Despite the protest, Harry attended the Ball that night. He didn't think that it would reset the timeline, or make a difference to anything much at all, but he had no reason not to go and he thought he may as well. While the unhappiness of the people he let down wouldn't last when the day reset, they would still feel it in the moment, and Harry had had enough of doing that to others.
Even if those people included Pansy Parkinson.
He sought Pansy and Draco out in the afternoon, finding them sequestered away in one of the Potions classrooms near the dungeon. They were whispering together when he arrived, but stopped the second they saw him.
Draco blanched, which was odd, but Harry pressed on. "Hey Pansy, Draco," he said, ignoring the flinches that met his casual use of their first names. "McGonagall said you were looking for me. Did you want to go to the Ball together tonight?"
Pansy gaped at him.
"Great," Harry said, sensing impending doom. "I'll meet you at the entrance doors at seven."
He turned to leave, but Pansy's drawl followed him. "Not so fast, Potter."
Sighing, he turned back and tried to convey that he was an important person with somewhere important to be. Pansy smirked.
"How much did you hear?" she asked.
Harry frowned. "What—of your conversation? Nothing."
The two of them eyed him suspiciously for a moment. Harry, thinking of the time loop, returned the gesture in kind.
"Why?" he asked slowly. "What were you saying?"
"Nothing important," Draco said airily.
"You know, you've never been a good liar," Harry pointed out. Draco's face twisted, but before he could sneer something rude, Harry added, "It's a compliment."
The two stared at him, and Harry had quite suddenly had enough of Slytherins. "Right," he said. "Seven it is. Great talk."
He left before they could call him back.
*
The Ball itself was as glamorous and perfect as always, and Harry wondered briefly why he hadn't taken the opportunity to completely decimate it during one of these loops. It wouldn't have achieved anything, but nothing else he did achieved anything either, and it would have felt good.
Until he saw the wounded expression on Professor McGonagall's face, he supposed. That was probably why he hadn't done it.
He scuffed his shoe along the floor outside the Great Hall, keeping mostly to the shadow as various couples passed by him. His dress robes were neatly pressed, his hair as styled as he could get it, and he'd even dug out the new glasses Ginny had badgered him into trying over the summer. He agreed with her that they looked better; they just made him feel like a knob. Why, exactly, looking good made him feel like a knob was probably something he should unpack at some point in the near future, but Harry rather felt he had enough on his plate right now.
"There he is!"
He turned, trying to place the jovial tone and failing—until he saw George.
"Hey!" he said in surprise, trying not to flush at the low whistle of approval that met his robes and glasses.
"New look," George commented, tweaking Harry's glasses. "Be careful there, young Harry. You'll ruin a dozen merchandise lines if you change your specs right at Christmas."
"I'll take that risk," Harry said, biting back a grin. "What are you still doing here?"
"You weren't at breakfast," George said lightly. "I thought I should stick around."
This was the second time now that George had chosen to stay without Harry asking him to, and since only Harry could affect the timeline...
George was staying for him. He thought back to the first time it had happened, and decided that he'd probably seemed kind of down that morning. Which meant George wasn't just staying for Harry; he was staying because he was worried about him.
Warmth filled Harry's chest, and he turned to face George properly, giving him his full attention.
"That was good of you," Harry said as sincerely as he could manage.
Sometimes it was hard to be sincere with George, and yet he'd always kind of been the more serious of the twins—by comparison anyway. Perhaps that was why it was difficult; it made Fred's absence all the more obvious.
"So, are you alright?" George asked, folding his arms and leaning against the pillar. He'd forgone the feathers on his robes this time. They were decked out instead with shimmering gems along the lining.
Harry paused. "Not really," he said honestly. He gestured vaguely towards the doors. "This whole thing just seems a bit... rude."
George nodded, a shadow crossing his face, although his voice was light when he spoke. "I know exactly what you mean."
"You two had better not be mocking my entry," a familiar drawl came from behind them, and Harry turned to find Pansy watching them suspiciously.
She looked rather good, he supposed. Her hair was cut into a sharp bob that had been curled and tousled into some kind of effortless wave that had likely taken hours. Her silver robes were cut to fall and drape across her like a Muggle dress, and Harry for the life of him could not remember if she'd looked like this the first night. She must have; nothing could have changed it, right?
"They're mocking the Ball, Pans. Didn't you hear?" Draco's laconic voice cut in before either of them could answer, and Harry realised he'd been leaning against the pillar behind him and George, listening unashamedly.
George tilted his head, regarding Draco with a narrow-eyed expression. "You don't seem peeved to hear that, Malfoy. Would've thought you'd be all over something like this."
Draco sneered. "You're thinking of my father," he said tightly.
It was the first time Draco had acknowledged his father so casually in front of Harry. Harry sucked in a breath, waiting for the argument to come. But seconds passed with no escalation, and Harry realised—again—that the argument hadn't happened because Harry hadn't started it.
Ouch.
George wrinkled his nose. "I'd rather not think about your dad, if it's all the same to you."
And Draco laughed. It was only a small sound—a huff of breath that would so easily be missed. But Harry heard it, and George's lips twitched into a smile, and before he knew what was happening Draco had extended his hand to George and they were shaking.
"I'm sorry about your brother," Draco said carefully, his gaze holding George's steadily. "I know he meant a lot to you."
Harry thought it was remarkably courageous to look George Weasley in the eye and apologise for that, given everything. Given Bill. And George must have thought so too, because he eyed Draco carefully and then nodded once, drawing his hand back without rushing the departure.
"Thanks, Malfoy," he said. "You're a bit of a git, but..." George shrugged, his eyes flicking to Harry for some reason. "Heard you did some good in the end. Glad you sorted your shit out." He paused and narrowed his eyes. "You did sort your shit out, didn't you?"
Draco blinked, eyes growing comically wide. "I think so."
George grinned. "Good then." He clapped Harry on the back. "I approve."
"What?" Harry asked, head snapping around quickly.
