25th December, 1998, #2

Harry woke, hungover and angry, to the sound of the same bloody Weird Sisters track blaring. His eyes snapped open, and he stared at the canopy with the dull fury of shame, grinding his teeth together and trying to work out what, precisely, he was going to say to his dorm mates.

Can you dance like a Hippogriff?

Just like yesterday, Seamus warbled along at the top of his lungs. Annoying as it was, Harry was at least relieved that no one seemed to give a shit about his outburst. They probably all had a great time at the Ball without him.

He paused. That wasn't a nice thought, actually.

Ma ma ma, ma ma ma, ma ma ma.

Groaning, he decided to Gryffindor-up and get it over with. He had to face them sooner or later.

The hangings tangled around his arms, heightening the groggy discomfort and reminding him forcefully that he didn't have enough energy for this. He wondered, briefly, whether it wasn't better to just make a new life here, among the drapes. He could hear Ron grunting in his sleep, slowly approaching consciousness, and his heart rate picked up. What the hell was he going to say to Ron?

After a few minutes of suffocation, he burst free of the hangings and landed on the floor.

Seamus burst into laughter. "Now that's the kind of entrance we like to see! Harry Potter on the drums, everyone!" He held out an imaginary microphone to Harry's head.

On any other day, he would have given a half-hearted air drum solo. Or an enthusiastic one, depending on how much he'd had to drink. For some reason though, he wasn't quite feeling it today.

"Urgh," he said helpfully.

"Merlin, Harry, are you hungover?" Seamus asked, eyes wide. Then he cackled again. "Where were you last night?"

"Urgh," Harry said again, finding that it wasn't quite by choice, and was actually all the sound he was technically capable of producing right now.

Ron's sleepy voice carried across the room, wounded even through the fog of waking. "You went out drinking? Why didn't you invite me?"

The first flickerings of unease started up in Harry's stomach. He looked up at Ron, hovering over the edge of his bed and looking confused but hurt, and waited for the interrogation to begin.

It didn't begin.

"Er," he said, hoisting himself off the floor so he at least didn't have to look up at everyone.

The Weird Sisters track changed into that godawful song about Harry bringing back music and laughter. The flicker of unease became a flame, burning brightly. Was Seamus actually listening to the wireless, or had Dean taught him how to tape songs onto a cassette? No—the device would have to be magic in some way to survive Hogwarts.

No one was singing this time; they all just looked at him strangely. Even Seamus seemed unhappy now he realised Ron hadn't been invited.

"I'm really sorry I was such a prat last night," Harry said in a rush, the words tumbling over each other.

"Well, yeah, drinking without your best mate is pretty prattish," Seamus said with an incredulous laugh, while Ron spoke over him: "So you really did, then?"

Then Ron frowned. He paused, appeared to be chewing over something incredibly weighty, and then said, "When did you go? You were with us until eleven."

This time, it was Harry's turn to stare. "I never came back to the Ball, Ron," he said carefully, ignoring the warning siren that was currently blaring a deafening tune in his mind. "I've been in here, in my bed, with a bottle of Firewhisky since I left the Yule Ball." To prove it, he reached back into the covers.

His hands met air. He rummaged around again, more frantically this time, as Seamus whistled in a low tone and said, "Drinking alone, Harry? Jesus, you'll wanna work on that before it gets ya."

Harry couldn't find the bottle. He kneeled down and checked under the bed, but it wasn't there either.

"What Ball?" Ron said slowly, as the warning siren transfigured itself into a tsunami alert. "The Ball's tonight." Laughter crept into his voice. "Harry... were you dreaming?"

Harry, who could not produce any proof of last night, but who had also accidentally proven himself innocent in the most terrifying of ways, forced himself to laugh.

"You know, I reckon I might've been," he said, in a voice that came out far higher than even puberty had allowed.

Seamus and Dean burst into laughter, and then began to sing again, right from where the chorus had left off. Ron sat up, his relieved smile growing as he looked Harry up and down.

"Must've been some dream," he said cheerily. "You look like shit."

"Feel it, too," Harry said breathlessly. "Listen—I'll meet you downstairs, okay?"

The only answer came in the form of song.

"Please don't be there, please don't be there," Harry whispered to himself. The songs he could make sense of—his mind had probably heard the first one while he was still asleep and incorporated it, while the second was just... coincidence. You were allowed a few coincidences in life. It was normal.

He couldn't, however, have dreamed up an entire Luna.

As he clattered down into the common room, his heart sank as his eyes landed on the serene young woman sitting by the fire, her blonde hair glinting in the cosy glow.

"Are you protesting today, Harry?" Luna asked, gently collecting the threads of Harry's sanity and setting them merrily on fire. "Oh. You look like you've had a rough night."

"Something like that," he said faintly, coming to sit in the chair opposite. "How did you get in here, Luna?"

"Melinda let me in."

Right. The elusive Melinda. Was there even a Gryffindor named Melinda? He'd never met her.

For a moment, all he could do was stare at Luna, struggling to think of the proper way to voice his concerns.

"Oh dear," she said pleasantly into the silence. "You look like you could really do with a friend."

Harry choked on something that sounded awfully like a sob. "Probably could, yeah."

Luna reached forward and patted his knee. "Would you like biscuits or pastries? I have both."

"Er," he began, and then realised that his stomach was too unsettled to eat. "Actually, maybe I need to take a walk to clear my head or something. Not that I don't appreciate the company, Luna, I'm just... really messed up this morning."

Luna nodded in understanding. "The chill in the air always helps me refocus. Before you go, here—Happy Christmas, Harry."

Harry's heart skipped a beat as he stared at the familiar package. He reached out gingerly, offering Luna the warmest smile he could muster, and slowly unwrapped the present.

"It's a Consilium," he said in carefully neutral tones.

"You know of them!" Luna said brightly, so clearly pleased that Harry couldn't bring himself to say what he'd been about to—that this had all happened before, and he'd somehow gone back in time.

"Only a little," he said truthfully. "It will open at midnight, right?"

"Usually, but sometimes they do take longer."

"I love it," Harry said, and despite it all, he meant it. "Happy Christmas, Luna. Would you like your gift now or at breakfast?"

"Oh, breakfast would be lovely." She rose from her seat, patting him gently on the shoulder. "Don't forget your scarf today. It's cold out there, and the Maywisps are especially nippy."

Harry didn't ask, but made a mental note to rummage through his presents until he found a scarf. He was sure there was one in there when he checked yesterday. Otherwise known as this morning.

What the fuck was happening to him? Had he dreamed the entire day before it happened? Was he a seer now?

He thought of Professor Trelawney, grimaced, and shook his head. No, he wasn't a Seer, he was certain of that. Besides, he hadn't dreamed it; he'd lived it. If nothing else, his hangover was telling him that much.

He hurried through his presents so he could escape before the others came down, and then he ran. On his way out the front doors, he peeked into the Great Hall to check if Hermione was sitting in the same spot. She was. It didn't help his distress at all, and he wished he hadn't looked.

The wind hit him with a bitter snap the second he made it outside. His hair—getting too long these days—whipped into his eyes, covering his glasses, and for a moment he simply stopped and waited. It was strangely refreshing, and after a few minutes of wishing for either a heated blanket or death, whichever came first, he felt like, maybe, he could handle this. He skipped down the rest of the steps, cast a Warming Charm, and headed for the lake.

His first instincts, obviously, were to go to Ron and Hermione. But until he knew what he was dealing with, he didn't want to trouble them. They'd been through enough, and he was still feeling guilty about last night—even though it hadn't technically happened, apparently. It was a weird sensation. Like he was compelled to chase them down and apologise for being such a massive arse, but he couldn't do that, because they didn't remember it, and so he couldn't bring himself to face them at all.

And also, he hadn't been that much of an arse.

Had he?

He felt that Parkinson had had it coming, at least a little bit. Or someone had. Possibly McGonagall. Certainly Malfoy.

Harry paused, rubbing at his chin. Okay, so maybe he had been an arse. The precise percentage remained to be determined, but he could admit that much.

Fresh flurries of snow began to cascade around him, and he pulled his coat tighter against the chill, barely fighting the urge to stick his tongue out for the snowflakes. He kept having weird urges like that since Voldemort died. Not with snow, usually—it wasn't a snow fetish. But just... little things. Childish things. He'd have the urge suddenly to jump onto the banister and slide down the stairs. Or jump up on the table with Seamus when he was serenading the entire Hog's Head.

Stuff he'd never been able to do with Voldemort chasing him, and that he'd certainly never been able to do under Petunia Dursley's watchful eye.

Eventually, as the lake drew closer and the snow grew heavier, he gave into temptation. As the first cold flake hit his tongue, the answer to his problem came with it.

He was being offered a do-over. He'd stuffed things up spectacularly last night, and someone had—somehow—decided to give him a Christmas present. It wasn't the strangest thing anyone had done for him. People were always giving him things, often far more expensive and exotic than Luna's Consilium and the knobbly green mystery socks. People just did that, these days, and, sure, he hated it. But it was done now, and...

And he was bloody appreciative, was what.

He also was absolutely going to use this opportunity to avoid McGonagall and Parkinson for the rest of eternity, and Malfoy for good measure. That way, he couldn't possibly get roped into escorting Parkinson on her victory lap around the dance floor, because they just wouldn't be able to bloody find him. It was flawless.

Suddenly more cheerful, Harry turned back from his half-circuit of the lake and nearly ran straight into Malfoy.

"Oh, what do you want?" he snapped, before realising abruptly that they weren't in the middle of an argument, as it felt to Harry. They hadn't, in fact, spoken for weeks.

Malfoy's eyebrows slowly lifted, and he drawled in a snotty little voice that made Harry want to kick snow at him, "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, this morning."

