Harry is back in the hospital like a good boy after his stint at the Ministry. He wakes up, disoriented and groggy. He finds his lock of hair jet black and unruly, just as he had always known it, and a sour taste inside his mouth. When Ron comes to visit in the following evening, he is already stuffed with copious amounts of tea and bored from lying in bed all day. He has great fun yelling inside his own head, trying to summon up Riddle or Voldemort or even Death, but none come to humor him and explain just why he would be able to read Malfoy's thoughts, or even dream about Malfoy back in their good old Grimmauld days. He settles for staring mutinously at the white walls around him and insist that he was fine and ready to get out of the hospital, and even the most cheerful Healers have a haggard look about their faces by the time lunchtime rolls around. When Ron comes down into his room for a visit, he is ushered in with great ceremony and pomp. He hears a Healer whispering just outside the doorway, "Mr. Potter is feeling a bit tetchy" and Ron snorts and replies that dear Harry had always been that way, never mind him, it was the war, you see. He says it in such a conciliatory, reassuring manner that Harry can't bring it to be mad at him, the way he throws around war like a symptom of something one must overcome. Ron was used to explaining to people about Harry and his many aggressive ways by now; the words seem to flow naturally. Ron the every-patient meditator between his tetchy friend and the world at large. Ron the grown-up. Ron the man who moved on. (Harry, your attitude is not really helping, he hears Hermione rebuke. He imagines sticking out his tongue.) After a brief silence, Ron sticks his head out through the doorway before the rest of his lanky body follows. In his hand there is his old wizarding chess set.

"Alright there, Harry?" he says casually. "Thought you'd be bored, so…yeah." He gives out a rueful grin and Harry cannot help but twitch his lips. He must try, anyway, and it is easiest to feign lightness with Ron, who has not seen him in his grey moments, and who would pretend that Harry had not gone off to confront Malfoy just the day before. They will pretend, until Harry sees it fit to tell him everything in his own right time.

"Ron," he says, as Ron gives him a lopsided grin and gestures helplessly to his dirtied robes. "Bad day in the field, then?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Ron makes a face as he stomps his feet to ward off any residual mud, "Reckon the Healers will chase me out if my robes are like this?" He waggles his eyebrows dramatically and jerks his thumb at the doorway. "Met one out here and she seemed happy to let me in, anyhow. Or maybe that'd be because you were being—what did she call you again?"

"Barking mad," Harry says with a small smile. "But don't let that scare you. Come in, before you want to test another batch of them."

Ron rolls his eyes and steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a snap. "Bloody rough day," he explains with a grimace. "We've been ransacking Malfoy's house and found old artifacts hidden right and left. Not all of them are Dark, yeah," Ron adds hastily when Harry raises an eyebrow. "And—hell, don't give me that look, Harry, it was Shaklebolt's idea, he didn't want to take any chances. Even though you're all for his innocence. You and Hermione both." Ron sighs and sits at the edge of the bed. He starts taking out the chess pieces and curses as the red ones topple around the lumped bedsheets. "Hold the Queen, Harry, she's going to jump off the—yeah, good. Bloody senile, that one. Anyway, just because Malfoy's turned into a werewolf, she thinks that he needs some sort of protection against the Ministry that's trying to do his lot in—"

"She's not entirely off, Ron," Harry points out. Ron throws him a sour look that follows by a resigned one.

"Yeah, you and her both, I meant. Am I the only one who remembers Malfoy from our Hogwarts years? Just because he became a werewolf doesn't mean he's a changed man. Or beast. Stupid git, always throwing hexes behind Neville…although, I reckon he did that less when he was with all of us. I'd say he saved up his worst when you weren't around, maybe that's why you've gone soft on him. Acting as his ward, of all things." He sets up the rest of the chess pieces as he talks, his hands caked with mud. Harry hears Ron's words and something sounds off. Throwing hexes behind Neville…but Malfoy had always been very eager to save his nastiest tricks for Harry. There was something about this story, just as Malfoy's slip of his tongue back at Azkaban, that they were not fully acknowledging. Harry does a quick Scourgify with his hand and Ron rolls his eyes at him.

"Cheers, mate, although I don't think you should be using magic so soon. Here, pick your color, what'll you have?"

