Chapter Text
There once was a boy called Draco Malfoy, and this is how he became famous.
Scratch that. He was kind of well-known, but for the wrong reasons. People hated him, and for the right reasons.
No, Draco wasn’t going to do anything useful with something like that.
This, however, is the story of how he helped someone famous. Someone with dark hair, and green eyes, and round glasses, and a scar in the shape of a lightning. This is how he helped the biggest idiot in the magical world overcome something they couldn’t figure out, something they couldn’t understand how or when it began, and something that didn’t seem to even have a solution.
——
The tea was nearly cold when Harry Potter sat in front of Draco Malfoy.
It sounded like the beginning of a joke, didn’t it? The Boy Who Lived walked into a bar, and found the Death Eater drinking earl gray and reading a newspaper. You can laugh, it’s fine.
All that the ex-Slytherin could do was blink one, two, three times, in the hopes that the face of the other boy would disappear into thin air. Maybe it was a hallucination, a byproduct of a bad night of sleep. Or a hit in the back of the head, if you prefer. It wasn’t right, that cafe was a safe space, Draco’s safe space and no one should be there to bother him, let alone Harry Potter with his magical scar and punch-able face. It should be unburdened of anything magic-related— well, except for himself, clearly.
(Not that Potter was there for him, of course Draco knew that, but still. He shouldn’t be there at all)
At twenty-four years old, Draco had a very strict routine before going to work, and it did not include Harry Potter by any means. One that he had perfected over the years, that put up with trials and failures, but now he swore by it religiously. Even the slightest hiccup in it would make his left eye tick without control, and then the right, and then his mouth, and so on until he was left trembling all over. He would wake up at exactly six o'clock in the morning, excluding the days that he could lie in bed as long as he wanted with his head buried under the covers because yes, he was a tad lazy. The early hour was not because of his liking, but more because of his job, which wasn’t what he dreamed of, but it was enough to pay the bills and get by with dignity. And since he didn’t have access to his fortune anymore, or any possibilities in a magic field job whatsoever, he needed any penny he could find.
The thing was, Draco spent so long trying to get on his feet, that he was content with being apart from the magical world. No money, no reputation, no possibilities there. He was ready to be a hermit for the rest of his existence if that was necessary, and he was fine with that. Happy, even. Had made his peace with it.
Because yes, the magical world had not been kind to him at the end of the war. Not that he was expecting it to be. Thinking about it, they had been even more than graceful in his regards, and could have been ten times worse. They allowed his return to Hogwarts, mostly thanks to the miraculous words of Harry bloody Potter and the elegant McGonagall, but after that, the Malfoys had been entirely on their own. Lucius in Azkaban, Draco working as a receptionist in a dental office with a constant threat of going to Azkaban if he misbehaved, and Narcissa dead due to heartbreak— really, a heart attack.
So Draco mostly tried to live on his own, managing so much, but it could be worse. He could have been with his father or six feet under like his mother. And it was not like he had no one: Pansy and Blaise were great company whenever they all met, and had been great friends throughout the years. Other than that, of course, he had nothing. And really, he was fine with that. Content, even. (No he wasn’t, he was bitter about it.)
He wasn’t foreseeing a complete redemption and a golden statue like the wearing-glasses-git in front of him, but being allowed to show his face from time to time without being called names would certainly be nice.
So Draco had a routine: the same time to wake up, the same walk to work each day, the same little cafe where he drank his little tea before work, and the same little newspaper in his adequately proportioned hands each morning. Something grounded, a systematic way to keep himself stable. In this whole plan, a simple and poor habit of an impoverished man, Harry Potter was not meant to be a part of it.
Draco could have made it his whole life without seeing him again, he reckoned. But fate wasn’t that graceful, he was beginning to fear with each of Potter’s steps.
“I need your help.”
Especially if he was going to say things like that.
No one had ever told this to Draco, and while he raised his eyes and wondered what could possibly be going on, Harry Potter was already sitting in front of him and his tea, leaning on the table and occupying the booth that was usually seated by thin air. And when he saw his face, his terrible and punchable face, Draco felt his magic tingling on his skin, and he made him want to scratch it off. Even if it meant scraping his skin to the bone. Potter had always been potent, too much for such a tiny child, and his trance could be sometimes felt through the air like static if he was restless enough. Draco practically felt the air on the back of his neck tingle. Of course, it was Potter, he should have felt it from a mile away.
Harry had a bizarre slight cadence, something that Draco had never been able to pinpoint precisely and so different from his own, and they were almost exact opposites: while Draco was blond and pale and scrawny, Harry was tanned and sunny and with a little built on his bones thanks to his work as an Auror. While Harry was cordial and popular even in school and especially now as an adult; Draco was acidic and solitary and functioned as a nobody. Draco didn’t like to be reminded of how much of a screwup his life turned out to be, and the Savior of The Magical World was exactly that. A huge reminder. An arrow pointing to all of his mistakes.
Harry was courageous and fearless, and Draco was a coward and frightened. Harry was a hero, Draco was— well, better not say that what he was.
