Riddled Truth

5 June, 1997

Chapter five, sorry to keep you waiting. If you're interested in this story, review and tell me so!



-=0=-



There was something—or someone, rather—resting heavily atop his body. He groaned groggily, opening his eyes to a not too-bright scene of tall buildings and blue skies above. Dark, ebony hair rested against his cheek and right eye, but he knew that wasn’t right; no Malfoy had black hair; that was part of the Black generation.



He tried to sit up, but found that the extra weight made that slightly difficult. Draco groaned again, lying back down from said weight. Just as he was about to push the extra weight off of him, a return groan escaped from the person laying on him. “Potter, get up,” said Malfoy, sneering half-heartedly as he pushed the raven-haired boy’s shoulder.



It took the other boy a minute, just as it had for Draco, but finally he sat up and looked around. Draco sat up too, feeling the back of his head. There was no bump, and he didn’t think he had a concussion—but something was definitely wrong, Draco decided, when Potter turned to look at him.



“Malfoy—”



“Potter—”



They stared at each other in shock. Draco looked at Harry as a whole; he’d grown a fair amount, his muscles had formed, and he was sure his face had gotten sharper, no longer holding the small amount of child weight it had from before. Harry was always ridiculously thin at any rate; now he looked healthy, tan and well-taken care of.



“You’ve changed,” whispered Malfoy, and by the way Potter was looking at him, he was sure he’d changed too. “My voice is lower,” he pointed out, grasping his throat and rubbing it. This had to be a dream.



When he looked over at the Gryffindor, Harry was standing. “We need to find a mirror,” he said, looking around. Draco joined him in standing, looking down at his attire. He recognized the material from Twilfit and Tattings; his mother always fancied that shop rather than Madam Malkin’s. It was fine material, most likely custom made. At least that hadn’t changed, Draco thought.



Harry was looking toward a busy street when Draco came from his thoughts; they were in a back alley, it seemed; Draco knew where they were when he saw the opposite building’s sign: Ollivanders, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.



Diagon Alley. “Wait, Potter,” muttered Malfoy furiously. Potter was just about to walk into Diagon Alley’s busy streets; didn’t he have enough common sense to think things through first? Obviously not, the blond decided, as Harry looked back at him in half-exasperation. “We don’t know what’s going on, let’s figure a few things out before we go out there.”



“What the hell happened, Malfoy?” asked Harry, frowning as he looked at him. He noticed his voice was deeper, too, but was too busy getting further upset with Malfoy to care. “One minute, you’re releasing the monster on the school—”



Draco rolled his eyes and interrupted before Harry could continue. “I’m not the heir of Slytherin, Potter!” he exclaimed. Before Harry could retort further, Draco went to grab his wand from his robe, but found that it wasn’t in the inside pocket. “My wand,” he murmured, looking around. He knew he had it when he was at the school.



As he was searching, he felt something around his right forearm tighten just slightly. Harry watched on in befuddlement, having drawn his own wand from his robe when Draco started looking for his. He felt a holster against his arm; it was unusual, since he had never carried his wand that way before. His father said that he should, or at least conceal it like he did (within what would appear to be a knife case; it fit rather nicely against his hip) to catch enemies off guard.



Muttering to himself about the change, Draco used his wand to transfigure a nearby broken brick on the ground into a decent sized mirror. Then he walked over to it, picked it up, and went wide-eyed at what he saw. “Potter, we’re older,” said Malfoy, examining his features. His face was pointier as well, even more than Potter’s, and his hair had been cut at some point to rest lightly against his ears.



“What do you mean, older?” asked Harry, looking skeptically at him. “That’s impossible.”



Draco looked up at him incredulously. “You don’t even know the half of it, Potter,” he muttered spitefully, looking back at his mirror. “I don’t understand, all I said was to make the population Pureblooded –”



Harry was looking at him as if he’d been speaking Latin.



Not bothering to try to explain, Draco set the mirror against the wall so he could still see himself, but checked things on him to see what he could find out. Nothing was out of the ordinary; he had a few galleons in his robes and his wand in his sleeve.



And Harry, instead of watching Malfoy search himself, went over to the mirror and looked in it. The biggest thing he wanted to do was get the hell away from Malfoy, but first he wanted to know what the prat had done to him. As he gazed into the mirror, he found out. Malfoy hadn’t been lying; they were certainly older. Harry’s facial structures were still the same, however; he had glasses, his eyes were green, and his nose was the same shape and length, his scar—



His scar was missing.



