One day Draco wakes up and says, "Day twenty-three," and then . . . all of a sudden, he isn't sure. Could it be twenty-two? Or four? He tries to mentally catalogue the preceding days, recall what he's done on every one. He writes it down, reasoning it's best to keep a record. The thought of losing track suddenly seems overwhelming. After some frenzied calculation, and copious notes – because he's mostly been working on his fitness, this past week or so, so he can properly impress Potter the next time he sees him; or, at the very least, comfortably keep up with him – he concludes he was right first time. It's twenty-three. He's fairly sure.
The next day, when he snaps awake, the list is – of course – gone. It's winked out of existence, like it was never there. Because it wasn't. He hasn't done it yet. It's day twenty-four. Or three. The near certainty of yesterday slips away, and he can no longer tell.
Some days, the time loop has felt liberating – freeing. But today, unanchored, for the first time it feels like a trap.
Draco sits, and broods, and the walls close in on him.
^^^^^
The next time the day resets itself, Draco snaps to with a burning, overwhelming need to feel useful. To do something. And not just tread time, going running or pretending that if he follows Potter on his daily jog, he'll be somehow saving the world. He knows he's being ridiculous; his capacity for self deception only goes so far.
But . . . he wants to see Potter. It's been days. There's no point denying it; he wants to. And since he's fucking stuck in a time loop, he doesn't see why he can't indulge himself in that. So, he breakfasts as usual, leaves a note for his mother as usual, bunking off his duties, and Apparates to Diagon Alley. He has an idea.
He's inside the Magical Menagerie on North Side just after it opens. It's the first time he's ever been in – he's never been very interested in pets, himself. He had an eagle owl when he was at school, but it was just a family owl, and he didn't even give it a name – why would you name a post owl? But the place is surprisingly interesting, if putrid-smelling – cramped, and packed with cages, containing hundreds – thousands – of cawing, cooing, screeching, purring animals, in every size and shape and colour.
The shopkeeper gives him some time to browse – which isn't long; perhaps the wizened old man suspects that if Draco has to stay somewhere so noxious for more than ten minutes, he'll leave empty handed – then hobbles over. "May I help you, young sir?" he creaks.
"I'd like an owl," Draco says shortly.
"Certainly, certainly," the man says, nodding and bowing and scraping. "This way, sir." He leads the way deeper into the bowels of the shop, until Draco is standing in front of a wall of cages, filled with birds – most asleep, but some eyeing him balefully through the bars of their cages.
Draco tries not to shudder; there's something about their beaks that he's not keen on.
"What is sir looking for in an owl?" the shopkeeper croaks. "Size? Prestige? Speed? Practicality?"
It's a good question; what is sir looking for in an owl? Draco tries to remember what Potter's Hedwig looked like and draws a blank. There's something hissing behind him, which is putting him off. "Something . . . friendly, I suppose," he says dubiously, "but with good pedigree."
There's a rustle from one of the cages, near the top, and Draco spots the most ridiculous bird looking down at him. It's truly minute – it would fit in one of Draco's mother's tea cups – with eyes almost as big as its body.
The shopkeeper catches him looking up at it and shakes his head. "A poor stocking decision on my part," he says, tutting. "Too small to carry even a standard sized letter very far. I don't know what I was thinking. The creature's been unsold for months."
The little owl hoots – as if it's indignant – and spreads its wings. If it's trying to show that it is big enough, then it's a misplaced effort. It really is a ridiculous little thing, Draco thinks, and he takes care to pay attention as the shopkeeper talks through five or six of his best – and most expensive – owls. The owls fail to move him though, and he can't make a decision. Half of them are still asleep, and those that wake just look at him sullenly and close their eyes again. It is not encouraging.
As he dithers, the minute owl hoots again, and – there's no other way Draco can think to describe it – bounces up and down on its perch, continuing to hoot. Its voice is tiny and high pitched and . . . sort of cute. If it were human, Draco thinks, the creature would be yelling, Pick me! Pick meeeeee!
"What sort of owl is that one, then?" he asks casually, indicating the owlet.
The shopkeeper blinks. "That one?" A cunning look spreads itself across his ancient features. "Why, it's a rare breed indeed – the little owl."
"Yes, I know it's little. I can see that it's—"
"No, no, sir, my apologies. I was not clear. The breed name is 'little owl'." The man waves his wand, fingers bent and claw-like, and the bird's cage tugs free from the wall with a scraping noise, floating down to hover in front of Draco.
