Draco feels the lurching disorientation that presages the day starting, re-starting. The same feeling he's experienced each 'morning' for the past endless repeated, relived days. He blinks, breathing deep and slow, trying to ground himself, to stop the hot sensation that's prickling at the corners of his eyes before he's crying again. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters. The sunlight has the same weak, gluey consistency it always has. The same pattern of light and shadow falls across the carpet, flickering through the roughly drawn curtains as a light breeze tousles them. The window's open, and the air smells fresh and sweet, with the tang of rain as if a thunderstorm is coming.
As if a thunderstorm is coming. Draco stills, breath caught in his throat. That's new. That's new! He tries not to overreact; maybe it's a figment of his imagination. Maybe he wants so much for the day to have changed, for something – anything – to be different that he's hallucinating. He surveys the room slowly, heart in his mouth. It all looks exactly the same, though. Bed rumpled in the exact same pattern as always. A forgotten sock, living out its eternal rest on the exact same spot of the carpet. A half full – half empty – glass of water on the bedside table, containing exactly 253ml of liquid. (He knows. He's measured it.)
But . . . But . . .
His limbs feeling heavy with lead, he turns. He doesn't want to look at his desk, to see the same thing he's seen every day – may see every day for the rest of forever. But there's a lump in his chest that's rising, and with the smell of rain in his nostrils it feels a little bit like hope.
He turns, and sees – nothing.
There is nothing on the table.
No tools. No paperwork. All his months of research – gone. His expensive, irreplaceable equipment – gone.
And the fucking time-turner, the bane of his life, the hated, wretched, awful, sodding thing – which has simultaneously trapped him in a waking nightmare and freed him from pretty much every bond of responsibility and tradition and duty that pinned him down and made him weak—
The time-turner is gone too.
Time passes as he stares at the empty table, at the absence of the time-turner. He knows it passes, because it must do, and he can hear birds outside the window, chattering irritably to each other, and the room lightens almost imperceptibly until it must be full daylight outside.
He can't celebrate yet; not when he doesn't know what, exactly, he'd be celebrating. Is he finally freed of the fucking thing, or does its absence just mean he's doomed to repeat himself forever, with no chance of freedom? And – where is Harry? Has Draco – the thought drops through him like a pebble into a dark well – only managed to eliminate Harry all together? The only thing worse than spending eternity trapped in a loop would be if there was no longer any hope at all of seeing Harry. The only thing worse than being forgotten, over and over again, would be knowing he could never even try to be remembered.
Without Harry . . .
Draco bundles that thought up and squashes it. Without Harry there would be no world. Ergo, he is out there. Whether or not he can remember the day before.
Draco tries not to feel the hurt lance through him at the thought. He takes a stabilising breath, and then another, and finally manages to force himself into action. He has time – all the time in the world, perhaps – but then again, perhaps not, so if this is the last time he has to do this, the last time he has to make it stick, then he'd better bloody well make it count.
He showers, as usual, and dresses – his head spinning all the while. If this really is the last time he has to do this, and it is, he knows it this, this time for sure, then he has to make it count. He has to be himself. He has to show Harry that, prove to him from the start, that he's someone who Harry can trust. Can have faith in. Can love.
He wonders if he should replay a previous day – the time that he and Potter went to view the rebuilding work at Hogwarts was a particularly good one. But . . . it feels dishonest, in a way, to redo a day like that. He doesn't want to start their relationship feeling like he's cheating. Like he's manipulating Harry.
He dithers, and dithers, and looks at his watch and realises in a panic that he's already too late to catch Harry before the event – he runs too much of a risk of bumping into Weasley and Granger if he turns up at Harry's house now, and he doesn't think that would be an ideal way to start their forever after.
And so he paces the room, because he's realised he'll have to give his speech now – but which speech? A brand new one, or one he's already given? And if so, which?
It's only when he'd decided that he'd better think up something new – and panicked all over again about what, exactly – when he realises, with a jolt, that he hasn't picked up his owl yet. He doesn't know if he'll have time later, and there's no way he wants to risk not picking Pipsqueak up. It would feel like a bad omen if he didn't have Pipsqueak waiting at home for him. And, if Draco tells the truth, he just doesn't like the idea of Pipsqueak waiting in the shop, wondering if Draco is ever going to come.
He Apparates directly to the shop, and to his alarm the shopkeeper is busy with another customer. It's another ten minutes before he can buy Pipsqueak, and although he Apparates straight to the Palace of Westminster, after instructing the owl to fly straight home to the Manor, he's running so late now that he's missed his chance to catch Harry before the speeches start.
He dithers again, not sure now whether to catch Harry later – but then one of the Muggle officials sees him, and there's no way he can escape now. He has to make the usual pleasantries, and then the official escorts him inside, and he sits down, next to his father, and feels trapped – and alarmed, because now he has no idea what speech to make or what to do, and time is running away from him.
All he knows is that he wants to talk to Harry – he has to talk to Harry.
