Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.’
― Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

——

“I’m quite certain I told you to fuck off.”

Harry would know that voice anywhere, and he glanced over his shoulder, unsurprised to see Draco Malfoy perched on a tattered bar stool.

Well, Harry was surprised to see Malfoy at a packed Muggle pub. However, he was less surprised to hear Malfoy telling someone to fuck off—that was all Malfoy. Posh accent, blond hair, expensive suit…Malfoy never changed. Or it seemed that way to Harry, on the rare occasions they bumped into each other anyway.

Malfoy usually made himself scarce when Harry was around, unwilling to let go of their ridiculous childhood grudge like the tosser he was. It was tricky, pretending not to be bothered, when—for some bloody stupid reason Harry could never really figure out—it still rankled.

Even after all these years, Malfoy always got under Harry’s skin.

As was inevitable with so many mutual friends, Malfoy’s name came up often. When this happened, Harry would stay silent, acting as though he’d been hit with a rogue Muffliato. Unable to explain why he found Malfoy (his cold shoulder and hot arse) so goddamn infuriating, Harry thought it best to say nothing at all.

As was inevitable when they both worked at the Ministry, Harry ran into Malfoy often. When this happened, Harry was unfailingly polite, as though Malfoy was simply a colleague and one that Harry was indifferent to. Unable to explain why Malfoy’s crisp vowels and perfectly pressed suits were so goddamn annoying, Harry thought it best to get away as quickly as possible.

But now, confronted with a very real—and very standoffish—Malfoy, Harry was finding it difficult to keep his mouth shut.

Malfoy, for one, had never even tried to keep his mouth shut.

“I said, fuck off!” Malfoy shouted—it was only then that Harry noticed the smarmy prick pushing into Malfoy’s space.

And though Harry had spent years and years daydreaming about throttling Malfoy (not to mention the times he’d gleefully landed a punch or two), Harry lost his head entirely when the smarmy prick snagged Malfoy’s wrist.

Harry had nothing close to a plan as he strode towards them. What exactly was he supposed to say to defend someone he hadn’t had a proper conversation with in years: ‘get your hands off my childhood enemy, who I no longer hate but still find bloody maddening’?

Fucking fantastic idea.

Malfoy’s cool grey eyes narrowed before widening comically as Harry grabbed for the arsehole’s shirt.

“Get your hands off him,” Harry growled, yanking the smarmy prick backwards and away from Malfoy.

“The fuck—” he said, scowling and straightening his collar. “Who’re you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said.

Malfoy snorted and said under his breath, “The sodding Saviour, that’s who.”

When he made to reach for Malfoy again, Harry shoved him to the ground. He thought about hexing him for good measure, but Harry was still an Auror, and it wasn’t a good idea to attack random Muggles with magic—no matter how shitty they were.

“You should have listened the first time.” Malfoy peered over Harry’s shoulder, his hair unexpectedly soft against Harry’s neck. “Now, please, fuck right off.”

The crowd around them muttered, turning back to their drinks and conversations while the bartender leaned across the sticky counter. “Everything alright?” she asked, raising her eyebrows and motioning towards the man cursing and stumbling to the loo.

“Yes, thank you,” Malfoy said, pulling out his wallet—Harry was startled to see Muggle money alongside gold Galleons. “We were just leaving.”

“Good idea,” she said, snatching the pound notes from Malfoy’s hand.

“Malfoy, look—”

“Not here,” Malfoy hissed. He strode away, pulling on his dark coat and weaving through the tightly packed crowd.

Leaving behind an unfinished pint, Harry hurried after him, his hand drifting towards his wand. There was no way Malfoy was going to let it go without a fight—Harry just didn’t know if it would end in a duel or Malfoy chewing him out for coming to his rescue.

Again.

Ungrateful wanker that Malfoy was, Harry wasn’t expecting a thank you…which was a good thing, because he didn’t get one.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Malfoy snarled, shoving Harry against the rough brick wall the moment their feet hit the pavement.

“Me?!” Harry bellowed, knocking Malfoy’s hands away. “He’s the one—he put his—y’know what? Fuck you, Malfoy. I was just trying to help.”

“Let me guess—there weren’t enough kittens that needed saving today?” Malfoy poked him in the chest with one long finger. “I don’t need your help. What I need is for you to leave me the hell alone.”

They glared at each other. Malfoy’s cheeks were flushed, hair falling across his forehead, fists clenched at his sides. It brought back a flood of memories: midnight duels and Quidditch matches, Slytherins versus Gryffindors, Death Eaters against the Order. Years of insults and jeers, of fighting, of being on opposite sides of a war neither of them had wanted when they were only kids.

And for what…being at each other’s throats after all this time?

Harry was sick of it.

“Sure thing, Malfoy. Have a good life.”

Harry stalked away, looking forward to his bed and sleep and the end of this very fucked day. He’d no idea why he ever tried to be civil to Malfoy. It would never work, but like an idiot, Harry kept at it.

Why…Harry didn’t know.

Maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part, because they’d never be friends. There was too much history between them, they’d hurt each other time and again. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with already—

“Wait!” Harry heard Malfoy’s quick footsteps, but didn’t slow down. “Damnit, Potter—wait.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to apologise,” Malfoy gasped between heaving breaths.

As far back as Harry could remember, Malfoy had never once apologised for anything—especially not to Harry. But the words were enough, and Harry stopped dead in his tracks. Malfoy smacked into his shoulder, cursing and grasping Harry’s arms.

“Circe’s tits—could you be any more dense?” Malfoy rubbed his neck dramatically as he faced Harry. “It’s like running straight into a brick wall.”

Harry snorted. “I thought you were going to apologise.”

“Well, now that you’ve gone and given me whiplash, I suspect we’re even.”

It was just like Malfoy to be sarcastic instead of actually apologising—git. It was aggravating, and it certainly wasn’t funny, but Harry had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. It was so goddamn ridiculous. They were adults and they couldn’t get along for two minutes. They’d been having the same fucking fight since they were eleven.

“Whatever.”

Malfoy shot him a dirty look before his lips twitched, but his frown didn’t budge. They stared awkwardly at each other until Harry turned his face towards the night sky and rubbed at his stinging eyes. Maybe it was the four pints, or his too long days and sleepless nights, or the fire in Malfoy’s eyes, but Harry was suddenly exhausted—just so damn tired.

Harry put his hand out. “Can we…let’s start over.”

“Not this again,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes.

“C’mon—”

“I know, I know.” Malfoy shook his hand, and it was warmer than Harry remembered. “Draco Malfoy, pleasure’s all mine.”

“Harry Potter, nice to meet you.”

“How many times is that now?”

“Dunno—maybe eight or nine?”

“Think this is the time it’ll finally work?” Malfoy asked, cocking his eyebrow.

Hope tugging at the knot in his chest, Harry said, “Guess we’ll see.”

——

Bright sunshine flooded his room and Harry woke with a start. He’d been having the strangest dream, but what had been so vivid only moments ago abruptly slipped from his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember a single thing, and it had felt so important at the time…probably just his nerves getting the better of him.

He groaned, burying his face in the pillow. Today was the day Harry had been dreading for months. Maybe years. And there was nothing to be done about it now; Harry couldn’t put it off any longer. It took all his energy to roll out of bed—he wanted to crawl back under the duvet and avoid the day altogether.

Slipping on his trainers, Harry tried very hard not to think of the letter waiting on his desk, so instead, he let his mind wander…and his thoughts went straight to Malfoy.

Harry had known Malfoy practically his whole life. But Harry had to admit, as he jogged through the park, his feet barely keeping up with his racing thoughts, that he didn’t really know Malfoy.

At least, not in the way Harry had always thought he did.

Harry didn’t know if Malfoy still took his tea with two sugars and way too much milk, if he ever talked to his parents, if he missed playing Quidditch as much as Harry did. Malfoy’s life was a total mystery. With his gentle hands and tousled hair and broad shoulders, Harry sometimes felt like he was looking at a stranger. An attractive stranger at that. It was more than a bit weird to find Malfoy handsome, but Harry had accepted his unusual attraction a long time ago. It was just one of those things.

And Malfoy had never properly apologised last night, but he’d walked Harry to the nearest Apparition point, even attempted to make polite conversation. It was difficult to reconcile this new and oddly cordial Malfoy, and the charming Malfoy he’d heard about from his friends (but had never seen himself), with the sneering and spoiled arsehole that lived in Harry’s memory.

They were different enough that he would have trouble believing they were the same person—if it weren’t for the fact that Malfoy was usually still an arsehole to Harry.

If Hermione was a Legilimens, no doubt she’d remind him that Hogwarts was firmly in the past and he had to learn to let things go. Then again, Harry had never really learned how to let things go—particularly where Malfoy was concerned. If he was being honest, Malfoy had intrigued Harry from the moment they’d met in Madam Malkin’s, and that was something that’d never changed.

Harry was distracted all morning. As he showered and got coffee, as he grabbed the dreaded letter and walked to work, he thought of little but Draco Malfoy.

When he caught sight of a shock of white blond hair in Diagon Alley, Harry thought wildly he’d somehow Summoned Malfoy. For the briefest of moments, those sharp grey eyes met his and Harry wanted…well, he wanted to talk to Malfoy. To ask him if their handshake meant anything, if he was just as tired of fighting, if they could try, honest-to-Merlin try, to be friends. If things could really be different now.

Then, everything went black.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter died on a Thursday.

Draco saw it all. Potter on the corner of Knockturn and Diagon, a gnarled wix in a black cloak, that damned jet of green light hitting him square in the chest, Potter’s eyes dimming as he fell.

Coward that he was, Draco could only stand there, frozen and terrified, and do nothing. His breakfast made a sudden reappearance, sick splattering the already grotty alley. It was too much. Not that Draco thought Potter would never die. He’d been there at the battle, and just like everyone else, thought Voldemort had killed the unkillable Harry Potter. But then, Potter had made his miraculous recovery, and was once again the Boy Who Lived.

Draco didn’t know how to explain it, except there was something very different about seeing Potter’s still and broken body—and he stumbled home, waiting breathlessly by the wireless for any news.

Draco should have known that Potter’s death would be anything but simple…or permanent.

The second time it happened, Draco hid in the alleyway. Confused and agitated, he waited for something…different. Another miracle perhaps. But Potter died again, and Draco watched as the street full of wix fell all over themselves to get to him—to get their hands on the Chosen One, to mourn their Saviour while his body was still warm. Draco walked home, falling into bed and an uneasy sleep.

The third and fourth times, Draco didn’t leave his room. Wrapped in his duvet, hiding from the cruel sunshine, he could pretend everything was fine. Deep down though, the truth twisted tightly in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

The fifth, sixth, and seventh times, Draco made sure he was far, far away from that cursed alley. It wasn’t doing either of them any good and Draco was determined not to spend another moment watching Potter martyr himself.

Of course, if there was one thing Draco had never been good at, it was staying away from Potter.

By the twenty-seventh time Potter died, Draco was bored.

And very fucking irritated.

——

Rays of dazzling sunlight woke Draco, and he blinked his eyes open to face yet another beautiful morning.

He wasn’t happy about it.

It was unnatural to be in London and see the sun every bloody day. If he ever got out of this mess, he’d never complain about the rain again.

Muttering to himself about the unfairness that was his entire life, Draco made scrambled eggs on toast, chucked the Prophet directly into the bin—no use in wasting time doing the same crossword for the umpteenth time—and tried to come up with a plan. A plan that would free Draco from his unending misery and save Potter.

It seemed impossible, and Draco was more than a little upset about the whole thing.

Potter had some fucking nerve. It was just like him to die and make it Draco’s problem. Because as far as Draco could tell, no one else was aware that Potter was dead (dying?), which meant it was up to him to somehow change the past…the future? Current events?

It was all very confusing.

And since Draco wasn’t an Unspeakable, he wasn’t about to unravel the mysteries of time. He was a solicitor, for fuck’s sake. His days largely consisted of paperwork and disgruntled Wizengamot members, not fighting the forces of evil. And even if Draco had been a trained Auror, there was still the fact that he didn’t know what the bloody fuck was happening.

Draco had spent the past decade trying to avoid Potter at all costs, and yet, for the last twenty days, Draco had done nothing but try to save him. Not because Draco particularly cared about Potter; at most, he tolerated the Chosen One’s existence as an inescapable part of life. However, it had become quite apparent Draco would be cursed with perpetual Thursdays until he managed to stop Potter from dying.

Unfortunately for Draco’s sanity, it wasn’t working—likely on account of the thickness of Potter’s skull.

And no matter how much Draco whined about it (and whine about it he did), he was determined to figure it out. The universe could have—and should have—found someone more well-suited to this particular rescue mission. Potter’s gang of fearless Gryffindors was the obvious choice, but literally anyone else besides Draco would have been better.

Except it was clear Draco’s opinion on the matter of saving the Saviour meant fuck all.

So Draco had done what he could. He’d pushed notes under Potter’s door: ‘If you leave the house today, you’ll die. So don’t fucking do that.’ Potter didn’t listen—he never had, because he was a stubborn arsehole and there was no reason to change now. Draco had sent owls to Hermione and Ron, every other member of the Weasley family, Luna, Pansy and Ginevra, the Thomas-Finnigans, the Auror department…hell, Draco even tried to reach Rita Skeeter. Anyone he thought might have been able to intercede.

It had been a waste of parchment. No matter how many notes Draco sent, nothing ever changed. And it didn’t matter that he’d shown up to the Ministry and begged anyone and everyone for help. It didn’t matter that Draco had tried to curse every wix in Knockturn before they could get to Potter. None of it made a bit of difference. Every day, without fail, Potter left the house and was promptly murdered.

Despite dying once already, Potter evidently had a death wish.

Thinking about Potter with his stupid scar and his stupid saviour complex and his stupid death drove Draco crazy and by the time he finished breakfast, he’d worked himself into a right strop.

If Potter wanted to ignore Draco and walk to his death every damn day, then that was his prerogative. It had nothing to do with Draco and Draco didn’t give a rat’s arse about the Chosen One. Maybe it was high time Potter saved himself for a change, instead of saving everyone else.

Yes, that was it—Draco didn’t need to do anything. It was Potter’s problem and it would all work itself out.

——

“The problem with Potter is that he can’t do anything right.” Draco took a sip of his coffee, then muttered, “Even when his life depends on it.”

“I like Mr Potter. He’s nice.”

“Of course he’s nice,” Draco said, glancing sideways at Emily—a tiny Muggle and his apparent new best friend—swinging her legs on the bench next to him. “He’s…well, he’s Potter. He can’t help it. He’s always been nauseatingly kind.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “He saved Miss Daisy.”

“Miss Daisy?”

She pointed at a calico cat sitting in a small window across the street.

“Why am I not surprised?” Draco rolled his eyes. He knew that all those stories of Auror heroics were absolute bollocks. Potter must have won those countless Order of Merlin, First Class medals for kissing babies and rescuing fluffy animals—the sanctimonious git.

“What happened?” Draco asked, nodding towards Miss Daisy.

Emily sighed. “She’s a very silly cat—”

“Aren’t all cats a bit silly?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Some cats are very serious.”

Draco was forcibly reminded of Professor McGonagall. “Ah, I see.”

“And she likes to escape to chase the birds. Mum says”—Emily affected a stern tone and shook her finger in a clear imitation of her mother—“‘Miss Daisy’s a menace.’”

Draco snorted. It sounded like Potter and Miss Daisy had a lot in common.

“Last Christmas she got stuck. Mr Potter climbed really, really, really, really…” she said, tipping her head back to look up at the towering plane tree above their heads. “…really, really high to get her.”

“Ever the Saviour,” Draco grumbled.

She tilted her head, regarding him with light brown eyes. “You’re sorta weird.”

“I may have heard that once or twice,” he said with a wink. Truthfully, it was one of the more polite insults he’d ever received.

She smiled shyly and bit into a chocolate biscuit, crumbs scattering to the ground.

“Should you be eating biscuits for breakfast?” Draco asked—not that he had any idea how to raise a child, but he thought it best to act like a responsible adult (whether he felt like one or not).

“Summer hols,” she said, as though it was perfectly reasonable to eat chocolate digestives before eight a.m. because it was June.

Draco was just about to suggest toast as a sensible alternative, and to ask her more about ‘Mr Potter’, when the front door to the house with Miss Daisy in the window suddenly opened. A short woman in a bright purple dressing gown waved at them, calling, “Emily!”

“Gotta go,” Emily said, jumping up from the bench as the woman, presumably her mother, went back inside. “Bye, Mr Malfoy!”

She was skipping away, her long ponytail bouncing on her shoulders, when she stopped short of her front gate and walked back to the bench.

“Mr Potter runs every morning and he eats a lot of crisps and he’s a special policeman.” Looking around, as though to make sure they weren’t overheard, she half-covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, “And I heard mum tell Mrs Rogers that he likes boys and girls.”

“That’s…very insightful.”

She beamed. “Mum says if you want to make friends, you should ask people about things they like, and be a good listener.”

Draco tried to imagine asking Potter if he really liked boys and girls—and snorted into his coffee.

He smiled over his mug at Emily. “Your mum sounds quite smart.”

She shrugged again. “Sometimes.”

“Emily, what are you doing?!” her mother yelled through the still open door.

“Com…iiiing,” Emily sing-songed, running up her front steps, and she waved at Draco as she shut the door.

Once Draco was sure she was inside, and not staring out the window with Miss Daisy, he cast a Disillusionment Charm. Draco was going to wait as long as necessary for Potter, and though Emily wasn’t even close to bad company, he was worried that more of Potter’s neighbours would sit down to make idle chitchat. Draco was also quite sure that Potter wouldn’t take kindly to him spying on Grimmauld Place—even if it was for Potter’s own good.

That morning, while laying in bed and contemplating just how many Thursdays he could live through without going totally mad, Draco had finally resigned himself to history’s most foolish mission: keeping the Boy Who Lived alive.

A task that sounded far more simple than it was.

But Draco was convinced that Potter only needed to survive one bloody day. If Draco could figure out Potter’s daily routine, and interrupt it at the exact right moment, then he could stop Potter from ever dying.

Maybe.

It was Draco’s best idea so far, and if Potter’s survival didn’t fix everything, then Draco would just learn to love Thursdays…a whole fucking lot.

He was debating the pros and cons of taking a slash behind a bush—Draco really should have stopped after three cups of coffee—when Potter stepped through his front door.

It was a warm morning to be sure, but that didn’t explain Potter’s utter lack of clothes. Draco recognised the ratty trainers, Potter had never been one for proper footwear, but his red shorts barely covered the tops of his thighs and they strained obscenely over his arse as Potter stretched on his front step. Not to mention Potter was shirtless.

It wasn’t that Draco hadn’t noticed Potter was fit before this moment—as Pansy often reminded him, Draco was painfully homosexual. But it was something else entirely to see the dark hair dusting his legs and curling across his broad chest, the muscles tensing under his brown skin, the jagged scar cutting through the phoenix tattoo on his back.

Draco didn’t have a problem with the way Potter looked—much to his dismay, Potter was exactly Draco’s type—the trouble always started once Potter opened his mouth.

He settled more firmly on the bench, watching and waiting, as Potter jogged down the pavement, away from Draco and through the park.

Draco stayed put. He’d always been ambitious, willing to sacrifice almost anything to achieve his goals, and he was desperate to escape the never-ending cycle of Thursdays. However far his determination extended, it didn’t touch his total unwillingness to run…especially in public. Draco was a lot of things, but a jogger was not one of them—and that wasn’t going to change.

Not now, not ever.

No matter how sexy Potter was in those tiny shorts.

Except patience had never been one of Draco’s virtues, and he struggled to wait quietly for Potter, rather than Apparate home and find something better to do with his time. He’d just decided that this whole plan was ludicrous, and unlikely to work, when Potter turned the corner, heading towards Draco.

Sweat was dripping down those delectable pecs and Draco spent several happy moments staring before remembering exactly why he was stuck on this particular bench. Draco shook his head to clear it—he needed to focus. He could trip Potter, or shove him to the ground, maybe?

No, that was a ridiculous idea. Given his work as an Auror, and despite the likely fictitious exploits he was constantly boasting about, Potter was sure to know several Healing spells. Draco doubted he could do enough damage to get Potter sent to St Mungo’s, and he wouldn’t cast any curses strong enough to incapacitate Potter. It seemed probable Draco’s luck with the day resetting itself would end once he was locked away in Azkaban.

Lost in his thoughts, Draco had hesitated a moment too long and Potter was going to pass him, heading home and to his death.

Draco sighed…right as Potter looked over at him and said, “Morning, Malfoy.”

