A/N- I'm finally editing this. (It's been long enough, right?) For anyone who's still following/cares about this story, after all this time, here's the first edited chapter. To anyone who's new; anything past this needs to be edited badly. Just a warning. Thanks to those reviewers/people who PM-ed me about this story; if it wasn't for you I wouldn't have looked back at this.

There's not much that's different about this chapter, but there will be major edits to later chapters, and the plot will not remain the exact same.

Chapter One: In the Common Room

It was a lovely evening for a walk. It was December, and winter was quickly approaching Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Snow had yet to fall from the constantly overcast skies and the wind was unusually calm. Yet Draco Malfoy was in no mood to walk about the grounds and enjoy the weather. He had other things on his mind.

The Slytherin common room was completely deserted by midnight, although it was unusual for it to be so. Perhaps Blaise had sensed his companion's need to be alone and had banished everyone to their dorms. Draco sighed, running a hand down his face. He would track down his Italian friend later to thank him for what he might—or might not have-done; it was too late to do so now. The sixteen year old blonde picked up his quill once more, sighing when he realized that he had left an ink spot on the paper. He retrieved a fresh piece from his bag, crumpling the useless one with his fist.

Dear Mother,

That was how all the letters started, simple and uninteresting. That was how they remained. No word was passed about Voldemort or the unspeakable task Draco had been given. No kind words or endearments were exchanged about school or home. They were all composed around the same bland idea of: 'Everything at Hogwarts is fine. School is well. Professor Snape sends his regards,'. And there was definitely never a 'Love, Draco,' at the end.

So the Slytherin wrote the letters and sent them away. It was never pleasant to think of where they were going to; a cold manor with dark furniture and rooms that were dusted by but never entered. Draco shuddered at the thought of returning home for the winter holidays. He wasn't sure if he was going to or not. The Dark Lord, who was currently residing in one of the Manor's many guest bedrooms, would certainly want him too. But with his return would bring questions on the progress of his mission. And that was something he certainly didn't wish to think of any more than necessary.

It didn't work, of course. He was stuck with the task, at the risk of his life. He knew well enough from the long, pressing stares his mother gave him whenever they were in the same room. Draco knew he was being blamed for the sins of his father; sins he could not atone for because he was in Azkaban. Seeing as Draco didn't want to die, he knew he had to find a way to let the Death Eaters into the castle and kill Albus Dumbledore.

Not that he wanted to kill anybody. But he hadn't much choice. He'd started planning half-heartedly a few weeks ago. He had a bottle of poisoned champagne for Slughorn to gift to Dumbledore. There was also the dark artifact idea, which was still slip-shod and would most likely not kill the Headmaster. But that's kind of what Draco was going for anyway.

Deep down, he knew he didn't really want to kill the twinkle-eyed man.

Draco snapped out of his thoughts when the fire crackled loudly. He had a letter to write.

Dear Mother,

It was nice hearing from you. School has been good so far. I am thoroughly enjoying all of my classes and cannot wait to see you for Christmas break. Professor Snape sends his regards.

From your son,

Draco Malfoy

He folded the letter primly, placing it into an envelope and sticking it into his bag. He would go to the Owlery tomorrow as it was too late to do so now. He sat back in the dark leather couch, his eyes on the fire before him. It was charmed green and it cast eerie, dancing shadows around the room each time it moved. There was a crackle and a pop every now and then, but other than that, the high-ceilinged room was completely silent. That was, until it wasn't.

"Oof!" There came several loud thumping noises from behind a row of bookcases near the dormitories that sounded suspiciously like people hitting the uneven dungeon floor,

"What the bloody…? Are we at…?"

"Shh," Came a sharp voice that sounded suspiciously like Granger, "Shut it, someone might hear!"

Draco eased off the couch quietly, his wand clutched in his hand by his side.

"Rosie?" A slightly lower tone asked, "Are you alright?"

"Oi, what about me? It's not like I'm your best mate or anything," The first voice announced crossly. Draco heard a feminine laugh followed by a loud scuffling noise.

"Al, you are stupider than Scorp's new haircut."

"Hey!"

"Never mind how stupid his haircut is, where are we and what are we doing here? I am going to kill James when we get home,"

Growing tired of eavesdropping on the pointless banter, Draco rounded the corner, only to be met with one of the most peculiar sights he had ever set eyes on.

Lying on the floor behind the bookshelves, where three teenagers no older than him. One was struggling to sit up, with some difficulty seeing as he was sprawled across the other two. He shook his head uneasily and ran a hand through his dark, rumpled hair. Under him, there was a girl with long, auburn hair and bright blue eyes. She was sitting on someone else's chest, who Draco could not see very well.

"Who. The. Hell. Are. You." Draco hissed, his wand touching the tip of the first boy's nose. The trio stopped moving, realizing that someone else was with them. Draco reeled back in surprise when he realized he was looking at Potter without his glasses on. "Potter. What in the name of Salazar are you doing here? If you don't think that I won't report this intrusion, I will. I hope you enjoy losing house points," Draco's eyes narrowed as he looked the boy over again. He was Potter… except Potter didn't have a splatter of freckles across his nose… and Draco had never once seen him wear muggle clothes. Not to mention the lack of glasses.

"I, er…" The Potter look-alike sounded nervous in the presence of Draco. Which was odd, because after six years of hatred, he and Potter knew how to act around one another. The Potter look-alike obviously hadn't formed a clear opinion of Draco yet.

"I am sorry," Came a surprisingly commanding voice from the girl who looked somewhat like a ginger Granger, "You must excuse my cousin. It's not his fault we're here, honest. It was all James' fault, what with the stupid time turner he had. Where he got it, I don't know. He didn't get any sand on him, of course. Potter luck. I assume his mum is screaming bloody murder at him right about now, because, well, Aunt Ginny has a Weasley temper..."

"Rose," The third, slightly muffled, voice spoke at last, "Shut up,"

A certain realization hit Draco. He retracted his wand just a bit, although it was still pointed at the group of bedraggled teens on the floor, "Time turner?"

Draco Malfoy's earlier problems flew right out the metaphorical window. These children were from the… future? Was it the future? Wheels began turning in his head. Potter (the boy-who-lived Potter, not his… future child) obviously had a son. 'Rose' must be Granger's daughter; they look so alike. And the third boy… well, Draco had yet to see his face. And Draco was not one-hundred percent sure that this wasn't some sort of prank, despite what these three had said.

"Stand," Said the angry Slytherin, "All of you,"

And they did. The Potter look-alike appeared apprehensive before him. His muggle t-shirt was torn at the bottom and the jeans he was wearing were ratty; typical for a Potter to not care about his appearance, Draco thought, as he remembered the way Potter's hair was never combed right. Rose looked as though she was about to burst into hysteric laughter or tears. And the last boy dragged himself up of the ground, his white-blonde hair in a mess. He looked awfully familiar…

Draco felt his jaw go slack as he gazed into the stormy grey eyes of a slightly shorter yet otherwise identical version of himself.