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Chapter 6: Day Three, Part One: Déjà Déjà Vu My Friends

Harry spent the rest of the evening in the owlry avoiding his housemates, particularly his two best friends. He had a sneaking suspicion that tomorrow they wouldn't remember anything he said (let alone his odd behavior), so discussing matters seemed of little use. He might as well save himself the aggravation of having them questioning his sanity, at least for the moment anyway. Right then he needed to think, gather the facts, and come up with a game plan.

Facts: Malfoy used a little heard of Quareo Tempus potion to change time. The process was interrupted and so may not have been successfully completed. Somehow, both Harry and Malfoy were being affected daily by the potion, though in different ways.

Harry mentally cursed himself for his behavior with Malfoy earlier. He was trying very hard not to think about the numerous disturbing aspects of their interaction, and focused instead on his failure to retrieve any relevant from the Slytherin – which had been the whole point of confronting Malfoy in the first place.

After mulling over the events of the last two and a half days, he identified several leads.

Plan: First, research the Quareo Tempus potion at the library (possibly enlist help of Hermione). Second, ask to Snape about same (if necessary, tell the truth). Finally, talk to Malfoy again (whoever he might be tomorrow).

It was after nine, and the owlry was growing cold. In lieu of returning to the Tower, Harry decided to stay up all night – maybe he would learn something about the process by which the magic reset time. If nothing else, it might tell him at exactly what time the change took place.

The down side to this idea was the accursed memories that refused to be suppressed now that Harry's thoughts were no longer better occupied. Flashbacks of Malfoy, looking sexy and wanton; Malfoy, wasted and addicted to magic; Draco, abused and bleeding. . .

Harry frowned. Where did that memory come from? It must have been on of the flashes Malfoy had bombarded him with. Pale on pale, and blood, but nothing recognizable. . .

Harry pulled up knees where he was sitting on the cold floor, and leaned his forehead on his forearms. He was so confused about so much.

Did he find Malfoy attractive? At the time he had assumed his lust was a result of the hex, and he was right; but now that the curse had faded, he wasn't filled with the revulsion and regret he was expecting. Instead, he was feeling. . . upset and confused, obviously, but also. . . pained, saddened, curious, sympathetic. . . like, just maybe, a connection had been made. . .

Harry's distressed mind could only puzzle out this particular issue so far before instinctively and defensively averting to another track. Mainly, what the HELL kind of person had he turned into in this timeline? Was he wrong about what was happening, was his past changing too? Or had his Malfoy affected him more than he could have possibly known?

break

Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeep. BEEEP!

"YAAAWAAAGHHH!"

"Finnegan," came Ron's muffled voice. "I'm going to kill you again to today."

Neville snored on, while Dean fell out of bed with a thump, but without complaint. Harry rolled over and just buried his face in his pillow, determined to go back to sleep. At least it was Friday.

Seamus gathered his toiletries and walked all the way to the door before turning around. "COME ON! WE CAN SLEEP WHEN WE'RE DEAD!"

"AAAGH," Ron roared and shot out of bed to chase after his Irish roommate.

"Hunh," came Neville's sleepy grunt.

Harry rubbed his eyes depressively, fighting off what felt rather like a hangover (if the ache in his mind, the tension in his muscles, and the slight nausea in his stomach were anything to go by). This time, he was not surprised by any sudden recollection, rather he woke to virtually the same thoughts he had left off with the night before. He stared morosely at the ceiling. Really, why him? Why did this shit always happen to him? A lot of it could be chalked up to fate – the prophesy and whatnot – but this had nothing to do with the prophesy, possibly not even anything to do with Voldemort. Why couldn't it have been Ron or Hermione who had knocked over Malfoy's cauldron and got caught up in this maddening paradigm? If it had been Hermione, she probably would have already fixed the problem instead of stumbling around stupidly as he felt he was doing. He was not looking forward to another day of stumbling headlong into nasty surprises.

Harry sighed and coerced himself to get out of bed, but as soon as he stood he knew that he was not, in fact, hungover. Something was wrong, he could tell in his gut; or rather, in his mind. It took him a moment to understand the intuition better: he felt as if some distant, disconnected part of himself was suffering in agony and misery, and it was the depth of the despair that was making him slightly ill. A hunch insinuated that it was not actually a numb part of himself that was hurting, but that it was. . . Malfoy. Stubbornness, backed by a bit quality logic, dismissed this possibility out of hand, and forced Harry to block out the nagging background pain in favor going about his morning rituals. (After all, bizarre mental connections were almost as unheard of in the wizarding community as they were in the muggle world.)