"Sod off, Malfoy." Harry rolled his eyes, pushing past him.

"McGonagall's looking for you," Malfoy called after him. "I think she—"

Harry knew exactly what she wanted, and he just barely held back from sticking his fingers in his ears to avoid hearing it again and being thus implicated in responding. Clearly, the snowflakes had addled his brain.

"I'll find her." He spoke quickly, so Malfoy couldn't finish his sentence. "Thanks, Malfoy."

It rolled off the tongue before he could stop it, far too friendly for what Malfoy deserved, especially since Harry's jaw still hurt from the git's fists. But he'd been rushing the words out so he couldn't hear what McGonagall needed—and could therefore keep up his plan of cleverly avoiding her—and, well, last night's arse-hattery aside, Harry's default was usually polite.

Malfoy's expression did something very strange. "What did you just say?"

"I said you've got food on your chin," Harry said, which didn't even fit the syllables, but he was already gone before Malfoy could question him.

All right. So, he had the opportunity for a do-over, and he knew exactly what mistakes he'd made, so it should be very simple, shouldn't it?

Breakfast had long been cleared away by the time he made it back to the castle, but in the spirit of Christmas, the tables were lined with plenty of pastries and sweets, and he loaded up on food before he went to find Ron and Hermione and prove to them that he was a good friend after all.

*

Maybe he just wasn't a good friend, after all.

Hermione chatted away happily with Ginny as the two of them did each other's hair; George stuck around long after the rest of the Weasleys had gone to lie on the sofa and set minor traps around the Gryffindor common room with lazy flicks of his wand; Ron went over his dress robes with an Ironing Charm and an expression of fierce concentration; and Harry...

Harry hated every second of it. He couldn't find even a thread of supportive feeling within him for his friends, who were all clearly thrilled about the Ball and everything it contained. But as the day went steadily on, Harry found himself becoming rapidly closer to the same foul mood he'd been in last night. Which was not an option. He couldn't waste this second chance and be the exact same prat he'd been before.

He took a deep breath. "Hey George?" he called across the hearth, shifting in his armchair.

Everyone else had disappeared to get changed, and it was only Harry and George left by the fire.

"Oh, you're speaking again, are you?" George said, cracking one eyelid to stare at Harry. "I was just about to sneak a Puppetry Pasty into your tea. Shame. Could have had you dancing with McGonagall if you'd just waited another five."

"Can't help but feel I'd notice that," Harry pointed out in alarm, staring down into his tea as he imagined flakes of pastry floating through it and an entire pasty just bobbing in the middle.

"The way you're looking, mate? Hardly. You haven't said a word for one hour and thirty-seven minutes, and you didn't even notice when the portraits all started dancing."

"What did you— Never mind. George, do you want to go to the Ball with me, tonight?"

Both eyes opened in surprise, and George sat up. "Seriously?" He appeared to mull it over, a curious light in his eye. "Could be fun. Yeah, why not?"

Harry brightened, but before he could speak, George held up his hand. "Just to check, mind—you mean as friends?"

Harry nodded. "I was gonna go alone, but I thought it'd be more fun with a friend." To his surprise, he realised it wasn't a lie.

George grinned. "Oh, we'll make it fun, alright. Just had to make sure this wasn't a date. Not that you're not a great bloke, Harry, don't get me wrong; I just don't swing that way, I'm afraid." He sighed, relaxing back into his chair. "More's the pity, I'm sure."

Harry laughed and threw a cushion at him. "We're doing fine without you over here, thanks."

The words came out effortlessly, which was a surprise, since Harry had only come to terms with his bisexuality recently, all things considered. He hadn't even known it was an option, being somewhat preoccupied with megalomaniacs; didn't everyone look at attractive guys that way? When he had finally caught up to what his sexuality had known all along, it was rather obvious in hindsight.

Bit embarrassing that one of the main people to make him realise was actually Malfoy... but that was fine. Everyone liked blonds didn't they? And the prat was definitely attractive. And blond. He just also happened to be a prat; but, fortunately, daydreaming about him didn't mean anything other than Harry had a libido and appreciated fine bone structure. That was all.

Besides, it wasn't like Malfoy would ever look at him the same way, so Harry didn't have to think too hard about any of it.

With a sparkle in his eye, George caught the cushion and threw it into the air, where it promptly exploded into a dozen dancing stars. "Sounds like we're on the same page then."

Suddenly, the prospect of the Yule Ball had become a lot less daunting.

They sped through getting changed—George quickly whipping up some dress robes adorned with feathers down the lining—and hurried to meet the others at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

Ron's eyes bugged out of his head when he saw them together. "Are you two—" he began, gesturing weakly between them.

George grinned, hooking his arm around Harry's shoulders and pressing a smacking kiss to his forehead. "We thought we'd give it a go. What'd'ya reckon, Ronniekins? Your best mate and your brother? Official backer and proprietor of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes joined together in holy union, ready to unleash hell on the world?"

"He's messing with you," Harry said, taking pity on Ron's constitution, despite the fact that he was properly laughing for the first time in twenty-four hours. Well, nearly forty-eight, technically.

"Oh, thank Merlin." Ron breathed a sigh of relief. "I suddenly had a horrible vision of a new line of Chosen One products. You know I love you, mate, but I draw the line at hearing your voice yelling U-No-Poo at all hours while George experiments with the spells."

George's eyes gleamed, and Harry carefully dislodged him from his shoulders with a stern look. "As if I'd ever go for that. You know I hate my name selling things."

"What you don't know can't hurt you," George pointed out thoughtfully, but he relaxed with an easy grin. "Right then. Lead on to the dancing. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm ready to rock a two-step with the Saviour of the wizarding world."

"Hope you're also ready to get your feet stomped on," Harry said cheerfully, and they headed off for the Ball.

All in all, it was going better than last time. Malfoy was still hovering around the entrance, and he narrowed his eyes when he saw Harry entering with George. Harry was even feeling good enough to give him a little finger wave, which seemed to just confuse the crap out of him. Professor McGonagall was nowhere to be seen outside, and when he eventually locked eyes with her across the crowded ballroom, her gaze flicked once to George, and she left him alone.

When the Yule Ball officially opened, to the merry tune of the quartet, Pansy Parkinson entered on the arm of Professor Flitwick.

Snickers ran through the Hall, but Harry didn't feel like laughing. Instead, a surge of unwelcome empathy shot through him, even as George laughed beside him.

"Who d'you think asked who?" George whispered in Harry's ear.

Harry took in the long, stiff line of Parkinson's spine, the fierce composure with which she carried herself, and suddenly felt very tired. "I think she asked a lot of people," he said flatly. "And everyone said no because they were too scared of how it looked to dance with her."

George raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He turned back to the dancing couples, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You're probably right," he said after a beat. "That's a bit pathetic of the rest of them, isn't it? It's not like half the people she asked wouldn't have been found hiding under a table with their tail between their legs that night." He paused. "Not us, of course, but we are extraordinarily brave."

"Of course," Harry said with a laugh, feeling slightly better, but still mostly shit.

George shrugged and held out his hand to Harry with a wicked grin. "Shall we show them how it's done?"

Before Harry knew what was happening, they were the first couple to join the champions on the dance floor. The room blurred around him as George twirled him with surprisingly expert grace, and the only thing Harry noticed was the shock on Malfoy's face, captured like a freeze frame every time he spun past the drinks table.

Then the floor was full of dancers, all happily falling into step alongside the others. Harry found himself, bizarrely, feeling good for the first time that day. He stood on George's feet a few times, but every time he did, George just yelled "Make way! We've got a stomper!" like a train announcer, and somehow that made it all right.

Bit by bit, Harry's shoulders relaxed, after hours filled with tension as he anticipated his own self-made downfall—which was surely what would happen if he were to fall into the same pattern as yesterday. But he hadn't. He'd succeeded at this one thing, and he could finally relax. He took a moment to thank whoever had decided to give him this second chance. Whoever it was, he probably owed them a Butterbeer.

Almost as soon as he'd thought that, however, something strange happened. His chest began to tighten, aching with something he couldn't name. Didn't know how to name.

It didn't make sense; his goal was over. Shouldn't this be when the happiness came? Shouldn't he get to relax now?

But he couldn't. As they finished their dance and moved over to get a drink, Harry found himself feeling pricklier and pricklier.

"You all right, Harry?" George asked, nudging him with his elbow as he snagged them two drinks that frothed alarmingly down the sides.

"Yeah, just feeling a bit off," Harry said. "Might sit down for a bit."

George eyed him with a surprisingly shrewd expression and then shrugged. "Suit yourself. Mind if I dance with Lavender?"

Harry laughed. "Go right ahead. She'll probably stand on your feet less than I do."

"I'm counting on it," George said seriously. "There's only so many times my poor, innocent toes can survive your size ten clompers." He drained his drink and waved as he left.

Harry let out a slow exhale, something in him finally relaxing as he was left alone. The Ball really was decorated quite nicely. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, stretching down in beautiful lines that somehow didn't obscure the night sky above them. Whirls of snowflakes drifted through the air, warm to the touch, before cascading up to explode in puffs of white among the stars. The ice sculptures were incredible, too—hidden figures sparkling among the greenery Professor Sprout had carefully chosen. It created an effect like the blooms themselves were arising from these statues of crystal-clear water, like everything had simply fallen into place, when of course it hadn't. It must have taken days. Weeks.

So much care had been put into tonight, and even after all the effort Harry had gone through to make the night worthwhile, he couldn't enjoy it. Not truly.

He turned and found Kingsley Shacklebolt eyeing him with an intensity that didn't bode well for Harry's mood at all, especially not with Parkinson's sneered warning still ringing in his ears. Not that it really mattered. The Ministry could want him all they liked; they weren't getting him. But he still didn't want to talk about it now, so he immediately turned and walked in the other direction.