But then the music grew louder, and the champions—or top scorers, really—were being ushered into the centre, and Harry was dancing with Pansy once more. But it was different this time: he let her lead right from the start, and she accepted the role without much more than a smirk. They whirled around the dance floor, the world passing in a blur of surprised faces and a flash of blond hair, over and over. Or perhaps that was just what Harry was looking for.
What had George meant? Could he really know what they'd done?
How could he, when it hadn't happened in this timeline?
The first dance ended, and he bowed distractedly to Pansy, who snorted.
"You're relieved of your duties, Potter," she said, but there was amusement in her voice rather than insult. When he looked up, she actually smiled at him. "Thank you. That was... not horrible."
Harry breathed out a sigh of relief, hamming it up when she noticed. "That's all I aim for in life—not horrible."
Surprised, she gave a real laugh then, and the expression transformed her face. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed George look over at them, startled. Actually, he was just looking at Pansy—not at Harry at all.
Impulsively, Harry waved, and then jerked his head towards the floor when George caught his eye. George jumped up immediately, winding his way through the growing crowd and holding out his hand with gusto.
"I thought you'd never ask, Harry." He batted his eyelashes. "Will you lead or shall I?"
"Better be you, if you still want toes at the end of this," Harry warned.
George laughed and twirled them out immediately onto the floor. Harry had done this before with George, of course, but somehow George seemed to know that Harry wasn't really feeling it today and took it upon himself to shift the mood. Everywhere they went, tiny explosive devices seemed to somehow escape George's pocket, landing at just the right moments to make the other dancers squeak in shock.
A litany of disbelief and innocence came from George's mouth every time.
"Good golly, would you look at that."
"Heavens to Betsy!"
"Another one! Merlin, where are they coming from, Harry?"
"Oop, butterfingers, there goes another."
Harry began laughing, and then when he saw Professor McGonagall coming their way with a stern expression in her eye, he started to laugh even harder.
"Time for a quick getaway, methinks," George whispered, and before Harry knew what was happening, he'd executed a complicated pirouette, diving in the middle of another couple, who had no choice but to accept their unexpected new partners or fall over.
Harry found himself dancing with Draco.
Draco's grey eyes widened, stunned disbelief radiating from every pore. His entire body was held stiffly in Harry's arms, his torso leaning slightly away, and yet his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he looked almost—scared.
"Hey, Malfoy," Harry said, finding himself grinning.
A cautious smile appeared on Draco's face. "Hello, Potter," he said tightly. "We meet again."
"Can't keep running into each other like this," Harry agreed, delighting in the laughter he drew from Draco's lips.
The ballroom whirled around them, ice sculptures blending into dancers blending into gigantic trays of cakes and champagne flutes. More explosives dropped from George's pocket, sending up clouds of pink and purple smoke into the air, surrounding them in a miniature tornado of colour.
Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed, and she strode faster.
"Switch!" came George's enthusiastic call as he dived between Harry and Draco, separating them with flare as he led a bewildered Draco into a quick two-step in the other direction.
Over and over, they switched places, trading partners in every possible combination—including one memorable quartet—until even Draco was laughing. Harry had never seen Pansy so delighted, so carefree, and by the time the professor finally caught up to them all, they were all doubled over, panting, unable to pay any attention to her fierce admonishment, and she quickly gave up.
"You're a menace," Pansy gasped, bracing her hands on her knees and staring fondly at George. "Can I get you a drink?"
George held out his elbow for Pansy to link her arm through. "Only because you called me a menace."
They disappeared, leaving Harry and Draco alone.
Harry stared at Draco, and thought again of Draco's blond hair spread out on his crimson sheets, but he thought, too, of other things. He thought of the way Draco had always been close by, this year, hovering on the fringes, as if waiting for an opening. He thought of the careful way that Draco had said sorry to George for his loss, and the way George had managed to accept it so easily. Harry thought about the way Draco's stare had changed from one of contempt to something quieter, deeper, and how Harry himself hadn't noticed until he'd broken down in front of Draco and forced their dynamic to change.
They could have had this so much earlier, he thought.
But without the time loop, they might not have had it at all. Harry would have kept sleepwalking through the Hogwarts halls, angry and discontented, until the world arrived at his doorstep and carried him in a different direction—one where Draco, with his blackened Ministry record, could not follow.
The song changed, turning into something slower, and Draco flinched. Harry only noticed because he was looking so closely anyway, but he saw, and he saw the way Draco then swallowed, eyes flicking to Harry and back.
Hadn't Draco said he was looking for Harry, one of these nights? It was all such a blur, Harry couldn't remember if they'd ever resolved that.
He glanced over at the quartet, his heart starting to pound, and thought—well, it can't exactly go wrong. If he'd misread it, and Draco only went for him last night because he wanted a Saviour-shaped notch in his bedpost, well... it's not like he'd remember the embarrassment, would he?
"Do you want to dance?" Harry asked, a little breathless.
Draco's lips parted, and he turned back to Harry with an expression so bright with want that Harry's knees felt weak.
But before he could take Harry's hand, someone interrupted.
"There you are, Harry." Kingsley's hand clapped onto his shoulder, and Harry instantly stiffened. He'd done so well avoiding the Minister tonight; of course, the second he let his guard down. "I was hoping we could have a little chat."
"Could we have it later?" Harry asked, fighting not to grit his teeth only because he respected Kingsley.
Kingsley glanced at Draco. "Perhaps some privacy would be better."
Draco stiffened and moved to leave, but Harry stopped him. "No, I meant—I'm busy. Can we talk later?"
Kingsley's eyebrows shot up. "I see. I'm afraid later will be too late. I need to give you a small head's up on some communication that will be emerging in the next few days."
Merlin. The rumours were real, after all.
"Then you can say it in front of Draco," Harry said tiredly, ignoring the sharp gaze that turned on him as he said Draco's name. "I think we've already heard the rumour."
Kingsley smiled. "Then you know we'll be putting your name forward for Minister?"
