When Draco snaps awake the next morning in front of his desk, still trembling from a half-remembered erotic dream, and sees the time-turner glowing even more brightly, at first he doesn't believe it.
He must still be in a dream – only this time, it's a nightmare. He fixed things. It's impossible that this is happening. Absolutely impossible.
Maybe, he reasons, the time-turner is glowing because . . . because of built-up time, or something. He didn't use it, did he? But, at the same time, he did. So the paradox has sent it funny. That doesn't mean that he's still stuck in the loop though. He is absolutely not still stuck in the time loop, with no way of escaping other than destroying the time-turner . . . which would probably destroy him too.
But when he enters the dining room, he sees his mother. She's reading the paper, and the headline reads: MALFOY HEIR TO PROMOTE UNITY WITH MUGGLES.
He is, Draco thinks. He absolutely sodding is still stuck in the time loop, damn and blast it all.
"Good morning, dear," his mother says, setting the paper aside and looking at him with sympathy. "Are you nervous about your speech?"
"No," Draco says gloomily, and tucks into his breakfast. He's not nervous because he's not going to give it again – what would be the bloody point? It would be just as much use to go back to his room and lock the door and create his own bloody commemorative issue of Witch Weekly – he has enough newspaper clips of Potter secreted away in odd corners of his room, after all. And at least that way, he'd get an entertaining wank out of it, before he burned the fucking thing to show Potter what he thinks of him.
He has a wild, self-destructive urge to go to the Palace of Westminster and just wank in front of the real Potter – right there in the Lords Chamber. It would have no consequence, after all; he could do it every day, for the rest of forever, apparently, and it would still have no consequence.
But no. Draco sips his sweetened tea to try to excuse the heat that's rushed to his face. It would be just his luck if today is the day the time loop ends; time is unpredictable, and it's possible the loop will just collapse in on itself eventually, without his assistance. It's not a risk worth taking.
Besides – his father would be in the room. A greater mood killer has never been invented.
After he's finished his breakfast, and he's in a fit state to stand up, he goes back to his bedroom and wonders what he should do. The time-turner pulses from the far side of the room, and he glares at it. But he has to do something, and he's never been the type to give up, whatever people like Potter might think of him.
Should he seek help from his mother and father? The thought makes him wince. He can just imagine how pleased his father would be to learn what his son has done, and how disappointed his mother would be. And what good would it do? His father isn't exactly an expert in time travel. No one is. It's widely known that the Ministry brought a halt to their time travel experiments back in 1899, when a time-travelling research witch caused untold damage to the life paths of all she met and died herself from premature aging when she returned to her own time.
Draco has read all about it. He wonders now – a bit fucking late – why it didn't put him off his own experiments. It seems big-headed now, risking the lives of everyone he's come in contact with, just to suppress a newspaper headline or two.
It would, he thinks, have been far more straightforward just to bribe everyone involved. Potter's exit could have been excused as a toilet break, and the mass walkout as a fire alert.
Damn it all!
He paces the room a bit, but the more he thinks about it, the less wise it seems to go to his parents for help. At least – for now. He'll shelve that idea until he's supremely desperate, and even then . . .
More pacing. Each time he passes the time-turner, it annoys him even more. This seems to him a ridiculous state of affairs. If he can't fix things immediately, getting more and more wound up is only going to make things worse. So, on his next circuit of the room, he picks up a blanket from a chest at the foot of his bed and chucks it over the time-turner.
Immediately, he feels better. He hopes he hasn't been missing the obvious – like, the time loop couldn't close because although Potter stayed for the speech – meaning Draco didn't have to use the time-turner, so he didn't use the time-turner – when he came back after the event he saw the time-turner glowing, meaning he had used it, after all.
He should have left this time-travel shit well alone, Draco thinks, clutching his temples. He can't even recap what's happened without the threat of his brain melting and leaking out his ears.
He uses the bathroom and then dresses quickly in his formal robes, because maybe now he will do his speech again. Or perhaps not. He dithers in front of the mirror. His reflection – pale and ghostlike – stares back at him.
