57Chapter 4: The Kiss
They both stared at each other in shock.
Malfoy squirmed desperately in his seat. "Help! Help! Someone help me!"
Harry had been right all along—Malfoy was plotting something dangerous. This was worse than he could have imagined, worse than everything Malfoy had done before, combined. He was filled with a loathing so intense it nearly choked him, his muscles taut with the urge not to strangle the boy on the spot. If he killed him now, he would have the satisfaction with none of the consequences. "Why . . . why are you so bloody evil?"
"I'm not evil; I don't have a choice. If I don't kill Dumbledore, the Dark Lord will kill me and possibly my parents. My father is in Azkaban, I have a chance to free him—"
"That shouldn't matter. You die anyhow. If you're not evil, then you're a coward, aren't you?"
Malfoy gritted his teeth and fought against the strains of his bonds. He must have been resisting the potion with Occlumency, for it took him a minute before he said, "Perhaps."
Harry steeled himself for anything else he might uncover. "Look. I know you're trying to use Occlumency. You should know that even if you hide something from me today, I'm going to find out the truth anyhow. And don't try any wandless magic or I'll retaliate and tell Dumbledore about your plans. So, have you used magic to manipulate time before?"
"No."
"No?"
"I have not."
"Are you sure? Would you know how to do it?"
"I'm sure. I know about Time-Turners, but I haven't used one." Malfoy had stopped resisting as he tried to figure out Harry's intentions.
"Has Voldemort asked you to trap me in time?"
"The Dark Lord has not asked me to do anything to you."
Harry swore under his breath and rubbed his face. "This all would've been so much easier if you were behind the time loop." He swore again, then looked at Malfoy. "I've been stuck in time, living out the same day over and over for a month. Otherwise I wouldn't be doing any of this, it's too risky, and frankly, I feel like I'm stooping to your level."
"Please. You're always sneaking around, spying, ganging up on me. Don't act like this isn't something you would normally do. You're desperate."
"Even if you're right, at least I'm doing it for the right reasons. You're planning a murder. I've tried to figure out your plans all year, and nothing has worked. So what if I've been spying? It turns out I was right to!" He remembered what else Malfoy had said. "You're desperate, too. I know you've been talking to Myrtle."
Malfoy was deep in concentration, and Harry saw memories of the time loop flash before his eyes; now he knew Malfoy could use Legilimency.
"That's enough." Harry blinked and opened his eyes to stare at Malfoy again. "How is Snape involved with your plans?" "He's protecting me. He took an Unbreakable Vow to protect me as I completed my mission."
Harry sucked in a breath. "I knew it." His entire body was ice cold. "I knew he was working for Voldemort. All of these years, we've been told to trust him . . . I have to tell Dumbledore, before it's too late. Hang on, if Snape wants Dumbledore dead, why hasn't he killed him already?"
"He has to maintain his role as a double agent. I suppose he doesn't want to risk being seen as the enemy, for the Order to turn on him. Besides, if I don't do it personally, my father may not be freed."
Harry's heart pounded. "Has anyone else been helping you?"
"Crabbe and Goyle."
"How have they been helping you?"
"They've been taking . . ." Malfoy's face was going red, not from embarrassment, but from his attempts not to speak. "P-polyjuice Potion. Girls."
The whole picture was coming into focus. "Those two girls who've been following you—so they're Crabbe and Goyle." Harry laughed. "I bet they hate that. So, you said you plan to use a Vanishing Cabinet. How do you intend on that? There's one in the Room of Requirement, but it's broken."
"I've been fixing—testing . . . Nearly finished." Malfoy's brief, staggered answer was a sign he was regaining a grip over himself, using his Occlumency to block part of his responses.
"That's why you've been disappearing off the map!" Harry shook his head. "I should've realized . . . it's so obvious, now . . ." Crabbe and Goyle were guarding the door in disguise.
He crossed his arms and thought quickly about what to ask next. He likely had another ten minutes left with the potion, so he resolved to make the most of it and ask whatever he wanted, in the hopes that he would gain some insight to help him understand the situation.
"Did you hurt Katie Bell on purpose, or was that an accident?"
"An accident."
"And the mead that almost killed Ron . . . did you do that, too?"
"The mead . . . gift for Dumbledore . . . accident."
"Your accident nearly killed my best friend, you prat. I'm sure you didn't care, though. You weren't torn up about nearly murdering a student, you cared about not completing your mission."
"I don't want to kill anyone else, Potter. That's not the point. Don't tell me how I feel."
"But clearly you're not against hurting people. And you hate Mudbloods, don't you?"
"I believe Mudbloods are inferior in—I do not—they are—they are inferior."
Harry squinted at Malfoy. Was it his attempts at closing his mind, or was he actually conflicted? He pursed his lips. "Why do you hate me?"
