Telling Remus about his sexual orientation had been a relief, even though their conversation had been cut short. Harry wanted to tell Ron and Hermione, too, to test their reaction without it sticking—though for the time being he would omit his feelings for Draco.

Once he had explained the time loop, he said, "There's something else I have to tell you." If their friendship was truly as steadfast as he thought—after all of their shared brushes with death and the role the pair had played in making him feel worthy of love—surely opening up about himself would only strengthen their bond.

"I'm bisexual."

Ron looked at Hermione, who didn't return his expression.

"It means I can fancy people regardless of their gender."

"Since when?" Ron's face had gone red. "Are you taking the piss?"

Hermione elbowed him. "Seriously, Ron, he's clearly trying to open up and that's what you say?"

"Sorry, it's just—so you—what you're saying is—you're saying you like blokes, then?"

"And girls, too, and it's not like I fall head over heels for every single guy I see." Harry was out of his body, watching himself talk from the end of a long tunnel.

"But we've always talked about girls!" The pitch of Ron's voice rose. "And there's nothing about you that—what I'm trying to say is . . . I dunno."

Ron and Hermione were both stunned and embarrassed, so Harry waited for them to process the news, despite wanting them to get on with it.

Finally, Ron cleared his throat. "Did you ever—were you ever . . . for me, did you . . .?"

Harry understood the gist of what Ron was asking. "I never fancied you, if that's what you want to know."

"Oh. That's . . ." He probably meant to say "That's good," though there was a twinge of dejection in his voice. "Any of my brothers?"

"No, I've never—I've noticed them, sure, but never fancied them. I suppose, Bill—"

"What about Bill?"

"He's attractive—"

"That's just a fact," added Hermione quickly.

"He's my brother!"

"And he's cool. I didn't realize it at the time, how I reacted—what it meant—but out of your brothers . . ."

"How long have you known?" asked Hermione.

"I came to terms with it only a couple months ago. I wouldn't say I knew earlier, though it wasn't out of the blue."

She nodded as Ron watched her, nearly as taken aback by her calmness as by Harry's confession. Then she asked, "How did you know?"

"Er, we don't have to get into that now. So neither of you are . . . ?"

They shook their heads.

"Right." He wasn't sure if he wished they were queer or if he didn't care. "What should I say the next time I have to tell you both this?"

Ron opened and closed his mouth, still struggling. Hermione answered first. "Be patient, if you can. We're not going to understand immediately." Harry thought she said this more for Ron's benefit than his own.

By Harry's best guess, ten months had passed since the time loop began. In the time between discoveries and encounters with Draco, Harry practiced spells beyond their current coursework, usually with Ron and Hermione. About a third of the time they thought he was acting odd enough that they pressed him for an explanation, and he went through as much of the story as he thought they needed to hear.

At the beginning of the time loop, the spells they had been practicing in Transfiguration came fairly easy to Harry. After ten classes, he could grow a long red beard and cast a black goatee on Ron. After the first several weeks, he could grow out his wild black hair at will. Although more experienced wix could have cast transfiguration spells that lasted much longer, having spent fifty-odd classes and several evenings practicing allowed Harry to transfigure most features for a few hours at a time.

"When you practice these spells," Professor McGonagall had said many times, "you will find that visualizing how the feature should change is essential. The clearer the image in your head, the better the result."

From a distance, he could now wandlessly change someone's features. So one day, after one of his wouldn't it be funny if . . . thoughts, he tried changing Draco's eye color in the girl's bathroom under cover of the invisibility cloak.

Draco yelped and leaned closer to the mirror. "Am I going mad?" He whipped around, confused, then looked back at his reflection, rubbed his eyes, looked again, splashed his face with water, looked again.

"Myrtle?"

Moaning Myrtle floated over to him, concerned by the panic in his voice. "Are my eyes—no, what color are my eyes?"

"They're green! When did they change?"

"I don't know. I don't know. They're—his."

"His?"

"Potter's. I thinking about—and then transfigured them by accident? Mutatio oculos!"

Immediately, Harry changed his eye color back to green, flinching at Draco's frustrated shout.

