Getting dressed in clothes that were quite obviously not his, far too thick for South Devon and more dress-like that was comfortable, he wondered how he came to be here.
Voldemort was long dead and while his teenage years still haunted him sometimes, Hermione invented non-addictive dreamless sleep for him and other war suvivors.
So that alley falls flat. And there were no rumors at the auror department of some new up-and-coming dark lord. There were ideas for auror training, secretly copied from the muggle world -not that they needed to know about that - of escape rooms. Training survival and logic which wizards tend to lack. But burocracy moves slow and those plans would still take months and months to get approved. Harry was obviously stumped.
He had no fix points to determine date nor time, no calender, clock nor simple window – though he theorised he was further north than he went to bed at, based on the thickness of the clothes.
But it was only when he reached for the wand that lay with his clothes that he suspected times had changed. That's not my wand. Harry thought. Hasn't been for years.
And so he told the room. That's not my wand.
But the room remained silent – smugly so if one was to ask Harry.
