.oOo.
Mycroft
.oOo.
Mycroft watched Potter expertly juggle the toddler while taking off his jacket; this evidently wasn't his first child. Little Henry began toddling about the apartment the second his shoes were off.
"The guest room is here."
Potter nodded. "I know. I'll put the kettle on, yeah?"
Once again, this stranger led the way into a place Mycroft never thought he'd share with anyone but family. Apparently, his future self hadn't moved the tea in thirty years. Somehow, Mycroft had always imagined he'd end up in a more luxurious flat than this. He'd have to get contractors in; Mycroft had always wanted a nicer tub.
They sat opposite each other in the sitting room, sipping from fine china. Potter had handed over the usual tea and saucer for Mycroft, but he'd gone for a common mug himself. He'd also put coasters on the pinewood table. Mycroft filed it all away for later.
Little Henry was in the window seat watching the traffic below. Thankfully, Mycroft's first alteration to the flat had been one-way glass on the windows. If his sister were to walk by, she wouldn't be able to mis-deduce Mycroft's situation.
Though, the toddler did look like Mycroft, to the extent that small children could look like anyone. The eyes were startlingly green in comparison to his blue, but the hair looked very soft and dark like Mycroft's own. Henry was quiet and alert, seeming to take everything in.
If Blainbridge started rumours over this, Mycroft was going to demote him to a nameless civil servant. He had been planning to fire him anyway over the scheduling mishap. Perhaps Henry would be in need of a nanny?
"So, you have questions." Potter was smiling, the same knowing smirk that Mycroft was used to from his sibling.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had travelled twenty-nine years into the past, kidnapped himself, and was smirking on Mycroft's sofa. Mycroft set down his empty cup, putting what he knew and what he was missing into order in his head.
"Where is your bag?" If Potter had planned this, the evidence was sorely missing. On the other hand, he seemed neither surprised nor distraught. Surely, the date hadn't been selected by chance either.
"Ah, lost it on the way. Unfortunate, but not a surprise. I'll be living out of your pockets for the time being."
Not even a by your leave . Mycroft forced his own bristles back down. Potter had apparently been a good friend. Perhaps, Mycroft wouldn't even mind terribly if they became good friends again.
The man's amusement hadn't lessened since they'd met and it was starting to grate on Mycroft's nerves. He could sense the satisfaction like it was a solid thing in his sitting room with them.
The child made a noise of complaint. Potter got up and went through the standard nappy-hungry-bored check, settling on a bit of twinkling magic to entertain the toddler.
"Did you steal that wand?"
"No, it wouldn't do me much good if I had." As much as he was smug, Potter also wasn't hoarding his information. If there was one shortcut into Mycroft's good graces, that was it. "They're tricky things, wands. This one's tied to my magic, so it came through with me." Potter looked at Mycroft for a long moment before holding out his hand. "I have a rock and a cloak, too. These artefacts like to come in threes."
Penniless, but armed and dangerous. Bonus: magical cloak and peculiar little pebble. Mycroft handed back the rock bearing a familiar symbol. "Any relation to Grindelwald?"
Potter frowned. Then he shrugged, a little self-deprecating laugh bouncing between them. "Not that I'm aware of. Oh, I'd forgotten that he'd still be alive, that's pretty neat. I always wanted to ask him about the wand."
Mycroft indulged in a second biscuit, an orange Jaffa cake. He closed his eyes as the jelly exploded across his tongue. When he opened them, Potter was smiling, fondness written across his face.
Mycroft cleared his throat. The only other person who looked at him like that was Mummy. "Shall I set up Metis Selwyn for you, then? Will you be taking up your previous mantle?" There were so many details to sort into their respective cubbyholes. Having infinite eventualities was leaving Mycroft with a burgeoning headache; he'd say he missed yesterday's certainty, but that'd be a lie.
More knowledge was always good. Potter was going to open so many doors for him, it didn't even matter that he was ridiculously jovial, or annoyingly informed.
"I have a plan for a better ID on my side of the law, but I guess muggle papers won't hurt. I'll talk to Rogers about it—it is still Rogers, right?"