The bird looks at him with wide, beseeching eyes. Its beak quivers.
Draco finds himself saying, "Yes, OK, I'll take this one," and then not even able to object when he's fleeced out of fifteen galleons.
He Apparates to Potter's street with the owl's cage in hand and sits on Potter's doorstep, waiting for him to return from his run. It's a little embarrassing, but he sticks it out. The street is mostly empty, so he doesn't attract too much attention – apart from passing cars. He hopes he doesn't cause an accident; drivers keep double-taking and staring back, which Draco thinks isn't an ideal driving technique. How do Muggles heal themselves without magic? He shudders to think.
It isn't long before he can see Potter coasting down the hill; he's jogging slowly, evidently cooling down from his exertions, and when he catches sight of Draco, he slows further still. By the time he reaches the bottom of his own front steps, he's practically going backwards.
"Um, hello," Potter says, reaching up to wipe his forehead with the back of his wrist. His skin is flushed from effort and his hair plastered to his hairline. There are dark patches on his white T-shirt where the fabric has stuck to his skin.
For some reason, this is not as repellent as it might be.
Potter's frowning – but it's more of a puzzled frown than a fuck off, Malfoy frown. Draco supposes he can't look very intimidating, sitting on the steps in the sunshine with a pathetically small owl in a cage next to him. He's fairly obviously not there to cause trouble, at any rate.
"I don't want to be rude, Malfoy," Potter says, looking up at him from the bottom of the steps, "but what are you doing here? How do you know where I live?"
"The Ministry passed your address on – for the unity event today, you know? We sent you an invite."
"Oh, right," Potter says, and a smile hovers on his lips. He starts up the stairs, and Draco struggles to his feet. Potter indicates the owl with his head. "You know, if you wanted to send me a reminder owl, it's usual to let it out of its cage, not bring the owl with you. Sorry if I forgot to RSVP."
Potter's fiddling in his pocket for his front door key, when Draco says, "Oh, no, you've misunderstood."
Potter pauses with his key in the lock. The frown is back on his forehead. "Then what?"
This isn't going quite as smoothly as Draco had hoped. "I – uh – came to bring you an owl. As a present," he clarifies, when Potter's forehead fails to clear. "To replace Hedwig."
"To replace Hedwig," Potter repeats flatly.
"Um, yes," Draco says. If looks were Avada Kedavras then he'd be a heap on the floor.
Potter doesn't say anything; he just calmly opens his front door, walks in, and – and slams it in Draco's face, so hard that the displaced air ruffles his hair.
That . . . was not the reaction Draco had expected. He stands for a moment, staring at the shut door, unsure what to do next. When he turns, a curtain is twitching across the road; some nosy old cow wondering what's going on, he presumes.
Has he been insensitive, Draco wonders. He glances down at the little owl, which shuffles along its perch in the cage and seems to be attempting to snuggle up to his leg through the bars. "I was only trying to help," he says to it, aggrieved, and it bows its head, as if it quite understands.
It's all too stupid – he's been reduced to talking to an owl – but Draco can't bring himself to leave yet. It would seem too ignominious. So he sits back down again. He'll just . . . rest for ten minutes or so. And then he'll go; he doesn't want to be caught there by Weasley and Granger.
A few minutes later, though, Draco feels a draught on his back, and he twists, squinting up into the open doorway. Potter is standing there, a peculiar expression on his face. "Sorry," Potter says – although he doesn't sound all that sorry. "Come in and have some tea?"
"Mm, OK," Draco says. "I hear it has restorative powers."
That makes Potter half smile, and Draco follows him in and down the stairs again, until they're back in the immaculate kitchen, and once again Potter spells open the French windows to let in the flower-scented air.
Potter moves to the sink and fills a tall glass with water straight from the tap and gulps it down in one go, throwing his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Draco can't take his eyes off the line of his neck, the curve of his collar bones, the way the damp T-shirt clings to him. "Always thirsty after a run," Potter says apologetically, eyes averted from Draco, and turns to refill the glass. "Feel free to sit down." He drinks again, and then reaches to open a cabinet, pulling out a cereal bowl, which he half-fills with water. He carries it carefully to the table. "For your owl," he says – with a slight emphasis on your – and then turns back to fill a kettle.
