Tempus Fugit

Chapter 5: Of Sodomy and Psychoanalysis

~*~

The play was a great success but the audience was a disaster -

Oscar Wilde

~*~

I go to the theatre to be entertained. I don't want to see rape, sodomy, incest and drug addiction. I can get all of that at home -

Peter Cook

~*~

The curtain at the theatre rose with a swish of crimson velvet and an obliging murmur from the crowd. Draco felt a customary shiver of excitement as the drapes swept open to reveal an elaborately constructed set, built into the fashion of a Victorian London flat. He loved the theatre and the air of culture that it seemed to be swathed in. He had been going for as long as he could remember, sitting in the dark red seats in his family's private box, his eyes peeking over the gilt railings to where the actors stood on the stage far below.

Unlike the plebeians below, Draco didn't fidget or squirm with boredom, he absorbed every word that issued from the lips of Romeo, Salome, Banquo and Alceste, loving the way that sentences inked from a writer's mind made their way into the mouths of others. The perfect diction, the flawless command of language and the glittering cadence of the actors' voices formed worlds in Draco's mind where reality paved the way for pretence and art was created through deception and guile.

He had been spellbound from his very first outing and since then had learned to listen between the lines of script, deciphering the secrets of the writer from their characters. He watched the play as the writer intended, the myriad of realms opening out before him and offering him a night's freedom from the starched expectations of upper-class wizarding society. The theatre, somewhat incongruously, was the only place where Draco could cast aside the elaborate masks he forged around himself and watch someone else's attempt at pretence. It was a place of learning and thought, where wit was used like a foil to strip away the airs of the audience.

They had wonderful seats, right at the front of one of the side boxes, with no more than their four red velvet chairs in there. The theatre itself was gloriously old-fashioned, with gilt railings, faded vines stretching across the ceiling, and everything damasked in a deep crimson.

Next to him, Draco felt Harry shift, and tug uncomfortably at his collar. Draco could tell he hated being so dressed up, and was decidedly ill at ease. Privately, he thought Harry looked much better when he dressed smartly, and Draco had made him take a comb to his hair and try to tame it further.

On the other side of him, Hermione sat with Sean. She looked positively radiant tonight, dressed in a simple silk gown of midnight blue, with a simple chain of diamonds strung about her neck. Draco had even deigned to compliment her on her appearance and Hermione, who knew what an effort it must have cost him, had smiled winningly, her face glowing with pleasure.

She had many visual values, and more so than Sean, although he was handsome too, in his own way. A moment's consideration was all it took for Draco to understand that their match was one based on something more than a physical attraction. There was a noticeable empathy between them that stemmed from complete trust, love and devotion to each other. What Draco wouldn't give to have that one day. To have that strength of feeling for someone else.

With only a moment's hesitation he laid one hand fleetingly atop Harry's and felt him relax slightly by his side. They settled back in their chairs, eager for a night's culture. As the lights dimmed, and the first characters strode purposefully onto the stage, Draco felt content at last.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Some time later, the interval came in a storm of clapping and cheering. The curtain swung down, and the theatre was once more illuminated into life. The audience began to stir, taking advantage of the half hour they had to grab refreshment. Hermione leaned over and touched his arm.

"Sean and I are going to get a drink from the bar," she said. "We'll be back in a bit." Draco nodded.

"Ok," he said. He glanced at Harry who was looking over the balcony with a mild interest, watching the people move around beneath him. The flickering lights of the candles sent their gleaming echoes dancing across Harry's hair, striking a contrast against the jet. Draco watched as he played with a silver ring in his hands, a nervous gesture he had recently acquired, and wondered if Harry felt a bit out of place here.

"So," he asked, "what do you think so far?" Harry turned and smiled at him.

"Inescapably confusing," he said, rubbing his eyes, and Draco felt a twinge of sympathy for his situation, for it was evident that he felt uncomfortable.

