Autor's Note:

Although I cannot guarantee that this story will be completed, I do believe that it will be. I have planned the plot so far and actually want to see it finished. Therefore, for those who like it, there is a good chance for this to happen.

Drifting away

Disgruntled, Harry poked around in his sundae, which had long since turned into a thin mud. There had been times when one of those would have put a smile on his face. Sadly, his ability to enjoy such small things carelessly had long been little more than a echo of happier days. Now one could certainly think that a wizard of over thirty years, sitting in front of an ice-cream parlour and calmly licking said frosty sweets, should not complain about his lack of contentment.

Unfortunately, this assumption was profoundly wrong. He did not spend his afternoon here to bask in the sun and cheer in his leisure. The opposite was the case. He had tried to rediscover old pleasures that he had been losing over the years. But he no longer felt as he used to. Even the shop, where the table he was sitting at belonged to, was not the same as before.

The ice cream parlor, that once belonged to Florean Fortescue, was now run by someone else he didn't know. He had hoped, that this visit would remind him of more beautiful, bygone days from his childhood, but this effect was greatly limited. Perhaps it was because the quality of the ice cream did not even come close to Fortescues' former range of products.

Perhaps he just imagined it. But the memory of another good man whom the war had devoured did not exactly improve his mood. Perhaps he would think differently today, if this so-called war had ever really come to an end. Certainly, officially power was back in the hands of relatively law-abiding people. But the scattered slaves of his deceased arch-enemy had not simply disappeared. The hope, that the snake would die quietly without its head, had not been fulfilled.

He had really tried to live a normal life. With a wife, children and a halfway fulfilling job. After all, this was, what the vast majority of people, whether they were magical or not, expected from life. In fact, he had failed in all three categories. His relationship with Ginny had lasted barely a year, and after her he had never been close enough to anyone to develop anything more than a hot night together. In the end, he had married his job and not a woman. Ginny had realised this early on. In the end, Harry wasn't enough for her, he was more absent than present in her life. The death of their relationship had hurt, but he understood.

Following the separation, she had played Quidditch professionally for two years, then got pregnant by her coach and finally married him. She now had four children and seemed satisfied to Harry when he saw her on those rare occasions when he engaged in the ordeal of visiting the Burrow again. Molly had never really gotten over Ginny's break-up with Harry. Subliminally, he didn't really feel welcome there anymore.

The conversations there were awkward and distant. If Bill, Ron or Hermione were at those gatherings, it was less difficult, because he could talk with them about his work or his private projects concerning his mastery in defence against the dark arts. But even these three were increasingly alienated from him. After all children were the main topic of conversation with the Weasleys. His friends were no exception. Although he had been a bit envious of them at first, he was simply bored with them now. But they were also tired of Harry's never ending private war with the many splintered Neo Death Eater groups.

They did not appreciate being reminded that the situation was not that well at all. Certainly Hermione did everything in her power at the Ministry to fight for more equality in the magical world. But these people didn't care about laws passed by a ministry, that had been contaminated and corrupted by "filth". Harry's enemies knew only the language of violence.

After all, there was no good or evil for them, only power and those who were too weak to seek it. In recent years, Harry had seen only too clearly what these degenerates thought was strength. They regularly ventured into areas of magic that would make bile and gastric juices boil in every person with just a hint of decency and dignity. In a way, it was consoling to know that the fools were too sloppy and clumsy to use their means effectively.

On the other hand, of course, it was difficult to anticipate where they would strike next in the absence of a clearly identifiable concept of leadership. In most cases the Aurors, of which he was one, came too late. All that remained were mutilated Muggles, burning houses and mountains of corpses. The longer this chaotic horror lasted, the more restless and merciless Harry became. At the beginning of his career as an Auror he had worked with stunning spells. Nowadays he mainly used curses that left permanent damage, if they didn't kill his victims immediately. He had a whole arsenal of them. He hated what those cowardly monstrosities had turned him into. Even for the Daily Prophet the "man-who-won" had become "he-who-kills".

In all honesty, Harry could not explain where all those Neo Dead Eaters came from. He alone had killed over a hundred of them by now, but more and more were coming. The magical world was small and such a death toll was absolutely problematic if they wanted to be permanently able to stay alive as a society. There were murmurings behind closed doors, that Britain had become an international haven for radical pure-bloods, despite all the Ministry's attempts to prevent such a flare-up of that devastating ideology.

Initially, the increased immigration of prestigious european houses seemed to be a blessing. Now it smelled suspicious. It was obvious that the cells and small associations of his enemies were supported by someone. Naturally, this also applied to the old suspects, who even today, with all due caution, made no secret of their convictions.

