Year 2004, with Harry

Harry Potter had accomplished many things in his twenty-four years. He survived the killing curse, defeated Voldemort, reformed magical creature policies, became a top Auror, and weeded out several dozen corrupt Ministry officials. He had done a lot for the Wizarding World. So much, in fact, that wizards and witches began to depend on him. Every problem they encountered, they would call for him. Every. Single. One.

Wannabe dark lord? Ring up Harry Potter. Rebel forces attacking? Hey, Harry's on speed dial; he'll help! Cat stuck in a tree? Harry-bloody-Potter at your service. It was filling up his entire timetable. His schedule currently looked something like this: Wake up. Get called down to the Ministry. Eat breakfast. Receive SOS call from Aurors. Head over to Hermione and Ron's place (he sincerely wished that they would get a fireplace soon). Run from mob of fans, or journalists asking for interiews. Get called down to the ministry. And so on. It was getting so very annoying. He even had a small department at the ministry so people could contact him easily. And speak of the devil, a silver frog patronus glided to him and opened it's mouth.

"Mr. Harry Potter sir, there seems to be some possibly dangerous material in the Department of Mysteries left over from the battle during your 5th year. We need your delicate handling and expertise to remove it, so please proceed there as quickly as possible

He briefly wondered why the Ministry would not have cleaned up all of the debris from a battle that had occured, what, nine years ago, and reminded himself that to do otherwise would require actual work.

"Oh, alright," Harry said crossly as the patronus faded away. Swearing, he dressed himself magically.

Farrell Dunn was a very nervous wizard, Harry soon discovered. He had a habit of mumbling to his shoes and fidgeting with his robes, and also stuttered so much that his words were practically indecipherable. Luckily, Harry was adept at speaking with these kinds of people. Even after all those years, the Boy-Who-Lived propaganda never really wore off. He repeated in monotone again, "You called me up at six in the morning to clean up sand. Without using magic."

Farrell flushed beet-red and started twitching visibly, "Y-yes. Sand from T-time Turners is highly h-hazardous. Magic of any k-kind can set it off."

Harry acquiesced reluctantly and conjured a mop. He mopped furiously, his knuckles white on the handle. All the while, he muttered blasphemous comments under his breath such as, "I knew the Ministry needed me to clean up their messes, but this is ridiculous!" He was surrounded by powdery sand that stretched as far as he could see. Yellow tapes cheerfully declared "Caution. Clean-up in Process." Farrell wisely stayed well behind them.

There went his plans to meet with Ron and Hermione. Third time this month he had to blow them off, nothing new. He paused in his mopping for a breather, and thought about getting the ministry to hire a janitor. Not all messes could be cleared up magically, such as this he felt it. A tickle in his nose. Oh no. Harry tried desperately to suppress it. Not now, not here! But there was no use denying it.

Crap.

"Aaaaachoo!"

Harry sneezed, the sound echoing in the large room. There was a pregnant pause, like the calm before the storm. The moment broke, and all the sand swirled into a huge cloud - with him in the center. It coalesced into a vortex and sucked him in with a small "pop." Before the darkness took him, Harry briefly thought nostalgically of Voldemort. Maniac was probably laughing his arse off from hell. "Pathetic, Harry Potter, chosen one" he imagined him saying in that high, cold voice. "I died in a super-cool, ultra-dramatic battle to the death. You *snicker* died from cleaning."

Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Savior of the Wizarding World. Done in by cleaning (which he shouldn't have even been doing). Daily Prophet was going to have a field day with this.

1 day after travelling back to 1942...

Harry awoke to a pounding headache and the feeling that he had done something very stupid and that he couldn't take it back. His mouth tasted like cotton sock, and somehow, an angry goblin with a sledgehammer had made himself welcome in his head.

He blinked blearily and sat up. Everything was blurry without his glasses, but he squinted and managed to make out, a curtain? Weird. He turned around and began groping for his glasses on the bedside table. It wasn't here, it wasn't there, and Harry could feel the threads of panic starting to wrap around his tight throat. What happened last night? he asked himself miserably. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Harry whipped around, hand reaching for a wand that wasn't there.

"Looking for these?" the person asked, with his glasses in hand.

That voice sounded awfully familiar. Low, pleasant, and patient. Harry shakily slipped his glasses on and blinked at what he saw. Albus Dumbledore, younger than Harry had ever seen him, smiling serenely. Albus Dumbledore, who had died eight years ago, standing here alive and well.

Harry's eyes rolled back in his head, and he returned to the blissful black.

Albus stared at the boy who had suddenly fainted and frowned. Was he really that frightening? Perhaps Albus looked intimidating. He would go change into the purple, polka-dotted robe that he had received as a joke present instead. No one could be scared of a man wearing purple polka-dots.

Harry awoke for the second time that day. He blinked again. Albus was still standing there. He was wearing a familiar polka-dotted robe, but yes, he was still there. Not a dream then. Maybe a hallucination? Harry poked Albus cautiously. Solid. Warm.

"I'm real," he said to Harry's unvoiced concern.

"Oh," said Harry, "I fainted then?"

"Yes," replied Albus sympathetically. "You won't do that again, will you?"

Harry blushed, "No! I'm sorry. I haven't fainted for years, since I was thirteen even."