It was unnatural that someone might need his help, let alone Wonder Boy. He should be able to help himself or ask one of his blind followers. Draco was sure that hundreds of people would say yes to him without even thinking about it.
Draco blinked furiously, his hands still resting on the newspaper. That couldn’t be. It must have been a mistake. If he ignored the fact that they had not spoken in countless years, or maybe ever properly, he couldn’t really figure out what he might need Draco’s help for. Draco wasn’t really helpful anymore. Exactly, what unique skill did he have that was so crucial, to the point of being bothered at eight sharp in the morning?
The world was made of balances, and this was not part of it. The whole axis had shifted in an uncomfortable way that made Draco’s head spin around, and he did not like that. At all.
“Excuse me? What the hell are you doing here, Potter?”
“This might sound crazy but there is no way to sugarcoat it— I’m stuck in a time loop, and you have been trying to help me, Draco.” Potter lowered his voice as he said his first name. Dreadful. As if he was in one of those funny muggle movies that made Draco twist his nose at the absurdity. He almost laughed at the tone Potter used, pleading and made of sharp edges. Still asking for his help, but not to the point of begging for it.
Ignoring the use of the Draco, and trying to ignore if he had ever heard Potter say it so casually, he snorted into his cup of tea, hoping to show his disbelief at the whole debacle.
“You are right, this does sound crazy. Is this a prank?” Draco raised his left brow and looked around, expecting people laughing and pointing at him. Instead, he found nothing out of the ordinary. “Oh yes, let’s make fun of Draco Malfoy, he hasn’t already hit rock bottom. I don’t know how you found me but go away, Potter.”
It was vicious of him to pop up these many years after the end of school and do something like this. Draco might have not been a victim in the most logical sense during the war, but hadn’t he suffered enough? A beat-up apartment, a dead mother, an imprisoned father, a career taking phone calls, and no prospect of a nicer life.
Potter looked frantic and exhausted, with dark circles and wrinkled clothes. He clasped his hands and then positioned them on the table. Draco’s table. He seems more in tune with his appearance in school, and not the image of a relaxed man that Draco had seen from time to time on the Prophet.
Truth be told, he always quite looked on the verge of running away, but right now there was something half-done to him that made the whole crisis almost seem real.
His shirt was red, his jeans a pair of loose ones, and he was carrying himself without any care. Draco, when he was young, envied his way of being. It was so distinct from what he had been taught. While the blonde had to keep his back straight and his chin high, Potter had the privilege of sitting in awkward positions and pushing his limbs wherever he wanted, which he was doing, his shoulders to the booth and his hands carelessly crossed on his chest. His feet were tapping on the floor in a musicless rhythm, and his teeth were biting the left side of his inner cheek. Draco quickly imagined himself posing that way in front of his father.
“I— you dream of being a Healer and quit that muggle job that you hate. You sleep with your window open even in winter because you like the breeze on your face in the morning, and you use a glamor and a fake name whenever you are in magical settings— by the way, Chris Roger is a terrible choice and… oh Merlin I can’t believe I’m going to say it— you have a mark in the shape of a heart on your left cheek—”
Draco felt the beginning of a stroke if he had to be completely honest, as his whole chest and throat tightened in a deadly grip, not letting any air pass. Those were things that only he knew, especially the mark on his butt. Not even Pansy or Blaise were aware of it. Maybe some old shag from the past, one or two indulgences over the years, but they surely haven’t spoken with Harry Potter out of all people. It felt like puking, hearing all of the secrets coming out of the mouth of someone he swore he would never see again just fine minutes before. “How do you—“
“I told you. I’m stuck on this day. Have been for a while.”
Draco gulped, slowly digesting everything. It did sound crazy, but wasn’t everything about Potter like that? He was sure that there were countless more stories behind the boy, the same one sitting in front of him, and magic was that unpredictable. He just couldn’t understand why he would need his help, out of all the people he knew. For instance, Granger seemed a far better choice. Draco may have had the knowledge and may have been a great wizard, but Hermione was far more advanced in Potter’s drama. “How long?”
“A month and a half,” He spoke grimly, pressing his lips into the thinnest of lines, a sign that he felt bitter about the passing of time. “More or so. I stopped counting after a while.”
“How the fuck do you know those things?” Maybe Draco was panicking, but he was trying his best not to show it. Potter shouldn’t see him vulnerable. Potter shouldn’t know his secrets and know that he wanted to do anything else in his life. Potter shouldn’t be there at all.
“No— you told me what to say to you!” Harry widened his eyes, almost scared to say even the slightest word. And he was right, even a vowel could tick Draco off. One would think that, after having done this more than once, he would be better at it. “To make you trust me. Quickly. Things that I only could know if you had told me.”
“Even about my bum?”
Harry scoffed, clearly not believing that he was doing it or speaking about Draco’s bottom. “Yes, even about that. You said only you and your parents know about it. Well, me also now.”
“I think I could remember it. And it’s not making me trust you quickly.” Draco spat out and eyed the other man with suspicion. It could all be a prank, some sort of humorous thing to make the blond go finally delirious. “How long has— this been going on? Us— talking?”
