If there's one thing Harry thought he'd never see, it's Pansy Parkinson standing over him, shaking him awake at three AM.
And yet, here she is.
It isn't that it hadn't really occurred to Harry that he'd encounter any Slytherins at any point in the night. Although he didn't really expect that, if Harry could find a way into the Slytherin Common Room in his second year, it doesn't surprise him at all that Parkinson would find a way into the Gryffindor boys' dorm in Eighth Year.
It's just that…
Well, it's just that, like, what the hell? Who…? What?
"Parkinson!" he squawks, drawing his blanket up sharply over his bare chest. It's the beginning of the year, and the summer heat seems determined on staying the night, especially up in Gryffindor Tower. Heat rises, and all that. "What are you—why are you—" He doesn't even know what question to ask. How did she get up here? Why is she hovering over his bed like the grim reaper, shaking him awake five minutes after he'd finally managed to fall asleep? Why is she here?
And then he catches sight of her expression. She's already pale-ish in the blue-white light of the Lumos charm she's got in one hand—the other is still digging its nails into his bicep—but she seems even paler than the Lumos charm warrants. She looks wild-eyed and sleepless.
"What's wrong?" he finally asks, blinking at her messy hair and flimsy top. "What's going on?" And then, because his brain has not quite woken up with his body just yet, he says, "Er—you don't want to shag me, do you?"
Parkinson's already wide eyes go wider in alarm. "For Merlin's sake, Potter, I'm a lesbian. That's not what's happening here."
Harry blinks some more. He's feeling very hot under the covers in the summer heat, but he doesn't want to lower them because Parkinson's still staring. "What—ah—what is happening here?" Harry rubs his eyes, trying to get the lights out of his vision. He hasn't slept well for several nights in a row, and he really would like to go back to sleep, thanks. "It's three AM," he says, in case perhaps she hasn't noticed.
There's a pause, and then Parkinson says, almost quietly, "Draco's gone back in time."
"Malfoy what?" Absolutely not what Harry expected to hear.
"Keep your voice down!" Parkinson shrieks.
"You're the one being loud."
"I am here," Parkinson declares, "I am here to. Ask. No, I am here to demand—"
"Parkinson."
"I need your help!"
Harry gapes.
Parkinson clenches her fists and looks away, which does not at all disguise the way she's rolling her eyes. "And Salazar's sake, it isn't that hard to call me Pansy."
Harry gapes some more.
They have not spoken since they got back from school, when Malfoy nodded briskly at him, saying Potter in that disgusted way of his, and Pansy said, "About the Battle of Hogwarts—" and Harry said, "Don't worry about it," and she just shrugged and followed Malfoy off.
Then they got back to their usual schedule of Malfoy making fun of Harry and Pansy not really saying anything directly to Harry, but laughing at all Malfoy's jokes and sending Harry mildly pitying looks on cue.
Harry did not think he was on Pansy Parkinson's emergency contacts list.
"Am I dreaming?" he asks, before he can stop himself.
Parkinson grips him tighter and her nails bite into his skin. Harry is very much awake, obviously; he doesn't need to pinch himself.
But this seems too ridiculous to be reality.
Pansy opens her mouth like she's about to answer, before there's a very loud "Bloody hell," and Ron's curtains flutter madly. "You're shagging Parkinson?" Ron calls through the curtains.
Pansy lets out a frustrated noise. "Gryffindors!" she says.
There's a very fumbled attempt of a conversation with Ron, consisting of I thought she was a lesbian, no we're not even shagging you idiot, and oh thank Merlin, and then wait, what in the bloody hell are you doing here, then? And when Ron emerges, Pansy looks ready to blow her top.
"This is none of your business, Weasel, go back to bed."
"...Maybe he can help!"
"NO, for fuck's sake!"
Ron blinks. "Blimey, Parkinson, tell me how you really feel."
Pansy makes another frustrated noise, but she pushes on, seeming to elect to ignore the fact that Ron has sat himself on the edge of Harry's bed and is listening intently.
"I don't know how Draco got his hands on a time turner. Probably something to do with his father."
"Azkaban," Ron says, which sums up Harry's argument quite well.
"Corruption," Pansy returns, which is equally as effective.
"Destroyed," Harry points out, which he thinks is rather more relevant.
"Sure, if you believe that." Harry doesn't need to turn to see the exasperation in Pansy's expression; he can hear it just fine in her voice. "He has another time turner in his trunk, and I want to go after him."
Harry tries to remember how and from who he got the information that they were all destroyed in the Department of Mysteries and has to concede that Pansy's right; anyone could've just grabbed them during the Battle and had them declared as "destroyed."
"Of course he does," Ron mutters.
Pansy looks sharply at Ron. "There's nothing wrong with being prepared," she says acidly.
"I didn't mean of course he's double prepared, I meant, of course, he's got his hands on two illegal time turners—"
"That's even worse," Harry hisses. "Shush, Ron." Not that he disagrees, really. Only, Malfoy could really be in danger right now. He's all for talking shit about Malfoy, but they should wait until Malfoy's safe, at least.
"I'm grabbing Hermione," Ron announces, already standing up. He hasn't changed, but he doesn't seem to mind tramping about in his pajamas.
"No!" Pansy cries out, "No, come on you Gryffindor idiots! We have enough of you already."
Parting the curtains, Ron looks back at Pansy with a pitying look. "If you think Harry can solve this on his own, you've got another thing coming." He glances to Harry. "No offense, mate."
"Ouch," says Pansy as Ron leaves, but she seems more friendly with the idea of Hermione joining them. Harry suspects Ron's insult to him has put her in a slightly better mood.
Harry considers Pansy, who has dropped his arm in favor of gesturing sharply with pointing fingers and violent chopping motions. "Let me get dressed," he says. Pansy rolls her eyes again, but waves her hand in the universal get on with it gesture. "Er… turn around?"
"Oh for—fine." Pansy turns her back. "I'll explain while you change."
This seems to work well. Perhaps looking each other in the face is too explosive, but back to back they can sort of manage.
"Anyway, he turned back time, and he's in the past now, so however that happened, it happened," Pansy's saying, as Harry pulls on a shirt and buttons it up. "And I believe you and Granger have experience with time travel."
The robes Harry wore yesterday are clean enough, and with a quick cleaning charm just to be sure, he slips them on, turning to face Pansy. Now they're getting somewhere. "I have questions."
Pansy raises an eyebrow, her voice dry. "Please."
"Why not go to—I don't know—an adult about this?"
"Did I just hear that out of Harry Potter's mouth? Besides, if I ask any adults for help, what am I going to get? A fast response or a lawful one?"
"Fair points, both of them," Harry admits. "Do you know when he went to? And—what do you want me to do about it, exactly? He's already gone."
Pansy's mouth tightens.
Harry backtracks immediately. "I mean, he already went."
Pansy sighs. She seems to have worked off her frantic energy and is entering a more settled state. "I know what you meant, Potter." She goes quiet.
Harry toys with the blanket and clears his throat a couple times but doesn't say anything. At long last, he turns on the light, and Pansy puts her Lumos out, setting her wand down and fixing her hair.
They just kind of sit there.
The night's that quiet kind of night, the kind of night where there's no breeze and it feels like because there's no breeze and it's hot, everyone kind of feels like they should be as still as the air. The curtains hang motionless. If there's any wildlife awake right now, they're not up and about loud enough for them to hear it through the open window.
It doesn't feel like it's time for an adventure; it feels like it's time for a nap. But when did Harry ever get to do what he felt like, right?
He draws in a breath. He can do this. He's done bigger things than go back and get one guy he didn't particularly like from the past. Even if that guy turned out to be kind of fit when they returned for Eighth Year, and recently that's been making it a little hard for Harry to look at him. Even if sometimes he sees Malfoy and kind of loses his train of thought for a minute.
Like, Malfoy's still an arse!
It's not like Harry's going to see him and forget whatever plan they had because Malfoy's eyes are just the right side of light grey. Definitely, definitely not!