Through the crowd, he saw Ron catch his eye and wave excitedly. He and Hermione were both flushed with exertion, happy in a way Harry hadn't seen them in a while. With dread in his stomach, Harry waved back, and then, when they began to cut through towards him, he turned in yet another direction and snuck away.

As he backed into the hidden nook, eyes fixed to the undulating crowd, he felt the press of a warm body behind him.

"Argh!" he yelped, stumbling forward, and then quickly spinning around and ducking in again, before Ron saw him.

Shuffling past the figure this time, he peered through the gloom and realised that—of course—it was Malfoy.

"Merlin," Harry muttered, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. "What do you want?"

When no answer came, he squinted through half-closed eyes to find Malfoy staring at him incredulously. He shuffled, embarrassed, leaning forward to peer through the elegant drapes to see if he'd been spotted.

"Peace and quiet," Malfoy drawled finally.

"What?" Harry muttered, having forgotten his question.

"I want peace and quiet, so sod off Potter. This alcove's taken."

Harry glanced around the space airily, noting the small, velvet-lined stool Malfoy was seated on. "Seems enough room for two," he lied. "Think I'll just stay. If you're so precious about it, you leave."

Malfoy groaned and thunked his head back against the wall. Twice. "Why is it always you?"

"Why is what always me?"

"Everything." Malfoy ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the curtain shrewdly. "Who are you running from anyway? Ten Galleons says it'll be worth trading my already ruined privacy to hand you over to them."

"Don't you dare," Harry warned, sliding down the wall and settling into the corner, his knees drawn up to his chin.

Malfoy's eyes flashed. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't."

Harry couldn't think of one. If their positions were reversed, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

Malfoy drew in a breath, as if he were about to yell, and Harry blurted out the first thing that came into his head. "Pansy didn't deserve that."

Impossibly, Malfoy stopped. He turned slowly to face Harry, and for the life of him Harry could not read the expression in his shadowed gaze. "Deserve what?" Malfoy asked with precise enunciation.

Harry swallowed. "Having everyone say no to her," he said carefully, feeling like this was oddly important.

Malfoy was silent so long, Harry thought maybe he hadn't heard. But finally he said, "No, she didn't deserve it." The pause felt different this time. Expectant. "McGonagall was going to ask you, actually."

Harry arranged his features into the closest he could get to surprise. "Me? Why?"

"Because it was common knowledge you were going stag, until you showed up with Weasley. And because your presence might have restored some of what her fear that night lost her. Why did you come with Weasley?"

"Er." Harry blinked. "Why not?"

"Are you dating?" Malfoy sneered, emphasis on the word dating, like the activity could possibly be likened to the pond scum that floated near the top of the reedy corner of the Great Lake. At least when Harry was involved.

Harry managed to refrain from reeling back in shock at the question, but only because his body decided playing dead might be a better survival tactic. After several seconds, he managed a, "No," but then, possessed by Merlin knew what, he added, "George isn't into blokes."

The implication that Harry was into blokes hovered between them, like a putrid smell; at least, Harry assumed that was the vibe, gauging by Malfoy's wrinkled nose.

But all he said was, "Right." Then, again, two seconds later. "Right."

"Get it over with, then," Harry said tiredly.

"Get what over with?" Malfoy asked nastily, already back in fine form.

"Look, you may be many things, Malfoy, but you're not an idiot. Say whatever you want to say about me liking blokes so I can forget this whole conversation ever happened."

Malfoy blinked at him. Slowly, the nasty expression softened slightly, replaced once more by something Harry couldn't read.

"Well, they're better looking, aren't they?" Malfoy said finally, each word offered very deliberately, and very neutrally, into the space between them.

Harry stared at him. "You what?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes and said icily, "You may be many things, Potter, but you're not an idiot."

"Oh." Harry forcibly stopped himself from saying right, and chalked that up to a win. Standards were lower lately. It was fine. "Well, I don't know about better, but... same." He sighed. "Love a good pair of arms on a bloke though, you know?"

Harry had now been stuck in an unexpected, unwanted, and unprecedented time adventure for going on twenty-four hours, and yet, he discovered, the strangest was yet to come, and it had nothing on time anomalies. Malfoy laughed. It wasn't nasty, it wasn't bitter; he just laughed at something Harry had said, and nodded his head like he agreed.

Something shattered in Harry's mind. Merlin, it wasn't like he hadn't thought about Malfoy before. He was fit, and no one quite got his pulse racing like the arsey git, which was useful when you only had a few minutes for a quick wank, but he'd never... thought about Malfoy. It was always just a passing thing. Like a rotational cast of wank bank actors that Malfoy just happened to star in; it was fine.

But now he thought about Malfoy.

"Right," Harry said, failing at his one goal, "Well, not that this hasn't been a riot and all, but I'm going to go now, before McGonagall bursts in and comes out to us as well."

Or Harry did something stupid, like suggest to Malfoy that, since the world seemed to be ending in typical bizarre Harry Potter fashion, they may as well have a quick shag to send it off.

The smile on Malfoy's face twitched again, like he'd bitten back another laugh, but before Harry could leave this very strange conversation behind him, Malfoy said, "Wait."

Harry turned, his heart thudding in his chest for reasons he didn't want to name. "Yeah?"

The moment stretched between them. It really was very dark in here. Very dark and very... small.

"I was hoping I'd catch you tonight, actually," Malfoy said in a strange voice, swallowing thickly.

He lifted his gaze to catch Harry's, and Harry suddenly realised how grey Malfoy's eyes were. Truly. They were like the waters of the deepest ocean, murky and unfathomable, and yet when they caught the light—like they did now, as Harry held the curtain partially open—they looked like stars.

Something shuttered across Malfoy's expression, and he said—more quickly now, and in a much more normal voice, "You should keep an eye on Shacklebolt. He's going to try to convince you to take over his role, and if you're not on your toes about it, he'll succeed before you know what's happened."

A tinny, whistling sound started up in Harry's brain. He tried to speak several times, and finally landed on, "I don't give a fuck if they want me to be Minister. That's their problem."

Malfoy's eyes flashed. "You don't know what they're like, Potter. They need a figurehead to rebuild public trust, and you're the only person for the job."

"I'd be shit at it!" Harry said, yelling slightly now.

"You could be the worst Minister in the history of the wizarding world," Malfoy said lightly, an edge of anger to his words nonetheless. "They still need you to stand there and smile for the cameras while they pull all the strings."

The whistling sound grew louder, and then morphed strangely into Hermione's voice.

"There you are!"

Or, maybe that was actually Hermione's voice. Harry whirled around and realised he'd been discovered. Hiding in an alcove. With Malfoy.

Hermione looked between the two of them curiously, while Ron gaped like a fish.

Harry realised abruptly, horribly, that he couldn't do this anymore. If he truly wanted a second chance at how badly yesterday had gone, he had to get out of here right now. It was kinder, in fact, to his friends if he ran before he had a chance to get angry again.

Anger never seemed far away, these days.

"I feel sick," Harry said, ignoring the sound of Malfoy snorting behind him.

He tried to mime a subtle retching motion, feeling slightly guilty at the concern on his two friends' faces, and ran from the room for the second night in a row.

When he arrived at his dormitory, he sealed his curtains again with a charm so that no one could check on him. The Consilium didn't even rattle tonight, and Harry wasn't sure his heart even had any questions to ask—he knew all the answers, for better or worse. The Ministry were up to their usual shit, and Harry would have to futilely fight against them for just a shred of his own agency. The world at large had developed collective memory loss and were embracing the Yule Ball like there was no tomorrow. And everyone Harry cared about was happy, while Harry...

Nothing ever changed. That was the answer to everything his heart asked.

At least he'd done the day right this time.

With that comforting thought, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

*

25th December, 1998, #3

Harry woke to the sound of a familiar song wailing from the wireless, and his entire body froze in fear.

It couldn't be. Time didn't fucking work like that; how could this be happening?

He sat up slowly in bed, listening to the sound of Seamus belting along happily to the lyrics, and wondered if maybe he was going insane. Not in a generalised and insultingly dismissive way, but in a real, true, he was actually lying in the Janus Thickey ward right now suffering spell damage that made him relive the same day over and over way. Because how else could this be possible?

After a while sitting with the ramifications of that, Harry decided it probably didn't matter, because the outcome was the same, and he still had to deal with it somehow. So, he did what he probably should have done from the start—he went to Ron and Hermione.

Ron gaped at him while Hermione sat terrifyingly still, her face pale and her eyes wide with anguish. It wasn't filling Harry with confidence. Shockingly.

"So, you've lived this day before..." Hermione repeated after he'd finished telling the story again from the start.

They'd had to choose a classroom with no portraits on the wall, so no one could eavesdrop, and it was making Harry feel a little hemmed in. He wondered if they could open a window, or if they still had to worry about bug-shaped reporters.

"Three times," he said again, tiredly. "Counting this one."

"What am I about to say then?" Ron butted in, lifting his chin.

"How the bloody hell should I know?" Harry said, staring at him. "This bit's new."

"Oh, right."

Hermione patted Ron's knee consolingly. "I've never heard of anything like this," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "And I went through a ton of books during third year. I wanted to make sure I didn't mess anything up. This has... well. This has never happened. Not in recorded history."

"Great," Harry muttered. "Love being a trailblazer."

She smiled weakly. "It has to be a spell though, doesn't it? Experimental magic. So we just have to think who might have wanted to rewind time badly enough that they were willing to try something dangerous and illegal."

Harry stared up at her, eyes wide. "Pansy Parkinson."

"Right," Hermione said slowly. "Because you embarrassed her quite badly the first time, didn't you?"

"More like bloody humiliated her," Ron muttered, snickering.

