Chapter Text
Friday,
just after
midnight
Draco is a good professor. He'd like to think so anyway. He's developed extraordinary levels of patience over the years—well, extraordinary for him —and considering the number of frankly daring follow-up questions he receives from students on a daily basis, he'd guess he gives off an air of approachability. The professorship, though, is one thing. That he can do. That is something comfortably within his skillset.
Being the Head of Slytherin… He wakes up every day honestly surprised he still holds this position.
Case in point?
The carefully-made, determination-filled, professional-responsibility-based, child-welfare-aimed plan he had meant to execute tonight centred around speaking with a colleague about a fifth-year Gryffindor who had mysteriously found herself in possession of a century-old time turner went so completely sideways that, now, nearly three hours after leaving his rooms, Draco is returning to them with the time turner still the pocket of his overrobes and with his heart fluttering irritatingly as it’s developed a startling habit of doing.
He is… not always this incompetent. It's just… The simple explanation is… It is not an excuse but if he did bring it up with a colleague whom he could trust not to laugh at him—mainly Neville, and definitely not McGonnagal who would actually be able to absolve him of blame—he might be forgiven for it.
It is an excuse that might, in some circumstances, from certain points of view, be seen as reasonable or at least as making sense. Sort of. The thing is that… Draco is easily distracted in the company of Harry Potter.
Some would say it's to be expected—after all, many people get distracted in the company of the Man Who Conquered—but the problem would be far easier to solve if that was all it was. Hero worship is more fragile and quicker to break than a confusing decades-old sort-of crush that's been festering in Draco's chest. It's a state old enough for him to have it under control—more or less—but still unresolved enough that every interaction is tinged with it. And with Draco thinking about… resolving it.
It makes him worse at a job he's already bad at. It makes him sloppy and irrational and dizzy-headed. It temporarily shuts of the left side of his brain making him no better than the subject of his infatuation at his worst.
When he enters his bedroom, he enters it defeated. Or at least with a desire to berate himself for not having the problem of Katherine Deerheart's time turner out of his hands already. But as it often is when he falls backwards into bed and closes his eyes with the wish to finally afford himself some sleep, his thoughts twist and twirl and stray away from important topics such as the caved-in Room of Hidden Things somehow becoming accessible to students, and towards the way Harry smiled at him when he found Draco at his door despite the relatively late hour.
It was just before ten when Draco finally caught up on homework grading and found time to deal with other obligations befalling a professor at Hogwarts. He arrived to Harry's office at a quarter to and needed only to knock once before his entire field of vision was filled with Harry's joyous smiling face.
It still makes his breath hitch—Harry smiling at him—even though they've become friends ages ago in comparison to the point in time at which Draco had absolutely been pressed to acknowledge his crush —via a rather unfortunate sequence of dreams so persistent he'd been convinced he'd have to fight them with Dreamless, though it turned out mere active recall of them during waking hours and a long, soul-searching shower afterwards were enough to… tame them if not stop them entirely.
"Draco," Harry said, seeing him in his doorway, "come in, come in. Is everything alright?"
"Yes," Draco managed to reply despite the majority of his brain function being wasted on stopping himself from leaning into the warm touch of Harry's hand on his right shoulder blade as Harry ushered him into an armchair situated in the tiny sitting room adjacent to Harry's office on one side and bedroom on the other.
It felt like habit, to adjust the throw pillows behind his back so they'd be tilted just so, so they'd be just as he liked them, only this time, while Harry was already making them both a cup of tea, all Draco could think about was Harry resetting the pillows after each of Draco's departures. Every time he’s entered this sitting room, the pillows have been set back to their original positions—there for decoration and not utility. And every time, Draco shifts them around. And then Harry presumably readjusts them again. Tonight, this thought bubbled against his other thoughts, jostling anything sensical still clinging to the inside of Draco’s skull. He sunk further into the chair and only the scent of tea and Harry's citrusy shampoo were enough to break the haze.
