Draco knew on waking that something was extremely wrong.

The last thing he remembered was walking out of Flourish & Blotts. He'd come face to face with Potter the moment he stepped onto the street and froze. Potter had just stood there, an unreadable expression on his face.

They hadn't seen each other since Potter had spoken at his trial. Draco had sent a letter of thanks and profound apologies for the wrongs he'd done afterwards. Potter had never replied, likely never even read it once he realised who had sent it.

It had been the closure of a chapter in Draco's life and despite keeping up on what the papers had to say about the Saviour like the rest of the Wizarding world—though the rest of the Wizarding world didn't have Tori to laugh and call it a crush—he hadn't expected to ever speak to Potter again.

A man who looked unwell and unkempt had pushed his way through the throngs that filled Diagon Alley. His eyes had been sunken and shone with a wild light. Before Draco had had the time to process what was happening, the man had raised his wand and shouted a spell. Potter had tried to pull Draco out of the way but had only managed to put himself in the radius of the spell's effect as well.

Then Draco had woken here. He was in his bed. He recognised the carved wood of the posts which held up deep purple-blue bed hangings that were decorated in delicate silver embroidered dragons. The curling wingless beasts were shaped after the constellation that was Draco's namesake and the stars, invisible by day, would glow softly in the dark as a night light.

On returning for Christmas during his first year at Hogwarts, Draco had found the light distracting, and the hangings had been replaced with the dark green velvet which hung over his bed ever since. He'd never expected to see the embroidered dragons again.

With a sick flipping in his stomach, he climbed out of bed and went to the mirror that stood beside his wardrobe. His reflection confirmed his worst fears—his wide, frightened grey eyes stared out at him from the face of a child.

"Fuck," he said, then grimaced at his high, clear voice. "Fuck."

Bile climbed up his throat, and Draco nearly threw up on the floor before he realised with a jolt that he didn't know if he had a wand to Vanish it. He choked against the vomit, frozen, until he remembered the chamber pot under the foot of his bed. He reached it just as his spasming digestive tract won out over his willpower.

Once he'd finished emptying the meagre contents of his stomach, he fell back against the side of his bed, sore and out of breath. He closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that the situation wasn't as bad as it seemed. Maybe it was an illusion. Maybe it was temporary. Maybe he was just unconscious and this was a dream. And maybe he was a purple hippogriff.

There was the crack of a house elf Apparating into the room. He listened as the elf took in first the sight of him, then of the vomit in the chamber pot. It was only when her voice rose in panic that Draco opened his eyes.

It was comforting to see Mipsy flapping around, half coaxing and half forcing him back into bed. She looked the same as ever and the particular dedication she'd shown Draco as far back as he could remember had endeared her to him in a way he didn't feel about the other house elves. The other elves belonged to the family, but Mipsy was his. He vaguely recalled asking his father if he could bring her to Hogwarts with him and Father telling him he was being ridiculous. It occurred to him that he had no idea if he'd had that conversation yet or not.

Dutiful Mipsy informed Mother of Draco's illness, and she rushed to his room to fuss over him. Draco tried to protest that he was fine, but his mother wouldn't listen. She'd summoned the family Healer before she even went to his side.

Draco was subjected to several diagnostic spells only for the Healer to inform Mother that he was fine, as if he wasn't even in the room. He suggested that Draco may have been suffering from stress or nerves. Mother denied that Draco could be feeling either of those things, then asked if excitement could be the cause because they were going to Diagon Alley for his school supplies and his first wand, and he'd been so enthusiastic about it that she worried he wouldn't get enough sleep last night. The Healer agreed that may be the cause while Draco stewed too long in his irritation at being ignored to argue.

It was for the best, Draco admitted when the Healer was gone. What would he tell them anyway? Time travel was a dangerous business, whether he'd initiated it himself or not, and he didn't trust the Ministry to have his best interests at heart. Further, he didn't trust his father to protect him. It hurt to admit, but it was better than deluding himself until he ended up suffering for his misplaced faith.

As if summoned by Draco's conflicted feelings, Father arrived. He looked so young and vital he was almost unrecognisable from the withered drunk he'd become. He was both elegant and intimidating at this point in his life, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in his immaculately tailored robes. Only the slightest bit of soot on his shoulder indicated he'd come directly from the floo. He frowned at Draco with an expression that could as easily be irritation as concern—Draco had never been able to reliably decipher which it was.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Is he ill?"

Mother explained the Healer's conclusions and added, "Perhaps we should reschedule our trip to Diagon Alley."