Harry shot him a look, but it wasn't as stern as it probably should be. Mostly because Ron's reaction was reminding him of how he would have reacted if he hadn't seen her come in on the arm of one of the professors.

"Do you know what happened after you left the Ball?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. "I didn't speak to anyone for the rest of the night."

She pursed her lips but didn't comment. After a moment, she sighed. "Well, all I can think of is to speak to Pansy and ask her if she knows anything about experimental magic. Obviously, she may not remember doing it, since it doesn't look like it's worked how she meant it to if you're remembering everything. But if she did do it somewhere between the first dance and midnight, then she must have enough of a handle on the theory to attempt it pretty quickly."

"Great," Harry said flatly. "I just have to go up to Pansy Parkinson, tell her she rewound time because I was a massive dickhead to her, and then ask her to fix it all up for me?"

Hermione gave him a stern look—far more impressive than the one he'd attempted earlier. "Well, you were a—"

"Alright, alright." Harry stood up, holding up his hands. "I guess I'd better go start grovelling then. What if it doesn't work? What do we try next?"

Hermione made a complicated expression, her mouth twisted into a grimace while her eyes almost... pleaded with him. Whatever confidence she'd salvaged within him shattered in a blaze of glory.

"I don't know," she said weakly. "I can research, of course, but... I only have about eighteen hours every day. You're going to have to be the one to retain all the knowledge, Harry." She swallowed, eyes bright. "Not that I don't think you can, of course," she added hurriedly. "But..."

"But I'm not you," Harry concluded, voice dull. "Right."

"What about a Pensieve?" Ron asked suddenly. "You could summarise to Harry at the end of the day, and he could load it all into a Pensieve for us in the morning. Saves time."

Hermione sat up. "That's a great idea! Yes, Harry, if it doesn't work out with Pansy, we'll do that."

Feeling unexpectedly lighter now that they had a proper plan, Harry left to go and find Pansy Parkinson. He tried to remember where she'd been the other two times he'd lived this day, but he didn't recall seeing her until the end.

Malfoy, on the other hand.

Harry paused, foot halfway onto one of the moving staircases, and swivelled around just as it began to swing to the left. Malfoy was with Professor McGonagall talking about the official warning the Ministry had given him. Tapestries and portraits passed by him in a blur as he walked quickly to the Headmistress's office, debating just how much grovelling he was going to have to do to get Malfoy to listen to him.

"Morning, Harry," Nearly Headless Nick said, nodding distractedly as he floated past.

"Morning, Sir Nicholas," Harry said, skidding around the corner and barely avoiding crashing into a suit of armour.

The menacing sound of Peeves's giggling in the distance only urged him on faster.

"Potter."

Harry's blood pressure rose instantly, despite the fact that he'd reached exactly who he was searching for.

"Malfoy," he said carefully, looking up to find Malfoy standing halfway down the corridor from the eagle statue. It looked as though he'd just left the Headmistress's office.

"Professor McGonagall's looking for you," Malfoy began, but Harry cut him off.

"Actually, I was looking for you."

As he said it, he found his thoughts turning, unbidden, to their time in the alcove last night. His pulse raced, and he wondered why the fuck he was thinking about Malfoy when he was meant to be thinking about the time loop.

But then, he was always sort of thinking about Malfoy, wasn't he? He'd long since accepted that Malfoy featured in his illicit daydreams; that didn't bother him at all. But he'd be lying to himself if he didn't confess how often Malfoy featured in those daydreams—and night dreams, if he was especially honest. It had never meant anything before now, especially since it was so often a rushed fantasy, filled with anger and frustration. Getting off with someone who made his blood boil, nothing more. Somehow, since their conversation, that frequency felt important.

Maybe the problem was that now he could wonder whether Malfoy might be thinking about him, too.

He swallowed.

Malfoy's eyebrows lifted, his sharp gaze narrowing. "Why are you looking for me?"

Harry didn't fucking know.

"Well, technically I'm looking for Parkinson," Harry amended, forcing all his fantasies to the back of his mind, where they belonged. "Have you seen her?"

The expression on Malfoy's face twisted into even deeper suspicion. "Why?" he said menacingly.

Shit, fuck, bollocks. This wasn't going how he'd planned at all.

In fairness, he hadn't planned. He'd just sort of charged in the same way he always did things. It was, tragically, no longer as effective as it had once been.

Harry took a deep breath and commenced grovelling. "Because I know McGonagall is trying to get me to take her to the Ball, and I wanted to ask her myself without a bloody teacher breathing down my neck."

Okay, so that wasn't grovelling, it was lying. But there was a reason he'd nearly sorted Slytherin after all.

Malfoy stared at him. Harry had the strangest impression it was the first time he'd truly shocked Malfoy, and the Gryffindor side of him reared up with guilt. Although maybe it didn't need to. He did, after all, need to go to the Ball with Parkinson this time, and he'd much rather ask her himself than be shepherded into it like a naughty schoolchild.

The time-loop-related reasons why he wanted to do so were irrelevant.

Maybe he really should have gone into Slytherin.

"She's practicing Charms," Malfoy said slowly. "Come on."

Feeling slightly out of body, Harry followed him through the empty hallways to the Charms classroom. If Harry had the timeline right, everyone would still be at breakfast for another thirty minutes or so, and he had plenty of time to plead for Pansy Parkinson to help him.

They found Parkinson with a small flock of silver birds flittering about her head. She looked up, startled, when they entered. "What on earth—" she began, then promptly vanished the birds. "Oh," she said flatly. "I see the Headmistress found you."

"I... er... heard a rumour actually. So I thought I'd find you first, but—" Harry glanced at Malfoy. He'd been hoping Malfoy would piss off for this part, but maybe it would be better this way. He might know something after all.

"So, I'd like to take you to the Ball tonight, yes," he said quickly, trying to be as placating as possible. "But I also had another question. Do you know anything about time travel?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed while Parkinson stared at him as if he'd gone quite insane.

"Excuse me?" she asked, while Malfoy spat out, "What are you playing at, Potter?"

Harry held up his hands. Nothing for it but the truth, he supposed. "Look, okay, this is going to sound mad... But I've actually lived this day before. Twice now. I thought someone had just sent me back in time, but it looks like it's affecting everyone, and the day is repeating. But no one else sees it. All I can think of is that someone reset the day to complete itself under the right conditions. You know, they want the day to go better than it did the first time. Or second time," he added under his breath.

"And you think that person is me," Parkinson said slowly. Her lips pursed suddenly. "Why do you think it was me? What did you do?"

"Nothing on purpose," he snapped. "But yeah, okay, it didn't go so well. We kind of—tripped. And fell on our faces." He turned to Malfoy. "And then we had a fist fight. Sorry."

Malfoy's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

"I'm sorry, let me get this straight," Pansy said coldly, stepping in closer. "You think that because you decided to humiliate me, I went and reset time? Merlin, Potter, it's like your head is so far up your arse it's come right back out the top."

God, this had been a terrible fucking idea. Whose idea had it been to ask Malfoy and Pansy bloody Parkinson for help? Still, he couldn't leave without making sure, because he sure as hell wasn't having this conversation again.

"So you wouldn't know how to reset time?" he asked. "Not even an inkling?"

Pansy gave a shriek of rage, and suddenly all the silver birds she'd been practicing with reappeared, but this time they were shaped like tiny torpedoes of fury, and they were all aimed at Harry.

Harry escaped to the sound of haughty laughter, slamming the door just before the birds got him.

Maybe the answer was just that Harry shouldn't be involved in this day. He should just go back to bed and sit this one out.

It was a weak justification, but he managed to convince himself anyway. Behind his spell-locked curtains and with only the faintly glowing Consilium for company—no one to yell at him, and no one to tell him what he should be doing—it even felt like the right decision.

For a few hours at least.

*

25th December, 1998, #4

Harry knew before his sleep-addled brain had processed the lyrics of the song that it hadn't worked. He could feel it in his bones. The only good news was that it meant he didn't have to keep that day; he could start over. That was truly starting to feel like a blessing.

Focusing hard on not being an arse, Harry fumbled his way through those first interactions, trying not to let the mounting terror show on his face, and then got Ron and Hermione alone the second he could.

*

"Four times," he said, voice dull. "Counting this one."

Was it four or was it five? Things were starting to meld together.

Hermione and Ron shared a glance, and Harry realised slowly that Hermione was... hesitant.

"You don't want to help," he said incredulously. "Why not? You always want to help."

Hermione's gaze slid away from him. "Well, it's just..." She sighed. "It's not that I don't want to help. I just don't know how."

"That's never stopped you before," Harry pointed out.

"Yes, I know, but—" She shared another look with Ron. "Can we see your memories of the first day? Maybe there's a clue."

Harry shrugged, unease stirring in his stomach as he said, "Sure. Why not?"

While Ron hurried to borrow the Pensieve from the Headmistress's office, he and Hermione sat awkwardly with one another. Harry didn't know why it was awkward; he just knew that it was.

"Oh, and get this," he said abruptly, breaking the silence and hoping for a laugh. "Apparently Kingsley wants me to replace him."

Hermione's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

Waving a hand vaguely, Harry tried to summarise the rumours he'd heard and the strange way the Minister had looked at him last night. "The Ministry can't fix their image, and they think I'm the perfect figurehead to bail them out."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "There's a lot of public faith in you, after Voldemort. You'd only need to stand there and things would probably go smoothly."

Harry gaped at her. "You're not telling me you think it's a good idea."

"What? No!" Hermione pursed her lips. "I'm just saying it would work. People see you as some sort of... god... not an eighteen-year-old boy. It's a good idea for what they're planning, but that doesn't mean it's good for you. Just say no."

"That's what I told Malfoy," Harry said, running a hand through his hair. "Doesn't matter what they want. I'll just say no."

