Hello hello lovelies!
I know I just updated in the wee hours of the morning, but here I am again with another chapter! I'm mostly finished the next chapter, so hopefully I will have that up tomorrow! There are five more chapters left in part I, and that's just insane to me!
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the storyline and any OC's belong to me
P.S. I recommend listening to 'I Wanted To Leave' by SYML whilst you are reading x
Monday, March 31st, 1980
Undisclosed Location Along Wales's Coastline, UK
Riley Paddington's Future Cottage
Blue Moon
The man's raven hair was long—it brushed the tops of his shoulders—and it was tied back in a low, loose ponytail. Some strands had escaped and framed his angular face. A thick, curly beard covered the lower half of his face. If you were close enough, you could see the few white hairs hidden amongst the man's raven facial hair. His grey eyes were unfocused, like smoke as he gazed up at the full moon.
The frigid waves lapped at his ankles. He curled his toes in the coarse, wet sand during the water's brief retreat. The man's faded blue jeans had tears by the knees, and he'd folded them halfway up his shins. The black, thin, cotton jumper furled gently against him in the crisp Spring breeze.
"You are a sorry sight." The voice came from his right, and the man's brow puckered at the familiarity of it. Draco glanced to the right in his peripherals, and his blood went cold.
Slicked back, platinum blond hair—not a strand out of place—silver eyes that are sharp and brimming with disdain, pale skin, an angular face, high cheekbones. Draco Potter shakily faced the spitting image of Draco Malfoy.
Black dragonhide shoes, well-fitting, tailored black robes with silver decals around the hem and sleeves. The silver signet ring with the Malfoy family crest caught the moonlight and gleamed on his right hand.
It was a face and image he'd seen many a time in the past, but there was something different that Draco couldn't put his finger on. Draco Malfoy was standing before him with a contemptuous sneer contorting his features. Even though the carefully laid layers of his robes, Draco could see his taut muscles.
"I've officially lost the fucking plot," Draco muttered under his breath.
"No. Unfortunately you haven't. Although, one might be inclined to think so considering your dishevelled, slovenly appearance." Malfoy's mouth twisted in disgust as his eyes roved up and down Draco Potter's body.
"You expect me to wear a three-piece suit, or fancy dress robes when I spend most of my time building a house? I hardly see that as practical." Draco tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, leaned back—putting most of his weight on his left leg—and his right foot glided across the sand in a circular fashion as a wave crashed against him.
"I wouldn't expect you to ever partake in such demeaning, manual labour. That kind of work is beneath us."
Draco scrutinised the man in front of him, and a startling realisation occurred to him. This wasn't just any version of him. This is what he could have become; what he should have become. A Death Eater, but a willing one.
Draco never wanted it. His Seventh year at Hogwarts was horrid, but he would have taken the Carrows over the terror of having Voldemort living in his house in a heartbeat. A shudder ran through him at the thought of those harrowing days.
The Draco Malfoy before him would have welcomed the Dark Lord with open arms, faithfully doing his bidding without question and rejoicing in it. Funnily enough, a good portion of Wizarding society was convinced that that was exactly how it'd been.
One thing Draco Potter wasn't looking forward to upon returning to the future was being treated like Death Eater Scum. Having to watch his back for stray hexes, and to avoid being spat on. Outside of Hogwarts—he hadn't been widely accepted, but he was left alone for the most part—he was a pariah that wix thought they could mistreat as they pleased.
"There is no us."
"Frankly, that might be the first correct thing you've said. You are pathetic."
"Oh, this should be good. Don't be shy, do go on." Draco goaded his other 'self'.
"You've betrayed your family, shacked up with blood traitors and mudbloods—"
"Don't use that term around me—"
Draco Malfoy straightened out to his full height, his eyes ablaze with fury and he roared, "YOU'RE weak. There was a time you would have used that word freely."
"People—I've changed. Thankfully, I realised the gross error in my ways." Draco's breathing was erratic and shaky as he tried to keep calm.
Malfoy scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. Draco blinked, and Malfoy shifted, he morphed into a different form. The haughty wizard was no longer proud, he was simply broken. An outcast and a social pariah.
He was hunched over in the sand, his hands were grasping at fistfuls of it, and sand poured through the gaps between his fingers. His pale, short hair was flopping forward onto his forehead, obscuring his face from this angle. The waves were greedily lapping at his finely made, black trousers.
Malfoy was shirtless, gaunt—Draco could easily count his ribs and his collarbones prominently stuck out—and his dark mark was inky black and writhing across his left forearm.
Draco Potter crouched down, one knee digging into the wet, soft sand. "Draco?"
Malfoy's head rose slightly, and Draco met his gleaming silver eyes. Platinum blond hair partially covered most of his right eye, and his eyes were sunken into his face; dark, puffy smudges were smeared underneath them. They were full of pain. Malfoy pleadingly whispered, "help me."
"It gets better," Draco promised.
Malfoy shook his head. That was not a satisfactory answer. A broken cry sputtered from his lips, and silent tears sprung from his eyes. He extended his sandy hands towards Draco, his palms up, his wrists exposed. He pushed up onto his knees, and he was awkwardly moving in Draco's direction. "Please."
