Chapter Three
I swear that after this chapter, we're actually going to get somewhere. Please put up with Harry being angsty a little bit longer!
Determined to renew some of the normality in their lives without a Horcrux hanging over their heads, Harry and Ron took to playing games of Wizard's Chess and Exploding Snap in the kitchen. Ron won ninety percent of the time but that hardly bothered Harry. His head was rarely in the game anyway. He much preferred sitting back and memorising the scenery around him.
There was Hermione, poring over books across the room from them. A weariness remained in her eyes from their misadventures, but at least her shoulders weren't so stiff anymore. Returning to the future had alleviated some of the burden she clearly felt.
On the opposite side of the table from Harry was Ron, his brow furrowing as he assessed the chessboard. Not for the first time, Harry was grateful that Ron had spent that night in the Hospital Wing a year ago. He was glad that one of them had been spared these unnecessary scars.
Then there was Kreacher, clattering around with various copper saucepans on the stove. The old house-elf's attitude had drastically changed towards the three newest members of the Black household ever since he had been gifted with Regulus Black's faux locket. He had cleaned up both himself and their living quarters, and was now whistling a jaunty tune as he pottered about the kitchen. Mechanically, Harry's eyes attached to the locket bouncing on Kreacher's skinny chest and unbidden memories of Tom snaked into his thoughts, twisting like vines of poison ivy.
No.
Harry broke his gaze away from the locket, returning to the game of chess.
He couldn't remember the last time life had been this uneventful as they waited for a response from Ginny. This short period of time was one he would use for healing.
If only the universe would be so kind to him for once.
Ron had barely uttered the words, "Knight to–" when a silvery-blue globe shimmered into existence before their very eyes. It unfurled its layers, like a butterfly spreading its wings, until there was a scintillating mare standing before them, lifting its proud gaze. Even Kreacher paused in his activities to listen.
"Sorry I took so long to reply," came Ginny's voice. Her Patronus' mouth did not move yet the words were clear as daylight. "I took a little while to get the messenger spell fully functioning. Now, straight to the point – is there even a question as to whether I'll do it? Of course I'm going to. Curfew has been shifted to nine in the evening, so I'll be waiting in the second floor girls' lavatory at ten o'clock sharp."
The mare dipped its head briefly before melting away as suddenly as it had appeared.
Kreacher returned to banging a pot around.
The game forgotten, Ron stood.
"Great," he said, relief and sarcasm in his voice evenly balanced. "She'd better not get caught or I'll… I'll…" momentarily tongue-tied, he finally managed to wrangle up the words, "Strangle her."
"You may not have to," murmured Harry, earning a sharp glance in return.
"She'll be smarter than that." Hermione closed the book she had been consulting. Her eyes betrayed her unease. "It's all planned it all out. Messenger spells for quick communication. We can never send an owl into Hogwarts, but with the correct timing, they can send an owl out with the Basilisk fangs. But first, in order to reach the lavatory, she must exit the dormitory at precisely the right time to avoid the patrols – this I'm sure she already knows. Late night wanderings are practically encoded in a her DNA. What's important is that your messenger spell works properly, Harry, otherwise Ginny will be as good as stranded. Your timing must be impeccable, too, so perhaps you should record your message at five minutes to ten, just to ensure that you–"
"Hermione," said Harry. She was rambling, a tell-tale sign that her nerves were finally getting to her. "Calm down. I'm not going to strand Ginny."
Hermione's mouth was still hanging open, and she shut it quickly, shook her head.
"Of course you're not going to, I was just making sure…"
Something about her tone made Harry feel the need to justify himself. "I've practiced before," he added, defensive.
"All will work out, master," croaked Kreacher, snapping his fingers. "But first, teatime."
Harry and Ron's chessboard scooted across the table and in its place slid a tall porcelain teapot, complete with three matching teacups. A tray of scones and finger sandwiches followed, and Harry smothered down an overwhelming urge to laugh. Somehow, three exiles found themselves seated in a warm kitchen, soup bubbling in a pot on the stove, enjoying tea while a Dark Lord's forces swept the street outside the window in search of them. It was a ludicrous idea, yet Harry was living it.
Then again, which part of his life didn't seem ludicrous nowadays?
"Cheers," said Ron, who had warmed up to Kreacher significantly, diving for a sandwich. Not even impending doom could dampen his appetite.
Hermione joined them at the table, placing her book to the side to serve herself a scone.
