Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. Harry's Muggle friends belong to me (they probably aren't going to make any more appearances, though they may be mentioned). The sheep man doesn't belong to me, though. He is the creation of Rapunzel, and I'm eternally grateful that she lets me borrow him when I want to. I'm making absolutely no money off of this, so please don't sue me.
Warnings: AU, spoilers for SS/PS through OtoP, OOC Malfoy
/.../ denotes thoughts
Notes: Shifting Realities is now Book 5 compliant! Yes, I sat down and, instead of working on this chapter like I was supposed to, went through and made a number of small changes in order to make this fanfic as canon as possible (which is a bit hard to do, considering that this is an AU). Many thanks to both Rapunzel and Blue Jeans for letting me use them as brainstormers for this chapter. It would have taken a lot longer to finish this without you guys! Read their fics, you can find their links on my Favorite Authors page : )
Chapter 8: Lost
These tears we cry
Are falling rain
For all the lies
You told us
The hurt, the blame!
And we will weep
To be so alone
We are lost!
We can never go home
– "Gollum's Song," from The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers Soundtrack
"Hey," Sirius said quietly, as he stepped out from the small workroom, and onto the back porch where Harry was sitting. "Brrr... Aren't you cold out here? It's freezing!" Eyeing Harry's jacket, he drew own cloak tightly closed.
Sitting on the top step and staring out at the fields beyond the back garden of the house, Harry shrugged. "It's not that bad. Malfoy put a warming charm on my coat back in November, so I'm actually a lot warmer than you'd think." Malfoy had insisted on doing it a few days after the hail storm, having seen the way that Harry shivered when he walked into town to visit the library. The friendly gesture had worried Harry, who had been unsure of what to make of Malfoy's ready helpfulness. Harry picked up the book that was sitting on the step next to him, making room for Sirius to sit down next to him, which the older man did.
Fidgeting nervously on the cold stone porch, Sirius glanced at the squib next to him. "Well, it's nice to know that you two get on with each other well – you do, don't you?" he asked nervously, obviously unsure as to whether he was reading the body language between the two younger men correctly.
"I guess we do," Harry said with a shrug. "I mean, I call him Malfoy, and he calls me Evans, so I guess you couldn't say that we're especially chummy. But I do lend him books, and when he doesn't help me cook, he usually washes the dishes so I don't have to. We're not friends, but I guess you couldn't call us enemies." He kicked at the snow that had settled on the lower steps the night before, watching as it flew out. The larger clumps made little craters in the snow at the bottom of the stairs, while the smaller pieces just skittered across the top.
Sirius snorted, apparently amused by something Harry had said, though Harry wasn't sure what. "I couldn't call you enemies? Why on earth would you be enemies, you barely know each other."
"We... I... I didn't get along that well with the Malfoy that I knew when I was at Hogwarts," Harry mumbled, turning up the collar of his coat. "I keep on expecting him to act the same way as 'my' Malfoy. The differences between your world and mine are confusing... most of them are just... well, little things, but some of the differences are huge," Harry blew on his hands some, then shoved them back into the pockets of his coat. "Like dead people being alive," he added, sneaking a look at Sirius. Whatever reaction he had been expecting from the other man, he didn't get it.
"What do you mean, 'dead people being alive'? You sound like someone from a Muggle horror movie," Sirius laughed, clapping Harry on the back.
"Well... I was talking to Remus about how Cedric Diggory died during the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, and he said that Cedric hadn't died here, but had instead ended up winning the Tournament. He's not the only one either, there are other people as well," Harry explained.
Sirius shivered slightly and watched as a few lone snowflakes drifted down out of the sky. "Like who? Anyone I would know?" he asked out of curiosity, smiling slightly.
Jerking slightly as if startled, Harry shot Sirius a strange look. "I would... rather not talk about it if I could. Their deaths were... very upsetting to me," he said slowly. He joined Sirius in watching the snowflakes for a bit, then finally drew a deep breath and said what had been gnawing on his mind since Sirius had stepped outside to join him on the porch. "Why are you out here, Sirius? What do you want?"
Sirius sighed guiltily, and turned to face Harry, "I can't fool you, can I? Draco said as much, earlier... Harry, about Voldemort..."
