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The first time it happened Harry had been having a perfectly ordinary Saturday.

He'd slept until his desire for breakfast and tea overtook his desire to sleep. He stretched and kicked his legs over the side of the bed. He grabbed his wand and opened the curtains with a flick.

He pulled on jeans and a shirt, shuffled to the kitchen and heated the kettle. It occurred to him that there was no need to rush to finish the shopping today, no need to see to his work robes, and no need to decide if he'd get his revising out of the way today or save it for tomorrow night. He could do whatever he bloody well wanted this weekend. One of the things he wanted to do was send an owl to Draco, even although he hadn't quite convinced himself that was a good idea.   

The decision to leave Auror training had seemed so solid and right on Friday. The look on Kingsley's face had almost made him change his mind. It was still right, he told himself. He'd managed the ultimate Dark Wizard. The challenge was done and it was someone else's turn. He'd figure it out. He was twenty-one and he had everything ahead of him.

He scribbled a note to Ron and Hermione, asking them over, and gave it to his owl. "Take this to Ron and Hermione," he said. He was a good owl, but he was just an owl.

Harry sank back onto the sofa with his tea. The heat of the cup warmed his hand and his chest where he rested it. He rubbed his hand over the soft fabric of his sofa and he fought the rising panic that he had nothing, nothing, to do.

He closed his eyes. An image of his mother popped into his head. She smiled the way she had in the forest, loving and proud, and it was so real he opened his eyes half expecting to see her there.

The feeling started in his stomach, like the pull of Apparition and he wondered if he'd had more to drink last night than he remembered.

Harry hit the ground with a thud. The air was heavy with a recently fallen rain. The stones were wet under his fingers. He looked around trying to understand why he fell. No one was around to have pushed him and he couldn't remember doing anything that would have caused him to fall. He couldn't remember doing anything. He knew he'd been somewhere. Of course he'd been somewhere, but not here. Not outside in the rain.

He stood slowly, no longer certain of the sturdiness of the ground beneath him. He was in an alley and he walked to the end. The street looked familiar. Something told him he'd been here before. He stepped out into the street. It was busy with people going from shop to shop. The remnants of the rainstorm ran in rivulets along the kerb. The names of the shops rolled around in his mind, looking for somewhere to land.

People gave him odd looks and he realised he was dressed differently from them. They were mostly wearing robes or cloaks and he was shivering in his shirt, jeans and bare feet.

Harry walked along the street, keeping near the walls, scanning for what, he didn't know.

A tall, blond man, very regal looking, stopped to say hello to another man in front of him. Next to the man was a miniature version of himself. The little boy had white blond hair, slicked back and perfectly in place. He wore formal robes for a child and looked as if he could melt into a tantrum at the slightest provocation. The man continued talking and the boy, he couldn't have been more than six, kicked at the cobblestones.  

His father and the man continued to chat and the little boy, glancing sideways at his father, took two steps away from his dad's side. Something in that defiant look niggled at Harry's memory. Harry smiled as the little boy bent down and picked up a stick. He moved it through the air, probably imagining it was a broom. People continued to walk by. The boy bored of his stick-broom and he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of parchment. With his pink tongue poking out from his mouth, he pressed the parchment against the stick, wedging it under a loose bit of bark. And the broom became a boat. He eyed the stream that ran along the kerb. He looked from his father to the boat to the stream and took a step toward the dirty water.

His little boat was about to touch water when the father noticed.

"Draco," the father scolded and the hair on the back of Harry's neck stood on end. "Put that filthy thing down."

Harry could see it, the child, Draco, wanted with every fibre of his being to disobey.

"This instant."

Draco pursed his little lips and dropped his boat. He blinked and his chin quivered and the parchment sail detached from the hull as it hit the pavement. The boy didn't cry as he and his father walked away to their next destination.

Harry retrieved the stick. The bit of parchment was lying just near it on the pavement. He held it in his hand and touched it with his fingers. He murmured a spell and then another and felt the magic through his fingers. He realised in that moment that he should have a wand, but he didn't. The little boat in his hand now had a curved hull and a mast and a perfect tiny parchment sail.

Draco and his father had stopped a few shops up. His father was talking to another man and Draco was looking in a window. Harry walked past and saw they were in front of a shop window filled with brooms.

He whispered another spell and the boat disappeared from his hand. The boy started as it landed in his pocket. He reached into his robes and pulled out the boat. Draco grinned and then immediately looked panicked, glancing at his father. He caught Harry's eye and Harry raised one finger to his lips. Draco looked shocked but chanced a glance at his father, then back to Harry. He put the boat back in his pocket and turned, the smile still on his lips.  

Harry felt the odd, uneasy feeling he'd had this morning. He walked away quickly, stepping into the first alley.

*

"He just sent it," Hermione said. "It's his writing. Where is he?"

Harry lifted his head from the floor. The voices drifted to him as if through water.

"You don't think—"

He was in his bedroom, at his flat.

"Don't think what, Ron? That some hacked off Death Eater came for him? No. I don't think that."

"Well, where is he then?"

Harry felt as if he were going to be sick. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob.

"I'm here," he called, stepping into the hallway.

"You look like hell," Ron said. "Too much Ogden's celebrating the big announcement yesterday?"

"No, I—" Harry began. What on earth could he tell them? There was nothing about this afternoon that he could even put into words. He had vague memories, feelings and sensations more than memories, of seeing things he could not have seen.

"Harry," Hermione asked. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

What could he tell them? He wasn't even sure it was real.

Harry pushes open the door of The Three Broomsticks. Warmth and light immediately chase the chill from him. He feels good. Useful. When he first left Auror training, it had felt like the best decision he'd ever made. A couple of days later, the lack of any urgency, in combination with his alarming new journeys have left him feeling like he's too big for his skin.

The past couple of weeks, working with Hagrid to get Magical Creatures ready for the second term, were the most useful he'd felt in years.

He's been looking forward to this drink all afternoon.

"Warm welcome, Harry," calls Rosmerta. She's on her way to Harry's favourite table with a Butterbeer and two fingers of Firewhisky before he's taken off his coat and scarf. He's bone tired. It's nothing like the ache and fatigue he remembers from the end of the war. It's a good tired that comes from hard work with a distinct lack of near-death experiences.

Harry downs the whisky first and follows it with a sip of Butterbeer. He can feel eyes on him from the table across from him. In the corner opposite sit Malfoy, Pansy, and Blaise.

Harry feels suddenly fifteen and he wishes he weren't here alone. He dares a look. Blaise is chatting away, animated, gesturing with his hands. Pansy laughs and watches him. Draco is looking at Harry and he doesn't look away.  Harry lifts his drink in the hint of a toast and drinks. He could convince himself that he's imagined it, but Draco tips his drink toward Harry just a bit and smiles as he takes a sip.

