Congenital Magnetism

Draco was still trying to overcome the shock of being unexpectedly transported to the sixteenth century when he felt someone’s arm wrapping around him from behind, a hand playfully covering his eyes, someone kissing him on both cheeks and then softly whispering the words “Welcome back, Draco. I’ve missed you bitterly.” Draco felt himself being turned around, kissed on the forehead and confronted by… Ron Weasley! No, this couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t just wrong. It was every different shade of wrong.

True to form, Draco thought, the Weasel and Granger have outdone themselves in the pursuit of annoying the hell out of me. They actually had the nerve to use their stupid “guest accounts” and follow Harry and I here. So, Draco wondered, where is “here”?

Draco took stock of this world-gone-berserk. The Weasley family was filthy rich, Ron had just promised to marry Hermione (thank the Gods for small favors) and the servant had mentioned something about Elizabeth the First being the current monarch. Draco could only conclude that this was some past existence in sixteenth-century England—with horrifically different life histories for all parties concerned. He took note of the armed guards posted on each side of the corridor, guards who clearly took their orders from the master of the house, Ron Weasley. According to the blasted rules that the Eastern Shore Network had imposed, Draco had arrived here with neither wand nor broom, and he was clearly at Ron’s mercy.

Ron was presently stroking Draco’s cheek and brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes.

Draco’s mind fumbled about for a reason—any reason—that could possibly explain the current monstrous situation. The spirits from the Eastern Shore Network were to blame for all of this, of course. As Draco remembered, they were having trouble translating the phrase “four time units.” What kind of blithering idiots would confuse “week” with “century”? Had this been the most careless of mistakes? Even if it had, who could explain the thoroughly objectionable personal relationships? What had Ron just said to him? “I remember all those times last year when I had you in bed with me.” Draco was unable to accept the obvious implication at first. The proposition was appalling. Draco found it impossible to imagine how he could have ended up in bed with Ron—in any century whatsoever. And what was that other clever remark Ron made? “I remember that cute little birthmark at the top of your left thigh.”

Charming, Draco thought. The Weasel even knows the location of a birthmark at the top of my inner thigh. This is an outrage of the first order.

Apart from his own alarm at the notion of a past liaison with Ron, a further mystery confronted Draco. Why in the nine hells would Ron ever have consented to be lovers with Draco, for even the shortest time? The nature of Ron’s travel into the past began to dawn on Draco. Ron had no memory at all of his real life in the twentieth century. This had to be one of the restrictions the Eastern Shore Network had placed on his “guest account.” Didn’t the Eastern Shore spirits have something to say about that in a previous communication session? Their reply to one of Harry’s questions drifted back into Draco’s mind:

“One last detail. While you are in your destination time and place, you and Mr. Malfoy will be the only genuine time travelers, and the two of you will have access to your current memories. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, if they use their guest accounts to follow you, will not be real time travelers, but will only be experiencing their existences as of four weeks ago and will only have access to their memories as of four weeks ago, not their current memories. However, all four of you will retain your memories of what happens to you in the past upon your return to your current time frame.”

What these confused spirits meant was that Ron and Hermione would only have access to their memories from four centuries ago. They were not really traveling in time; they were only reliving a previous existence. The circumstances of their past lives in the sixteenth century must have been drastically different for Draco and Ron to have been lovers at one point, but there it was and there was no denying it.

Why, oh why, Draco thought, couldn’t the Weasel leave well enough alone while Harry and I spend one single day in the past to get the potion recipe?

Draco searched his knowledge of literature, both wizard and Muggle, for some literary genre that would include the scenario Eastern Shore had inflicted. Gothic horror story? No, not frightening enough. Black comedy? Not perverse enough. The answer came to him. This was a very bad romance. It was a bad romance brought to hideous life—script, staging and costumes by Eastern Shore Network—and Draco was trapped in this very bad romance, at least temporarily.

A voice rose from the depths of Draco’s soul and screamed silently inside his head: “Kill the scriptwriter!” Then he realized that the Eastern Shore scriptwriter was a disembodied spirit, so it wouldn’t make a difference in any case. These nutjob spirits were responsible for perpetrating a romantic… atrocity. Yes, atrocity was the only word fit to describe the way Ron was gently brushing his overly long nose against Draco’s nose. Draco looked at Ron’s features more carefully, and the voice running through his mind offered a new appraisal of Ron’s nose:

“Did I think Weasley’s nose was too long? Not really, I suppose. His nose is long, but straight as a ruler. It reminds me of the profile of a Roman emperor on an ancient coin—oh, my flipping, freaking God! What in the hell am I saying?! I must be going mad.”

Draco pulled himself together and forced himself to consider the unthinkable.

The bloody Weasel and I, Draco thought, had been lo… lov…

Draco’s mind promptly aborted the vivid details that were now forming themselves into rather explicit thoughts. He forced his musings to take a different direction. He had to make some attempt to be sensible, even though Ron still held him close in his arms.

“You’ve just gotten engaged to be married,” Draco said. “That sounds grand. Really it does. A capital idea. I couldn’t think of a finer outcome if I had stayed awake for three days running thinking about it.”

“When I wrote to you,” Ron said, “the only thing I could think to do was tell you straight out.” Ron leaned his head in until his forehead was touching Draco’s. “You must have known for some time now that I’ve fallen for Hermione. But the letter you wrote in reply, Draco. I’d never imagined what an understanding friend I had in you. I thought you might be resentful or even angry about me marrying Hermione.”

“No, not in the least,” Draco answered with perfect honesty. “If marrying her makes you happy, by all means, forge ahead.”