Blinking, Harry glanced up at the man who was not his godfather. "What about Voldemort?"
"Draco's going to be going to Hogwarts in May in order to help prepare for Voldemort when he comes. He's also going to join the fight against old Voldie." Sirius paused and ran a hand through his long black hair, upsetting the snowflakes that had settled on top of it and hadn't yet begun to melt. "You don't have to help us fight him, Harry. Remus and I talked to Dumbledore, and he agrees that it isn't your fight. You've already been through it once, and that was with the advantage of magic. It wouldn't be fair to you to make you fight in a battle that isn't yours."
Harry was silent for a long while, thinking about what Sirius had just said. Strangely enough, Sirius' words echoed what Harry had been telling himself for the last few days. /"...it isn't your fight...", "...wouldn't be right...", "...a battle that isn't yours." I know I shouldn't have anything to do with it, that it doesn't involve me in any way. I wasn't even the one who killed Voldemort the first time in this world, that was my – Evans' – dad. Before Remus walked into the book shop last year, I – Evans – had had no contact what-so-ever with the wizarding world, excepting the fact that my – his – father was a wizard./ He knew the words, he'd told them to himself many many times recently. /But... at the same time.../ "Sirius, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"If you... If you were in the same position as me, would you fight? Or would you stay out of it all?"
Standing up, Sirius brushed the snow off of his cloak and trousers. He stared down at Harry, thinking. "I don't want you to base your decision off of what I would do, but... If it were me, Harry, all these people... even if they didn't know me, had never met me before, I would do whatever I could to save them." He leaned against the porch railing, rubbing his eyes with an almost tired air. "God... I would give almost anything to have another chance to save James... And it seems to me that the people you care about, Harry, even if they don't know or care about you, are always worth fighting for." He turned, and stepped inside the house, lost in a swirl of the now quickly falling snow.
Harry stayed on the porch, unmoving, for quite some time after the departure of the other man. Huddled on the porch, he thought about what Sirius had said, and he thought about the friends he had known during his time at Hogwarts, wondering if he felt as strongly about them as Sirius felt about James Potter.
Alice,Whap! Harry jerked to the side as a ball of cold snow hit his shoulder, spraying snow all over the letter that he had been writing. He looked at the paper in dismay as he realized that when he'd moved from the shock of being hit by the snowball, it had caused his pen to scrawl across what he'd already written. "Dammit, Malfoy! You got snow all over my letter, and now it's melting and making all the ink run! Why did you do that?!"Happy New Year! Yeah, I know I'm late, but I was visiting with old friends over the holidays and I haven't had a chance until today to get around to catching up on my letter writing. Whoa... Can you believe it's a new millennium? It's so cool that this happened during my lifetime; so many people never get a chance to experience the change. So, did the Y2K cause any problems in with the computers at the library where you work? It almost did at the library over here – the librarians were running this way and that, and they had to have some special technician come out to work on it. It was horrible! They closed the library for an entire week, and I had to go about book deprived.
I'm doing fine, but don't ask me to get into all the gory details about school and stuff – it would probably bore you to death. I spend a lot of my spare time reading fiction books, and get this! I've gotten the guy I'm rooming with hooked on hard-core fantas—
"You need to loosen up some more, Evans. While it's nice to see that you're not hiding behind a book again, you should still do activities that actually involve movement," Malfoy drawled, right before hitting Harry with a second snowball.
It hit Harry smack dab in the middle of his forehead; obviously Malfoy's aim was getting better. Harry shook his head, trying to get rid of the snow that ended up in his hair when the snowball splattered across his forehead. Letting a growl crawl its way out of the back of his throat, Harry placed his pen and the remnants of his letter on the porch with a certain amount of precision. He then whiped away the snow melt still stuck to his face. Malfoy watched this entire display out of pure curiosity, obviously wondering how the squib intended to react to being beaned with a snowball.
As it turned out, it had been a good thing that Malfoy had not turned away from the other man right away. Because he had been watching Harry, he knew to step out of the way at the right time, and thus miss the first snowball that Harry hurled at him. Of course, it did cause him to step into the direct path of the second missile, but never mind that.