"What is there to misunderstand?" Draco replied, his eyes lighting with enthusiasm. "Ok, apart from the numerous aliases, Victorian slang and furtive contradictions," he added.

Harry laughed shortly. "Apart from that, it's great," he said.

"I never tire of this play," Draco mused, recalling the last time he had seen it, in London with his father. Somehow it wasn't the same without listening to someone rant about the evils of homosexuality during the interval, "and it seems particularly ironic that our future selves should have arranged to see it," he said thoughtfully, and Harry's brows knitted.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because of the play's themes," Draco said. "It's all about the 'masks of manners' that people wear, and the hypocritical masks of society."

Harry nodded. "Hypocrisy. The English vice," he said, with a little contempt.
"Yeah," Draco replied, "and Wilde explores the idea of dual identities, a rather fitting theme considering our current predicament." A troubled expression flitted across Harry's face for a moment and he bit his lip.

"I should say so," he said, "but I thought the only element of dual identity was in the use of the alias 'Ernest'."

"No, not at all, but the true depths of it wouldn't become clear unless you knew something about Wilde's private life," Draco said, recalling what his father had talked about on the several occasions he had sat and watched this play.

"Doubtless you do," Harry grinned again.

"Well, funnily enough, it also strikes a little close to home," Draco said, and cringed as he felt a faint flush rise to his pale cheeks. "Wilde drops some serious hints about homosexual liaisons through the dialogue, and as a closeted fag for most of his life, he was well aware of the dual identities of sexual orientation."

"That is close to home," Harry said quietly, and there was a moment of silence between them, but it wasn't discomfiting. "I suppose it shows that our alter egos are closer to reality than we think."

"Yes, it does," Draco said, and knew that he hadn't managed to keep the hint of approbation from his voice. "You're remarkably astute when the inclination strikes." He said amusedly, perceiving a facet of Harry that he had thus far been ignorant of.

"A compliment from a Malfoy?" Harry held a hand to Draco's head, as if checking for a fever. "Has the world stopped turning?"

"Quite possibly," Draco grinned, despite himself.

"I like the way Wilde presents the aesthete," Harry said suddenly, a true appreciation colouring his voice "so trivial and empty."

"That's irony in itself in its purest form," Draco said, raising his eyebrows and fixing Harry with a look that often sent girls into quivering heaps on the floor. Predictably, Harry was completely unaffected.

"How?" he asked.

"Wilde was similar to Algernon in that he trivialized serious matters and solemnized trivial ones," he said, having studied the play from every angle and excited to have someone to share his interpretations with. "He was an aristocratic hedonist who liked nothing better than indulging in life's sensual pleasures, and yet he ridicules this aspect of human life in the play. He displays hypocrisy, whilst professing a detestation for it."

"I see what you mean, maybe I'm not as cultureless as you would have me believe," Harry said and Draco rolled his eyes.

"I highly doubt that," he answered scathingly, but by the way Harry was looking amusedly at him, Draco knew that the injected derision did not have quite the intended effect. Maybe Harry was finally seeing through him; that was a worrying thought.

"Oh really?" Harry leaned a little closer to him, eyes dancing. "Did you, by chance, comprehend the statement he was making about art and its relationship with beauty?" He asked.

"What statement?" Draco said blankly, knowing that Harry was likely to endeavour to prove his own erudite worth as only the Gryffindor could.

"Despite having never read this play, I know a little of what Wilde wrote, or at least, my future self does," Harry said, "and he thought art's primary relationship should be with beauty, not with reality. Art should not mirror reality; rather, Wilde has said, it should be 'useless,' in the sense of not serving a social purpose; it is useful for our appreciation of beauty. Therefore, Algernon's idleness is not merely laziness, but the product of someone who has cultivated an esteemed sense of aesthetic uselessness." he nudged Draco's shoulder with his fist, a wicked look on his face. Draco was impressed by his construal, and that approval showed clearly on his face. "He's much like you in that respect. Appreciated solely for his beauty, yet utterly useless," he said, and Draco was sentient only to the compliment Harry had paid him.