“And the last thing I was expecting to read in that letter was that you’d fallen in love yourself. Draco, there’s nothing I want more than to know that you’ve found happiness. His name is Harry, you said. One of the students at Hogwarts. Harry Prewett, is it?”

It took a moment for Draco to make any sense out of what Ron was saying. “Potter. His name is Harry Potter. You’ve never heard that name before?”

“That’s right. Harry Potter. No, I’d never heard the name until you mentioned it in your letter.”

Ron didn’t even know who Harry was, had never even heard his name before. But when Draco reflected on this for a moment, it made a certain sense. In the sixteenth century, Voldemort didn’t exist. The First Wizarding War of the twentieth century would not occur until four hundred years later. No Voldemort, no Boy Who Lived. Harry’s existence here in the sixteenth century must have been much more anonymous than his life as the boy who vanquished Voldemort at the age of one. Maybe Harry went to Hogwarts. Who knows? But Ron certainly didn’t know him. And Ron and Draco were the best of friends—and at one point, more than friends.

“Draco, you know everything about me,” Ron was saying. “Remember when we were five years old? That was the first time my parents let me stay at Malfoy Manor for a whole month during the summer. We practically grew up together. You know I’ve been with Hermione for a while now. But remember last year?” Ron’s smile morphed into something more sensual, and his hands gently crept behind Draco’s neck. Ron leaned in closer and, in a gesture of intense affection, he brushed his nose against Draco’s. “You were the first. You taught me about love. I’ll never forget, ever.”

Draco’s brain was fogging over now, allowing only the most crucial thought to filter through: What exactly did we do last year?

Yet somehow, mulling over his current situation, Draco began to understand the intriguing advantage he now held over Ron. Draco could certainly put up with Ron’s open affection for the short amount of time necessary for him and Harry to find the potion recipe. And Ron was intent on marrying Hermione anyway, so Ron couldn’t be serious about the affection he was lavishing on Draco now. It had to be some Weasley brand of humor, right?

“You and this friend of yours,” Ron said. “You’re looking for a potion recipe, the one you talked about in your letter. No worries, Draco. My father has one of the most extensive libraries in England. I asked my father’s library assistant. She’s a very knowledgeable witch who’s also quite expert at Potions. The description in your letter was very precise, and the library assistant claims we’ll have no trouble at all finding your potion recipe.”

The potion recipe! Maybe the Eastern Shore spirits weren’t such idiots. Could they have sent Draco and Harry to the right place after all? The situation was looking more hopeful, and the spirits had even had the foresight to make preparations. They had sent Ron a letter with instructions here in the sixteenth century, making it appear the letter was from Draco.

“Your messenger,” Ron was saying, “the one who delivered your letter, said he was in the employ of the Eastern Shore Network. I asked him if his employer was located on the North Sea coast, near Norfolk or Suffolk, but the messenger only smiled.”

A smiling Ron took both of Draco’s hands and led him forward. “Come on, Hermione’s waiting to see you. She’s been staying here with my family all this week, and she’s been asking after you every day you’ve been gone.” Ron’s arm remained around Draco’s shoulder as they wound their way through the hallways of the vast townhouse. “Draco, why on earth are you wearing school robes?” Ron was staring now at Draco’s Hogwarts robes. “The beginning of term isn’t for two more weeks.”

“Er, I was in a hurry,” Draco said, thinking fast, “and the servants at Malfoy Manor were cleaning the only clothes I had left, so I just put on my robes.”

“Well, there are clothes for you to change into in your room.”

Ron led Draco to “his room,” and after Draco made a quick change into sixteenth-century clothing, Ron and Draco arrived in front of a very elaborately decorated door, cherubs with gilt trim carved into the wood.

“She’s getting ready for tonight’s party. Go ahead, I’ll leave you two alone,” Ron said. “Surprise her. I’ve already told you I would marry Hermione now if it weren’t for my parents. They keep saying that sixteen is too young, that we should wait until we’re seventeen. You know, I haven’t fancied anyone but Hermione since the end of fifth year…” Ron’s smile was shy, sweet and a bit guilty, “… erm, except for you once in a while.”

This was delightful madness beyond anything Draco had dreamed of. Ron was so obviously in love with Hermione, and he wanted to marry her now, at the age of sixteen, even though his parents wanted him to wait another year. But just for added fun, Ron had a homoerotic streak a mile wide.

Back in the year 1996, Draco thought, the Weasel is going to catch so much good-natured hell for all of this. No, not the Weasel. Weasley. He’s turning out to be too endearing to be a Weasel.

Draco could really see no downside to this turn of events in the sixteenth century. What had begun as an unsettling display of affection on Ron’s part was turning out to be increasingly harmless, seeing as Ron was obsessed with courting Hermione. And it looked as though finding the potion recipe in the Weasley library would be no problem at all. Draco was lost in musing, amazed to discover that this was how Ron turned out when the circumstances of his life were different.

“I’ll see you later.” Ron gave Draco’s shoulder a squeeze and headed back down the hallway.

Draco knocked on the door with a fair bit of apprehension. This was Hermione Granger after all, the bushy-haired know-it-all, overbearing at best.

Draco heard Hermione’s voice from inside the room, but her intonation was lilting, and her manner of speaking was strangely sociable and playful. “Is that you, Ron? Bonjour, mon amour. Entre!”

Draco appraised the first evidence of this alternate Hermione Granger.

Granger speaks French, Draco thought. This is beyond strange.

However, Draco was determined to soldier on, so he opened the door, fearless of the bizarre consequences it might bring.