It did not take long for the snowball fight to expand into a battle of epic proportions, as each man scrabbled to get together a large enough quantity snowballs that they might have the advantage. In the end, Harry won, but only because he had the porch railings and the bushes in front of them to retreat behind when the going got tough, while Malfoy was out in the open, with no sort of shelter to speak of. Despite this unfair advantage, Malfoy did not protest when the battle finally ended; like Harry, he was tired, and his clothing was wet all the way through from being pelted with snowballs.
Flushed and laughing, they stumbled into the house, shedding outer garments as they each made their ways to their respective rooms, intent on changing into dry clothing. Soon enough, Harry found himself curled up in the armchair next to the lounge fireplace, dressed in only his pajama bottoms and dressing gown, a mug of hot tea warming his hands. He felt surprisingly content, and as he took a sip from his mug, he looked across the room at Malfoy, who had donned an old Hogwarts robe and a pair of fuzzy green wool socks. Sitting on the couch, the wizard was ignoring his own mug, instead staring pensively into the dancing flames in the fireplace.
"What's so interesting about the fire, Malfoy?" Harry asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Hm? Oh, I was just thinking... It's been over five months since you moved in here, and you've... changed. When you first got here, you couldn't stand the sight of me, and now you teach me Quidditch moves, share your books with me, and let me pelt you with snow," said Malfoy, his mouth quirking into a strange smile as he took a sip of tea.
"I didn't 'let' you pelt me with snowballs, Malfoy, you just started throwing them at me for no reason." Harry frowned for a moment, then pushed back his fringe so that he could see the other man more clearly. "And anyway, I won."
"Well, if that's what you want to think, I'm not going to argue..." Malfoy trailed off, and nimbly dodged the cushion that Harry sent flying in his direction. He was quick to retaliate, and it soon devolved into a pillow fight of massive proportions, reminiscent of their earlier battle in the snow. When they at last lay on the oval rug that graced the floor of the lounge, each panting heavily, Malfoy grinned. "Of course, you're still too quick to take offense, Evans."
Pushing away his sweat-soaked fringe, Harry glared at him. He wasn't even going to answer that one, he was tired enough that he was sure to lose.
Much as he hated to admit it, it was time for him to get it over with, Harry decided. He had avoided the task for as long as possible, and had even considered forgetting the idea entirely, but then Malfoy off-handedly remarked that he was starting to look a bit like a bum. Now trudging along the road, Harry was a man with a mission. He was going to get his hair cut.
Hermione had once told him, sometime during sixth year, that she thoroughly disliked getting her hair cut. She had it all reasoned out, and had explained to him, in great detail, exactly why she had a problem with it. "First I have to call the salón and make an appointment ahead of time. Then, when I show up at the salón, I'm told that oh, no, I never had an appointment, but they might just be able to fit me in if I'm willing to wait for a half an hour. Then, over an hour later, I finally get a stylist, who will inevitably speak only a small amount of English. And no matter how much I try to explain, or what pictures I show the stylist, I always end up with the same haircut, and it's never the one that I want."
At the time, Harry had been incredibly grateful for the fact that he wasn't female and didn't have to worry about his hair or about going to a salón to get his hair cut. Every summer, on August thirty-first, Aunt Petunia would sit him down on a stool in the middle of the kitchen, and cut his hair. She had long since decided that she wasn't going to waste any money on having his hair cut if it was just going to grow back the next day, and so every year she cut his hair right before he went off to school. He wasn't sure what the system had been in this world, but when he'd awakened on his eighteenth birthday in Harry Evans' body, he hadn't noticed any differences in his hair style – though it may have been slightly shorter than what he was used to.
But since leaving the Dursley's, between the confusion at having been "forgotten" by the world in general, trying to make his own way in the world, and then finally being "discovered" by Remus, the idea hadn't even crossed his mind. So here he was now, walking along the side of the road and trying to decide how he wanted to get his hair cut, now that, for the first time in his life, he had a real say in the matter.
By the time that he had walked into town, he was more than a little nervous. Hermione's words kept on coming back to him, and he was beginning to wonder whether he should have made an appointment in advance, or some such thing. Taking a few steps forward, Harry stopped, and looked around, a bit unsure of were to go next.