Malfoy will just open his mouth and say something shitty. He's been saying shitty things to Harry all year, so it's to be expected—even if maybe a little bit of Harry hoped they'd let this rivalry go after he spoke at Malfoy's trial and everything—so Harry can count on that.
And then, once Malfoy's said something shitty, Harry will snap out of it!
Just like he's been doing in school.
Approximately 20% of the time.
"Pansy," Harry says impulsively, not particularly pleased with the direction of his thoughts, "how do you expect me to bring Malfoy back to our time? I mean… he's not just going to grab my hand and go."
Pansy is quiet for so long that Harry thinks she might not have heard. Except she must have heard. The night is dead silent, and she's shooting glances his way.
Eventually, she stands abruptly and snatches her wand off Harry's bed where she set it down to fix up her hair and Conjure some clothes. That makes sense. Her pajama top doesn't exactly… and her pajama bottom doesn't exactly…
"Turn," she demands.
Harry turns.
"I think he will listen to you," she says while his back is turned, over the clomping of her feet and the sound of clothes coming off and on. "Oh Saviour of the Wizarding World, Chosen One, Golden Boy, oh Saint Potter of the bisexuals—"
"What does me behind bisexual have to do with anything?" Harry interrupts, panicking.
Pansy snorts. "Maybe you should ask Draco," she says cryptically, which helps Harry's panic not at all.
But Harry doesn't get the chance to ask what she means by that, because just then, Hermione bursts in, all business. "You should've come to me first," she says matter-of-factly, by way of hello. "How far back has he gone and how long has he been there?"
Harry takes the chance and turns to find Hermione with her wand already out and her hair tied up and Pansy—thankfully—dressed in the normal shirt, tie, and robes, as if it's the middle of the school day. Only Ron's still in his pajamas; he sheepishly disappears behind his curtains, and there are some more shoes-shuffling noises.
"Harry has more emotional sway," Pansy says, which Harry supposes is true. Malfoy hates Hermione, but he thinks Malfoy hates Harry even more. But how's that gonna help—some sort of reverse psychology?
Malfoy's too clever to go back to his own time just because Harry told him not to. He'd see right through Harry. He's always staring at Harry, and it already feels as if he sees right through Harry.
"How far, how long," Hermione demands again. She looks ready to shove the tip of her wand against the underside of Pansy's chin and demand answers; Harry suspects she isn't any more happy about being woken up in the middle of the night than he is.
"The day he got the Dark Mark, and he left half an hour or so ago," Pansy answers, "Which would've been a lot shorter if we could've just gotten this done. He went off… somewhere towards the forest—I think so no one would possibly find him—he's always been dramatic…."
Hermione's eyes widen, and she seems to falter for a moment, her wand lowering from where she was holding it as if she might need to cast a spell at any moment. It feels hot and stuffy, the four of them crowded around Harry's bed, just sweating off body heat, waiting for Hermione's bad news.
"Let's go," he bursts out, knowing whatever Hermione's going to say, it isn't good, and they need to fix this as soon as they can. "Can you get us into his dorm? We're going to need that extra time turner."
Pansy nods without speaking and takes off out of the door and down the corridor without looking back to see if they're following. They are. Harry hopes there are no teachers about.
The corridors are dark, only very dimly lit at long intervals, but Pansy doesn't falter or slow as the rest of them hurry to catch up with her, muffling their footsteps hurriedly when Ron's shoes clack noisily against the stone floor and Pansy hisses something his way.
Harry's glad they're going down from the Gryffindor dorms to the Slytherin dorms and not the other way around, because there are many stairs involved, and the air gets progressively cooler as they descend.
By the time they get into Malfoy's room, Hermione has found her voice. "You're only supposed to go back five hours, max. Otherwise... it's dangerous," she's saying, as Harry tries to come to terms with the fact that he's in Malfoy's bedroom.
Malfoy's bedroom is very orderly, his books and papers stacked neatly and his quills beside them in this little case, exactly parallel to the edge of this stack. His bed is made and his pillow doesn't even have the indent of his head, like he fluffed it before he left.
"Oh," says Pansy, very small.
Harry can see the handle of Malfoy's trunk on the floor under his bed, which looks rather dustless. He shouldn't be surprised Malfoy dusts his room; his robes are always spotless.
It gives him a funny feeling in his stomach, being in Malfoy's room.
He looks up at the rest of them before he starts thinking about Malfoy's clothes. And maybe his underclothes.
They're so irrelevant right now.
Hermione looks faintly ill. "I thought he'd know that, if he was going back into time. Him especially, I'd expect him to prepare." She pulls Malfoy's trunk from under his bed and thumbs the latches. "The longer he stays there… the more likely it is that something bad will happen. We need to get there soon. May I?" This is directed at the trunk.
Harry joins her side, and Ron follows.
Pansy waves her on, not really seeming to pay attention to the trunk at all. "So it's possible we could pull him out with no consequences?"
"I mean," Hermione shifts uncomfortably. "Theoretically, yes—"
Harry thinks he makes some sort of sound as Hermione opens the trunk.
"Wait—" Pansy jumps forward and slams top down, pulling the trunk hastily from Hermione's grip. "I'll get the time turner out."
Harry just gapes. He wonders if he'll just spend the rest of this entire expedition in astonishment.
"Er… Parkinson," Ron says, when it becomes clear Harry's still recovering his voice, "Why's the inside of Malfoy's trunk covered in newspaper clippings of Harry?"
"He's a madman obsessed with me," Harry jokes faintly, "He's gone back in time to have me killed."
"He's not," Pansy snaps. She seems to not realize Harry was joking. "He wouldn't."
Harry thinks he hears her mutter he's just an idiot, but he can't be sure.
"The trouble is, if you go back in time, you're going to be in the same place as you were at that time." Hermione has a one-track mind. "You do know where and when?"
"I know the day." Pansy pulls out the time-turner by the chain, watching it spin slowly in the air, the metal gleaming. Her brow is creased, and the corners of her mouth pull down. "He never let me forget it. We probably need to go earlier in the day, before it happens—he'll be in the Manor. August third."
Harry breathes out, moving slowly away from Hermione and towards Pansy, who's inspecting the little hourglass figure and the rings, slipping the chain around her neck. It hadn't really dawned on him—his brain is moving a bit slowly, still—that whatever Malfoy is to him, he's a friend to Pansy. A long-time friend, perhaps her best friend. Whatever Malfoy is to Harry, Malfoy is also a boy, a teenage boy who's fucked up and gets irrational urges like wanting to go back in time at the risk of his life, and who keeps pictures (whatever they're for) in his trunk and casts dusting charms under his bed.
"Right," he says, feeling a little more awake, or at least a little more steady. He has an objective, and he has this tug in his heart, this determination to achieve the objective, the kind of drive he feels like he's been missing since Voldemort died and his reason for existing kind of petered out. "Right," he says again, and this time he sounds like he means it.
He can see Pansy setting her shoulders, putting on a brave face, can hear Ron step up behind him, can feel Hermione take his hand and squeeze it once, and he knows that they can tell he's shifted gears; everybody sort of straightens up. It makes something press on his chest just a little—just that much more expectation.
"We need to get to the Manor, so that when we turn back time we end up in the morning of August third, 1996, in the Manor. How are we going to get there?"
Harry suggests, "We could fly?" at the same time as Ron says, "Apparate," at the same time as Hermione says, "You cannot Apparate on Hogwarts grounds."
"Hey, how'd you know I'd say Apparition?"
Hermione just rolls her eyes Ron's way.
Pansy's quiet for a moment. "I'm… Thank you for your help," she says finally, "But I don't think you two should come." She points to Hermione and Ron. And then, hurriedly, she repeats, "But thank you, really."
"Why not?" Harry asks, at the same time as Hermione says, "She's right."
"The Manor," Hermione says, smacking him on the shoulder, "In the years right before the war? Ron and I are just two more people you have to keep track of, who would happen to be some of the very last people we'd want to get caught at Malfoy Manor."
Pansy raises her eyebrows. "A good point." They all look at her, and she hands the Time-Turner to Hermione, who fiddles with it, muttering to herself. "I was thinking more along the lines of how you got held prisoner there, you know, but I like your reason better."