Their thumbs brushed when Harry handed him the tea—saucer and all. It seemed clear as day then that Harry looked at him with something so close to affection; Draco had almost tossed the teacup and swung his arms up to hug him and bury his fingers in his hair and kiss him senseless—
What a lost cause…
"Is something the matter then?" Harry asked, sitting down himself. "Or did you miss me already?"
His eyes were full of mirth and his smirk full of mischief and in moments like these, Draco always thought it reasonable to be a little bit in love with Harry. His crush didn't seem so strange, so irrational, then.
"I… there's a matter I've been meaning to bring up with you.” Draco barely finished the sentence when a peculiar frown overtook Harry’s features. It almost stopped the conversation, derailed it before it’d even started, but Draco had come here with a purpose and he would do his best to stay professional—despite the throw pillows and the crackling fire and the perfectly brewed cup of tea. He cleared his throat and added, “In my capacity as a professor."
"Oh.” Harry’s frown disappeared and he straightened in his seat. “Sounds serious."
Harry let his teacup float next to him—and did he know what such casual feats of wandless magic did to Draco?—and then leaned forward. His legs were crossed at the ankles, knees apart, and the fabric of his trousers strained against his thighs. It was exceptionally difficult not to stare but by now, Draco had had enough practice looking away from the temptations such as Harry's thighs and his crotch and the hint of chest hair peaking through the perpetually too-loose collar of Harry's shirts and sweaters.
"Anyone hurt?" Harry asked and Draco shook his head immediately, a strange and annoying warmth filling him at once as it does whenever Harry's kindness and care for the world at large became particularly explicit. If only Harry was generally an asshole—then Draco would let himself ogle without consequences. Maybe even make a move. Get himself out of this ditch of misery. No such luck though…
"Not yet," he replied, "but potentially. We might need to find the time to renew the wards around the… unstable parts of the castle. Or at least investigate."
Harry cringed instantly and Draco sighed both with relief at knowing they were on the same page but also apprehension that this likely meant Miss Deerheart was not as singular an incident as he might have thought.
"What happened?" he inquired immediately as he put his teacup on the tiny coffee table shoved into the corner between a lamp and a bookshelf. "And why didn't you bring it up earlier?"
"I thought it was one and done thing," Harry said. "I handled it as Head of House and thought it was a case of… students being too curious for their own good. Seems I was wrong."
"Well, at least you admit it.” Draco rolled his eyes. Harry threw a stinging hex at him. Draco rolled his eyes again. A childish routine, but a routine nonetheless. “Who was it?"
The whole story unravelled quickly from there. A trio of Gryffindors, bored from having finished their assignments early and suddenly in that strange pre-winter holiday limbo, decided to explore the castle. And nothing was more tempting than an area previously unknown even to long-time students. The myriad of redirection charms and shielding wards were just an extra motivation to figure out the puzzle that was Myrtle's bathroom.
They started a list then—Harry and him—of places that were supposedly at risk of being broken into and from there the conversation devolved into brainstorming warding schemes, reopening the theories of potential reconstruction techniques, and reminiscing about the old Hogwarts, whole and sturdy and unfamiliar with battle.
How easy it was, then, to slip into ribbing each other about their foolish youthful spats, about all their confrontations held in hallways so used to teenage melodrama. They meandered from memories of their first few months as coworkers over gossiping about students who reminded them of themselves to gossiping about colleagues who will forever stay a picture of authority in their minds despite having gotten comfortable with being on a first-name basis with them.
And then, around half-twelve, Harry persuaded him into sharing a bottle of some Spanish brandy Ron and Hermione had brought from their recent vacation and the topics dissolved into commiserating over how horribly difficult it was to be responsible for dozens and dozens of children, then into an amusing argument about whether Harry or Draco had a worse batch of said children. Then about the first years—so young and so tiny and so full of energy no matter the house—about their own first years, about midnight duels and dragons and…
About how lovely it was to be friends now, finally. How wonderful it is to be able to share these burdens and this brandy and all the sentimentality.
To say they were tipsy would perhaps be an exaggeration, but Draco's tongue did feel dangerously loose and Harry's eyes looked so achingly tender and his lips so temptingly soft. Something… something was in the air, that much was unmistakable. Some sparkling, fizzing potential.