Mycroft's dentist had said he shouldn't grind his teeth. However, the woman wasn't here, and what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. She was intelligent enough, but like the rest of humanity her ability to think ended just before anything useful could cross her mind.
For a second Mycroft wondered what Eurus would make of his new flatmate, then thanked every god he didn't believe in that his sister was busy missing classes at Oxford instead.
"Why did you do it?"
Potter blinked twice. Usually, Mycroft would provide more context for a question like that, but he could tell the man had understood him perfectly.
"Well," Potter finally said, "The complex answer is that I wanted to make things right, change things for the better."
The simple answer was written in the way Potter hadn't stopped vibrating with excitement and energy. It was a familiar concept, the same one that had made Mycroft choose the career path and mantle of the British Government . It was just a bit humbling to be sitting next to someone for whom even being the Ministry of Magic was boring.
"What should I call you in public?" Mycroft asked.
The man sighed, his smile turning wry. "Ask me again tomorrow, yeah? I'll have to bribe Arcturus into legitimising my existence before I can use a family name. Magical laws and traditions, I'll get you a book." Then Potter covered a yawn. "D'you mind if I turn in? It's been a long day. And Henry's exhausted, too."
The boy had fallen asleep on the carpet, eyelids lit up by fairy lights swirling above his head.
"Studies show that exposure to light while sleeping is correlated with a later need for eyeglasses in children," Mycroft said.
He was rewarded by another uncomfortably fond smile. "Thank you, my friend. Of all the people to have my back, I'm really glad it's you."
Once it was just Mycroft, his empty teacup, and a half-eaten plate of Jaffa cakes, he let himself lean back into the armchair. After seating several generations of Holmes', the thing carried more legacy than Mycroft was comfortable with. He'd had it reupholstered after the fire, but Mycroft had a long way to go before he'd feel like it fit him.
He was an only son and heir to a long line of extraordinary men, and he wasn't going to let it end with him. Today had been an opportunity unlike any other, and Mycroft was going to capitalise on his resident wizard for all he was worth. Yesterday, he'd been the British Government. Tomorrow, Mycroft was going to witness the rise of the British Ministry.
.oOo.
Harry
.oOo.
When he arrived, it wasn't raining. Harry looked up at cirrus clouds and laughed.
Looking from one face to the next, they didn't seem any different, but Harry knew. These people weren't his people. The place where he could always hear them, clamouring in the back of his mind, was silent.
He snapped his mouth shut when a woman rushed past the blind alley that Harry had arrived in. Another giggle escaped when he cast his Tempus .
Half-one in the morning on November 1st, 1981. He'd had Hermione do the calculations, then asked Croaker to double-check them. Twenty nine years was all he'd been able to travel back, something about unavoidable timeline events.
'Are you sure, Harry? Even if this works, it's a long jump,' Hermione had said. 'Besides, things will be different there even before you arrive.'
Croaker had just peered at Harry over his glasses and sighed. 'We had a betting pool,' he'd said. 'I had you down for dimension-hopping three years ago.'
Harry had been tired, so he'd just shrugged at them both. As soon as Mycroft had said it, he'd known that this was the right thing to do.
And now he was here, and it had worked! After a full year's preparations he'd been ready to burst. If stepping through that veil had landed right in King's Cross, Harry wouldn't really have minded so much, so long as he'd ended up somewhere different.
Another laugh burst from his lips. Sure, he was naked, huddled under the invisibility cloak on a crisp autumn morning. But he had an unregistered wand, Sherlock had taught him plenty about sleight of hand, and he should really get moving before the Ministry sent some Aurors to check on magical anomalies right on their doorstep.
Simple problems, simpler solutions. Brimming with excitement, Harry transfigured a rudimentary cloak and stepped out into what was literally a whole new world.
.oOo.
Nicking some clothes was laughably simple. Kidnapping a baby from Number Four was like, well, taking a baby from a doorstep. Coming up with enough details to convince Mycroft Holmes that he should give Harry a second glance required a bit of thought, though. The tube ride to the seat of 'The British Government' was a chance to collect himself and go through his plans.