"I can't leave like this." Now Draco was examining his face, angling it left, right, up, and down, absently tracing his fingertip from the corner of his eye to his earlobe and under his chin.

Harry swallowed. He expected confusion or frustration, but he couldn't place Draco's current expression. Suddenly, he remembered the potion the Weasley twins had been developing and tiptoed out of the bathroom, a plan beginning to take shape.

Draco emerged several minutes later, eyes still green, some color returned to his face. He was so distracted that he ran into Harry.

"Hey, watch where you're going! Malfoy? What is it?"

"Nothing, Potter, now if you'll—"

"Hang on, your eyes—"

"It's nothing. I don't have to explain myself to you! Why don't you look at yourself in the mirror?"

Harry took off his glasses and peered into the reflection as though seeing the change for the first time. "They're like yours! What the—how did—why . . . ?"

Draco turned to glare at him, having already started to walk away. "If you know something and are feigning ignorance, tell me now."

"Okay, okay." And now for his plan: "There's a potion Fred and George Weasley are working on, and they asked me to test it."

Draco's sneer faltered somewhat with confusion, and the hand at his wand went slack as he tried to guess what Harry would say next.

"It's meant to show something to the drinker—me—by changing their eye color. So if your eye color changed too, that means . . ."

Draco's eyes darted back and forth, betraying his realization of where this must be going.

"If you understand what I'm saying, then meet me in the Astronomy Tower tonight at eight." With that, Harry headed off in the direction of the Gryffindor common room.

Something about the day seemed significant, stirring some hope in Harry that there was a renewed chance to escape the time loop. As he counted down the minutes to eight o'clock, he wondered if Draco intended to use this opportunity to trap him. Maybe he would show up with Crabbe and Goyle and attack Harry, try to torture him again . . . over the years, Harry's willingness to dive headfirst into danger clashed with Draco's tendency to slither his way out of situations at the expense of others.

So Harry waited fifteen minutes past the meeting time he had set before starting to leave.

"That impatient, Potter?" said Draco, emerging from the staircase as Harry made to leave the same way.

"Are you alone?" Harry glanced behind Draco, taking a few steps backward to make room.

"Yes. And you? With your cloak, I can only hope no one—"

Harry pulled his cloak halfway out of his pocket. "I'm alone. We're alone."

Face twitching as he suppressed his self-consciousness, Draco said quietly, "I want you to tell me exactly what the potion you drank was meant to do, so there is no misunderstanding."

"Right. The potion turns your eyes the color of the—the person you're meant to be with." Saying this aloud made the shadows in the room rise, the walls creep closer. Why had he chosen such an unnerving place to meet?

"'Meant to be with'? And it would kill you to be more specific, would it?"

"Be with romantically, you prat! And you can probably guess now, that if the person's eye color changes to match yours, then they feel the same way. Or did it make a mistake?"

Draco swore under his breath, then pressed his lips together, shifting from foot to foot. His fingers once again reflexively grazed his wand. "You should forget about the potion, there's obviously something wrong with it, assuming this isn't some twisted ruse. What about the Weasley girl? I thought you and her would—you two are a better match. A perfect match."

"And forget you? Don't tell me you aren't at least curious."

Draco flushed at his, then chuckled, rubbing his face with his hands. "This is mad. You're mad." He locked eyes with Harry, who barely had time to reach up by the time Draco had strode over to him and kissed him—a bit clumsily, given the abruptness of it. Harry wordlessly reassured him by touching his neck, albeit with a bit more force than he had intended.

This Draco was greedy, barely pausing for breath, using his tongue in a way that betrayed his inexperience. Liquid joy poured through Harry, increasing upon his realization that for once, Draco wasn't crying.

His hair gel.

The roughness of his chapped lips.

The way he stooped slightly so they were the same height.

"Still think I'm mad?" asked Harry once they parted, their foreheads pressed together.

When Harry tilted his head to continue, Draco angled his head away and stepped back. "Give me a moment." He began to pace, running his hands through his hair, breathing in through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.

"I'm sorry," said Harry. "Maybe it was too much—"

"Obliviate!"

