Hello hello lovelies!
All of your wondrous reviews on the last chapter made me really happy! I am glad that even though it was so sad, you all enjoyed it x
Also, I am probably going to post the next chapter tomorrow ;)
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
Wednesday, October 31st, 1979
Undisclosed Location Along Wales's Coastline, UK
Riley Paddington's Future Cottage
Halloween
Was it logical? No. Did he hesitate in carrying out said illogical action? Also, no.
I'm running low on Firewhisky, I've only got a few more bottles, Draco thought soberly. His grip on the neck of the bottle of Odgen's Finest tightened before he took a large swig. Firewhisky was one of the 'essentials' he insisted on bringing.
Draco just returned from an impromptu jaunt. The wizard had apparated over to the closest town—landing in a puddle in the small, compact area behind its sole inn. It was where all the rubbish bins were housed, and Draco looked right and left to ensure he was on his own.
At his back was a sparse gathering of Ash Beech trees and a dirt path that led from a door to his right and wove through the trees. Small patches of grass were drowned by the large pools of water settled around his environs. It had been raining for days.
There was a heap of junk; mainly broken furniture. There was what appeared to be most of a round dining room table, three chairs that belonged to the set, and half an armchair. Cardboard boxes (they were soggy and swollen with moisture, but Draco barely noticed), and an odd collection of left shoes.
There were a few other items beside the garbage. Draco gathered everything, shrank it down and shoved it in his knapsack.
Draco returned to the bluff as quickly as he'd left it.
Draco landed outside his tent, walked ten paces and in a harsh movement shucked the knapsack from his shoulder and emptied the contents onto the sand.
The wizard traipsed about the near vicinity in search of underbrush and driftwood to aid in his attempts at creating a bonfire. After he'd found what he deemed a satisfactory amount, he arranged it throughout his pile of 'treasure'.
One silent, wandless incantation later and the pile of broken, discarded items was set ablaze. (The sand was a mite damp, and darkened as a result, it was a miracle his plan worked considering the elements were against him.)
Draco errantly thought that perhaps he should break something; he regretted not trying to smash the wooden dining table before he set it on fire. There was nothing else he could afford to break. Although he could repair any smashed stone or broken wooden boards, he just couldn't be arsed; it was far more effort than it was worth.
Thus, he found himself a bottle of Firewhisky and nursed it as he blankly watched the flames lick at the sky. The amber liquid scorched a path down his throat and into his chest.
Draco's mind drifted as he took another large swig of the amber liquid; he craved the burning sensation as it was the closest thing he allowed himself to feeling these days.
He'd stomped his emotions to a dark, damp corner of his being, refusing to let them show their faces. Hope, joy—they taunted him with their pretty words and empty promises.
There was nothing in this world he wanted more than to return to Potter Manor—aside from having Hermione back with him—so he could spend more time with his brother and Lily, but alas, he cannot. He can't physically bring himself to do it.
Draco swore to Hermione that he wouldn't return home for the remainder of his time in the past. The words rang shrilly in his ears. It would be borderline cruel to everyone involved, and Draco feared that if he dared to go back, he wouldn't be strong enough to leave.
And I will have to navigate Hermione's absence somehow. And I can't tell them the truth, Draco thought, drowning in his misery. Thoughts of Hermione reminded him of the journal she'd kept in her third year that she handed to him the day before she left.
"Read it, burn it. It's up to you. My emotions were all over the place—I was confused about my strong feelings for you and Remus. It was a lot, if I'm being frank. Either way, I needed an outlet, and well…" Hermione had gestured to the leather bound journal with a cavalier shrug.
"I'm not going to read it, Hermione."
"You aren't even a little curious? I'm surprised."
Draco decided that now was the perfect moment to burn it. He pointed his wand towards his tent where the journal lay on top of Hermione's side of their 'bed', and summoned it.
A whipping sound hit his ear as the journal soared past the tent flaps; its pages flapped in the wind as it shot towards Draco. He halted it in its tracks right before it slammed into him.
The Firewhisky's glass bottle was chilled around the mouth, but the neck had warmed under his touch, and the frigid sensation against his lips as he took another swig sent a shiver over his flesh. Draco swallowed thickly, snatched the journal out of the air and tossed it into the fire.
Draco was enthralled and bewitched as the pages caught flame, curled, and blackened. The leather exterior was darkening, and the distinct scent of burnt hair was in the air. Draco caught glimpses of Hermione's neat, ordered handwriting on the pages, but nothing he could properly discern before the words crumbled into ash.