"I hate you because you because your life is easy, you are meddlesome, and you hate me."
"Easy isn't the first word that comes to mind when I think about my life, but you can assume whatever you like."
Malfoy said nothing, and Harry remembered he would have to ask a question for the potion to work properly. "I always wondered: if you hate me, why did you want to be friends with me when we met?"
"I thought . . . you killed the Dark Lord . . . because you were a powerful Dark wizard." He didn't pause when Harry laughed. "My family thought it would be advantageous to ally with you. Of course, the Dark Lord was not alive then, nor did we think he would return."
"Yeah, I haven't lived up to the whole Dark wizard idea, have I?" Harry tried to read Malfoy's expression, then with a jolt realized the absurdity of the setup. "Would you ever do something like this?"
"If I had thought I could get away with it."
"What would you ask me?"
"What do you know of the Dark Lord? What are your plans to defeat him? What is the password to Dumbledore's office? What is the password to the Gryffindor Tower—"
"That's enough. Er, speaking of, what's the password to the Slytherin Dungeon?"
"Sss . . ."
"Snake?"
"Person." Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut with the effort of stopping himself.
"Look, just give in, I'll find out eventually whether you tell me or not. I've got the invisibility cloak, remember?"
"Salazar." Appropriately, Malfoy's response came out in a hiss.
Following this idea, Harry quickly imagined what he could do with access to the Slytherin Dungeon. He could sneak in using his cloak, or . . . the last time he had tried to get information out of Malfoy, he and Ron had pretended to be Crabbe and Goyle.
"Are there any Slytherins you would talk to about your problems?"
"Pansy Parkinson."
"How much have you already told her?"
"Very little."
"Have you shown her your Dark Mark?"
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"The occasional Dark object I've snuck into Hogwarts." He bit down hard on his lip to keep from speaking, but blurted out, "Myself."
"Yourself . . . ?" It took Harry a moment to realize what Malfoy meant. "Er, that's not—that's not quite what I . . . bloody hell. Of all the times for your Occlumency to fail."
Malfoy's face was bright red, this time from embarrassment, and he cursed.
"I have to leave you here. It's . . ." Harry checked his watch. "Quarter to nine." The Veritaserum was nearly up, and then what? He resolved to do the same to Malfoy that the git had done to him. "Petrificus Totalus!" Malfoy froze in the chair so that only his eyes could move. "I've got to leave you here, but time will reset and you'll be fine, so don't waste your energy fuming about it."
On his way back to Gryffindor Tower, he swallowed any shame he might have felt. Dumbledore's life was in danger, and he'd been right about Malfoy after all. Did he feel angry? More vindicated than angry, as he had low expectations of Malfoy to begin with.
"Hey, I have to tell you two something, can we find somewhere to talk alone?" They ended up kicking Dean and Seamus out of the dorm, which earned Harry two dirty looks (or one, as Dean seemed in too good of spirits to pull it off). Explaining everything from the loop to Malfoy's confession, Harry relayed what he had found out about Malfoy's plans.
"Is he even trying to kill Dumbledore?" asked Ron. At Harry's shocked expression, he added quickly, "What, no, I mean, he's careless, you know? Me and Katie Bell—the cursed necklace, the poison—he should have gotten closer, but he hasn't."
Harry scoffed. "Why bother fudging it on purpose if he's nearly killed two other people?"
"He's not doing this out of logic, Harry," said Hermione. "That much is obvious. He's afraid, and when people are afraid, they're stupid, quite frankly."
"Everyone's afraid! Can't he see—"
"It's not an excuse," interrupted Hermione. "But he's not a cold-blooded murderer intent on killing someone he despises no matter the cost. From what you've said, he wants to free his father and survive the war. Even then I'm sure he has a line he won't cross."
"What does it matter why he's doing it, though?" said Ron.
"It'll matter to Dumbledore," replied Hermione, and that was the end of it. Her defense of Malfoy rubbed Harry the wrong way, making him more incensed than he already was. On the following day, he confronted Malfoy right after he left the girl's bathroom.
"Whatever you're planning, Malfoy, you won't succeed."
Malfoy started and furiously wiped his face.
"Your father's a Death Eater, he deserves to be in prison."
Without turning around, Malfoy shot back, "And your father deserves to be dead."