Future-Mycroft had tried to make him do a lot of planning in advance, but Harry knew plans never took him very far. Harry rocked the toddler and reminded himself he'd always done best when flying by the seat of his pants.
"You've saved the world, mini-me," he crooned, smiling down at his toddler-self. "Now I'm going to fix it so you never have to again."
Harry'd also done it because he'd been bored, lonely, and frustrated, but he didn't have to tell little Harry that. It wasn't every day that one saved a child from abuse for a lark.
.oOo.
The next morning, Mycroft headed to work as though everything was perfectly normal, thanks very much. Harry grinned as he wove the man off, forcing his toddler-self to wave too. "Say, 'Bye bye Mycroft!'" Judging by Mycroft's grimace the man didn't like that one bit.
Now they had the apartment to themselves. Harry didn't know where to begin, dancing through the kitchen as he cleaned up breakfast.
His first impression of Mycroft had been, Wow, he's actually ginger, followed closely by, Sherlock was right, he used to be fat. The man who embodied the British Government had eaten a healthy helping of beans on toast, enjoying Harry's cooking in a way future Mycroft never did.
In retrospect, Harry'd probably been caught staring, but he was still too buoyed by actually being in 1981 to care.
Of course, baby supplies had been delivered overnight. While marvelling at Mycroft's efficiency, Harry bibbed 'Henry' and plied him with porridge.
He hugged the toddler to his chest as he walked through the house, bouncing. Harry had made plans back in his old world, but they hadn't gone beyond wanting to make things better . To actually be here now—there were so many things he could do, so many opportunities to take advantage of! He wouldn't be able to apparate anywhere with a child under ten, but traffic shouldn't be a problem, it was the '80s.
For the moment Harry was happy to just examine Mycroft's bookshelves—in all his years working with Mycroft, he'd never been given the opportunity to snoop before.
And there wouldn't even be cameras yet, though Mycroft might have muggle bugs or something. It was taking all of Harry's self-restraint not to start rifling through bookshelves and drawers just to sate his curiosity. Mycroft would know—he always knew. The man hadn't dulled with age, and in their decade working together they'd grown rather close. Even if future-Mycroft would forgive him, this wasn't his Mycroft anymore.
This was a different universe, but most of what Harry had seen so far was the same. Fudge being Minister a term early had thrown him, though. Harry couldn't count on his knowledge of the future. Besides, the longer he stayed here, the less he'd be able to depend on his foresight. Hermione had told him so the one time she'd been lucid enough to realise what he was doing.
Henry started to cry.
"Hush, hush," Harry murmured, rocking as he looked out at the street below. "I know mum and dad are gone, but it's going to be alright."
"Mama!" Henry shouted. Harry kept rocking. It was something Petunia had probably never done.
"It's all going to be wonderful, mini-me, I promise." He stroked the boy's hair out of his face, smiling into teary green eyes. "I'm right here. We're in for an adventure, you'll see."
He wondered if Henry would need glasses. A shopping trip'd be the sensible thing to do, along with getting papers for Harry's existence in Magical Britain. They'd be his first steps toward wrestling his old position back. This time, the British Ministry would be ahead of the game; it was going to be brilliant.
Just as Harry was transfiguring something for himself to wear, the doorbell rang. Cursing at his suddenly neon polka dot shirt, he hurried for the door. Harry tucked his wand out of sight and held Henry against his chest.
It was Mycoft's secretary, carrying a large bag. "I'm Benjamin Blainbridge," the man said, only trembling a bit. "Mister Holmes said you might need a babysitter?"
Sure, he was a smarmy bastard at times, but he was also the most brilliant, organised, resourceful person Harry had ever met.
Beaming, Harry let Blainbridge in. "Perfect," he said. "You're a godsend, thanks for coming." Blainbridge's shoulders stayed tense while Harry led him into the kitchen, his eyes darting between the paintings lining the halls.
One of them was probably a real Monet. Knowing Mycroft, they would all be worth a fortune.
Harry kicked himself, reminding himself that he didn't know this Mycroft. That'd only be a matter of time, though. Especially if they kept living together.