"Eat," she advised Harry, so he reluctantly poured himself a cup, watching as she sliced open the buttery folds and spooned in cream and jam.
To distract her before she could start piling food onto his own plate, Harry peered at the broken spine of her book.
"What research have you been doing this time? Who's this… Hardwin Fjord?"
On any normal occasion, Hermione would have jumped at the chance to discuss her latest perusal for hours. But she proved that this was a not a normal occasion. Her hand snapped out and brought the book down into her lap before Harry could so much as blink.
"It's nothing. Just a bit of light reading."
Harry quirked an eyebrow, the blatant lie shining through, but before he could begin his interrogation, Ron interrupted.
"You've got to eat more, before you fade away into a shadow." He took it upon himself to load Harry's plate up. "When's the last time you actually finished a meal?"
"Yesterday," Harry gritted back, none too pleased with the ministrations of Ron. Hermione's attention may have been diverted, but it seemed there was a second mother hen in the house. Whether this development was out of sheer obliviousness or covering for Hermione's slip-up, Harry did not know.
"Liar."
Grumbling, Harry cut a quick sideways glance at Hermione. She was smiling slightly now, but her knuckles were still white around the book, whose cover she had hidden against her lap.
With a grimace, Harry returned to appraising his full plate. He wasn't done with her, but the investigation could continue another time. For now, he had to wheedle his way out of this mountain of sandwiches.
He stood abruptly.
"I need the bathroom," he announced.
Ron rose to his full height, towering over Harry, and slammed him back into his chair.
"No, you don't."
"You can't keep me here," said Harry petulantly.
"Watch me."
There was a long pause. Sighing resignedly, Harry slumped back into his chair, feigning defeat, all the while watching for the moment that Ron would exchange a pointed look with Hermione like two parents handling their wayward son…
As soon as the moment came to be, Harry leapt to his feet and made his flighty exit from the kitchen, Ron's hollering echoing behind him.
It was proving to be a long day, but Harry had not anticipated exactly how long it would be.
To Hermione's great relief (which she did little to hide), Harry successfully directed a messenger spell to meet Ginny at the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. He did not encourage his stag to deliver any words more than the bare minimum (A shy "hello, Ginny", followed by :open: to be reused on the two doorways which would stand in her way).
To Ginny, it had been a year since they had last seen each other. To Harry, it had been closer to two. Even then, they had scarcely spoken since their brief entanglement. The connection would forever linger, but nothing between them could ever be the same.
For a tense hour they waited in the drawing room, Ron pacing as he chewed his thumbnail, Hermione tucked away with her book, strategically concealing the cover from Harry's view, and Harry perched in the window seat, arms looped around his knees as he gazed into a drab sky.
It was a grey sort of night. The stars were muffled by muggy clouds, the moon a dull blur overhead, yet there was not a whisper of rain to be heard.
Drab. Not a single hint to what the rest of the night had in store.
At last, when eleven o'clock tolled on the grandfather clock in the hallway, a mare unfurled before their eyes, drawing each of them out of their respective trance.
"Objective achieved. Sent by swiftest owl. Should arrive in morning."
A collective sigh of relief swept up Hermione and Ron, but Harry was unable to fathom a sound. It seemed that his worst premonition would come to pass tomorrow.
Merlin give him strength.
They waited for the mare to melt back into shadow, but it lingered a moment longer, intelligent eyes turning to meet Harry's. With baited breath he anticipated condemnation, a sharp word, he didn't know what to expect–
Then Ginny's sweet, soft voice murmured, "Goodbye, Harry," and Harry closed his eyes, lowering his chin. By the time he raised his gaze again, she was long gone.
"She's safe," Ron was chanting, ringing his hands. The redness in his cheeks looked suspiciously as though he had been clawing at his face unconsciously.
Hermione stood to meet him, smiling tautly.
"We're all glad," she said, passing Harry a sideways glance. "Aren't we?"
Harry gave a short nod, sliding out from the window seat.
"Since that's over with, I think I'm going to retire for the night."
He took his leave without another word, but did not lie down in bed for another hour. For a long time, he stalked around the perimeter of his temporary bedroom, lost in thought. If Ginny's concept of time was correct, a package of Basilisk fangs would alight on the doorsteps by owl somewhere within the next twelve hours. Or rather, a package of murder instruments to be used to gradually kill off each piece of Voldemort's soul.
