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“Your concern warms my heart,” Potter said as they walked toward the large gothic home down the private, warded lane. “Malfoy,” Potter pointed to the dark glasses on Draco’s face, “what’s with the sunglasses?”
“It’s part of my disguise.” Draco was suddenly awash with a flurry of different emotions, but most of all, he felt guilty for not telling Potter things which might be important. Draco didn’t know how to explain the curse, or how it had suddenly magnified tenfold since they’d gone back in time. Instead of linear threads, they extended outwards in all directions, connecting the two of them to countless people and places across their entire lifespans.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“So?” Draco questioned. The sunglasses helped alleviate the sight of the threads when they went bright. Specifically, the threads between them, and a few of the threads he was following to Marwan’s house. “That’s not stopping you from parading about in Celestina Warbeck’s rejected wardrobe.”
“Nevermind, Malfoy. If you can see, by all means, leave them on.”
“Of course I can see!”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t see, I was just implying you don’t need a disguise, especially since Zivantus already knows who you are.”
A cool, smooth voice said from behind them, “Does he, though?”
“Helga, Salazar, Rowena, and Godric!” Draco jumped so high he thought for a moment he’d accidentally activated the Timepiece. When he landed and whirled around, Marwan Zivantus stared back at him, deep honey eyes and a tremendous scowl visible even in the lamp lit lane and with Draco’s sunglasses. The man’s wand was raised and he had a Capture- All Net in his other hand. “Marwan—”
“Have we met?” he interrupted.
Draco gulped. “We—” he glanced at Potter before answering. “We haven’t been introduced.” Draco looked back at Marwan and added, “Yet.”
Zivantus’ left eye twitched. “I see.” He studied them. “You’re Draco Malfoy,” he said to Draco. “And you’re sneaking onto my property with Harry Potter. Hmm?”
“Yes,” Draco nodded. “That does sum it up succinctly.”
The older man studied the two of them for over a minute. Draco realized they probably looked a bit ridiculous in their outdated, stolen coats from the cloak room, and him in his sunglasses. Zivantus seemed to come to a conclusion that Draco and Harry were at least credible enough to warrant further study. As a former member of the Eleven, he no doubt experienced odd meetings regularly. “Why don’t you two accompany me back to my house for a drink?”
Glancing at Potter, they agreed and Zivantus ordered them to walk in front of him the rest of the way. He’d been to the house a few times after Marwan had hired him, but never at night and never under such stressful circumstances. He could see the threads getting stronger between him and Zivantus, the threads connecting himself and also the ones extending from Marwan to the Draco he would hire in a few days’ time. Salazar, not just the sight of it gave him a headache, but understanding what he was seeing was bound to drive him insane. They needed to get what they came for and then go back to the future as soon as possible.
Draco thought he felt his bones quake when Marwan walked them in through the foyer. He couldn’t imagine what sort of wards the man had requisitioned when he’d been an active member of the Iniquitous Eleven, let alone the precautions he would take after falling out with the Ministry. They ended up in the main sitting room furnished with a few sofas, armchairs, a pianoforte, and a well-stocked cocktail trolley. Merlin, Draco would kill for a firewhiskey sour.
“So, Mister Malfoy, if you would illuminate me on why—”
“You’re dead,” Draco rushed, realizing there was no reason to hide the truth from the man who could inevitably jump to the future and find out himself.
Marwan’s face remained unchanged. “I see.”
“I’ve taken your place in the Eleven.” Draco lied. He held up the Timepiece and flipped it over, showing Zivantus the engraved number eight on the back.
“I see,” Zivantus repeated. He raised a brow. “And you’re breaking Article seven subsection four by coming here. Do the others know you’ve come? Did someone back in the Department of Mysteries authorize this, or have you followed in my footsteps and gone rogue?”
Draco panicked. “Bertrice is in danger.”
The older man’s nostrils flared. He’d finally gotten a rise out of Marwan. “Explain.”
“The cult you’re selling the inquollis anicorpus to is going to do something drastic. They want your Timepiece.”
“Malfoy,” Potter warned.
“Yes, Malfoy, listen to the Savior. I implore you to shut your trap before you create a paradox.” Something in Marwan’s demeanor had changed in the span of a few seconds. He walked to the bar, shoulders tensed, and said, “Shall I serve us some firewhiskey and wait for you two to be erased from my presence?”
A House Elf appeared with a pop and rushed to hand Marwan a sealed letter. Once he had it in hand, he started to walk in the direction of his office. Draco had spent hours talking to Marwan in that room, some about the case, and some about life for disgraced Purebloods in modern Wizarding Britain. Draco learned a few things from Marwan Zivantus; in his youth, his own drive to be better than everyone else was always going to conflict with his desire to be accepted by everyone else, and was responsible for many of his past problems. Ultimately, Draco had to strive to be better than his previous self if he could ever accept his place among those whose opinions mattered more than anything. Marwan had helped him see that.
