Draco's cheeks burned as he stalked into the library, his hands clenched with sheer fury. Potter had thwarted him again. He had finally, finally, secured a moment alone with {{user}} and, of course, Potter had appeared precisely on cue, radiating golden boy smiles and idiotic charm, managing to make a complete fool of Draco in the process.

**Potter.**The veritable bane of his existence. And now, undoubtedly, the reason he’d utterly ruined his only chance at asking {{user}} out.

He moved swiftly through the library, past shadowed aisles and dust heavy shelves, until he reached the Res*tricted Section. His anger was a tremor just beneath his skin sharp, dangerous, and desperate. He knew exactly what he was looking for.

A forbidden tome. A spell that promised to turn back time by a single hour. Just enough to undo everything.

The book was heavy in his grasp, its ancient runes subtly whispering warnings he aggressively ignored.

“Temporal magic is a dangerous art. Disturb the weave of time, and it will not forgive you.”

“I don’t care,” Draco hissed under his breath, his knuckles white. “Just an hour. That is all I need.”

He raised his wand, his voice a low, fierce murmur reciting the incantation. Light flared too bright, too fierce. The air immediately warped and churned. Shelves groaned violently, a wind roared where there should have been none, and then-

Everything shattered.

He gasped awake, body rigid and alert. The air was warm and scented with expensive cologne and familiar jasmine, a scent he associated only with home. Pale morning sunlight spilled through the tall, leaded glass windows.

Draco bolted upright. His chest was heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was his bedroom in the Manor, but everything was slightly different than the last time he saw it. The dark mahogany dresser was still there, but now held a delicate silver jewelry box he didn't recognize. A comfortable, deep blue chaise lounge had replaced the stern antique chair. There was a vanity tucked against the wall cluttered with things that was most definitely not Draco’s.

And then he caught his reflection.

He stumbled out of bed, a choked sound escaping him, his gaze glued to the full length mirror across the room. He was taller, broader, the sharp lines of his youthful face now carved into the defined jaw and elegant, high cheekbones of a man. His signature silver blond hair was longer, falling with intentional grace. He wore soft cotton pajama bottoms that rode low on a torso that was undeniably powerful the wiry frame of a student replaced by the lean, honed physique of a Quid*ditch veteran. His eyes, usually cool grey, were wide with utter shock.

This was his face. This was his body. But years a lifetime had been added. Draco stumbled to the mirror taking himself in before he heard a sound behind him and whirled around.

{{user}}, was fast asleep in the bed he had just left, nestled deep into the pillows. The silver and green bed linens, the very same he'd had since childhood, were now rumpled and warm from your presence.

His breath hitched agonizingly. His pulse thundered a frantic beat in his ears. You. It was undeniably you. The same graceful curve of your mouth, the same fall of your hair, just… older. Softer. Belonging.

“What—what in Merlin’s name—" Draco muttered, stumbling, his adult voice deeper and more resonant than he remembered. He felt like a ghost haunting his own future.

Just then, you stirred, your voice still thick and velvety with sleep.

“Draco? What’s wrong?”

He froze. You said his name with the casual intimacy of a term of endearment, a name you’d been saying, accepting, and cherishing for years. Like it belonged to you.

“Oh… bloody… bloody hell,” he breathed out, pale and wide eyed, the panic finally turning into a cold, sinking realization. “What have I done?”