the right reaction. 

“You’re a Seer?”

Harry nodded miserably. “Why else do you think they homeschooled me?” 

A beat. 

“I won’t say anything to anyone,” said Severus, sounding very much like he couldn’t decide whether to believe Harry or not, “ if you share some of the venom with me.”

Harry stayed silent.

“Or, I can tell Albus Dumbledore. Your choice.” 

He made it sound like a threat. But Harry wasn’t very scared of that threat—he could say, Go right ahead , right there and end up just fine. 

But he could use this. 

“I will give you some,” Harry said, trying to sound like a Slytherin and not really knowing how exactly that was supposed to be, “but I would need something from you in return.”

Severus’s eyes flickered down to the fang in the air. Hungrily, he licked his lips, almost as if he were ready to eat it. “With what?”

“With what’s coming.” Harry shifted slightly, just enough to look like he was having an internal battle. “The future is… We need to fix it. I can’t tell you the details, but I need a potion. I’m rubbish at potions, as you know. You’re not. It’s an easy trade.” Severus looked like he was going to hesitate, but then Harry said, “I can get you more venom, too, if need be. And even some basilisk scales.” 

That did it. Snape puffed out his chest slightly, a small tinge of pink coming to the tops of his sharp cheekbones. “I suppose this may be a fair trade.” Then, his gaze flickered back to Harry’s face. “But I also have questions. Are you willing to answer them?” 

Harry fought to keep his face neutral. He’d never been very good at doing that in front of Severus Snape. “It depends on the question.” Just to keep him intrigued. Truthfully, Harry was almost ready to tell him anything that he wanted to know. 

Severus flicked his wand, and the basilisk fang was wrapped back up and then placed next to Harry’s open trunk. Harry shoved it in there and locked the trunk. “I’ll just start off with two.” Severus said. “The first… What happened to your face, really?” 

Harry sighed. “I told you. I got in a fight.” 

“So you said.” But he glanced back down to Harry’s hands. “It’s rather interesting how your hands show no signs of retaliation.”

“It was more of a one-sided fight.”

“A one-sided fight that ended with your face three sizes larger than it is.” 

“Pretty much.”

Severus sighed then. “Sit.”

Harry’s eyebrows scrunched together. Then, they narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because we’re doing obedience training,” he said sardonically. Harry deadpanned. Severus huffed a breath of air, hiding a laugh, and making him laugh made Harry’s heart warm. “Because I’m going to be doing some diagnostic charms on you, Parker. See what potions you need to fix that hideous face.” 

Harry supposed this was better than going to Pomfreys. “Fine.” He sat, and braced himself when Severus raised a wand over him. He muttered a spell too quiet for Harry to hear, and in a few seconds, there was a small slip of paper that appeared in the air. Severus stared at it for a moment before saying, “You have a concussion.”

Concussion. He hadn’t had one of those since… well, probably since primary school, the last time Petunia had successfully hit him with a frying pan. Usually, they let him deal with his injuries by himself, but he’d been throwing up and had been struggling to speak, so they’d taken him to the doctor with a story spun about falling off the swingset. 

He wasn’t nauseous, and he wasn’t fighting for words. He could still talk well enough, thank you. “No, I don’t.” 

Severus blinked at him. 

“I don’t,” he said again. “I’d be throwing up. I haven’t done that once yet, have I?” 

Severus’s lips tightened. “Not yet.” He raised his wand and accio’d random potion’s ingredients, before setting them next to his cauldron. “You need potions. One for swelling, one for concussions, and a bone strengthener. They’re fairly uncomplicated potions, though I do request you stand no less than 10-meters from me as I brew. I’m concerned you’ll either drink it before it’s done or ruin it with your swollen head,” he stated.

Some things wouldn’t change, apparently. Including Severus Snape’s love of insults. 

“I’ll brew them here. Go lay down on that bed, and don’t fall asleep.” 

“Why do I need the bone strengthener?” asked Harry, eyeing the potion. 

“You cracked two bones in your face,” he stated plainly, starting heating a fire under the cauldron. On his desk . Wasn’t he concerned he’d burn down their room? “Your nose and upper cheek.” 

“Ah, that’s why it feels like that,” Harry said amusedly. “So you, er, like potions, then?”

“I, er , do.”

Harry couldn't tell if he was mocking or teasing. 

“What got you into them? Was it, like, a good teacher or something?”

“Hardly.”

“Then…?”

“Then what, Parker?” 

“Then what got you into them?” 

Severus turned to his brewing. He was silent for so long, pinching and stirring and waving his wand over them, that Harry started to doubt that he was going to say anything at all. 

“Necessity.”

Harry didn’t want to ask questions after that. 

Until, of course, Severus paused his brewing and walked over to Harry and waved his wand again. More words seemed to pop up, and as Severus’s eyes flickered over reading them, his eyebrows furrowed more. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked.

“Looking for more injuries.”

“I don’t have any other injuries,” he assured. He’d feel them if he did. 

“That’s not what these scans say.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow.“What? 

“Hm. I suppose they aren’t recent injuries. Simply…  unhealed ones.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Why are you looking for those ? I’m clearly fine.”

Severus’ eyes flickered to Harry. When he looked down at him, Harry saw something sharp, calculating, and… understanding. All at once. 

“So, you just transferred here,” he stated, randomly. 

Harry blinked, glancing around at the small, enclosed space that was their bedroom. The door was less than 4 yards away. “Er, yes? I was homeschooled.” 

He nodded slowly. He didn’t turn around from the potion being brewed, not at his face, anyway. And then his eyes flitted down to Harry’s hand, at the scar that Umbridge had given him. Harry tried for a casual flip of the palm, but Severus didn’t look away, not even when Harry hid it under the blanket.

“You get nightmares. Loud ones.” 

Harry sat up a little straighter in the bed, the back of his head feeling tender against the wood bedframe. “Sorry. Can’t really control them. I thought I put up a silencing ward.”

“You did. Just not very well.” 

Harry grimaced. “Sorry.” 

Then, Severus waved his wand, and a list appeared in front of him. Harry’s eyebrows probably would have reached his scar if it didn’t hurt to move them so much. Severus stared at the list for a moment, before speaking bluntly.

“Two breaks in the right forearm, poorly healed. Multiple fractures. Bones completely regrown in the left, and after that, a broken radius and ulna, from two separate occasions. Several cracked ribs—more than once. Shoulder strain. Fractured collarbone. Several untreated concussions. And, well… lots, and lots, and lots of scars.”

Harry stared at him. And then tried grinning. “What can I say? I love Quidditch.” 

Severus stared back. “I see,” he said smoothly. “And a snitch caused the words on your hand?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. That was a bludger.” 

“And the malnourishment?” 

He grinned wider. “Tummy issues.” 

“Did your tummy issues also cause the untreated concussions?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Obviously not. That was the Snitch.” 

Severus didn’t blink. 

“Listen,” Harry said, offering another eye-roll, much more exaggerated, making his face pump again. “Don’t read into it. Seriously. I’m just… unlucky.”

“This list might suggest you’re the unluckiest child I've ever met.”

“I’m not a child,” he snapped, and the questioning made him start to feel rather claustrophobic. He huffed out a breath. “I promise, I’m not, like, in danger or anything like that.”

“Says the one who is in bed with a swollen face and—for some reason—a basilisk fang. I do wonder where you got it all from”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting?” 

Severus shrugged. “I’m not suggesting anything, really. I simply… wonder.” 

He gritted his teeth. “Wonder what, exactly?” He said it too fast. Too sharp. Was Severus mocking him? How had he picked up on his weird childhood? And now, the walls did feel too close, and the air felt too heavy, and he wanted to run out of the room and throw some hexes or get into a fight or maybe even let Draco Malfoy punch him again. It would feel good to be punched again.

He didn’t know why he thought that. 

But then, Severus looked at him. Finally. And the buzzing that started in his hands paused.

Severus wasn’t looking at Harry with mock. Or even curiosity. Harry found something else there, something that made him twist inside. “I just wondered, really, if you would understand.”  

And then, he realized what Severus was trying to do. 

Connect. 

Flashes of memory, of Severus as a kid being yelled at by a large, overbearing, drunk man, memories that Harry hadn’t meant to see. That was Severus’s current reality. He still lived in that house. Probably went home for Christmases and had to live through that. Maybe he’d had a frying pan to the head a time or two. 

And the thought was very strange to Harry, that someone would want to talk about… their bad home life. Harry had tried very much to not think about the Dursleys when he wasn’t there. Or, at least, not since he’d left. It used to be easy, making jokes about them hating him. Or wanting him dead. Or being happy about his misery. He used to do it a lot. Make those jokes. It made him feel… normal. 

Maybe he used to think it was normal. Well, not normal , but certainly acceptable. It was Just The Way Things Were. 

And when he joked, people usually either laughed awkwardly or ignored it or didn’t take him seriously.

What they never did was understand. 

But Severus was still looking at him with that expression. It was vulnerable in a way that wasn’t meant to be vulnerable. A light of hope behind his eyes, but hidden behind bars that only understanding would open. He was once again reminded of how very lonely Severus probably was. 

Harry swallowed. Shame started creeping up in his gut as he thought about talking about it. 

Severus turned back to the potion without a sound, and then ladled some of it into a small bottle, before handing it to Harry. “This is the one for the concussion. The other two are almost ready.” 

Harry hesitated to take the potion. He noticed Severus’s fingers. They were long and thin—piano hands, Petunia had once called them. There were scars littering the fingers. Harry had never noticed them before. They weren’t… small. One looked suspiciously like a cigarette. One was too long and thin to just be a little nick of the knife. None of them had been healed by magic, that much was clear. 

Severus stood there. Wanting to be understood. 

How could Harry deny him? 

Feeling as though the words were being ripped from his gut, Harry shrugged casually, finally took the potion, and said, “Maybe I would.” He drank it in one swallow, before handing Severus back the empty potion’s bottle, his head almost instantly releasing a metric ton of pressure, the fuzziness going away. “Understand, I mean.” 

Severus nodded slowly. And then, swiftly, he turned to the cauldron. Cleared it. “I’ll get started on the swelling potion.” 

Harry would need it. But he needed the glamour more. So he just nodded and said, “Okay. Er, I have to go grab something really quick, though. I’ll be right back.”

Severus waved him away. But before Harry left, Severus offered a tight smile that looked more like a frown. “I look forward to fixing the future with you.” 

Harry did, too. 

~~~

During the next morning’s breakfast, it was clear that Draco hadn’t apologized.

He was supposed to be going with Lily to Hogsmeade,  but they sat away from each other. Lily didn’t look his way once. Instead, she ate her cereal and laughed with friends. But when they looked away, she deflated. 

It was just as obvious that she hadn’t told anyone else, either. No one was sending scathing looks Draco’s way. Sirius was in the middle of playing Hand Football with balled up pieces of paper, bumping into Draco very purposefully, who was glaring at his own eggs.

Harry sighed. 

He had to do everything in this godforsaken world. 

He forced himself to eat a full breakfast before everyone above third year headed to Hogsmeade. Harry stood to go talk to Draco, but at just a single look, Draco practically raced away, and then Severus asked him a question about whether they needed to get something while in Hogsmeade today—”Anything important ,” he emphasized—and then Draco was out of his sight entirely, and he couldn’t find any of the Marauder’s, either, so he just sighed and started walking to Hogsmeade. 

He watched Lily from afar, walking with a group of girls as they all laughed over something, but Lily didn’t move with as much animation as she normally did.

He’d need to fix that later. 

For now, he had to get the ring. 

~~~

He made it to the edge of the wards between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade and then started to look around for a good place to apparate. He settled on a spot between two isolated buildings, the ground covered in pebbles as he triple checked that no one was around when he went through. 

Briefly, a momentary thought passed his mind that Draco would be mad if he found out about this, but he dismissed it. Draco wouldn’t be mad—there was no reason to be. 

Then why aren’t you inviting him?

Because , he snapped back at the annoying thought, he’s going through enough as it is. 

His heart rising in his throat, Harry closed his eyes and pictured the Gaunt shack. The memory of the memory didn’t come easily, and he wished that he had a pensieve to remember the details of the place that Dumbledore had shown him. But he tried to remember the details of the house. The broken rafters, the rotting floors. The squalor. Once he had sufficiently remembered the shack to the best of his ability, he apparated. 

The shack was just as it looked in the pensieve, but it had a much more foreboding energy that memory could elicit. Dark magic, under the surface, creeping up into his hands and feet, making him wish he knew how to fly just so he didn’t have to touch anything. He wondered if the magic was what kept the house from falling apart, the glue that kept the wood stuck together. 

He started searching, anyway. Floorboards creaking underneath him as he walked. The shack was utterly silent, cobwebs extracting from every corner. There was a single rocking chair, unmoving and useless. He used fabric to move aside the few objects in the room, searching inside of random empty cans that littered the floor. All he found were spiders. 

When he walked into the side room, the single bedroom, he jumped. 

There was a skeleton, in the corner. Sitting up, its jaw hanging open like it had died in shock. Harry swallowed hard, and walked towards it, goosebumps forming on his arms. In all of his years, all of his experiences, he hadn’t ever seen a skeleton. It was not white, like he’d seen in cartoons. It had a brownish, yellowish tint, with tiny little holes of pockets around the edges, like something had been eating away at it. Morbid curiosity propelled him forward, to stare. There was a pair of pants that was less pant and more string, eaten away from moths. 

And on his bony, skeleton hand, there was a ring. 

Harry’s eyes widened. 

It was the ring. 

He couldn’t imagine Voldemort putting a horcrux back on the dead body of his family member. Which meant there was just one thing left to check. 

Robes rustling with the movement, Harry pulled out the basilisk fang from his pocket, holding it carefully, away from him. His knees popped as he fell to them and let his gaze rest on the dark ring, the only thing in the room that was beautiful. 

This was the resurrection stone. Passed down for generations. Made to see the dead one more time. 

There was no one dead for Harry to see in this world.

Harry raised the fang, and brought it down on it. It moved like sharp glass against water, and upon impact, the stone cracked. 

But it didn’t fight. 

It wasn’t a horcrux. 

Harry let out a shaky breath. He could cry. Or shout. Or sing. 

Horcruxes didn’t exist. It was why Moaning Myrtle wasn’t in her bathroom—she hadn’t ever been killed. It was why the ring was here—Riddle never learned of it. 

Killing Voldemort was going to be much, much easier this go around. 

And. God. If this wasn’t a confirmation that this really was a parallel world, Harry didn’t know what would be. He felt tears of hope come to his eyes. Harry could mess with the timeline as much as he wanted and not have to worry about the consequences.

He could give them happy futures. 

He could give them all happy futures. 

Because he was in this parallel world where there was no such thing as horcruxes. Which meant they wouldn’t have to hunt. And they wouldn’t have to worry about Voldemort coming back a second time. And they could all truly, truly be free. Harry would kill Voldemort in this world, and that would be it. That would be all of it.

James and Lily could have as many kids as they wanted. Maybe, in this woold, Harry could even have siblings. And it wasn’t—you know— him that would have siblings, but this world’s him would.

They wouldn’t have to die.

Sirius wouldn’t have to die. 

Remus wouldn’t have to die. 

Peter Pettigrew might not even turn to Voldemort. He wouldn’t have a need to. Even he wouldn’t have to die.

Severus would never have to be spy. Wouldn’t have to live with the guilt of Lily’s death—because Lily was going to live —and—and—and—he could live, too.

They were going to be happy .

He stood, feeling hope well within him, and went to apparate back to Hogsmeade, when a green light flew straight towards him.

Harry dodged it just in time, before spinning around and sending his own spell towards the direction the green one had come from. 

Harry processed the other in less than a millisecond. 

This was not Harry’s Voldemort. It was a Voldemort from the past, who hadn’t died and come back to life yet. He looked more like Tom Riddle from the diary—he still had his humanity. Just another confirmation he hadn’t yet ripped apart his soul. Where Harry’s Voldemort was a hairless monster with red eyes and bony hands and distorted facial features, this Voldemort stood tall, with long, pale fingers that held a wand to Harry without the added insanity. His hair was slicked back, not unlike Draco’s during their first few years of Hogwarts, and his face was all angles and sharp objects. Even the murder that he held in his eyes didn’t make him look more monstrous—rather, he looked more like an animal. Kind of how Harry felt. 

He cast a spell, which Harry quickly deflected, the spell hitting the skeleton. 

A surprised look crossed his face before he started sending spell after spell. No monologues, the way Harry’s had done. They moved too quickly, as these kinds of things were. Harry moved the way he always had, without much thought and listening to his gut.

They were in such close proximity that Harry struggled. Small spaces like this, he felt trapped. He fought off the fear, off the panic, because this Voldemort was strong . He sent spells Harry didn’t recognize—one hit him, and for a moment, he felt his eyes would explode, but he closed them before they could, and sent his own killing curse. It missed, but he knew it would have worked. Harry meant it, here. He meant to kill Voldemort. He was going to. 

“Tom Riddle,” he shouted. 

The name made Voldemort freeze. Harry used the distraction to send another killing curse, which Voldemort sidestepped. 

“How—who are you?” he demanded, between spells, baring his teeth. 

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t have the breath. His lungs burned with every curse he deflected and his arms shook with each spell he sent back. A jet of selver grazed his shoulder and tore through his shirt, the flesh burning, searing, on fire. He stumbled but didn’t fall, forcing his wand up again. 

“Sectumsempra!” he shouted. 

The curse missed his chest, but slashed across Voldemort’s arm, bright red spilling instantly down his pale skin. Voldemort snarled, shocked at the sight of his own blood. Harry sent another spell, but Voldemort cast a silent reflection spell, crashing it into the wall. 

Spells came faster. A whip of green light crossed Harry’s vision, and he barely had the time to roll aside., the floor scraping against his cheek, raw. He yelled a spell he’d read the other day in the book on Dark Magic, not even processing that he was using it then, and it split the side of Voldemort’s jaw open. Blood sprayed, and for a second, Harry saw Voldemort stagger. Too human, too mortal. 

Then, two curses that Harry didn't recognize shot straight into Harry’s ribs. The first, slashed right up Harry’s arm with a sharp slice,and blood started pooling out like a fountain, much faster than expected. And then, the second one hit in immediate succession, a blow. He felt like he’d been hit with Vernon’s car, as his chest caved inwards and all air left his body in a soundless cry. His wand slipped from his fingers as he crashed to the ground, pain spreading like a virus, into every cell of his body, through every bone. 

The ceiling swam in his vision, and his claws came out. With one hand, he clawed at his chest, begging for air; with the other, the one that was quickly turning into a pool of blood, he clawed at the ground, searching for his wand. 

Above him, Voldemort walked over, and he stepped on Harry’s wrist. Voldemort’s blood fell onto Harry’s coat as he looked down at him. 

And then, his eyes widened slightly. 

“You’re that Potter boy,” he said. Stepping harder on Harry’s wrist, making him cry out as the air suddenly came back to his lungs. 

“No, I—”

“James.”

“NO—“

Voldemort smiled at him.  A menacing, terrible smile. He looked at Harry, who was now covered in blood—his own and Voldemort’s. “You’re as good as dead, James Potter. Soon, you’ll get to say hello to your parents. I want you to know that as you die here, alone.” 

Harry reached for his wand again with shaky hands. A desperate attempt. But before he could reach it, Voldemort whispered, “Accio,” and then disappeared with a loud crack . 

Harry sat there, something terrible in his gut. Terrible, terrible, terrible. 

And for the first time since he’d arrived in this time, he truly understood that they were in a war. 

With the last bit of magic and energy he held, without his wand, Harry apparated to Hogsmeade. 

Chapter Text

Hyperindependent [some kind of bloody part of speech]

Something that bloody Harry Potter was, which was making Draco Bloody Malfoy really bloody annoyed.

The night before Draco and Narcissa’s trials, Draco sat across from his mother. She sat with as much grace and poise as she ever did over the dinner table, though right now they wore prisoner’s clothes and were held in shackles, awaiting their fate. There were clanks of dull silverware along the metal bowls as they ate in silence, as they had since they’d been taken in by Aurors. 

It was Draco’s greatest failing, not having prevented his mother from sitting there. She didn’t belong in places like this. Narcissa belonged in high society, in balls and parties where everyone put a bit too much wine in their drinks. Her fingers were made to play the harp on a Tuesday morning, her eyes to look at chandeliers. Her lips were made for red lipstick and unclassy gossip while her body was made for long, classy dresses with low backs and skirts that reached the floor. 

Not this. 

She wasn’t meant for this. 

“I’m so sorry, mother,” he whispered to her. “I’m sorry I didn’t figure out a way to save us. I’m sorry I followed father. I’m sorry for everything I did, and I’m sorry for everything I didn’t do.” 

She looked at him, and tears sprung to her eyes. But she just raised her eyebrows high and looked down at her bowl of soggy stew, face tightening, blonde hair looking limp and dull in the grey lighting. She lifted her nose, and the movement forced him to catch a glimpse of reflection of light on tears. But she didn’t lower her head. 