Draco sits, placing the owl's cage on the floor beside his feet, and undoes the cage door. The owl lets out a happy hoot, barrels around the room, and then all but dive-bombs the water, ending up sitting in it and squeaking, splashing the water about with each flap.
"I'm – I'm sorry if I offended you," Draco says, reluctantly turning from the joyous owl to look at Potter.
Potter's not looking at him though; his back is turned. "I can't replace Hedwig," Potter says, with a raw edge to his voice. "Hagrid tried buying me another owl, but I made him take it back." He busies himself with the tea things.
Draco doesn't say anything; he's not sure what to. Potter's grief for his owl strikes him as excessive, and he doesn't understand it.
"I'm sure your owl is a very nice one, and I appreciate the thought, but I don't want it." Potter spoons sugar into one of the mugs, and then picks them both up, finally turning to look at Draco.
The little owl gives another big flap, and then takes off, sprinkling water on Draco's head, and then coming to land on his shoulder – wetly. "Not the silk, you little bastard!" Draco says, batting at it, but it hoots at him and dodges his hand, giving him a firm peck on the ear and settling down, its claws digging in.
"Besides," Potter adds with a hesitant laugh, sliding a mug towards Draco, "it looks like it knows who its owner is."
"Not funny, Potter," Draco says sulkily as the owl snuggles down even harder on his shoulder. The bastard's tickling his cheek with its feathers. If it shits on his shoulder, he'll eat it for lunch.
"No?" Potter teases. He seems to have regained his equilibrium, though his eyes are still sad.
Draco takes a sip of his tea. It's just how he likes it – weak, and milky, and thick with sugar. He glances over at Potter's tea – which is dark brown and looks revolting.
"Is it OK?" Potter asks, inclining his head at Draco's mug. "I should have asked how you take it, sorry. I just presumed."
"It's fine," Draco says, taking another warm, sweet sip. The owl, intrigued, peers forward and almost overbalances into the mug.
Potter starts to laugh, and Draco cracks a reluctant smile. "It's still yours if you want it," Draco says.
Potter shakes his head. "No, really," he says, but he's still smiling. "Hedwig was more than an owl to me. It would feel like I'd forgotten her, if I replaced her. She was a present from Hagrid – the first real present I ever had – and she . . . she was the first real family I ever had too." He falters through the final words, not smiling now.
Family? "Did you have her long before you went to school, then?" Draco asks, bewildered. There must be something he's not getting here.
Potter blinks. "Er, no? I got her just before I came to Hogwarts."
"But . . . you said first real family."
Potter nods. "You know I lived with my uncle and aunt before I came to school, right? I only found out I was a wizard when I got my Hogwarts letter. The Dursleys weren't too keen on magic." He looks awkward and takes a sip of tea. "They weren't too keen on me either. Though me and my cousin Dudley are friendlier these days. I don't blame him for how things were."
Draco knew all this vaguely – Muggle family and so on – and he knew Potter didn't like his family, because he was always at Hogwarts for Christmas. But . . . it strikes him he never actually thought it through. "How were things?" he asks. And adds: "They didn't buy you presents?" The idea of being a child and not getting presents is a bizarre one. Maybe the presents they bought Harry weren't to his taste; Draco knows he's kicked up enough fuss in the past when he thought a haul of gifts wasn't big or expensive enough.
Potter looks even more awkward. "Well, no."
Draco raises an eyebrow.
"They gave me a coat hanger once," Potter explains quickly. "And a pair of my uncle's old socks." He snorts. "But it was OK, because I couldn't have fitted anything else into my cupboard. It was barely big enough for me."
"Cupboard?" Draco repeats, startled into speech.
Potter's face goes red, but he looks at Draco steadily. "Yes, Malfoy. Famous Harry Potter –" and he gives an execrable imitation of Draco's own drawl "– had a cupboard for a bedroom, wore his cousin's cast-off clothes, didn't get any presents, and didn't have any friends. It wasn't much of a childhood. Going to Hogwarts was the best thing that ever happened to me."
"Oh," Draco says. "Right." And he feels like he should add something to that, but he can't think what. All that time he was jealous of Potter and . . . a cupboard?
"I didn't tell you that so you could feel sorry for me," Potter says, and he frowns. "Actually, I don't know why I did tell you. You're not going to share it about, are you? Though it serves me right if you Apparate right to Rita Skeeter's office, I suppose. Why are you really here, Malfoy?"