“More or less— two, three weeks? Two weeks and a half?” Harry passed a hand through his hair, the curls bouncing under the stressed movement as if they had a mind of their own. Always disheveled and feral, that one. He looked paler than he had ever been, which was a lot considering his brown skin, and extremely tired to the point of passing out. Any moment he might be doing that, judging by his looks. And Draco could shape out a hint of sadness in his face and voice. Almost resignation.
What should he do, help him and trust to see if this was just a giant quip, or go away and forget about Potter and his time situation?
Draco hummed, and took out a piece of paper and a pen from his bag, scribbling down and slowly digesting things. “Well, let’s brainstorm a bit— I can help you for fifteen minutes, then I have to go to work. Take it or leave it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Potter pointed his green eyes at him. “The day it’s going to reset. Just skip it. And you hate your job anyway.”
“Well—” Draco huffed, suddenly offended and wondering what exactly his past self had told that strange man. What could have made him so vulnerable to say such things? Didn’t he have a stronger will than that? All it took was a nice smile and curly hair to bend his integrity, perhaps? “Maybe this is the day that it all goes back, and tomorrow I’ll be fired because of you.”
Before Draco could look up, Harry had already smirked. “Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll pay you a thousand galleons.”
Of course, he would say something like that. So careless and inconsiderate of his money.
“Anything to make the Chosen one go bankrupt. Well, was it a special day? To tick,” he gestured around the Gryffindor, magnet of all problems for the past two decades and a half. “This whole thing off? Something out of the ordinary?”
“I went to work. Nothing on the field, just paperwork. And then the day reset itself at midnight, and I woke up in my bed.”
He wrote it down. “What a tedious life.”
The other just huffed, fixing his glasses on his nose, while simultaneously looking outside the window with a strange expression. Draco recognized longing, embarrassment, and a bunch of different things. “You say that every day.”
“Are you— Merlin, Potter, are you okay? What has gotten into you? Don’t you dare cry.”
“Yes.” Harry turned his head back. “It is a boring life.”
He was about to make a snarky remark but didn't. He may have been reformed, yes, but pissing Potter off was still one of his specialties. “And have we discovered something?”
“No.”
“Well, remind me, oh Chosen One, why are you asking for my help? If you are so—hostile.”
Maybe it wasn’t the right word. Potter was just— tired, from what Draco could make out, but he didn’t really have a good meter of judgment since they had never exactly spoken for more than five minutes without cursing at each other. And even during the last year at school, they mostly went their own ways. They may have never had a proper chat in their lifetime.
There was a time when Draco would have loved to be friends with Harry Potter. Names carried power, and who was more powerful than The Boy Who Lived? It sounded so cool. He was a legend, known in the whole country and possibly outside. So when he was a kid he heard all types of anecdotes and tales about the black-haired baby that defeated The Dark Lord, and he quickly figured out that they had to be best friends. It was only right, wasn’t it? Draco Malfoy, heir of his fortune, and Harry Potter, a great myth.
But he quickly figured out that names may carry power, but sometimes they carried a little too much legend than truth. Harry was scrawny, and taciturn, and not at all what Draco had imagined. And he didn't accept his friendship. So it was only fair that they became rivals. Right, even.
And Draco had hated him for a good chunk of his life. Harry could be immaculate and free, and fight following his beliefs, while the blond kid had to succumb to his father’s wishes until his back bent and cracked. He quickly figured it out as soon as Voldemort resurrected and stabilized in their home— Draco was due to perish. So for a long time, even the name of Harry Potter would make his blood boil like no other.
It did carry power, and a lot of hatred simultaneously. And he was sure that it was the same for the other boy. But Draco had done things deserving of hatred in his life. He shouldn’t feel so bitter about it.
Harry leaned back on the booth, crossing his arms in front of his chest once more, his t-shirt a little too big for him and a little too wrong out. One would think that, given all the money he had, he would care a little bit more about himself. “You were the only one available. Ron and Hermione are on a cruise with Ginny and Luna, and I did try to contact them for a couple of days but it was all useless and I can’t exactly apparate, Neville has dragon-pox, and I did try for a while on my own but it was a blind lead. I have no one else to ask for help. And you actually— you have a quick mind. Sharp.”
“Don’t hold the compliments, please.” Draco’s eyes lingered a little on the air, tasting the words. Yes, he did have a sharp mind, too sharp at times. “Mh. So you landed on your mortal enemy, good choice.”
That made the other slightly chuckle. “I wouldn’t call you a mortal enemy. That was Voldemort. You are more like a pain in the ass, at times. But you were just a kid. We all were.”
That’s why you testified for me, and my mother? And then why has the whole magical society avoided me for the past five years, if I was just a kid?
He couldn’t bring himself to ask those things. Maybe if he had more acquaintances with Potter, or if he was braver, or if he was in the mood to feel angry and sad and have a fight. Mostly, he wanted to see what this whole ordeal was, and if Harry was telling the truth or not.
“Incredible. So, you still work as an auror?” Draco did already know the answer, but still. Potter was the Auror, it was written in the stars, sculpted by the artists, and declared in poems.