Harry takes his time with the rest. He steals looks at Draco whenever he can. The way Draco's lips look when they purse to take a drink makes him ache. The way his lips look when they curve into a smile makes him want to Apparate across the room into Draco's lap. It's a relief, after all the years of pretending, to let himself want.

One day, he'll ask Draco for a drink. He knows he will. Today isn't the day. Not in front of Draco's friends. He finishes his drinks and heads for the door.

He steps out into the night air and turns to see that Draco has followed him out. Nervous energy floods his body.

"Following me, Malfoy?"   

"I see you think no less of yourself than you ever did," Draco says. "What on earth make you think I'm following you?"  

"I came out and you came immediately after," Harry says. "That's the definition of following."

"You're the definition of insufferable."

"Is that why you're following me?" Harry asks. He feels almost giddy. Draco's grey eyes blaze and in the lamplight, Harry sees a spot of pink on his cheeks.

"If I were following you, you wouldn't know it until I wanted you to," says Draco.

"Oh," says Harry.

"Yes, oh," repeats Draco. He turns and walks down the road. "Goodnight, Potter," he calls back over his shoulder.  

"See you around, Draco," Harry says. He feels light on his feet as he heads back to Hagrid's.

Harry searches his robe for his wand. He knows, somehow—in the same way that he knows his name and that he can do magic—that he should have a wand. He also knows he should avoid being seen. He's been here for over an hour, ducking behind shops and standing in back doorways to stay warm. It occurs to him that he should feel panicked, not knowing exactly how he's arrived where he is. The sounds of the bustling road and the scents of food coming from nearby shops are familiar and there's nothing here that feels frightening, so he tries to wait and see.    

He landed in an alley off the High Street. It's a perfect, early spring day. The sun is warm at the same time as the air is nippy. Voices, familiar voices, waft down the alley. He flattens himself against the wall and ducks down behind a stack of crates.

Two men step into the alley. They're laughing.

"What are you doing here? Spying again?" The taller, blond man asks. He pushes a man who looks exactly like Harry, but with smile lines he didn't see in the mirror this morning, against the wall.

"Just popped in," older Harry says. He smiles and leans up to kiss the blond man. Harry can see, from his vantage point behind the crates his own hand on the blond man's jaw. He can almost feel it on his skin.  

"Unlimited first kisses," says the man. Harry knows him, but he can't remember his name. "It almost makes up for your little jaunts."

"Draco, it's me. Me now, you idiot," the man who is him says. He laughs and kisses Draco again and Harry feels awash with relief to place this man.  

"Oh, well, then it must just be that I am a fabulous kisser," Draco says.

Draco wraps his hand around older Harry's neck and comes away with a red and gold scarf in his hand.

"Mine," he says. "I looked for this in the morning. Thief."

Older Harry winds the scarf around Draco's neck. "It was cold this morning," he says.  "And it smelled like you."

"Oh, you're pathetic," Draco says affectionately.

Harry is chilly and he's hungry and he wants to be somewhere other than this alley. He can't imagine how showing himself to these two would cause any problems. He stands.

Older Harry is cupping Draco's face with his hands. "I had to find you," he says. "I have something to ask you."

"If it's about the cake, Molly's already worked on my moth—"

Harry coughs.

Quicker than he could imagine, his older self is pointing a wand at him. Surprise registers on his face and he lowers the wand. "Oh. Sorry," he says.

Draco steps away from the wall and between him and Harry. "Hello," Draco says. "I'm Draco. Do you know what's happened to you?"

Harry tries to think. He trusts this man, obviously, he trusts him. Draco is a friend. Sometimes.

"I think so," he says.

"Is this his—my—first time?" older Harry asks, gently.

"No," Harry and Draco say at the same time.  

"Close, though," Draco adds. "You'll be fine," Draco says to Harry. His voice is soothing and kind and Harry can't imagine not trusting him.    

"Is there somewhere I can go?" Harry asks.  

"Harry, make him a Portkey," says Draco.

Unless things have changed, that's against the law, and Harry doesn't want what is apparently his future self to get thrown in Azkaban, if that still exists. He starts to object that he's hardly in danger and he can take care of himself, but he really is tired and hungry and cold.  

"Right." The man who is him pulls something from his pocket and touches it with his wand, speaking softly. "If something happens to him, I'm not here now. Merlin, a person could go insane."

"My thoughts exactly," says Harry.  

"Here," says his older self. He presses the key into Harry's hand. "This is home. Go and get some rest and you'll probably wake up in the right time."

"You know, it's only just occurred to me. There's two of you. That could be interesting, perhaps we should—"  

"Don't even think about it," says older Harry.  

The Portkey activates before he can ask what he meant.

The first time it happened, he had been twenty-one and thinking he might be falling in love for the first time.  

He was always waiting to become accustomed to it, to get used to the idea that at any time, he could be yanked from his time and tossed into another one.

He makes notes. A list of notes on his arm that he charms to warm whenever he moves through time. When he Apparates consciously, he can ignore it. When his travels come upon him, it is literally a lifesaver.

You're Harry Potter

You have travelled through time

You still have magic, even without a wand

Stay hidden as much as possible

All Weaselys are friends

Hermione Granger is a friend

Draco Malfoy is a friend, but not always

Memories are hazy here

Don't interfere

He knew before he arrived that Draco would be here. He would have stayed home if Hermione hadn't told him this morning that Pansy told Blaise that Draco was going to Hogwarts to see the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. In an unexpected turn of friendships, Blaise was having tea with Luna and he told her and Luna told Hermione who seemed to think that Harry might want to know. She wouldn't tell Harry why she thought he should know.  

Being outside in the cool air, wind ruffling his perfect hair, suits Draco. It brings colour to his cheeks and his eyes reflect the blue of the sky. Harry earned some questioning looks when he deposited himself in the midst of several rows of green and silver. If crossing such lines isn't part of his legacy, he couldn't say what is.

Draco had greeted him coolly when he sat down. He hadn't commenced with outright hostilities, which Harry took as a very good sign.

Gryffindor is ahead by three goals and the Gryffindor Seeker is definitely a hair faster than the Slytherin one. While Harry would never, ever root against Gryffindor, he does want Draco in a good mood.

"It's like old times, isn't it?" Harry says and before he realises just how stupid that sounds. "I mean without Voldemort and us on opposite sides of a war."

"That and you were never faster," Draco says. He looks a little too pleased with Harry's discomfort. Harry will take that over the alternatives.

"Well, you certainly weren't the faster one," Harry says. "Even odds, I beat you every time."  

