Careful What You Wish For

Chapter 2:
Home Sweet… Home?

Harry woke up with a groan, not wanting to open his eyes. He didn't know why he was so tired, but he honestly didn't care. He reluctantly sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. He reached around for his glasses, but, opening his eyes, he realized he could see fine without them.

"That's odd," he mused. Looking around the room, he realized he wasn't in Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, or the Gryffindor dorms. In fact, he didn't recognize the room at all. The bed sheets and bed curtains were silver, while the rug, window curtains, and walls were varying shades of green. The bed was more elegant than he'd experienced, and the pillows were softer, and Harry was tempted to lay back down and sleep, but curiosity about where he was and why he suddenly had 20/20 vision unnerved him.

He got out of bed, noticing he was in only boxer shorts. He saw a decent-sized armoire and walked over to it, opening the doors to reveal clothes hung up neatly. 'Surely, whoever's room this is wouldn't mind me borrowing some clothes?' he reasoned, pulling a white tee-shirt and a pair of Muggle jeans out of the armoire and slipping them on. 'It's either that or strut around half-naked.' He made his way out of the room, into the long, silent hallway. There were a number of doors, each tempting Harry to enter, but noise from the bottom of a spiral staircase distracted his attention. He listened to figure out the sound, concluding it was a woman singing. He faintly smelt bacon and pancakes from the floor below, and silently crept downstairs.

The room in which the staircase led to was a small den. There was a white loveseat, with beige leather recliners on either side, all situated in front of a cozy looking fireplace. There was a bookshelf on the far side of the wall, and on the other side, a beige couch was in front of a glass coffee table and Muggle television. Despite the plainness, it all seemed very … homey, and Harry found himself wondering – again – who lived here. He noticed there were photographs – moving ones, so the owner did have ties to the wizarding world – along the top of the fireplace. He was about to look closer to see who the photographs were of, but the voice that had been singing called to him.

"Harry, dear is that you? You're up?" Harry raised an eyebrow. He knew that voice. Where did he know that voice? He couldn't put a face to it – it wasn't Mrs. Weasley, or Tonks, or any of the girls from school that he talked to.

"Uh, yeah…" he called back, still trying to figure out where he'd heard the voice.

"Well, hurry up, dear. Or don't you want breakfast?" Harry's stomach growled and he gave in, walking through the archway in the wall, towards the kitchen. The stove was at the opposite wall than the door, so the woman had her back to him. She was maybe a few inches shorter than him, and her thick red hair stood out against her light blue shirt.

'A Weasley?' Harry thought; they were about the only ones he knew with hair that red. It definitely wasn't Ginny, though. He knew that wasn't her voice speaking. But it wouldn't be a surprise if Molly had worried over him, making him stay with a relative of hers a few days after the war, until he got back on his feet. 'But why wouldn't she have made me stay with them at the Burrow?' he asked himself, but then answered his own question. 'Duh, she's probably busy grieving over a lost son right about now.'

"How many pancakes do you want, sweetie?" the unknown Weasley asked, turning around. One look at her and Harry knew this was no Weasley. Even if he hadn't seen dozens of pictures of her face, her eyes were a giveaway.

"Mum!" he yelled, shocked. The beautiful Lily Evans-Potter that he'd only ever really known from pictures, stories, or memories, was standing before him.

"Harry!" she jokingly yelled back. She smiled at him. "Is four enough? Plus, you'll be having some bacon, so we don't want you too stuffed."

Harry couldn't believe his eyes. The mother he'd wanted to meet all his life, the one who gave her life to save his, was standing in front of him. 'How can she be back from the dead and acting so normal? She's making pancakes for heaven's sake!' Harry's first instinct was telling him that this was just a dream. Of course it was. People can't really come back from the dead, not without the Resurrection Stone. And Harry had made sure he'd dropped that in the Forbidden Forest.

Reluctantly, Harry walked up to the woman, and gave her a hug. She wasn't dissolving, so she was solid – definitely not a ghost. "Harry, what's going on with you? You're acting like you haven't seen me in years!"

'About 16, to be exact,' Harry thought. But he didn't say anything, he just smiled. He had a mother – his mother!

