Chapter Text
There's a palpable sense of unease on Harry’s first day back at Hogwarts. He feels the absence of Ron and Hermione at his side like a phantom limb. As if that wasn't bad enough, Harry also feels the absence of all the students who didn't return. The ones who couldn't return.
There are only six first years, shuffling in nervously, occasionally sneaking glances over at Harry and then quickly looking away, frightened and awed. Harry pays them no mind, instead watching the sorting ceremony with dull disinterest. The general mood is far more somber than it had been in the years before. With little fanfare, three first-years get sorted into Gryffindor, two to Ravenclaw, and the last to Slytherin: a pale, scared young girl whose head is almost entirely dwarfed by the Sorting Hat. The hall is pin-silent as she makes the journey to the Slytherin table, joining only four other students— Parkinson, Zabini, Nott, and Malfoy. Harry tries not to look, but is inevitably swayed by the uncomfortable atmosphere. It’s like a car crash— horrifying, yet he can’t look away.
The new first year sits quietly at the Slytherin table, rounding out the number of students to five. None of the other students welcome her, and most barely spare her a glance. Harry is honestly surprised that there are any Slytherins at all— most are either in hiding, or, in the more extreme cases, living out their sentences in Azkaban. All students were extended an invitation to come back to Hogwarts and finish their educations, of course, but no one had really expected any Slytherins to accept the offer. It was more of a perfunctory gesture on the part of the Ministry, but not meant with any real sincerity. Except, there they were, sitting in the Great Hall eating Pumpkin Pasties like nothing had changed. And, worst of all, Malfoy sat among them, head down, picking at his food like it had personally offended him.
Once Harry’s eyes catch on Malfoy, he’s rooted to the spot. Look away, dumbass, he pleads internally. However, his eyes are not persuaded, and they continue to bore into the back of Malfoy’s robes until he hesitantly looks over his shoulder to meet Harry’s gaze. The second he does, they both hastily look away, and Harry feels his cheeks warm. Idiot.
And, okay, it’s not that Harry hates Malfoy, or anything. Really, he doesn’t. Sure, he may be an arrogant, pureblood tosser, but without him, there’s a good chance that Harry wouldn’t be alive. And, if anything, Malfoy probably went through almost as much as he did during the war. In a different way, for sure, but Harry's sure that he still has boatloads of unresolved trauma to deal with. Join the fucking club.
So honestly, Harry doesn’t hate Malfoy. Dislikes him, maybe, if anything. Possibly not even that, but the jury's still out on that count.
Mostly, he’s just... uncomfortable. It feels strange, that after everything, Harry’s back at Hogwarts with Malfoy, who was one of the only other unofficial “eighth years” to return. That after Harry stared death in the eye, he can return to school and stare at the back of Malfoy’s head again, like he’s back in first year. And really, strange as it is, Malfoy’s one of the only familiar faces Harry has as company.
Ron started Auror training only a few months ago, and Hermione travelled to America to attend the upper division at Ilvermorny. Ginny’s back at Hogwarts, but Harry honestly hasn’t spoken to her much since their breakup. It’s not that they’re on bad terms, per say, but Harry just wouldn’t count her as a close friend at the moment. Neville’s back at Hogwarts, too, but only for a teaching internship with Professor Sprout. Harry hasn’t seen him at all since he’s arrived, since he's reportedly spending his days in the greenhouse. Even Luna’s out of the picture, gone to travel abroad with her father.
So, really, it just boils down to Harry and Malfoy. It’s a little awkward, considering the last time Harry saw Malfoy was at his family’s trial. Harry had spoken up for him, but hadn't talked to him directly. Of course, at the time, they had been separated by the vast expanse of the Wizengamot courtroom. Now, they’re separated by a mere three tables.
Honestly, even before the trial, Harry had thought about trying to clear the air between them. More out of necessity than anything else, but also because Malfoy doesn’t seem to be quite as much of a prick anymore. He mostly just seems as though he’s had the wind taken out of his sails, which Harry can certainly relate to. The only problem is that Harry’s not entirely sure how Malfoy would react to an offer of peace. Well, he can guess— a scoffing remark and a quick dismissal— but Harry wants to try and approach him in the least offensive way possible, to avoid that outcome. He’s not quite sure yet how to do that, but he’s willing to try.
His musings are interrupted by McGonagall clearing her throat. All the students in the Great Hall, Slytherins included, turn to face the sound.
McGonagall slowly sweeps her eyes over the crowd, a terse set to her mouth, before beginning the traditional start-of-term welcome speech.