It was an activity that he was obliged to participate in.
"How absolutely delightful," snarled Harry, kicking at the door and stubbing his toe. Swearing, he hopped around for a few seconds before resuming his angry pacing around the room, all the while muttering under his breath.
Finally, Hermione knocked on his door and politely asked him to keep it down because all of London could hear his clomping about and if he wasn't careful, he would lead all the Death Eaters to their doorstep.
It was then that Harry was resigned to lying in bed, his eyes wide open as he examined the ceiling with its chipping paint and a crack the shape of a lightning bolt to his far left. He willed sleep to find him, to end the torment in his mind, but sleep may as well have been on the opposite side of the universe for all the good it did him.
The house seemed to be just awake as he. Even with the bedroom door shut tight, the sounds surrounding him clawed their way into the room, through the gap beneath the door and the window which was slightly ajar.
Harry brought his pillow down on his head, almost suffocating himself in the process. His fingers fisting in the fabric, he tried to muffle out the wide-awake world. He was entirely unsuccessful.
An old car trundled by in the middle of the road. The engine clunked noisily and one of its wheels hit a puddle, spraying water across the sidewalk.
The drunken lurching of chunky heels on the opposite side of the street, the tinkle of glass on pavement.
Noise…
The stairs further down the corridor creaked, a memory of feet from an age long passed.
The tap in the bathroom leaked, droplets thrumming on the porcelain base of the sink.
Noise.
A book slipped off the end of Hermione's bed, dog-earring itself on the floor.
Something tapped away within the walls.
Noise.
A bale of dust stirred in the corner of the room.
Ron let loose a nasally snore.
Noise.
A voice whispered.
NOISE.
Harry bolted upright.
Was it his imagination, or had he heard his own name, called out from a distance.
Ever so quietly, he slid out of bed, stepping into his boots that he had left on the ground. Hypervigilant to the fact that Hermione would come running if the floorboards groaned under his weight in the hallway, Harry carefully edged open his bedroom door and toed his way down the corridor.
:Harry…:
He paused by the door to Hermione's room.
Unless he was sorely mistaken, the voice seemed to be coming from within there.
You should go back to bed, the rational part of his brain told him.
You should find the voice, said the less rational part.
Harry, being Harry, agreed with the latter and reached for the doorhandle, easing the door open.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn across the window. His eyes adjusting to the even dimmer lighting, Harry took a step in and nearly slid over on a book stationed by his feet.
Swallowing a cry of alarm, he managed to maintain his balance and passed his eyes towards the lump beneath the bedsheets. Judging it to be safe, he pulled out his wand and whispered, "Lumos."
The book he had briefly employed as a skateboard was a ratty old thing, thin and with a damaged spine. Upon closer inspection, Harry noted that there was no title printed on it.
With another precautionary glance in Hermione's direction, he crouched and flipped through the pages, eyes skimming over the sentences.
A history of investigations into parallel universes… research yields no evidence that alternate timelines exist… only self-claimed universe-hoppers claim to have seen into other world lines… researchers anticipate no foreseeable legitimacy to their statements…
Harry was very keen to know why it was that Hermione was reading about parallel universes, a subject she had oftentimes branded as 'nimble-wimble rubbish' and 'for witless dunces with nothing better to do with their time'.
Replacing the book on the floor, Harry lifted his wand higher.
His eyes widened.
This was what Hermione had been doing. For how long, he could only guess, but she was drowning herself in this nonsensical research, perhaps every waking moment. She was known for her excessive reading habits, but Harry had never seen her take it to this level before.
The room was a battlefield of paper. Pages of writing tacked to the walls, annotated in red ink, teetering stacks of books, no doubted charmed so that they would never lose balance. Harry was hard-pressed to find single surface which was not occupied by a book.
Dodging between the book towers, Harry studied what it was she had been reading about.
Alternate universes.
Parallel universes.
World lines.
Time-travel.
Time.
Harry shook his head. The woman was obsessed. Did Ron know that this was what she was doing while she was locked up in this room?
Creeping nearer to the foot of her bed, Harry picked up the book that had fallen only minutes ago.
Tales from Beyond.
His thumb rubbed along the name engraved beneath the title in silver lettering.
Hardwin Fjord.
This was what Hermione had been so secretive about. Harry pried the pages open and determined that it was only a recent publication, first printed in 1994 in Australia. But judging by the great weight of it in his hands, it enclosed many years of at least one person's hard work.