Too shocked to stifle his gasp (because what in the literal fuck was happening?), Draco tried to sit still and move at the same time, faltering on the bench and barely catching himself with his hands as he toppled forward.

“By the way,” Potter said, turning around and gracefully jogging backwards, “your Disillusionment Charms are shit.”

Draco didn’t have time to answer before Potter made it to his front door, shutting it firmly. He sat there, seething, for several minutes, and dreamt of all the ways he could kill Potter himself.

Bloody bastard—Draco hated him.

Walking up the street, still irate, Draco considered blasting open Potter’s door and giving him a piece, or several, of Draco’s mind. Instead, he fumed as his feet carried him to a coffee shop that he’d seen on his way to Grimmauld this morning.

The last thing Draco needed was more caffeine—his bladder was near bursting and his hands were already shaking—but he needed to do something.

Something that wasn’t strangling Potter to within an inch of his life.

Draco slammed through the door of Bean There, Done That, his irritation at Potter getting the best of him. It was just so…so Potter. The powerful magicks, the self-righteous grin, his sheer joy at making Draco look stupid—that was what Draco got for trying to save Potter’s life.

Potter hadn’t changed one bit, and Draco wanted to kick himself for believing things could ever be different. There was no way around it, Draco needed a new plan. He couldn’t stand to be near Potter, and Draco wanted to help him even less than he had this morning (and it hadn’t been very much to begin with).

The too-cheery barista waved to Draco from behind the counter. “Can I help you?”

Draco grimaced—he loathed perkiness at the best of times, and this was pretty much the worst of times. He scanned the menu and the softly lit baked goods arranged neatly beneath the smudged glass counter. “A macchiato and a chocolate croissant.”

“You got it.” The barista, her name tag reading Nora (with three exclamation points), bustled behind the counter, humming to herself.

“Better make it two croissants,” Draco said, eyeing her bright smile warily—it looked almost painful.

“No problem,” Nora said, winking at him.

He paid, and she pressed a bag and steaming cup into his hand, her smile never wavering. “Have a great day!”

Shooting her the closest thing to a smile he could muster, and feeling quite proud of himself for not rolling his eyes, Draco sat at the table furthest from the counter, and Nora. The coffee shop had large windows facing the crowded street and sunshine poured across the dark wood floors. Colourful tables and mismatched chairs were scattered throughout the small space. Art covered the walls, distinct pieces heavily featuring coffee beans, and though it was busy, Nora was the only one behind the counter. It had been a long time since Draco had been in a proper coffee shop, preferring to make his own before Flooing to the Ministry, and he was looking forward to having some time to brood in silence before going home.

Draco had a view of the flower shop next door and was watching a very old, and very hunched, man carefully assemble a bouquet of light pink peonies when the bell over the door tinkled quietly…and in walked Potter.

Because of course it was Potter.

The universe had clearly decided Draco hadn’t suffered enough. Draco knew he had to face the consequences of his actions—he’d been a Malfoy and a Death Eater and he’d tried to murder people because he believed everything his parents told him. There was a price to pay for being shitty half your life, and Draco tried not to complain too much about it because he’d been the one to make mistake after mistake.

But this was too much.

Draco sank further into his chair, trying to fold himself into a little ball, which was impossible because his long limbs refused to cooperate and there wasn’t any space under the spindly legs of the table. Deciding to simply Apparate away—damn the Statute of Secrecy—Draco pulled out his wand, but Potter chose that moment to glance into the corner.

And directly at Draco.

His eyes narrowed as he shook his head, turning with a scowl to face Nora. Potter was obviously a regular, and Nora handed him a cup while he placed some coins in her palm, waving away the change. Briefly, Draco thought Potter might ignore him and leave without saying anything.

As if Potter could ever keep his trap shut.

“Stalking me, Malfoy?”

“Well, you would know, wouldn’t you?” Draco sneered, old habits dying hard.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Potter said, tapping his chin mockingly. “But wasn’t it just last night that you told me to leave you the hell alone?”

“That’s not—”

“What do you want?” Potter interjected, his eyes blazing.

“Nothing,” Draco lied; this was not the time for truth-telling. “This is…well, it’s just a misunderstanding.”

“Sure it is,” Potter said, turning on his heel and practically running for the door.

“Potter—wait!”

The bell tinkled again as Potter left, pushing through a crowd of Muggles in his haste to get away from Draco.

He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Nora greeted Draco with a wave and a very enthusiastic “Hiya!” when he walked into Bean There, Done That the next morning.

Her exuberance was less irritating the second time around…mildly less irritating.

But Draco couldn’t be bothered with Nora’s keenness for coffee. He had enough problems, and his sanity was already hanging by a very thin thread. All thanks to Potter and his bloody short-shorts and his general dickheadedness. Draco was liable to go mad at any moment, and he couldn’t bear to look at Potter’s muscular arse anymore.

Draco was strong enough to admit that he wasn’t strong enough for that two days in a row.

“Good morning. Could I get a macchiato, please?”

“Sure!” she said, her many silver bracelets jangling as she reached for the milk. “Heading to work?”

There was no one else in the queue for her to hassle, and Draco groaned internally. He hated small talk.

“Ah, no. I’m meeting…” a man I spent years bullying for no good reason I can remember and whose death I’m trying to prevent “…a friend.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Unlikely,” Draco muttered, thinking of yesterday.

“What was that?” Nora asked, raising her voice over the espresso machine.

“I said, should be.”

She must not have caught the sarcasm in his voice, or maybe she just didn’t care, because her smile was firmly in place as she handed over his coffee.

“Have a wonderful day!”

Anticipating a fight with Potter and unable to smile back properly, Draco nodded once and sat at a table close to the door. He was hoping Potter would see him straightaway—given their most recent disastrous encounter, and Potter’s accusations of stalking (which may have been true, but were still uncalled for), Draco thought it best to look as innocent as possible.

There was little hope it would change anything, but he was running out of ideas and no closer to saving Potter.

When Potter walked in—handsome as always, with damp hair and faded jeans—and saw Draco, he was obviously confused. But as far as Draco could tell, he wasn’t hostile.

Already, it was an improvement.

It felt strange to smile at Potter, and Draco quickly decided against it, knowing it would look too strained to be friendly, but he did offer a bizarre half-wave, half-salute.

Like a total fucking berk.

Draco wanted to sink through the floor. Thankfully, Potter wasn’t likely to remember today, and the odd wave-salute had done the trick.

Though Potter was still wary, he walked over after picking up his coffee from Nora. “Morning,” he said, and it sounded like a question, as though he wasn’t sure if it was morning at all.

“Good morning.”

He looked around the crowded café. “Not to be rude, but, uh…what’re you doing here?”

Draco’s first instinct was to roll his eyes and point out that Potter was blind as a Blast-Ended Skrewt because he was obviously drinking coffee. But he quashed that impulse, determined to take the high road (or at least make Potter feel bad when he was inevitably an arsehole).

“Would you like to sit down?” Draco asked, nudging the chair across from him with his foot—and not answering Potter’s question.

“Alright,” Potter said, though he didn’t move.

It was irritating, but not surprising. Potter frequently made life harder for himself, and Draco, than it had to be.

Fidgeting with his sleeve, Draco sighed, “I thought…”

Hoping Potter would be impatient as always—and interrupt him with an ‘all’s forgiven, here’s how to get out of the Thursday purgatory’—Draco waited several long seconds before speaking again.

“I thought a lot about what you said. Starting over and all.” Draco raised his eyes to Potter’s. “I don’t…well, it might be totally daft. What I mean to say is—”

Potter gave nothing away as he gazed steadily at Draco fumbling his words.

“We could start with something simple, like coffee.” Draco held up his cup and the corner of Potter’s mouth lifted infinitesimally. “Unless, of course, you’d rather—”

“Coffee’s good,” Potter said, finally sitting.

“Good,” Draco repeated, feeling like an idiot again. “Great.”

Draco’s plan hadn’t extended any further than Potter not running straight out the door, and they sat at the small table, staring uneasily at each other. Maybe if they sat here long enough, Potter would avoid Knockturn all together. The silence stretched on as they sipped their coffee, the chattering of the other customers loud and carefree around them.

After a few minutes, Draco couldn’t take it anymore. “Well, this is…”

“Awkward?” Potter offered.

“I was going to say fun,” Draco deadpanned, thinking of Nora’s optimism.

Potter gave him that same almost-smile. “At least we’re not fighting.”

“Not yet.”

Potter glanced at his watch. “Maybe I should get to work before the duelling starts.”

It was like the air had been sucked from the room. The day would continue on exactly as it had every time before. Here was Potter, about to walk to his death, and Draco had no way to stop it.

But he had to try anyway—even if it was hopeless.

“What if you…” Draco took a deep breath. “What if you didn’t go to work today?”

“What?” Potter asked, his brows pulling together.

“Skive off work—for one day. That’s it,” Draco said, a bit desperately. “I just have a really bad feeling. I can’t explain it, but I’m worried you’re in danger. Please—”

Potter’s uncertainty transformed into incredulity before Draco could finish.

“You’re unbelievable.” Potter shook his head, letting out a dark, humourless chuckle. “This is embarrassing, even for you. Trying to sell a story to the Prophet? Going to pull out your 'Potter Stinks' badges and Dementor costume? Fuck—can’t you just…whatever.”

“No, just listen.” Draco tried to grab his arm, but Potter ripped his hand off like he’d been burned. “It’s not like—”

“Spare me,” Potter said, spilling his coffee across the table in his haste to leave.

The shop had fallen silent, everyone staring at them, Nora looking bewildered behind the counter as Potter shoved out the door.

“Wait!” Draco called, running after him.

Although Draco had done nothing wrong, he felt like an arsehole. And as happened every day, Draco was too late and Potter was already gone.

——

Rays of dazzling sunlight woke Draco and, unwilling to face another beautiful Thursday, he pulled the duvet over his head, screaming into his pillow for good measure.

He was too cranky for sunshine. Too mad at himself and Potter and this whole stupid day.

If Draco had been hoping for a miracle, he was sorely disappointed. Every day was the same: coffee with Potter, fighting with Potter, and Potter’s inevitable escape. It was far more frustrating than simply watching Potter die.

At least that wasn’t Draco’s fault. Because no matter how Draco approached him, Potter always took offence to something, and since Potter didn’t remember anything from Thursday to Thursday, Draco didn’t know how to fix it.

After weeks of dealing with a belligerent Potter every damn morning in Bean There, Done That, Draco was ready to give it all up as a bad job. Maybe, if he stopped wasting his time with Potter, he could learn the cello or take up knitting or read a thousand books about Quidditch.

Surely there were better ways to spend eternity than arguing with Potter.

It was exactly like sixth-year—one catastrophe after another—and Draco felt just as isolated and despondent now as he had then, without anyone who would listen. He desperately wished he had someone to talk to who wasn’t one of Potter’s ten-year-old neighbours. Draco missed his friends terribly, though he knew they wouldn’t have been much help anyway. Greg wouldn’t say anything, of course, but he would pat Draco on the back and make him a cup of tea. Blaise would rub his shoulders and ask, ‘Why don’t we try to make it through a whole morning without a temper tantrum?’ Pansy would hand him a mimosa and come up with the worst possible insults for Potter, which were guaranteed to make Draco laugh.

But he’d been unable to reach anyone in enough time and he’d tried everything…

Draco sat bolt upright in bed, the duvet pooling around his waist.

She was much closer to Potter than him, but over the past few years of working together, Hermione and Draco had started an easy friendship. It had been a surprise to both of them, how well they got along. She was clever, pragmatic, outspoken, and Draco liked her more than he’d ever imagined he would when they were at Hogwarts. Draco also knew Hermione loved to talk through problems, especially if it gave her an opportunity to give unsolicited advice, and that’s exactly what Draco needed.

And help from Hermione meant going to the Ministry.

Draco hadn’t been to work since that first day, knowing that it didn’t matter what he did. He doubted they missed him much anyway, and there wasn't anyone in his office he'd count as a friend. Also, he hadn’t taken a day off in years. Not that reliving the same Thursday over and over while being trapped with a doomed Potter was much of a holiday, but Draco had taken what he could get.

He went through his normal routine—which felt very strange after so many weeks—glamouring his marked skin, slipping on his favourite navy suit, organising his briefcase, and Flooing to the Ministry so as to avoid the morning rush.

In his haste to get to the Ministry, he had completely forgotten Hermione would be running late. During Draco’s fruitless attempts to save Potter, he’d discovered there had been an important ghost emergency, though Draco had no idea what that might entail. Ghosts were quite dead already, and they were sort of always there, so Draco couldn’t imagine what would require Hermione’s immediate attention and expertise.

As he paced in front of her office door, he agonised over what to say. Hermione couldn’t help Potter—Draco had seen her helplessness firsthand, there wasn’t anything she could do to change the day—and if Draco brought up Potter’s death, it was sure to derail the conversation entirely. There was also the simple fact that Draco knowing about Potter’s impending demise made him the prime murder suspect, and he had no desire to spend the day being interrogated by Aurors. Draco had no doubt she’d turn him in. Hermione loved rules more than anything, probably more than she loved Ron.

Draco spent an hour walking the length of Level Four, ignoring suspicious looks from Hermione’s coworkers and trying to stop his hopefulness from getting out of control.

They were just twenty minutes away from Potter’s death when Hermione rushed around the corner—curls piled on top of her head, the ever-present heavy satchel slung over her shoulder—startling slightly when she caught sight of Draco.

“Morning.” She waved her wand in a complicated pattern, walking through the now-open door. “Come in, come in. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

“Not at all,” Draco said.

Setting her bag down with a huff, she rifled through the paperwork on her desk quickly. “We didn’t have a meeting scheduled, did we?”

Draco had to suppress a grin. Hermione’s anxiety about possibly forgetting something important was evident—as though she had ever forgotten anything important before. “No, I just came by for a visit.”

“Oh, good,” she said, smiling and settling behind her desk. “It’s been such a morning. I feel like I haven’t got my head on properly.”

“Is that a Headless Hunt joke?”

“Ha ha,” she muttered, piling file after file on her immaculately organised desk. “No, we had a situation at a market in Manchester.”

“A situation?”

Hermione was the head of the Department for Magical Creatures (as soon as her name was on the door, she’d eliminated the Regulation and Control part). A ‘situation’ could entail anything from a particularly aggressive poltergeist to dragon smuggling to supporting legislation for werewolf rights.

“There was a ghost that kept scaring people.” Her lips twitched. “You know how much they love their i-scream.”

Or, apparently, awful puns.

“That was terrible,” Draco groaned as Hermione laughed.

“Rose and Hugo find me very entertaining.”

“Hmm, they obviously get their sense of humour from Ronald.”

She laughed again. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

“For the love of Circe, please don’t.” He grimaced. “I have enough problems with his files as it is.”

“That’s not why you’re here, is it?” she asked sharply, as though preparing to lecture her husband on the importance of bureaucracy and its inexhaustible paperwork.

If only it was that simple.

“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Hermione raised her brows. “What about?”

“About…” He cleared his throat, linking his fingers together on his lap, trying to appear casual. “About Po—Harry.”

“Oh.” She opened and closed her mouth several times, before ostensibly deciding it was best not to say anything at all.

She continued to appraise him, and Draco took a deep breath. Feeling somewhat nauseous, he decided to start with last night, or at least last Wednesday night. “We ran into each other yesterday, and it didn’t—well, we fought, and—”

She gasped, “You fought with Harry?” Holding her hand to her chest, she let her mouth drop open. “Truly, I am shocked.”

“You’re a laugh a minute,” Draco said sarcastically.

“You just don’t appreciate how hilarious I am,” she sniggered as Draco glared at her. “So after your very out of character fight with Harry, what happened?”

Draco sighed. “He asked if we could start over, and we shook hands.”

“Again?” She counted on her fingers. “What is that now, nine times?”

“Probably.” He chuckled quietly, running his hands through his hair. “It’s never once made a difference, I don’t quite know what he’s after—”

“Oh Draco, isn’t it obvious?”

Her smile was pitying and Draco felt distinctly off balance.

“No.”

“He wants to be your friend,” she said.

Draco bristled, he hadn’t forgotten Potter’s grim laughter or disappearing act. “That’s the funniest thing you’ve said all morning. If he really wants to be my friend, why is he such a prick all the bloody time?”

“Have you given him a reason not to be?”

Knowing full well the answer to Hermione’s question was no (except for trying to save his life every damn day, which Potter didn’t know about), Draco muttered, “He started it.”

“Be that as it may—”

“Besides, what more does he want from me?” Draco interrupted, his voice going up an octave. “I stay out of his way, I never bother him with anything at work. Hell, before last night, it’d been months since I’d even seen him—”

“Yes, I can’t imagine why Harry wouldn’t appreciate being treated as though he’s got spattergroit.” Hermione considered him for a long moment before sighing. “Have you ever tried just, you know, talking to him? Like a person?”

“He’s not a person, he’s Potter. I—that’s not—it’s just…” Draco trailed off, thinking of every time he’d avoided Potter, every time he’d pretended that Potter didn’t exist at all.

Nine times…nine different nights Potter had shaken his hand, asked him to start over. And nine different times, Draco had been dismissive, had gone on with his life as though it meant nothing.

When Draco had first offered his own hand, all those years ago on the train, he had done it out of fear, out of the desire to make his father proud. It had been disingenuous, and Potter was right to turn him away.

But Draco had never quite shaken his bitterness, his belief that when Potter shook his hand, time and again, it wasn’t real. That it was payback. It had never occurred to Draco, or perhaps he hadn’t let himself hope, that Potter’s offer of friendship might have been sincere.

Draco’s realisation must have shown on his face, because Hermione’s eyes softened.

“It won’t be easy. I’m not saying I understand all that’s happened between you, and it’s going to take time.” Draco nearly lost it at that—they had more than enough time—but Hermione ignored his choked sputtering. “But I think you should try getting to know him. As he is now, not as he was at Hogwarts. He might surprise you.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is—look at us,” she said, gesturing across her desk. “You apologised, stopped being a jerk. I haven’t wanted to punch you in ages, and now we’re friends.”

“I think you left out quite a few details.”

She waved away his concerns with a lazy hand. “All I meant is there’s nothing so broken between you two that it can’t be fixed. But it might help if you started listening to what he’s actually saying, and not what you think he’s saying. Harry doesn’t know how to be dishonest. He often says exactly what he means.”

Draco snorted—he had no idea why the Sorting Hat ever thought Potter would do well in Slytherin—and Hermione shot him a look.

“When he says he wants to start over, he means it,” she said pointedly, and Draco recognised her ‘I’m giving you good advice and you would be stupid not to take it’ voice.

“Thanks, it’s—well, no guarantees, but I’ll try.”

A bright purple memo flew through the door, fluttering around her head, and Hermione sighed. “Sorry. I’ve got to get that.”

Draco nodded, standing and smoothing out his suit. “Thank you again.”

Her smile was warm as she pulled the memo from the air. “Anytime.”

He walked to the door, intending to leave straight away, but a photo on the wall caught his attention. In a small gilded frame stood Potter—he was laughing, deep red scratches along his hands, and the monstrous orange cat in his arms was clearly howling. The contrast between Potter’s amusement and the cat’s obvious distress brought a smile to Draco’s face.

“Crookshanks got himself stuck in a gnomehole at the Burrow, and Harry had to pull him out,” Hermione said, and Draco turned around. “George couldn’t stop laughing and took that photo. It’s one of my favourites.”

“What is it with Harry and cats?” Draco muttered.

“I don’t think it’s the cats, so much as the saving—he can’t help it.” Grinning, she nodded at Draco. “You know what he’s like.”

The sharp edge of a memory: soot, a sweaty hand in his, the wind whipping around them as they escaped the gnashing teeth of wild flames.

“Yes,” Draco said slowly, turning to look at Potter’s looping laughter once again. “I suppose I do.”

——

Another beautiful morning, another enthusiastic greeting from Nora. Draco was hopeful that he would someday stop cringing every time she shouted ‘Hiya!’ However, today was not that day and he ground his teeth together as he eyed the pastries.

His stomach rumbled at the thought of a chocolate croissant. They were so perfectly buttery and sweet that his mouth had been watering since yesterday. Worried they might vanish, he kept his eyes on the golden croissants as he said, “Good morning.”

“What can I get you?” Nora asked.

“Actually,” Draco said, hit with sudden inspiration, “maybe you could help me with something.”

“Sure,” she said, that insane grin plastered on her face.

“I’m meeting someone, and I think he’s one of your regular customers—Harry Potter?”

Her smile quickly faded into a grimace. “What do you want?”

“Oh, well, just his coffee order and—”

“Why?” she practically snarled.