Her words, however, are anything but traditional. “Students, I know that this year is like no other. We have all faced significant challenges, and have overcome them." There's a quiet murmur among the hall, and McGonagall patiently waits for it to die down.
"However, I am so glad to see all of you here today, in one piece. You, dear students, are the future.” She pauses to look at Harry, an unreadable look in her eye. Harry swallows thickly, meeting her gaze unsteadily. Her mouth twists, before she quickly continues her speech, as if nothing had happened.
“We, as the Wizarding World, have been through much turmoil over the past few years. However, I believe that together we can heal, and we can rebuild.” She looks out to the crowd, raising her glass. “To the new semester, and all that comes with it.” The students, including Harry, echo the sentiment and begin eating, some with more enthusiasm than others.
Harry reluctantly takes a bite of his turkey leg, simultaneously scanning the Gryffindor table for someone to talk to. Ginny’s sitting on the other end, so even if he wanted to risk approaching her, he couldn’t. Somehow, though, he’s sat right next to the three first years, all of whom are looking at him with varying degrees of awe. The boy next to him reaches up to tug on the sleeve of Harry’s robe. Harry wearily looks down at him, then back to his turkey leg. He tensely bites off a piece, resigned that his only hope for conversation is a twelve-year old boy.
“Um, Mr. Harry Potter, sir?” The boy squeaks. Harry tries valiantly to repress a snort. Sir. Like he's a professor, or something.
“Just Harry is fine. What’s your name?” He replies, smiling to try and put the kid at ease. It must not work, because he still looks like he may pass out any second. The other two first years, both girls, watch on with thinly-veiled interest.
“Justin, sir.” Poor Justin looks like he’s about to vibrate right out of his seat. Harry nods at him and reluctantly holds his hand out to shake. Justin stares at his hand for a beat too long before returning the handshake weakly. “Um, I just wanted to ask. Um. What was it like, fighting You-Know-Who?”
Harry blinks at Justin, surprised by his candor. He really didn't beat around the bush, did he? “Er—”
He’s thankfully interrupted by the voice of McGonagall, who he hadn't noticed approach the table. “If you’ll excuse me, boys, I would like to have a word with Mr. Potter in my office.” Justin nods so vigorously Harry’s a bit worried his head might fall off.
“Right. Well, it was nice meeting you, Justin,” Harry offers, standing up gratefully to follow McGonagall. Justin gives an enthusiastic wave in response as he leaves. Harry winces, then turns back to the hallway. He’s not quite sure what McGonagall wants to talk about, given their strange moment during her speech. Maybe she wants to make him Head Boy? It would make sense, although Harry’s not quite sure he wants the added responsibility. He mostly just wants to keep his head down this year and graduate without any added attention on him.
When they reach McGonagall’s office, though, Malfoy, of all people, is waiting for them, fidgeting wearily in McGonagall's pale blue Queen-Anne printed loveseat. Harry hadn't even noticed him leave the Great Hall, which is a bit surprising. Not that he was watching him, or anything. Malfoy seems just as taken off guard as Harry is, which brings Harry a good deal of comfort. At least he wasn't the only one completely in the dark regarding McGonagall's joint meeting.
“What’s this about, Professor?” Harry asks. McGonagall gestures for Harry to sit next to Malfoy, which he reluctantly does. He keeps a great deal of space in between them— a difficult task, given the small size of the loveseat, but he manages. Malfoy doesn’t quite look up to meet anyone’s eye, instead keeping his gaze trained on his hands, which are folded politely in his lap. Harry regards him for a moment, almost wishing that he would look up and give one of his characteristic sneers. Or at least taunt him, something. It seems unnatural for Malfoy to be so still.
McGonagall sits in her desk opposite to the loveseat, fixing them both with a serious stare. “Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy. I’ve called you both here because I have an important task for you two.” At this, Malfoy looks up.
Harry leans forward, intrigued. “What is it?”
“I would like you boys to deliver a message to Professor Dumbledore.” Harry and Malfoy, startled, send each other confused glances before quickly looking away again. Merlin, McGonagall’s gone barmy.
“Er, Professor—” Harry starts hesitantly. McGonagall clears her throat, waving away his concern.
“I am well aware that Albus is not with us anymore, Mr. Potter.”
Malfoy, brow furrowed, speaks up. “How do you expect us to deliver the message, then?” He pauses. “Headmistress,” he tacks on as an afterthought, almost respectfully.
Harry blinks at him for a second, shocked silent by the uncharacteristic display. Merlin, Malfoy really must be out of it, if he's not even going to say anything rude to McGonagall.
Then again, after his family's trial, Harry supposes Malfoy really can't say anything cruel, lest he wants to be thrown back in Azkaban.