"Malfoy?" Hermione asked, eyes wide.

Before Harry could explain, Ron returned with the Pensieve floating behind him. Harry quickly loaded his memories in and sat back while they went through them.

Unfortunately, this meant he had plenty of time to think about Malfoy. It seemed his mind was still using that conversation as a distraction to avoid thinking about his impending time-loop-inspired doom. Which was probably an effective safety mechanism for his sanity, now he thought about it, but he also doubted it was a healthy one.

It was just that... Why had Malfoy told him? They weren't friends; they were barely even acquaintances. But Malfoy had given the information up so easily, when it was common knowledge that pure-blood circles had stupid fucking views on that, and Harry could ruin his name in a second. But Malfoy had told him.

And then he'd said he'd been hoping to catch Harry tonight. Of course, he'd then gone on to talk about Kingsley, but given enough time to think about it, Harry thought he'd really looked like he'd been going to say something else.

Harry knew he was fairly slow on the uptake sometimes, but typically, when someone told you they fancied blokes, and that they'd been wanting to talk to you during a glitzy ballroom extravaganza, it occasionally meant something.

He shook his head, forcing himself back to the problem at hand, rather than the admittedly compelling distraction options his brain kept throwing up.

It was only as Ron was emerging from the Pensieve, brow furrowed and his gaze curiously unable to land on Harry, that Harry realised precisely why sharing his memories was a bad idea.

"Er... Did you find anything?" he asked hesitantly.

Ron scrubbed the back of his neck and didn't speak. Hermione, on the other hand, fixed him with a fierce expression.

"And you say we thought it was Pansy?" she asked sharply.

"Yeah... You mean you don't?"

"Was that before or after we saw the memories?"

"Well... You didn't see them yesterday."

Hermione's lips pressed tighter together. "So we didn't see how much of a complete arse you were to everyone?"

Harry winced. "When you put it like that, no. I guess not. Look, I'm really sorry, Hermione—"

Hermione interrupted him. "Harry, save it for when this is over. But if we're really talking about a time loop here, and it looks like we are, then firstly, I have no idea where to even begin researching this, since I've already researched time extensively and I promise you there is nothing on time loops in the entire Hogwarts library. And secondly... Harry... if there's anyone who most wanted time to reset, it's you."

The room fell silent, Ron still staring at his feet, and Harry suddenly, vehemently, did not want to be there. He leapt to his feet, the chair clattering over behind him.

"Well, I guess I'll just figure it out myself then," he snapped, and then he left before anyone could protest.

As soon as he was gone, he regretted it, but that was the thing with storming out; you couldn't exactly just waltz back in afterward. So, he had to find somewhere he could sulk—not sulk, think deeply and seriously about how to solve the time loop—and not be found until the whole sodding day reset itself.

He eventually landed on the other side of the lake, where he knew the Weasleys wouldn't go on their walk, and so he marched through the trickling snow, past the Quidditch stands where Malfoy and Professor McGonagall were huddled in conversation, and over to the side he knew was barely visible to the castle.

It was well after lunch now, since he'd had to wait until breakfast was over before he could get Ron and Hermione alone, and then it had taken all morning to explain everything. There were only a few hours left until the Ball, and Harry wanted to spend them alone.

So, of course, the second he'd Transfigured himself a seat from a rock, a familiar head of blond hair appeared from the trees.

Malfoy Transfigured his own seat out of another large rock and sat down beside him, kicking his feet out towards the lake. Harry eyed him suspiciously.

"What do you want?" he asked, waiting for the trap to close around his poor, unsuspecting ankle.

"McGonagall's looking for you," Malfoy announced, getting comfortable. "Should I tell her you're sulking by the lake?"

"Only if you want to tell her that you fell into it."

Malfoy snorted. "Easy, Potter. I was only joking."

Harry frowned. Since when did Malfoy joke? He glanced over at him, only to find Malfoy already watching him, piercing grey eyes surprisingly shrewd.

Had he heard the conversation from this morning? Did he know about the time loop?

"You look like you could do with a—" Malfoy broke off, frown deepening. "Someone to talk to."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "And you thought that someone might be you?"

"Well, currently your options are me or the giant squid, and I can assure you, I'm less inclined to spray you with ink."

Surprised laughter escaped Harry before he could stop it. Malfoy looked pleased.

"Okay, but really, why are you here?" Harry insisted.

"I just told you," Malfoy said patiently. "Whether or not you listen is your own problem."

Harry stared at him, waiting for the punch line, or the argument, but neither came. It didn't make sense. Sure, things with Malfoy these days were generally pretty easy, after Harry had yelled at him over the summer and they'd both silently agreed to never speak again. If they ever did choose to speak, it didn't go like this...

Except, of course, in Harry's daydreams. But Malfoy couldn't possibly know about them, could he?

Harry cleared his throat. "Alright, well... I'm out here bearing my heart to the giant squid because... I don't think I want to go to the Ball tonight."

Malfoy frowned. "Why not?"

With a sigh, Harry picked up a stone from by his feet and chucked it angrily into the lake. "Because it's fucking stupid, that's why."

When he glanced back, Malfoy almost looked hurt.

"I mean—" Harry broke off, shaking his head. "No. I do mean that. Why are you upset?"

Malfoy grimaced. For a moment, a familiar sneer appeared on his face, but then he seemed to deliberately smooth it off. "I'm not upset. Just... surprised. A lot of people worked hard on that Ball, and in typical Potter fashion, you're too good for it."

"I'm not too fucking good for it," Harry snapped, realising a little too late that there hadn't really been any venom in Malfoy's voice. He almost sounded like he was joking. "Sorry," he added belatedly.

They were silent for a while, only the gentle sound of the water lapping at the shore to disturb them. By tomorrow, it would probably be frozen, if tomorrow ever came.

It was oddly comforting, not having to speak.

"Here," Malfoy said, holding out a large rock. "They make a good noise. It's satisfying."

Harry stared at him before slowly reaching out to take the rock. When it didn't explode or otherwise ensnare him with its Slytherin wiles, he pulled his arm back and hurled it out into the lake. It landed with a giant plop followed by a flububub as the ripples cascaded, sending waves upon the shore.

Harry huffed a laugh. "You're right." He turned to find Malfoy watching him again, gaze softened but no less intent. "Why are you here?" he asked quietly. "I know why you think I need someone, but why are you here?"

Malfoy was silent so long, Harry thought he might not answer. But then he said, "You fascinate me, Potter. You always have." He shrugged, turning away. "I see you walking on your own, when the entire Weasley clan is ensconced in merriment, and I get curious. It's hardly a crime."

Maybe not a crime, but what that confession was doing to Harry's insides certainly felt like one.

What the fuck did that mean? Because there was fascinate, and there was fascinate.

And Malfoy certainly fascinated Harry, too. Several times a night, on occasion. So what did Malfoy mean—did Harry fascinate him the same way? Or was it more like how Neville obsessed over his Puffapod every morning?

Why was Malfoy so different every time Harry spoke to him? They were fighting one minute, and... doing this the next. Whatever this was.

Harry turned away. "Alright then," he said lightly. "Well, I'm going to be out here a while. I'm not going to the Ball. So if I..." fascinate you. He cleared his throat. "If you want to know the answer to any of those burning questions, now's your chance."

Malfoy looked up at him, eyes glinting. "You mean I get an all-secrets-bared exclusive interview with the Chosen One?"

"Only if you don't call me that."

Maybe if he got Malfoy relaxed, Malfoy would slip up on whatever he was hiding about his and Pansy's presumed obsession with time magic. Or maybe Harry was just looking for excuses and more daydream fuel. What did it matter? It was apparently happening.

Malfoy conjured fresh Warming Charms, his magic settling softly over both of them, and reclined further in his chair.

"Why did you come back to eighth year?" he asked lazily. "You could have gone straight into the Aurors, surely."

"Settle down, Malfoy. Don't go straight for the juicy stuff." Harry rolled his eyes. "I don't know that I want to be an Auror, actually. I sort of... want a break."

As soon as he said it, the truth of it sank into him. Truth that he'd been trying to avoid saying out loud, but had always known nonetheless. Malfoy clicked his tongue.

"Don't know what you're talking about, Potter, I could get a front page on the Daily Prophet with that alone. Saviour Rejects Silver Spoon; The Entitlement of Youth. They'd eat you alive."

Harry snorted. "They seem more intent on singing my praises lately, actually. They'd probably twist it into an exposé on corruption within the ranks."

"You're not wrong." Malfoy paused, and then asked in a rush, "Why don't you want to go to the Ball?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. "It's complicated."

"We have, quite literally, nothing else to talk about."

He laughed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Alright, well, it's like... I remember the last tournament, yeah?" He gestured vaguely while Malfoy nodded. "And no one else seems to."

"Ah," Malfoy said into the silence that followed. Then, "You're right. It is disrespectful."

Harry shot him a glance, but he seemed sincere. Thoughtful, even.

"Sometimes," Malfoy continued slowly. "I think these scars change shape."

Harry froze, the words sinking into him with a strange familiarity, even though he didn't think he understood them. Not properly. "What do you mean?"

Malfoy shrugged. "A year ago, when it was nothing but funerals, I thought the worst thing in the world would be the constant reminders of everyone who's gone. Now?" He pulled a face. "Now, I think you're right. This is worse. The scars, Potter—they change shape, and I've no idea what they'll look like even six months from now. Do you?"

It was surprisingly astute. Accurate to Harry's own feelings in a way few things were these days; at least, things that other people said.

Harry felt suddenly unbalanced, and so he tried to fob it off with the usual quip. "No," he confessed. "Not a clue. But all I know is, I didn't save the world for this."