Stunned, Draco opened his mouth, but couldn’t find anything to say. In all the weeks he’d been coming here, he’d never dealt with a less than freakishly upbeat Nora. But, now, she was glowering at him as though he had suggested feeding Potter to a pack of wild Kneazles, and not simply asked about his coffee preferences.

“Because I’d like to buy him breakfast,” Draco said slowly, raising his hands in surrender, worried that sudden movements would elicit an attack. “And I thought you might know what he likes…” Draco stopped talking as she narrowed her dark eyes.

‘Or not,’ he thought sullenly.

He was just about to leave, figuring he’d try again tomorrow (or maybe never), when Nora turned around, her purple curls bouncing as she pulled down two cups. “What’s your name?”

“Draco—Draco Malfoy.”

“You’re Malfoy?” she asked, turning back to him and staring, open-mouthed.

“I take it he’s mentioned me?”

“Once or twice.”

“I’m sure,” Draco muttered—her shock made it very clear that Potter had talked about him more than once or twice.

“I just—” she started, then shook her head. “You must know he’s very private. We get weird paps and all sorts asking about him. He’s a good person, and he deserves to be left alone. So, just…keep it to yourself, alright?”

Unsure of what havoc he could wreak with Potter’s coffee order, Draco nodded and she looked satisfied. At least, she wasn’t glowering anymore.

“Harry always gets a large black coffee, and sometimes he orders the chocolate hazelnut bun.” She pushed both across the counter at him, asking, “What do you want?”

“A macchiato and a chocolate croissant, please.”

She nodded once, still frowning, and Draco resolved never to cross her. The smiles and exclamation points and ‘hiyas’ were clearly a façade—Nora was terrifying. She reminded him of Hermione.

And in that moment, Draco decided he actually did like her.

“Thank you,” he said, paying for everything and offering her a genuine smile. Which she returned, though it was reluctant and less bright than before.

At least it was better than the scowl.

It had always baffled Draco, the fervour that Potter brought out in his many friends. They worshipped the ground he walked on, defended him at all costs. Apparently, even Muggles who didn’t know who he truly was felt the same. Draco didn’t get it—probably never would.

He settled at a new table, one they had yet to fight at, and cast a discreet Warming Charm on Potter’s coffee. Draco only had to wait a few minutes; by now, he had Potter’s schedule memorised. When Nora pointed at Draco, shrugging at Potter’s confused expression, Draco steeled himself. So far, all he’d managed to do was piss Potter off. Hopefully, coffee and bun in hand, today would be different.

“Morning Malfoy,” Potter said, looking at the crowded tables around them. “Not to be rude, but, uh…what’re you doing here?”

“I bought you breakfast.”

“I heard,” Potter said, glancing over at Nora, who was paying very close attention to their table. “But, why?”

Thinking about what Hermione had said, Draco sighed. “I need your help.”

“Oh.” Potter’s eyes snapped to him, and he considered Draco for a long moment, before sitting in the chair Draco pushed towards him. “Okay.”

What the hell? Draco gaped, it had been too easy. He expected Potter to laugh and say ‘only joking, go fuck yourself’—but he didn’t. Potter just grabbed his coffee and started to pull apart the sticky bun.

“I—that’s it?”

Potter raised his brows, a piece of bun held in front of his open mouth.

“Okay?!” Draco’s voice was shrill, drawing alarmed looks from Potter and the surrounding Muggles. He’d been driving himself mad for weeks (or, at least, more than a fortnight of Thursdays he'd never get back) and the whole time, he'd just needed to ask Potter for help.

“Er…yeah?” Potter looked even more bemused, and he fiddled with his coffee cup, glancing at the door. Likely hoping for a quick escape.

Draco was an idiot, and he groaned at his own stupidity.

“Were you hoping I’d say no or something?”

“Not exactly. I guess I was anticipating more of a…” Draco took a disgruntled sip of his macchiato “…fight.”

“Honestly?” Shaking his head, Potter laughed, and it was so unexpected that Draco nearly choked. “Me too.”

They grinned at each other, and Draco suddenly flushed. Potter was unreasonably handsome when he smiled, his eyes wide and bright with happiness. And he’d never smiled at Draco like that, like they were both in on the joke. Like they were friends. It loosened something in Draco’s chest—something he hadn’t realised had been gnawing at him for longer than he cared to admit.

Draco rubbed his chest absentmindedly as Potter finished his breakfast. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Potter had adopted his official-Auror-business voice when he asked, “So, you said you needed my help?”

Buying himself a few seconds, he took another sip of his coffee. Draco didn’t want to ruin their fragile truce with what Potter would most likely assume were outlandish tales. It was certainly unwise to tell Potter the whole story, but maybe a sliver of the truth would be enough.

“What do you know about time loops?”

Chapter Text

“Why?”

Though he’d expected as much, Draco resented the suspicion in Potter’s voice. Draco wanted to roll his eyes. He didn’t, even though Potter bloody well deserved it. “Despite your unshakeable belief that I’m some sort of diabolical mastermind, I’m not up to something.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry said defensively, and Draco gave him a pointed look (that he hoped said, ‘yes, the fuck you did’).

“Okay, I thought about it for like half a second. But honestly, I thought you were talking about work.”

“Work?”

“Just last week, Ron and I detained a group of smugglers. Hundreds of counterfeit Time-Turners and Pensieves and broomsticks, all sorts of shite stashed in some dingy warehouse. Luckily, they’d barely moved any of it.” Grimacing, Potter sipped his coffee. “So far, we’ve only got one victim—a witch—and, far as I know, she didn’t end up in a time loop. But something went wonky with the Time-Turner and she’s still in Mungo’s. Won’t stop talking about the space between the minutes, whatever the hell that means.”

“Oh, so you don’t think I’m up to something, but you do think I bought an illegal Time-Turner?”

“That is not what I said at all. Why do you always assume…look, I thought Ron turned in our report and—”

“The day Weasley turns in his paperwork on time will be the day I’m elected Minister for Magic.”

“Fair—but the point is, I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Potter grinned when Draco scowled, as though they were having an amicable discussion and not bickering—and Draco was ashamed to admit that satisfaction washed through him at the thought.

“So it’s not about work?”

“No,” Draco said, trying to decide on the most appropriate way to explain most of what had happened over the past two months, while leaving out the more depressing details.

“And you’re going to make me guess?”

“No,” Draco said again.

“Well, that clears it right up.”

Draco had no idea why he was so nervous; if it didn’t work, he’d just try again tomorrow. But he couldn’t stop worrying that Potter would accuse him of lying, even though Potter had just reassured him that wasn’t the case. And no matter how much Draco told himself Potter’s opinion was meaningless, it didn’t make Draco feel any better.

“I’m stuck—” Potter glanced at his feet and Draco rolled his eyes. “Not stuck stuck. I’m trapped in a time loop, you twit.”

A little line formed between Potter’s dark brows as he went quiet and still. Draco had never seen Potter think so hard. It was bizarre. Potter was usually so dynamic. Always in motion, tripping over his words (and his feet), always in a hurry to do something now.

It felt like a very long time, though it was only a few seconds before Potter said, “When you say trapped…?”

“I mean that I’ve been living the same twenty-four hours over and over.”

And over and over and over, Draco thought.

“For how long?”

“About two months.”

Potter’s eyes went wide. “Two months?”

“Fifty-three days, to be exact.”

“Bloody hell,” Potter said, leaning back in his chair with a low whistle. “Do you have any idea what the trigger was?”

“Trigger?”

“Yeah, like what set it off? What started the loop? And why are you the one who’s stuck?”

Draco had understood the first time, but he didn’t know what to say…or how to answer any of Potter’s other questions. Not without giving him a nervous breakdown, anyway. And provoking Nora’s wrath—she was the person Draco was truly scared of.

“I haven’t exactly figured that out yet,” Draco lied through his teeth. “As for why it’s me? Bad luck, probably—story of my fucking life.”

He didn’t point out that Potter himself was the source of most of Draco’s bad luck, repetitive Thursdays included. It wouldn’t help, even if it would make Draco feel better to put the responsibility squarely on Potter’s shoulders (where it belonged).

“Huh,” Potter said, chewing on his already-chapped lips as he ignored Draco’s venting. “That’ll be the key—I think. Once you can figure that out, the rest should be pretty straightforward.”

Resisting the urge to thank Potter for absolutely nothing, Draco muttered, “As someone who’s lived through fifty-three Thursdays in a row, that’s a lot easier said than done.”

Once again, Potter ignored his snark.

“And you’re sure you didn’t buy a counterfeit Time-Turner from a seedy bloke with an uncanny resemblance to Trelawney?”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but then Potter winked at him. Draco huffed, “Very funny.”

“I thought so. Anyway, ‘Mione had a Time-Turner—a real one, from the Ministry and everything—in third-year. We went back three hours to save Sirius and Buckbeak,” Potter said, shifting in his seat, his cheeks darkening as he glanced at Draco.

Guessing at the chagrin in Potter’s blush, Draco smiled grimly. “I’m familiar with your illegal escapades with a Time-Turner.”

“Oh…” Potter coughed once, then composed himself. “Have we had this conversation before?”

“No, but Severus sulked about it for years,” Draco chuckled softly at Potter’s obvious sigh of relief. “Though his version was a bit more colourful.”

There were few people Severus had despised more than Sirius Black, and Draco smiled at the memory. For the longest time, he’d thought of Potter with similar outrage. He chanced a look at Potter, expecting a scowl, and was surprised that Potter was smiling too.

“I bet.” Potter shook his head, looking beyond Draco, as though lost in his own memories, then sighed. “Of course, I don’t know how much a Time-Turner—a real one I mean—will help, since you’re…y’know, you’re already reliving the same day.”

“For the first time ever, I think we agree on something.”

“Maybe I should nick one of the counterfeit ones.” Potter’s grin turned playful. “Just to see what happens.”

“It couldn’t hurt.” So far, nothing Draco had done had made a damn bit of difference. They might as well try, even if it was guaranteed to fail.

Although, with Draco’s luck, it probably would make everything that much worse. He’d be stuck at morning tea with Voldemort or—

“Why me?”

Potter’s question brought him up short. It wasn’t accusatory, Potter’s eyes still alight with mischief, but Draco stiffened as the image of Potter’s broken body flashed through his mind. He knew it was impossible, but it felt like Potter had read his thoughts, had felt Draco holding back the truth.

“I didn’t—I’m not annoyed or anything. It’s not like—” Potter scratched the back of his neck, shooting Draco an apologetic smile. “I just can’t imagine I was your first choice.”

Draco must have looked confused because he added, “To ask for help.”

He wasn’t wrong. Draco had avoided Potter for weeks, done everything he could to not involve Potter. He wanted to believe it was because of Potter’s imminent death, that it was too much, but there was more to it than that. Certainly, Draco had always loathed asking for help, but there was something about telling Potter, of all bloody people, that he was powerless, that he was inept. It made Draco want to cut out his own tongue.

Which, he knew, was a tad overdramatic.

And Potter, who had a million friends falling all over themselves to help him with anything and everything, would probably think Draco was mad for finding the idea so abhorrent.

“Because you’re the Saviour, of course,” Draco said casually, hoping Potter wouldn’t notice his desperation.

Potter’s eyes went flat as he said, “Of course.”

“That’s not what—”

“No, I get it.” Potter stood quickly, avoiding Draco’s gaze. “Good luck, Malfoy.”

Hopelessness rolled through Draco. He’d fucked everything up again. It was impossible to read Potter’s moods, to understand why he went from cheerful to surly without the slightest provocation. But until Draco figured it out—figured Potter out—they’d be trapped here. Draco defenceless and Potter dead.

“Damnit,” Draco muttered as Nora glared at him.

He dashed after Potter, sidestepping Nora when she came around the counter at him, and pushing through the door. Potter was fast, and he was almost to the corner by the time Draco caught up to him.

“Will you—” Draco reached for his arm and Potter yanked it free. “Harry, please.”

“What?” Potter asked in that listless voice, turning to face Draco. His eyes were tight, his lips pressed together as he stared blankly at Draco.

“You’re obviously upset,” Draco said slowly.

“And? What do you care?”

“I just don’t understand—”

“Bullshit,” Potter hissed, his suddenly fiery gaze trained on Draco. “I’ve seen what it does to you, how much you hate people calling you a Death Eater. You can’t stand it—because that’s not who you are. I’ve never even seen your Dark Mark, and I get it. I really do. If I could figure out how, I’d get rid of my sodding scar in a second.”

Potter let out a bitter laugh, running a hand over his face and through his hair. “You think I like being the Saviour? I hate it. God, I hate it so fucking much—because that’s not who I am. Everyone thinks they know me, just like everyone thinks they know you. And they don’t. They see a Death Eater and the Saviour, and that’s it.”

“Can you blame them?”

“You don’t understand…” Potter said quietly with a shake of his head as he stepped back and out of Draco’s reach. “And here I thought you’d be the one person who would understand.”

Potter made it to the corner before he turned around. “Meet me on Level Two at six.”

This time, when Draco called his name, Potter didn’t stop.

——

Draco wasn’t surprised to find himself at Grimmauld Place, his feet leading him to where his thoughts already were.

Abruptly exhausted, though he’d barely noticed the walk, Draco sat on the bench across from Potter’s front door, and waited.

He wondered where Potter was now. If he’d made it to Diagon Alley, if he was already gone. Or somehow, impossibly, still alive. Today had been different enough that Draco was hopeful. It was foolish in the extreme, but he couldn’t help it.

Maybe he really would meet Potter tonight…except Draco knew what he was waiting for, and he hated himself for it.

When he’d watched Potter walk away, all Draco could do was say his name one last time. It was pathetic, cowardly, selfish—just like Draco. Could he do anything right? Think of anyone but himself? Ever be bold and fearless?

If the entirety of his life was anything to go by, the answer was no.

Potter had been right, of course. Neither of them had stood a chance, both bound by circumstances beyond their control. They’d only been children when their futures had been decided for them. If anyone would understand what it was like to be treated as though all you’d ever be was the person you were at seventeen, it should have been Draco.

Draco had done everything he could to become a different person, the kind of person he always wanted to be. But no one ever saw Draco beyond the Mark on his arm. Even after years of keeping his head down, of working as a solicitor, of trying to show the world he was more than a Death Eater, it wasn’t enough. No one wanted to believe he had changed.

And as much as Draco despised it, he’d gone and done the same thing to Potter.

It was then that Draco realised, or maybe finally admitted to himself, that he was scared. Terrified, in fact.

Draco had avoided Potter for years because he was the one person who’d always seen through Draco.

Hermione had told Draco that Potter was just a person. But it was easier to think of Potter as the same self-righteous prick he’d always been, as everyone’s favourite speccy Saviour, rather than see him as the confident, handsome, kind, and selfless man he’d grown into. Because then, it wouldn’t matter that he hated Draco, that Draco didn’t deserve his forgiveness.

He was a terrible person, and Potter, even with all his faults, was everything Draco would never be.

It was only a few more minutes until the first bouquet of white flowers was laid on Potter’s gate, and Draco let go of the last vestiges of hope.

——

With the despair came panic.

It was obvious that Potter didn’t trust him, would never listen to him, and Draco only had a few hours every day to stop his murder.

Sixth-year had been easy, so sodding effortless, compared to this. And the realisation that Potter was more aggravating than Voldemort—the literal Dark Lord—sent Draco into a fit of hysterical giggles.

That was when Draco realised he was still pissed.

By the time Hermione came around the corner, his giggles had become hiccups, and he may have dozed off against her office door once or twice—or six times.

The closer Hermione got, the more alarmed she looked.

“Draco,” she said softly, as though speaking to a wild Chimaera poised for attack. “Draco, are you—is everything alright?”

Draco hadn’t looked in the mirror this morning, not wanting to see just how haggard he was. However, he was certain that he was bordering on totally deranged. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his wrinkled pyjamas, his tangled hair fell lankly over his forehead, and he probably smelled strongly of gin—having drunk himself into a stupor for the last three days.

It had taken fifty-six Thursdays, but Draco had finally lost the plot entirely.

“I can say, with confidence,” he slurred, trying and failing to stand, “that everything is fucked.”

As Hermione leaned down to help him up, she covered her nose with her hand, so Draco must have smelled worse than he thought. And he didn’t really care at all.

“Come on,” Hermione said, in that same soothing tone, “let’s get you some tea, and then we can have a chat.”

She led him to the velvety armchair he’d sat in only a few days ago, Conjured a fluffy blanket that she wrapped around his shoulders, and shoved a phial into his hand.

“Drink that,” she said, bustling around her cramped office. “Now.”

Draco wanted to ask her what exactly she’d given him, but, even as drunk as he was, he knew she was likely to hex him. When Hermione told you to do something, it was best for you, and your bollocks, to just get on with it. He swallowed the gelatinous, bitter liquid, and immediately wished he was dead.

It felt like he was being broiled from the inside as the alcohol was burned out of him. It took all Draco’s willpower not to vomit on Hermione’s pristine desk.

“That—” Draco said through tears as he clutched at his heaving stomach, “was the meanest thing you’ve ever done to me. Even worse than that weekend in Barcelona.”

“You’ll live.” She gave him another three phials, all different shades of blue, tsking at him. “And these too.”

Though Draco wanted to throw them across the room, he was too afraid of Hermione and he emptied the phials in one swallow. He felt fractionally less dreadful as she handed him a steaming cup of tea.

“Now,” she said, sitting across from him and pulling out a quill and parchment. “Tell me what happened.”

He opened his mouth to tell Hermione that he couldn’t tell her anything, except once he started talking, Draco found he couldn’t stop. The whole story spilled out of him. It took an hour, Hermione ignoring the countless memos fluttering around her head as Draco droned on.

He told her about that first Thursday, about watching Potter die over and over, and she’d blanched until Draco explained Potter woke up alive and well every morning. He detailed all his failed plans, the endless fights and cups of coffee and croissants, his newfound hopelessness, every single bloody thing that had happened all the way up to this morning and his sloshed excursion to the Ministry.

Even though Hermione had occasionally interrupted with questions, she’d also taken copious notes and listened intently. She seemed determined to treat Draco’s tale of woe like a particularly complicated Transfiguration lesson. And whether or not Hermione could help him, Draco felt as though an immense weight had been lifted from his shoulders, like he could finally breathe again.

“That’s it,” Draco murmured, finishing his third cup of tea. “It’s impossible and I’ve ruined everything.”

‘Like always,’ he thought bitterly.

She stared at him with an inscrutable expression for several long moments.

“Draco, I’m saying this as your friend, and someone who cares deeply for both you and Harry.” She reached across the desk and took his hand in hers. “Suck it up.”

“Ex-excuse me?” Draco stammered.

Clearly exasperated, she sighed. “You are more than capable of saving Harry, and getting yourself out of this mess—”

“That’s just—”

“Let me finish.” She silenced him with a look. “When you’re not whinging and passing out drunk in my office, you’re intelligent, resourceful, and abnormally single-minded. It won’t be easy—for Merlin’s sake, it’s you and Harry, easy’s not even an option. But I’ve no doubt that you’ve successfully handled far worse problems. And, not to sound callous, but you don’t seem to have much of a choice in the matter anyway.”

Draco leaned his head back against the cushy chair, determined not to look at Hermione’s irritating, and familiar, ‘I’m right and you’re an idiot’ expression.

“Magic, especially magic such as this, is often intentional. There’s a reason you were chosen. It’s not fair, certainly, and I’m not saying I understand why, but it has to be you.”

“I can’t do it, Hermione,” Draco said hoarsely, his throat thick. “I’ve tried and I can’t.”

“You can—and most importantly, you have to.”

He looked up as she gave him a soft smile. “For yourself, and for Harry.”

“Fine,” he said, wiping his eyes surreptitiously. “But I’m not happy about it.”

“So,” she said, with that feverish gleam in her eyes that Draco remembered well from their NEWT preparation as she sorted through her towering pile of notes. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

——

Rays of dazzling sunlight woke Draco, and he wished he was still in Hermione’s office, with her velvety armchair and comforting presence. She’d made everything sound so simple, and he’d had no trouble believing her when she’d assured him anything was possible.

Yesterday, he’d left the Ministry feeling inspired, and prepared to face another Thursday.

Now, in his flat, with only his anxious thoughts to keep him company, Draco considered the idea that Hermione was optimistic to the point of insanity. He had fifty-six days (at least) of evidence—well, after today, it would be fifty-seven—that when Potter was involved, nothing had ever once gone according to plan.

Draco showered and dressed, slogging through his morning routine unenthusiastically and feeling awfully sorry for himself. Chattering Muggles surrounded him as he walked with the morning rush and let the crowds carry him forward, brooding about his shitty luck and seeing Potter—and probably fighting with him (yet again).