“Malfoy!” Harry hissed, slapping a hand over his forehead where his lightning bolt scar should have been. Draco minutely looked up, as if bored with Harry, before looking back down at his robes. “Malfoy, you prat, you’ve done something!” exclaimed Harry as if it were breaking news. Draco grunted a non-committal noise, much unbecoming of a Malfoy, in his fine opinion. “What did you do? My scar…it’s gone—”



That got Draco’s attention. He looked up from himself, crossed the distance to Potter, and hesitantly (with his sneer firmly in place) pushed Harry’s untamed hair from his forehead. Surely enough, no scar marred his skin. Draco breathed gently, looking at the spot for a moment, as if lost in a great deal of thought. “That makes sense,” muttered the blond a moment later.



“Makes sense? Nothing makes sense, Malfoy!” he all but shouted, frowning heavily.



“You don’t even know what’s going on, Potter, so shut up,” Malfoy pointed out coolly, checking one last pocket of his robes. He didn’t notice the raven-haired boy flush fully, or storm out of the alley without as much as a retort. Instead, he continued searching his pocket, where he found a piece of parchment, and when he pulled it out, he recognized the Ministry of Magic’s seal on the back of the broken wax. Opening it immediately, Draco read the words scrawled neatly there.



5 June, 1997. We at the Ministry of Magic congratulate Mr. Draconis Lucius Malfoy on his Becoming Of Age as described by Ministry Act Seventy, Adaptation B. The key to your Inheritance and Trust Vault, 413, will be bestowed upon you at your arrival to Gringotts Bank. Sincerely, The Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour.



“Fifth of June?” Draco whispered, followed by, “1997? Scrimgeour?” Malfoy asked, rhetorically and aloud, furrowing his brows. Cornelius Fudge was Minister, wasn’t he? But no, everything had changed. All Draco had done was changed everyone’s blood status, and suddenly the world was flipped upside down.



And, apparently, today was his seventeenth birthday.



“Potter, I think we have a problem,” said Malfoy, looking up, only to find he was alone in the alley. That was definitely not good, he knew, considering Potter knew absolutely nothing of what he’d done. Why did the moron have to attack him? Scowling and muttering under his breath, Draco took off out of the alley, going to look for the imbecile who could start a big bout of drama that he didn’t need.



-=0=-



He didn’t care where he was going, as long as he got away from Malfoy. Harry was sure he’d done something to cause trouble; how would he get back to Hogwarts? Was he dreaming about his physical changes? What about his scar? He felt his hand go up to his forehead to rub it, but like last time, there was no scar to feel.



Harry looked around, seeing almost everything in its familiar place. The only thing Harry found slightly odd about Diagon Alley (he’d realized he was there after seeing Quality Quidditch Supplies on the corner between Madam Malkin’s and The Apothecary) was that there were seemingly more people. That didn’t make sense, either; school was almost out, it was May after all, so why were people shopping this early?



He didn’t even know why he was in Diagon Alley. He had been at Hogwarts, it was a week from exams, and he’d caught Malfoy trying to unlock the monster on the school again. Maybe this was a trick? An alternate reality—or dream induced state—that Malfoy put his victims in before he slaughtered them.



The idea wasn’t really comforting, but he had nothing else to believe.



There were too many questions in his head. Something felt off, but at the same time, everything looked normal. The Daily Prophet Offices was still on the corner, Eeylops Owl Emporium was still down the street, and Gringotts still stood tall in the middle of everything, just down the road from The Leaky Cauldron.



Likewise, Gambol and Japes still sat, busily on the inside it looked like, next to Flourish and Blotts. Without knowing exactly why, he walked in to the bookstore, hoping to find something or someone to tell him what was going on. The inside looked the same as it had the past two times he’d been in there, with the exception that there were bundles of new Gilderoy Lockhart books, and the man appeared to have aged minimally.



Harry picked up Lockhart’s new release, wondering how he managed to write an entire book from Hogwarts while teaching—if one could call it that—Defense Against the Dark Arts. Exercising with Erumpents looked as foul as his other works.



“Harry? I didn’t know you read Lockhart’s books,” said a familiar, yet oddly strange voice.



The raven-haired boy looked up, seeing a girl about seventeen walking over to him. Her hair was tamed, but frizzy, and though she looked years older than when he’d last seen her, Harry recognized the girl immediately. “Hermione?” he asked quietly, putting Lockhart’s book down. He stared at her with a bemused expression, not exactly understanding what was going on.



Hermione stopped at the stand of books Harry was near, picking up the same copy of Lockhart’s new release that Harry had just set down. “Amazing, isn’t it? How he saves people all the time? Has so many adventures?” Harry could see a small smile playing at the edge of her lips. “I wonder what it’d be like,” she said, shrugging.



