Chapter Text
The air at St Mungo's always carried a bitter tang, a blend of antiseptic and the stale root of mandrake.
Draco Malfoy straightened his back, removing the blood-stained dragonhide gloves. His platinum locks, damp with sweat, clung to his pallid forehead. As a post-war “Healer” whose reputation had soared, he was accustomed to treading the line between life and death. Yet today's patient presented a complication—a fanatical remnant of the Death Eaters who, during his arrest by the Auror Office, had illegally activated a modified, highly unstable Time-Turner.
More troublesome still was the twenty-five-year-old saviour, Harry Potter, who stood like a shadow in the corner, supervising.
‘Blood pressure dropping. Heart rate irregular,’ Draco spat out coldly, his voice hoarse. ‘Potter, if you'd cease pacing in my operating theatre, perhaps his survival odds might increase by one per cent.’
Harry Potter, standing in the shadows, halted. The twenty-five-year-old Chosen One wore a dark Auror coat, stubble unshaven, his emerald eyes bloodshot. He had to be present, for the prisoner clutched the final clue regarding the black market flow of Time-Turners.
‘He's a high-security prisoner, Malfoy,’ Harry's voice was low. ‘He can't die.’
‘On my operating table, he's merely a fragile husk,’ Draco sneered, raising his eyebrow as he prepared to cast the Vulnera Sanentur once more.
The anomaly occurred in that very instant.
The modified Time-Turner—a sandglass of eerie, dark purple hue, normally confined within a specially crafted lead box—suddenly emitted a piercing, shrill screech. Defying the laws of physics, it did not rotate; instead, it burst open from its core like an overripe fruit.
"Get down! " Harry instinctively threw himself onto the operating table, attempting to suppress the violent magical surge.
But it was too late. Golden dust mingled with shards of bright purple crystal, like countless tiny meteors, instantly piercing the entire space. Draco felt a cold blade pierce his chest, followed by the dull ache of his soul being wrenched from his body.
The last image he saw was his own shattered reflection mirrored in Harry Potter's terrified green eyes.
At twenty-five, Draco Malfoy had become one of Britain's most powerful Healers. He was accustomed to the Earl Grey tea with double sugar cubes served by his house-elf each morning, to the feel of velvet bedding beneath his fingertips, and above all, to the silky ease with which magic flowed at his command.
Now, however, he stood in the kitchen of 4 Privet Drive, a greasy, detergent-foam-covered steel wool pad clenched in his fist, scrubbing furiously at a stubborn frying pan.
‘Potter! Does it take you a century to wash a pan?’
Vernon Dursley's thunderous roar echoed from the living room, mingling with the clamour of horse racing commentary from the television.
Draco scrubbed the pan's base mechanically, his slender fingers turning slightly white from prolonged immersion in cold water. He glanced down at his hands—dirt had even crept into his fingernails. For a Malfoy, this was more mortifying than the Cruciatus Curse.
‘If you dare raise your voice again, Dursley,’ Draco murmured in a voice only he could hear, his aristocratic accent elegant yet icy, ‘I shall cut out your tongue and shove it down your bloated throat.’
Alas, he had no wand. Worse still, Harry Potter’s fourteen-year-old body, ravaged by chronic malnutrition and drudgery, radiated a sickening exhaustion.
At two in the afternoon, the Surrey sun beat down with a ferocity that threatened to melt the tarmac.
Draco pushed the heavy mechanical mower, inching across the parched lawn of the back garden. His tousled black hair, damp with sweat, clung to the scar on his forehead. He swore he'd never looked so wretched in his life.
Dudley Dursley sat in the porch shade with his gang of cronies, stuffing his mouth with chocolate while emitting bursts of pig-like snorts of derision.
‘Oi Freak!’ Dudley hurled a crumpled wrapper, hitting Draco squarely on the back of the head. ‘Look, the Chosen One's giving the lawn a trim! Didn't you skip that madhouse school this year 'cause you've finally gone so bonkers you can't even stay on a broomstick?’
Draco halted.
Had it been the real Harry Potter, he might have chosen silence or fired back a retort. But Draco Malfoy never went into battle unprepared. He switched off the mower and turned slowly.
Those emerald eyes, which should have blazed with fervour and fury, were now as still as a deep pool, reflecting a spine-chilling, predatory glint.
Dudley 's laughter abruptly ceased. He sensed, inexplicably, that his cousin before him had changed. Though still encased in that same frail frame, his every gesture now radiated a... certain arrogance, reminiscent of his father Lucius's condescending gaze upon mere ants.
‘Dudley,’ Draco spoke slowly, his voice low yet carrying an uncanny authority, ‘do you know why certain breeds of pig are slaughtered first?’
‘What?’ Harry froze.
‘Because they're too noisy and take up too much space.’ Draco began walking towards Harry, radiating the aura of one who wields life and death, honed in St Mungo's operating theatres. He stopped just three inches from Dudley, his voice low and menacing. ‘I know you and your lot sneak cigarettes in the back alley and that you've been dipping into your father's safe. If you throw your rubbish at me again, I'll make sure that money “appears” under your pillow. And I'll kindly inform your old boar of a father exactly where you've been stashing those colourful magazines lately.’
Dudley's complexion shifted from ruddy to pallid, then to the ashen hue of the dead.
‘How... how did you know...’
‘I'm a wizard, you fool.’ Draco snorted coldly, restarting the mower and leaving Dudley shivering in the heatwave.