"White," Harry says easily, his hand twitching. "I didn't know he took it out on Neville that much. The way I see it, he was too busy trying to do us in."

"Yeah, but that changed when…" Ron stops. His brow furrowing. Harry watches him, keeping his face blank, careful not to betray anything. He makes sure that his hand is steady when he adjusts the chessboard lain in front of them.

"Er." Ron shakes his head a little, scratching his head. He looks frustrated and bewildered all at once, his eyes intent on the chessboard. A good sign, then. "I—I mean. Never mind. Go on, make your move."

"No," Harry says calmly. "Let's talk about Malfoy being a jackass, I find that remarkably more entertaining,"

"Don't we all," Ron mutters, but his eyes do not look up to meet Harry's gaze. "Look, Harry, drop it for now. I got—confused. You're right, Malfoy's always been eager to attack you, so I don't see why you'd want to defend him when he might've gotten you bedridden."

"Ron," Harry tries again, "You said that—Malfoy was with us? When was he? Malfoy was never with us, not the way you put it. Or am I…maybe I hit my head in the wrong place." He laughs, a false terrible laugh that has Ron twitching in his seat. Ron's frown deepens and now he is actively glaring at the chessboard. "I only remember how he was all too eager to get us expelled. He certainly had no soft spots for me."

"I—yeah, true." Ron's voice is barely a mumble.

Harry worries his lips between his teeth. Always the direct way with Ron, then, he thinks, not that I expected otherwise. "Ron?" he asks tentatively, "What…House was I sorted into?"

Ron is silent for a long moment, his posture very still that Harry is afraid he had not asked the question. Harry waits, the question once again on his lips, ready to be asked again, when Ron snaps his head up and looks at Harry, his eyes wide and troubled.

"That's the thing, Harry," he says, just as carefully and slowly as Harry posed the question just minutes before, "I can't really be sure."

Harry lets out a breath. He can work with this. "Okay," he says. "What does your memory tell you?"

.

.

.

Before Hermione comes bursting in his room, Ron and Harry piece together the basic gaps in their memory. Ron remembers the train ride vividly and he remembers conflicting accounts of the troll ("Did we or did we not rescue Hermione?" Ron asks) and about how Snape was a bastard who was set on murdering Harry, but also Quirrell who talked to himself in empty classrooms about his own murderous plans to kill the young Boy-Who-Lived. But then after that, Ron's memory fogs—he remembers the Chambers, Sirius Black ("But I remember you swiping away Scabber in first year, thought you were mental even then," Ron says and Harry dryly voices out his thanks) the Triwizard Tournament ("When you were being a git?" Harry asks and Ron grunts)—Ron remembers their Hogwarts years, and Harry is relieved to note, as Harry in Gryffindor.

"But also you in Slytherin," Ron says, and his eyes are sharp, glaring down that chess pieces that have decided to take matters into their own hands to ransack the chessboard. The crowing Red Queen swipes off the white Knight. Harry winces. "Unless I'm going mental. I remember how I almost took Malfoy's head out when we were in the library, searching about the Philosopher's Stone. Ranting lunatic, he was, harping about how being around blood traitors and the like. Funny, you'd think that Hermione told us about Nicolas Flamel the first time around…" Ron looks nervous. "Harry? Tell me that I'm not going mad."

"You aren't," he is quick to reassure. "Or, I mean. If you are, then I am too, I guess, and I suppose we'd have to ask Hermione about it all over again, and then we could all be merrily loony."

"I don't appreciate your sense of humor," Ron grumbles.

And so, when Hermione comes into the room, she is swamped with Ron's babbling and Harry's silence. She takes it all in stride.

"I remember you," Hermione says slowly, "As a Slytherin. But as a Gryffindor more." She wrinkles her nose. "Does that even make sense?"

"I think we can all check into the mental ward now," Ron says faintly. "Merlin. So it's not just us, then?"

"It must be you." Hermione turns to Harry. Harry does his best to meet her stare. Hermione has that look about her, her mind whirling with the possibilities of why this might happen, why the events of their past would be so screwed… "Harry—you're doing something with our memories. Or our timeline. Either way you—are you using a time-turner?" The last word is said in a very accusatory tone that Harry does not feel is warranted, and his voice is cool when he replies.

"No, I know what happens to wizards who mess with time-turners."