Harry, who is right across the room, wearing his scruffy exercise clothes and looking like he hasn't slept in months.
He's there. He's alive.
Draco nearly weeps with relief that at least this has gone right. That at least his biggest worry – that somehow destroying the time-turner would take Harry right along with it – hasn't come true.
The time for his speech arises, and he stands, still unsure what to say. But it comes to him as he opens his mouth. He doesn't care any more about the press and what they might write about him. He doesn't care if Weasley judges him, or if his father is annoyed that he doesn't portray their family in the best light. And . . . he doesn't care if his father will only countenance him dating a pureblood; fuck that. He loves his father, so so much, but he doesn't always love being a Malfoy. He is determined that the family name won't hold him back from his heart's desire, not any more.
"I haven't prepared a speech," he says, and senses his father shifting in amazement next to him. He almost thinks that his father will rise to say, in bewilderment, Yes, you have! and perhaps read it out for him, if Draco fails to follow through. So he continues quickly. "I think it's worth pointing out though: would you really be here, listening to me, valuing my opinion if my father hadn't bought your respect with his financial donations? Aren't you lot in trouble of just letting the same fucking nightmare happen all over again?"
And he turns and leaves the Chamber, walking quickly through the building and out the front door.
It's a gamble – but, thank Merlin, it pays off. This time, instead of Harry walking out in disgust during Draco's speech . . . Harry walks out in support. He walks out to follow him.
"Draco! Draco, wait!" Harry calls.
Draco pauses, savouring the moment, and turns. They're in the street outside; it's teeming with people, but all Draco can see is Harry.
It's as if time stops dead.
Harry himself stops dead, a few steps away from Draco, his face creasing in something that Draco can't decipher. But he doesn't do anything, or say anything, and Draco can feel his heart beating wildly, thrumming out, as if everything in him – his blood, his body, his very soul – is reaching out to the man in front of him.
Harry's still as a statue, as if he's not sure of himself, as if there's a thought caught on his tongue but if he moves too quickly it will flutter away.
Draco looks at him, and he knows that Harry doesn't remember, he just knows it, but the moment thickens until Draco's half-sure Harry remembers something – even if it's just a half-memory, a whisper of love, as if in a dream.
"Harry! What the hell—" Weasley calls, from behind Harry. He's panting and has clearly run after them.
The moment fractures, and Draco's insides drop as fast as if he's coasting just below the troposphere on his broom and the magic suddenly fails.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
He can feel the moment slipping away from him, and it's that red-haired fucker Weasley's fault. He can feel his face darkening with anger, and this is not how it's meant to go. Sweetness and light – that was the goal. Only, he's never been very sweet, and light versus dark is surely just a matter of perspective and—
"In a minute, Ron," Harry says, as tetchily as Draco's mother when Draco has forgotten a promise, and he turns back to face Draco. His expression is wary now. Wary – but not unwelcoming. There's an openness to his face that says Come in to Draco, and Draco wants to fold Harry in his arms, and be folded in turn, and just rest there, mutually entwined, for perhaps the rest of forever.
But then, this is the fucking saviour. Perhaps he wears that expression for all the boys, Draco thinks, and chokes down something black and bitter that rises in his throat.
"Malf—" Harry begins, and no, this is not how it goes. Absolutely not.
"Harry," Draco interrupts, knowing he sounds wild and emotional and not really caring, because if this works, then this is the start of forever.
Harry's eyes widen, and Draco can see he's taken aback. Draco tries to breathe, but it's as if someone's cast a body bind on his insides. The world is burning up, and vibrating, and tingling, and he's not sure he's brave enough for this shit, but . . .
But . . .
Draco, feeling like he's going to keel over, summons his courage, presses his lips together hard to stop them trembling, and holds out his hand.
He's shaking like a leaf, and there's no way Harry can't see it. It's like being eleven all over again, offering his friendship to the great Harry Potter, only then he didn't even dream there was a chance he'd be rejected. And then, Harry didn't know what Draco was like. Now, in front of all these people – because they've drawn a crowd of Muggles, and there's fucking Weasley there, and Granger's just arrived too – it feels like offering Harry a knife and kindly requesting to be stabbed for his trouble.
Harry Potter isn't better than Draco, or more powerful, or wiser, or more handsome, but he's all Draco's ever wanted, really, if he's honest with himself.
One of Harry's friends is calling him again, but this time Harry doesn't seem to even hear them, he's so intent on Draco. He's still not moving, but Draco can feel the tension emanating from him, as if he's a spring ready to uncoil with a snap.
Harry doesn't remember. He can't remember, or it would be different, but still, there's something in his eyes . . .
Draco's stomach roils. If Harry takes his hand, if he accepts what Draco's wordlessly offering, Draco will make him remember. One day at a time, until the end of time, and then beyond.
If he accepts . . .
If . . .
Harry seems to come to some mental decision. He half-shakes himself, the worry lines falling off his face until all that's left is peace. And he reaches out, and takes Draco's hand.
And he smiles.