Chapter Text
“It’s up to you, of course,” Hermione tells him, fidgeting with a stray thread on her sweater. Eight years later, she still looked relatively similar to Harry’s muddled teenage memories, though there are new lines around her eyes alongside purplish eyebags.
Despite this she had a bright glow to her face, a faint flush on her cheeks reminiscent of discovering the answer to a difficult problem. And a solution she’d found indeed. A specialised time turner, one of it’s kind, developed specifically by the Department of Mysteries to fix the damage done by the war; because no matter what the newspapers and statistics said, the Wizarding World had been irrevocably changed. Dismantled by a flawed ideology, then haphazardly stitched back together. It was only a matter of time until someone else got a little bit too upset, and there would be another war. And Harry would be the one people look to.
“I thought we were all done with this. I thought the whole point of moving on was to… move on.” It sounds judgemental, even though Harry tries to sound as objective as he can. Hermione swallows. She looks cozy under the dim yellow light of Harry’s apartment, seated on his right on his sad green couch. It’s the only furniture in his apartment for now apart from his fireplace, and it mustn't make him look like someone who’s got his life together. There’s three stacks of books on his side of the couch, his mug balanced on top of a copy of Algebra- Beginner’s guide.
“I know. I know. But we have to do compulsory time turner experiments; it’s nearly the whole point of the Department of Mysteries, as you know–when they figured this out, I...I wanted you to be the first to know. It’s just, we all have so many regrets, and the possibility of being able to reverse time completely, Harry, it’s almost irresistable.” Hermione’s voice is steady, but there’s a hint of wonder. Her eyes gleam with hope, with almost childish faith, and Harry’s transported back to simpler times. She’s looking to him for help. Something nasty must have shown on Harry’s face, despite his best efforts, because she snaps her jaw shut with a clack.. He tries to arrange his face into something more amicable. Hermione recovers more quickly.
“I’m sorry. It’s cruel for me to come over and ask you to uproot your entire life for this. It’s just- this job, I have to consider so many people, and there’s truly too many- I’m thinking in numbers and statistics instead of considering your feelings. I’m sorry.” Harry shakes his head and grabs Hermione’s hand gently.
“I get it, ‘Mione. There’s no need to justify yourself. I just- I just need more time. I need to think.” Hermione nods, her curls bouncing up and down with the movement. Harry can’t help but smile fondly.
“Of course, you can have the whole week off. Hopefully the Aurors won’t have too much of a tough time without you,” She jokes, and Harry cracks an uncertain smile, not really knowing how to tell her that the Auror’s don’t really do much of anything these days. Especially not with him.
“..I’m already on a break from Auror work,” Harry breathes out, avoiding Hermione’s face, staring into a corner of his room. “I told Ron not to tell you because. Well, I didn’t want to worry you, and it’s just that my life feels so different from how I used to think it should be, and I needed a change and-” Hermione squeezes his hand, her face kind and softened by the glow of his fireplace.
“Harry. You don’t have to explain everything to me. You just need to remember I care about you, and that I’ll never judge you. Do you want to talk about it?” harry breathes out a sigh of relief. Good ol’ Hermione.
“Thanks. It’s just, I have a good thing going right now, you know? I’ve moved, I’m trying to read more, I’m picking up cooking. I’m… trying out teaching.” Hermione’s brows rise at the sound of that.
“Muggle teaching, Herm. I was always good at Muggle school, and my neighbour always leaves her kids alone so I’ve taken up teaching them because they can’t afford to go to school. It’s like– I’m finally figuring out the kind of person I want to be without the fighting and…scary as it is to say it, I think I’m finally…” Harry pauses.
“I’m moving on. I don’t know if it’ll be a good thing if I go back. Especially if it’s a new time turner- are you sure it can go back that far?” Hermione frowns, grasping onto Harry’s hands.
“Oh Harry,” She pulls him to the center of the couch where the two cushions meet, their combined weight making a dip in the couch. She smells of ink and paperwork but also faintly of earl grey and lavender. Harry lets the scent seep into him and ground him before pulling away. Hermione looks teary.