"I want a rematch," says Draco.

He's looking right at Harry. The crowd roars and the match goes on and Harry couldn't tell you a thing that's happening around him.

"You're on," Harry says. He can't take his eyes of Draco's face.

The cacophony from the other side of the stands tells Harry that Gryffindor's caught the snitch. The sea of red and gold across the way erupts into cheers and waving of banners.

"Hm, now I wish I hadn't worn quite so much green," Draco says. Regrettably, he looks away from Harry and out at the pitch.

Harry pulls the red and gold scarf from his neck and reaches to drape it around Draco's shoulders. His fingers tingle where they touch Draco's skin. "You can borrow this, just to get out of here. I want it back, though."

"Is this a pathetic ploy to see me again?" Draco asks. He runs his hand down the scarf. He doesn't take it off.

Harry shrugs. "It suits you."

Harry grabs a drink from the tray that floats past. He's lost count. He tosses it back and the Firewhisky burns its way down his throat. This is the first time he's been in the Great Hall for years. He takes another drink and closes his eyes as it warms him. He will not look down and see people he loves laid out on the floor.

"Would you rather be anywhere else, as well?"

Harry turns to the voice before he realises that he knows who it is.

"I can think of places I'd like less," Harry says and Draco smiles.

Even after months of dancing around each other, Draco's smile isn't what he expects. Neither is the way that smile warms him even more than the Firewhisky.

A party at Hogwarts isn't where he ever expected himself to be on Christmas Eve again. He'd far rather have his feet on the table in front of the fire, looking at the tree he, Ron, and Hermione decorated this morning. Although, this meant so much to Neville, he wouldn't have honestly considered being anywhere else. Now, Draco at a celebration for Neville's being appointed full professor is not what he would have ever expected. It's not that he'd miss supporting Neville in this, it's that whenever he comes to a public event he still has to put up with people staring at his forehead or trying to gaze into his eyes, and he's 12 again.  

"What are you doing here?" Harry asks. "I thought you'd be off with your family doing whatever it is Malfoy's do on Christmas Eve."

They'd bumped into each other at Diagon Alley less than a fortnight ago and Draco never mentioned coming here, of course neither did Harry.  

"You've spent time thinking about where I might be tonight?" He asks. His grey eyes sparkle and Harry's stomach twists. "Interesting."  

Every time he sees Draco, he draws his eye. He mentioned once to Hermione that he thought something had changed about Draco—a new look or a new kind confidence. She only gave him an odd look.

"No, I—where's Pansy?" Harry asks.

While Harry has bumped into Malfoy alone quite a bit over the past few months, he's with Pansy just as often. He sees them window shopping in Diagon Alley, going to appointments at the Ministry, and once in the foyer of St. Mungo's when Hermione, Ron, and Ginny had dragged him to see a Healer about his unusual condition. In all the conversations he and Draco have had, he's never managed to ask Draco if he and Pansy are still together. He's finally admitted to himself that it's because he doesn't want to know the answer.

"She's off with her current paramour, abandoned me to the fray."

"You aren't—I though you two were—"

Draco cuts him off with a laugh. "No," he says. "We are most decidedly not."

Harry feels a little lighter and he likes the way Draco's returning his gaze.

Draco takes a sip of his drink. He looks as if he's contemplating something.

"You're not—" He pauses and Harry stops himself from answering in case Draco's not asking what he thinks he is. "—with anyone, then?"

"Most decidedly not," Harry says. He bites his lip and sees that Draco's eyes cut to his mouth. "Yet," he adds.

A hand lands heavily on Harry's shoulder and it is, unfortunately, not Draco's.

"Ah, two of my favourite students," Professor Slughorn says. "And how are you this fine Yule's Eve?"

Draco doesn't even hide the roll of his eyes and Harry tries to make small talk until an older Slytherin joins them and he makes his excuses.

Harry pushes open the door of the boy's bathroom. He has to keep reminding himself where he is, when he is. His heart is pounding and he mind racing. He knows he'll leave this room and ask Draco to come home with him, whether he has a plan or not.

Harry watches his hands in the mirror, making a final attempt to put his hair into some kind of order. He doesn't care about such things, he tells himself. It's only that Draco's hair is always perfect.

The door opens and Harry holds his breath. His hand is still in his hair.

"I'd have thought you'd have given it up for lost by now," Draco says.

He smiles that smile again and Harry realises that he thought he'd been in love with Ginny. He loved her, but this is something else entirely.  

"I don't give up easily," Harry says and he's across the room without purposefully moving his feet. He stops just before he bashes into Draco.

"And it's very irritating," says Draco. He's still smiling and he doesn't step back.

Harry leans forward just an inch and tilts his head. "It's part of my charm." He can feel the kiss before it happens. Draco moves as Harry does and their lips touch. Every nerve in Harry's body tingles from the kiss, slow at first and building with heat. Harry buries his fingers in Draco's hair. Draco parts his lips and moans softly as their tongues touch.  

"Come back to my place," says Harry, his body thrumming from the feel of Draco's tongue sliding against his.

"No, mine," Draco says. He nips at Harry's jaw. "Please."

"Okay, if it—"

Draco's arms encircle him from behind and his lips press against the back of Harry's neck. His hands move up Harry's stomach and chest and Harry's pulled tighter against him. Harry's startled by this surprisingly intimate, familiar touch. But Draco's just a bit taller and the feeling of him being able to hold him, cover him from behind, feels right.

"It does."

*

Draco's townhouse is certainly stunning—complimentary, neutrals accented by splashes of colour, a green vase, a bright painting. The fireplace is pale, silvery marble with a simple, clean mantle. No family photos or souvenirs from trips to the seaside cover this mantelpiece, like at The Burrow. A beautiful candelabra, that must be a family heirloom, decorates one side and a stone sculpture of a dragon the other. Completely out of place in the middle is a small glass bottle. Inside it is a little handmade boat. It is the only thing in the room that seems to be completely sentimental.  Harry touches the bottle, eyes on the boat and something niggles at his memory.

Harry needs him in a way he shouldn't for something so new. He needs more of those liquid heat kisses. Harry turns in Draco's arms and covers Draco's mouth with his. He runs his hands down Draco's back. His body is slim and strong and Harry can't help moaning when his hands follow the curve of Draco's perfect, perfect arse.

"Are you sure?" whispers Harry, his lips brushing the shell of Draco's ear.

"I've done this before," Draco says, so softly Harry almost doesn't hear him.

"You mean—with a man," asks Harry.

"Yes, sure, that's what I mean."

Harry feels the new, odd, off-centre feeling and wants to scream, no, not now, but Draco grabs him and rolls his hips. Harry can feel him hard against him and he realises the feeling is something else entirely.  