Still strange, though.
“Well, I was rather getting to that, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall replies, not unkindly. She holds out a familiar-looking timekeeping device and a rolled up piece of parchment. “I would like you boys to go back in time precisely eighteen months and deliver my letter to Professor Dumbledore. It is urgent, and of the utmost importance that he receives it.” Harry reaches out to take the items, feeling a little blindsided.
“Eighteen months, Professor? Isn’t that a little risky, on a time turner?” Harry can’t help but dart a glance over at Malfoy, who’s sitting like a rock in his corner of the loveseat. “And, er— why us, if you don’t mind me asking?” At this, Malfoy snorts. Harry feels his mouth twist a bit at the gesture, and he stubbornly tugs it back down. He wouldn't want Malfoy to think he's smiling at him, or anything.
“Why me, I think you mean.” Even as he says it, Malfoy’s guarded demeanor drops just a bit, revealing a hint of confusion. It's such an alien expression on him that Harry stares, stricken, at the side of his face. Malfoy sneaks a look back at him, then drags his eyes back to McGonagall and continues, “However, I would like to know as well.”
McGonagall sits up a bit straighter.
“I would have done it myself, but eighteen months of travel is indeed troublesome for a witch of my age. You two are some of the most powerful young wizards I know. Together, you should have no difficulties completing this task.” She turns to look at Malfoy. “I am placing my trust in both of you. I hope that you will not let me down.”
Malfoy swallows and nods. McGonagall then turns to Harry, who hesitantly nods as well. He’s certainly been through much worse, and it would be nice to see Dumbledore again, even if only for a short time.
“Excellent.” McGonagall claps her hands together. “This should be a fairly quick and simple task. Please do not dally.” Harry hums in agreement, and gets up to leave.
“Remember, eighteen turns should do the trick. I’ve already set it to the preferred time frame.”
Harry nods absently, only half-listening. He walks out into the corridor, Malfoy close on his heels.
“You’ve done this before, then?” Malfoy asks him, staring nervously at the time turner.
“Yeah, on the day of Buckbeak’s execution," Harry replies.
Malfoy blinks uncomprehendingly. Harry doubts he even remembers Buckbeak at all, the sod. Maybe it was too traumatic of a memory for him, Harry thinks wryly.
“Well— alright, then. I suppose you’re the expert.” Harry gets the feeling that the retort was supposed to sound sarcastic, but Malfoy mostly just sounds resigned. Harry holds up the time turner, inspecting it. It looks a little different from the one he and Hermoine used, and he can’t quite figure out why. The basic design is the same, but something about the turning mechanism looks different. It’ll work just the same, though, Harry supposes.
Malfoy taps his foot impatiently. “Well, we haven’t got all day, Potter. Get on with it.”
Harry rolls his eyes. There Malfoy was. Harry had almost been worried, Merlin forbid.
“I’m going, relax.” It was eighteen turns, right? One turn for each month, Harry guesses. Simple enough. He sets his fingers on the knob and begins to twist. One, two, three—
Harry’s interrupted by a whirlwind of arms and legs that he doesn’t see coming until it’s too late. “Harry! I mean, Mr. Harry Potter, sir! I really wanted to talk to you about—” Justin, in his hurry, knocks Harry right off his feet, the time turner clattering to the ground.
“Justin, move!” Harry shouts.
Justin, eyes wide, scampers off down the hall.
“Sorry, I’ll talk to you later!” He shouts over his shoulder. Harry groans.
“Please don’t,” he mutters under his breath. Malfoy lets out a quiet snicker. Wait— Malfoy. The time turner! Fuck. Harry wildly searches the ground until he sees it. Only a few feet away, but still spinning like mad. Harry pales.
“Should it still be spinning like that?” Malfoy asks weakly. Definitely not, Harry thinks. At this rate, it would send them back to the beginning of bloody time.
“Malfoy, we have to slow it down!” Harry yells over the growing racket of the time turner. Harry’s not sure how, exactly, they’re going to do that, but they have to try. Malfoy looks at him wildly, and hesitates for only a second before grabbing his arm.
Harry looks at Malfoy’s hand on his arm for a long, baffling moment. A strange feeling bubbles up in his stomach.
“We’ll be stronger together!” Malfoy shouts. Oh. Right. The spell. Harry points his wand at the time turner, along with Malfoy.
“Finite Incantatum!”
The time turner only seems to grow stronger. A bright light begins to glow out from the center of the device, reaching its edges over to Harry and Malfoy. Fuck.
The last thing Harry sees is Malfoy’s worried face, and then darkness.
***
“Bloody hell, mate. Where did they come from?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Doesn’t that one look a little bit like...”