Harry grabbed Malfoy's left arm. "What did you—?" But before he could finish, Malfoy spun around, right fist connecting with Harry's jaw. Harry stumbled back, still in shock but able to raise his arms in time to block Malfoy's next attempt at hitting him. Harry latched onto his arm again, but Malfoy merely use this to pull Harry down and knee him in the stomach so hard he fell to the floor, groaning. Malfoy kicked him in the stomach again, and the chest, but when he paused to catch his balance, Harry kicked him hard in the shin, bringing him down to his level. He grabbed Malfoy by his shirt and tried to get close enough to hit him in the face, but Malfoy resisted, and they struggled to get a hit in while rolling on the floor. Stress and lack of sleep had weakened Malfoy, so he was eventually overpowered, and Harry hit him, again and again. He didn't know how to punch correctly, and his knuckles hurt like hell. His blinding anger was already leaving him as hands pulled him off of Malfoy, whose face was streaked with blood and puffy.
When his surroundings registered, he heard Dean Thomas saying, "Back off, man! He's had enough, you'll only get in trouble."
Seamus had pulled him off, and glared at Harry after he wormed out of his grasp. "You trying to get booted off the team? And right before a match?" Other students had gathered around to watch, whispering as a Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff helped Malfoy to his feet.
Dean rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Who started it?"
"He threw the first punch, he told me my father deserves to be dead. I hurt him more, though, so I expect when McGonagall finds out I'll be off the team. Dean, you'll rejoin as a Chaser, and Ginny will be Seeker, okay?"
He gaped at Harry. "But you don't know if you'll be in trouble."
"It doesn't matter anyway." Harry stared after the students helping Malfoy to the Hospital Wing and gripped his right hand, which stung from the fight. "Time will reset tomorrow."
"What do you mean?"
Numb, Harry ignored his question and looked at Seamus. "I'm sorry I didn't choose you. You've got a lot of talent and I don't want it to make things weird."
"Your apology's not gonna get me a spot on the team."
Harry sighed and watched as the spectators dispersed. He'd have to go to the Hospital Wing, too, have his hands cleaned up and answer for what he had done. "What's the point?" he said quietly. Part of him wanted to get away, travel to London and wait out the rest of the day.
Instead, he duly went to Professor McGonagall's office before she summoned him.
"Sit down, Mr. Potter. I am dismayed by your behavior. If you can tell me what you possibly had to gain by harming a fellow student, I would love to hear it." Her face was entirely devoid of humor, and he found he would much rather her be furious than disappointed.
"Professor, Malfoy told me my dad deserved to be dead."
She sighed. "As horrible as such a remark is, it is hardly justification to injure Mr. Malfoy."
Harry scoffed. "He started it."
"Have you ever heard the expression, 'An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind?' Did it not for one moment cross your mind to be the better person?"
"What, so we should let people get away with stabbing other people's eyes out? That's not a world I'd want to live in."
"We cannot have students running around like vigilantes, seeking justice for insults and slights against them, let alone physical violence. You ought to come to me if someone has broken a school rule before choosing to do something reckless."
Only in the time loop would Harry dare push McGonagall this far. "I guess it's not against school rules to be a Death Eater, then."
McGonagall's mouth pressed into a thin line. "I'm giving you detention for the rest of the year. From next week forward, every Monday evening you will serve detention in my office."
"What about Quidditch? You're not kicking me off the team?"
"Considering the circumstances, I don't think that would be appropriate." Her eyebrow twitched slightly. "Professor Snape will be not be granting such a punishment to Mr. Malfoy, so I will withhold a more severe consequence as well. Do not thank me, Potter."
Harry closed his mouth at once, then opened it again, before asking, "Professor, if you were living the same day over and over again, what would you do?"
She studied him with her piercing green eyes. "I thought you were behaving more carelessly than usual, Potter. How long have you been like this?"
"Over a month."
McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "That long? I thought all of the Time-Turners had been destroyed, how . . . ?"
"It's not a Time-Turner. I haven't been able to figure it out. I've spoken with Dumbledore, he couldn't help."
"And you understand the consequences if you should hurt someone and time resumes as normal? Petty fighting is one thing, but injury beyond that is another. You may have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life."
"I've had Snape tell me off already. The thing is, if it's a curse, maybe the only way to break it is by doing something unpleasant that I'll have to live with."
"What makes you think that?"
"I don't know, because . . . on the day I got trapped, I was kicked off of the Quidditch team, and everyone was upset with me, all because I—because I nearly killed Malfoy. And I suppose I would have had to live with the consequences. But now that's been erased. And after talking with professors, there could be a price for this curse. As in, a sacrifice."
McGonagall shook off her disbelief. "They should have been more careful when advising you. You do not want to create a self-fulfilling prophecy."
"That's a bit on the nose, isn't it? You know, given Voldemort's choice . . ."
"What I mean is, if this is indeed a curse, it may poison your thoughts, confuse you enough that you believe you must do something drastic to end it. You must exercise extreme caution and maintain a healthy dose of skepticism." She stood. "I am going to inspect the bathroom. Have you already looked at the tile?"