“Yes.” He let out. “I work in the mornings, mostly, and then I usually go to buy groceries, and spend the night home alone. Or I go to visit Teddy. But then, I woke up. It was the same day, and it has been like that for a while.”
Draco didn’t even know what to write down. But he needed to seem competent. “Well—any strange encounters?”
“Not that I can think of,” Potter said, sincerely. “My boss, his secretary, the shop workers.”
“Any friends? Family?”
“My friends are all away on a couple’s cruise or at work. Andromeda and Teddy are visiting some relatives in Scotland.” Harry gritted his teeth. “And I don’t really talk to my family.”
There was the lingering of a whole story behind that, one that Draco didn’t know, and didn’t bother asking. He let the silence rest between them for a few seconds. “I would like to look at the memory of the day.” Draco thought out, scribbling down some things to look out for. “Maybe we can—figure out something. Anything we found out before? Anything at all?”
“We did write some things about time travel and time curses, but at the end of the day they just disappear,” Potter explained. “We did a search about curses, but nothing relevant came up.”
Draco clicked his tongue, wanting to go home and forget about this whole thing. “Only you would get yourself in a mess like this, Potter.”
That made Harry’s aura gloom. “Tell me about it.”
“I do have a pensive at home.” Draco took a bill out of his pocket and put away his own things, getting off the booth and gesturing to the door. He clenched his jaw. He spoke without thinking, but getting Potter into his house didn’t seem like the best of the ideas. He quickly looked at the other man and breathed in deeply. “Do you want to do it at my place or yours?”
“Er—” Potter scratched his neck nervously, clearly wavering on something that Draco didn’t know. “Yours is fine.”
“I hope you are right and this is not a joke, because if I get fired I must kill you. It might be hard since many have tried and failed, but I’ll succeed.” Draco promised and exited the cafe with the sound of Harry Potter’s laugh.
——
Draco realized that he was properly fucked not when he joined Voldemort, but exactly after he died.
Which he knew, it was a terrible thing to even think about. He would never admit it to anyone, too ashamed of it, but a part of him hoped that the noseless git would win, otherwise, what would have been the point of what he went through? So, even if he wanted to strangle Voldemort himself, a tiny percentage was so sure that he was going to be the glorious one at the end. But as soon as he died, Draco bitterly admitted to himself what his life was going to be.
——
Draco led Potter around the block and snatched his arm, apparating not too distant from his one-bedroom apartment. Not a fancy side of the town, surely not a pricey one. Harry didn’t say much, just stuck to his side, and the blond could finally realize that at least he had a few inches on the Chosen One. A slight victory, indeed. He may have fallen to the bottom of the pit, but at least he was taller than Potter.
Draco suddenly felt aware of his apartment. Houses were the reflection of the owner, weren’t they? Then it was clear that he was not in good condition. The sink was stained at more than one point and he couldn’t figure out how to take it off even with magic, the spots were just stubborn like that and seemed to duplicate over time; the rug had lost color here and there; and the chairs were all different from one another. The wallpaper was— not doing its job properly. If only his ancestors could see the way he was living, they would turn in their soggy crypts.
Trying to shake away his embarrassment, he searched for the key in his bag, quickly opened the door, and made a motion with his head for Potter to get inside. “Sorry for the place, it must be a downgrade from the palaces and castles that you are used to.”
Potter was there, and his house was a mess not worth looking at. Draco, who used to live in mansions, was now destined to live in a rotten house with no curtains and too much-used furniture. The Gryffindor must be golly and laughing about him, feeling happy that the way Draco had ended up, satisfied with karma’s work. He could picture him and his friends, rubbing their bellies and crying in delight.
Draco had found that apartment by chance, a little after his mother’s death. For a while, they lived in one of their old houses, but then the ghosts of memories inside were eating him alive so he got a change of scenery. Sold the old house, set a little aside, and rented the first nice enough apartment that he could find on the muggles’ papers. Just one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen, and one living room. Enough for himself, too little for another person. Not that he was with another person, or that could be a likelihood in the near future.
Potter just scoffed and stepped inside, not really looking around. There was no wonder in his eyes, no amusement, nothing out of the ordinary. He quickly sat on the sofa with a strange familiarity and pointed his eyes at Draco, his lips quivering. “Hardly any palace.”
Rude to just do what he wanted in someone else's house, Draco noted to himself, but ignored it and sat on the armchair. He grimly realized that Potter must have been there more than once, and only that would explain that acquaintance and lack of sympathy glances.
“What, has the ministry not given you your private mansion?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve been telling you each time.” Harry shrugged and gestured to the room. “It's cozy. I like it. You need to stop being so self-conscious.”
He said it like it was obvious, to stop being self conscious just because Potter liked it. As if that was how the world worked. It made him want to fight back, to bicker even more, but he didn't, because it was all too weird, and it made Draco chill at the thought of having lived through something and not being able to recall it. He suddenly imagined both of them in their house, talking, reading books about time-problems, and it was all too… bizarre.
“How many times have you been here, exactly?”