"I honestly—and I cannot stress this enough—have no idea why you would," Harry said, jaw stiffening as he realised abruptly how angry he was. "I'm eighteen years old. This is insane."
Kingsley held up a placating hand. "I understand you must have many questions, Harry. But let me assure you, you are more than suited for the role. Perfect, even. If you'll come by my office, I can go into the finer details."
"Finer details like how this is just a figurehead position?" Harry asked tightly, noticing with relish that Draco had to cover his mouth to hide a snort. "And how you're throwing me into the lion's den once again because the Ministry can't sort out their own public relations?" He waved his hand in the air. "So, sure, why not get the Boy Who Lived to stand there with a halo of light behind him while we make all the same bloody decisions we were getting yelled at for before. Sweeping things under the rug has never gone badly for us; there are no possible repercussions for this."
Kingsley's eyes widened. "Harry, I think you need to—"
"No," Harry said flatly. "I don't need to do a thing. I've already done enough for you." His voice was rising, shocking him with the depth of emotion pouring free. "How can you possibly stand there and ask me for more?"
Kingsley fell silent. After a moment, he said, "I can see you have a lot of thoughts on this, Harry. I'll clear my schedule for you to see me this week. Any time—my door is open for you."
Harry stiffened. It wasn't a win; it was a stalemate. Anger rose, but all he said was, "Sure. Okay."
When he turned to Draco, he found him staring. "That was..." he began, trailing off.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Burned all my bridges. Made enemies. Get it over with so I can move on from the burning insult of not being a Slytherin," Harry muttered, waving his hand.
"I was going to say bloody incredible."
Harry blinked. "What?"
Draco shrugged. "I always wanted my father to go off like that, whenever the people he was schmoozing tried to take too much. But he always preferred the subtle approach to power. It's not quite as satisfying."
Harry's mouth curved into a slow smile. "That's almost Gryffindor of you, Draco. Who knew?"
An idea caught in Harry's mind, snagging against the fluff and cobwebs that surrounded the part of Harry's brain that devoted itself to the Ministry.
"Draco," he said slowly. "You're good at this."
Draco blinked at him. "At what?"
"Dealing with the Ministry."
This time, he just looked confused. "Of course. I was trained at it, but what does that matter?"
"Just thinking. You'd make a better Minister than me."
A loud, rude snort interrupted him before he'd even finished, Draco staring at him incredulously. "Sure," he said, breathless with shock. "But that would never happen. And why would I want to?"
"No," Harry agreed, chewing on his lip. "But it's true..."
He didn't know what he was thinking, exactly, only that he'd begun this loop thinking there were only two options—trapped by the Ministry or not trapped. But he'd since learned there were a dozen different ways to approach the same scenario. What if there was a different solution to this one?
Draco's cheeks flushed, and he looked down at his feet, kicking his pointy shoe against the tiles. "You're not making sense, Potter," he said, flustered. "And I should check on Pansy."
The song had long since changed into something fast again. Harry nodded, feeling a twisting sense of melancholy for how few hours they had left. "I should see how Ron and Hermione are doing."
"Right." Draco stared into the distance over Harry's head. "Well. I'll see you round, Potter." He paused. "Harry."
Harry grinned. "See you, Draco."
So, the Ministry's latest bullshit had turned out to be real. Harry found that the strangest thing was how unsurprised he was. Despite his protests, it seemed as though he'd believed it all along... perhaps that was why he'd been avoiding Kingsley so carefully.
Because if he believed one half of the rumour, he probably believed the other, which was based mostly on Draco's conviction. Draco, who knew the Ministry ins and outs, and all the dirty blackmail of politics. The Ministry wanted Harry, and the Ministry would have him.
As he mulled over this depressing thought, his mind returned, perhaps inevitably, to his earlier discovery. He'd had fun tonight, but it didn't change the fact that he didn't really lead a happy life. And it was about to get a whole lot less happy if the Ministry were hounding him to be the face of their new world.
How exactly was he meant to change any of that? Most importantly—how was he meant to be happy in this world that was so determined to frustrate and isolate him?
He glanced over to Ron and Hermione, chewing on his lip as he took in their radiant expressions. Well, happiness had begun with them once before. He supposed it should start there again.
When they came off the dance floor for a break, Harry flicked his wand and hovered three drinks beside him as he crossed the Hall to join them.
Hermione's expression brightened when she saw him, and she waved another seat over immediately.
"Harry!" she exclaimed. "I saw you out there with George—you looked like you were having so much fun."
"I was," he said with a grin. "And Draco and Pansy aren't half bad either."
Ron snorted. "You know, George always said—"
Hermione elbowed him, and he fell silent, staring sheepishly into his drink. Harry decided to leave it for now—he could only take so many revelations in one night. He let Hermione change the subject, turning the conversation to NEWTS and all the spells she was hoping would see her in good stead for her Unspeakable application. Even Ron perked up at that, because it meant an end to studying, and moving onto Auror training, which he was convinced would have seventy percent more explosions than ordinary school.
"Are you still thinking Aurors, Harry?" Hermione asked. "I know you weren't so sure."
Harry scrubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I dunno. But you'll never believe what Kingsley just told me."
He filled them in on the conversation he'd just had, feeling gratified at the expressions of horror and incredulity on their faces. As the story went on, and Ron and Hermione grew more indignant, the weight of it all began to feel lighter. It felt as though, whatever the Ministry threw at him, Harry could handle it.
Hermione took over, launching into a lecture on which Ministry members Harry should watch out for if they were resorting to such a low move. Harry watched his friends, and this time, he really saw them. Not who he expected them to be—who they'd always been—but who they'd become now. Ron's brow furrowed in concentration as he strategised how the Ministry might be thinking by trying to weasel Harry into the role. He was still as loyal and earnest as he'd always been, but he was different too. There was a serious air to his posture and the way he voiced his thoughts that hadn't been there before. And Harry had seen him on the dance floor with Hermione; gone were the awkward fumblings of a shy teenager. He might not like dancing, but he loved Hermione, and as her face lit up with the music and rhythm, he dutifully whirled her about, stars in his eyes every time they met hers.
