Chapter Text
Draco traced the cracks in the walls of his little cell in Azkaban–the Wizard Prison. He shuddered as another Dementor floated eerily past the bars containing him in that cell. His teeth involuntarily chattered as they always did every time those ghastly dark creatures passed by him. Were he not better aware, he’d have declared Dementors as the darkest and foulest of creatures to ever roam the lands. But he had better examples for that, say the Dark Lord–or Voldemort–as everyone who was remarkably noble had liked to.
But Voldemort remained an inconsequential thought to Draco now. A deep contrast to his thoughts sixteen years ago when he’d been tasked by the Dark Lo–no, Voldemort–to kill Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
It had been a really long time since the fall of the man. Not that he knew exactly how long. There wasn’t exactly a calendar to tell him. Nor was there much of a view outside the little hole in the cell which was a ‘window’ for them to presume that. Draco had tried for quite a while to reach that ‘window’ to know. But the sights outside were rather underwhelming. Just a vast expanse of the North Sea. With thunderous waves crashing threateningly against the walls of the structure. It neither told him what season it was, nor the time of the day. Azkaban was just dark. Either that or it was really dim and murky.
One wouldn’t exactly want to visit Azkaban for sightseeing. Draco’s lips stretched upwards at the internal joke. But the effort only hurt his tired muscles. How long had it been since he’d done anything but remain numb or cry?
The dementor paused in front of his cell as it sensed the slight emotion of happiness and floated into the jail. Draco didn’t need an explanation for what was bound to happen. He resignedly waited for it to suck out that happy memory as well. That was its core nature, after all. But that didn’t stop him from gasping at the cold lingering emptiness after it left.
How much longer? Draco prayed to whatever force there was. To whatever divinity was listening. Or perhaps even the skies had shunned him after his sins.
“My name is Draco Malfoy. Draco Lucius Malfoy.” He gasped aloud, “I am a prisoner at Azkaban. I am Prisoner #093 and am guilty of siding with Lord Voldemort. I was a deatheater.” he chanted to himself.
It was the only thing keeping him sane. The only anchor to his sanity–his identity. He imagined himself free. But that freedom only laid in how he would relieve himself. Of the burden of his own life.
There had been many plans in Draco’s mind. For starters, he could do it in public. He always liked an audience. Perhaps he could take his own life in seclusion. Or the most tempting offer, right before the Saviour Boy. The Chosen One. Harry James Potter.
He imagined the shock that would darken that lovely face. The green eyes that would be brimming with guilt. Or maybe even remorse. After all, it was his fault Draco was stuck in this hell. Maybe he’d curse himself with the quick painless death. Or even a gruesome one. He hadn’t planned it that well yet.
Draco had only lost all hope recently. Hope to survive. Hope to live normally. So, he waited. And he waited some more.
He sat in the corner of the cell to doze off into a disturbed slumber only to be woken by the rattling of keys. He blinked confusedly at the wizard before him. The dementors beside the man floated in and ushered him away.
“Where are you taking me?” He hoarsely asked with an empty glance at the wizard.
The man ignored his question with a disdainful glare.
He shoved him forward. Draco paused before a familiar cell. Prisoner #092. His mother. Narcissa Malfoy. Her sunken eyes gazed at Draco and widened abruptly.
“Lucius?” she whispered with disbelief.
Draco held back the emotions in his eyes and shook his head as he passed by.
“LUCIUS!” Mother yelled wildly, grasping past the bars of the prison to reach for Draco.
“Don’t leave me, my love. Please…” she begged.
The official merely scoffed and pushed Draco past her and they headed down a few flights of stairs to a red buzzer awaiting them.
“Go on, then.” The man motioned for Draco to touch it and when he did, he felt a yank at a knot behind his stomach that led him all the way to—
The Courtroom Ten.
Draco’s heart sank. He could guess why he’d been brought there. His sentence was being increased. His head hung as low as on the day that he’d been led into the room on the day of his trial in 1998. He stood at the centre of the room and gazed at the empty seats that needed to be filled up. He stared at the seat for the Minister of Magic before him. Currently vacant. He recalled the last minister had been Kingsley Shacklebolt who’d pronounced the verdict for Draco. To fifteen years in Azkaban for his crimes in the Second Wizarding War of 1998.
Fifteen years wasn’t really that long of a time when he thought about it now. Considering most of the other Deatheaters had been sentenced to a whole lifetime in prison. He waited for the seats of the Wizengamot Council to fill as well as the reporters and journalists to file in.
And the last vacant seat of the Minister of Magic was at last filled in by—mudblood? Draco’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched the muggleborn witch he had hated with conviction since the tender age of eleven, Hermione Granger, take that position. He held back his look of obvious surprise and waited for the proceedings to begin.