Draco took one final sip of his Firewhisky, and subsequently stoppered the bottle. He dropped it into the sand beside him, and he took a step towards the roaring fire. He screamed.
Draco screamed into the howling wind that viciously battled to put out the fire in front of him. The wind and fire snapped and snarled at each other, warring as they tried to claim dominance over the other element. The heat from the flames radiated towards him, and the frigid wind at his back was a jarring contrast.
Draco screamed until his throat was raw, his voice but a raspy, pathetic sound. The wind stole away the noise he had left at his disposal. His tongue was as dry as sandpaper, heavy, and akin to being coated in cotton. Draco screamed until he fell to his knees, unable to scream anymore.
"I fucking hate Halloween," Draco cursed into the wind—his mouth working soundlessly, no noise actually coming out—his hair whipped about, victim to the whims and fancies of the furious wind; it cut straight to his core.
It was the longest Draco had been away from his pack since they graduated from Hogwarts, and even then, he'd always had his brother and Hermione with him. Draco was not coping well in their absence. An oppressive emptiness bloomed in his chest, and his tears dried the moment they leaked out the corner of his eyes.
Draco just wanted to see his brother again.
Monday, November 12th, 1979
Undisclosed Location Along Wales's Coastline, UK
Riley Paddington's Future Cottage
Hermione and Draco Potter's 'Third' Anniversary
"Can't really celebrate an anniversary when your partner is lost in time, trapped on the other side of reality," Draco sighed aloud.
The man was making decent progress in the building of Riley's future safe haven. He'd framed the walls, laying out the exterior ones first. (He'd checked the drawings and his measurements a thousand times.) Draco had a stroke of genius a few weeks ago—when the rain was abysmal and unrelenting—and erected a vast tented canopy over his site so that the rain would mostly be kept away from his building materials and the partial structure.
Today he hadn't touched the site, he hadn't picked up a hammer, hadn't even glanced at a nail. He hadn't done much of anything. The only thing of note he'd done today was open one of the novels he'd already read, and he'd listlessly perused it until he reached the tenth page. Then, he'd stared at the words till they blurred together.
Currently, Draco was sitting atop the bluff, amongst the tall grass; he hadn't bothered to cut it past his work area. Draco closed his eyes, and let the clamorous roar of the ocean crashing against the rock's face roll over him. The wind was quieter today, but it teased the grass surrounding him; it swayed in a smooth motion.
It would be three years today, Draco thought, a melancholic state took hold of him.
"I love you," the wind seemed to whisper, caressing the side of his face lovingly, but her fingers were like ice.
Draco recalled the moment they made it official as if it was yesterday, and he allowed his mind to drift.
"So, to answer your prior question, it won't be easy, but I'm willing to try and make this work if you are," Draco stated. It was a fragile moment, they were on the cusp of something and the anticipation and fear quaking in his heart was overwhelming.
Draco didn't know how he would manage if she told him it was all a mistake. That she didn't really love him, or even if she did, it was more trouble than it was worth to carry on a secret relationship with him. They were keeping too many secrets already, what if this one was too much?
"Hermione?" Draco asked. Thankful that his voice remained steady and belied the doubt growing like a nasty parasite in his chest.
Hermione pressed her forehead against his for a painfully long moment. She must be able to hear his rapid heartbeat.
"It's you and I, no matter what, remember?"
"Wanker!" The waves crashed against his eardrums, and the memory of her lips ghosting over his cheek was so visceral that he reached up to touch it, but alas, he came up empty.
Honey brown curls that glowed in the daylight, and enchanting brown eyes that had captured the hues of Fall within them; holding them captive. Hermione Granger worried her bottom lip between her teeth, and fidgeted uncomfortably. The words that ultimately left her mouth seemed to surprise her by the slight widening of her eyes, but she recovered by hastily replacing it with an impassive expression.
"I may not like you, Malfoy…but no matter what happens, we have to stick together. Agreed?" Granger was fiddling with her pleated school skirt. Her black, leather Oxford shoes were polished to the point where one could see their reflection across the gleaming surface.
Draco found himself momentarily distracted by how precisely she'd tied her shoes. The loops were the exact same size, and she'd double knotted the laces. It was an obnoxious show of punctilious behaviour befitting the swotty Gryffindor.
Draco considered his situation. He supposed that Granger wasn't the worst option; he could be trapped in the 'past' with an imbecile. For the time being, she would suffice. Outwardly, Draco scoffed at her sentiment, but nodded his head regardless. If they truly had come to the past, Hermione Granger would be an advantageous ally.