Perhaps – perhaps a bit of sunshine, before he travels to the Houses of Parliament, would be wise. Give him a bit of colour and stop him looking like a corpse. The – the sunshine in Potter's street was nice and bright, if he recalls correctly.
He's Disapparated and landed in Potter's street before he's barely finished the thought, and he looks around quickly to check no one's noticed. He thinks he's safe; it's Friday morning, still relatively early, and the Muggles moving to their cars seem lost in thought and their daily routine.
He walks a little way up the hill and finds himself outside Potter's house. The pathway up to the front steps is gravel and planted with bushes on either side, and there's more than one pot of cheerful flowers outside the front door. He wonders if Potter's green fingered, or if he hires a gardener.
Or maybe one of Potter's friends does his gardening. Longbottom, Draco recalls, was into Herbology. An uneasy jealousy spikes through him. Does Longbottom have a girlfriend? Or is he hanging around Potter like Finch-Fletchley? It would be just like Potter to be impressed by Longbottom – with his cardigan and his . . . his sword fighting and snake slaying.
Draco shakes his head, trying to snap out of it. He's spent so long thinking of Potter as straight that the revelation that he's not seems to have sent him round the twist. He feels conspicuous, standing outside like that, gawping, and crosses the road, to stand and stare from a distance. But even as he steps on to the opposite pavement and turns, he sees Potter's front door open.
Draco ducks down behind a car like a twat, his heart hammering. He hopes Potter hasn't seen him, because there's no way he can talk his way out of this one with his dignity still intact. By the time he can bring himself to rise up and peep through the car's windows, Potter is already down the stairs and walking further up the hill at a brisk pace. He's wearing the same sloppy outfit as usual. And – thank Merlin – Potter doesn't seem to have spotted him.
Draco follows him up the hill, on the opposite side of the road, keeping close to cars and trees in case Potter turns at any point and he has to hide. He acknowledges this to be ridiculous – he's slim, but not as slim as a thin tree trunk – but what else is he to do? He hasn't studied concealment magic, and while Potter famously has an invisibility cloak, Draco does not.
Potter breaks into a run at the top of the hill, disappearing over the horizon, and Draco's heart pounds – what has Potter seen? Who is he running from? But, as Draco crests the hill himself, he realises that Potter has vanished into a park.
He's not fleeing. He's exercising.
Draco feels extremely dim. He stands, looking out at the park, and wonders whether he should follow Potter some more. But that would be weird, wouldn't it? Draco doesn't want, or need, to see Potter all sweaty and panting as he runs in the sunshine, the breeze ruffling his hair. No, nothing could be further from his mind.
It occurs to him, though, that perhaps Potter is up to something. Perhaps, instead of merely jogging, he is meeting someone. Perhaps that's why the time loop continues – because Potter is up to something and he, Draco, must discover what it is before time can be put right. It's not stalking so much as heroism. It makes perfect sense, if Draco doesn't think about it too hard.
He dashes into the park, but by this time he's already lost sight of Potter. Draco finds himself on a series of grassy terraces, connected by ruined arches and decaying stonework. Dotted about are headless statues. He follows the curving path to the left, past a huge stone statue of a sphinx, and down more steps, through more trees, until the path opens out again. There's a stage in the midst of a lake – empty, apart from a solitary heron, and the painted metal structure peeling and decaying – and he continues past it, going by the entrance to a maze, and down and down the hill, until he finds himself beside a bustling children's playground. Shrieks of joy fill the air, and he finds himself smiling, even though he's failed in his objective: find Potter. The park is massive, and he suspects Potter simply turned right at the entrance, where he turned left.
Still, he's achieved one objective at least; the sun is bright and warm, and he can already feel his skin starting to tan. He hopes he won't – horrors – get freckles.
It seems pointless to hang around any further. He doesn't want to bump into Potter now – he'd have to explain why he's in a park so close to Potter's house, for a start. Potter may have given Draco his address, but that was yesterday – and today, yesterday never happened. No; he wants to follow Potter surreptitiously and find out what his secret purpose is for running in a park filled with Muggles. Was he having an illicit meeting with fucking Finch-Fletchley in the maze? If so, it must be Finch-Fletchley who's up to something. It's positively Draco's duty to intercede and save Potter from himself.
