Chapter Text
Draco paced the eight feet across his room and stopped at the iron bars, idly running his hand along them and feeling the cold thump thump thump of metal against his fingers. It was probably around ten in the morning, which meant time for him to pace himself dizzy and then attempt his usual four (and a half) push-ups, compose another paragraph of his biography (mentally only; they had taken away the parchment and quills when he had started composing irreverent limericks about the Ministry), and then brood until lunch (which was usually stale bread and some bland, watered-down sort of soup). All in all, it was a stale, bland, watered-down sort of existence, but Draco no longer had any reason to complain—
“Visitor, Malfoy!” barked the guard’s voice just outside his cell.
He grimaced, foot poised mid-step. Perhaps he did have some things to complain about.
“Potter,” he spat, when the door clanged open. “Couldn’t stay away?”
The guard—and the subject of one of Draco’s more colorful limericks—stepped away down the hall, and they were left alone.
“Er, hello, Malfoy. Just here on the weekly mandated check-in.” Potter slipped inside sheepishly and scrubbed at his perpetually messy hair. If Draco did want to complain, he could complain about how Potter’s hair looked positively windswept so often it had to be intentional. “They treating you alright here?”
Draco blinked. “It’s a prison. But I suppose yes. I’m fed. I receive healthcare. My rights aren’t being violated in any way.” He examined his fingernails.
“Good! That’s, er, good,” Potter said and nodded, leaning against the wall. He was always slouching, casual, hands in pockets and shoulders up against things. Draco had spent probably too much time during his formative years studying the way he looked against walls.
He listened to the gradually fading sounds of the guard’s footsteps in the distance and waited for Potter to give one of his characteristic shrugs or maybe slip him a copy of Seeker Weekly to borrow, when he was suddenly confronted by a very… unslouched Potter gripping both of his arms like his life depended on it.
“Draco,” he said, and his voice was firm, commanding; nothing like the laid-back, friendly tone he usually took.
Draco swallowed, a strange heat rising in his chest.
“I need you to listen to me very carefully.”
Draco listened, or tried to, as an increasing portion of his awareness was being consumed by Potter’s proximity, the flinty, determined gleam in his green eyes, the faint waves of his breath across Draco’s face—
“In five minutes, when the guard returns, I’ll take you to the interrogation room for an interview. When we leave this cell, you can either turn left and head to the interrogation room or turn right and head to the nearest empty cell three rows down. I’ll explain more then.” He paused, one hand lifting to brush his fingers just behind Draco’s ear—
“What the fuck are you doing?” Draco rasped, because if he didn’t, he’d do something humiliating like kiss Potter, because surely this had to be an extended hallucination of some kind—
“Giving you the ability to tap into the multiverse so you can verse jump,” Potter said brusquely, taking out his wand and pointing it directly at Draco’s head.
“Verse what? No. No no no no, I don’t want any part of whatever this is—these daydreams are usually less threatening, if you know what I mean—”
The tingle of Potter’s magic sent a series of shivers down his spine.
“You have to help. You might be the only person left who has a hope of beating Voldemort at his own game,” Potter continued, putting away his wand and taking out a piece of parchment. He began to scribble a series of instructions on it that Draco couldn’t quite make out. His hair, which usually fell into his face whenever he bent down to write, was uncharacteristically smoothed back.
“The Dark Lord was defeated a year and a half ago—you should know. You were there,” Draco said petulantly, absently rubbing the spot where Potter had charmed… something. Probably a rune of some kind. He’d have to check in his foggy cracked mirror later and then ask the staff healer to remove it.
“In this universe. In others, he’s still gaining power, finding ways to tear through into the ones where he was beaten—”
“In others, where I don’t live.” Draco sighed, taking the parchment Potter had been writing on and folding it up to place in his pocket. “Look, Potter, this lovely little delusion of yours is all very… noble and self righteous, but I’m perfectly content to sit in my cell and count the bricks on the wall until my appeal in eleven months.”
“The fate of the entire multiverse lies in your hands, and you want to—count bricks?”
“Yes.” He paused, considering the question in more detail. “Or maybe the cracks in the bricks.”
“Fucking unbelievable,” Potter muttered. “I knew I was looking for the worst possible version of you, but I didn’t expect… this.”
Worst possible version? Draco glared and tilted his chin up. He still had a sharp jawline—sharper now, even, thanks to a steady Azkaban diet—and his nails were still as immaculate as he could keep them with his one tiny sink, and he still had at least half of his sanity now that the dementors had officially gone. Surely there was a worse version of him out there. There had to be. One with dirty nails and a naive faith in the justice system and a beard. Right?
Potter had stood and begun to pace. Eight steps one way, seven the other. Same as Draco did day after day after day. Abruptly he stopped. “Nevermind. Remember what I told you about the interview room and the empty cell? Just forget it. I certainly will in a moment, so don't bother trying to ask me about it. I’ll just have to hop a few junctions over and try again.”
“A few what?” Draco asked, but when Potter turned back, he had a slightly puzzled expression.
“Er, sorry. Lost my train of thought for a bit.” He shook his head, and his hair was back to its usual state of unruliness. He slouched against the wall. Shoved his hands in his pockets. Grinned.
What the fuck?
Draco blinked several times in quick succession, wondering if the past few minutes had even transpired—wondering if Potter’s presence here at all had always been a hallucination.
“Oh! Right, I was supposed to interview you about your experience following the prison reform. Got some new Ministry paperwork to fill out,” Potter said, searching the pockets of his robes and sliding his glasses up his nose, messy hair in his face. He was just so… himself.
Except for a few minutes ago. He had stood ramrod straight, business-like, mercenarial almost. What the fuck had gotten into him?
“Shall we?” Regular Potter asked, gesturing to the cell door.
Draco cautiously felt inside his own pocket, where the folded parchment crinkled against his hand.
‘You can either turn left and head to the interrogation room or turn right and head to the nearest empty cell three rows down.’
He took a breath, steeled himself, and stepped through the door—