The morning proceeded without further incident, his roommates seeming to sense his severe demeanor and hence giving him a wide berth. He arrived at breakfast early, where he sat, as always, with Ron and Hermione, who had a healthy respect for his foul moods. As expected, they showed no indication of remembering the conversations of the previous two days. Over at the Slytherin table, all the seventh years were missing, as well as Malfoy. Harry sincerely hoped that this did not foretell something similar to the day before. He honestly thought that he would rather deal with almost anything other than a horny psycho Draco Malfoy; even murderous Malfoy was preferable.

Harry sighed and turned to Hermione. Here we go again. . .

"Hermione, can I ask you a really really dumb question," he asked unenthusiastically. The knowledge that his actions would have no long term repercussions was beginning to be acutely felt. It didn't matter what this timeline's Hermione thought of his question, as tomorrow it would be as if it had never happened.

Hermione's expression was one of mild concern. "Of course." Then she smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Ron does it all the time."

Ron looked like he wanted to say something indignant, but his mouth was full. . . which didn't actually stop him from trying to say something. "Dere no sush ting as uh stupi' kestion."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but was definitely amused. Harry was vaguely annoyed that their banter prevented him from just getting straight to the point. "Okay, it's going to be a really weird and obvious question, and you're going to think I'm nuts, but I need your answer to help me figure something out."

Concern and gravity returned to Hermione's face. "Go ahead then, I'll do my best."

With a deep breathe, Harry plunged in, whispering, "Where's Malfoy?"

Hermione's reaction was instantaneous – she looked as if she had just been slapped, paling slightly and tears welling in her eyes.

Ron's reaction was instantaneous too – he choked loudly for a second before coughing up his food and spraying it onto the table in front of him. A number of their Gryffindor compatriots eyed the scene strangely or laughed.

Hermione tried to calm her breathing and her features, but the question was really freaking her out. "Harry, why are you-"

Harry's frustration forced him to interrupt. "Please, 'Mione. Can't you just answer the question? I'll try to explain later, but this is important now."

Ron was still regaining his composure, and was beginning to look at both of his friends with obvious distaste for the conversation. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose in a movement beyond her years. "Okay, Harry. I'll tell you what you already know. Malfoy's in Azkaban."

Harry had tried to ready himself for Hermione's answer and to prepare himself for any possibility, in order to avoid having his surprise written all over his face; but he had certainly not been prepared for this. Malfoy was a minor, minors weren't sent to Azkaban, no matter their Death Eater connections; Voldemort didn't even mark minors. What on earth did he do?

Uh oh. Harry hadn't meant to ask that out loud, but now Hermione was looking even more upset, and Ron's face was coloring in anger. "What are you getting at, mate," Ron demanded crossly. "Are you trying to ruin our breakfast?"

Harry knew that his friends had every right to react the way they were, but his own frustration at the whole fucked-up-time situation was increasingly pissing him off. "No! I'm just trying to fix this shit, and no one's helping me, and it's driving me fucking crazy! Agh!"

Again, weird looks were shot at the trio, but Harry didn't care. He was so aggravated that he just gave up trying to explain and buried his head in his hands. If Malfoy really was in Azkaban, then it probably was he who was suffering horribly on the other end of what Harry reluctantly conceded was some kind of psychological connection.

Ron and Hermione finally clued in to the fact that Harry was almost as upset by the conversation as they were. Ron became engrossed in the food on his plate, while Hermione tried to tackle the matter. "I don't know why you are putting us through this, Harry, but I'll tell you clearly want to hear: Draco Malfoy is in Azkaban for stabbing his father thirty seven times, which – by the way – we all had the horror of watching. Now, are you gonna tell us what this is all about?"

Harry moved his hands slightly to rub his temples, before sighing and sitting up straight. And here we go once again. "Fine, but you absolutely must not freak out. You can either believe me and help me or you can not believe me; but then you have to leave me alone to figure this out on my own for today. Deal?"

Now Ron too was looking concerned too.

"Harry, you're worrying me," Hermione said pathetically.

"I know, I'm sorry," Harry said soothingly. "I'm just asking you to trust me on this, and let me do what I need to do today."

"I trust you, mate," Ron said sincerely, jumping on the opportunity to add something to the conversation.

Hermione sighed, obviously not happy to be going along with this. "Of course I trust you."

"I certainly hope so, after all we've been through. Now, here's what's going on. I'm actually from a different timeline, where Malfoy has fucked with time, so that it is changing every day. This is the third new timeline I have been to. Dumbledore got me tangled up in this mess and then yesterday, when I tried to get him to help me, he charged me with fixing this."