“We are gathered for the release of Prisoner 093, Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy, a member of the supporters of Tom Riddle alias ‘Lord Voldemort’, a Deatheater.” The mudblood began with a composed expression.
The trials proceeded rather quickly then. With her declaring that he’d served my sentence of fifteen years and had caused no further trouble to the Ministry of Magic or Azkaban which evidently had resulted in the authorization for his release.
“You should be grateful.” A nearby witch–probably a journalist—contemptuously reminded him.
Draco gritted his teeth at the thinly veiled conceit.
“I suppose I am to thank you for your mercy, Mudblood Granger.” He spat out rather loudly.
Hermione didn’t flinch at the vicious tone or the slur and calmly regarded him with a shrewd expression, trying to gauge his intentions.
“But I haven’t shown you much mercy, Mr. Malfoy.” she icily replied, “Truth be told you should be thanking Harry Potter. After all he is the one who advocated your relative innocence.”
Draco shrunk back at the retort.
“What are you insinuating?” He mumbled woodenly.
“It’s true. Harry was the one who vouched for you and reduced your sentence fifteen years ago. And Harry is the one who has opposed the Council increasing your sentence to that of a lifetime,” Hermione simply gazed at him wearily.
Draco’s mind went into a war with itself. For years he’d plotted what he’d do the second he would get out of that damned prison and the first and only task on that list was to kill Harry Potter. But his ears couldn’t really believe what they’d heard. It couldn’t be.
“You’re lying!” Draco yelled as the wizards began dragging him from the chair.
“YOU’RE LYING, MUDBL–” The word died on his tongue. For the first time in years—he wasn't sure he wanted to say it.
He didn’t even protest as the wizards hauled him towards the confiscated wands and broke his wand into two right before his eyes before dropping the broken pieces into his shamelessly raised palms like knuts given to beggars.
Then, he was led to the increasing brightness of the escape from that hellhole. A smile began growing on his sunken and gaunt face. His chapped lips tore slightly but he didn’t care much for that.
___________________
“Finally.” Draco breathed in the fresh air, free of the heaviness of the dementors.
He gazed at the sunshine filtering through the mass of clouds in the sky. Or smoke, he supposed. The air was dirtier than he remembered.
Dozens of massive posters were hung up on the buildings of muggles. The humans there were moving. But above all, they weren’t black and white like the pictures in the wizarding world were. Emphasis on were. It was the year 2013 after all.
Draco wasted no more time. The plan in his mind was ready. He’d etched it into his mind over all those years.
First I must take the Knight Bus.
He automatically held out the broken pieces of his wand forward, joining them forcefully with his clenched fist around the fissure.
He paused for a few moments expectantly but lowered his wand when the ‘bus’ showed no sign of arrival.
There was a deafening BANG, and Draco threw up his hands to shield himself from whatever the danger was.
With a yell, he rolled onto the pavement, just in time. A second
later, a gigantic pair of wheels and headlights screeched to a halt
exactly where Draco had just been standing. They belonged, as Draco saw
when he raised his head, to a triple-decker, violently purple bus, which
had appeared out of thin air. Gold lettering over the windshield spelled
The Knight Bus.
For a split second, Draco wondered if he had been knocked silly by his
fall. Then a conductor in a purple uniform leapt out of the bus and
began to speak loudly to no one in particular.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch
or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board and we can take
you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be
your conductor this fine afternoon."
Draco’s eyes narrowed at the man, taking in his spindly figure with the signature Malfoy gaze of arrogance. But his features softened as he recalled that his arrogance was what had brought him and his family to ruin.
He stepped on board and waited for a seat to be assigned.
“Well? Tell me your name, young man?” Stan impatiently asked him.
Draco opened his mouth to answer him but shut quickly when he realised his name wouldn’t instill the same level of respect as it had in the past.
“I’m…Harry.” He made out at last. He winced at the wonderful choice of a name.
Stan waited for him to give his full name.
“Harry M-Martin.” Draco grunted. He needed to avoid his own name at all costs.
“Nice name there. Sounds like the Chosen One’s on board with us Ernie.” Stan beckoned to the old driver.
“He’s ridden with us b’fore y’know.” Stan boasted.
Draco gave a tight smile and a polite nod before heading to an empty bed.
“At least tell me where you gotta go, Martin.” Stan chortled.
“Malfoy Manor.” Draco whispered loud enough for only him to hear.
Stan’s face hardened, “Why in the name of Potter would ya want to go there?”
Draco didn’t dignify that with a response and Stan didn’t press any further. He shook his head reproachfully before telling the driver that.