But if he goes home, his mother will just send him right to the Houses of Parliament. Where – Draco realises – Potter will turn up soon. In his exercise clothing, as if something suspicious happened that prevented him from changing before he arrived.
Draco dodges behind a tree and Disapparates so quickly that he nearly strains his back. The rest of the day passes much as usual. Draco chops his speech so as to keep Potter in his seat; he's not feeling strong enough to have another inevitable one-on-one with Potter – being called weak and self-centred once was quite enough. And besides – every time he looks at Potter, he remembers his inappropriate urge to get personal in front of him, and it throws him off balance.
He keeps his eye on Potter as much as he can, despite this – his eye is drawn to him, almost as if he was spellbound. Potter – to his mixed irritation and relief – seems a past master at avoiding him in the day's breaks, though, and he and Weasley vanish entirely during the evening drinks and meal, leaving only Granger behind from his contingent. Draco's not feeling nearly masochistic enough to interrogate her as to Potter's whereabouts; she'd probably interrogate him right back.
Draco goes to bed that night feeling mildly more optimistic than he has in some time. He may not have cracked the reason he's still trapped in time yet – but he has a firm lead and something of a plan. A plan which will enable him to keep tabs on Potter.
It'll be entertaining, Draco reasons, even if it all comes to nothing.
^^^^^
The next time Draco snaps awake in front of his desk, the time-turning glowing like a beacon, he barely flinches. He just snatches up a blanket and flings it over the arsing thing, and immediately feels a whole lot better.
He's not in the mood for breakfast this morning – his stomach feels full of squirming things, and he doesn't fancy seeing the Prophet's headline about himself for the – the what? The seventh time? The eighth? It occurs to him that, for his own sanity, it might be wise to mark the days, in case he's stuck for more than a couple of weeks. He doesn't want to lose the thread of time and start gibbering. He works it out and says firmly, out loud, "It's day eight." He feels better for it, even though eight times is seven times too many, in his opinion.
There's no use in regrets, though, so he uses the bathroom quickly and pulls on his formal robes. He's about to pull on his stiff, dragonhide boots too when he pauses. If he has to dash surreptitiously after Potter, perhaps it would make more sense to wear something a bit more comfortable? He compromises by wearing exercise shoes under his robes; the robes are long and almost sweep the ground, so even if he has to wear the ugly shoes to the Houses of Parliament later, it's doubtful anyone will notice.
He Apparates immediately to Potter's street. It's much too early for Potter to emerge, though, and Draco feels conspicuous just standing there, gazing over at his house like some lovesick loser. And . . . maybe he should have worn Muggle clothes, after all. He's attracting attention from all the suited Muggles who are emerging from their houses, presumably on their way to work. He decides he might as well follow them to pass the time; his robes are dark, and he might draw less notice if he's on the move. So he joins the stream of people, ending up in a stately Victorian train station, packed with commuters. He waits there a while, people watching, before coming to with a start; if he doesn't get a move on, he'll miss Potter. So he moves somewhere more discreet and Disapparates.
He lands almost right outside Potter's house – he's judged it well. Except, he's judged it too well, because Potter is already coming down the steps.
At least – Potter was coming down the steps. Now he's just standing there, frozen in place, staring at him.
Draco supposes his sudden appearance must come as something of a surprise. His stomach flips. "Good morning," he says, in an attempt to appear non-threatening. He doesn't want Potter hexing him.
This seems to unfreeze Potter, who continues down the stairs. "Malfoy," he says, when he reaches the bottom, and then stares a bit more, dumbfounded. Then he frowns. "How do you know where I live?"
This one's easy. You invited me for tea and gave me your address for future reference. Except, Potter didn't, did he? So: "Oh, I read about your new house in the papers," he says breezily, remembering what Potter had also told him.
This is evidently not the right answer. "That was months ago," Potter says, folding his arms. "And it didn't give my actual address. What are you up to, Malfoy?"