"Do you?" Hermione's eye narrow at him and Harry glares back. "A conflicting account of events is only the least of it, Harry. What if you get stuck?"

"I'm not using a time-turner, I said," Harry says hotly, but Hermione overrides him.

"Yes, I heard your wording. Not using a time-turner, honestly, Harry, do you think I'm daft? There are other ways to go back in time, most of them all assuredly illegal."

Harry folds his arms and looks away.

"What," Ron says dumbly, looking back from Hermione to Harry, "So, yeah. Harry, you are? Going back in time, that is?"

"This is getting us nowhere," Harry says crossly. He feels agitated and angry (surprise, surprise, a droll voice echoes inside him, so you came back and retained your eleven-year-old petulance and emotions, how very charming of you) at his friends' looks, and musters up a patience he does not feel. "What I'd like to know is, why I came back."

And fainted away, leaving Malfoy to be carted off to Azkaban, he leaves hanging.

"What I'd like to know," Hermione snaps, "is: what were you thinking?! Time travel is very dangerous, you know that! What if you didn't come back? Was this during your coma? How is that possible? How is this possible?" She whirls to a bewildered Ron, who gives her a half-shrug and fiddles with his hands. "You're the one chasing after all these Dark Artifacts, Ron, honestly… Harry, I've been meaning to ask you, but did you tinker with one of the Dark Artifacts lying about in your house? You know not to mess around with them—"

"I wasn't messing around—"

"And what if you were stuck there, in an infinite time loop? That does happen, more often than you'd think! What if you were completely stuck there and over here, you'd just be in this bed, day in and day out, leaving us hanging about, not knowing when you'd wake—"

"Breathe, Hermione," Ron interjects, and about this time, Harry had just about had it. Rotten temper he once had, and he is remembering how nasty he had once been, before apathy and nothingness took him over.

(Oh no, Riddle says, you always had that inside you. You're just very good at playing the hero. You think it would all just go away in its own good time if you suppress it long enough. Utterly sickening and noble of you, but there you have it, Chosen One.)

"Maybe I wasn't meaning to come back, how about that?" he snaps back, quite viciously, and that shuts up Hermione long enough for him to continue on, "I know things now—we all do, and it's been bugging me quite a lot to be honest, the war, and I thought—I mean, doesn't everyone think that—if I went back and did some things all over again, maybe we'd win faster and maybe people would be alive and—"

"No!" Hermione all but shouts at him now, and Ron jumps up out of bed, casting a wary glance at her, "Yes, of course we know things about the war, of course it's bothering all of us, but you don't see me ransacking the Ministry for unregistered time-turners to fix everything up, do you? It's dangerous, you have no way of knowing whether your plan would work, you—"

"Of course I don't know that!" Harry shouts too, and this is it, he thinks, this is the first fight that he truly has with Hermione, the vile words crawling at his throat and itching to get past him, the shouts and the accusations just waiting to be thrown. Years of Hermione screaming at him, only to have him withdraw first and become sullen in his silence, years of near misses and Harry shouting at her that he wanted to die, Hermione backing off, all their stony truces and one-way screaming for naught. "But it's worth a try, yeah? Anything's better than the war we fought, it shouldn't have ended that way, and maybe if I was better at everything I could have changed something, Voldemort would have been defeated long before then, and fuck, Hermione, right now I don't have—"

"Don't you say it," Ron says suddenly, his voice deadly, "Don't you dare."

Harry stops. He breathes out. Hermione presses her lips tightly together and looks at Ron. Ron stands before him, his face set and furious. His fists are clenched and Ron glares at him, daring him to. Just.

I don't have anything I want here.

He could have said it. He could have made Ron shout and storm out of the room, he could have had Hermione weeping and following in his wake, and he would have been left alone in his hospital room, waiting for Death to overtake him again. He could have said it and they could have shouted back, and what about us, and the living, Harry? But he does not; there is something blazing around Ron's blue eyes, his look that speaks of enough losses and grief, and Harry is not cruel enough yet to take away more from his best friend. So Harry swallows the words and shoves them back deep into his ugly mind. He breathes in. Out.

"I wanted to change something," Harry says tiredly. He does not bother to apologize. "I don't know what."