Draco stared at the apparition that was seated at the elegant dressing table. If a spectacular example of a fashion plate existed in sixteenth-century London, this was it. Hermione was richly dressed in expensive silks. She wore a dress with voluminous skirts. The bodice was fantastically embroidered with tiny beads and crystals, and it displayed Hermione’s body to perfection. And her hair—gods, what was wrong with her hair?! It was actually… beautiful. Gone was the electro-frizz of bushy hair, the bird nest that had always provided Draco with so much private amusement. Hermione’s auburn hair was arranged into perfect, smooth waves that were piled atop her head and elegantly held in place by sparkling, jeweled barrettes. Surely the earth would crumble at any moment.

Draco had been watching Hermione for a bit, but she had not turned to look at him. She finally turned around from the dressing table, expecting to see Ron.

“Draco!” Hermione’s delighted squeal shocked Draco out of his thoughts. She leapt out of the chair, flew toward Draco and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him firmly on both cheeks. “Why were you in Wiltshire for so long? Did your parents have to keep you imprisoned at Malfoy Manor for all of two weeks? It’s summer holidays!” Hermione was giggling now. “You really need to be here in London with Ron and me. Ron’s asked me to marry him in a year. We’re celebrating and you absolutely must celebrate with us. After all, you and Ron have been inseparable since you were five years old.”

In an act of sheer will, Draco forced himself to use Ron’s given name. “You’re right. Ron and I have always been inseparable. He reminded me that last year we were especially hard to separate. People would sometimes try to separate us using a crowbar, but he always offered such stiff resistance. When it comes to guarding our friendship, Ron has this visceral determination that’s as hard as a rock.”

“Draco, tell me you’re happy for us.”

“Please believe me when I say this. You and Ron getting married is for the best. I shudder to think of what sort of mischief he’d get himself into if he didn’t marry you.”

“Now please tell me you won’t have to be back at Malfoy Manor for any more tedious responsibilities. Your parents have gone on holiday themselves, so Malfoy Manor must be deserted. We have to take advantage of the glorious summer.” She sighed. “We’ll be back at Hogwarts all too soon. Only two more weeks and we’ll be starting classes again.”

Hogwarts. Draco was piecing together the information. That’s right. Hogwarts had existed since the Middle Ages. Did she say they’d be starting classes in two weeks? The Eastern Shore spirits must have been jolly enough to send Draco and Harry into the sixteenth century, plus an extra four weeks into the past, which would be the middle of August.

“Now first,” Hermione said, opening a huge walk-in closet, “I have to pick out a pair of shoes.”

There had to be hundreds of pairs of shoes in the storage space, and they exhibited every conceivable design. Shoes with bows, jewels, feathers and God knows what else. Hermione rummaged about from one side of the closet to the other and finally snatched a pair of shoes with heavily jeweled buckles on top of blue silk ribbons.

She held the pair of shoes up in triumph. “Très jolies, non?”

“Yes, very pretty,” Draco managed.

Charging back into the dressing room, Hermione was over at a long table filled with fantastically decorated petits fours.

“Let’s have a little snack, shall we? I know you like the ones with glazed strawberries,” she said as she picked up some cream-filled strawberry creation with bright swirls of glazing and popped it into Draco’s mouth.

“Now be a gentleman”—she was picking up a very large bottle behind the stacked trays of pastries—“and open this bottle of champagne for us.”

Draco opened the champagne thinking that the only thing Hermione lacked was—too late, she’d already found it: a lace fan that revealed a painted pastoral scene when she opened it. Hermione waved the fan through the air and flounced about the room like a duchess as Draco finished pouring the second glass of champagne.

“No, not just those two glasses. Fill all of them,” Hermione said, pointing to four more empty champagne glasses.

When Draco had filled all six glasses with champagne, he watched her set three of them side by side, then take the fourth and fifth glasses and—no, she wouldn’t do it, would she? Oh yes, she would. Hermione was making a pyramid, using the fourth and fifth glasses of champagne as the second tier and placing the last glass on top. She beamed. “I get the top one.” She lifted the first glass off the pyramid and took a sip. “Now you take the second one, and we simply must finish off all six glasses.”

They were halfway through the pyramid of champagne glasses when a lady-in-waiting entered without knocking, and she was carrying… a large jeweled broach surrounded by feathers? The servant woman held Hermione’s piled-up waves of hair steady and, by means of pins and fasteners, attached the outlandish adornment to the center of Hermione’s already lavish coiffure. The servant held up a mirror.

“Yes! I love it.” Hermione raised her eyebrows and glanced at her lady-in-waiting. “You don’t think it looks too… busy?”

The woman pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, not at all. It looks delightful. I’ll be downstairs if you should need anything.”

The servant was out the door, leaving Draco and Hermione alone again, and Draco decided the time had come to ask about Harry.

Draco looked straight into Hermione’s eyes. “Gra…” He stopped himself before he uttered Hermione’s surname. “Hermione.”

Hermione laughed in a way Draco was quite unused to, a little silvery bell sound. “HER-mione? You’re teasing me now. You always call me ’Mione. You haven’t called me Hermione since we met at the beginning of first year.”

“’Mione,” Draco said, smiling in spite of himself. “I need to find Harry Potter.”

Hermione grinned. “I was wondering how long it would be before you mentioned that. Earlier today, when Ron wasn’t about, I was in the annex—you know, where the library is. I was doing some reading on Arithmancy. I just know that class is going to be awful, so I thought I’d better prepare for it before term starts in September. Anyway, this mystery boy by the name of Harry Potter shows up just outside the annex, wearing school robes, of all things. One of the servants brought him into the library and asked me if I knew him.” Hermione laughed and spread her hands. “I’d never met him in my life, but he was inquiring after you, Draco, so I asked him to sit down with me, and we had the most unusual conversation there in the library. Afterwards, I had a servant bring him a change of clothes.”

