Draco snaps awake and his first thought is Harry – and Harry, of course, is not there.
What is there is his desk, and the time-turner, and his bedroom, and Draco feels a bit like putting his fist through the wall, but that won't solve anything, so he keeps his temper. He feels grubby, waking up alone and nude, having abandoned Potter and broken his promise – even though he hasn't technically broken it, because Harry won't remember anything about it. He'll have woken up this morning alone in his own bed and thought nothing of it.
Thinking that makes Draco feel sad and lonely, and it's not even the idea that there's no possibility now of a morning wank against Harry's warm, willing body that upsets him – it's so much more than that. Fuck's sake; he really does love Harry. He's such an idiot.
And . . . he feels bizarrely guilty for getting into Harry's pants without even buying him dinner first. Without making it crystal clear that their liaison was not casual - not in any way, shape or form.
But, angsting about Harry isn't productive, and today Draco is determined to be productive. So he showers quickly, dresses in a set of casual turquoise-blue robes, and goes down to talk to his mother.
At first, she doesn't believe him when he tells her about the time-turner and the time loop. He supposes it does sound a bit ridiculous. But her disbelief turns into alarm when he takes her to his bedroom and shows her the evidence. It's harder for her to explain it away when she can see it with her own eyes, casting a now glaring light out into the room.
She is not impressed, and neither is his father. But . . . Draco can't help but relax, now he's turned the problem over to them. It's not exactly true that his parents have never let him down, but he feels confident they can fix this for him. His father, in particular, has dozens of contacts, and there must be at least one of them who has knowledge of the dark arts in relation to time travel.
Draco feels sure that by this time tomorrow, things will be sorted.
By this time tomorrow, though, he's feeling a bit less optimistic. The first time he told his parents, they contacted dozens of people – and dozens of people came to the manor to examine the time-turner and pull sour faces.
Dozens of people left without helping.
The second time, he suggests that his father contact the Ministry and the Unspeakables, see what they have to say.
What they say is not entirely helpful: they claim they do no experiments with time, have no knowledge. But they manage, with great effort, to Levitate Draco's desk away and out of the magically-enlarged window, and the time-turner goes with it. But . . . Draco now doesn't think it will be so easy as all that.
He's proved right the next day, when he snaps awake and the desk is back – along with its unpleasant burden. He starts to panic, and this time he and his parents owl scores of foreign specialists in curse-breaking. This does no good either; everything they try either reflects off the time-turner or is simply absorbed by it.
The next day, the Malfoy family spend the day in the library, flipping through book after book to find something – anything – that might help. Nothing does though. Draco's parents might be willing enough to help, after their initial shock each day, but Draco soon realises that despite their efforts, they just can't. He is, once again, on his own again – and now more stuck than ever.
He begins to panic. And . . . he misses Harry. He misses him so much. So the next time that time resets, he tempts him away from the unity event – he can do it easily now, he's had that much practice – and they board a riverboat from Westminster Pier, taking the leisurely cruise down the river to Kew Gardens, where they spend the day pleasantly, strolling through the grounds and popping in and out of hothouses.
And as evening falls, they hide from the Muggle park-keepers and stay on after the park's closed, lying in the fading sunshine in the long grass near the Chinese pagoda, and Harry rolls over to face Draco and kisses him.
It's wonderful, and yet . . . this time, it doesn't feel right. Draco loves Harry. And they've already kissed, but Harry doesn't know that they've already kissed, and all of a sudden it's unbearable. Draco can't stand the thought that he should have to keep doing this, day after day, falling harder and deeper in love with Harry but never having that returned.
And since he has nothing to lose except his dignity, and he feels like he barely has that any more where Harry is concerned, he cracks – and, lying in the grass, with Harry's arms around him, he tells him about the time loop.
Harry frowns at him, sitting up, and Draco's not sure if he believes him or not – though whether that's because the entire premise is ludicrous, or because he thinks Draco's a complete idiot for what he's done, Draco can't tell. He thinks that if Harry did believe him, he wouldn't still be sitting there - he'd already be off, to tackle the problem head on, because that's the sort of brave, stupid fucker he is. Oh god, he loves him.
But Draco's so frustrated – and what the fuck does it matter, anyway, when Harry won't remember this the next day? – that he keeps on talking, despite Harry's evidence scepticism. He struggles up, to be on the same eye level as Harry, and his words coming out aching with honesty. "Every day I fall even harder in love with you. And you never remember! Will never fucking remember."