"Beauty? A compliment from a Potter," he said, snickering. "How likewise unparalleled."

"Are you impressed by my interpretation?" Harry asked, expecting immediate denial, even though he had witnessed the admiration in Draco's gaze.

"Mildly," Draco said, leaning languidly in his seat, "but you did overlook his attempt at criticizing the use of marriage as a social tool," he said, nudging Harry back.

"Well that situation doesn't quite apply to us," Harry said with a perfectly executed hint of disdain, "and is therefore of little interest." Draco couldn't help laughing. He had read, loved and laughed at this play for many years, and yet entering into a philosophical conversation about it with his father was impossible. There was a strange sense of compassion forged between him and Harry that had never existed before, and could only be born of a scholarly understanding that could not be nurtured within the oppression of Hogwarts.

"I couldn't agree more," Draco said, an unreadable expression flickering in his eyes. Harry looked up suddenly, his eyes moving from the silver ring in his hands to rest on Draco's face. For the briefest of seconds it looked as if Harry was going to say something. Draco looked helplessly at his lips, feeling his own mouth grow dry and wondering vaguely why that was.

"Hey guys." The moment was officially ruined as both Harry and Draco jumped as Hermione and Sean returned, glasses in their hands.

"Hey," Harry said, and Draco was faintly gratified to sense no trace of relief in his voice.

"What have you been doing?" Sean asked, an insinuating edge to his voice that invoked an immediate awkwardness in Draco that he couldn't place. "Hermione told me what she found you two doing in the changing rooms at Selfridges," he said by way of explanation, and both Harry and Draco blushed furiously.

"Just talking," Draco said, "about Oscar Wilde's hidden intentions behind the play."

"Sounds fascinating," Sean said good naturedly, "and I can't deny I'm not glad to find you both fully clothed."

"Well," Draco made a point of straightening his tie and running his hand through his hair in a suave manner that suggested it had recently been tousled in a moment of passion, "Harry and I don't hang around," he said, winking, and Hermione giggled.

"Enjoying yourselves then?" she asked.

"Yeah," Harry said, grateful for the change in conversation, "these are great seats."

"It's useful knowing the people that run the place," Sean said, "even if they are lowly muggles." Everyone looked good-naturedly at Draco who found himself quite tongue-tied.

"I never...well..." he began, but failed, "ah screw it," he said. "You're the only decent muggle I know."

"It's so reassuring to know that some things will never change," Harry said, and Hermione shot him a warning look, as if suggesting that this was not a subject to be entered into.

"Oh look," she said, as the curtains parted again, "it's starting." The crowd hushed as one, and the only sounds could be heard from the various latecomers scurrying back to their seats.

"Ready to continue your dramatic education?" Draco whispered, his lips unsettlingly close to Harry's ear.

"Bring it on."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Despite his previous misgivings, Harry thoroughly enjoyed the play. It was a rare occasion where he found himself able to accurately interpret hidden meaning behind dialogue, and had spent the duration of the second part avidly analysing it further.

As the cast came on the stage to take their final bows, the audience got to their feet and applauded, and Harry found himself leaning against the balcony, and clapping hard. He wondered if this was a routine night out for him and Draco, and whether he was behaving differently than normal. Such fears were soon assuaged, though, as he watched Hermione and Sean yelling, "Encore!" with one voice.

As the theatre was run by muggles, it did not cater for the transportation needs of wizards and Harry and Draco had to take a muggle taxi home. Saying goodbye to Hermione and Sean outside the theatre doors, Harry pulled Draco into the nearest black cab and sank into the seats.

"I'm exhausted," he said. "Culture is tiring."

"You don't get enough of it," Draco stated, yawning. The sky had darkened to an inky black, across which were strung the frail, glimmering stars that made up the heavens. The yellow glow of Manchester's many lights made skywatching difficult, but it was reassuring to see the familiar constellations winking at them through the tinted windows of the taxi.