And Hermione had changed, too. Harry realised he should have recognised that days ago, when she had been so hesitant to throw herself into the time loop each time he asked. Of course, she still loved a puzzle and had to absorb as much information as she could. She always would, just as she would always want to help solve a problem, and those qualities were what would make her such a good Unspeakable. But she had stronger boundaries now. She wouldn't tip herself into an impossible task, burning herself out on late nights, fretting and worrying. She took things more carefully—more strategically—and it showed.
Both of them had grown and changed in so many beautiful ways, and Harry was only now realising it. A smile crept onto his face as he realised, too, that he hadn't been left behind, like he'd feared. Ron and Hermione loved him no matter how stuck in the past he was, literally or otherwise.
And maybe he wasn't ready to change that yet, but for the first time, he thought that might be alright.
*
25th December, 1998, #11
Harry stared up at the ceiling, the comforting non-sounds of a well-cast Silencio surrounding him. Outside, somewhere, Seamus was warbling, but in here there was only the sound of Harry's own thoughts. And for once, he listened to them.
He didn't have a happy life; that much was clear to him now. But he didn't think the idea of one was too far out of reach. There was so much in his life that could make him happy. There just also happened to be a lot that was making him sad and angry, right now. But if this time loop had taught him anything, it was that there were so many different ways to live each day, and each combination was vitally different to the last.
In this loop, Harry had lived furious days full of anger. He'd lived laughing, happy days complete with friendship and love. And he'd lived a number in between, including days where he thought the world might swallow him whole because there was nothing much worth keeping him here.
The days themselves had been the same—the same combination of options available to him each time. Only Harry had been different. And while he couldn't exactly control how he felt on each day, he had found that his friends were there for him each time, regardless of how he felt, if he only let them be.
And that made the shit days a little easier to bear.
Well, if he was going to build a happy life, it probably didn't begin with wallowing in bed while Seamus had free reign with his musical downfall. Wordlessly breaking the Silencio, Harry waited for the song to switch over and flicked his wand, changing the station to the accompaniment of vicious protests, and jumped out of bed with a strong Protego cast around him.
After he'd braved the gauntlet and made it downstairs, collecting his present from Luna and promising to be mindful of his socks, he posed the ultimate question to himself: what would make him happy today? The answer, he found to some surprise, was to invite George to the Ball again.
The evening just felt better with a friend there. Someone who wasn't going to be there anyway, and who had come along purely for Harry.
Or chosen to stay behind purely because Harry seemed upset.
Decision made, Harry did briefly acknowledge that this left the problem of how he was meant to escort Pansy when he already had a date. George could gatecrash again, of course, but it felt kind of rude to do that to him. Which was how Harry found himself chasing down Draco Malfoy for help.
The fact that his mind had been racing with thoughts of the slow dance they'd nearly shared was entirely irrelevant.
Eventually, he found Draco in the last place he would have thought to look: setting up the Great Hall for the Yule Ball.
Harry stood in the doorway, gaping at the sight of the meticulous blond hair poking up from behind several floating vases of flowers. The glimpse he could catch through the decorations showed Draco in his usual dark grey suit trousers, a lighter grey shirt over top with several buttons at his throat undone. Harry swallowed thickly, somehow managing to attract Draco's attention with his dazzling inability to function.
Draco met his eyes, startled at first before he chewed on his lip. It was the strangest reaction Harry had got from him so far, especially when it was the first time they'd seen each other today. Then Draco's eyes narrowed.
"If you're going to gawk at us, Potter, you may as well help."
A chorus of indignant voices piped up to agree with him, and Harry scrambled to offer his assistance. Realistically, he could have had his conversation with Draco and then left, but, truth was, he didn't know how to word his question. How can I make Pansy happy when I've already got a date? It just didn't come out right. So, he figured he may as well help out and see if things just... sort of... worked themselves out when he had time to think about it.
Also, he was fast running out of strategy when it came to this bloody time loop anyway, and a rather large part of him kind of wanted to just... stop. He wanted to stop fighting it and stop trying to make everything perfect and just live.
Living, right now, turned out to be arranging flowers with Draco Malfoy. The world was a funny place.
As the decorations settled into position, Harry decided the whole thing was more than funny—it was downright surreal. He'd once spent this day thinking that Draco was in trouble with the Ministry and meeting with McGonagall to make amends, and he'd since discovered he was being mentored instead and had apparently set up a good portion of the Yule Ball out of the goodness of his heart. And now here Harry was, helping, a vase of dahlias in his hands and an expression on his face that no doubt screamed help, help, I need an adult.
Draco caught his eye from where he was laying out centrepieces on the tables and smirked. Now that he'd had a few run throughs to see things clearly, Harry noticed it wasn't aggressive or antagonistic. It was just Draco.
Harry returned the expression, and confusion crossed Draco's face.
From then on, everything changed, shifting one step to the left. Whenever Harry looked up, Draco was already watching him, eyes burning with curiosity and heat, like Harry was a puzzle that Draco had finally solved.
They kept crossing paths, hands brushing as they handed centrepieces and decorations to each other, foregoing Levitation Charms for no reason Harry could discern except that they wanted this. Both of them wanted this. When Draco passed behind him, squeezing between two tables and balancing with a hand placed, featherlight, on the small of Harry's back, something in him shattered.
The next time they locked gazes, he couldn't deny what was building between them, and he didn't want to.
Possessed by the spirit of some unknown demon—possibly Sirius, possibly his own father, or possibly just the man Harry might have been if he'd been raised by the two of them—he winked at Draco from across the empty dance floor.
Approximately two minutes later, as he was passing by the alcove he'd once accidentally hidden in with Draco, he felt a gust of wind that was undoubtedly a wordless Flipendo hit him in the side, sending him through the curtain and into the darkness beyond. He staggered to a halt, grinning as he righted himself against the wall, and waited.