Harry looked around, feeling stuck in the turmoil one experiences when jumping into water from a great height, crashing between the vastness of air and the weightlessness of water. The bodily disorientation lasted for a full minute. When the world made sense to him again, he tried to remember why he was in the Astronomy Tower.

Time loop . . . transfiguration . . . Draco . . . so what had happened that day? He had to assume Draco cast a Memory Charm. Had only one day passed since he could last remember? What if months had gone by, all gone to waste—but no, when he patted his cloak pocket, he found a piece of parchment with notes from that morning's class. It had to be the same day, then.

Was his heart racing because of the charm or because of what had preceded it? He reached into his pockets again. No invisibility cloak . . . it was possible he'd left it in the dorm. Or Draco had stolen it.

If time resumed the next day instead of skipping back, then Draco would have two things to hold over him: his lost memory and his cloak. At least the cloak wouldn't allow him to kill Dumbledore, who could see him regardless.

Thankfully, the next morning, his glasses were not where he'd moved them; time had repeated once more. Whatever had happened, it was intense enough that Draco had needed to wipe his memory. It wasn't yet half-past, so the possibilities were limited.

He had to be more cautious the next time he pushed Draco. But that was easier said than done . . .

Every few weeks, Harry visited Myrtle's bathroom. There was always the chance he could learn something new from her. It had been a long time since he had tried to interfere with Draco's visit; he typically visited after the sob-fest had ended. This time, however, he came before Draco arrived.

"Myrtle? You there?" he called, knowing full well she was there and would be a bit upset, knowing she would warm to him, knowing Draco would join her soon, knowing he could always try this again the next day.

Moaning Myrtle rose out of her stall, arms crossed. "I am, Harry Potter. You know, it's been a while since you've visited me."

"I know, and I'm truly sorry, I never meant to hurt you." This was an abbreviated version of his typical apology, and probably pushing his luck. "I need your help."

"Oh? So you didn't come here because you miss me . . ."

"Of course I missed you. I just have to make this quick. Draco is going to come here in, er, maybe twenty minutes or so, and when he says he has no idea what to do, tell him I can help."

"How do you know he's coming here?" Myrtle pouted. "This was supposed to be our secret, and you two aren't friends."

"He says he hates me, and that's true, I suppose—but I don't hate him. I haven't for a while."

"Why should I believe you when you haven't visited me in so long?"

"I fancy him, Myrtle, is that enough of a reason?"

She stared at him, then shrieked and spun around. "Harry Potter has a crush! Your secret's safe with me, Harry. Plenty of boys and girls like you have come to me . . . crying about forbidden love . . . I can understand, you know, about love that is forbidden . . ." She winked at him, and he felt oddly comforted by her twisted enthusiasm.

"Right, you realize you could do a better job of reassuring me you can handle this? Anyhow, I'm going to go back under the cloak, so just pretend I'm not here."

"Yes, I can do that for you, Harry! Oh, I mean, who said that? Is someone there? I've not heard a thing." Giggling, she flew back and forth around the bathroom, excitement mounting as the minutes passed.

When Draco finally appeared, she froze and looked theatrically solemn. "Oh, Draco, what's wrong?"

Before she even finished asking the question, he burst into tears, covering his face with his hands, shoulders heaving.

Myrtle chewed her fingernails, her desire to bring up Harry sharp in her eyes as she waited for an in. "I'm sorry, Draco . . . I'm sorry."

Malfoy heaved a shaking breath and looked at her. From where he stood, Harry could see his face in detail, the red-rimmed eyes, the glisten of snot below his nostril, the crinkles in his chin. "Y-you ha-have nothing to be s-sorry for. It's all up to me . . ."

"Would it be easier if you had someone to help you?"

"You can't help me. No one can. It's impossible, there's nothing . . . no one . . . I'm completely alone, I can't . . ."

"What about Harry Potter?"

Draco's head snapped to face her. "Potter?" he spluttered, eyes wide. "What does he have to do with anything?"

Myrtle twirled in the air beside Draco, giggling with glee. Harry clenched his fists, wishing he knew a spell that would silence a ghost.

A furious blush rose in Draco's cheeks. "I didn't come here for you to mock me. I—"

"He fancies you." Myrtle glanced in Harry's direction, then back at Draco, greedily drinking in his shock.