Hermione hands the Time-Turner back. "Well." She seems a bit at a loss. "Thank you. And, I guess, you're welcome. Really there's no need to thank us. But you're welcome. And thank you."
"Alright," Ron interrupts, "we get it, we're the very best of friends. Promise me Malfoy won't hex the shit out of Harry when you get there?"
"He won't," Pansy promises, with much more conviction than Harry thinks is warranted. He's about 80% sure that's exactly what's going to happen. She turns to Harry. "Let's grab some brooms."
They fly across the country with what Harry hopes is a good Concealer Spell on Harry's Firebolt, Pansy shouting at Harry to go faster and slower periodically. "You're mad!" she eventually yells into his ear, and Harry just pushes them faster.
It's not that he's scared for Malfoy. Malfoy's an arse and a bully.
He's just…
Like…
Well he just wants to help Malfoy and he's scared they won't be able to, and something bad will happen to Malfoy.
Which is absolutely not the same thing as being scared for Malfoy.
"Right there!" Pansy screams over the wind, one arm locked around Harry's waist and the other pointing rather precariously in front of them.
"Really?" Harry hollers back, "Where?"
This is a joke. The Manor is just as big and white and pretentious as Harry remembers it to be, though much less frightening. He can't remember the last time he'd been here—to thank Narcissa?—but it was soon after the war and it still sort of felt like doom.
Now it just looks like a huge empty house, and it looks rather worse for wear, as if upkeep has been abruptly abandoned.
It makes Harry kind of sad. He kind of wants to say sorry to Malfoy.
Which he can only do if he can stop thinking about Malfoy's pretty face long enough to save the guy.
They land hard, tumbling to the ground—in opposite directions, thank god—and Pansy immediately stands up, dusting off the grass that clings to her and pulling up the time-turner again. Harry stashes the Firebolt in a bush and joins her, grabbing her hand tight.
Pansy looks down at their hands. "Ew," she says. "Draco would kill me. Must you?"
"For fraternizing with the enemy?"
"Or something," Pansy says, still being cryptic.
Harry ducks his head so Pansy can loop the chain around them both and lets go of her hand. "I thought it would be comforting. You know, show of support. Hermione always grabs mine."
"No," Pansy says, and then to drive the point home, repeats, "Ew," and sends the time-turner spinning.
They watch it spin for a while. People blur down the walkway so fast they can barely see them at all, windows open and shut, leaves swirl backwards—and then the time spins even faster, faster than it did when Harry went back with Hermione. The sun rises and sets; the bushes ungrow and the flowers unbloom. They get very wet as rain unfalls.
Pansy gapes for about two minutes, at which point she seems moderately acclimated to it. "How long, do you think," she demands, an edge to her voice.
Harry doesn't know, so instead he says, "However long it's taking us, it also took Draco that long, if it's any consolation."
Pansy shakes her hands delicately, spraying water on Harry—not that Harry minds; he's already soaked—just as snow begins to unfall. "Ugh." She seems to be gearing up to complain, brushing off her probably very expensive robes, when she pauses. "You called him Draco."
For some reason, this makes Harry feel hot and flushed, even though it's still unsnowing all over them, and he looks away, watching the stars shift across the sky gradually, between flashes of daylight, and the moon wane and wax and wane and wax backward. "Well you call him Draco," he says defensively. "I've never even thought it until tonight with your Draco this and Draco that." He likes the name in his mouth more than he should. "Anyway, don't tell him, or he'll hex me into next Sunday. Or maybe into present day."
He thinks maybe Pansy will laugh, but Pansy's just staring at him.
"What?"
"He's not going to hex you into next Sunday." Pansy speaks slowly, still watching him, as if she's talking to an idiot.
"No?" Harry says, unsure what he's missing.
She blinks at him. "You really have no idea, do you?"
Harry shifts back and forth on his feet. The grass keeps ungrowing and then suddenly jumping back up before ungrowing again. "About what?"
The whirling around them stops abruptly. The grass stops ungrowing, the flowers stay in bloom, the sun stays sitting right on the horizon.
Pansy's taken them back to the morning of.
Quickly, Harry pulls the chain from around his neck and gives it back to Pansy. "We can't get caught," he whispers.
"No kidding," she hisses back, and gestures with her hand in a follow me motion before dashing down the side of the house, the grass muffling her footsteps.
Harry takes off after her. The water on his skin makes the air feel very cold when he moves, and his shoes squelch a little when he sets his feet down.
"Muffle them," Pansy whispers, managing to sound both urgent and are you dumb, when they reach the back door. Harry does.
"Where do you think he is?" Harry whispers. "The Malfoy we're looking for, I mean. From our time."
Pansy hesitates, chewing a lip. If Harry remembers correctly, she's usually wearing brilliantly red lipstick, which would explain why she looks different right now.
Also that she's scared out of her mind. That too.
"Let's try his bedroom?" she whispers, her voice pitching up at the end. "Follow me. Again."
Wonderful, Harry's going to see two Draco Malfoy bedrooms by the time he's done with this, and it's going to take a long time to get them out of his mind. He might have to have Hermione Obliviate him.
They make their ways quietly through long, grand hallways and large, grand rooms, and steep, grand staircases.
Harry keeps straining his ears, eyes darting about to see if anyone is coming, and catching Pansy looking his way, as if he's going to break down as they pass through rooms that Harry… well, that Harry recognises. "I've been here, after the war," he whispers up at her. "Don't worry about it."
Pansy raises her eyebrows. "Draco didn't mention it," she murmurs.
"I wasn't visiting him; I was visiting Narcissa."
Pansy gestures for him to stop and points to a door—grand as all the rest of them, with this shiny, metal-worked handle and a pretty lock, and then puts her hands palm-to-palm and pretends to rest her head on them.
Harry nods, suppressing the irrational urge to laugh. Pansy Parkinson is making the sleep sign at him very seriously. He spreads his hands—what do we do?
Pansy spreads her hands back, and then opens the room next door very quietly and pulls him in, closing the door behind them and throwing up Silencing Charms. It's a much smaller room than Harry has seen here before, one with the sort of disorder he wouldn't expect to find in the Malfoy Manor. There are lots of papers, photographs sitting on top of boxes, rolled up tapestries, portraits. There aren't any tables or chairs, and there are only a few sconces, which aren't lit.
"Don't worry," she says before Harry can express that he's worried, "This is the family room—they store all the things they're not putting up on the walls. Estranged people. Portraits out of rotation. You know."
"Nope," Harry says. "What do we do now?"
Harry's stuck on the Dark Mark part. The Dark Mark? Why would Malfoy want to go back in time to the day he got the Dark Mark? Immediately, his brain supplies him with he wants to relive the most glorious day of his life, before Voldemort got defeated, but he shoves that voice down.
He doesn't like Malfoy. Malfoy is an arse…. But he doesn't think Malfoy's like that, exactly. He doesn't think—and maybe he's completely wrong here—that Malfoy looks fondly on the day he got the Dark Mark at all; he's always wearing long sleeves, even in the hot, hot midday sun, sweat glistening on his skin.
Or maybe Harry's just trying to justify his crush to himself.
But regardless! Why the day he got his Dark Mark?
"It would be good," Harry starts carefully, "If you could tell me why he's here? Then we could have a better idea of what he's up to."
Pansy just blinks at him. "Are you joking? I can't tell."
"What—" Harry throws up his hands and almost knocks over a framed portrait of someone who looks like they never learned how to smile. "No, I'm not joking, it would be useful—"
"He's here to stop himself from getting the Dark Mark," Pansy interrupts, using that obviously tone again. "That's why he picked this day? That's why we're here? Because Draco knows his past self will come, and then… somehow he'll try to convince himself."
"What?" Harry hisses. "We need to find him immediately. We should go in and see if he's in his bedroom…" he runs a hand through his hair. He's going to go insane in this tiny, dark, cluttered room before he even finds Draco. Malfoy. "But what if we open that door and it's earlier Draco? Then everything goes to shit. If it's future Draco—"
"There you go again, calling him Draco," Pansy interrupted. "And I'm sorry to break it to you, Potter, but those doors stay closed whether or not someone's in there."