And then Draco's wand sparked and fizzed and both of them flinched from the sudden burst of activity.
"What—?"
"Oh, an alarm," Draco groaned. "I have first year Ravenclaws first thing tomorrow morning. It's… it's a warning I should go to bed."
"Oh." They stared at each other without speaking, Draco expecting Harry to say something else and Harry not saying anything, and then Draco stood up.
"Well," Harry started. Draco turned to him. The muscle of Harry's jaw twitched—Draco noticed because his eyes were traitorously close to Harry's mouth—and then, a second later, his shoulder slumped and he shrugged, his lips curving into a small smile and his eyebrows doing some unintelligible dance all the while. "I… We should continue this discussion soon, Draco, and… we should bring it up with the others, yeah? I can talk to Minerva about a faculty meeting."
"That—That'd be great, yes." Draco had at that point, frankly, forgotten about the reason he came to Harry's office in the first place. "I'll… I'll see you around then. Thanks. Thanks for the tea. And the brandy."
Harry laughed. Draco's stomach flipped on its head. Once. Twice.
"Of course. Anytime," Harry replied. He was twisting his hands in front of him and Draco wanted to reach out and stop him, to slide his palms against Harry's and intertwine their fingers and hold onto him until Harry didn't feel twitchy anymore. He wanted to bring Harry's hands up to his face and kiss his knuckles and his fingers and his palm. And his lips. And…
"I had a good time tonight— today really—Draco. I… I enjoy your company. I'm glad you… I'm happy you sought me out today."
Draco frowned at this—it was expected of him to talk to Harry about the warding issue after all—but he nodded nonetheless. It was… It meant something—to know that his company was enjoyed .
"Sure," he said because it was late and his mind was fuzzy with fatigue and brandy and conversation, and then nodded again, turned on his heel and left.
It was only right in front of his own door, when he'd reached for his wand to unlock it, that he realised the blasted time turner was still in his pocket and for all their plotting and strategising Draco had somehow managed to forget to tell Harry why he was bringing up the topic of warding at all.
Now, already in bed and already resigned to having to reattempt to dispose of the device on the morrow, he takes out the time turner and holds it up above his head. The light is low, the bedding is soft, his body feels malleable and lazy—all of which make the perfect conditions for his mind to wander.
The roads of his thoughts are curving and thin and shadowed by uncertainties but there, along the path through the messy do-not-look-at-this-too-closely woods, there are bright spots. Bits and pieces of Harry scattered in corners where they have no place being, connected to seemingly unrelated feelings and urges but vibrant and intense and always capable of conjuring a swarm of Doxies low in Draco’s belly.
He rolls over so his stomach is pressed against the mattress but keeps his eyes open because if he even dares to think about closing them, the phantom feeling of Harry's arms around his hips, his lips on the back of his neck, his breath on his cheek, creep in unbidden. How many nights in a row has he fallen asleep with a fantasy of doing it cocooned not only in still-unfamiliar presumably-Gryffindor-red bedding but also Harry's embrace?
He feels pathetic.
He feels all twelve years old.
He rolls over again, to his other side where he can stare at the fireplace on top of which stands a glass candle holder in the shape of a snake. It was a gift. It was so on the nose. It was the first thing Harry had ever given him if you discount the cups of tea—which Draco is not discounting, but some, more reasonable people might—for the five-year anniversary of Draco’s ascension to Slytherin Head of House. Draco has never used it—too afraid of wax dripping down the sides and staining the glass forever—but it stands on his fireplace and glints and glints and glints whenever there are flames bouncing below it.
Harry has given him other gifts since then: a wand holster allegedly pilfered from the Auror Department itself, a porcelain tea set glazed deep blue after he found out it was Draco's favourite colour, a black winter hat visibly hand-knit but lacking comments about its origin, various chocolates, countless cups of perfectly brewed black tea, with a dash of milk and no sugar. But the candle holder is special because it was the first.
Harry had been so nervous about it too—it was funny at the time, but now it's just endearing and isn't that the worst thing in the world? That Draco can look back at Harry almost dropping a gift he did not have to give him and feeling such overwhelming fondness that it makes him want to scream into his pillow.