Suddenly something tore him away from his thoughts. A loud bang, accompanied by many others, rang out around him. And where the noise had broken out, there were now people dressed in old-fashioned black capes and silver masks, all of which looked extremely worn.

Before the Death Eaters could react, he had already put a stunner on two of the dozen and had barricaded himself behind a table he had knocked over. He would have liked to snort loudly. Such amateurs! But he didn't want to complain, better trained opponents would undoubtedly have caught him off guard and that would probably have cost him his life.

But he knew that no matter what kind of stupid fools they were, he could hardly stand his ground against this quantity of people. Just as he decided to apparate to the Auror headquarters, when he heard an uncomfortably high woman's voice shouting, "Adgenera Transitum!"

A blindingly bright flash of light, which seemed to fluctuate irregularly between a bright yellow and a biting violet, shot towards the table. He had never heard of this spell before, but the table seemed to be no barrier to this spell. It literally exploded in front of him, and when the shock wave pushed him away, he had a strange feeling that reminded him of travelling with a Portkey on the one hand and of a somewhat mitigated Cruciatus Curse on the other.

It was painful and seemed to have no direct source, but it was not strong enough to make him forget his surroundings in agony. As he flew through the air, the environment appeared to have disintegrated, leaving only a chaotic play of both colours. He shut his eyes as the bright light blinded him and listened to the roaring noise that now seemed to permeate everything.

Then it ended. The bright light was no longer apparent and the noise had also given way to the sounds of a busy street. His feet were apparently on solid ground and when he opened his eyes he realized that he was still in Diagon Alley. But something was wrong. Not only was there no sign of his attackers, the street looked more ancient than ever. And so did the people in it.

The clothes were basically the same style as the appalling formal robe that Ron should have worn in their fourth year, only perhaps a little bit more elegant than that one. His first clear thought, after looking at the scenery for a few minutes, was that he must have gone back in time. Of course, there was also the question in his mind to what extent something so absurd could be a clear thought. He found his composure again and looked around in panic for a place where he could buy a newspaper and found it in the rather battered shop called "Gamps Bookstore". He entered the shop and immediately went to the newspaper stand near the front door.

He couldn't find a Daily Prophet. But another newspaper with the formal name " The Magical Harbinger" seemed to exist in large quantities. What he saw there surprised him. He was in the past, but not very far from his starting point. It was August 29th, 1996. He had only been thrown back a little less than fifteen years. But why on earth, in the timeperiod when he was supposed to be in his fifth year of school, were all those people running around in clothes that might have been fashionably acceptable in the early 1950s?

"This just can't be true," exclaimed Harry stunned.

"Yes, isn't it? Bloody Mudbloods just kill, and the Ministry still leaves them running around wild. Far too lax this whole so-called integration policy," growled a man behind him.

Harry turned around, still confused, and gasped, "What?", facing a less pleasant contemporary. In his state of neglect he vaguely reminded him of the members of the Gaunt family, although he could not see any direct resemblance. Nonetheless, the man seemed to come from an equally degenerate lineage. He had impossibly high cheekbones and oddly wide jawbones.

The squinting eyes tried to focus Harry with difficulty and the man growled: "Well, the article! That's what you were talking about, weren't you?"

Jerkily he drove down and read muttering the biggest headline: "Riddle group commits bestial attack again - three pure bloods dead!" When he read this, he didn't know what to think of that dubious message, as it seemed to be somewhat paradoxical, but he decided to be careful.

"Of course. What else could I have meant? I'm just a little shaky today, mister."

"I can understand that", the man remarked nodding, "Times are tough, with these terrorists loitering everywhere. What was your name again?"

"Harry James..." he automatically produced, but managed to recall his planned caution and left his last name unspoken.

"James? Never heard of them. Mudblood, huh?"

"No, no, half-blood. My father's name was James", Harry replied, who had to make increasing efforts to calmly ignore the expression "Mudblood", which he had not heard in public for years.

The man with his greasy hair looked at him suspiciously and then slowly said, "You look mighty like a Potter. But the only two Potter men I know alive are good customers of mine."

He looked at him with a challenging look, whereupon Harry guessed impulsively: "I once heard of a Potter; had something to do with Qudditch. ...but I can hardly remember."

"Well, I'm not surprised. James Fleamont Potter played for England as a chaser for some time. His son, Charlus, certainly didn't inherit his talent. Never even made the house team. Mr Potter was very disappointed. Well, he's more like his mother, Marguerite Fawley, now Potter, of course. Pretty frigid, but clever woman. If you should ever meet her, don't say anything wrong."

