Star Quality

Chapter 13

Harry woke up feeling hugely disorientated, the smell of coffee drifting into the room. For a while he just lay there, eyes closed, feeling the uncomfortable, elderly mattress digging into his spine, and his heart started to do an uncomfortable pitter-patter that made him feel light-headed. He opened his eyes, reached out to his bedside table for his glasses and . . .

His wand rolled into his hand, as if he'd Summoned it, the wood warm and tingly between his fingers.

Harry stopped breathing for a moment, and then he sat bolt upright, Summoning his glasses with a quick, smooth, perfect non-verbal swish. The room swam into focus. Sirius' bikini-clad girls were back, staring into space with vacant, bored expressions, and when Harry turned his head towards the chest of drawers, the top was piled with detritus from work. The scrolls from his latest case that he'd brought home to read in bed. A broken time-turner that he'd wondered vaguely if he could fix. A jacket packed with protective spells that he always forgot to take with him.

Harry surveyed the room, his heart now absolutely pounding, and his wild gaze lighted on—

Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit. The clock on the wall, a Christmas gift from Mrs Weasley, had a hand pointing to Really late for work.

For a moment he dithered in indecision – should he forget about work and head straight to find Draco? – but then he remembered, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, that this was the wizarding world, not a weird, Muggle facsimile where Draco floated around the world playing at being a celebrity. In this world, Draco had undoubtedly just woken up back in his bed in Malfoy Manor. Where his parents were.

Memories of the previous night came back to him in patchy, ill-fitting pieces; it felt like snatching at smoke. What had even happened? He could remember Draco wishing the world back to normal, and the feeling of panic, of disintegration as the world had changed, and then . . . nothing. Why had Draco's wish worked? Harry had wished to go back to the wizarding world so many times he'd lost count, and it had never worked. But when Draco had tried it . . .

Harry realised he was holding himself so tightly that his neck ached, and he tried to relax, then remembered that he was late, and panicked all over again. He was never late for work. Sometimes, he even slept at work, waking up sore and uncomfortable at his tiny desk in the main office, and throwing himself straight back into the fray.

Harry nearly ran to his wardrobe, and then remembered he was a wizard, swishing his wand and revelling in the feel of the magic shooting what felt like directly out of his arm and flowing down his fingertips, making his wardrobe doors fly open and his neat Auror robes stream out to settle on the bed, drawers opening and shutting as undergarments flapped out to join them. He dressed quickly, throwing a quick Scourgify over himself as he dashed out of the room and down the stairs.

Kreacher passed him a mug of coffee. "Good morning, master," the elf said suspiciously.

"Er, hi, Kreacher," Harry said, giving the drink a tentative sip; it was lukewarm, so he drained it down in only a handful of gulps.

"Will master be wanting cereal or porridge?" Kreacher asked, folding his arms. "Or a cooked breakfast? Master is always in a rush, never eats properly. Kreacher thinks he should—"

Harry suppressed a sudden, mad urge to kiss Kreacher on the top of his head; the old elf would never let him hear the end of it. He was home. He was home! "Sorry, Kreacher, I've got to go. I'll be back for dinner, I hope!" he said, and then fled to the drawing room, taking a quick pinch of Floo powder, flinging it in the fireplace, and calling, "The Ministry of Magic!" as he dived in.