Draco is out of options—this last attempt must work. He takes a deep breath in, thinks of his mother’s comforting hand on his shoulder, and lets it out with a whoosh. He twirls the time turner he spent hours carefully constructing once, twice, three times and closes his eyes as the room starts to spin.
When time slows down again, he opens his eyes to a strange room. He looks around for anything he recognises, but finds nothing. The furniture is unlike what he’d find at the Manor—less formal pieces, brighter colours—but he doesn’t mind. He might have even picked it out for himself in a different life. There’s also an assortment of strange items that he’s never seen before: a big, black rectangle hanging on the wall above the Floo, a small contraption on the table beside the sofa.
Draco wants to scream; he wants to panic; he wants to lay his head in his mother’s lap and have a good cry. But boys don’t cry, not if they want to be respected by other boys. Draco learned that lesson young under Father’s hands.
So he doesn’t do any of that. He shoves it all in the dark corner of his mind, where he’s always shoved anything and everything he doesn’t want to think about, and lets his mask of calm wash over him. He’s become an expert at pulling it down in stressful situations, refined under his father’s tutelage and perfected in the Dark Lord’s presence.
Mask in place, he reassesses the room. From the strange items, Draco suspects he’s arrived in the future. Something must have gone wrong with the magic of the time turner—it wasn’t exactly Ministry-sanctioned, after all—but he had been very clear about his intentions: to fix that which had been broken.
How did coming to the future help him solve his problems in the past? Draco dwells on the question for a moment, but soon forces himself to move on. Philosophical musings won’t get him as far as actually doing something, so he turns to the task at hand.
Attached to the sitting room is the kitchen, which is cheery and bright. It’s comfortable and strangely familiar, even though Draco’s sure he’s never seen it before. There are also more strange items, some that seem to be attached to tubes coming out of the wall.
Stranger and stranger still.
Draco exits the kitchen to a long hallway filled with magical portraits. He glimpses one out of the corner of his eye and immediately looks away, only for his gaze to snag on another, this one even more terrible.
This can’t be real. It has to be some kind of punishment, Severus’ Legilimency. He’s going to wake up and Severus is going to be standing over him, accusing him of wanting Harry Potter. Draco pinches himself, hoping to jolt out of it, but he remains in the nightmare. Fuck.
“Draco,” a voice moans, and Draco feels himself flush all over at the heat. “Please.”
“Patience is a virtue,” he hears himself respond, except it’s not him, not really. This Draco’s voice is deeper, richer, older. He creeps down the hallway in silence until he arrives at the door where he can hear the voices coming from. Conveniently, it’s ajar, and he can peer inside. If Draco were less-practised at staying silent, he would’ve gasped audibly at the sight before him. As it is, his jaw drops and he can feel his cock stiffen.
A small voice deep in the back of his mind asks if this is wrong, and he tells that voice to fuck right off.
From his hiding place in the hallway, Draco can’t see the whole picture of what is happening in the bedroom (which he notices with glee, is decorated in green), but he can see enough to know what’s going on: Harry bloody Potter is on his hands and knees for Draco fucking Malfoy. And if that isn't enough, the older Draco is making Potter wait for his cock, dragging it out.
If Draco had Potter at his mercy, he wouldn’t make him wait—he didn’t think he could. But it’d never happen, not where Draco was from. So, he has to settle for this show, and so far, it’s not disappointing, his cock jumping with interest at the proceedings.
Draco has finally put Potter out of his misery and is fucking him with slow and steady strokes. But more than the actual motions, it’s the tenderness that’s causing the uncomfortable sensation in his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever get to love someone like the older Draco so clearly loves Potter, didn’t think he'd ever deserve their love in return.
“Fuck, Draco, you always know how to make me feel good,” Potter pants in between thrusts. Draco has to squeeze the base of his cock to stop himself from coming at the thought of Potter, his Potter, saying those words to him.
“I’ll always take care of you, baby.”
Draco can feel a tear drip down his cheek, and he quickly wipes it away. It’s suddenly too much—somehow, his older self found his way to Potter. And what if Draco undoing what he’s already done changes this future, this precious moment? He can’t do that to his older self, to himself, to his chances at a life filled with more than violence and war.
He doesn’t know how he goes from here to there, but by Merlin, he wants to fucking try.
“I believe we had a special visitor tonight,” Draco says, once he’s sure his younger self is gone.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I didn’t want you to see him. Who knows what that would’ve done to the space-time continuum?”
“Why is it so hot that you know what the space-time continuum is?”
Draco flips his hair back dramatically. “You just like me for my big brain.”
“I like you for your big something, that’s for certain.”
Draco pushes him playfully, marvelling that he gets to have this—Harry in his bed, yes, but more importantly, in his heart. His younger self never dared to dream this was possible, even though it was all he ever wanted.