They didn't speak much on the way back, and as soon as they got home, Harry tore off his tie and threw his jacket on the table.

"That has been driving me mad all night," he said. "I don't like wearing suits."
"You should get used to it," Draco said. "You can't spend your entire life in jeans, you know."

"Why not? Jeans are perfectly practical, and can be dressed up or down," Harry said loosening his top two buttons and rubbing his neck.

"If you're planning on stripping completely," Draco said with a hint of amusement, "please let me know so I can get out now."

"I just don't like ties," Harry mumbled, scowling. "You can't tell me you're comfortable in that."
"Why not?" Draco did an exaggerated twirl. "It's nicer than wearing robes."

"That's right, Malfoy," Harry said with a grin, "embrace the muggle in you." Now it was Draco's turn to scowl.

"I'm going to bed," he said tiredly. "I don't want to listen to you harping on about muggles all night."

"Where are you sleeping?" Harry asked, suddenly looking faintly troubled.

"I get the bed tonight," Draco said firmly. "You had it last night."

"I'm not going on that sofa," Harry said equally firmly. "You're skinnier than me and even you fell off."

"I'm not skinny!" Draco said indignantly.

"You're practically a beanpole," Harry replied, jabbing Draco pointedly in the ribs, "and I, fortunately, am not, so me on the sofa is out of the question."

"Sleep in here then," Draco said.

"No, it's cold in here," Harry had a point, the living room, with it's French windows, was the coldest room in the flat.

"Anyone would think you were trying to get into bed with me," Draco said slyly, knowing this would rile Harry.

"Don't flatter yourself," Harry snapped. "Look, you can stick to your side of the bed, and I'll stick to mine. Merlin knows it's big enough for the both of us." Before Draco could protest, he had walked out of the room and padded down the corridor. When Draco had caught up with him, Harry was pulling his shirt over his head, and the blond gritted his teeth against the sight of his rippling muscles and taut waist.

Words left him for the moment, so he set about disrobing, and, having pulled on some grey pyjamas, climbed into bed.

"Night," said Harry, clambering in next to him, careful to make sure that no part of them touched.

"Night," Draco said grumpily, a warm self-awareness creeping into his veins.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The morning dawned bright and clear over the city, the sharp rays of the sun bringing life to the grey world and relief to the heavy heart. The first people up and around were moving slowly through the quiet streets, reflecting on the stillness of the city at this hour, and the eeriness of seeing all the shops and bars closed.

Harry woke first, and realised, with some discomfort, that he and Draco had rolled closer to each other during the night. Draco was a tangle of pointed limbs and elbows, his arms crossed over his face and his knees tucked up to his chest. There was something ultimately defensive about his position, and Harry wondered if he always slept like that. Deciding that it was far to early to contemplate such matters, Harry yawned, slipped out of the bed, and went into the bathroom.

That night he had been beset by the broken fragments of his memories once more. He found that he was able to remember them with considerable ease, and the more he thought about them, the more clarity they gained, as though he was tapping into a well of knowledge harboured only by his future self.

He had dreamt of a time when he must have been in training as an Auror. He saw himself in some enormous tuition chamber, with Remus Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye Moody all throwing hexes at him. Harry himself had been unarmed, and was using every fibre of his cunning to dance between the flashing darts of the spells, which ricocheted off the walls and ceiling. He had been trying to reach a goal, in this case a silver chalice, and he remembered vividly the moment when he touched it, turned around, and saw the others all smiling at him proudly. Harry didn't know if he had ever felt such elation.

He wondered why he had given up the life of an Auror when he was still so young and intact. All the Aurors he knew considered the career their vocation, and wouldn't have dreamed of leaving the profession if they still had a few years left in them. He had left, though, and taken up the undeniably muggle career of writing.