“Your apologies will not serve us,” she said quietly. “Nor will it serve the world. If you are truly sorry, then when we are free, never say you’re sorry. Apologies are cheap. Instead, be rich. Be rich in your efforts, and do everything you can to clean up your mistakes.” She raised her nose higher. “And remember, you will always be my son.”  

~~~

Draco was having a miserable day. 

It all started yesterday, of course. After he’d beaten Harry to a pulp, he hid in the Astronomy tower for hours, much later than curfew allowed. He kept replaying in his mind everything he’d done—not just that day to Harry, not just what he’d said to Lily, but everything he’d ever done. His chest ached, and he felt utterly miserable.

The worst of it was, he wanted to get comfort from Harry . It was selfish, but he wanted to be held by him. Or have the distraction of one of their fiery snogging sessions. Or maybe just sit together. But he couldn’t, because he’d beaten him to a pulp, and that wasn’t really something he could clean up. 

He went back to the dorm expecting to be hexed into next week by James Potter. It didn’t come. He waited in the morning, for them to ice him out. It didn’t come. In fact, all of them were perfectly kind and warm and ridiculously annoying as ever. 

Lily hadn’t said anything. 

But she didn’t look at him, either. 

Why? Why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t she fight him, or tell everyone, or cry to her friends? It would have made things easier to swallow. At the very least, he would have deserved their anger, and more. 

Now, he just had to sit with it. 

He didn’t like just sitting with it. 

Because now he was forced to come face to face with his second why. Why? Why did he have to be such an asshole sometimes? Why couldn’t he just be good like bloody Harry Potter? 

And why… why did Harry even do that? he wondered for the millionth time as he walked down the streets of Hogsmeade, surrounded by joyful Gryffindor seventh years as they walked into Zonko’s Joke Shop. Why did he let me hurt him? He… Merlin, does he really have such terrible self preservation skills?

Briefly, he remembered what Harry had said under that potion’s influence. 

I think there’s something really wrong with me .

Draco hadn’t known what he’d been referring to then when he said it. But he felt like it had something to do with what happened yesterday. He hadn’t quite pieced together all of the parts, but he almost felt like Harry valued his life as much as Draco valued his own. 

He despised that he didn’t want to jump as much now that he’d made Harry’s smile bleed. 

It was probably the exact reason why he should. 

“Mermaid fins, look at these!” said Peter, pulling out some wonky glasses. He looked around, mouth wide open, before handing it to Draco, who simply passed it to Sirius, who put them on and then burst out laughing. 

Being around these four didn’t make him feel any better. Or, rather, being around them didn’t help take away the guilt. Because being around them did make him feel better; made him feel lighter. Their laughs that had been part of that most annoying hope he’d gained the past few weeks. They were so… happy. And walking around with them, it was almost like having friends. 

Which, of course, wouldn’t be the case once they found out what he’d called Lily. 

“These are awesome,” Sirius said, throwing them to James, who burst out laughing once he put them on his face. 

“Dawn, try them,” he said, holding them to Draco. Draco sighed. Apparently, he wouldn’t be allowed to brood in peace. 

He put on the glasses, and then choked. 

The glasses had the effect of changing everyone’s outfits into something utterly ridiculous. James was wearing a jester’s hat on the top of his head, but his body wore a medieval knight’s armor. Sirius was wearing a maid outfit with rainbow knee high socks and German clogs. Peter wore some Muggle shirt with houndstooth baggy pants. And Remus wore the exact same outfit he currently had on, but with added cat ears and a tail. 

“That’s terrible,” Draco drawled, handing them back to Peter. “Please get them.” 

They laughed. Which made him moody again. And he decided he would let himself brood and hate himself. So he hated himself some more. So all the way through their afternoon, Draco decided he hated himself very much. He sat at Madam Romserta’s with the Marauders while he didn’t eat and hated himself. He looked over treats while he hated himself. He walked in the bitter cold wind, feet crunching on the snow, while hating himself. 

And then, they went into the bookshop, looking much the same as it did in 20 years from now. Even the stand in the middle of the room was in the same spot.

“We have to placate Remus with a bookstore visit, or he’ll bite us,” Sirius said under his breath. 

Remus—who was holding a book in hand already—heard and, without even looking at him, proceeded to smack Sirius with it.

Draco looked around while hating himself. He found himself gravitating towards a very small section that could maybe, possibly hold information about time magic, books he’d been searching for in the library but hadn’t been able to find. 

If he couldn’t stop being such a dick, at the very least he could search for answers.

He skimmed the index before finding what he needed. 

Finally. A good section. On time turners. 

                    The issue with traveling backwards in time is the reality that going there can ruin the time continuum. The butterfly effect—  

Blah blah blah, Draco thought, skimming. Let’s skip to something I don’t know . Ah! Here — 

                    So how do you land on the exact moment you would need to? Well, time sand is measured by each and every sand particle,
                    and it uses arithmetic sequences and carefully weighed sums to help the user reach its destination. It’s important to follow
                    arithmetic sequences, or the user may be at the mercy of awry dates. The more exact the sum of your sequence, the firmer
                    the landing. This is why, when using a time turner, the user turns the article exactly once for every hour.

Draco thought about that. He could use this. 

He was pretty much finished with translating the runic ritual. And he felt almost confident that it would get them back to the right universe. 

But just because he was confident in their quantum jump, there was still the concern about getting back in the right time. He certainly didn’t want to get back into their universe and still be stuck in 1977. 

He liked the idea of using arithmetic sequences with time sand. It was clean. It made sense.  

He set the book down and started doing maths in his head. 

They needed to be exactly 20 years in the future, minus the amount of days they’d been here—or at least, minus the amount of days they would be by the time they left. He should settle on a magical date that also landed on good math. 

Maybe on a solstice day? Logically, it would probably be best to do the ritual on the winter or summer solstice, since those were the two days where magic was at its strongest. Summer was when light magic worked best; winter with the dark. And since they did have to use some blood magic, anyway, maybe the winter solstice would be best. 

Besides, Draco didn’t want to be here for another 6 months more than he had to. 

It was already the end of November—the 30th. Tomorrow was December, which meant that they had until December 21st.  Just 22 days to get it all figured out. 

He did the math in his head. Then, just to be sure, he wrote it down on a spare piece of parchment he found in his pocket. 

He ignored James, Sirius, and Peter randomly laughing loudly from the other aisle. 

7300 (20 years exactly) minus 22 (the days they would be there for)… 7278. 

He did some more math. It factored down to 2 x 3 x 1213. 

Clean, easy numbers. 

Powerful, prime numbers. 

The magic would be even stronger. 

It was perfect . 

If they did go the potion’s route, which Draco was leaning towards, they could use the 2, 3, and 1213 in the potion. Maybe use 2 and 3 to rotate stirring techniques through it all. Then, once it was finished, maybe they could let it stew or boil or sit on ice for 1213… minutes? Seconds? Hours? He supposed it wouldn’t matter which one they chose. The measurement didn’t matter. It was the number that did.

And Merlin. This was incredible. 7278 could be separated into 8 divisors. A perfect, even 8! If he could find eight people and borrow their magic, add it into the potion, they had the best shot at getting home on time. They didn’t even need to know they were involved. He could just… steal their hairs, or swab some spit during lunch. Something—anything. 

And he already knew who he could use. 

Obviously, Harry and Draco himself. The four Gryffindor roommates; they would be easiest to steal hair from. Lily, since she was Harry’s mom, and the whole reason the two of them were brought back into this time to begin with. And Snape. Harry could easily get some of Snape’s hair. 

It would be enough. 

It would have to be.

He wrote down his notes, brain moving at a thousand miles per second, grinning down at his parchment piece. He made short-hand theories on ingredients that may be the most successful, best temperatures, humidity levels. 

Fuck, he loved moments like this in potions. When he felt like he felt he was doing something. Making connections. Controlling it. It was fun and it was helpful and it was powerful and clean. 

With potions, he didn’t destroy or rot. 

He created . 

“Are you going to buy that?”

Draco jumped at the casual voice, looking up and finding a young, pimply woman standing by him and pointing down at the book. Draco opened his mouth to say something scathing, because of course he was going to, and how dare she question Draco Malfoy… only to pause. Because right now, he wasn’t Draco Malfoy. He was Dawn Marshall, and he suddenly realized that he was about to experience something that he’d never experienced before, not a day in his life. 

He didn’t have any money. 

The thought gripped at him with so much shock and horror and shame that he just stared at the girl. She hesitated at his stare. And then cleared her throat. And said, “I’m sorry, sir, but if you aren’t going to buy anything, we have to put the books back.” 

Draco blinked and then looked back down at the book. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t buy it. He couldn’t… he couldn’t even go and get a single piece of candy right now if he wanted to. 

What was he supposed to do?

He didn’t need the book—he’d already gotten what he needed from it. But…

His pride stung.

“No, thanks,” he said, a sneer in his voice, “I’m not interested in it.” 

“Ooo-kay,” she said, smacking her lips and then raising her wand to put the book back on the shelf before walking away. 

Draco, feeling dazed and shocked that he didn’t have any money, practically stumbled over to where the others were. They were chuckling over something in a book, though Draco couldn’t imagine what they could find so funny. 

“Dawn, come look at this,” said Sirius with another bark of laughter. “It—”

“Do you guys ever take anything serious?” he asked, feeling very light headed. 

“Never,” said James. “Where would be the fun in that?” 

“I’m going to get some air,” Draco muttered, and turned, only to be stopped by a hand. 

“Merlin—what’s the matter?” It was Peter, his voice high. “You’re pale.”

“That’s the natural state of my skin,” said Draco, ripping his arm out of Peter’s hand. The last person he wanted fucking comfort from was a rat. “I just need some air.” 

James took a step forward, and he still wore a grin, but it was a bit tighter, eyebrows furrowed. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m just annoyed by you is all.” 

Sirius barked out a laugh. “Awh, Dawnie-poo, what happened? Sad you missed out on a joke?” 

“Go die, Black.”

“Kill me yourself.” 

Draco snorted, and just then, Remus turned into their aisle, a few purchased books in his arms. 

“Alright, no flirting, you two,” said James with a roll of his eyes.

Sirius laughed, but Draco audibly gagged, not even faking it. That was his cousin, thank you very much. But then Remus paused mid-step, smile freezing. Draco raised an eyebrow. And instead of arguing, all he said was, “Ew.” 

Draco turned again to leave, but it just made the other three laugh harder. 

“Don’t go, Dawn,” Sirius said, grinning. “I’ll serenade you with my song. James—start humming.” 

James started humming something melancholic. They all missed when a look of hurt passed Remus’s face as Draco passed him, but he was quick to plaster on a smile. 

Merlin, every Gryffindor did wear their heart on their sleeve. Remus was an open book. And it seemed that a certain Black didn’t know how to read. 

“Flirt with someone who wants it, Black,” he said, not turning around. 

He made it outside with the sound of laughter left behind, taking in a deep breath under the brisk air. For a moment, he’d forgotten that he was both desolate and poor, but now he was back outside, and he didn’t know where to go. He couldn’t very well go get a drink. Or pop into another shop. He could be accused of loitering —Draco Malfoy was not a loiterer, and he was determined that Dawn Marshal not become one as well. 

He walked down the street, pulling his cloak closer to himself, annoyed. And even more annoyingly, Draco thought of his and Harry’s conversation days ago.

I almost wrote to you this summer. 

What would you have said in it? 

A lot. Or not very much. I’d say thanks. And apologize. 

For what?

For… everything. 

Fuck Potter and his noble words. 

Because now , Draco was thinking about offering an apology, something he knew would do nothing. 

And just then, just when Draco was stalking down the street like some kind of lonely weasel, Lily came out of Madam Puddifoot’s, at an arm’s distance away. She paused, the door wide open, her friends standing behind her, running into her. She tripped a little forward, staring at Draco, before it seemed to catch up with her that she was staring at Draco, and her eyes flickered down to the snowy ground, offering an apology to her friends as they started down the street in the opposite direction. 

Draco’s throat tightened. “Wait!” he called before he could stop himself. She stopped, as well as her friends, and they turned around, giggling a little. Well, just her friends. Lily looked rather seriously at him. 

He cleared his throat. “Lily, may I speak with you?” 

Her friends giggled a little, but she lifted her nose up a little bit, an expression he’d never seen in Harry on her face that he couldn’t quite place. “I suppose.” She crossed her arms, and didn’t move.

He swallowed. “... Alone.” 

She sighed, and her friends grabbed each other and ran away. 

Draco waited until they were out of ear shot before he grimaced and cleared his throat. It wasn’t often he felt awkward, but, well, he’d been in more awkward situations. Like holding a wand to people he didn’t want to hold wands to. 

“Walk with me,” he suggested. Not wanting anyone else to hear. 

Something fiery and hot blazed behind her eyes momentarily, and he almost expected her to scream at him, but she said quite coldly, “Fine. Lead the way.”

Draco lifted his nose a little more as they walked, the bitter wind keeping him from feeling too hot in embarrassment.  

“Thank you for joining me,” he said, the words sharp. They passed an empty alleyway, and paused near its edge. Draco crossed his arms and then lifted his nose a little higher. “I simply wanted to inform you that I was wrong, and that you should not take into consideration what I said yesterday.” His lips tightened on the last word. 

Several beats passed, and her straight, red hair was the only thing moving on her being. The corner of her mouth turned down before she snorted. “Is this some kind of apology?”

His cheeks darkened. He could feel it. He couldn’t admit he was apologizing, because this wasn’t about apologies. Apologies were the equivalent of putting a nail into someone’s head, saying sorry when they bleed, and then expecting forgiveness. Draco couldn’t handle forgiveness even if it was offered. What he needed to do was stop the bleeding. 

“I was wrong,” he said instead. “I don’t want you to think that I was right. You are brilliant, and kind, and the term I used was very incorrect—for you or anyone. Do not take it into consideration.” He turned his head to the side slightly, away from her. What else could he say? 

“Dawn…” It sounded gravelly. She sighed. “I don’t really know what to say to that.” 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Draco said airily. “You just need to know I was wrong. I suppose that’s all I came to say.”

She let out a huff of air, a small cloud of smoke appearing with the breath. “Why did you say it, though? That was… fucked up.” 

Draco’s jaw tightened, his arms tightened, his nose somehow lifted higher. “I… told you, already. I used to be shitty, and I still am. I’m also terrible and cruel. And altogether quite unpleasant. There is no other way for me to be.” He shrugged. “That’s why I said it. But don’t let what I said hurt you. My opinion means pants on matters like this.” 

She stared at him for several seconds, with Harry’s eyes. But her mouth turned down in one corner, and the expression Draco hadn’t been able to pinpoint finally clicked. 

It was… disappointment. 

He hoped he never got the chance to see that look on Harry’s face. 

Before she could respond, there was a loud crack down the alleyway that they just passed, making Draco jump, remembering the last time he’d heard a crack like that, when Voldemort apparated into his house for the last time. But there was a labored cry, as if the person on the other side were trying to call out but didn’t have the energy to. 

And Draco recognized the cry instantly. 

He sprinted into the alleyway. Saw him just as quickly. 

The sight made Draco’s stomach drop. 

“Harry!” he called, as he scrambled to Harry’s side, whose green eyes were flitting open and closed. It took a second for Draco to really process what he was seeing. Draco lifted his wand and tried to clear away the blood that was pooling around him. “Oh, Merlin, Harry, please tell me that isn’t blood.”

“Okay,” said Harry, his eyes closing. “It’s not blood.” 

Draco’s chest was in his throat, and then there was Lily, behind him, gasping, and she fell to her knees immediately, summoning some kind of ribbon and tying it in a tight knot at the base of Harry’s arm, which had a giant gash in it, the muscle from his wrist all the way up to his inner elbow open and splayed like the sourdough that Narcissa had once baked. Draco gagged, feeling nausea rise up in him at the sight, wishing he had a stronger stomach, and at a second look, he turned to the side and vomited on the clean snow, the smell invading his nose as he gagged some more. 

Lily didn’t have time for that. “We need to get him to the hospital wing— now .” 

Draco agreed. 

Forcing himself to breathe normally, Draco transfigured a stick and his undershirt into a stretcher, waited for Lily to wrap Harry’s arm up closed, and then levitated Harry as the two of them sprinted all the way to the castle, a run that was much farther than Draco wished to take.

“Damnit, Harry, if you die on me,” he said as they passed through the doors, ignoring Lily’s sharp look. 

Draco didn’t even get the experience of overthinking the fact that he’d called Harry Harry in front of Lily because he was so focused on the fact that Harry was half-awake, his eyes opening every now and then. He hadn’t spoken a word since his stupid fucking joke, but he was bouncing in and out of consciousness. Instead, he wanted to scream at Lily for not running faster. 

Not soon enough, they were finally in the hospital wing, and Draco was yelling, “Pomfrey, get out here!” and Lily was yelling, “Madam, we need you!”, and they were both helping set Harry into the bed. 

Pomfrey was already rushing towards them, her robes billowing behind her. Draco’s vision tunneled as his palms sweat and ribs ached, his eyes locked onto Harry. Her wand swept in precise arcs, and potions appeared seemingly out of nowhere, to be spelled into Harry. 

“What happened?” she asked, voice cutting through the frantic echo of footsteps. 

Draco felt something very ugly well up within him. “We were having tea, isn’t it obvious?” he snapped, voice sharp and cracking halfway through. 

Pomfrey ignored him, her gaze flickering to Lily, who jumped in.

“We don’t know,” she said swiftly. “He just apparated out of nowhere and then passed out.” 

Pomfrey cursed—not enough in Draco’s opinion—and continued working on Harry.  Spells and potions and everything that wasn’t enough. The bedsheets were now stained in random spots with leftover blood that hadn’t been erased with Pomfrey’s spells. Harry’s robes had been expelled and he was left in a blood-stained white Muggle undershirt ripped to show a purple chest, bruised like he’d been hit with a Tramen curse, a dark spell that felt like being hit by a train. Harry’s cheeks were gaunt, and he was pale, with an almost yellowish hue to it. Draco couldn’t stand it. 

There was a thrum of his magic pulsing under his left arm as he stared in horror. Draco tried telling himself to calm down. It was just the magic. Usually, it was under control, only present when he had his wand in his hand. But sometimes, he felt it like it was accidental magic all over again, which made him feel very much like a small child. He told himself to reel it in, to keep himself under control, but Draco couldn’t bear it. Not for even a moment. He needed Harry. Needed to see him as much as he needed air. He couldn’t bear the thought of… 

Fuck, even thinking it was too much. He couldn’t just handle losing him, but he couldn’t even handle the idea of losing him. 

He needed him to be okay— now . 

He moved forward, practically pushing Lily—who was just watching, bouncing back and forth the way Harry did when he was nervous—pulling up a chair and sitting in it right next to Harry. Not touching him—he couldn’t make it worse, he couldn’t poison him in this state. Not when he was already so close to the edge. 

But because he was selfish, he put his hand on the bed, next to him. Just enough to keep himself from getting out of control. 

“Mr. Marshall,” Pomfrey said, not looking up from where she was working on Harry’s arm, her wand held steadily over the muscle. It was starting to knit together, which was good, but Harry was so, so pale. “Maybe give him some space. Respect his privacy.”

Draco didn’t move from where he sat. 

“Mr. Marshall,” Pomfrey stated again. “I need to focus.”

“Then focus,” he replied, scrunching the bed sheets under his arm, fighting the desire to touch Harry, feeling the thrum of his magic under his left arm. He forced himself to stay calm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She huffed but didn’t argue further, her attention needed on the boy splayed out in front of her. Draco barely noticed her movements, his eyes too focused on Harry’s face, wanting to do something—anything—to let Harry know he was there. He wanted so badly to hold his hand, to search for some kind of response, some kind of confirmation that he was okay, but when Madam Pomfrey squeezed the tips of his fingers, all they got back was yellow skin that took too long for blood to flow back after squeezed. 

“Does he need more blood replenishing potions?”

“They’re working,” she snapped. 

“Not fast enough,” he snapped back. “I don’t care what you need to do, but do it. Give him some of my blood if necessary.”

Pomfrey huffed. “What we need to do is wait, for his magic to kick in. It’s slow because he seems to be experiencing magical exhaustion—though I can’t figure out what it’s from.”

Draco frowned. Harry was a powerful wizard. He shouldn’t be experiencing magical exhaustion. “What did you do?” he muttered to Harry, and fought against brushing his hair back. Then, to Pomfrey: “How do you fix magical exhaustion?” 

She shook her head. “It just needs to be replenished with time. If we had—if we had a luminary or something…”

“What’s a luminary, and where can I get one?” 

“It’s not something to be fetched from a cupboard,” she said. 

“Well I’m going to find it. What is it so I can do so ?” 

She huffed and then summoned a salve and put it on the open muscle of Harry’s arm. Draco’s stomach lurched. “It’s a witch or wizard who can transfer magic to another. They are… exceedingly rare, and you aren’t likely to find one.” 

The magic under Draco’s arm thrummed more, feeling like a heartbeat. “What… how does one know if they’re a luminary?” 

Pomfrey finished rubbing the salve in and then started knitting the muscle together again. “They can feel the magic.” 

Draco could laugh. Or cry. And then, before he could even offer his possible assistance, Lily said, “Dawn, didn’t you say you could feel your magic? In your arm?” 

Pomfrey’s wand didn’t pause, but her head lifted swiftly to Draco’s, eyes wide and hopeful. “Can you? Can you feel your magic?” 

A lump formed in Draco’s throat. “I can—everyone can.” 

“Everyone cannot ,” Pomfrey interrupted. “If you aren’t going to give Parker his privacy, at the very least you can be useful. Now, grab his hand—go on—grab it.” 

Draco stared at Harry’s hand, pale and unmoving. Panic started to crawl its way up into his throat, and he lifted his hand to grab it, but he paused. What if he made it worse with the touch. What if he hurt Harry instead of help him? He was… he was poisonous and venomous and everything in between. 

But then his eyes flickered to Harry’s bloodless face, the magic moving too slow. The face that had been swollen and purple yesterday, after Harry let Draco beat him to a bloody pulp for a reason that Draco still couldn’t understand. To be a martyr, he guessed. And he could assume that whatever this current state was about, it was with the same intentions. To be some bloody hero. 

Fuck. He needed Harry to be okay. 

He almost wanted to argue it, say it was all just accidental magic, but if there was even a chance that he could use whatever this was to help Harry, if it was a shot to make Harry better, then he would try. He had to. 

He grasped Harry’s cold hand. 

“What do I do?”

“Do you feel your magic right now?” Pomfrey asked as she continued her own spellwork.

“Yes.”

“Focus on it.” Draco did. It wasn’t hard to do—it thrummed and beat and pulsed and begged to be let out. “I want you to focus on moving some of that magic from your hand into Hershel’s hand, alright?” 

Draco swallowed. He wanted to close his eyes, to not have to see it if he made things worse, but they were held open with his fear that this would be the last time he saw Harry, his star. He forced himself to take a deep breath and clear his mind as he did with Occlumency, until all he was doing was feeling, not thinking, not stuck in a fearful future or tragic past, but focusing on the exact moment he was in. 

And then, the magic flowed. 

It moved easily and quick, almost as if Harry and Draco were magnets of opposite charges, the magic from Draco snapping right into place with Harry, and Harry’s magic grabbed onto it tightly. It felt like the first time Draco held his wand, when he was just 11 years old, the warmth filling his whole body and niot just his arm. Harry seemed to be drinking his magic, but Draco wasn’t feeling drained—rather, he felt… warm. 

The warmth continued to grow in him as he let his magic wiggle its way through Harry’s body, reaching into his arm and moving the muscles together, too. He felt it trail along, still connected with Draco but like he was pulling on silly putty, some thing his mother never let him have before. It was far too silly, she would say, and then she’d boop him on the nose and he would giggle, but he still wouldn’t be allowed to play with it. And his magic moved through Harry’s veins like it was his own blood, and Draco imagined himself on one of Harry’s little blood cells, on a pool floatie maybe, as it rode along with the blood. He wondered if he could find where Harry’s magical core was, and he followed the small tendrils of weak magic, grasping at Draco’s magic with greater fervor, drinking him like Draco was something to be consumed. It was a pleasant feeling, to be needed this way. Harry’s magic was drinking him like it was good and nourishing and bright, not very poisonous at all. 

And then Pomfrey moved. With one last moment of hovering over Harry’s arm, it was stitched back together, a long, red scab covering where it had come together. ”It worked. You did a great—” She then let out a gasp, making Draco giggle. “Dawn, let go!”

But Draco didn’t want to. He felt… really good. Drunk off of firewhisky, or something. Lightheaded, but not in a bad way; he started to sway with the movement, and let out a little giggle, and his vision was going fuzzy, and it was so nice and calm. Euphoria. That was the word. 

And then Pomfrey’s hand was on his own, pulling him away from Harry, and he giggled but held onto Harry’s hand tighter. “Nooooo, Harry needs me, don’t make it stoooop,” and then he giggled again. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that Malfoys didn’t giggle. But here he was, giggling, and it felt good, and he didn’t want to stop, so he wasn’t going to. 

Until, of course, Pomfrey used her wand to rip his hand apart from Harry’s. 

The effect was immediate, and he felt like his entire soul had been ripped out from under him. He stumbled off his chair, his muscles shaking too much for him to sit up straight, and he was gasping air like he hadn’t breathed in minutes. 

He reached out to touch Harry again—he needed that warmth again, that euphoria. He needed it.

But then Pomfrey’s wand waved again, and Draco suddenly found himself in the bed next to Harry. He tried moving again, but there was a sticking charm keeping his ass in the chair, and he couldn’t move past a sitting up position. He fought against it for several moments before he realized what he was doing and how indecorous he probably looked in front of Lily Evans and Madam Pomfrey, who were watching him with expressions he couldn’t focus on past the fuzziness, and he abruptly stopped fighting it. And just as abruptly, he crossed his arms and turned away from them, lifting his nose in the air. 

“Oh, fuck off,” he said, the only coherent thing he could think to say. 

But then, he remembered Harry, and he twisted right back around. 

“How is he?” 

Pomfrey was looking at him with concern. But at Harry’s name, she reached down and touched Harry’s forehead, then his cheek, and let out a sigh of relief. “He’s warming up. The blood is flowing. Now, he just needs rest.” She swallowed, and then waved her wand over Draco, only to sigh in relief. “You’re a little tired yourself, but you’re fine, too. You did it, Dawn. You gave him the strength he needed.” 

Draco’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t even be relieved. All he wanted to do was cry. Why did he want to cry? 

Instead, he glared over at Harry’s unmoving body. “You prick,” he said loudly to him.

And then—Lily laughed. It was slightly shaky, but the humor in it was real, and then he glared at her, and she pressed her lips together, but the smile was there. 

This wasn’t fair. Harry had told Draco he wasn’t allowed to leave, just yesterday, but here he was, having done something that could have killed him. And the what that he’d done was still unclear. Where did Harry go? Where had he gone to get hurt like this? 

Pomfrey cleared her throat, looking between Harry and Draco, and then to Lily. “You can stay here,” she said quietly. “Do not interfere with Mr. Parker’s healing. The potions are working, and he’s going to be just fine. He’ll be out by morning. He just… needs rest.” 

Lily nodded sharply, while Draco didn’t move; he simply glared at the place where Harry lay. And then, after making both of them promise her that they’ll come get her if any of them needed anything, she went into the other room.

“Wait, unstick me!” he called after her. Which she did not do as her office door closed behind her. 

Draco huffed out an annoyed sound, still feeling shaky but no longer experiencing that euphoric joy he’d gotten a glimpse of. Lily took a few steps closer to Harry’s bed, and she stared at his face. 

At his face . 

And then, Draco realized that Harry didn’t have his glamour on his wrist. 

And she’d heard him call Harry by his name several times. 

Oh, fuck. 

“Who are you?” 

Draco raised a slow, sardonic eyebrow to her. She returned it just as quickly, though her cheeks were pink. Not from embarrassment. She looked rattled. 

“I believe we’ve been acquainted,” he said, “but in case you needed a reminder, my name is Daw—”

“No. Don’t—don’t lie to me,” she said, pointing at him, her finger an accusation that Draco was not ready to face. “You—he—” She pointed to Harry. “He looks just like James.” 

Draco’s face tightened. “He looks nothing like James. Hershel is much more handsome.”

“You… you called him Harry.” 

“That’s his nickname,” Draco replied slowly. “It’s cause he has a hairy—”

“Don’t… you… dare…” 

Draco sat up straight, weak fingers tightening on the blanket under him as Harry tried sitting up. Lily was over Harry in an instant, saying, “Lay there, please.” 

Harry blinked up at her. She stared down at him, too. Draco watched as the two of them stared into each other’s eyes. He watched as something was processing in Lily’s head, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

“I am… so confused right now,” she said bluntly, looking between the two. Looking like she was connecting the dots but not quite prepared to admit it. “Who… What… Your name’s Harry?” She shook her head, her hair shimmering under the dim light streaming in through the window. “Actually, first thing’s first: are you okay?” 

Harry blinked up at her. “I’m great,” he croaked. “Fantastic, really.” But then he sat up straight, gasping. “Dumbledore! I need Dumbledore!” 

She frowned. “Why—“ 

“I need to get Dumbledore!” he immediately got out of his bed, falling over, only for Lily to catch him before he could go all the way to the ground, and then jumped right back up, with a hand to his forehead as he started stumbling towards the door. “Eough—I need to get Dumbledore!”

“Sit down, Hers—Harry?” 

Harry paused. And then turned to  her with a look of horror. “I’m… sorry…?”

“That’s what Dawn called you.” 

Harry’s head whipped to Draco with a glare. 

Draco sneered. “I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t risked your life again.”

“You are so… come with me. We need to see Dumbledore. It’s urgent .” 

Draco blinked, and then pointed to his butt. “I’m stuck, unfortunately. Lily, would you be a doll and fetch him so that our dear Hershel doesn’t pass out on the way?” 

Lily huffed and threw her hands in the air. “You are really making life interesting, aren’t you?” she said as she pushed Harry back into the bed, who was surprisingly complacent. But then again, Harry hadn’t had a mother, and probably didn’t know that kids were supposed to argue with their parents over things like this. “I’ll get him. You two better stay here and not give me another fright like that. But I have a lot of questions, you two, and I expect them all to be answered once whatever you need Dumbledore for is all sorted out.” And with stomping steps, she headed out the door, closing it with a loud slam. 

They both stared at the closed doors for several seconds. 

Harry looked over at Draco with a frown. “Why is your ass stuck to the bed?” 

~~~

It really was like bloody Potter to go off on a private mission, meet the Dark Lord himself, and, somehow, get devastatingly injured. 

Draco was quite irritated. Especially now that Harry was stitched up, and everything was explained to Dumbledore. 

It was even more irritating, that Harry did all of this by himself. Without Draco. He knew it wasn’t fair that he was upset over it, and he knew that Harry didn’t trust him, but… it still stung. Because Draco… he could have helped. He could have done something , if not just keep watch. Maybe then, Harry wouldn’t be wrapped in bandages and tears in his eyes as he begged Dumbledore to protect James and the Potters senior. If Draco had been able to help, surely Harry would be perfectly fine and not sitting there with a new, giant scar and arm muscles that may now have a slight ticking disorder due to the nature of the injury.

And Draco was, once again, watching from the sidelines, trapped in his own self hatred and rotting, as Harry Potter worked on saving the bloody world. 

“And you hurt him,” Dumbledore said quietly. 

Harry nodded. “But he thinks I’m James. He’s going to come after him. I can’t—I can’t live with myself if I cause his death here, too. Please, please protect him. Them. My grandparents. Please.”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened. “You don’t need to keep asking, dear Harry. I already have sent a patronus, and I’ll be setting up a place as soon as possible for their safety. They will be okay, as will James.” 

Harry sounded like he was fighting past a very large lump in his throat. “Please protect them.” 

Dumbledore left not long after to ensure their safety, leaving Harry and Draco alone. 

They were both very silent. Draco, simmering with anger and—embarrasingly—hurt. Harry, staring at the wall with a far-off look in his eye. 

Harry, standing in front of Voldemort’s unmoving body on the rubble of Hogwarts grounds as Death Eaters fled all around him. Staring. Silent. 

Harry, standing over Draco’s bleeding body on the bathroom floor. Watching. Draco, silently begging him to either save him or kill him. Harry, watching with wide eyes and gaped mouth. Silent. 

Harry, the day after he sent Lucius to Azkaban the first time in fifth year. Sitting at the lake, staring at nothing. Silent. 

Harry, coming back from the graveyard, sobbing over Diggory’s body. The next morning, staring at his food over the breakfast table. Silent. 

His silence had been a pattern. 

What was there to find, in that silence? 

“Harry?”

“Yeah?” His voice was far away, too.

Draco felt his head lower. “What… the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Harry blinked. Then turned his head to Draco, a look of surprise crossing his gaze. “Er, what specifically are you referring to?” 

Draco’s jaw tightened. “The part where you thought it was a good idea to go on a Horcrux hunt by yourself, and then fight off this universe's Dark Lord. Alone.” 

Harry frowned. “Well, I didn’t fight him off on purpose.” 

“Let’s not get pedantic. You know what I’m asking.” 

“I don’t know the meaning of that word.”

“Of course you don’t. Now answer the question.”

Harry huffed. “Well, I needed to know.”

Draco gritted his teeth. “Know what?”

Harry turned away from Draco. “If I could fix things.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe you don’t have to fix everything ?”

“Why are you mad?” Harry asked, a dumb look on his face that made Draco somehow even angrier. “If I can end all this, we can go back into our time and feel happy that no one has to go through that. My parents don’t have to. You don’t have to. Your parents don’t have to. No one has to. 

“Maybe you can go and be happy about that,” Draco snapped. “But all I’m thinking about right now is what would have happened if you died.” 

“Come on, Draco,” he said, rolling his eyes and letting out a shaky breath. “I didn’t die, and I wasn’t going to. Don’t be dramatic.” 

Draco flinched. He’d always been accused of being dramatic, by his father, by his mother, by his year-mates. He couldn’t help that he felt things. It was the very thing he was so tired of doing. “You’re a bloody hypocrite.”

Harry’s jaw tensed, too. “What does that mean?” 

“You…” Draco fought for the words. “You don’t care what happens to you. That isn’t fair. You don’t… You don’t get to tell me that I’m not allowed to die when you’re just going to throw yourself into situations where you could die just as easily. It seems to me that you care about your life just as much as I care about mine.”

“Oh, my god, Draco,” Harry said, sounding exasperated as he let his head fall back, groaning. “Can’t we go, like, two minutes without fighting?”

Draco laughed, short and bitter. “We could , if you weren’t such a bloody twit.” 

“Just. Chill. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

“How am I supposed to be chill and pretend everything is when you’re always going off and doing stupid things?”

Harry sighed. A long, long, long, longsuffering sigh. “Draco, I—”

“Malfoy. Call me Malfoy.” 

Harry stared at him for a long moment. And then, quieter, he said it again. “Draco.” 

Draco flinched back. 

“I…” His voice sounded raw. He swallowed. “I’m giving them a chance. I… I fucked up, and now my dad is in danger, but I’m going to give them a chance. I’m not going to apologize for that.” 

Draco closed his eyes and tried taking a deep breath. Fighting off the desire to shake Harry. Not the way he’d wanted to hurt him yesterday. Not the way he wanted to hurt him years ago after he’d almost killed him. But to shake him and make him understand that he had to stop being a martyr. He had to. Draco didn’t have an exact reason why; he just knew he had to. 

Not just when dealing in Dark Lords and horcruxes, either. Draco’s knuckles were still bruised. Harry had just let him break his nose without argument, just to—what? Make Draco feel better? 

He didn’t want to feel better. 

He wanted…

He didn’t know what he wanted. 

He wanted it to stop hurting so much. Or maybe, he wanted to be comforted through the pain. Or to feel needed. Or to feel nothing. He didn’t know. Somewhere, within him, that want was there, maybe. But he didn’t know what it was. He spent all of his life wanting and wanting more and getting and getting more, and now he didn’t know what that want was anymore. It just… was all over. He felt like the mess that he couldn’t clean up. 

Fuck. He needed to clean it all up. And now, he needed to clean shit up here, too. Because he’d hurt Harry, and he’d hurt Lily, and he just kept hurting, too. 

His hands itched for bleach water. 

Draco’s fight left him. “Why did you do it?” His voice was tired.

Harry stared up at the ceiling. “I told you. I need them to live, and—”

“No, not that.” Draco interrupted. Quieter, now. “Why did you let me hurt you?” 

Harry froze, his tired eyes becoming guarded. He gave a small smile, and shrugged. “You needed it.”

There was a piece of thread at the edge of Draco’s robe. He started to pick at it. “That doesn’t make sense—why— why ?” He ignored the thread as he looked back to Harry. “What did it do for you?”

Harry turned away, his profile in Draco’s view. His nose had grown since 6th year, but Draco hadn’t noticed it until just now. Like that Muggle story of Pinocchio he’d once overheard a Hufflepuff tell in the library. He wondered what lies Harry told. 

“Why does it have to do anything for me for it to matter?” Harry’s voice was calm. Maybe the tone was the lie. “I just do what needs to be done.” 

“At the expense of yourself.” 

“Well, I suppose I get the satisfaction that you’re okay, then.” 

“And when do you get to be okay?” Draco asked, a whinge in his voice. He didn’t even cough it away as he continued. “When do you get to beat someone to a pulp just because you need to?”

Harry kept staring at the ceiling. The fake smile was no longer there. “I don’t need to.”

“Is that so?” 

“Oh, fuck off, Malfoy. I don’t need to.”

“Then what do you need?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

“You do. I see it in your face.”

Harry closed his eyes. And then he started breathing deeply. Draco watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. He suddenly realized how incredibly silent the infirmary was. No footsteps—Pomfrey was off getting more potions from Professor Slughorn; Dumbledore was gone; the hospital was warded off to keep anyone from bothering Harry. And now there was Harry, eyes closed like they weren’t in a conversation. 

“What do you need ?” Draco asked the silence. 

When Harry spoke, Draco felt something horrible squeeze within him. “I don’t know. I think I need… I think I need to matter.”

Draco stared. Something ugly and rotten and—and—and—needy inside of him. Harry was—Harry was his star. That light in his darkness that he needed to make it through the darkness. And Harry was saying he needed to matter, as if he didn’t? “What do you mean?”

Harry let out a sharp laugh, but it didn’t sound very happy. “I need everyone to be okay. And when they’re not, I feel cold, and empty, and quite terribly lonely. And… when I can do something about it, I need it. Even when it bruises. Or stings. Or burns.” The last word was a whisper. “Ron and Hermione have told me I need to stop, but I can’t. I told you before. There’s something very wrong with me.”

Harry’s eyes were still closed. His face like stone. Harry had indeed told Draco he thought there was something wrong with him. “You can matter without destroying yourself in the process. Why—do you like playing the victim? Is that it?”

“I’m not a fucking victim, Draco,” Harry snapped, sharp, like those claws were coming from his throat. “I’m… useful. Victims aren’t useful.” 

“Fuck, Potter. What sort of mindset is that?”

“One that reminds me I’m still alive,” he said, his teeth bared, those too-high canines present. “Unlike someone in this room.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. They weren’t talking about him, and he wasn’t going to let Harry derail. “And… being punched does that? Killing Dark Lords does that? Makes you feel alive?”

Harry shrugged, so minutely the movement was almost lost to Draco. “I don’t know.”

Draco stared at him. His chest twisted. Realizing that maybe Harry felt just as dead as he did.  

“Is that… the only way that makes you feel alive?” 

Harry turned away, his mouth closing with the movement. Away from Draco. Then, his eyes squeezed shut. And his cheeks became a bit pink. “No.”

“What else does?” 

Harry shrugged. “I dunno.” 

It sounded like he did know. “What else?”

He shrugged again, but he lifted his hand into the air and then put it on his face. “I dunno. Stupid stuff, mostly.” 

“Like…?”

Harry let out a huff of air. “I guess… When I was a kid, I…” He trailed off. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Po—Harry.” 

It made Harry look at him.

Draco stared at him. Into those eyes. They were sharp and strong, and Draco was starting to realize that Harry didn’t fully understand that. “Tell me.”

Harry stared. For a lot longer than was probably necessary. He swallowed—twice. Jaw clenching as if he was fighting to open his mouth but couldn’t find the strength to. Draco waited patiently. It wasn’t a word he usually described himself as, but he found it surprisingly easy right now. Especially because he started to feel like certain puzzle pieces were starting to be put into place. 

Finally, Harry spoke. The words were strained. “Just. Touch.”

It was Draco’s turn to go pink. “Oh.” 

“Not like that,” Harry said hurriedly. “Or, er, not just like that. But like. All kinds of touch. When Hermione hugs me. Or Ron ruffles my hair. Or other kinds. Like fights. Like… When I was a kid, I…” he struggled for the words. “When I was in my cupboard, I’d picture my aunt holding me and comforting me instead of my cot. When I was let out, I’d see my family again, and sometimes I would argue and fight and push them until they would smack me. I needed it. To be touched, I guess.” He shrugged. “I needed it to remember I was alive.”

Oh. 

Draco felt much, much worse about yesterday now. 

And he had about a thousand more questions, too. 

“But; er, I do prefer the other kinds,” he said, shrugging casually like he hadn’t just said something that sent Draco’s heart into the floor. “Like I said before. Hugging. And. Other stuff.” 

He paused, and then looked out the window. Draco followed suit. Snow had started falling again, and the cold puffs gently fell down, the type of snow that stayed once it touched the ground. It wasn’t meant to melt.

Draco almost expected Harry to continue, but he didn’t. Maybe this was where the silence was held. In the pain. Or maybe it was the other way around, that pain was held in the silence. Maybe they held each other, so they wouldn’t be so alone.

“That makes us quite the pair,” Draco said quietly. “You, the touch-starved martyr. Me, the despondent coward. Where does that leave us?” 

Harry looked at him, then. His eyes were sad. And they looked at him with the same expression he’d worn yesterday—like there were claws coming from deep within them, reaching out for Draco, but they were being held back. Far, far away from him. “I don’t know.”

I don’t know. 

“You’re so very cruel,” Draco whispered. It didn’t sound like the insult he felt it should be. 

Harry swallowed. His adam's apple bobbed as he did, and then he looked away, back to the window. The sky was still grey, but it was growing darker, and Draco assumed that the sun was setting. Harry glowed a little under its light. And Draco suddenly had the very strong desire to do as his mother once did. To get on Harry’s bed, and put an arm around him. To lay his head on the top of Harry’s messy hair—after a cleaning charm, of course—and maybe even trail his fingers up Harry’s forearm in the comforting way that his mother used to. 

Fuck Harry, for being his star. 

But fuck him, too, for falling for it. 