Following you, to see what YOU'RE up to, Draco wants to say. Or, alternatively, and more irrationally, Following you to save you from your Muggleborn ex-lover, who's got something nasty up his sleeve. But neither of those seems a good option. "I . . . I wanted to see you before the event today," he improvises. "I wanted to be on good terms. I know your address because we sent your event invite to it, remember?"
Potter's face relaxes, and Draco breathes an inward sigh of relief. The address thing does sound logical. As far as he knows, maybe his father does have Potter's address, rather than simply sending the invite to him care of the Ministry.
"Oh, right," Potter says. "I was just about to go for a run." He looks back at his door, and then away, and then almost twitches, as if he can't bear to stand still any longer.
He seems anxious for someone merely going for a jog, and Draco wavers for a moment. Should he let Potter go? He could follow him, at a discreet distance, and find out why he's anxious, and who's making him so. Or, he could go with him, force Potter to either reveal who he's meeting or make him miss his appointment. Maybe missing the appointment would reset the time loop. Maybe that's why Draco felt moved to use the time-turner, all those days ago – it wasn't, as he thought, out of pure self-indulgence, but out of a sense that something wasn't right with Potter, something that only he could fix.
"I'll come with you," Draco declares. It only seems sensible.
Potter blinks. "For a run? In your robes?"
Draco raises his chin. "Of course."
Potter shrugs, but seems to come to a decision. "Sure. The Muggles will stare, though." He sets off, without waiting for Draco, walking at a brisk pace. Does he want to leave him behind, Draco wonders, or is this just a warm-up?
When Potter breaks into a run, Draco does too. They run in silence, across the grassy terraces and bearing to the right, through a tangle of small paths that lead them past a massive, ugly concrete stadium on their left. It reminds Draco of a Quidditch arena, only not so impressive. They run on, past a sign pointing to a farm, and on, until they are running alongside an artificial lake. Draco, overheating and tiring, almost trips over his own shoelaces when he spots a massive creature rearing out of the water – except it soon becomes clear it's concrete.
He glances over at Potter and sees, to his discomfort, that Potter has noticed his reaction and is trying not to laugh.
"It's a Victorian dinosaur park," Potter says – speaking evenly, despite their quick pace. Draco thinks that if he tries to speak, he might die. "The Victorian Muggles made concrete statues of what they thought the dinosaurs looked like."
The Victorian Muggles were idiots, Draco thinks as they pass more of the creatures. Utter idiots. The dinosaurs he's seen look nothing like these things; they have more feathers, for a start, and aren't made of stone.
"We can slow down, if you like," Potter says.
"No, I'm fine," Draco rasps, with practically his last breath. He's not letting Potter beat him.
They continue on, past the children's playground Draco saw the previous day, and up past the maze and the stage on the lake. He shoots a glance at Potter as they pass – the maze seems a perfect place for a rendezvous – and a rest – but Potter doesn't seem inclined to stop.
Draco feels inclined to stop, though. He had no idea he was so unfit. Is he going to die? It seems likely.
Potter pauses when they reach a bench on the terraces – they have, it seems, done a full circuit of the park. "I'm going to do a couple more times around. You could wait here for me, if you're done?"
Draco, red faced, sweaty and panting, nods and manages to stand until Potter has jogged away, before collapsing gratefully on to the bench. He knows he should stand again, once Potter is safely out of sight, and follow him – probably, now Potter has lost his shadow, he'll do his secret business – but that would mean running even faster, to catch up with him. Draco thinks that if he tries to run faster, his legs might drop off. Besides, there's no way Potter will fail to notice him; Draco has drawn a crowd. He supposes it's not every day of the week the Muggles see an elegantly dressed wizard, in flowing robes, running like a nutter and turning as red as a tomato. It's not, he thinks, the most dignified he's ever been.
There doesn't seem much point in waiting for Potter to complete his run; does he want to speak to Potter, who seemed entirely unaffected by the pace, whilst dripping sweat? Does he want to be invited back to Potter's for tea, and have to turn up to the Houses of Parliament without changing into something fresh?
The answer to all these questions is no. So he stands and limps out of the park – he can't Disapparate with all the Muggles staring at him. It's some time before he can find a quiet spot, and it means he arrives home in a rush. He has to change – there's only so many times you can use a cleaning spell on silk before it needs a proper wash – and get to the Houses of Parliament before things kick off.
