Harry felt something tugging at the insides of his nostrils. No, not the inside of his nostrils. Instead, the mysterious force was working its way up to Harry's brain. The force began to pull apart Harry's brain, he could feel it, his head was ringing…

Harry gasped and shot up. He blinked rapidly and found that everything was out of focus. The strong scent of ammonia filled his nose, and he recoiled. It was that smell, so strong and overpowering, so concentrated, that had sent him reeling back. After a moment, Harry realized it must have been smelling salts.

"Look, he's in decent condition," a girl's voice proclaimed. Harry put a hand to push back the hair off his forehead, and then turned his face towards the sound of the girl's voice, which was bright and as clear as a bell. He must have collapsed in the Ministry. "Are these your…erm…"

"Glasses," Harry said, reaching out a hand. "Yes, thank you." A smooth-skinned hand placed the familiar frames in Harry's palm, and quickly, he shoved them on his face, eager to get away from the scene. However, as soon as Harry's eyesight came into focus, he realized that the task of escape would be quite impossible.

A gaggle of girl surrounded him, clutching books to their chests and studying him as if he was a foreign species. On first sight, he labeled them as schoolgirls, because most of them appeared to be around the age of sixteen or so. But these were no ordinary schoolgirls. They were wearing dresses quite unlike any Harry had ever seen. He paused for a moment, and suddenly, a memory was triggered. Back when he was much younger, still a student in muggle school, he had learned of an extremely powerful royal family named The Tudors. He remembered the images of the woman, all long-necked and haughty, wearing dresses exactly like the ones the girls before him wore.

As he stared at the girls in front of them, a bold looking one at the front of the group blushed and whispered something to the rest of them. The girls began to giggle loudly. The bold one shook back curly blonde hair and lowered her lashes. Harry, dazed and confused, remained silent and frozen.

"Are you feeling well?" The clear voice rung out again, and Harry turned quickly to see who was speaking to him. A girl with a solemn expression was kneeling by his side, a small vial and a handkerchief clutched in either hand. She frowned at Harry when he opened his mouth and then closed it, unable to respond. "You're not about to have a fit, are you?"

The gaggle of girls let out more peals of high-pitched laughter. Harry glanced towards the ceiling above him, which was crossed with rib vaulting. It was extremely familiar. And while it was comforting to recognize a familiar setting, Harry couldn't quite identify it. He had been wrong. This place was certainly not the Ministry.

"Where am I?" Harry asked the girl, who stared at him with serious eyes.

"Hogwarts, of course." She frowned at him. "Good god, Henry. You must have taken a hard fall." The girls twittered even more loudly, and Harry screwed up his eyes at the noise. His insides squirmed, and his brain felt like it was being tugged at. The smelling salts had irritated him. Clearly, he reckoned, he was hallucinating. This was some sort of odd dream. Maybe it was a nightmare.

The girl noticed his pained expression, and turned to the group of schoolgirls. "Go on," she commanded in a voice that held such power, it couldn't be reckoned with. "I'll be to class in just a moment. I'm going to make sure he's really well. Go on." She nodded fiercely to the bold-looking girl, who seemed to linger closer to Harry, but upon receiving the nod, the girl turned on her heel and flounced after her classmates.

"I'm not Henry, I'm Harry." Harry's voice was barely higher than a whisper. He turned and looked from side to side. The floors were stone, the walls were equipped with torches, and the windows were stained in bright flashes of crimson and canary yellow and deep navy. He even recognized the long, red rug that ran down the center of the hallway. At the end of the hallway was an antique table that held an ugly, blue china urn. Harry's heart leapt within him. That urn had graced the corner of the second floor when Harry had attended school. However, in his third year, on his way to class, Harry had run too quickly and knocked the table a slight bit, causing the urn to fall to the floor and smash into pieces. The squib caretaker, Filch, hadn't been able to fix the vase. But here it stood, elegant and proud, right in his line of vision.

"You seem unsteady." The girl laid a long-fingered hand on his forearm, and instinctively, Harry pulled his arm out of her grasp. He cradled his arm against his chest, and then glanced suspiciously at her.

Her face betrayed no emotion. She was not smiling; there was no twinkle in her eye, no hint of a joke in her voice. Obviously, she found Harry to be acting oddly, even mad. She believed in this mad fantasy constructed by his muddled mind. Harry wondered what had happened at the Ministry to make him have this strange dream.

