Chapter 3:
A/N: I had hoped to keep author notes to a minimum, but I thought I'd leave a little message here explaining my writing process. In an attempt to get myself writing every day, I'm writing these chapters in three sections of 2-3,000 words each, to be posted every third day in full, a minimum of 7,500 words long, and hopefully no more than 10,000. That tricky work/life balance is even trickier when your hobby is writing, which is another form of work, albeit one that I enjoy doing. I write this fic for the sheer pleasure of it, but all of your reviews help motivate me to keep on writing.
I would like to add a word of warning - don't take first impressions of characters and situations too dearly to heart. Things are not as under control as Harry would like to think, and I'm writing from his biased point of view. I'd also like to apologise for the few slip-ups, mostly rookie shifts between first and third person. I haven't written in third person for over a year despite writing regularly, so it was a tough habit to beat, but I think I'm getting better at it. I fully intend on going back and giving these chapters a full overhaul and editing once I've gotten into the meat of the story, but for now I'm trying to push myself to produce work at a regular rate without slacking off, so that'll be a little bit into the future. I can't speak for any of you, but I'm usually more eager for the next chapter of a fic than to re-read a slightly better version of something I've already seen.
Although Harry had intended to return to Privet Drive, he was all too aware of Skeeter's tracking charm, still stuck to his hand like Snape's eyes to his mother's arse. Harry shivered at the mental image, accidentally stolen during a legilimency training session.
Since Privet Drive was out of bounds - no love lost there - Harry had Apparated to Hogsmeade. He considered using The Three Broomsticks, but that was a bit too public, and The Hog's Head would fit a bit more with the image he was trying to cultivate with Rita. As he'd Apparated onto the edge of the village, it was a fair walk away, but Harry didn't mind the opportunity to stretch his legs. It'd be quicker to just toss a quick Finite Incantatem on the goop clinging to his hand, but that wouldn't get rid of the actual substance, and cancelling it so obviously would make it clear to Rita that he'd discovered her trick. A Vanishing Charm would do the he'd caught another of her tricks was something Harry wanted to keep in reserve for future dealings with her.
No, he reasoned. Best to use a substance well-known for cleaning unwanted dirt, magic, and brain-cells alike. Firewhiskey.
After all, at seventeen, he was overage! Harry wondered if the Ministry would acknowledge it, but since all their diagnostic magic would agree he was seventeen, he was sure he'd be able to get away with a fair bit, unless confronted by a bureaucrat who had the audacity to count to seventeen and realise that there were a few numbers missing. Harry wasn't sure what he believed in more strongly: a Ministry employee's inability to count, or their desire to meddle with his life.
But the Ministry was irrelevant in the bigger picture. Only two things really mattered. The first was crossing Dumbledore's Age Line, and the second was getting served at the bar. Another reason to favour The Hog's Head. Less questions asked, more goats to frolic with.
The pub was as grimy as always, and Aberforth stood in his classic pose behind the bar, ruining a perfectly clean glass by rubbing at it with a filthy rag. Harry strode up to the bar, and took one of the stools furthest from the only other patron, who looked suspiciously like a vampire. He didn't look too happy, either. Harry supposed that he'd stayed out too late drinking - pointedly not speculating what he might have been drinking - and got caught here by the sun rising.
"Firewhiskey," he said. Aberforth gave him a suspicious look, then shrugged, and pulled out a bottle of thick brown glass. Harry didn't miss the lack of a label. Definitely not Ogden's finest, but it'd do. Chances were high that it was homebrewed. Aberforth poured it into a disappointingly small tumbler, and set it down in front of him.
Harry took the opportunity to nick Aberforth's rag, and poured the shot of firewhiskey over his hand, then scrubbed at it with the rag until Skeeter's foul concoction was gone. He wasn't sure whether it would be destroyed by the liquor or just separated from his hand and soaked into the rag, but either way suited him. Skeeter could no longer track him, and he rather enjoyed the thought of it misleading her in a hundred directions, spread from Aberforth's cleaning cloth into the drinks and mouths of a hundred sleazy pubgoers.
Aberforth frowned at the waste, doubtlessly more annoyed that Harry had deliberately spilled his drink than at the mess, if the state of the pub was any indication. Hell, the floor was covered in a layer of straw, and there was a goat in the corner!
"Four sickles," he grunted. Harry couldn't tell if he was actually annoyed with what Harry had just done, or was just being himself. Aberforth had never been the most friendly individual.
"Eight," corrected Harry, handing over the proper number of coins. "I'll have another."
Aberforth gave him a suspicious look, and made no move to refill Harry's now-empty shot glass.
"To drink, this time. Got something foul on my hand at the apothecary," Harry explained. Either his lie was good enough, or Aberforth just didn't give a shit, but the bartender topped up his glass regardless, and swept up the pile of sickles.
Harry knocked it back in one go, and grimaced. That's right, he remembered. He hadn't started drinking properly until he was in his twenties. This body wasn't accustomed to the burn of strong liquor, and firewhiskey had a burn all of its own.
The burning sensation of firewhiskey was magical in nature, and felt more like actual fire than Muggle whiskey, but it soon passed, leaving Harry with growing sense of elation and courage. Not that he needed any help in the bravery department, but the nice little mood-booster was a welcome addition.
