Chapter Text
His heart was hammering so violently it felt ready to burst straight through his ribs. A flash of green burned his vision—blinding, final—and in the next instant he felt… softness?
Harry’s eyes flew open.
A ceiling. Unfamiliar, painfully ordinary. Beige plaster, a Muggle ceiling light with three shades, a scattering of glow-in-the-dark stars and ghostly marks where others had once stuck. He squeezed his eyes shut, counted to three, opened them again. The view hadn’t changed.
Where am I?
This ceiling didn’t look like any he’d seen in seventeen years of life. Slowly, as if afraid of frightening reality away, Harry turned his head. A room. Someone else’s room. Posters of rock bands on the walls. Socks on the floor. Loads of socks. Shelves crammed with books and figurines, a guitar in the corner, a football by the bed leg. On the desk—an entire collection of mugs, at least ten of them, and some plastic rectangle Harry couldn’t identify.
“What the fuck?” he whispered to himself.
Voldemort had killed him. Killed him. Avada Kedavra. Full stop. End of the Boy Who Lived. But somehow he was here, breathing, smelling the scent of someone else’s life.
With a trembling hand, Harry reached for his face. His fingers traced his forehead through sweat-dampened strands, finding the familiar ridge of his scar. No burning. No pain either. A moment later it hit him: no glasses. And he could see perfectly.
Untangling himself from the duvet, Harry lunged for the mirror on the wall. Staring back at him from the reflection was… him. Not haggard from war and life in the forest, a bit sweaty, with wildly surprised eyes, but definitely him. Harry Potter. He let out a slow breath, possibly the first since opening his eyes, and sank to the floor, back against the wall. No glasses. No scar on the back of his hand either. Otherwise seemingly the same.
He was just about to sink into contemplation when someone knocked at the door. Harry jumped like he’d been stung.
“Harry, come down for breakfast or you’ll be late for school,” came a woman’s voice from the other side. Definitely not Aunt Petunia. Someone else. Softer. Warmer.
“Y-yeah! Just a second! I’ll… I’ll be down in a minute,” Harry stammered out.
Footsteps retreated. The woman, whoever she was, seemed satisfied with the answer.
Right. Think faster, Harry. School… school!
Hastily drying his hair with his t-shirt, he bolted for the wardrobe. Inside reigned roughly the same chaos as the rest of the room, but hanging on the rail was a school uniform, perfectly pressed. White shirt, grey trousers, navy blazer with an embroidered crest. Definitely not Hogwarts. Pulling on the trousers and shirt in a rush, Harry took another measured breath, looking at his reflection.
It’s fine. Whatever this place is, you’ll manage. You’ve dealt with worse.
Beyond the door he found a narrow corridor with a staircase leading down. The wall along the stairs was decorated with a dozen photographs.
Photographs of him. And his parents.
Harry stopped short.
“It can’t be…”
He stared at the photographs, unable to look away. In each successive one he grew older, his smile a little more fake and his eyes were rolling further back.
In the last photo he was trying very hard to see the back of his own head in front of the Eiffel Tower. This clearly wasn’t his world. In this world, his parents were alive.
“Harry, hurry up and eat, I’ve got to leave for work soon!” came a man’s voice from downstairs.
Following the smell of bacon, Harry found the kitchen. The first thing he saw was her. She stood by the cooker in a pink bathrobe. A bit older and fuller in the hips than in the photographs he’d clung to whenever he was lonely. But the same face. The same kind green eyes. The same red hair twisted into a messy bun.
Harry felt tears trying to break free and tensed every muscle he could to stop them.
Don’t, a frantic voice in the back of his mind warned. Don’t you dare throw yourself at them for a hug, they’ll think you’ve lost your mind.
Harry swallowed and stepped into the kitchen. His father was already sitting at the table, also older and more serious than he remembered. James was chewing a piece of toast thoughtfully, staring at a black rectangular object in his hand.