And they sped off to what Draco knew as his home. Malfoy Manor.
“That’ll set ya back eleven sickles, Harry.” Stan grinned happily, holding his palm out for the fee once they reached.
“I don’t have that much.” Draco glanced at his empty hands with shame.
“Well I never!” Stan huffed, his hands rising to rest on his hips with indignance.
Draco simply brandished his right arm and showed the permanently burnt Dark Mark to Stan. Instead of cowering in fear as Draco had expected, Stan only scoffed.
“That crass tattoo would’ve worked in the 1990s, Harry Martin. But the likes of you lot don’t scare no one no more.” He hotly began.
“I see.” Draco blankly replied. And then he ran for it.
He sped off to the ruins of his Manor. By the BANG that followed, it appeared the conductor had been merciful and let him get away.
“Welcome home, Draco.” He whispered to himself and looked around curiously.
Curious to know how much had changed. Curious to know how much had remained.
Before he began his exploration, he rushed to the Manor’s owlery. To his surprise an owl, old and shabby, was still waiting.
“Perfect.”
He whipped out a piece of parchment from the dusty stack waiting there and used the old pen to scribble down a hasty note and tied it to the bird’s leg.
“You know what to do.” Draco softly crooned and set it free.
Once that phase of his plan was dealt with, Draco sauntered to the main hall again.
He began rummaging about for the item he needed. Something to help him with the task he had to fulfill by that night.
He scoured the Manor until he finally found a gleaming silver dagger, studded with emeralds and pearls in his Aunt Bellatrix’s room.
It was beautiful. With a little inscription right at the sharp metal, close to its hilt: Mors Tempus Alit
“Trust her to keep a blade by her side.” He muttered and pocketed it carefully.
Then, he lounged on top of the dusty couch in the hall to bide his time.
_______________________
The silence of the Manor was penetrated with a slight and hesitant knock.
Draco’s head shot up at the noise and he composed himself before lazily replying, “Come in!”
And through the doors, that man walked into the Manor once more. Harry James Potter. Older, definitely, but much more sure of himself.
He defiantly stared at Draco for what seemed like a long time. The clear green eyes were full of a swirl of emotions. Too murky for Draco to judge.
“Welcome Potter.” He drawled and made a pseudo bow to mock him.
Harry seemed to take in the sight before him with increasing irritation.
“Get it over with, Malfoy.” He shortly replied, “What is the meaning of this note?”
He waved the parchment with excess enthusiasm.
“Ah…yes…that note.” Draco whispered almost to himself.
He knew its contents. He’d so carefully framed them in his time at Azkaban, hadn’t he? It read:
Potter,
I call upon you to Malfoy Manor for one last time. In lieu of my release, the least you can do as my benefactor is pay me a visit. You will come to regret it if you don’t, Chosen One. I don’t have much time left, you see. I hope we can make this last meeting count.
Yours,
Draco Lucius Malfoy
“So?” Harry waited exasperatedly.
Draco held out the dagger and pressed its tip carefully upon Draco’s finger, drawing some blood.
“I wanted to have a conversation with you, Potter.” Draco smiled thinly.
Potter looked skeptical. The dagger didn’t seem to help much either.
“And then what? Kill me with that?” He guessed.
Draco chuckled softly but shook his head in disagreement.
“Tell me...all those years of our enmity...did you even once think of me as a friend?” Draco asked with a face of mocking but deep down he wanted to know.
“I did.” Harry gritted his teeth.
“When?” Draco asked with mild surprise.
“The day we first met.” Harry replied easily, “Only for the first few minutes. Before you opened that horrid mouth of yours.”
Draco nodded in appreciation. Good. His resolve began building. But a single matter was left to be answered.
“Then…why did you vouch for me?” Draco softly asked him. His weakness resurfaced.
Harry looked taken aback at that question. He inhaled deeply. As if deliberating the best way to break the news to him.
“...I don’t know.” Potter quietly responded. His eyes focussed on his feet.
Draco nodded once more. His hands quivered slightly but his determination was growing ever-steadily.
“Then, I suppose that truly is all.” Draco mumbled and held up his dagger to his throat.
Harry’s eyes widened in alarm and he froze for a whole moment before his senses returned.
“Malfoy, wait!” He shouted, “Don’t do that.”
Draco eyed him carefully but he only felt more sure now.
“Maybe in another life, Potter,” Draco managed, “Would we have been friends?”
Harry vehemently nodded in agreement as if hoping that would draw the dagger away from Draco’s throat.
“That is enough.” Draco contentedly whispered.
To Harry's horror, Draco slashed deeply into his own throat, cutting brutally.