"No!" Draco said in something closer to a shout than he'd intended. He couldn't bear the thought of going any longer without a wand than he absolutely had to. He had a narrow window of time before the Trace was applied on his first day at Hogwarts in which he could use all the magic he knew to try to undo this mess. "I feel fine now. I'm perfectly well enough to go out."

There was the slightest softening in Father's expression, and Draco knew he had an ally in this argument. A confused knot of emotion tangled in his chest at the thought—the love, affection, and respect he'd felt for his father since his earliest memories wrestling with the betrayal, disillusionment, and disgust he'd come to feel during the war and its aftermath.

"I hardly think that's necessary," Father said, responding to Mother. "If the Healer doesn't think he's ill, there's no reason to torture him with a delay."

Mother looked from Father to Draco with a pinched frown. "Very well," she said. "But you'll be having breakfast first, and if you get the slightest bit queasy, we'll be staying home."

Draco nodded enthusiastically. Mother gave him an appraising look before standing and summoning Mipsy to help him get ready for the day. She then tucked her hand into the crook of Father's offered arm and allowed herself to be escorted from the room.

Getting dressed was a disconcerting experience. Partially, it was because Mipsy was there to help him. He had refused her help when he returned for Christmas during his first year at Hogwarts and ever after. She didn't dress him the way she had when he was very small, but having her there as he undressed, handing him things right down to a fresh pair of pants, made him feel odd and self-conscious.

The bigger shock was his body. Draco thought he was braced to see his eleven-year-old body, but reality outstripped his imagination. He realised too late that he didn't have a clear memory of his body at eleven. Certainly, he remembered being eleven, the things he'd done and said and what had happened to him, but his sense of physicality in those memories was vague. Now his body was nauseatingly real.

It wasn't all bad, of course. The soft narrowness of his chest was offset by its complete lack of Sectumsempra scar. Likewise, his twiggy left arm was blessedly free of the Dark Mark. He felt a profound sense of loss that had no silver lining at the sight of his tiny prick, however. The term prepubescent settled sickly in his mind. He could recognise himself or the potential of himself in his child's face, but he felt distinctly like he'd been dropped into a stranger's body.

By the time Mipsy had finished fussing with Draco's hair—something he knew he'd enjoyed before he'd taken over fussing with it himself—he had lost any sense of appetite he might have imagined he had when he'd agreed to breakfast. He went down to join his parents at the breakfast table and choked down his food under Mother's careful gaze, wishing he knew how to cast a wandless anti-nausea spell. He was a good enough actor to satisfy her, though he wasn't certain he'd been completely successful at fooling her.

After breakfast, Draco and his parents flooed to Diagon Alley. The street was more crowded than usual with the crush of school shoppers. Father had a meeting at the Ministry that afternoon, so was eager to be done with shopping as soon as possible. To that end, he declared they would split up. Draco would go to Madam Malkin's to be fit for his uniform while Father shopped for his books and Mother went to Ollivander's to pick out some suitable wand options for Draco to try. When Father and Draco had finished their tasks, they would join Mother at the wand shop.

It struck Draco this trip might go differently than the first time. They were running later than the first time with the Healer nonsense. What if that meant he ended up with a different wand? His stomach did a sick little flip at the thought of not being paired with his hawthorn again. He may have lost it in the end, but it had been at his side for seven years and felt like such an integral part of his formation as a wizard. A wand had a profound effect on its master's style. Would he irrevocably change who he was as a caster thanks to the consequences of being forcibly flung into the past?

Draco had to fight the thrum of anxiety that made him want to bolt like a hounded rabbit as he picked his way through the crowd to Madam Malkin's. He reached the door at the same time as Harry Potter.

There was a disconcerting moment where Draco couldn't reconcile the boy before him with the man he'd seen only hours earlier. Then his expression drew into a familiar set, like he was steeling for something unpleasant, and Draco knew it was the same person behind those round glasses.

"I take it you remember, then?" he asked.

Potter's eyes went wide, magnified behind his lenses in a way that made them seem almost unnaturally green. The guardedness of his expression fell away. "You, too? Thank Merlin. I thought I was here alone."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Because a spell that hit both of us was likely to send only one of us back in time." He would never admit that he had completely forgotten about Potter between waking in the past and now.

The guardedness returned to Potter's face. "Thanks for that," he said. "I was so relieved to not be alone, I almost forgot it was you I'm stuck with."

Draco sniffed, not deigning to answer the insult. A younger him would have, slinging barbs back and forth until someone or something separated them. His pride wouldn't have allowed him to leave it. Since the war, however, he'd been subject to so many insults and indignities that he had no power to answer that his pride had been forced to take a different tack. It became insulating, keeping him apart from the pain of humiliation. It stung less when his attackers didn't know their blows were landing.