Draco didn't keep him waiting long. He burst through the curtain, grabbed Harry by the front of the shirt, and whispered fiercely. "Want to tell me what that wink means, Potter?"
"I think you know, Draco," Harry said, spurred into equal heights of madness and confidence for the simple fact that he'd been here before. He knew how this went.
Still, when Draco reeled back to stare at him, pupils dilated as his tongue darted out to wet his lips, Harry felt a split second of fear that he'd read the signs wrong. Maybe Draco had a hard-core crying kink; who was Harry to judge?
But then Draco slowly slid down Harry's body, and he thought, instead: who fucking knew it was this easy to get Draco Malfoy on his knees?
But maybe it wasn't. The nervous glances and fumbling hands suggested to Harry that this wasn't a common occurrence—it certainly wasn't for him, anyway, but the way he was acting probably made it look like he went around getting blow jobs in cupboards every other day.
Maybe this was just how it was with them, and Merlin, wasn't that an even wilder concept?
Draco's mouth closed around him, sucking Harry's cock in a languid tease and making Harry's eyelids flutter closed as his head thunked back against the wall.
The sensation built and built, rising until there was nothing but the pure, wet heat of Draco's lips on him. A low whine grew in Harry's throat, and he silently begged that their Silencios held because there was no way he could hold this back.
But then Draco slid off him, silvery eyes dancing with amusement, and he—
Opened the wall.
"What?" Harry asked, somewhat stupidly.
"Get inside," Draco said, and Harry scrambled to obey.
No sooner had he made it into the hidden space—there was a whole other room in here; what the fuck?—than Draco pushed him down onto the ground and took him down once more.
Harry realised he could truly be loud here, wherever the hell here was, and he stopped holding back. Breathless pants became moans, rising in volume as Draco's tongue flicked over him, equal parts teasing and giving. He caught glimpses of curling vines above him, and tall, luscious plants with hidden ice sculptures among them—possibly dragons.
Draco had taken them into a secret room, Harry realised, and now he was sucking him off here, in possibly the most luxurious, striking place Harry had ever seen. Disbelief overwhelmed him, and then Draco's tongue was swirling wickedly, his lips curving into what Harry swore was a smirk—and how could he even do that with a cock in his mouth?—and then Harry was coming, his hips thrusting up no matter that he tried to keep them still.
"Fuck," he breathed, when Draco pulled off.
Harry struggled up to his elbows, fixing his underwear with one hand—jeans still undone—before he reached for Draco's shirt, fully intending to return the favour properly now.
But Draco pushed him firmly down with two fingers on his chest, a fierce glint in his eye. "No," he said, voice low. "You can watch me."
"What?" Harry asked, stunned and confused, and then he realised what was happening.
Draco crooked a finger into his own shirt, popping the buttons one by one. A pleasant flush rose on his chest, creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks, but it was all desire—no embarrassment. Draco's eyes bore into his as his shirt came open inch by inch. The scars were faint, Harry noticed with relief, but they were there, and they were a sombre reminder of the history between them—of all that they would need to overcome when tomorrow finally came.
Harry wet his lips, biting back an embarrassing moan seconds too late.
Draco smirked. Then he slid his hand into the front of his trousers, palmed himself, and began to stroke.
Fucking hell, Draco must love this sort of thing, Harry thought, because this was the second time he'd done it like this. Not that he remembered. Then it hit Harry—of course Draco loved to be watched. He loved attention, and Harry realised with a shock that the thought had come with... affection. Harry liked this about Draco.
Well, he supposed it wasn't the strangest thing he'd realised in the last few days, and so he leaned back up on his elbows, Draco kneeling over him, and settled in for the show.
As soon as it was clear Harry wasn't going to protest, Draco's eyelids fluttered closed, breathless gasps dropping from his lips. His hand moved up and down, caressing and stroking, but it was too hidden. Harry lifted his wand.
Draco didn't notice.
A giddy, intoxicating impulse overwhelmed Harry, and suddenly it was like all his nervousness faded away. It wasn't like Draco would remember this if it went badly, was it? And so Harry could do whatever he wanted without fear of repercussion. He could say the words he wanted to say, but held back for fear of looking like an idiot.
He could act out his fantasies, each one infinitely better because it was the real thing.
Silently, Harry climbed to his knees, moving around behind Draco to breathe in his ear, "Do you trust me?"
Draco shivered, the movement so slight Harry might not have seen if he hadn't been looking. His eyes snapped open, revealing pupils so dark they obscured all grey. "Not in the slightest," he said, curling his lip and injecting deliberate venom into the words.
"Liar," Harry said.
Then he slid his hand down Draco's stomach, relishing the hitch of breath, the way his torso tightened beneath Harry's touch. With deft fingers, Harry undid Draco's trousers the rest of the way, sliding them partway down his thighs, and then he reclined back on the ground to watch in earnest.
Draco's legs began to shake, the flush riding high on his cheeks now as he pumped his fist over his cock—all traces of hesitation gone. Not that there had been many to begin with. Every time Harry lived this day, it was as though Draco had been building to these moments, and yet they only happened some of the time. Abruptly, Harry was overcome with the urge to know what Draco was thinking, how he could end up like this with Harry after only a few hours.
Why had he wanted to seek Harry out, the night of the Ball? What did he want?
Could it possibly be this?
A moan escaped him as his fantasies ran wild, imagining a reality where Draco had wanted to ask Harry to the Ball. Where he'd wanted to dance with Harry, and kiss him among the shadowed alcoves—where he'd created a hidden space just for them, hoping to get him alone.
Draco's eyes flew open, almost desperate now, hungry with need and longing as he pinned Harry with his gaze and came.
Harry couldn't remain just a spectator. He rose to his knees, gripping Draco by the back of his neck—like he had a thousand times before in his dreams—and kissed him, kissed him as he gasped and bucked his hips, moaning and spilling over onto the floor between them.
Slowly, their breathing returned to normal. Harry fell back onto the floor, one arm across his eyes as he began to laugh, quietly delirious.
"What the fuck, Draco?" he breathed.
