zebiks.cc 
Harry felt as if he’d been falling for days, but his feet had never left solid ground.
And then there was something solid and warm pressed against him. It smelled like forest and sunshine and Hogwarts. Someone. “Malfoy,” Harry pushed the man away. The force sent the blond stumbling backward, his arms outstretched to balance himself. Harry zeroed in on the golden watch in Malfoy’s right hand. “That wouldn’t be a Timepiece in your hand? Would it?”
With wide eyes, Malfoy responded by shoving the object in question into his pocket.
“That wouldn’t be,” Harry stepped forward and poked a finger into Malfoy’s chest, “the Timepiece? As in the thing on the ransom list? Marwan Zivantus’ bloody Time Turner?” Harry couldn’t stop his blood from practically boiling with anger. Just when he’d decided he could trust Malfoy, the git proves that he can’t be trusted. “I was right,” he said, chest heaving. “I was right and you laughed at me. You had it this entire time.”
Malfoy’s features molded into something neutral, unreadable. “I didn’t actually get the chance to laugh at you. Lovegood walked in before I could ridicule your assertion.”
“Unbelievable,” Harry muttered. He turned around and stared up at the hotel entrance. “If I hadn’t come back, what were you going to do?”
It took so long for Malfoy to answer, Harry considered that he’d walked away. But then finally he replied, “I was going to find a time to ask Marwan about the plant. About the kidnappers.”
“That was your plan?”
“I don’t know, alright, Potter,” Malfoy’s voice rose in volume. Harry turned back around. Malfoy actually looked flustered when he added, “I didn’t think we had any other options left.”
Harry sighed. He could see the hopeless frustration in his eyes, and he’d be lying if he hadn’t felt the same way too. “Why don’t we go inside and talk it over with Pansy?”
Malfoy’s jaw clenched, but he tilted his head and gave Harry a slight nod.
They walked into the hotel, shoulder to shoulder, in silence. Harry felt his anger subsiding, but the trust he’d built up in him had disappeared, leaving him hollow. What else had Malfoy kept hidden? As they stood and waited for the lift, Harry tried to look anywhere but at Malfoy. His eye caught the stack of Daily Prophets on a nearby table.
“That can’t be right,” he murmured. The paper had the next day’s date on it. He went to grab the top copy and unfolded it. He recognized the main article under the fold—the one about the new Quidditch roster.
“Let me see that,” Malfoy whispered in his ear, and Harry practically jumped. He hadn’t noticed him come up behind him. He handed Malfoy the paper and watched the grey eyes focus on one of the front page stories. Garius Santi named runner-up in the Miss Wizarding World Pageant—breaks record for oldest contestant and first ever male runner-up. Harry recognized the middle-aged man pictured in an alluring pose in a fuschia ball gown. “That’s the top most Unspeakable!”
Malfoy shot him a glare. “When you rammed into me, you sent us into the future, Potter.”
“Oh,” was all Harry could think to say in response. Then he looked back at the photo. “How is that your first reaction to Santi placing second in a beauty competition?” Malfoy shoved the paper into Harry’s chest and stalked out of the hotel muttering something about “Bloody Narcissus”.
Sighing, Harry went after him. When he caught up, Malfoy was tuning the Timepiece, adjusting several sets of arrows on different dials on the face of it. His lips were parted, as if baited and waiting for the culmination of something imperative. “Grab ahold of me, Potter.”
“What?” Harry burst.
“Last time you had barrelled into me,” Malfoy smirked. “I’m sure if you treat it like a side-along, it’ll work just fine.”
Harry stepped up and grasped Malfoy’s upper arm, the slight touch warm and electric.
“Where—when are we going?” Harry stammered, still taken aback by the tingle in his hand.
Malfoy’s smirk deepened and his eyes crinkled. “Back,” he said.
“Back when exactly?” Harry said. Malfoy winked, and then Harry was overwhelmed by the familiar feeling of falling with his feet planted firmly on the ground.
There was only so much one-sided conversation that one could have with a goddaughter whose soul was trapped in a kneazle’s body. Pansy had waited almost twenty minutes for Draco and Potter to come up to the room. She’d spent half of that time changing into something more appropriate for a ransom drop off and investigative trekking across Scotland. Staring at herself in the mirror, she smoothed the lines of her soft camel trench coat and lined the collar over the white silk blouse. Thick, black wool trousers completed the look, topped with a black fedora. If she was going to experience her undoing, she would at least look amazing.
She checked the time. They still had almost four hours until everyone was supposed to be back. Pansy’s nerves were making her sick. What if Hermione actually acquired all of the ransom demands? Would they take everything except the damned plant in exchange for Bertrice? How would they switch them back? She was going to talk herself into a oblivion if she kept on.
Pansy decided to flip through the books Longbottom gave them. She read about the history of inquollis anicorpus. Apparently at some point in the fifteenth century, a terrible wizard, Alexandr the Hornswoggler, tried to take over Russia using the soul-catcher. His attempt to get Ivan III almost succeeded but was stopped when one of his victims attacked him. The text was vague about who the victim was, merely stating that Alexandr died due to injuries from a wild goat stampede.