He didn't count the time last year Hermione was giving birth, and Ron and he had unwisely decided to stay and support Hermione during the painful process. Ron had fainted as soon as the baby's head became visible. Harry soon followed him on the floor. But if you asked either of them, the whole incident had never occurred. Anyone who said otherwise was just begging to be Lockhart-ed.

"May I ask," Albus said delicately, "what happened last night?"

Harry furrowed his brows. Yesterday. What had...oh.

He remembered.

The day he landed in 1942, with Harry:

Harry had landed with a thump on his backside. He stared upwards at the pinkish swirling vortex that had just deposited him rather ungracefully. Harry noticed with a vague sense of interest (shock was a wonderful buffer; it made everything seem so distant and unimportant and not now so don't worry, Harry) that the vortex was gradually shrinking. With a small pop!, it vanished. He looked around. It was still the ministry, but everything was different. All the crystal balls were intact, and there seemed to be fewer even before he, Ron and Hermione

"Oh," said Harry, finally snapping out of it, "bugger."

20 minutes and a daring escape from the Ministry (involving several panicked apparitions to escape from the suspicious ministry officials) later found Harry on a bench with his head between his knees. He'd be fine. In a minute or so. Right. First step, when in doubt, assess the situation, like Moody taught him.

He was stranded in the past with no visible way of getting home, nothing but his wand and the clothes on his back, and had no idea what to do.

He checked his pocket and smiled wanly. Alright, fine, and a small.. no large sack of a thousand galleons, supposed to be for emergencies. Well, this qualified all right.

He was currently located outside... He looked around, recognizing the place, before spotting the familiar Three Broomsticks inn sign behind him. He was lucky, he felt, to get to Hogsmeade, which he knew well.

Harry Potter walked into the Three Broomsticks, noting the many ways, subtle or not, that Hogsmeade had changed.

The decor of the Broomsticks had changed somewhat to Harry. It seemed quaint and old-fashioned. Harry figured that he would get used to the changes in due time. He approached the bar where an ancient wizard was staring gloomily at his sole customer- a suspicious looking humongous witch (that could have reached Hagrid's nose) that seemed unusually green in color, and practically screamed in fear when Harry had walked in her general direction, running comically out of the bar and leaving behind her plate.

It was not that he was the ugly one here.

The reaction of the barkeep was totally different. He happily served Harry a his light lunch, and happily gave Harry a copy of the Daily Prophet when he inquired for it, inviting Harry to sit by the bar as his lunch was prepared.

Harry sat down, opening the paper. Almost immediately, he was happy that he had did so when he saw the date. June 16, 1942. This was complicated. He had expected to be back thirty, forty years at the most, but sixty-two years!

So his location was in the Three Broomsticks Inn. In 1942. His emotional state was...

He stared blankly at the paper for a good five minutes, until his lunch was finished and a few other customers had walked into the park, before giving up.

Goddamnit. They sure as HELL did not have situations like this in the manual.

Harry slapped himself and took a deep yoga breath. Okay, calm down, Potter. You can do this. He just needed...a plan! Harry glanced toward the pub, practically empty because of the current war-time situation. He glanced back at a puddle at his feet that reflected a haggard and panicked face. His haggard and panicked face. Harry stood up. The plan would wait. He was way too sober to be dealing with this right now. Some beer would help, yes, it would help.

1 day after travelling back to 1942...

"I remember getting drunk. Like really drunk. Like Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, maybe this fourth glass is a bad idea, drunk," answered Harry. "And...nothing else. I was hoping maybe you could tell me what happened?"

Albus stroked his beard (shorter than Harry remembered and with streaks of auburn, this was so weird). "Well..." he said.

The day Harry landed in the year 1942, with Albus:

Albus was on his nightly patrol when he heard shouting. He immediately followed the sound, his heart beating faster. Was it another one of Gellert's supporters? Albus rounded the corner only to encounter a curious sight. A black-haired wizard facing two other violent-looking men. By the way the boy was swaying and the slurred speech, Albus guessed he was more than a little tipsy. One of the attackers snarled at the boy's comment and raised his arm to cast a spell. Albus opened his mouth the warn the green-eyed boy.

There was no need. Before his attacker could even get out the first syllable of his spell, the boy had cast a linked spell. Judging by the almost rope like, helical twist and reddish color of the spells, he had used Expelliarmus, Stupefy, and Incarcerous. Albus was more than impressed. In fact, he felt his eyes take on a speculative gleam.

With another hiccup, the young wizard incapacitated the other man. Suddenly, his head whipped around and his eyes found Albus'. Albus tensed.

1 day after travelling back to 1942...

"And then?" Harry asked, almost dreading the answer. Please let his chronic idiocy to have been on break last night, please.

Albus blinked. "I'm...not quite certain myself."

And Harry promptly threw up.

Looking at the pathetic man, Albus decided to reconsider his plans. This Harry, though capable indeed, did not seem to have the self-control and abstinence needed for the tutoring of a few hundred students. No, not indeed.

"Come on, young man, let me bring you back to the Three Broomsticks." Albus twisted his lips, into a very false smile.

A/N: Decided to put this up; it was sitting in Document Manager for too long. Reviews make the world go round. And writers writing faster. Even a smiley face, or a "This is terrible" would help!

Grammar mistakes, problems?