A/N: right, this is one of three parts, all of which will be up hopefully soon, although i'm not setting a strict time limit because i really want this fic to be good. Reviews are most welcome and feel free to message me. I'm also looking for beta work so check out my beta profile. And i really do recommend the film 'The Lake House' with Sandra Bulluck and Keanu Reeves.

Warnings: This will contain a slash scene in chapter 3, the final chapter. As well as bad language and mentions of a relationship of a homosexual nature.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they are the creation of J.K. Rowling. In addition, I make no profit from this piece of writing.

Rating: M

Pairing: DMHP (What else do i actually write?)

Summary: Inspired by the wonderful Film 'The Lake House' this is the story of how love conquers all, including time...hopefully...DMHP slash.

The Prefect's Bathroom

Part One

Despite the size of the room, the Prefect's Bathroom, at first glance, appeared to be of a simple design. Then one would notice the ornately carved banisters and oak railings that lined the stairs, which lead up to the lip of the plainly tiled bath that was settled into the raised floor. However, then one would notice that the tiles were not plain, but ingrained so finely into the material that it was almost invisible was a masterpiece of pattern work and the imagination. Through the ethereal fog that lingered over the magically, eternally warm pool, one could see the green skinned mermaids of the ocean's depths playfully splashing tears up at any creature that happened to stray from the rainbow of feathers and furs in the pastures of their glassy confines to drink. The golden taps were delicate, twining like shining serpent's coils writhing around one another.

The walls were more silver than white, gleaming brightest when a full moon wandered across the stain glass window or a fascinating, captivating sun either woke or drifted into slumber. Small, insignificant details, such as the hovering candles that smelled of Camomile and rich, flavoursome Jasmine and the dainty Falcon hooks that lined the walls at sufficient intervals could be forgotten easily when one's eye was drawn to the simplistic splendour of the room. And it's statue; a magnificent marble piece beside the barely visible door that was melded back into the wall, hiding the rooms only stall. It was of an old Goddess, Melpomene.

Her face was a fearsome picture, with its cheekbones too high and angular and accommodating far too much of a heavenly glow for her to be human but expressive, slanted eyes and a delicate structure for her features to be mistaken for a species too far away. Curling locks wrapped protective, motherly arms around her bare torso, hiding her feminine chest as she prowled forward to rest precariously on webbed hands, gripping the tip of her plinth with pointed, talon-like nails. Her tail, a scaled, finless snake's tail serpentined up behind her, was held aloft as if by a bubbling ocean of water. Even though her chin was raised and her ornate lips set in a strong line, her eyes held a haunting longing. Her stance suggested protectiveness that, despite the jagged lines of the painfully waterless gills at her neck, she was not willing to give up. Protective of what though? Lying between the elegant twists and plains of seashells beneath her, lay a mirror, facedown. At one time, this mirror had been marble, as the rest of her was, but one day, six years previously, a young, slender hand had nervously caressed the fragile raised letters curving around the laced head of the small mirror, unintentionally reawakening its magic and causing it to wrap winding fingers around his and one other's potentially tragic destiny.

Dim green eyes watched as a muddied Unicorn tentatively ducked its head below the still water of the crystal clear lake. A sign of amusement snorted from a justly masculine, straight nose as irises shifted at the cautious, predatory movement beneath the waves. Black lashes fluttered and ebony locks sprawled out on the floors as a head lolled back as if in prayer, looking to the heavens for guidance. As it was, when the eyes sparked open once more, all they saw was the eternal hovering mist that his any ceiling securely from view.

The world was a cruel place but this was no new revelation to the boy in the Prefect's Bathroom. The hand of fate seemed to be permanently in the grasp of the Devil's claws where this boy's destiny was concerned. He often found himself wondering at the unfair balance fate dealt to her subjects. Why should his shoulders feel so heavily burdened while others around him skimmed about as if miniature feathered wings were attached to their heals and sunlight radiated from their…

Harry plunged down underneath the water, causing an explosion of bubbles. There was something peaceful about the quiet that came with the underwater pressure of liquid dampening his eardrums. Something otherworldly, as if he half expected lashes of seaweed and kelp to burst forth from beneath him, releasing dark creatures from their depths. It was a sanctuary but, as his physical state was not equipped to handle the draining of oxygen without an elusive magical transformation, the silence of the Prefect's Bathroom, with its severe locking charms that were rivalled only by those of Dumbledore's office, would have to suffice.