Harry sat at the bar for a while, occasionally ordering other drinks to prevent Aberforth from kicking him out for loitering. The weight made by his bag of doggie treats in the pocket of his robes was a constant reminder of Sirius. He had no idea where on earth to find his godfather, though he remembered that he'd been out of the country at the time.
Trying to think back his the summer before his fourth year at Hogwarts, Harry remembered tropical birds delivering all of Sirius' letters. Obviously the old dog was recuperating from his time in Azkaban, and enjoying some sun after twelve years with nothing but Dementors to warm his cell. He tried thinking back to that time, to see if there were any clues in the letters as to how he could find Sirius.
A side-effect of the time-travel was that he hadn't truly killed his younger self. There were two Harry Potter bodies in that moment, but still technically only one Harry Potter. Killing his younger self was just the choice of which one of them would continue to exist, as the method he'd used to transport himself backwards didn't allow for two copies of the same person to exist concurrently.
This made it easier to recall his younger years, as he'd essentially absorbed the spirit of his younger self. The memories he was seeking after were closer to the surface, as if he really had experienced them in the last few weeks, and not thirteen years ago.
Suddenly, while searching through his newly accumulated memories, which hung vibrantly in his mind as if he was watching them in a pensieve, Harry felt a cold chill run up his spine, and a pain in his scar. He hadn't felt anything from his scar since killing the horcrux within it.
"Fuck Merlin. Fuck Merlin and fuck his beard," Harry swore. This was going to be painful. He felt himself falling forward into the memory, the exact same sensation as falling into a pensieve, but with the agonizing sensation of his time magic flooding his body in discordant notes of power. Magic itself was objecting to the scene he was falling into, trying to tear it apart. Harry knew exactly what this memory was going to be.
It was hard to make sense of anything through the shrieking forces of magic swirling about this memory. Some wizards claimed that magic was alive. If that was true, this was a memory of magic very much alive and pissed off.
A sharp poke in his side pulled his attention away from the thrumming forces in his head, and he realised that his eyes were closed. He opened them, and saw, well, himself. His real self, twenty-seven years old and standing opposite him.
Harry leapt to his feet, staring at himself - the other himself - and the wand he held.
"Dad," he felt himself say. Harry would have grimaced if he could. This wasn't a memory. In a pensieve he was able to walk around freely, in an insubstantial body of his own. This was more like possession. He was eerily reminded of the horcrux visions sent through Voldemort, like when he'd bitten Arthur Weasley with Nagini's mouth. He supposed it made sense. They were both the same soul. It was a similar connection. But it was damn creepy.
"Nope," said the adult Harry cheerily. "Sorry about that, Junior. I'm not trying to trick you here."
Harry felt visions snap before his eyes - memories of his adult life, of the war. Seeing his friends die, and feeling the cold emptiness when he had no strength left in him to mourn their deaths, only the hollow conviction that they would be avenged.
"So who are you?" he felt himself say. But the connection ran deeper than his younger counterpart's body. He could feel his emotions as if they were his own. Well, technically they were. His younger self was terrified by what he was seeing, but could sense that they were genuine. Still, he was making a heroic effort not to show it. Harry was surprised that he hadn't picked up on that when he'd been on the other side of this bizarre act.
"And why are you naked?"
Harry ignored his older body, knowing how the conversation went, instead observing Junior's reaction.
Junior went through confusion, terror, anger, and a brief dialogue between Harry and Harry later, the memory reached the important part. The visions had not stopped throughout their conversation, and Junior was convinced that Harry was telling the truth. The link between them had gone both ways, each absorbing memories from the other as Harry's Chronomancy tore time apart and bled the future and past together.
The older Harry stood, wand pointing at Harry's chest. Harry felt the conviction in his mind, and in Junior's mind. At this point, it was almost impossible to tell which one of them was which.
"Do it," he said, Junior and Harry speaking in perfect synch; the same lips, the same words, and the same will behind them.
"Avada kedavra -"
And that motherfucking hurt.
Harry found himself back out of the memory, breathing heavily, and trembling from the aftershock of the Killing Curse. Well that explained why he'd convinced Junior so easily. By the end of it, he had been Junior. Some sort of temporal bleed effect that he could only begin to guess at. Harry was reminded of all the other Chronomantic experiments that had come very close to giving him a terrible death, and thanked both Merlin's beard and the Sorting Hat's socks that he hadn't fucked himself over.
From his studies, there was a decent chance that he'd have travelled back in time, thinking all that was well, only for the Killing Curse to hit him now, as soon as he absorbed the memory. Fucking temporal discharge. Harry resolved to use other people as test subjects for his more esoteric magic in future, and not himself.
He also took a moment to gather his bearings and noticed that it was almost dark outside. The sun had just set, and he was lying in the dirt outside the entrance to The Hog's Head. Presumably Aberforth had tossed him out after he'd lost consciousness, the way he did with any other patrons. A bit inconsiderate really, seeing as it was the Killing Curse and not an inability to hold his drink that had caused him to pass out.