It had paid off, too. Harry had never heard of this book, but a long list of awards it had received appeared on the second page.
'A ground-breaking work,' wrote one critic. 'Tales from Beyond will become a household name in years to come.'
Harry would have very much liked to begin reading right there and then, identify what all the secrecy was about, but then Hermione shifted in her sleep and Harry was brought back to himself.
Hardwin Fjord wasn't his reason for being here. There was still a voice within these walls that he had not yet uncovered.
He cupped his hand around the light at the end of his wand, limiting its range of illumination, then listened. At first, all he could hear was the low drone of background noise, this home which refused to sleep…
Then the murmur stroked its way up his neck, gliding around the shell of his ear and caressing his cheek with cold fingers.
:Harry.:
Again, it was his name being spoken. Just his name, but it sent raw emotions flooding into his chest, it felt as though he was drowning in it–
Where is it coming from? Eyes wild, Harry scrambled around as quietly as he could, poking his head into corners and between book towers. Where are you?
There.
Harry froze in his search, a chill running down his spine on hairy legs. Wetting his lips, he followed the light of his wand beneath the bed to Hermione's purple, beaded handbag. It seemed to hum in anticipation. He could feel it vibrating in the base of his skull. Harry sent another swift glance upwards to ensure that she was still asleep. She was.
His fingers trembling, he slid to his knees and took the bag into his hands, the material buzzing against his skin. He gently released the clasp.
A breath of air swept out, stirring the hair around his face. A deep, black chasm stared back up at him, the vibrations in his bones multiplying threefold. Now he could feel it buzzing through his bloodstream, rushing to his ears until all he could hear was this golden noise.
Hermione had charmed the bag so that it was extendable from the inside, it could hold any manner of things now. There was no way that he would know how to locate and retrieve whatever was speaking to him.
As it turned out, he didn't need to.
Like a man possessed, Harry watched as his arm reached into the bag, melting away into the shadows, guided by some unknown entity. When he was shoulder-deep, he allowed his hand to swipe sideways, catching on a burning hot chain. As soon as his fingertips contacted it, the vibrations in his bones stopped, the all-encompassing sound of the rush of blood became muted.
This world full of noise plunged into silence.
His arm began drawing out of the bag again, the chain locked in his grasp.
No. Harry knew what this was, this wasn't meant to be happening– yet he was no longer in control of his body, he was overcome by such strong compulsion… his hand returned from the shadowy depths of the bag, and Tom Riddle's locket emerged soon after.
He held it out in front of him, dangling it over the bag. The metal glittered. Then it spoke to him for the first time since it had arrived.
:Hello, Harry.:
Harry closed his eyes and shuddered. :Hello, Tom,: he whispered.
:You should release me, mon amour,: purred the long-ago voice of Tom, almost conversational, the words gliding off his silver tongue. :Let me out of this pretty prison. We can be together again.:
But this wasn't Tom. This was just a shadow of his past self, forever doomed to remain a teenage spirit.
Biting down on his lip to muffle the noise of anguish which threatened to escape, Harry forced his fingers to let go of the chain, sending the Horcrux tumbling back into the abyss. With a fleeting glance at the sleeping form on the bed, Harry swept the bag back into the shadows and all but fled the room.
He couldn't stay in here another minute. He summoned his Invisibility Cloak, threw it over his shoulders and hastened out the front door of 12 Grimmauld Place and into the streets of London.
Under the iron fist rule of Voldemort, it was a subdued world that Harry stepped into. Neither wizarding world nor Muggle world were spared and few dared to venture out alone, much less at night.
An occasional car zipped by as Harry drifted along, stepping around puddles, alternating between sidewalk and gutter like an idle child.
If Hermione found at that he had left the wards of 12 Grimmauld Place (and she would), she'd probably make Voldemort's job easier by murdering him herself. Kicking at a loose pebble in his path, Harry dully contemplated telling her that he had done it to escape the Horcrux's seduction. On second thought, she'd also murder him if she found out that he had sought its location and successfully found it.
Groaning, Harry slumped against the brick wall by the entrance to a pub. For a Friday night, it was remarkably quiet. That is, the lights were off and it looked wholly unwelcoming. The sign hanging over the locked door shifted in the slightest of breezes, its rusty hinges squeaking. Somewhere on the other side of the door, something scuttered over floorboards. A rodent of some sort.
Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch.
Like nails on chalkboard.
Harry dragged his fingers through his hair, blowing out a breath of air.
What am I doing?
Perhaps if he headed back now, no one would notice that he'd left and he could avoid a premature death.
Pushing himself off the wall, Harry started back the way he had come, watching his feet moving across the filthy pavement, his Invisibility Cloak swaying back and forth. A fellow pedestrian passed him by, moving in the opposite direction, platinum-blond hair the only bright spot on this dark street…
Harry whirled around in time to see the man whipping around the next corner but not before throwing a glance over his shoulder, pale eyes wide and alert.
"Mal–" Harry covered his mouth before the fully formed name could escape his lips.
Malfoy?
There was no question whether he should follow Draco Malfoy or not. Over their Hogwarts years, it had become so ingrained in his impulses to follow his schoolyard nemesis if it looked as though he was up to no good – and Malfoy was always up to no good.
On nimble feet, Harry tailed his newly acquired target from a distance, noting the way that Malfoy glanced over his shoulder every ten seconds.
Twitchy little ferret, isn't he, remarked a voice that sounded an awful lot like Ron in Harry's head. Harry set his mouth into a thin line.
Twitchy little ferret in cahoots with Voldemort, now. If he was lucky, perhaps Malfoy would lead him straight to some secret Death Eater headquarters. But they didn't seem to be heading anywhere in particular. It was as though they were circling the city, lost souls with no destination.
At one point Malfoy paused but did not turn and Harry was almost certain that he had been found out, but then Malfoy continued as thought nothing had happened.
The journey was uneventful, minutes dragging out until time melted away and his only judgement of it was the arc of the shuttered moon in the sky. The toll of not having slept in almost twenty-four hours began to take effect on Harry soon enough, and his vigilance slipped.
This was how he wound up in a dead-end alleyway with no Malfoy in sight.
Harry's eyes widened and he swung around in time to see Malfoy Apparate back into view behind him and cast a spell which tore the Invisibility Cloak off his shoulders. It crumpled into a heap at his feet.
"I should have known it was you, Potter."
Harry instinctively slipped his wand into his hand, raising it to meet Malfoy head-on. He almost lowered it again when he looked directly at Malfoy's face, really looked at it.
His cheeks were hollow, eyes ringed in bruise-like shadows, hair swept back carelessly. Time had not been kind on him.
"What the ruddy hell happened to you?" asked Harry aloud. Malfoy attempted a sneer, but it was half-hearted.
"I don't answer to you. I think that the Dark Lord will be most pleased if I manage to snag you for him. You've been causing them an awful lot of trouble."
"Them?" Harry's fingers tightened around his wand as he spoke. "Excluding yourself from that lot?"
"Us," Malfoy corrected quickly, attempting a thin smile. There was nothing authentic about it, nor anything mean. His lips were chapped and split at the movement. A droplet of blood welled up, a tongue darted out to correct it.
He was pitiful sight, and Harry said so. The pseudo smile shrunk back into a grimace.
"Who the fuck asked for your opinion? Expelliarmus!"
Harry may not have been at the top of his game then, but a school year of guarding his back from the likes of the young prodigy Tom Riddle and his gang made Malfoy look like a kitten without claws.
Harry ducked around the spell, swiftly disarmed him and then cast, "Incarcerous."
Malfoy barely had time to blink before he was trussed up like a leg of ham at the butcher's. Pleased with his quick work, Harry levitated an incensed Malfoy to the end of the alleyway where they would not be interrupted. Malfoy continued to spit profanities until Harry dumped him on the ground, winding him.
"Now," said Harry, attempting to be pleasant about the whole matter. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. And I'll let you know that I'm handy with the Cruciatus Curse now, though I'd rather not have to use it."
Malfoy had been attempting to wriggle into a sitting position, his cheek smushed against the ground, but paused at the words. His eyes, still as sharp as ever, darted to Harry's wand, finding the jagged crack. Apparently, the sight convinced him to heed the warning.
"Listen, I don't know anything–"
Harry tutted, squatting so that they were closer to the same level.
"Don't give me that. You must know something. Tell me why you, a poncy little pure-blood, stepped off your pedestal to grace these Muggle streets with your presence."
Malfoy's mouth twisted up and he refused to meet Harry's eyes. Harry cleared his throat loudly, tapping his wand against the underside of Malfoy's pointy chin. The latter remained unresponsive. Harry sighed and lifted his wand.