"Evans!" a voice called out from his left, and Harry jerked around, surprised that anyone in the town knew his name. As he registered the identity of the speaker, he relaxed. "What brings you to town today?"
Turning to face the man, Harry smiled. "Hi, Mr. Hering. I've decided that it's time for me to get my hair cut, sir. Can you point me towards a barbershop?"
The old man frowned, and stroked his chin. "Let me see... I do believe there is just such an establishment on Third Street, half way between Prosper and Rose. I occasionally find that I myself need to visit it. So, how are you? And Malfoy, how's he doing? I haven't seen him recently."
"I'm doing well. Malfoy caught a cold last week, but he's nearly over it now. How goes the war effort, sir?" Harry asked, as he took his bearings and tried to remember where, exactly, Third Street was.
"Oh, good, very good. There has been progress! They are now selling lamb at the grocer's, and they have added mutton to the menu at that restaurant on Fifth Street. As we increase our consumption of sheep, they are oppressed more, and less likely to revolt," Mr. Hering explained with a decisive nod. "Well, it was nice to see you, Evans. You'll do your part, won't you?"
"I'll make sure to stop at the store and pick up some lamb chops, once I'm done at the barber's," Harry promised, as he took his leave of "the sheep guy," as Malfoy referred to him.
Harry walked down the road, finding Prosper, and eventually the barbershop on Third. He found, after looking at the different pictures of the hairstyles that he could try, that he was quite happy with the cut that he usually received, and wasn't ready to take that leap and try a new style.
Later, as Harry walked up the road that led to the house, he noted that the front door was open, to his surprise. /Strange. Wonder why Malfoy left the door open.../ He shrugged and turned onto the path that led through the garden and climbed up the stairs. He had just begun to reach for the handle of the screen door, when voices from inside the house caused him to stop.
"...wanted him to stay with Remus. He's out running errands and stuff right now." Harry blinked in surprise, wondering who Malfoy could be talking to. The Slytherin never contacted anyone using the fireplace in the lounge, and despite the Muggle appliances that were around the house, Remus had never equipped his home with a telephone. Which could only mean one thing – Malfoy had a visitor. And if Malfoy had a visitor, it could only be one of two people. /Crabbe or Goyle... God, I might've known they would show up one of these days./ Harry quietly set his bags of groceries down on the porch, and leaned forward to listen at the open door. If Malfoy was going to be talking about him to either of his Slytherin buddies, Harry wanted to know exactly what was said.
"I don't know, Draco. This guy shows up out of nowhere, knows almost everything about what we did at Hogwarts, and you just believe everything he says about being from another world?" asked another voice, and Harry froze in disbelief. /I know that voice... I... No, it can't be–/
"Now, Ron, that's a bit harsh, don't you think? You've never even met this guy, and you're already putting him down," said a third voice. /...and that's Hermione,/ Harry thought. Strangely enough, it had never crossed his mind that he might run into either Ron or Hermione again, and now that he was faced with the possibility, he didn't know what to do, or how to feel. /But... why in the world are they visiting Malfoy? It doesn't make any sense.../
As he recalled Ron's harsh words against him, Harry's heart sank. He was familiar with Ron's quick judgment and inability to trust new people, but he hadn't ever been on the receiving end before. Even when they had their differences and weren't speaking to each other, like in fourth year, when Ron had been jealous because Harry had been chosen as a Triwizard champion, they had always joined together against outside threats. And now, he, Harry, was an outside threat.
Harry missed whatever Malfoy said next, as he picked up his bags, and trudged around back, letting himself in through the workroom door. He purposely made some noise as he put away the groceries, and so he wasn't surprised to find Malfoy in the kitchen doorway when he turned to grab the lamb chops he'd bought.
"Evans, you're back. Look, I'd like you to meet my friends – they were in the area and they decided to stop by. I didn't think you'd be back in time to see them. They're very interested in you, and–"
Harry raised a hand, cutting Malfoy off. "I'm not interested in meeting Ron and Hermione, Malfoy," he ground out, his hand clenching around the paper wrapped package of chops.