"You started it," Draco said, sounding pleased.
"Like fuck I did."
Draco laughed, and the sound was so soft, so genuine, that Harry's heart flipped. He froze. When had it become like this? When had this shifted so completely from blow jobs and distractions to soft laughter and the gentle stirring of Harry's heart?
Who was he kidding? It had started with moonlight reflected in silvery eyes, and that was where it would end, for better or worse. Harry had become very good at ignoring what was in front of him; with all that had happened this year, he'd needed to in order to survive. But he suspected time was running out, and he wouldn't be able to ignore the obvious much longer.
Speaking of time running out... he should probably ask Draco what he had come to ask now.
But Harry hesitated, suddenly nervous. It was a foolproof plan; he knew Draco would appreciate him looking out for Pansy, and he technically had invited George before anyone told him about Pansy, so that wasn't even a lie... by Slytherin standards. But suddenly he was just so tired. Tired of trying to talk around everything that was happening to him when all he wanted to do was talk about it.
"So, I'm stuck in a time loop," he said flatly.
Draco blinked at him, head lolling to the side from where he lay on the floor beside Harry.
"I've actually told you this once before," he confessed, continuing in a rush. "And you weren't very helpful then, actually. But I don't really need help, I just need—" He took a breath. "I know Pansy needs me to take her to the Ball tonight, but I also invited George because I really want him to be there. And I know for a fact we all have a good time together, actually, so I guess I'm just asking..." It hit him, what he was actually asking—what he'd always been asking. "Why am I the only choice for Pansy?"
The room remained quiet. Draco stared at him for a very long time, eyes wide, his face somehow appearing younger from the shock. Eventually, he said, "You drop a Bombarda that you're stuck in a time loop, and now you want to talk about Pansy?" He narrowed his eyes suddenly. "How many times have we done this?"
"Er, once."
Draco closed his eyes.
"And we danced a bit."
Draco winced.
"Okay," Draco said very slowly. "Okay, Potter. Say I believe you... why does it matter to you that Pansy wants you to take her?"
Harry blinked at him. "Er... that's not what I said. What do you mean Pansy— Pansy doesn't want me to take her. She's just as peeved as I am."
Draco's eyes snapped open, flashing as he leaned in closer. "Of course she wants you to take her. Do you really think Pansy does a single thing she doesn't want to do?"
Probably not, no.
Why hadn't that thought occurred to him? Pansy might have been embarrassed to enter alone, but surely she would have been more embarrassed to have Harry's charity? She'd always struck Harry as a proud, haughty woman... The kind of person who would much rather enter a room with her head high despite the whispers, than to enter on the arm of someone who clearly hated her.
"So... Is this just about her reputation then?" Harry asked. He didn't think it was, but he had to know.
Draco gritted his teeth. "Partially, but not as much as you'd think. No, Potter..." He sighed. "She wants to apologise."
"I'm sorry, I think I misheard you then," Harry said politely.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Very mature. Look, she regrets her fear and weakness, and she wants to tell you she didn't think how useless it would have been to give you to Voldemort."
"Ah." Harry nodded sagely. His jaw ticked, though he tried not to show it. "So, this is about her being pragmatic? She's sorry she didn't have a better plan when she was bundling me up as a sacrifice?"
Draco didn't speak for several seconds. It was about a fifty-fifty chance whether he was wanting to apologise, or simply imagining what it would be like to boil Harry's face off.
"She thought he would spare the school," Draco said quietly, and Harry's stomach twisted. "She thought it would be the sacrifice of one doomed boy, who could never possibly escape the Dark Lord's clutches, or everyone standing in the castle that night. And even if that had been the case, in the end, she has grown and changed, and she knows it was wrong anyway. She's sorry. If you don't believe me, at least hear her out."
Harry swallowed. "She's had three chances to tell me now, and she hasn't said a word."
Draco looked down and away. "Apologies are difficult. Sometimes it takes a few tries to get it right."
Well, Harry supposed he knew a thing or two about that, and not just for apologies.
"Alright, so... I guess George can come in on his own." The answer didn't sit right with Harry, but he didn't know what else he could—
His eyes widened.
"Actually, never mind," he said brightly. "I've sorted it out."
Draco looked alarmed. He opened his mouth but then shut it again. "Your funeral," he said flatly.
Harry sat up, arranging his clothing carefully and looking around the room for a distraction. He'd been right before, when he'd noticed tiny parts of it: it was a smaller alcove, set off from the Great Hall. Some kind of wizarding space, he'd guess, with the same decorations as the main ballroom but much more privacy.
Thank Merlin.
"What is this place, anyway?" he asked when he finally looked presentable.
Draco rose to his feet, holding out a hand to help Harry up. A flush rose in his cheeks once more. "I made it," he confessed. "I thought the Ball could do with a bit of... privacy."
Harry stared at him, all his previous fantasies flooding him at once, overwhelming him with longing. Draco's eyes widened, and he looked quickly away.
"Listen, Harry," he said carefully. "About this time loop... When will it end?"
Harry shrugged. "That's the million Galleon question, isn't it?"
Draco blanched. "So you really don't know?"
"I'm... getting closer," Harry hedged. "If you want to know more about it, I have a Pensieve upstairs. It has all my memories stored in it—it can survive the reset—and you could... Well, you could watch them, if you like."
Draco grew very still, then he slowly shook his head. "Thanks, but... I'll pass." He ran a hand through his hair, the soft strands falling over his face. "I'd better go," he said abruptly.
"Alright," Harry said on reflex, his heart sinking.
It was a strange sensation, feeling the rising hope within him suddenly shatter as everything returned to how it was before, somehow flatter and duller because of what he'd lost.
But Harry was getting used to that.
*
The Ball went much the same as it had every time George was there, except this time, they both entered with Pansy Parkinson between them. Her face had slackened with shock when Harry proposed a dual date, but she'd quickly agreed, unable to keep the curiosity from her voice.