But Malfoy only turned to eye him shrewdly. "Yes, you did," he said, tapping his fingers against his makeshift seat. "This is exactly what you saved the world for. It's just not what you saved you for, and that's the kicker, isn't it? Because no one else notices, and no one can give you the answer."

He sees through me, Harry thought, stunned.

Even Ron and Hermione hadn't picked up on the layers of this, but Malfoy? He saw them in seconds, and Harry had the strangest feeling that he could no longer hide.

Swallowing, he said before he could change his mind, "You noticed."

Malfoy startled, as if he'd forgotten where he was. A flush crept onto his cheeks, and he shrugged noncommittally.

"How do you know that?" Harry pressed. "How can you possibly—" He broke off, not sure how to word the rest.

How can you possibly know what I'm thinking when I don't?

"I don't know," Malfoy corrected him with a shake of his head. "I just know that, for all your maddeningly Saviour-like tendencies, you've never been very good at saving yourself."

Well, there wasn't much Harry could say to that, especially when he was currently sulking around the Great Lake instead of solving this time loop that had him so brilliantly trapped.

"You know, Potter," Malfoy said, after the silence had grown too long. "I wanted to catch you today, actually." He paused, as if considering his next words, then he shook his head and continued in a more normal voice. "Speaking of corruption in the Ministry, I heard something..."

Harry sighed. "The Ministry wants me in Kingsley's job."

Malfoy snorted. "Kingsley's job. Yes, Potter, they want you for Minister. At least pretend this is more than an average Tuesday for you."

Unable to bite back a laugh, Harry shook his head. "It's just... insane, isn't it? How could they possibly think that would work? I'm eighteen."

Malfoy shrugged. "And they're desperate. The wizarding world doesn't see you as eighteen; they see you as ageless. Undefeatable. Golden." His eyes flashed, something strange shimmering there. "Be careful around them, Potter. They'll snap you up before you know what's happened. I know what they're like."

Harry supposed Malfoy did, given his father. He was probably raised to navigate this dance with ease. "Tell me then," he said, mostly just wanting a distraction and not wanting the conversation to turn back to him. "What are they like? What should I watch out for?"

With an elegant raise of his eyebrow, Malfoy considered the question. "Well," he said slowly, sweeping his hair out of his eyes with a casual flick of his fingers—Harry noticed his hands were very slender, the movement almost mesmerising. "Chamberlain goes for blackmail—have you met him? But if they aren't using Chamberlain's tactics, it will certainly be a rotational effort of the witches on Level Four. They're placed as Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures staff, but really, they're spies. Don't laugh, Potter, I'm serious."

*

The sun began to set as Malfoy shared stories about the Ministry, sending golden rays shimmering across their faces. Their Warming Charms had faded several times now, each time reset by whoever got there first. Harry had stopped trying, finding he enjoyed the sensation of Malfoy's magic settling over him—the crisp tang to it, like a shock of metal on a winter day. Silvery. Refreshing.

Soon, the stars would be out, and Harry would have spent the whole day skiving off with Malfoy by the lake.

He glanced over just as Malfoy was finishing his final anecdote—something about potions that were just the right side of legal, but acted as a partial Imperius if one wasn't prepared. Malfoy fell silent, gazing at him.

"And that's everything I know about the Ministry," he said after a beat, throat hoarse from speaking.

"I doubt it's everything," Harry pointed out. "We've only been out here an hour or two."

"Your confidence is flattering, but despite what you think, I did not spend my formative years as my father's shadow. I only know what he told me."

"Come off it, Malfoy," Harry said with a laugh. "I know he told you everything. He was grooming you for his role."

Malfoy looked suddenly uncomfortable, and Harry tried to walk it back. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's alright, Potter." Malfoy waved him off. "I just... You know I don't want to be him, don't you?"

Harry realised abruptly that he didn't. But now that Malfoy had said it, it was obvious. Why else would he have come back this year? He'd kept his head down, worked hard in his classes, and while he was still a stuck-up prat, he hadn't returned to any of his old bullshit.

"Yeah," he said carefully. "I know that."

Malfoy laughed under his breath. "Liar. Well, I don't want to be my father. I know I did once, but I... I was an idiot."

Harry's breath caught. Was this still the same day? Or was this time loop actually something that crossed dimensions, and Harry was now sitting in a dimension so far from his own that he should genuinely expect swamp creatures to emerge at any moment?

How was it possible that this soft-eyed confession came on the same day as their fist-fight on the floor of the Ball? How could a few small changes bring... this?

You fascinate me, Potter. You always have.

The sun faded completely, leaving only the glow of the moon and a few twinkling stars. They caught in Malfoy's eyes, and Harry realised abruptly that he wanted to kiss Malfoy. That wasn't something he'd ever daydreamed about before. His fantasies were always sharp-edged, urgent, desperate.

They were never moonlight and Warming Charms, and Malfoy's voice ringing over and over in his head with a confession that sounded awfully like another sort of confession entirely.

Malfoy cleared his throat and stood abruptly. "I should go," he said. "Are you sure you're not coming?"

Harry startled. "What? Er... no. No, I can't. Sorry." He probably could have handled the Ball tonight, but he didn't want to see Ron and Hermione, not yet, and he also needed a minute to process his own thoughts.

Malfoy nodded. "It will hurt both their reputation, but she'll have to go with Blaise," he said thoughtfully.

"Why would that hurt their reputation?"

"Blaise's mum started a rumour," Malfoy said, a sneer curling onto his lips. "You must know the stories of his mother?"

Something something dead husbands, something something murder. Harry had the gist.

"There's talk that Blaise is taking after dear old mummy, and his sights are set on Pansy. It's better for both of them if they steer clear of each other, or the press will never leave them alone. If she can keep her head down, she might just be able to escape to France when this is all over."

"Right," Harry said, thinking privately that he would never understand Slytherins.

Malfoy glanced back at him, his face almost entirely shadowed now. Harry wished it wasn't, because he stared for such a long time, it felt like there must be something there. Some secret, hidden beneath blond hair and darkness.

But eventually, Malfoy just said, "Don't freeze your toes off, Potter."

"It wasn't on my to do list."

Malfoy snorted, and then he was gone.

*

25th December, 1998, #5

Can you dance like a Hippogriff?

Harry stared at the canopy above him, his body feeling heavier than it ever had before. The song wailed on, Seamus joining in enthusiastically, but it was like it all somehow came from a distance. He couldn't connect to it. His limbs buzzed with strange, restless energy, but he couldn't move them.

All he could think about was last night with Malfoy. How he'd looked as the moon rose above them. How Harry had wanted to kiss him, when Harry hadn't really wanted to kiss many people before. And certainly not Malfoy. And yet, the realisation had felt like a memory. As though that longing—the need to cross the distance between them—had always been there, and Harry had somehow forgotten.

He'd thought Malfoy might want to kiss him, too. Harry couldn't say exactly why he thought that, but it had been in the way Malfoy's eyes had glittered, the way his tongue darted almost nervously across his lips. So much of Malfoy was still stuck in the same snotty mold of a spoiled brat that Harry had known for years, and yet... there was more than that, too. It was bizarre to think that this was still the same day; if they could have just avoided that first fight, before Harry stormed off and everything reset, they might have had... something different.

Perhaps Harry should have realised that sooner.

The war had changed them all—how could it not?—and Harry found himself wanting, for the first time, to get to know this new Malfoy. This boy with all the airs and graces of a pure-blood prat, but one who was trying, albeit gracelessly, to learn what it meant to let go of them. Just a little.

Or to let go of the meaning behind them, which was more important, after all.

Harry swallowed. The song outside had changed to the next one, with Harry's own name ringing through a resounding chorus, and someone rattled the corner of his bedframe.

"Get up, Harry!" Seamus called. "It's Christmas!"

Harry had never wanted to be stuck in a time loop. Understatement of the century, but it bore saying, because all Harry had wanted—all he had ever wanted—was to move on from the past in a way that wasn't just bloody ignoring it. And now he was stuck in it, again and again. And worst of all, he saw clearly now what this spell was robbing him of.

Malfoy wouldn't remember last night. When Harry saw him today, there would be no cautious assessment in his eyes, no glittering emotion swelling between them. There would just be snide comments, and insults, and a fistfight waiting to happen.

This spell had started by ruining his past, and now it was robbing him of his future, too.

Perhaps that was true of all things of this nature, because if the past wasn't firmly where it was meant to be, how could anything else exist? How could the present or future ever be real if the past remained unresolved?

The bedframe rattled again. Groaning, Harry sat up and threw open the curtains, ready to face the day. Again.

*

He managed to sneak away after breakfast, feigning a stomach ache while the Weasleys went for their walk. On a whim, he turned around at the last second and headed for the Quidditch stands, entirely forgetting that Malfoy and Professor McGonagall were to have their conversation there later.

Of course, he chose the stands right next to them, and decided to sulk under the banners instead of up in the seats.

The cold wind whipped below the fabric surrounding the stands, nipping at his ankles and fingers as he leaned back against the framework and listened to Malfoy and Professor McGonagall get closer.

At least he'd find out what Malfoy had done wrong, he thought bitterly, wishing that they'd sod off all the same. He wanted time alone, goddammit. Harry hadn't felt alone like this since the Dursleys', and, okay, maybe he wasn't handling it so well, but that didn't mean making no noise and pretending he didn't exist so he didn't get caught listening to private conversations was going to make him handle it any fucking better.

"Mr Malfoy," Professor McGonagall said, unerringly kind. "I don't see why we had to conduct our business out here."

"I don't want to be heard," Malfoy said icily, keeping his tone respectful by the barest of margins. "Portraits gossip."

"You mean you don't want people to know the best of you?" Professor McGonagall said in a shrewd voice.

Harry wished, suddenly, that he could see what was happening. What did she mean 'the best of him'?