“Merlin, he really does. The spitting image.”
“A cousin, maybe?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve met all of James’ cousins.”
“A long-lost brother?”
A snort. “Yeah, right.”
James? Why was Harry’s dad there?
“Dad?” Harry murmurs quietly. Is he dead? Again? Blimey, what a way to go. Death by time turner. Wait— fuck! The time turner! Harry bolts upright.
“Malfoy?” he spins around wildly to see Malfoy lying face down, seemingly unconscious. Bugger. “Malfoy, wake up.” Harry shakes his shoulder, trying not to grip too hard.
Malfoy wrinkles his forehead, eyes fluttering open. “Shove off, Potter,” he grumbles, shrugging Harry’s hand off his shoulder.
“Malfoy? Potter?” The voice from earlier asks. A familiar voice, now that Harry thinks about it. “Sorry, who are you two?”
"They just said, mate. You going deaf, as well?"
"Sod off, Padfoot."
Padfoot? Harry slowly raises his eyes to see—
“Sirius,” Harry chokes out, stunned. He looks much younger than he was when Harry knew him, sporting a worn, patched leather jacket that Harry knows is against the Hogwarts dress code.
Sirius raises an eyebrow, seemingly unfazed. “That’s me, alright. And you?” Harry blinks at him.
“Um— Harry. Potter.” Malfoy snorts next to him, and Harry shoves at his shoulder lightly.
Sirius raises an eyebrow. “...Right. You related to James, then?”
Harry nearly trips in his haste to stand up. “You could say that, yeah.” Unthinkingly, he holds out a hand for Malfoy to take. Malfoy, to his credit, only stares at it for a second before grasping it delicately and pulling himself to his feet, immediately dropping his hand afterwards.
Sirius stares at the two of them. “Sure. What about you?” He asks Malfoy.
Malfoy draws himself up to his full height, appearing as dignified as one can be after being found unconscious in a school corridor. “Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he states primly. Sirius’s eyebrows shoot up, and Harry suppresses a snicker. Badly, if Malfoy's glare is anything to go by.
“Lucius? Well, I suppose I see the resemblance.” For a moment, the three of them just stand there, staring at each other in silence.
Someone clears their throat. “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but where exactly did you two come from?” Harry turns to the voice. He had almost forgotten that there was another person with them.
“Professor Lupin?” Harry chokes out. Lupin stares back at him suspiciously.
Malfoy shifts uncomfortably, looking over at Harry. “Look, Potter, I know it’s been a while since you’ve... seen them,” he pauses, and he and Harry both go quiet. Remembering. “But can’t you see you’re confusing the bloody hell out of them?” Oh. Right.
“Sorry,” Harry starts sheepishly. “We’ve had a bit of an accident with a time turner. Do you know where Professor Dumbledore is?” He can’t stop looking at Sirius and Lupin, these unweathered, carefree versions of them that Harry never knew, and has only seen in pictures. They’re around his age, maybe even younger.
Sirius’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “A time turner? Blimey! Don’t those only go back a few hours at a time?”
Lupin stares at Harry in thinly veiled shock. “Does that mean you’re James’s, what— son?” Sirius falls silent, apparently having just realized this as well. Lupin’s brow furrows. “And did you call me Professor?”
Harry fidgets, suddenly unsure of how much he’s supposed to tell them. He hadn't quite prepared for this type of situation. “Um, yes. And... yes?” he tries. Malfoy squints at him in disapproval.
“Potter, do you ever think before you speak?”
Harry stares back at him hopelessly. “Honestly? Not really.”
Sirius snorts with laughter. “Well, that’s definitely James’s son.” He and Lupin share a bemused glance. “Let’s get you two to Dumbledore then, I suppose.”
As they walk down the corridor, Lupin glances over at Harry. He looks like he wants to ask something, but isn’t quite sure if he should. After a minute or two of furtive side looks, Harry takes pity on him.
“Is there something you wanted to ask me? Um, Remus?" It feels too strange to call someone his own age Professor. Besides, he wasn't a professor at all now, was he? Just a normal student, like Harry.
“Is Lily your mother? You have her eyes, is all.” Harry smiles at the statement. (If he had a galleon for every time he heard it.)
“Yeah, she is,” he replies. Looking at Remus, the magnitude of the situation sinks in for the first time. If he and Malfoy are stuck here much longer, he could get to see his parents. Not in a dream, not as ghosts, but young and alive. Happy.
The smile slowly slips from Harry’s face, replaced by what he’s sure must be an unattractively conflicted expression.