"If we have actually travelled back in time, then yes, we will…stick together."
A low purring rumbled beside him, and Draco's eyes flew open. Languidly he glanced down at the pitch black cat that had joined him. Midnight was licking the back of her paw, watching him with quiet disinterest. It was the strangest thing. A few days ago, Hermione's familiar had wandered into his tent and roused him from his slumber.
Draco didn't have a chance to properly register that Midnight was in his tent before she leapt forward, swiped at him—dug large gashes in his forearm with her claws—and hissed harshly. She was displeased that she'd been left behind, and she was letting him know that.
The heavy tension between the pair melted away by the late afternoon. Midnight had licked the same wound she'd inflicted, despite the fact that it was almost done healing; he'd applied a copious amount of dittany.
Draco couldn't ask the mysterious beast how she'd found him, all he could do was shake his head in sleepy wonder. The feline was wicked smart, and had somehow tracked them down. The wards seemingly hadn't affected the cat in the slightest.
A ghost of a smile touched Draco's features. "You miss her, don't you?" Draco asked. He held out his hand, and the cat halted in her licking, and peered up at him curiously. "Unlike you, I don't bite."
If the feline could have rolled her eyes, Draco swore she would have. The cat wove through the tall grass and her head instantly sought out the warmth of his palm. She purred lowly in her throat as he stroked her head.
"I miss you too," the grass rustled, and a promise lingered around the pair. The last streaks of pale light threatened to dip below the horizon.
"You're so reckless. You know that?" Draco shook his head, breaking eye contact. He couldn't look at her. He wanted to throttle her for her rash behaviour last night. She couldn't have known that Moony wouldn't attack them, but she'd put herself in the line of fire regardless.
Hermione kissed her teeth together, and Draco worked his jaw. The residual instincts and urges that came from his animagus form were fogging up his judgment. He'd never had to continuously maintain his form for an entire night, and his senses were still adjusting to being human again.
The chamomile and vanilla wafting off of Hermione was enticing, and her proximity made this infinitely harder to bear.
"Because I stopped Moony from giving into instinct and killing James?" Hermione asked bitterly.
Draco didn't have a reasonable excuse to give her. The taste of the fear he'd felt last night when Vixen leapt in front of them—shielding them from Moony—was still heavy on the back of his tongue. It was bitter, and it was as if ash was gathering in his throat.
Draco could never tell her that. She was ridiculously happy with Remus, and Marlene helped to soothe and patch up his burdened heart.
"I'm not getting into it, Hermione," Draco sighed. He stuck his head outside of their crevice, peering down the tunnel in the direction of the Shack. "We should leave, and get out before she comes back."
"We should wait on the others," Hermione argued. She huffed in irritation, and he made the mistake of breathing in deeply. Her scent was stronger that it'd been moments before. It was intoxicating, and it took every ounce of his self-control to keep his hands at his sides.
Draco wanted to bury his hands in her wild, raven curls and kiss her until they were both breathless. He wanted her. A dangerous thought.
Draco risked a peek at her out of his peripherals, and he sighed again; this time it was a loud exhale from his nostrils. "Okay."
"What is up with you?" Hermione pressed, and she moved closer. They were touching, and Draco was balancing on a razor thin piece of thread that threatened to break at any second. He refused to look at her, because he knew the moment he did, he might act on his treacherous thoughts.
"Hermione."
"Draco."
"Drop it."
"No, tell me what's wrong?" Hermione asked in a harsh whisper.
"Nothing is wrong, Hermione," Draco responded in an equally heated hiss. He flew back around, and the moment he did he knew he'd made a mistake. His face was inches away from hers. There was not enough space for him to logistically keep a level head. His hands curled into fists, and his short nails dug into his palms.
Hermione's hazel eyes widened in shock at their sudden closeness. It was torture being this close to her. She was frequently infuriating, reckless, bloody brilliant, and he wanted to snog her senseless.
No, she is with Moony, I can't kiss her even though I want to. It wouldn't be fair to them, nor to Marlene. I'm being ridiculous. Plus, she wouldn't reciprocate my feelings anyway. Draco's thoughts were a jumbled mess, his conflicting feelings for Hermione and Marlene swirled in his skull, and his loyalty to Remus reared its head.
What a brilliant friend I am. My best mate is wounded and suffering after a hellish night, and I'm thinking about kissing his witch, Draco thought; disgusted by himself.