"So we have no way of knowing without taking a risk."
"We're not taking a risk, are you out of your mind? If we lose that gamble we can fuck up all of reality as we know it!" Pansy runs a quick hand through her hair, and it falls back around her shoulders messily. She was just fixing it up, but Harry doesn't point that out.
"If we don't take a risk, we might lose Draco," Harry points out instead. "Er—Malfoy."
"We," Pansy snorts, "Oh, yeah, we'll lose Draco."
Harry's stomach turns. Pansy's hair-petting is making him feel antsy, so he paces back and forth in front of her. The room really is pretty small. "I am actually here to help him in every way I can," he says hotly, "I'm not on some sabotage mission—"
"Calm down, Merlin, you're so hotheaded—"
"Well, don't accuse me of not trying my best."
"I'm not, I'm just saying you don't have quite so much to lose."
I do, Harry almost says, but Pansy's right, he doesn't. But thinking of Draco—oh goddammit—of Malfoy getting hurt does make his stomach feel tight and tipsy, as if he might throw up. "Whatever," he gets out, pacing faster, "I'm going to look out."
"Wait—" Pansy starts, but Harry's already pulling open the door—
And coming face to face with Malfoy.
For a moment his stomach drops, and he's thinking fuck, fuck, fuck, and then he realizes no, this Malfoy has a Dark Mark.
This Malfoy appears to have been leaving his bedroom and walking down the hallway right in front of this room precisely when Harry pulled open the door, which contrary to being very bad luck (as it would have been if it was younger Malfoy), this is about as good as their luck will get.
Harry stares for a moment. He hasn't seen Malfoy with his sleeves rolled up for what feels like a very long time, and he can't stop his eyes from going to the Dark Mark that stands out against his skin. It sends something black and horrible tumbling in Harry's gut, but he swallows that down. He looks up at Malfoy's expression—absolute shock—and maybe a little bit at the way his white-blond hair looks yellow-er in daylight and how his lips look very chewed, but definitely not that much time.
Here's the guy they came for, in all of his sharply handsome glory.
Probably since he came here to find Malfoy and Malfoy had no idea he was coming, Harry gets over his surprise first.
"Perfect!" he says with joy he doesn't have to fake, and he grabs Malfoy by the elbow and yanks him in, slamming the door behind them both.
Pansy's comically surprised when Harry turns back around, trying to focus definitely on business and definitely not on how Malfoy clearly has muscle under that shirt. "That worked out nicely," she says eventually. "What did you do, Draco?"
"You brought Potter," Malfoy sneers, and, having come to himself, promptly yanks his arm out of Harry's grasp, taking very deliberate steps away from him. "Pansy. Here? Now? Potter?" His pitch is rising.
"Malfoy," Harry interjects, but Malfoy just keeps going on. "Malfoy! I need answers from you right now."
Malfoy turns to Harry, sneering again. "Sorry—Potter, who do you think you are? You can't just—"
"Draco, please—" Pansy lays a hand on Malfoy's shoulder, which Malfoy shrugs off, albeit not violently. "He's here to—"
"Oh, I'm sure he's here to help—"
Harry recasts a Mufflatio and shouts over them both, "Were you seen by your past self?" It's supposed to be a question. Or really, it is a question. Just with the shouting it kind of sounds like a statement, which makes Harry feel foolish when Malfoy turns to him and just raises his eyebrows.
"I'm not that stupid, Potter, no, of course not." Pansy and Harry let out a heavy breath at the same time, and Malfoy turns on Pansy. "Oh, for Salazar's sake, you didn't think I was that stupid, too? Not you."
Pansy juts her chin out, her eyes flashing. "You went back years, Draco. That was pretty damn stupid. What should I have thought? You wanted to convince yourself not to get the Dark Mark—"
Harry doesn't miss the way Malfoy flinches, his cheeks paling and his eyes darting towards Harry, so he takes a step back to give them space and almost trips over a pile of boxes, sending papers tumbling.
Pansy sets them straight with a flick of her wand, not looking away from Malfoy. "How were you going to do that without coming into contact with yourself?"
"I gave myself a letter," Malfoy says simply.
Harry makes an appreciative sound without thinking. It's not a terrible idea. Of course, he'd never believe a letter that said it was from someone in the future… but maybe Malfoy, who'd grown up in a world full of magic and knew that Time-Turners existed… maybe he would.
Except that time travel doesn't work like that.
"Alright, well." He bites his lip and looks at Pansy. "We need to get that letter back, and then we need to get back to our time as quickly as we can."
"What?" Malfoy looks to Harry, and then to Pansy, who isn't protesting Harry's words—probably a novel experience for Malfoy. His eyes have this burning determination in them that Harry finds enchanting at absolutely the wrong time. "No, we leave the letter. Potter… what, are you trying to say you want me to be a Death Eater? You just want me to be your bad guy, don't you…"
"You can't change your past," Harry says.
Malfoy turns and sneers some more. He probably doesn't know how to not sneer at this point. His face is probably just stuck that way. "I don't need your preaching, Potter."
Oh, for fuck's sake. "I'm not preaching," Harry says through gritted teeth, "You literally cannot change your past. Anything that happened in '96 already has happened by '98. If you have the Dark Mark in '98 that means you got the Dark Mark." They're both just staring at him. He growls and tries again: "Nothing that ever happened today changed that, whether it happened in the original today or in the today you messed with, because it's the same today. If you messed with it now, it already happened. Because it happened now, August 3rd, 1996, and you're in October of 1998. You already experienced everything that happens to you today."
"You're terrible at explaining," Malfoy says eventually, "But despite this, I'm bright enough to gather what you mean. I mean, you're really shit." He turns to Pansy, pointing to Harry. "What possessed you to bring this idiot?"
Harry opens his mouth. Closes it. "You're insulting me," he says dumbly, "as I am risking my life to save you, you are insulting me." He groans. He's probably going to get a headache. They're fucking time over so bad, and reality is probably going to be so screwed. "I can't believe I thought you were hot," he mutters.
There's a very pregnant silence.
Oh, fucking Merlin's tits. He was exhausted! He was frustrated!
They couldn't also expect him to have a verbal filter.
Shit, shit, shit.
Pansy's looking at him with her eyebrows halfway up her forehead and her mouth in this perfect o.
Malfoy's full on frozen, a complete statue, his expression blank and unreadable. He doesn't look like he's breathing; Harry probably has just killed him.
"We need to go," Harry says half-heartedly, but he gets no reaction.
"Mother of Merlin," Pansy says, almost wonderingly. She turns to Malfoy, this smile Harry doesn't understand on her lips. "Well. I'm going to go get that letter from your bedroom." She heads over to the doorway, pointing to Harry. "I'll get the letter out of here, and you'll get Draco, okay? Don't worry about me."
"I will worr—" Harry starts, but Pansy isn't listening; she's moved on to Malfoy.
"And if you can't do this… " Here she gives Malfoy a very significant look. "There is no hope for you. None. Just saying."
Malfoy reaches for her before she goes out the door, his mouth very tight. "You told him," he mutters, as if Harry can't hear him from all the way over here, two feet away.
Pansy's expression goes soft for a moment, an expression Harry gets from Hermione sometimes, although he's never quite sure what about. "No," she says. She laughs a little, not entirely kindly. "I promise, he has no idea. It's ridiculous."
And with that bizarre little speech, she slips out the door.
Malfoy makes a high noise in his throat, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, his eyes not leaving Harry's face. Harry's pretty sure he's going to die. "I—what—why did you… what? What did you say? I mean… I mean, what did you say? No—what—" His throat bobs, and he runs a hand through his hair, completely messing it up. It falls over his forehead, and Harry wants to brush it back again.
So not the time.
"Tell you what," Harry says, trying his very best to do the right thing, instead of just… running, the way he wanted to. "You can hear me say it again if you come back to the present day with me. And then!" He spreads his hands enticingly. "You get to lord it over me for the rest of your life. Hell, I'll give it to you in writing."