A sudden twinge in his stomach was all the warning he had, and then Harry staggered to his feet, turning his head, and vomiting noisily, all at the same time. He managed to avoid getting any of it on himself, and leaned back against the wall of the pub, breathing heavily. The puddle at his feet stank of alcohol.
Okay, so maybe the drink had had something to do with it as well, Harry admitted to himself with a grimace. His magic was working fine, but he'd lost his ability to hold his drink. That was beyond embarrassing.
A few more people had shown up in the hours Harry had been lying there unconscious, so there was a fair bit of noise coming from the pub. Harry didn't pay much attention to it when the door creaked open, but grew wary when there were no footsteps. Nobody was that light-footed after a few drinks, and there was only one patron in The Hog's Head who'd be leaving at sundown, just as the revelry was beginning.
The vampire.
Harry cursed, still shook up from the shock of memory and magic that had knocked him cold. Even if he'd been fully rested and in the prime of his strength he wouldn't be able to go toe-to-toe with a vampire. As they were magical beings, they were highly resistant to spells. Fire would hurt them, but not strongly enough or quickly enough to kill one at such close range during the night. Normally he'd just jump back in time to when the sun was up, but he was already back in time. He wouldn't be able to travel backwards himself until he'd caught up to his original time, and he didn't think that this vampire would wait thirteen years before draining his blood.
The monster stepped out of the shadows, and into Harry's line of sight. Harry knew that it was deliberate. It could have killed him in an instant, but vampires liked to play with their food, watching their terror. Harry suspected that it wanted him to run, so it could have the pleasure of chasing him down and overpowering him, but Harry refused to give it the satisfaction. Or his blood, for that matter. But Harry had long ago learned to use Dark creatures' habits to his advantage.
He pressed himself further against the pub wall, avoiding the vampire's gaze. Inside the pub, during the day, it had looked like a pale but handsome man. Under the open night sky its true form was revealed; skin the texture of chalk, and elongated ears and fangs. A pair of slitted eyes mottled with various shades of blood. This one's eyes were more brown than red. The colour of dried blood, not red. That was a bad sign. It meant that it was hungy.
Harry considered accelerating the vampire forwards in time, like he'd done to himself in Skeeter's office, but he'd never tried that on a vampire before. Even if the magic got past its resistance to spells, Harry had no idea if it would work. Being creatures of the living dead, vampires experienced time differently.
No, his Chronomancy was useless here. But at least Honeydukes was close.
"Er...fancy a Blood Pop?" he joked, faking a weak and frightened voice. The vampire's eyes seemed to gleam in the moonlight, and it bared its fangs in amusement.
"Did your mother never tell you...no sweets before dinner?" the creature hissed, entirely oblivious to the silent Summoning Spell which Harry had added to the words Blood Pop. Although he hadn't spoken the incantation itself, saying the name of the object helped add force to the spell, as did the urgency with which he needed it.
The vampire stepped forward slowly, relishing every moment of what it thought was going to come. Anticipation is half the fun of any pleasure, for mortals and monsters alike. The vampire's innate sadism caused him to stalk towards Harry at a glacial pace.
Harry didn't move a muscle, knowing that to the vampire he looked frozen in place by fear, but more importantly that the vampire would be able to move fast enough to grab him if he tried to run or even Apparate. Acting like frightened prey was his only chance.
As the vampire was almost upon him, Harry saw the creature's nostrils flare. It turned its head. Harry grinned. The smell of fresh blood would always distract one of these monsters, and the Blood Pop he'd summoned was on its way. With the tiniest gesture of his wand, Harry altered the path of the Blood Pop, causing it to jam into the vampire's mouth.
Blood was everything to a vampire. It would only distract him for seconds, but those were seconds that Harry had desperately needed. In that moment, he conjured a wooden stake, and positioned himself to ram it through the vampire's heart.
He had only a moment to act. The vampire turned back to Harry, looking ludicrous with a lollipop sticking out of its mouth, and then suddenly ferocious as it saw the stake. It spat out the Blood Pop and lunged at Harry, but Harry's aim was true, and the vampire's own momentum impaled it on the stake.
The force of the monster landing on Harry slammed him into the wall as if he'd been hit by a car, but no fangs broke his skin. The stake had reached the damned creature's heart, and it fell onto Harry in a mockery of an embrace. Not being a fan of necrophilia - or perhaps necrophilia squared, as it was a dead vampire, Harry shoved the corpse onto the ground. It splashed in the puddle of his vomit, and Harry smiled darkly.
Contrary to popular belief, vampires didn't turn into ash when staked. At least, not until the sun came up. Harry didn't want to cause a riot by leaving a dead vampire by the doorway of a pub, so he dragged it around the corner where it would be out of sight from the path, behind a clump of bushes.
As he straightened up from dragging the corpse, Harry dusted himself off, and let out a long breath. He was exhausted, and didn't know what he wanted more, another drink or a bed. He began to walk away from where he'd ditched the corpse, and caught a glimpse of Aberforth watching him through the pub window. Oops.
Perhaps bed would be the better choice, then. Harry didn't really want to answer any awkward questions, and wasn't too sure if Aberforth would serve somebody he'd thrown out only a few hours previously.