He knows what he wants; he knows what kind of person he had become, what caused him to be so, what haunted his bed at night. He just did not have the words to eloquently excuse himself.

"We know that," Ron says, in a calmer voice. He sits back down on the bed and beings to fuss around with the chessboard until the pieces form a semblance of order (the Red Queen grudgingly gives back a decapitated head to the White King) and motions for Hermione to sit down. She hesitates only for a brief moment before she does. The bed groans a little under their weight. It reassures him somewhat—the solid weight, their solemn gazes.

"Harry," Hermione says, her voice also quieter, "There are other ways to fix things. Other—safer ways. It doesn't all have to be about the big and the great. You can't just—hop onto the most outlandish way to go about things."

"I wasn't trying to be," Harry says. He closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his scar. "I was just trying to…we were just all very young then, I thought. I just wanted to start over." A clean slate, if I had one, Harry thinks, but in that world I returned to, there was no such thing. Voldemort still appears and mocks me, Snape is still stubborn and evil, Malfoy is dubious at best. What could I have changed, what can I still.

Hermione reaches over slowly. Her hand is cold when she touches him; he lets her take one hand and squeezes it. "I know," she says softly. "We know."

Are you going back, she does not ask.

Do you not think of us when you leave everything behind, Ron does not demand.

How do you go on as if everything did not happen, Harry does not say.

Older, they have their silence and their unspoken conversations dangling in that bare room. Older, they hold hands like the children they once were and pretend their fights had never happened, that they are still infallible and brilliant, just as they all had been all those years ago.

"Harry Potter in Slytherin," Ron only murmurs, "Snape'll be having a field day over this in his grave, I'll bet."

Hermione and Harry exchange wan smiles.

.

.

.

In the beginning there was only the flat, barren wasteland.

There was nothing else for miles around. Walk down a dusty road, and the weary traveler would stagger on in vain, hoping for water and food, perhaps a town to rest, a dragon to ride, only to have himself stumble down to his death. To dust we came and to dust we shall return. The land is devoid of everything but the cold night skies and the fine white sand. Look up and you may see the green Lights that shimmer and mock you for your smallness. Cold and empty, this world is. You may walk, my dear, in this barren land in search of something and find yourself with nothing. This is the beginning.

Or, as mother used to say, her voice a soft lull, in the beginning was Magic, raw and primal in its form. There could have been no one foolish enough to contain what had been there always. Magic is, mother used to say, and she would not elaborate more. What about it, I would demand of her. But she would think that would be enough for my young mind, that I was somehow smart enough to fill in the void that she herself had never bothered to explain. Magic is. Fill in what you will, Draco, for Magic had been there before we were born; so it shall remain when we eventually perish.

The story ends. The silence is brief.

More, more! I demand. I am a child; and Harry watches this child.

A younger Narcissa Malfoy tucking in a child that had once been Draco Malfoy to bed. Child Malfoy looking at his mother with his wide eyes at hearing the once desolate world without people and ancient tales of magic. Narcissa Malfoy conjuring up a vision of a flat desert that dangles around them, and the child, his small arms scrabbling to hold the vision before it dissolves into the air. To dust we came and to dust we shall return, the child repeats. His voice is high and grave. It is young.

Harry observes them for a moment longer, before glancing at the older boy standing next to him.

Huh, he says to an unresponsive Malfoy. It seems that I'm in your head again. Or your dreams. How do you do that? He pauses and looks back at scene before them. Child Malfoy clutches a delicate hand. He crows in delight and Narcissa laughs. It is a motherly laugh; strangely, Harry feels a pang in his own chest.

That's a bleak tale, he tries again. Older Malfoy does not respond, his figure stiff and unresponsive next to him. Malfoy observes his childlike persona with a cold look. Narcissa Malfoy and the child continue on in their own little world, oblivious to the intruders who observe them from the far future.

Perhaps another story, then, she coos at her only heir. Well then…there once was a boy who lived…

Harry turns his head again to Malfoy, his mouth agape. You mother told you about me? he asks dumbly.

You were a legend, Potter, has no one ever told you that? Malfoy finally speaks, his voice irate. Why you would come and bother me in my own dreamscape, I can only guess. My mind must be going mental in that rotting cell.