“I’m so glad you’re moving on- I won’t force you to go back. But you don’t need to worry about the issues. It can go back as far as fifty years, and you’ll be sent as your current, adult self- no weird time travel shenanigans, nothing. It’s completely safe.”
“Alright. I’ll think about it, but I need your and Ron’s opinions too. Neville’s as well. I want to listen to all of you.” Hermione gives him a bright smile.
“You should come to the reunion tonight. It’ll be a good time to talk. Everyone wants to see you.” Harry fidgets. He and Malfoy were the only ones who never went to the reunions. It’d been a very long time since he’d seen any of his old classmates.
After a beat, “Ginny wants to see you.” Harry smiles tightly.
“Yeah, I will. But you and Ron got to meet me before we enter the party. I want to talk to him about this.”
“And you’re afraid to go in alone?” Harry huffs.
“And that.” Hermione gives him another tight hug and Harry can’t help but smile fondly as she walks out of his door. Then he’s alone once more, and he lifts the Algebra book and the book on Biology under it, picking up the book on Necromancy.
.
Harry’s hand hovers on the chestnut wood of Hermione and Ron’s apartment door. He stares at the little peephole. He could’ve just flooed into the apartment, but he took the time to walk down his street to take the train, to enter through the secret shop that takes him to the wizard section of London, to walk down the cobblestones to Hermione’s door. To think. To be mad, to grieve. Because he thinks he knows the answer.
He can’t knock. He knows what they’ll say, he knows their opinions. Go back, Harry. For Fred and George. For Cedric, for Dumbledore, for Sirius- for us. For you. Or worse, they’ll tell him to live life as it is now- and Harry’s not sure he wants to. And he’s definitely sure that he doesn’t want to confront that part of himself right now.
Nobody says it, but it’s clear Harry hasn’t moved on; he’s still following the path paved so clearly for him; graduate, become an Auror, defeat evil, get married, have children, raise them to be heroes, and die a martyr. Post-war London is quiet. Parents don’t let their children play on the streets; students get combat training at Hogwarts now, proper training, and Aurors are less in demand than ever before. For Bureaucracy, it’s never been busier, and Harry knows Hermione’s knee deep in paperwork- he knows she’s taking time off to coddle him, and he knows, he knows he has to move on and he has to change and he can’t stay the same but how could he? How could he? Survival was all he knew.
He was supposed to pack that all up and live a normal life? Become a teacher? Who was he fooling, honestly? He still kept books about the war, about dark magic. He couldn’t ignore this. Harry still woke up in the dead of the night screaming. How?
He doesn’t knock. He can’t move. Of course he feels frozen in time- unable to breathe, utter a word- he feels like apparating to the Arctic and screaming his heart out. The deathly silence of the aftermath was worse than the rush of war. Picking up the pieces, one by one, consoling Ron and Hermione and Ginny and pushing everything to the back of his mind, telling himself he’ll deal with it eventually. Where days of grief became years, and soon Ginny had left with goodbyes and grief’s grip tight on her shoulders, and Harry had made all but no effort to reconcile. She felt faraway, a thing of the past. And he didn’t touch the past, but it was all he lived in.
And here it was, it’s flames licking his shoes as he desperately tried to run. The past always catches up to you, Harry.
Seven, Petunia telling him his rotten blood will always find a way back to him. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, you look like your father, Harry, you have your mother’s eyes. Seventeen, risen from the afterlife, the feeling of warm blood pulsing through his veins as his body got adjusted to being a living being again, his heart pounding in his chest and the grass tickling his neck as Narcissa Malfoy stands over him. A full circle moment, his past catching up to him in the form of a flash of green light.
He feels a wave of exhaustion, and his hand drops. It’s selfish, but he can’t go to this party, pretend with all the other liars that they’ve moved on, that they’re content with their lives as they chug copious amounts of liquor. He turns on his heel and nearly runs straight out of the building, already concocting an apology to Hermione in his head. He turns a corner and bumps headfirst into a man; they both yelp in pain simultaneously, Harry rubbing his forehead in pain.