Draco opens his mouth to say something cutting, but the little owl pecks him – hard – and his words turn into an: "Ow!" He adds, crossly, "I came to bring you this little bastard, don't you remember?"
Potter looks at him steadily. "Yes, but why?"
Draco flushes miserably. "I – uh – thought you might . . . be lonely," he mutters. That is so not going to go down well; he wishes he could take it back almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Hopefully, Potter has come down with a hearing problem in recent days.
"Lonely?" Potter repeats. "Lonely? Why the HELL would you think that?"
"I – uh—" Draco stammers.
"I don't know what the fuck business it is of yours, whether I'm lonely or not," Potter continues, slamming his mug down on the table.
The little owl is startled off Draco's shoulder and flies off to hide at the top of a cupboard. Potter's a bit cross, Draco thinks.
"But, for your information, I have DOZENS of friends, who I see DAILY, and if anyone's lonely, I would presume it would be YOU."
The only way Draco's going to rescue this situation is with the truth, and he's unsettled enough by Potter's sudden anger that he tells it: "Well, yes, I am a bit," he says defensively. "And it's utterly shit, thank you very much."
Potter almost visibly deflates. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes, before shoving them back on. "I . . ." he says, and lapses into silence again.
The little owl peeps over the edge of the cupboard and, seeing all is clear, flies down, to sit once more on Draco's shoulder and hoot happily.
Potter gestures at the owl. "Maybe you need him more than I do, then," he says gruffly. And then, clearing his throat, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a dick." He takes a long drink of tea. "You . . . you hit a nerve. I don't much like living alone." He makes an effort to smile. "Hermione says I should get a half-Kneazle cat like hers – you know, Crookshanks? I'm not sure if you ever met him – but I don't know. What if it dies too? I don't think . . ."
Living alone clearly isn't doing Potter any good, Draco thinks, and he feels cross that Weasley and Granger haven't scooped him up and forced him to stay with them.
"Anyway," Potter says, taking a further swig of tea and draining the mug, "shouldn't we be getting off to the Palace of Westminster?"
Draco raises an eyebrow. "You planning to go dressed like that?" he asks, even though he knows that, yes, Potter is – that he thinks it appropriate to go to a formal political event dressed in well-worn exercise gear with a dingy hoody thrown over the top – because he has done very time so far.
"Oh, bollocks!" Potter says. "Won't be a mo." And he bounds up the stairs, leaving Draco alone in his kitchen.
Draco is overwhelmed by the urge to snoop, but . . . He stands up. He'd rather, he realises, simply have Potter show him around the house at some point. He doesn't – ugh – want to abuse Potter's trust. So, to remove himself from temptation, he walks out of the open French windows into the garden. It's formal in style, and partly paved with small stones, but there is such a profusion of greenery that it looks wild, as if Potter's invited the forest to come to stay. He picks his way down a path towards an ancient, lichen-covered stone urn, and walks round it to a cleared niche in the tangled growth containing a metal table and two matching chairs. Further on – up a series of narrow steps – he can see lawn that badly needs a mow and a distant summerhouse.
The little owl is still sitting on his shoulder, a tiny weight, and when he raises a hand, it hops on to his finger and regards him cheerfully. "Can you make your way home by yourself?" he asks it, idiotically. "Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire."
The bird sits up very straight, like a tiny avian soldier, and gives a hoot of understanding, before flying off, straight up into the air, and soon vanishing.
Draco, temporarily free of his tiny feathered burden – and momentarily sad that when the day resets tomorrow, he won't be the owl's owner any more – sits at the table and watches small garden birds flit on to the path and peck at the dirt, searching for worms.
Barely ten minutes later, Potter emerges from the house, calling, "Draco?"
Draco rises and blinks, walking back towards him, heart pounding.
"Oh, there you are," Potter says. "Come on; Ron and Hermione stopped by while you were out here, but I sent them on ahead. We're going to be late if we don't go right now." He pauses. "What?"
Draco tries to pull himself together. "Nothing. You – uh—" He waves a hand vaguely at Potter.
Potter looks down at himself. "Madam Malkin's finest," he says doubtfully. "Apparently, this look is all the rage. It's bloody boiling, though, in this heat. Do I look that bad?" He reaches up to fiddle with his hair. "My hair's still wet, but it won't look neat, whatever I do to it, so I don't bother these days."
He's wearing a dark Muggle-style three-piece suit with a dark-green shirt, open at the neck, and a matching short dark-green cape.