Draco realised the moment Nora greeted him with an enthusiastic, “Hiya!” that he should have run straight back to Hermione’s office—or spent the day in a bubble bath, or Apparated to Belize…really, anything but this.

It took Draco a moment to find his voice, lost as he was in his own misery. “A macchiato, large black coffee, and chocolate hazelnut bun, please.”

And though he was grumpy and sulking, Nora beamed at him. “Sure thing.”

When she pushed a second crinkly bag into his hand with the coffees, he said, “Oh, I didn’t—”

“I know.” Nora grinned. “You just looked like you might need some extra cheering up.”

Draco glanced into the bag, embarrassed as the chocolate croissants made tears prick the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.

What on earth was wrong with him?

Draco was close to crying for the second day in a row, and he hated crying—especially in front of other people. It was undignified, and unbecoming of a Malfoy.

Not to mention it made him look like a total wanker.

This was a ridiculous idea, Draco didn’t care what Hermione had said. No doubt he would burst into tears at the first sight of Potter, and there was no coming back from that. He’d have to live in this time loop forever.

Just as Draco decided that, indeed, Hermione had given him terrible advice, and he’d be better off hiding under his duvet for the rest of eternity, Potter walked in.

He didn’t even glance at Nora. “Hey, Malfoy. What’re you doing here?”

Draco’s eyes flicked between Nora, the coffee he’d bought specifically for Potter, and the door.

He was well and truly fucked.

“Coffee?” Draco answered lamely, holding up the cups and bags of pastries.

Draco couldn’t tell if it was the beginning of a smile or a frown as Potter’s lips twisted and he gestured to their regular table. “Alright.”

They sat in the chairs that Draco thought of as ‘theirs’, though Potter couldn’t know that. He wished he’d made a run for it when he had the chance. Now, Draco was stuck trying to pretend he wasn’t totally miserable.

It wasn’t working, and Potter kept glancing at him warily.

Draco knew he was being a prat, but he couldn’t stop himself. Though he and Hermione had worked out a plan, Draco was too moody to do much other than watch everything go to hell as he and Potter sipped their coffee in silence.

“Not that I mind the quiet, but you didn’t need to drag yourself to Islington just to ignore me.”

“I didn’t come here to ignore you,” Draco said, picking listlessly at his croissant. “I came here to apologise.”

“Oh.” There was another beat of silence, then Potter added, “Well, you’re shit at apologising then.”

An insult was on the tip of his tongue, but when Draco looked up, Potter was grinning—that same dimpled smile he’d given Draco only once before. As quickly as Draco’s annoyance had flared, it faded, and a tiny bubble of laughter expanded in his chest.

Draco chuckled once, twice, and then he burst into laughter.

It was just so fucking absurd.

Tears streamed down his face, and he couldn’t catch his breath as Potter’s face lit up with delight. It should have been embarrassing. Draco was sure he looked quite mad and Potter’s joke hadn’t been that funny—except Draco somehow knew that Potter was just as amused as him.

Merlin only knew why.

Once his laughter had died down, and everyone in the shop had turned back to their own conversations, Draco cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “Fuck—I’ve got no idea what’s wrong with me.”

“D’you want to hear what I think?”

“No.”

“Thought not.”

They were still smiling at each other, and Draco felt better than he had in months, though he couldn’t explain why, even to himself. Now, all he had to do was not fuck everything up.

Thankfully, Potter saved Draco from self-sabotage.

“So, when apologising, you usually start with ‘I’m sorry’,” Potter said.

“Ah, I see,” Draco said with mock thoughtfulness, sipping his macchiato.

“I’ll go first.” Potter cleared his throat, straightening up in his chair. “I’m sorry I almost killed you in a bathroom. Not so bad, right?”

Draco rolled his eyes and Potter winked at him—cheeky bastard.

“Now, it’s your turn.”

Draco mimicked Potter’s movements, pulling himself up to his full height. “I’m sorry for being an arsehole.”

“Which time?”

“Whichever time was most offensive to your delicate nature.” At Potter’s snort, Draco smirked. “I’m still learning how to apologise, remember?”

“You need more practice,” Potter said as he finished the chocolate hazelnut bun and reached for a croissant.

“Alright.” Draco took a fortifying drink of his macchiato, wishing it contained something stronger than caffeine.

This was it, the opportunity Draco had been waiting for (and dreading) and he said, “Harry, I’m sorry, truly sorry—for everything. I know that an apology isn’t enough. There’s nothing I could ever say that would come close to atoning for the pain I’ve caused you.”

He swallowed, casting his eyes down; Potter’s gaze was too intense to hold.

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness, but I need you to know—”

“Draco, that’s—”

Holding up his hand and raising his head, Draco said, “Please, let me finish.”

“No, Draco,” Potter interrupted again, “you don’t—really, you don’t need to apologise for anything. I forgave you a long time ago.”

There was no trace of levity in Potter’s crooked smile—it didn’t make any sense.

“But, why?”

Potter didn’t seem surprised by Draco’s question. “I didn’t want to, not at first anyway. I was so angry. At you, at Ron and Hermione and Ginny, at the Ministry, at everyone who survived the war. But, honestly, the person I hated most of all was myself.”

Potter chuckled ruefully, running a hand through his black curls as he stared out of the wide window. “So many innocent lives lost, so many families ripped apart, so many people I loved were gone—forever. And it was all my fault.”

Bile rose in Draco’s throat. If anyone should feel guilty about the war, it wasn’t Harry Potter. He’d died to save them all, and here he was, with tired eyes and a forced smile.

“It wasn’t til I started seeing a Mind Healer, and working through my own shit, that I realised how wrong I was. And when I forgave myself, I had to forgive you. I always thought we were so different…but you didn’t have a choice either, just like me. We were kids, Draco. We trusted the adults around us—when they promised to take care of us, we believed them. You blindly following your father wasn’t any different than me blindly following Dumbledore.

“Why did I forgive you?” Potter’s smile came easier, softening as he said, “Because you deserved it.”

Everything was backwards. Draco had come here expecting to apologise to Potter, and beg for the chance to explain himself. No matter what he’d said, Potter didn’t owe Draco a damn thing. Potter had freely offered him absolution, and really, it was exactly what Draco should have expected.

Now, it was Draco’s turn to show that he had changed, that he was no longer the spiteful and cowardly boy he’d been at Hogwarts, that he was just as deserving of forgiveness as Potter had claimed.

Draco held his hand out, pleased by Potter’s stunned expression. With shaking fingers, Potter reached across the table.

So, after eighteen years, ten handshakes, and one time loop, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy finally became friends.

Chapter Text

“Two months, huh?” Harry asked, leaning back against the bench and looking up at the clear sky.

“Fifty-eight days,” Draco said, then added under his breath, “so far.”

“That’s a lot of Thursdays.”

Harry’s lips turned up into a smile when Draco snorted. “You’re telling me.”

“It sounds crazy, but…” Harry trailed off, scratching the back of his neck, something Draco noticed Harry did when he was nervous. “I feel like I knew that—like we’ve had this conversation before.”

“We have,” Draco said slowly, mystified.

“It’s like—like flickers?” Harry closed his eyes, then shook his head. “Or like, déjà vu?”

Draco waited in silence for Harry to continue. There was never any sign from day to day that Harry remembered anything, but maybe there was something. Something that Draco could use to his advantage. To save Harry’s life, and his own.

Or maybe hope was making Draco insane.

“We’re friends now?” Harry had opened his eyes, turning to face Draco, and though they’d been friends for less than twenty-four hours, Draco nodded.

“And we go running together?” Harry asked, looking at Draco’s pristine white trainers.

“Well…not exactly.”

“Well…” Harry said, mimicking Draco. “Now, I’m really confused.”

Draco didn’t know how to explain what was happening, because he didn’t really know himself. All he knew was that Emily had given him advice on making friends, and though Draco rarely listened to ten-year-olds, she’d seemed to know what she was talking about. Also, Draco may have let the satisfaction of finally being Harry’s friend go to his head a bit.

After their handshake, the trajectory of the day hadn’t changed—Harry still died and Draco still woke up to another Thursday. But Draco had been so elated, so overcome with his own success at shaking Harry’s hand on his own terms, that when he'd got out of bed this morning, he'd apparently thought himself invincible.

Temporary insanity was the only explanation for Draco sliding his feet into a pair of trainers (that he’d shoved into the back of his wardrobe ages ago and promptly forgot about) and showing up at Grimmauld Place for an early morning run with Harry.

Draco had never gone running, not on purpose anyway, and he’d sworn to himself only a few weeks ago that he wouldn’t let anything (not even a half-naked and sweaty Harry) convince him to become one of those people. With their short shorts and pricey trainers and pompous expressions as they compared blisters and over-exaggerated the joy of a runner’s high.

And now, Draco was one of them…a runner. Or, he was soon to be, if they ever got off this bloody bench.

“We usually have coffee,” Draco said by way of explanation, leaving out the details of his wonky thought process.

“And today?”

“I thought a brisk jog might do me some good,” Draco said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, glancing doubtfully at Draco.

“Yes,” Draco said, which was more lie than truth, but Harry didn’t need to know that. “I’ve been practising.”

Another lie, but Draco had on his short shorts, his pricey new trainers, and was wearing a t-shirt…unlike Harry, who was (as usual) barely decent.

Draco was fairly sure running couldn’t be that hard. He was as ready as he’d ever be. And definitely not admiring Harry’s muscled thighs.

“Alright,” Harry said, standing up and stretching his arms above his head.

Draco had been prepared for more questions, but Harry seemed satisfied with his flimsy explanation and they walked together to the winding path Draco had seen Harry run before.

“I usually go about five miles. Sound good?” Harry asked, picking up the pace.

It sounded like a reasonable distance, and Draco was slightly out of breath already, so he just nodded.

But going along with Harry was Draco’s most recent mistake in a very (very, very) long line of mistakes.

Five miles might as well have been the distance to the moon. It felt like all Draco’s toes were broken, he’d developed a high-pitched wheeze somewhere around minute seven, and he wanted to lie down on the lush grass and wait for death to take him. How Harry could do this, willingly, every morning was beyond him.

A small pond came into view and Draco decided that drowning was preferable to running for even another second, but before he could throw himself into the water, Harry jumped in front of him.

Draco slammed into Harry’s back, which was unfortunate as he didn’t have any more wind to get knocked out of him. “Wh-what—”

“Shh,” Harry murmured, “don’t move.”

Had Draco changed the day enough that their mystery killer had shown up to off Harry during his morning jog? Draco had been looking for any reason to stop running, but he didn’t want to die—he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be resurrected each morning like Harry.

And when he peeked over Harry’s shoulder, he was surprised to see a swan.

Just a swan, no cloaked madmen in sight.

“Harry, what—”

Harry’s arm was a vise across Draco’s chest as he held Draco back. “Stay behind me.”

“Okay, but why?” Draco whispered, still looking around for whatever threat Harry had seen.

“Tommy,” Harry replied unhelpfully.

Harry grabbed Draco’s hand, and it wasn’t as strange to hold hands in the middle of a park as it should have been.

“Follow me.” Harry took one step off the path, tugging Draco along with him, and the swan let out a menacing hiss. “Shit.”

He froze, and so Draco froze. Harry had walked into the forest to face Voldemort, had likely saved more than his fair share of cats, had been an Auror for over a decade, but clearly, even the Chosen One was no match for a hacked-off swan.

“What do we do?” Draco asked.

The swan—Tommy, according to Harry—lifted his wings and charged.

“Run!” Harry shouted, dragging Draco up the path. They tore across the lawn, Tommy hissing aggressively behind them as he flapped his wings. They ran and ran and ran until Draco couldn’t hear anything but his own pulse.

Draco’s legs were on fire and his wheeze was worse than ever when Harry collapsed onto the grass, taking Draco down with him. If Draco'd had any air left in his lungs, he’d have been laughing right along with Harry. As it was, Harry’s wide smile and wholehearted laugh were making Draco more breathless than was likely healthy.

They lay like that, side by side, staring up at the bright blue sky, until Harry’s giggles had stopped and Draco could feel his feet again.

“God, I hate that swan so fucking much.”

Draco snorted. “I daresay he’s not particularly fond of you either.”

“That’s why I call him Tommy.” At Draco’s sideways glance, Harry said, “After Voldemort.”

Draco had assumed Harry was well-adjusted after his big speech about the Mind Healer—he wasn’t.

“You’re joking.”

Harry shrugged. “It seemed fitting.”

“I find it hard to believe a swan could be as evil as Voldemort.”

“At least Voldemort only tried to kill me a few times. Tommy’s had a go at me at least twice a week for the last three years.”

Propping himself up on his elbow, Draco looked at Harry, pieces of grass tangled in his hair and the corners of his eyes crinkled from his mischievous and catching grin. Draco couldn’t help but return it, and his cheeks flushed…probably from all the running. Patting Harry’s broad shoulder, skin hot to the touch, Draco asked solemnly, “Have you ever thought that you might be the problem?”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault—”

“Isn’t it always?”

Groaning, Harry playfully punched Draco in the arm. Of course, the tosser didn’t know his own strength and it smarted, though Draco managed not to wince.

He wondered if this was the right time—

“Alright, come on,” Harry said, standing and pulling Draco up. “We’ve still got three miles left.”

The swan and the wheezing and the cramp in his leg had sapped Draco’s already meagre confidence. He tried not to look panicky as he stuttered, “O-okay, great.”

Steeling himself, Draco took a deep breath, put on his most bored expression, and pretended to stretch.

“Ready?”

Nausea threatened to make this the worst morning of Draco’s life, and so he said nothing, just nodded.

Harry took one long stride and then smiled, knocking his elbow against Draco’s aching ribs. “Only joking.”

“I—what?”

“You’re a shit runner—you know that?”

Draco scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I hate you.”

“What else is new?” Harry laughed as Draco tried to punch him in the arm, and missed by an embarrassing margin.

Jogging backwards—which was far more attractive than it had any right to be—Harry waggled his eyebrows as grass fell from his curls and he called, “Gotta catch me first.”

Draco watched him go, making no attempt to follow. He’d done quite enough running for one lifetime, and even Harry Potter wasn’t worth all that.

——

Draco had again woken to rays of dazzling sunlight and decided he wasn’t taking any chances.

Once he’d painfully stumbled to his wardrobe, Draco had dressed in clothes that very clearly said, ‘running is not for me’. Maybe walking, a very slow and leisurely walk that didn’t involve murderous swans, would be something he and Harry could do.

Yesterday, after running (if Draco limping behind Harry at barely more than a walk counted as running), and coffee with Harry at Bean There, Done That, he’d gone home and chucked his trainers into the back of his wardrobe. He hoped they would never see the light of day again.

But coffee was a given, as Harry seemed reluctant to go an entire morning without at least two cups, and Draco was more than willing to indulge in Nora’s macchiatos and croissants. The problem was Draco needed more time—well, time before Harry’s untimely death—to have any chance of finally making it to Friday.

So, he made tea and buttered toast, and headed to Grimmauld and his favourite sun-warmed bench. Emily was already there, and Draco was glad he’d thought to pack some extra food.

“May I sit next to you?” he asked and she looked at him guardedly. That was fair, he was a strange man and she’d have no memory of their previous meeting. “I’m waiting for my friend, Harry Potter.”

At the mention of Harry’s name, she smiled shyly and scooted to the far edge of the bench, leaving more than enough room for Draco.

They sat in what Draco hoped was companionable silence, Draco with his toast and Emily with her biscuits.

Last time, Draco was already on the bench when Emily had left her house for the park. She’d sat next to him and started the conversation, taking all the responsibility off his shoulders. Now, Draco was trying to figure out the best way to ask her about Harry—without looking like a total plonker—except when he opened his mouth, a gargantuan calico cat darted from behind a hedge and made straight for them.

“Miss Daisy!” Emily shrieked, and Draco nearly jumped out of his skin.

Miss Daisy had appeared to be a normal sized cat when he’d seen her in Emily’s front window, however, that had been an illusion. Now that he could see her properly, he realised Miss Daisy weighed about as much as a small dragon. Using her massive hind legs, she ran through Emily’s outstretched arms and clawed her way up the tree next to them in only seconds.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no” Emily wailed, turning her watery eyes to Draco.

“Um, well then,” Draco said lamely. If his clothes weren’t suitable for running, then climbing a tree was out of the question. Not to mention, saving cats and bringing smiles to children’s faces was Harry’s expertise.

But Emily was blubbering and pulling on his arm, and though Draco looked around wildly for literally any other responsible adult, he was alone.

“Right, I’ll just…” Draco trailed off as he glanced up at the towering tree. He couldn’t see Miss Daisy through the rustling leaves, but her echoing meows were coming from very high up.

If only Draco could use magic, then he’d be able to get Miss Daisy down in a trice. No doubt, that was what Harry had done. Of course, it was out of the question—Emily was staring at him beseechingly and they were on a Muggle street.

Splendid.

Nothing to be done for it now. Draco’s foray into exercising yesterday had left his muscles sore, and his legs protested as he climbed the tree. His brogues slipped on the peeling bark and his fingers burned from trying to grip the tiny knots and pull himself up. Expecting to be at least five metres high, if the pain in his hands was any indication, Draco was disappointed to look down and see he was barely a metre off the ground.

“Fuck,” Draco groaned, and Emily gasped.

If Draco thought he’d already hit rock bottom, he was mistaken and his life went from bad to worse when he heard, “Draco?”

“Mr Potter! Mr Potter!” Emily exclaimed. “Miss Daisy’s stuck again.”

‘And so am I,’ thought Draco sourly. Because he couldn’t keep going up, and he certainly wasn’t going down—Draco would just live on this one small branch forever. Trapped in a tree on Thursdays until the end of time: karmic retribution for his life’s misdeeds.

“D’you need help?” Harry asked politely—and maddeningly.

“No.”

“Give me your hand.”

“No,” Draco gritted out.

“Draco, c’mon.” He could feel Harry’s too-hot hands on his back. “I’ve got you.”

It was a good thing too, because Draco couldn’t hold on a moment longer (and not for lack of spite). His fingers slipped from the flaking bark and he fell backwards.

Right into Harry’s arms.

Harry caught him easily, with a quiet huff of breath—though Draco couldn’t tell if it was from him or Harry. At least he was wearing a t-shirt. Draco didn’t think he could handle Harry’s bare chest at a time like this. Draco’s legs were like jelly when Harry set him on his feet, and Harry’s arm wrapped around his waist as Draco wobbled sideways.

“Alright?”

There was truly no end to Draco’s embarrassment.

“Fine,” Draco mumbled.

“Are you—”

Extricating himself from Harry’s firm grip, blushing furiously and pretending it was on purpose, Draco said, “Go save the bloody cat, Potter.”

Harry flashed Draco his dimpled smile and patted Emily reassuringly on the shoulder before effortlessly clambering up the trunk. Apparently, there was nothing the Chosen One couldn’t do.

Just moments later, there was a loud yowling from the depths of the tree, and the branches gave a particularly vigorous shake. Although Harry’s death was supposed to happen later this morning, Draco was worried he might be maimed beyond saving by Miss Daisy and her considerable claws.

More yowling, more shaking, and leaves scattered around him and Emily. Draco hoped that if Harry’s life was snuffed out by the feral beast pretending to be a cat, that he would at least be resurrected tomorrow, like he usually was. Otherwise…well, Draco didn’t know what the fuck he would do then.

However, his fears were unfounded, and Harry jumped lightly to the ground, Miss Daisy wrapped solidly in his arms. There was a tiny cut above his lip, but otherwise Harry appeared unharmed.

And exceedingly pleased with himself.

“Miss Daisy!” Emily rushed to Harry, pulling Miss Daisy into her arms—a true feat given the cat likely weighed more than her. “Thanks, Mr Potter.”

Emily dashed to her front door, Miss Daisy’s tail flicking menacingly as she glared at Harry. Draco was certain that if given the chance, Miss Daisy would rip Harry’s throat out, and he’d no idea why Harry insisted on repeatedly rescuing the menace.

“How on earth did you do that?”

Harry shrugged. “It gets a lot easier after the first time.”

Draco rolled his eyes—typical fucking Saviour, not even using magic.

“Coffee?” Harry asked.

Draco looked at his lukewarm tea and toast, imagining a steaming macchiato and flaky croissant. “That would be wonderful.”

“I know this great place, it’s—”

“Bean There, Done That?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You know it?”

“Very well, in fact,” Draco said with a chuckle. When Harry still looked surprised, he added, “Time loop.”

“Oh, that’s…” Harry ran a hand through his floppy curls. “I think I knew that.”

Draco nodded. “You did.”

“Huh—fill me in?” Harry asked, turning and strolling across the pavement.