“Sorry, that was my fault,” He’s staring at the man’s shoes which he’s stepped on that look painfully luxurious, before panning his head to look up straight into the face of Draco Malfoy. Harry blinks.
“Your shoes,” He says dumbly, and Malfoy looks down at his feet. He feels a little embarrassed for his beat up muggle sneakers next to Malfoy’s probably dragon scale unicorn leather loafers. Which there is a footprint embedded into. Which is Harry’s.
“Ah, my shoes.” Malfoy says, which is decidedly un-Malfoyesque. But he definitely is dressed like Malfoy; dress robes with a coat thrown over and a surprisingly minimalistic emerald necklace hanging from his neck. Harry had expected him to start yelling at him and jinx him. He wasn’t in a very Malfoy mood- no, he was never in a Malfoy mood, period. But especially now. He wonders distantly what Malfoy could possibly be doing in a Muggle neighbourhood.
“I can pay for them to be fixed,” Harry offers graciously, feeling not all that sorry and not all that gracious. Malfoy just stares at him. He blinks. Harry blinks back. This is an egregiously awkward conversation to have in an alleyway that looks like a crime scene.
“What? No, there’s no need for that. If you’ll excuse me,” Malfoy says, but not really, because Harry can tell he’s not all there- it’s obvious by the way he’s not pissed off raging at him- and sidesteps Harry into the main street. Harry hears the click clack of his shoes on the pavement, and turns to follow.
Surely that couldn’t have been Malfoy. That man was calm, reasonable and forgiving. Three words Harry would never use to describe Malfoy. Or that anyone would use, in fact. But there’s the unmistakable blonde hair that’s impossible to miss, walking further and further away from Harry. He’d grown into himself, clearly, with a confident air that Harry wouldn’t have associated with him before. He looked much healthier now as well, making him look less of a skeleton and bordering on handsome. He speeds up until he’s right next to Malfoy. He doesn’t slow down, but he doesn’t speed up, either. Harry swears he sees a quick flash of irritation on Malfoy’s face before he speaks.
“What do you want, Potter?” Harry shoves his hands into his jacket. Malfoy sounds a bit pressed, but nowhere near the arrogant, self absorbed tone he had in school.
“Me? Just wondering why you’re in this neighbourhood of all places.” He has no idea where this leads, but he knows this entire neighbourhood is full of Ministry workers and public servants with great bookshops. Hermione was serious about that part in apartment hunting. Malfoy could be leading him to an alley to kill him for all he knows. Malfoy smiles tightly.
“I took a wrong turn and ended up here,” Malfoy says blandly. “Stop following me.”
“I’m headed in the same direction, is all,” Harry protests.
“Really? You also happen to be heading in the direction of the Daily Paper?” Harry suppresses a wince.
“Yes.. there’s a nice cafe near there.” Not untrue, except Harry’s not sure where it is. Malfoy turns to Harry, his smile widening- he can see the edges of it turning into a sneer. Grey eyes survey his face.
“This is the direction of the museum, Potter. The Daily Paper is in the opposite direction. Why are you following me?” Internally, Harry curses Malfoy’s entire bloodline and himself. Prick. (museum curator and saver forgot the name hes stuck jn tne past too punsihing himself)
“Just wanted to see how you were doing, is all.” Malfoy nods carefully, and Harry thinks this Malfoy might let it go and they would part ways civilly.
“I am doing perfectly well. You, however, looked quite frazzled. Is there something wrong?” Mock sympathy enters his voice, and it’s Harry’s turn to smile tightly. He’d held out too much hope. This was still Malfoy after all.
“No, thanks for asking. Why are you going to the museum?” Malfoy’s steps quicken.
“That is none of your business,” He replies callously, looking straight ahead. Harry matches his pace and in a stroke of bravery, shoulder bumps him.
“Come on, tell me. I won’t judge.” Malfoy’s lips twitch like he’s actively trying not to scowl and Harry beams. He’s still got it.
“I work there.” Malfoy cuts the conversation there. It’s ended, buried alive by Malfoy’s cold hands. Luckily for him, Harry’s eager to revive it.