"Oh. Er . . . no, I hadn't gotten around to it . . ."
"You have had a month, have you not? Come, I will do my best to uncover what insight may be gained from the site."
Luckily, it was nearing curfew at that point, so there wasn't anyone around to stop them and ask why they going into the Myrtle's bathroom.
"Where exactly was Draco Malfoy lying after you injured him?"
Harry pointed to a spot near the center of the bathroom. "Here. Er, no, a little to the left, I think."
"Scourgify!" The tiled floor nearest her became a brilliant white; Harry was a bit unnerved, as he had always assumed the tile was gray. McGonagall waved her wand again and a tile broke off from the floor, floating over to hang between them. "Hm. Look at this." She rotated the tile toward him—the back of the tile was covered in a ruby red sheen, glinting in the candlelight. With another cleaning charm and wave of her wand, she lifted a tile from the other end of the bathroom and compared the backs. The first was red, the other was a flat gray.
"What does it mean?" Harry grabbed one so she could take the other with her free hand.
McGonagall studied the ruby-coated tile. "Residual magic. You told me you recently read a book about the history of time travel?"
"Yeah, I can look for something in there."
She paused. "You said Mr. Malfoy bled."
Harry inhaled sharply. "So it's . . . ?"
"Somehow, that was part of the equation, yes. Blood is an ancient ingredient in magic with powerful properties when used correctly. If it is related to your traveling in time, I fear this is more likely to be Dark magic. In any case, you ought to see what you can find in that book."
Hermione found the right section in Turning Time when he enlisted her help again. According to the "Research Methods" chapter, intricate patterns, bright colors, and burn marks were symptoms of attempts to travel back in time, specifically when the wizard did not use a device to focus the magic.
"Residue can indicate region, intent . . . but they don't have enough comprehensive observations to say anything definitive. There's nothing about blood, but there is a mention of sacrifice."
"Can you read it to me?" asked Harry.
"Let's see . . . 'Rituals to manipulate reality occasionally deal with bodily sacrifice. Physical evidence of this is rarely found, as folk tales and legends are the primary modes in which these details survive.'"
Ron sat back in his chair. "The sacrifice is Malfoy? Why?"
"I wish I knew. Is there anything you haven't told me?"
"No, just that I thought I was the sacrifice. Or that I would have to do something terrible to get out of this mess."
"And you've already injured him again, haven't you? If it was simple, I would have thought that sacrifice would reverse the time loop."
Harry shrugged. "I just feel like I'm going in circles . . . Nothing's adding up, and it's all on top of what I already have to deal with regarding Voldemort and the Horcruxes. Before this, I thought we were getting somewhere. Finally moving forward."
Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance. "Look, mate—" began Ron, but Harry stood up, cutting him off.
"I need some time to think." A way forward was what he had to find, and it looked as though it was pointing back to Malfoy. If Ron and Hermione were involved in his plans, they would only hold him back, tell him to stop obsessing.
But he couldn't.
Veritaserum had proven useful in gaining information, however, it was not worth trying again until he came up with new questions. A different spell, potion, or strategy could help gain more insight, especially if Malfoy couldn't use Occlumency. Something that would get him to open up, think he could confide in Harry. And then it came to him, even if it was unconventional: a love potion. The Weasley twins dealt in love potions, after all, so it would be less of a hassle to secure. After drinking the potion, Malfoy would think him to be a trustworthy friend, and therefore freely tell him about his plans.
First thing the next morning, Harry tried a few of the face-modifying Transfiguration spells he had learned that year, snuck out of Hogwarts under the cloak and traveled to Diagon Alley via Portkey from Hogsmeade.
Weasley's Wizard Wheezes stood out among the other shops, and he felt pulled in by the tingling of excitement in his gut. Inside, there were a few customers in a small group, all speaking in a language he didn't know. Apart from them, the brightly-colored shop was empty.
A woman sat at the counter further inside the store, playing solitaire with tiny cards with a look of extreme boredom. He thought he recognized her from the last time he had visited the store. "Excuse me, are Fred and George in today?"
The shop assistant's eyes landed on his scar, then appraisingly over the rest of him. She must have been assigned to assess whether or not customers were undercover Death Eaters. After all, the real Harry Potter should be at school. "I'll tell them you're here," she said, then pressed a bright purple button out of the colorful assortment of them at the corner of the desk.
A minute later, a door opened upstairs and the twins went to the banister to see who was below. Upon finding Harry staring up at them, their faces went pale. He grinned sheepishly, trying to communicate that everything was okay, and they smiled tentatively back, still unsure whether or not they should be worried.
Fred reached him first and asked, "Has someone—"
"Everyone's fine," said Harry. "I've left school for a favor."