“Not a lot— like three or four?” Harry pursed his lips, thinking. If Draco had not been so mature, he would have made a joke about that. “Some days you take my word for it about the memories, others you want to see it, others you want to do research. Some days you want to go to my place. Maybe it depends on how I approach you, I don’t know. You are a mystery of your own.”
Draco didn’t like the look that Potter was giving him. He didn’t like things he couldn’t decipher. He didn't like being called a mystery. He wasn’t something to solve. “Funny. Let me take the pensive from my bedroom and get this over with. Wait for me here.”
Potter, as if he was not listening, got up and motioned for the door, already moving on his feet. “Oh! No need, I’ve already been there.” Draco must have given him the most glacial look, because his whole face turned crimson and he gaped uncontrollably and diverted his stare with a cough. “Not like that. We didn’t— you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” Draco pointed out. “Don’t need to sound so disgusted, Potter, I’m a catch. Well, follow me I guess.”
He waited, knowing that those seconds would be filled up with a snarky remark about how he was not a catch, but Potter didn't say anything. Maybe he was also trying to be more mature.
“You learned Occlumency from Snape, right?” Potter’s inquisitive tone was rude and unnecessary, and it made Draco flinch as he grabbed his wand. “I did. Sort of.”
“Why, have I not talked to you about it yet?”
“No.”
“Not Snape.” Draco halted. “From my aunt.”
He had nothing else to add to be understood. Bellatrix was still loitering in the air, it seemed. “Ah.”
“Right.”
Draco’s room was even more tragic than the rest of the house. No need to decorate a space where he would only need to sleep in. Just a bed, a rug, a lamp, and a wardrobe that was on the verge of falling down one day or the other. He leaned down and took the pensive from under the bed, setting it between himself and Potter, who had decided to sit on his own accord.
Of course Potter continued to do things without asking.
Ha. This was the beginning of the second part of the joke: Harry Potter sat on Draco Malfoys’ bed, in his house, out of his own free will and not coerced at all.
“You know, you never told me why you keep your pensive under your bed,” Harry stated, not knowing the weirdness that he was causing in Draco’s head. Of course he knew about the pensive under the bed. Of bloody course.
“You seem to know everything these days.” Draco pointed out. “That’s a first.”
Harry scoffed. “Funny.”
“Have you ever asked?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Draco shot him a glance and took a vial out of his own stock. If the past himself had talked, maybe there was a reason. He should keep a little bit of integrity, he reckoned. “It’s none of your business.”
“That’s usually what you answer,” Potter said, while he took the vial and his wand, a certain edge in his voice that Draco couldn’t pinpoint. Harry was already pointing his wand at his head when he stopped and pursed his lips guiltily. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude.”
“That’s also a first.”
The truth was, Draco didn’t know how to act around Potter. They had never been friends, they had never had communication, and they had a whole past between them that was very hard to look over, in the blond’s opinion. Maybe Harry had such a good heart that he could really see the best in people, but Draco was quickly reminded of everything he messed up in his life.
“Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
It took a while to get his memory of the whole day out, the light blue thread working from his mind through the wand at a slow pace, and when he handed it to Draco he almost looked too worn out to proceed. His eyes were sleepy and foggy, as he opened and closed them in a rhythmic movement. Tired. “Do you want to rest a little?”
“It’s almost ten, we can’t waste much time.” Potter yawned and clasped his hands. “Let’s get through it.”
Draco hated looking at memories because it always made him feel unsteady. Something about the foggy setting, or the jumping back and forth between scenes, or just looking at the past. The worst was the idea of invading someone’s privacy. Sometimes things were not meant to be seen or lived again. Sometimes, it couldn’t be helped.
As he recollected himself, the queasy feeling a little too friendly, he remembered that he was not looking at one of his memories, but at Potter’s. Just like that, the other man appeared on his side as they scanned a sleepy Harry making his way through Grimmauld Place in order to get ready to go to work. He looked too tired to do anything in his pristine uniform.
“Didn’t know you lived there.” Draco pointed out, eying the home that has been in possession of his family for generations. He had been there a few times, a little before Walburga died and left it to ruin. Too little to know it well, though. It seemed like he was discovering it once again, and the chilling presence of his Aunt wasn't there to taunt the air. And now, it was in the hands of a man who was struggling to tie his shoes together, not even using magic to do it. “I see you redecorated.”
“I got rid of the— nasty elements.”
“You mean the elves’ heads. You can say that.”
Harry shot him a lopsided grin, him being the only thing that Draco could make out with clarity as the memory shifted to the Ministry. “I do mean that. And the painting of Walburga.”
“I can’t imagine how horrifying that would be.”
Nothing happened in the next few hours, other than Harry greeting people all around and him working nonstop on his desk, filling out documents and papers one after the other. He must have signed for the hundredth time when Draco breathed out.
“You know, I thought the life of an Auror was a thrilling one,” Draco arched an eyebrow, pointing it directly at Potter and finding a very strange look. “This is incredibly dull.”
“It is,” something raw jogged across Harry’s face. At that moment, Draco wished he knew how to read minds. Or understand expressions in a matter of seconds. He had never been good at that, and not the most sensible to properly ask what was going on. “And it’s not. It’s complicated.”