Malfoy blinked, obviously thrown off by Harry's reaction. "What–? How do you know who–"
Using the pretense that he needed to put away the lamb chops, Harry turned away. "You never really believed Remus when he told you about me, did you Malfoy? I don't know why you're all chummy with Ron and Hermione, but where I come from... in my world... they're my friends, and I'm not that eager to be bad-mouthed by people who should be – would be – supporting me."
There was a noise from behind Malfoy, and both men turned to see Hermione standing in the dinning room with Ron beside her, his arm wrapped around her waist. "Draco, is there something the matter? Isn't Evans going to talk to us? I'd love to hear his take on what he believes has happened to him; Remus' knowledge is wonderful in the classroom when it comes to dark arts defense, but I think he may be going out on a limb with this theory. And it would be interesting to hear his versions of our... well, escapades."
Hearing Hermione call him "Evans" instead of "Harry" was the last straw. Throwing the chops down on the floor, Harry pushed Malfoy out of the way so that he could see the two Gryffindors more clearly. "It's all about making sure that you get the correct information with you, isn't it Hermione? When I called you over a year ago, you couldn't wait to hang up on me, now you want to know all about me. Well, I guess I should be grateful that you're not like Ron here, eager to jump at the chance that I might be the newest bad guy. What is it Ron, you finally realized that Snape isn't evil, so now you need a new scapegoat? No, you know what, I'm not going to talk to either of you about my 'peculiar situation' – hell, I don't think I can stand being in the same vicinity as both of you right now."
This said, Harry spun around and marched away, through the workroom, and into his bedroom. Though he felt somewhat childish, he made sure to slam both the workroom door and his bedroom door behind him. It didn't do much to help with his current situation, but it did make him feel a little better. Still grumbling to himself, Harry flung himself on his bed, burying his head into his pillow, and trying to block out the faint murmurs of people talking that he heard from the rest of the house.
The talking faded away, and he heard the faint clicking noise that the front door always made when it was shut. This was followed by footsteps that gradually grew louder, until they stopped right outside of hall door to his room. There was a somewhat reluctant knock on the door, and then Malfoy spoke. "Evans, are you all right?"
/Yes, Malfoy, I'm perfectly fine. I enjoy throwing childish temper tantrums daily, shouldn't you know that by now?/ Harry thought angrily, trying to bury his face even deeper into his pillow.
There was a sigh, and the doorknob turned as Malfoy entered the room. He picked his way carefully across the carpet, and finally seated himself at the foot of Harry's bed. Both men stayed there on the bed in silence for several minutes, before Harry at last succeeded in getting his mouth to work. "What do you want, Malfoy?" he croaked, and he winced at the hoarse sound of his own voice.
Malfoy was obviously uncomfortable with the situation, but he bravely strove ahead anyway. "Ron and Hermione left. They thought it would be... better if they did. And they needed to get going anyway," Malfoy explained unnecessarily. Harry had already figured out that the others were gone, having gathered that much information from the lack of other voices and the sound of the front door closing.
"You mean I scared them, and Hermione thought that a tactful retreat was in order, before Ron decided to take out his confusion on me," Harry supplied, his voice sounding better now, though it was still somewhat muffled by the pillow he continued to hold to his face.
"Heh, I guess you're right. You have them both to a T." Malfoy sighed again, and ran a hand through his pale blonde hair. "Look, do you want to talk about it?" he asked at last.
It was Harry's turn to sigh as he drew himself upwards on the bed until he was sitting next to Malfoy, leaning against the headboard. The pillow was gone from his face, though he now clutched it to his chest. "You know," he said quietly, carefully not facing the other man, "I never wondered who did all the things here that I did in my world. I never wondered who the hero figure of your world was. I mean, I knew that my – Evans' – dad died when he killed Voldemort, but I never even thought about who did all the other stuff, all the stuff that I did when I was at Hogwarts – like who stopped Quirrel from getting the Philosopher's Stone for Voldemort, or who killed the basilisk, or who tried to stop Voldemort from getting the prophecy from the Ministry of Magic..." Harry trailed off, his eyes, his mind, his entire body tired of everything that was happening to him. Finally he took a deep breath, and turned to look at Malfoy, his green eyes sad and mournful. "But I've been thinking about it, and I think I've figured it out. It was you, wasn't it?"