Draco found it difficult to imagine a conversation between Harry and Hermione in which she had no knowledge of her life in the twentieth century and didn’t even know who Harry was.

“This Harry Potter is a very charming sort, but mysterious.” Hermione laughed and one hand fluttered in the air. “He says all manner of things that I can’t make heads or tails of. And I found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying because there were ever so many colorful pieces of glitter that kept shooting off of his body. Tiny little flecks of multi-colored light. Quite maddening really. The library assistant here—that clever silver-haired witch who knows so much about Potions—she told me she saw the very same thing. The only time I’ve ever heard of anything like that was when I read about certain kinds of magical creatures. Veela, I think, are known to have that property.”

“Harry’s actually one quarter Veela,” Draco said.

“I suspected as much. Anyway, he says he goes to Hogwarts. Well, I know he’s not in Gryffindor and I told him so. I didn’t think he was in Slytherin either—you would have mentioned him before, Draco. So I asked him if he was in Ravenclaw because I thought I heard the name once when I passed by the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall. He answered yes, but he had such an odd look on his face when he said it. And he swears up and down that he’s a friend of yours.”

Draco had always thought he was skilled at keeping a poker face, and when he answered, he did his best to sound casual.

“Yes, ’Mione, he’s my friend.”

“Draco, I know you only too well. You and Ron have been closer to me than anyone at Hogwarts since first year.” Hermione was looking at him shrewdly now. “I know that expression on your face. This Harry… he’s a special friend of yours, isn’t he? Come on, Draco. You can’t lie to me,” she said smiling. “Your thoughts have always been plain to me, even if you can keep them secret from everybody else.” Hermione’s claim was perhaps the most shocking thing Draco had heard up to this point. “But let’s go down to the library,” she said, rising from her seat. “I left your friend in the library because he was so interested in doing Potions research, and I can see you’re eager to meet up with him.”

Draco was seized by a wild inspiration. “’Mione, how do you get your hair to look so perfect?”

“You’re the one who taught me so much about Potions, Draco. I got so good at creating potions that I was able to create my own potion for taming my bushy hair.”

“Would you give me the instructions for the potion?”

“But Draco, love, why ever would you need it? Boys always keep their hair short, and your hair is perfectly straight.”

“It’s for a friend of mine, a girl I know back in…” Draco hesitated, “… er, back in Wiltshire. She has this really bushy, frizzy hair.”

“I certainly can sympathize with your friend. I always have an extra copy of the potion instructions somewhere about,” she said, taking a parchment out of a drawer and handing it to Draco. “Here. I hope she likes it. Come on, let’s go.”

A labyrinth of corridors led Draco and Hermione to a set of massive oak double doors, where Hermione left Draco to his own devices.

“Your friend is in the library. I won’t interfere. I’ll leave the two of you alone with each other.”

After Hermione had disappeared down the corridor, Draco opened the double doors of the library entrance. Harry was seated at a long table piled with books and looked toward the door when he heard it open. Harry was up out of his seat, and Draco was across the room in a few steps. The two lunged at each other, arms wrapping around neck and chest and waist, legs twining around each other. Thrown into an unfamiliar sixteenth-century setting by surprise, Harry and Draco had been obsessed with the idea of finding each other. Reuniting was their only solace in this strange world. Alone in the library, they remained glued to each other as they kissed, like two gods in a Hindu sculpture, with their hands and legs winding their way about each other’s bodies. Finally, they were able to bear allowing enough airspace between them to speak.

“The Eastern Shore spirits,” Draco began. “They messed up utterly.”

“I know. We were only supposed to travel four weeks into the past, which would be the middle of August.”

“It’s August, all right,” Draco said. “I just finished talking to Granger, and she told me summer vac was almost over, and classes at Hogwarts are starting in two weeks. Granger was the one who knew you were here in the library. She led me here herself.”

“Hermione was the first person I recognized when I got here. As soon as we touched the Time-Turner, I was standing right outside this annex building. Some servant saw me, but she wouldn’t tell me who the master of the house was. Then the servant led me inside and Hermione was here in the library, doing some reading on Arithmancy. Draco”—Harry’s eyes were as wide as saucers—“Hermione doesn’t even know who I am. She acted like she was meeting me for the first time in her life.”

“Harry, remember when the Eastern Shore spirits told us a guest account has less privileges than we have? We know about Granger from our own time, but she only knows about us from this century. Weasley and Granger are only experiencing a past existence, with no memory of their lives in the twentieth century. You and I are the only real time travelers. By the looks of it, this is the sixteenth century. The servant told me Queen Elizabeth the First is around and about.”

“I saw some recent documents here in the library,” Harry said. “The year is 1596. That’s four hundred years in the past.”

“Four hundred years and four weeks in the past. But maybe the Eastern Shore spirits aren’t completely out of their minds. The potion recipe we need is right here, in this building.”

“I know it is, Draco. I’ve been doing some research here in the library. But how do you know that?”

Draco avoided Harry’s eyes. “Someone else here in the household told me.”

“’Mione wasn’t even sure whether or not I could find it in the library. When I arrived here earlier, we talked about you because I told her I was looking for you, and I told her about the potion recipe we’re looking for. I told her I go to Hogwarts, and she thinks”—Harry started laughing—“she thinks I’m in Ravenclaw. She’d never believe I’m in Gryffindor because she’s in Gryffindor herself and she’s never seen me before. And she didn’t think I was in Slytherin because she thinks you would have told her about me. Erm, Draco, I couldn’t believe this when she told me, but maybe you already know if you’ve been talking with her. She’s been best friends with you since first year.”