Despite his lack of a shining, polished shield, a few charming words to his best friends, so-called, ensured he held the latest password and, therefore, his nights of solitude that were fast becoming an addictive habit could continue. It was not difficult to bypass Hermione's moral righteousness nor to explain patiently to Ron that, no, he was not cheating on his sister, who was his not girlfriend, on these 'midnight liaisons,' as he had named them and that, yes, it was so that he could cleanse himself and have a bit of peace and quiet. The pitying looks they gave him before sending him on his way on nights such as these left a sour taste in his mouth.

Seventh year was fast becoming the most difficult year of his Hogwarts life, despite Voldemort's demise earlier that calendar year, an event Harry refused to discuss with anyone and only partially because he was not entirely sure what had happened himself. Now that his heroism was no longer needed, the bonds that held the so-called 'Golden Trio' together were starting to fade, especially as the ongoing argument of Harry's refusal to date the youngest Weasley daughter had caused Ron to recently self combust, even though Harry had been taking gentle baby steps around him since the event. Hermione was usually absent, studying for exams or somehow finding the perseverance to do the mountain of extra credit assignments on offer along with the mounds of homework, in the library or in her private Head Girl quarters. Ron had taken to joining her as, when alone, he and Harry were now finding it impossible not to argue like wild dogs at each other's throats. Thus, Harry spent most of his time alone, seeing them just long enough to coax the password from their impatient lips. Yes, he had friends, lie Dean, Seamus, Neville and even sometimes Ginny but it was not the same.

He often found himself sitting at meals trying not to vomit his half digested food back up at the sight of his friends coddling each other in his peripheral vision – yes, apparently during their private time together their personal relationship seemed to have become more intimate without them feeling the need to inform him. Harry sometimes felt guilty for feeling this way, but then he reminded himself that, as the grumpy, lonely bachelor that he was, he found all couples sickening and really should not discriminate.

So it really was no surprise that he spent at least two nights a week in this secluded heaven, sulking and wallowing in his own misery whilst procrastinating over his school work, which was steadily building up as exams crawled nearer day by tedious day. Excitement was rare and peace a delicacy, therefore it is understandable that once he discovered this sanctuary he was determined to claw and snarl at anyone who denied his claim to it.

An hour and a half after entering the steam encased water found Harry's skin freakishly ridged and wondrously numb. With some regret, he managed to haul himself from the warm water and half-stumble back down the steps without slipping once in practised movements. He wrapped his towel, a fluffy, cerulean number, securely around his waist before grabbing his hand towel and moving to lean against Melpomene's plinth while he ruffled his hair dry, effectively mussing it from its relatively tamed damp state to its dry state of world domination via shaggy mess.

Heaving a sigh and analysing that his skin was sufficiently mopped of water, Harry began to drag his wrinkled school clothes back on. First the greying trousers over loose, green boxers then the white, threadbare shirt that, had his body grown at the average rate of a normal, hormone ridden teenage boy, he should have grown out of years ago. He snarled in near disgust at the reminder of his scrawny figure as he fumbled with his shirt, albeit buttoning it wrong. Curfew was already in place and if he waited much longer the prefects would be scurrying along the hallways on their rounds and the teachers would be sculking in the shadows waiting to ambush unsuspecting students and punish them with slave driving detentions because of their punctuality issues. That was all he needed, a run in with his sarcastic, slimy Potions master, who had a vendetta against him just as violent as the previous one.

He perched back on the marble, the Goddess' head bobbing above him, and stared over at the blurred window, laughing quietly at the bucking Hippogryff that was getting annoyed with a playful Nymph. He shifted to lean back on one hand, while the other hand played with the soft fuzz of his towel. Harry frowned, scrunching his leaning hand around the objects placed beneath the statue and only now realising that they were unattached.

Dropping the towel, Harry swivelled around to face the objects, twirling one of the shells in his fingertips, feeling the grained textures and smooth underside. A contented smile lingered fro a moment before his fingers trailed to the larger artefact. A small, handheld mirror. It was a simple thing that managed to look delicate and precious all at once. It was a golden colour that seemed to shine eve without any light glancing off its surface. A bronze knotted cord arched around the circular face, scripted Latin curving below it although Harry had no idea what it meant.

