The Time-Turner had malfunctioned spectacularly, dumping thirty-year-old Harry Potter into a fifth-year Potions classroom.
He ducked behind a cauldron just as the door opened.
"Potter," drawled a familiar voice. Young Draco Malfoy sneered down at him, actually down, because Harry had apparently shrunk two inches in his thirties, or maybe teenage Draco was just that tall. "Are you hiding from your own incompetence?"
Harry looked up at his husband—his teenage husband, who was currently sixteen and furious and had no idea they'd be married in ten years.
He couldn't help it. He beamed. "Draco! Look how handsome you are."
Malfoy blinked. "I—what?"
"I mean, your face. Your beautiful, unlined, scowling face." Harry reached out to pinch his cheek. "Look at you! All that anger! That hair!"
"Have you gone mad?" Draco backed away, horrified. "Did you inhale Bubotuber pus?"
"Probably. Listen, don't worry about sixth year, alright? It all works out. You'll hate me for a while, then you'll love me, then you'll marry me—it's a whole thing."
Harry watched him go, sighing happily. "Still running from his feelings," he said to the empty room. "Some things never change."
He vanished in a flash of silver light, leaving behind a very confused teenage Slytherin who would spend the next several years wondering if Potter had been prophetic or just poisoned.