“Yeah, I found that out right away.”

“So who exactly was it who told you the potion recipe was here?”

Honesty is the best policy, so out with it. Draco tried to keep his voice even. “Weasley told me.”

“Ron’s here too?! Hermione didn’t even mention him.”

“He was the first one I met when I got here. Weasley and Granger both used the damn ‘guest account’ the Eastern Shore spirits gave them, and they followed us here. Sometimes I think your two friends believe that their life’s mission is to drive me nutters.”

“’Mione said she’s a guest here. So are ’Mione and Ron both guests in this place? I figured that this townhouse—it’s really more like a small palace—this probably belongs to some rich nobleman.”

Draco reached his hand toward Harry and stroked his cheek in that tender way Harry had grown to love. “Harry.” Draco reached his arm around Harry’s neck, brought Harry’s head to rest on his shoulder and stared into eyes that were the color of pastures and woodlands, the color Draco had always thought was the color of paradise. “Angel eyes.” Draco kissed Harry softly on the forehead.

Harry just smiled. When Draco called him angel eyes, it made his heart melt—every single time.

“Let me go over the information a little at a time, OK?”

“That sounds kind of dramatic. This isn’t bad news, is it?”

“Erm, more like bizarre news.” Draco cleared his throat. “This palace belongs to Weasley’s family.”

“Ron Weasley and his family own all of this?”

“And probably a good deal more. Here in the sixteenth century, they’re rich—really rich.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “And you’re always teasing Ron about his family being poor.”

“Harry, I solemnly swear I will never tease Weasley about being poor again, but there are more important things you need to know. For one thing, even though Weasley and Granger don’t remember anything about you and I right now, they’ll remember everything that happens here in the sixteenth century when they return to the twentieth century.”

“Yeah, I remember the Eastern Shore spirits saying that all four of us would retain our memories of whatever happens here when we get back.”

“Things get downright peculiar in this century. You already know about Granger and I being friends since first year.”

Harry nodded.

Draco took a deep breath. “There’s more. Weasley and I have been friends here since we were five years old. Weasley’s parents let him stay with me at Malfoy Manor for a whole month when we were five. We were really close friends all through our childhood.”

“How about that, Draco?” Harry slapped Draco on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re seeing what life would be like if you and Ron grew up under different circumstances.”

Draco resolutely ignored Harry’s enthusiasm. “Harry, Ron asked Hermione to marry her, and he’s crazy about the idea, although his parents want him to wait a year since they’re only sixteen.”

“That’s no surprise. Anyone could see that coming.”

“I just want you to know that—before I tell you the rest of it. Please don’t get upset.”

“Before you tell me the rest of what? Draco?”

Draco didn’t speak, but his cheeks started to color slightly.

“Your face is a little flushed,” Harry said. “Is it too stuffy in here? Do you want me to open a window? Draco? Are you all right? You’re starting to worry me.”

Draco’s voice was uncharacteristically hoarse. “Here in the sixteenth century, somehow things between Weasley and I are insanely different. Most people would find it alarming, really. Last year… er, who knows, maybe last year and the year before that… Weasley and I were in bed with each other… frequently, from what Weasley tells me. And in this former existence, this licentious nonsense involving Weasley and I seems to have stopped after the end of fifth year because Weasley’s started courting Granger. I honestly never thought Granger would serve a worthy purpose, but somehow she has.”

Harry’s mouth opened for a moment, then shut again.

“Harry, you know this is some crazy previous existence in the sixteenth century, right? It’s not our real life in the twentieth century.”

Harry was pressing his lips together in an effort to maintain a serious expression, but found it impossible, and a gentle smile played on his lips when he spoke.

“You and Ron. I’m trying to visualize this.”

“Please don’t visualize it.” Draco was blushing in real earnest now. “After my arrival here today, I spent a fair amount of energy avoiding Weasley’s affectionate attentions. On the bright side, I’m certain he doesn’t have any erotic intentions. It looks like all of that ended at the end of last school year when he decided on Granger. I thank all the Gods that his priority is wooing her. I’m just happy you’re not upset.”

Harry’s warm smile was still there. “No, I’m not upset. I think I understand human weakness, especially in Ron’s case. He really has a very good heart. And Draco, you won’t have to put up with Ron for long. All we have to do is get the potion recipe and we’re out of here. The Time-Turner is safely in my possession. There is just one small problem I discovered here in the library when I found the potion recipe.”

“You found it?” A smiling Draco held Harry by the shoulders. “Harry, you did it. We can go back to the twentieth century now.”

“Not exactly. I found half of it, but it has to be what we’re looking for. The library assistant who was here when I arrived is a witch who’s a goldmine of information about Potions, and she pointed me right to the volume with the recipe we’re looking for. The summary at the beginning explains that the recipe is used to control the romantic attraction created by certain magical creatures, and the instructions list every procedure and ingredient we’ve used up until this point.” Harry walked over to the table and picked up a small leather-bound set of parchment pages. “Everything is in English except the title, which is in Greek. I can’t make out the title of the recipe because I never studied Greek. I think the first letter is ‘S.’”

Draco took the set of bound parchment pages. “S-p-a… something or other. No, I can’t make out the rest of the title. My knowledge of Greek isn’t much better than yours. So why do you say you only have half of the instructions?”