"Wh—" Malfoy turns his head to the side, like a curious puppy, his brow furrowed. He licks his bottom lip. "The—"
Malfoy reaches jerkily into the pocket of his robes and pulls out a shining Time-Turner, looping the chain about his neck and holding it out to Harry as if in a trance.
"Oh, stop," Harry grumbles. Over his embarrassment, he faintly realizes that Malfoy's reaction is a little bit of a weird one. "It's not a big fucking deal."
He'd wait to see if Malfoy's going to return to his right state of mind and give some proper consent or something, but Malfoy's life is on the line, and so is the rest of reality as they know it, so he accepts the chain picks up the time-turner, and sends it spinning.
Mostly nothing changes.
The room doesn't have any windows, so they can't see daylight rushing through and night swallowing the sky. The lights on the walls occasionally flicker on, and a few portraits shift place. It appears Pansy was right—people go in this room pretty much never.
"You think I'm hot," Malfoy says, still in that very flat voice of his.
They're uncomfortably close together because they have to share the Time-Turner chain, and Harry has to look up if he wants to see Malfoy's expression. He decides he rather doesn't. A retort rises to Harry's tongue, but right now is the absolute last time he wants to antagonize Malfoy—they're in the middle of rapidly spinning time—so he forces himself to swallow it.
"Have you ever looked in a mirror?" he elects to say instead, aiming for… well he's not sure what he's aiming for. He sounds sort of resigned, even to himself. "I still think you're an arse."
He looks up at Malfoy then, his eyebrows raised. Malfoy's looking back, and he no longer looks like he's about to faint. His cheeks are flushed pink.
"I'm not. I tried to get rid of my Dark Mark," Malfoy says, in a way that suggests he doesn't really believe in his own side. His jaw works, and his eyes fly to his still-exposed wrist. He avoids Harry's eyes as he unfolds his sleeve and drags it back down to cover up the Dark Mark. "But apparently, it's irreversible."
"Well. You're not a Death Eater now, and that counts for a lot," Harry says, and he means it. The pain in Malfoy's eyes feels like his own chest is being ripped open; he knew Malfoy was sorry, but he didn't know he was this sorry. Harry wants to put his hand on Malfoy's shoulder and absorb his pain. "You went back in time because you wanted to do right."
Malfoy glances at him for a moment, his expression slightly less pained. "That would be a lot nicer to hear if you didn't sound so bloody surprised."
Harry scowls. "How am I supposed to know you're a good person when the only time you talk to me is to insult me and then carry on with your day? I'd love to get to know you better, but the feeling is clearly not mutual. I thought we could be friends after the trial, or—or—you know, something."
The Lumos charm Malfoy has going flickers out, and when Harry recasts, Malfoy's looking away from him, frowning. The Time-Turner between them spins and spins and spins.
"You really think I'm hot?" Malfoy asks.
"There are so many other things we could talk about, Draco," Harry says quietly, almost in a sing-song tone. He doesn't know what else to say; he's trapped. Both conversationally and physically. "So many."
Malfoy's expression flickers when Harry says his name, and he hesitates for a moment, and then he closes his eyes. "You have to not be joking," he says, and this time his tone is completely different. He sounds wobbly, the way he does when he feels very strongly—when he's furious, or when he's crying. Although Harry's only really heard him cry twice—in the bathroom and working up the nerve to kill Dumbledore. He sounds like he's trying to give an order, but it's coming out a plea.
"Why would I be joking?" Harry's not sure what's going on. "What would be the punchline?"
For a moment, Malfoy's eyes open and he's got this, this, this something burning in his eyes, and his mouth is a little bit open, and he runs his hand through his hair. "Potter—" he says. "Look," he says. "Listen, I just."
And then he yanks Harry in by the collar of his shirt and kisses him.
It takes Harry a moment to realize that's what's happening, because it's such a turn around from where they were just a minute ago, but he can feel the knuckles of Malfoy's fists where they brush the underside of his chin as Malfoy tugs him closer, he can feel Malfoy's stubble scraping against his skin, and he can definitely feel Malfoy's lips against his, open and urgent, warm and soft and insistent.
Huh, Harry thinks, and brings his hands to Malfoy's hair.
It's soft and silky, and Malfoy makes this gentle, eager noise against him when he runs his fingers through it, turning Malfoy just a little this way, guiding the kiss, closing his eyes even though the Lumos has gone out again.
Malfoy's breath rushes across his skin in short gasps when they pull apart, and before Harry can say a word, Malfoy's on him again, hands now flat on Harry's chest, mouth chasing Harry's when Harry needs to draw a breath.
What the hell, Harry finds himself thinking, and he's just wound his arms around Malfoy's waist when the door opens.
"Fucking Salazar!"
Pansy's at the door.
Malfoy breaks away from Harry abruptly and stumbles away, putting a good distance between their bodies, which sends Harry one signal. His hand clutches at Harry's arm, though, which sends another.
"Pansy!" Malfoy gasps out, sounding like he's just run a marathon.
Harry feels his face heat. "Pansy," he echoes weakly.
He and Malfoy both look at the Time-Turner between them. It is not still spinning.
"Someone got carried away," Pansy snickers, leaning in through the doorway and gesturing to them. "Come on, come on, it's still three-thirty, and we've got to get back to Hogwarts before anyone notices we're missing. Granger and Weasley can only cover for so long."
"Granger and Weasley," Malfoy echoes blankly, still clutching Harry's arm.
Harry gently disentangles himself from Malfoy, as much as he doesn't really want to, and unloops the Time-Turner from his neck, handing it off to Malfoy. "Are you okay?" he asks hesitantly. Malfoy looks dazed and flushed, his eyes wide and his breath short. "Do you think…" He swallows. "Do you think being back in time for so long did… something?"
There's a wheezing sound, and Harry turns back to the doorway to see Pansy doubled over laughing. "You're so—" she's gasping, "You're so stupid—"
That, more than anything, breaks Harry out of it. "Okay, okay, whatever," he grumbles, and grabs Malfoy again, this time by the hand, receiving a noise of surprise from Malfoy that has him looking quickly up to make sure Malfoy hasn't, like, died standing up or anything. This seems to make Pansy laugh harder. Harry casts a pointed Silencing Charm. "Let's go, let's move."
"Go," Malfoy says, making a shooing gesture at Pansy. There's no edge to his voice. "Go, go."
"I will," Pansy says, leading them back down the stairs, through the house. "I'm borrowing one of your brooms, if you don't mind. You can ride with Potter."
Harry looks quickly at Pansy, and then at Malfoy, who looks like a deer in headlights. He seems to be functioning fine, though. He's just so… out of it.
"Pansy," Malfoy's saying now.
"What?" Pansy's still grinning and chuckling like she's just won the lottery. "You've wanted to ride Harry Potter's broomstick for ages—"
Malfoy's cheeks go bright red. "Pansy!"
Oh, Harry thinks. Aha.
The trunk with pictures of him. When Pansy said Harry had "emotional sway." When Harry grabbed Pansy's hand and Pansy said Malfoy would kill her. When Pansy promised him Malfoy wasn't going to hex him. You have no idea, do you? She'd said.
Harry feels rather stupid.
Malfoy just kissed him, for Merlin's sake!
On the mouth!
Very eagerly!
That should've kind of been a hint, probably.
"Malfoy," he says, summoning his broom with a flick of his hand—oh, Malfoy's throat bobs when he does that, that's interesting. "Do you… I dunno, do you fancy me, by any chance?" He can feel a smile growing, the really stupid kind, the one Ron gets when Hermione kisses him on the cheek absently, or the one Hermione gets when Ron buys her a book with the last of his pocket money.
Malfoy's flush disappears, and he looks faint again. "Now look what you've done," he says, in Pansy's direction. He doesn't answer Harry, or even look his way.
Pansy takes off across the Malfoy grounds, probably in the direction of wherever they keep their brooms. "You were kissing a minute ago. I don't see how this is my fault."
And then she's gone again.
"Is she trying to get us alone or something?" Harry asks Malfoy, rather rhetorically, offering a smile and his broom.