“The Boy Who Yawned.”
Harry grimaced. “Stop with that.”
“Aren’t there any more dark lords to brutally kill with my wand?”
“Not anymore.” Potter cracked up. “Now it’s mostly paperwork.”
Something ticked in Draco’s brain, but he said nothing, afraid of what would be the reaction. Even if he had not seen Harry in years, he recognized that look in a millisecond. After all, it was what he saw each day in the mirror when he thought about leaving the receptionist position. He waited for an opportunity to bring the subject up, to make Harry talk about it, but the other seemed too occupied to look at the image of his old self unhurriedly working. Maybe he was toiling it out himself just now. Or he already knew and didn’t want to admit defeat. The blond could understand that feeling extremely well.
It didn’t take Draco by surprise when Potter got a job as an Auror. Bloody hell, he was surprised they didn’t offer the boy the whole Ministry as soon as he graduated. He heard a few whispered voices here and there, about how Harry refused to be immediately enrolled but decided to go through the training and tests like everyone else. That’s how good and fair he was.
So no, Draco had not been surprised when he saw Harry holding the Minister’s hand on the front newspaper three years out of Hogwarts. and had been even less surprised when he read that he had passed with flying colors alongside Ron Weasley. Granger also worked in the ministry, in a department specifically designed to ensure the magical and non-magical relationship for the foreseeing years.
It did take him by surprise when they announced his split up with Ginevra Weasley, a few weeks after the beginning of his job, because that was not part of the expectation that Draco had of Potter. He was meant to become the Minister, marry a pretty wife, and have a considerable amount of children to send off to school and take on the legacy.
“See, no one is paying attention to me.” Harry snapped him out of reality, and Draco grimly realized that he was looking at the modern Harry rather than the one sitting at the desk. Thankfully enough, the other didn’t seem to have noticed, too busy scrutinizing around.
“Well, you do have your own office,” Draco said. “Hardly anyone is around. You said you talked with your boss?”
The other nodded. “He should be here any minute.”
And just as predicted, an old man entered and dropped some more files on Harry’s desk, politely chatting about the weather and other stuff. When nothing happened the rest of the day, the way to the store, and the way home, and the night spent on the sofa with Potter passing out in the middle of a movie, his face not really showing emotions, the two of them were snapped back into Draco’s bedroom in a millisecond, the whiplash of the movement almost too much.
A sudden wave of queasiness overcame him, just like it always did before he could recollect himself and dust off his shirt.
“I haven’t seen anything useful,” he instantly noted, writing it on his notebook with a sight and noting that it was already the afternoon. They must have spent more time in the memory than it seemed, which was not good. “And to be honest I have no idea where to start.”
“At first I thought it could be about some time turner,” Harry said, Draco raising his head to look at him, “but I haven't touched any since a third year, and Hermione said that the ministry destroyed all of them.”
That made the Slytherin blink rapidly, as he proceeded with that piece of information. Of course, Potter had used a time-turner. He stared at him as if he had grown a third head, which he probably could do by being the Lord and Saviour of everything and everyone. “You what?”
The cheeky git almost seemed amused at his tone, as he bit his lip. “Never mind.”
“No, you have to explain.” Draco closed the notebook so rapidly that it made Harry smile. “Please, enlighten us poor souls that have not lived a thrilling life. How did you use a time-turner?”
Draco rolled his eyes more times than he liked to admit at the adventure that Harry was narrating. He spoke as if it wasn’t a hefty deal, as if all thirteen years old went through all of that. While Draco was dealing with a stubborn cut from the hippogriff and a sense of teenager dread and ominous culmination about life, Potter was running around and meddling with time.
At the end of the tale, he exhaled exhaustively. “That’s how Buckbead got away, then.”
Potter said nothing for a while, his eyes fixed on Draco with a bizarre gleam in his eyes. “You were an ass.”
“When wasn't I?”
It was more of a rhetorical question, but Potter seemed to have an answer ready on the tip of his tongue. “At the Manor.”
He didn't have the right to say stuff like that. Draco had tried not to think about how stupid he had been, how he had ruined his family’s fortune with a simple and idiotic decision. The thing was, he would do it again in a heartbeat. But Potter didn't need to know his inner turmoil.
“Well, I did get a nasty cut though. From Buckbead.” He rolled the sleeve of his shirt, realizing that he had also exposed the marks that Potter had left with that spell. “Look at that.”
“Oh.” Harry leaned closer, inspecting the scar. His eyes told Draco that it was the first time he had seen that. “I didn't know that. I just assumed you were being a prat.”
Draco didn't want to talk about the other scars on his body, and Potter thankfully didn't seem to notice. They were more prominent on his chest, and he surely wasn't going to show Potter those. It was funny, being this petty about a few scars.
“Okay. So, not a time-turner.” Draco penned down, changing the subject prontly. “And it would be stupid since you are stuck on the same day. Even a defective one wouldn’t do that. Maybe a curse by someone?”
Harry shrugged, his shoulders dropping carefully. “I don’t really know who could have done it.”
“You historically had a few enemies.”