“Only if you’re buying.”

“Deal.”

And the rest of their morning was blessedly free of murderous beasts and distraught children.

——

The bell over Draco’s head chimed, and he resisted the urge to launch a Bombarda at it. There were many things Draco loved about Bean There, Done That: Nora and her perfect macchiatos, the croissants and buns and danishes, the mismatched chairs…but, the constant chiming was driving him mad. Once he finally made it through this day, he was going to come back and make sure that bell never rang again. Draco had no idea how Nora could stand it.

Of course, Nora seemed unfazed by most things, Harry Potter’s privacy excluded, and when he reached the counter she said “Hiya!” with her typical exuberance.

“Good morning,” Draco said, smiling as he pretended to examine the pastry selection. “Could I please get a macchiato, an iced cortado with oat milk and a little honey, and two lemon cardamom buns?”

“Coming right up!” she said, hands a blur as she seemingly did ten things at once. “Big day?”

“Not really,” Draco said.

He had exactly one thing to do today, just like every other day, and Draco had never spent quite so much time failing quite so spectacularly.

Not that he would call sixth-year a rousing success, nor his time fighting on the wrong side of a war—Draco was no stranger to fucking things right up. But for all his effort, and more Thursdays than any one human should be expected to live through, Draco was no closer to saving Harry.

It was the least exciting rescue mission ever.

After the swan situation and cat attack, he’d avoided Grimmauld Place, choosing to meet Harry at the coffee shop. So, really, he hadn’t been doing much rescuing as of late. Mostly he’d been getting to know Harry and spending as much time with him as possible.

“I’m meeting my friend, Harry—you know, Harry Potter?—this morning, and that’s it.”

“Ooh,” Nora trilled, abandoning his coffee as she leaned against the counter, her chin in her hands. “Tell me everything.”

Her overeager—and very Hufflepuffian—response was surprising. Draco had been reluctant to say anything when he came in alone, since the last time he’d mentioned Harry’s name (before the Saviour himself had shown up) she nearly bit his head off.

“Everything?”

“About you and Harry—obviously,” she huffed, as though he was being thick on purpose.

Which he was…because what the fuck was he supposed to say?

“Oh, well,” Draco said, clearing his throat. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

‘We spent years hating each other at a school for magic. My father was in a cult obsessed with blood purity and with killing Harry. I poisoned his best mate, he sliced me up in a bathroom, and today’s his deathday. We’ve only been friends for a week, and I might be in love with him. Oh, and we’re also trapped in time.’

Yes, that was a totally normal conversation to have with your Muggle barista.

Attempting to appear casual, Draco shrugged. “We’re just…friends.”

The word still felt strange on his tongue, and it wasn’t entirely accurate, because Draco, well…Draco thought they were friends, but he didn’t know if that’s what Harry thought. Not really.

She waggled her eyebrows. “Friends?” she dropped her voice two octaves lower, “or friends?”

“Friends. The first one—not,” he waved his hand around, “the weird, baritone one.”

Doubt was written all over her face as she eyed him carefully, putting the buns into a bag. “And what are your intentions with our Harry?”

Draco didn’t miss her emphasis on ‘our Harry’. “Friendship—obviously.”

He said it to convince her as much as himself.

“Sure, sure,” she said with an exaggerated wink. “Your secret’s safe with me. But if you’re looking for a shag, you ought to go with a black coffee and chocolate hazelnut bun. That’s his regular order.”

Apparently, her concern over Harry’s privacy was easy to disregard when she was trying to get him laid. And not too long ago, he’d trusted her to know Harry better than him, but now—well, now Draco was trying his hardest not to look smug.

Or blush.

“I can assure you, the cortado and lemon cardamom buns will be more than satisfactory.”

Nora cocked one eyebrow and shoved a chocolate hazelnut bun into the bag. “Just in case.”

“I appreciate your concern.” He chuckled at her obvious scepticism. “And if he hates it, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Good luck!”

Ignoring her snickering, he sat down at their regular table. It probably wasn’t that important, but the familiarity was comforting to Draco.

He didn’t know if it would change anything in the end, or if he was only wasting his time getting to know Harry. Part of him worried that he should just focus on looking for ways to prevent Harry’s death, and spend less time with Harry himself. But the other part of Draco, the bigger and more curious (and if he was being honest, gayer) part of him, was enjoying their mornings together—and as Hermione had suggested, getting to know Harry as he was now, not as he was at Hogwarts.

It wasn’t the worst way to spend his time.

Truthfully, Draco finally felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

“Hey, Draco!” Harry called, weaving between the crowded tables. He dropped into the seat next to Draco, knocking their knees together. “Oh good, I’m starving.”

“This one’s yours,” Draco said—unnecessarily, it seemed, as Harry had already torn into one of the buns and reached for his cup.

“What is this?” Harry asked, holding up his coffee.

“An iced cortado with oat milk and honey.”

“Mmm.”

Draco hid his smile behind his own cup as Harry hummed appreciatively. It had only taken two days for Draco to figure out that Harry hated black coffee. When Draco had asked him about it, Harry had shrugged and said ‘Sirius drank black coffee’. Apparently, that was good enough for him to suffer in silence and never even think of ordering anything else.

It was so very Harry, and it made Draco crazy.

So, Draco had taken it upon himself to put Harry out of his misery. They’d tried mochas and cappuccinos, white chocolate and dark chocolate and cinnamon, caramel iced coffees and lavender lattes, soy and almond and coconut milk—any combination Draco could think of. From Harry’s first sip of his iced cortado with oat milk and honey, Draco knew he’d never ask for anything else.

Draco had taken to ordering for them both as Harry was also a lot more agreeable when he wasn’t hungry, and most of the time they fell into easy conversation.

Unfortunately, food and caffeine didn’t make Harry any less moronic.

“That is the stupidest idea you’ve had yet.”

“C’mon, it’s not that stupid.”

“So, let me be clear, your ‘suggestion’ is that I fly a broom fast enough to go backwards in time? You’re right,” Draco said, sipping his coffee as Harry started to smirk. “Stupid isn’t a strong enough word.”

Harry’s smirk fell into a scowl, and Draco grinned.

“To be fair, your idea that I hide from the entire day with your invisibility cloak was stupider.”

“I never said that!”

“Two days ago, in fact.”

It had gone like this every morning. Harry would offer some harebrained suggestion, Draco would mock him, never revealing the real reason they were stuck, then they’d talk about everything but the time loop.

“Y’know…” Harry shoved half a bun into his mouth, eyeing Draco suspiciously. “It’s not fair that I can’t remember anything. You could be making this up as you go along and I’d never know.”

“That’s true, except I’m not daft enough to concoct a plan that ridiculous. You, however—”

Harry threw a piece of bun at Draco’s face, hitting him square on the forehead.

“Did you just throw food at me?”

Harry’s smirk was back. “You deserved it.”

Grumbling under his breath, Draco wiped the crumbs off his forehead and ignored Nora’s not-at-all-subtle sniggering. Despite all evidence to the contrary, she, like so many others (including Emily), found Harry endlessly amusing. No matter how immature his antics.

Unfortunately for Draco, Harry’s sly smile was just as infectious as it was obnoxious, and the corners of Draco’s mouth tilted up against his will as he folded the piece of bun into his napkin.

“Just say the word and I’ll hex you next time,” Harry said earnestly, placing his hand over his heart. “Promise.”

“A hex from the Boy Who Lived? Dreams really do come true,” Draco said. Harry stuck his tongue out and Draco rolled his eyes. “I’ve no idea why I’m friends with such an insufferable prick.”

“Because I’m devilishly handsome? 'Mione’s bribing you? You’re really in love with Ron and just using me to get to him?”

“Me and Weasley?!” Draco gagged while Harry laughed. “He’s not really my type.”

“Huh.” Harry sipped his coffee, drumming his fingers against the table. “What’s your type, then?”

Draco wasn’t even close to ready for that conversation, and he would rather sacrifice himself to Tommy than admit the truth to anyone.

“My type? An exceptionally tall and pale ginger covered in freckles who can’t complete his paperwork on time. Hmm…maybe I should ask Weasley out.”

Harry snorted and muttered, “Prat.”

“How predictable,” Draco said with an exaggerated yawn. “You need to learn some new insults.”

“What—like insufferable prick?”

“Oh that’s not new,” Draco said loftily. “I’ve been calling you that for years.”

This time, Draco managed to dodge the bun and hit Harry with a subtle Stinging Jinx, his outraged expression so reminiscent of fifth-year that Draco laughed so hard he cried.

——

As the weeks flew by, Draco found himself caught in the tornado that was Harry James Potter.

Every morning, Draco prepared himself for Harry’s rejection, and every morning, Harry was friendlier than the day before, greeting Draco with a smile and readily accepting his story about the time loop.

Harry couldn’t recall specific details from day to day, but his friendship with Draco seemed to have left an indelible mark.

It was a whirlwind of cats and coffee, of stories and swans. Nothing had changed, except Harry had somehow upended Draco’s entire life.

Because Draco hoped the extra time would eventually make a difference, he usually sat with Emily first thing in the morning, listening to her babble on about school and Miss Daisy and Harry. And then Harry would join them, and no matter how hard Draco tried, he couldn’t resist the pull of Harry’s bright laugh.

Some mornings, he and Harry took meandering walks through the park, talking and bickering and trying to avoid Tommy—who was an even bigger menace than Miss Daisy. And some mornings, they went straight to Bean There, Done that, talking and bickering over coffee and pastries.

Draco now knew far more about Harry than he did about any of his other friends, with the exception of Pansy (whom he’d met when they were still in nappies). Harry liked football and Quidditch, flew every chance he got, and really did like boys and girls. He’d gotten his phoenix tattoo after a drunken dare from Seamus, and Molly had cried when she’d seen it. Harry ran most mornings, was cranky when he missed a day, and suggested more than once that Draco take up jogging (to which Draco always responded ‘no fucking thank you’). Draco had known Hermione and Ron were Harry’s best friends, but he spoke of them often, sharing stories of their many exploits at Hogwarts and beyond—confirming many of the rumours Draco had heard, but never believed.

Every Sunday (when Sundays were a thing that existed) Harry went to the Weasleys' for roast, as they were the closest thing he had to a real family. He’d remodelled Grimmauld the Muggle way, with hammers and nails and his own bare hands, proud that he’d made it into a home that Sirius would love.

Harry didn’t like to talk about his work as an Auror, though he seemed to work a lot. Despite having very little free time, Harry often spent his days off helping his neighbours with anything and everything: he mended fences, saved cats, fixed bicycles, baked bread, planted flowers. The way Emily told it, Mr Potter was the hero of Islington, and it seemed that Harry did all of this without asking for anything in return.

For practically his whole life, Draco had seen the exploits of Saint Harry Potter plastered across the front page of every newspaper and magazine, and even detailed in the pages of his textbooks. There’d been no doubt in his mind that Harry enjoyed the attention, revelled in making everyone else feel insignificant and unworthy.

It was what Draco would have done, if their places were reversed.

But hearing stories about Harry, spending hours with him every day, getting to know him firsthand, had shaken Draco’s long-held beliefs.

Frankly, Draco didn’t know how to feel about his change of heart. It wasn’t that Harry never said anything stupid; he did. And it wasn’t that Harry never did anything stupid; he did that too. It was just that when he did screw up, it was never with malicious intent. Harry didn’t have a mean bone in his body.

Now that he actually knew Harry, it was clear that Harry was a genuinely good person.

It didn’t even seem to take that much effort. Harry went about his day, making the world a better place just by being himself.

It was horrible, just the worst thing to ever happen, because Draco’s plan was working, and he had no idea what to do about it.

No matter how late Harry stayed with him, the end of the day was exactly the same. And the more he got to know Harry, as Draco learned his habits and quirks and dislikes, the simple details of his life, as Draco’s feelings deepened and transformed, it became that much harder for him to let Harry walk to his own death.

And selfishly, Draco was loath to do anything that might lessen his time with Harry. Draco was enjoying his mornings with Harry, far more than he would have believed a few months ago. It wasn’t just his friendship with Harry, although that was wonderful (and weird, in equal measure).

Harry knew Draco as well, knew the worst parts of him, the deepest secrets he’d always had to hide. With Harry, Draco didn’t have to pretend he was someone that he wasn’t, and never would be.

This newfound freedom was exhilarating, and if he pissed Harry off (which happened with some regularity) he could always try again tomorrow.

Draco was wholly himself with Harry, and he’d never realised how much he wanted that and how much of himself he normally had to hide.

Even the most inconsequential nonsense.

“No one hates pie.”

“I do.”

“Draco, that’s not—what about apple?”

“Especially apple.”

Harry sighed heavily, as though nothing had pained him more than Draco’s dislike of the soggy dessert. “I think you just haven’t had the right pie.”

“That may be true,” Draco said, pulling apart his sticky cinnamon bun and licking his fingers (a bad habit he’d picked up from Harry). “But I refuse to try a piece of every pie in the world to find the right one.”

“Something’s wrong with you.”

“This from the man who won’t eat olives.”

“Ugh.” Harry shuddered. “Olives.”

Draco couldn’t help but laugh at Harry’s anguished expression. It had taken him a long time to recognise how extraordinarily melodramatic Harry was.

It was like all his emotions were amplified; he felt things so intensely.

Draco was under the impression he couldn’t read Harry’s moods, but that was only because Draco had never met anyone whose feelings were so obvious. He’d been looking for deception where there was none. Hermione had been right: Harry was incapable of lying.

As evidenced by his look of sheer horror at the mere idea of olives.

“What did olives ever do to you?” Draco asked.

“Aunt Petunia loved olives, ate them all the time. Just the smell—” Harry grimaced. “Disgusting.”

“Hmm,” Draco hummed as he bit his tongue. There were a lot of things he wanted to say about Harry’s so-called ‘family,’ mostly ‘I’m sorry for being a right arsehole and making fun of your dead parents,’ but he knew Harry would wave him off. “No dirty martinis then?”

“Ah—no,” Harry said with a shake of his head. “Lagers for me.”

“Good to know. Next time you save my life, I’ll buy you a pint.”

“And next time you save mine, I’ll get you that dirty martini.”

Harry grinned at him, and irrationally, Draco’s throat tightened as he remembered Harry from all those months ago in a dimly lit pub.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Harry groaned as he glanced at his watch and stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

Swallowing convulsively, Draco wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. He could do this, had to do this—it was the same fight he’d had with himself day after day, week after week.

Just say something.

“Aren’t you coming?” Harry asked, as though they usually walked to work together.

“No,” Draco murmured, then coughed, trying to clear his throat and come up with an answer he hadn’t yet used. “Actually, I’m skiving off.”

Harry sat back down, bag over his shoulder. “I’m impressed. You haven’t taken a day off in what—three, four years?”

“How do you know that?”

“Er…” Harry shifted in his seat, so Draco could only see his profile and his darkened cheeks. “Well, we do work together.”

It was a weak excuse—one Draco would certainly use.

When Draco had told Hermione that he did everything he could to avoid Harry, he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Draco stayed away from Harry whenever possible, but he’d watched Harry from afar, kept up with the constant Ministry gossip. For all Draco claimed to be avoiding Harry, he still knew a lot more than was strictly necessary about Harry’s life.

And it seemed like he wasn’t the only one; the thought made Draco’s stomach swoop unexpectedly.

“So what’s the occasion?” Harry asked, still avoiding Draco’s gaze.

“You—of course,” Draco replied simply (and recklessly), Harry’s mouth dropping open as his eyes snapped to Draco’s. “I can finally cross ‘thank Harry Potter for saving my life’ off my to-do list.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth pulled up into a teasing smile when he rolled his eyes. “I think it helps if you actually say ‘thank you’.”

“Oh well, perhaps tomorrow then.”

“Prat.” Harry’s grin turned to a grimace as he said, “Wish I could skive off.”

“You should. No need to work when you’re stuck in a time loop.” Draco went to reach for Harry and then thought better of it, tucking his hands into his pockets. “We could—I don’t know, do anything you want.”

“Really?” Harry asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Of course. You can’t have taken any more holidays than me.” Draco knew this for a fact, though he pretended otherwise. “The DMLE will not crumble to the ground in your absence.”

“And you’d want to do that…spend the whole day with me?”

“Yes,” Draco said without hesitation—surprising himself. “I’m certain we could make it until noon, at least, before fighting.”

“I—” Harry started, pulling his lip between his teeth while he looked at Draco.

This was it…say something, say something, say something.

Draco’s mind went blank, the words catching in his throat, though he couldn’t explain why—and he despised himself for his cowardice.

Then Harry reached into his jacket, his face falling when he said, “I can’t.”

A wave of hopelessness rolled through Draco, and it was all he could do to not blurt out the truth, to ask Harry to stay and tell him exactly why.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. But if tomorrow comes like it’s supposed to, then…”

Then everything would go back to the way it was, to the way it was supposed to be—back to avoiding each other, to Potter and Malfoy, to strangers.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Harry stared at him beseechingly. “I just really have to go in today.”

And Draco had never been brave like Harry, never courageous enough for honesty. So he nodded, the lie falling effortlessly from his lips. “Of course.”

Harry stood, fiddling with the straps on his bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Definitely.”

Draco lifted his hand in a half-hearted wave as Harry glanced at him one more time before pushing through the door, the bell tinkling above his head. He stayed long after his coffee had gone cold, trying to imagine a day when it wouldn’t hurt so much to say goodbye.

But no sooner had he waved to Nora and walked out the door, than Harry barrelled around the corner, yanking Draco from his melancholy.

“Harry?” Draco asked, dumbfounded as Harry jogged towards him.

“Draco, I—fuck, this is…I need to tell you something,” Harry said, looking windswept and frantic.

Maybe today was finally the day Harry would make it out alive. Maybe this was it, the day Draco had been waiting for.

Harry was here, all in one piece, and Draco’s heart sped to a gallop. “Okay, is everything—are you alright?”

“No,” Harry said, frowning and shaking his head. “No, things haven’t been alright for a long fucking time.”

Draco didn’t know if Harry knew just how true that was.

“What can I—”

“I’m quitting the Aurors,” Harry interrupted, and his eyes went wide, as though he couldn’t believe he’d finally said the words out loud. “I can’t do it anymore. The nightmares and the bodies, and just—everything. God. Fucking everything. It’s too much and it never ends. I thought I could do it, but I can’t.”

Draco’s stomach went into freefall when he saw the tears in Harry’s eyes. “Harry, you don’t have to do anything—”

“See, that’s the thing though—I do. I’m the ‘Saviour’ and everyone expects me to love being an Auror, and I hate it. I fucking hate it.” Harry took a shuddering breath. “I’m not making any difference at all, and I’m tired…just so bloody tired of fighting. I’m done. Really bloody done with everything.”

Harry scrubbed at the back of his neck, and Draco wanted to still his hand, wanted to pull Harry into his arms. “When you said we could skive off, spend the whole day together, do anything we want…God, I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. But I can’t, because if I don’t do it now, I never will.”

It was so much worse than Draco had imagined. It should have been Harry’s last day as an Auror, and instead, he was going to be killed before he even made it to the Ministry. As if Harry hadn’t sacrificed enough, as if he hadn’t saved their world from total destruction…Draco wanted to curse everyone that had always asked so much of Harry, everything he had to give, including his own life.

Trying not to let dread paralyse him, trying to be fearless like Harry, Draco struggled to say something…anything that might change the future.

“Meet me here—tonight,” Harry said, and before Draco could take a full breath, before he could fall to his knees and beg Harry to stay, Harry grabbed him by the shoulders. Though Draco was taller, he felt himself shrinking under the intensity of Harry’s gaze. “Let me get through today and then tonight, I’ll be free. We can do anything you want.”

His fingers tensed, the pain pulling Draco back to the present as Harry murmured, “After today, I’m yours.”

Draco could only nod, holding tight to hope and praying to every deity that was listening to save Harry.

It could have been nothing, Harry’s suddenly dark eyes roving over Draco’s face, holding steady on his lips. Maybe Draco imagined the shiver running up his spine as Harry took one step closer, and then another. The fingers at his nape, sifting through Draco’s hair, were so unexpected, yet so familiar, that Draco leaned into the touch unconsciously.

Then Harry was closing what little distance remained between them, his sweet breath warming Draco’s lips, and Draco’s mind went blank. He wasn’t ready, would never be ready.

How was Draco supposed to say goodbye after this?

A piece of Draco’s heart wrenched away from the whole when Harry kissed him.

It was devastating, unbearably tender, and Draco wanted nothing more than to live in this moment forever.

Then, Harry was gone.