Harry's flushed, and he can't seem to settle, shifting on the ground, his hands wandering restlessly to fiddle with his shirt cuff, scratch his nose, the back of his neck, pick invisible fluff off his trouser leg, pluck a blade of grass. "Have you never considered though—" he says, and he stops, the words so thick in his mouth that it seems he can't go on.
"What?" Draco snaps, because it seems to him that he's considered everything, and may have an eternity of endless, pointless repetition in which to consider it some more.
"That – that," Harry fumbles. He swallows hard and seems to pull himself together. Calm settles across his features, and he sits up straight, hands flat on his knees.
Draco gazes at him helplessly, overwhelmed and taken aback by just how much he loves him.
"That while you're falling in love, I might have been in love with you all along?"
Draco's heart stops, and almost breaks. He has to get out of this sodding time loop, he has to, so he can hear Harry say that, and see him mean it, and know that the next day they'll both remember it, and the day after, and the day after that.
"Oh god," he says, and he kisses Harry, and it's desperate and fierce, and they lie together in the long grass and kiss and kiss and kiss, and rub their bodies together, and it doesn't even seem embarrassing when he comes without even taking his trousers off, because Harry's orgasm follows right behind him.
"What shall I do?" he asks as they lie in each other's arms.
Harry tells him what should have been obvious all along. Draco needs to get Hermione Granger on the case. What else?
^^^^^
Draco sits in Harry's kitchen and tries to look plausible. He's on one side of Harry's kitchen table, and on the other side, lined up like some sort of domestic jury, are Granger, Weasley and . . . and Harry.
The fact that Harry's on the side against him again, even if it's just a fucking kitchen table, makes Draco feel sick.
That morning, as soon as time reset, he got dressed as usual, picked up his owl as usual – as he does every day now, without fail, whether it's early in the morning or in the evening as the shop is closing – and Apparated to Harry's street as usual.
Rather much not as usual though, he rang the doorbell – and when a rather bewildered, dishevelled Harry opened the door, he asked him to summon Granger and Weasley immediately.
Now, he has them gathered, and he's told them his dilemma. And the trouble is . . . they don't believe him. And there's no way in hell he's going to get them over to his house, so he can show them the time-turner, if they don't trust him.
His courage quails at the thought that Harry doesn't trust him, but he tries not to mind too much. So far, he's given him no real reason to trust him. Harry has, at least, made him a cup of tea – a flicker of his usual friendliness – but there's no sugar and barely any milk. Draco suspects the presence of his friends has put him off.
"I was hoping for tea and sympathy," he says, in an attempt at a joke.
Granger looks at him as if he's just said something stupid, and Weasley folds his arms and stares. Draco finds it very disconcerting, the Weasley stare.
"You've got tea," Harry says awkwardly. "I'd offer you a biscuit, but I haven't been to the shops for a while and—"
"And you don't deserve a biscuit, you lying arsehole," Weasley cuts in crossly.
So. Tea and no sympathy it is then. At least for now. "I promise I'm not lying," Draco says wearily. "What can I do to prove it to you? I need your help. Harry suggested it yesterday – I mean, later today." It's confusing, trying to explain.
"Tell us something you would only know from being stuck in this so-called time loop then," Granger says suspiciously. "If you're so friendly with Harry, you should be able to come up with something."
Draco can come up with lots of things; lots of things that will make him sound like a stalker. But, he can't see an alternative, so he launches in to a list. "Harry's split up with Ginny, he died during the last battle, the Muggles he lived with were his uncle and aunt and he lived in a cupboard, the person he misses most is Hedwig, he's been on dates with Finch-Fletchley, he's never sucked co—"
"All right, all right," Harry interrupts, going red. "That's enough."
"You could have found out most of that from . . . well, from spying on Harry," Granger says delicately. "None of it's common knowledge, but it's all stuff we know."
"Apart from that last bit," Weasley says with a small shudder, and Harry leans over to whack him on the arm.
"Well, what do you suggest then?" Draco asks. "I'm running out of time. I'll do anything," he promises rashly. And he pretty much will, he's that desperate. He doesn't even know what Granger can do to help, when no one else has been able to so far, but Harry has a touching faith in her – and he has a rock-solid faith in Harry.
"I'll take Veritaserum," he says, trying not to wince.
"Easy enough to say when you know full well Harry doesn't keep any of that lying about in his kitchen cupboard," Weasley says with a snort.