He sits up. He takes his pillow and stares at it. He has Silencing charms on his door so it would probably be perfectly fine if he needed to let off some steam. Probably.
But it would be so undignified.
So below him.
He puts the pillow back in its place, slaps it a couple of times to flatten it and then falls back into bed. He shuts his eyes. Closes them tight . Counts sheep.
He drifts off for a little while but wakes up what feels like minutes later. He's too lazy and too warm and too wrapped up in his blankets to free his arm and get his wand to cast a Tempus.
Harry would be able to cast it wandlessly, no doubt. Damn him.
If Harry was in his bed right now, woken by Draco's constant tossing and turning, he'd cast a Tempus and say something so stupid and dim-witted like "God, Draco, it's way past our bedtime—c'mon, go to sleep."
And they'd have a bedtime in this scenario, and Harry would know that Draco sometimes has trouble sleeping—worse of full moons and whenever the weather suddenly shifts over night—and he'd left Draco wrap himself up around him until they're a tangle of limbs, and kiss his head and Draco would fall asleep.
Draco screams into his pillow.
There is something seriously wrong with him. He can't… He can't keep going on like this. This needs to stop. He needs to cut out the part of his brain that keeps imagining these sickly sweet impossible visions of a happily ever after or he needs to force Harry—the real Harry—to actually star in them.
It's all or nothing.
He's tired of this… this mixed signals limbo he’s— they ’re—in.
He's sick of it.
He will have to do something about it.
Invite Harry to Hogsmeade—but make it clear the invitation's aim is to do more than chaperone. Or ask him to spend Valentine's together—even though that's so far away.
Or tell him…
Tell him that Draco enjoys his company. So much that after spending hours together Draco's greedy greedy heart years for even more. For always. For forever. For all that Harry could ever possibly give him.
He jumps out of bed, puts on his slippers and throws on yesterday's over-robes, for once thankful for his tossing and turning—because it meant that all prefects should also be in bed by now—and marches back to Harry's office.
The castle is cold at night and though usually he'd take such walks to clear his head, to make sense of the senseless, to return some rhyme or reason to his mind, tonight the cold just barely keeps him awake and focused on this one task.
Harry's door appears before him in what feels like two steps. He blinks and he's there. His ears are stuffed with the cottoned silence blanketing the castle and his head feels so heavy with sleeplessness but he manages somehow to lift his hand and knock.
And again.
And again.
But the door remains closed.
This time Draco does fish out his wand and the Tempus reveals the tragedy of his whole endeavour—it's almost four in the morning. And though before the decision to confess—to make Harry confess—seemed like the only thing he'd ever have to go through with in the whole entire rest of his life, now, with the daunting reality of whatever cheer and joy Harry possessed when Draco was leaving his office earlier being gone due to Harry being asleep, his resolve crumbles as easily as ash.
The walk back to his room is as desolate as the one earlier that night—as foggy and melancholic, as capable of making him regret his life choices as ever.
He makes it there in a daze, with his eyes half closed, and a spark of an upcoming headache blooming at the back of his head. He sighs, then swallows, then realises that his night has been sleepless for so long that swallowing feels like choking down Floo powder.
He's lazy. And tired. So he puts his hand in his pocket to get his wand and hope for the best in Accio-ing a glass and some water, but instead of smooth, warm, recently-held wood, his hand touches metal.
Like an ice cube down his back, wrapping his hand around the time turner wakes him from his stupor.
He pulls it out more delicately than is needed and stares at the warped reflection of himself in the thin interlocking bands.
The idea—such a bad idea—pops into his head in an instant.
It's nearly four in the morning.
Draco's plan to cease his sleepless, lonesome nights was thwarted by the late hour. By a change of circumstances which put him out of Harry's favour.
So what if he just… returned to an earlier setting? To Harry, reluctantly saying good night. To Harry speaking as if he'd like Draco around for longer. To Harry awake if nothing else…
He bites his lip—a brief flash of Harry being the one biting makes his heart skip a beat—and without letting himself doubt himself for even a second longer, twists the key and turns back time.
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⁛