Chapter Text

“Morn—”

“Harry James Potter, you are the world’s biggest arsehole,” Draco said, emphasising his displeasure by poking Harry in the chest. “And the day I met you was quite possibly the worst day of my life.”

As Draco pushed past him into the hall, he heard Harry muttering behind him, “Good morning to you too.”

Grimmauld Place was bright and cosy, much more homey than Draco was expecting. The walls were a pale green that reminded Draco of the first seedlings that sprouted in his garden every spring. Sunshine streamed through the skylights, highlighting the innumerable photographs that covered every available surface. No one was screaming obscenities and the hideous troll leg was nowhere to be seen, a vast improvement from the last time Draco was here.

It was perfect and lovely and Draco couldn’t believe that Harry had been able to turn a rotting pile of cursed bricks into a home.

Regrettably, he was forced to hate Harry for it too because it was so perfect and so lovely, and just like Harry, Draco could never have it, no matter how much he wanted it.

“My life was fine—great, even—then you had to go and die and make it my fucking problem, as though I didn’t have enough fucking problems just by being Draco Malfoy. And now every day is Thursday. Every. Bloody. Day. I wake up every morning and it’s sunny and it’s Thursday and I have to look at your stupid face. AND THEN—as if that wasn’t enough to be getting on with—you kiss me, like that’s a fucking normal thing to do. You can’t just go around…just go around—around” Draco stammered, he was so livid (and wanted Harry so much) that he couldn’t get the words out properly, “dying and being handsome and snogging people! It’s uncivilised.”

Harry opened his mouth, but Draco cut him off. “I can’t believe I ever thought…well, it’s not important what I thought, because now I know that I really do hate you. You’re rude and exhausting and dense and just horrible. Who even has a swan as their archnemesis? Or likes treacle tart that much? It’s unnatural. Your hair’s a mess and you have far too many muscles, and don’t even get me started on those ratty trainers.”

Draco took a deep breath, intending to very much get started on those ratty trainers, when Harry interrupted him.

“Is this going to take much longer?”

When Draco spluttered incoherently in response, Harry sighed and said, “Alright.”

He walked down the hall, and away from Draco, calling, “Tea?”

“That would be wonderful,” Draco snarled.

Draco trailed after Harry, and found himself in a buttercup yellow kitchen with open glass shelving and gleaming copper pots. There was a scarred oak table against the back wall, colourful finger paintings taped haphazardly to the refrigerator, and Harry looked entirely relaxed in his low slung joggers as he fiddled with the hob.

When Harry placed a cup of milky tea—with two sugars, exactly how Draco liked it—on the table, motioning for Draco to sit, he could feel his temper rising again.

“I despise you,” Draco grumbled, sitting in the proffered chair.

“So I’ve heard.”

They sat in silence, Draco brooding while Harry leaned against the counter, placidly sipping his tea.

“Did you come all the way down here, at—” Harry glanced at the clock above the hearth “seven-nineteen, just to tell me how much you hate me?”

“Yes.”

Harry stared thoughtfully at Draco over the top of his cup as he took another quiet sip, then said, “Liar.”

“Excuse me?”

Shrugging, Harry set his cup down. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Please,” Draco scoffed—he’d never heard anything so ludicrous. “I’m an Occlumens, for fuck’s sake.”

The dimple in Harry’s cheek was unfairly charming as he grinned. “Maybe I just know all your tells.”

“I doubt that.”

Harry didn’t argue, but his smile widened. Trying not to read too much into it, Draco pressed his lips into a flat line.

“So, you were lying.”

“Lucky guess,” Draco said with a scowl.

“Why’re you really here then?”

Draco’s heart skipped several beats as he ricocheted between outrage and misery, his body forgetting how to breathe. Months and months and months of doing everything he could, of trying to save Harry, and it was all for nothing. He didn’t know what was holding him back from telling the truth, but Draco had been choked with panic every time he tried.

And he could still feel the ghost of Harry’s lips on his and Draco desperately wanted today to be different, wanted to kiss Harry again and again and pretend everything was going to be okay.

“Draco, what is it?” A line formed between Harry’s furrowed brows as he knelt next to Draco, reaching for his hand. “You know you can trust me, right?”

Draco’s hand shook in Harry’s as they looked at each other, those soft green eyes loosening Draco’s tongue. This was it. Draco was finally out of options, but Harry was here and he’d know what to do.

And Draco did trust Harry.

“You’re going to die in about three hours, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

——

“Huh,” Harry said, slumping further into the sofa and staring up at the ceiling.

It wasn’t the response Draco had been anticipating and he held his breath, wondering if Harry was finally going to say something. Harry had been quiet and eerily calm as Draco went on and on. For the better part of two hours, Draco had told Harry everything, well…almost everything. It wasn’t necessary for Harry to know the depth of Draco’s feelings; that was a story for a different day. And apparently Harry’s first thought after all that was ‘huh’.

Fucking typical.

Harry was still staring at the ceiling when he asked, “And Hermione knows?”

“In a way? At least, as much as she can. She did her best to help me—” Draco thought of Hermione with her stack of notes and Sobering Potions and plan for his redemption, and smiled. “But there wasn’t anything she could do for you.”

“Huh.” Harry blinked a few times, chewing on his chapped lips. “What about Ron and Robards and everyone?”

“I swear I tried everything, and everyone, I could think of. None of it mattered.” Draco couldn’t tell if Harry was angry or confused or scared, and he didn’t know how to explain, any more than he already had, how many times he’d tried to save Harry’s life. “Hermione said that magic like this—”

“Magic like what?”

That brought Draco up short. Truthfully, once he’d been trapped in the time loop, Draco hadn’t thought about what magic had imprisoned him there in the first place.

“Honestly? I’ve no idea. Those were just Hermione’s words, ‘magic like this’.”

“Okay, I guess she knows what she’s talking about.” Harry shrugged, still looking indifferent to his impending doom. “She usually does.”

“Yes, well—she said that it must’ve been intentional. That I was chosen for a reason.”

“Huh.”

Draco had expected more of a reaction, like Harry crying or throwing things or curling into a little ball…instead he’d gotten more than his fair share of ‘huhs’.

And the ‘huhs’ were annoying as fuck.

Harry turned to look at Draco, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “And I kissed you?”

Sweet Salazar.

Draco swallowed, his mouth feeling oddly dry, and then swallowed again for good measure. “Yes, I wasn’t making that part up.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Harry said, definitely smirking now. “I can’t be certain, but I think I quite liked kissing you.”

There were no words strong enough to describe the explosion of happiness in Draco’s chest. So, he stayed quiet, bit his cheek to keep from smiling, and crossed his arms. No need to get excited when Harry didn’t even know what the bloody hell he was talking about.

“It’s funny, cause I remember last night—the pub and our fight and the handshake. It feels like yesterday, and I guess, to me, it was.” Harry closed his eyes and shook his head, the smirk fading into a soft smile. “But, it’s like…I’ve been having these dreams. And I can’t remember them—except, I know they’re about you.”

Draco desperately wanted Harry to stop talking, and to never stop talking, not ever.

“It doesn’t make any sense. I know I’m not explaining it well, but…I know you.”

It was all Draco could do to not lean across the sofa, to drag his hands through Harry’s curls, to snog Harry senseless. His mind was filled with images, all of them including a very naked, and very willing—

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked.

“I—what?” Draco said, thinking he’d misunderstood the question, his brain still foggy with Harry.

Carefully enunciating each word, Harry asked again, ”Are you hungry?”

“What?” Draco repeated, like the idiot he was.

“I’m hungry. We should eat something,” Harry said, while he did a crude mime of eating.

Draco was embarrassed, and very fucking irritated, and he jumped up, ignoring Harry’s now-bewildered expression. Placing his hands on his hips to keep them from wrapping around Harry’s neck, his voice shot up several octaves as he screeched, “I tell you that I’ve seen you die, that we can’t stop it, that you’re going to be dead in a few hours, that you kissed me, and all you can say is ‘I’m hungry’?!”

“Well…I am,” Harry said, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world, and completely unmoved by Draco’s outburst. “I’ve died before. Honestly, I’m not that fussed about it.”

“Not—what is—I just—” Draco didn’t know how to explain to Harry that he was, in fact, a lunatic.

“And…” Harry said with a cheeky grin that Draco wanted to claw from his face. “You’re not the first boy I’ve kissed.”

Draco considered murdering Harry himself, just to get it out of the way—and make himself feel better.

“C’mon,” Harry said, ignorant to Draco’s murderous rage as he stood and pulled Draco towards the hall.

“Wait.” Draco didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he wanted Harry to take a moment, to stop and think about what Draco had said, what it meant for them both.

Harry’s death, being lost in time, their kiss…all of it.

But Harry, typical Gryffindor that he was, had never been one for thinking, had never taken more than a second to consider the consequences of his actions, and he tugged on Draco’s hand again.

“Don’t you need…pants? And trousers? Maybe shoes?” Draco said, trying to stall. And he wasn’t sure what Harry had in mind, but Draco was sure that pants and trousers were a necessity—or, at least, he hoped they would be.

Harry looked down at his threadbare joggers. “Right—good idea.”

He ran up the stairs, and before Draco could start hyperventilating, something he was very close to doing, Harry was back. He’d put on jeans that clung delightfully to his arse, and a black t-shirt that clung delightfully to his biceps, and his stupid, grubby trainers. Draco used Harry’s muscled arms to distract himself from the inevitable panic attack, though it didn’t help as much as he’d thought it would.

“‘Kay, let’s go.” Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, holding him close, and Draco only swooned a little. It felt very like, and very not-like, kissing—Draco couldn’t decide which one he wanted more, and his knees nearly buckled when Harry whispered against his ear, “Hang on.”

They twisted through the darkness and landed in a dingy alleyway that smelled mostly terrible, and faintly delicious. All Draco could see were squat stone buildings, overflowing rubbish bins, and a sliver of pale blue sky.

Harry squeezed his hand but didn’t let go as he said, “This way.” They took three steps around the corner and then Harry pulled open the door to the tiniest pub Draco had ever seen.

There was exactly one table set against the wall, allowing for a path to the scratched wooden counter with exactly two stools. They were alone, and thank goodness, because Draco thought that any more people would make it literally stifling. But this was where the faintly delicious smell had come from, and Draco’s stomach gave a low rumble.

“Angus?” Harry called as he settled on one of the stools, looking right at home and gesturing at Draco to take the other.

“Who’s askin’?” A gravelly voice came from somewhere, though Draco couldn’t imagine where a person would be able to hide in here without an invisibility cloak.

“It’s Harry, you old coot.” Harry smiled fondly, and nudged Draco’s elbow with his, like he had any clue who Harry was talking to. “Who’d you think it was—Celestina Warbeck?”

A very stocky, and very round, man (presumably Angus) stood up from behind the counter, and said, “A wizard can dream, eh?”

If Draco had to guess, Angus was approximately one hundred and eighty-two years old. He had no hair, a trumpet in each ear, and three teeth. His skin was worn and leathery, but he was smiling a wide, three-toothed smile as he shook Harry’s, then Draco’s hand.

“What brings you to my wee pub this fine Thursday morning?”

“The usual,” Harry said.

Angus nodded solemnly. “Aye.”

As Angus disappeared again—Draco still couldn’t figure out where he went, but had to assume Angus was using magic—the delicious smell intensified and Draco’s mouth watered.

The thought of food was distracting, except nothing could ever make Draco forget kissing Harry sodding Potter, and he was trying very hard to determine the best way to bring it up again.

Draco and Harry started talking at the same time.

“Why are—”

“I thought—”

“Go on,” Harry said, waving at Draco.

“Why are we—” not snogging, was what Draco wanted to say, but instead he finished, “—here?”

“Breakfast.”

Obviously Harry didn’t know Draco as well as he’d claimed, because Draco would never let Harry off that easily.

“Harry.”

“Look—” Harry said, turning on his stool to face Draco, suddenly serious. “You said we couldn’t stay in London—apparently, if I do, then my only choice is death. Literal death. You said there’s no way to stop it. Just…let’s have a really good day, we can do anything—whatever we want and see if I can make it to tomorrow. Maybe all it’ll take is making it through one day.”

Unless Harry had some secret weapon up his sleeve—and Draco wouldn’t put it past him, given his resurrection act with the Deathly Hallows—it seemed likely he would be just as unsuccessful today as Draco had been the past three months.

“Are you sure about this?”

“If it doesn’t work, then we can try again tomorrow. Right?”

Draco wanted to argue, he really did. To be fair, Draco’s first instinct was always to argue with Harry, but Harry’s eyes were wide and pleading, and he looked so hopeful that Draco couldn’t tell him no.

If anyone deserved a really good day, it was Harry.

It must’ve shown on his face because Harry’s eyes lit up and he offered Draco one of his charming smiles.

“So, where are we?” Draco asked, going for ‘optimistic and cheerful’ because it really did smell wonderful and Harry was brimming with excitement now that Draco had conceded.

“Welcome to Cora’s.” Harry chuckled and gestured around the small room. “The finest restaurant in all of Scotland—obviously.”

Not knowing how to respond to such a bold statement, Draco went with another question. “How did you even find this place?”

“Guess.”

It was only in this moment, in this tiny pub, in who-knew-where Scotland, next to Harry, with his calloused hands and impish grin, that Draco realised how much time they had really spent together. Harry was right (though Draco would rip his own lungs out before saying the words aloud), they did know each other. Even though there was no way Harry could have remembered it, even though it didn’t make any sense, even though he’d never be able to explain it to anyone else.

Draco knew it was true all the same.

“Oh Merlin,” Draco said with a theatrical sigh. “You saved his cat, didn’t you?”

“Give me some credit, I saved Angus too.”

This time, Harry’s laugh was loud and bright, and Draco rolled his eyes even as he laughed right along with Harry.

“Do you get an Order of Merlin for every daring feline rescue or something?”

“Of course, why else would I do it?” Harry answered with another elbow to Draco’s ribs.

“Honestly, how do you even find so many cats who need saving?”

“Luck?”

“Good or bad?”

“I’ll let you know.”

They smiled at each other, and Harry’s shoulder pressed, heavy and warm, against Draco’s and that familiar swooping sensation made Draco feel off kilter, like he might fall at any moment.

Harry’s gaze fell to his lips, and Draco’s world tilted on its axis even further, and he wanted—he wanted everything. But right now, what he wanted more than anything was for Harry to kiss him again.

And not to forget this time, not to ever forget kissing Draco.

Harry leaned closer, his hand inching up Draco’s leg, and this was it.

Then Angus suddenly reappeared, unintentionally—or perhaps very intentionally—ruining the moment. He looked quite pleased with himself, hopefully because of the steaming plates he was holding and not because he’d sapped the romantic tension from the room.

Cock-blocked by a Scot…McGonagall’s steely glare flashed through Draco’s mind, and Draco definitely did not want to kiss Harry now.

When Harry leaned away, so did Draco, as he cleared his throat and dropped his eyes to the counter.

“Finnan haddie,” Angus said with a flourish, setting the overflowing plates in front of them.

Harry, honest to Salazar, smacked his lips and immediately started shovelling forkfuls of the smoked haddock into his mouth as though he hadn’t eaten in months.

Draco, despite having impeccable table manners drilled into his head since he was a child, had difficulty not following Harry’s example and shovelling the food into his mouth faster than he could swallow.

It was amazing.

Draco had never had anything quite like it. He’d been nervous about the quality of the food given Cora’s peculiar resemblance to the Hog’s Head, but fortunately that was where the similarities ended.

Breakfast wasn’t a quiet affair, Angus telling story after story after story. Draco didn’t want to stop eating to talk, and thankfully he didn’t have to contribute much to the conversation. More often than not, Angus dissolved into giggles before the punchline, and by the time Draco understood what exactly Angus was trying to say, he’d already moved on.

It was raucous and comforting and Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so relaxed. He wasn’t sure how much of that had to do with Angus’ rich brogue and how much had to do with Harry’s hand on his thigh, and Harry’s knowing glances, and the simple fact that Harry was here and alive and wanted to spend the day with Draco.

Once they were done, Draco had to resist the urge to lick his plate clean. Harry, the absolute heathen, ran his finger over the plate before popping it in his mouth, and only Draco seemed to mind. Angus did his best to ply them with even more food, offering toast and sausage and porridge, but Harry waved him off.

Harry patted his stomach. “I won’t be able to walk if I eat another bite.”

“Fine, but you best come back soon,” Angus said, pointing a gnarled finger at Harry. “And bring your laddie again.”

Draco smiled, and tried to ignore the heat in his cheeks. “Hippogriffs couldn’t keep me away.”

His enthusiasm earned Draco another three-toothed grin, and Harry a very spirited hug.

Despite saying goodbye no less than ten times, it still took them another fifteen minutes to leave as Angus wouldn’t stop shaking Draco’s hand and offering them food. By the time they extricated themselves, it was midday and Draco’s fingers were numb.

The door had barely closed behind Angus when Harry turned to Draco, a sly smile on his face, and asked, “How do you feel about swimming?”

——

Sun glinted off the water in Harry’s curls as it dripped down the hollow of his throat into the dark hair on his chest, and Draco—who had never had any sort of feelings about swimming before today—decided that the beach was his favourite place in the world and he would curse anyone that tried to make him leave.

When Draco was a child, ‘swimming’ had consisted of dipping his toes into the Manor’s lake and swiftly being reprimanded by his father. Swimming with Harry was not like that.

According to Harry, they were in Aberdeenshire, not too far from Angus’. Once Harry had Apparated them to this deserted stretch of beach, it had taken him all of ten seconds to strip Draco to his pants, Transfigure them into trunks, throw Draco over his shoulder, and run into the freezing water (with Draco kicking and screaming obscenities the entire time).

Now that he was acclimated to the water, it was much more pleasant. It didn’t hurt that Harry was a strong swimmer, even without the Gillyweed, and that he hadn’t let go of Draco even once.

“Did I tell you this is where I met Angus?”

Draco, who was clinging to Harry’s back like an overeager starfish, rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder, and said, “No, I think I would’ve remembered that.”

“I wasn’t even supposed to be here. It was—well, it was bad. I’d had to make a blind jump because…” Harry went quiet, his breathing ragged.

“It’s alright.” Draco felt the quiet beat of Harry’s heart under his fingertips as he rubbed soothing circles on Harry’s chest. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Harry pulled Draco’s other hand to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss to his knuckles. “It’s—really, it’s fine. That’s actually how I got this scar,” he said, lifting his shoulder blade.

Leaning back slightly, but not enough to lose his grip on Harry (and lose the warmth of his skin), Draco followed the jagged edge of Harry’s puckered skin with his eyes as it carved through his tattoo and across his spine. Draco wondered how many times Harry had been close to death and survived, wondered how Harry could offer himself up as a sacrifice, day after day.

Draco wondered how many times he would have to let Harry go.

“It was an illegal fire crab breeding operation and all hell broke loose once we got there—I had to get away fast. I didn’t know where I was, then I found Angus.” Harry finally smiled, his stubble tickling Draco’s cheek. “He never did tell me why he was taking a midnight stroll with his bloody cat, but he’d come across a Hinkypunk and got lost—about to walk right off the edge of a cliff.”

Harry laughed, pointing at the closest rock face. “He wasn’t too happy—at one point I think he tried to bite my ear off—but once he realised I was trying to save him, and not drown him in the ocean, he took me to Cora’s and forced me to eat four bowls of potato soup.”

Draco had only met Angus once, and that sounded exactly like something he would do, probably giggling and chattering away the whole time. “I’m surprised it wasn’t ten.”

“Believe me,” Harry said with a snort. “He tried.”

“So was it the soup or Angus that healed your back?”

“That was me—Harry Potter, amateur Healer at your service,” he said pompously. “Although the soup helped.”

“And was that your fifteenth or sixteenth Order of Merlin?”

“You better be nice to me or I’ll leave you out here, and you can swim your fancy arse back to shore.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

But Draco couldn’t unwrap his arms fast enough and Harry pulled him under. Salt water rushed into his nose, and Draco considered taking a page from Angus’ book and trying to bite Harry’s ear off.

Harry didn’t let him suffer for too long, tugging Draco to his chest as they resurfaced. No doubt Draco resembled a drowned rat as he scrabbled for purchase on Harry’s broad shoulders, locking his legs around Harry’s waist as wet hair flopped into his eyes.

“I hate you,” Draco said, still spluttering and sneezing and shivering.

“Yeah, I know.” Smiling, and apparently not concerned in the least, Harry asked, “Would you be terribly upset, then, if I kissed you?”

Abruptly, Draco stopped spluttering—and breathing. He hoped Harry wouldn’t need explicit instructions because Draco didn’t think he could form a coherent sentence. Harry tucked Draco’s dripping hair behind his ear as Draco nodded, and thankfully that was good enough.