And Draco, who was a Slytherin forced to be in Gryffindor house, wondered if he could be brave like one. And while he felt like a true Gryffindor move would be to stand on the breakfast table and declare his undying love, the way James had to Lily so many times, he would never do something so indecorous and cheap. He felt Harry wouldn’t care for it much, either. 

But he thought back to their first interaction at Hogwarts. Draco had reached out for his hand in a Slytherin Way. He’d reached out, not to be brave, not to truly make friends, but because Harry was Someone to Know. He’d been pompous and arrogant and had gone about this all wrong. 

But he was a Gryffindor now, and he did something only a Gryffindor would do. 

He reached for Harry’s hand. 

Not to prove anything. 

Not to Be Someone. 

But because he wanted to touch him. 

And Harry did something that a Slytherin would do.

He silently took it, with desire he wouldn’t say out loud. 

Chapter Text

Apricity [Noun]

The warmth of the sun in winter. 

Harry awoke early the next morning to the same grey hue of snow. 

He knew exactly where he was when he awoke. The crumpled sheets, the thin bed that reminded him of his cupboard’s cot. The smell of antiseptic and light magic hanging in the air like dust. 

What he didn’t expect to find was his hand still in Draco’s. 

Harry didn’t move, relishing in the warmth of Draco’s hand in his own. Slowly, so slowly that he didn’t make a sound, he moved his gaze down to Draco’s sleeping face, which was facing him on the bed. Harry didn’t have his glasses on—couldn’t remember taking them off—so he couldn’t see Draco clearly, beyond the blond hair and pale skin. He knew Draco was leaning on one arm, leaning over the bed, sitting uncomfortably on a chair. 

But the fact that he was still there did something strange to Harry’s gut. 

And the word came to Harry’s mind the way that most of Harry’s revelations did: fast, unbidden, and undeniable. 

Love . 

He cringed. Not because falling in love with Draco Malfoy was a horrible thing—it wasn’t—but because if Draco ever were to hear that word, he’d probably curse Harry into the next life. 

And now. Well. Harry just had to sit with it. 

The way he had to do most things about the war. 

He supposed he didn’t know whether either of these things started. He didn’t know when he’d started having feelings for Draco, and he didn’t know when the war had officially started. 

Was it during their first meeting at Madam Malkin’s?

Maybe it was when Voldemort was brought back from the dead. 

Was it when he’d seen the pressure that his family had put on him to be a Death Eater?

Maybe it was when the Death Eaters were broken out of Azkaban. 

Was it at the Manor, when Draco saved him?

Maybe it was when he was already on the run, searching for horcruxes.

He supposed it didn’t matter the exact moment either of them started. 

Wars were typically named as such after they ended, anyway. 

Along the way, Harry had spent all of that time fighting because he’d had to. For his future, for the future of others. For his friends and his loved ones and for himself. A long future had felt so out of reach for him, but he’d fought for it, anyway. And in the moments he’d let himself dream of a future without war, he’d imagined a future full of light and laughter. 

When Voldemort died, that was how it was supposed to feel. But since Voldemort had died, he learned one thing. 

War changed people. 

War changed everything . Even when you conquered the enemy.  

All he’d seen since Voldemort died was the hollow spaces it left. In the Weasley family, in Ron, in Hermione, in himself. He saw it inside each person, and each home, in the corners of Hogwarts and along the hearts of people he didn’t even know. 

And he’d had to continue, of course. There was no other option. But the way the aftermath of war felt… well… it felt like the war didn’t end after all. 

But Harry didn’t realize that it could bring people together, too. 

He didn’t see it at the time, he was too wrapped up in himself and his own grief. But now, he could look back with different eyes. Maybe it was Draco’s brightness that helped him see it. People with broken pieces and missing parts coming together for dinners. Laughing over drinks and crying over graves, all in the same day. Maybe that was what they had fought for. To come back together, broken pieces and spare parts and holes and all. 

And Harry felt that maybe Draco was one of those pieces he was meant to bring closer. He wasn’t an enemy to conquer. And if he was… well, how incredible it was to conquer an enemy with love.

Harry had heard it said that love made people strong, but he didn’t realize it could make someone soft, too. 

He felt soft as he stared at Draco’s blurred face. 

Draco stirred, and Harry moved his face back towards the ceiling, closing his eyes, feigning sleep. 

Draco observed Harry for several moments before snorting. “I know you’re awake, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes opened towards the ceiling. “Hand me my glasses, asshole.” 

Draco chuckled before sitting up straight and letting go of Harry’s hand, leaving something empty in Harry’s chest, before handing Harry his glasses. Glasses sat on his nose like a throne, clearing his view. Draco sat there with slightly flushed cheeks, but a pompous expression and eyebrows hidden behind messy hair that stuck out at all angles. 

“Your hair is all ruffled,” Harry pointed out.

Draco huffed, and immediately started trying to settle down his wayward hairs. “Fix your own first, Scar Head.”

“You like my hair. Don’t you?” 

“Fuck off, Potter.” 

Harry laughed, knowing he was right. 

It felt good, knowing he was right. 

“Anyway,” said Draco sitting straighter, waving his wand to transfigure Harry’s top blanket into a hat. “I suppose we have quite the day in front of us.” 

“Whoa!” Harry exclaimed with a smile while Draco put the hat on his head, ignoring Draco’s statement. “Where did you learn about Benny hats?” 

Draco’s cheeks flushed further, and he lifted his nose high. “That would be none of your business, I think.” 

Harry’s grin didn’t fall. He was feeling strangely light, having woken up with Draco by his side. Again, he pictured what life could be like 10 years from now, waking up next to Draco. In a different, more comfortable position, hopefully. But there. 

“ Anyway ,” Draco repeated, emphasizing the word. “We have quite the day in front of us. I’m sure Lily Evans will have a lot of questions for us; we need updates on the Potters; and, well, I would like to finish the ritual today.”

Harry nodded. “No classes, though.”

“No classes,” Draco agreed. 

Madam Pomfrey came out not long later, doing some diagnostics on Harry—and Draco, for some reason—before announcing a clean bill of health and letting both of them out. And then Dumbledore came by, and he gave Harry another glamour bracelet. 

“Do try to not lose this one,” he said kindly. 

Harry grinned sheepishly as he put it on. “Thanks, Professor.” But then he remembered some of yesterday’s details. “Um… how are the Potters?” 

Dumbledore smiled. “They’re being careful. We strengthened the wards around their home, so I assure you, they’re safe.” 

Harry swallowed. “What if the wards fall?” 

“They won’t.” 

“And who is the secret keeper?” 

Dumbledore’s eyes flitted in surprise. “Well, if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a secret, then, would it?” 

Harry frowned, and he fought off the nerves in his gut that fluttered around. He couldn’t do anything more to protect them. They had their home carefully warded; they were informed and now knew to be careful. He had to trust Dumbledore. He had to. What else could he do? He didn’t even have a wand. 

Just as Dumbledore was leaving, Harry cleared his throat. “Sir?” 

“Yes, dear boy?” 

Harry glanced to his own empty hand. “I don’t have a wand anymore. Voldemort stole it.” 

Dumbledore froze. And his eyes furrowed. “That would explain the magical exhaustion. Why didn’t you inform me about this yesterday?” 

Harry’s jaw clenched. “I was thinking about my grandparents, sir.” 

With a sigh, he said, “I will floo Olivander.” And with that, he left, leaving Draco and Harry alone in the empty hospital wing. 

They left together, straight to the library, not touching, but walking close. Draco’s face was leaning away from Harry’s, proud and closed-off. Harry would do near anything to figure out what he was thinking. Except ask, of course. 

On the way, Draco tried explaining his time sand potion, mixed with some kind of maths something-or-other, but Harry hadn’t followed along very well. 

“That means nothing to me,” he said as they passed the library doors. 

“Of course it doesn’t, darling. Just leave it to me, then.” 

Draco had called Harry darling. It had been sarcastic, and clearly meant as an insult, but Harry very much wanted Draco to call him it again. 

Lily found them in the library.

It was sometime after breakfast but quite a bit before lunch. Harry saw her immediately, before she noticed him. She was with a group of her friends, this group from several houses with boys and girls alike. Lily was laughing over something someone else was in the middle of saying, but then shushed them once they entered the library, still letting out small, whispered chuckles as she walked past Madam Pince. 

Until, of course, she caught sight of Draco and Harry. Harry offered quite the awkward wave, where Draco didn’t notice her at all, too wrapped up in his ritual to even notice when she offered a quick Be right back to her friends and headed straight towards the two of them. 

“Er, hi,” Harry offered before she could say anything.

“Hello,” she said, looking between them. 

Draco lifted a single finger as he mouthed something to himself, and then let out a quiet, “Exactly” before making a note on paper and looking to Harry with a proud smirk. Which, of course, fell when he saw Lily there. 

“Lily,” he acknowledged. 

“D… You…” 

Harry grimaced. 

“What’s up?” Harry asked, voice strained. “Wanna work on the Defense essay together?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, before crossing her arms and tapping her foot, looking a lot like Hermione in that exact moment. “No, actually. I would not like to work on the Defense essay together right now. In fact, I would much rather talk about something else entirely. I have questions.”

“Oh,” said Harry weakly. “Herbology, then?” 

She deadpanned. “No. Now, come with me.” 

Harry grimaced as he stood, making eye contact with Draco, who huffed. 

“A please would be nice,” he stated as he slammed his book shut and put his papers and books in his bag and followed Lily out the library. 

Harry’s stomach felt very low in his gut as they walked, a sense of foreboding following them down the hallway. Eventually, Lily turned into an empty classroom, Draco following like he wasn’t internally panicking. Maybe he wasn’t. Harry, on the other hand, stared at the slowly-closing door like it was going to lead him to his death sentence. 

He didn’t know why it scared him so much. Here was an opportunity for his mother to get to know him. Him . Not Hershel. She could look into his eyes and smile at him, or laugh at his jokes, or tell him he was cared for. On the flip side, she could look at him and frown. Or tell him she wished he was someone else. Or simply… not believe him. 

All of it was terrifying. The possibility for love, and the possibility for hate. Worse, the possibility of indifference. 

He steeled himself and walked through the door, which had closed on him.

His eyes widened when he entered. 

Because Lily hadn’t just gone into the room and faced them. She’d already transfigured several chairs into two couches facing each other, and even added a small table in the middle of them. Draco was already sitting in the blue one. She waved her wand again, and then, a teapot appeared, with three little teacups carefully placed on the little table.  

“Aguamenti,” she muttered as he walked closer, and he heard the teacup fill. She heated it, and then handed a cup to both Draco and Harry, who waited for Lily to sit on the orange couch before he joined Draco. 

“So,” she said leaning back, her robes covering her like a blanket as he tucked her feet under her. Harry didn’t understand how she could be so calm right now. He was stiff as a board, his fingers holding the tea cup like it would break with a single move. Draco feigned calm as he lazily leaned on his chin, but Harry knew by now that Draco was good at playing nonchalance. Lily’s eyes flickered between the two of them, as if expecting them to talk, but Harry wouldn’t even know what to say even if he found his voice. She cleared her throat. “ So .”

Draco scoffed. “So La Ti Do?” 

Lily sent him an annoyed look, but she wasn’t quite fire or ice yet. “No. So, tell me everything.” 

Draco sighed. “If you say so.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of the warm tea. “It all started when I was born. My mother was—”

“Don’t be cute,” she said, deadpanning. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Being cute is everything about me, you know,” he said, sighing again. “I’m not sure what you want me to say. You may need to be specific.” 

“Fine,” she said, lifting her nose a little. It was such a Draco move that Harry huffed out a laugh. He wondered, briefly, if there was another alternate world where Harry had been able to grow up with her. In this other world, he’d bring Draco home to meet her. Harry would just be a normal Gryffindor kid and start dating the Slytherin seeker, because Voldemort didn’t exist. And Lily—a much older Lily—would meet Draco, and they’d get in arguments over dinners and each lift their noses high in the air, and Harry and James would laugh over it together. He wondered who would apologize first—probably Lily, since he doubted Draco would ever apologize first, even in alternate universes.

“I’ll be specific,” she said hotly to Draco. “You called him Harry yesterday. Which leads me to believe your name isn’t Dawn. And I thought a lot about it last night, so much so that I haven’t actually slept yet. Harry looks just like James, which I would have noticed before. Is he related to James, somehow? A secret brother?”

“You could always ask me,” Harry suggested, not liking being spoken of in third-person like he wasn’t there. “I’m right here.”

Lily ignored him. “But then I realized that I didn’t actually know what you look like, either. You’re blond, but… I can’t even tell you what you look like right now . So you must be wearing a glamour. And who do I know… Lovegood? Malfoy? Greengrass?” 

“Who says I’m not just a random blond?” Draco said dryly. 

“You called me a Mudblood too easily for that,” she said, waving him off. 

Harry grimaced. “Um, I’m sorry for that, by the way. I—”

Draco’s head twisted so fast to him that it almost fell off. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t say the thing.” 

Harry kept his eyes on Lily. “He didn’t mean it.” 

“So he said,” she said cooly. But then shook her head and continued. “So what is it about you two? Also, I want to see your face. Take off whatever glamour you’re using, and maybe we can have a real conversation.”

Draco smirked. “My beauty may end you on the spot. Are you sure you’re prepared?” 

“You realize you don’t have to be an asshole about this, don’t you?” she asked, looking at him. Which made Harry feel quite invisible. Especially considering he was the one without the glamour.

“I could,” Draco replied in assent. “But where would be the fun in that?” 

“We can have fun after I get the full picture.”

“I tried giving you the full picture,” Draco reminded her. “You called me a smart ass.” 

“That’s ‘cause you are one. Without acting the part, just tell me.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or I’ll tell Albus Dumbledore you’ve been lying.” 

Draco scoffed, but at this, he didn’t have a cool remark. And then finally, she looked at Harry, who grinned sheepishly. “Er, he already knows. Um. Everything.” Then he glanced at Draco, who was now looking across the classroom with narrowed eyes and a tight smirk. Not a happy one. Harry wanted to know what he was thinking. 

But he wasn’t a good Legilimens—or Occlumens, for that matter—so he cleared his throat, fighting off the weird lump in his throat. He wondered what lie would be most believable, or if he should lie at all? They probably should have discussed their game plan before all of this. Instead, Harry had been so focused on the warmth of Draco’s hand in his own and then reading in the library and reviewing the time sand issue that he didn’t think to ask Draco about the fact that Lily now knew his name was Harry. 

And really, Harry could lie. He was good at it. But the chance was in front of him, right now, for his mother to get to know him. 

He didn’t have to take it. But he wanted to. 

“Um, we’re from the future?” 

Draco groaned and put a hand in his face like Harry did something wrong. But Harry felt that if he wanted Lily to think something else, then he should have come up with the lie instead. 

Lily blinked at him. Then raised an eyebrow, and Harry realized she did it the same way Severus did. He wondered if they used to do it to each other when they were friends. He wondered if they used to laugh over it.

“O…”

“...”

“... kay?” She blinked a few seconds more. And then her face twisted. “No you’re not.” 

Harry let out an awkward laugh while Draco’s head swiveled to look at Harry with humor on his face, like he thought Harry would be in on his little inside joke. A strange, dark-humored inside joke. 

Draco was weird, Harry realized. He liked that. 

“Um, okay,” Harry said in response, not sure if there was anything else to say, really. “Well, I guess that’s it then, isn’t it?” 

She glanced between the two. Her green eyes were wide and narrowed at the same time. Then she crossed her arms. “If you’re from the future, then… then you’re… what… James’s kid? You two look the exact same.” 

I have my mother’s eyes , Harry wanted to say, but his throat tightened, and he let out a shaky breath. “How’d you guess?” 

Her knee started bouncing anxiously. She opened her mouth to speak again, but it closed, before turning to Draco. “Take off your glamour.” 

Draco scoffed. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

“Like you aren’t just as demanding,” Harry muttered.  

Draco looked at him with offense, a hand coming to his chest. “Excuse me?” 

“Just… do it.” 

Draco blinked at Harry and then said, “Wasn’t the only, singular requirement that the headmaster gave us that we don’t get caught? How is you telling her we’re from the future, and me taking my glamour off, helping with that, again?”

Harry shrugged, coming across more like a twitch. And then, his forearm started twitching in rapid ripples, like the shrug was a stone thrown into still water. He looked down, where his new giant scar was hidden under robes. It was barely noticeable under black robes, but it was moving slightly, just enough for Harry to see. 

“I won’t say anything,” Lily said quickly. “I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

Harry’s thought of how she didn’t tell anyone about what Draco had called her. “I believe it.” 

Draco scoffed. “Come now, Harry. Where is that secretive nature you and your little golden friends are always monopolizing.” 

Harry shrugged. “Left it in 1998, I suppose.” 

“Unbelievable.” 

Lily’s mouth dropped open. “1998!?” she exclaimed. “And you’re—what—16? 17?”

“18,” Harry said helpfully. 

She counted on her fingers. “That means… oh, god. James Potter has a kid in three years? What kind of idiot is he! Who is the wife? The mother? I bet he doesn’t even get married and just plays some girl. What an idiot, whoever she is.” Her cheeks were flushed. 

Harry’s lips tightened, but Draco snickered. He leaned back and then threw his legs over Harry on the couch. Harry found it easy to put his hands on his shins, relishing in the warmth provided. 

“No spoilers,” Draco said, grinning. And then, to Harry’s surprise, he clicked off his bracelet, and Lily’s eyes widened as she took in his face. 

“Damn,” she said breathily. “You’re kind of beautiful.” 

“I thought that much was obvious,” Draco said, twisting the bracelet in between his fingers. “Everyone said that even without my glamour, too.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes. Who else was saying that? 

“You’re… Merlin, you kind of look like Narcissa Black. Is that your mother?” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’ve always been told I look like my father. What a favorable comparison. Thank you.” 

“And… your father is…” 

Draco lifted his nose a little. But there was something sad that crossed in his eyes. “I’ll give you one guess. If you don’t get it, you don’t get any other answers.” 

She studied him for a moment. And then she let out a gasp. “Lucius Malfoy! I think they got married recently, actually. I just haven’t heard much about it.” 

“Hm.” Draco crossed one of his legs, putting pressure on both of Harry’s thighs. “That’s me.” 

She nodded slowly. “I suppose your comment makes a little more sense then, then.” Her eyes darted between Harry and Draco, and confusion crossed her gaze. “How did you two end up being friends?” 

Draco put a hand on Harry’s shoulder in mock closeness. “James Potter becomes a Death Eater, too. Didn’t you know?” 

Harry twisted his shoulder and grabbed Draco’s wrist before he could pull it away. There was a beat where Harry and Draco stared at each other, before Draco narrowed his eyes like a pout and then sat back, his wrist still in Harry’s hand. 

Harry gave Draco a warning glance. “Stop it,” he said firmly. “He did not. James is a hero. And, um, so is my mother. And so is Narcissa. And, um, just be patient with Draco here, please. He is constantly teetering between trying to make people hate him and trying to convince everyone he has a big dick.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know if that was true,” Draco responded sullenly, hand on chin, facing the opposite direction of them. 

Harry would, in fact, like to know that—not because it mattered but simply because he was curious—but dick sizes aside… 

“Let’s not derail,” Harry deadpanned. 

“Draco,” she said quietly. Harry’s jaw snapped shut. She was only seeing Draco. “Sorry, I’m just piecing this all together. Your name is Draco. You’re Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black’s son.” She turned to Harry, and her eyes were wide. “You’re Harry. James Potter’s son. Who’s your mum?” 

“We said no spoilers,” Draco said dryly. 

Harry shrugged. “I dunno.” 

She blinked. “You… don’t know who your mother is?” 

“Dear Morgana,” Draco said, sighing. “You’re just as daft as he is.”

“I’m not daft!” Harry and Lily said at the same time, their heads turning back to the other. She stared at him. And then her eyes dashed across every feature of his face. He saw her skim and then slow down at certain spots, drinking in the eyes, the specific curve of his upper lip, the way his nose curved.

Harry felt himself start to heat up in embarrassment. Sometimes Molly would look like this to Ron, and he would complain at her to stop and look away.  Maybe this was Ron felt when Molly stared at him just because I love to look at my son , she’d said. And Ron would gag and then leave or just roll his eyes and cover his face with blankets. 

Harry knew that wasn’t the reason Lily was looking at him. 

But he could pretend. 

Harry knew the exact second it clicked for her, because suddenly, her entire face matched her hair, and her stammering immediately started. “What? But—but—I—I don’t— With James Potter? ”

“It’s okay, Lily,” Draco said, feigning sympathy, as he patted his heart sarcastically. “The heart wants what the heart wants. Even if it is an annoying Gryffindor with messy hair.” 

Harry’s heart tripped over itself. 

“But how?!” she exclaimed, completely unaware of Harry’s sudden inability to think straight. “I can’t stand him!”

“Well,” offered Draco, “as my mother says, love is easiest to swallow when blinded by hate.” 

She blinked at him. “What does that even mean ?” 

“It means you’re already down bad, and you’re just not ready to admit it.” 

Harry forced himself to center himself back into the conversation by offering a wry smile. “Listen—you don’t need to—just focus on keeping things normal for a second. You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do. It isn’t going to ruin the time continuum if you don’t get with him,” he tried reassuringly. Though the idea that his parents didn’t get together in this world made him feel rather sick. He just didn’t want to scare her. “You still have control over your own life.” 

She stared at him; mouth wide open. “But wait—won’t telling me this cause some sort of—some sort of issue in the—oh, what’s that word—TIMELINE! Won’t telling me all of this break up the timeline or something? What if you stop existing!?” 

Harry grimaced. “Well, it would, but we’re actually in a slightly, er, alternate timeline. Parallel world.” 

“Sure,” said Draco dryly. “Let’s tell her everything.” 

“So,” Harry continued, ignoring Draco, “It’s all—almost all the same up… until when Draco and I got here.” 

Lily put a pale hand to her forehead. She started rubbing her temples, and then splayed her arm out to the side, moving it around with each word. “You know, I feel like I handled the realization that magic was real fairly well. When I found out vampires existed, I was kind of excited. Apparition? Learned it in a day. Hell, I can swallow time travel. But… parallel worlds? Like, alternate universes? My goodness. What even are the mechanics of that? Where did those other universes come from? Is there like some sort of management in between them all that keeps them in order? Is it all random? Are they infinite? Ever expanding? Are the universes in a bubble of other bubbles of universe pockets? What about—”

“I think you’re going to explode poor Harry’s head with all your questions,” Draco drawled, interrupting her. “And I think you’re losing the plot.” 

“The plot?” She gaped at him. “What plot? If there are other universes , wouldn’t it be nice to have an answer as to what it all means?”

“That’s a question Muggles have been trying to answer since the start of time,” Draco replied dryly. “I fear they’re as close to an answer as you are.”

She gaped at them. And then, she leaned back, her head bonking against the back of the couch. She covered her face with her hands, and just sat there for several moments, completely silent. 

Draco leaned towards Harry. “I think we broke her.” 

“We didn’t break her,” Harry said, though when she didn’t respond immediately, he started to wonder if they did, in fact, break her. 

With a gasp, she shot back straight up. “Oh, my god. I’m going to be a mother.” 

Harry’s lips pursed. He’d always thought she always wanted to be a mother. Was he wrong? Had he been an accident ? “I’m… sorry?”

“No, no, no, no,” she said, waving her hands like some sort of jazz dance. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just—am I—am I good at it?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Am I a good mother?” 

The air paused. 

Harry stared. 

There was this cartoon that Harry had been able watch once when he was kid. Just once. In it, there was a blue roadrunner. He didn’t remember many of the details, but he remembered that that roadrunner would beep at a coyote, and mock it into chasing it. Dudley had laughed, and Petunia said something about how the coyote was bad, so it should be mocked.

But the coyote was just hungry. And to Harry’s little mind, it didn’t seem fair that the roadrunner beeped just to get the coyote’s attention. The roadrunner could have just hid—he was faster, wasn’t he? Why did he have to get his attention, every time?

Harry remembered watching it, and feeling very much like Dudley was somehow the roadrunner and Harry was the coyote. That Dudley was somehow mocking Harry with… something. He didn’t have the words for it at the time, but he understood it now. Dudley had mocked Harry with Petunia’s love, something Harry had always wanted but never quite received. And just like the coyote was constantly running after a roadrunner that mocked it, Harry was always chasing after a mother’s love, and he would always be running, and always be hungry. 

And the worst of it was, there was a moment, where the coyote was running, and suddenly was running in the air. It took him a second to realize he was floating. It wasn’t until he looked down did gravity seem to work, and then he was falling, falling, falling.

All because he was hungry. 

Lily was sitting there. Staring at him. Asking him if she was a good mother. 

Harry’s claws came out. 

He smiled widely. Showed his canines. 

“You are… the best mother,” Harry said, and the words were spilling out like blood. In the spots where his claws that were finally ripping him all up inside, and puncturing his skin and escaping the chest he’d been pushing them down into for so long. “You tucked me into bed, even when I thought I was too big for it. And you make really good stew, much better than dad’s. Ew. Once, you took me to the zoo, and you let me pet the manta rays, and I accidentally broke the glass because I was so excited. And every few months, we meet up with Grandma and Grandpa, and sometimes even Petunia comes, and even when she’s rude, you always take the higher ground, even though you talk shit about her back in the car. And, well, we fight, sometimes. Usually over Quidditch, because I love taking risks, and dad encourages it, but you’ve taught me how to apologize afterwards. And, well, I don’t want to give too many things away, but you come to all my games, and you’ve liked everyone I’ve ever dated, and every summer, we both get Floresceau’s icecream before going Hogwarts shopping. And on my birthday, you and dad always go way too hard, and I always pretend like it’s too much, but I secretly love it.” 

Harry took a deep breath, and he realized he was talking too much. And there was a small smile on her face, but also something like concern behind it. And then he remembered that they’d spun a story about their parents being dead, and she might be wondering if she recently died or something. The way he was talking about her was probably not helping. 

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, putting a hand behind his neck and rubbing it. “I guess I just miss you. I’m ready to go home. I mean—I bet when I get home, you’ll have lost your mind with worry. And I bet I’ll be able to convince you to buy me a new broom.” 

Something softened in her gaze. From the corner of his eye, he felt Draco’s gaze, sharp on him. Knowing everything Harry said was a lie. But Harry felt like this was the kindest lie he’d ever offered. 

“Anyways,” he finished bringing his hand back down to the side of the couch. Not wanting to set them on Draco’s legs. “That’s probably more than you were asking for. But. Um. Yes. You’re a good mom. I guess I didn’t realize you’d ever been worried about that.” 

And Lily finally smiled. Not widely. Just… there. And she said, “Well. I suppose I’m less worried about it now.” 

~~~ 

At lunch, Harry sat alone, unsure where Severus was. He was doing a pretty good job at listening to Hermione’s inner nagging, at least enough to eat a sandwich and a whole stack of diced potatoes, when to his surprise, Lily popped up next to him. 

“Hey,” she said, grinning down at him. “Want to eat outside today?”

Harry blinked. And then gestured to the enchanted ceiling with his form, where snowflakes were falling from up high and ending about five feet above their heads. “It might be a little cold, no?” 

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “We can charm the food to stay warm. Come on—get up. Draco’s already convinced his dormmates to join.” 

Harry was on his feet in an instant, excitement swelling in him. And before he knew it, he and Lily were down in the courtyard, where the air was bitter cold on his nose. But Harry was bundled well, and he held a cup of warmed tea in his hand, and they were walking towards the edge of the lake, where James, Sirius, and Peter were testing whether or not they could stand on the thin ice over the water, and Remus and Draco were by the tree; Draco standing with his arms folded and leaning against it, Remus sitting on the ground staring out at the other three. 

“Why are we out here?” he asked her, smiling just as wide as they walked. 

“I dunno,” she said lightly. “I figured we could have some, um, family time, I guess.” She blinked. “That feels weird to say.” 

Harry froze. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

Lily gave him A Look that Harry was sure she would use on the this-universe’s him while growing up. “And let James know he finally won me over? Definitely not.” But she put an arm around him, and it made Harry’s heart soar. 

“Oi!” It was James, who had at some point turned to face them. “That’s my girl! You aren’t pulling one over on me, are you, Hershel?!” 

Harry and Lily looked at each other, and then burst out laughing. He was glad she could see him now, even with the bracelet on. He liked having an inside joke with her. 

“I think you’re safe,” said Draco said to James. “Our dear Hershel is only into Quidditch players.” 

Harry rolled his eyes, but then Sirius put a hand to his chest in horror. “Does this mean I’m off the menu?” 

Both Harry and Remus deadpanned. “You were never on the menu,” Harry replied. 

Sirius fell to the ground, clutching his chest. “No, please. Don’t do this to me. I can’t… Take… It.” 

Harry went to go stand next to Draco. “I’m sure you’ll recover.” 

And then Lily joined Peter by the edge of the lake, who was now poking something with a stick. She started muttering something to him, and then they were snickering together, out of earshot of the rest. 

“Look at her,” he said, sighing dreamily as he watched Lily, too. “She’s so beautiful.” 

Sirius gagged, Remus ignored him, and Harry smiled.

“You know,” Draco said dully, “I’m sure you’d have much more success with her if you weren’t such an arse all the time.”  

James sighed. “But you see, Dawn, my arse is part of my charm.”

If his face was anything to go by, Draco disagreed, but he didn’t say that, thank Merlin.

They spent all of lunch, and even quite a bit of time afterwards, just hanging out. It seemed like everyone had their roles. Peter was a cheerleader, laughing at, joining, and following whatever anyone else said. Remus was quieter, only popping in now and then with a little joke. James and Sirius were clearly used to being the center of attention, and they seemed to like it a lot. 

Harry tried talking to James a few times, but James seemed a little uninterested. He seemed much more interested in showing off for Lily, or making jokes for everyone to laugh over, or racing Peter while Sirius timed it. The whole time, he had a grin plastered on his face. Harry tried jumping in a time or two, but James blew him off. 

It made Harry’s chest feel a little empty. 

But he stayed there, and he smiled at him, anyway. And he decided that maybe all he would get to do in this time was observe James, and understand him better from the sidelines. Maybe he wouldn’t get to know him closely, but he could watch him. That could be enough, Harry supposed. And sure, maybe it didn’t feel like enough, as he picked his way to the bottom of the snow and started ripping up the dead grass underneath it all, but it was really all he could do. 

For now, Harry focused on the way his heart skipped when Draco finally sat next to him, and rested his thigh on Harry’s. He focused on watching his dad try to vie for his mother’s attention—though now that Lily knew, she seemed to be very aware of the fact that they’d be married soon, and more often than not, she would yell at James just because. It felt very elementary, but it was kind of funny, too. And for now, he focused on laughing when Remus made comments like “Sirius is about to fall,” who would then fall, or “Peter’s going to run into James,” who would then run into James. And most importantly, he focused on the warmth he did have as he basked in the sun, even though it was the middle of winter. 

~~~

Later that night, after Draco and Harry spent all day in the library, they were in the greenhouse after curfew, the Marauder’s Map in Harry’s hand, keeping an eye out. Harry had explained that even though they had the map, James still had the invisibility cloak, and there was no telling what shenanigans the Marauders had gotten up to, when they’d pop out of the shadows. 

The strong smell of earth and something sweet filled the greenhouse. They were looking for a Smedian Flower, a rich, magical flower that looked like a mixture between a snapdragon and a daisy, known for its smoothing properties in volatile potions. Draco had avoided troubling Harry with the specifics. Truthfully, he didn’t trust Harry to follow the meticulous extraction method for this flower, and they couldn’t chance him accidentally cutting the flower off, in case Sprout noticed any missing. 

So Harry’s job was to be the watchdog.

He found the sprouting flowers fairly quickly, as he’d seen them a few days ago during Herbology. They only opened at midnight, and Draco would have exactly five minutes to extract what he needed before they would close again. 

They had about 20 minutes before they opened. Which meant there was time to talk. 