The pair wore crimson robes with gold embroidery that swirled and danced across the fabric. Harry watched them in a new light, their confident charm a beacon through his frustration and displeasure at the monotony of the loop.
"I need a love potion."
Fred grinned. "What, are you not charming enough on your own?"
"I don't need it for anything like that."
"Ooh, for revenge?" ventured George, eyes twinkling at the idea.
"Of a sort. It could help defeat Voldemort."
Fred and George glanced at each other. "If it's that important," said George, "You can have what's left of the Amortentia we used for our research."
By the time Harry returned to Hogwarts, it was just past lunch. He had plenty of time to use the potion, so he decided to set his trap at dinner. Its effects could last up to several hours. Slughorn hadn't discussed the effects of Amortentia on two people of the same sex, but Harry figured it would produce a slightly different effect, creating false friendship rather than false love, and with it, heightened trust and respect. He had to try it, anyway, and in case something went wrong, he kept a sleeping potion handy.
"Dobby?" he said, once he was alone in the dorm, and the house-elf Apparated next to him. "Dobby, I need you to put this potion in Malfoy's goblet at dinner. After he's drunk the potion, slip him this note without him seeing. Can you do that? He can't know about you or the potion."
"Yes, Harry Potter, sir, Dobby can! What is the potion?"
Harry nearly told him it was Veritaserum, but feared Dobby wouldn't be able to follow through with it, not without hurting himself. "It's to help him sleep tonight. I'm, er, going to try to talk to Malfoy, convince him to switch sides, so I need him to be well-rested. You probably know by now that he's always tired." It was a lame lie, but Dobby dutifully took his note (Come to the Astronomy Tower tonight at 7:30pm. Don't tell anyone we're meeting. —H.P.) and reported back after dinner to tell him Malfoy had drunk the potion.
At fifteen past seven, Harry climbed up to the tower under his cloak. He idly spent time looking out over the grounds as he considered what to talk about with Malfoy, until his thoughts petered out and the entirety of his mind was occupied by the rolling hills of the Highlands, how the spots of rain had finally given way to the sun. The weather was the same as it had been every day in the loop, without fail, though considering early spring in the country, he had not found it unusual until now.
At a single toll of the bell, Harry remembered himself and tucked away his cloak.
"Potter?" Malfoy came up the stairs, expression sharp, though not snide or condescending.
Harry stepped into view. "Er, hello, Malfoy." Funny—he assumed Malfoy would call him by his first name rather than his surname.
The boy's mouth split into a grin. "Hello! It's so lovely to see you."
This is too strange, but at least it worked, thought Harry, taking an unconscious step back.
"What did you want to meet me for?" Malfoy approached quickly, reaching for him.
"Er, I wanted to—" Harry stopped. Malfoy's hands were light, cool on his forearms. "I wanted . . ."
As he looked down at Harry, Malfoy's pale face flushed with color, his hair seeming even blonder than usual in comparison.
Harry cleared his throat. "Are you okay? You're quite red."
Malfoy's gaze didn't waver. "I'm more than okay."
Chills ran up Harry's back. The huskiness in Malfoy's voice threw his already quickened heartbeat into a jumbled skip.
"So—we're friends now?" Harry's arms burned under Malfoy's cold fingers.
Malfoy's grin widened. "I'm sorry I've hated you for so long. But I got your note and I realized—we're meant for each other."
"Meant for each other?" echoed Harry, trying to decipher Malfoy's look when the boy closed the distance between them, kissing him on the lips.
Almost immediately, Harry jerked back, hands too weak with shock to push him away. "W-what was that for?"
Malfoy wrapped his arms around Harry's neck. "I love you." His eyes flickered between Harry's eyes and his mouth.
Harry twisted out of Malfoy's embrace and drew his wand, heart racing. "Don't touch me again, or I'll hex you."
The threat processed slowly, but after a moment, Malfoy stuck out his lower lip. "But Potter, I want to touch you. I've dreamed of touching you."
Harry fought the urge to take the sleeping potion or hex Malfoy and end the experiment. Why the hell was the Amortentia working this way? Why didn't it matter that they were both blokes? Thank Merlin time will reset tomorrow. He wondered what he could ask that would make the whole mess worthwhile. "But, er, Malfoy, if we were meant for each other . . . well, how do you suppose we can be together with your current situation—the task Voldemort has given you?"
Malfoy's face briefly scrunched up in thought, then he replied, "If you killed the Dark Lord."
That was something Harry could work with. "And how would I do that?"
Malfoy rubbed his neck and drew in an impatient breath. "I don't know. I just know we ought to be together." Apparently untroubled by Harry's raised wand, he took a step forward.