“Life’s been no picnic for us though,” muttered Harry, turning away from the stack of books by Lockhart. The man didn’t know how to sign his own autograph, for Merlin’s sake. He’d made Harry do it in detention.



The brunette looked at him oddly, but he didn’t get a chance to ask why. She seemed to be looking around the store as if she’d misplaced something or someone. “Where’s Draco?” she asked. “You’re never without him anymore,” she pointed out as if talking about the weather.



That didn’t help his already baffled state. With a clearly lost expression, Harry cautiously decided to find out what was truly going on. “You mean Ron, right? Why would I be seen with Malfoy?” he asked. This all had to be a weird dream; Harry had already decided there was something way, way off about this.



But this time, it was Hermione’s turn to be caught off guard. “Ron? As in Ron Weasley?” she asked, skeptical look across her face, but she looked around for a moment before looking back at Harry, who was still as clueless as ever. “Why would you be with him? Did you two finally talk?”



“Talk?” Harry asked quickly, interrupting her from saying more. “We just talked yesterday, Hermione. In the common room… We were talking on our way up to Gryffindor Tower,” said Harry, frowning at her.



He had planned on going into the detail about her being petrified, but she stopped him before he could do so. “That’s impossible,” said Hermione instantly. “For more than one reason, Harry; neither of you were at Hogwarts yesterday—”



“But—”



“—and even when we were in school, you wouldn’t have been in the Gryffindor common room,” she continued, looking at him as if he were sick in the head and needed immediate attention.



Harry didn’t understand. Why wouldn’t he be in the Gryffindor common room? “Of course I was,” he said surely, if not a bit pressingly, still looking at her with as much determination as he could muster. “And you were too. What’s wrong with you?”



“Harry,” started Hermione, looking around the shop again. Harry wished she’d stop doing that; it made him awfully nervous. “Neither of us has been in Gryffindor’s common room.”



Desperately, he wished she would tell him the joke. He didn’t find it funny anymore and wanted Malfoy to wake him up from this nightmare. “Last year, I was sorted into Gryffindor,” said Harry quietly, looking over at Hermione. But even this didn’t seem right; to Hermione or himself, for that matter; he wasn’t twelve years old anymore. At least, his body wasn’t.



After looking around for a few more moments, Hermione took his arm and lead him out of Flourish and Blotts, nearly dragging him down the streets of Diagon Alley toward another backstreet that Harry was hoping wasn’t the one he’d come from with Malfoy. Luckily, even if it had been, Malfoy wasn’t there. Hermione let him go, but blocked his way out. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you need to stop making wild statements like that,” said Hermione sternly, looking at him in a way that suspiciously reminded him of Mrs. Weasley.



At least that hadn’t changed.



“I don’t understand,” Harry said after he collected the few thoughts he could comprehend, looking at his friend with pleading eyes. “Hermione, tell me what’s going on. Please, I don’t think I can take much more of this. Everything’s changed,” said Harry, leaning against the brick wall of the business behind him.



Hermione looked as if she were trying to diagnose Harry with no further questions. She must have found that too hard to do, considering she crossed her arms and continued to stare at him. Harry looked down, a nervous habit of his, and found that what he was wearing actually intrigued him; he was wearing clothes much like Malfoy’s had been; black suit, polished shoes. He never wore things such as that.



To his astonishment, Hermione was wearing very appealing clothes as well; Harry distinctly remembered Parkinson, of Malfoy’s group, wearing similar clothing on the train to Hogwarts. Low skirt, chesty blouse and a tie; Harry assumed it was a trend. And then, as he looked into her face, he could see Hermione blushing. He didn’t necessarily understand that, either.



“Are you done?” she all but snapped at him.



Harry tried to hold back his kicked-puppy look, but from the face Hermione gave him, he guessed he hadn’t succeeded. “What?”



The brunette shook her head, sighing. “Never mind,” said Hermione. “Look, tell me about you being in Gryffindor Tower. I was never there, but you said you were? With Ron?”



Never in his life was he ever so confused, he was sure. Harry looked at her, almost pleading with his eyes for her to remember, but even then he wasn’t sure what she should remember. Malfoy had done something, shifted them through another dimension of sorts, and he was completely confused with it. Shaking his head, Harry looked up at her. “I think I’ve been hit with a Befuddlement Jinx,” tried Harry instead.



“Oh, that does make sense!” Hermione announced, smiling wider now. “Come on, we’ll go to the Apothecary and get you an antidote.”