Why was his mind suddenly racing with memories of Dumbledore speaking to Snape? Had McGonagall known about that? Was she making the comparison, too?

"I'm not my father," Malfoy snapped. "They shouldn't have told you where the money came from. It was anonymous."

Professor McGonagall's voice softened. Harry subconsciously waited for her to offer a biscuit. "As Headmistress, all affairs of the school come through me. It is my role to keep your generous donation anonymous from anyone else, but Mr Malfoy, I do want you to know that your gift is greatly appreciated."

Harry gaped. Malfoy had donated money to the school?

"I didn't do it to be appreciated." Malfoy's voice was practically dripping in disgust.

"Why did you do it?" There was such genuine concern and interest in Professor McGonagall's tone that Harry fervently wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole, so he didn't have to hear this anymore.

There was silence for a while, broken only by the tiny scuttlings of a rather large bug dancing around at Harry's eye level. It waved its pincers a bit, extending one leg and then the other, and then scurried on.

"Because I don't want the money, and half the damage is my fault."

A rustling of fabric made Harry wonder if Professor McGonagall was clasping Malfoy's shoulder. He didn't remember her doing that when they'd watched from above that first day, but it may have been brief. Then Malfoy spoke again.

"I really appreciate our meetings, Professor," he said, the venom gone from his voice.

"Which is why you're encouraging the rumours that the Ministry has given you supplementary discipline, I'm sure."

"It's easier than the truth. People will believe what they want anyway." Malfoy paused, continuing more hesitantly. "It's not... You were right. What you said the first time."

"When I said that you were sorely lacking in positive mentors?" she asked dryly.

"Yes," Malfoy said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I appreciate that you've given me a chance."

"It is our duty," she said so fiercely that Harry sat up straighter, "to offer as many chances as will be accepted. If we are not choosing to be there when our students need us, then we are not teaching in our full capacity."

"Thank you, professor."

They went silent after that, presumably walking off into the falling snow and leaving Harry quietly imploding behind them.

Merlin. Professor McGonagall wasn't disciplining Malfoy. She was mentoring him.

Helping him.

Something dark and ugly twisted in Harry's stomach, and he stretched out his legs to relieve the pins and needles. His foot kicked the base of the stand, and the bug fell off, buzzing angrily.

The curtain whipped back, and Malfoy glared at him with a pinched, arsey expression. "I knew I could hear you breathing," he snapped, coming under the stands and twitching the curtain closed behind him. "How much did you hear?"

Harry stared up at him, trying to find the energy to argue, but it just—he didn't have it. There was nothing there.

McGonagall was helping Malfoy become a better person, become the person he wanted to be. And Malfoy... Malfoy was.

How was it that everyone had moved on from the war except him?

Harry didn't realise he'd said the last part out loud until Malfoy's face did something very strange. Slowly, still with that odd expression—his mouth all twisted in a thin line and his eyes bright—Malfoy sat down on the ground in front of him.

"We haven't moved on," he said finally. "Why do you think we've moved on?"

Merlin, Harry must have looked a sight if just his existence was making Malfoy treat him that gently.

He waved in the vague direction of their conversation. "You're making anonymous donations and letting McGonagall mentor you. You're not still—"

Harry broke off before the thought could finish. He didn't even know what he'd been going to say.

Malfoy stared at him. After a while, he said, "I assure you, Potter, I am still just as stuck in the past as you apparently are."

Harry bit back the urge to laugh—little did Malfoy know just how stuck they all were.

"I still think about it," Malfoy continued, quieter now. "I still dream that I'm back in that house, with him in a room down the hall. The faces of all the people he—" Malfoy shuddered. "I remember every one."

"Me too," Harry whispered.

A distant part of him noticed Malfoy's confusion, and he added slowly, through a mouth that felt too thick, "I saw through his eyes, sometimes. I saw the people he killed, and what he turned your house into. I dream I'm there sometimes."

Malfoy blanched.

"Let's change the subject, shall we, Potter?" he said, a touch shakily. "Something lighter, perhaps, like petty theft and arson."

Harry laughed, and the terrible mood that had been building broke. Something new took its place, something that settled in the gentle shadows beneath the stands, in the beetle that clicked in agitation as it climbed slowly back up to its place—as though the worst thing in the world was to be knocked down two feet. The feeling rested in the tiny dust motes that floated in the sliver of light between them, and Harry felt he could finally breathe again.

When Harry looked up, he thought again of how Malfoy had looked last night. Eyes bright, nervousness in every subtle twitch of his fingers. Breath shallow. It looked similar to how he looked right now, which was absurd, because they hadn't had anywhere near the kind of build-up they'd had last night, and—

Oh.

Harry blinked. Did Malfoy want him anyway? Maybe it hadn't been the strange, date-like atmosphere of their day together or the unexpected vulnerability they'd shared that had made Malfoy look like that. Maybe he always looked like that at Harry, and Harry hadn't been looking back until now.

Something must have shown on his face, because Malfoy shifted back sharply, eyes wide, and turned quickly away. "I should..." He wet his lips. "I should go. I have to—Blaise has very particular standards about getting ready."

Malfoy was stammering. It only made sense because Harry had lived this day before and knew Malfoy was Blaise's date, and he found himself smiling despite the pit of raw confusion and pain that swirled unsettlingly below it all. He stood up, dusting off his jeans and holding the fabric of the Quidditch stands open for Malfoy.

"I'll see you tonight?" he offered.

Malfoy glanced at him, that same strange emotion shining there. He nodded. "We can get a drink," he said, words slightly rushed, but managing to keep that familiar Malfoy snottiness that served as a welcome barrier.

Without the barrier, Harry wasn't sure what might be about to happen between them.

Actually, that was a lie. He'd seen what might happen last night, and, once again, he would lose it—in about thirteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, and a handful of seconds, to be precise. The pit grew wider, until it sucked everything into it, including the smile on Harry's face.

They walked back to the castle in silence, the snow crunching beneath their feet, a careful one and a half metres of space between them at all times. A couple of students passed by, watching them curiously, but despite the pursed expression on Malfoy's face when he saw them, he didn't comment.

Before they parted ways at the entrance, Harry asked—the words coming out in a rush, "How do you stand it? The Ball, I mean. If you haven't moved on either, how do you stand going to the Ball?"

Malfoy blinked. "I don't know." He said it like he'd never thought about it, like Harry had pointed out something stupidly obvious. A slight frown marred his forehead, and he looked into the shadowy distance of the foyer, hands sliding into his pockets. "I suppose because it's happening, whether I like it or not." He gave a small laugh, grey eyes flicking to Harry and away again. The sound was sharp around the edges. Amused, but... pained. "I'm not the 'stand up and fight' type, Potter. Surely you know that by now."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. Before this whole time loop started, he would have jeered at Malfoy—at this reminder that he was a coward and a weakling. But he didn't feel like laughing now. As he looked at Malfoy, the strangest thought popped into his head: you weren't meant to fight him.

It swirled around and around in Harry's brain until there was no space to think anything else. Because it was true, wasn't it? Harry was the one who was meant to fight Voldemort, prophesied from birth to be marked as the Dark Lord's equal. And in so doing, every facet of Harry's life had been shaped to turn him into the perfect warrior. The peaceful warrior, who would fight like a Gryffindor until the time came for him to lay down his own life like one, too.

If Malfoy had fought Voldemort, he would have died. Like all the others before him.

That fact struck Harry now, in a way that it never had before. It struck him just how much of a loss it would have been, although he couldn't have said why, because no matter what strange tension was building between them, they still weren't friends. Malfoy was still a rigid, arsey, stuck-up prat, and a couple of vulnerable conversations between them during one of the lowest points in Harry's life didn't amount to anything. Not really.

But it would have been a loss. A waste, actually, was the word Harry kept thinking. Malfoy could have fought, and then died, and achieved nothing, and it would have been a waste. He was too close to the Dark Lord for his rebellion to have done anything but seal his own fate. Too trapped by his father's position and Voldemort's cruel desire to inflict pain by making loved ones suffer.

Or, he could have lived, and made stupid fucking choices that finally opened his eyes to the reality of his own bigotry, and spent a lifetime atoning. And, ultimately, saved Harry in that one crucial moment in the mansion when Voldemort had finally had him under his thumb. Saved him when no one else could, and certainly no one else would.

Harry didn't know how to say any of that, especially because it still didn't change what Malfoy had done. The people he'd hurt. The people who had died as a result of his actions with the Vanishing Cabinet. But he thought it was wrong that Malfoy could stand there and sum up every single one of his actions as a cowardly inability to fight, when it was so much more complicated than that.

So, he reached out to clasp Malfoy's shoulder instead, just briefly, watching how it made Malfoy's eyes widen in surprise, the grey so piercing it was like the crash of lightning through stormy clouds. He saw how Malfoy's breath caught in his throat, his lips parting before they pressed firmly together as if trying to hold back what he might otherwise say. Then Harry turned and walked away.

Harry wouldn't go to the Ball tonight; he knew that much. His mind was too overwhelmed with thoughts of the war, of Malfoy. He was too overwhelmed with questions and confusion, so he couldn't be around people tonight. It would go worse than the first time, and then it would probably be just his luck that tonight was the night it all ended and he was stuck with whatever he said or did in the next few hours. So, no, he wouldn't go.

He wondered how long Malfoy would wait for him, anyway.

*

Time, it seemed, passed very slowly when waiting to go backwards. Counting down the minutes until it all started again filled Harry with a sense of agitated urgency. There was an element of refreshment coming with the reset, but also of loss, and so far, the loss was winning.

So, when Sir Nicholas appeared through the wall of the classroom Harry had taken to hiding in until the Ball started, it both made him jump so far out of his skin he half expected to become a ghost himself, and was also a welcome relief.