But—

Shut up, Potter, if you're going to stay for this. Malfoy snaps, and Harry's lips snap shut. Malfoy looks mildly surprised before his glare shifts into a contemplating look. At least I can tell you what to do. That'll be a first.

Harry rolls his eyes.

The mother continues on about Harry Potter the legend, only she leaves out his name, she does not talk of his half-blood status, she erases out blood and enemies and war. She weaves a story about an infant who defeated the greatest sorcerer of their time, she crafts up a tale about a boy who was cunning and sly, who was wily and great. She makes Harry into a Slytherin without the malice; she waves her hand and a child with a scar upon his forehead materializes into view and bows down to the child, who is delighted. It does not look anything like Harry, truth to be told. The figure wears a small smirk on his face and is donned in Slytherin robes, and it has a confident posture that reminds Harry more of Riddle than himself. The child looks upon this creation of his mother's magic with greedy eyes, and when he turns to his mother he demands, Will I be able to meet him?

Narcissa smiles. Yes, but of course, she replies. He's just your age, Draco. He'll be going to Hogwarts, too. And he may be a hero, and he may have saved us all, but he would need a friend when you're at school, won't he?

He will, the child says. He grins. It is not a nice smile, but Harry thinks, a little amused, it is somehow endearing. The grin the child wears is fierce without malevolent intent.

Be nice, Draco, his mother says soothingly. Use your charm. One can never go wrong with a Malfoy; you'll just have to show him. She soothes out his hair and the child snuggles back into his pillows, his eyes drooping. Sleep, my dear. The loving voice of a mother fades into the background.

The scene fades. They are left in darkness and a void.

Well, he wants to say, fancy that. You wanted us to be friends.

That was a long time ago, Potter, Malfoy says savagely, and Harry turns to him in surprise.

I didn't say—

Yes, well, my dreamscape, and still I can't get rid of you and your inane thoughts. They echo, Potter, Malfoy says in disgust, when Harry only looks at him confused. Your thoughts. I can read them.

Oh.

Malfoy sighs. This is a stupid dream, he mutters.

Why those bedtime stories? I thought you'd dream something…

Harry gestures helplessly with his hands towards his mouth. Malfoy grimaces and waves his hand again. Harry's mouth opens and closes.

Why indeed. People do get nostalgic from time to time, Potter, it's not unheard of, Malfoy says darkly. He looks around. I don't want to be stuck in such an ugly place with a blasted figment of my imagination, thanks. I'd like to wake up.

Who are you speaking to, Harry says, somewhat resigned. And what do you mean, I'm a figment of your imagination? I'm me.

As if that's ever so eloquent. I seem to have your persona down very nicely inside my head, Malfoy sneers. He begins to pace around. The space they cohabit does not seem to have any boundaries, but nevertheless, Malfoy's gait does not make him move further away. Tell me then, Potter, what are you doing in my head?

I'd like to ask that myself, Harry says. He feels light-headed and consequences of his words and actions do not seem to matter in this particular space. You're not really my first choice for my dream eloping fantasy, you know. Just because you fancy me—

I don't fancy you, Malfoy snaps immediately, and whirls around. His eyes glitter dangerously.

Harry shrugs. You did kiss me, he points out.

This should bother him. Why doesn't it?

Yes, why doesn't it, Potter, Malfoy replies to his thoughts, and he speaks through gritted teeth. For the record, it wasn't anything, it was a reflective response—you were dead for weeks, and then you come back alive as you've always been and my parents—

Malfoy stops. He does not continue on.

Harry thinks, I'm sorry about your parents. Malfoy does not say anything to that and lowers his head down. His hands are curled into fists. Harry does not express false sentiments he does not feel for the Malfoys, but he finds it in himself to add, The Ministry shouldn't have done that. I—I would have done something sooner if this was what came out of it.

Pointless magical blood wasted, a voice from long ago speaks inside him. High and cold; monstrous and regal. Harry does his best not to flinch.

It was just a reaction, Potter, it didn't mean anything, Malfoy whispers again, after a long silence. Harry knows better than to contest it further, but his mind wants to persist.