“I finished the ritual,” Draco commented. 

Harry's voice sounded pleasantly surprised. “Already?” 

“Yes. I’m thinking tomorrow we can confirm if it works.”

“Er, okay. How do we do that?” 

Draco snorted. “Not sure yet. I’ll mull it over tonight. You try, too, but don’t hurt yourself in the process, please.” 

“I’m really not as dumb as you think I am,” Harry said dryly. “Just cause I’m not great with theories…” 

Draco smirked. “You’re a hands-on learner. Don’t worry. I know.” 

Harry laughed, not picking up on Draco’s double meaning. “I guess I am a lot better with spell work, yeah.” 

Draco sighed. 

He couldn’t help that his star was an idiot. 

“Right.” He took a few steps to the left, keeping Harry in his peripheral vision. And then nonchalantly, he said, “You’re quite the liar.”

Harry, who had not taken his eyes off him since they arrived, stupidly said, “Huh?” 

Draco snorted, turning to another flower. This one was purple, with large, wide petals. “I just think it’s very interesting how you called me a terrible liar the other day, but the more I get to know you, the more I realize how good of a liar you are.” 

Harry frowned. “I’m not a liar.” 

“You’re not?” he drawled. 

“No.” 

“Interesting.” 

“I’m not a liar,” Harry repeated. “Lying sometimes doesn’t make someone a liar.” 

Draco smirked, turning to Harry. He was glowing under the bright moonlight, which shone through the clear greenhouse ceiling. Harry’s glasses glinted underneath it. His hair was messy and still a little wet, having recently taken a shower before sneaking out. Draco never would have done that—their two minute walk under the snow already turned his nose into ice. He couldn’t imagine how cold Harry had been. 

“Oh, Harry,” he said. “Lying is exactly what makes someone a liar.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s not that straight-forward. Everyone lies.”

“True,” he agreed. “But not everyone is good at it.” 

They held each other’s eyes for just a moment. Harry looked away first, back down to the map. “Whatever.” 

“I want you to tell me a truth,” Draco said, then, before turning back to his flower. There were several seconds that passed, as he reached up and pressed a finger against that large purple petal. It was soft on the top, but when he put his fingers along the edge, it was so sharp that it drew blood without Draco even feeling it. He pulled his finger back down and stared at the blood. “What truths does Harry Potter hide from the world?” 

He didn’t really expect Harry to answer so easily. Good liars didn’t tell truths without a fight. 

And Harry spoke, confirming the fight was there. 

“I hate cereal,” Harry said lightly. “It’s disgusting. There’s always too much milk to make the cereal soggy, and you can never eat it fast enough.” 

Draco paused. Then wiped the blood on his pants before turning to the next flower. “Wow, thank you for bearing your soul to me, Potter. How deep.” 

“That one not good enough?” said Harry, laughing lightly. “How about this one: horses scare me, but thestrals don’t. How’s that for a backwards truth?” 

Draco had ridden horses many times. He’d seen thestrals since Christmas of 5th year. The first time he’d seen a Muggle die.

“You’re right,” he agreed, picking a bad leaf and letting it fall to the ground. “That is quite backwards.” 

“Your turn,” Harry said happily. “What’s one of your truths. Or, well, two, since I did two.”

Snorting, Draco turned, and leaned against one of the open counters where students cut up roots, his hand grazing against the unfinished wood. “One, I hate spicy foods, and two, I’ve never been in the ocean.” 

“You haven’t?” Harry asked, surprised. “I would have thought you’d been to hundreds of beaches, on thousands of vacations.”

Draco snorted. Harry’s robes looked so ruffled right now. “Mother and I are in agreement that beaches are much too dirty to swim in.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Have you ever let loose one day in your life?” 

“Never,” he said airily, making it sound like a joke, but truthfully, Draco couldn’t say he ever had. He knew he had a tendency towards the dramatics, but he didn’t indulge in them often anymore.  “Though I do enjoy a good concerto.” 

Harry laughed. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” 

“Keep guessing.” But he offered a smile. 

Harry froze at the smile, looking like he’d been hit by a stunner. 

Draco dropped it. 

It seemed to give Harry back some of his bearings. He cleared his throat. “So, what other truths do you have for me? Random quirks? Oh—here’s a good one: did you ever have any pets growing up?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Of all the questions… Yes, I had pets growing up. We had peacocks in the manor. Though they weren’t very keen on snuggling.”

Harry laughed. The sound was warm. “I bet. Um… What—”

“Uh-uh,” Draco interrupted, wiggling a finger at the other. “It’s my turn. Did you have any pets? And if not, I get another question.” 

Harry grinned. “Sure, I had a pet. His name was Dudley, and he—” He stopped himself, face souring. “No, I didn’t have a pet.” 

Ah. The perfect segue. “Who’s Dudley?” 

Harry looked back down to the map. “My cousin.” 

Draco thought of the little pieces of Harry’s childhood that he’d let slip. Something about a cupboard. His uncle hitting him. Being hungry enough to eat a bar of soap. He wondered where the cousin fit in with all that. “Tell me about that.” 

“What are you, a therapist?” Harry muttered, sounding annoyed. 

Draco ignored the fact that he didn’t know what that was, and instead waited for Harry to talk. 

Harry shrugged, eyes still on the map. “He was my cousin. Er, he was a month older than me. And, er, we weren’t super close, but we kind of made peace when I left.” 

“Tell me about that.” 

“Actually, I think it’s your turn for a truth. What was your family like?” Then, he seemed to realize what he was asking. “I mean—”

“No, it’s fine,” Draco said cooly. He turned back to the flowers they were there for. They were starting to open up, and he grabbed his scalpel and small potion’s bottle, waiting for the perfect moment to scrape what he needed. “Despite what people may believe, I loved my parents. Truly and deeply. Both of them. Not just… Not just Narcissa.” He moved to the next flower, lifting his nose a little, still angled away from Harry’s vision. “I wouldn’t have done what I did if I didn’t love him, too. If I didn’t want to be like him.” 

Draco lifted his spine a bit straighter. “I think it would be easier to tell myself I wasn’t… the poison that I am if he had been cruel. Or unkind. But he wasn’t. Lucius was… strict. And he expected a lot for and from me. But he took the time to listen to me when I talked. And he nurtured my knowledge. Answered my questions. And at nights, they both would sit with me and read me stories. Sometimes mother would sing, and father would tell her she was the most beautiful flower in the world. That’s what her name means, by the way. Daffodil. It matters, you know. To me.” 

Draco paused, realized he was rambling, as he was wont to do when his guard was down. Harry had this terrible way of tearing down walls until he snapped while also making him feel very much on guard at the same time. 

So he cleared his throat and moved to the next flower. Scraping carefully so as to not ruin its core. 

“We were happy,” Draco said lightly, messing with the flower. “At one point. I love them very much. Isn’t it unfortunate that it wasn’t enough?” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly. “I suppose we both lost our parents to Voldemort.” 

Draco’s chest squeezed, his face scrunched. “Why are you so… understanding?” he asked, even quieter than Harry, attempting sarcasm but failing for a reason he didn’t quite understand. “Where’s the vengeful bastard I know and love?” 

There was a pause, before Draco realized he used the L word. Harry had to know he was being impish, though. That the word held no weight. 

“I think maybe understanding is all we have left.” 

Draco clenched his jaw, before he finished scraping the last available flower, feeling confident he had more pollen than he needed. 

“Well,” he said lightly, “if only you could use some of that attitude towards your studies. Maybe then you could get decent marks, and I wouldn’t have to scrape these flowers alone.” 

He corked the mini bottle and pocketed it before turning to another flower and fiddled with its dark red petals. They were soft. Draco turned back to the purple flowers and fiddled with that one, not bothering to wipe away the blood when he nicked himself again. 

Harry took a deep breath. Then cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, “Remember when you said I didn’t know about love?” 

Draco snorted. “Surprisingly, I do. Not sure if you remember, but I was there.” 

“You said it holds a price.” 

“I sure did.” 

Harry was quiet for a moment. Draco sighed, before turning until his back was completely to Harry. 

It must have given Harry the strength to speak his mind. 

“You were wrong. I know exactly what it holds, and the price it costs.” He cleared his throat again. “And how sometimes it isn’t enough to save people.” 

The sounds of ruffling robes followed, before freezing again. Draco wondered what position Harry was standing it. If he had his arms crossed, or a hip jutted out. Or was simply standing with that god-awful posture he always had. 

He didn’t look. And still Harry continued. 

“I’ve… god, I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved except Ron and Hermione. But I’m… I’m so glad I was given the opportunity to love and lose them. Cause I know what it’s like to live without love. And, um. I’d much rather live in a world where I lost it than live in a world where I never had it.” 

There was a beat of silence, and Draco felt something heavy on his face, behind his eyes. 

Don’t you fucking dare , he snapped at himself. Don’t you cry . 

And then Harry continued. “I spent all of my childhood wishing my parents would come and save me.” And Draco despised knowing that there was a childhood that Harry wished he could be saved from. “My childhood lasted forever, and I felt it would never end. Truly, never end. When I got my Hogwarts letter, I felt like my wish had finally come true. They’d saved me. But… after some time, I realized it was only half true. They did save me, in a way. Just… not in the way I thought they would. I still had to go back to that house every summer because mum’s love protected me there, and I was handed a prophecy I didn’t want because they loved me enough to fight for me, and I lost Sirius because they loved me enough to let me know him, and because I loved him, and—” he exhaled. “I just… I don’t even know where I’m going with this. But I’m so glad they loved me, even though it carried a lot of tragedy with it. And…. Fuck, Draco. I don’t want to be so straight forward.  But I—I think your parents would be very sad if you didn’t find some sort of acceptance—or—or—comfort—or something in their love, even though it carries a lot of tragedy with it, too.”  

Draco’s jaw clenched harder, and it was starting to hurt his head. 

Harry seemed to wait for an answer, but Draco couldn’t respond. His jaw was tight, his back painfully straight, his gaze upwards, and he looked at the giant moon above them. A waxing half-moon. Still growing, not quite full. He wished it was the full moon so the light could meet him straight-on, without any hidden pieces. 

“Draco?” He sounded hesitant. 

And then, to Draco’s utter horror, a tear fell out the side of his eye, and it rolled down his cheek. He felt quite brittle. And if he were to turn around right now and look at his star, he would fall a little harder. He didn’t want to be a falling star. He wanted the darkness again, to be back without that hope that wouldn’t fucking leave him alone . 

“Fuck you, Potter,” and he was horrified when his voice became a croak. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.” 

Harry audibly swallowed from behind Draco. He was grateful for the dimness of the night, but it made the sounds and feelings so much louder. Felt the trembling in the corners of his lips all the more. Hated the way his body shook as he fought off the breaking. The sound of Harry’s feet shuffling as they moved a little closer, reaching his ears a little easier. 

“Don’t.” It sounded like a beg and not a command. “Don’t come any closer.”

Harry paused. “Why?” 

“Because.” He fought for the words. For his dignity. “I can’t bear it.”

“Bear… what?”

“Bear you in comforting me. When all I’ve done for you is give you a bloody face and dim everything around you.” 

Harry paused. “What?”

The surprise in Harry’s voice caught him off guard, and Draco found himself spinning around to face Harry before he could think to hide his wet eyes. Harry’s face looked genuinely shocked. “Why do you—why do you think you dim things?” 

“Because,” Draco said, and he shoved his elbow over his face, covering it, refusing to let Harry see the ugly way in which his lips curled downward when he cried. “Because I’m Draco. I’m a constellation of the dimmest stars in the sky. I’m a poison, and if you comfort me, I’ll be forced to stay and continue poisoning things. I don’t want to stay. So don’t do that to me. Don’t be selfish.” 

Harry blinked. And—fuck—even in the darkness, Draco could still tell his eyes were green. They didn’t flicker over Draco’s face, looking for imperfections. They looked at him straight-on. The forward-facing Gryffindor that Draco knew. 

“Draco, you…” Harry took a step forward, and Draco took one back. Harry shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what Draco had said. “You’ve never been dim. You’re… You’re like the sun .” 

And with that, Draco couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand at all, really. He finally broke, that fragile glass of everything he was shattering entirely, and he crumpled down, sitting on the dirty ground, holding face in his elbows, wrapped around his knees. At first, he forced himself to do it quietly, but his tears didn’t want to be quiet. They wanted to be heard. His fucking pain was not taking no for an answer any longer, and he gasped out sobs that he didn’t want. 

It was like it all expelled from him with a curse. A curse that made him feel things that he’d happily plunged deep into the darkness when he knew it would all be over. But now, it wouldn’t all be over. Now, he had to stay. He had to. There was no other option. And he was crying because there was no other option, and because his father was going to die Azkaban, and because his mother was alone, and because he’d hurt people that he couldn’t unhurt, and he’d killed people he couldn’t unkill. 

And then Harry sat down next to him. Draco cried for that, too. And then Harry put a hesitant arm on Draco’s back. He didn’t rub or shush him the way Narcissa used to, but it stayed there. And Draco cried for that, too. And he cried for a future that he was going to have to take now, because it was scary and terrifying and also full of so many possibilities. He was crying for his childhood self who had mocked Dobby because he’d wanted friends so badly. He was crying for 50 year old Draco who didn’t even recognize his current self. And he was crying because he was somehow simultaneously a dim constellation, a falling star, and a sun, all at once. 

“Fuck… you…” he said again through labored breaths. “I… hate… you…” 

Harry moved his thumb in two slow strokes. “I know.” But he kept the hand there. 

Draco cried so long that even when he no longer cried, he was still there. Silent. Face covered in snot and sleeves wet from tears. He didn’t know how long they sat there for, but Draco’s arse was quite numb, and he couldn’t feel his feet, and he doubted Harry felt very good, either. 

Still in that same position, face in his robes, he grabbed his wand from his sleeve and the pointed it at his face before doing a cleaning spell, getting rid of all of its unseemly filth. And then, finally, he exhaled. And twisted his face to look up at Harry, resting his cheek on his arm. 

Harry was looking down at him with that care that Draco had refused to accept. His eyebrows were pushed forward, and his mouth turned down. But in his eyes, there was no pity. 

Draco felt… seen. 

“This better not be one of your martyr acts,” Draco said, his voice still stuffy despite his clean face. 

A bubble of laughter left Harry, making Draco smile tiredly. “No, it’s not. And before you ask, this isn’t a saving people thing, either. I think…” He swallowed. “I think I’m being quite selfish in this.” 

Draco blinked slowly. From the way Harry was looking at him, Draco could probably guess what Harry was saying. But he wanted to hear it. 

“Yeah?” he asked, the smile in his voice. “How so?” 

Harry’s lips tightened, eyes widening. He shrugged. 

Draco lidded his eyes a bit more as he observed Harry’s face. And then, he sat up straight, Harry’s eyes following his own without blinking. 

Draco leaned in a little closer. 

“Am I being… presumptuous?” asked Draco quietly, his hand shaking as it reached up and moved Harry’s chaotic hair out of his face, tucking a strand behind his ear. 

Harry’s eyes flittered down to Draco’s lips, making his heart jump. “Not at all.”

And then, slowly, he moved. And as he did so, moving slower than he’d moved in his life, Harry’s lips parted, slightly, but it was so silent in the room that he heard the muted smack of lips parting.

Harry’s lips were full. It was hard to see if you weren’t looking straight at them, if you weren’t mere inches away. They were the same color as the rest of his face, but they were there, as if asking Draco to meet them. The top formed into a perfect cupid’s bow, the bottom puffed out like an invitation. 

Draco took it. 

Right before they met, Harry’s eyes flittered closed, as if he was going to just focus on the feeling. Draco’s heart thudded further, and his hesitation felt heavy, but not in a bad way. And then, finally, finally , he found the strength to fill the last of the space between them, his lips barely touching Harry’s, and he hadn’t realized that such a small touch could set his entire body on fire. 

Maybe this was what Harry had been talking about, before. That touch could make you feel alive. That it made the rest of it worth it. All the pain, all the regret. Like being touched could free Draco of his guilt, could clean him in a way that he himself couldn’t do with bleach and water. This touch felt like a fire that came after a flood. All of Draco’s tears had cleaned him out, but he still needed to be purified. 

Fire was cleansing, wasn’t it? Purifying? It burned down forests, sure, but what grew after was more vibrant and beautiful and so full of life, just as Harry’s eyes were. 

He moved his shaky hand, and placed it carefully on the side of Harry’s face, barely grazing it. 

Their other kisses hadn’t been about enjoyment, about connection, about wanting. They had been about something else. Something hot, something desperate, like they both knew they wouldn’t get to keep it once they went back into their time. The need that had been there in the back of both their minds. He wouldn’t consider those times pleasant , exactly. More… needy. Full of explosions and masks and nothing real . Draco had been careful to snog him only when he was not Harry but rather Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived; the boy who could handle being played with like a toy and who wanted to play just as much as Draco did. Before, it wasn’t about giving in—it was about making the other break.

This?

This was different. 

Something… softer. 

It was slow. And tasty. Draco leaned into it. And he’d never felt that kisses were meant to be stolen, but here he was. Stealing them, the way kisses were meant to be. It didn’t even feel selfish, really—it felt like Harry wanted to be stolen. Wanted to be taken away, and made to take and give and to fill the other. 

Draco wasn’t a particularly patient person, and he didn’t feel like Harry was, either. But they kissed slowly, and carefully. And although Harry kept his hands down, Draco could feel the way he fought himself, letting Draco do what he wanted, the way he asked him to. 

And Draco realized that this want was the kind of want that Draco wasn’t used to. This wasn’t about wanting and getting. This wasn’t demanding extra sweets after dinner and receiving. This wasn’t about stomping his foot in a store because he wanted a toy or a book or special-made robes before being handed it without effort. Draco couldn’t buy this moment. Money didn’t matter here, not where Harry’s lips were concerned. Because Draco was well aware that Harry could take it away at any moment. 

And Harry didn’t. 

He wanted it, too. 

Draco no longer felt like a constellation of dull stars. Maybe Harry was right. Maybe he was a sun. Because right now, Draco was burning bright. 

And maybe Harry could see that, too, or maybe he caused it—Draco didn’t know which one it was, but he leaned forward, letting that fire burn brighter inside of him as he filled the space between them, having to twist more than he’d like but leaning his whole body against Harry’s. 

And then, he could feel it all. Harry smelled like soap, and there was an herbal and crisp taste on his tongue as they moved in sync. Harry opened his mouth, too, and deepened the kiss, and no one clanked their teeth together like they had in the game. Because this didn’t feel like a game. It wasn’t a game. Harry gently bit Draco’s bottom lip and pulled on it, and it felt much more like a reminder that he was there, instead of an attempt to rip him apart. 

Draco kissed Harry’s top lip with the movement, and moved his hand up into Harry’s hair. It was soft, but not silky. It felt more like a pet that was meant to be held for comfort, and it made Draco’s chest squeeze. His nails scratched the back of Harry’s head, wanting to feel the way each hair flipped under his fingers.

It was the moan that changed things. 

Because apparently, Harry very much enjoyed fingernails digging into the back of his head, and the low, needy sound seemed very much like it accidentally escaped his throat, as his breath hitched near the end of it, like he was trying to stop it before it continued. His fingers reached across and grabbed Draco’s waist, fingers crawling with desire, but he didn’t take more than Draco had yet offered him. 

But Draco was nothing if not indulgent. 

He sped up the kiss, and moved around the kisses, until he was facing Harry and straddling him, putting a hand on Harry’s chest and pushing his body harder against the wall, excitement sparking in him as he heard Harry’s breath hitch again and feeling something hard against his thigh. Draco smirked into Harry’s lips, and lifted his chin. Harry immediately followed the movement, excited by the invitation, and he moved his mouth to Draco’s jaw, and then to his neck, sending sparks all through Draco’s body, pooling warm in his stomach and along his thighs as they pressed harder into Harry’s body. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Draco pushed himself off of Harry, an inch off. Harry made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, but Draco simply lowered himself and caught Harry’s lips in his own again, before taking his left hand off from Harry’s hair—his right still wrapped up in the curls—and trailed his fingers across Harry’s ear, along his neck, fingertips feeling like fire under light touches, across his shirt, the fabric catching in the wrinkles. 

And then, just as agonizingly slow, he lifted the bottom of Harry’s shirt up, fingers lingering over the top of his trousers, across skin and across a patch of hair that trailed up to his belly button. 

Harry let out a shaky breath, and Draco leaned back for just a moment to look down at Harry, whose face was all bliss and all desire, his mouth parted and jaw jutted forward, waiting for more. Draco continued trailing his fingers over Harry’s skin, and Harry’s face twitched with the movement. 

But something stopped him. His hands hesitated. 

When Draco didn’t immediately come back down to meet his lips, Harry’s eyes fluttered open, his green eyes looking foggy under the moonlight streaming in through the window. He reflected the light like he always had, his light in the darkness. 

Draco needed him to shine. 

“What are you waiting for?” Harry asked breathlessly, voice deep and reverberating through Draco’s ears like a cello. Had his voice always been that dulcet tone? 

Draco leaned back in, and kissed Harry again. For a moment, he was scared it was too intimate. Too close. Especially when Harry looked at him with those lively eyes. But Harry leaned closer, into it, reaching up when Draco tried to pull away again. With a single hand, he pulled Draco’s head to his own, foreheads touching, and Draco finally closed his eyes. 

“Draco?”

His voice felt very far away from him right now. “What?” 

“What are you waiting for?” 

Draco swallowed, air feeling heavy. Not painful, not the way it did when he wanted to pull himself apart. But it was hovering over them. Not just desire. Not just want. 

Something was shifting. Around him. In the air. Inside of him. It was more than hope and stronger than lust. 

“I don’t know,” Draco responded, quietly. “I’m scared I’ll ruin you.” 

The confession spilled out like ink, battering across his chest with the words. He fought the influx of thoughts. Why did he say that? How could he give Potter such a vulnerable truth? How could he put himself in such a position? How could he be so selfish in handing that to Harry? What did he expect Harry to do? Comfort him? Try to fix him? 

He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want to be fixed. 

And then Harry responded. 

“I want you to destroy me, Draco.” His voice was raw. Honest. He wasn’t lying, not in this moment. “I want you to pull me under and let me drown. And if you’re so scared of poisoning me, hand me the bottle. Because I want you. I’ll claw my way out of the ground after you bury me under.” 

Draco’s heart surged. And then, before he could stop himself, he leaned down, and kissed Harry again. And this time, he didn’t hold back. It wasn’t feverous, with masks raised high and clanking teeth. It wasn’t destructive. It wasn’t hesitant and scared. 

It was bright. 

A falling constellation and burning star. Reformed death eater and war hero. Destructive fungus and monster with claws. Despondent coward and touch-starved Martyr. 

It was Draco. And Harry. 

Draco and Harry. 

Chapter Text

Preceding [adjective]

Existing or happening before someone or something.

“So you’re saying I can send a note through this portal, and if your other-you receives it, then we’ll know if it works?” 

“That’s the idea.” 

“Potter. How are you going to get it to yourself? We’re 20 years in the past right now, and you’re only 18. You aren’t even a concept yet in your parents minds.” 

Harry lowered the parchment. “Damn. I didn’t think about that.” 

Draco snorted before he patted Harry’s shoulder patronizingly. “Thank you for trying.” 

Rolling his eyes, Harry’s head twisted to the side. “I mean. We could… I dunno. Send something to your mom? Maybe with some very specific instructions. Or something.” 

Draco sighed. “That could work, except my mother isn’t at Hogwarts right now. How would she receive it?”

“We could use your blood instead of mine…” 

Draco frowned. “You’re asking me to cut myself?” 

“Don’t be a drama queen. It’ll just be a little prick.” 

“You got a little prick.”

Harry deadpanned, but his cheeks flushed. “I don’t—but that’s—don’t derail. Let’s just try it, yeah? If it doesn’t work, we can use your idea.” 

Draco let out a long suffering sigh. “Whatever, Potter.” 

Harry knew he agreed because his idea was much better.

“Before I do this,” Harry said as he accio’d a piece of parchment with his new (albeit worse) wand,  “is there anything that may help—like, maybe something your mother is superstitious about? Seers, or Signs, or anything like that?”

Draco narrowed his eyes at him from the dark orange couch, his elbows on his knees, tie a little ruffled from their most recent make-out session. “Mother is not superstitious. And anyone that says otherwise is wrong and simply doesn’t understand magic.”

The corners of Harry’s lips quirked upwards. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” 

“Some examples being…”

“...”

“...”

“... You annoy me, Potter.” Draco huffed. “The rule of 13. Seers. Black cats. Butterflies. Mirrors." 

Harry blinked. “She’s quite-stitious, then.” 

Draco glared. “No. She just knows more.”

“And you say Luna is crazy.” Draco glared further. Harry grinned. “Okay, let me just write something really quick.” 

Making sure it was out of Draco’s sight, Harry wrote down a little note:

Narcissa Black-Malfoy,

On June 9th, 1988, many bad things happen. It will start thirteen knocks on your door, and every mirror in your possession will turn and face each other. From that day onward, black cats chasing butterflies will cross your path every morning. I am sorry to say this.

The ONLY way to ensure this does not happen is if your first born son’s 8th birthday includes the following:

• A cake with 14 layers. One of those layers will need to be strawberry. The rest MUST be chocolate.
• A pinata with Muggle candies inside. If you don’t know what a pinata is at this point, I suggest you start doing your research today.
• No spoons. Forks only.
• A clown—named Magnus, specifically. 

I hope you take this seriously. If not, I fear your entire future will be ruined. 

Sincerely,

An Anonymous Seer

Chuckling slightly at the vision of a clown juggling menacingly at an 8-year-old Draco, Harry folded the parchment carefully, headed back to the coffee table, and set it right on top of the carefully-inked ritual. The ink glowed slightly off the page, the magic glaringly present. 

The question was whether his paper could jump through to the right person. 

“I guess, er, we can prick your finger… and put the blood on it?” 

Draco didn’t respond verbally, but he did light the candles, and then pulled out a knife from his pocket and poked his finger, drawing a small bubble of  blood.

“Jesus, do you bring that with you everywhere?” Harry asked in horror.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “No. We were planning on using the blood as an anchor. What were you going to use? That spell you so graciously shared with me during 6th year?”

Harry flinched. “Definitely not,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

Draco sighed, but he didn’t say anything more. 

He let a drop of blood fall over the piece of paper—and at the exact moment that the blood touched it, it disappeared without a sound. 

There was no crack . There was no flash of lightning. There was no earthquake. It just… disappeared .

A beat.

Draco stared at it, expression empty. “Harry.”

“Hm?”

“What if the jump kills us?” 

Harry turned to him. “Then I suppose you’ll get your wish, won’t you?” he tried joking. A small huff of air left Draco, but he didn’t smile. Harry grimaced. “Listen, Draco. That’s not going to happen. We’re going to get back, at the right time, in the right place, both safe and healthy. It worked once, and it’s going to work again.” 

Draco kept staring at the note that disappeared. 

Harry frowned. Draco looked… far away. If Harry were Hermione, he would ask what was wrong and try to comfort him. If he were Ron, he would make a joke and distract Draco until he no longer had that empty, nowhere look on his face. 

But as it so happened, Harry was not Hermione, and he was not Ron. He was Harry, and Harry had never been very good at comforting people. So he sat there awkwardly. 

The seconds passed into minutes, and the silence stretched on.

Eventually, Draco blinked himself out of it, and then tilted his head. “What did you say in the letter?” 

Harry cleared his throat. “Oh, yeah. Um… what was your 8th birthday like?”

Draco stared. And then, his lips parted slightly. And then, his face screwed up in disgust. “ You sent that fucking clown?!”

~~~

The next two weeks flew by. Too fast. Too much reading. Too much potion-making. Too much being ignored by James. Not enough time with Lily. Not enough time with Sirius and Remus. 

And before either of them knew it, they had only 3 days left. 

Harry was starting to feel panicked. Felt like he was losing the opportunity to connect with them the way he wanted. Time was slipping, and he was trying to hold onto each moment, but even the good moments spilled like water that he was desperately trying to hold between his calloused fingers. He was trying. He was trying so hard, but every time he tried to connect with any of the Marauders, they kept him at arm’s length. Harry was feeling very much like his 9-year-old self, who had just switched to a new class. 

Lily was an angel. Of course she was. He already loved her a lot—so much, actually. He tried saying it a few times, but every time he opened his mouth to say the words, something gripped at his throat. Fear. If she didn’t say it back, he could only hope they didn’t make it through the jump alive. 

His only other solace was, strangely, Severus Snape. 

“Eat,” Severus snapped at Harry during breakfast. Harry had been spiraling while staring at the Marauders, wishing he could sit with them right now and be a part of the things they were all laughing about. 

Harry took a few bites, his stomach twisting in knots. He’d probably invite them to hang out after lunch if Gryffindors didn’t have class, but they did. Harry had a free period, and he couldn’t work on the potion without Draco, so he was stuck feeling anxious over the lost time and inability to help. 

He forced himself to look away from them when an owl landed right in front of Severus, dropping a small wrapped parcel and crumpled letter. With an offer of sausage to the owl, Severus took the letter and shooed the owl away, stuffing both objects in his pocket without giving them a second glance. 

It was the first letter that Severus had received since Harry had arrived. But the other boy didn’t even look at it. 

Unfortunately, this made Harry very curious. 

And he fought off that curiosity all day. He fought it off during classes. He fought it off when he practiced dueling with the marauders. He fought it off when he sat with Draco, who solely worked on the near-completed potion. 

“I think the last thing we need before we can let it simmer is selenite,” Draco said as it bubbled under him. “Either that or a clear quartz, but I’m leaning towards selenite.”

Harry, who had no idea what selenite was, said, “Okay, do we buy that? I could go send out an owl or something.”

“While galleons can be exchanged for selenite,” he drawled, “neither of us have money in this godforsaken world. We will need to obtain it another way. I bet there’s a ton in the Forbidden Forrest.”

“Okay, I’ll go tonight.” 

“And let you be murdered by the beasts in there? No, thank you. And even if the beasts don’t get you, I’m sure you’d accidentally step on some poisonous plant and die within 10 minutes—or, rather, with your luck, you’d get dangerously close to dying, stress out my poor, frail heart, and then come out the other side with a laugh and a shrug.”

“Your heart is anything but frail,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “But, then, fine, what are you suggesting? You go into the Forbidden Forest and get it?”

“Of course not, Potter. I think you’re forgetting another option. We both go into the Forbidden Forest.” 

“Right. Because the last time we went there together, it went so well.”

“The last time we were there at the same time, we were 11 and quite different people.” 

“I’ve always been me, Malfoy. Just been Harry all along. I haven’t changed a bit.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’ve noticed quite a few differences.” 

“Like…?”

“Your height, for one.” 

Harry nodded agreeably. “Well, yes, that does change with time.” 

“Your looks. You were always too skinny.” 

Harry deadpanned. 

“And, well. You’re not as much of a judgemental prick now.”

“I’m sorry, who was a judgemental prick?” 

“You.”

“Both of us.” 

“Yes. The difference there is that I’m still a judgemental prick.”

Harry laughed. “Okay, so we both go into the Forbidden Forest, and we—” Harry paused. “Wait a second. I bet Severus has some. He has like a thousand potions ingredients hanging around the room.”

“Right,” Draco said sardonically. “Because Severus Snape is the type to share his potions ingredients.”

Harry grinned. “He might. Let me ask. If he says no, we can go on a little adventure together.”

“I see you’re choosing the less dangerous option first. See? Character development right before my very eyes.” 

Harry laughed and turned to the door. “I’ll be back, you judgemental prick.”

“Don’t be mean to me,” Draco said airily. “I can be meaner, and oh, how I hate being mean.” Harry laughed again and then opened the door, but Draco spoke before he could leave. 

“Harry?”

Harry turned around. Draco wasn’t facing him. “Yeah?”

“I don’t appreciate you suggesting going into the forest by yourself,” he said, a strange tone joining the words. “I’d appreciate if you’d include me in things like that in the future.”  

Harry nodded, guilt welling up inside of him. “Yeah,” he said, voice straining. “Next time I go to the forest by myself, I’ll invite you along.”

It was a Slytherin answer. 

And when Draco didn’t respond, Harry felt he knew it, too. 

