Chapter Text
Draco had a routine. He’d do the same thing each morning - a quick shave, a run, a shower. He’d usually be done when Harry was waking for the day, and his husband would be cooking something for him upon his return. It was comforting, routine, and comfortable, and he was so used to it. He looked forward to it each day, in a small way, because running was one of the few times he could solely focus on himself and his body, and it gave him a good idea of how he was going to feel for the day.
Today, he didn’t want to get up. He was a creature of comfort and routine, and this was unlike him. In some impossible way, this bed was too comfortable. It wasn’t just good , but better than usual— he felt better than expected. He usually dragged himself out to go on the run in the morning, even though he always would because his shoulders or knees ached. He would run until he couldn’t, and it got a bit longer every day. Today, however, he felt like he could run miles and miles because all of the usual things cementing him in bed weren’t doing it today. Today, he felt like staying in bed because he never got to feel this good.
He reaches over, his hand snaking through the too-soft bedsheets, looking for Harry, only to be met with air as his hand slides off the side of the bed.
This didn’t make sense because they had a king-sized bed, but more so, Harry slept against the wall. A few months had gone by when they first moved in together when he would sleep terribly, as he was plagued with nightmares, and he would toss and turn each time.
It took a long conversation before he finally admitted the issue. He needed to feel safe. Draco hadn’t considered this, but since they moved the bed into the corner of the room, with Haz's side pressed up against the wall, they’d slept soundly.
So, where was the rest of the bed?
Draco hesitantly opens his eyes, sits up, and is greeted with a distinctly unfamiliar sight. His eyes don’t take time to adjust, though they’re much less out of focus than usual.
He wasn’t unsafe, but this wasn’t his house. That should be: he didn’t think he was in danger. He looks down at the bed, at the deep green sheets that weren’t his own. Or at least hadn’t been for quite some time.
Draco pulls back the curtains on his bed, feeling a sinking feeling as he realizes he’s right and in the Slytherin dorms. He was right. He hadn’t been here in nearly two decades.
He rolls his shoulders back, and there’s no twinge of pain between them as he does. His elbow doesn’t click when he extends it, and his neck.. well, that still hurts, but that had been a constant issue for him. One he usually needed a healer’s help for.
If he was sleeping, he could try to wake himself up. A lucid dream state like this could mean many different things, but it could be some sort of enchantment. There was no natural way of knowing unless…
A hand comes up to his face. hard.
“Ah, fuck,” all slapping himself does is hurt.
So, maybe he’s not sleeping.
He looks down and inspects himself - this feels like a waking nightmare, dragged back into his teenage body like a curse. All the aches and pains were gone, but he didn’t know how old he was. He turns his arm over because if there’s anyone way to know how old he was, he’d know by whether or not he had a brand. He doesn’t feel that young, which is good, but he also doesn’t know.
He’s met with a bare arm, which... dates things.
By its looks, he’s no older than fifteen, as he isn’t branded. He runs his hand along the clear skin of his forearm and feels something threatening behind his eyes, prickling and hot and far too much for him to handle right now.
From the dark of his dorm, he hears a voice. “Draco?”