"Cr–"
"Well, fuck, Potter!" Malfoy exploded, twisting around to glare up at him, but it was impossible to miss the real panic in his gaze. "Can you blame me for wanting to get away from that madman for a night?"
As soon as the words were spoken, he looked as if he sorely regretted them. But Harry knew they were the truth. He rose to his full height again, appraising Malfoy in new light.
"You think he's a madman?" he asked.
Malfoy's jaw tensed, his eyes darted back down, but there was no mistaking that his face had drained of any colour it may have had to begin with.
"Malfoy."
"No one can know I said that." The words were hushed, small.
"You're just as much as slave to You-Know-Who as the rest of the world," said Harry, pursing his lips. Then, "How many times have you been under the Cruciatus?"
Malfoy shook his head slowly, gravel biting into his cheek. The fire that used to burn in his eyes had dimmed.
Sighing, Harry helped to prop him upright, leaning his head against the concrete at the back of the alleyway. Malfoy accepted the help with no comment.
Harry could have easily threatened him with the Cruciatus Curse again, but he had a heart. The young man in front of him was no longer the spoiled brat he had grown up alongside. Well, perhaps still a brat, but a damaged one.
No. Voldemort had gotten his claws in this one already. This was a broken human.
"Draco," Harry said haltingly. "Tell me."
"Oh, don't play at being friends now." Malfoy cocked his head to the opposite side, levelling Harry with a deadpan stare. "Why should you care that I don't have enough fingers to count it on? I don't want your pity. Besides, I have it better than most other low-ranking Death Eaters."
"Let me guess, most of them end up dead within a week?"
"Oh, Potter," drawled Malfoy, some semblance of his old self surfacing momentarily. "There are worse fates than death."
Harry's heart gave a little lurch, but he said, "I want you to tell me everything you know about You-Know-Who's latest movements. Anything. Who he last spoke to, what they discussed, where his heaviest patrols are, what he ate for breakfast. I'm not picky."
Malfoy's face twitched.
"If that's what you want to know, you've got the wrong person." He squirmed, adjusting his positioning, his voice dark. "I'm nothing to him. I just happen to be the son of two of his highest-up soldiers. I'm not even good enough to be his fulltime errand boy."
The sun was beginning to rise, casting long shadows around them. Harry had to hurry.
"He's never entrusted you with a single task?" he demanded. "You've gathered absolutely nothing from your time in his service?"
"Are you deaf, Potter? I believe that I've told you that multiple times–" Malfoy cut off abruptly, a flicker of hesitation sparking across his features. Had he always been this easy to read?
"You remembered something, didn't you?" probed Harry, unconsciously leaning forwards in anticipation.
Malfoy scrunched his nose, eyes narrowing. "I might have."
This whole conversation was like pulling teeth. Harry sat back on his haunches, leaning his chin on top of his knees. "If you really believe that he's a madman, shouldn't you want to help me?" he asked, managing to reign in his impatience.
"It's not that simple," Malfoy snapped. "Merlin, I… you know what? I'll tell you. Enjoy decrypting it, because it makes no sense to me, or anyone else but him for that matter. The Dark Lord has only ever bestowed one task upon me, other than… other than to kill Dumbledore. I failed at that one."
Suddenly, Harry's jaw felt a little too tight.
Malfoy hurriedly pushed on – even he could tell that this was a sensitive topic that should not be lingered on.
"He… he asked me to plant a time-turner at Hogwarts, so I left it in the Room of Requirement. It had–"
Malfoy closed his mouth when Harry held up a hand to silence him, mind racing a mile an hour. All those loose puzzle pieces that were jumbled up in his mind were beginning to search among themselves, picking themselves up and brushing themselves off after a year of gathering dust. Suddenly, Harry felt restricted in this alleyway, as if the two buildings on either side were closing in on him and he couldn't quite breathe properly.
"A time-turner?" he confirmed. "You're absolutely certain it was a time-turner?"
"They're hardly the most common of household appliances," said Malfoy, vaguely irritated by the interruption. "As I was saying, it had some sort of powerful spell on it but the Dark Lord didn't say what."
A puzzle piece lifted itself up, separating itself from the rest.
"When was this?" he asked in a hushed tone.
Perhaps it was the look on his face, but Malfoy chose to not bullshit this time.