Harry glanced nervously between his two best friends. Both of their mouths were slightly agape, and Hermione's eyes were wide with. . . what? Harry had no idea what was going through their heads. Did they believe him, or did they think he was completely deluded?

"Tell me this is the worst joke ever," Ron commanded weakly, taking his turn to cradle his head in his hands.

Harry shook his head, then turned his attention to Hermione, who was studying him closely. When she finally spoke, it was with the voice of someone at peace with their answer. "Okay, Harry, I'll give you one day. I'll even help you, if I can."

Harry was flooded with welcome relief, and actually managed a smile. "Actually, you can help."

break

The trio went to class, as was expected – Harry feared that any unwanted attention could jeopardize his ability to complete his mission, while Hermione was decidedly unwilling to miss class for what might prove to be a bit of temporary insanity. Ron was only slightly easier to persuade into skipping lunch, but he was eventually convinced to follow Hermione to the library, where they both researched a time-modification potion that neither had ever heard of.

While they did that, Harry was off to the dungeons to speak to Snape. He tried hard not to think of Malfoy, rotting away in Azkaban for killing his monstrous father. He had managed to get a bit more information out of his friends: mainly, that the murder had taken place the summer before second year, at Flourish and Blotts; and that Azkaban had been the chosen punishment primarily because Draco Malfoy had been determined to be criminally and psychopathically insane and a very serious threat to the public. Harry had pressed for more details, but Hermione just shook her head and told him that she could not do justice to the events.

"It's like asking for a recap of the Holocaust or something," she had said. "You should read the transcripts of the trial. They're just. . . appalling. The worst." Ron had nodded, and they had both looked so morose that Harry had dropped the topic for the time being, he wouldn't make his friends relive an experience that was clearly traumatic for both. He would make sure to read the transcripts as soon as possible, but the first stop on his list was Snape.

Which is how he grudgingly found himself knocking of the door of Snape's private quarters.

"Who is it," demanded the harsh voice, muffled through the hard oak.

"Harry Potter, sir"

There was a long pause, and Harry was beginning to think that Snape wasn't going to answer. Finally, "This better be important, Potter. You better be dying."

Harry narrowed his eyes in annoyance; his normally volatile temper was acting up worse than usual, and he had a sneaking suspicion that it was being aggravated by the tendrils of torturous suffering that were reaching out to him from halfway across the country. "Something like that, sir," he ground out, loud enough to be heard.

"Very well. Come in if you must."

The door opened with surprising ease and silence, as though it was charmed. Snape was hunched over his desk, which was situated to squarely face the doorway. Harry walked in and approached the desk, while a particularly haggard Snape continued scribbling for a long moment before even bothering to look up.

"Well, hurry up," he demanded impatiently, his eyes and quill returning to the paperwork. "I haven't got all day."

It was strategy time, except Harry had pretty much come to accept that there was no strategy for achieving a successful interaction with Snape. Still, it never hurt to start on the higher moral ground, so straightforward and civil it would be. "I'm working to solve this, uh. . . puzzle sir, concerning miscast temporal modification potions. And the Quareo Tempus potion in particular."

Snape looked up sharply at the last part, now openly scowling. "Why have you come to me with these stupid questions?"

"I went to the Headmaster first, sir, but he pointed these questions in your direction." Well, it was the truth, however unverifiable.

Snape actually bought it – he was acting undefinably odd, less spiteful, more fatalistic: a depressing change from his usual "vital" self. "Very well then, Mr. Potter." He gestured towards two wooden stools before his desk. "Have a seat and tell me what it is you want to know. I can recommend several stellar readings."

Harry warily took a seat. A long silence followed, during which Snape regarded him with tired, vaguely disapproving eyes. Finally, he growled. "Well?"

It was all foreign territory to Harry, with no choice but to barrel on. "Uh, okay then, sir. I guess my first question should be, uh, what does the Quareo Tempus potion do exactly?"

Snape's expression was torn between suspicion and a lust to comment that only an idiot would have to ask that question. After a deliberate pause, "How about you explain to my precisely your interest in this subject, and then I briefly consider providing you with a modicum of an answer?"

Harry leaned forward, determined to treat Snape as "professionally" as possible. "Well, sir. Here's the thing. You will never, and I do mean never, believe what is going on until you see if for yourself."

Snape's frown deepened ominously, but Harry rushed on, "Use legimency on me. It's the only way you'll understand what's at stake. . . 'cause there's a lot at stake."