Harry Disapparated, heading back to Privet Drive. He hadn't planned on staying there, but he was too tired to go through the hassle of renting a room elsewhere.
Harry woke before any of his relatives, saving him from any unpleasant encounters. The sun had barely begun to rise, and a quick look at his alarm clock showed that it was just past five in the morning. He stretched, wriggling uncomfortably on the mattress, and then gave up on the budding idea of napping a little longer.
Looking around the room, he was reminded of how happy he'd been to finally move out of Privet Drive, despite the terrors that had followed. This time, he had even fewer possessions to pack, because he didn't care for most of what his fourteen year old self had owned. He pulled his trunk out from under the bed, opened the lid, and stared inside speculatively. Most of his magical possessions were inside, gathered together out of the Dursleys' sight, but even though he was making his entry into the wizarding world early this year, he wasn't planning on using most of it.
He intended to buy some decent robes at some point, but was perfectly happy to wander around in transfigured outfits for the near future. Purebloods sneered on this, saying it was a crass action for impoverished wizards, but Harry had never bought into it, assuming that it was a mix of fashion elitism, brand name clothing, and the plain fact that even though just about every Hogwarts graduate could conjure a robe, there were a whole load of them who were lacking in the artistry and taste to make good looking clothing instead of gold-stitched bathrobes.
Putting his Hogwarts robes to one side, Harry rifled deeper into his trunk. He had no intention of carrying this giant chest around with him. Even though he could shrink it, it was a waste. He'd learned to make do with even fewer possessions that he had owned growing up.
Harry Vanished his Potions set and all of the textbooks he'd collected over the years. He didn't need to re-learn how to do magic, and didn't much care for learning history or quotes by rote to get good grades. He hadn't travelled back in time to go to school, after all. It was just a coincidence that the events he was going to be involved in were mainly happening at Hogwarts. After all, Hogwarts was the true heart of Wizarding Britain.
Parchment and ink were always useful, so Harry put them with his robes. Deeper in his trunk he found his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map. Those were added to the pile. Everything else in his trunk seemed to be old clothes, schoolwork, and other odds and ends that he'd accumulated over the years. He Vanished all of it, and Transfigured the trunk into a much smaller, more manageable bag of soft fabric. But he left the Hogwarts crest on it, out of sentimentality. Hogwarts had always been the place he'd thought of as his true home, after all.
He piled everything into his new bag and swung it onto his shoulder. That was much better. Harry began to Disapparate away from Privet Drive, but with a resounding crack, split his left leg in half, and transported it to the other end of his bedroom.
Fuck. He hadn't Splinched himself in years. Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. It had been hammered into him in the Apparition exam, and refined by years of practice, but in his excitement to leave the Dursley house, he'd been a bit vague about his destination. Apparently "not here" didn't qualify.
In a way, Harry mused, he'd gotten off a lot better than most people who suffered Splinching. They had to endure agony until the medi-wizards popped up, gathering gory jigsaw pieces and reassembling them. Harry just had to hop across the room, trailing blood, and jam his leg back into the stump, muttering a quick charm under his breath. Repairing Splinching was a quick reversal of the Apparition process, so it was a lot easier than actually reattaching severed body were often easier than the spells themselves, after all, and complex healing spells were notoriously difficult to master, which is why magical healers still used potions above anything else; their spells were mostly limited to superficial damage and diagnostic charms.
All he'd lost in his little slip-up was a bit of blood. Okay, a lot of blood, but it wasn't going to do him any lasting harm. Even a Muggle would have recovered from that much blood-loss within a week or two.
Harry briefly considered Vanishing the pool of blood on his bedroom floor, but discarded that thought with a grin. Better to leave a mysterious bloodstain than a goodbye note. Who knows what the Dursleys would think? A mixture of sheer terror and gratitude when he never reappeared, he imagined.
Call it a parting gift.
This time, Harry paid attention to where he was going to go. Since he had such fond memories of it from the day before, he settled on the Hog's Head. Out of the way, few questions asked, rooms to rent, and, he supposed grudgingly, he should check on the vampire he'd killed. They were tricky bastards.
Crack.
Harry appeared around the back of the Hog's Head, and found the vampire's body exactly where he'd left it. Yep, still dead. Although technically it had always been. The body was mostly in the shadows of the surrounding foliage, so it was only just starting to char. Harry checked to see if anyone was watching. Aberforth stood a few metres away holding a shovel, so Harry shrugged, knowing that the man had already seen enough damning evidence and some more wouldn't hurt, and then dragged the vampire out into the full sunlight.
Once the full, undiluted force of the solar spectrum hit the vampire's chalky flesh, it burst into blue-ish grey flames, quickly disintegrating into a pile of ash. Harry considered scooping it up, as Vampire Dust was a potent potion ingredient, but he neither needed the money or the hassle of dealing with the crooked apothecaries in Knockturn Alley just yet.
Instead, Harry left it where it was. The ashes had dangerous properties, but a few hours in the open sun would neutralise that and turn it into inert grave dirt.