Draco managed to grasp onto some semblance of control, and instead of doing what he desired at that moment, he said, "you know what? I'm going to go ahead, I'll see you later." Draco stepped back, and ducked out into the tunnel.
The darkness wasn't difficult to navigate with his shifted eyes, and he swallowed shakily. What the fuck just happened?
"Come on, let's get out of the cold," Draco told the feline, and she yawned in response, nudging his hand with her moist, cold nose before trotting away, heading for the path down to the beach where his tent was pitched.
The sound of pages flipping, of quills scrawling furiously across parchment and several students reading aloud in muttered exhales of sound under their breath. Draco was surrounded by sleep-deprived, panicking OWL and NEWT students.
The amount of studying they'd been doing in the past few months was ridiculous. Draco often fell asleep with his textbooks in bed with him. Most nights, Hermione was too tired to sneak into his room. Normally he needed her presence to help him sleep peacefully, but he was so exhausted recently that he passed out also instantaneously whenever his head hit his pillow.
The past few months following Charlus's death hadn't been easy for any of them. In a way it wasn't quite real, and there were times Draco forgot his Father was gone.
Draco was halfway through penning Charlus a letter a few nights ago—during one of the brief reprieves Draco got after supper—when it struck him that it would never reach its intended recipient.
Hermione, Draco, Remus and Sirius had staked out one of the prime tables beside a large window so they could optimise the daylight for as long as possible. At least one of them stayed and camped it whenever the others left for breaks, food, or slumber. For the last four days.
Madam Pince tried to kick them out several times, but to no avail. Draco had growled at her last night when it was his turn to watch the table. She informed him that she was locking him and a few other NEWT students in for the night, and that she expected everything to be in order when she returned in the morning.
Today was their last day in the library—for now—they'd decided unanimously. They were going to take up residence in the Head Dorms. James and Lily had practically barricaded themselves in: they got House Elves to deliver meals straight to them, and they were studying like their lives depended on it.
Peter's revision was mostly done with Mary, Marlene, Dorcas and Emmeline. They were currently a few tables over, and their table was neatly ordered; he wanted to ask their secret. Draco hadn't seen Alice, Frank, Kira or Nancy in days.
Draco tore his gaze from his textbook and stole a glance at Hermione (she was seated directly across from him) and he met her eye. She was openly studying him. Draco raised a brow, and she smiled softly. "Hi," She mouthed.
"Hi," Draco mouthed back.
Hermione shook her head, and returned to her notetaking. Her mouth soundlessly formed the words. The corners of her eyes crinkled in quiet happiness—her smile firmly in place—as she jotted down notes from the absurdly thick tome to the left of her roll of parchment.
Salazar, how he loved her. Draco ducked his head and resumed his own revision.
Draco peeked over his shoulder at the structure slowly taking shape. At the rate he was going, he was going to finish it with plenty of time to spare.
Draco was faced with a perplexing concept: he was running out of time, but he simultaneously had an overabundance of it because of how slow time seemed. The days dragged by, and he felt every second.
The inky sky consumed the remainder of the day's light, and Draco stared up at the stars. Happy anniversary, love.
Saturday, December 1st, 1979
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Transfiguration Professor's Office and Chambers
There was a sole window in Minerva's chambers. It was narrow but tall. Minerva leaned against the stone wall and peered out the window into the empty Middle Courtyard. It had been charmed so she could see out, but prying eyes couldn't see in.
The Moon was almost full in the sky—which seemed darker, inker in comparison than usual—and the clouds partially obscuring the Moon's brilliance were thick, and dense. Minerva's hand laid against her chest, and her index finger tapped against the bare skin around the rounded collar of her black, cotton nightgown.
Without warning, Minerva's door swung inwards, and a figure cloaked in dark fabrics (with a hood obscuring their features) stood beside Albus Dumbledore in the doorway. Albus's eyes twinkled over his half-moon spectacles, and he smoothed down his royal purple night robes before he trotted off.
"Wh—"
The figure stepped inside of her office, and shut her door behind them. From their silhouette and stature, she assumed it was a wizard, but she had no idea who would be calling on her at this forsaken hour. Much less what they could possibly want with her. The personal escort from the Headmaster was the only reason she hadn't hexed them black and blue.
Minerva was overtly aware of her wand tucked behind her ear. She could test her luck and see which one of them was quicker on the draw. She would ask forgiveness later if it was deemed a necessity.
In a swift motion, the wizard shoved the hood backwards, and Minerva's heart stopped in her throat. "Draco Potter?"
