Time and Time Again
One : From the Outset
by KissMeDraco
Disclaimers:
I don't own Harry or Draco. Other characters I most definitely own. You'll see what I mean later. And I owe it all to J.K.
"I'm sorry. It has to be this way."
Draco stepped back, spreading his arms across the charged air. A gradual euphoria filled his chest as an invisible power guided him up in the night. A golden ring circled around him, clouding his vision, blocking everything from his view. A mighty wind blew across the graveyard, sending Draco's fine hair whipping around his face. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back as he rose higher and higher. The golden ring grew in size and intensity as the wind howled between the headstones, until Harry had to close his eyes.
Then it was gone. There was no trace of the event that had transpired save for the slowing wind still searching for a place to hide.
Harry collapsed to the ground, dissolving into tears as, once again, he lost the one he loved.
Harry settled back into bed, mentally preparing himself for another night of fitful sleep and fevered dreams. It had been almost a month since Draco's ascension, and still he hadn't adjusted to the emptiness of the house. The echo of Harry's voice in the empty house was his only company, save for the sound of the television when it was on.
Harry had also left all of Draco's things alone. The black bathrobe still hung over the dark green towel next to Harry's red and gold set, his pillows were still piled on the ground where he had left them, even Draco's dirty clothes were still in the hamper.
Except for his coat. The long black jacket Harry would touch, sometimes he would put it on, raising the sleeve to his nose and inhaling the scent of Draco--Somewhere between fresh soap and new incense, a lovely combination--and then he would take the coat off and hang it back up in the closet.
It was all useless anyway. Every moment he stayed in this house reminded Harry of something from the five years he had spent with Draco. Even still, he couldn't bring himself to end the torture and move out. He and Draco had moved in together right after their graduation from Hogwarts, making the decision to share their every moment with each other.
Harry's body wasn't helping his case either. It hungered with every cell for Draco's gentle touch, even for a single kiss with which to say goodbye. All the desire and longing took its toll on Harry's existence, so that Harry had barely enough energy left to roll out of bed. He didn't even eat much anymore; his appetite was shot.
Surprisingly, that night he fell asleep rather quickly.
Out of the swirling colours in the void of his mind came one single image emerging--Draco. His skin was extremely pale, but his usually ice-blue eyes glowed with a fiery gold, with an intensity Harry had never seen. His beautiful lips parted, and Harry felt the warm breath of one word forming in the void between them: "Coming..."
Harry woke up with his heart pounding. Coming? What did it mean? The dream was so clear--the only dreams he had experienced that clearly were the old nightmares about Voldemort from his Hogwarts days, and they had turned out true.
A glimmer of hope coursed through his veins. They had turned out true! Whatever it meant, Harry was sure he would see Draco again. Did that mean he was safe? Was he all right?
Well, there would definitely be no more sleep that night. He glanced at the old digital clock--4:43. As good a time as any to wake up. Rubbing his eyes, he slid out of bed into his crimson slippers. He headed out into the kitchen, instinctively opening the fridge. There wasn't anything inside, as usual. He turned to the coffee pot, pulling the coffee out of the cabinet. He opened the package--White Chocolate Mocha, Draco's favourite. Harry winced, pushing the container to the back of the cabinet, trying to push the memories back wth it. Sighing, he pulled out his own coffee--standard, unflavoured, blah coffee. He filled the maker for two cups full, turned it on. The aroma of percolating coffee filled the house, as it had on so many occasions, and Harry was vaguely pleased that at least one thing in his life was stable.
He waited for the coffee maker to growl--an old joke he'd had with Hermione and Ron, God rest their souls--and poured himself a mug half full. He sighed and pulled a bottle of Scotch out from under the sink. Filling the rest of the mug with the scotch, he took a sip.
He gagged and spit it out in the sink. He poured out the coffee, rinsed out the mug, and filled it up with the liquor. He took a large gulp, breathing hard as the drink burned down his throat. He downed the rest of the mugfull, relishing the feeling in his throat.
He grabbed the bottle, collapsing into the sofa. He lifted the bottle to his lips, still savouring the fire. It was really good Scotch, the last of his cache, and Harry really did like Muggle liquors.
The numbness started in, leaving the edges of his vision fuzzy. The man on the telly was selling something, although in his haze he couldn't tell what.