"Harry, you have to let me go, or the bacon will burn," Lily said. Harry complied, and made his way over to the small marble table, sitting down in one of the four chairs. He tried to figure out what exactly happened. All he could remember was talking to Malfoy, wishing Voldemort was never born, and then sparks from his robe. Sparks… What was in his robe that could've made sparks? Then he remembered. He had still had the wand when he was talking to Malfoy, when he made the wish. He knew the Elder Wand had extraordinary magic, but could it grant its master's wishes? Even if said wish would basically end a life, or never let it begin?

He didn't dwell on it too long, as his mother put a plate of pancakes on the table in front of him, and another plate with crispy bacon and buttered toast. "Sorry, there's no jam for the toast. You're bloody father ate the last of it when he left for work." His father? Of course! If Voldemort wasn't around to kill his mum, he couldn't have killed his dad, either. Harry smiled as a floating syrup bottle poured itself onto the pancakes. He had a family. He had his mum, and his dad… 'It's too bad I don't seem to have siblings.'

As he began to dig into his breakfast, he noticed his mum putting stacks of pancakes on two other plates. One, he reasoned, was for her, but if she said his dad was at work, who could the other one be for? 'Maybe I do have a sibling after all,' he thought as he heard footsteps on the spiral staircase. But the boy who walked into the kitchen certainly wasn't one related to Harry.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked incredulously. What could he have possibly been doing at his house?

"Since when do you call me by my last name?" the pale boy asked, as he took the plate Lily held out to him. "Thanks, Lily."

"No problem, Draco, dear. I'll go eat mine upstairs, so you can talk about whatever it is teenage wizards talk about," she said, smiling at them as she left.

Draco started eating his breakfast, while Harry narrowed his eyes at the blond. How dare he barge in during the happiest time of Harry's life? "Why, exactly, are you staring at me, Harry?" the blond asked, dropping his fork in annoyance.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"I always sleep over this time of year. Then, your mum brings us to Diagon Alley for us to buy school supplies, while she and her sister hang out in Muggle London. Damn, how much of that liquor from your dad's cabinet did you drinklast night?" Malfoy asked, looking at Harry with an annoyed, confused, and slightly worried look.

"So, wait, we're like, friends?" Harry asked, trying to figure out if this was some joke.

"Yes, Harry, we've been best friends since, basically, our birth. Did you maybe hit your head or something?"

Harry didn't understand this. He and Malfoy were not just friends, but best mates? On what planet did that happen? He knew he'd thought they could'vebeen friends, but he didn't see how in a world with no Voldemort, they actually would be. Most of the similarities they had were dueto Voldemort.

'Wow,' he thought to himself as he pushed his hair – why was it so bloody long? – out of his eyes.

"You can't honestly be wearing that to Diagon Alley, right?" Draco asked, examining his outfit. "I mean, I get you're really proud of your Muggle relatives and all, but you could at least make an effort to make yourself look presentable."

"Well then, O Fashion Genius, what would you like me to wear?" Harry asked sarcastically.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Come on, I'll help you pick something out." He dragged Harry out of his chair, and the plates floated over to the sink, to begin cleaning themselves. 'It's so much easier when magic does the dirty work, instead of me.'

As they walked up the stairs and into the room Harry woke up in, Draco walked back over to the armoire and began picking out a 'decent' outfit. Harry caught sight of a mirror he hadn't noticed before. He looked in it, determined to fix his hair. However, what he saw shocked him.

Staring back at him wasn't what he usually saw. His eyes were still emerald, like his mother's, and his hair was still raven. However, it wasn't sticking up on all ends like it usually did. Instead, it fell around his face – which also looked a bit different – in smooth greasy-looking locks. He didn't look as 'amazingly identical' to James Potter as he'd always been told he was. In fact, if Harry looked hard enough, he kind of reminded himself of someone else he saw in memories with his father … a certain Slytherin Potions Master.

The realization hit him so hard, he literally fell on the floor in shock. "Draco," he asked from the floor, looking at the blond. Said blond turned away from the robes he was examining to see his best friend on the floor. "Who am I?"

Well, I finished this a little after midnight this morning. I'm not too sure what I think about this chapter. I know there are a lot of loose ends and you're all probably asking like a million questions. If you want to ask, go ahead, but if not, I'll try clearing everything up. I mean, this is only the second chapter. I may not be able to write today because my baby cousin is coming over and she needs constant supervision. Anyway, if you liked it, please review. Con-crit is appreciated, as long as it IS constructive, and not just criticism.