"Oi! Don't—Malfoy, I gave you Amortentia. What you're feeling, it's not real. Look, don't make me—"
"It is real." Malfoy fidgeted, caught between doing what Harry wanted and what the Amortentia told him he wanted. "I was always too afraid to admit it, but now I can finally tell you."
"Right, well, here's the flaw in your reasoning: you say you've always fancied me, and I know for a fact you haven't fancied me before today. You hate me."
"No, I have fancied you. It's—I . . . I act like I hate you, but . . ." he paused for a moment. "You're like the sun, Potter. I had to glare at you to protect myself."
"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" Before this, Harry had felt he was regaining control. But now . . . Ron hadn't said anything remotely poetic after eating Romilda Vane's Chocolate Cauldrons, had he?
"I wish I were more like you, I wish I had what you have. You're perfect, and I envy you. And if we were together, I wouldn't have to worry about Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord."
Harry greatly preferred Malfoy ramble instead of attempting to kiss him, but even at a safe distance, his heart pounded erratically with apprehension. "We can't be together, though. I don't know how to kill Vol—You-Know-Who." Harry felt ridiculous playing along, but he recognized it may be his only shot at getting any use out of the potion.
"I'm not strong enough to be a double agent. They would find me out. And Snape swore to help me succeed with my mission—if I don't kill Dumbledore, my family and I will be killed."
"I know." Harry sighed. "Look, if I found out how to kill Voldemort, how long would I have until I'd be putting you at risk? A month? A week?"
"I want to be with you as soon as possible, Potter."
Harry's stomach turned over. "Fine. Once Voldemort learns I know how to kill him, how long do I have?"
"A couple of days, maybe one day. Until he tries to kill me." Malfoy chewed his lip. "His legendary skill at Legilimency makes it difficult to conceal anything from him. But my parents—the Dark Lord sometimes stays at Malfoy Manor, our home . . . he would be able to kill my mother quickly, and my father is defenseless in prison."
"Is Voldemort at the manor now?"
"I'm not sure. Why does it matter?" He reached for Harry's hand, missing it by an inch when Harry recoiled. "You and I matter."
Swallowing hard, Harry tried to focus on what he could ask next. The absurdity of the interaction was too disorienting to concentrate. "You're out of your mind."
"No, I'm still in my mind, Potter."
Goosebumps spread up Harry's arms. "Look, how can you expect anything to come out of this? I'm not—I only fancy girls. And you of all people, why should I return your feelings, let alone tolerate you?"
Finally, Malfoy was stumped.
"See? There's nothing you could do—"
"I wish I could show you who I really am. I've been learning Legilimency."
There it was: a way to make the whole charade worthwhile. "You know why I dislike you, right, Malfoy? So what do I need to know—"
"For you to love me?"
"Er, to understand you. Help you." There would be a clue among the information, an insight to shift the tide. "If you think of the memories, anything useful, then use your wand to pull them out of your head, I'll use a device to view them . . ."
Malfoy touched the tip of his wand to his temple, screwed his eyes shut, then extracted a short thread of glittering memories. He put it in his palm and waited for Harry to retrieve the empty Amortentia bottle. After he threaded it into the container and Harry corked it, there was that look again, gaze softened with a fondness that unnerved him to his core. It was the final straw.
"Malfoy, can you lean on that wall over there? Perfect. Petrificus Totalus!" Harry pulled his Invisibility Cloak out of his robes and draped it over Malfoy's frozen body. "I would be sorry about this, but tomorrow everything will be reset."
According to his observations on the Marauder's Map, Dumbledore tended to retire to his quarters at nine. In the event that Dumbledore monitored his office at night, Harry braced himself to explain the loop and that he needed to use the Pensieve—hopefully he wouldn't have to explain further.
The glittering strand of memories spooled into the thin basin. Harry drew in a breath and dipped his face below the water's surface, falling in a long arc to the first memory.
Malfoy, no older than five, sat in the middle of an oriental rug. Harry was struck by how different he looked: floppy-haired, round-cheeked, too young to have developed proper posture and a perpetual sneer. Judging by the posh tile fireplace, the high ceilings, and—oh, obviously—the huge portrait of some blond-haired ancestor on the wall, he was in Malfoy Manor.
What was Malfoy doing to his arm? Ink dripped onto the rug from the quill he was using to scrawl on his left arm.
He was drawing a Dark Mark.
"Draco!" came a woman's voice from downstairs. "It's time for dinner."
Malfoy put the inkwell and quill on the table and hurried downstairs, eyes on his art. Narcissa Malfoy stood in the foyer, arms crossed, expecting him to come from another room. When she turned around, her gaze fell immediately onto her son's arm. "What is—Draco!" Face pale, she pulled out her wand.
"Where's Papa?" asked Draco, not registering his mother's shock.
"Fetch a bottle of Merlot, nothing later than '76," said Lucius Malfoy from the other room.