Harry's hand reaches out, fast as lightning, and grabs the railing. The spiral staircase is steep and it takes a moment for Harry to realize that it's moving. The air around him feels and smells familiar. He's been here before. The skin on his left forearm warms and he looks down to find words he realises he's read before, written in a hand he's sure is his own.

He continues up the revolving staircase. The door at the top of it opens and a voice that he's sure he knows, and loves gives him an instant feeling of comfort and relief when he hears it is any indication, says, "Come in. Do come in, dear boy."

The room is magnificent. The air fairly tingles with magic. Delicate silver instruments whir and hum, moving in response to some energy Harry doesn't think he could possibly understand. A man with long silver hair and a beard and the kindest, wisest, blue eyes waves his hand and gestures Harry into the squashy chair that appears behind Harry and bumps into his knees.

"I have been wondering if you'd visit me again. It is wonderful to see you alive at your age, my boy."

"Hello," says Harry.

"You're still time travelling, I see," the man says. He smiles kindly. "I had hoped you would have found the key by now. How old are you?"

"Nearly thirty," Harry says before he realises that it never occurred to him to tell this man that it's none of his business. "You know—you understand what happens to me?"

"I think so, Harry," he says. "And how rude I've been. Let me introduce myself. I'm Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry in this time. No longer in the time you come from, however."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you do know what happens to me? And did you say there's a key to stop it?"

"Never were one for the pleasantries, Harry. I find it oddly comforting that that hasn't changed," the man smiles again and it makes Harry feel warm inside.

"If you start droning on about love, I'm going to abandon this frame for good," says a severe, but very handsome, man in a portrait behind him.

"More promises, Phineas," Dumbledore says good naturedly. "Ah, yes, Harry. From what I've managed to work out since your last visit, it is indeed to do with love. Your mother's in fact—the force that has defined so much of your life. As you may or may not know in this moment, your mother's love saved you and protected you from a man named Tom Riddle, causing some of his soul to be transferred to you. What you might not know is that all three of you died in that moment. Just as some of the wizard also known as Voldemort lives in you, so does some of dear Lily."

"I think I knew that," Harry says. He feels strangely breathless.

"Forgive the prattlings of an old man, then, Harry. What I think you might not know is that when you reached the same age your mother was when she died, that piece of you, or of your soul, was thrown into disequilibrium and this disequilibrium continues and when it reaches a certain threshold of imbalance, it throws you out of your time."

A thousand questions occur to Harry at once. "I time-travel because my mother left a bit of her soul with me?" Harry can't find it in himself to be angry or bitter, knowing for certain that he carries a bit of his mother with him. "So what can stop it?"

"Harry, every force in nature seeks balance. This is no different. When you allow something else to fill the space left by your mother's death—"

"What? Nothing can replace my mother," Harry objects.

"Of course not, my boy. What I mean to say is that when equilibrium is restored, when a force as powerful as your mother's love balances the gap she left, I believe you will be able to stay in your own time. I don't believe it would have to be the same kind of love—as you say, nothing can replace your mother. Another way to say it would be—"  

"If you say soul mate, I'm going to be ill," says the grumpy portrait.

"You said it, Phineas, not I."

"Love, again," the portrait of the man Phineas says. "I'm off to my other frame."

"Ah, a respite from love indeed," says Professor Dumbledore.

"Sir, I remember some of what happens when I go back to my real time. Not everything, but feeling or impressions, like. Why don't I remember more than a few details from my real life when I time-travel?"

"What makes you think this isn't your real life, Harry?"

"Oh, I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Time is only one of the forces in our lives, Harry. As my esteemed colleague hates to admit, love is another, I daresay, more powerful one."

The delicate silver instruments whir and the other portraits look on thoughtfully. Several of them are smiling at him with fondness. Harry's not certain he understands all of this and he wishes he could bring a notebook back and forth with him, write some of this down, but he feels the beginnings of separating from this reality.

As he's pulled from this place, he hears Professor Dumbledore say, "I fear you won't remember much of this conversation, my boy. More's the pity, as these are some of my cleverer deductions, which is going some distance to be able to say."  

Harry downs a vial of Pepper Up potion, trying to ease the run-over-by-a-train feeling of post time travel. He has a theory that if he could manage the ache and the fatigue, he might remember more both back and forth.

He looks around the room and orients himself. He lives here with Draco. This is their bedroom. The shower is running. Draco is home.

He slips out of his wet clothes and tosses them in the corner. As he pulls on pyjama bottoms, flashes of the conversation come back to him. It's more than he usually remembers.  

Draco steps out of the bathroom. "Oh, you're back."

"Only just," Harry says. Draco is flushed from a shower and dressing gown is tied loosely around his waist. "You were in the shower."

"Where were you?"

"I think I remember a little this time. I was with Dumbledore. I think I understand some of why this happens."

Harry pulls his favourite shirt, a blue French cotton one with two tears on the left side of the chest, from the back of the desk chair. "I don't know why I love this shirt. Why don't I mend it or bin it?"

"Don't you dare. It's my favourite. What did Dumbledore say?"

"He thinks that this has something to do with me having a piece of my mother's soul. I can't explain it all. I only remember bits and pieces. I'll ask Hermione."

"Did he have any ideas how to cure—stop it?"

Harry looks at Draco. It was something about love. "I—I don't remember," says Harry.  

Harry knows, somewhere inside, that this feeling should be familiar by now. Being familiar and being accustomed to it are two different things.

His arm warms and the words that jump out at him are stay hidden.  

He's in a house. A huge house, more of a manor, if the height of the ceilings is any indication. The carpet from which he lifts his head is old and well-worn at the same time as it's expensive and well-kept. Something about the place makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He slides along the hallway, his back against the wall. He can see leaves and branches of trees out the window at the end of the hallway. He must be on the second floor. The silence in the house is almost overwhelming and yet, something tells him that the place is far from empty.

He takes careful steps down the hallway. He doesn't know what he's looking for and instinct tells him he'll know when he finds it, if only that he finds a place to hide until he can figure out what's going on.

He hears a noise. Someone is moving in the room next to him. He jumps as something crashes against the other side of the wall near his head.  

The door is cracked, just about an inch. Harry peeks inside. A boy, about seventeen or eighteen, stands in the middle of the room. His fists are clenched and tears leave streaks on his fair cheeks. He is ethereally beautiful, with pale blond hair and fine features. The boy points his wand at the floor and the bits of a demolished picture frame come back together and it flies back onto a shelf as if someone had put the world into reverse. The photo is of this boy when he was younger, flanked by two people who must be his parents. He looks equally like each of them.