Harry turned to the last page. “Here at the end, it only gives the name of another potion recipe for the final assembly of the ingredients. I told the library assistant, and she said she would try to find out how to locate the missing part. She said she’d be back soon, so we shouldn’t have long to wait.” Harry moved very close to Draco, his hair brushing against Draco’s face. “And as long as we’re stuck here, you know, waiting around for the library assistant to get back, there’s something I wanted to tell you.” Harry was fidgeting, but Draco took him by the shoulders and held him still. “I meant to tell you yesterday, Draco, but we got so caught up with all the instructions the Eastern Shore spirits were giving us.” Harry knew what he had to say, summoned his courage and looked straight into Draco’s eyes. “Do you remember that I said I wanted to correspond with Fleur Delacour?”

“That evening in Dumbledore’s office, at the beginning of term. Yes, I remember.”

“I finally did, and she gave me loads of information about Veela.” Harry turned his back to Draco and looked in the opposite direction. “All the complications of me being part Veela—all the unwanted effects on other people—it won’t stop until I bond with my mate. Anyway, from what Fleur says, it usually takes quite a while for Veela to bond with their mate. Months she says. Sometimes even a year…” Draco sidled up behind Harry, holding him by the shoulders again, and Harry went on talking, “… which means that all the madness that’s going on around me at Hogwarts—”

“You mean every boy at Hogwarts chasing you all over the school?”

“Yeah, all of that. If you were my mate, Draco, it would be months before the crazy Veela stuff ends, maybe even a year. Well, if you weren’t prepared to put up with all that chaos for months and months…” Harry didn’t trust himself to look at Draco, “… then I’d understand if you wanted to call it quits.” Harry’s voice was losing strength and breaking here and there. “I mean, I know the whole Veela thing must seem kind of weird to you.” Draco turned Harry around to face him, but Harry had to finish no matter what. “Can you really love someone who’s that weird, who’s only three-quarters human?”

“Harry, beginning in June, when I came across you at Hogwarts Lake—these past several months—I’ve come to realize that you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.” Draco held Harry very close. “Do you remember what the spirits asked you this morning, before we came here? How have I furthered your success more than another student might have? And you wrote down that in the beginning, you felt like you were discovering what was in your soul for the first time, but now you couldn’t tell the difference between your own soul and mine anymore. That’s what I want as well, two souls forged into a single soul, because you’re a part of me now that I couldn’t bear to live without. And if we start on an experiment like that, it’s for life.” Draco held his eyes level with Harry’s and waited patiently until Harry finally looked at him. “Have you anyone else who wants to love you for that long, someone who’ll take care of you and be good to you no matter what happens?”

Harry shook his head the smallest fraction of an inch. “No.”

“Because if you haven’t anyone else to love you for a lifetime, then do you mind if I do?”

“No, I don’t mind. Not in the least.”

Draco brushed his finger along Harry’s lower lip until his lips parted. Draco edged his mouth closer, but he paused, waiting for permission, then planted the most tender of kisses.

“Harry, come home to me.”

Harry put his head on Draco’s chest, and he knew he’d found his way home. Draco led Harry to a nearby sofa, and they rested there with each other, saying nothing, content with nothing more than being wrapped in each other’s arms. Time passed slowly, and after a while, the two of them were jarred into awareness of their surroundings by the soft but insistent knocking on the door.

Draco nuzzled Harry’s ear and whispered, “I think Weasley’s library assistant is back.”

Harry disentangled himself from Draco, moved toward the door and let the library assistant enter.

An elegantly dressed witch with silver-blond hair and a penetrating gaze presented herself. “Master Harry,” the woman said, “I informed Master Ronald that you are here in our household. From what Master Draco had told him, he recognized your name. Master Ronald knows you’re a friend of Master Draco, and he wants you to understand that you are most welcome here in our household.” The assistant handed Harry the piece of parchment he’d been holding. “I brought Master Ronald the name of the potion recipe you’re looking for, the name you’d written down on this parchment, and he says he knows exactly how to find it. However, it’s not here, but rather in a library at a different location.”

“Can I go there now?” Harry asked.

“Master Ronald prefers that Master Draco accompany him. He’s waiting now.”

 

* * *

 

Draco felt a welcome sense of independence as he sailed through the air on the broom Ron had lent him. Draco and Ron flew side by side, passing across Berkshire from east to west, first over low-lying, heavily wooded areas, then coming to gentle hills and small wooded valleys. Ron had taken some delight in keeping their destination a secret from Draco, simply telling him, “Don’t worry, you know the way well enough yourself.” Draco felt a creeping sense of unease at how eerily familiar the landscape appeared as they crossed into Wiltshire… too familiar. Suspicion gave way to plain shock as the open chalk hills and wide valleys led Ron and Draco directly toward… Malfoy Manor.

The two landed in front of a somewhat smaller version of Malfoy Manor than that which existed in the twentieth century. Two entire wings that Draco’s ancestors had added in the eighteenth century didn’t exist, but the central portion of Malfoy Manor looked quite the same to Draco as it always had.

Ron tossed their brooms against the wall in an entrance foyer and took Draco by the hand. Hermione’s comment from earlier came back to Draco: “Your parents have gone on holiday themselves, so Malfoy Manor must be deserted.” Draco could scarcely credit his senses as Ron led him through hall after hall, room after room, making it obvious that he knew every step of the way just as well as Draco did.

In one parlor, Ron hauled Draco behind a sofa, laughing. “Remember when we were eight? When we hid behind here while your mother was pouring tea for the ladies… and we’d put soapsuds in the teapot? I think every drop of blood drained from Lady Sinkworth’s face while she sat there holding a teacup full of bubbles.”