The irony of his life hit him while his defences were down. Every single person he truly trusted had died, leaving Harry alone. His parents had been first, until the fifth year, when Sirius died, and the seventh year, when Hermione had been found dead in the forbidden forest. Her body was mangled and the attacker had never been found. Ron hadn't handled her death well, theh Quidditch team found him hanging in the locker room showers the next day. The only one left for Harry was Draco, and he clung to the boy so tightly and so desperately that Dumbledore had granted them a room together. Harry had only been able to forget once he was with Draco.
And now, of course, the same turn of horrific loss occured all over again. Draco was gone, and Harry's only comfort came in bottles.
It was the dream that puzzled him. Draco's face was the same, it was sure. The difference was in his eyes... Harry had never seen such eyes...
There was a lovely clearing in a beautiful forest. Without a cloud in the sky, it was a picture-perfect scene. Then, from nowhere, there came a lightning bolt, striking the ground in the exact center of the clearing. In the very epicenter of the strike (which came on a beautifully clear day), a young man appeared, shaking as he tried to adjust to the world around him. He gulped in air in a most undignified manner, trying to calm his quaking body.
He rushed out toward a dirt path, trying to figure out where exactly he was. He reached for his wand and froze.
His clothing was gone. He hadn't noticed in his haste, but it became clear that he had not a stitch of clothing on his body.
He heard a horse approaching. Ducking behind a bush, he waited for the rider to approach.
It was a MONK. Draco blinked. Why is there a monk in modern England!
No matter. He would have to ask for help. The horse rounded the bend. "Father!" he shouted.
The monk brought the horse to a stop. "Who calls?"
Draco's mind went into rapid fire at a seemingly simple question. If he told him his real name, there would be hell to pay from the ridicule of his name. If the wizarding world were to hear about this, it would be the end of his name. He would go by...Drake, for now. Not hard to remember. The last name would have to wait. "Drake is my name."
The monk smiled. "Pleasure to meet you, Drake. Will you come out?"
"Father, I have no clothing! Do you have any that I may wear?"
The monk's smile disappeared. "You are indecent?"
Draco extended a hand out of the bush. "Any clothing at all?'
The monk sighed and went into his saddlebag. He produced a set of monk's robes, and threw it to Draco's hiding place.
Draco grabbed the robes and, pausing a moment to chuckle at the irony, hastily pulled the robes on. He stepped out of the hiding place.
The monk seemed startled. "Mr. Drake, are you of the nobility?"
Draco laughed. "Of course--" he paused, thinking of the problems that could arise. Malfoys were nobility, truly, but not the kind of nobility that the monk was talking about. "--not. Not at all. Just wealthy, prior to...last week."
The monk seemed to understand. "An all too familiar complaint, when a new king ascends to the throne."
Draco was thoroughly confused. A new king?"
The monk was still talking. "...The king hasn't even been coronated by the Pope yet. It seems we've forgotten how to do things in 1136."
Everything became clear to Draco. He had been placed in a different year. The fact that he could understand the monk indicated that he was probably still in England.
He decided to exploit his current position. "Father, might I stay with you at the monastery, until I can get back on my feet?"
The monk nodded. "The guest house is available, as far as I know."
Draco smiled. "Thank you, Father..."
"...Philip." The monk got off the horse, assisting Draco in mounting (though Draco didn't need the help) and started to lead the horse down the dirt road. "What did they call you by, Drake?"
Draco was at a loss. "Well, you see..."
The monk waved a hand. "Your previous life is not important. I shall call you Drake Morning."
Draco smiled. Drake Morning. It had a ring to it.
The dream continued. It didn't get any clearer for Harry, but it continued nontheless. He headed to the bathroom, decided to check the scale. He hadn't eaten in a good long time, he wanted to see if he'd lost the weight he put on.
He gasped. He was down fifteen pounds from before... the incident. He decided to eat breakfast.
Draco settled into his room. He would have unpacked his belongings if he had had any. As such, he was tired from the day's excitement.
He was surprised at himself. He felt he should be depressed, but he was too thrilled at the concept of living in this century.
He decided he wanted to explore the monastery. Fixing his itchy robe, he headed out to explore.
It was a lovely monastery of wood buildings around a small stone chapel. There were paths running this way and that, and there were lovely plants apparently growing wild around the untraversed areas.