The boy looks up and his eyes widen. He sees Harry in the doorway. Harry's first impulse is to run and before he can do just that, the boy pushes open the door and pulls him inside the room.  

"You," the boy says. There's no accusation, only surprise and maybe even a little relief.  

"Me?"

"They can't see you," he says and he points his wand at the door and there's a decisive click. "You shouldn't be here. They're gone, but they'll come back."

"Where's here and who are you?" Harry asks. He should be afraid. He's not. He wants to help this boy, to make the haunted look leave his face.  

"Oh, right. I'm Draco. You're Harry, but you know that much, don't you? You have to stay hidden. If they come back, if they find you—" Draco blanches.

"I'll be fine. Where am I?"

"You don't understand. You're in Malfoy Manor." Despite the urgency of his words, Draco seems more resigned than afraid.  

"Draco," Harry says. He likes the way the name feels on his tongue. "It's all right. I'm sure it's all right." He has this young man's name on his arm. Surely that means it really will be all right. He considers showing him the writing on his arm and reconsiders.

"No. You don't know," he says. "I know you don't."

"What don't I know?" Harry asks. He speaks gently, as if to a small child or someone who's terribly injured, which he fears this young man is.

"You don't know anything. Now."

"I'm sorry," says Harry. "I wish I did."

"You never remember anything," Draco says and he kisses him. He steps right up to Harry and he presses his lips against Harry's. Harry lets him. He lets Draco kiss him until the desperation fades into urgency and then Harry kisses him back, gently, before he pulls away.

"We've kissed before," Harry says. "I remember some things."

"No," Draco says. He looks confused and annoyed.

Draco Malfoy is a friend, but not always. This must be before.

"No," Draco says again. "Never. You show up just when I think I've been imagining you. And then you disappear."

Harry begins to step back and Draco clenches his fist in the front of Harry's shirt so hard that Harry hears the fabric give. Two of Draco's fingers break through, leaving two inch long tears right over Harry's heart. "I need you to stay. I can't explain it to you. I can't tell you anything, in case they come," Draco says. His clear grey eyes plead and Harry can't imagine what this beautiful, tender boy has got involved in to leave him so raw and afraid.

"Draco," Harry says softly. He doesn't try and pry Draco's hands from his shirt.

"Please," Draco says.  

Harry presses his lips to Draco's forehead. He's barely taller than Draco and he wraps his arms around him, wanting to make whatever it is vanish.

"Stay," Draco orders him. It has the desperate, despotic tone of someone who feels utterly out of control.  

Harry can't imagine refusing him anything.  

Harry barely moves. He stands still and patient. He gives Draco complete control. Draco kisses him, sweet little flutters of lips on his neck and jaw and lips. He's inexperienced and he's shaking and Harry's heart expands. Harry doesn't move as Draco undresses him. He murmurs encouragement and consent as Draco tries his best to seem confident.  

Harry is naked and hard and he's desperate to push Draco onto the bed and make Draco forget everything that's worrying him. He allows himself gentle touches, pausing to check Draco's reaction each time. He touches Draco's smooth chest and Draco's gasps, hips jerking when Harry brushes fingertips over a nipple.

"I want you," Draco says, as if he hasn't been sure of anything for a long time, but he's sure of this.

He moves to the bed and lies face down. His skin is so pale it's luminescent in the soft light of the torch. Harry takes a deep, steadying breath and Draco looks back at him.

"Are you nervous?"

"No," Draco says, with false bravado. "I want you to get on with it."

Harry climbs onto the bed and kneels, one knee on either side of Draco's thighs. He watches the way the nerves just under Draco's skin jump when Harry's fingers trail down his spine. The tension rolls off this young man's body and Harry feels again an overwhelming urge to protect him. "Getting on with it isn't quite the way I want this to go." He kneads the muscles in Draco's back and Draco sighs.   

Harry's hands move over Draco's arse and his thumb trails the cleft. Draco moans and spreads his legs.

He takes his time preparing him. Using his fingers and his tongue, he gently opens Draco, teasing him until he's writhing beneath Harry.

"Please, more," Draco gasps. He groans and spreads his legs even wider.  

Harry wants him to feel every inch of his body, shielding him, enveloping him. He lies down, chest against Draco's back. His cock slides between Draco's thighs and he can't help but roll his hips to feel the way the soft skin feels against his cock.

"It will hurt for a minute, but then it will feel so good," Harry whispers. He kisses Draco's neck.

"Now. Do it," Draco breathes. He turns his head and kisses Harry on the lips.

"I love you," Harry whispers. "How is that possible?"   

When he pushes inside, Draco gasps and clenches his fists in the pillow. He bites his lips and Harry leans to kiss him. Harry slides his hands up the bed to twine his fingers with Draco's as he thrusts slowly. Soon Draco is groaning and rocking back to meet him, setting his own rhythm. Harry lets him set the pace. Even as he lets Draco take control, Harry holds his hand and covers Draco with his body.

When Draco comes, Harry thinks he can't imagine anything more beautiful than his pale blond hair against his flushed cheeks.  He's certain this is a sight he's seen before.

Draco fixes him with an impassive stare. Neither of them is very good at this. Both find arguing easy and apologizing hard—Draco because he protects his pride like a mother dragon and Harry because he's stubborn. Neither of their best qualities, but meeting Draco's eyes, he does realize he wouldn't have him any other way than how he is.

Harry empties his tumbler of Firewhisky in one and fills it again.

"Be careful," Draco says. His voice is even, almost bored. "A couple more like that and you'll be too drunk to mend things with me properly."

"Are we close to mending things?" Harry asks. He can't remember what started it this time. Harry had made the mistake of complaining about the amount of time Draco spends with Pansy and Draco had made an off remark about Harry's travel schedule, and it had degenerated from there. Harry thought for the dozenth time that they both needed to find work.

"I hope so." Draco drains his own glass. "I've had just enough Firewhisky myself that I've no more desire to prove you wrong and would rather be settling this in bed."

"Have you just apologized?"

"No, I believe what I said is that I want you to fuck me."

Harry finishes off his second glass. Draco's made the first move and Harry takes the first step. He takes Draco in his arms and leans to kiss him.

"You know, sometimes when I travel, I can still feel your skin on mine," he says.

The cold, stone floor against his cheek is remarkably familiar. He looks around and he slowly pushes himself off the ground. He's in a corridor of an old building. If the curve of the wall is any indication, it's a large building.

A tapestry depicting a Goblin battles scene hangs on the wall opposite.

Harry pats his robes, slides a hand inside his sleeve. He's looking for his wand, he knows he is. He also knows he won't find it.