And so it went as Ron led the way through his “home away from home,” beloved Malfoy Manor. Outside in the summer sunlight, Ron and Draco made their way across the enormous stretch of lawn that spread out directly in front of Malfoy Manor and paused to rest at the great fountain that lay on the other side of the green expanse. Draco lay stretched out on the stone perimeter of the circular pool as Ron, beside him, named each of the Roman gods and goddesses represented by the statues that grouped themselves about the fountain at the center of the pool. They strolled through the kitchen gardens, and Ron, who knew every row of trees and patch of vegetables, snatched a basket and gathered strawberries precisely where he knew he would find them.

Revisited memories turned into more than Draco bargained for when they wound up in the Blue Room, a cozy bedroom with a window that overlooked a small piece of meadow and dark woods beyond. Ron insisted that this was their “favorite room” during that summer between fourth and fifth year, and Draco found himself mistrusting the sparkle in Ron’s eyes and grateful that Ron had set his sights on Hermione at the end of fifth year.

“All right then,” Ron said, “let’s go to the library and find that potion recipe you’re looking for.”

In the library of Malfoy Manor, Ron walked right over to a massive bookcase along the wall. The volumes in this bookcase appeared to cover the topic of magical plants. It took Ron very little time to find a slim volume titled “Mathematical Proportions for Sundry Herbology Potions.”

Ron put one hand up against the bookcase next to where Draco stood and leaned in toward him. “I suppose you’ll need to study the volume first. I could leave you here at Malfoy Manor for the night, and you could join me back in London in the morning. Or…” Ron’s blue eyes were the same color as the curtains in the Blue Room, “… I could stay here with you tonight.” Ron’s eyes were blue, the curtains in their “favorite” bedroom were blue, and Draco certainly didn’t want Ron’s thoughts to turn blue.

“You go on back to London now,” Draco said, “and I’ll catch up with you in the morning. I’ll be nothing but a bore here—writing down notes and looking up cross references. We still have two more weeks before the beginning of term.”

Ron smiled and started out the door of the library. “Meet me in the dining hall at Weasley House at 10 in the morning,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll go to the library together and see if there are any other documents you need for your Potions research. I charmed the broom I lent you with navigational instructions. You always get lost so easily in London.”

 

* * *

 

The following morning at Weasley House in London, after taking breakfast, Hermione followed the corridor leading to the library and headed toward the library assistant’s office, which faced the library entrance on the other side of the corridor. This morning, however, she intended to sneak into the library without being noticed by the library assistant, who was very conscientious about recording the name of anyone who visited the library. Hermione didn’t want Ron to know she was in the library that morning because she intended to gather some study material for this year’s Herbology class at Hogwarts, and she knew Herbology wasn’t Ron’s best subject. He was always so embarrassed whenever she mentioned helping him with Herbology, and she certainly didn’t want him looking for her in the library.

So she carried a tray with tea and biscuits, tea she’d laced with her newly perfected potion, which she called Quick Nap. Anyone who consumed the potion would nod off to sleep for only several minutes and then wake up. The beauty of the potion was that no one would suspect that a potion had been at work at all, especially if they checked the time afterwards. They would believe they had only dozed off for a few minutes and think no more of it. Once Hermione sneaked into the library, she had only to wait for the library assistant to take her lunch in the dining hall. The charm that the assistant always used to lock the library door allowed no one to enter, but allowed anyone to leave the library. This was convenient for the library assistant since she had already recorded the name of anyone who was already in the library, and if anyone wanted to leave during lunch hour, it was fine with her.

“I’ve brought you tea and biscuits,” Hermione said, entering the assistant’s office. “Taste the tea and tell me if I’ve made it strong enough.”

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine. Thank you so much, Miss Hermione,” the assistant said as she took a large sip of tea. “Yes, the tea is perfect.”

“I might be back later in the afternoon to do some research, but not now.” Hermione waved goodbye as she scampered down the corridor. She stopped after she’d turned a corner and waited about a minute. Then she crept quietly back toward the assistant’s office, peeked inside and… Yes! The library assistant was fast asleep. In a moment, Hermione had slipped past her, entered the library and stationed herself between two long rows of bookshelves in the Herbology section.

Some time after, Draco and Ron were marching down the corridor toward the library. The two of them stopped at the library assistant’s office.

“Do we have the place to ourselves this morning?” Ron asked. “Is Miss Hermione using the library, perhaps?”

“No, Master Ron. Miss Hermione told me she might stop by later in the afternoon, but the library is quite empty now. No one at all.”

Draco and Ron headed toward the Herbology section and stopped in front of the first row of bookshelves.

“You say you have everything you need?” Ron asked.

“Absolutely. I studied the document at Malfoy Manor, and Harry and I have everything we need to complete our research.” Draco leaned up against the stable narrow end of the bookcase.