And then, there had been the dance. George was, to Harry's utter surprise, an excellent dancer. He'd noticed it when they came together, but it wasn't until he was manoeuvring two partners around the floor that his skills really came to shine.
Eventually, Harry situated himself as kind of a tether point, serving as something for Pansy to anchor in on before George twirled her into increasingly complicated moves.
The crowd watched on in awe and fascination, and Harry, bizarrely, found himself having fun.
But then the fun began to fade, because Harry—now that he could relax into the situation without feeling hyper alert for danger, like he usually was—noticed something. George kept glancing over to Pansy, sneaking glances whenever she turned away.
And Pansy was looking back.
The pit of despair in Harry's stomach, so well ignored for days now, opened up once more as he realised a terrible new fact. The time loop wasn't only robbing Harry of these moments, it was robbing other people, too. Because neither George nor Pansy would remember this, come tomorrow, and when on earth would they get another chance at a night like this one? When so many barriers could come down, and people could see sides of each other that were otherwise kept well hidden.
The Ball passed in a haze after that. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw the ripples of his effect on people. Luna danced with George, who sneakily directed her towards Ginny with each chorus—a decision she may not have made otherwise. Ron and Hermione shared a stiff but pleasant conversation with Pansy.
And there was Draco. Draco, who knew about the time loop, and yet seemed strangely hesitant to hear about it in detail—and then couldn't take his eyes off Harry all night. Talk about mixed messages. Every time Harry looked his way, those silvery eyes were already on him, and he wondered for the first time what Draco might be losing each day.
Because Harry had more than affected his timeline. Each new cycle of this day, his interactions with Draco were different, which meant the potential for new thoughts, new revelations, and new decisions.
And Draco was losing them.
By the time the music was fading out, and the dancers were slowing, Harry was more than over it all. As much as the time loop had really sucked, he'd also kind of enjoyed the break it gave him. There had been no unknown danger to face, because each day was the same, and if something unexpected happened it would be rewritten in a matter of hours. He'd been given the chance to breathe for the first time in years, and he could acknowledge now that a large part of him hadn't wanted that to end.
But now he did. The people he cared about were losing things they would never remember having, and he was suddenly so tired of it all. So tired of reliving the same day over and over while never moving forward, never changing.
When he saw George and Pansy huddled in conversation between two fairy sculptures, he took it as his cue to slip away.
But he only made it as far as the doors before Draco found him, rushed and a little breathless.
"Potter," he hissed, grabbing Harry by the collar and dragging him into the shadow of the doors. "Before you go."
Harry's heart leaped, pounding in his chest as he wondered whether Draco was finally going to agree to see the Pensieve. He didn't know why it mattered so much, but it did. He wanted Draco to care about what had happened to him these last days.
He wanted Draco there with him when this all ended.
Draco pressed something cool and smooth into Harry's palm, and he looked down with a frown to see a small vial there.
"What—oh." It was a memory. Harry could see it shimmering there, swirling around and around. "Does this mean...?"
Did Draco want to see the Pensieve after all?
Draco shook his head. "Not tonight. Just..." He swallowed, tracing his fingers over the vial as if hesitant to part with it. Then he pulled them sharply away. "Watch it tonight. And then show me the Pensieve tomorrow." Draco stared at him, some hidden meaning in his gaze that Harry couldn't parse.
Tomorrow, Draco wouldn't remember. Was that why he wanted to see it then? Because it would be easier, if he didn't have to remember all of this?
Or was he saying that he did want to remember, and that was why he'd given Harry the memory? So that he could watch it himself, and remember what he'd otherwise lost?
Harry closed his fingers over the vial and nodded. "Okay."
With one final, deliberate look, Draco left.
*
Harry took his time climbing back to the classroom, lost in thought. Halfway up the stairs though, they suddenly swung to the left, sending him stumbling into the banister.
"What the fuck?" he breathed.
The stairs hadn't surprised him like this since third year. Was he getting rusty?
Then he heard the crying.
Slowly, he began to ascend, following the sound towards the Astronomy Tower, and then, when he recognised the voice, he began to run.
He skidded around the corner, clutching onto the doorframe so as not to fall, and found George sitting with his head in his hands.
"George," Harry whispered, falling to his knees. "Are you all—What happened?"
George lifted his head, wiping his face with his sleeve and forcing a smile. "Oh, hi Harry. What brings you here this fine evening?"
He didn't even make it through the sentence without his voice breaking, and Harry didn't think, didn't question it. He just knelt beside him and drew him into a hug.
George went, his head falling into the crook of Harry's neck as his hands came up to clutch his robes. For a long while, they simply stayed like that, the moon shining above them and the stars twinkling into view one by one. Harry began stroking George's back, gentle, soothing movements that softened as he went. And slowly, bit by bit, George softened too.
He pulled back, wiping his eyes again and leaning back against the wall. "Sorry about that, Harry."
"Don't apologise," Harry spluttered. "Merlin, I've been crying on worse shoulders than you have lately, I can promise you that." He paused. "Well, probably, anyway. I don't know. Mine might be a bit bony, I guess."
George snorted. "You have fine shoulders," he assured him. "Nice and strong from all that weight of the world you've been carrying."
Harry's laughter carried across the tower, but then they fell silent again. It was calmer now, though. More comfortable.
"Is it Fred?" Harry asked eventually, not sure if George would answer.
"It's always Fred," George said easily. "I don't know if it ever won't be." He sighed. "You know, I'd trade everything in the shop—I'd give it all up, even the Extendable Ears—for just one more day with him."
"I know you would," Harry said, reaching out to rest his hand on George's knee.
They fell quiet again, something shifting in the space between them. It was gentle and hesitant, but it held the promise of an entirely new world, and Harry thought again about what this loop was taking from everyone.
"Parkinson's alright, though," George said with a laugh. "Didn't expect that, but... She intrigues me."
You fascinate me, Potter.
Harry swallowed, but before he could say anything, an idea hit him. How much time did he have? He cast a Tempus and found if they ran, they could make it. "Hey, George... how do you feel about trusting me on something bizarre and not asking any questions."