Minerva hadn't known what to think when Draco and Hermione Potter disappeared abruptly, and there hadn't been any leads as to where they could have gone. If Albus knew anything, he wasn't readily forthcoming with the information.
Sirius Black and James Potter had visited her twice over the past few months to ask if she'd been in contact with either of them. They'd harassed Dumbledore far more.
Mister Lupin had caused quite an uproar in Dumbledore's office shortly after James and Sirius's first visit. He destroyed most of his former Headmaster's furniture in a fit of rage at his apparent cavalier attitude. Dumbledore didn't seem concerned in the slightest about Hermione and Draco Potter's disappearance.
Draco's hair was longer than she'd ever seen it. It was shaggy, it curled around his ears, and stuck up sharply in the back. The beginnings of a beard had formed across his cheeks, upper lip and chin; the short, dark hair was littered with a few pure white ones. He looked untethered, wilder than the usually composed, meticulously groomed young man she'd known.
A broad smile broke out on his face. "Miss me, Minnie?"
The witch had a litany of questions. She settled on asking them one-by-one. "Where have you been? Your family has been worried sick!"
"Can't really tell you that. Would kind of defeat the purpose of being in hiding." Draco drawled.
"Dumbledore…has he known where you were this entire time? And where is Miss Potter?"
"He surmised that we were in hiding, but I haven't spoken to him in months. Actually, I gave him a bit of a shock earlier when I stuck my head through his fireplace for a floo call."
"Miss Potter?"
"Drifting through time and space I suppose," Draco shrugged, but the tautness in his shoulders and misery dragging down his features spoke volumes of his inner turmoil. "She's already left the past."
"She left?" Minerva asked, mouth agape. She faced him and took a small step forward. Her heart ached for the grim, shell of the person she'd become quite fond of. The Marauders and their friends held a special place in her heart, and it tore her up inside to see any of them suffering.
"Why are you still here, dear? I would have thought that you would leave together when the time was right."
"Hermione's real birthday is in September, so two of her couldn't exist," Draco said, heaving out a laboured sigh. "Plus, I still have some unfinished business to attend to." The man's brow knitted together, and he was lost in complex contemplation.
Unbeknownst to Minerva, Draco was confused at how easy this conversation was, the Unbreakable Vow was dormant. Not a single warning had been issued, there wasn't anything steering him away from revealing too much information. It was strange, but Draco quickly dismissed it. He was exhausted from restless, sleepless nights and was probably reading too much into it.
Draco cleared his throat, and his gaze sharpened as it refocused on Minerva. "If it isn't too much to ask, could you possibly grab me some dreamless sleeping potion from Slughorn's stores?"
"At the risk of seeming rude, haven't you always been an excellent brewer? Why would you need potions from Slughorn's stores?"
"My current…situation is not conducive to brewing," Draco said, his statement was frustratingly elusive and scant in relation to details. She wanted to press for more, but it was not her place. She simply wished to know if he was at least safe and warm. She hoped he wasn't sleeping on the ground, roughing it in the middle of nowhere.
"Anything else? Or do you only require some dreamless sleepless potion?"
"That's all. I have everything else I need," Draco inclined his head politely, clasping his hands behind his back as he strolled over to the loveseat he'd shared with Hermione on more than one occasion when they'd come to visit her. He collapsed onto it, and thrust an arm over his eyes.
Minerva summoned some emerald green outer robes, and she slipped them on. She made for the door, intent on making the trip down to the Dungeons. She wasn't looking forward to waking Horace, but she hoped he would cooperate without asking too many questions and without too much incessant prattle.
The moment her hand touched the copper door handle, Draco's voice halted her in her tracks. "Minnie, when we're gone…do try to keep him in line. Don't let him get too out of hand." She didn't need to ask to understand he was referring to Albus.
"I will certainly try, Mister Potter."
Minerva opened the door, and as she stepped over the threshold she swore she heard Draco speak again. "I doubt that. You won't even remember us." She closed the door behind her with a soft click, and she deftly slipped her wand from behind her ear into her hand.
"Colloportus," Minerva whispered. She waved her wand at the lock, the resulting sounds of the mechanisms turning reached her sensitive ears.
Draco's presence had unsettled her. Mostly due to how broken and burdened he appeared. As she strode through the Castle's empty corridors, a chill clung to her skin.
Minerva pulled her outer robes tight and absently wondered—not for the first time—what harrowing things happened in their future that weighed so heavily on the youth. Minerva wasn't sure she was ready to find out.