"He what?"

"He told me today. He was in here earlier. He wishes he knew how to help you, he told me he has feelings for you."

Draco's tears were gone; perhaps the mention of Harry was enough pressure to compose him. "He only said that to find out what I'm planning." He scoffed. "What an idiot. He must be desperate if he's resorting to—" His face fell. "How would he know I talk to you? Have you told him?"

Myrtle floated backwards, shrugging. This was not the passionate confession she undoubtedly expected. "He already knew, he came in here asking how he could help, not about us."

Draco rubbed his temple. "If anyone found out . . . my friends, if they found out you and I meet like this . . ."

"I know! I know, Draco! But he gave me a reason to believe him."

Draco fell silent and studied the enthusiasm in her features, his own face twitching slightly in annoyance. "Fine. If you cannot convince me, I will not come here again, and I do not want to see you again, ever."

Myrtle's face contorted. "I'm trying to help you! You've always said I can't, but if I can help Harry help you—" She glanced toward where Harry was standing.

Draco narrowed his eyes. "I never imagined you would side with Potter."

Myrtle's voice rose. "Harry's telling the truth! He told me he hasn't fancied you for very long. He loathed you, but now he doesn't—"

"He's lying!"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Again, Myrtle glanced behind him.

Draco drew in a breath. "What do you keep—?"

Harry threw off his cloak.

Draco drew his wand. "Stupefy!"

"Protego!"

The two boys stared at each other, wands raised.

Draco's mouth curled into a grin. "You should not have lied, Potter, now the whole school will think you're flaming . . ."

Harry frowned and pocketed his wand. "I wasn't lying. And I can help you, if you let me explain."

Draco shifted his grip on his wand, slender neck straining as he swallowed. "I do not want your help. If I told you, everything would go to shit."

Harry broke into a sweat, and he itched to reach for his wand again. "We can figure out a way. At least—if you told Dumbledore why you have to do what Voldemort wants, you won't feel guilty later."

Draco's eyes flashed and he took a step forward, wand aimed at Harry's head. "What do you know about that?"

Usually, when Draco found out that Harry knew more than he should, he ran to Snape, or swore he would inform Voldemort. Based on the last successful conversation they had, Harry knew he couldn't convince Draco unless he offered a realistic solution or had help from Snape.

"I know just about everything. You have to kill Dumbledore, so you're planning to use the Vanishing Cabinet to sneak in Death Eaters—"

Draco's face crumpled and he sliced his wand through the air, sending sparks flying at Harry, who jumped back just in time.

Harry drew his wand. "Petrificus Totalus! Molliare!" Draco's limbs snapped together and he fell just before reaching the door.

Harry cast a Muffling Charm and propped Draco against the wall. "I'll free you in a moment. First, I want you to listen. I know what happens if you don't do what you've been told to do, and if everything goes according to plan, I know how to help you. If you don't kill Dumbledore, your parents will be killed, along with you, probably. If you do kill him, your father will be freed from Azkaban, and your family will be restored in Voldemort's eyes. But he expects you to fail.

"You don't want to kill Dumbledore, especially since he is one of the people—maybe the person—preventing all-out war. And you're not a murderer. I found all of this out because I'm in a time loop, meaning that each night, time resets, and I live out the same Thursday over again. It has been months, so I've spent some days trying to figure out how to defeat Voldemort. At first, my priority was figuring out what you were doing, but as I learned more, I started getting closer to defeating Voldemort. See, he's stayed alive by splitting his soul into pieces, and he protects those pieces by encasing them in rare objects. By finding them, we can kill him for good.

"As all of this was happening, I began to—er, I began to fancy you. We've . . . kissed a few times. Oh God, this is more awkward than I thought it would be."

He took a moment to collect himself, then continued, "There was a chance you could feel the same way, but I rarely catch a glimpse of that. Of course, I wish it was the case, but I can hardly expect anything from you." He briefly looked into Draco's eyes. "I doubt you believe me. There's nothing I can do to prove it to you, so I won't bother. At least know I no longer hate you. And if I succeed, you will no longer have to fear for your life." He pondered if he had anything left to say. "I'm going to remove the spell now. Don't pull anything." He took a few steps back. "Finite Incantatem."