With tentative touches, Harry curled his fingers around the fine, bone thin handle that looked far too fragile to be able to hold the weight of the head. His other hand reflexively came up to cradle it as he turned it over, expecting to see his eyes staring back at him. Therefore, he was shocked to find an obsidian surface gleaming back at him. He frowned.

"What the…?" Harry's eyes widened impossibly and his eyebrows shot up into his hairline. Looping, emerald writing scratched across the ebony mirror. 'What the…?' The mirror fell with a clatter back on top of the shell-covered marble, miraculously managing not to break any. He heard his heart pounding in his ears as he edged back towards the mirror, nervously picking it up, only to skittishly drop it back with an unceremonious clang when 'Holy shit!' swirled into green being.

Harry had long ago learned through sheer brick headed stupidity and stubbornness that matched a mule's, that he should not let talkative, or communicative in any way, inanimate objects peek either his interest or his curiosity. He stood glaring down at the demon mirror.

"Not funny," he murmured, cursing when a reply came back almost immediately. 'I don't need this right now, Peeves.' Harry huffed a breath of relief; at least, even if it was some sort of cursed item, it was related to Hogwarts unless someone very unfortunate out there had the same name as the Poltergeist.

"Is this a joke?" He asked, waiting for the words to sink in and disappear as he considered what else to say. "Who are you?" He felt the nagging tingling itch that kept whispering the importance of picking up the mirror again.

Harry never did receive an answer to his questions, as he was half way back to Gryffindor tower by the time it came, but his mind would often linger on that particular mirror and it was only a matter of time before he would be back to investigate.

Harry hated Monday mornings. In fact, he hated most mornings but it was particularly Mondays. They were always exactly the same. It did not have the excitement of which magical creature Hagrid would show them like Tuesdays or which plant would try to bite off your most private bits like Wednesdays. No, Monday mornings were always filled with the sickening smell of the dungeons, the sneers of snotty Slytherins and the mixing of mushy gunk to create different, more pungent mushy gunk. All after having his gag reflex induced at breakfast, of course.

It just so happened, by some rare show of fortune, that on this morning, Harry happened to be on time, thereby avoiding losing his house points by at least ten minutes. His Potions Professor wafted past him as he slid into his seat beside Seamus, with his dark robes flaring a flare that would have brought pride to his predecessor and mentor.

"Potter!" Well, five minutes was acceptable considering the teacher's severe prejudice against him. Harry sometimes found himself wondering if he had somehow inadvertently harmed the man with accidental magic.

"Yes, Professor Malfoy?"

"Stand!" The Professor ordered in a definite no nonsense tone. Harry complied. "Ten points from Gryffindor for looking like a bumbling fool. Have you never heard of a comb, Potter?" Harry opened his mouth to answer. "No, don't answer back, the result will just be the deduction of more points." He clamped his mouth shut again. "Sit!" Again Harry complied, dropping into his seat and wondering what the hell had just happened and whether he was actually still in bed dreaming.

An hour later, following various feeble reasons for point deductions and smelling very much like his robes were singed, which they actually were, Harry found himself bustling up towards Transfiguration with Dean and, once again, pondering whether he should visit the Prefect's Bathroom and find out more about the mirror. His mind seemed to have found a new way to annoy him; by repetitively reminding him that with his troublesome, curious nature, he really should be visiting the mystery again if only to satisfy himself that it was indeed a curse that should be taken to Dumbledore, although somewhere deep in the furthest recess' of his mind where his Slytherin side lingered in the shadows, a nagging voice told him he would do no such thing under any circumstances.

So, after a whole week of holding up his fortress of willpower, the inevitable happened. The foundations of his carefully constructed protections crumbled and Harry found himself speeding towards the bathroom as soon as his last lesson, Charms, was dismissed, hoping desperately that the password had not changed. As luck would have it, when he practically yelled "Lemon Fresh" at the smooth white door, it swung open just in time to let him through before banging shut and snapping locked with a definitive sense of finality. Harry could not help the comic gulp that followed as he edged around the wall to the statue. He yelped when he saw words already fading on the black. 'I wonder if he'll turn up tonight."

"Wait! I'm here!" He shouted once the curly script had vanished. 'You're early'

Harry cursed himself for trusting that this magical item was harmless. He attempted to think back to his second year to remind himself of what the dire consequences of such actions were. It had no affect on the situation.

"How do you know I'm not some curse or ghost?"

'Your acknowledgment is proof enough.'

"And how did you know I'd be back?"