Abruptly, Draco was shoved into Potter by an unwary passerby. He snapped at them to mind where they were going, but it was mostly for his own benefit because he couldn't pick out who'd run into him from the crowd, let alone whether they had heard him. Potter pulled him into the shop as he continued to grumble about stupid oafs who just walk into people, embarrassed to have lost his footing so easily in front of Potter.

"Hogwarts, dears?" Madam Malkin asked them with a smile.

Potter elbowed Draco and nodded. Draco rubbed his side but didn't get beyond opening his mouth to answer before Madam Malkin spoke again.

"I've got the lot here." She directed them to the back of the shop, where her assistant loitered by the footstools used for fitting Hogwarts students with their robes.

Draco and Potter each climbed up onto a stool. Potter got Madam Malkin's attention, while Draco was stuck with her assistant. Typical. As far as he could tell, Madam Malkin hadn't recognised the Boy Who Lived in her shop—there would have been much more fussing if she had—and yet she gravitated toward him.

"So, I figure we'll have to work together on this," Potter said.

"Really? I'm so grateful. Here I was afraid you'd run off to do your own research in your family's extensive library," Draco said with faux sincerity.

"Can you not be a prat for five minutes?" Potter asked.

"Certainly," Draco said. "Can you give me even one good reason why I should work with you on this?"

Potter blanched. "You'd leave me here?"

"Obviously not. Aside from the consequences of not having helped you when this is all over, the amount of damage you could do if left to your own devices beggars imagination." Draco winced as he recognised a reasonable argument as to why he should keep Potter close.

The argument appeared not to have registered with Potter, however. "So I'm supposed to just twiddle my thumbs and wait for you to come up with an answer?"

"Isn't that what you did with Granger?"

"No! At least…not entirely."

"I'd ask her, but that would be an exercise in futility at this point." Draco could see Potter was ramping up towards a real argument, so he pretended to have a revelation. "I suppose it would be more convenient to have you near when I figure this out."

"Right," Potter said, clearly unbalanced by Draco's concession.

"So you'll come with me to the Manor when we're done shopping. Have you got your wand yet?"

Potter's eyes were wide. He shook his head. "But, Hogwarts—"

"Is a month away," Draco said. "It's too far. The longer we let this go on, the more likely it is something will go wrong."

"Wrong like—"

"Wrong like permanently changed," Draco said. "Probably some things are already, but we can hope they're unimportant. The changes won't stay unimportant, though."

"Going to the Manor is a pretty big change, though," Potter said.

Draco shrugged and the assistant reminded him to stand still. "It's your pick of the two evils. Help me at the Manor even though it's a change or go home and wait for me to figure this out."

"I'm supposed to go back to my aunt and uncle."

"I'm sure Father could convince them to let you stay with us for a while," Draco said. "He can be quite convincing."

Potter looked stricken. "Does your father have to be involved?"

"I can't just sneak you into the Manor," Draco said. "My parents are going to have to know you're there."

"I know, but—"

"Like I said, it's your choice."

Potter grimaced. "We'll never convince Hagrid to let me go with you."

Draco saw the giant grinning at Potter through the window with a pair of large ice creams. He sighed. It was shit being a child and beholden to the whims of the adults around them again.

"In any case," Draco said, "we can't wait until Hogwarts to get started. If you can't convince that—Hagrid, then you'll just have to be content with twiddling your thumbs."

"That's you done, my dear," Madam Malkin said to Potter and indicated that he could get off his stool.

He hopped down, then hesitated and turned back to Draco. "We'll figure this out," he said, sounding a lot less certain than the hero figure he'd always presented as.

"I suppose we must," Draco replied. He wished more than anything that he was free to follow Potter and make sure he didn't bollocks things up, but the assistant worked much slower than Madam Malkin. He was trapped until she finished.

Potter left the shop and had long since disappeared with the giant by the time Draco was free to go after him. He wasn't surprised, though it was frustrating. He'd spent his time alone at Madam Malkin's coming up with contingency plans, however, so he didn't waste much time being irritated at Potter. Instead, he went to Flourish & Blotts to find Father.

"You were supposed to go to your mother when you finished ordering your robes," Father said when he did.

"I know," Draco said, "but I met someone at Madam Malkin's and I had to tell you right away."

"Who?" Father asked, considering Draco with narrowed eyes. He was intrigued, Draco could tell, but probably also half-convinced Draco was wasting his time.