All the while, she studied Harry with a shrewd expression. Her face, he decided, was exquisite. It was set in almost a scowl, and yet, the features of her face were finely wrought, as if crafted by a master of sculpture. Her nose was long and thin, her lips parted and red, her eyes a stunning collection of blues, greens, and surrounding the pupils, yellow. Her cheekbones were high on her face, and her chin was pointed. Her dark hair fell long and wavy down her back. She was not a conventional beauty, like Ginny. There was nothing to suggest the soft feminine beauty that Ginny so easily exuded. She was sharper, more definite, and more edgy. And yet, despite it all, she had a face one could trust.

"Tell me something," Harry said, narrowing his eyes and arching his back. "Where am I?"

"Hogwarts. I thought we had just finished discussing that."

Harry watched her face for a flicker of a lie. There was none. He glanced at her attire. It was like the girls he had seen before. She was dressed in a blue satin dress that almost matched her eyes perfectly. It had a fitted bodice, (lavishly decorated with gold thread and what looked like miniature pearls) cupped her narrow silhouette. The waist was dropped into a deep V, and her skirt fanned out around her. In her hair, which she had drawn back from her face, was a large gold ornament, again, embellished with precious jewels, that kept her hair pinned in place.

Harry spoke up again. "What year is it?"

Her expression changed from impassive to questioning, finally resting on worried. "You know what the date is, don't you?"

"Just tell me," Harry replied through gritted teeth.

She was quiet for a moment before answering. As she told him, she backed away from him slightly, as if telling him the date might cause him to explode.

"1616 Anno Domini," she murmured, the Latin rolling off her tongue rapidly, like water streaming forth down a mountainside.

"1616. 1616. 1616." Harry shook his head so violently his whole body shook. The girl stared at him still, her eyes wide now. She stood up and took a step away from Harry, but did not leave him. "No, it's not. It's 2001, you see. And I'm not Henry, whoever the bloody hell that is. I'm Harry Potter. I'm at the Ministry of Magic and it's 2001."

"What on earth are you rambling about?" The girl stooped so she could look Harry in the eyes, clearly evaluating his sanity. "There's no 2001, this is 1616, Henry. Stop saying your name is Harry, it's Henry, dammit." She immediately touched her mouth, as if asking for forgiveness for cursing. "You're frightening me. You must have hit your head harder than I originally thought."

"Ella?" A tall, broad shouldered boy appeared at the end of the hallway. He puffed out his chest and looked at Harry in a nasty manner. Harry was suddenly reminded strongly of Gilderoy Lockhart, who the boy resembled strongly, with his golden locks and satisfied smile.

"Holden." Ella, if that was her name, greeted the boy coldly, not taking her eyes off of Harry, who had sunk onto his elbows. He closed his eyes, wondering if he could fall asleep on the spot. Hopefully, he would wake up soon, hopefully on the floor of the Ministry, hopefully not insane.

"Comely lover, why aren't you in studies?" Harry, for the first time, realized how elaborate this whole dream sequence was. Holden spoke in old English, and as Harry glanced at Ella's schoolbooks, which lay scattered beside him (Harry supposed she must have dropped them when she arrived to revive him), he saw that the titles were also written in old English. Even Holden's clothes were ancient, he wore tights and flat shoes, with a rather long shirt that Harry identified as a tunic. Like Ella's clothing, Holden's was covered in jewels.

"Don't call me such things," Ella said, her tone annoyed. "I think Henry is hurt. Please help me, get him to his feet so I can take him to the Hospital Wing."

"He looks weak," Holden agreed, but made no move towards Harry.

"Please," Ella begged, looking over her shoulder at Harry, who had risen, shakily, to his feet. He reached out and touched the walls, which felt very cold, very smooth, and very much real. He wondered, for the first time, if he wasn't dreaming after all. Harry strained to remember what had happened before he had blacked out. There had been dust, golden dust. It had entranced him. Harry remembered the grains of it, falling through his fingers.

All of a sudden, Harry's head began to buzz. An old memory resurfaced in his mind. He was standing in the Hospital Wing, with Hermione. She had looped a chain around both of their necks, and held on to a small charm that was attached to the chain. She had turned the little charm three times, and it had tumbled over and over. Harry had watched as the golden dust inside the glass charm had slithered over the glass surfaces.

It was time. Harry had somehow come in contact with the dust of time. Harry cursed himself. He had somehow managed to send himself back in time, all the way to 1616. He felt panic tighten in his chest.

However, he didn't have much time to worry, because he felt a pain in the back of his head, as if he had been hit with a sledgehammer. And then, Harry sunk to the ground once more.

A/N: Please review! It actually motivates me to write chapters, which I have been slacking on. I work really hard on my stories, reviews are much appreciated!