~~~

“Severus?” he said as he passed through the door. 

No one answered. 

Sighing, Harry headed over to his bed and bent down, his knees cracking with the movement, making Harry grimace with the sound. With click after click , his trunk finally popped open, and with one hand, he pulled out the Marauder’s Map, with the other his wand from his sleeve. 

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” he muttered into it, tapping his wand against it. It still felt weird using this new wand. It didn’t hold the same. It was too long and thinner than he was used to, feeling more like a pencil and less like his wand. 

That was probably the worst thing about all this, Harry decided as he sat up and searched for Severus’s name on the map. The fact that he no longer had his wand. And he doubted very much that he would get it back. 

There—on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, unmoving. 

Severus Snape . 

What was he doing? 

But before Harry could even theorize, the name went into the Forest, walking, walking, walking, until his name was out of view of the Map. 

Harry stared at the spot, feeling unsettled. Slowly, he closed up the map and locked it back his trunk before letting out a slow exhale, before turning and sitting, his back leaning against the bed. Facing the other bed in the room.

The other bed was messy. There were about four different blankets, provided by Slytherin house, in various crumpled piles, the base of an unmade bed. 

The side table was cluttered, too, with various empty potion bottles and objects he knew Severus used in his experiments littered about. There were broken pieces of glass, half on the desk and half still on the floor, where he’d accidentally blown up one of those experiments a few days ago. Unfinished notes and scribbles and ripped up scraps of paper were everywhere. Only the ingredients were still carefully protected in their bottles, all standing up right, though to Harry, there didn’t seem to be any organization. 

It was one of the weirdest things about being a roommate with a 17 year old Severus. In every other facet of his life, he was so… organized, and meticulous. Except for the spot right by his bed. The mess said something. Harry didn’t know what it said, exactly. That he was human, maybe? That he was just some kid with an unmade bed? 

Harry really didn’t mind—Hermione had complained about his messiness a time or two. And his side of the room would be much messier if he had many belongings to create a mess with. But his bed was unmade, and his clothes were strewn about, and on his bedside table, there was… 

Harry stared at it.

And then there was the teacup. 

Severus’s friendship wasn’t the kind Harry was really used to. It wasn’t like Ron’s—full of laughter and obvious care and boyish joy. It wasn’t like Hermione’s either—full of deep conversations and random info dumps and strength. 

Severs was simply… quiet. 

When Severus did choose to speak, it was just that. A choice. Particular. Like he thought about every single word before saying it, even when it was sharp as glass. He snapped at Harry to eat. He snapped at Harry to not fall down the stairs in between classes. One night, he handed Harry a dreamless sleep potion, snapping, “So I can finally get some sleep.” 

But he spoke in silent ways, too. 

Late one night, Harry had been laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling with several candles still lit, plotting ways to get James to like him, when Severus walked through the door quietly. At first, he didn’t look at Harry. He’d been silent, as usual. But when he did glance at Harry, he paused. And then, without explanation, he’d left. Harry didn’t ask where he was going—he knew Severus wasn’t going to answer. 

Eventually, Harry had closed his eyes. He’d come up with some vague plan about playing Quidditch, and could finally rest. When he was drifting away, the door opened quietly. Harry didn’t open his eyes. Footsteps paused. Just for a moment. Before they moved again, slower. The candles were blown out. And then, the sound of glass being softly set on wood. Bed curtains being drawn closed. And then Harry was asleep. 

The next morning, Harry found a cup of tea by his bedside.

Harry stared at it now, something strange squeezing in his chest. 

And then, as if a siren calling across the water, something else caught his eye. Underneath Severus’s bed. He tried to tell himself not to be nosy. 

And then the crumpled paper was in his hands. 

And then, it was opening. 

Each letter was beautiful. It was clear whoever had written it had practiced calligraphy. But while each letter was beautiful and swirled around in lovely patterns, it didn’t feel beautiful together. Like a discordant vase. Each letter was a different size. And when put together, the lines didn’t move straight across the page; they started falling downwards, like they’d been walking on the top of the hill and then decided to tumble down halfway through instead.

The words tumbled down, too. 

sevie

hi my baby. Im missing you a lot today. Its so hard to be here by myself without you to talk to afterwards. It makes me feel alone. It would be easier if you would write back… if it isnt too much of a burden, that is… I know your doing a lot of important things at school and it can be easy to forget about your mother. I dont blame you. I understand. but if you can find the time in between classes and studying and your important experiments, i would love a letter… 

your father has been as he always is during decembers. hes missing his parents, i think. Its sad to watch him like this, and i wish i could help him. It would be easier with you here .but like i said. I know your doing good things. I hope you make the right choice and come home for christmas this year. I already have several presents wrapped up for you under the tree. The tree is extra beautiful this year. We were gifted some christmas lights by the Newtons when they moved. And oh, yes, the Newtons moved. Or, more like, they were kicked out. Its been extra lonely not having Maybell nearby. 

Well. i suppose im rambling. Ive been thinking about what you said this summer. about me choosing him over you. I dont think that was fair to say. I love your father. Hes a good man underneath it all. And i love you, too. I love you as best as i can. Why cant it be enough for you?

Ive sent a box of chocolates that your dad bought for me. i know you like the caramel ones but i couldnt help myself… you know me… i know youll enjoy the orange ones, i remember you loving them so much when you were little.

mum 

Harry stared at the letter, his chest feeling like someone had taken a large knife and carved open a spot deep inside, and then followed it up with a spoon and scraped out whatever was inside of the cavity. 

Merlin. 

Harry put the letter back. 

His eyes flickered to his own trunk. Where the Marauder’s Map was hiding, after telling Harry that Severus had gone into the forest.

Where had he gone after something like that? 

He had a terrible feeling he knew.

~~~

His answer came after dinner.

At some point during the afternoon, Severus had come back to school. He didn’t look any worse for wear. His clothes were still pressed and his hair still slick-straight. He sat with Harry during dinner and read a book silently. 

But he couldn’t hide his shaky hands. 

“Do you want to go flying with me?” he asked Severus once they’d finished eating.

Severus paused his book, and then sneered over at Harry. “Absolutely not. I prefer my feet on the ground.”

“Oh. How about a walk?” 

Severus eyed him coldly for a minute before snapping, “Fine. Don’t forget your coat.” 

Harry rolled his eyes and offered a sarcastic salute. “Sir, yes, sir.” 

It was incredibly cold outside. And as the winter solstice was in three days, the sun was already starting to set. It was so cold and dark that Harry was surprised Severus didn’t just turn around and go back inside. Instead, when Harry almost stepped onto the ice of the Great Lake—hidden underneath a thin sheet of fallen snow—Severus stopped him with a sharp hand to the upper arm.

“Merlin, Parker. Watch where you’re going.” 

“Right.” 

Severus conjured a blanket and cast a heating charm over it, and the two of them settled onto it. They both stared out over the white ground, at the grey sky darkening with the night, but covered with clouds that had been tempting snow for days now. It was the kind of weather that never let things completely darken.

Harry cleared his throat, the remnants of the letter he’d read still playing in his brain. “You asked me if I understood.”

For someone who wasn’t moving, Severus somehow paused. He didn’t need to ask what Harry was talking about. “And you said that you might.” 

“I did.” Harry looked at his hands. They were red and dry under the weather. The words I must not tell lies contrasted white behind the red. “I do.” 

Severus turned his gaze slowly back out to the trees beyond the Great Lake. In the lighting, only the silhouettes were clear, the tops of the trees outlining like a heartbeat on a monitor. 

Harry didn’t want to talk about it. Not the specifics, anyway. But he forced himself to speak, anyway, and he said something he’d never actually said out loud before. “My room was a cupboard until I was 11.” 

Severus didn’t react. Didn’t frown, didn’t look away from the trees, didn’t even look at Harry. But he said, “Are you happy they’re dead?” 

And this was where Harry would have to lie. He was tired of lying. But he thought about how he would feel if the Dursleys were dead, and the thought didn’t bring him peace. “No,” he said quietly. “I think only Voldemort’s death would make me happy.” 

Severus flinched at the word, his arm twitching a lot further than the rest of them, and he spun to Harry, glaring. “Don’t say the name.” 

Harry didn’t look away. “Why?” 

Severus glared, staring. And then he seemed to realize the intensity of his reaction, and he brought his arms back to himself. “No one says that name.” 

“I do.”

Severus’s stare remained. “Are you stupid?”

“No. I’m not scared of someone who’s going to be dead soon enough.” 

A beat. Harry waited for Severus to ask about it, but he didn’t. He was just as frozen as the lake. 

From the corner of his eye, the scars on Harry’s hand taunted him. So he lied some more. “I’ve seen it,” he said. “In a Seer vision. I know he believes he can’t be defeated, but he’s just a human. A powerful one, but still human only. I’ve seen him bleed. It’s red.” 

A pause. Severus didn’t react.

“We’re in the middle of a war,” Harry continued, choosing his words carefully. “He thinks he’s going to win. But unlike him, I know the ending. Unlike him, I know the winning side. And unlike him, we win.”

Severus kept staring at the trees. “How does it happen, then?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “I get flashes of how it all ends, but not the specifics. Something about…” He trailed off, before his mind started to run, as it did sometimes, contrary to what Draco seemed to think. “... something about a potion. And blood magic, too. I don’t know anything about blood magic, though…” he paused again. “You said you liked Dark Arts, right?  What… what do you know about blood magic?” 

The wind picked up a little, and Harry shivered. The blanket underneath them was starting to lose its warm magic. Harry pulled out his wand and sent a warming charm on it again, but it wasn’t as strong as Severus’s had been. 

“… we?” 

It took a second for Harry to realize what Severus was responding to, before he put his wand away again. “Yes. We.” He glanced over, at the bumpy, expressive, clay-like profile. “You’re a part of it. I don’t know how yet. I think you get to choose how. You know. Like a hero.” 

Severus’s jaw clenched. The skin of his face was pink, though Harry couldn’t tell if that was from embarrassment, irritation, or just the sharp wind. “That’s absolute fuckery.” 

Despite himself, Harry huffed out a laugh. He didn’t know Severus had such a mouth. “What is?” 

Severus didn’t laugh. “I’m not meant to be a hero.” 

His humor washed away. “Why do you think that ?” 

Though, he knew why.

Severus was quiet for a long time. A long, long time, until Harry was sure that somewhere beyond the clouds, the moon was starting to rise.

Finally, he spoke. “You hang out with Lily Evans a lot.” 

Harry froze. He knew where this was going. “I do.” 

“How is she?”

Harry’s chest squeezed. “She’s… good.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

“We used to be friends.” 

Harry nodded slowly. “Used to?” he asked, voice cracking again. “What happened?” 

Again, silence. 

“I… wasn’t a good friend,” Severus said finally, tone cold, and he pulled his arms in closer to himself. “She didn’t like my… acquaintances.” He emphasized the word. “They’re graduated, mostly. But I called her something they encouraged, and I lost her friendship because of it.”

“I see.” The wind died down a little. “You called her a Mudblood.”

Severus didn’t flinch back. But his eyes were very dull. “I did.”

Harry nodded slowly. Remembering the memories Snape had let him see, as well as his own. Remembering both their regrets, and the first time he realized Snape was a Death Eater, and the time he realized Snape was a hero, and the letter that was currently under Snape’s bed, all at once. “That was probably pretty fucked up of you.”

Severus didn’t move. “It was indeed,” he replied coolly. 

They were quiet for a few moments longer. The trees at the edge of the forbidden forest on the other side of the lake were moving slightly under the wind. Not much. But there.

When Severus spoke again, his tone was different. Colder. Quieter. Reserved. 

“And when you were put in the cupboard, what would you do?” he asked quietly. “Would you fight back? Would you defend yourself?” 

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Sometimes I tried.” It was rarely effective, though.

“I see.” He was so quiet that Harry strained to hear him over the wind. “I never have. Not once.” 

Several long moments passed, Harry feeling completely stupid and wishing he knew how to respond to that. 

And then, he continued. 

“Not for myself. Not for anyone else. When my father yells at my mother, I simply watch. Passively.” 

Severus’s eyes dulled. 

“He hits, and I watch. Even when she cries.” 

Harry debated on adding Tobias Snape to his hit list, after Voldemort. 

And then, Severus sat a little straighter, his face going blank again. Empty. Uncaring and strong. “There’s a reason I’m in Slytherin, Parker, and it is because I know how to survive. I am good at it. So to answer your question, it’s simple. I wasn’t born to be a hero. I was born to survive.” 

Silence followed. What a terrible, terrible way to think about the world. To think about oneself. The blanket was starting to lose some of its warmth, so Harry cast another warming spell over it. It wasn’t as warm as the one Severus had cast earlier, but it warmed the space underneath them. 

Harry didn’t know the right thing to say. He could offer a grand speech and a grand gesture. A promise that he was made for more—but Harry knew he wouldn’t listen to force. 

Harry finally found his voice. 

“What if you’re wrong about that?” he asked quietly, and now it was Severus’s turn to strain for the words. “From what I see, you’re smart. Wicked intelligent. And… you might not like to hear this word, but… kind. And you’re in a hard spot, you know. Being the only Slytherin in your year. Having to deal with people who are cruel to you just because. Spending… every second of your life surviving…” 

Harry swallowed, and looked down at his hand. 

He decided to listen to the words. 

“Even if I couldn’t see the future, I think you’re meant to be so much more than what life has handed to you. And I think that would make you an even greater hero, you know? Like a phoenix, or something. Rising from the ashes.” 

Harry stopped himself, probably sounding stupid and rambly, but then he kept talking, because there was something strangely desperate in his chest. Because in Harry’s world, sure—Snape died a hero. But Harry didn’t want that. Harry wanted Severus to live as one. Or at the very least, have a chance to. “And—I dunno–I don’t know if you have the Mark yet or not, but—“

Severus twisted like lightning, his eyes wide and mouth agape. “The—what?”

Harry paused. “I’m a Seer,” he reminded them both. “That vision today. I saw… that. And that’s where you went today, no?” 

Severus didn’t respond. But Harry could see he was right. 

“But, I also know,” he continued, “you’re going to use your position to help. And if I didn’t have absolute, complete faith that you would make the right choice, I wouldn’t be here, sitting with you.  But like I said—you make the choice. And even if you don’t want to be a hero… don’t you want to prove them wrong? All of them? Become more than they thought you could ever be?” 

And finally, he forced himself to snap his jaw shut, still staring out at the white nothingness of snow. 

Several moments passed. Harry waited for Snape’s response. He was probably finding the perfect words. 

And finally, he did. 

“Blood magic… requires sacrifice to work,” he said, something strange and unidentifiable in his tone. Not snappy, not angry, not light. It was heavy, and with each of his words, Harry felt there was something brewing under the surface. “People classify it as dark when it is not, at its core, dark. It is powerful, though. Blood magic can keep a person alive when they’re on the brink of death. It can keep another’s heart beating when it should stop. It can act as a shield when weapons are drawn.”

Harry swallowed. 

Was this… how Lily’s sacrifice had worked? 

When she’d given her own blood for Harry, so it returned back to him?

He wondered if she’d planned it. 

He’d probably never know. 

Severus sent another heating charm under them. “But using blood magic doesn’t require a life , as is too often used. It just requires a sacrifice. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the effect of the magic.”

Harry nodded slowly. He needed to focus on this , not on something that hopefully never had to happen in this world. But the image of Lily, dead, wouldn’t leave his brain. Forced himself to think about their jump. 

What if the jump kills us?

Harry was going to ensure it didn’t. 

“Is there some kind of… tier list of sacrifice?” Harry asked. “You say the greater the sacrifice, but… how do we know what the greatest is?”

Severus glanced at him with the corner of his eye. 

“There is no list,” he responded carefully. “What is a sacrifice to one person will not be a sacrifice to another. To some, the greatest sacrifice is their own life. To another, it’s a child. To another, it is merely a really good dinner.”

“Oh.” Harry thought about that. “Is there a way I can learn my, um, personal greatest sacrifice? Besides, you know, guessing.” 

Severus watched him for a long moment. “Are you planning on using blood magic?”

Harry stared back. Feeling his claws, which had already torn through his chest and seemed to feel like they were constantly bleeding. The claws poked at the open wounds. “I would do anything to keep the ones I love happy.” And then, feeling the weight of those words, he looked away, offering a sheepish grin. “Hopefully without dying, though.”

Severus watched him for a moment longer. “There is… probably a way. A potion, I believe, that takes almost no time to make. I might need to brush up on it before attempting it. But I’ll make it for you… if you help me with something.” 

Harry stared. “Anything. What is it?” 

Severus didn’t look away. “Help me be a hero.” 

~~~

It was the night before the solstice, and Harry was having a great time.

Harry pushed Draco further into the couch, the moonlight shining on his face and exposing his flushed cheeks and genuine smile as he looked up at him. 

He was so… vivid. 

Harry leaned down, meeting Draco’s lips to his own, burning everywhere he touched. Draco lifted a hand to the back of Harry’s head. As they kissed, Draco pulled Harry closer, using his sharp nails to scratch at the base of Harry’s neck, sending shivers through his spine, up his back, making him feel hotter and tenser and more relaxed all at once. 

Harry kissed him harder, the sounds of their heavy breaths and clothes ruffling the only sound in the room. Draco tasted of mint, like he’d snuck one in at some point as they discussed something or other about the potion, things Harry didn’t understand when Draco tried explaining it and quite frankly didn’t care to remember right now. 

With his other hand, Draco put a palm on Harry’s chest, starting to move it up to his shoulder, then to the others. And then, slowly, tantalizingly, he pushed his hand down Harry’s chest, fingers catching with the fabric, pausing briefly to poke in between the buttons of Harry’s shirt, giving small circles onto Harry’s chest. Harry went to move his lips to Draco’s neck in response, but Draco pulled him right back up to his lips. 

“I have a better idea,” he whispered with a smile in his voice. It made Harry’s heart stutter and his cock harden, all at once. 

And then, Draco moved his hand down Harry’s stomach, which jumped with the touch, pausing right as he met the top of Harry’s trousers. Harry waited for him to move his hand back up, or to tease the edge of his trousers as he had daily for two weeks now, but he didn’t move. His hand just stayed there. 

Harry didn’t know what he was going to do next. 

Fuck, he wanted to know. 

And apparently, he wasn’t good at hiding it. A small whimper escaped his throat as he pulled back. 

Draco let out a little chuckle. It was deep and pleasing to Harry’s ears as he fought to open his eyes. But they felt like they were glued shut in the want, the feeling of waiting. 

“Kiss me, you idiot,” he said, and Harry did. But he still waited. 

And then, so slowly that Harry didn’t even realize Draco was moving at first, Draco’s hand started trailing down further—over his trousers, lightly touching, but once he realized what was happening, he moaned into Draco’s mouth. Draco’s hand cupped Harry’s bulge, which felt like it was getting bigger with each second, and then he started rubbing over the pants. 

“Oh fuck,” Harry said, louder than a whisper, feeling his eyebrows come together. “If I knew getting selenite would get me this, I would have moved much faster.”

Draco let out a small chuckle again, but with the hand still on his neck, he pulled Harry’s neck down, and he started kissing his neck, sucking and licking and running the bottoms of his teeth gently down the side. His hands didn’t stop moving.  

Harry had never had anyone touch him with so much intimacy before, making his brain feel fuzzy. He felt himself tremble, legs shaky and elbows feeling like they would crumple under him at any moment, something pulsing underneath the surface. Nothing like when he’d pleasure himself. Something so much more . 

And then—

The door’s lock clicked. 

Harry and Draco paused. 

The door opened. 

There was a beat as everyone stared at each other, completely unmoving. And then at the exact same time, Harry scrambled off of Draco, and Sirius pushed James in, closed the door, set a silencing charm on the room. While Harry sat on the couch and pulled his legs up to himself, hiding his very obvious arousal, grateful that they hadn’t yet turned on any lanterns, Sirius finally broke the silence with a howl of a laugh. 

“I FUCKING TOLD YOU,” he said to James, whose mouth had fallen open, gobsmacked.

“A knock would have been nice,” Harry snapped over the laughter as he squeezed his legs, knowing his face likely matched the exact shade of Lily’s hair. 

James’s face didn’t change. “But—so you don’t—you really aren’t interested in Lily?” 

Harry flushed harder. “Obviously not.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said he liked Quidditch players,” Draco drawled from beside Harry, who still hadn’t moved. Didn’t even try to unrumple his shirt or hide his own arousal. Instead, he just sighed. The arrogant prick. “What, might I ask, are you two doing here?” 

James finally turned on his lantern with the wave of his wand. Harry wished he had the invisibility cloak. He would never take it off ever again. Sirius’s laughter didn’t help. 

“This is where we have our parties,” James said. “It’s always empty, and Filch practically never comes down this hall. We, um, are going to have one tonight cause of, you know, holidays starting tomorrow. If you, um, want to join us.” 

Harry, face still flushed, said, “Sounds great. Mind giving us a minute?”

Sirius laughed harder. James didn’t look embarrassed—mostly, he looked relieved. “Sure,” he breathed. “We’ll be right back to set up the tent.” 

They left the door, Sirius snickering but clearly trying to hold it down. Harry groaned and covered his face the second the door shut, and Draco finally sat up, patting down his shirt and hair, before turning to Harry. 

“Look at it this way,” he said as he coaxed Harry out of his hands and wrapped his tie back around him, tying it for him, “at least now you can have the experience of saying one of your parents caught you making out with someone. It’s an experience that many teens have.“ 

Harry groaned, looking down at himself. Luckily, most of his excitement was already withering away. “Not experiencing that was like... the only good thing about being an orphan.”

Draco laughed. 

The party was held in a tent that Sirius owned, hidden in the corner of the room in the shadows, hard to find even if Filch decided to peek his head through the door. It was thin and tall, resembling more of a phone booth that was split right down the middle than the tent Harry had stayed in last year, and the entrance was just enough to fit one person at a time if they moved shoulders straight. But just like the tent the Weasleys used at the World Cup, it was much, much bigger on the inside. There were rugs and couches and bean bag chairs, and the amount of orange and red reminded Harry of Ron’s room, making him miss him all the more. 

Being the first people in the party, due to their precarious position, Harry helped set up cups and drinks and snacks, which had been carried in with James and Sirius after they set up the tent. Draco did not help, which made Harry roll his eyes, but he didn’t say anything about it. 

There wasn’t much to say about it. 

To Harry’s surprised enjoyment, Sirius had a record player, which worked when Sirius flipped his wand to it. A fun, 70s alternative band that Harry didn’t recognize sounded through its  speaker, the instrumentals and lyrics creating quite possibly the coolest vibe Harry had ever experienced. 

“How does it work without electricity?” he asked Sirius, nodding to the player. 

Sirius turned to Harry and offered an impish grin. “Just a spinning charm.”

“Huh. I’ve never thought of doing that.”

“As much as I wish I could take the credit, it was Remus’s idea,” he said, a warmth entering his eyes when he mentioned the name. “Who, by the way, should be here by now.” 

At that exact moment, Remus crossed through the door, followed immediately by some Gryffindors Harry didn’t know, a couple of Hufflepuffs, three Ravenclaws, and Lily, who walked straight to Harry and took the plates from his hand and set them on the table for him and said, “Don’t do what they tell you to.”

Harry laughed reaching back for the food. “I don’t mind helping.” 

She took his hand and said, “No, I want you to meet some of my friends.” 

Someone turned the music up, and more people kept coming in, and soon, Harry was moving from person to person, being introduced to Lily’s friends before meeting even more. She seemed to know everyone—and had inside jokes with each one of them. She was so, so cool. 

Harry tried not to think about how he only had one day left of her. 

People started to dance, a group way larger than Harry was expecting. They danced, and there was raucous laughter, and at some point, Remus and Sirius disappeared together, Sirius pulling a very red-faced Remus out of the tent to who-knew-where, and a lot of things suddenly made a lot of sense. 

Into a few butterbeers and a shot of firewhisky, Harry made his way to the snack table. He overheard James and Peter, who were standing in the middle of a group of older students, all of whom were laughing.

“And then, she screams at me, Why were you missing in the streets, James Potter ! Like, what am I supposed to say to that, mum?! I was evading the Aurors!”

Peter was laughing so hard he was snorting. Harry still had a hard time connecting this young Peter with the wormtail that Harry knew… and killed. This Peter was… soft. And laughed, a lot.

And then, James let out a humored sigh. “Well, can’t really blame her, can I? Oh—I’m thirsty. Peter, wanna go grab a drink for me? Butterbeer, maybe?”

Peter’s grin froze. And then, it widened, making Harry pause. “‘Course. Be right back.” 

He headed to where Harry was standing, grabbing a drink and then going back over to James. Harry observed silently, feeling something icy in his veins.

“Thanks!” said James as he took the drink, throwing it back before letting out a loud smack. And then, with a laugh: “Wormy, you’re like our own personal house elf!” And then he laughed again, joined by others. 

Peter did, too. He laughed a little too hard. A little too long. 

Harry’s stomach sank when Peter opened his mouth. “Yeah, well, better than Kreacher!”

They all laughed more, with James patting Peter’s back. 

And then, to Harry’s surprise, Draco’s voice cut through the music and laughter, and it was just then that he appeared next to Harry. 

“He’s not a bloody house-elf, Potter,” Draco cut. “He’s your friend.” 

The air shifted, though the music played on. James froze, his smile faltering like someone had taken a hook and ripped it off his face, his eyes darting from Peter to Draco. The others in the group turned to Draco, too, who didn’t look away.

“I know,” James said after a beat, sounding uncertain. “I was just teasing him. Wormy, you know I was just teasing, right?”

Peter’s grin looked painful in its eagerness. “Yeah, ‘course! Don’t be daft, it was funny.” 

But Harry saw the too-bright nodding, the desperate way Peter looked for his approval. 

James saw it, too.

“Oh shit,” he said, half-smile finally succeeding into a frown. “Peter, I didn’t—I was just teasing. You know I care about you, right? You’re not just—you know that, right?” 

“Yeah, ‘course!” Peter said again quickly, giving an eyeroll, his tight smile not faltering. “Anyway, back to your story, right?” 

James stared at him for a second longer, and then he cleared his throat and said to everyone: “We’re gonna go find Remus and Sirius.” And then, he ushered Peter away. 

Harry watched them go. He wondered how many times James made that joke to Peter. How many times he teased in a way that hurt Peter, not knowing what he was doing. And Peter—well, Peter just took it. 

It was not an excuse for what he did. 

Nothing ever would be. 

But Harry could maybe understand the why a little better, now. 

Harry turned to Draco, who was also watching them with a serious expression. Draco’s lips barely parted as he said, “I hope he grows up.” 

Harry did, too. “Maybe this will help him do so. Maybe it’ll stop… you know. From happening.” 

The words didn’t settle on Draco like Harry would have liked them to. “Your faith in people is probably your strangest quality.” 

Harry shrugged, but he faced Draco, looking up at him. Searching his face. Draco’s eyes were serious, and he was all angles, everything coming to a point. But where he’d looked like he’d been withering for months, right now, he looked a little fuller. His eyes weren’t as dull. The dark circles were there, but not as prominent. His mouth was turned downward, thin lips comically placed. But instead of seeming hopeless, he looked alive. Just as Harry felt.  

And then Harry, who never had been good at dancing, or ever even really wanted to, found himself asking, “Wanna dance?” 

Draco’s eyes jumped to Harry’s in surprise. They stayed like that for a moment, staring at each other. Harry had the urge to grab his hand right there, but he didn’t know if Draco wanted it all to be a secret. So he didn’t. 

And then Draco gave a smile. One of his soft smiles. It lasted only a moment before it was replaced with a smirk as he looked down at Harry with hooded eyelids. 

“I was afraid you’d never ask.” 

And then, he reached for Harry’s hand, sending a spark of happiness through his chest, and pulled him in between a group of dancing teens, swaying and bouncing to the Muggle music. Harry wished he knew more about genres and music types and instruments to feel it. He’d never had much of an opportunity to just listen. He wondered if, in the months they spent in Grimmauld Place, Sirius and Remus spent time just listening to this music, too. If they danced. If they sang while cooking or cleaning. Or if they’d been too broken down to do so anymore. 

Trying not to dwell, Harry danced. He didn’t really have a good beat—there was a reason he’d stayed sitting for most of the Yule Ball. But the firewhisky was settling into him, making him feel warm, and Draco was smiling down at him, or and his parents and their friends were here, dancing, too. So Harry let himself sway to the beat—or at least, to the best of his abilities. 

And then, Draco took both of his hands in his own, and he guided Harry, pulling a hand in and out in alternative patterns, and now Harry was meeting the beat with his movements. He didn’t care that it was only because Draco was moving them. Rather, he liked that Draco was moving it. 

Without him, Harry wouldn’t fall into sync. 

They didn’t make any crazy moves. No turns or spins or anything like that. But they danced around, and at some point, Draco’s smirk was forgotten, and he was genuinely smiling—again, looking like the bloody sun. But Harry felt like he was finally able to look straight at him, like he didn’t need sunglasses or to avoid it straight-on. He kept his eyes and smile on Draco as they danced, as one song moved into two, and two became three.

At some point, Lily joined them. And not too long after that, James joined them, too—probably just wanting to be close to Lily, but Harry happily took the opportunity to make jokes and laugh and let himself feel like he was dancing on air. 

The song ended, and to Harry’s surprise, the music switched from something rock into something much slower. The image of a very old radio from the 30s came to Harry’s mind. 

Lily made a disgusted face. “Who turned off Bowie?” 

And as the voice started singing, there were several groans and boos around the large room, and teens stopped dancing and instead congregated and began chatting all over each other over the music. But Harry could still hear it.

Who’s got eyes that sparkle

Like a lily sprinkled with dew? 

Lily Belle

James grinned, a flirty glint in his eye. 

She sighed. “Of course it was you.” 

“Awh, Lils,” he said, offering a hand. “Don’t be like that. Dance with me.” 

Lily raised an eyebrow and gestured around the room. “No one’s dancing anymore. Because you put this on.” 

“Awh, to hell with all of them,” he said with a wink. She rolled her eyes. And then, he started to sing along with the music, the sound filling the air nicely with a voice that Harry did not inherit. “ You can catch a sunbeam, when she smiles your way .” 

Lily scoffed and crossed her arms, but a small flush reached her cheeks. 

Harry’s chest was stirring. He felt something terribly painful in his chest. He wondered how many times they’d been able to dance together before they couldn’t dance any longer. He wanted to see it—just once.

To his surprise, Draco started swaying, Harry’s hands still in his own, and said, “We’ll dance, too. Song’ll be over soon enough. You can suffer through it, can’t you?” 

Lily looked at him in surprise. And then her eyes flickered to Harry, as if asking his permission. 

James’s hand was still there, waiting for her. 

Who’s got all the leaves a flutter so they’re ready to fall? Lily belle.

Harry fought around the knot in his throat as he said, “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t.” 

She took his hand. And smoothly, James pulled her in close. Harry watched them as they danced, the knot completely taking over. Unable to talk. Unable to say anything . 

Draco let the silence land. Let Harry listen. 

Birdies take one look at her, and stop their singing to call, "My, you're swell"

“Have I ever told you what your name means?” asked James, over the chattering and music, close enough for Harry to hear. 

She let out a rather snorty laugh. “I have a feeling you’ll tell me now.”

“Oh, I will. I’ve been singing about it for years.” He spun her around. “You can ask Sirius. But anyway, lilies are interesting flowers. They’re my mother’s favorite. She told me that in some cultures, lilies symbolize good fortune. In others, they symbolize unconditional love.”

If your eyes are open and you think you’re seeing a dream, it’s Lily Belle.