"What about Legilimency?" Granger asks thoughtfully, turning to Harry. "You could do it, couldn't you?"
Harry frowns. "I dunno. I think so. But . . ."
"Well, perhaps you should give it a try. And if that doesn't work – and only then! – I suppose we'll have to take Draco's word for it and go to Malfoy Manor to see this supposed time-turner for ourselves. But I don't know," Granger adds. "I used a time-turner for a whole year, and I never had any problems with time loops."
Draco refrains from pointing out – again – that he'd fiddled with the time-turner so much that it barely resembled the original machine. He's too busy panicking about Harry using Legilimency on him. The only time he's experienced it before was when Aunt Bella attempted to teach him Occlumency; it was horrendous, to have her ferreting through his mind as he tried desperately – and mostly unsuccessfully – to keep her out. He tells himself that this is Harry, and he doesn't mind Harry rooting about in there, and he remains unconvinced. But . . . he can't see any other way. So he steels himself.
"I'll do it," he says, "but not in front of you lot." It's an uncomfortable enough process without an audience. There's no way he's having Weasley watching; no way in hell.
"No, I don't think so," Weasley says.
"No, really," Draco says, panicking harder. "Harry – please."
Harry, faced with this appeal, looks unnerved and disconcerted. He shifts in his chair and is about to open his mouth when Granger speaks. "I think Ron's right," she says sternly. "We'd better stay to make sure you don't try anything."
Oh god. "I'll – I'll give you my wand to look after," he says. "And you can search me, Harry. And – and put me in a body bind, if you really must. But I am not going to sit here in public while you—"
"Oh, shut up," Harry interrupts. "Don't be a dick, Draco. Private will be fine."
Weasley opens up his mouth to protest, but Harry glares at him and he subsides. It's clear who's in charge of this little group of friends, and it's not Weasley.
"Come on then," Harry says, and he leads the way up the stairs and into his bedroom, closing the door behind them. "You'd better not be fucking about," he warns, and gestures to the bed. "Sit down."
Draco perches on the edge, and Harry reaches for his wand, and then pauses. "One second," he says, and walks back to the door, opening it again. Behind it are an embarrassed Granger and Weasley. Harry raises his eyebrows at them, and they mutter apologies and slope off, back down the stairs.
Harry closes the door again and casts Muffliato. "Did – did Voldemort ever use Legilimency on you?" he asks, mouth tense.
Draco shudders. "No," he says.
This seems to relax Harry, because he starts to babble and explain the process.
Draco interrupts halfway through. "Aunt Bella had a fucking good go at it though, Harry, so I know what it's like. Please just get on with it."
"Oh," Harry says, and grimaces, and raises his wand and gets on with it.
It's like being invaded, and on fire, and overwhelmed and taken and claimed. Harry's in his head, in every nook and cranny, wrapping himself around everything that's Draco – everything he is, and was, and ever will be. Whenever Harry focuses on a memory, it's like Draco's sucked into it too, bright and vivid, and Harry seems particularly fixated on that time they lay together in the Slytherin dormitory, naked and grinding their cocks together. It's like reliving it over and over again, and Draco is so turned on he's shaking.
He's on top of Harry, and Harry's on top of him, and at the same time inside him, the Legilimency almost a physical force. He feels stripped bare, inside and out, and torn apart with memories of wet and heat and friction and touch and oh oh oh oh oh oh, he's going to come, he's actually going to come again, and—
Harry tears himself out of Draco's head, leaving him on the brink, trembling from head to toe, his cock hard and throbbing and his balls tight and ready to unload if Harry will just . . . Oh please . . .
Harry stares at him wildly, and Draco tries to smile, terror blooming through the physical urge to come.
Then Harry goes brick-red, and all of a sudden, Draco relaxes, because he just knows it's going to be all right. He takes a steadying breath, and then another, and the urge to come fades enough for him to be able to use his brain.
"Try again," he tells Harry, and takes his hand.
Harry bites his lips and nods. He casts Legilimens again – more gently this time, but it's still just as vivid. They're holding hands in Kew Gardens, and Draco's sneaking glances at Harry as he flies on the Quidditch pitch dressed in Slytherin green, and their bodies are tucked close together as they soar over Scotland on Buckbeak, and they're drinking tea in Harry's kitchen, and playing Monopoly in a Muggle pub, and there's a sickening lurch as Draco's smashing up his bedroom just before dawn, because he was just about to kiss Harry, and today Harry will have forgotten again, and there's the flicker of time resetting and the furniture is as it was, and there's Draco crying, because he can't bear it any more.