"You've already met Henry," Harry said, setting the boy down. "I have a fair bit to do in town, I really am glad you're here." He threw a light Legilimency scan at Blainbridge just in case, but the man seemed alright. Besides, Mycroft would have run every background check he could.
"Is there anything to watch for? Food preferences and the like?"
"Let me know if you figure any out," Harry said. He winced when he saw his own neon reflection on the fridge. He wasn't Dumbledore . "I'll just go change into something that's less of an eyesore."
Wearing an adjusted non-neon three-piece and a few precautionary shields, Harry kissed his younger self goodbye and headed out, whistling.
It was twenty-nine years in the past—in a past —and nobody even knew who Harry was. The world was his oyster. Harry laughed and apparated to Grimmauld Place.
.oOo.
Walburga Black had been a spiteful, bitter portrait. Alive, she was even less welcoming towards guests. Newly childless, alone, a miserable widow—Harry wasn't surprised that she was drunk before noon.
She couldn't ruin Harry's good mood on a day so brimming with potential. Feeding her a story of him being a barrister, Harry slipped past her mental guard with only a tiny twinge of conscience.
It was a necessary evil, he reminded himself, rifling through her mind as quickly as he could. Her sluggish thoughts seemed to be covered in a layer of tar, making Harry desperately wish he could shower.
"Your elf, I'd like to purchase him," Harry said once he'd finished. From what he could tell, everything in this world had happened just like in his own. Also, while Walburga had genuinely loved Orion, it hadn't stopped her from poisoning him.
Harry was already getting on with his roughshod plans, he reminded himself, setting down his untouched tea. Just a bit longer and he'd be one step closer to taking his foothold in the Ministry. They weren't going to know what hit them until he was knee deep in legislative changes. Retrospectively, it was a bit sad how excited he could get over legislature , but it couldn't all be wand-waving and dark wizard chasing.
Perhaps he should get a job hunting down dark wizards, once he got out of this one's house. Surreptitiously, Harry wiped his hands on the three-piece he'd borrowed from Mycroft's cupboard. From the looks of Walburga she'd barely left the house in the past year; she wouldn't recognize muggle fashion if it walked into her house and sat on her worn velvet divan.
"Kreacher has always served the family well." Even when too drunk to notice her own punctured Occlumency, Walburga was keen enough to haggle. "He has excellent breeding."
After a bit of back and forth, Harry agreed to spend a ridiculous amount of Mycroft's money on a being that'd murder him if given a chance.
"And you're the right sort, yes?" Walburga said, just before shaking his outstretched hand.
Harry did not sigh, though it was close. The half-truths he gave her came easily—plotting on the fly had always been what he did best. "Yes Madam. My grandmother was a Black. The family roots are very important to me."
"Your grandmother?" She peered at his face. "We have a tapestry in the drawing room. Shall we take a look?"
She gestured. Harry swallowed, then made himself relax into an easy smile. "As much as I'd love to, we're losing daylight. Would you be able to arrange a meeting with the Lord Black to finalise this deal? If Kreacher's a family elf, I want to do this properly."
Slowly, Walburga nodded. Then she reached out and shook his hand. "Yes. Rather." Her smile looked ugly, like a wound ripped open. Harry marvelled that Sirius' sense of humour hadn't been even darker.
"In fact," she continued, still holding his hand, "let's go immediately. Dearest grandfather does so love having company for lunch."
.oOo.
"Welcome," said Arcturus Black, fetching Harry from the manor sitting room himself. "My apologies for the wait. My daughter in law tells me you are a barrister looking to get her son exonerated, that you are purchasing her elf, and that you are either family," he pulled open the dining room door, leaning on his cane, "...or you are mudblood scum."
Harry's adrenaline spiked.
Walburga wasn't at the table. "I sent my daughter in law home. She's drunk, and we have things to discuss." Arcturus' eyes were glacier grey. He sat down heavily, afflicted with the same withering curse that had killed Harry's universe's version of the man in '83.
Harry waited for lunch to appear, making sure to get his words straight. "I'm honestly looking to exonerate Sirius, I do want to buy Kreacher, and I am related to the Blacks," he said. Then he checked his food for poison. Harry had come too far to die of overconfidence now.
"Even the Weasleys are related to us, boy."