She rolled her eyes again, cheeks red. “You’re so full of shit.”

“I’m serious,” he said, but there was a smile in his voice. “But I think, you know—love doesn’t necessarily mean romanitc—though I assure you that my unconditional romantic love will never die—but…” 

He looked away. Harry saw the profile of his face. His straight nose. His smile, which turned into something almost sad.

Who's got eyes that sparkle at you? Lily Belle

“Can you blame me?” he asked as he spun her around again. “I think everyone who gets to know you has to fall in love a little bit, you know? Even your friends are a little bit in love with you. Your passion. And you spark. And your good luck.”

Who's got lips fresh as autumn dew? Same gal, Lily Belle

“And I think even more important than the people that love you… You love people. I see it. You love with all of your heart. With your friends. Even… even the ones that hurt you…” He paused, letting the implications settle over them. 

Would you like a sunbeam? On a rainy day?

“I don’t think even death itself could stop your love from existing.”

There was a beat. Lily seemed to be trying to gather her thoughts. Harry’s eyes felt hot. Draco kept swaying.

You can catch a sunbeam, when she smiles your way

James cleared his throat. “And I’m not full of shit. Not about this. I know I tease, but… Lily… I don’t think there’s anyone else in the world that I really, genuinely want a chance with.” 

Lily stared at James’s chest. She didn’t say anything. Something was settling over the room, something heavy and sharp all at once. Harry was watching the shift between them. And, sure, there were tons of other teens in the room, talking and laughing over the music that most of them seemed to ignore, but it was like Lily and James were the only two in the room.

Who's got all the leaves that are ready to fall? Lily Belle.

Birdies take one look at her, and stop their singing to call, "My, you're swell"

Oh, and incidentally, there's just one more thing to tell…

If your eyes are open and you think you're seeing a dream, it's Lily Belle

The song ended. And something more upbeat started again, and it didn’t take long at all for the tipsy teenagers to start dancing again. 

And then, Lily snorted, loud as the next song popped up. They didn’t dance. But Lily did take a step back, and grabbed herself, like a hug. “Merlin, James Potter. When did you get a heart?” 

He grinned at her, his wavy hair bouncing with the movement. “I always had a heart. You just haven’t been willing to see it.”

She rolled her eyes. “It would be easier to see if your big head wasn’t blocking the way.” But then she laughed, a garbled sound that warmed Harry’s heart. 

Somehow, James successfully pulled Lily away, saying something about needing her help with setting up a game for everyone to play, and then it was just the two of them as Draco looked down at Harry as they started dancing again. 

Harry didn’t look away as they moved. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to move any closer or any further away at that moment. He wanted to dance, and smile, and relish in this feeling he had—of being alive. 

And just as the snow slowly fell outside and covered the ice of the lake, a realization slowly and gently landed on Harry and started to cover him. He didn’t have to hurt himself anymore to feel alive. Maybe he didn’t have to fight or walk into dark forests to his death or let himself get punched or impulsively take potions or try and save people all the time to be something. Because he was here, simply dancing. And Draco looked at him like he was something. 

With those eyes. And Harry had heard grey being compared to stormy seas and dark skies, tornados and the walls of prison cells. But those comparisons were all wrong—they didn’t get it. Grey was the color of the moon, reflecting the light from the sun. Draco’s eyes. 

God. Harry wanted to remember this moment forever. 

“So,” he shouted, and then leaned up to Draco’s ear, so no one else could hear, “we have, like half a day before we have to go. Is everything ready?”

Draco chuckled lightly, the sound reverberating under the music. “A little over half a day,” he said. “More like 14 hours. But yes. The sand should be ready by noon.”

Harry’s chest squeezed, and then he pulled back, so he could look into Draco’s eyes again. “What if we stayed?” 

Draco’s face froze. “I’m… sorry?” 

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I still haven’t killed Voldemort. We could—we could wait until the summer solstice instead, maybe. Stop him before then. What if we go back, and nothing here changes? All of this would have been for nothing.” 

Something shifted in Draco’s eyes. Something sad. It made Harry’s chest squeeze more.

“I… Harry…” He swallowed. “I want to see my mother again.”

Harry stared. And then he forced himself to nod. “Right. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Plus, I, er… miss Mrs. Weasley’s chicken pot pies.” He laughed weakly. “I’ll have to owl her.” 

The dancing slowed.

Draco cleared his throat. “When we get back…” 

But the words seem to catch on his throat. Harry had to look away. He let his eyes land on Draco’s neck. It was long and held his head high. The reason Draco had kept himself together through everything. 

Harry’s heart pounded as Draco finished his sentence. “... I don’t want this to end.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t look up. 

Feeling like he’d eaten a hundred rocks, he finally said, “I don’t want it to end, either.” 

Draco’s voice was a little breathless when he said, “Good.”

They danced some more.

And then, they were pulled aside to play games. Someone had a Muggle game of Jenga—a Hufflepuff, Harry learned—and they played that. At some point, Lily and James returned, and Sirius and Remus returned, and Peter popped out from somewhere, and they were all laughing together. At one point, James pulled him aside and drunkenly said, “Lily finally kissed me. You’re kind of sick-awesome, dude.”

Harry laughed, feeling something soar in his chest. “Don’t ever say that to anyone again.” 

James cackled and then went back to yelling about some Quidditch team he loved. 

At around 2 in the morning, people started heading to their dorms in staggered groups, the intention being that Filch didn’t catch a huge group. Lily left with some of her friends, giving Harry a small hug and then running away from James, not even looking at him as she left. 

“She’s amazing,” James said once she was gone. 

Harry started to clean up, grabbing random pieces of trash when Draco scoffed.

“Do you forget you’re a wizard, Pot—Parker?” And then he waved his wand, and the trash picked itself up and rather swiftly jumped into the trash by themselves. With another flick of his wand, the trash disappeared.

“Whoa,” said Peter, staring at Draco in surprise. “You have got to teach me that.” 

And before Harry knew it, it was his turn to head up to bed. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave them alone, not when this was it. It was like someone had taken all of the insides from his chest and stuffed it into his stomach and his throat. 

He stared at the exit. 

He didn’t want to go. 

“I’ll, um, see you guys tomorrow,” he said, his eyes feeling hot. 

Not picking up on it, James said, “Of course, mate! Come join us at the Gryffindor table.” 

Harry nodded before leaving. He would definitely be taking him up on that. 

As the only Slytherin that had been invited to the party, Harry walked alone, not wild about walking into the coldness of Slytherin common room. He wanted to be warm. He wanted to stay with his father, and the rest of the Marauders, and close to Lily, and next to Draco. 

He wished he had more time. But he didn’t. 

And then, suddenly, there were footsteps running towards him. Harry panicked, and hid behind the first pillar he saw—if Filch caught him… Well, Harry supposed wryly, it wouldn’t matter. He’d be gone before he could get detention. 

But the body that ran past him wasn’t Filch. 

It took Harry less than a millisecond to process it. Severus Snape, running, long, thin legs almost cartoonishly spreading with each stride, a look of stress marring his face. Harry’s heart jolted forward as he took a step out, calling after him, “Severus! What are you—”

Severus skidded in his tracks, stumbling a little before turning around and facing Harry, looking panicked and angry and determined all at once. 

“Parker,” he barked breathlessly as they met in the middle. His left hand was clenched into a fist, as if it hurt. “I’ve been looking for you. It’s time. Give it to me.” 

Harry’s eyes widened. “Now?!” 

“Yes, let’s—let’s go.” 

And then, it was the two of them running.

“What happened?”

“It’s burning,” Severus said as he sprinted. “The Dark Lord has the Potters hostage.” 

Harry stumbled. 

“ What!? ” 

“Yes,” snapped Severs as they passed through the front door, the icy wind hitting them almost instantly. “He’s going to—” he huffed— “kill them publicly—” huff — “as a message—” huff — “that not even purebloods—” wheeze — “are safe if they don’t—” gasp — “support him.”

Harry’s body felt numb as they ran to the edge of the forest. This was all his fault. And then, they were running into the forest. And Harry fought off the panic, knowing that he was running into danger again. God, Draco was going to be so mad at him for doing this. Especially without him. But he didn’t have time—he needed to fix it. He had to take this chance.

“Do you have it?” 

Severus slowed down and then stopped by a tree, Harry followed suit. “Yeah, ‘course. Been carrying it on me since we talked yesterday.” 

“Hand it over.”

Harry hesitated.

“Just—it’ll be best if I do it. Hand it over .” 

Slowly, Harry pulled out the broken Gaunt ring that the two of them had snuck out to the edge of the wards and stolen yesterday night. Severus near-snatched it from him and threw it in his pocket before pulling out a potion from the same location and downing it quickly. 

“Clarum Mentis,” he clarified at Harry’s look. “Need all the luck we can get. Are you ready?" 

Harry nodded. He put a hand on Severus’s arm, ready for the side-along apparition. Wishing he knew they were going—but not even Severus knew that yet. His Mark would bring him there.  

He didn’t go. 

“We need to hurry,” Harry said, feeling the adrenaline still pump in his veins. “What are we waiting for?” 

Severus was staring at—at something. At the ground. Looking somehow very far away and very present all at once. 

And then, he lifted his wand. Harry waited for the feeling of something hooking behind his nose. 

“Accio wand. Levicopus.” 

And suddenly, instead of something hooking behind his nose, something hooked into his back, and pulled him up into the air. Panic gripped at Harry—had he made the wrong choice in trusting Severus? In giving him a chance? In trying to make him be the hero?

Did he make it all worse ? 

“What are you doing?!” he shouted. “Why—Why?!”

Severus glared up at him, before throwing Harry’s wand on the ground. 

Harry paused, confused. 

And then Severus spoke. 

“You will fall down in an hour,” Severus snapped, and then he raised his own wand to Harry, glaring harder. “There’s a letter by my bed for Lily. If everything you said before was bullshit, and we lose, then—fuck you, Parker.” Harry’s glasses fell off his nose, and Harry caught them just before. “But if what you said was true—about me being a hero—then you owe me a cup of tea.” 

And then he disappeared with a loud crack . 

Chapter Text

Absquatulate [Verb]

To leave without saying goodbye. 

Some muggle song was still playing in the background. As much as he hated to acknowledge it—and he wasn’t acknowledging it—Draco liked it significantly more than The Weird Sisters. When Draco had asked about it, Remus had mentioned something about some kind of royalty? King? Princess? Queen? 

Whoever the musician was, it didn’t do anything to stop the squeeze in Draco’s chest as he watched Harry walk away from their last night here. 

“So,” said James, interrupting his thoughts. “You and Hershel, huh?” 

Draco lifted his nose slightly, pushing down the squeeze. He wasn’t ready to admit what it was quite yet, even though he knew perfectly well what it was. Unlike Harry, he wasn’t oblivious or stupid. 

“Yes. What of it?” 

James shrugged as he popped a few muggle chips into his mouth. They coated his fingers with some sort of orange tint. 

“I just wasn’t expecting it is all,” he said as the music abruptly stopped. “He seems pretty cool.” 

Draco filed that away. He would be sure to tell Harry later that his father said that, after everything. “Yes, Well. I would expect nothing less of myself than to choose the best,” he said, lifting his nose a little higher. 

James laughed. “I believe it.” 

Draco and James watched as the other three finished cleaning up. They were laughing. Laughing while cleaning. It was a strange concept, but as he watched, another heaviness joined the squeeze.

Draco had told Harry he wanted to go home. To see his mother. And it was more than that, of course. They didn’t belong in this world. It wasn’t theirs to be in. To sit in. To hold. 

But he would miss it. 

It was the first time he’d felt he had people who could have become genuine friends. They’d welcomed him so ridiculously into their house. They’d teased him in a way that didn’t make him angry. He’d felt… included. 

They were assholes, of course. They hadn’t gone through enough to be mature enough for Draco’s constant presence. But they’d grown on him like weeds, and he wasn’t excited about ripping them out. 

James cleared his throat. “So, Lily and I were talking, and we wondered if you and Hershel wanted to go on a double date with—“

Draco hissed, jumping back, instantly stopping James’s invitation. The pressure on his chest switched into something icy and cold, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, all the way to the inside of his muscles and organs. 

His Dark Mark. 

It was burning. 

“Whoa,” said James, suddenly looking very serious as he moved to stand in front of Draco. “You okay, Dawn?” 

The shock that followed was paralyzing. 

His mark was burning . 

He was going to throw up. 

Somehow, some way, the same magic that had connected his arm to the Dark Lord in his world… connected him to the Dark Lord in this one, too. 

And not only that, but He was calling. 

Nausea rose like a fountain pumped for hours. He needed a distraction. Or someone to hold him. Or to burn his arm off. He needed to punch or cry or  throw up or do all of it in quick succession. 

No.

He needed... 

“I need Harry,” he mumbled, before turning out the door. He just needed to catch up to Harry. If he was fast enough, maybe he could meet him at the Slytherin entrance. “I’m—I’m going.” 

Without waiting for a response, he headed out the tent, through the classroom, and into the hallway, with some very confused shouts behind him. 

Annoyingly, they followed him. Draco fought against hexing them into stone for Filch to find as he walked, reminding himself that doing so wouldn’t be a good last memory of them. He would find Harry, and they would leave. He would find Harry, and they would leave. 

“Where are we going?” asked Peter, the last one to catch up. Draco ignored him and kept running down the hall. 

James reached his side first. “What’s going on? Who’s Harry?” 

Draco glared at the stairs in front of him, slowing down as he headed down them—tripping was the last thing he needed right now, on top of the burn of his arm. “I meant Hershel. Harry is… his nickname.” 

“Oh!” said James, bouncing down the steps. “I always liked that name. But—what’s going on? Are you okay?” 

Draco turned to him, glaring, once he reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m fine.”

Sirius and Remus were right behind. It was Remus who responded. 

“You’re scared.” 

“How could you tell that, wolf?” Draco snapped, making Remus stumble a little—as well as the others. And then Draco was in front of the Slytherin entrance.  He started guessing at every password he could possibly think of—surely one would work? But they didn’t. So, he went to bang on the door, but before he could, he was shoved against the wall by none other than Sirius Black, a forearm pushing his chest against the cobblestone walls, making it hard to breathe. 

They were the same height, but Sirius was much stronger, as Draco had been withering for months until recently. But he glared anyway. 

“What did you mean by that?” Sirius growled.. 

Draco narrowed his eyes, his lip curling upward. “Mean by what ?”

“You know what!” Sirius said, holding his wand to Draco’s face with his free arm. 

Draco froze, eyes fixed on the wand aimed at him, but he barked out a laugh, similar to the sound Sirius made when he was happy. Sharp and quick. “What, you think no one would find out? His fucking nickname is Moony! And, what, did you think I wouldn’t notice when you all disappeared during the full moon last month?” 

Sirius pushed him further into the wall, making an involuntary wheeze of air escape his lungs. He opened his mouth to say something else, but it was Remus who spoke—

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

It was surprisingly quiet, but it made everyone pause. Sirius held eye contact with Draco for a moment longer, before turning to Remus and said, “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it kinda does, Siri,” he said quietly, and then took a step closer, looking at Draco’s ear. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Draco sneered, though it didn’t matter. They couldn’t see it. Couldn’t know what face he made. He was practically invisible to them in the ways it mattered. “Because it didn’t matter. You weren’t gonna bite me , so why should I care?”

“Because…” Remus paused, staring. There was a goldish glint in his eye, and Draco couldn’t remember his eyes looking like that before. He wondered if it was because tomorrow was the full moon. “Aren’t you scared?”

Draco scoffed, lifting his nose. “I’m not scared,” he lied. “Besides, Hershel likes you plenty, and I wasn’t about to get on his bad side.” 

Remus blinked. “Does Hershel know?”

“I don’t know,” Draco lied again, lifting his nose somehow even higher. “But it wouldn’t matter if he did. He’s made friends with wolves like you before.” 

There was a long beat. 

“Listen,” Draco snapped, fighting off the panic that was still in his throat, because his wrist was still burning , and the Dark Lord was out there calling him, and if Sirius didn’t get off of him, he was going to get sick. “We can talk about this later. How about after the new year, huh? Right now, I’d like to find Hershel.”

Several seconds passed as the four of them just stared at him. And then Sirius asked, “Why? Why do you need Hershel so bad?” 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Why should it matter to you? Maybe I just want a really good snog.”

Peter choked, and James huffed out a snorty laugh, but Sirius didn’t change his expression. “I don’t trust you.” 

“Okay. And?” 

James took a step forward. “Look—Dawn hasn’t done anything to make us not trust him. He just knows our little secret—and that’s okay. He’s not going to do anything about it.” He looked at Dawn, then, and his head tilted, just a little, to the side. “Right, Dawn?” If Draco wasn’t so panicked and annoyed that he was being pushed into the wall by someone other than Harry, he might have been intimidated by the unsettling stare. 

Instead, he snapped, “Obviously fucking not.” A beat passed as they all stared at each other. When Sirius offered just a small give, Draco pushed him off.  He straightened his shirt and offered another glare that they couldn’t fully see. And finally, he turned and knocked on the Slytherin door.

After several moments of awkward silence, with four pairs of eyes glued to the back of his head, the door opened. It was a boy, not much younger than Draco himself, with wavy, black hair and pale skin, dark circles under his blue eyes, who took one look at them all, and immediately went to slam it shut, moving himself out of their sight. 

“Reg, wait!” Sirius said suddenly, shoving his foot into the door before it could be closed entirely on him. “Hang on.” 

The boy—who Draco quickly connected to be Regulus Black, his other cousin who looked exactly like the tapestry in his home—let out a quiet, annoyed sigh from behind the door. Before opening the door more, he let out a rather displeased, “What do you want?” 

“Go fetch Hershel for me,” Draco drawled, putting on his most Slytherin voice. 

There was a beat. And the door opened a little bit. Sirius left his foot in the same spot by the door, though, as if he’d done this before and expected the door to slam shut as soon as his foot was taken away. Regulus stepped into view, where he glared out at the two of them. 

“Did I ask to be treated like a house elf?” he shot back with a sneer that rivaled a Malfoy’s. “Or did I ask what you wanted ?” 

Draco drew himself up taller. He was a Malfoy, dammit, and he wasn’t going to not be listened to, especially not when he needed something. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sirius spoke instead. 

“Don’t be like that, Reggie! Can’t you just do us a little favor? I’ll make it up to you.” 

Regulus narrowed his eyes at Sirius, a cold look on his face. “How?” he asked coldly. “There’s nothing you could offer me. You’re not even a Black anymore.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but his smile looked like it was fighting being a sneer when he said, “I’ll go home for Christmas and act really nice .” 

With one last look at the rest of them, Regulus said, “I’ll do what you ask if you ensure you don’t come home, now or ever.”

Sirius gave a nasty grin. “Deal.” 

With another sigh, Regulus went to close the door again, but Sirius’s foot was still in the door, so it simply bounced off, a crack left in the openness. 

“I thought you said you didn’t trust him,” muttered Remus. 

Sirius didn’t move. “I don’t. I am curious, though.”

Draco didn't care why Sirius encouraged Regulus to get Harry.  He was just glad that he did. He took a step forward, and looked around the common room. It was empty—completely empty. Regulus’s books and notes were open on the table near the fire, and the green lanterns from above were illuminating the room in a way that made Draco miss it all so very much.

Despite what the Sorting Hat said was good for him, Draco would always be Slytherin. 

Regulus took longer than Draco would have liked. He was just about to enter  and start searching around himself when Regulus walked right back out of the hallway, with a large frown on his face. 

“They’re not there.” 

Draco blinked. “ They ?” 

Crossing his arms, Regulus leaned against the wall. It reminded Draco a bit too much of himself when he was hiding something. “That’s correct, Martin. Now, if you don’t mind—” 

Draco was already walking past him. 

“Hey! You can’t be in here, mudblood!”

Draco—who wasn’t a mudblood in actuality, or even in his made-up story from Dumbledore—turned on him, lifting his wand with something angry and sparking on his left forearm. He couldn’t tell if it was the call from The Dark Lord, or if his magic was acting up with his  emotions. Either way, it made him feel quite dangerous. 

“Don’t ever call me that,” Draco said, sneering. “Or anyone else, for that matter. Or I assure you, what I can do is much worse than you think will come from your little Lord.” 

Regulus’s entire body froze at the mention of the Dark Lord, the rest of the Marauders having scrambled in behind them. Sirius’s face locked onto Regulus’s instantly. “What do you mean by that?” 

Draco sneered. “I’m hoping you never have to find out.”  He passed Regulus and found his way into the 7th year Slytherins’ dormroom and locked the door behind him before the Marauders could enter. 

He looked between the two beds. They were both… disturbingly messy. If Harry was always like this, he and Draco would need to have some serious talks before they ever, ever moved in together. Draco would not be living like some kind of peasant in squalor, even to live with Harry James Potter. 

Draco shook his head. That wasn’t why he was here. 

“Accio Marauder’s Map,” he whispered with the wave of his wand. 

But because things could just never be simple in things relating to Harry, all he heard was a rustle of paper from under one of the beds—Harry’s obviously, the one with out potions bottles, but with just as much trash around it—and he leaned down, pulling out the trunk. 

“Alohamora,” he muttered. 

It didn’t open.

“What the fuck, Harry?” he muttered. 

He toyed with the buckles. It didn’t open. He tried  some more advanced unlocking charms. It didn’t open. He debated on blowing it up but instead started trying for common passwords. 

It didn’t open. 

“You’re a prick, Harry,” he muttered. 

His forearm was starting to lessen in its intensity of pain as he sat back. Reasonably, where would Harry be at this hour? And on that point, where would Snape be at this hour? 

Draco stood, pacing. Maybe he could just… go back to his dorm. It was stupid he was here, anyway—just because his Mark was burning in this world.

Something clicked in his brain. 

The Mark.

That was where Snape could be at this hour. 

And if Snape, who was likely already a Death Eater, was gone… And Harry was missing…

Well. 

He certainly didn’t like the implications. 

Unsettle blooming in his gut, Draco opened the door, where the other four Gryffindors were all standing in various positions, trying to get into the room. Peter was bent down, his wand where the handle had been moments before; James was using some kind of card against the doorframe; Remus was standing in the back, looking quite unsure what to do; and Sirius was in the middle of saying something to Regulus when he paused, his head swiveling to Draco like an alert dog. If the situation were different, the four of them would be quite the comical sight. 

As it was, Draco was not in the mood to laugh. 

“Hershel is missing,” he said coldly. “I fear it’s bad.”

James frowned. “Bad, how?” 

Draco was starting to feel quite desperate. His eyes flickered to Regulus, before saying, “Let’s go,” and then they were all scuffling out of the Slyherin common room, followed by a loud, “And don’t come back,” from Regulus, with the slam of the door. 

“What’s going on?” Peter asked. 

Draco immediately headed towards the stairs, but then, he paused. He didn’t know where he was going. He needed a plan, and only one thought came to mind. 

He turned to Remus.  “You—you can find him.” 

Remus raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

“Yes, you can—you can smell him, can’t you? With your little wolfy powers?”

Remus blinked. “I mean—it doesn’t really work like that—I’m not that—that good at it when I’m not—you know—when it isn’t the full moon—and—”

“Well can’t you try?” Draco snapped, interrupting the annoying humble rant and started walking again. “To be quite frank with you lot, it’s very possibly his life is on the line, and if you can’t help me find him, then at the very least leave me alone.” 

“Hey, now,” James said, stepping in front of Draco, who skidded to a halt and narrowed his eyes in response. “Don’t go around being rude to me and my friends; we’re—”

“He could die!” Draco interrupted, hissing the words like he knew Parsletongue. James paused, while Sirius flinched. “Yell at me later for how I’m talking to your friends. Harry could die , and you have no idea the lengths he’s gone to in order to ensure that you guys don’t either .” 

Remus frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“Holy fuck,” Draco said, wishing he could claw out his eyes and scream and punch something again—though this time, not Harry. “Questions later, maybe? Just—I’m going to find him. Remus, either you tell me if he’s here on school grounds or not. If you don’t, I’m going to have to put myself in a very dangerous situation, and I would rather avoid that if we can’t find him here.” 

Remus frowned, but then closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply for several seconds, and then said, “I don’t know. He’s—there’s a trace? But it’s far away.” 

“Well take me there,” Draco snapped. “At the very least, try.”

Remus led the way. Somehow, they missed Filch entirely. He didn’t catch them as they ran, or as they spoke loudly. They made their way out of the front doors, down the grounds, across the snow, and into the Forbidden Forest. Draco hadn’t been here in years, and he should’ve been scared, but there was only one thing on his mind: Harry . 

It helped that there was a werewolf with him, though. 

Draco barely felt the icy wind as he sprinted—and while he’d been so panicked earlier over his Dark Mark burning, now he was panicking because it was weakening, meaning the Dark Lord had already started whatever disgusting thing he was up to now. Draco had very little time to use the Mark if he needed to. 

Fuck Harry and his fucking… whatever he was doing. 

“The smell is getting stronger!” Remus said through huffs as they ran past spindly trees and wicked bushes, past howls and scuffling of animals through the snow. 

An immense amount of relief passed through Draco. “When I get home, I’m starting a Werewolf Rights group, I swear to the fates.” 

And then, abruptly, Remus stopped. A look of confusion passed his face. “He should be—” 

“Up here!” 

They all looked up, and just his voice made Draco’s heart soothe almost instantly—only to just as quickly be replaced with an immense amount of confusion. Harry was spinning in the air, his face breaking out in relief when Draco looked at him. He was floating, out of the reach of the trees, his robes billowing like a blanket in the wind. 

“What are you doing up there?” he asked, and then looked around at the clearing in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. “Don’t you know you’re not allowed here?”

“Let me down, it’s urgent!” 

James moved fastest of everyone, and soon Harry was on the ground, looking at his dad with so much want it made Draco’s chest ache. But then Harry twisted his head to Draco, and said, “It’s Severus—we have to help him! He’s—hes gone after Voldemort alone—he wants to end it. I don’t know what to do! He’s going to die by himself.” 

Draco blinked. “ What ?” 

Harry looked around desperately at  the Marauders. “I know you don’t like him, but—please, help. We can still save him; there’s enough time.” 

James’s eyebrows scrunched together as Sirius raised one. James spoke: “You’re telling me… Snivellus went to go kill Voldemort?”

“YES!” Harry exclaimed. “Yes! It was this whole—we made a plan together , but he left me behind!”

Something in Draco ticked. He looked down at his hand, checking a nail.  “What plan did you make?” 

Harry faltered. Draco felt his eyes on him, but the edge of his nail was jagged, maybe from when Sirius pushed him against the wall.  “Listen,” said Harry, a bit quieter. But not by much. “I was going to tell you about it, but it all happened so fast. Voldemort—he’s got my grandparents—if they die, I can’t—Draco, please .” 

“Hm.” Draco almost said something else, when—

“Draco?” 

Harry and Draco looked over at Sirius, who was now watching them even more suspiciously. “Dawn and Hershel—Draco and Harry. I’m not really sure things are quite adding up.” Then he narrowed his eyes. And then he narrowed them more. “You’re wearing glamours. Why?” 

Harry took a step back, lifting his hands placatingly. “I have a perfect explanation, but for now—please—we have to protect him! Them!”

Draco shook his head, looking coldly at Harry. “No.” 

“Fuck’ Harry exclaimed again.  He turned  and punched  the tree, making the rest of them pause. “We have to go save them!” he shouted. And then, he paused again, and turned to Peter, who cowered under his stare. “You! You know— tell me how to get there! ” 

Peter didn’t respond immediately. Harry stomped forward but was stopped by Draco almost instantly, and Peter cowered under the movement. “What—what—what are you talking about?” he stuttered.

James, Sirius, and Remus were suddenly all shouting and now had their wands pointed at Harry—and Draco, who was still holding Harry back. 

“I know you support Voldemort!” he shouted at Peter over the others. “YOU’RE A TRAITOR AND YOU KNOW IT! TELL ME HOW TO GET TO VOLDEMORT!”

Draco shoved Harry into the tree, but he didn’t look away from Peter with that malicious look in his eye. “Harry, stop !” 

He didn’t look away, but he stopped shouting, glaring and baring his teeth, his eyes alight with hatred and panic and everything in between. 

“Stop,” Draco said again, and then he finally caught onto what the others were saying. 

“What are you attacking Peter for?”

“I’m telling you there’s something going on with these two!”

“Can’t we all just calm down?”

“I swear I didn’t do anything!” 

“ENOUGH!” shouted Draco, feeling hot and angry. At everyone, really. They all finally died down after a few more seconds of shouting. “ENOUGH! Enough! That is enough.” Then he looked at Harry. “This Peter hasn’t done anything yet. You can’t get to the Dark Lord by yourself. Snape made the decision to go alone. I am not letting you go and try to fix this place that isn’t yours .” He hoped the emphasis would help. 

It apparently did not. Because his response to that was to look straight at  James and say, “He has your parents. Voldemort is going to kill your parents. Severus went to save them, and they’re all going to die.” 

A beat. 

And then, all at once—

“My parents?! ”

“Where are they?”

“How do you know that?”

“Why would Severus do that?”

“Harry!” Draco snapped, and Harry met his gaze with so much fierceness and grief all at once that Draco remembered this was the same boy who died trying to kill the Dark Lord of their world.

Draco wouldn’t let that happen again.

“I agree with Hershel,” said James, his voice strengthening. Draco turned to him, glaring too. James was looking at his friends, though. “If they’re there, we have to stop it. How—how do we get there?”

Harry wasn’t looking away from Draco as the Marauders started plotting by themselves. “I need to save them,” he said, quieter. Colder. Under the Marauders voices but over their words. 

Draco let out a weird laugh. “I don’t want you to go.” 

“I have to.” 

“And what if you die, hmm?” Draco snapped, glaring into Harry’s strong and desperate eyes, as if they were walking a tight rope and ready to fall at any moment.  “What then? You’ve already escaped death once—no, twice. I don’t think you’re likely to do it again.”

Harry bared his teeth. “My track record shows I have a significantly better chance than most people.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You’ll die. And if Snape wants to play the hero, then I say we let him.”

“If I go, then no one is going to die. Not me. Not them . No one .”

“You don’t know that,” Draco snapped, shaking his shoulders against the tree. “You don’t know what’s going to happen in this timeline. Here, you don’t know the ending. You can’t just do one of your—one of your little hero conquests and expect to be okay on the other side. This isn’t your world. You can’t control any of this.”

Harry turned and let out a growl, away from Draco. He tried pushing Draco off, but Draco didn’t move. Harry began breathing heavily, trying to control himself. “Don’t take this away from me.” 

“Harry. I don’t want you to die.” 

“I’m not going to.”

“And what if you do die, hmm? What am I going to do?”

“Then you can follow me. It’s what you want anyway, isn’t it?”

Draco flinched back. Harry’s eyes widened slightly as the words settled over them. For a moment, Draco thought he was going to take it back. Thought he was going to apologize. 

But he didn’t take it back. He didn’t apologize. 

It stung. 

“Fine,” he said coldly. “You know what, Parker ?” He said the name like a curse. “I do know how to get there actually. I know exactly how to get there. My arm. Did you know it burns here, too?” 

Harry sobered instantly. “I—“ 

“What does?” asked James from behind him. 

Draco looked at him, a bitter smile on his face, unsure how much he’d heard. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your roommate for the past month and a half has been an ex-Death-Eater. And as of right now, his Mark is burning.”

“ What— ”

“—which means ,” continued Draco, turning right back to Harry, looking deep into his eyes. In the darkness, it was hard to see the color. Under the moon, it was visible.  “I can bring you to them, Potter. Right here. Right now. Do you really want to take that gamble? You want to risk all their lives?” He pointed to James. “His?” To Sirius. “His?” Remus. “His?” To Peter. “Even his?” And then… he pointed to himself. Mine?

Harry let out a strange strangled sound in the back of his throat. 

“What do you say?” Draco said, quieter. 