I would think so too, but…He stops and tries to gather his words, strings them out carefully. I seem to be popping inside your head at random intervals—tell me if I'm wrong, but that seems to be a bit more than a coincidence—

Potter, is this your way of telling me that you've never kissed anyone before? Malfoy says scathingly. People kiss all the time, they don't suddenly develop mind bonds. Or whatever you may call it. Merlin, you mind is a train wreck. Also, this is a dream. You're in my head. I must be going mad. The last sentence is half-directed at himself.

Harry blinks. Well, he says, Maybe. But you were always a bit mad—

Shut it, Potter, I don't need you—or me—to tell me things I don't want to hear, Malfoy snaps. He runs a hand through his hair. You're hardly the one to talk. You wanted to die, Potter, or have we forgotten about our little chat? Before that, you imbecile, Malfoy adds in quickly, a scowl forming on his face as Harry raises an eyebrow.

Before you shoved me to the wall and smothered me? Harry says blithely, just because he can with Malfoy, and Malfoy glowers at him. Why, yes I did. Mad as a hatter, I am. Tell me then, do I often pop out into your dreams like this?

Malfoy sneers. You're usually younger, Malfoy says. I'm younger. We have a little picnic by the lake down at Hogwarts and you introduce me to your half-breed friends and I don't insult them to my pleasure. What do you think about that?

So we are friends, Harry points out, and Malfoy responses to this with a snarl.

No, Potter, the point is that everything happening here is proven suspect, and you're usually not this annoying. Don't, and Malfoy throws a dirty look at where his younger self had been projected just moments before, Don't. Talk. I detest your stupid words.

Harry crosses his arms. Why don't you chase me out then, if my presence is bothering you?

Usually, you're not this talkative, Malfoy says. I am hoping for a change of scenery.

So I do—

Yes, Potter, you come out in my dreams. We're playing friends and you're a Slytherin and the damned war never happened. Or better yet, everything's not changed much, except that I maul you and bite you and you beg underneath me—how do you like that? Malfoy's grin is all teeth. Or no—it's not a question of whether you like it, is it? It's a question of how you'd like to be mauled and bitten. Fuck, Potter. Get out of my head. Malfoy's voice, by this time, has grown weary and tired just as Harry had always felt. Isn't it enough you get to have a say in how my life would turn out? Must you come and order me about in my own dreams too? Let me face my past in peace. It's the only thing I have left nowadays.

Harry obliges him. There is nothing more to say without aggravating him further. He could not say to this defeated Malfoy, I am trying to save you, I am trying to save us all. Those are empty promises and hollow vows. He could not even vouch for Malfoy's innocence in his own lifetime. Strange, that Malfoy's words should leave such a bitter taste in his mouth. Wake up, he thinks instead, and he feels a tug of strings. An eerie hand beckons to him.

Goodbye, Malfoy, he says. He does not bother with apologies and their past choices.

.

.

.

He wakes.

The world of the living is full of Sirius Black's face. Sirius's eyes are very black and brimmed with worry. His face is properly shaved, handsome and young. Blinking, the face comes into focus. He's awake! Yes, I can see him very clearly, Black, contain your shock. Harry smells fresh bed linens, a sharp cutting smell that soothes him. Hospital Wing, he thinks blearily. He lets a shaky grin stretch across his face. Sirius does not return it.

"Harry," Sirius croaks. "Merlin. Do you do that often? Just—fainting away without warning and not breathing? What is wrong with him, did you found out?" Sirius quickly turns his head and directs the question to Snape, who is keeping his distance at the foot of the bed. He is met with a sneer.

"He doesn't have seem to have James Potter's sensibilities at least," Snape says. His lips curl. "He's fine now, Black, as you can see for yourself. He must have suffered a concussion at seeing your poorly state. I wouldn't be surprised."

"You—" Sirius stands up abruptly, his mouth feral. He just as quickly sits down. "Never mind, I don't have time for you right now."

Don't talk about Sirius like that, Harry bites down. His hands are shaking as he tries to smoothen down his hair. A cup of water is thrust towards him and he laps it up gratefully.

"I'm fine," he says, when he finds his voice. It is younger, brighter. It is easier to feign normalcy when one's voice has not acquired the gravity of a man. "I—just a shock. Nothing to worry about." He blinks and smiles at Sirius. Blinks again. I won't be able to get used to this, he thinks. Sirius alive. Sirius happy. Sirius and Snape. Fuck.

Tick tock, Riddle whispers.

2017-1-5