A boy, about sixteen, rounds the corner. He's tapping his wand against his thigh. As he walks, silver sparks burst from the wand with each tap. Nervous energy rolls off him in waves.   

Harry turns to look out of the window, hoping the boy will keep walking.

"Potter?" the boy asks, his voice dripping with contempt. For some reason hearing that tone in that voice cuts Harry to the quick. "Are you trying to drive me insane? I'll admit it's not as long a distance as it once was."

"I'm sorry," Harry says.

The corridor is completely deserted. There's not a sound. Harry wishes he had a wand. This boy seems so on edge. Harry can't imagine what he'll do.

The boy paces and he laughs. "You know, just when I think I've imagined you all these years, you show up again. I nearly had myself convinced you were a figment of my imagination. Or my father's, more like."

Harry backs up against the wall. "I'm sorry."

"You said that. Funny you're here today," he says. He glares at Harry. "I'm the only bloody person in the world who has Harry fucking Potter for a conscience."

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" Harry asks.

The boy laughs, harsh and hysterical, on the edge of a sob.

"What's your name?"

The boy glares again. "You know, if you're going to be the evidence that I really have lost my mind, you should have the decency to remember my name. I think that's the most irritating thing about you."

"I'm upsetting you," Harry says. "Maybe I should go."

"So that's it?" Draco snaps. The anxiety seems to have turned to anger. "The great Harry Potter turns into a simpering idiot who apologizes and shuffles off? What a disappointment."

"Draco," Harry says. The name pops into his head as if someone dropped it there.

Draco's eyes flash with something that might be hope. He covers it almost before Harry sees it. His teenage bravado back in place, he says, "You could tell me what happens. You could tell me if I do it." He takes a ragged breath. "You could tell me what to do."

"I don't think I can, but I do think that when it really matters, you'll know. You strike me as someone who will do the right thing. In the end."

The boy—Draco—barks out a harsh laugh. "You know nothing."

"Draco," Harry says. He keeps his voice low and soft. "You'll be alright. It won't always be easy." He read it on his arm, this boy is someone who becomes a friend. More than that, he knows it somewhere deep in his chest, that he will get out of whatever this is, if not okay, with the hope of healing.

"As I said, Potter. You know nothing."

"You'll be okay."

Footsteps echo down the hallway, quick, strong footsteps.

"In there," Draco says. He points to the tapestry. Harry pushes it aside to find a little alcove with a stone bench.

A moment after the tapestry swings shut, a man says, "Draco, what are you doing here?"

"Nothing, Sir," Draco says. His tone is respectful and closed, as if he's afraid this man will divine whatever it is that's troubling him if he gives him any hints at all.

"Then I suggest you get back to your common room before I have to talk points."

Harry leans back against the wall. He can still feel the boy's anxiety, as if he took some of it with him. He closes his eyes and waits for whatever force it is to take him back to his own time.  

"I've told you and told you," Harry says. He doesn't want to argue with Draco. Not today. It's their anniversary, or the day they celebrate it. Given their history, pinning down that date could give Hermione a headache. "I have no control over it."

"I wish I knew where you were going when you left. One of these times, you might not come back." Draco turns away and lights the candles on the table. It looks beautiful. The flowers reflect in the crystal goblets and the colours dance now that he's lit the candles.

This started because Draco asked Harry to promise he'd be home tonight. He claimed that every time they made plans with Draco's friends, Harry went on one of his little trips, and Draco was running out of excuses. Tonight, Pansy had demanded to make them dinner.

She and Blaise are coming over in half an hour to eat with them and then leave them on their own—with the chocolate mousse and the rest of the wine. Harry would very much like to be around, and not piss Draco off, for the second part of the evening.

"I'll always come back," Harry says.  

"You can't know that. One day, one day, you won't come back."

Harry doesn't know how he knows, but he does. "I will," he says.

At least you have a habit of keeping your promises," Draco says. "You do know that from our first time together, I knew that I'd be doomed to this odd life."

"The first time for you or for me?" Harry asks. He nearly asked Draco if he regrets it, but he's not sure he really wants the answer.  

"For me, the first time for me. When I was 17 and I don't know how old you were," Draco says. He sighs. "We can't have one normal conversation."

"If you'd rather be rid of me..."

Draco rolls his eyes at Harry. "Every time you go, I swear it's the last time I'll wait for you, but then, then I hate sleeping in the bed without you. I hate it, so I wait."

Harry steps close to Draco and takes him in his arms. "I appreciate your stoicism," he says. He presses his lips to Draco's. "I loved you before I met you, how is it possible to argue with that?"

"Idiot," says Draco. He buries his hand in Harry's hair and pulls him back into a kiss. Draco tilts his head and parts his lips. Harry sighs into it as Draco backs him slowly against the table. Their tongues curl together and slide against each other, and the heat spreads through Harry's body.

This is a weakness, or maybe it's a strength, for both of them. When they've reached an impasse, when they can't talk about the oddity that is their life anymore, they find their way back to each other like this.

Harry knows—like he knows his name when he travels, like he knows that Weasleys are always friends, and that his best possible life is with Draco—that one day they will find the key to the travels and end it.   

Hermione has a theory, or at least a future Hermione does. Once, last year, Harry had come with a letter from Hermione. It said that the only thing that might counter the magic is an emotion just as strong as his mother's when the spell was cast. He'd shown the parchment to the current Hermione and she'd agreed and he'd realised he'd heard that somewhere before. You mean love? he'd asked her.

He knew the answer. He'd learned if from Dumbledore. Only love was strong enough to counter love.

Draco runs his hands over Harry's back and he sucks lightly on Harry's tongue, pressing his body against Harry's. Harry's body sings with desire.  He tastes every corner of Draco's mouth and he's so consumed by Draco's kiss that he almost doesn't notice the off-balance, heavy, pulling sensation.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck."

The last thing he hears as his present slips away is, "I'll wait for you. One more time."

The bed is warm and soft. Harry opens his eyes. The duvet is thick and heavy and the air in the room is cool. Winter, then.  From the heavy feeling in his head, he's had more than a couple of drinks. The bed feels familiar. The man in the bed with him smells familiar and Harry's heart twists.

He stays as still as he can. There's something he's supposed to do, but he can't remember what it is.

"You're home," the man says. He moves and his back is pressed against Harry's chest. Harry opens his mouth to object, say this isn't his home, ask the man who it is he thinks has appeared in his bed.  The man reaches his hand back and curls it around Harry's hip. "Harry," he sighs. "I didn't expect you 'til tomorrow," His voice is rough and thick with sleep. With the sound of it and the feel of his warm skin against Harry's, Harry's body is pleased enough to have landed somewhere he's at least wanted, if not expected.  