'After much analysis on my part, I concluded, if you were human, from…' Here there was a paused as the green, shining ink filled up too much room on the mirror. '…your reaction that you were either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw natured and thus…' Another tense pause. '…either your curiosity or thirst for knowledge would bring you back eventually.'

"You sound like such a Slyhterin pureblood."

'I should be offended by that comment, but, as it happens, I am actually. Is that bad?'

"I've never met a nice one. You're a student at Hogwarts?"

'Sitting in the Prefect's bathroom, yes. I'm a seventh year prefect.'

"In Slytherin. No. You're lying to me." Harry did not know why he felt a hurt gurgling in his stomach. He did not know this person and definitely did not trust them. So if he was not connected to them in any way, why should he be feeling this protesting pain, an annoyingly persistent trembling over his body.

'I am not.' Harry caught the message just bfore it disappeared.

"Yes, you are," he was glad this other person had no way of hearing his anger. "I may not be a prefect but I'm sitting here in the Prefect's bathroom."

'I don't care what you say. I'm here talking to a mirror in the Prefect's bathroom…' '…on Monday the eighteenth of September 1993. Happy?'

Harry stared at the words for a long time after they had faded. Happy? Not really. "Did you just day 1993? You must be confused."

'No, I'm perfectly fine. That's the date. I just spent three hours writing it on graded essays for detention.'

"Sorry, I don't think it's a good idea to communicate anymore. I think this is a cursed item."

'No, I checked extensively in the library. The mirror will have a partner somewhere that it's directly linked to.'

"But it's 1999."

'…Oh.'

"I've got to get out of here." Harry mumbled to himself, feeling a stab of annoyance as the mirror repeated him in the green script that was fast becoming far too familiar.

The next few days found Harry having to constantly, and consciously, pull his thoughts away from the Prefect's Bathroom. Life was as mundane as ever and he found himself looking for ways to amuse himself, the option at the top of his list being his curiosity peeking towards the 'Mirror Mystery.'

However, at least for one day he had managed to avoid focusing on it too much when school life seemed to crash down on him in a single day. Following an explosive and very public argument with Ron in the Great Hall at Breakfast in addition to the normal sickening show of affection, Harry had been forced to abandon his food and troop all the way up to Divination ten minutes early. His morning had then proceeded on with the now common death predictions and an incoming blossoming romance, both of which would be in the near future and Harry found to be quite paradoxical and rather counterproductive. His free period had consisted of an illegible attempt at a nonsensical Potions essay and a run in with his Slytherin rival, Theodore Nott, the resulted in many rude names and hexes alike being thrown only to be stopped by, surprise surprise, his Slytherin biased git of a Potions Master, Professor Malfoy, which lost his house another twenty points while Nott got off Scott free.

Transfiguration had consisted of a painful mixture of sneezing on half transformed mutant duck feathers that were part fluff, part porcupine quill and getting his ear whinged off by Hermione's whining that he should apologise to Ron for his ways. Needless to say Harry had stormed out of the room the millisecond McGonagal dismissed the class.

Lunch had been a lonely affair consisting of no food and much crossing out on his Potions essay that was due last period. He eventually resigned himself to the inevitable 'T' despite spending an extra half-hour rewriting the twelve out of fourteen inches he had managed so that his teacher could actually read it. In a way, he was glad – almost – when Potions rolled around at the end of the day. At least he knew what to expect and he told himself, as he stalked into the classroom, scowl firmly in place, that things couldn't get any worse. How wrong he was. Malfoy had looked down his pointy, snotty nose at him and ordered his to pair with Nott due to his despicable lack of Potion making skills – although admittedly his Potion was a dark puce instead of a Buttercup yellow and smelt more of rotting excrement than apple blossoms. This resulted in a lesson of snide insults and much checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't caught out by his Professor for 'chatting like a grey-haired Grandma.' He still managed to lose another ten points for Gryffindor although he wasn't exactly sure how.

His evening had been slightly better. Fridays always consisted of the traditional game of 'Extreme Exploding Snap' – a new product courtesy of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes that was technically banned – with Dean, Seamus and Neville up in their dorm while Ron made himself scarce.

Nevertheless, on Sunday morning, bright and early, Harry found himself back inside the Prefect's Bathroom cradling the mirror to his chest while he sat relaxing in the warm water, hoping against his better judgement that his visitor would speak to him.

Please review and the second part will be out soon.

Dark Raven 4426