“Well, they are either dead or imprisoned,” Harry said, with a chuckle. “Or in front of me.”
“Funny. Well, you were in public. Anyone could have targeted you.”
“In a muggle shop? I don’t know.” Harry said. “And what curse would they even use? I’ve never heard of anything like this.”
The blond exhaled, already too tired of this mess. “I don’t know. You are the one who has been looking at this for almost two months. Maybe you found something. If only we had Granger to help.”
“Tell me about it.” Harry pursed his lips. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll take you to a magic library. Search more into it. I tried to do it, but I didn’t find much.”
“I want you to write down a list of any possible suspects. But, I have a question though.” Draco spoke before he could stop himself, curious about one thing in particular. Who would blame him, if he felt smug that Potter actually wanted his help? Maybe he hadn't been his first choice, but still. “How did you find me?”
It took a few seconds for Harry to answer, as he lightly shifted on the bed. “After the failure alone, I almost gave up. I tried to get Neville’s help, but he got a nasty case of Dragon-pox and we tired with letters for a few days but it was just taking too much time. I spent a few days roaming around London and doing nothing, just— walking, thinking about stuff. About life, about the people that I would not see anymore. And one day I pass this cafe, and see you in the booth by the window. Almost had a heart attack. Thought I’d give it a shot.”
It was fair, he reckoned. Draco wasn’t surely expecting Potter to seek him out of the whole city just for his help. It was almost reassuring, in a twisted way, that Harry had just stumbled on him and decided to stick with it.
“And what did I do the first day?”
“What you usually do.” Harry snorted. “You were snarky and made fun of me, but you still helped me.”
Draco lightly hummed at that and clasped his hands together. “Why don’t we eat something, and then look through some of my books?”
——
As the time passed and the day wore out, they didn’t get much progress done. Draco had taken out all of his manuals, and between himself and Harry had gone through some of them and not a single line on time misplacement was written. Truth to be told, he didn't even know where to start.
“Found anything?”
“Some German wizard talking about time turners,” Draco said, bored. To be fair, it was a very dull article. “But he isn’t saying much useful. You know— you should try to remember what book we have been through, for future days. Have we not done this before?”
“I did spend days on books,” The Gryffindor switched the page of what he was reading, his body splashed on the floor as if it was the most comfortable thing. His limbs were everywhere, and Draco couldn’t fathom how someone could read in a position like that. “The most useful thing I found was a guide on what to do if you were misplaced in time.”
“And what did it say?”
“Not to panic, mostly.”
That made Draco chuckle.
“I think we should order some food, it’s kind of late.” Harry took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I could use a bite.”
“I can make some pasta.” Maybe Draco was too aware of his money, even if the day was going to be wasted, but he wasn’t a careless spender.
“No need, I know a very good Indian place. You’ll like it.” Harry summoned the menu and passed it to Draco, who scribbled down on a piece of paper what he wanted and pointed at the phone on the kitchen table.
“You call, I’ll go search for other books.”
——
Draco still remembered the first time he used a pensive. His mother had just died, and he was trying to find a way to feel less pain.
It didn't work.
——
Potter was trying to kill him, he should have suspected that.
“This is too much, bloody hell!” Draco dropped the fork on the plate and went to get a cube of ice from his fridge, a jinx being muttered under each step on the floor. All directed at the other man. Potter, the prick that he was, was cracking up on the floor in front of the sofa, his own plate of curry in his hands. “I’m going to die. You have killed me, Potter! Murderer!”
“You are not dying, you big sob,” Harry laughed even more as Draco tried to drown in cold water, nothing really helping his burning throat. “It’s just curry. You are too dramatic.”
“When you said we were going to order from your favorite place, I should have stopped you. I should have just made pasta.” His tone was grave as his eyes watered. “Fuck, how can you handle it?”
Potter shrugged and went back for another bite. Rubbing his superpower into Draco’s face, it seemed. “When I figured out my father was Indian, I tried to get into the culture a little bit more. I still don’t know more than half of the stuff, but I’m trying.”
“What do you mean, figured it out? Didn’t you know?”
Everyone knew about the Potters. Hell, Draco probably could recite the family’s tree up until three generations before. Everyone knew about them. One of the most powerful and ancient families coming from India, dusted away by the war.
“My aunt and uncle never told me,” Potter lowered his stare, as well as his tone. Pensitive. Raw. “Until I was— maybe ten? They just told me I was more tanned than them. And they never really explained it to me or made an effort. And I never met anyone from my dad’s side of the family, they are all— well, dead. Until one of my uncle’s relatives mentioned it in a… not so polite manner, let’s say.”
Somehow, Draco had imagined that Potter had lived the perfect childhood. A secret from the magical world, but treated like the hero that he was. But something in his tone made him question that. “They must suck then.”
That made the dark haired chuckle. “They do.”
What the hell, Draco thought. “I knew a few things about the Potters. And I have a few books somewhere. If you want, when this is over,” not if. “I can lend them to you.”
“I would like that,” Harry said. He didn't mention that he probably could find that information somewhere else, and Draco was grateful for that. “Think you can go for another bite?”