Draco ran up to his father as he entered. "Papa, look what I drew."
Lucius reflexively reached toward his own left arm. "Ah, that is—you know, you are too young to be drawing that. I would rather people not see—"
As soon as Draco realized his father wasn't proud of his creation, tears poured out of his eyes. Draco's mother waved her wand to lift the ink from his skin, but the memory was fading . . .
"They're dull." It must have been five years later, given how close Malfoy looked to when Harry first met him. He was lying on a leather couch in another extravagant room.
"They're your friends, Draco, you shouldn't say such things about them," replied Narcissa, waving her hand to wandlessly summon a bookmark.
"Crabbe's constantly talking about Quidditch. As much as I like Quidditch, it's not the only thing there is to talk about. And Goyle just laughs at everything, even if it's not funny."
"What are you going to do, then, when you get to Hogwarts?"
"Pansy will be in Slytherin, and Blaise for certain, Harry Potter—"
"Why do you think Harry Potter will be in Slytherin?"
Malfoy looked at her as though she had just suggested their family move into a two-bedroom flat in the suburbs. "He's bound to be the most powerful wizard of all time, even father says so. I want to be on the right team, don't I?"
"Very smart, Draco." She was a bit patronizing, but he failed to notice. "What if you don't like him?"
As though considering this possibility for the first time, Malfoy said slowly, "I'll come around. You changed your mind about the Dark Lord, right?"
The scene dissolved. Harry expected it to be the day of their first encounter in Madam Malkin's, but instead, it was night on the Quidditch Pitch. Malfoy and a group of some Durmstrang students had apparently raided the broom cupboard and took off into the night sky.
All of a sudden, something in Harry's core lurched up and flung him up and up until he was floating next to Malfoy, whose face was alight with adrenaline. Even though he was only two years younger here, he looked like a different person. There was no hatred in his face. No anger. No anxiety.
A Durmstrang boy glided over to him, hanging like a monkey upside down on his broom. He was handsome, with a huge smile and stringy limbs.
Malfoy laughed, genuinely laughed. Then the boy's hand slipped, and in a flash, the smile was gone and replaced with panic, only for the boy to effortlessly swing back on his broom. "Kidding," he said. As Malfoy flew away in a huff, Harry and the Durmstrang boy were left watching.
After this, there must have been nearly thirty snapshots of Malfoy's memories, each no longer than ten seconds, all out of chronological order:
Narcissa cradled him as he cried, her own face streaked with the pains of grief.
He looked over at Harry—had they just argued about something?—then blinked a few times, hard.
In the Slytherin locker room, he pulled off his uniform and shook some of the sweat from his hair.
He crouched by an older student who lay injured in a corridor: "I'll find whoever did this to you."
As a child, probably seven, Malfoy ran around his father's study as he bent over a mysterious object.
Lucius read him a bedtime story about the stars, then waved his wand to recreate the night sky.
Him, sitting at the bottom of a pool, reaching to touch an animated toy Grindylow.
Sitting before the Vanishing Cabinet, he reached to grab one of the myriad of tools suspended in midair.
"You should've been top of the class, you're the most intelligent person in our year," said Pansy, and Draco's lips curled into a smile.
As a child, probably five, Malfoy wailed while surrounded by all of his Christmas gifts.
Lucius threatened Dobby with a poker from the fire when the elf forgot to bring sugar on a tea tray.
He sat hunched over in a chair—what was wrong with him?—eyes unfocused, breathing hard, shaking.
In a dark corridor, Harry heard the distinct sound of kissing, and sure enough, Pansy held Malfoy's face as they stuck together like glue.
"How many more times can you disappoint me?" said Lucius, and Draco winced, eyes averted.
Him, wearing a black silk robe and slippers as he read a book in bed.
Taking Pansy's hand in his own, he swept onto the dance floor that filled with couples.
Narcissa covered her nose when they passed a group of Muggles, apparently trying to make her distaste obvious to her son.
He clamored for a voice among a group of Slytherins: "Umbridge is a nightmare and painfully ignorant. I know that, everyone knows that. It was never about her, it's about them . . ."
He ran his hair through his long blond hair—had he transfigured it?—while looking in the mirror.
Him, looking up to the sky in Hogsmeade with snowflakes catching in his eyelashes.
Patting Cedric's shoulder, he wished him good luck in the Triwizard Tournament.
Narcissa gasped when she saw him digging through her makeup, his lips clumsily painted red.
"What are you, queer?" said Crabbe, and Draco's face reddened.
As a child, probably ten, Malfoy took off on a small broom on the manor grounds as his parents looked on.
In the manor, alone, Malfoy created a long gash in the marble floor, then began repairing it.