He crumpled to the ground, his dagger clattering beside him too. Harry surged forward and his fingers desperately reached out for Draco’s limp form.
Draco gasped at the lack of air and his vision began to quickly darken by the edges.
The end is close.
He spent his last bit of energy reaching for Harry’s hand and resting his fingers there. While the last thing his eyes saw was the clear, green of those lovely eyes. And then, Draco Lucius Malfoy died.
_____________________
“Draco?” A gentle yet familiar voice called out to him.
Was it death mimicking his loved ones? How cruel.
Draco opened his eyes in preparation to be led into the afterlife, only to meet the blue eyes of his–
“Mother!” he blurted aloud.
His mother, Narcissa Malfoy stood before him with a curious look on her face. Her features grew increasingly more concerned when Draco enveloped her into a warm hug–refusing to let her go.
“Boy, time is running and the wax on the candles is falling onto the cake.” Another voice rang out, much deeper than his mother’s delicate one.
His eyes focussed on his father, Lucius Malfoy, who stood impatiently before him and frowned at him with his usual air of scorn.
It was the same one that Draco had culminated a deep hatred of over the many years. But he’d never imagined he’d be witnessing it again.
“Father,” Draco breathed with disbelief.
“Draco dear,” Narcissa tenderly spoke to him, “While I don’t mind your display of affection. The wax is indeed melting.”
Draco followed her gaze to a sight which made him want to faint. A whole gathering was standing before him. Except nearly everyone in that gathering couldn’t have even been there.
Then, his eyes fell on the gorgeous pale white two-tier cake before him with ‘Happy Birthday Draco’ written in an elegant script. And, indeed. Wax melting from the candles on it.
Draco recalled his old Malfoy tradition of keeping exactly as many candles as the age he was turning. And so he counted them diligently.
He was so stunned that he had to do so once again, just for the ease of his own mind.
And truly, there were exactly eleven candles before him. That meant he was eleven years old.
“Impossible.” Draco mumbled.
“What is so impossible about blowing candles, boy?” Lucius reminded him frustratedly.
Draco returned to reality, or his afterlife, whatever it was, and blew all the candles with a strong gust in a single go.
A polite applause followed and the gathering waited for him to cut the cake.
A silver knife was thrust into his hand by Lucius and he motioned for him to quickly get the whole event over with. Draco obliged and cut through the huge cake with surprising ease for a mere kitchen knife only to stare at it with horror.
It was the knife from 2013. Studded with the same emeralds and pearls. Gleaming the same silver, albeit stained with cake.
Sweet Salazar. Just how badly have I fucked up? Draco wondered. His eyes then unfortunately went to the ceiling where a silver font was floating in the air with the words boldly facing him:
Congratulations Time traveler #093 from the year 2013! Welcome to 1991.
“Mother, what is that?” Draco’s trembling hand pointed at the sign in the air.
Mother cluelessly looked at the direction where he’d pointed and her eyes warmed in sympathy.
“Poor Draco…you didn’t sleep last night at all in excitement, did you?” she chided, “It’s no wonder you’re seeing things.”
Draco’s eyes widened into the size of the golden snitch and he spluttered.
“Y-you really ca-can’t see that, mother?” he stuttered fearfully.
She shook her head gently, her hair accompanying the motion.
“Are you not feeling too well, Draco?” She simpered.
Draco nodded violently and stepped away from the cake, his dagger still in hand.
“I think…Draco will be retiring to his own quarters a bit early tonight.” Mother apologetically addressed the curious crowd before them and sent him upstairs.
Draco’s mind was spinning and he nearly collapsed while making his way up the staircase.
He glanced at where the letters had been floating and looked relieved to find they weren’t there only to turn back and stare open mouthed when he found it had followed him to floating right in front of the door to his. He squeaked like a cowardly rat.
But mustering up some Gryffindor-like courage, he turned his doorknob and passed through the letters like it was just air.
“What the fuck is going on?” he held his head like it was about to fall off.
Draco backtracked to the events of what he knew was certainly real. He had certainly invited Potter to watch him suicide. And he had certainly used the very knife in his hands to do that. And he was certainly in the year 2013 when he had done that. But what was even more certain was that he’d either gone blithering mad or there was a huge banner before him congratulating him for time traveling and welcoming him to 1991.
Draco would’ve deliberated further had he not felt overwhelmingly sleepy. And just as he settled on his bed to do just that, he had to meet the tennis ball eyes of an intently gazing creature spying on him from his ceiling like a banshee. It screeched and let out a raspy shriek which shocked him to the core.
That was the cherry on top for his weak heart and Draco finally fainted.