"Well, I'd be lying if I said I could remember the exact date, but it was sometime during the beginning of our seventh year."
The puzzle piece slotted with another, just one other from among the thousands, but it was something. It was progress.
"Fuck," Harry whispered, eyes glazing over as he stared straight through Malfoy, as though seeing into another dimension.
"What–"
"FUCK!" The bellow echoed up above, bouncing off the walls of the two parallel buildings and escaping through the gash that led to the paling sky. Malfoy cowered away as the entire alleyway shook, stones, dust and dirt raining down on them from above. A bird was disturbed from its nest and cawed.
"What the flipping fuck is he playing at?" Harry pushed himself back to his feet, walking circles in front of Malfoy as he fretted. "We suspected that it was him who orchestrated this whole mess when he restored us to our own time, but had to reject that conclusion. After all, how is that possible if he doesn't even remember me? We thought Dumbledore and Dippet must have made a mistake, and yet..."
Harry trailed off, appearing to reign in his emotions. Then his head imploded in on itself and he shouted, "Why is it always you, Tom, who has to try to ruin my life?"
Overcome by another overwhelming tidal wave of rage, he lashed out at a garbage tin to one side, sending it spinning. It collided a mere metre from where Malfoy sat, causing Malfoy to jolt furiously, staring at him in alarm.
"Alright, Potter," he said, evidently unpractised in the whole 'soothing people' department. "Why don't you take some deep breaths before you hurt someone?"
"I'm not like your Dark Lord," Harry snarled, feeling wild and impulsive. "I don't fuck around with people, even if I feel like it."
Breathing heavily through his nose, Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy.
Malfoy attempted to scramble away but was unsuccessful – his only achievement was knocking the back of his head against the wall behind him.
"Merlin and Morgana," he began, eyes trained on the wand, his face pallid. "I never imagined that this would be how I died. In a filthy Muggle alleyway, by Harry Potter's hand."
"I'm not killing you," barked Harry, then closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting to gather his wits again. "I'll Stun you and leave you here. I can't risk you following me back."
Malfoy fell silent, his face downcast. In this dim lighting, his head might have been a skull; those hollow planes of his face did nothing to help.
"Please," he murmured. "I… I would ask that in return for the information that I have told you – of free will – that you do me only one favour."
"Of free will?" Harry glowered at the ropes binding him in place.
"I could have made your job much more difficult."
"I do have to admit that for my first proper interrogation, it went rather well," Harry allowed, his glower softening a smidgeon. "Fine. I'll listen."
Malfoy hesitated, swallowing. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. After a long moment, he let out a breath and said, "If you leave me like this, he is going to search through my very being until he finds what I have told you, and he'll... he'll ruin me. He does not take kindly to those who betray him."
"Is that what this is?" asked Harry, matching him in softness of tones. "A betrayal?"
Malfoy's eyes met his, and that was all the answer he needed.
Pity swirled in the pit of Harry's stomach, what remained of his fit of rage drained away. He understood exactly what Malfoy wanted.
Malfoy saw the resolve form on his face, expelled a small breath of air, his stiff shoulders slumping.
"Thank you," he breathed as Harry brought his wand back up, directed it between his eyebrows.
They weren't friends. They never would be. But in that moment, an old bond stirred.
Before Harry could cast the spell, his time-honoured enemy began laughing, the kind of laughter that causes tears to well up in your eyes, your frame wracking almost painfully. Harry waited, allowing him this luxury of laughter.
"You know," remarked Malfoy, finally calming himself. "I'm going to tell you something since I won't hate myself later for saying it."
Harry cocked his head inquisitively, waiting for the declaration. Malfoy lifted his chin haughtily, though he was sniffling, a shadow of his past self. But it was the best he could do, and Harry respected that.
"I really," said Malfoy, "really wish that you had shook my hand that day."
Harry pinched his lips together, holding back a bittersweet smile. So this was where it ended for them. At the beginning.
"Perhaps I would have," he said. "If things had been different."
Malfoy smirked before turning his face skyward.
"See you around, scarhead."
"Sure thing, ferret." Harry drew in a deep breath, grip tightening on his wand, and whispered, "Obliviate."
Malfoy's face slackened as all his memories of this revolutionary encounter whispered up and away, untethered from his body and drifting away.
Harry turned and walked away as they meandered lazily around him, like tired birds in flight.
He would forever remember that Draco Malfoy was the catalyst that brought about the beginning of the new world.