"What's with the shovel?" asked Harry, turning to Aberforth, who wore a taciturn, almost unreadable expression. Harry was good at reading people, thanks in no small part due to his dabbling in mind magics, but all he could get from Aberforth was that the man was trying to read Harry in turn. Fair enough, he figured. The two men stared each other down for a bit, both carefully not looking curious about the other.
"Tidying up your mess," said Aberforth, in low tones that bordered on unfriendly.
"Didn't need a shovel for that," said Harry, wiping his hands on his robes. The touch of a vampire was clammy at the best of times, and this fellow had gone rather crispy. Harry didn't want any flakes of burnt skin clinging to his hands. He'd washed his hands of something rather nasty only the night before, after all.
"Didn't want to touch it," growled Aberforth. "Never know when those things are really gone."
"Bet you a galleon?" asked Harry, nodding towards the pile of ash, which was already spreading around in the light morning breeze. Aberforth snorted, and began walking away. "Wait," said Harry. Aberforth stopped moving, but didn't turn around.
"I need a room for a few weeks. What're your rates?"
Aberforth continued walking away, speaking over his shoulder without looking back.
"Rates are seven sickles a night. You vomited all over my floor and passed out drunk, I tossed you outside, and then you killed a paying customer? Forget it."
"I didn't pass out from the drink," argued Harry. Aberforth ignored him. "He was going to kill me! It was only self-defense," he tried again. Aberforth still didn't say anything, but stopped walking away.
"Paying customer," grunted Aberforth. "Rates for you are still fuck off."
"I'll be a paying customer!" cried Harry in frustration. "You're not losing any money. I won't pass out again. Hell, I'll even clean up the vomit!"
At last, Aberforth turned to look at Harry, and for the first time, Harry saw a shade of the other Dumbledore brothers mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"Fine. But you take his room," he said, jerking his head towards where the vampire had been. "And don't worry about your puke. The goat ate it while you were face down in the straw."
Harry didn't know whether to shudder or groan at the combined imagery, but didn't want to sleep in a former vampire's lair, no matter how many cleaning charms he could remember.
"Why his room?" Harry demanded.
"Biggest," said Aberforth. "Most expensive. Twelve sickles a night."
Harry gritted his teeth in frustration, spotting the obvious lie. The man didn't really care about the money. He was just trying to fuck with him.
"Give me your cheapest room," Harry said, attempting to strike a bargain. "I'll work off the difference while I'm staying here. Two nights a week?"
"Four," said Aberforth. "You staying until Hogwarts opens, right?"
"Yes," growled Harry in reply. He didn't really mind the idea of working in a pub. He'd have a fair bit of free time to spare amongst his errands. But still, he didn't want to have restrictions on his actions more than half the days in the week. "Three nights."
"Learn to hold your drink or we're done. Can't have a barman who can't hold his liquor," needled Aberforth in his usual sour tones.
Harry grimaced at the reminder of his weak, teenage liver, unable to handle the simplest of tasks, and resolved to make the most of his time in The Hog's Head retraining that particular organ in case of emergencies, like Friday nights. But at least that sounded like the closest Aberforth was willing to come to outright saying yes.
"So we have a deal," Harry asked, holding out his hand for Aberforth to shake. The older man spat to one side, and glowered.
"Wash that damn vampire off your hand if you expect me to shake it. And use water this time, not fucking firewhiskey," he snapped, clearly holding a grudge over Harry's action from last night. But evidently not enough to get in the way of their arrangement. As soon as he'd finished speaking, he stormed off back into The Hog's Head, leaving the door open for Harry to follow him.
Harry grinned.
He had a room, a job, and a nefarious plot. Truly, this was the way to live. All he needed was a woman and an evil monster to slay, and he'd be living the dream. He followed along happily in Aberforth's trail.
It took a moment for Harry's vision to adjust to the lighting inside the pub, but once his pupils had dilated accordingly, he took stock of his surroundings. Although there were several large windows, they were all so grimy that hardly any light got in. Given that a vampire had supposedly been a long-term resident, Harry speculated that it might have been on his behalf. Or perhaps Aberforth just liked it this way. Harry honestly couldn't tell.
What he could tell, however, was that Aberforth had told the truth about the goat, as evidenced by the notable absence of straw by the stool he'd sat at last night, and the few orange-coloured stains on surrounding pieces which the goat had missed. Harry Vanished the rest of his vomit quickly.
"Do that for the rest of the straw," ordered Aberforth, "then replace it with a fresh batch. Thick covering, mind. The stuff's in the woodshed out back."
"My room?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh. Right," said Aberforth, seemingly having forgotten already. "Upstairs. Last door. Bed linens need changed. You can do that first and ditch your stuff. Then the straw."
Harry brushed past Aberforth and quickly made his way to his new bedroom. He was more than a little suspicious about what condition it might be in, given that Aberforth's favoured client had been a vampire up until recently, but it turned out to be better than expected.
Which was to say, the room was a poky little shithole, but Harry hadn't doubted that for a moment. The floorboards creaked, and the air was rank. The bedlinens were filthy, leading Harry to cautiously avoid speculating on the previous occupant, and the smell emanating from them had flooded the room. One small window took the centre position on one of the walls, and it clearly hadn't been opened in some time.