For a moment there was a staredown between the hardknock professor and the unstoppable Gryffidor, before Snape proved easily swayed. "Very well, Mr. Potter. Present your case."

Harry sat cross-legged on the dungeon floor, determine to avoid any falls to the floor. Snape stood, then his face and voice were indifferent as he muttered, "Legimens!"

- - - flash - - - white - - - gray - - - movement - - - swish – swish – splash - - - gray - - -

Harry shoved the memories in Snape's mental-metaphorical face, hoarding away the memories he wanted to protect, while allowing Snape to witness firsthand all the pertinent events – two involving Dumbledore, two involving Malfoy.

When Snape pulled out of Harry's mind, he looked more shook up than his counterpart. "Draco. . . ," he gasped, not wanting to show vulnerability but not able to deny the swelling need to say the Slytherin's name. Draco, Draco, Draco. . .

Harry dared let himself feel relief; he'd found a weakness that would gain Snape's assistance: the older man cared for Malfoy, or had when the Slytherin had been younger. Like the Slytherin that he secretly was, Harry exploited that weakness. "Malfoy. . . He's not in Azkaban in my time, not in any of the other timelines, you saw some of it yourself. I want to get back, it's in his best interests to get back. He hasn't always made the best decisions, but I can change that-"

"Stop, Potter, for Merlin's sake," Snape hissed wrathfully. He understood perfectly what Potter was doing, and hated him for it. . . but could not deny its effectiveness. He did want desperately to believe in another possibility for Draco. Little Draco; the only child Snape had ever had an acquaintance with, despite decades of teaching raucous teens and pre-teens. Draco; his godson, to whom he had been grossly and irreconcilably negligent in his duties of protecting the fledgling. Draco. . . whose incarceration took the last hope Severus had that he was fighting, spying, and risking his life for more than just a better future for an indistinct and ungracious populous. . .

Snape eventually spoke, when his guilty thoughts had finally come to the only conclusion that would allow him to give belated and much needed assistance to his secretly treasured godson. "It is potion and an incantation – a very complex and theoretical one at that. It is two part because it is actually two different magical incidents. The spell is actually a form of divination that allows the caster to see the lost possibilities that result from concluding important decisions in certain ways. This spell works by creating previously nonexistent universes created by a few variations in the metaphysical equation. It is, of course, much more complicated than that, but this explanation will probably suffice for your simplistic purposes. . . "

What? Was he expecting Harry to rise to the bait? No way! He could barely believe was getting everything he wanted out of the old snake!

". . . As for the potion, it bonds with the magic-chemistry of its target, so the individual's own body triggers the temporal – or rather, the realm – shifts to correspond with the spells direction. Practically, the potion is by far the most difficult component of the Quareo Tempus."

There was another pause, in which Snape appeared to be thinking behind his usual frown. "Is that's what went wrong," Harry asked. "Did Malfoy brew the potion incorrectly?"

Snape turned his attention from his thoughts back to the Gryffindor in front of him. "No, I don't think so," he said slowly, strategically. "You interrupted him and triggered the potion before he could add in a control mechanism that would stop the entire process once a desire timeline had been achieved."

By this time Harry was frowning too; he thought he was following everything Snape was saying, but it was hard to tell. "What control mechanism?"

Snape shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. This is the primary reason why the Quareo Tempus has fallen into relative obscurity – because no one has ever successfully used it to create a different present and future for themselves. It is more of a myth than an actually possibility. Instruction for parts of the necessary magic exist, but no one has been able to invent the control mechanism needed to allow the desired effects."

Now Harry was a little horrified. "So you're saying that I'm stuck, right! That Malfoy messed up and did some time changing spell that can't be stopped!"

He wanted to rant on, but Snape was shaking his head, again sporting an expression that told Harry just how much of an idiot thought him to be. "No, Draco is smarter than that, he knew that the Quareo Tempus is incomplete. He . . . researched the Quareo Tempus when he was a child, I just chalked it up at the time to curiosity, but he had access to the my potions library, as well as the extensive Malfoy family library – both excellent resources if one was going to devise a way to make the Quareo Tempus work."

"You're saying that Malfoy invented the final magical piece," Harry asked skeptically. Yeah, Malfoy was top of the class, second only to Hermione and this one Ravenclaw, but surely he wasn't that good.

Snape glared at him with distaste. "I wouldn't underestimate him, Mr. Potter. It would be counterproductive given the situation you are currently in. Never doubt that Draco Malfoy can do anything he puts his mind to, whatever the cost."

end chapter

Please review! Sorry, no Malfoy action this chapter, but good things come to those who wait. More excitement to come!