Come to think of it, a lot of his and Draco's life together smacked of muggles. Their flat on the very edge of the wizarding quarter, their abundance of muggle paraphernalia, the lack of anything distinctly magical about their lives. They still had their wands, of course. Harry didn't know about Draco, but his was not the one he remembered from his school days. His new one was much longer and heavier, made of some sleek, black wood with what seemed like a unicorn hair at the core. He couldn't help but wonder what had happened to his first wand, and fervently hoped that his snatches of memory would give him some clues.

Harry could hear Draco stirring from the bathroom. The blond got up and rubbed his eyes, wincing against the harsh light of the world outside.

"I'm hungry," was the first thing he said. Harry splashed water on his face to wake himself up more, and walked out of the bathroom.

"I'll see what there is to eat," he said resignedly.

On inspection in the kitchen, it was revealed that there wasn't very much food in the house at all. Draco padded into the kitchen, his normally pristine hair rumpled and his eyes clouded with tiredness. He sat on the kitchen worktop, watching Harry rifle through the various cupboards.

"What is there?" he asked. "Bacon?" he added hopefully.

"Nope," Harry said. "We've got some mouldy cheese, some Tabasco, some peanut butter, and what looks suspiciously like a pineapple although it has been quite thoroughly squashed by something."

"Great," Draco muttered, "just what I wanted."

"Well how hungry are you?" Harry asked.

"Starving."

"Let's go buy breakfast somewhere, then," Harry said. "I think there's a Starbuck's round the corner." The expression of mild confusion on Draco's face was priceless.

*~*~*~*~*~*

An hour later, Harry and Draco were sitting in Starbuck's drinking hot coffee and eating pastries. Harry wondered how it was that Draco remained so slim even when he could quite easily polish off a Danish, a croissant, and a muffin in one sitting.

"What?" Draco asked, noticing Harry looking at him.

"Nothing," Harry sighed.

"Did you dream again last night?"

"Yeah," Harry took a sip of coffee, "you?"

"Travelling again," Draco said. "I think I was somewhere near Egypt, judging by the pyramids."

"You really get around, don't you?" Harry asked with a slight smile. Predictably, Draco swatted him on the arm.

"At least I was doing something with my life," he said, a glint in his eye.

"Hey," Harry protested, "I was doing something too, you know. I was in Auror training, passing with flying colours, I might add."

"So why aren't you an Auror now?" Draco asked.

"I don't know, do I?" said Harry, more snappishly than he'd intended. "Why aren't you still hunting dragons?"

"I feel as though I fulfilled all my life aims," Draco said haughtily.

"How would you know?" Harry asked. "You had one dream about dragons and you assume that you've fulfilled every ambition."

"I shall not dignify that with a response," Draco said, taking a sip of coffee.

"Technically you just did," Harry replied with a smile; Draco threw him a withering look.

"Do you have to be such an arse all the time?" he asked.

"What can I say?" Harry shrugged appealingly. "Force of habit." They sat quietly for a moment, watching the people walk past the windows, feeling strangely isolated in the mass of grey. Stiletto'd women clacked unsteadily, whilst men with leather briefcases glanced importantly at their watches, letting everyone know that they had somewhere to be. They were a sea of pinstriped suits, sombre expressions, drab colours and self-importance. Even the people in Starbuck's were all absorbed in their newspapers, their files from the office or their letters. They drank neat caffeine from paper cups, pretending they liked the taste, hoping this meant that they were living their life on the fast track.

Draco and Harry, like lone beacons of colour, brought a sense of peace and idleness to what was a bustling world. Draco picked unenthusiastically at a flake of pastry.

"I'm still hungry," he mused, and Harry looked up.

"And yet you're stick insect," he said. "I would have thought you'd be more careful about what you put in your mouth." Draco stared at him for a moment, looking mildly amused, while Harry cringed as he ran over what he just said. "I really just said that, didn't I?" he asked and Draco snickered.

"Yeah, you did," he said. "I would have thought you, of all people, know exactly what goes in my mouth." He glanced surreptitiously to Harry's groin to get his meaning across and Harry felt himself blush.