Draco sprang up, reached for his wand, and, remembering Harry had taken it, lunged for him. He grabbed Harry by the front of his robes and backed him up to the bathroom wall so that he hit his head against the stone.

Stars flashed in front of Harry's eyes, and if it wasn't for Draco's hold on him, he might have fallen.

"Don't. Lie. To. Me," Draco hissed through his teeth.

Harry struggled to reply, shocked by the impact. He put his hands on Draco's shoulders to steady himself and lifted his head.

Draco stared at Harry, face red and eyes wide, pointed chin wobbling as he debated what to say. "You wouldn't really want to kiss me, would you, Potter?" His words dripped with malice and his breath shook. He leaned closer. "I bloody dare you."

Harry didn't react at first, too shocked to know what to do. But then Draco kissed him, and he kissed back, more gently—

Draco wrenched himself away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were wild with fear, and then—before Harry could figure out what exactly he was about to do—he ran into one of the bathroom stalls and vomited.

Moaning Myrtle chose this moment to rise up out of the adjacent stall and let out a long whine. "Oh, this is terrible."

Harry winced as Draco retched again, this time punctuated by a sob.

"Er, are you all right?" Harry felt thick for asking, but he didn't know what else to say.

"J-just go."

Harry walked cautiously over to the stall where Draco bent over the toilet. He was about to reach out and touch Draco's shoulder when Draco said, "I told you to leave."

"But—"

"Get the hell out, faggot!"

Harry's mouth dropped open. With tremendous effort, he said evenly, "Fine. If you don't want my help, I'll leave you alone." With tears burning in his eyes, Harry strode across the room to retrieve his invisibility cloak and left.

The slur buzzed in his head like an angry insect, stinging his thoughts. It couldn't hurt more than Draco using the Cruciatus Curse on him earlier in the loop. Or more than his calling Hermione a Mudblood, betraying Dumbledore's Army to Umbridge, crushing Harry's nose on the Hogwarts Express—he could add this to the list of insults over the years.

Why had Draco used that slur if he was the one who kissed Harry in the first place?

Something about Draco's reaction resonated on a deeper level, almost like déjà vu. It took Harry two days to come up with an explanation for why the incident had seemed familiar. He spent much of that time racking his brain, but it wasn't until he had reached the lowest point in his shame that he stumbled upon the connection:

Why did I delude myself? Any chance of a relationship was entirely invented, and as soon as the bubble burst, they would end up right where they started, no matter what Harry did in the war. They were ideologically opposed, and Draco's insult only made Harry realize it would be better if they went their separate ways—

He stopped in his tracks. The moment had felt familiar because it was. In fifth year, he had seen Snape call his mother Mudblood. He'd assumed the painful part of the memory was due to bullying, but maybe present Snape had reacted so strongly for another reason.

Where did the similarities begin and end? He and Draco openly hated each other, so a slur could never mean much. Draco had called Hermione a Mudblood on numerous occasions. And Ron was a blood traitor. Faggot, Mudblood, blood traitor. Brown, black. Poor. Out of all the labels the trio held, Draco had only skirted race in his insults, a cultural phenomenon Harry was keen to appreciate after years being known as the only brown kid at his primary school.

Labels still followed him at Hogwarts—the Chosen One and the Boy Who Lived—but this new label was jarring. It felt less like a name had been spoken at him and more like it had been spoken from within him. Would Draco call him that word in front of other people, or was this between the two of them? Had he called other people by the same slur?

For Merlin's sake, why would Draco use that slur if it could be just as easily applied to him?

More than any other single word, Sectumsempra could have ended something. More than any other fight, casting the Prince's spell was a turning point that Harry could imagine carrying with him over the years.

Harry finally regained his senses and found himself standing at the door to Snape's office.

He knocked, and a moment later, the door swung open and Snape was glaring at him.

"What is it, Potter? You realize there are precious few minutes until curfew."

"I have to talk to you."

"Can it wait?"

"I suppose—" The door shut in his face.

Well, then. Tomorrow.