Malfoy doesn't seem to realize it's rhetorical. "Leave it alone, Potter," he mutters lowly, and snatches the broom from Harry's hand as if Harry has just fiercely insulted him. The scowl has returned, but it disappears for a moment when he looks at the broom in his hand in confusion. "You're going to let me ride your broom?" he asks incredulously.
"Not for another month at least," Harry jokes, gesturing for Malfoy to get on.
Malfoy does not laugh. His face goes tomato red, and he looks like he's going to die, and he splutters so hard Harry actually feels sorry for him. This is probably not the kind of flirting he gets in his stupidly proper, pureblood gatherings.
"Too much?" Harry steps up to Malfoy and gently takes the Firebolt from him, dropping it onto the air, where it hovers obediently, waiting. "Sorry. Come on, let's get you back. You're probably tired. I know I'm tired after you put me through all that crap, you wanker."
Malfoy doesn't rise to that bait, either. He just gets on the broom and waits for Harry to get on after him, holding the broom like it isn't his. Which it isn't, it's just a strange thing to see, because Malfoy usually acts like everything is his, even when it isn't.
He also doesn't go once Harry's gotten on the back and awkwardly wrapped his hands around Malfoy's waist, trying not to hold tight enough that Malfoy can feel him. Even though obviously when they take off he'll have to hold Malfoy much tighter—that will be a strange experience.
Harry tells himself he doesn't notice that Malfoy smells good, smells a little bit of sweat but mostly of cologne that's probably worth more than Harry's entire wardrobe. It's not his fault his nose has to be so close to Malfoy's neck, or that the human nose has evolved to pick up scent, or that Malfoy chose to be so fucking hot.
Yes, that's it, it's all Malfoy's fault.
"Malfoy," he says eventually, "You're not going to crash my broom. You're—oh fucking hell—you're a good flyer but I'm never going to say it again in my life. And it's almost four AM. So…"
"What is wrong with you," Malfoy says.
Which is a really harsh thing to say to Harry, who had a nightmare and then got woken up right after he'd finally managed to fall asleep to go risk quite a lot to save Malfoy and is now very tired and very confused and having a very hard time with the hot feeling in his stomach when he looks at Malfoy and who's letting Malfoy fly them both on his broom and who is still waiting for Malfoy to either confirm that he fancies Harry or start making fun of Harry relentlessly.
So it makes sense that Harry gets off the broom and steps over to get in front of Malfoy and kisses him.
Because that's the kind of reaction that's expected, right?
He's a little bit relieved and more than a little bit surprised that Malfoy kisses him back, no less eagerly than last time.
"Shut up," he mutters against Malfoy's mouth, "I'm trying my best, okay?" He pulls back and looks into Malfoy's face. He hasn't realized until now, when he has Malfoy's face in his hands, that Malfoy has a very evasive gaze. Malfoy has probably not looked at him more than four times this whole time, or at least, not for more than two seconds. "You're being an arse."
"There," says Malfoy, which is really strange for Harry to feel because Malfoy's face is still in his hands. "That didn't sound very surprised."
"Am I supposed to be surprised that you're an arse?" Harry blinks at him. "All evidence points to your being an arse as a given, at least to me. Which is kind of weird because I was getting the impression that… you know…"
Malfoy manages to look away, in spite of Harry holding his face still. He casts his eyes to the sky and clenches his jaw—also strange to feel—and then closes his eyes. He really seems to not enjoy looking at Harry. "What?" he says, rather impatiently.
"That you might…" Harry begins, letting go of Malfoy's face to gesture at the two of them. Which Malfoy misses, because he's still got his eyes closed.
Malfoy swallows again, and then he opens his eyes—looking down at the Firebolt and not at Harry—and pushes the Firebolt Harry's way. "I don't want to fly," he says, his voice rough and quiet.
"Um," says Harry.
"Thanks, you know, for offering." Malfoy's face scrunches like thank you is his very least favorite thing in the world to say. Harry wouldn't be surprised. "After the Room of Requirement…"
Harry's stomach drops. "Oh," he says, feeling stupid and shitty, "Right, yeah. Right. Yeah."
"We can't Apparate," Malfoy says, as if he expects Harry to suggest it.
"I'm friends with Hermione," Harry returns, which earns him a blank look. "She always reminds us," he explains.
Malfoy just hmphs. "We can walk."
"You're joking."
"Yes, I'm joking, I'm not walking that far. Where's that stupid flying car you had in Second Year now?" Malfoy casts a look back at the Manor, which is now in its disrepaired glory again. They've really let it go, Harry finds himself thinking, but he wisely elects not to mention this outloud. "We could use the Floo…"
"I've tried messing with Hogwarts Floo before," Harry mutters, "Not a good idea. Didn't go well at all."
Malfoy gives him an incredulous look. "You don't have any better ideas, though, do you?" he says, rather unkindly.
"No," Harry says, "Let's do it. Lead the way."
"Wow." Malfoy peers over at Harry, and his hair falls forward onto his forehead again. "You must be really tired."
Harry drops Malfoy's gaze and follows Malfoy up the stairs when Malfoy finally goes. "Who's fault is that, you ungrateful idiot? Didn't you even check the time frame for time travel?"
"I mean." Malfoy's steps slow.
Harry casts a Silencing Charm just in cast, even though he suspects people are still asleep—four in the morning. It's four in the morning.
He's so ready to go to bed.
"Yes?" It sounds like a question. "Have you ever made very good decisions in the middle of the night?"
"You'd be surprised how many emergencies I've been woken up for in the middle of the night," Harry mutters. They're in the drawing room, where a fire flickers quietly in the very large fireplace. A whole family could fit in there at once. Harry just tries not to pay attention to where they are too much.
"But have you ever made any good decisions," Malfoy presses. He's messing around on the mantle looking for something, and comes up with this little porcelain jar, decorated with not very friendly looking snakes in black and green.
Harry makes a noncommittal noise.
"I didn't think so," Malfoy says smugly, and hands him the jar, which turns out to be Floo powder. Malfoy's already taken a pinch and is stepping forward for the fireplace.
"What should I say?" He looks to Harry.
Harry shrugs, taking a pinch and putting the jar back on the mantle. "Slytherin Common Room?"
"It's too hot; why would we have a fire going?"
"Well, why do you have a fire here?"
"We can't just let the fire go out. There are appearances." Malfoy waves him off dismissively. "But that's irrelevant."
"Right. Appearances. Just… just say…" Harry racks his mind. There was a fire going in Dumbledore's office quite often, but with McGonagall as headmistress—much less eccentric—he doesn't expect there will be one going now. It's hot enough as it is, and McGonogall's probably asleep anyway, and therefore not in her office. "I don't know if there will be any going," he says eventually. And then, because he can't help it, "Shit idea, Malfoy."
"Piss off." Malfoy doesn't actually look that upset.
It's like he doesn't want Harry to get any sleep tonight. Harry finds himself smiling anyway. He's not sure how that smile got there.
Carefully putting the pinch of Floo powder back and offering Harry the jar so that Harry can do the same, Malfoy stares into the jar with an unhappy, sort of resigned expression. "We'll just… fly back."
Harry blinks. "No."
"Do you have a fear of flying?"
"I'm Quidditch Captain this year."
"Well then."
Harry grits his teeth. "We are not flying. You said so yourself—you don't want to. And I'm not going to make you. We'll—We'll Apparate!"
Malfoy looks at him, unimpressed. "Hogwarts."
"We'll Apparate close and walk the rest of the way," Harry suggests. "I really don't see any other option."
"Flying," Malfoy says, rolling his eyes, even though he looks positively sick at the idea. "It's faster." And then, quieter, almost unwillingly, "I thought you wanted to get to sleep."
Harry reaches out to him with the hand that isn't holding the broom, first to Malfoy's hand, and then to Malfoy's shoulder because that feels less awkward, and gives him a gentle squeeze. "No," he says firmly, as gently as he can muster. Malfoy's still not looking at him, so he steps closer, resting the Firebolt against the fireplace and putting his other hand on Malfoy's other shoulder, seeking out Malfoy's eyes. "Look, it doesn't matter, alright? It's fine; I'm fine with a little walking. We are not going to fly."