“And here’s sleeping beauty at last,” James said dryly, without looking up.
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but a plate was set down in front of him.
“Sweetheart, are you all right? You look pale…” Lily placed her palm on his forehead.
Her touch was warm. Real. And Harry nearly broke down crying right then and there.
“No fever, at least,” she said thoughtfully, though the worry didn’t leave her eyes.
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. What was he supposed to say? Hi, I’m from another world where you’re both dead and I’ve just sacrificed myself to kill the Dark Lord?
“Y-yeah, I’m fine…” he forced out, accompanied by a smile that came out spectacularly unconvincing. “Just had a nightmare.”
“Maybe you’re stressed about school?” Lily ran a hand through his hair. “I know this term’s been difficult.”
“Or had a row with his boyfriend,” James remarked, finally looking up from the black thing.
Boyfriend…
BOYFRIEND?!
“Don’t start,” Lily snorted and threw a sugar cube at James, which he caught neatly. “Draco’s a nice boy.”
DRACO?!
Harry felt the ground disappear from under his feet. Draco. Malfoy. His… boyfriend? What bloody dimension had he ended up in?
“Son, stop hypnotising your eggs,” James’s voice pulled him back to reality. “We’re leaving in ten minutes. Eat up.”
He picked up his fork and tried to collect his thoughts. He was in another world. His parents were alive. They were, by all appearances, Muggles. And he was dating Draco Malfoy.
“Right,” he muttered to himself, staring at the yolk spreading across his plate. “Right, Potter. Just… work it out.”
James was finishing his coffee, glancing at his watch. Lily sat down opposite with a bowl of porridge, wearing that soft, absent smile Harry had only ever seen in photographs. They looked happy. Normal. Alive.
And Harry realised he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next.
***
The drive to school was a perfect opportunity to think through a plan, but Harry chose to stare mindlessly at the air freshener instead.
Thoughts buzzed in his head, but there were so many of them that not one could rise to the surface.
“Traffic on the A3 as usual,” James’s voice pulled him out of his stupor. “Hope we make it on time.”
Harry nodded, unable to force out a word. Outside the window, London rolled past. Ordinary London. Tower blocks, shop windows, bus stops, advertising boards. People rushing to work with paper coffee cups in their hands. No magic. Just a city living its mundane life.
How did I get here?
The question spun round his head like a broken record. Voldemort had killed him, Harry was certain of that. And then… this. Another life. Another world. But why?
Magic? Some sort of spell? Or was this the afterlife? No, too real. Too tangible. He could smell the leather seats, feel the vibration of the engine under his feet, hear James’s irritated muttering about idiots who couldn’t drive.
In this world my parents are Muggles… what about me?
No, Harry could feel it. Magic. Smouldering beneath his skin, ready to burst out at any moment. But without a wand, controlling it would be difficult. His own had been broken, and he’d never really learned how to manage without it. And Draco’s wand hadn’t followed him into this world…
Draco… if he exists in this world, maybe others do too? Maybe Ron and Hermione are also…
“You’re very quiet today,” James observed, throwing him a quick glance. “Sure you’re all right? If you want to stay home…”
“No!” Harry answered too sharply. “I mean… no, I’m fine. Really. Just… tired.”
James chuckled.
“You need to spend less time scrolling on your phone at night. I know you lot, teenagers.”
Harry nodded, pretending he understood what that meant.
Phone? Must be that black rectangle James was poking at with his fingers at breakfast. Don’t remember the Dursleys having those… have Muggle technologies changed that much?
Harry decided he’d need to work out how it functioned before someone noticed he hadn’t a clue.
“We’re here,” James announced, pulling up at the kerb. “See you tonight. And try not to get a detention today, all right? Your mum worries.”
Harry nodded, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“I’ll try.”
He climbed out of the car, shut the door, and looked toward the school.
The school turned out to be a massive brick building somewhere in the Wimbledon area. Harry had seen it in one of the photographs on the wall. Some posh private academy, judging by the uniform.