Draco looked pointedly around at the other shoppers until Father cast a discreet Muffliato.

"Who?" Father repeated, on the edge of annoyance.

Draco called up the excitement he remembered feeling on hearing that Harry Potter was in fact on the Hogwarts Express and grinned. "Harry Potter."

Father put his hands on Draco's shoulders and gripped until it twinged. "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely," Draco said. "And I think we'll be perfectly good friends, only he's stuck living with Muggles until we go to Hogwarts next month, which sounds ghastly to me. I thought I'd write him to make time pass a little quicker, only I don't know where he lives and owls take too long. So, I need a pair of linked journals."

Draco held his breath, hoping he'd successfully mimicked his tone and demanding of ten years prior well enough to not raise suspicion and that the carrot of an alliance with Potter would forestall any interrogation about how Draco planned to use the linked journals to achieve this alliance. There was a chance Father wouldn't trust him enough to write in the journal on his own, but as long as Draco got the journals, he'd cross that bridge when he got to it.

"Where is Potter now?" Father demanded.

"Shopping," Draco said, not having to fake his exasperation, "which is why we have to get the journals now, before he leaves Diagon Alley." He didn't actually have any confidence in catching Potter before he left, but he knew better than to give Father any cause to stop and think about the plan. He'd find a way to get Potter the journal later.

Father caved immediately and bought the journals along with the rest of Draco's schoolbooks. The schoolbooks were sent directly to the Manor, but Draco carried the journals out of the store with him. Father demanded to know where he thought they'd find Potter.

"He didn't have his wand yet when I saw him," Draco said, fully aware that he wasn't certain that was true. "Perhaps Mother's seen him."

When they reached Ollivander's, however, Mother had not seen Harry Potter and an argument ensued between her and Father about whether they should stay to get Draco's wand or leave immediately in search of the Boy Who Lived.

Draco slipped past them, hoping to ask Ollivander about his wand. He was still working on wording his request in a way that wouldn't tip the old man off about the reason for it when he met Ollivander's wide pale eyes.

"Ah, Draco Malfoy," Ollivander said. He peered at Draco oddly. "I don't expect any of the wands your mother requested for you to try will suit."

If Draco recalled correctly, they hadn't. He was distracted a moment as Ollivander's tape measure set about its work.

"Er, I was wondering if you had a particular wand in stock," he asked, feeling rather stupid.

Ollivander fixed Draco with a stern look. "I'm sure you know the wand chooses the wizard, Mr Malfoy. It's best not to be picky. Which is your wand arm?"

"Left," Draco answered automatically. "I'm not trying to be picky. I know it might not choose me, but I'd like to see it."

"Try this one," Ollivander said. "Aspen and unicorn hair, eleven inches."

Draco gave the wand a negligent flick, letting his magic flow through it without a spell in mind. Nothing happened and Ollivander snatched it back. He placed another in Draco's hand.

"Silver lime and phoenix feather. Nine and a quarter inches."

Again, nothing happened.

"May I see the wand I was asking about now?" Draco asked, exasperated, as Ollivander puttered about, looking for a fresh wand. He could hear that his parents' argument was winding down.

"Hm, which one was that?" Ollivander asked.

"Hawthorn and unicorn hair," Draco answered, omitting the length for fear of being too obvious. There was a chance Ollivander would bring him the wrong one, but it was better than being questioned too closely about why he wanted to see one very specific wand.

Still, Ollivander peered at Draco in that odd way again, like he could see something no one else could. "Curious," he said, then went back to searching through the wand boxes.

When Draco was presented with his original wand, he felt a tug of nostalgia. The moment it settled in his hand, he knew he'd been chosen again. He let his magic flow through it as he drew the tip through the air and a ribbon of silver light danced behind it.

"Oh, Draco," Mother said, "that's a lovely wand. What is it?"

"Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches," Ollivander replied.

Father pursed his lips, quietly displeased. It was the same expression he'd worn when the wand had chosen Draco the first time. Now Draco understood that it was because unicorn hair was ill-suited to the Dark Arts. The first time around, he'd been left to wonder what he'd done wrong.

Father paid for the wand regardless because there wasn't much to be done now that it had chosen Draco. Whatever good mood the news about Harry Potter had brought him was gone now and he was eager to be off to his meeting at the Ministry.

Just as they were leaving, Potter and the giant entered. Potter had his heavy bangs covering his scar and looked extremely unimpressive in his oversized, threadbare clothes. Father overlooked him entirely, focused more on showing his disdain for and getting past the giant.

