21st of December, 1978
Godric's Hollow, Devon, West Country
There was a flash of gold and unsteady feet landed on solid ground, followed by a swift curse and the sound of shattering glass. The shadowed figure's knees appeared to buckle and shudder under the unexpected burden of gravity after the weightlessness of only moments before. They stumbled forward with uncertain steps, feet fighting against damp grass, trying desperately to regain balance.
In the low light of the night, only a sliver of the darkness draped over their unknown surroundings was invaded; there were soft rays of light shining from a streetlight on the pavement just beyond a large hedge to the figure's right. Several oddly disjointed gaps in the thick green wall allowed the light to peer through and though the individual and all else was shrouded in darkness, the chain dangling precariously from their fingertips glinted like a silver diamond as it was caught in the gentle beams and the figure's eyes were drawn to it like a beacon.
With a low hiss, they brought both hands up to their chest, cupping the chain carefully. Moving closer to the hedge, the figure crouched, paying no mind to the few branches they'd upended upon their untimely arrival as they dug into their abdomen, and held the jewelry in the peering light.
The chain was pure gold, thin, and delicately crafted. Goblin-made, for there was no other magical being who could forge such power into such a little amount of metal. On the end of the chain, opposite the clasp, was a circle of glass molded into a matching golden hold, which caught the light and reflected it gently onto the figure, revealing only that they donned a dark, hooded cloak. Inside the glass was a pile of amber sand and shards of silver metal differing in shape and size.
The figure breathed a long sigh through clenched teeth as they dragged their thumb along the rim of the glass circle before tilting it slowly to the right, watching with keen eyes as the sand followed the movement. A heavy shudder ran down their spine as a pulsating surge of magical protection forced their thumb from the glass.
Drawing a wand from their cloak, they lifted and, using mostly their wrist, twirled it in a tight circular motion around the circumference of the glass. A faint pink shadow drifted from the tip of their wand and melted into the grooves of the jewelry and the figure sighed, muttering lowly about "protective enchantments", "secretive Goblins" and "knots".
Just as they prepared to stand once again, a startling and sudden brightness sliced through the night that reigned over their surroundings.
With the area thrown into light, the figure's face was revealed and though pale and riddled with surprise, it was recognizable to even the most sequestered magical; Harry Potter, the Chosen One, with green eyes as wide as cauldrons and lips set in a grim line. The famous lightning scar, faded and near impossible to see, had company: he was sporting a nasty cut over his right cheekbone, brutal and gaping.
The light also gave way to his calloused hands, drenched in blood that was not his own.
From wide to focused in seconds, demonstrating his years with the Auror Corps, Harry's eyes narrowed in on the glass double doors which entered out onto the back garden he'd inadvertently landed in. He was content to remain in his crouch for a few moments longer, watching and waiting for any real threat to reveal itself and force him to move from his relatively safe position. That was, until an elderly Muggle man armed with a shotgun rounded the corner of the doors, eyes squinting out and roaming what was assumingly his garden for intruders.
Or, perhaps, small mammals that ran across his lawn, perhaps also shocked out of their hidden places by the new light, because as soon as a rabbit hopped unawares into his line of vision, the man unlocked and slid open his doors at record speed, firing a shot that severed the silence, rattling Harry's brain as the rabbit slumped onto the damp grass.
Holding his breath, Harry watched as the man stepped down onto the small patio and stared out over the rest of his garden, squinting into the dark depths that the light hadn't reached. He pushed himself back against the hedge as far as it would allow without falling all the way through, hesitating on the balls of his feet, before a twig snapped undeanth his uneven footing at the same time the man's eyes finally landed on him.
As he found himself at the barrel of the gun, Harry shot to his feet, clutching the chain tightly in a fist, and held his hands up in surrender.
"Good evening." Harry greeted the shotgun more than the man, but he hoped he appreciated the sentiment despite this.
The man narrowed his eyes, holding his gun steady. "Says the intruder to the victim."
Well, Harry thought, at least he knew for definite that wherever he was was an English-speaking country. The man didn't sound particularly European, more British than anything else, but he wouldn't place any stock on his geographical knowledge, nor his familiarity of accents. Harry's eyes flittered down to the deceased rabbit near the man's feet and gestured toward it. "I would argue that poor sod's the victim here."