Dinner was Draco's most agonising hour.
He had to serve the roast beef like a servant, then huddle in a corner eating a meagre piece of dry bread and a few wilted lettuce leaves.
Vernon chewed his fatty meat while fixing Draco with that repulsive stare: "Heard you scared Dudley today? You freak, if you dare use your filthy tricks under my roof...‘
’ Mister Dursley,‘ Draco set down his water glass with an elegance that made Aunt Petunia stare in astonishment—a table manner that an exiled noble could maintain even in the most humble surroundings. ’I believe we need to renegotiate our agreement."
‘Agreement?’ Uncle Vernon slammed his cutlery down, the flesh on his face trembling. ‘In this house, I make the rules!’
‘Of course, your house, your rules.’ Draco folded his hands, leaning back slightly. Harry's baggy old T-shirt somehow took on an air of haute couture silk when worn by him. "But please consider this: I have two weeks left before returning to school. If, within those two weeks, you could provide me with a proper bedroom, permit me three hours daily in the study, and refrain from making me touch that bloody lawnmower..."
‘You're dreaming!’
‘...Then,’ Draco interrupted him, his tone as calm as if discussing the weather, "I shan't “accidentally” omit certain details about “Muggle interference with wizarding heritage” when reporting to the Ministry at term's start. As I understand it, the Magical Law Enforcement has a rather... violent approach to punishing Muggles who mistreat young wizards. Like turning your head into a giant cactus, or condemning you to walk backwards for the rest of your life.‘
Aunt Petunia let out a horrified shriek and clutched her chest.
’You can't... they won't allow you to use magic out here!" Vernon bellowed, his voice trembling beneath his stern exterior.
‘Oh, I certainly don't. But I have many “friends”.’ Draco pictured Harry's reckless Gryffindor companions, particularly that Hermione Granger, who could undoubtedly pen a three-foot-long complaint letter. ‘They'd be delighted to handle it. After all, I am the “Chosen One”, am I not?’
A deathly silence descended upon the dining room.
Draco rose to his feet and gave Aunt Petunia a polite nod. ‘Dinner was delicious, though the beef was slightly overcooked. Might I retire to Dudley's broom cupboard—my new bedroom—now?’
Late that night, Draco lay upon the bed in Dudley’s spare bedroom, cluttered with discarded toys. Though still spartan, at least he had a proper bed.
He stretched out his hand, examining his palm by moonlight. Because his soul and body were not yet fully aligned, he could feel the fragment of the Time-Turner within him throbbing faintly. Whenever the pain intensified, he could vaguely sense another emotion—
one belonging to Harry Potter.
That emotion was currently steeped in utter absurdity and vexation. He could sense ‘Harry’ struggling to field Lucius Malfoy's questions on the Dark Arts, the sweat-drenched tension seeping through the temporal fissure.
"Potter, you bloody fool, don't flash that righteous glare at Lucius. ‘ Draco muttered to the air, praying he'd survive Lucius's etiquette lessons.
He closed his eyes, mentally replaying the entire situation.
’Fourteen...‘ Draco rolled over, feeling the vitality of this young body. ’Without Voldemort, without the war, Potter, was your life always this rubbish?"
A complex emotion welled within him. Not pity, but a sense of injustice born of being both former adversary and current ‘fellow sufferer.’
‘Just you wait, old man.’ Draco stared at the shadows on the ceiling, his gaze sharpening. ‘Now that I'm back, everything will be done by my rules.’
Outside the window, an owl flapped past, bearing a letter from Ron Weasley.
Draco opened the envelope with a look of disgust.
‘If you dare call me “mate” again, Weasley, I'll shove this letter down your throat.’
He dictated his reply in Harry's childish scrawl while scheming his plan.
Just as Draco closed his eyes, attempting to calm his mind with the Malfoy family's meditative technique, a sharp “pop” echoed through the air, accompanied by the stench of a mouldy rag.
A creature with bat-like ears, clad in a filthy pillowcase, appeared at the foot of the bed. Its enormous, tennis-ball-sized eyes brimmed with tears of excitement.
‘Harry Potter!’ Dobby shrieked, lunging forward to kiss Draco's fingers. ‘Dobby has finally found a chance to see you! Dobby heard you were locked up in this wicked Muggle home, and Dobby's heart was breaking!’ ‘
Draco nearly tumbled off the bed in shock. He stared at the once-timid house-elf from Malfoy Manor, now radiating fervour, every hair on his body standing on end.
’Dobby?‘ Draco hissed the name through gritted teeth, his voice low and menacing. ’Who gave you permission to enter my bedroom unannounced? Get out!"
Dobby froze, tears welling in his enormous sockets. ‘Oh! Harry Potter has given Dobby a stern command! Dobby is a bad elf, Dobby has disturbed his benefactor's musings!’ With that, Dobby began violently ramming his head against the wardrobe, its stuffing protruding, producing heavy thuds.
‘Stop! Dammit, I order you to stop!’ Draco growled desperately, fearing the racket would wake Uncle Vernon next door. ‘Listen, if you dare harm yourself or scream again, I'll send you back to Lucius Malfoy!’
Dobby fell instantly silent, clutching his mouth in terror, his wide eyes brimming with bewilderment—for he sensed that the Harry Potter before him spoke with a tone and gazed with an expression that carried a familiar quality, one that sent shivers through his very soul, reminiscent of his former master.