Draco could have called attention to Potter, but found in the moment that he didn't care to share Potter with his father. He hadn't felt possessive of Potter in years, but the feeling had coloured most of his time at Hogwarts. He had called it rivalry; Pansy had called it a crush. Whatever it was, he was oddly pleased to have the feeling back and even less keen to share it.

Instead of alerting his father to the fact that this boy was Harry Potter, he silently passed him one of the linked journals. At first, Potter recoiled, like Draco had tried to hand him a writhing viper, but then he took it. He looked troubled, but there was no more to the exchange because the impasse between Father and the giant broke and Draco found himself outside the shop with his parents.

From there, Father went to the Ministry and Draco flooed home with Mother.

Draco wanted nothing more than to dive immediately into the Malfoy library to figure out what spell had sent him and Potter to the past and how to reverse it. Mother made him sit through lunch and two hours of piano practice first. She thought he was bitter because he wanted to go flying. When he dashed off to the library instead, she looked dishearteningly suspicious.

Father missed supper. He sent an owl saying that his meetings at the Ministry ran late, but that was just code for him having a secret meeting with the sort of people the Malfoys weren't currently at liberty to acknowledge publicly. The code was insurance in case anything went wrong—or, rather, wrong again considering Father's narrow escape from Azkaban had been far from assured in 1981. Father had learnt from the experience and his cautiousness in the thirteen years after was what spared him from Azkaban following the Dark Lord's second defeat.

Draco ate a quiet meal with Mother, then complained of being tired and went to his room for the night. Mipsy fussed over him, helping him bathe and dress in his pyjamas. It was worse than the ordeal of getting dressed. Draco locked the horror of it away behind a door in his head to be examined and dealt with when he was back where he belonged in a body that matched his mind. There were lots of things still locked behind doors in his head, but he'd been working through them. Slowly. It was a process that was very much on hold until further notice.

Once he was free of Mipsy, Draco took out his linked journal and opened to the first page. There were three large inkblots at the top of the page with Potter's messy scrawl beneath.

Hello?

I don't know why Malfoy gave me this, but if he thinks a journal means anything to me when I'm stuck here with the Dursleys, just hoping he can figure out how to get us home, he's stupider than he looks.

Which doesn't really give me confidence in his ability to get us home.

Draco rolled his eyes and wrote back.

Malfoy gave you this out of the goodness of his heart to keep you in the loop as he sorts out this fucking mess.

Who are you?

Are you the journal?

I always knew Granger was the brains of the Golden Trio, but I never imagined the situation was this dire. How are you still breathing?

Malfoy?

Got it in 2. That might be impressive, except you shouldn't have needed to guess in the first place.

Excuse me for being cautious. It wouldn't be the first time someone in your family handed out a sentient diary.

I'd explain how astronomical the odds are of a second diary-shaped Horcrux not only existing, but being in Britain, in the possession of my family, and on my person just when I need to give you a journal, but I doubt you'd be able to keep up.

There was no immediate reply. Draco began to wonder if he'd insulted Potter to the point of earning the silent treatment. He was about to close the journal and go to bed when the words appeared on the page.

Have you learnt anything about how we got here and how to get home?

Not yet.

I only had two hours in the library today. I can tell you about three spells it wasn't, but that's hardly useful.

Can't you look it up by its incantation?

I could if I'd been able to properly make it out.

Lucky for us I heard it, then.

Auror training.

Yes, yes, very impressive.

What was it?

Eat park see delay oh

What the fuck is that?

The incantation.

It's not like he wrote the damn thing out for me. You should be grateful I got that much.

Say thank you.

Would that your spelling skills were as good as your listening ones. That's utter nonsense.

Still, it's better than starting from scratch.

Thank you.

Close enough. Git.

On that note, I'm going to bed. I'm too tired to translate that gibberish into an even halfway usable incantation.

I'll bring the journal to the library in case you have any more word puzzles to contribute. Say, half ten?

Draco closed the journal decisively before Potter had a chance to answer. He'd written the question mark, but he didn't particularly care if that time was convenient or not. That was when he'd been the library, Potter or no Potter.

He put out the lights and climbed into bed under the glow of a hundred Draco constellations. He lay awake for what felt like an eternity, exhausted but unable to sleep. He recalled, vaguely, that he'd once been comforted by the artificial stars, but now he just felt anxious and exposed, like there were a thousand eyes on him.

Eventually, Draco gave up on sleeping like that and fetched his wand off the bedside table. He cast a dimming spell. His sense of being watched dissipated almost immediately. Rather than returning his wand to the bedside table, he slipped it under his pillow. When he laid his head back down, something tightly coiled inside him loosened just enough for him to drift off.