"Blond moment," he said, "my apologies."

"Why do you discriminate against blonds?" Draco asked in mock offence. "What have they ever done to you?"

"You, as a blond, have never missed an opportunity to hex me," Harry pointed out, "and I'm afraid you've prejudiced me against all of them."

"Fair enough," Draco said. "I'm just saying you shouldn't be so biased against blonds."

"I'm not," Harry said. "I'm biased against you."

"But I'm so pretty," Draco feigned a whining voice, and Harry smacked him on the side of the head with his newspaper.

"You're also in a weird mood," he said, finishing his drink.

"Forgive me for being cheerful," Draco said, "I would have thought a little optimism would be just what we needed in such a dilemma."

"Sorry," Harry said, without thinking, "I'm just tired." Draco mumbled something about sharing beds being uncomfortable but Harry ignored him. "We should go," he said. "There's a woman hopping up and down at the counter waiting for us to vacate these seats."

*~*~*~*~*~*

They hadn't been back for longer than ten minutes when, without warning, an enormous green fire shot up in the otherwise empty grate. Both Harry and Draco jumped in surprise as Hermione shot out of the fireplace and straightened up, brushing soot of her clothes.

"Hello," she said, slightly distractedly, "Still alive then?"

"Unfortunately," Harry said, rubbing a smudge of soot off Hermione's cheek. She looked at him sympathetically,

"Don't worry," she said. "I've come to see if you want to come with me to the library, maybe look for something that could help get you home."

"At last!" Draco said enthusiastically. "Let's go!"

"Hang on a minute," Hermione laughed. "I've just got here, let me get my breath back."

Draco looked impatient. "I just want to find a spell and get home," he said. "I dread to think of all the gossip I'm missing out on by being here."

"I could probably tell you all the major stuff," Hermione said. "In your time, has that Slytherin Morag MacDougal got pregnant yet?" The looks of surprised interest on both of their faces affirmed the negative.

"Er... No," Draco said. "So Maggie gets pregnant, eh? Tut, tut, she's only just sixteen."

"You might be missing that scandal," said Hermione, "but at least neither of you will be under suspicion of being the father. If I remember correctly, Mr MacDougal stormed up to the school and started hexing every boy that ever looked at her."
"Who is the father?" Draco asked curiously.

"Blaise Zabini, I think," said Hermione, thinking hard. "No-one was ever sure."

"Ha!" Draco rolled off the sofa in glee. "I knew he'd knock someone up before school ended!"

"Yeah, well," Hermione said, smiling, "it was quite the scandal for a while."

"Scandal is just gossip made tedious by morality," Draco said, his eyes still gleeful over the fates of his friends.

"I hope we don't miss too much work," Harry said, a worrying thought suddenly striking him.

"Yeah, you're not the sharpest tool in the shed," Draco said scathingly.

"I wouldn't worry," Hermione reassured them. "If we find something quickly enough, you should be able to return before long."

"I hope so," Harry said, sounding wistful. "The future is weird."

"So let's go," Draco said, getting to his feet again and pulling Hermione up.

"Ok," she said resignedly, allowing Draco to chivvy her over to the fireplace. She found a pot of glittering powder on the mantle-piece, flung a handful into the grate, stepped in and shouted, "Peterson Library!"

*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione's library was absolutely huge.

She stood, waiting for them, as Harry and Draco shot out of the fireplace and stood up, coughing from the dust. They looked around and were immediately struck with a sense of awe.

"This is amazing," Harry breathed.

"This is better than the one at Malfoy Manor," said Draco, considerably impressed. "Way to go, Hermione."

"Glad you like it," Hermione was beaming, and it was evident that this room was her pride and joy. It was formed on two levels, with sweeping wooden stairs leading up to the next tier, which overlooked them, books densely packed onto shelves. On the lower level was a desk, two armchairs, and a bearskin rug, all surrounded by thousands of books, piled onto shelves and into bookcases. They spilled over tables, were stacked in untidy heaps on the floor, and were scattered around the room, there clearly being too many to accommodate with shelves.