Harry squinted to read the name on the plaque by the entrance.
“Harrowford—School of Ordinariness and Muggledom,” he muttered to himself with bleak sarcasm, then took a deep breath and headed inside.
Inside, Harry walked down the corridor feeling like an outsider. Teenagers swarmed around him, laughing, moaning about homework, staring at their phone screens. Zero robes, zero wands, nobody discussing Transfiguration or Potions. Harry hadn’t been in a Muggle school since he’d got his letter.
“Harry!”
He turned and saw Hermione. Hermione Granger, with the same unruly mass of chestnut curls, but in school uniform and with a backpack on her shoulders. She was running toward him, waving.
“Hermione,” he breathed out, and relief washed over him in a warm wave. A familiar face. Even if it was in an unfamiliar world.
She ran up and poked him in the chest with her finger.
“You didn’t answer a single one of my texts last night! I was worried! Ron was asking if you were all right too.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I… passed out.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes, studying his face with that same piercing attentiveness he knew so well.
“You’re acting strange,” she said thoughtfully. “Had another fight with Draco?”
“No, we… didn’t fight…”
Actually, I haven’t got a clue.
In his world, he and Malfoy had been at each other’s throats with enviable regularity. It was a constant, a law of nature. But here? Here Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were dating. He couldn’t quite picture what their relationship was like.
“I sincerely hope that’s true.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, I don’t understand what you see in him. He’s so…”
Harry felt someone’s hand land on his shoulder and held his breath.
“So what?” asked a voice from the right, lightly mocking.
Harry turned his head.
Draco.
In this world, he looked… different. The same sharp features, the same aristocratic nose, the same grey eyes. But his hair was different. Not slicked back like before, but falling freely toward his temples and forehead in a soft wave, emphasising the line of his cheekbones. The back was slightly tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it without looking in a mirror, and that had been enough to look flawless. The uniform fit him perfectly. Clearly tailored, not bought off the rack. Even his cologne smelt like money.
“Potter.” His voice was calm, his expression haughty, but there was something vulnerable in his eyes. “Why are you ignoring my texts?”
“I… sorry, I fell asleep,” Harry tried his hardest to make it sound convincing.
“And hello to you too, Draco,” Hermione said, folding her arms across her chest.
Draco gave her a brief glance and snorted before turning his attention back to Harry.
“Not wearing your tie again,” Draco commented, fiddling with the edge of his collar. On his wrist flashed a watch that probably cost more than James’s car.
“Yeah… overslept today and couldn’t find it in the rush,” with each word Harry’s speech grew more nervous.
“Are you all right?” Draco’s expression softened. “Nightmares again?”
Nightmares? So this world’s Harry had them too…
Draco ran his thumb across Harry’s cheek, and Harry tensed every muscle to avoid flinching away. The touch was warm, gentle. Nothing like the Malfoy he’d known.
“N-no, I’m fine… just a weird day,” Harry forced out. “I’m all right. Really.”
Draco studied his face for another moment, then nodded.
“Come to mine after school, then?” The corner of his mouth twitched in a slight smile. “Mother’s gone off to some charity rubbish, Father’s at work. We’ll have the place to ourselves…”
Somewhere in Harry’s brain, a short circuit occurred.
“Erm… well… I…”
“What, don’t want to spend time with your boyfriend anymore?” The mask of arrogance snapped back into place. “Found someone better?”
“No! No…” Harry mumbled. “I can. I haven’t got plans.”
“Excellent!” Draco smiled and patted him on the chest. “My driver will pick us up after school, then.”
He turned and left without waiting for an answer, leaving behind a faint trail of expensive perfume. Harry exhaled, his heart hammering somewhere in his throat.
“He’s insufferable,” Hermione commented.
“He’s… different,” Harry replied thoughtfully, watching the retreating figure.
“Different?” Hermione repeated, frowning. “Harry, are you all right? You really are acting strange.”