Harry pulls out of Draco's head, and for some reason – he can't even really remember crying, for Salazar's sake – he's crying now too. He can't stop himself though; it's like now he's started, his body physically won't let him. But this time Harry is there, holding him, patting his back and making awkward shushing noises. It doesn't help. Of course it doesn't help. Because this is Harry, and Draco's fallen so in love with him that he'd doing anything at all to keep him, and it's like being held by a stranger out of pity, like something out of a horror story, and he realises he's create the worst punishment for himself he ever could.
Harry moves in closer, and Draco realises with horror that he's going to try to kiss him. He recoils. "I don't want your fucking pity!" he snaps.
Harry just looks at him, his eyes impossibly wide, and trembles and tries to smile. "I . . . I don't think it's fair, though, that you went ahead and had our first kiss without me," he says, his voice wobbling a bit.
This is, Draco thinks, all entirely ludicrous, and unbelievable, and how can Harry want to kiss him when today is, technically, the first time he's seen him in months, and they've only spent an hour or so together. Except . . . isn't that true of all the other times too? Do a few extra hours really make all the difference?
He looks at Harry, and he looks so . . . sincere. And hurt. And Draco hates that. So he leans in and kisses him. He means it to be a soft, slow, gentle kiss, but Harry isn't having any of it – he kisses like he has something to prove.
He kisses like he means it.
Draco wants, so much, to indulge himself, to drown in the kiss. To rip off Harry's clothes and take him right there and then, and then lie back and let Harry deep inside him.
But there isn't fucking time. It's ironic, really; he's got all the time in the world, and yet he doesn't have time enough.
He pulls away reluctantly, and puts up a hand to Harry's cheek. "I . . ." he says, pulling a face. "I really really want to, but . . ." It's not fair. It's not fair. Oh Salazar. This is going to kill him, it really is.
Harry's forehead falls against his. "I know. The time loop."
"So I take it you believe me?" Draco asks wryly, straightening his robes and standing up. He takes deep, steady breaths, focusing hard to calm himself down.
"No, Draco, I am not at all convinced," Harry says with deathly sarcasm. "Come on, you tosser, we'd better go and take a look at this time-turner you've fucked up, then, hadn't we?"
He could have put it more politely, Draco thinks, but he supposed Harry has a point. And very irritating that is too.
They both walk down the stairs, and rejoin Granger and Weasley in the kitchen. "Draco's telling the truth," Harry says without preamble.
"Really? How can you be sure?" Weasley asks with deep suspicion.
Harry clears his throat and says, his voice going rather high pitched, "I just am!"
"That doesn't sound very convincing to me," Weasley replies, also with deep suspicion. "How do we know for sure that you, Malfoy, haven't tampered with—"
"If Harry's sure then he's sure," Granger interrupts. "Are you sure, Harry?"
Harry nods, clearly not trusting himself to speak, and Weasley mutters something low about Imperius which Granger ignores. Draco's not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by that – does she think he's not up to the job, or is it simply that she thinks he wouldn't?
He remembers, though, that Harry once mentioned a little chat he'd had with Hermione – and things said 'in confidence'. He wonders what those confidences were. Perhaps she has more faith in him than it appears.
They Apparate to Malfoy Manor one after the other, and land just outside the front door, saving them a walk up the sweeping drive. Draco leads them in, and Granger goes white when she enters – but she holds her head high and says, "I'm fine!" in a forbidding tone when Harry opens his mouth to ask the obvious.
They go straight to Draco's bedroom, and once there, they all stare at the time-turner. Draco with annoyance, and the others in various shades of horror and fascination.
"Gosh," Granger says eventually. "I've never seen anything like it. You really did it. I mean, I know you said you did, but . . ." She gazes some more. "That's quite a build-up of time it's collecting. I wonder what will happen when it disperses?"
Draco doesn't know, and he doesn't like the sound of it. But he does, on the other hand, like the sound that Granger's voice is making – she sounds like she knows what she's talking about.
"I have a bit of experience with time-turners," she says modestly, when he asks. "And I did some background reading when I used one."
"She means she read every book and paper ever written on the subject," Weasley explains, pride in his voice.
"Not every book," Granger demurs. She takes a step closer, then winces and steps back again. It makes Draco feel funny to be too near the thing, and it seems to be having the same effect on her.