“As soon as you’re ready to meet with your friend, Harry,” Ron said, “ask the library assistant and she’ll have one of the servants lead you to Harry’s room. But let’s take a look around the Herbology section anyway, just in case you spot any other volumes that might come in handy.” Ron took hold of Draco’s shoulders and leaned in toward him. The look in Ron’s eyes took on the alarming sparkle Draco had noticed the previous day at Malfoy Manor. Ron brushed his nose against Draco in a fashion Draco had unavoidably become accustomed to. “Tell me once and for all, Draco. Are you happy Hermione and I are together? We were lovers, you and I. You taught me how to love. You can’t have forgotten making love to me all through fifth year at Hogwarts… in the Astronomy Tower, the greenhouses, vacant classrooms in the evening. I’m astonished no one ever caught us. And our summer at Malfoy Manor, between fourth and fifth year…”

Ron was now pulling Draco away from the end of the bookcase and around the corner, walking backwards several feet and taking Draco along with him. It was clear that Ron was displaying simple affection and nothing more, but Draco had to shut his eyes at this point, if only to summon his patience and withstand this new onslaught of attention. They were now several feet back from the end of the bookcase, squeezed between two high bookcases on either side. Ron closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Draco’s shoulders, which caused Draco to open his eyes in exasperation. So Ron, with his eyes closed, wasn’t able to see the horror-stricken look on Draco’s face as Draco saw what was directly behind them. Ron took one more step backwards, pulling Draco toward his chest, and collided squarely into Hermione, who was frozen in place as she observed the present spectacle.

Hermione, having been on the other side of the bookcase during Ron and Draco’s entire conversation, uttered the only two words that came to mind, considering the circumstances.

“Merlin’s pants.”

Hermione quickly slipped passed them and made her exit from the library, with Ron in pursuit.

 

* * *

 

Ron felt a spinning sensation and saw colors and blackness swirling around him. Finally, he realized he was sitting at the desk in the private sleeping quarters on the sixth floor of Hogwarts that Dumbledore had temporarily given Harry. He rushed to the window of Harry’s room and looked down at the courtyard. Ron had always had perfect eyesight, and he spotted Professor McGonagall, perhaps on her way to Transfiguration class. Yes, he was back in the twentieth century, although he remembered all the events of the past 24 hours in excruciating detail. He remained at the window for a moment and then spoke.

“Bloody hell.”

Ron stormed over to the desk, grabbed a blank sheet of parchment and placed it on the wooden communication board with the bas-relief of a Greek temple attached to the top, the very communication device he’d used to contact the Eastern Shore spirits on the previous day. He quickly dashed his first message down.

 

Hello, Eastern Shore spirits. Are you there? Please frigging answer me.

 

Ron wasn’t surprised when an answer appeared instantly.

 

ESN Reply>> Yes, Mr. Weasley. Your one-day time limit has expired. We hope that amount of time served your purposes. And please note, you are still listed as Harry’s contact to receive deliveries for him if he is not present. Harry and Mr. Malfoy are still traveling in time and space. ★

 

Ron found it difficult to remain civil.

 

Could you explain why we traveled four hundred years into the past instead of four weeks? And is Hermione Granger still traveling in time and space?

 

ESN Reply>> Actually, four hundred years and four weeks. We had already programmed the time travel device for four weeks when we realized our translation error, so we just added the extra four hundred years. But no worries. We’ve updated our translation database. We do apologize for the inconvenience. Concerning Miss Granger, she used her guest account yesterday about one hour after you did, so she’ll be returning one hour from now. ★

 

Ron didn’t have the patience to chitchat with these lunatic spirits any longer.

 

Thanks so much for all the information. I have other things to attend to now.

 

ESN Reply>> Glad to be of assistance, and rest assured that our translation abilities are improving. Ciao. ★

 

“Bunch of smart-asses,” Ron muttered as he left Harry’s room and headed toward the Gryffindor common room. When he arrived in the common room, there wasn’t a single person there, which suited Ron’s mood fine.

Ron walked over to one of the bookshelves and took down a Hogwarts photo album, showing all the current students, grouped by year and house. Ron turned to the pictures of sixth-year Slytherin students, looking first at Draco’s picture and then at the rest—Blaise, Pansy and all the others Ron had disliked and mistrusted because they were in Slytherin House, as if that were a sound reason for disliking someone. A single silent tear coursed down his cheek, a tear that carried all the regret he would feel in the coming days—regret for the useless, irrational hostility that this wicked world was filled with. Ron put one hand into his front pants pocket. Yes, it was still there, the switchblade he’d borrowed from Dean to threaten Draco… in case Ron thought that Draco meant Harry any harm. He looked down at Draco’s picture, and then all his memories came rushing back, memories of Malfoy Manor in the sixteenth century. There in the deserted Gryffindor common room, Ron wondered at how our most deeply held convictions could be so misguided.

Lost in thought, Ron didn’t even notice the swirling whirlwind of air near the ceiling. The whirlwind formed itself into a thin, rectangular object, about the shape and size of a magazine or large book. The object, seeming to have a mind of its own, hurled itself down toward Ron, landing on a nearby table with such force that it made him start. Ron stared at the rectangular object, which was wrapped in plain brown paper. He picked it up and examined the words running across the top:

 

ESN Parcel Service
We bring you the world—on time.

 

There was a graphic logo to the left of these words, a stylized map of the eastern Mediterranean coast. Now Ron read the delivery address in the center of the wrapped object:

 

Parcel delivery for Mr. Harry Potter
c/o Mr. Ron Weasley
Gryffindor Tower
Hogwarts Castle

 

Ron tore the brown wrapping paper away and held Harry’s first-year Herbology workbook in his hands. After the first few puzzled moments, Ron remembered that Harry had been looking for his Herbology workbook after he’d boarded the Hogwarts Express at the end of first year. He’d thought he must have lost it somewhere at Hogwarts before he’d packed. But Harry was trying to find this workbook very recently, wasn’t he? He was even having dreams about it. Ron thought it had something to do with finding hellebore for his Potions project with Draco. Harry thought he’d made some notes about good locations near Hogwarts for finding hellebore. Ron wasn’t sure whether Harry had found the hellebore, but in any case, the workbook might still be useful. It might have notes for other plants Harry needed and hadn’t found yet. So Ron opened the workbook and started reading.