Malfoy looks over at him, brow furrowed in something that resembles worry. You okay? he mouths. Harry blinks in shock, then affirms the statement in a movement that probably looks more like a strange head spasm than a nod. He wonders if Malfoy is somehow…not himself. Some type of reverse demonic possession, maybe, where he's been replaced by a sort of caring and benevolent spirit.
Having thankfully understood Harry’s head spasm, Malfoy nods sharply in return, then quickly looks away, seemingly invested in the pattern of the floor.
More attentively, Harry turns back to Remus. “Why do you ask? Are her and dad not together yet?”
“No, they are," Remus assures him. "It’s new, though.” He pauses. “They had a bit of a rocky start, but here we are, I suppose. Here... you are.” With this, he makes a vague, wild gesture in Harry's direction, as if to say he's walking proof of his parents' relationship status.
“Here I am,” Harry echoes. He's not quite sure how to feel about that statement.
They spot Dumbledore before they reach his office. He’s walking down the stairs with a much younger McGonagall, both engaged in an amicable conversation. They stop in their tracks when they see the group of teenagers approaching.
“Oh dear,” says Dumbledore. “You two look like you’ve had a bit of a chronological displacement.” He waves McGonagall away in a kind but firm dismissal, then looks Harry and Draco up and down, and his eyes stop in their tracks at Harry’s scar. “You must be a very powerful wizard, Mr. Potter,” he murmurs, his gaze still trained on Harry's forehead.
Harry meets his eye. “Not me. My mother,” he says firmly. Harry certainly hadn't gotten the scar— survived— because anything he did.
“Ah, yes." Dumbledore looks at Harry once more, considering. "Lily Evans, I presume. Well, I won't disagree. She is indeed a talented witch.” Harry nods, throat suddenly tightening. He’s unable to say anything else, but he can tell that Dumbledore understands. He looks at Harry with warm sympathy in his eyes.
Dumbledore clears his throat. “Well, now, please come into my office. I’ll see what I can do for you.” Malfoy, Sirius, and Remus, who had all been watching the conversation with varying degrees of confusion, snap to attention and follow Dumbledore as he leads the way.
Once inside Dumbledore's office, the trio quickly takes their seats. Dumbledore regards Harry and Draco, waving his wand over them in a spiraling motion. “Let's see. Harry Potter, son of James Potter and Lily Evans. Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black.” Sirius startles at the sound of his cousin’s name, and looks at Malfoy with renewed interest. Malfoy doesn’t meet his eyes.
“Both eighteen years of age, both currently attending Hogwarts. Am I correct?” Dumbledore peers over his glasses at them. Harry nods.
“Yes, Professor. We had a bit of an accident with a time turner. We were instructed by Headmistress McGonagall—” Malfoy elbows him sharply in the side, giving him a pointed look. Oh, bollocks. “Er, Professor McGonagall — to give you this letter.” Harry digs in his pocket for the letter and hands it to Dumbledore, who's chuckling at his slip-up.
“It’s all right, Harry. I am quite aware that I will not live forever. Minerva will make a fine Headmistress in my stead.” Next to them, Sirius makes a startled noise, and he and Remus glance, wide-eyed, at each other.
Dumbledore opens the letter, adjusting his glasses slightly as he reads. There's a long silence, the air in the room turning stale and terse. Harry resists the urge to look over at Malfoy, and instead counts the number of grains in the wood flooring.
“I see,” Dumbledore says eventually, looking troubled. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, boys.” Harry and Malfoy nod hesitantly, neither one aware of the actual contents of the letter.
To Harry's surprise, Malfoy speaks up, albeit quietly. “Headmaster, do you know if we will be able to return to our proper time?”
Dumbledore hums thoughtfully. “With wizards of your caliber, I believe it is possible. However, I will have to locate a rare type of time-turner to send you back. It will take a few weeks, at least. Professor McGonagall will fill in during my absence.”
Malfoy pales. “Weeks?”
Dumbledore nods, seemingly unconcerned. “Until then, I see no reason for you all to not continue your education. You can join your respective houses and attend classes with the seventh-years. I'll arrange for extra school supplies and necessities to be sent up to the dorms." He conjures a quill and takes down a quick note on a nearby sheet of parchment, then looks back up at them. "Am I correct in assuming Gryffindor and Slytherin?” Harry and Draco both nod. “Excellent.” He finishes his note and hands it to a nearby owl to be delivered.
Dumbledore turns to Sirius and Remus. “I would like you boys to look out for them, along with their parents. I trust that you will be hospitable during their stay?”
Sirius grins. “Yes, sir. Just wait until James and Lily hear about this!”
Harry’s eyes widen. Yes, indeed.