Malfoy's eyes search his face for a moment, and then get stopped in their search somewhere around Harry's mouth. Talk about mixed signals. "Yeah…" Malfoy says vaguely, "What? Yes. Fine. Take your hands off of me, Potter."
"Hey Malfoy?" Harry says, as he disobeys Malfoy and slides his hand down, grabbing Malfoy's elbow tightly and his Firebolt in the other, "Why'd you kiss me?"
He's honestly confused. He thought he had it figured out, but now Malfoy has, predictably, opened his mouth and said some shitty things to Harry, and it's like—what? Truly, what is going on? It's like the kiss didn't even happen, except Harry's mouth is still tingling, so there's that.
But Malfoy just makes a face at him like Harry's something he's deeply allergic to and pulls out his wand, Apparating them both with a crack.
The air is considerably cooler by the lake than it is near the Malfoy fireplace, helped by a soft breeze coming off of the water. Neither of them have a Lumos, but the half-full moon and the starlight from the unobscured sky is enough to see things by.
And the thing Harry sees is that they are on the other side of the Great Lake.
They're just about at the dock where Hagrid takes the kids from the Hogwarts Express to the castle, and from here, to Harry's tired eyes, the gently rippling surface of the lake looks miles long.
"I forgot about that," Malfoy murmured, pulling out of Harry's grip yet again. He almost sounds apologetic. He gives Harry what Harry thinks is—could he be right?—a half-smile. "We can walk there or take a boat. The boat would be more direct."
"No shit," Harry says, but without any bite. He scuffs the grass beneath their feet and thinks about walking that whole way. They approach the edge of the water together and peer over at the dark castle, just a few lights flickering in a few windows. "Rowing would be hell, though."
"Weak," Malfoy says, but that doesn't have any bite either. He looks like he's smiling, maybe, although it's a bit dark to tell. "But we don't have to row. We're wizards."
Oh, that's right. Harry hums in acknowledgement; he can't think of anything to say.
"Idiot," Malfoy says, but this time it sounds kind of fond.
Is he? Is he fond of Harry?
He doesn't seem like he is.
Harry considers Malfoy as Malfoy Transfigures them a boat—his concentrated look, the way his hair shines in the starlight, much whiter-looking this time, the angular cut of his face and of his skinny frame, black blotting out the starlight on the water so that it looks like his silhouette is a black cut-out with a halo.
Malfoy offers Harry a hand in, but looks away as Harry steps in until Harry has let go.
It's a nice rowboat—a good Transfiguration job—shiny wood and smooth benches, wide enough for it not to be a squeeze but not wide enough for it to feel strange and empty. When Malfoy taps the side of the boat, oars on either side of them begin to turn themselves, and the boat glides easily forward, barely even rocking.
Harry should not find this feat of Malfoy's as attractive as he does.
"Romantic," Harry jokes, hoping to catch a reaction from Malfoy.
Malfoy does react; he slumps, as if all of the aristocrat in him has suddenly disappeared. Harry's not quite sure what to make of that.
"What's wrong?" he asks, before he can think too hard about it.
The water splashes gently around the sides of the boat, and the rhythmic sound of the oars in the water fills the silence between them. Malfoy sits with his elbows on his knees, head tipped down to watch his fingers slowly move about, doing nothing. His hair is still messy and loose and white-blond in the starlight.
Harry had his hands in that hair not that long ago—less than an hour ago, unless you count the time travel, in which case, who knows how long. But in the ways that count, it hasn't been that long.
It was very soft.
Finally, Malfoy sits up just a little and pushes up his sleeve. "Still there," he says dully, shoving his arm Harry's way. The Dark Mark is indeed still there, gleaming darkly under the moon, looking admittedly very sinister and dislikable.
"Who cares?" Harry says, and Malfoy flinches. Yikes. He had not meant to say that. "Sorry, that—People care, I know people care. You care! Sorry. But you were a kid and you want to be better. I know people disagree, and they give you shit. And I'm sorry. But for what it's worth, I think who you decide to do now matters more than what you've done before."
"It's like you practiced that speech or something." Malfoy pulls his sleeve down and takes his arm back abruptly and sits back. Perhaps Malfoy caught Harry's expression when he saw the Dark Mark before he could get it under control. "Whatever. You wouldn't understand, Potter."
Harry can't help but bristle at that. He leans back to dismiss Malfoy, but the boat sloshes, so he leans forward again. Once he's safely leaning forward, he demands, "What's that supposed to mean? Maybe I've never been a Death Eater, but you don't think I've made mistakes too? I'd have killed for a Time-Turner when—when I got my godfather killed."
Malfoy's eyes narrow. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. You don't understand. This isn't about mistakes, this is about—" His voice falters. "This is about being a good person."
"Oh," says Harry, and then, "Wait a minute, you think I've never wanted to be a better person?"
"Not the way I have."
Harry clenches his fists. "Oh really?"
"Yes, really!" Malfoy's raising his voice, and in the silent night, it seems to echo across the water. "You're already good, you just want to be better. You can never be saintly enough, is that right?" Malfoy looks off across the Great Lake, his voice quieting again. "I don't need to be the best person in the whole fucking world like you. I just want to be good."
Harry falls silent. He doesn't know what to say. He's pretty sure Hermione once told him that most people—a very very large majority of people believe that they are Good, and that they are Right, most of the time. That they are the heroes of some story, even when they do bad things, because it's just the way people are; they think they're justified. Not that people believe that they're perfect, but that most of them believe the sum of them is good.
If Harry's honest, he thinks he's selfish and sometimes cruel and has a quick temper and has hurt a lot of people. But deep down… deep down he does think he's more good than he is bad.
It makes his heart ache to think that Malfoy doesn't feel the same way about himself.
"Well... what I said before," he says, after a very long pause. "My godfather, he once said that the world was not divided up into good people and Death Eaters. And I think that's true. There are bad people who aren't Death Eaters, and… there are good people who are. There are good people who changed sides and left Voldemort. But there were also good people who didn't, because—well, you know, for whatever reason. Maybe their lives were threatened. Maybe their families' lives were threatened. They were forced into it. That doesn't make them bad people."
Malfoy looks at him for what feels like ages, his grey eyes glinting in the moonlight and his expression unreadable. "It's another good speech. Now tell me what you really think."
Harry swallows. If you'd told him three hours ago he'd be consoling Malfoy over being a Death Eater, he'd have sent you to St. Mungos, but now he wants nothing more than for Malfoy to stop feeling so damn miserable about himself. What's there to hate?
Okay, well. There's plenty.
But, like, is there?
Anyway. Harry doesn't have the brain power to deal with that right now. He needs to solve Malfoy's morality crisis over Malfoy before he starts on his own crisis about Malfoy.
"I think…" he starts quietly, "I think—listen, you can't laugh at me, okay?"
Malfoy snorts. "You're telling me not to laugh at you? Whose situation is more laughable right now?"
Harry doesn't think Malfoy's situation is that laughable, but he doesn't need to start another argument. "I think you are a good person who used to be a Death Eater," he says simply. "I think that if you had felt safe—not just physically, but from your father's disappointment—I think you wouldn't have become a Death Eater at all."
"Do you really," Malfoy says, in this horribly flat, sarcastic voice. He won't look at Harry.
Harry itches to take his hands and make him believe. "I do," he insists. "And you know what I think?"
"No." Still flat. "What do you think."
"I think if you hadn't become a Death Eater, we would've lost the war." Seeing Malfoy opening his mouth with an incredulous expression, Harry continues quickly, "You never killed Dumbledore, because you didn't want to. That bought us a lot of time. You didn't identify me when we were caught. You let me take those wands—I know you let me take those wands. And you know what I think? I think you're brave."
Malfoy lets out a quiet laugh. It sounds wet, like he's trying not to cry. Harry's heart tumbles.
"You obviously cared about your parents, and what they thought of you so much. I don't… you know… really have experience with that, but I imagine it would be a little bit like defying everything Ron and Hermione believed in. That's… I mean, that's really something, isn't it? That's really brave."