"You're cold," the man says. He moves again and presses his body against Harry's. He grabs Harry's hand and wraps it around his body, draping himself in Harry like a cloak.

"You're warm," Harry says, finding his voice. The body against his fits. He nuzzles the man's hair and smoothes his hand over his chest. Everything about this feels like home.

Harry knows there's something he's supposed to do, something about his arm. The man rolls his hips and presses his arse against Harry's hardening cock. Harry splays his hand on the man's stomach. He can't help but rock against him.

Vague memories, flashes of sensation tell Harry that this is his home. There's a photo of the two of them on the dressing table, arms entwined, smiling happily.

The man shifts so he can press back harder against Harry. He reaches a hand back and grips Harry's hip.

Harry's self in the photo leans to kiss the man on the cheek. Next to the photo is a small, roughly made, toy ship.

The man grabs his hand and leads it down to his cock. With his hand on this perfect cock and the beautiful arse rocking against his, he doesn't think of anything for a while.

The man sighs and turns his head to kiss Harry. Harry looks up and notices a framed newspaper article that hangs next to the mirror. The headline reads, Imperious Curse or True Love? Has the Chosen One really chosen Draco Malfoy?  Under the headline is a photo of the two of them looking startled.

"You're—you're my lover," Harry says, because he wants to hear himself say it out loud and he wants to hear this Draco confirm it.

"Look at your arm, Harry," Draco says. He sighs in a different way than he did a moment before. He touches the inside of Harry's left arm and words bloom to the surface. "I should have known it was this you. Well, now I get to welcome you home again tomorrow. I suppose there are some benefits."

Harry rubs his feet over Draco's thigh. Draco is completely absorbed in his book. His teeth catch his bottom lip. A lock of his hair falls over his forehead. The room is filled with candles. Draco prefers candles to lamps in the evening. Harry is certain it's because he knows how gorgeous he looks in the candlelight. Draco fingers the corner of a page. Harry moves his foot on Draco's thigh again.

"Yes?" Draco asks without looking up. "Do you need attention?"

"Do I ever find you when we were in school?" Harry asks.

Draco lets his book fall to his lap. His hand covers Harry's foot. "Yes. A couple of times."

"And you don't hex me?" Harry shifts forward, onto his knees, and moves next to Draco. "Or I don't hex you for being a pointy little git?"

Draco smiles enigmatically. "No, you do something else."

"What?" Harry asks, leaning closer.

"You know I shouldn't tell you. You tell me not to interfere and then you harangue me in the next breath."

"What do I do?"

"You fuck me."  

Harry draws in his breath sharply. Surprise, a little panic, and arousal all flood his body at once. "How—how old were you?"

"Don't worry," Draco says. He leans over and the light from the candles illuminates him from behind. He looks like some kind of deadly, sexy angel. "I was of age and I was very convincing. Your virtue is intact."

Relief replaces some of the panic, but not all.

"Harry," Draco says firmly. He moves toward Harry and Harry has the feeling of being stalked by a cat. "Don't look so worried. I needed you. You gave me some of your courage."

Draco's hand caresses his cheek. It feels solid and real and utterly here.  

"Well, well, well, look what we have here."

Harry raises his hand to his face. His head aches. His fingers come away sticky. He must have hit his forehead against the tree.

"That's Potter," one of the men says. He's tall and thin and it looks as if he hasn't eaten enough for some time. It smells as if he hasn't bathed enough for longer.

"He's too old," says another. He steps forward with the air of one in charge. He wears a long leather coat and big black boots that are a little too close to Harry's face at this angle. He's frightening and thuggish looking and Harry can smell his breath from here.

Harry presses his back against the tree and forces himself to stand despite his dizziness.

His arm feels warm and he clamps a hand down on it. He needs to think.

"Doesn't look like he's a wand on him," says another. The voice tells Harry this one is a woman, although he wouldn't have known it to look at her.  

"Why does he look so much like Potter?" The tall, thin one asks.

"Maybe it is Potter," says the thuggish one. "What's your name, then?"

Harry doesn't answer. The man raises his wand and before Harry can process what's going on, his body is wracked with pain.

"Who are you?" the man says, only he sounds less stupid and more threatening.

Harry's head swims. He can't think and he can't remember anything beyond his own name.

"Draco Malfoy," Harry says and he has no idea why that name, not exactly common, pops into his head. He's knows immediately that he's made a mistake.

The one in charge barks out a harsh, ugly sound like metal scraping against metal. "You've got uglier and older since this morning. Lucius won't thank us to bring back his son in this state."

The pain hits him again.

"Idiot," barks the man. The woman hexed him this time. "Don't do anything else until we figure out who this is."

He's somehow managed to remain standing, propped against the tree. His vision is blurry and his arm warms again. He leans his forehead against the tree and breathes in the scent of the bark, trying to will himself to stay conscious. They're talking, some nonsense about how maybe Potter has a wizard uncle after all or maybe his father isn't really dead. Harry risks a glance at his arm. He can still do magic. He can do magic, but he can't remember anything with the pain still ebbing through his body in waves and the dizziness from the head wound. He has to think. He has to go home. If only he could remember what that meant.

There's movement behind his captors and someone tells them to drop their wands. A tall, thin wizard with ginger hair who is no more than a boy himself steps from the woods. He has his wand pointed at the one in charge, but the others freeze as well, not certain what to do without their leader barking orders.

"Snatcher scum," says ginger.  "What are you doing so close to Hogsmeade?"

"A Weasley. This is none of your concern. Besides, it's one against three. I'd move along if I were you."

The name 'Weasley' rings a bell and Harry looks down at his arm again.  

"I'd only count you as half a wizard and he's not alone," says another voice. "Suddenly the odds are fairly even."  

"A pair of Weasleys," says one of his captors.

Harry turns his head to look. He feels a wave of dizziness when he moves his head. An older man is next to the boy Weasley, his wand in his hand. He has long ginger hair and some impressive scars and he's clearly not someone to trifle with.

Harry is torn. He should fight. They're protecting him, although he doesn't really understand why. He should help. His fingers itch to hold a wand and he can't remember how to direct magic, other than the simplest things, without one. He reaches and snaps a twig from the tree. He holds his between his fingers and tries to remember what to do through the pounding in his head.

The snapping sound makes the boy turn his head. He moves close to Harry, keeping his wand trained on the others.

"You all right, mate?" He asks. His voice is welcome to Harry's ears. Harry turns slightly so that Weasley can see him. "Blimey, Harry? What the hell—"

"Ron," barks the man and the boy jumps to fight.

It doesn't last long. The scraggly band from the woods is so clearly outmatched by these two. They have the three of them stunned and bound in minutes.