All the buildings seemed to have been constructed at the same time, except for the little building toward the back of the campus. For some reason it caught his attention, while the other places struck him as boring and dull.
He headed straight for the back.
The little shack was downright adorable. Surrounded by clay pots, it even seemed to be clay itself, from all the dust. Draco knocked on the door sharply.
"It's open," a voice called from inside.
Draco pushed the door open, stepping inside. He looked around the place. A bed stood on one side, while a workstation was set up on the other.
A dark-haired man was kneeling at the station. Covered in clay, he was molding the clay into a lovely vase.
He turned and smiled at Draco. "Give me a minute," he said. He dipped his hands and arms in a basin of water, drying them on a rag.
He turned back to Draco, extending a hand. Draco smiled, putting his hand in the man's. He kneeled in front of Draco, planting a sensuous kiss on the back of his hand. Draco felt a tingle down his back as the colour rose into his cheeks.
The man looked up, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I am Harold," he smirked. "And you are Drake Morning."
Draco was shocked. "How do you know me?"
Harold grinned. "News travels fast at a monastery, especially when the visitor is so beautiful."
Draco's breath caught for a second. "You're--"
"Come with me to dinner," Harold interrupted.
Draco was speechless. He took in the sight of Harold: his shirt stretched around tanned muscles, revealing a magnificent physique. His arms were strong and sinuous, his eyes were sapphires in a setting of dark curls.
Harold's eyes burned into Draco's. "You intrigue me."
His eyes filled Draco's field of vision, as Harold cupped his chin, pulling him closer. Soft lips brushed Draco's as the bristled beard tickled Draco's cheek. Draco felt his knees buckle, and Harold's hands caught him, supporting him effortlessly.
Harold pulled back. "How about dinner?"
Draco was reeling. "I...er..." he stammered, leaning against a wall for support.
Haold's eyes traced over Draco's body, coming to rest on the top of Draco's head.
"It fits," he said, after a long pause.
"!" Draco said.
Harold reached forward, caressing a lock of Draco's hair. "Your hair is like the bright morning sun."
Draco blushed furiously. He shook his head, clearing his mind. "So does everyone new get the white glove treatment?"
Harold frowned. "...White gloves?"
Draco waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Where are we going fr dinner?"
Harold grinned. He toyed with a ringlet from his beautiful curls, probably not trying to be seductive but succeeding anyway. "Hungry, eh? Monks don't eat well enough for you?"
Draco crossed his arms in mock anger. "What are you implying?"
Harold shrugged innocently.
Draco put a hand on one hip. "I have little time for--"
"A scoundrel like myself?" Harold slipped an arm around Draco from behind, resting his chin on Draco's shoulder.
Draco smiled mischeviously. "Now, Harry, you--" he stopped. "Harry!" What?
Harold released Draco. "Who is Harry?"
Draco turned to look at Harold. Realization dawned over him as he looked from the half-finished vase back to Harold. "You work with clay for a living."
Harold nodded; his eyes read confusion.
Draco's heart quickened. "So that would make you Harold--"
"Clay, that's right. You've heard of me?"
Draco's hopes fell.
Harold paused. "But I don't like the sound of that. Harold Clay. I was thinking of changing it to Potter." He smiled. "Harold Potter. It has a bit of a ring to it, doesn't it?"
Draco nodded, too stunned to speak. Could this really be Harry's ancestor? He made a quick visual assessment. Harold's hair was a little too curly, but it was just as messy as Harry's. His eyes were vivid blue, just as the pictures of Harry's father were. His overall size was similar, but his arms were too well defined. Probably a result of years of pottery, Draco surmised.
Well, Draco would never know for sure. He could imagine it if he wanted, though. He missed Harry so much.
"Let's go to dinner, Harold." Draco took Harold's hand, heading for the door.
Harold pulled his hand away. "We are in a monastery, Drake. Don't forget," he smirked.
Harry stirred on the sofa, waking out of a fitful afternoon nap. He felt a strange and unfamiliar emotion--he felt happy. He suddenly saw a picture of Draco, laughing, smiling.
It seemed so real! Did that mean Draco was alive?
Harold and Draco arrived at a tavern about an hour later. Harold took Draco's hand, leading him back to a small private room. Discreetness was the key, apparently; the town was small, based around the monastery, and news of indecency had a strange habit of getting back to the monks.