"Uh…" Malfoy's voice shakes a little, and he turns to look at Harry out of the corner of his eye, which looks kind of shiny. Maybe it's the stars, or maybe he's crying, Harry can't tell. "I don't understand how you can think this hard about my feelings and not notice."
He looks away from Harry again and does not elaborate.
"Okay," Harry says. "Okay. Right. Am I supposed to guess, or are you going to tell me for once, or…?" He shifts to peer at Malfoy's face, but quickly stops when the boat rocks again. They're pretty close to Hogwarts now, the shape of the castle blotting out the stars. He feels strangely disappointed to be so close—of course he's tired, but he doesn't want this night to end. "I feel like there's this huge secret I'm supposed to know or something."
"It's not a secret," Malfoy mutters, sniffling a little and wiping at his face as they come up to the shore. "You're just blind."
"Well I'm not deaf." Harry grabs the sides of the boat as it gently scrapes against the land, coming to a stop. "You could just tell me. Or have you, and I didn't notice?"
Malfoy steps out first, his footsteps quiet on the ground, and offers Harry a hand. He actually looks at Harry this time, which Harry counts as an improvement. In fact, he's looking at Harry more intently than he's looked at Harry all night, and it's startling what Malfoy's stare does.
Namely, steal Harry's breath and make his heart race and his feet stumble when he steps out of the boat. He ends up pitching into Malfoy, who catches him with annoying grace, his arms wrapping reflexively around Harry and steadying him.
Malfoy feels very strong and solid against him.
"Sorry," Harry mutters, his face burning, trying to extract himself. But Malfoy kind of doesn't let him go.
"I thought it was obvious when I kissed you," he says, looking down at Harry a little, his brow furrowed. "But I'm a kind of…"
Harry pulls his wand out slowly and undoes the Transfiguration on the boat. He doesn't look away from Malfoy, but Malfoy blinks and drops his arms from around Harry slowly, as if he thinks Harry still needs help standing.
He might not be wrong.
The way Malfoy's looking at him now is not doing Harry's knees any favors. His stomach is fluttering like crazy.
"I'm a little…" Malfoy's saying, his voice all pitchy. His hands are still on Harry's, not exactly holding them, just… there, his palms sort of pressed to the backs of Harry's hands. "I'm sort of… Well. You know…"
Harry turns his hands and gently takes Malfoy's, which tighten around his immediately. It sends a jolt through him, like lightning. He doesn't point out that using you know is not any more effective on him than it was on Malfoy.
But Malfoy doesn't continue.
"Er… not really," Harry says.
Malfoy shakes his head, his hands tightening even more around Harry's, hard enough now that it almost hurts a little. "I'm a little bit in love with you."
Harry did not know.
"Oh," he breathes, looking up at Malfoy and his halo of hair. He tries to come up with something else to say, but all he has is this bursting feeling in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.
It doesn't matter, anyway, because the next second, Malfoy is yanking his hands away and hurrying down towards Hogwarts' doors, muttering something about sleep that Harry doesn't catch.
"Hey!" he calls hurrying into Hogwarts after Malfoy, "Wait a minute!"
He has to lower his voice as they wind their ways through the halls, because, well, because four in the morning—funny, he suddenly doesn't feel tired at all—but he hisses after Malfoy as loud as he dares.
"Get back here!"
"Oooh stop! In the name of the law!" Malfoy mocks, not stopping. Actually, he's speeding up a little, like he wants to get away without Harry noticing. "Gryffindor Tower is up, Potter."
"We're never going to get anywhere if you keep doing this," Harry says, puffing as they near the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room.
Malfoy spins. "Doing what?"
"I think," says Harry frantically, because the Slytherin dorms are right around the corner, which means the night is about to end, and who knows if they'll ever be able to pick this back up again if they put it down now, "That I would like to let you ride my broomstick."
He cannot believe what just came out of his mouth. Malfoy doesn't look like he believes it either; his cheeks are pink but his expression is blank.
"Someday," Harry amends quickly. "I mean, definitely not now. Obviously."
"Obviously," Malfoy echoes, his hand on the stone wall. He's standing still as a statue.
"I think…" Harry says slowly, realizing he has Malfoy's attention. He swallows down his embarrassment and steps closer. He's close enough to touch Malfoy, but he's not sure if Malfoy wants him to, so he just leans against the wall. "I think you're really… I mean… I really do think you're hot. And you're smart… and clever… I mean, I really think, you know, I think I'm, like, two steps away from falling in love with you, you know?"
"Smart and clever are the same thing," Malfoy says, but his blank expression has softened into something else, something that makes Harry's heart skip in his chest. He reaches out and grabs Harry's hand, and then looks at them as if he was momentarily possessed when he did that, but doesn't let go.
"Shut your face, okay?" Harry's smiling like an idiot; he can feel it. He squeezes Malfoy's hand. "I just think… I dunno, we should give this thing a chance."
"What," says Malfoy, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "Flying?"
Harry shoves him, feeling himself go red. He puts his arm around Malfoy's waist and steers them back on course towards the Slytherin Common Room. "A relationship—"
They stop.
Standing in front of the entrance, picking at her cuticles, is Pansy Parkinson.
"Have you been listening?" Malfoy demands, his voice high.
Pansy shrugs and looks up at them through her eyelashes. Harry thinks he's going to die on the spot. "I had to know if Draco finally got it right, and if you finally figured it out."
"He didn't. I had to tell him." Malfoy sounds about as embarrassed as Harry feels.
"He told me," Harry agrees, squeezing Malfoy's waist a little.
Pansy looks completely blindsided. "You told him? Merlin's tits. You've grown up." She straightens and flashes a smile at them. "I'll just go right inside, so that you boys can kiss, or fly, or whatever you need to do."
"Pansy!" Draco hisses.
But Pansy's gone through already. She seems to like doing that.
"We shouldn't kiss, just for that," Harry says, staring after her.
Malfoy shifts beside him, clearing his throat. "We'll, she's not here to know, so that would be pointless." When Harry turns to look at him, he ducks his head a little bit, which makes Harry want to run his fingers through Malfoy's hair again. "Just saying."
"You're mumbling."
Malfoy's tilting his face down; their noses are almost touching. Harry looks at Malfoy's half-closed grey eyes, at his pale eyelashes and his flushed cheeks, and he can't breathe.
Harry closes his eyes.
It's their first gentle kiss. Malfoy's arm wraps around Harry's waist, and the other winds into Harry's hair, both pulling him closer, as if Malfoy wants to eliminate every inch between them. And he kisses slowly, as if he's got all the time in the world, as if he doesn't want to part ways any more than Harry does. And Harry winds his arms around Malfoy's neck and follows Malfoy's lead.
And Malfoy kisses him…
And kisses him…
And kisses him…
And kisses him…
And it feels like hours later when he finally pulls back, looking at Harry with his eyes wide and his mouth still a little bit open, his hands having moved to Harry's hips. "We shouldn't fly in the hallway," he says.
"Not safe," Harry agrees.
Malfoy nods. "I don't think we're actually ready to fly anyway," he says. "And…" he doesn't seem to have anything else to say. They're both just stalling.
"And it's four thirty in the morning." Harry gently removes Malfoy's hands from his hips, with no small amount of reluctance, and squeezes them. "You should go put those Time-Turners back in your Harry Potter trunk, and get some sleep. We can figure out what to do with them later."
Malfoy takes a step back, almost hitting the wall, and turns away, opening his mouth like he's going to shout at Pansy before realizing that it's four thirty in the morning. He turns back to Harry. "I can't believe you saw that."
"I can't believe you did that." Harry waves him on. "Go. We've still got a couple hours of sleep before we have to get back up again."
Malfoy considers the entrance for a moment, frowning, shoving his hand in his pocket where Harry knows he has the Time-Turner. "Goodnight, Harry."
Harry watches him mutter the password and step in. His heart does something absolutely ridiculous when Malfoy turns and looks back at him, smiling.
"Goodnight, Draco," he says. "See you tomorrow."