The entire room smelt of learning. It wasn't just the books, Hermione had globes, a collection of ancient swords hanging on the wall, tapestries depicting the constellations at night, and on the desk sat a skull wearing a top hat. The windows were high, gothic arches and they opened out to reveal a wide lawn finishing in a lake.

"Where are we?" Harry asked. "I thought you said you lived a couple of streets from us. This is definitely not Manchester."

"No," Hermione said, "it's Oxford. Sean and I have a country house which he inherited last year, but I only ever really come here for the library."

"It's beautiful," Draco said, examining the collection of swords. "Some of these are really rare."

"Sean has a passion for them," Hermione shrugged. "He's been gathering them for years."

"I'm sure we'll find something here," Harry said, his heart rising with certainty. "There are so many books, it would be impossible not to."
"I brought down a couple which might be useful." Hermione motioned to the pile on the floor. Harry noticed titles like Moste Potente Potions, and Liber de Proprietatibus Rerum. He moved over to them and picked up a book at random.

"What are we looking for exactly?" he asked.

"Something related to the Pertho Draught," said Draco, "or any divination potion involving runes. There must be something about a reversal somewhere."

"Do you want to go up there?" Hermione pointed to the upper level. "There are lots of potions books on the back shelf. Harry and I will go through this pile."

"Ok," with a sense of determination, Draco made his way up the wooden stairs, pulled a book at random off the shelf, and sat against the wall with it in his lap.

"Do you really think there'll be an antidote of sorts?" Harry asked Hermione in an undertone.

"I think so," she said, her brow furrowed. "I'm sure that we'll find something that will enable you to switch bodies again."

"Do you think our future selves are awake in our past bodies?" Harry asked curiously.

"I shouldn't think so," said Hermione, "I've studied some of the related potions, and it's more than likely that you will be trapped in some enchanted sleep."

"Like a coma?" Harry's mouth dropped open.

"Similar," Hermione looked up and smiled. "Don't worry, Professor Snape will have realised what's happened," she said. "He'll stave off Madam Pomfrey."

"It's not that..." Harry said, looking troubled. "I just don't like the idea of skipping a chunk out of school because I'm asleep."

"You've only spent a couple of days here," Hermione reminded him.

"It seems like much longer."

"How are you getting on?" Hermione asked. "I know there hasn't really been time to fill you in on everything you should know, but you seem to be doing ok."

"It's exhausting," Harry said, flicking through the crumbly pages of a book. "It's so draining just trying to remember everything, and be someone I'm not."

"But this is who you are," Hermione said, her eyes sweeping over him in her patented searching gaze. "This is who you grow to be."

"It's such a surprise," Harry commented, "I would never have pictured this to be my life."

"You mean Draco?" Hermione glanced up at the blond, who hadn't been listening.

"Yeah, I guess," Harry said. "I just can't understand it."

"I suppose the intensity was always there," Hermione said sagely, "even when we were at school, it was Draco's insults that always got under your skin, Draco who always provoked you, Draco who made school interesting."

"Voldemort makes school interesting," Harry replied with a sigh. "Draco is just a pest."

"But he's one you can't ignore," Hermione pointed out, shoving Harry in the shoulder.

"As much as I try," Harry said.

"He's changed a lot since school," said Hermione.

"Hmm," Harry said, looking up at Draco. "He's got prettier, and less pointy."

"Been studying him a lot, have you?" Hermione asked with a twinkle in her eye. Harry flushed for some unknown reason.

"No," he said quickly, "but it's just obvious." Hermione's smile was maddening, and Harry looked at her witheringly. "Stop that," he said. "We're the teenagers that hate each other, remember?"

"I know the adults," Hermione said, "and any hatred between you two vanished years ago."

"Talking about me?" Harry spun his head round so fast it almost cricked. Draco was standing behind him, looking smug about something.