"Scourgify," muttered Harry, tapping both panes, immediately letting in a flood of light compared to the dinginess that he'd been standing in previously. It blinded him for a moment, and in that moment, he managed to force the windows to open despite their rusted hinges, and stick his head out into the fresh air.
Harry took a deep breath, and relished the view from his window. He could see the spires of Hogwarts rising from the hill above. It was perfect.
His pleasure at seeing Hogwarts was temporarily diminished when he looked back into the room and saw the rank bedsheets.
"Does Incendio count as a household cleaning charm?" Harry wondered aloud. He inhaled a little too deeply, and tried not to gag. Yes it did, he decided. Yes it did.
Setting fire to your lodgings was not the best way to endear yourself to your new landlord and employer, but then again, neither was outright murder in front of his eyes the night before, not to mention vomiting over his floor. As the victim in question was a vampire and Aberforth was a barman, Harry was relatively sure that he'd earned more disdain for his juvenile liver than the killing.
Most wizards didn't consider vampires as much more than Dark creatures like werewolves; vicious predators to be avoided at all costs, and certainly closer to creature than human. Harry had met enough of each to know the truth; they were both just humans beset by a curse with similarly bloodthirsty effects. The only difference was the fact that werewolves were triggered by the full moon, and vampires by being hungry. Harry tried not to hold a grudge against how easily some of them gave into that hunger, or how high their appetites were, but he'd grown out of the naive boy he once was, and treated them with the same respect he would any wizards, which is to say, none at all, besides superficial politeness, until they'd fought together. The only difference in Harry's mind was who stood beside him and who stood against him. Whatever foul magic was at work in their blood was no business of his until they turned it on him.
Harry was glad to have opened the window, as somehow the conflagration on the bedspread had ignited the thick dust hanging in the air. Within seconds a spiralling vortex of flame was tearing through his room, and it was only a quick Banishing Charm directing the fire out through the window which prevented him from damaging the walls.
A Scourgify later, the room still looked miserable, so Harry gave in and Vanished everything. Transfiguring or Conjuring furniture wasn't out of the question, but Harry had more important chores to do, so he penned a quick note requesting delivery of a bed, desk, wardrobe, and chair, and left it by the window for Hedwig to find. When she showed up she'd find the letter and know what to do. That owl knew far more than she was ever letting on, Harry was sure, but he didn't want to be the first wizard to attempt to use legilimency on an owl. The repercussions sounded - bad - from what he understood of wizard-to-wizard legilimency, and nobody had ever bothered to write a textbook on invading the minds of birds. Or wizards, for that matter. That kind of knowledge could only be gained from practice and experience. Having a teacher could sometimes help, but it was really more of the same mentality that had let him shrug off the Imperius Curse which gave him insight into mind magic: the ability to match your will against another wizard and want to be yourself more than they wanted you to perform whatever trite task they had in mind.
A mild sticking charm kept the letter from flying off into the breeze, given that he'd left the windows open both for her to find her way to him and to freshen up the room.
In retrospect, Harry was lucky that Aberforth hadn't come to investigate the funnel of smoke emanating from his pub. He didn't dare presume that it'd gone unnoticed, but shrugged, deciding to deal with it when it came. His new boss might be a grouchy bastard, but given his discretion at Harry's actions last night - in addition to the usefulness of the location, and the fact that Aberforth had stepped up to deal with what may have been a pissed-off vampire at dawn, Harry was willing to put up with a lot worse.
The bales of straw proved trickier to deal with than Harry had first expected. A levitation charm had been enough to carry them out of the back shed, but the bale was simply too large to fit through the pub doors. It had been sealed together magically in order to prevent stray pieces from falling loose and causing a mess. Ironically enough, this was what was caused an even bigger mess.
Without thinking it through, Harry shoved the straw bale against the doorway, and cast a Finite Incantatem against it. The good old catch-em-all spell to end all spells. It didn't work on everything, of course. Nothing enchanted, or ensorcelled, or the lingering damage caused by spells which continued to progress, such as the hex which Malfoy had struck Hermione with, causing her teeth to swell abnormally. The Finite stopped them from growing further, but it took Madam Pomfrey's special attentions to make the harm inflicted go into a state of regression. Any adult wizard could have dealt with it - certainly Snape, who had been present, could have done so, but he'd chosen to send Hermione off to the Hospital Wing with a scathing insult instead of helping her.
The thought made Harry wince at the thought of a reunion with Snape as he would be at this point in time. Miserable, petty bastard that he was, regardless of all the good he had done. The adult part of Harry's mind could rationalise that it was school protocol to send such incidents to the nurse, so that they could be treated by a known professional and the ailments monitored under regulated conditions, but his adult and teenage self were in perfect synch when agreeing that adding mockery, as if to commend Draco's actions, was completely unacceptable behaviour.
For the sake of his current friends, and the future ally-of-necessity that Severus had become, Harry resolved to break the greasy bastard of his worst habits by the end of the year even if he had to hit him with a Cheering Charm every morning.
But Harry pulled himself out of his memories, a habit he had begun to fall into all too often since his return to the past. He wondered just how much the time travel was affecting him, and how much of it was just him brooding on past misdeeds.
No matter.