George grinned. "Harry, you do know how to show a lad a good time."
He grabbed George's hand and began to run. Together, they weaved through the castle, dodging tired students and drifting ghosts, and landed in the classroom with minutes to spare.
"Right," Harry said, fishing the vial out of his pocket and pouring it unceremoniously onto the painting. "Think about today, think about everything that's happened today, everything important, and then put it in this Pensieve."
George's eyebrows flew up. "The Pensieve in the painting?" He shook his head, pulling out his wand. "You're bonkers," he said affectionately.
He withdrew a shimmering, elongated strand of memory and lowered it carefully onto the portrait. There was a pause, and then a shimmer of light, and it was gone.
They had a few minutes left, and Draco had wanted Harry to watch it tonight... He didn't even know if someone else's memory would last.
"Want to see something potentially R18-rated and probably exceedingly private that you won't remember seeing in three minutes and thirty seconds?" Harry asked George.
"Bring it on."
They slipped into the Pensieve, the memory drifting with their vision of the classroom, and Harry found himself speeding through his memories of today—this time from Draco's perspective. As he'd expected, a lot of it was not fit for external consumption, and he covered George's eyes through the worst of it while George cackled hysterically. But then the memory shifted, and Draco was standing in front of a mirror.
"I want to remember this, Potter," Draco said, eyes fixed to his own reflection.
Merlin, he'd created this memory specifically for Harry. George stopped laughing, his eyes wide as he took in the sight before him.
"I don't want to lose a single day of this," Draco continued, "because I've waited too long. Do you understand me, Harry? I need this time loop to end. I need it to end before I lose anything more."
The memory shimmered, glowing suddenly with brilliant crimson flashes and golden light. George's jaw dropped, and he whispered, "Merlin, what's Malfoy feeling to make it look like this?"
Harry flinched. Did memories change depending on the feelings accompanying them?
Merlin, they must, because Harry could feel this. Even the earlier parts that he'd seen before had felt different, Harry realised now. Like the colours were slightly twisted—brighter, glinting with sunlight and warmth. Draco's emotions were changing how he remembered things, and the revelation hit Harry like a punch to the gut.
He turned to face George, who watched him with an equally stunned expression.
And then midnight ticked over, and it all faded away.
*
25th December, 1998, #12
Can you dance like a Hippogriff?
Harry rather thought he might throw up. There was no time to process anything, no time to understand what he'd just seen. What did it mean? What was he meant to do?
Merlin, what was Draco trying to tell him? He thought he knew, but the idea of it was so big, so overwhelming, he couldn't contain it... couldn't accept it when there was no possible way of moving forward. The future was impossible, and so the present warped into nothingness, dragging him further and further into a past that was just as irretrievable.
He closed his eyes, breathed for a few minutes, and then slipped out of bed.
Ducking around his dorm mates, he hurried through his conversation with Luna—keeping exactly to the script from the first day—and then hurried to check the Pensieve. It was vital that it had stored the extra memories correctly, now that he'd realised how much it was taking from everyone around him, too.
He didn't want this time loop to hurt anyone; today was the day it ended. He'd get Ron and Hermione's help, and they'd fix this damn thing, once and for all.
After checking the Pensieve carefully, finding Draco's memory completely intact—and just as heartstopping as the first time around—Harry stepped back and frowned. Something was different. Somehow, the painting looked...
Henry was awake.
Harry blinked, staring at the unexpectedly piercing blue eyes that, for the first time in days, watched him back.
"How did you—" he began, wondering what he could possibly have done to wake him, but then, it was obvious, wasn't it? Even if the neatly lined up bottles of memories on the table hadn't made it clear, Harry should have known that using the Pensieve could have woken him. "Sorry," he began, but Henry shook his head.
"You're in quite the pickle, aren't you?" he said, his croaky voice ringing through the room. "Haven't seen a magical mishap like this in... decades at least."
"It's kind of my brand," Harry said distantly.
Henry chuckled. "You're in luck, though, young man. Had a good look at your memories, and I do believe I know the answer to your troubles." He began laughing harder for some reason.
Harry's heart stopped. "You do?"
"I do, I do. Tell me—have you had a good look at that Consilium your friend got you?"
"No..." Harry shook his head. "But that shouldn't matter. It hasn't even opened, yet."
"'Course not. You haven't told it to."
Harry took a step back, unnerved. "I thought they opened when we were ready. Usually midnight, or something."
"Yes, no, maybe." Henry shrugged. "It's not a passive experience. The answer isn't just dropped in your lap; they're a consultation. A conversation. A give and take. Looks to me like your Consilium has been giving and giving and giving. But have you been engaging with its offerings? That is the question."
"You mean..." Harry's heart pounded now, jumping into his throat. "The Consilium is doing all this? To—what? Have a conversation with me? To draw out my heart's desire so it can find the answer for me?"
"Or so you can find the answer for yourself." Henry jerked his head towards the other side of the room. "Have a look in that there painting. I got my granddaughter one for Christmas that year; I'm sure it's in the painting."
Harry shuffled sideways and stared, realising with shock that Henry was right. It was egg-shaped, as Luna had said they usually were, and now that Harry looked closer he saw there was a little latch popping open at the base.
"It's like... half open."
Henry nodded sagely. "It's begun the conversation. If I recall correctly, Teresa wanted to move back to England. Merlin, it put us through the works until she realised that. Turned the whole house into a beach at one point, if I recall correctly, until she finally realised how much she missed the White Cliffs of Dover."
"Bloody hell," Harry breathed.
The thing was like a goddamn guidance counsellor. All this time, it had been checking in with him, trying things out, testing its presumptions...
Finally, the truth of what he was looking at sunk in. He turned back to Henry, expecting to find the man giving him another beady glare, but he'd already gone back to sleep. It didn't matter. Harry had learned what the man wanted him to.
If the Consilium was a conversation rather than an answer, then Harry had to talk back, and then this whole thing would end.
He knew how to end the loop.