"I'll take them to Kingsley," says the ginger man who Harry's arm tells him is also a friend. "See to him."

Ron, a name Harry knows, comes toward Harry. "What the fuck, Harry? What happened to you? I've been trying to find you and I think I hear you but, wait, where's Hermione?"

"You saved my life," Harry says. His head is swimming still. "Thank you. You found me, but not me."  

"How hard they hit you on the head? Not the best time for this shit, Harry. There's more of them out there. Merlin, we have to get you help. Think. Where's Hermione?"

"You have to keep looking for her. And me." The heavy feeling starts and Harry says quickly, "Don't tell anyone you saw me. Not yet." Harry feels himself being yanked away through time.

He hears, "Don't worry," and then a shout of surprise as he leaves.  

Harry rolls over and pushes himself up. Snow clings to his lightweight trousers and shirt. He moves carefully. His body feels sore and tender. He looks up and sees that snow has been knocked off of the tree next to him. He must have hit it as he came here. He remembers enough to know that he's come from another time, a time where it's apparently summer.

His head hurts like fire and he's shivering. He needs to get inside and lie down. Up the hill just a bit, there's a light, small, squares of light warming the darkness. He tries to tread carefully, although he stumbles every other step as he places he nearly numb feet in the snow. He's almost to the house when a slice of light suddenly cuts the darkness. The door opens and for a moment, the bright light from inside the house blinds him.

Two men step onto the porch. One, the taller one, leans on a cane, although it looks as much for effect as need. His hair is pure silver. The other one holds his arm at the elbow. The man turns his head and Harry catches a glimpse. He gasps. The man wears glasses and his salt and pepper hair stands on end. It's him, but in about sixty years.

Harry steps into the shadow of a tree and stifles a yelp as he nearly breaks his toe on a rock. He leans against the tree and tries to stop the ground from spinning.  

"Let's just stay home," says the man who is Harry.

Harry remembers he knows magic. He's hurt and he's freezing and he can't move another step. He murmurs a spell and conjures blue flames, cupped in his hand. He leans and presses them to the rock. When he steps onto it, the heat seeps through his feet and they tingle and the feeling comes back to them.

"You'd crush their little hearts, if the great man doesn't show to say a few words at midnight."

"I don't have any new words to add. We're old. Let's claim aches and pains. I haven't so many New Years left that I want to waste one getting my photo snapped with people who don't even remember what I did."

The man with the silvery hair reaches to touch the old Harry's wrinkled cheek. "Don't talk like that. I hate it when you talk about dying."

Harry can see their faces in the light from the window. Older Harry leans close and kisses the man on the lips. "Draco," he says "We've had a very good life."

Harry wants to go. This isn't something he wants to see and his head is pounding. He doesn't know why, but he has a feeling he shouldn't know how things—his life—end. And this moment feels so intimate, even although it's him, he feels like an intruder.  

"Had?" Draco says, pulling away from the kiss and looking at Harry indignantly. "What do you mean had. I'm not finished with you yet. Not by a long shot."  

"Is that so?" older Harry asks. "Now I really don't want to go."

"Be a good little war hero and do your duty, then we'll meet in bed."

"What if this is the night I—"

Harry knows that look. His older self is thinking about being yanked suddenly from his life to land in some other, foreign, part of what is his life, but doesn't feel like it.

He presses his hand to his head, like he used to when his scar hurt. A jolt of pain goes through his head and he feels that he's still bleeding.  

"You haven't done that in decades. Don't be an idiot."

Older Harry just smiles and kisses Draco again. The two of them wrap their arms around each other and there's a crack as they Disapparate. Just as they disappear, Harry sees his older self rest his head on Draco's shoulder.

Harry feels that odd pressure and he knows he's going home. Relief floods over him. Something tells him he may have finally found the piece of his puzzle.

"Merlin, what happened?"

Harry wakes up to the sound of Draco's voice and the feel of his cheek on the tile of their kitchen floor. He's more disoriented than usual, feels less back in his own time than usual.

Draco conjures a towel. He wipes Harry's forehead with it. It's cool and Harry feels calmer. He remembers a fight and fear and familiar voices. Draco pulls the towel away from Harry's head and it's stained red.  

"I told you. One of these days," Draco's muttering. "Bloody hell, Harry. You're fucking hurt."

"I'm fine," he says. He just wants Draco to let him lie on the floor and sleep. Just for a little while.

"No you don't," Draco says and for some reason he's pulling at Harry, trying to get him to stand. "Get off the floor and you can't sleep."

Draco's arms are around him. If only his head would stop throbbing, he could think. He starts to shake. He remembers this feeling—the heat of battle leaves his body and every muscle trembles with cold.

"Here," Draco says. His voice is soft and quiet against Harry's cheek. He lowers Harry onto the sofa. He's conjured the towel again and he presses it to Harry's head. "It's stopped bleeding. It's just a cut," Draco says, more to himself than to Harry.

"I'm so cold," Harry says. He feels that heavy pulling and he wonders if he's leaving this place or passing out.

Draco summons something and then he wraps a red and gold scarf around Harry's neck. It's Harry's scarf, he knows that, but it smells like Draco. Harry breathes deeply and the pulling sensation eases.

Draco lies down on the sofa next to him. He wraps himself around Harry and his body heat transfers to Harry. Gentle hands stroke Harry's hair. The shaking stops. He turns his face and kisses Draco softly.

"Rest, but don't sleep," Draco says. He kisses Harry back.

Harry closes his eyes. Maybe it's the knock he took to the head, maybe it's the shock of being in a battle again, and maybe it's something else, but Harry remembers what happened in the woods. He remembers giving Draco this scarf. He remembers making love to Draco for the first time. He remembers all of it at the same time, like it's one memory. He feels the room dip and sway. He feels it, the weight in his body just before he goes. It's different this time. It feels like unfinished business.

"Draco," he says. He grasps Draco's shoulder.

"No," Draco says. He rolls so he's lying on top of Harry. His weight feels good and solid. "No," he says again. "I forbid it."

"I can't—" Harry says. He feels pulled in both places. Draco leans on his elbows and looks down at Harry. His eyes burn with determination. Draco's lips find Harry's.

Harry opens to him. It's Draco and Draco is here and now. He presses him into the sofa, his body moving on Harry's. Harry can feel him everywhere.

"You're not going," Draco says. He pins Harry to the sofa with his hand, his body, the force of his will. He grinds down against Harry and Harry moans as their cocks rub against each other.

He grabs Draco's head and pulls him back into a kiss. He's not going. It's been years since he's felt so present, so very definitively here, and he's not going anywhere.

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