“Wait,” said Harry quickly, grabbing Hermione’s arm. “Can I ask you a few questions first? You know, to see if I can straighten it out myself?”



He could see the busy street of Diagon Alley from his place against the wall. Everyone was dressed in robes similar to the Pureblood tradition; the full suits, some with outer robes, some without. That was odd; the Muggleborns (and even some of the Halfbloods) didn’t wear such clothing, rather their Muggle attire until they received new robes for the school year.



So it wasn’t just Hermione, Harry thought. “I suppose,” stated Hermione, looking over at him. “But if it doesn’t work, we’re getting a draught.”



Nodding, Harry released her arm and looked down at his hands, which were bigger and slightly more tan than he remembered. “How old am I?” he asked first, but it quickly went with more before Hermione could answer. “Where’s Ron? Why’d you ask about Malfoy?”



Hermione wore a look that Harry was sure was between nervousness and curiosity. He’d never seen the look on Hermione before, but figured she’d done it often, as she was seemingly looking on how to answer him. “You’re sixteen, I think your birthday’s in July,” said Hermione, though she seemed slightly uncertain.



“You don’t know my birthday?” he asked skeptically.



“We were never that close, Harry,” said Hermione instantly. Harry’s eyes widened. “Ron…Ron’s in Romania, with his older brothers. He has been since he got injured in the TriWizard Tournament.”



The ideas of this were swimming through Harry’s brain, but for some reason, it was as if his brain had taken the forms of a sponge that had already absorbed its limits. Though he had questions about that, too, he simply asked, “And Malfoy?”



Hermione smiled gently, as if thinking of a happy memory from her past. “You two have been inseparable for almost three years, now.” Just that made Harry blanch. While he was thinking, Hermione was analyzing him, and it took a moment before she could speak. “Did you and Draco get into a fight?” asked the brunette, who had decidedly ignored Harry’s pleas for help in understanding.



“When aren’t we fighting?” snapped Harry, who was getting fed up with getting the questions as answers to his own questions.



This didn’t seem to make Hermione feel any better, though Harry thought it would have. That was the only thing normal about the entire thing. “Come on,” said Hermione, taking Harry’s hand. Furrowing his eyebrows, he did as he was told and followed the brunette out into the busy streets. “We’re getting you that draught I promised.”



It was difficult to do while being dragged around by Hermione, who’s grip on his arm didn’t loosen, but rather tightened, to view his surroundings, but Harry managed to do just that for a few moments of being led around. Everything looked normal, if not a bit more crowded, and remained that way until he saw what should have been the road to Knockturn Alley. Just earlier that year, he’d seen Malfoy and his dad in Borgin and Burkes, selling Dark Arts Artifacts.



But, instead of Knockturn Alley, there was a road with a sign hanging nearby that read Authorization Ceremony Endorsement, with [ACE, The Pure Way] written underneath in fine script. It looked as if the road led to a gigantic building instead of an alley, making Harry curious to see what it dealt with.



After a few more moments of being pulled who-knew-where, he was stopped and Hermione sighed in relief. “Draco, there you are,” said the brunette.



Harry blanched, flushing then as he thought what Hermione was doing. Why was she giving him to Malfoy? Why had she called the prat by his christened name? A deep, nearly violent frown was apparent on Harry’s face, and he broke away from her grasp as Malfoy came to collect him.



“Leave me—” Harry began, only to be interrupted.



Hermione had her eyes on Draco as she spoke. “I’m glad I found you. Harry’s been saying weird things—I think he’s been Befuddled—did you two get into a fight?”



“A fight? Yes,” said Draco immediately, not giving Harry time to rebut. “A minor one, but we’ll work past it,” the blond continued, shrugging.



With a small smile, Hermione nodded. “Good, because I’d hate for you two to throw nearly three years of a relationship away for nothing. You know how your mum’s already planning the ceremony, Draco,” joked Hermione, but the smile on her face told Draco—and a very, very perplexed Harry—that she was only half pulling their leg.



Draco nodded as if he knew what was going on. Exactly what set up was Harry the victim of? “Right, well, best not disappoint her, after all,” said Draco, taking Harry reluctantly—though it looked pretty convincing, he praised himself—by the hand, he bowed slightly to Hermione who nodded back. “Thanks for your help, sorry to trouble you,” Draco apologized, then immediately turned and walked with a hesitant brunet down the road. “Act natural, Potter, or I’ll hex you into next Wednesday.”