He looked back at where the straw bale had been, and groaned. At least, with his body blocking the doorway, he'd managed to mitigate the worst of the damage. His Finite had caused the straw to explode outwards, settling itself all over the main room of the pub. Only a small amount around the doorway had gotten outside, and despite the fact that every surface was covered in straw, at least he'd gotten the damn thing inside.
Harry flicked off a Scourgify and a Vanisher in quick conjunction, waving his wand in a wide arc to include the whole room. Molly Weasley, of all people, had once given him a marvellously informative lecture on how common household cleaning charms were an incredibly useful and underlooked variety of how intent influenced magic. The Hog's Head was grimy, and a careless Scourgify with enough force behind it could probably reduce it to an empty plot of land, but by focusing only on the straw, Harry was able to easily control the subject matter of his magic. By keeping his wand relatively level with the pieces of straw in particular which he wanted gone - those atop tables and the bar, Harry managed to make the whole process a lot easier.
There was a time when he would have tried to Vanish each individual piece of straw. Harry didn't dare think how long that would take, or how stupid he'd been in the past. His subconscious couldn't help but slip in a reminder that it was only a matter of time before he did something even more stupid, but that was just the way Harry had always been. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, and better to get away with it and avoid both altogether, Remus had once advised him. Harry had been startled to hear that coming from the most reserved and bookish of the Marauders, but had later learned that Remus wasn't as much inclined towards avoiding mischief as to taking it as seriously as his studies and doing it what he regarded as the proper way.
Harry growled. All this reminiscing was annoying, reminding him of people lost, people he'd soon be seeing, and a whole barrage of emotions that he'd deal with in his own time, thank you very much. It was interfering with his ability to throw straw on the ground, for Merlin's sake. Hopefully it'd clear up soon once his memories had assimilated properly.
Even with the majority of the more offensive, eye-level straw gone, Harry was still wary of using his wand to move it around again. Instead, he dug around in cupboards until he found a mangy old broom - the regular kind - and began to sweep it evenly across the floor.
There was a certain peace of mind to be found in the rhythmic movements of the broom, back and forth, over and over, and Harry actually enjoyed the task. While hardly tasking, there was nothing wrong with a bit of good old fashioned menial labour to keep your mind off things. It was almost a meditation.
Among the various posters tacked to the walls of the pub, one stood out against all others. For one thing, it wasn't covered under a layer of smoke debris and Merlin knows what else, and for another, it was a brightly lit rendition of two Quidditch teams standing proudly in their respective National Team robes. Ireland and Bulgaria. Harry gave it a fond smile, remembering the exhilaration of the colossal event. The festivities had been so jubilant that they even managed to stand out more in his mind than the miserly Death Eater stunt pulled afterwards.
Harry didn't suppose he'd get much of a chance to attend this year, what with working at The Hog's Head. He was a little disappointed, but not too much. He'd already seen the match, after all. Although the temptation to skim a tidy profit off his future knowledge did pop into his head as soon as he'd seen the poster.
He dismissed it with a rueful grin, and got back to sweeping the floor. He wasn't sure how long he'd been at it when Aberforth returned.
"I'd heard you were a dab hand with a broom, Potter, but this isn't quite what I'd imagined," he said in what Harry was sure was an amused tone, underneath the surly veneer.
Harry didn't reply, choosing instead to finish off the final corner and place the broom back into its closet. He didn't want to antagonise Aberforth too much. The man was a dick, but Harry had dealt with far worse, and could easily ignore a little needling here and there. Besides, he had a bigger concern on his mind. Obviously he looked like Harry Potter. Obviously he looked like James Potter. And equally obviously, Aberforth knew them both by reputation, if not by sight.
"Not many wizards take the time to do things properly these days," Aberforth added, speculatively. "Wave a wand and everything's spotless. You brats never seem to grow up knowing the value of putting time and effort into anything when it's just a flick away."
Harry tactfully didn't comment on the far-from spotless appearance of Aberforth's pub, both out of a desire to avoid picking an argument, and because it seemed like the old goat was on the verge of saying something else. But he took his damn time about it, fiddling behind the bar to gather the same unlabelled bottle of firewhiskey Harry had been drinking last night, along with, to Harry's surprise, two shot glasses.
The old man grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him unceremoniously into the nearest chair, promptly dropping in the one beside him. Harry was eerily reminded of the way that Dumbledore had steered him around for half his life, albeit in a far cruder manner. Maybe it ran in the family. Or maybe old men were just too used to getting their own way to understand the possibility of disagreement. Sitting next to Aberforth, Harry felt he was missing something significant. They were not looking at each other as if for a conversation, but sitting side by side. There was something in there, but Harry couldn't quite grasp what.
His train of thought was momentarily distracted by Aberforth pouring the drinks. His employer pushed one towards him roughly. Harry had to reach out quickly to grab it before it slid off the edge of the table.
"What's this for?" asked Harry, cocking an eyebrow. After gaining employment in a pub, he hadn't expected to be told to keep his hands off the merchandise, but neither had he expected to be given a drink after vomiting on the floor not four feet away yesterday.
"Perk of the job, working in a bar. My bar, my drink. You get yours because you did your job properly," said Aberforth.