"Yeah," Harry said, turning back to his book, feeling his face heat up.

"I wondered if you had the companion book to this?" He held up a dusty tome called 'Ethnobotany: What it is and how you can make it work for you'.

"It's on the second shelf," Hermione said, pointing over Harry's shoulder. Draco flashed her a smile and went to look.

"Let's change the subject," Harry said, looking down at the book he had been thumbing through. The pages were cracked, and very old. He could see why Hermione thought it might be useful, the spells and recipes inside it were all related to runes and their uses. His eyes skimmed over a drawing inked in blood red, depicting a woman with spiders crawling out of her mouth, apparently one of the effects of the dreaded Arachnia Serum.

Harry sighed. "This is going to be a really long day."

Research had never been his strong point, which was one of the reasons he had valued Hermione so much, and he did not relish the idea of spending hours poring over volume after volume of tedious text. He didn't share Hermione's passion for ancient books, or for potions that had been banned since the goblin rights legislation had been passed.

Only the knowledge that something he found might help send them home was enough to drive Harry to coax his tired eyes into working, and force his brain into concentration. All he could think as he scanned each page was, there'll be something in the next one, a potion to send us home, it'll be in the next one.

It wasn't though. Harry's hands turned over hundreds of spells for everything imaginable, but there was very little that looked like it might be useful, and very little that actually looked legal.

"Where did you get some of this stuff?" Harry asked, looking at yet another graphic picture. "There is no way these spells are still in operation."

"They're interesting," Hermione said, shrugging, and threw down the book she was holding. "This is the last one," she sighed, and looked around the rest of the library. "Don't get disheartened," she added, "there're over four thousand books here. These are just the ones I thought might be useful." She nodded towards Draco. "Go see if he's found anything."

Harry uncoiled himself from his uncomfortable position on the floor and stretched like a cat. His legs felt uncomfortably cramped, and his muscles had seized up from sitting still for so long. He had kicked off his shoes an hour ago, and now padded softly up the stairs.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, jerking Draco out of his reverie. He was sitting on a rug, leaning against a wall, a massive book resting on his knees.

"You gave me a fright, Potter," he said, scowling. Evidently he disliked research as much as Harry did.

"Sorry," Harry knelt down beside him and peered at the page he was studying, "anything here?" he asked.

"Nope," Draco yawned, "and I've gone through more books than I care to think about. I am going to die a book-related death, I can feel it. If I ever see a potion to grow nose hair again, it'll be too soon."

"Who on earth would want to do that?" Harry asked, lifting the heavy book off Draco's lap and closing it.

"I think we should call it a day," he said, and Draco looked at him with something akin to gratitude.

"Ok," he said, and they stood up.

"Hermione?" Harry called. "Can we come back tomorrow? We're beat." Hermione looked up from where she was sitting.

"Sure," she said, and glanced at her watch. "I've got to go to work in a bit, anyway."

"Where are you going?" Harry asked curiously, as they descended the stairs.

"The Ministry," Hermione said. "I work in the Spell Development Office." Draco looked suddenly interested.

"My father worked there for a while," he said.

"I know," replied Hermione with a hint of sadness. "It's where he developed his own variety of Dark Curse." Draco looked away.

"Let's go," Harry said, propelling Draco forward to the fireplace. "We'll come back tomorrow and keep looking."

"That's fine," said Hermione. "Come whenever you want. Just don't make a mess."

"Thanks," Harry couldn't keep a note of disappointment from his voice. How long would it take to find a spell to send them home? He had hoped to come across something today, but he could find no reference to the Pertho Draught or any possible reversal. Picking up a handful of glittering floo powder, he dropped it into the fireplace, stepped into the emerald flame, and shouted,

"Flat 309, Deansgate."

The library dissolved before his eyes. He could feel Draco next to him, the blond brushing against his arm as they were hurtled through the floo network. Tentatively, Harry slipped an arm around his waist and held on tight.