Before he could answer, Ron Weasley walked up to them. Still tall, still ginger, with a spray of freckles across his face and perpetually messy hair. Instead of Gryffindor robes he wore the same school uniform as Harry, but it hung on him loosely, as if on a coat hanger.
“Your boyfriend still the same stuck-up tosser?” Ron asked bluntly.
“Ron!” Hermione said warningly.
“What?” Ron shrugged. “His face has subtitles. Obviously thinks we’re all peasants just because his dad’s some lord or other. Seriously, Harry, what do you see in him?”
The bell rang, saving Harry from continuing this conversation. The crowd began streaming toward classrooms, and Hermione grabbed his hand.
“Come on, we’ve got English first.” She pulled him along, but stopped halfway and looked at him seriously. “And, Harry? If something’s wrong — tell me. We’re friends. I’m here to help.”
Harry nodded, feeling a lump in his throat.
Friends.
Even here, in this strange world, they still were.
***
The day dragged on endlessly. Harry sat through lessons, trying to pretend he understood what the teachers were talking about. English, maths, history. It all felt painfully mundane after years of spells and potions. His notebooks were filled with illegible handwriting… clearly belonging to the other Harry, the one who’d lived here his whole life.
During lunch, Hermione and Ron settled with him at a table in the corner of the canteen, discussing some chemistry homework. Harry nodded in the right places, offered short answers, but his thoughts were far away.
What happened to the real Harry from this world?
Did he just… disappear? Or had they swapped places? And if so, where was he now? In the Forbidden Forest, face to face with Voldemort?
The thought made him go cold.
“Earth to Harry!” Hermione snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Got lost in thought.”
“About Malfoy?” Ron smirked, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Want to hear something funny? My mum still prays you’ll ‘see sense and find yourself a nice girl.’”
Harry smiled involuntarily. Mrs Weasley was still herself, even here.
“Your mum knows I’m dating him?”
“Knows and hopes it’s just a phase,” Ron rolled his eyes. “Well, you know how religious she is. Dad’s more relaxed about it, but Mum… well, you get it.”
“Twenty-first century and people still…” Hermione sighed and shook her head.
Twenty… first?
They kept chatting, about homework, weekend plans, how Ron had forgotten to hand in his history essay again. Harry watched them and felt a strange mixture of longing and warmth spreading somewhere in his chest. They were here. Alive, healthy, not scarred by war. They were just… teenagers. Ordinary teenagers with ordinary problems.
What about your Ron and Hermione? hissed the voice of his conscience. You left them alone with Voldemort… to die.
Harry’s heart began to race, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table.
“By the way,” Hermione pulled out her phone and started typing quickly, “my parents are inviting you both for dinner this Friday. Mum wants to discuss university plans.”
“University,” Harry echoed.
“Yeah. She thinks you should consider Exeter or York. Says with your grades it’s perfectly achievable.” Hermione looked up from the screen, studying his face. “Though knowing you, you’ll probably choose something sports-related.”
Ron snorted, chewing another bite.
“Or he’ll go work for his dad at his company. James Potter and Son. Sounds proper.”
“I don’t know,” Harry said distantly. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Harry, you’ve only got a few months until applications are due,” Hermione frowned, familiar notes of concern creeping into her voice. “You need to make up your mind.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Maybe you should see a doctor? Or a counselor? You’ve been so… distant all day.”
“I’m fine,” he lied, feeling magic pulse beneath his skin. It was reacting to his stress, to the growing panic, churning and pushing, demanding release. He needed to calm down, or else…
Crack.
A glass of water on the neighbouring table suddenly shattered.
All three of them turned toward the sound. Water flowed across the table, dripping onto the floor, and the girl sitting there yelped in surprise, jumping back from the puddle.
“Oooh! Our school’s haunted!” Ron whined, dramatically biting his fist.
“Don’t talk rubbish,” Hermione countered. “Someone probably just poured hot water into a cold glass and it cracked.”