Draco's lips parted, words on the tip of his tongue, but a sharp wind sliced through them, and Malfoy transformed into a black mist that was carried away on the wind's coattails. Draco blinked, and he was met with darkness.
Draco jolted upwards, his body was slick with cold sweat, and his head fell into his hands. He drew his knees to his chest and tried to process his dream. It was a dream, it had to be, but it felt so real.
The sound of the wind whipping against his tent whistled in his ears, and the bright moonlight filtered through the crack in his tent flaps.
Draco fell onto his back, his hands covering his eyes as he carefully breathed in and out in a steady fashion. His heart was racing. The pile of books he'd acquired from Muggle bookshops about building were underneath his left arm; digging into his flesh. Hermione's side of their 'bed' was now overrun with books pertaining to small scale Construction. Reading them helped him quiet his mind, so he often read them before he went to bed.
In an attempt to distract himself, Draco's thoughts drifted to the Marauders. It's the second full moon for the month, I hope Remus is doing well and he found the Wolfsbane potion we left for him.
Draco's hands fell away from his face and he stared up at the dark ceiling of his tent. Recovering after the Full Moon is probably harder since two of his pack members are gone, Draco thought morosely. Draco had been gone for almost seven months, and he was grateful yet surprised that his pack hadn't tracked him down yet.
Two months ago, Draco's light grew owl—Theron—showed up with a howler. Draco had been in the middle of hauling a pile of lumber from the temporary shed he'd built to store his materials over to the building. He was almost done framing the gable pitched roof.
"Draco—" Came James's voice, and Draco almost dropped the lumber in shock.
Lily hastily interrupted, and the remainder of the howler was her yelling at the both of them for disappearing without a word of explanation. James tacked on that Draco's short note he'd sent—via a bloody toucan of all things—did not count.
Lily continued, making it clear that they'd limited most attempts at correspondence as they didn't trust the traditional means, but they were reaching their wits' end.
Draco paused in his task—his muscles sore and straining—but all he could focus on was her voice. It'd been so long since he'd heard their voices and he revelled in every moment of it.
When the howler relayed its message to completion, it ripped itself into shreds. Draco dropped his lumber. It missed his foot by an inch. Theron swooped over and landed on the wooden member. (The owl had stayed with his master since, possibly awaiting a reply; a reply that Draco could never provide.)
Reminiscing on that day caused Draco's chest to tighten. He sighed heavily through his nostrils. Draco knew any further attempts at sleep for the night would be futile, so he threw his sheets off of him, and sat up.
Fifteen minutes later, Draco Potter was standing in the middle of the opening meant for the front door of the cottage. With the moon and wandlight by his side, he was going to install the wooden door. He'd painted it yesterday, and he wanted to wait until tomorrow to install it, but his fingers itched to do something. Nowadays, when Draco was frustrated or upset, he poured that potent energy into building and creating something.
Draco heard Midnight's mewls from inside the structure, and he shook his head. As soon as the roof was on the building, the feline scorned his company in the tent, and she opted to sleep on the cottage's hardwood floors.
As Draco re-checked his measurements for the umpeenth time, he wondered if he was really doing the best thing for everyone. If he shouldn't have sent back a reply with Theron, or sent a Patronus.
Draco turned, and stared listlessly up at the blue moon; his silver eyes reflecting the moon's brilliance. No, he was doing the right thing, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. And I'm not sure they'll forgive me when it's all said and done, Draco thought. He hoped that when he was reunited with Remus and Sirius they would forgive him. He could deal with all of the hypocritical bigots that were bound to attack him if he had them at his side.
With that thought held close to his chest, Draco resumed his task. He had to finish what he and Hermione started, he needed to build a home to keep Riley safe. He knew he was going to be subjecting Riley to a lonely existence, and having suffered several months—mostly—in self-inflicted solitude, he understood the rough road she had ahead of her. And thus, with the moon as his witness and companion, he worked tirelessly through the night.
Hours later, Draco found his favourite spot—out by the edge of the bluff—collapsed onto the ground, and watched the sun rise. Midnight joined him. The flirty edges of pale pinks and yellows that crept along the inky horizon bewitched him.
The broken Malfoy's words reverberated around his skull. "Help me."
As Draco stared out at the rising sun, the dark waves, and his owl who was soaring back from a night's hunt towards Draco's tent on the beach, he repeated his earlier sentiment aloud, "it gets better."
Draco didn't know what awaited him in the future when he returned, and he still had time before that happened, but he had a good feeling in his gut about it. Hermione would be waiting for him and hopefully she would have had time to explain things to the appropriate people.
That thought comforted him, and his eyelids began to droop. He was exhausted. Draco drank in a deep breath and apparated into his tent. The moment he landed on his bed—a hardcover book dug into his rear—and he winced at the sharp impact.
Groaning loudly, Draco rolled onto his side, and with considerable effort he managed to slip under his covers. Grime and layers of dried sweat clung to him and his clothes—so he would have to change his bedding—but that was a problem for later.
Draco's eyes fluttered shut, and his fatigue finally conquered him. This time as Draco slumbered, his mind was blank and devoid of any unpleasantness.