“I don’t even know what today is, Malfoy,” Harry spat, frowning even deeper now. “What have you done? What’s wrong with Hermione? She acted as if she didn’t even know Ron,” said Harry, turning corners whenever Malfoy made him. “And then you were civil to her? I want—no, stop walking—I want answers, Malfoy.”



Only hesitating a second when Harry stopped their movement progress, Draco dragged him into Twifit and Tattings, then hid them both in the changing rooms. He flicked his hand, having stored his wand in his sleeve (at some point unknown, as it was there when he woke up in the back alley) and placed a Silencing Charm and a Locking Jinx on the door.



“You can’t do magic, we’re not in Hogwarts,” said Harry immediately, remembering what happened to him before school. “You’ll be expelled.”



It looked as if Malfoy wanted to shoot himself with Avada Kedavra. Truth be told, to Harry, that option wasn’t looking bad about then. “I can do whatever I please, Potter. I turned seventeen today.”



Before Harry could say anything, Draco thrust the Ministry letter into his hands and had him read. He had the same looks upon his face that Draco had when reading it. “This makes no sense,” muttered Harry, looking up at Draco again. “It’s 1997? Who’s Rufus Scrimgeour?”



“Look, Potter,” began Malfoy, who took the letter back from Harry. “I wasn’t releasing that stupid beast when you caught me in the classroom. I was using a spell, and only I was supposed to be there. You weren’t supposed to come find me and ruin it.”



“But what did you do, Malfoy?” asked Harry.



Draco noted that his voice was all but shouting. “It’s a long story,” muttered Draco, rolling his eyes. Harry, finding a bench in the spacious changing room, sat down and crossed his arms, raising one inky eyebrow at the blond as if telling him to continue. The blond copied the gesture before sighing, closing his eyes against having to look at Potter’s face as he spoke. “Ginny Weasley’s the one that has had Riddle’s diary,” said Draco, opening his eyes now to see Potter.



Naturally, his eyes had gone wide. “How’d you know—”



“Please, Potter. My father’s the one who gave it to her in the first place,” said Draco, rolling his eyes. Realization seemed to come to Harry, so Draco didn’t bother to explain. “Once you received it, Riddle showed you a memory, correct?” And at this, he received a nod. “Riddle was hoping you’d see what he wanted you to obtain for him, but of course you were too busy trying to find a way to stop Slytherin’s monster.”



“Scavenger Hunt wasn’t on the top of my to-do list,” Harry deadpanned, “considering I was trying to unpetrify my friend and make sure no one was killed.”



Draco, however, waved this off and continued his story. “Once Weasley stole the diary from your trunk—” There was a dropping of the jaw here, but Draco continued normally, “—I took it from her, and Riddle showed me how to get this.”



Out of his pocket came the tennis-sized golden orb, which Harry recalled seeing in his hands back in the classroom. “What does it do?” asked Potter, looking up at Draco now.



“It makes reality out of any false statement,” Draco summarized, looking back down at the orb. “It was a legend until Riddle figured it out. Merlin had created it, and left it for the four best witches and wizards to seek and obtain it.”



Harry rest his back against the wall, looking at Draco. The blond could tell this wasn’t sitting right with Potter. “So you’re telling me that you told a lie, and that made it true?”



Potter was staring at the orb, to which Draco nodded to. “I said that every witch and wizard has Pureblood,” said Draco.



“Pureblood?” asked Harry, looking up at the blond. “I’m Pureblooded?” A part of him was still shocked to see Malfoy nod. “But I don’t understand. Why would making everyone Pureblooded change so many things?” Harry pressed, looking down at his hands. “And why did we time jump? Why aren’t we still in second year?”



“I don’t know, Potter,” said Draco immediately to stop the boy from continuing his surely long list of questions. “I’m trying to figure it all out too, but for now, we have to act as if nothing’s wrong.”



Harry gave him an incredulous look. “How are we supposed to do that? Everything’s wrong,” said the raven-haired boy, fighting the urge to put his head in his hands. “Why did you do it? What good did it solve?”



“Are you serious?” asked Draco, with something akin to delight in his voice. Harry looked up at him, seeing a genuine grin on his face. “Your scar’s gone, Potter, don’t you know what that means?”



The boy scrunched his nose up cutely, answering with a very twelve year old response. “No more nightmares?” he asked hopefully.



Draco rolled his eyes, but sat down next to Harry on the bench as his smirk widened even more. “No more Dark Lord,” he muttered, and Harry’s eyes widened. For a moment, Draco thought the other boy might cry. 



-=0=-



Of course it can't be that easy, can it? Something's bound to go wrong. Heh.

Tell me what you think! Please review! :)

Slashy Snitch