Lucius told him to stay out of the way, before putting on a Death Eater mask.
After this sequence of memories, there was one final hazy scene, similar to the distortions in Slughorn's first memory of his conversation with Riddle. It was in Madam Malkin's, though all Malfoy had constructed in his head were a rack of clothes, Malkin, Harry, and himself.
Unlike what actually happened, Malfoy introduced himself properly. "I'm Draco Malfoy. And you are?"
"I'm Harry. Er, Potter."
Eyes widening, Malfoy stepped closer, forcing Malkin to stop pinning his robes.
"Harry Potter."
"Right."
Malfoy offered his hand. "Good to meet you."
"You, too." Intentionally or not, Malfoy recreated in Harry's expression the same the skepticism Harry had felt upon first meeting him.
"Who are you here with? Where have you been all these years?"
And then the memory dimmed. Harry explained about Hagrid, only for Malfoy to call the groundskeeper a savage; the false memory restarted and Malfoy invited Harry to meet his parents, only for him to say something nasty about Muggleborns in the same breath. The memory repeated over and over again, and each time something didn't work.
Until Harry mentioned Hagrid and Malfoy bit his tongue.
"Oh? And I imagine . . . Dumbledore sent him?"
"Yeah. So who are you with?"
"My mother and father."
"I've never met a wizarding family before."
"Really? You've been living with Muggles?"
"Yeah."
Malfoy let this sink in. "Have you learned any magic at all? How can you afford your school supplies?"
"I haven't learned any magic. Are we supposed to know magic before school? Do we have summer homework?"
"Oh, Harry, there is so much to teach you . . ."
Harry watched as the scene slid away, leaving him in a black void. He strained to hear and picked up the ebb and flow of unrecognizable sounds, as though a cassette tape were being fast forwarded. When a new memory emerged from the dark, it was Malfoy Manor once more, only this time, a near-present version of Harry stood in the center of the room—a bedroom. In his hands was a steaming mug of something, presumably tea, of which he took a careful sip. Whatever clothes this version of himself wore, they appeared more suited to Malfoy than to him.
This memory-Harry smiled, gaze soft, eyes meeting with something beyond the real Harry.
Before Harry could see what or who he was looking at, the memories ended and he pulled his head out of the basin.
"It didn't work," he said aloud, as though it was only true if he gave life to the words. He wasn't even sure if he was referring to his plan to get information or Malfoy's claim that the memories would make him fall in love. The memories just asked more questions than they answered. First and foremost: why did Malfoy choose those particular moments of his life, real or invented? And second, could what he'd seen help in any way?
Harry left the office without interference and headed straight for the dorm. To distract himself, he asked Ron and Hermione to stay up with him and revise. The longer he spent talking, the easier it was to pretend his love potion idea hadn't completely backfired. At least, until they got to their Potions work.
"Ron, what was it like when you had those Cauldron Cakes a couple months ago? The ones spiked with love potion."
"Where's this coming from? It was weird."
"I realized I never asked, is all."
Ron glanced at Hermione, who seemed curious as well, though her jaw tightened as she likely remembered Ron's brush with death. "Can't say I really knew what was going on. I couldn't think of anything besides Romilda. It was like a fever dream, and I loved her more than it's possible to love someone. Obsession."
"What would you have done, if you'd found Romilda?"
Ron shrugged, not looking at Hermione. "Dunno. Probably . . . grabbed her and gone in to kiss her."
Hermione cut in, "Slughorn said the cakes were stronger because they were old. Amortentia isn't normally so aggressive, it's meant to be realistic enough in its effects that the person administering the potion could suspend their disbelief, pretend the love is real."
"Realistic, what does that mean exactly?"
"I haven't witnessed it, but from what I've read, the person would be focused on you rather than the idea of you. Still obsessed, perhaps, but in a way that is not alienating. So someone who's taken the potion would compliment your achievements and personality instead of simply your appearance, as well as refer to their memories of you."
Harry noticed them staring at his bouncing leg, so he stopped.
"Is this about something the Prince wrote?" asked Ron, glancing at Harry's copy of Advanced Potions.
"Yeah, just a tip he had about one of the ingredients for the potion." He wanted to tell them about Malfoy, to move past the dread that forced his words to stay in his throat. Something held him back. As he lay in bed, he began to worry that time wouldn't reset, and he'd have to resort to a memory charm, or that somehow Malfoy escaped. In that case, he would convince everyone—at least the Slytherins—that Harry was a poof. On top of that, he found it hard to imagine what the consequences would be if Malfoy was aware how much he knew about his plans.
When he woke up the next morning, his duvet and pillows had been pushed off the bed from his fitful sleep. To his relief, his glasses were next to his book, not on top of it. He hoped he could pretend the previous day had been nothing more than a dream.