The sight of him takes Draco's breath away.
"We look like we match, you wanker," he says, to cover his confusion, and Potter – the bastard – grins.
"You think?" Potter says lightly, stepping forward and taking Draco's hand.
The world stops. And then starts – with a whirl. Potter's just Side-Alonging him, of course he is.
They land smoothly outside the Palace and hurry in, attracting glances – presumably, Draco thinks sourly, at the fact that noble, heroic Harry Potter is deigning to arrive in the company of ex Death Eater Draco Malfoy. Draco's father gives him a very piercing look when he sits, and Draco tries not to wince – he expects his father will want to know, later, what dirt Draco has got on Potter, and he feels very disinclined to share.
By the time Draco rises to give his speech, he still hasn't decided exactly what he's going to say. The long version will make Potter walk out – and he feels reluctant to make Potter hate him all over again. But he's sick to the back teeth of the shorter – weaker – version, and he feels an odd, irrepressible urge to impress Potter. So, instead, he speaks off the cuff. He talks of his and Potter's relationship at school – how they were rivals, for no real reason Draco can see, other than his own blind prejudice and jealousy, and he tells the assembled wizards and Muggles that if he had his time again, he'd do things differently. Offer his hand in friendship genuinely – without judgement. He feels hot and shaky, but he continues on – very much not looking over at Potter – and adds that he hopes that those here today can lay aside their own prejudices and look forward to a future full of friendship and mutual trust and cooperation.
When he sits down, the applause is polite but muted – until someone starts clapping extremely loudly and enthusiastically, and gradually people join in until it's almost deafening. Draco manages to look up from the floor – he has no idea why that was so embarrassing, but it really was – and sees Granger trying very hard to catch his eye. She smiles at him determinedly across the room, still applauding, her curled hair bouncing with every clap. His eyes slide to Potter.
"An interesting take on the speech we agreed," his father says sotto voce in his ear, "but it seems you have impressed our saviour –" the words slot into sarcastic place "– so I think no harm done this time."
Draco doesn't like his tone – or the implications contained in it – but there's no denying that Potter's looking right at Draco, his eyes burning, as if . . .
Draco swallows.
As if Draco's everything he's ever wanted.
Weasley – may he live in interesting times – elbows Potter, and this breaks the spell. Potter, a heavy colour rising in his face, turns to Weasley, and they conduct a whispered but spirited conversation – Granger occasionally attempting to shhhhh them with a hiss and a prod – as Draco's father rises and begins to speak. Weasley's obviously talking about him; he keeps shooting over poisonous glances. Draco tries to stop himself from standing up and dragging Weasley away; he almost wishes he'd been nicer to him at school. Not because he likes Weasley, or has any desire to be his friend – now or for forever – but because Potter likes him. So if Weasley's talking shit about him, Potter's bound to listen.
And Draco does want to be friends with Potter – is overwhelmed by how much he wants to be friends with Potter.
Potter frowns at Weasley, and the ginger bastard folds his arms and presses his lips firmly together, staring into the middle distance. Draco tries to catch Potter's eye – but fails. Potter is very studiously not looking over at him. Draco's heart sinks, and he sits in gloomy silence as the speeches continue, only rousing himself to clap when his father nudges him.
When there is a break in the proceedings for lunch, Potter vanishes – and when everyone sits down again, to continue, Potter's seat remains empty, although Weasley – very sulky – and Granger – very studious, with her note-taking quill – are still present. Draco sighs; Weasley 1 – Draco 0 is clearly the score today. He wonders what exactly Weasley said to Potter to have him fleeing from the building like his life depended on it.
But, during pre-dinner drinks later, Granger collars him in a corner. "Must be quick; Ron's just fetching my coat," she says, and hands him a folded piece of paper. "Good speech, Draco," she adds. "I think I actually believed you." And she walks off before Draco can reply to that little poison barb.
"Charming," he says, to her vanishing back, pulling a face, and then opens up the note.
Fancy going for a fly tomorrow?
Harry
And Draco knows that there will be no tomorrow; that when the day resets itself, Potter will have forgotten he's issued the invitation – no, he will never have even issued it, full stop. But it doesn't stop him from smiling at the note until his cheeks hurt, and when he gets home later that night, to find his little owl waiting anxiously for him on his bedroom windowsill, he sends Potter a – very small – note of his own. It reads, simply:
Yes.