When he arrives, and sits, and catches sight of Potter across the Chamber, who's studiously not looking in his direction, it occurs to him that Potter is still in his exercise gear – so he must have been delayed at the park. Delayed by what, though, that's the question. The answer to which Draco has not yet discovered. He almost can't wait until the next day so that he can try again. This time, he'll try the surreptitious way and attach himself to Potter's shadow like a Sticking Charm.
If, that is, he can still stand up.
^^^^^
The next day though – "Day nine," he says out loud to himself – when he hides in the park before Potter is due to run, Potter fails to do anything suspicious.
Draco – who's this time transfigured a set of his second-best robes into Muggle-style jogging bottoms and T-shirt, for reasons of camouflage – manages to jog after him unnoticed. He can barely keep up, but even though the distance between them increases, and sometimes Potter vanishes as he goes around a corner, there doesn't seem enough time for him to accomplish anything nefarious – or to have anything nefarious done to him – by the time Draco puts on an extra spurt of speed and gets him back in sight. He doesn't enter the maze, or hide behind a massive stone dinosaur, or turn into a sheep when he passes the farm, or anything – he just runs, quick and smooth, and Draco curses him with what little breath is left in his body.
He follows Potter at a distance, trying not to stagger, as Potter leaves the park and returns to his house, where Draco lurks further down the road. Maybe now something interesting will happen. There is still time, after all.
Except . . . Except, nothing does happen, unless it's happening within Potter's house. All is quiet and still, until eventually Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger turn up from the direction of the train station and stand on the doorstep, ringing the bell and banging on the door for at least ten minutes.
Eventually, Potter opens the door. He's still in his exercise gear, his hair standing on end, and the prosaic truth dawns on Draco: Potter's only fucking gone and had a post-run nap. And, as he's running late, he now has no time to change.
Granger and Weasley disappear behind the door, and Malfoy looks at his watch: he's late, too. If he Apparates to the Houses of Parliament himself, he'll barely make it. And what's more: he's still dressed in Muggle clothes. And he can smell himself.
He feels bad that he'll be letting his father down, but he comes to an almost immediate decision: he'll skip the speech today. After all, what's the point? He can always do it tomorrow. And the day after that.
When the next day arrives though – "Day ten," he says out loud – he is so not in the mood to rerun the speech again. He's so stiff from the run the day before that he can't walk normally, and the thought of limping about the Lords Chamber is not a pleasant one. He doesn't want to look like a cock in front of Potter. And besides, what would he say if Potter asked him what was up? Oh, I'm tired from chasing you the day before, which is technically today? No, it is not to be considered.
But he knows from experience that another run might loosen his muscles up, so he gets a house-elf to pack him some food, leaves his mother a note, and changes into loose robes and takes himself on a long, solo run through the grounds of Malfoy Manor and out into the surrounding countryside. It isn't long before he's utterly lost, and he marvels at himself – at being nineteen years old and never having stepped out much further than his own land for fear of accidentally being in too close proximity to a Muggle. It suddenly seems all too ludicrous for words.
The day is warm, and he's alone apart from the wheeling birds in the sky and the creatures rustling in the undergrowth, and he runs, slow and steady, until he's so tired he can no longer run any more, and he lies down in a farmer's field amongst the crops and breathes in the odour of the sun-baked earth and the green, green crops until he falls asleep, waking sometime in the early afternoon, sunburned and starving, and falls on the food he's packed as if he's never eaten before.
"Day eleven" he does the same. It seems somehow liberating to be so completely freed from responsibility, even though he technically knows he's just blowing it off and his father must be furious.
Besides, if he's going to go running with Potter again – even if Potter is just running, rather than covertly meeting people in mazes – he wants to be able to easily keep up.
"Day twelve" he can run further, and "Day thirteen" further still. He's tiring himself out, but he has a mission.
"Day fourteen" it occurs to him that even if time is rewinding, again and again, he is changing – getting stronger. And, perhaps, getting older. He's not sure if he feels liberated – or terrified.