"So, have you tried to pick it up recently, see if you can shift it?" Granger asks.
Draco attempts an eye roll – if he could pick it up and stamp on it, he'd have done that a long time ago. He opens his mouth, blinks, and—
—he is in his bedroom, reaching out with a tentative finger towards the molten, crazed mass, which seems to flicker as he approaches. He touches it – or he thinks he touches it – and there's a harsh, sharp, tormented sound, as if a violinist has forgotten that the cat-gut of his bow should no longer be attached to a living creature, and he feels himself shimmering, fragmenting. He can't breathe, or think; there is only the endless stretch and pull of time, ripping him apart, unravelling every fragment of what makes him him, and it takes everything that's in him – everything – to pull away. He can hear himself screaming and—
—he can hear himself screaming.
Fuck. He swallows. His throat feels ripped and he can taste stomach acid. He's sick again, into the handy waste paper basket that's been shoved in front of him, and he realises that he can feel someone – Harry, if the world is unkind, and because it is unkind, it's Harry – holding his slightly overlong hair away from his face with one hand and rubbing soothing circles against the small of his back.
"So that's a yes, then," Ron says, in what Draco considers the understatement of the year.
Hermione snorts and hands Draco a tissue. He shrugs off Harry's hands and wipes his mouth, trying to regain his self-composure.
"Well, if merely thinking about touching it throws you back into a memory that makes you physically sick, I don't think that's going to be much help," Granger says – unhelpfully.
"What will help then?" Draco asks sourly.
Granger sniffs. "I don't know yet. Give me some paper – and some time."
Draco does both. And then he and Weasley and Harry sit and look at each other for a while – except that Weasley's looking at him with dislike still, and Harry's only looking at his ear.
"Can you hurry it along, please?" Draco asks Granger.
"Yeah, get on with it," Weasley adds. "Being in here is giving me the creeps."
"Oh, get on with it, should I?" Granger says crossly. "Yes, I'll just rush it, and we can let the world explode and time itself fracture. No problem at all."
They all shut up and leave her to it, and sit twiddling their fingers for what feels like forever. Time slips on, and away, and Draco starts to panic again. What if Granger can't fix it? Why should Granger be able to fix it when no one else could?
An hour later, Granger stabs the paper with her quill. "It's the only way," she says firmly, which Draco doesn't much like the sound of.
Harry obviously doesn't much like the sound of it too. "Um, what is?" he asks, stretching widely. "Can it please not involve the world exploding and time itself fracturing?"
Granger snorts. "I wouldn't do that on purpose." Which makes Draco wonder if it will, indeed, happen . . . just not on purpose. It's a grim thought.
"We need to release the time build-up. The only way to do it is to destroy the time-turner, which should set things right."
"That's it?" Draco asks. It sounds too simple – just destroying the fucking thing. He supposes it is the one thing that hasn't been tried. Expert upon expert had attempted to remove curses from it, and 'cleanse' it, and reset it, and had no luck at all. But not one of them had been brave enough to simply explode it.
It sounds a bit risky, all in all, and Draco's not sure that he's brave enough to risk it either.
"OK then," Harry says, standing up. "What's the best spell to use? Incendio, you think?" He takes his wand out of his pocket.
"No, I reckon that would just set the desk on fire," Granger says, thinking hard. "How about Perderio?"
"Fine," Harry says, and raises his wand, pointing it at the time-turner.
"Wait!" Draco yells, and Harry turns, his brows drawing together.
"What?"
"What do you mean, what! What if destroying the time-turner does destroy all of time and space?"
Harry looks at him like he's an idiot. "For starters, I don't think Hermione would encourage me to blow up time and space. And anyway, do you really want to be stuck like this forever?"
It's a good point. No, Draco very much doesn't want to be stuck like this forever. But . . . he doesn't want to wake up, freed from the time loop, to discover that Harry's gone and blown himself up. He considers living the rest of his life without Harry and finds that the idea is beyond unbearable.
"Let's blow the fucking thing up together," he suggests.
Harry shrugs and turns to Granger.
Granger smiles at Draco. "I don't see what harm it could do," she says.
"Go on then," Harry says, and Draco gets his wand out too and they both turn to the time-turner on the desk.
Weasley gets to his feet and stands in front of Granger, who sighs, and says, "Oh, Ron," in an exasperated but extremely affectionate way.
"On the count of three," Draco says. "One. Two. THREE."
And they both wave their wands and shout, in unison, "PERDERIO!"