“At this hour?” Malfoy shrugs.
“Alright..as what? An archivist?” Malfoy tenses for a split second and his gaze flickers to Harry with surprise; his foot hits the pavement a second slower than the other, before the click-clack of his shoes resume their steady pace.
“Right on the money, huh?” Malfoy says nothing. An archivist is an interesting job for him. Jobs and Malfoys in the same sentence is interesting in of itself.
“Why not a curator, or a historian? Or a benefactor? An archivist. I didn’t know you had an interest in history, Malfoy.” Malfoy’s nose scrunches up in a rather cute way, his eyes narrowing. He turns to fully face Harry this time, all up in his face with that pointed expression. Harry can smell his cologne.
“You don’t know much of anything, Potter. What I do with my life is of no importance to you. Let me have the peace of this dayI had before I ran into you.” Malfoy pulls back, expression unpleasant now, and Harry raises his hands in surrender.
“I pressed too much. My bad.” Malfoy frowns in confusion. His gait slows. His expression is unreadable.
“…What are you doing?” Malfoy asks, after a beat. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Just things, here and there,” He makes a vague motion, smiling tightly. Instantly, he regrets his answer; anyone else would have accepted he didn’t want to answer, moved on, but Malfoy bares his teeth at the avoidance. His eyes gleam with curiosity.
“Aren’t you an Auror?”
“I’m many things. I’m taking a break.”
“So you’re not working anymore?”
“I teach Muggle subjects here and there,” Harry replies, trying not to sound too antagonistic. Malfoy blinks, clearly caught off guard.
“You, teach? Even Longbottom could lie better than that.” Harry huffs irritably, and stops abruptly. Surprisingly, Malfoy follows.
“I was good at Math and Science, you know? I had to be, if I was ever going to-“ Harry cuts himself off.
“-make it in the world. Then I had to unlearn everything I knew to study magic. Not easy, you know? All Muggleborns have to do this. You people always underestimate how difficult it is to adapt to new situations, but that’s not new is it, Malfoy, looking down on everyone but yourself?” Malfoy tenses, but he doesn’t lash out. Harry sighs, the fight gone from him now, and continues walking down the seemingly endless path. After a few moments Malfoy teemingly matches his gait, hands tucked into his coat.
“Teaching seems good for you,” He says after a long silence.
“How would you know?” Harry asks, genuinely. Malfoy shrugs. He looks everywhere but at Potter; the cold is chipping away at his face, his cheeks tinged with red and his lips pale.
“Ha. I thought you were the only other person who was stuck in the past like I was, only to find out you’re changing too.” Malfoy’s eyes flicker to his shoes before looking forward again. Harry’s at a loss for words.
“I- you’ve changed too. We all have, we’ve all had to,” Harry says. Malfoy doesn’t reply.
“Did we want to, though?” Malfoy mumbles, clearly a thought voiced out loud without care- but it brings a loud voice to the thoughts bouncing around Harry’s head. Did they have to? Did Harry not want to be a naive boy in first year again, awed by magic and surrounded by his friends who he thought would never die?
“I don’t have an interest in history,” He says slowly, distantly, like he’s trying to separate himself, “I.. seek to preserve the mistakes of the past so it does not happen again.” Harry blinks. The sudden honesty seems random, and for a moment the barriers Harry hadn’t even noticed had been there drop, before Malfoy swerves sharply to the right and his vulnerability dissipates. This time Harry can feel the thick walls between them.
“Malfoy,” Malfoy turns his head the slightest to show he’s listening, “Do you think, if you could, you’d go back?” Malfoy doesn’t turn back.
“You go ask yourself that.” Is all he tells Harry before disappearing straight into a brick wall. He assumes that’s where the museum is hidden. For a split second Harry imagines a world where he runs after Malfoy. He imagines a world where he and Malfoy have a different past, begrudging friends, where Harry is a better, braver version of himself. Who would immediately walk through the wall, the point of his shoe bumping into Malfoy’s heel in his hurry to be with Malfoy. The second passes, and after a minute Harry turns away from the wall and walks away.