"Harry!" Sir Nicholas said brightly, coming to a halt in front of the table Harry was sitting on. The setting sun shimmered through his ghostly form, turning the orange a strange tinge of silver, like the sun itself had died. "Just the man I was looking for."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "You're looking for me?"

"You always seem to know the strangest of comings and goings here." Sir Nicholas nodded importantly. "I recall the Chamber business, and then of course the ugliness at the last tournament."

Harry grimaced. "Yeah... look. That wasn't my fault. It was all Voldemort, and I really don't think—"

Sir Nicholas waved him off. "We just want to know if you have any information on this time distortion that seems to be affecting the castle."

The words died on Harry's tongue, leaving him to gape at Sir Nicholas for several long moments. "The what?" he finally managed.

Sir Nicholas gestured vaguely to the room at large. "We appear to be suffering an ongoing distortion whereby the day repeats—do you know what's happening?"

"Oh my god," Harry breathed. "You can see it?"

"Well of course," Sir Nicholas looked puzzled. "Ghosts do not exist within the normal experience of time and space, after all." Then his expression brightened. "You mean you do know what's happening! I knew you'd be the man to ask."

Resolutely ignoring the implication that anything strange at Hogwarts had Harry's name stamped on it in giant red letters, Harry leaned forward and began to explain—a little too quickly, judging by Sir Nicholas' glazed expression—what he'd experienced so far. Alarmingly, he found it took him several tries to get everything in the right order. He'd only been through the day five times so far, and it was already beginning to jumble in his mind.

When he was finished, Sir Nicholas pulled a strained face and stared into the distance. "Yes, that is quite a conundrum," he agreed. "And you're the only one who remembers the loop?"

"Until you arrived."

"You've no idea what catalysed the distortion?" he prompted.

"I thought it was Pansy Parkinson, but that didn't go anywhere. It has to be someone else casting a spell, but I don't know how to discover who."

Sir Nicholas nodded. The pained expression had returned to his face, and any hope that had begun to rise within Harry faded, fizzled, and died—dramatically. Harry rather thought he could see all his little hope gremlins running, one by one, to jump off a cliff.

"I'm afraid we ghosts have already discussed it extensively," Sir Nicholas said woefully. "None of us have any experience in time magic, and as there are outside visitors to the castle on the 25th, one must assume that more than the castle is affected. Meaning that... well... outside help will not be forthcoming. We're on our own."

"You haven't found anyone else who remembers the loop?" Harry insisted. "Anyone at all?"

"If they do, they are hiding it extremely well," Sir Nicholas said with a shrug. "There are only slight variations to each day, and they all come back to you, Harry. And, of course, I had already suggested you as a source of information."

"Of course," Harry said wearily. "Alright, well... Let me know if you find anything."

Sir Nicholas faded morosely through the walls, leaving Harry alone once more. The candles on the wall flickered, sending sharp shadows across the two portraits—one with the wizard snoring beside his Pensieve, and one with the children unwrapping their presents. His gaze fixated on the Pensieve, at the strange waters that glittered solemnly in a source of light hidden from the painting itself.

It alarmed him that his memories were already getting twisted around, each day running into the next. He could use a Pensieve, of course, but the memories wouldn't stay there from day to day. He'd still be relying on his own recollection to order them, and each time he added them to the Pensieve would be a chance for added confusion.

Realisation hit Harry like the Knight Bus.

"Shit," he muttered, climbing to his feet and hurrying to the painting.

If ghosts were outside of ordinary time and space, portraits likely were too. Could Harry use the portrait's Pensieve to store his memories?

And the memories of anyone else who wanted to remember these days?

"Um, excuse me?" Harry asked, raising his voice a little and feeling like a wally.

The wizard snored on.

"Hello?" He tried a little louder.

"He won't answer you."

Harry jumped, spinning around to find the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower drifting through the closed door.

"Oh." Harry swallowed. He still felt a little unnerved around the Grey Lady. "Do you know why?"

Helena lifted one shoulder gracefully. "He only awakens once or twice per year. I believe he suffered insomnia in his lifetime, and so his portraiture is spent seeking what he could not find until now."

Harry supposed that sounded reasonable. Maybe if he was ever made a portrait, he could finally discover what it was like to live a boring life.

"I wanted to use the Pensieve," Harry confessed, turning back and running his fingers over the gilded frame.

"Yes, Sir Nicholas told us the time distortion has you at its centre." She came to rest beside him, her eyes fixed to Harry. He'd never received so much attention from the Grey Lady before; usually, she came across as though part of her was always ignoring you.

"Right," Harry agreed. Then, when she didn't leave, "Er... can I help you?"

Helena Ravenclaw smiled, and all of a sudden Harry thought she rather looked like Malfoy. That same haughty, proud expression seemed right at home on both their faces—as did the sharp tang of regret. "No," she said simply. "I thought I could help you."

Harry blinked at her. "Why?"

He probably should have asked how rather than why, but one couldn't choose the burning questions of one's heart.

"Because you destroyed it. And because this is destroying you."

The diadem. She wanted to thank him for the diadem.

But was the time loop really destroying him? He hadn't thought it was that bad. It was definitely top three shitty things that had happened to him, specifically, but he was certain there would be a way out of it eventually.

"I wouldn't say destroying," Harry began, trying to choose from a selection of better words, such as crushing, humiliating, and slightly maiming.

"I do not mean the time distortion." Helena perched on the edge of a table, managing to make the mundane action seem strange and mysterious on account of the fact that she was floating half a foot above it. She turned her gaze upon him once more, and the rest went unsaid.

Harry felt seen in a way he never had been.

"Oh." A swirling, unnamed sadness started up in Harry's stomach. "That."

He couldn't even really explain what that was, but it had appeared as soon as the Triwizard Tournament had been announced, and grown with each passing day. How had the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower noticed when his own friends hadn't? When they thought his outburst was selfish and impulsive when mostly it had been inevitable.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, and the words were so sincere, so deliberately offered, that Harry felt the bizarre prickling of hot tears in the back of his eyes.

Harry never cried. Why in Merlin's name was he crying now?

"Not really," he said, voice a little shaky around the edges. "How did you know?"

Helena pursed her lips. "You are like a ghost," she said simply, after a moment. "You're not the only one," she added gently. "The red-headed twin—I feel him whenever he enters the castle. Other students too, those who lost a piece of themselves."

It hit Harry then why things were so different with George—why he seemed to get it in a way no one else had. Harry had died out there in the forest, but hadn't George died, too? When he lost Fred?

He swallowed, overcome with emotion.

Helena waited, letting him breathe through it, and then she inclined her head, gesturing to the painting. "Henry won't mind if you use the Pensieve."

"His name's Henry?" Harry's eyebrows lifted. "What are the odds?"

Helena smirked, once more reminding him of Malfoy, and he turned back to the painting quickly.

"Well," he muttered, "here goes nothing."

Carefully, he placed his wand to the top of his head and withdrew the shining silver thread of memory. He chose tonight, mainly, with his summary to Sir Nicholas covering all bases quite nicely, and not being as embarrassing as, say, Harry watching the starlight shine in Malfoy's eyes. Just in case this whole spell turned out to be an elaborate prank and someone peeked on his unguarded memories.

The thread hovered at the tip of his wand, gently writhing as though in a breeze. With Helena watching him intently, Harry brought the memory to the painting, hovering it above the Pensieve within and gently placed it down.

There was a moment where all he could do was hold his breath and hope. Then the light shimmered and swirled as it dropped elegantly into the water of the Pensieve.

"Wow," Harry breathed, leaning forward—careful not to put his forehead through the canvas—and tracing the Pensieve with his finger.

It was just like the real thing, only the colours were a little shifted, as though the memory had been painted in oils. But it was all there, the ghosts and the classroom and Harry pouring his heart out about everything that had happened. Harry watched it from start to finish, feeling as though he were poised in a strange borderland halfway between living and the world of the painting.

"Thanks," Harry said as he withdrew from the Pensieve.

If it held through the time loop, it opened up a whole new realm of possibility for him. Sure, it wasn't much, but if he could just bring one other person into this with him, he wouldn't feel so damn alone.

"So far I've done nothing more than keep you company," Helena pointed out, adjusting her cloak.

"Yeah, I know," Harry said, shoving his hands in his pockets and watching her out of the corner of his eye. "Thanks."

She glanced up at him sharply. Almost imperceptibly, her whole being seemed to soften, and she turned her full attention on him once more. "Shall we stay here a while?"

"I'd like that," Harry confessed, flicking his wand to Transfigure a desk into a cushy, purple bean bag.

Despite the fact that Helena couldn't really sit, he Transfigured one for her, too, in front of the portrait. Her eyes widened, the twist of her lips sharpening as a curious light sparked in her gaze. Gingerly, she floated down into the curve of the cushion. Judging by her pleased expression, Harry thought she might have even enjoyed it.

"May I?" Helena asked, lifting her hand to hover just over the Pensieve.

Harry nodded, watching as her eyes closed, a shimmering golden light settling over her ghostly sheen. It reminded him of something, and after a moment of sifting through the metal tang of memory, he placed it—the Time-Turner. The golden light reminded him of the Time-Turner's magic, and surely that boded well for the memories staying?

After a minute, she withdrew her hand and gave a small shudder. "Merlin," she breathed. "It's like... life." Her eyes snapped open. "It feels like life."

Harry shivered, struck by the longing and pleasure mixing on her face. "Is that a good thing?" he ventured.

"It is," she assured him, before going quiet and pensive as she stared out the window.

He meant to go back to Gryffindor Tower, but as the stars came out one by one, and the silver light of the moon outshone both the dying candles and the gentle glow of Helena herself, Harry ended up falling asleep.