When Harry leaned in, still smiling, radiant as the sun, Draco had to shut his eyes. It was too much to bear with Harry’s heartbreakingly soft lips and his steady hands pulling Draco close.

It was different from their bruising kiss yesterday, and wonderfully so.

Slow and easy, like they had all the time in the world. Draco could drink in the sweet sounds Harry made, could memorise the electrifying heat of Harry’s tongue, could fall over and over and again into the bliss of Harry’s mouth on his.

And, really, Draco would endure a thousand more Thursdays for just one more kiss from Harry.

——

Draco did not have to endure a thousand more Thursdays to snog Harry, but his back was scratched from the sand, his lips were chapped and swollen, and he was more turned on than he’d ever been in his whole life.

It should’ve been odd, kissing Harry Potter, but it was easy as breathing. Nothing at all to drape himself across Harry, to nip at his full lips, to let his hands wander where they wanted.

Draco was most upset that he’d had to wait twenty-nine years to be kissed like that.

He wasn’t complaining—even if he was dangerously close to it—and he would have gladly gone on kissing Harry for hours and hours, except Harry was somehow hungry again.

And since it was Harry’s day, Draco would do whatever he wanted, especially if it kept him alive and kissing Draco.

“D’you think it’s safe to go back?”

It was involuntary, the tightening of Draco’s chest as fear roiled in his gut. All day, the hysteria that he normally kept so well hidden threatened to spill over. It was a constant, nagging presence—one that Draco couldn’t help.

“I don’t know. You’ve never survived this long.”

“Huh.” Harry looked up at the cloudless sky, hand over his eyes. He was devastatingly handsome, with white sand in his tangled hair, unbuttoned jeans hanging low on his hips, and Draco was terrified to lose him the moment they landed in London. Draco was also worried he’d sound like a nutter if he tried to explain any of this to Harry.

“I think it’ll be fine,” Harry said, pulling his t-shirt over his head, scattering sand every which way.

Draco scoffed and Harry turned to stare at him, raising his brows.

“Of course you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re a reckless Gryffindor who has no sense of self-preservation, and even though I told you—just this morning—that all you’ve got left is bad luck, and that death’s waiting for you, you’re more than ready to run headlong into danger without a second thought.”

Draco was breathing hard and on the edge of a temper tantrum when Harry hugged him, kissing his cheek. It was hard to panic properly with Harry’s strong arms holding him close.

“Well, that’s…” Harry seemed to be searching for the right word, and he grinned, tightening his hands on Draco’s waist, as he said, “pretty damn accurate.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re horrible?”

“Only you.”

“As long as someone has.”

“C’mon, Draco,” Harry pleaded, fluttering his eyelashes and pushing out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout (which was stupidly adorable and Draco was a fool for falling for it). “I’ll be extra careful—promise.”

“Are you that eager to be murdered? Or did I forget to mention that part?”

“It’s just…it’s been such a perfect day. I don’t want it to end, I really don’t.” Harry sighed, and Draco couldn’t help but run his fingers through Harry’s hair, untangling his curls and freeing the remnants of sand. “But I want to take you somewhere—that’s it. No murder involved.”

“Where?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “If I tell you, then it won’t be a surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Harry said with a very irritating smirk.

“Horrible.”

Harry kissed Draco’s forehead and temple and cheek, his lips moving lower and lower—driving Draco mad. “You’re just too stubborn to admit that I’m hilarious.”

Definitely not groaning at the feel of Harry kissing his neck, Draco said, “I think the word you’re searching for is obnoxious.”

“Are you always this cranky?” Harry murmured, his tongue hot and velvety and very very distracting.

“Only when I’m with you,” Draco gasped as cold trickled down his spine, Harry having wandlessly cast a Disillusionment Charm—the powerful bastard. Unfortunately, Draco wasn’t too distracted to recognise that Harry’s charm work was much better than his.

“Lucky me,” Harry whispered against his ear and Draco’s answer was lost as they whipped through space and time.

It was another dingy alley, another delicious smell mingling with the scent of refuse. Apparently, Harry wouldn’t eat somewhere unless it was close to an overflowing bin. The ambiance, or lack thereof, was enough to dampen Draco’s desire, even as Harry kissed him again.

Harry was, of course, unfazed as he unwrapped Draco’s arms from around his neck and steered him towards a brilliantly purple door with a sign that read, in sparkling gold letters, ‘The G-Spot’.

“I understand the point of a surprise, but also…” Draco had never felt more gay in his life as he stared at the words ‘G-spot’. “Where are we?”

“You’ll see,” Harry said, now literally pushing Draco towards the door—and presumably his next homosexual crisis.

Thank Circe, it was a bakery.

A very small, and very purple, bakery.

At least, Draco assumed it was a bakery. It smelled sweet and buttery, and though the glass case was opaque, there was a single tiered cake with dollops of pink frosting sitting next to the till.

There were no wizened old Scotsmen that Draco could see, but there was a white cat with bright blue eyes and faint orange markings on its tail and ears standing at attention by Draco’s feet—and it looked awfully tetchy.

“Hey, Bob,” Harry said, and the cat hissed.

Not a promising start, although they were still invisible, so maybe Bob was just upset about the noise coming from nowhere. Then heat crept up Draco’s spine as he and Harry became visible again, and Bob ruffled the fur on his back, looking even more discomfited.

“Gigi?” Harry called, motioning for Draco to follow him further into the shop.

As Draco would have to pass Bob, whose eyes were narrowed and trained on Draco’s ankles, he decided that was a bad idea and stayed put.

“Gigi?” Harry said again and Draco heard the faintest chirruping sound. He looked around for the source, and realised it was coming from Bob.

Draco had never heard a cat chirp before, and was about to ask Harry what the hell they were doing at this clearly accursed shop when in walked the most beautiful woman Draco had ever seen.

Undoubtedly, this was the gay crisis Draco had feared, and he was willing to bet money that she was, at least part, Veela (if his speechlessness was anything to go by). Dark hair cascaded down her back and her flowing white dress highlighted her deep bronze skin and her ruby-red lips and her long, long legs. She was quite a bit taller than Draco, so maybe she was part Veela and part giant.

“Gigi,” Harry said with a cheerful grin (that was not returned). “This is Draco.”

Draco waved—somewhat stupidly—still dumbstruck by her beauty and intimidated by her fierce demeanor.

“Draco, this is Grace.”

Grace gave absolutely no indication that she had heard anything Harry had said, and didn’t acknowledge Draco’s presence at all. The clatter of cutlery was loud in the small room and all Draco could see was Grace’s back as she pulled out plates and trays and jars.

Draco tried to edge closer to Harry, to hide behind his shorter-but-bulkier frame, except every time his feet shifted on the tiles, Bob would let out another low hiss. It was rather terrible, and he had no idea what was happening or why they were here or why everyone in this shop seemed determined to hate him.

“Harry,” Draco whispered. “Harry, Harry, Harry—”

Of course, it was just like Harry to be oblivious to the hostility of everyone around him, and Draco’s frantic pleas. He was far too busy fiddling with a string on his sleeve and humming quietly to himself to recognise how very unwanted their presence was, and how very distraught Draco was.

Draco didn’t know what had him so nervous, but between Grace’s icy glare and Bob’s incessant hissing, he was fairly certain that he was about to meet his own untimely end. And, as expected, it would be all Harry’s fault.

It was the thought of being killed by a cat that made up his mind. Draco was going to make a run for it and leave Harry behind—he was a dead man walking anyway, no need for Draco to go down with him—when the back door burst open, bringing a cool breeze and a smiling Nora into the shop.

“Hiya!” Nora called, her purple curls bouncing uncontrollably as she darted through stacks of boxes. “I’ve had the most—oh Harry!”

She stopped suddenly, sliding across the tiles before running around the counter and clapping her hands.

“You’re here!” She shrieked, pulling Harry into a hug. “I missed you this morning. I was so worried. I mean, you could’ve been in a ditch or—”

“Sorry,” Harry said, interrupting her and blushing slightly as he pointed at Draco (who apparently was incapable of doing anything but waving stupidly). “Draco and I were in Scotland.”

Impossibly, her smile brightened as she looked Draco up and down.

“Wait…is this the Draco?” she whispered to Harry—or tried to whisper; Draco could hear her perfectly, as the shop was barely large enough to hold all of them. “Draco Malfoy?”

Great, just bloody wonderful. Draco’s reputation had preceded him. No doubt, that was where the aggressive loathing came from—Draco couldn’t imagine Harry had many nice things to say about him before today (all ninety-one of them).

“Yeah, but—”

“Hang on—are you on a date?!” Nora wasn’t even close to a whisper this time, it was more like excited squealing.

Draco made a concerted effort to look at everything that wasn’t Harry, because he didn’t want to know the answer. Well, he did—but not if the answer was one he didn’t want to hear. Today had been wonderful and weird and Draco didn’t know how to feel about it…confused, mostly.

And it wasn’t really his fault that his gaze was drawn to Harry’s crooked grin and darkening cheeks.

And it wasn’t really his fault that Harry’s crooked grin and darkening cheeks made him want to kiss Harry, to get Harry into his bed and never let him leave.

“Yeah,” Harry scratched the back of his neck as he met Draco’s eyes over Nora’s shoulder. “At least, I think it’s a date?”

It was this—the small tremor in his voice, the lack of Harry’s usual bravado—that obliterated Draco’s last defences.

It had happened without him knowing. Harry had slipped into the cracks of his heart, and before Draco had realised, he was in too deep.

Harry, who gave of himself so freely and asked for nothing in return, who had shown Draco nothing but mercy, had given Draco no other choice.

They were in the middle of a violently purple bakery, Harry could die at any moment, they were trapped in time, and Draco was desperately and hopelessly in love with him.

Oh fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

There was nothing he could do about it now, and so Draco nodded, ducking his head when Harry’s eyes softened at the edges, his smile now blinding.

“Draco,” Nora said, shaking his hand and interrupting, quite possibly, the most important moment of his life thus far. “It is so lovely to meet you.”

At this point, Draco had met Nora at least fifty times. He shared a private smile with Harry, his heart racing and his cheeks flushing as he said, “You as well.”

She was still smiling as she turned away, looping her arm through Harry’s and exclaiming, “Tell me everything!”

“Er—it’s a long story,” Harry said and Draco snorted.

A long story didn’t even begin to cover it.

“We’ve got time—Gigi, we need pie,” she said loftily, patting Harry’s shoulder and not even giving him the chance to tell her anything as she bustled around the counter.

“Need is a strong word,” Grace said, and Draco was surprised by how soothing her voice was.

Nora didn’t answer as she kissed Grace three times on each cheek, and asked, “Where’d you hide the wine?”

“I didn’t hide it,” Grace muttered, scowling as she Levitated glasses and a large bottle of red wine from a high shelf.

“So,” Harry said, startling Draco who was much too busy watching Nora and Grace bicker—and pretending he wasn’t totally falling apart as he realised he wasn’t just on a date with Harry, but was also in love with him—to notice Harry sidling up to him. “A date?”

“I thought the kissing was a dead giveaway.”

Harry laughed, knocking their shoulders together. “Fair enough.”

“Unless you regularly kiss all your non-dates?” Draco asked, very much hoping the answer was ‘no’.

“You caught me,” Harry said, putting his hands up. “I’m a serial snogger.”

“That was terrible.”

“C’mon, you wanted to laugh—”

Draco sniffed. “Hardly.”

“Admit it—you think I’m funny.”

“You don’t really want to know what I think.”

“You two”—Nora trilled, and Draco could practically see the hearts in her eyes as she clutched her hands to her chest—“are adorable.”

As Draco was not about to be one of those people—whose happiness and love radiated from their pores, inducing nausea and traumatising everyone around them—he ignored Nora’s tittering, Grace’s rolling eyes, and Harry’s soft chuckle, asking, “Did someone say wine?”

——

Thankfully, there was plenty of wine. There was also spaghetti bolognese and pie. Draco’s head was fuzzy and his stomach was full, and he was quite content with Harry’s arm around his waist as they sat with Nora and Grace in their cute flat above the bakery.

And, as far as he could tell, no one actually hated him.

Nora’s words washed over him, as they’d done most of the night because no one could really get a word in edgewise as she had talked about Grace and her shop and Bob and all the double dates she was going to plan with Draco and Harry.

Draco hadn’t realised, despite their countless mornings together, just how talkative she was. He now knew Grace was a witch, Nora was a Muggle, and they’d gotten married after their third date. Nora had stated, with uncharacteristic intensity, that they were ‘made for each other’ (and Draco didn’t disagree, though they were complete opposites).

To Draco’s immense not-surprise, Harry had rescued Bob—who despised everyone except Grace—from a malevolent hedgehog that had cornered him in an alley. As always, Harry’s Saviour complex had immediately enamoured him to Nora, and supposedly Grace (although Draco couldn’t really tell for sure), and they’d been friends ever since.

The pastries that Draco had been salivating over for weeks were made by Grace, who supplied all the baked goods to Bean There, Done That. And that explained why her spiced cherry and apple pie with custard was the only pie he’d ever enjoyed. Harry looked particularly smug about this turn of events, even more so when Draco asked for a third piece—which had earned him a perceptible softening of Grace’s scowl.

It had been such a wonderful evening that Draco was trying very hard not to think about what might happen tomorrow, about what he would do if…

He couldn’t even bear the thought.

“Are you almost ready?” Harry asked, kissing the top of Draco’s head, where it rested on his shoulder. Draco nodded; they could only put off the inevitable for so long.

“Oh my goodness—I didn’t even see the time,” Nora said, jumping up from the table, and reaching for their scattered plates. Grace grabbed her hand and cleared all the dishes with a swipe of her wand.

“Show off,” Nora murmured, but she looked pleased as she stood on tiptoe to kiss Grace’s rosy cheek.

“Thank you, we had a great time,” Harry said, standing and pulling Draco to his side. “I won’t be able to eat for at least a week.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” Nora asked, giving Harry a stern look.

“Promise,” Harry said, hand over his heart.

And though the dread was creeping in again, Draco added, “I simply won’t make it through the day without a macchiato and a croissant.”

She beamed and Grace almost smiled. “It was so nice to finally meet you! Harry’s so secretive, I thought I’d be old and grey by the time he brought someone ‘round. And I am just so excited—”

“Babe, they know.” Looking very fond, and very exasperated, Grace said, “I think we’ll be more likely to see them again if we actually let them go home.”

Nora nodded, as though this was a helpful reminder, leading them to the Floo. As Harry refused to let Draco go, Nora gave them each a one-armed hug, seemingly unable to say ‘see you soon’ less than twenty times, while Grace waved from the kitchen.

Draco was trying very hard not to panic because he didn’t know how to ask Harry, without dying of shame, whether Harry was going to send him back to his cold and empty flat.

Mercifully, Harry saved Draco from the embarrassment (and a proper strop) when he threw a handful of Floo powder into the hearth, grabbed Draco’s hand, and shouted, “Grimmauld Place!”

Draco stumbled a bit when their feet hit the hardwood, and Harry caught him around the waist, steadying him.

“Careful,” Harry said, his voice low and rough, so unlike his playfulness from earlier, when they’d spent the afternoon basking in the sunshine and waves, when their kisses were that and nothing more.

Dark and smouldering, Harry’s heavy-lidded gaze was the promise of more, and Draco had been struggling to keep his hands to himself all night.

It was immediate, the effect on Draco—heat skittering across his skin, his blood rushing every which way.

“Harry.” It was barely a breath, the faintest sigh, but it was enough.

Even as Harry pushed Draco against the wall, his hands were careful, every movement deliberate. And his mouth…

Draco moaned against Harry’s lips—soft and wine-sweet and dangerous.

He couldn’t remember ever wanting someone this much, like he was drunk with it. Like desire might tear him apart if he wasn’t careful.

But Draco didn’t want to be careful.

Harry was lifting the shirt over Draco’s head, mouthing at his neck, his chest—Harry didn’t give him a chance to recover as he kept Draco on the edge of sanity, and Draco luxuriated in the ache of Harry’s teeth.

Harry’s skin was hot under Draco’s fingers, the delicate whorls and uneven scars already familiar and beloved, and desperation overwhelmed his every thought.

Draco needed more, needed everything, and he felt himself bruising with the intensity of it. No matter what happened from this point, he would never be the same.

There wasn’t enough time, would never be enough time, and Draco tore at Harry’s jeans, raked his nails across Harry’s back. He needed Harry close, and impossibly closer.

“Draco, sweetheart,” Harry murmured, gently wrapping his fingers around Draco’s wrists, stilling his frantic hands. “Slow down.”

Draco had held back long enough, and Harry didn’t understand—how could he?

There was no way for Harry to know the agony of watching the man you love walk away day after day, knowing exactly what was waiting for him and being powerless to stop it. He didn’t know what it was to have a glimpse of the life you so fervently wanted and know it would never be yours.

Draco didn’t know how long he would get to have Harry, and he didn’t want to slow down, didn’t want to lose one moment.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

His eyes were wide, long lashes shadowing his cheeks, and it wasn’t until his thumbs swiped at Draco’s tears that Draco even realised he was crying.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked again, cupping Draco’s jaw and pressing their foreheads together.

“Nothing.”

Everything.

“Just kiss me.”

Please don’t ever leave me.

And Harry, who was kind and gorgeous and too good for Draco, kissed him. Harry kissed Draco like he was precious, sweet and tender, and Draco had to let go.

If one night was all Draco would get, then it would have to be enough.

Because Harry was here, Harry would keep him safe, and it was more than Draco deserved.

Draco pushed his fears aside, focusing on Harry: on the broad expanse of his chest, on the dark stubble of his jaw, grounding himself in the steady beat of Harry’s heart. They kissed and kissed and kissed—until it was Harry who was panting for breath, pulling Draco close and closer still.

They made it to the bedroom, Harry Apparating them as Draco wasn’t in full control of his legs. Harry stepped out of his jeans and pants and there wasn’t a part of Harry that Draco didn’t want to touch, didn’t want to press his lips to.

Not a single part of Harry that Draco didn’t love.

Harry smiled shyly as he helped Draco out of his clothes. Draco pulled Harry to the bed and Harry’s fingers trembled as he trailed them up Draco’s ribs, as he settled between Draco’s hips.

And it was so unexpected, because Draco was the one who was afraid, who felt he might shake out of his skin. Because Harry was perfect, so glorious in the moonlight that Draco had no words to describe his brilliance. 

It was more—Harry was more—than Draco had ever dared to hope for.

Tenderly, Harry drew Draco’s wrist to his lips, whispering against his skin, “Can I?”

Draco’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Harry said, “I want to see you…”

Skimming Draco’s pulse, pressing open mouthed kisses to his wrist again and again. “All of you.”

This was it, there was nowhere left for Draco to hide, and he was surprised that he didn’t want to.

Not anymore.

No one knew him like Harry. No one had ever seen him for who he really was—truthfully, Draco had never let anyone in before. 

But there was no one like Harry.

Closing his eyes, Draco took a deep breath and nodded. Harry’s fingers brushed over his skin, melting away the glamours Draco painstakingly cast every morning.

“Beautiful,” Harry said, not even trying to hide the reverence in his voice. “Draco, sweetheart—you’re so beautiful.”

Then—once he could feel the adoration in Harry’s gaze, in every touch of his hands—only then did Draco open his eyes.

His blackened Mark, the pearlescent scars marring his pale skin…Harry could see it all.

And Harry was still there, kissing and touching and staring wonderingly at Draco.

There was only one word for it: love.

They reached for each other at the same moment, and Harry groaned when Draco’s fingers closed around his velvety cock, a subtle twist of his wrist. And Draco sighed as Harry’s fingers swept through the hair around his jutting erection, and downdowndown.

Everything was warm and slick as Harry’s magic swept over and through him, as Harry’s calloused fingers slipped into him easily.

Arching into the overwhelming pain and pleasure, Draco gasped, Harry stealing his breath with another kiss.

And another and another.

Draco was open, his body and soul cracked wide for Harry.

Then Harry was sliding in, his teeth grazing Draco’s nipples, and every inch was an eternity. It was blinding heat, and Draco begged for more. Wrapping his legs around Harry, a litany of curses fell from Draco’s lips. “Oh—please. Harry, please don’t stop. Pleasepleaseplease.”

Draco was breathless as Harry’s fierce hold on his hips tightened, pulling Draco into his lap.

Their eyes locked, and Harry was breathtaking, the only thing strong enough to keep Draco tied to the earth. Holding Draco close, Harry kissed him—more urgent than before, like he couldn’t control himself any longer.

And Draco didn’t want him to.

“Right there, sweetheart—just like that,” Harry moaned, his powerful thighs tensing as he buried his cock in Draco.