"Yeah, sure," Harry managed to reply sounding sufficiently bored, "I gotta get going. How much do you want for the paper?"

"Three Knuts," the ugly shopkeeper demanded.

He dug out of his wallet, threw the requested amount at the man and left the shop hectically. He had the not unfounded suspicion that in this strange world, whatever went wrong here, there was no Harry James Potter. There was still a chance, but it was very small. His father had married another woman and had fathered another son. And the anti-Muggleborn sentiment seemed to be everywhere.

Which meant nothing good for his mother - or Hermione or any of the other Muggleborn people he knew. Normally he would have thought this was a world where Voldemort had gained and held power much earlier. But the newspaper article somehow stood in open contradiction to that. Who was this "Riddle Group" and why did they kill Purebloods?

He decided to study the newspaper extensively and therefore moved towards the Leaking Cauldron. He passed many shops that were completely unknown to him. Shops like Ollivanders on the other hand still seemed to exist. The wizards and witches who passed by him looked at him contemptuously or snorted in disgust.

Some even shouted at him, that he was a shame for the wizarding world, because he allowed himself to walk around in rags. Even the loud reflection on the outrageousness of letting Mudbloods into Diagon Alley often rang over to him from people passing by. In fact he was wearing a modern, plain, dark brown cape. He didn't think he was dressed badly, but the society obviously saw it differently.

In the Leaking Cauldron he sat down at a table in the darkest corner he could find. The innkeeper seemed to take no notice of him and Harry had no problem with that, as he was much too disturbed to eat anything anyway. The newspaper offered some news for him. For example, the longer article about the attack on the second page reported in more detail about the Riddle Group. In fact, this group, which was called a terrorist organization, was led by a certain Tom Riddle.

Just the mere mention of his real name in a newspaper seemed absurd. And their motive was even more bizarre, considering that the culprit was the Dark Lord. He fought for the rights of muggleborn, half-bloods and Muggles. The attack had struck an undersecretary of the minister a certain Peter MacDougal and two Aurors. It was mentioned only in passing that four of Riddle's followers were killed as well.

What he could read from the articles of the first pages was that there was a segregation of the magical society into mudbloods, blood traitors, half-bloods and Purebloods. It seemed that every pure-blood who had sired offspring with Mudbloods or Muggles was officially called a blood traitor. The term Muggle-born did not seem to exist.

Just as Harry was engrossed in trying to extract information from the elitist creation of a newspaper, he was addressed by a man with an all too familiar voice: "Mr. James, I presume? I think we're gonna have to have a little talk with you."

Harry looked at his dead godfather's face. Sirius Black stood before him, wrapped in a rather opulent cape, and next to him stood a witch, unknown to him, with a merciless expression. He looked much younger than he remembered him, but also somehow colder and the disparaging look with which Sirius looked at him boded little good.

"How do you know my name?" Harry asked friendly.

He was negatively surprised that his amicable tone was apparently taken as a mockery. For Sirius raised his eyebrows and replied harshly, "A trustworthy merchant, by name Mr. Gamp, informed us that a sorcerer dressed in a strange cloak, who was most likely a Mudblood, but at the same time bore a pungent resemblance to James Potter, had appeared in his shop. Since only one person in this room fits that description, I think it's obvious."

"Oh, I told him I was a half-blood."

"Then show me your blood-status certificate," Sirius replied icily

Since Harry did not react due to his surprise, the other said with a serious expression: "Of course you are a dirty liar, like all Mudbloods. Obviously you didn't make a too long detour to Diagon Alley, but the exclusion of the Mudbloods from Diagon Alley was violated. You are not carrying a blood-status certificate. And last but not least, you are also cheeky. You're in for a big fine, little mongrel."

"How much is this going to cost me?" Harry replied without outwardly showing his growing irritation.

"Listen to this Sirius, this guy really thinks he can pay it!" laughed the woman angrily, "We don't have time for such games!"

Harry rolled his eyes and said, "Just tell me how much."

"Very well, to maintain form, I will tell you. A Mudblood can't pay for it anyway," Sirius replied amusedly, "One galleon for entering an inclusive district for pure and half-bloods, two for fooling two Aurors, and last four for not carrying documents of identification. And can you afford that, vermin?"

Harry took out his wallet, looked for seven galleons and put them on the table: "Will that be all?"

Both Aurors stood shocked and stared stunned at the gold coins on the table. Then they looked at each other briefly and Sirius said indignantly to Harry: "Whom did you steal this money from, you lowly creature? It looks like you're going to be a bigger deal than I thought. Talk!"