A haggard bar maid came to the room. "What can I get for you?" she grunted out.
Harold looked at Draco questioningly. He shrugged. "We'll have whatever your best is. And two ales."
The woman nodded, showing toothless gums as she grinned. She left to get the food.
Harold looked at Draco, silently asking his approval.
Draco looked around the room, nodding happily. "It's adorable."
Harold shrugged. "It's not much, I know."
Draco took his hand. "It's perfect."
The bar maid returned, holding two mugs of ale, and Harold and Draco slid apart, sitting on the stools on either side of the rough-hewn table.
She seemed not to notice. "Food's almost out," she grumbled as she set the mugs down in front of them.
Draco mumbled his thanks, and the woman stayed standing in front of him, holding out her hand.
Harold smiled, holding out a few coins for the lady. She grunted something incomprehensible and left.
Draco took a tentative sip from the mug of ale, unable to meet Harold's eyes. "Why are you doing this for me?"
Harold smiled at him. "Why not?"
They sat in silence until the food arrived. The old woman brought two steaming plates, each with a whole chicken roasted on a spit. There were vegetables surrounding the chicken; onions, carrots, and others added their unique splash of colour and taste. Draco's mouth watered as the woman set the plate down, providing a large knife to eat with.
Harold payed the woman and she left. Unable to wait for anything, Draco dug in with his knife, ripping pieces of chicken off and pushing them into his mouth. Harold chuckled as Draco ate hurriedly.
"The chicken's dead, you know. It's not going anywhere," Harold laughed.
Draco shot a glare at him and continued eating.
Harold grinned. "The monks don't eat well enough for you?"
Draco took a swig of ale to wash it all down. "Where I'm from, I could eat anything I wanted."
Harold tilted his head inquisitively. "You're nobility?"
Draco weighed his options carefully. "I'm of the...gentry." He paused. "At least, I was. Until the...er...bandits ransacked our house and killed my, er...mother and father."
Harold put a hand on Draco's arm. "Drake...I had no idea."
Draco smiled. "It's all right...I'm all right. It was nothing." Which, in reality, it was nothing.
Harold rubbed his arm supportively. "How did you escape?"
Draco sighed. "I wasn't there. I was away, learning...archery."
Harold sat back. "Let's talk about something less morbid."
Draco grinned. "This food is delicious!"
Harold nodded. "It really is good, eh?" He stared into Draco's eyes.
Draco dabbed at his mouth with the hem of his monastic robes, colour rising in his cheeks as Harold's eyes burned into his. The rest of the room faded away as those sapphire orbs captured every bit of Draco's attention.
The bar woman shuffled back in. "What else do you want?"
The trance broke instantly. Draco jumped slightly, then handed his bone-covered plate to the woman, blushing profusely.
Harold laughed softly, handing the woman his own plate. He stood up as she left, helping Draco to his feet. "The monks don't take well to tardiness. Shall we return, love?"
Draco smiled, taking Harold's outstretched hand.
Draco paused at the door to the guest house, looking back at Harold. He sighed, suddenly feeling awkward. "So..."
Harold smiled deviously. He knelt down in front of Draco, taking his hand. He placed another kiss on Draco's hand, rousing the butterflies from their sleep in Draco's stomach.
Harold stood up, brushing golden strands away from Draco's eyes. "Sweet dreams, love," he smirked, strolling back to his own house.
Grinning, Draco stepped into the guest house. Slipping his robes off, he slid into the bed. Feeling himself relax, he fell quickly into a deep sleep, beginning his first night in the twelfth century.
Harry felt a pang of hunger, surprisingly, and realized that he didn't remember the last time he had eaten. He checked his calendar--it said June 7.
That couldn't be right. June 7 was--
--The day Draco...left. He refused to acknowledge even the possibilty that he was anything other than alive.
He grabbed the keys to his car and headed out in search of a pub. He was out of Scotch anyway.
A/N: The story actually is fully written, at least in its first stage. I'm just too lazy to type the whole damn thing at once. This is probably my most complex story ever. It just doesn't seem that way from the outset. If you've finished reading this, please review and tell me what you think!
...Oh yes, and beta readers would be nice. So give me a buzz at this email: ryoanddee242 at yahoo dot com