The man had a point. Harry shrugged, knowing that the best way to coax Arcturus out of his shell was by retreating. "Sir, the way I see it, I can either do this with your help or without it."
"Ah, yes. Your antecedents leave something to be desired." Arcturus sipped from his goblet, then sighed. "Let's say, for a moment, that I believe you. What is it I'd be helping you with? And for the love of Merlin, what is your family name?"
"I'm saving the world," Harry said, offering his best Cheshire grin. "And my name was Harry James Potter."
.oOo.
If Harry had been playing fair, he would have let Arcturus lead the conversation. Unfortunately for Lord Black, his portrait had been very talkative post mortem, and Harry was playing to win. He'd come through time with a purpose—for an adventure—and he was going to take it all in stride. Including using what he'd gained from listening to Augusta tell countless stories about her time at Hogwarts with Arcturus. Some days, he'd wondered if she hadn't had a thing for him.
It boiled down to this: Arcturus knew his time was running out, and his only male heir was a Malfoy. The way to the man's confidence was by letting him in on a secret, and the way into his good graces was to provide a spectacle worth watching.
Likely, Voldemort had used the same tactics when he'd brought almost the entire Black family into his fold, though Harry doubted he'd gotten his information from drunken nights with the dowager Longbottom.
The saying was, All's fair in love and war. Harry wasn't sure if wartime rules still applied. Little Henry had done them all a favour, now was the time to get ahead of their enemies.
Harry had a nation to transform. There wouldn't be kicking and screaming, those were Gryffindor tactics that he'd outgrown long ago. No, if Harry wanted to do things properly, it'd be all about gentle coaxing and delicate manoeuvring. In all honesty, he couldn't wait.
.oOo.
Harry James Potter, now newly claimed by the Black family as Harry Charlus Black, followed his limping paterfamilias into Diagon Alley, feeling like the cat that caught the canary. They set up an empty Gringotts account, then registered him to take his apparition test within the month. Harry had to promise to buy himself some robes befitting his standing in the house of Black, and then it was done.
Arcturus stepped through the Ministry floo, his curt goodbye wrapping a look that said, Don't you dare disappoint me.
Harry had let himself be strong-armed into swearing an unbreakable vow to preserve the Black line and its legacy. If he disappointed Arcturus now, it'd be the man's own fault for poor wording.
Harry slipped on a small Notice-Me-Not, craning his neck to admire all the detailed woodwork that had been lost in his war. The atrium was beautiful—magic was beautiful. It was a relief not to have to hide his giddy grin anymore.
He knew Henry and Blainbridge would be waiting for him, but for a few more moments Harry walked about, just breathing it all in. The hideous fountain was splashing away in the background. The fires flared and whooshed. Memos winged their way overhead, squawking whenever they collided.
At some point in the future, they'd be charmed silent. Harry let the noise of all the bustling fill his ears. These were his people now, even if they didn't know it yet. The world he'd come from was alright—he'd put a decade and a whole extra war into bringing it into the twenty-first century.
It was November 3rd, 1981. These people were bigots, blood purists, muggleborns and 'blood traitors'. Traditionalists and Libertarians and Left wingers, Socialists and Keynesians.
Harry could feel his magic tingling, like a happy little stream babbling in the back of his mind.
A moment later he felt a lurch, and vertigo. Harry reached out to steady himself against the wall.
Something clicked. Harry exhaled, probing at the space in his head that used to hold his people's murmuring voices. It was the opposite of losing a tooth, it was like finding one after his tongue had spent the day running over and over an unfamiliar emptiness.
They were back. These were his people now, and he was going to fix his world until it wasn't broken anymore.
He had walked into the building pretending to be an exiled orphan.
He walked out as Harry Charlus Black, the British Ministry of Magic.
.oOo.
This fic will end up around 120,000 words long. It's not romance-centric, as Mycroft is aromantic. It's also not a horror story, despite taking a fork into dark territory once or twice.
Thank you to Ace of Braids, Eider Down, Esseraph, ex-livreira, nateyeh, Kimberly T, talesoftime, writerben01, and everyone else who has supported me in writing this story.