Marwan waved to them as he left the room, “Excuse me.”
“Malfoy,” Potter rushed him and shoved him up against the nearby wall. He ripped the sunglasses off Draco’s face and threw them to the floor. “Are you an Unspeakable?”
Incidentally, Draco was at a loss for words. He wasn’t sure if it was the Unbreakable Vow or the fact that Potter had left no space between them. Maybe it was something in between the two. All he could do was concentrate on breathing and actively focus on a small fiber of something caught in the purple shag coat on Harry’s shoulder.
He didn’t want to think about how Harry’s frustrated reaction lit something inside of him, or how messed up that made him feel. Draco knew what love was. He knew what it meant to be tethered to someone and yearn for their happiness and safety. There were those he loved like his mother or Pansy. He knew of desire, of building up to the edge of oblivion and then shattering oneself after a moment of its touch. While many people would state that what Draco and Harry might have felt in their past was hate toward each other, Draco disagreed. Such a powerful emotion like hatred had few facets, to wish harm upon someone, retribution, revenge, and the complete dismantling of everything that person both loved and desired before their very eyes. As he’d come to understand them in that moment, Draco’s feelings for Harry weren’t exactly love, desire, or hate but instead a maddening combination of all three, never staying constant, always changing with the flicker of a stare or the wit off a tongue.
The threads he saw that connected them seemed to prove his point in the way they’d changed every time they touched, argued, agreed, or somehow comforted the other.
“Well?” Harry breathed.
“I think you know the answer to that.” Draco met his eyes. “I think you’ve known for a while, you just couldn’t admit it.”
Harry let go of Draco and turned away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The loss of contact almost hurt. “I’m not a bloody mind healer, Potter, how the fuck would I know what goes on in your scar-addled head?” Draco rolled his eyes and shook his head. He needed to tell Harry the truth, and he needed to keep a level head. “Because if I’m not in opposition to you, then it must mean, on some level, I’m with you.” Draco watched as Harry’s chest relaxed, shifting to something rhythmic and more even. His calm seemed to reach across the room and pull Draco toward him.
“Sometimes,” Harry started to say but stopped. He turned and gazed at Draco, who almost gasped at the disillusionment he found within them. “Sometimes it feels like I know everything about you, and sometimes it feels—” he shook his head “—it just feels like it will never be enough.”
“I’m cursed,” Draco rushed out. He thought briefly it might’ve been Harry’s raw honesty that compelled him to tell one of his last secrets. Harry’s eyes went wide and he took a step toward Draco, who shook his head and bit his lip. “There were six of us cursed,” he explained. “Granger included.”
Harry grabbed Draco’s hand. “What sort of curse? Are you two in danger?”
“Each curse is different, I can’t speak for hers, but mine is—well, it’s hard to explain. It’s like I can see Fate. I see the threads between people.”
Potter was quiet for a long time, but his hand remained firmly wrapped around Draco’s. “So all that nonsense about fate having woven us together,” Potter started.
“Turns out it’s not nonsense.”
“So these threads,” Potter said. “There’s one connecting us?”
“You could say that,” was all Draco could bring himself to say. How could he tell Harry? How could he find the words to explain the thickest threads he’d seen were the four that tethered them to each other?
Potter spoke up so Draco wouldn’t have to. “Is it because of the case? We’re meant to do this together?” Draco knew his face was betraying him. “Not the case then.”
Draco decided to explain what he understood about threads in generalities. “I don’t see them all the time. They appear in moments where the connections are relevant or simply close. There are threads for past links, present, and future. Threads for love, hate, or rather —variations of light and darkness. It takes a bit of time to learn the gradients, the colors, and their meaning.” Draco took a breath. “I think—because I’m a person with my own connections, not an outside force—I feel pulled to certain threads, drawn forward to act in service of my own inevitable design.”
“So there are multiple threads between us?” Potter took a step closer. Draco could barely breathe. Suddenly they were inches apart and all he could focus on was the fervency in Potter’s gaze.
“Past,” Draco nodded.
“I’d imagine,” Potter’s lips quirked.
“Present.” Draco swallowed. He couldn’t hold Potter’s gaze any longer so he stared at the threads connecting them, the array a blooming display of magnetic forces. Potter looked down, following Draco’s gaze. He spread his hand on Draco’s chest. The warmth of Potter’s touch almost burned him. A brief pause, and Potter looked up into Draco’s eyes and Draco wasn’t sure who said, “Future?”