Again and again, they moved together, Draco bending to Harry’s will, a vow hidden in his surrender.

I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours.

And Harry gave in, delving into Draco over and over. Taking everything, and then more—coaxing pleasure from Draco’s body. 

When Harry came, it was with a harsh cry, arms shaking as he held Draco tight in his embrace. And when Draco came, following Harry over the edge only seconds later, it was with a whimper, clinging to Harry, pulse thundering in his ears.

It may have been seconds or hours but awareness came to Draco in pieces—Harry’s curls tickling his cheek, the shadows and moonlight playing across his skin, the bruises dotting his collarbones.

Harry rolled to the side, tucking Draco’s head under his chin, trailing his fingers up and down Draco’s spine.

It was silent but for their uneven breathing. Draco was loose-limbed and satisfied and happier than he could remember, exhaustion rolling over him in waves.

He was just on the verge of sleep, possibly the start of a very good dream, when Harry spoke.

“Draco, I…” Harry swallowed, Draco feeling the rise and fall of his chest. “Well, it sounds crazy—even in my head, but I need to tell you something.”

Draco kept his eyes closed, waiting for the inevitable as the once steady thumpthumpthump of Harry’s heart faltered and every muscle in Draco’s body tensed.

“I love you.”

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“Harry, please.”

It was excruciating, and Draco would lose himself, simply succumb to the pain when Harry…

Draco wouldn’t survive it.

“Just listen.” When Draco didn’t protest further, the words lodged in his throat, Harry said in a rush, “I told you this morning—I know it’s impossible, but I…no, that’s not right. My heart, Draco…my heart knows you. Every cell in my bloody body knows you. And it’s crazy and I can’t remember your favourite book or why you drink gin and not whiskey or if you like your job or anything before yesterday.”

Harry kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, and then, so softly Draco may have imagined it, his lips.

“But I know every fleck of blue in your eyes, the way you blush when I hold your hand, the golden freckles on your shoulders. You’re the smartest person in every room, and I’ve never met anyone who’s less of a morning person. You’re sarcastic and stubborn, and so much sweeter than you pretend to be. I’ve had the best day of my life, all because of you.”

Harry’s voice broke as he said, “I love you. I can’t remember every reason why, and I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The clock on Harry’s wardrobe read 12:01. They had done it, and after ninety-two days, it was over.

And Draco was ready.

He took a deep breath, for what felt like the first time in months, kissed Harry and said, “I love you too.”

——

When Draco woke to dazzling rays of sunshine, there was one moment—one heartstopping, perfect moment—where he could feel Harry beside him, the warm weight of his body curled against Draco’s.

And Draco saw it all, could see their future in perfect detail. Months and years and lifetimes together.

But when he opened his eyes, Draco was in his bed, alone, and Harry was gone.

Pulling his pillow to his chest, Draco wept as his heart finally, and irrevocably, shattered.

Chapter Text

It had been years since Draco had needed to use Occlumency, but it came back to him easily. Building walls, tall and impenetrable, around his thoughts. Sealing his unmanageable emotions behind indestructible doors.

It was familiar—almost natural—the numbness.

Of course, the pain was still there. It would always be there. Not even Occlumency could get rid of it completely, not when it was a part of him. Draco knew that.

Except it was closer to the serrated edge of a knife the moment before it pierced his skin—he could anticipate the sting, the promise of an uneven scar to remind him of what it was to hurt. Draco felt the gnawing ache, the wrenching hollow where his heart once was.

But, he could pretend, at least for a moment, that he wasn’t falling to pieces.

As he showered and dressed, Draco went through the motions, focusing on each task as he completed it. Shampoo, shirt, shoes—keep moving, everything’s fine—and though his hands shook with the effort, Draco managed to pull himself together enough to make it out the door.

One foot in front of the other, concentrating on the cracks in the pavement and not on his destination, Draco walked to Diagon Alley.

He was going to say goodbye.

It was over, just not in the way Draco thought.

And Draco had to let Harry go.

Without meaning to, Draco had fallen in love with Harry. Now, he was so far gone, in too deep, that he couldn’t see his way out of it. If they had time, if Draco could save Harry, if…if…if…if everything were different, Draco would never let Harry go.

But nothing would ever be different, and Draco couldn’t do it anymore. It was too much.

He’d never felt anything like it, a love that was too big for his body. A love that had changed the very essence of who he was, carving away all the worst parts of him until he could only see himself as Harry saw him.

And Harry had given that to Draco—unexpected and perfect, a love that was unconditional, that was infinite.

It would have to be enough.

Time was moving too quickly now, and before he’d realised Draco was at the mouth of the alley. The seconds, minutes, hours had once felt endless, and Draco wanted more of them. A thousand more days with Harry, to kiss and hold and love him…to just be with him.

Except not like this, not days that only Draco would remember.

He wanted a life with Harry, and it would never happen.

All the shops were busy, and Draco had been here so many times before, he knew what would happen before it did. It was all he could do not to run away, back to his flat and his bed, away from everything he knew was coming.

Draco needed to see Harry, just one last time, then he could leave. He’d start whatever sort of life he could without Harry, no matter how lonely and wretched.

One last time.

Draco waited and waited, and there he was. A glimpse of black curls, the curve of a smile, a face he knew better than his own.

Harry. Harry. Harry.

The walls that Draco had so carefully constructed crumbled under the onslaught.

Three words: I love you…

The memory of Harry—his calloused hand in Draco’s, the swell of his lips on Draco’s cheek, his heart galloping under Draco’s fingertips.

The sight of Harry—defenceless and innocent, unaware that death was once again waiting for him.

Harry—his Harry, who Draco loved so much more than he ever thought possible. Who had given Draco everything, without once taking anything for himself.

How Draco ever thought he could bear to see this again…to see Harry fall, his body broken and still. How Draco ever thought he could withstand the agony.

And then Draco, who had never been good or selfless or brave, knew what he had to do.

He hadn't known it until this moment, but there had never been another choice. This was where he was meant to be all along.

There were only seconds left. Not nearly enough time, but then, a lifetime with Harry wouldn’t have been long enough.

A flash of green light and Draco was running. His hands against Harry’s chest and they were falling and Harry’s eyes were wide—then, everything went black.

Chapter Text

‘I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning, but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’
— Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

——

Rays of dazzling sunlight woke Draco…no, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t the sun—but it was bright.

Draco blinked his gritty eyes open, a throbbing ache at his temples, trying to figure out where he was.

His head felt heavy, his thoughts sluggish and confused.

He was definitely in a bed, Draco knew that much. The sheets were absolute shit, scratchy and uncomfortable, but he was warm at least. Fluorescent lights blinded him as he looked around the room—a worn chair in the corner, shouting voices and incessant beeping drifting in through the cracked door, a flash of lime green robes.

St Mungo’s.

At least he was alive, and all his limbs seemed to be intact. Draco was…well, he wasn’t exactly fine, but he had to get out of here, he had to find Harry and make sure he was okay.

Every muscle in Draco’s body clenched painfully as he tried to sit up and failed miserably, falling back to the hard mattress—sneaking out would be more difficult than he thought.

“Draco?”

A flash of recognition, heart fluttering in his chest—he would know that voice anywhere.

Harry.

His Harry.

Relief washed through him, more effective than any pain potion, as he turned away from the door and towards Harry’s voice.

Harry was here and Harry was safe.

Unfurling himself from the uncomfortable-looking chair next to Draco’s bed, Harry knelt on the linoleum.

“Draco,” Harry said, not a question this time as he held Draco’s hand in both of his.

“I—” Draco’s mouth was so dry, his throat so raw, that he couldn’t get the words out. Not that he even knew what words to say. Should he start from the beginning? Did Harry remember anything? Draco had so many questions.

“Shh—shh, you’re okay. You’re okay,” Harry said soothingly as he kissed Draco’s fingertips, his knuckles, his palm.

As nice as Harry was being, and as concerned as his frown was, Draco must have looked as bad as he felt.

“Wha—” It was more of a croak than anything, but at least Draco had made a sound that resembled half of a word.

“I’ll go get the Healers,” Harry said, rising to his feet.

Shaking his head, and regretting it immediately as the pounding in his temples intensified, Draco managed to choke out, “Stay.”

If Harry left now, after everything…well, Draco didn’t want to think about it. And he really didn’t want Harry to go—not when Draco had just got him back. The Healers could wait, Draco only needed Harry.

“Sweetheart…” Harry said disapprovingly, and Draco’s heart gave a funny little jolt, his cheeks heating as he remembered the last time Harry had called him that. But he put on his best ‘don’t fuck with me’ scowl.

Harry sighed, also disapprovingly. “Alright, let me just—”

The shining stag erupted from Harry’s wand and cantered through the wall. Harry pulled the chair he’d been sleeping in so that it was close enough that he could sit down and press his lips to Draco’s hand again.

And Harry was more comforting than any Healer.

It didn’t answer any of Draco’s questions and Draco was having trouble keeping his mouth shut, but he tried to stay quiet, waiting for Harry.

Harry closed his eyes, tears falling down his cheeks, his breathing ragged. “I thought I’d lost you,” Harry whispered, laying his forehead on their joined hands.

Draco kissed the top of Harry’s head, his spine protesting the sudden movement with several pops. Because he knew that pain; he’d lost Harry more times than he could count, and it never got easier.

“I’m right here,” Draco rasped into Harry’s tangled curls.

“Git,” Harry said with a wet chuckle.

They sat like that for several long moments, just breathing and holding each other—together, they were together. There was a part of Draco that wanted to know if he’d finally succeeded in saving Harry’s life for good, if he’d finally made it to Friday, but he was also terrified to know the truth.

What if…Draco couldn’t think about it.

He’d almost worked up the courage to ask Harry what happened, to spare no details, when a very severe-looking Healer marched in.

Her green robes swirled around her ankles, white hair pulled on top of her head in a tight knot, and her mouth was set in a flat, red line.

“Mr Malfoy, glad to see you’re finally awake,” she said, not looking glad in the least. “I’m Healer Reese, and I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Draco nodded as Harry leaned away, his face tear-stained and his eyes bloodshot. It hurt to see Harry so heartbroken and Draco didn’t want to talk to the Healer, he wanted Harry back in his arms.

“We’ll need to run a few more tests, and you’ll have to stay at least one more night, but if every—”

“One more night?” Draco asked in a rush, hope blossoming in his chest.

Healer Reese apparently did not like being interrupted, and her frown deepened as she stared at him. “Yes, there was quite a lot of curse damage—”

“It’s Friday?” Draco turned to look at Harry, who gave Draco his favourite dimpled smile. “Really?”

Draco’s heart was near to exploding out of his chest.

He was nearly as happy about Friday as he was about Harry.

“Indeed, it is Friday,” she huffed, pulling out her wand. “As I said, I need to—”

Healer Reese wouldn’t shut the fuck up, but Draco ignored her. He had eyes only for Harry.

The Thursday from hell was over. Draco couldn’t explain what it felt like, except he wanted to scream or run a hundred miles or burst into tears—maybe all three at once.

“Really?” Draco asked again, looking at Harry. “It’s true?”

“I can promise you, it’s Friday,” Harry said, and Draco’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.

He’d done it. Draco had saved Harry, it was Friday, and it was over.

Harry’s smile widened, and Draco didn’t care that he was crying and that Healer Reese was annoyed and that it had taken them so long to get here.

It was Friday.

Fucking finally.

——

It was a long morning.

Healer Reese, who was not nearly as thrilled about the day of the week as Draco, kicked Harry out of the room as she ran approximately one million tests, most of them uncomfortable. By the end of it, Draco was cranky and more exhausted than he had been when he’d woken up. But, at least she’d declared him healthy.

Or healthy-ish.

Draco would have to stay until tomorrow, not that he cared. The prospect of seeing Saturday, and possibly spending it with Harry, was enough to put him back in a good mood.

Healer Reese had left before Draco could ask her if she could let Harry back in—of course, she probably would have said ‘no’ anyway—and Draco was just about to try slipping out of the room to find him when the door opened.

“Har—oh.” Draco tried not to sound too disappointed. “Hermione, hello—”

Hermione shushed him (which was rather rude since she was in his room), locking the door and shooting him an apologetic smile.

“What are you doing here?” Draco whispered, trying very hard not to be alarmed as he felt privacy spells settle around them.

When she pulled him into a tight hug, he gasped (and definitely didn’t cry) as her fingers closed over his bruised ribs.

“Oh goodness,” she said, her hands fluttering uselessly at his sides. “Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

“It’s alright,” Draco said through gritted teeth. And even though it really wasn’t, she looked distressed enough as it was without him piling on the guilt.

“We haven’t got much time.” She glanced warily at the door. “Ron’s distracting Harry, but they’ll be here any moment.”

“What—”

“I’m sorry, Draco.”

She looked so worried that he rolled his eyes. “Really, I’m fine.”

“No—not for that. For…you know…” She twirled her finger around her head, and Draco could tell she was trying to be nonchalant, and not succeeding in the slightest.

“For the time loop,” she said with a grimace.

“It was you?!” Draco cried and she clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Yes—and before you say anything else,” she added, wagging her finger in front of his narrowed eyes. “I know I’m a terrible person and I should have told you the truth and you’re well within your rights to lock me away for a hundred years. But you have to understand, you were the only one who could do it, and I had to save him—I had to.”

Tears filled her eyes, and though Draco wanted to argue with her, rail against the unfairness that was the last three months of his life, he knew he never would.

Because he felt exactly the same.

He’d once questioned the unwavering devotion of Harry’s friends, but now, Draco understood it completely.

If Draco had been in her position, he would have sacrificed anything and anyone to keep Harry safe. There was no one who deserved it more than him.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for saving Harry when I couldn’t.”

Draco nodded, and it must have been enough to convince her that he wasn’t going to shout at her because she pulled her hand away, smiling and wiping away her tears.

It was at that exact moment the door burst open, Harry rushing to Draco’s side and Ron trailing behind him. Draco would even tolerate Ron if it meant he got to see Harry.

Hermione kissed Draco’s cheek, gave Harry a quick hug, and stood next to Ron, grabbing his hand.

Grinning, Ron waved and said, “Hey Malfoy, glad you’re not dead.”

Harry snorted.

“Thanks, Weasley. Your lacklustre sympathy, as always, is appreciated.”

And Hermione snorted.

Thankfully, Ron and Hermione didn’t stay long after that. They promised to have Harry and Draco over for dinner once Draco had fully recovered and Draco demanded that Ron cook him a spectacular roast to make up for all his paperwork problems.

Once they’d left, Harry settled onto the bed, and Draco rested his head on Harry’s shoulder. It had only been a few hours since he’d woken up, and already he felt like he could use another nap.

Harry ran his fingers through Draco’s hair, humming softly and kissing his forehead.

“Keep that up and I’ll let you have your way with me.”

Harry laughed. “I suspect Healer Reese will have my head if I seduce one of her patients.”

“Who cares?” Draco grumbled; he most certainly didn’t.

“Well…I can honestly say I’ve had quite enough of being murdered.”

“At least you got a nice rest.”

“You call dying every day ‘a nice rest’?”

“Easier than what I went through,” Draco said, as Harry stared, open-mouthed, at him. “You didn’t even have to do anything.”

“You’re lucky I love you so much.”

Draco felt warm from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.

“I wouldn’t go that far…” Draco said, before tilting his face up for a kiss and adding, “But I love you too.”

Chapter Text

“I’m home!” Harry called, toeing off his boots in the hallway and hanging up his coat (Draco’s voice rang in his ears, ‘We’re not heathens, Harry’).

There was a soft meow, then the muted taptaptaptap of Freya’s claws as she came to greet him.

“Hey hey baby Fay.” Harry scratched behind her ears as she wove around his ankles. “Catch any Doxies today?”

She meowed again, more subdued this time, flicking her black tail and trotting towards the sitting room.

“Draco?”

The house was quiet, warm afternoon sun streaming through the windows, and Harry saw a small lump curled under an afghan on the sofa.

Even after so many months of living together, his heart still leapt at the sight of Draco—or the almost sight of him.

“Sweetheart?” Harry said quietly, shaking Draco’s shoulder. At least, he hoped…all Harry could see was a tangle of white blonde hair peeking out from the blanket.

“Five more minutes,” came the mumbled reply.

No matter the time of day, Draco hated waking up, and Harry had learned quickly that it was one of the few things Draco didn’t enjoy fighting about. “Alright.”

When Harry tried to walk away, an arm shot out, pale fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“Oof!”

Stronger than he looked, Draco yanked Harry onto the sofa, pulling him under the afghan. Draco snuggled against Harry’s side, long limbs like a cage (a very warm and very sleepy cage), murmuring, “Hmm…this is nice.”

It was hard to resist Draco like this—really, it was always hard to resist Draco. And most of the time, Harry didn’t even try. But they had a lot to do…

Except, Draco, sleep-soft and adorable, proved totally irresistible, and Harry burrowed further into the sofa, settling Draco against his chest.

“How was your day?” Harry asked, pressing a kiss to Draco’s mussed hair.

“Long,” Draco yawned. “Work was a nightmare. I’m one misfiled report away from murdering Weasley.”

Draco threatened to kill Ron at least three times a week, but it was mostly an empty threat (usually Draco just hit him with Stinging Jinxes at pub night), so Harry wasn’t too concerned about losing his best mate.

“And then, Miss Daisy escaped—yet again.”

It was the fifth time this month and Harry snorted. “Did you manage to actually climb the tree this time?”

“Absolutely not. Who do you take me for—Harry James Potter, Boy Wonder and Feline Liberator Extraordinaire?”

“So you made Fay do your dirty work?” Harry asked, as Freya kneaded their legs through the blanket, no doubt cranky they weren’t paying attention to her.

“Freya was sleeping peacefully, and I—unlike another rude arsehole who shall remain nameless—did not wake her.”

“That’s—”

“And obviously, I used magic.”

Harry sighed. “C’mon, we’ve talked about this.”

“Well—” Draco huffed. “There’s no need to do everything the Muggle way, now Emily’s got her letter.”

“Draco…”

“Don’t start with me, Potter.”

They had the same argument at least twice a week, and yet, Harry kept trying. “We live in a Muggle neighbourhood.”

“And Emily’s a witch and Miss Daisy was in danger and clause two hundred and forty-seven of the Statute of Secrecy clearly states—”

“Yeah, yeah—I know all about clause two hundred and forty-seven.”

“Then I’ve no idea why you’re fighting with me.” Draco yawned again, burying his face in Harry’s neck. “So, after saving Miss Daisy from certain death, I went to the market. Phillip was there, and you know how he is.”

He’s a prick, Harry heard in Draco’s drawl. Draco hated Phillip, the kid who worked the till, almost as much as he hated waking up.

“So, that took forever…he is just such a prick—”

Harry laughed.

“—and once I got home, I was desperate for a nap.” Draco yawned again, theatrically, and very unconvincingly, with a big stretch of his arms, knocking Harry’s glasses askew. “But then my brute of a boyfriend woke me up.”

As though Harry had ruined Draco’s life, for no good reason at all. “Nora and Grace will be here at six, remember?”

“Likely story,” Draco grumbled. “You just don’t want me to rest.”

“That’s not—”

“I spend months and months trying to save your life, only to die trying.”

“You didn’t actually die,” Harry said (leaving out ‘unlike some of us’), and Draco ignored him.

“As if I didn’t have enough going on between dying and coming back from dying—no thanks to the Hallows, I can tell you that—I was almost killed again by a lunatic swan.”

“I’m pretty sure Tommy—”

“Then I had to rescue Freya from a vicious Manticore, while you sat idly by, watching me fight for my life.”

Harry rolled his eyes and, from Draco’s elbow to the ribs, Harry was sure that even if Draco couldn’t see it, he knew it all the same. “It was a squirrel, and very much not a Manticore. Have you been telling people—”

“I simply haven’t got the energy to do everything around here while you fiddle with broomsticks all day,” Draco finished, pressing a hand to his forehead and pouting.

Harry had heard this little speech at least a hundred times, and it usually came tied to a request.

“I guess that means I’m in charge of supper tonight?”

“Unless your idea of supper is a nicely aged merlot”—and there it was—“then yes.”

Harry made to stand up, pretending to be annoyed but actually quite pleased, and Freya jumped off the sofa with a soft hiss.

Before Harry’s feet touched the hardwood, Draco’s arms locked around his neck. “Where are you going?”

“To make supper?”

“Five more minutes,” Draco whined, tugging Harry back into his arms.

“Sweetheart,” Harry said, though he was already settling into the squashy cushions. “It’s already been—”

“I said what I said, Potter.”

And really, Harry thought, what was five more minutes?

They had plenty of time.