“A drink,” she said as Bertie slid against Pansy’s boots. She closed the book and stood. “I need a drink.”
Pansy found the hotel bar just as crowded as it had been that afternoon. She managed to steal a seat and order a Finisterial Calamité, her favorite drink. The bartender had just brought her the delightful green concoction, when the seat next to her vacated and another warm body shimmied up into it.
“Hello, Pansy,” Lovegood’s musical voice rang across the bar.
Turning, she took in the sight of the Ravenclaw woman. Lovegood had tamed her hair back into a bun, but otherwise looked exactly the same as when Pansy had seen her last, which had been a little more than hour ago. “Hello, Lovegood.” Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Come to check me for Tinsel Gnats?”
“I didn’t bring any gold dust,” Lovegood put her hand on Pansy’s arm. “Why? Does your sweat smell like eggnog?”
Pansy snorted. “Lovegood, what are you doing here?”
The blonde looked away, staring at the collection of alcohol bottles against the back of the bar. “I sensed something when we were all in Nev’s office. I know most people consider me somewhat of a whimsical caricature of a witch, but I can be rather decisive, even useful.” She turned back to Pansy and gave her a soft smile. Pansy took a sip from her drink and Lovegood continued, “I could tell you were in great emotional distress and felt compelled to help in any way that I can.”
Pansy couldn’t tell if the bitter taste in her mouth was the liquor or her body’s reaction to yet another member of Potter’s clique offering assistance. The very idea of someone from that side of the War offering help to Pansy was farcical. Except the Golden Trio had bent over backwards, probably broken a thousand Ministry rules in the process, just to find Bertrice. Now Lovegood? Pansy suspected on rare occasions Lovegood displayed her dry and subtle sense of humor, but for the most part, the blonde was a sincere person and genuine oddity. Pansy took another sip and sighed.
“Alright, Lovegood,” she decided. “You can help by keeping me distracted until the others get back.” Lovegood smiled, and Pansy briefly wondered how such a person could be real. Most of their classmates would sooner see Pansy fed to the giant squid than help her, or Salazar, comfort her. She looked down and couldn’t stop herself from returning the smile.
“I wondered where Harry and Draco were when I saw you alone at the bar.” Lovegood draped an arm over the back of the barstool, striking a pose that had her facing Pansy. “But I’m sure they’re fine,” Lovegood continued and leveled Pansy with a calm stare. The weight of it made Pansy take another sip of her drink. “They’ve probably just found a suitable broom closet in which to work out their complex and abundant problems.”
Pansy’s drink came out of her nose in a stinging hurl of surprise.
“Oh, and you can call me Luna,” she beamed.
The tingle that spread across Harry’s body was the result of time travel and definitely not because Malfoy had been pressed against him. He ambled up the steps and into the hotel to try to shake off the feeling. Even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew how it felt to travel through time, Harry was convinced it had nothing to do with Malfoy.
“Potter!” Malfoy hissed and trailed after him. Harry sped across the lobby in the direction of the lift. By the time Malfoy caught up to him, Harry recovered enough to remember he was still very angry with him. He grasped the rolled up Prophet in his hand and pointed it at Malfoy.
“I told you, we need to discuss this as a group.” Harry waved the paper around. “You can’t just make decisions like this when there are lives on the line,” he admonished as he reached out and pressed the button for the lift. “I’m sure Pansy will agree with me.”
“Well,” Malfoy frowned, “Parkinson will probably agree with you. But you’ll have to wait—” he pulled out and opened the pocket watch “—six weeks, two days, and fourteen hours.”
At the impact of the words, Harry’s demeanor sank. He should’ve realized Malfoy would do it. Their exchange before the second trip all but spelled out the other man’s intentions. Six weeks? Harry wondered, but then Malfoy’s voice played in his memory. “He hired me…six weeks ago…” He was hit with a welcome rush of clarity and said, “You’re going to go to Zivantus before he hires you. You think he’ll have the answers?”
“If anyone is going to shed some light on this ridiculous web of—” but Malfoy stopped. He stared around the lobby with wide, almost panicked eyes.
Harry pushed, “What if you going back like this is the reason he hires you in the first place?”
Malfoy had gone white, much paler than his usual complexion. “I can’t—I can’t think. I can’t focus. There’s too many threads.”
“Threads?” Harry rolled up the paper and shoved it into his waistband. Stepping forward, he wrapped his hands around Malfoy’s forearms and held him still. “What’s wrong?”
“They’re not linear anymore,” he was practically panting. Suddenly Harry’s anger was replaced with a growing concern that Malfoy might be hyperventilating. “Salazar,” Malfoy breathed, his eyes darted around out of focus. “They’re going in every direction. I can barely see.”
Harry glanced around, his heart pounding. Was Malfoy having a panic attack? If they were six weeks in the past, they didn’t have the room as shelter. He scanned the lobby. The lounge’s cloak room was dark, quiet, and they’d not attract any attention in there.
“Come on,” Harry pulled Malfoy forward until his arm locked snugly around the Slytherin’s back, leading them into the room.