Malfoy gave him a weak sort of half smile, and shrugged his shoulders, "Well, I don't know anything about a prophecy at the Ministry of Magic, but yeah, I killed the basilisk that was in the Chamber of Secrets, and I helped stop Quirrel and Voldemort from getting the Stone. Didn't the me in your world help you?"
Harry let out a funny, bitter sort of laugh. "Help? You? Lord, no! You picked fights with me, tried to get me to fall off my broom, nearly got a hippogriff executed for no good reason, and helped spread rumors questioning my sanity. You made my life a living hell, and then–" Harry broke off as he realized that he was coming dangerously close to the subject he'd spent over two years trying to avoid. "Then you made it worse," he finished lamely. "What I don't understand is how you can be friends with Ron and Hermione, it doesn't make any sense."
"Huh? Why doesn't it make any sense? ...and why would I – I mean, the me where you're from – do all those things to you?"
"I don't know why you – he – did it, I just always figured that y... uh, he was a bastard who just didn't like me very much. As for why it doesn't make sense for you to be friends with Ron and Hermione, well, the Malfoy I knew was constantly insulting the ah, financial situation of Ron's family, among other things, and also took great pleasure in calling Hermione a mudblood. Not exactly what I would call best friend material," Harry explained. His temper had cooled and he was now trying very hard to be as diplomatic as possible.
"He did what?!" Malfoy gasped in disgust. "Why that utter bastard! If I had him here I would wring his scrawny little – uh, I mean, I see your point," his cheeks flushed, Malfoy coughed nervously into his fist, obviously embarrassed by his outbreak.
Tucking his legs up under himself, Harry turned so that his body faced Malfoy. "How did you meet them, anyway? It would be interesting to hear the story."
"I actually ended up meeting Hermione first. I'd just gotten into a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, when she opened the door to compartment, wanting to know if she could sit in there. We got to talking about magical theory, and found that we had a lot in common," Malfoy explained, becoming more comfortable now that he was talking about something he knew well. "It wasn't long before Neville Longbottom – you know who he is, right? – came by with Ron, wanting to know if we'd seen his toad. That was the first time I saw Ron, though Hermione and I didn't become friends with him until later on, after we'd been at Hogwarts for a couple of weeks."
Smiling, Malfoy leaned over to put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I think I can see where you're coming from, your being upset with them and all. If you heard anything of what Ron was saying about you, I can certainly understand why you blew up at him, and Hermione isn't the most tactful of people sometimes. If they started being suspicious or analytical with me, I think I'd do a lot more than just yell at them. It must have hurt a lot."
"Yes... it did," Harry said quietly, looking down into his pillow.
"Hey, cheer up. I'll tell you what, just to show you how much I am not like that prat who dares to call himself a Malfoy where you come from, I'll make dinner tonight and wash up," Malfoy grinned, and slapped Harry on the back.
"Oh no you don't. I am not letting you cook – I have every intention of living to see tomorrow morning," Harry growled, pushing Malfoy away as he moved to get up off of the bed.
"Sir, you have insulted by honor!"
"Deal with it," Harry called out, smiling to himself as he went into the kitchen to get started on making dinner. He hummed to himself as he started to take out the necessary pots and pans, "I'll probably do it a lot more before you're rid of me."
Malfoy laughed as he leaned against the door frame between the workroom and the kitchen, "I wouldn't have it any other way."
I like Ron, I really do, but in the books he is quick to jump to conclusions about people who he doesn't know very much about. I guess it's one of his "tragic character flaws". Be happy, I haven't made him Evil!Ron : ) (Not that I would ever do that, he's much too cool and I like him too much.)
Speaking of Ron, here's a thought: So, if Malfoy is the hero in this world, then the things that are the same are that the sidekicks are Hermione and... (dadada!) Ron. Ooo... it's the Ron factor!
Man... it's too late... I need to get some sleep. And I need to stop watching Saturday morning cartoons, but nevermind that.
Next chapter: Harry has a brainstorm; featuring Fawkes, the one and only; Things Happen.