Harry glared. But underneath it, the panic was there. His eyes alight, burning. The realization that his father would also be in harm’s way was dawning on him, too. 

Before Harry could respond, James took a step forward, the movement crunching beneath his feet. “I don’t care—I need to save them.”

Draco smiled nastily at Harry. “How does it feel, Harry? Knowing when someone else wants to play the hero?” 

“I’m not playing—” James started, but Harry interrupted. 

“Will you just—” He pushed Draco off of him, and Draco felt his hands turn into fists as he succeeded. For the first time, maybe Draco understood Harry. Understood what it was like to have claws. He wanted to sink them into Harry’s shoulders and beg him to understand. That he couldn’t. That he couldn’t go. That he couldn’t take that risk. “Will you just take me? Just me. Draco, please . I have to save them.” 

The desperation in his voice felt like something was ripping him apart. Draco watched it happen. Harry looked like he was about to become a werewolf himself, changing under the full moon, in between spindly woods and twisted trees, along hanging branches that were reaching out as if asking for something that Harry felt he had to give them, to his own detriment.

“Harry.” Draco’s voice was shaky. He couldn’t tell if it was from anger or something else. “You don’t have to hurt yourself to save anyone.” He didn’t look away. Grey on green. Sun on star. “Save them by choosing your life. Save them by letting yourself be loved by them.” 

Save me by letting me love you . 

Harry stared at him. It may have only been a half a second. For Draco, it felt much, much longer. 

And when Harry shook his head slowly, and whispered, “I can’t,” something revolting welled up inside Draco. It wasn’t rot anymore. Harry had told him that he was the sun, and maybe Draco understood it a little now. The burn, inside of him, coming from the rejection. It seared him. More than anything else had. More than the time Draco had entered the kitchens and had seen glowing coals and touched it in curiosity. More than when he’d had shackles on his wrists and ankles that sent sparks of pain into his hand whenever he moved a little too much. More than when Voldemort would Crucio him. More than the first time Harry rejected his hand. 

Stars, apparently, could burn, too.

Well. 

Malfoys were meant to be many things. Powerful. Affluent. Pure. That had changed after the war. Draco had forgotten what Malfoy’s were meant to be, too focused on the fact that he felt like he was dim and dying. 

But he wasn’t. 

Draco Malfoy was the sun. 

And if Harry burned him, he would only use it as fuel to burn brighter. 

And he wouldn’t let Harry die out, either. 

So when James took a step forward and said, “Dawn, I—all of us. Take us all. Wouldn’t you do anything to protect your loved ones?” Draco knew just what to do. 

“I would,” Draco said coolly. “I would do anything to protect the people I love.” Then turned to the rest of them. They were still huddled together, but now all facing Draco. “I’ll take all of you. Grab a hold of my arm, then. Let’s go on a little adventure .” 

A conflicted expression flooded Harry’s face. “No, I said just m—”

“I’m offering everyone or no one,” Draco said as he held out his arm like he would at a formal dance. 

Harry stared at it, hesitating. James moved faster, grabbing Draco’s arm. Loyally, the Marauders followed suit.

“Stop it,” Harry said, staring at the way four hands were on one arm. “I don’t want this. Not—no.”

Draco smiled. 

It was perfect. 

Before Harry could argue any further, Draco apparated. 

And suddenly, they were in the middle of a battle. Spells already flying left and right. Draco fell back as the Marauders let go of him and instantly jumped into the fight—and he tripped over a body. He looked down, afraid for a moment it would be someone he knew, but it wasn’t. The woman wasn’t bleeding. But the look in her black eyes was empty as only death could be. 

And before he could change his mind, he apparated right back to The Forbidden Forest. 

Quick. 

The sound of yelling—no, screaming —assaulted his ears at his return. 

“YOU MONSTER!” Harry screamed once he saw Draco’s presence. “YOU JUST KILLED THEM.”

Draco looked down at him without regret. “I thought you said no one would die.” 

Harry’s hands were waving wildly, and he looked like he was about to punch Draco. Draco braced himself, expecting this, but Harry just turned to a tree and punched it, instead. And then again, he punched it. And again and again. And then, before Draco could even try to stop Harry, he twisted around, lifting his new wand to Draco, a terrifying threat glinting in his eye. “Take me there.”

Despite every instinct, Draco didn’t pull out his wand in response. Harry’s eyes kept flickering towards his hand, as if waiting. But he didn’t cast anything.

“No,” said Draco calmly. “I will not.”

“Why?” The word sounded like paper ripped from an old book. Harry was already begging. In any other situation, it would be fun. Right now, it just hurt. 

Draco turned and started walking through the forest, footsteps crunching along the snow, fighting off the desire to take out his wand in case they ran into anything dangerous. Knowing if he did, Harry would probably protect them. And maybe get some of this energy out. “I’m going back to the castle,” he said lightly. “You’re welcome to join.” 

Following him with harsh stomps, Harry spoke through gritted teeth. “Stop. Take me back.”

“No.” 

“ Do it. Or I’ll— ”

“Or what? What are you going to do, Harry?” Draco asked, turning, still walking, lifting his arms out wide. “Hurt me? Curse me? Well. Go ahead. I’m not taking you.” 

Harry let out a growl. Like he was an animal. 

Draco wasn’t scared.

He kept walking. And Harry kept talking, following close behind. It took a lot longer to walk than it did to run. Harry’s breath was sharp as they moved. 

But he still followed.

"Take me. Where is it? If you don't want to go, at least—at least bring me."

"No."

A yell of frustration. "MALFOY."

A calm huff of air. "Harry." 

“Please,” Harry said as he ducked under a low branch. “Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doing anything to you.” 

“You are. You’re hurting me. ”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Better hurting you than holding your dead body.”

A weird laugh escaped Harry’s voice as they walked, Harry still a step behind Draco. As if he could drag them back without moving. “I thought you were supposed to be a Gryffindor now. You’re a coward .”

The castle was already in view. “This isn’t your world, Harry. You aren’t here to fix it . You’re here because I decided to be an ass and make a fake ritual with the intention of making fun of you. And you will be going back. Breathing. Whether you like it or not.” 

Harry’s steps finally reached Draco’s side  just as they met the edge of the forest and started crossing the grounds. Draco exhaled, grateful they didn’t meet some kind of monster inside. 

“I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t leave this place not knowing if they’re safe.” 

Draco stayed quiet. 

“This is the cruelest thing you could have ever done to me.” 

Draco knew he wasn’t doing anything to Harry. 

“I hate you.”

They crossed the doors. Inside. Draco didn’t know what time it was, but Filch was probably still about, scouring the corridors, looking for wayward students. So Draco walked—Harry finally silent beside him—to the classroom where the couch still was. After securing the door with four separate passwords and locks, he took off his outside cloak, dropped it to the floor, and sat. 

Harry didn’t. 

“Join me, Harry,” he said quietly.

"No."

Draco nodded slowly. Staring at Harry, who was wearing sweater and jeans. It just now processed in Draco's mind that he wasn't wearing a coat out there. 

"Are you cold?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "No." 

It was probably a lie.

"Harry," Draco said, quieter. "If you need to hurt me the way I did you, you can."

To his relief, Harry didn't throw any punches. 

Instead, Harry seemed to deflate, his fists turning into open palms. His hand was purple. Probably from where he'd punched the tree. With a long, slow exhale, Harry closed his eyes, and then he just... stood there. In the darkness of the room. Before he stiffly moved and sat on the opposite side of the couch from Draco. Still too far for Draco's liking,  but closer than he'd been moments before. 

Draco didn’t look directly at him. Not because he was scared to—he wasn’t. But he didn’t know if he could handle whatever look the other had in his forever-expressive face. But even though he didn't look, he knew Harry was distraught.

So he did the only thing he could do. 

As his mother had always done for him in moments like these, once the tantrums died down and the screaming ended, Draco leaned forward, and carefully took Harry’s hands in his own. When he didn’t pull away, Draco smoothly shuffled down the couch, before he was half-laying, half-sitting, and pulled Harry onto him, wrapping his arms around him.  

Harry was stiff with the movement. As if he didn’t know what to do with this kind of comfort. He wondered how much comfort Harry had received over the years, with his guardians being as they were. He’d seen Granger hug him, of course, in the hallways and at the beginnings and ends of terms. Harry had easily hugged her back. And he’d seen Ron ruffle his hair and pat his back. He’d seen it. 

But what did they do when Harry needed comfort ? Did they understand that he needed it, sometimes? Did they understand him, what it was like, to have claws? Did they hear him, when he didn’t say anything?”

His fingers rubbed circles into Harry’s stiff back. The tenseness was… foreign to Draco. Because Draco had always melted into his mother’s arms. He’d always searched for her in these moments. Asked for them. And he’d always received. 

How much did Harry ask for?

So far, he’d only asked Draco to let him fight. 

And it was the one thing he couldn’t grant him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Knowing it didn’t do anything. He wished the words held a salve in them. “I’m so, so sorry, Harry.” 

And then Harry lowered his face into Draco’s chest. Out of his view. The room was dark, the moon coming in through the windows but now Harry was surely hidden out of any possible view. He started breathing slowly, but he didn’t make a sound. Not even as he finally put his arms back around Draco. Not as his fingers curled behind his back, scratching Draco’s lower back in the movement. Not as the front of Draco’s shirt became a little wetter. Not as the minutes passed. 

Finally, he made a sound. A quiet sound as he twisted his face, just enough to be able to whisper—near silent, so quiet that if there was any wind outside the dark window, Draco would have missed it:

“Please,” he said. “Take me away from this moment. I don’t want to be in this time anymore.” 

And finally, it clicked for Draco. 

The way Harry broke was different from Draco. Harry always had handled everything with a level of control Draco had never had. He was… strong. And sad. And acceptant. Facing dark lords? Easy. Done. Moving on to the next thing. Being beaten to a pulp? Anyways, time to go horcrux hunting. Harry was always looking ahead, straight to the next moment, forward-focused. As if the past was too painful to look at. As if the present was too painful to sit with. 

But Harry couldn’t do that right now. He was forced to sit here, wait, and just… be.

No punching people’s faces. No screaming. No… destruction. 

Silence. 

This was what broke him. 

Draco’s chest squeezed. And when he put a finger on Harry’s chin, Harry moved with it, lifting onto his elbows, until their lips met. And Harry took in a deep, shaky inhale as they did so, and Draco’s cheeks were wet now, too, where Harry’s tears met his skin. He temporarily wanted to wipe it away, the impurity making him pause with the panic, the need to clean again rearing its bleach-filled head, but then Harry pushed him against the couch, and Draco let it go. He’d been so afraid of giving in, of letting go, of cracking in front of Harry. But Harry had seen it all. Even now—when he was furious with Draco for what he’d done, for keeping him behind—he still turned to him, not away. 

Like a horse, Draco broke, too. Not in the way Harry was. Not in anger or sadness. Not in rotting or destruction. For once, it was nice to be broken. To break for someone else. 

Love. 

He was feeling love. 

He lifted a hand to Harry’s neck, trailing it up into the back of his hair. Scratching it. Harry let out a shaky laugh. 

Between kisses he whispered, “I like that you know I like that.” 

Draco‘s chest squeezed, and he moved a hand to Harry’s cheek. There was a small amount of stubble that was growing out, as if Harry had forgotten to shave his meagre beard this morning. He said into his lips. “I may be an asshole, but I know how to read.” 

A few tears dropped onto Draco’s face. Harry chuckled, still shaky. As they moved, lips meeting in sync, wet and cold and warm all at once, Draco, again, slowly coaxed Harry into a new position. He wanted Harry to feel pleased. To feel the care and the sorrow and the love that Draco was feeling, even if he couldn’t say it. Maybe, his lips could be the salve that apologies couldn’t give. If they couldn’t, then maybe they could at least be some comfort. 

Before he knew it, Draco was the one leaning over Harry. Not to control. He didn’t hold Harry down and tell him to listen. He just kissed him. And then, in between moments, with the sleeve of his sweater, he wiped Harry’s face until it was dry. 

The movement seemed to make more tears start, though. And Harry turned his face from Draco, his eyes still closed.  Eyebrows drawn together. “I hate you, you know that?”

Draco turned his lips to the spot in between Harry’s eyebrows. Wanting to soften them. A single kiss. 

“You’re a terrible liar.” 

Harry huffed a laugh, shaky as ever, eyes still closed, as Draco moved his lips to his neck and trailed kisses along his jaw, to his ear, down the side where tendon met shoulder. “Oh, how the tables have turned.” 

They had. Everything had turned. Draco wasn’t sure if it was all for the better. He had been a happy child. He missed his childhood quite a bit. But the world had turned—not just this one. But Draco’s. Voldemort had risen and fallen, in and out of his home. His parents were nowhere near where he’d always assumed they would be. Azkaban. Society frowning at him. 

But there was so much good about it, too. 

Draco was different. He was still him. He would always be him. But he was better. He wasn’t rotting anymore. He wasn’t a dying, dim constellation. 

He was here. Brightening his star. 

He moved slowly, until he had laid his body along Harry’s side, head over Harry’s shoulder, one of Harry’s arms wrapped around his back, in between the space that he felt he belonged. His legs dangled far off the end of the couch. He wanted a bed. Wanted more space to do what he wanted. 

But he didn’t want to break the moment. 

With soft fingers, he guided Harry’s head down to kiss him, own neck lodged between Harry’s shoulder and chest. Harry’s lips were soft and full as they moved. Not hungrily. Just… there, and warm, and feeling the present. 

Until Draco moved his hand, fingers trailing down Harry’s jaw line, down the side of his neck. Down his chest. To the edge of Harry’s sweater. Across the spot in between shirt and trousers. Moving from one side to the next, until his fingers touched skin, and Harry’s mouth stopped moving for just a moment. He exhaled a shaky breath. 

And then Draco’s fingers were under the sweater, moving up Harry’s stomach. He played with the soft hairs there, and Harry’s stomach lurched back with a sudden gasp. 

“Tickles,” he said, sounding shocked. 

Fighting off the desire to continue the movement, Draco moved his hand up to Harry’s chest, flattening his palm and moving across every piece of skin he could touch. His strong shoulders. His collarbones. Across his chest. 

He lingered slowly across the chest, fingers bumping over the nipples, making Harry’s breath catch. 

The energy in the room became a bit more charged, Draco’s skin alighting with energy. Fire. With the edge of his thumb, he slowly circled around Harry’s chest, letting it lightly—so lightly that Draco barely even felt it—graze the nipple again, which hardened. Draco let his fingers trail back down, then, tracking the same spots he’d already touched, back down to the edge of Harry’s trousers. 

And then he unbuttoned them. 

Harry’s breath caught again, pausing the kiss. Draco opened his eyes and leaned back for just a movement—just long enough to see the desire in Harry’s face. Even though his eyes were closed, his expression was open, wide for Draco to read. 

He moved a little faster. 

Both their breaths sped up as they kissed harder, as Draco unzipped Harry’s trousers, and touched the top of his boxers, the hard member aching—begging him—to be freed. Feeling just as needy as Harry looked, Draco started moving his own hips against Harry’s side, relishing in the sparks that it sent through his limbs. Draco reached nimble fingers across the fabric, before reaching the elastic at the top, cinched together; the last barrier. 

Harry easily understood what Draco was trying to do. He shimmied, breaking the kiss for only a moment as he helped Draco pull his trousers and boxers down. 

Draco only had a moment to process its visual before Harry was kissing him again, Draco’s brain short-circuiting with the movement and the warmth and the shock that he was actually fucking doing this .

Feeling his chest flutter with glee and excitement and warmth, Draco felt along the area around Harry’s stick-straight, thick cock, which was currently laying upward, towards his bellybutton.  Harry’s breath sped up, and he let out a small whimper as Draco teased the skin around it, never quite touching the spot Harry so desperately wanted him to touch. 

Then—with shuddering breaths in the movement, Draco trailed the tips of his fingers across Harry’s length, making Harry shiver in the movement. 

Draco moved gently, following along the hard line underneath, until he met the top, where a dripping pool of liquid had already formed, dripping down the tip. Draco felt his excitement deepen. With a finger, he followed along the very tip, swirling his fingers along the head, coating it. 

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry said, voice deep and horse as he leaned back. “Stop teasing me.”

Draco smirked, and took the opportunity to kiss Harry’s jawline, back to his neck. In one fluid motion, he licked along Harry’s neck at the same time that he finally gripped Harry, and followed the same length as his tongue. 

He moaned. 

Draco smirked harder. 

He started slowly, moving up and down, enjoying the way Harry trembled beside him, his own hips rutting against Harry with the same beat, wishing there weren’t about 4 layers of clothing between them.

And Harry was the perfect recipient. He made the right sounds, his breath catching when Draco cupped his balls and went back to stroking, his whines turning into moans and back into whines. He gripped Draco with the hand that was stuck on his lower back, the other hand roaming wherever he could find, until it stopped moving, fists clenching Draco’s sweater. He started moving his hips with the movement, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of not doing something about his desire, either. 

Draco licked and sucked and devoured Harry, as if it was the only opportunity he’d ever have. 

“Fuck,” Harry said, breathless, begging. “Please.”

He didn’t say what he was asking for. He didn’t have to. Draco knew. 

Slowly, without stopping his hand, Draco lifted himself up, moving his lips right next to Harry’s ear. He smirked when Harry whimpered as he breathed into it. 

Desire coating his tone, Draco said, “I fucking love hearing you moan.”

And Harry was perfect, because at that moment, he let out a whiny moan, and he came, cock throbbing as the movement released several ropes, landing on Draco’s hand. Draco stared at it, feeling something needy in himself. 

Eventually, Harry’s tension in his body proceeded into relaxation. He swallowed loudly, his eyes still shut, eyebrows still drawn together but much more relaxed. There were still tears on his face, but it was masked with sweat. 

They sat there like that for several moments longer, Draco’s hand rested on Harry’s lower stomach. Waiting for Harry to make the next move. To call the shots. 

“Fuck,” Harry said again, voice still deep, reverberating in Draco’s bones. “Just… thanks.”

Draco let out a laugh. It was then that he moved to wipe his hand on the robe that sat on the floor. He scooted upwards on the couch, as Harry pulled his clothes back up to cover himself, but didn’t button them. They settled into an easy position—this time, Harry was on Draco’s chest, both of them squished on the too-small couch. 

They were quiet. For a long, long time, they were quiet. But Harry’s breathing didn’t change, so he knew he hadn’t fallen asleep. They just… held each other. Harry’s head and hand on Draco’s chest. Draco’s hand in his wavy hair, fingers finding a curl—the only true curl of Harry’s hair.

Harry broke the silence. “Christmas is in a few days.” His jaw tightened, the movement barely noticeable on Draco’s chest. “I didn’t get them anything. Nothing to remember me by.”

Draco put a hand in Harry’s hair and began lightly stroking it. It was soft, and he found a curl and started spinning it slowly between fingers. “They’ll remember you.”

“I would do anything to rem—“ his breath caught. Draco waited. 

Harry never finished his sentence. 

The sun started to rise, and the pale reflection from the moon quickly changed into the bright light of the sun under a cloudless winter sky. 

“It’s probably time for breakfast,” Draco whispered.

Neither of them moved.

“I can hear your heart beat,” Harry commented. 

“Yes, well. No thanks to you.”

Harry didn’t laugh. Instead, he audibly swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was weirdly strained. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for being Harry. For always being Harry.” 

Draco frowned, staring at the ceiling. Something about the way Harry worded it… felt Slytherin, to him. “What do you mean?”

Harry didn’t respond. He just lay there. Breathing. In and out. Like it was some laborious task. Or like it was too easy. Draco couldn’t tell, the breaths so perfectly measured. 

“I want to see my mom,” he finally said in response. “I want to see Lily.” 

Draco nodded. And then, he coaxed Harry into moving. “Well. Let’s go see her, then.” 

~~~

They found her in the Great Hall.

Lily was laughing with some friends. And when she saw Harry and Draco walk through the main doors, arms brushing as they moved, she grinned so widely it could be seen across the room. She waved them over. 

“Hey!” she said, smiling and opening a spot next to her, signaling for Harry to take it. He did, Draco sitting on the opposite side of them. Harry started putting food on his own plate, but he wasn’t hungry, knowing this was the last morning. From Draco’s expression, Harry knew he felt it, too. 

“Last night was fun,” she said, eating happily, talking in between bites. “They throw them sometimes—usually at the end of the semesters, but sometimes sporadically. You’ll have to come to the next one, of course. It’ll probably happen as soon as we come back. By the way, I got you both Christmas gifts, so don’t let me forget to grab those before I leave. The train leaves at one o’clock—oh, you guys will be fine here over break, right? They usually have a giant tree and a fan- tastic dinner, so hopefully it isn’t too bad. Plus; you’ll have each other.” She smirked into her food, and finally she looked up to say something else, something cheeky if her expression was anything to go by… but upon looking at Harry, who was staring at his food with a sick look on his face, she faltered. 

“You okay?” 

Harry squared his jaw. With great effort, he lifted his gaze to hers. “We’re leaving today. Noon.”

She blinked, her mouth opening slightly. 

“ What! ” She stood, chair scraping with the movement, catching stray stares. “How—what—why didn’t you tell me before?!”

Draco frowned. “Do you want to join us as we get things ready?” 

Lily’s friends watched curiously. One of them—Marlene, was her name?—asked, “With… your trunks?”

Draco lifted his nose. “Obviously.” 

They were just about to get up and leave, when suddenly, a thousand owls flew into the room, dropping newspapers into the spaces in front of almost every single student and teacher.

Harry knew what it was about before he even saw the cover, which read HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED IS DEAD! , a picture of his lifeless body on the ground. Before gasps went throughout the hall. Before students got up and went to their friends. Before children and adults alike began crying with joy. Before Dumbledore stood and repeated the news. 

“Students,” he boomed, and they settled down—mostly. There were still chatters throughout the room. “As I know you are well aware, Voldemort is dead. This is… a joyous, joyous day. When you go home, and you see your families, hug them closer. Let them know you love them. In the coming months, as Death Eaters are rounded up, there is still a fight to be had. But there is much greater love to be held. Hold it close.” And then, he paused. Harry briefly thought that maybe he was just hoping for the effect of anticipation, but when he spoke, his voice was a little choked. “So much love to be had.” 

Students sniffled. They held each other. 

Harry waited.

“It is my duty to inform you of who killed him.” 

Now , students were quiet.

“One of our own students,” he said, quiet voice somehow booming. “It has been relayed to me that he has shown great bravery. He somehow got ahold of a basilisk fang, and coated a weapon with it. Voldemort died instantly. It is a wonderful thing when poison can be used for good.” He looked down. “Your peer is currently in Saint Mungo’s and may be there for some time. But he is alive. He is alive, and we all must give him our gratitude for his bravery.” 

Murmurs started throughout the room as people wondered who it was. Dumbledore looked like he was feeding off of the suspense. 

And finally, he lifted his gaze a little higher. “Severus Snape.” 

A beat passed, and there were shouts of confused students as they processed the lonely, pale Slytherin who somehow defeated the most dangerous wizard of their time. 

Lily’s face went white. “Sev—” she whispered, just loud enough for Harry to hear—and no one else. 

Instantly, Harry grabbed her hand. “He has a letter for you. But I think—I think you should go to him and hear what he has to say himself.” He swallowed. “He cares about you. A lot. More than you will ever know.” 

Tears sprung to her eyes at his words. Wordlessly, she nodded. But even if she could speak, Dumbledore continued. 

“Once Voldemort died, there was a battle. Several spies for the light were in the group, and they began to fight for us, too. We lost several good people in this battle. But some survived. Somehow, several more of our students fought during the aftermath of the battle. None of them were lost. They, too, are heroes. James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. They, too, are in Saint Mungo’s, but will recover quickly and be home by Christmas.” 

Harry could finally breathe. He slumped forward, putting his head in shaky hands. “They’re alive,” he mumbled, and he felt light-headed with relief. “They’re alive.”

Students celebrated. All morning, they celebrated. 

Harry, Lily, and Draco walked around the school, across the grounds. Along the Great Lake. Along the edge of the forest. Passing Hagrid’s hut, which had smoke lazily leaving the small chimney. 

Lily talked. A lot. Harry was worried about asking too many questions, worried she’d wonder why he didn’t already have the answers. But man, he wanted to know everything, anyway. So he asked them, using a single excuse: “I want to know what 17-year-old Lily thinks. Not 37-year-old Lily.” 

She told him about her classes. And how she’d always thought James was cute, but he’d always been such an asshole to Severus that she couldn’t stand him. She told Harry her perspective on her and Severus’ falling out. Snape had not minced words. He’d stated things just as they happened. 

The only thing he didn’t know was how much she missed him, too. 

He learned her favorite colour right now was pink, but it was always changing—just like Harry’s was. She never wore matching socks when she was home because it annoyed Petunia. She was a night owl and a morning person both—it was early afternoons she struggled to stay awake in. Lily was vibrant, and bright, and she had so many friends, and she was funny. 

And fuck. 

Harry never wanted to forget her. 

And before he knew it—too soon, he found himself right outside of the Room of Requirement, Lily watching as Draco drew out the runes. As he lit the candles. As he pulled out the jar of time sand that Dumbledore had so kindly gifted them. As he scattered them about. 

And then it was time to say goodbye. 

Harry didn’t want to say goodbye. 

He watched Draco for a moment. Wanted to beg him. To say that they needed to stay. That they could spend the rest of their lives in this universe, everyone else be damned. Because here, everyone had a chance at happiness. Ron and Hermione would be okay with him gone. They’d get to have a life, where they were loved, they’d be full, and maybe there would always be a Harry-sized hole in their hearts, but they would still be okay. 

Lily, apparently, thought the same. She looked at Harry. And then Draco. Tears in her eyes. “What if you guys stayed?” she asked, voice choked. “I’ll miss you.”

It felt like a punch. Like that spell Voldemort had used on him had been sent out with her words. Harry felt like throwing up, but he pushed it down and offered her a sad smile, and pulled her into him in a hug. He held her close. So close. So tight. 

He never, ever wanted to let go. 

He never, ever wanted to forget this moment. 

“You won’t miss us too bad,” Harry said, voice sounding a little thick. He pulled away first, looking down at her, offering another smile. “You’ll see us soon enough, right?” And then… finally… He grabbed his courage. “I love you, Mum.” 

She smiled. She beamed . Her eyes crinkled up at the corners, and she hugged him again. She smelled of flowers. 

He never wanted to forget the smell.

“I love you too,” she said, flushed and happy. “I’m so excited to get to know you as you grow up.” 

He pulled her back in.

And then, too soon, she let go. And Harry fought against every nerve in his body that told him to sink his claws in. To stay in this world. To convince Draco to stay here and get married and have a life where there was no Voldemort past 1977 and stay in a world where he could keep getting to know his father and always be with his mother. A world where he could hear all their laughter and watch as Severus settled into his role as the hero. To be his friend. 

To remember it all.

But he stepped back. “You’ll clean up all this after we’re gone?” he asked quietly. 

Lily nodded, tears now falling down her cheeks. “Of course,” she forced out, a bit of snot dripping out her nose, which she wiped away with her sleeve.

“And you’ll tell James about me? Eventually?”

She smiled. “Eventually.”

Harry laughed lightly, wiping his own tears away. “Awesome.” 

And then, he turned to Draco. And the two of them moved into the center of the circle, over the sand that was scattered below them. Harry’s feet shifted and crunched under him, until he and Draco faced each other. Harry looked up at him, before holding a hand out, waiting. 

Draco didn’t need to ask. He pulled out the pocket knife, and filled Harry’s hand with it. 

“Did you get to do everything you wanted to while here?” Draco asked quietly, so Lily couldn’t hear. “Say the things you wanted to say?” 

Tears welled in Harry’s eyes. No, he hadn’t been able to say everything he wanted to say. He would have liked more time with Remus and Sirius. Would have loved for James to get to know him better—maybe even know his name. In another life, maybe he and James could have been friends. He wished it had been this one. 

But then again… 

He’d heard his mother tell him she loved him. 

He’d fallen in love with Draco. Had started to feel alive again. 

Here, Voldemort was dead. 

Severus could live as a hero and not die as one.  

Lily and James were going to live past the age of 21. 

Sirius would never go to Azkaban.

Remus wouldn’t be alone.

And… even Peter. He had a better chance to not go the path he went. Harry almost believed he would take it. 

Maybe the point of all this wasn’t for everything to be perfectly wrapped up in a little bow. Maybe he just had to be grateful that he got to hold these moments in his hand, careful and kind. Remember them, just for a moment.

So he swallowed down the tears. They welled in his eyes, but they didn’t fall. 

“I did,” Harry finally said. And then, the two of them stood over the ritual. The black candles lit at each precise point. The smell of flowers still in Harry’s memory. He focused on it as he unsheathed the knife, and put it over his hand. And quickly, before he could think too much to stop himself, he sliced his hand, the movement stinging. 

And then he looked up at Draco. “Draco?”

Draco was already looking at him. “Hm?” 

“I need to ask you something,” Harry said, cupping his hand, holding the blood before it could fall. “Please.”

Draco’s eyebrows swung together in confusion. He opened his mouth to say something, but Harry’s eyes flicked down to his hand, where the blood started to pool too quickly. 

“What—”

“Remind me how much I love you,” Harry interrupted, looking back up with eyes flickering between both of Draco’s own. “Please, remind me.”

A drop of blood escaped between Harry’s fingers. Harry didn’t look down at it. Looking confused, Draco opened his mouth to ask what he meant by that, but then, the blood touched the sand. 

And they were gone.

Chapter Text

Icarus [Greek figure]

Whose father crafted wings of wax and feathers to escape Crete.
He flew too close to the sun, fell into the sea, and drowned. 

Harry imagined that Icarus likely found it worth it.  

Harry walked away from his meeting with Dumbledore, feeling strange. It had been easy to ask Dumbledore to borrow his pensieve; it had been much harder for Harry to try to warn him of everything that would happen in the future. Harry spent several minutes trying to bring up horcruxes and the war and to avoid ever touching any rings. 

Dumbledore didn’t want to listen. 

“Mr. Parker,” Dumbledore said quietly after shutting down Harry for the tenth time. “The future will happen as it should. You never know what the things you share with me will change. It would be best for you to not come back to my office, unless, of course, it is to share some biscuits.”

Harry left. 

No matter what Dumbledore said, Harry wanted to help. Especially now that he knew they might be in an alternate world. He looked for Malfoy, wanting to discuss the blood magic. Again. He’d been dismissed when he brought it up yesterday. 

When he found him, Malfoy was cleaning. 

It took a few moments to process what he was seeing. Malfoy, leaning down, a hand in a bucket of bleach water, head swiveling to Harry like he’d just been caught in the middle of a murder. 

“What are you—“ Harry started. 

“None of your business,” Malfoy said, standing straight and lifting his nose high into the air. “What do you want?” 

Harry frowned, plan almost forgotten. “Are you cleaning?” 

Malfoy sneered at him. “Definitely not.”

Harry let out a hum. “Okay—well if you were, next time, invite me.” Of course, he didn’t really want to clean. But he was interested in why Malfoy was doing so. “Anyways, I know you said we aren’t using blood magic—something about a boat or something—”

“An anchor,” Malfoy deadpanned. “I said the blood was an anchor. Not magic.”

Harry sighed. “Okay, well. I have this gut feeling that it’s more than that. That it is blood magic. And I can’t find anything important on the topic in the library. Just… something about sacrifice?” 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, almost as if Harry was telling him a joke he didn’t find very funny. “If that were the case, we would have had to sacrifice something to get here, wouldn’t we? But I have all my fingers and toes. Do you?” 

Harry huffed. “I do, but—“ 

“I’m not discussing this again. It isn’t blood magic. Now, if you really want to help, then take this bucket away.”

~~~

Harry walked into the empty classroom, heading straight for Draco. “You know we’re gonna have to give back the Marauder’s Map at some point? Right?” 