“Not in this life.”
Harry giggled. A proper chuckle. “Do you have some ice cream, then? It helps with the burning.”
Draco hummed and went to get a cup of ice cream, joining back on the floor in front of the TV. He dived into the thing when Harry stole a little bit with his fork.
“Thief!” Draco snapped, angry about the steal and the mess that Potter made on the floor. “The Boy Who Stole! I’ll send an owl to Rita right now.”
“You do love to make that joke.” The delighted laugh that Harry made was almost worth the missing ice cream in the cup. Almost. “Sorry. You get all wrinkly when you are mad. It’s funny.”
“I do not.”
“Yes,” Harry muttered happily and pointed a finger between Draco’s brows. “Right there.”
The heir of his fortune, made to be the laughing stock by a man who couldn't eat without dirtying his shirt.
“That’s not important.” The blond mumbled in the middle of a spoonful of ice cream, not really understanding the look that the other was giving him. “Have we talked about it before?”
“About what?”
The words fought to get out, instantly regretting bringing the subject up. Silly Draco, he should have minded his own business. “Your family.”
He just twisted his mouth. “Not really. A little bit here and there. No more than yours.”
Draco didn’t like to talk about his family. His aunt was dead and a monster, his father was dead to him, and his mother was properly dead. The only decent relative alive was probably Andromeda, but Potter surely knew more about them than Draco. “So you didn't know about your parents?”
Potter blinked. “No. Not until I went to Hogwart. I was told that they had died in a car crash.”
Weird. Draco recalled a few pictures he had seen of the Potters, and Harry was just like his father. Had his mother’s eyes and chin.
“I always assumed you had the perfect childhood, you know?” Draco said to the cup because Harry seemed to be too self conscious about the subject. He didn’t even know why he was saying all of that stuff. “Perfect Harry Potter.”
“I think the whole world knows that my parents died to save me.” Harry reminded him, shifting his head and looking almost amused for someone talking about his deceased mother and father.
“That’s not what I mean.” Draco grits out in a huff. “But— your aunt and uncle must have been horrible to you, it seems. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“They were. We don't really talk anymore. Sometimes I go visit my cousin though.” they stood silently for a second, reminiscing. “They kept me in a cupboard, to sleep.”
“You are shitting me.”
“Unfortunately not,” Harry said, pensively.
Draco tried to find the words. Truth be told, his father may have been what he was but— Draco had a happy childhood. He had been a happy kid. It didn't seem fair that the child destined to save everyone had such a miserable life, while he, a Death-Eater, could speak so fondly of his family.
He always imagined Potter to be powerful, and he was. He imagined Potter to be aware of his fame, to be proud of what he had accomplished, and in those faithful few hours he was suddenly rethinking about everything that went down from the first year until now. What a shame that he hadn't noticed any of this before.
“I always thought that everything was handed to you— you are famous, people just like you.”
“People like Harry Potter,” the dark-haired mumbled. “Not just Harry.”
“You know what,” Draco was surprised to even think that. If anyone had told him that he was going to spend the whole day with Harry Potter and had been in a time loop with him, he would have laughed. ”Attempted murder of my life aside, you are not so bad after all. Just a little. I never thought I would say this, since I have been trained to hate you, but— you can be… decent.”
“Decent. I’ll take that.” Harry rolled his eyes, but the blond could make out the gland expression on his face. Maybe they had spent thirty nights together, discussing theories on the situation, and slowly becoming one-sided friends. Draco wouldn’t know. It made him wonder what could have been if they had been different kids, with different lives, and different families. Normal lives. “You too, you know. You are decent.”
It was almost midnight, and Harry decided to stay there. It was pointless, in his opinion, to go home. The day would reset on its own. Draco looked at the clock bitterly. “Sorry, I couldn’t help more.”
Harry shrugged as if it wasn't vital. “We’ll try again tomorrow, don’t worry.”
He seemed to realize what he said, and suddenly Draco was in an unconventional position as he finished his ice cream. He also would help tomorrow, but not this version of himself. He would not remember any of it.
He wouldn't remember Potter talking about his family, or spending the afternoon reading and bickering.
It had been a wasted day, after all.
“You will.”
Potter beamed sadly, almost longing. Who knew what was going on inside his head as he set the plate on the floor? Draco had been wrong, now he wanted more than anything to know what he was thinking. “Yeah. Well, it has been nice to meet the Draco Malfoy that shared curry with me. And could not handle it.”
A minute to midnight, and Draco would forget the whole day. He blurred his thoughts out as he shared a look with Potter.
In just a few minutes everything would disappear, so it only seemed right to make it feel special.
“I keep the pensive in my bedroom because it’s easier to look at memories of my mother.”
“What?”
Draco twinkled and diverted his stare. Suddenly he wasn’t able to hold it anymore, he wasn’t capable of doing it. Something about those green eyes was making him feel uneasy. Exhausted.
If only he had more time to figure out why.
“Maybe it’s something that you can add to your little list, Harry.”
The Gryffindor smiled at that, almost too prominent on his face, as a rosiness danced on his cheeks. “I will. When this is all over, we sh—“