"Why would I have stolen that money? It has been hard-earned," Harry exclaimed angrily. He resolved to think of that repulsive form of Sirius only as Mr. Black.

"Very simple, scum. No work without a blood-status certificate. And nobody's stupid enough to forget it on a trip to the world of real wizards and witches. Not even a dirty little mongrel like you."

"Well, since you don't want my money, I'll keep it," replied Harry, who took his money back. He did not manage to suppress the impulse to add: "It's not that I would want to give it freely to a gang of elitist morons!"

Knowing that his chances of getting away without any trouble were gone, he pulled himself up, quickly raised his wand, stunned his former godfather and threw himself aside. This was his luck, because a bright green flash, all too familiar to him, thundered against the wall he had just been sitting at. Aurors who fired killing curses in such a banal situation! This world was seriously screwed up!

He conjured a special shield of emulated stone around himself. Actually, it was more of a convincing illusion, which couldn't hold off stronger spells, but effectively covered him up. The idea was to make his opponents believe that he first had to smash this imaginary wall. This would not be able to ward off killing curses, but it would preserve the time to disapparate. For indeed the Aurors had strangely enough decided not to erected an anti-disapperation ward. While the shield was being ripped apart by an explosive curse, Harry disappeared from the Leaking Cauldron.

Harry did not know how he had just come up with this idea, but he had apparated directly to Privet Drive. He thought to himself, in such a messed up world, there must be someone somewhere who didn't want to strangle him right away. And according to the very strange logic of this place he had experienced so far, he concluded that people he had hated might be friendly to him here. Besides, the Dursleys were only Muggles, so they were hardly dangerous. And there were probably no people from his "kin" around here. Even one Arabella Figg, Harry was sure, would not live here, as she had moved only because of him.

Number four looked exactly as Harry remembered it. Everything appeared overly neat and tidy. He rang the bell. Shortly afterwards, the door was opened by a bony woman whom he recognized as his aunt.

"Good evening, Mrs. Dursley. My name is Harry James. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

The woman looked at him in horror and tried to slam the door in his face. Harry did not understand her behaviour but magically held the door open: "I must insist, Mrs. Dursley. I assure you I'm not a danger to you."

But his aunt had already run to the back door and had screamed in panic: "It's one of them! Vernon, let's get out of here."

Harry looked at her in bewilderment for a moment, but then followed her. When he arrived in the garden behind the house, Harry saw the two of them disappearing with a portkey. Bizarre. The Dursleys volunteered to use magic transportation? This world was indeed a madhouse. But the behaviour allowed only one conclusion: there was someone who protected the Dursleys, or at least had made provisions in case they were attacked. Maybe his mother was still alive. Harry thought it best to wait here. He suspected that someone would come to check on the situation. Until then, Harry thought he could look around a bit.

He took a bare roll from the kitchen and ate while walking around. The cupboard under the stairs was now apparently used exclusively for shoes and bore no sign that anyone had ever slept in it. He went up the stairs and opened the door to his former room. It did not look as if only Dudley's rubbish was stored here. In fact, it seemed to be inhabited, which surprised him. The wardrobe, when opened, revealed clothes that clearly belonged to an overweight female person. The Dursley family obviously had a daughter in this world as well.

The rooms of Dudley, aunt and uncle didn't really look any different. In the living room he found photographs of a happy family. The Dursleys' daughter resembled her parents, but in her, the misshapen aspects of both parents' bodies seemed to be so combined that, had she not been almost obese, the overall appearance wouldn't even appear too ugly.

On the table was a bottle of cognac and a glass to go with it. It must have belonged to his uncle. Harry wondered why he was even there in the middle of the day. Normally, Vernon would be at work. Of course, it was possible he'd taken a vacation, but why would he take one if his children weren't here? Harry knew that in the past, with a few special exceptions, he was only at home all day during school holidays.

Dudley and his sister would certainly each go to an expensive boarding school. Dudley at Smeltings and she probably at some elitist boarding school for girls, at least that's how he regarded Vernon Dursley in regards to his children.

On further inspection he found in a letter from Magda Dursley, in which the name Daisy was often and very benevolently mentioned. From this he concluded that the name of the girl in this household was Daisy Dursley. However, as expected, there were no letters that in any way documented the existence of his mother. Nor were there any pictures of her in the house. Some things probably never changed, Harry thought, almost with contentment.

When he had just sat down and sniffed vaguely interested at Vernon's cognac, he suddenly felt something fast hitting his back with great force. Even as his sight turned black, he realized that he had been hit by a stunner.