“Right.” Harry mumbled, clenching his fists under the table.
Control yourself, Potter.
He knew the truth. It was his magic. Uncontrolled, wild, dangerous. Without a wand it burst out at the slightest emotional spike, just like in childhood when he hadn’t known he was a wizard yet.
He urgently needed a wand.
Or at least a way to keep this bloody magic in check before he blew up something more serious than a glass.
***
The last lesson ended and Harry had barely managed to stuff his textbooks into his backpack when Draco approached. He leant against the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest, watching Harry with that same expression that was impossible to read.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Harry replied, zipping up his bag. “Ready.”
Draco nodded and turned toward the exit without waiting. Harry hurried after him, trying to stay close but not too close. He still couldn’t get used to the idea that they were… together. That he was supposed to act like… like what? Like a lovesick teenager?
Merlin, I haven’t got a clue how to do this.
They left the school and Harry saw a sleek black car parked at the kerb. Beside it stood a man in a smart suit and peaked cap, clearly the driver.
“Mr Malfoy,” he nodded, opening the rear door.
“Thank you, Wilkins,” Draco said casually, climbing inside.
Harry followed, trying not to gawk at the leather seats, polished wood panelling, and mini-bar in the armrest. Inside it smelt of new leather and that same expensive cologne Draco wore.
The driver closed the door, got behind the wheel, and the car pulled smoothly away.
Draco leant back in his seat, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and exhaled.
“Finally,” he murmured. “This day’s dragged on forever.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, looking out the window.
Beyond the glass, London streets slid past. Pedestrians hurried about their business. No war, no Voldemort, no Horcruxes. Just a city living its rhythm.
And there, in my world… what’s happening now? Have Ron and Hermione found my body? Do they think I’m dead?
The thought made him swallow past the lump in his throat.
“Potter.”
Draco’s voice pulled him back to reality. Harry turned his head and met grey eyes studying him with mild concern.
“You’ve been acting strange all day,” Draco said, tilting his head to one side. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Harry answered too quickly. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
Draco narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press. Instead, he reached out and took Harry’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
Harry froze.
The touch was warm, almost casual, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world. Draco’s thumb lazily stroked his knuckles, and goosebumps crept across Harry’s skin.
This is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy is holding your hand.
“You’re so tense,” Draco observed, not letting go of his hand. “Relax, I don’t bite… hard.”
Draco smirked, and something soft flickered in his eyes. Almost tender.
Harry’s thoughts returned to the shattered glass. He needed to learn to control it, and fast, or someone would notice. And if someone noticed…
He didn’t know the answer. And that frightened him most of all.
“By the way,” Draco interrupted his thoughts, “we can order something. Want Chinese? Or Indian?”
“Don’t mind,” Harry replied. “You choose.”
Draco snorted.
“Typical you.”
Harry didn’t answer. His thoughts were occupied with what awaited him at home… that is, at the Malfoys’ house. Being alone with Draco. Pretending he knew how to act. Pretending that he was… that he was his.
What if the real Harry returns to this body tomorrow?
The thought struck him like lightning.
What if I screw up his relationship? What if Draco realizes something’s wrong and decides Harry doesn’t love him anymore?
He swallowed, feeling panic start to rise again.
You can manage for one day. This isn’t even that pompous peacock from your dimension. Just… act normal. Don’t fuck it up.
Draco was still holding his hand, and Harry forced himself not to pull away. Instead, he squeezed his fingers slightly in response, hoping it looked natural.
Draco shot him a quick glance, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a faint smile.
“That’s better,” he murmured.
They turned onto a wide tree-lined avenue, and Harry realized they were entering one of the wealthy suburban areas. The houses here were enormous, with high fences and manicured gardens. The car slowed smoothly before massive wrought-iron gates, which opened slowly to let them through.
Harry stared out the window, feeling his stomach knot tight.
Right then. Here we go.