"I won't turn down a drink," agreed Harry, having already raised his to toast Aberforth. "But sweeping a room hardly merits celebration."
Aberforth snorted.
"You'd be surprised. Magic everywhere, and when it goes wrong, what do they do? More magic. Mess everywhere. You just swept it up with a broom. Which is what I keep the damn things for. Can you imagine me flying? Me?" he exclaimed ludicrously.
"I grew up with Muggles," offered Harry, not volunteering any more than that. Aberforth gave him a brief but piercing gaze.
"So I heard. Dare say it did you some good, at that. Wizards are too caught up in their wands to pay attention to the way the world works. Albus was in here every summer since you showed up, bitching about how he hated to send you there. Egotistical bastard. Not like it was his choice."
Harry waited patiently for the man to continue, but Aberforth seemed perfectly happy to remain in silence for almost too long.
"You scared of that after your show last night?" he sneered, tilting his head towards Harry's full glass. Aberforth was already filling his second.
"No," retorted Harry, a little defensive over his humiliation. Aberforth took it to be the typical shame of boys who'd snuck too deep into the liquor cabinet, and laughed in return. But the laugh wasn't nasty, even if it was condescending as hell.
"Got to learn to drink like a wizard if you're working for me, boy, no matter how good you are with a broom - air or floor, take your pick."
Harry prickled at the comment, but did his best not to show, and instead gestured with his shot glass, which was still raised expectantly.
"No," he snapped, a little too suddenly, and then immediately moderated his tone. "I was just wondering what to drink to."
Aberforth gave his derisive laugh again, but Harry must have been getting used to it, because it was beginning to seem far less sour and more just the way that the old man was. Perhaps a deliberate opposite to the other Dumbledore's lofty airs of genial benevolence.
"We don't do fancy toasts in here, boy. But I'll give you an exception this one time, same reason I'm giving you the drink. Reward for a job done properly."
Harry stared incredulously at the man for a moment, but then thought fuck this, and knocked back the alcohol.
"For sweeping your floor?" he asked, the burn of firewhiskey helping to add a little more snap to his retort.
"No, you little shit, for the vampire."
"I thought you weren't too happy about losing such a high paying customer," said Harry, torn between confusion and anger, and settling for typical teenage belligerence.
"I wasn't. Wasn't too happy about having a vampire hanging around so long, either. You cost me some money, are going to pay me back for the lost silver with whatever work needs doing around here I can't handle myself, and did me a favour besides."
Harry mused that over for a bit. He'd known Aberforth had come out on top in that bargain, but now he was speculating just how much it had been by. Maybe he'd have to call in that favour one day and find out, but in the meantime, he just shrugged.
"Didn't fancy dying that night," Harry said, matter-of-factly.
"Sure. Plenty of wizards can kill a vampire. Though not many when passed out blind drunk and at night. That was quick thinking. Creative, too."
"I got lucky," said Harry, entirely honestly. "Or unlucky. Or one after the other my whole damn life."
"That's life, Potter. Don't bitch about it," snapped Aberforth, although there was no real malice in his voice. He was already pouring them another glass.
"But that's not the point. You came back in the morning and dealt with its corpse. Made sure it wasn't going to wake up half-dead, delirious, and wrapped around the nearest throat it could find. Like I said about the brooms. Doing things properly. It's what matters," Aberforth said with emphasis, finishing what must have been at least his fifth shot.
Harry noted with some relief, given the time of day, that Aberforth was stoppering the bottle. He savoured his final swallow of firewhiskey with a bit more pleasure than the others, having finally begun to regain his old acquired taste for it.
"So that's why you gave me the job?" Harry mused. Aberforth chuckled beside him, and then used Harry's shoulder to push himself up off the chair, nearly sending Harry careening into the floor. He was deceptively strong for his age. Must be a wizard thing, Harry speculated.
"Partly. Three reasons. I was thinking of hiring someone to take on some of the work. You made a twat of yourself then dealt with it appropriately. Useful trait in new staff. And life." Aberforth snorted, yet again. "But mostly I thought it would piss the hell out of Albus if I found out what the fuck you're up to all of a sudden before he did."
Harry stared at the man, incredulous once again. They may be brothers, but he was well aware of the gulf in social and magical ability between Albus and Aberforth.
"So how do you think you can solve a magical mystery sooner than Albus Dumbledore?"
"Honestly?" asked Aberforth, deadly serious. Harry met him eye for eye. "The one solution he'd never consider," said Aberforth. "Albus has always been brilliant with his plans and machinations and politicking double-speak that doesn't mean shit. I'm sure he'd catch you in the act as usual, and you'd confess everything."
"But?" asked Harry.
"I was just going to ask."
The two men stared at each other for a moment, before breaking into uproarious laughter.
As always, criticisms and questions are welcomed through the easy review system, and I'll do my best to reply to all of you. If any of you have asked an explicit question and not recieved an answer, contact me by review or PM reminding me of the question, and I'll get back to you asap. Knowing that there are others out there who are interested in this story are a huge part of what keeps it alive. Thank you for reading. I hope you've enjoyed our journey so far. Things are only going to get more involved from here on out.