Draco dropped the paper in Harry’s hand to the ground, and pushed Harry against the wall. “Oh, just kiss me, you fool.” 

~~~

Harry was still feeling lightheaded from the kiss. Draco had abruptly ended it, making Harry want more, unsatisfied, but he’d done it on purpose. Harry could see it in his annoying smirk. This stupid game they were playing was becoming less fun every day. He wanted… more.

Harry pretended it didn’t bother him. 

“When we get back, I think I’ll ask Ron and Mrs. Weasley to send us some of her pumpkin cookies,” Harry said with a sigh. “I miss them.” 

 Draco went right back to translating the runes he still hadn’t finished. “The pies or the Weasleys?”

“Both.” He watched Draco move, his long nimble fingers holding the quill in a way Harry had never quite been able to. “What about you? What do you think you’ll do when you get back?” 

Draco didn’t look at him. “Probably something fairly boring.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. You’re going to get back from 1977, in a parallel world, and you’re going to do something… boring?”

“Life’s overrated, anyways,” Malfoy said airily. 

Harry rolled his eyes. Dryly, he said, “What, you think dying’s better?”

He didn’t respond. 

Harry’s chest squeezed.

“You don’t…. Do you?”

“Listen, Potter,” Malfoy said wearily. “Of course I don’t. But when we get back, let’s just go back to the way things were before it all. Before 6th year. We fight on the Quidditch pitch, I make fun of your scar and stupid hair and even dumber friends, and you pretend like you don’t have an annoying superiority complex.” 

Harry didn’t like the way the words settled in his stomach. “We’ll see.”

“We sure will.” 

~~~

“I’m kind of surprised no one has noticed we’re wearing glamours,” Draco said as he looked into the reflection in a window. “These things are weaker than anything in my personal jewelry bin at home.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow, debating  telling Draco that Snape already knew, but instead said: “You have a jewelry bin?” 

Draco sent him a glare before finally pulling on his gloves, ignoring the statement. “Well, I’m not complaining. It’s no matter, anyway. I suppose people simply see what they want to see.”

~~~ 

Draco, hunched over a potion, after Harry told him there were no horcruxes in this world. Draco, counting every five seconds before throwing in another crushed leaf. Draco, finally speaking after several long minutes of Harry staring at his blond eyelashes. 

“Do you think any of this will matter?” he asked. “If none of it happens here?”

Harry looked away from his eyelashes. Into the black holes of Draco’s pupils, pulling him in. “Of course it matters. Even if they never know what never happened.”  

~~~

“I have a surprise for you when we get back,” Draco said, smiling proudly. “Lily agrees it’s a good idea.”

“What is it?” 

“Well that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re annoying. And dramatic.”

“And you’re impatient. Just know you’ll appreciate it.” 

~~~

Harry stared at the potion Severus handed to him in the middle of their chess game.

“What is this?” Harry asked, putting it in his hand.

Severus gave him an unimpressed look. “The potion you asked of me.”

“Oh.” The potion was purple and shimmered like silk fabric under the light. “And this’ll… what… show me some kind of vision? Of my biggest sacrifice or something? Possess me and make me write down a list?”

Severus sat back on the floor across the chess board. He didn’t say anything. 

Harry sighed. “Will it hurt?”

Severus took his turn. “Would it stop you if I said yes?”

“Obviously not. I still want to brace myself if it does hurt.” 

“It will not kill you. I can assure you that much.” 

Frowning, Harry drank the potion as he drank all potions—swiftly, hoping the speed would bypass the taste. 

But the purple liquid didn’t taste bad. It didn’t hurt. In fact, for a moment, Harry wondered if he’d been given anything at all. 

And then it hit him. 

In an instant, a rushing wave of emotions hit him all at once, and memories flashed through his mind. The worst of it was, the emotions he had towards them weren’t sad. Or angry. The worst kind of pain, apparently, was the feeling he’d finally found again, the first time since he’d left Hogwarts at the end of 6th year. 

Home. 

The love he’d been feeling towards his mom, the strange bittersweetness towards the Marauders, the friendship in Severus, the love towards Draco. All of it. 

Home.

Harry knew what he had to sacrifice.

~~~

ooo

~~~

Oh, God. Harry’s head hurt. 

Feeling like someone had taken one of Vernon’s biggest drills and put several pulsing holes into his brain, Harry peeled himself off the hard ground, something shifting underneath him. With bleary eyes, he took in his surroundings. He was in the room of requirement still, sitting on the half-burned ground, half of the ritual that Draco had annoyingly drawn under one of his legs, sand scattered about everywhere. That was what Harry had felt shifting under him. He wiped his hand on his pants, sand leaving small circular indents in his palm. 

A groan made Harry twist around quickly, feeling skittish. But it was just Malfoy, clearly having been knocked out from whatever had taken Harry out, too. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. Maybe they’d had a head-on collision and passed out at the same time, somehow, in their scuffle? The details were a little fuzzy. Something about Malfoy making a stupid fake ritual to annoy Harry for following—okay, fine, stalking—him. Harry had… knocked over some sand and cut his hand. And then…

He had just passed out. Maybe Malfoy had hit him with some sort of knock out curse. 

“Fuck,” said Malfoy, groaning, hands skittering over sand, before he sat up straighter and locked eyes with Harry. 

Harry was taken aback by the intensity. 

It wasn’t… angry. But it was unreadable. 

And then Malfoy spoke, confusing Harry further.

“What did you mean by that?” 

Harry blinked. “By… what?”

Malfoy stared, his hand slipping on dried candle wax that he didn’t look at. “Don’t play games with me.”

Harry looked around the room confused, before pulling out his wand. Just in case. “What—”

He paused. Stared at the thinner, shorter stick that was, for some weird reason, in his pocket. 

“Where’s my wand?”

Malfoy’s expression didn’t change. His lips didn’t move, his eyebrows didn’t quirk. In fact, Harry had never seen him so immobile before. But something shifted… somewhere. In his eyes, maybe? It made Harry lift the wand in his hand.

Just in case. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, unsettled. 

Malfoy didn’t move. “Like what?”

Harry didn’t lower his wand. “Listen, I don’t—let’s—I’m leaving. I just woke up, my head hurts, I cut my hand—” He paused again, staring at his hand. “Why isn’t my hand bleeding anymore, Malfoy?”

Something broke in Malfoy’s face. “Malfoy,” he repeated. A whisper. “Harry, what… what did you mean by reminding you about… that?”

Harry?

“Er…” Harry finally lowered his wand. Just a little. Malfoy still hadn’t pulled out his own, and, well, Harry didn’t want to start something if he wasn’t going to. It wasn’t like their duel had been particularly intense anyway. “Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Malfoy flinched back as his eyebrows drew together, his face twisting into something… hurt? His lip curled, but it looked more like the face Ron had once worn when Hermione had stitched up a large cut in the forest of Dean… not the look Malfoy wore when looking at someone who he thought was less than him. His eyes narrowed, but it looked more like a shield than a sword. 

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. He got to his knees and started crawling—Draco Malfoy, crawling?—to where Harry sat. “No, no, no.” Over fallen sand and glass, the quiet sounds of sand scraped against stone and glass clanked as it was moved out of the way, looking very foreign coming from Malfoy. “No, no.” 

Before he could reach him, Harry raised his wand and scrambled a bit back, completely confused. “I think you may need the hospital wing.”

Malfoy shook his head before stopping in front of Harry, sitting on his feet. “Give me your hand.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Just give it,” Malfoy snapped. 

For some reason Harry didn’t quite understand, the pure strangeness of everything propelled it forward, he held out a free hand to Malfoy, who grabbed it and put it between two palms. Malfoy was warm—unlike Harry—and he just… held them? In between the two of them?

Malfoy closed his eyes, eyebrows furrowed in a way that Harry didn’t even know was possible on that porcelain skin. 

“What are you—”

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “I’m focusing.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I don’t—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, before an intense, hungry feeling gripped at him. He didn’t know when he’d collapsed on the floor, but his vision had instantly become blurry. He felt like he was drinking something with an insatiable hunger. It spread through his entire body, like his blood had turned on fire. It burned—but not painfully. It felt like settling into a warm bath after spending the day forced to do chores in the snow. He—or rather, something inside of him—gulped at it. 

“Fix it!”

Harry sloppily turned his head, searching for the desperate voice. Who was that?

“I’ll fix it,” he mumbled past the warm fuzziness. 

“No,” the voice cried. “Harry, what did you DO?!”

And then, just as quick as it started—or maybe it wasn’t quick at all, based on the headache Harry was now sporting—the intense hunger went away. Harry felt like he’d been charged with electricity, like his nerves were buzzing and needed to let energy out or he’d explode. Vernon had once explained over dinner that an overcharged battery could ruin the object. Harry could almost understand the feeling. 

He jolted up, before almost colliding with Malfoy, who was hovering over him. Harry moved a few inches forward, to stand, maybe to go for a run or do a thousand spells in succession or maybe go fly at the Quidditch pitch, but he all but froze when he saw the look on Malfoy’s face. 

Draco Malfoy, who was already the palest person Harry knew, looked pale. He was staring at a spot on the floor, right past Harry. Unmoving. Like a statue. And as strange as it was to notice right now, Harry couldn’t help but feel like he looked like a statue, too. One crafted from marble. His features all seemed to come to a particular, precise point, his long, sharp chin, and pointy nose made him look like he belonged in the high society he grew up in. Regal and tall, back straight, even though his face looked like that. And with that blank expression, he looked… fragile. The way that a chopstick was fragile—put too much pressure, and he’d snap. He was—and Harry would kill anyone who used Legilimency on him to hear him say this word—pretty. 

Sad. But pretty. 

Harry frowned. 

“Er—you alright?” he asked, awkwardly sitting there. 

Malfoy slowly moved a glassy stare towards Harry. It was captivating. The pupils of his eyes looked like black holes. “What do you last remember?”

What a strange question. “Er…” he gestured to the sand, to the broken glass. “Fighting?” Obviously.

Malfoy stared for several seconds longer. Harry almost wanted to reach out, but that would not only be weird but also probably be received with aggression. 

“Oh,” said Malfoy, his voice strangely light. “Okay.” 

And then, as if he wasn’t acting very un-Malfoy-like, he stood, and started walking straight for the door. Harry tumbled onto his feet and followed. 

“Why?” he asked, confused. “Why are you being weird?”

Malfoy didn’t look at him as they made their way into the 7th floor hallway. Past the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy. 

“I’m not,” he said, voice made of air, empty with someone blowing in its background. He pulled out his wand and cast a tempus charm, the numbers 13:07 showing up in the air. Draco stared at it for a moment before ending it, putting his wand right back in its holster. “It’s lunch time.” 

Harry paused. “We were knocked out for, like… what… 14 hours? Jesus, what did you do to me?”

Malfoy didn’t respond. 

Harry’s gut said that something was very wrong. Like he was… missing something. 

But then again, he’d been feeling like that all year, since the war ended. 

So he pushed it down. 

Awkwardly, the two of them walked into the Great Hall. As soon as they walked through, though, there was a beat, before Ron suddenly stood in his chair and shouted, “Harry!” 

Ron was at his side in a moment, hugging him, Hermione right behind him. Malfoy froze again, staring at the three of them. Over Ron’s shoulder, Harry stared back, just as confused as Malfoy looked. 

“Oh Merlin, where were you, Harry?!” Hermione exclaimed once the hug was broken. She began checking him all over, patting him down, but she didn’t seem to find what she was looking for. 

Ron was glaring at Malfoy, who still hadn’t moved. “What did you do with him?”

Malfoy just stared. 

Harry almost stepped in between the two of them before Ron questioned further. “Um, why are you guys freaking out?” 

Hermione looked at him, horrified. “You’ve been gone for five days!”

Malfoy blinked. “Ah. Leap years.”

Harry turned to him, confused. “What does that mean?”

The responsive stare was blank. 

Harry turned back to them. “Listen, Malfoy and I just got into a little scuffle in the Room of Requirement—my fault, really—and we were both knocked out. For… well… I guess for five days.” He shrugged. “He didn’t do anything to me.” 

Ron was still glaring, but he turned his face to Harry, which seemed to soften the expression. “Come on, let’s go eat. McGonagall’s staring at you. She’s been freaking out all week, mate.” 

Harry shrugged. “Okay. Um. Just. Okay.” He turned to Malfoy. “Er… Sorry. I guess?” 

Malfoy stared at him. “Write me a letter. It would mean more.” And then he turned and went to the Slytherin table, not looking back at Harry once. 

That feeling that he was missing something very important didn’t go away. 

~~~

Draco didn’t feel anything the rest of the day. 

He wasn’t even feeling exhausted from the luminary magic he’d tried using to draw the memories back. As soon as it clicked in his brain that Harry had forgotten everything… chosen to forget everything… Draco went numb. It was like something inside of him had switched off entirely. He’d never actually experienced anything like it before. His whole life, he’d had such… big feelings, his mother had called them. She’d told him everything he was 

He didn’t even feel like a dim constellation. 

He felt dead. 

Somehow, he slept that night, listening to the snores of Ron Weasley and the deep breathing of Harry Potter and the breaths of the other 8th year boys. But at some point, Draco woke with a start, but he could not move. With every single feeling in his body, a lock in his throat, and the hole in his chest painfully present. 

He lay there, the memories holding him down like heavy sound covering his body, the memories bleeding into his dreams and reminding him that not even he could have peace in his sleep. Not even as he lay there in his still perfectly-made bed, frozen in the fear, in the regret, in the hurt. 

Fuck Harry.  

The details of the dream were creeping away from him swiftly, but it just amplified his focus from the vision and into his body. It had been something about holding someone captive in his home. Watching them there, hurting, in pain. Being silently complacent.

The dream had then morphed into something worse. A certain star had reached out to him. Had stopped the person’s pain. Draco’s pain. And had held him close. 

 The worst thing he could have woken up to was the realization that Harry wouldn’t be doing that anymore. 

Quietly, he got out of his bed, set a silencing charm on his feet and changed out of his pajamas. He was out of the 8th-year common room before he blinked, summoning a rag, hot water, and bleach. Only to hesitate once they were in his hands. 

He wasn’t really going to start doing this again, was he?

Apparently, he was. 

He walked to the room of requirement. Cleaned the ritual. Started cleaning the rest of it. Burned his hands, his bloody knuckles.

It wasn’t that he wanted to die again. Harry had taken that from him. Had stolen it. Had given him hope and warmth. 

Draco didn’t feel very warm right now. 

But, what was he supposed to do now? What was he supposed to do with his hands? What could he do with them, the ones that once held Harry so close? The person he’d let himself break for?

And then, just as he finished wiping up the leftover paint from the ritual, a flutter of paper being rolled up appeared from nowhere, right next to his face. The small piece of paper slowly floating to the ground. 

Draco stared at it.

“I wish Harry was here,” Lily sighed, leaning one hand on her wrist as she doodled in the corner of her parchment paper, not working on the essay she was supposed to be writing. 

Draco frowned. “He’s in class. What, I’m not good enough for you?”

She laughed. “No. I just think you two are fun to watch when you’re together.”

“Hmm.”

“I mean it!” she said, and Draco had to fight off the itch to make some comment about having Harry’s mother’s approval. “I like watching. I never know what either of you will do next.”

Draco snorted. “That’s Harry’s fault. He’s insufferable.” 

She laughed again. “Also, Harry’s much nicer than you.” 

“I wasn’t put on this planet to be nice,” he said, lifting his nose from the book. “But if it makes you feel better, I wish he was here, too.”

She grinned. “You like him.”

“I believe we have established that.” 

“You liiike him. You want to kiiis him. You want to—”

“I think Harry would love it if you could write him, whenever we get back,” Draco interrupted, controlling his eyes from getting stuck in the back of his head. “I could leave you a vial of my blood and teach you the ritual.” 

Her quill paused. “How does it work?”

He pulled out the paper he’d written up last night. It had a copy of the runes she’d need, the potion instructions, and the steps she’d need for the blood. She smiled widely at him. “This is perfect.”

Draco stared at the piece of paper. 

She’d written fast. 

Like her son, she was apparently a woman of action. 

He didn’t want to look at it, but before he knew it, the paper was in his hands. On its own accord. It opened to show a small letter with terrible handwriting. Apparently, another trait Harry had adopted. 

Before he could read it, a stick appeared in the same spot, clanking to the floor. Draco stared at it for a moment before turning to the letter. 

Draco! 

Today was kind of crazy. After you left, I got on the train and headed home. We arrived at Kings Cross at twilight, but I convinced my parents to take me to Saint Mungo’s… Severus is okay. He’s… well, I’ve seen him in better states. But we talked. All night, actually. He apologized for everything. He said he left a letter with Hershel (Harry—well you know that) but I said I’d rather hear it from him. He said I’m the best friend he’s ever had and he’s sorry and he missed me. I told him I missed him, too. And. Well. A lot more was said. It’s kind of hard to write it all down. But I think we’re going to be okay. 

I haven’t been able to talk to James yet, just because I was with Sev until like an hour ago. Dumbledore assured me he’s okay. 

Speaking of Dumbledore, this morning, before breakfast, you wouldn’t believe it—Dumbledore showed up at my house. Apparently, they found Harry’s wand at Voldemort’s hideout. He had a huge display of wands he’d stolen. Like he was proud of stealing people’s magic. I’ll never understand monsters like him. Anyways, Dumbledore gave it to me, saying I may like it. I figured I’d send it here, to you. To give to Harry. 

How was the trip back? I miss you guys already. Did you tell Harry already about this surprise? I think the vial you gave me will last for at least 50 more letters, which is groovy as hell. Hopefully you still have the vial I gave you. If I don’t get a response by tonight, I’ll send another vial. Just in case. And I will definitely not panic. (Please write before tonight if you can, or I’ll panic…)

Have Harry write me too! I miss you guys already. 

Umm. What else to write? Oh! My sister—did I mention her?—is dating a new guy, and Dad says he’s invited for Christmas. His name is Vernon. Hopefully he’s more pleasant than she is. 

Anyways. Um…  Miss you! I hope you guys had a good first day back! Although if it’s the same time as it is here, then you’re probably asleep. So I hope you guys had a good first day and night back! 

Also, I told Harry I loved him, but I should have told you, too. I’m going to miss seeing your beautiful, princely face every day (haha!). I love you too! Some love doesn’t just live during one time. I think it’s kind of cool that my love for you two reaches another world.

Anyways I’m rambling. You’ll probably get a lot of that when I miss you guys. Please please have Harry write to me, too. And I’ll keep you updated on things here. I’ll see if I can send over some Christmas gifts, too. 

Love you again!

Lily Evans ⚘

The place behind Draco’s eyes was hot, and it didn’t take long for the tears to escape during his second reread. 

Using magic, he made the cleaning bucket, the bleach, the rest of the mess in the room disappear. He sat there for a long while, the tears falling, but he eventually made them stop. Tears didn’t do anything.  Cleaning didn’t do anything. Apologies didn’t do anything. 

All he could do was move forward. 

Once he was certain his face was no longer splotchy, he stood and left the room of forgotten things. He would never open it again. 

There was another person outside the room, waiting for him. 

Harry. Standing right in front of him.

“Sorry—” Harry said suddenly, holding his palms up towards Draco. “I just—heard you leave.”

“And you decided to follow me.” 

“Er, yeah. I suppose I do that sometimes.” 

Draco stared before wordlessly reaching into his pocket and throwing him the wand. “It was hidden under a shelf. Be more careful next time you get knocked out.” 

Harry let out a little huff as he caught it. “Oh, thank Merlin.” He shoved his wand into his sleeve, a sheepish grin making its way onto his face. Draco hated it. “Thanks for finding that.” 

“Mhm.” 

An awkward beat of silence. Harry watching Draco. Draco staring back. 

“Er… You okay, Malfoy?”

Draco successfully avoided flinching at the name, a reminder that nothing that happened between them mattered. 

But it didn’t rid him of the feeling that everything had been ripped away. 

Draco stared at Harry. For much longer than Harry seemed to be comfortable with. There was just… so much he wanted to say. You were right; you haven’t changed at all. You self-sacrificial bastard. You really decided you wouldn’t rely on me? To trust me? Fuck you. This hurts. This hurts so much. 

Harry had been his star. Draco had been his sun. And somehow, they’d gotten close enough to burn together. Just for a moment. But Harry had decided to pull himself far, far away, and not tell Draco.

Harry was a star. He was Draco’s star. And Draco would have to treat him as such. Stars weren’t meant to burn or touch other stars. They were meant to tell stories of Dragons being slayed and Orions wearing belts and Cassiopeias that angered the gods. 

They were meant to be watched from far, far away. 

Draco stared at his star, making one last decision. For the rest of his life, he would make something good of himself and the family name. He would do good. Keep Harry close to him, while still being far away. He would keep Harry close through the things he did. Be the selfless sacrificial bastard that Harry seemed adamant in being. Not to his own detriment, of course. But he’d been foolish to think he could hold Harry Potter, the boy who lived twice, the chosen one, for longer than a moment in time. 

His love would still be there. Just as Lily said, some love wasn’t meant to last in just one time. 

But that was where it would end.

Remind me how much I love you. 

Please, remind me.

And all that came out of his mouth was a slightly shaky: “I really, really hate you, Potter.” 

It didn’t hold the hatred Draco wished it did.

Harry nodded slowly, but his green eyes—so vibrant—looked confused. At him. Draco couldn’t bear it.

“Okay,” Harry said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I guess that makes sense.”  

Draco stared. Harry didn’t value himself at all. And because of that, he couldn’t… he couldn’t really love Draco, anyway. He hated himself too much to do that. 

And then Harry was gone. And Draco was left there, alone. Standing outside of the room. 

The room that repairs it all, he thought. Also known as the room of forgotten things.

And it finally came to a head for him. He would need to make one more selfish act. Just one. The rest of his life, he’d be good. He’d do good things. He’d visit his mother and volunteer with starving puppy orphans and donate his money to every organization he could. 

But Draco often broke things that couldn't be fixed. And in this case, it was himself.

So he'd allow himself one more selfish act. 

He would never talk to Harry Potter again.

At least, now, he could do so knowing he was no longer a dying constellation. 

At least, now, he knew he could burn. 

Chapter Text

Rebuild [Verb]

To build (something) again after it has been damaged or destroyed.

After that random day in mid-November, when Harry woke up on the floor of the Room of Requirement, the rest of his 8th year was fairly boring. He went to the Weasleys for Christmas—a happy and sad affair, all at once—and studied for his NEWTS and passed his exams and rejected another offer with the Aurors. 

It felt… weird. Everything felt weird, actually. Harry still had his claws, but he’d woken up that day feeling different about them. Feeling like they’d somehow ripped through him, and he was constantly a bleeding, scratched up mess. He cried, randomly. Ron quickly became concerned when he found him crying alone on the Quidditch pitch. Hermione became concerned when she found him crying over toast one morning. They tried talking to him, but all it did was make him become better at hiding it from them. 

Draco Malfoy never spoke to him. Not once. After Christmas, they were partnered in potion’s class together but Malfoy wouldn’t say a word, even when passing potion ingredients over. Harry tried to ask questions… maybe even hoped they’d get to a point where he could apologize for everything that had happened in their pasts, but Malfoy never said anything to him, and Harry eventually stopped trying. It was better than fighting, he supposed. But it made him feel weirdly empty. 

The weirdest part was, sometimes, he would catch Malfoy watching him from afar. Across the Great Hall, at Quidditch games, during classes. When they graduated, Harry caught Malfoy’s eye. Just for a moment. The look he saw there made his claws slash tiredly at his ripped up insides. Like his chest was bleeding. And then Malfoy looked away.  

He spent the year after graduating not really doing anything. Still feeling like he had to claw at things to feel alive. Not knowing what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Ron joined training with the Aurors, and Hermione easily found a paid internship as an organizer for several Magical Being Rights Activists groups—and to Harry’s surprise, he learned that Malfoy was donating to several of them already by the time she got there; namely for werewolves and house elves.  

Hermione and Ron insisted they get a flat together, so they found a nice (well, not good enough if you asked Percy Weasley, but nice if you asked Ron, Hermione, and Harry) two-bedroom place, and Harry, for the first time in his life, got his own room that he could call his own. 

He’d always thought he’d decorate his own room if he ever got one, but now that he did… he realized he actually had no idea what to do. So he took some of Sirius’s posters from his house in Grimmauld Place (which Kreacher was glad about) and put them on his wall. He had a few things piled in the corner of his room, with objects from friends he’d acquired over the years. A hand-made necklace from Luna, a forever-alive plant from Neville, toys from Arthur Weasley, the wooden whittled flute from Hagrid, and others. 

One day, Harry came home to find that Ron put up a shelf for him as a surprise; Hermione had organized the objects in a way that made Harry feel like they were smiling down at him from the wall. Harry hugged them and kicked them out ‘so he could admire it in peace’. He had admired it, and he’d cried, too.

He loved them so much. 

Time passed. Things got easier. For everyone. Everywhere. 

He guessed that was the thing about tragedy. Eventually, it passed. Eventually, people healed. Even when the scars were there. 

One day, in early December of 1999, Harry found himself popping in to see Hermione while she was at work. He pulled on a hair, the bottom of his hair passing his chin already. He wanted to grow it out to Sirius’s length, if he could. And he was having fun realizing the longer his hair grew, the less messy it looked and the more confident he felt with it. 

He apparated in with a coffee in one hand, an extra sweater for her in the other, and a smile on his face. 

Only to be met with a very panicked Hermione, who was directing her volunteers on where to go and how to help. The room was set up with white round tables and candles floating in mid-air. When she saw Harry, she ran over to him immediately, sweaty and with eyebrows that looked far too much like a mountain for Harry’s liking.

“I can’t believe I forgot the flowers!” she exclaimed, grabbing the coffee, ignoring the sweater, and giving a small kiss to his cheek. “My hair is going to fall out! I don’t have time for all of this!” 

Harry offered her a smile as she sent a patronus to the caterers, asking when they would be there. 

“Hermione, it’ll be okay,” he tried placating her. “I can just go get them. Just tell me what to get, what time I have to be there, and everything will go smoothly.” 

She groaned. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ve done this to you like three times. You don’t have to—it’s my responsibility, and I should have been more prepared.” 

Harry offered her another calming smile before he pushed up his glasses a little. “‘Mione. I have nothing to do with my time. I’m happy to help. Just write down what you need, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

With a sigh of relief, she pulled out a notepad and wrote a list with a pen—something she took up doing a month ago, since apparently quill and ink took too long.

“I have to lead by example,” she’d said. “Along with creature rights, I want to get into Muggleborn activism; I'm thinking something about teaching Muggleborns about wizarding culture. Anyways, I think using a pen is a good place to start.”

Harry took the piece of paper with another smile. “I got ya.” 

“It’s on the same street as the Leaky Cauldron, on the Muggle side of London,” she said. “Just apparate there and when you leave the Leaky Cauldron, take a left. If you’re facing it, go to the right. You’ll find it.”

“Cool.”

She gave him a quick hug. “Don’t forget Ron wants to make pot pie, so make sure you get the groceries before he gets home.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Already done it.”

“Good!” she exclaimed before she turned back around and continued her orders.

Harry made his way to the flower shop Hermione sent him to. The Misty Blossom. 

After apparating, the walk wasn’t very long, and a selfish part of him wished it was longer. He’d been walking a lot lately, finding a nice solace in it. Walking, knowing he had so much time to do nothing, not having any specific plan on where he was going. It was nice. 

Ron told him over dinner one night that it was probably good for him to just… go where he wanted. “Even more important,” he said, raising his voice enough so that Hermione could hear from the other room where she was filling out paperwork, “it’s good to enjoy moments without constantly having to do something.” 

He found the shop easily. Over the door, there was a large, painted bouquet of roses on the front. Harry walked into the door, with the ding of a bell. 

The shop smelled… incredible. 

And something about it made something niggle in the back of his brain. As if it were trying to get him to remember something. 

He shook it off as he took a few steps closer, to be greeted by the owner. 

She was a younger woman with pretty brown hair and even prettier brown eyes. She smiled at him with a gummy grin. 

“Hey, how can I help you?”

She had an American accent, which was rather foreign to hear, but fun. He smiled at her, and opened his mouth to read out the list Hermione had given him, but then he froze as another person walked out the back, reading a sheet of paper as he headed over to where loose flowers were in vases, not looking up at Harry or the shop girl. 

Draco Malfoy. 

Harry watched him, feeling something strange in his throat. 

Malfoy started pulling out flowers—lilies and daffodils, mainly—from their containers, and piled them into another vase, before rearranging them. Harry had no idea what he was going for in the arrangement, as he knew nothing about flowers or floral arrangements. He didn’t have a super good eye for things that were very beautiful. 

But he couldn’t look away from Malfoy. 

“Sir?” the girl asked. 

Harry turned to her, that strange lump in his throat not going away. He cleared it a few times before finally saying, “Yes, I need—”

Malfoy turned around immediately, grey eyes on the side of Harry’s head. 

“... some flowers,” he finished lamely. And then, because he didn’t understand why he was feeling so… ripped up inside, he simply handed the girl the list. 

She looked over it, while Malfoy looked at Harry, and Harry looked at the girl. 

“Oh! Is this Hermione’s order?” she asked, looked back at him.

He nodded.

“I was wondering where she was at! Here—” She pulled out the receipt from below the counter. “That’ll be 1,573 pounds.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. For flowers? But he didn’t argue and instead pulled out his wallet and handed over the money. She figured out the change and handed it back to him.

All while Malfoy was staring.

But when she went into the back to grab the cold flowers, Malfoy finally looked away. 

“Hi,” Harry said, turning to him. Feeling like he could finally look now that Malfoy wasn’t looking. If that made sense. 

Malfoy didn’t say anything. 

“I’ve heard you donate,” Harry said. “And volunteer. That’s pretty cool of you.”

He didn’t say anything. 

Harry cleared his throat. “Um. Nice to see you again. I guess.” 

It was an awkward silence as they waited for the girl to come back. Who did, eventually, come back with several bouquets in her arms, handing them to Harry. 

“Before you leave—Dawn, come here, I need your help with something.” 

Malfoy’s shoulders tightened up to his ears before he turned and offered a rather unpleasant look to the girl. “What?”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you mean what ? Can you help carry the rest of the bouquets to Mr.---” she looked expectantly at Harry. 

“Potter.” 

“Mr. Potter’s car?” 

Malfoy’s jaw tightened. “Sure,” he said, not hiding his displeasure. “I’d be happy to bring bouquets of flowers to Mr. Potter’s car .” 

“Oh, I don’t have a car,” Harry assured her. “I’ll just make two trips.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Is it a long walk, then?”

He shrugged. “Not really.” 

She smiled. “Good! Then Dawn can help you carry your things to wherever you’re going.” 

Malfoy looked like he was gritting his teeth as he grabbed the rest of the bouquets and followed Harry out. 

As they walked, the tension was so thick Harry wondered if it came with a fork. 

“So…do you work here?” he asked. 

No answer. 

Harry huffed. “Cool. Good talk, Harry. Don’t you love hearing your voice? I sure do, Harry. Thanks for always listening. Oh, no problem! I definitely think—”

Malfoy laughed. And then immediately sobered with a glare. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “So?”

Nothing. Until—

“We’re not going to the Leaky Cauldron, are we?”

Harry nodded. “Sure are.”

“You aren’t still being chased down by reporters, are you?”

“Only on bad days.”

Malfoy stopped in his tracks. “Well, today is a bad day. Where can I apparate these to?”

Harry feigned disappointment. “What, not enjoying our special flower walk?”

“You’re insufferable, Potter.” 

“And you’re finally speaking to me.” 

Malfoy snapped his jaw shut, before placing the bouquets on the empty bench next to them. And then, without another word, he turned back around and started walking up the street. 

Harry watched him go. Feeling very strange. Something niggling the back of his brain. Feeling his claws come out. 

Feeling like he was looking at the sun walk away from him. 

He wondered if he could chase after it.