Looking down to his feet, the man stared at the rabbit for a long moment, looking momentarily upset until Harry took a wary step back and the man's eyes snapped back to him, anger rising in place of the falling remorse. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Nowhere," Harry replied quickly, eyes darting between the man and his gun which hadn't moved from the aim at his chest. "Sorry, I..." he looked down at the rabbit and back up at the man, "it's just, I'm a vegetarian."
"A... vegetarian?"
"Yes. Someone who doesn't eat meat."
Face pulling down with both anger and confusion, the man spit out, "I know what a-"
"Well," Harry continued over him, "more pescatarian, really. If we're being technical." He grinned self-deprecatingly, half-shrugging, "Can't fight the lure of a barbecued salmon, I suppose. It calls out to me. Don't mind the odd bit of tuna either, here and there, but the breath afterward isn't worth it in my opinion, far too... fishy. Though, it would be, considering. It would be strange if it wasn't fishy. I imagine tuna would lose their marginalized popularity should they taste of, oh, I don't know... pulled pork? Or perhaps not pulled pork; I've been told it's the best bit of a pig. The... pulled bit. Do you like pulled pork?"
The man was now staring at him with an expression of disbelief. "Do I like pulled pork?"
"Barbecued, preferably. But I'm not fussy."
"Barbecued pulled pork?"
"Yes, sir."
"You-you're asking me if I like barbecued pulled pork?"
"I am."
"You've broken into my garden to ask me if I like barbecued pulled pork?"
"Ah," Harry winced, "I don't want to make a point of arguing with you, but I would dispute that part about 'breaking in'."
The man's eyebrows rose. "Oh, you didn't break in?"
Harry shook his head determinedly, but then followed the man's pointed look toward a gate in the back of the garden. "That gate locks on the inside."
Spotting the lock, fully intact, and ignoring the unease rising in his stomach, Harry nodded. "So it does. Wonderful lock you have there."
"Yes." The man narrowed his eyes at Harry. "It clearly doesn't do its job, though."
"Oh, I would say it does."
"The intruder says my lock works well, does he?"
"Again-"
"Right. Not an intruder."
Harry grinned, "You've got it."
"I'm not sure I do." The man rolled his shoulder back, seemingly steeling himself, and took a step closer. Harry tried not to feel like he was being backed in; a predator trapped by its prey. "An unknown man, in hiding in my back garden-"
"I wasn't hiding."
"No?"
"No." The hand gripping the gold chain started to shake with the cool night wind that blew over the garden and concerned about dropping the precious item, Harry quickly and, he thought, stealthily slipped it into the pocket of his cloak. He tried again to smile winningly at the man, purposefully ignoring the way his eyes had widened and tracked Harry's arm move before flickering between him and the house. "You see, I'm old hat at hide-and-seek. So, if I was hiding, forgive my boastfulness, I don't think you would have found me."
"What was that?"
Harry's heart rate kicked up a notch and he edged back slightly until his back made contact with the hedge. "What was what?"
"That, what you just put in your pocket." The man's eyes then properly scanned Harry for the first time and he frowned. "What're you wearing? Why do you have blood on your hands?"
"This old thing?" Harry asked, choosing to ignore the last part. He spread his arms out and displayed his thick, black velvet cloak to the man. It had been one of the first wizarding items Harry'd bought with his first paycheck from the Aurors; spelled with long-lasting, warming charms and undetectable extension charms woven into the pockets should he need them, it was his best cloak and, really, he didn't wear any other. All pictures of him during the winter the press managed to get ahold of included this cloak. Ron teased him mercilessly about it and Hermione begged him to let her buy him a new one. Harry pulled at the cuffs proudly, "It's all the rage in France."
"France?" The man asked, confusion coloring his tone.
Harry nodded. "Paris."
Then, his confusion switched to immediate anger so fast Harry had to bite back his flinch. "So, you wear French clothes and have to steal from lowly men and their wives, is that it?"
"Wha- steal?"
"Yes," the man started to advance slowly with a menacing look taking over his wrinkled face and Harry pressed his back deeper into the hedge, feeling the branches curl around his shoulders uncomfortably, "steal. I saw you, I watched you hide my wife's necklace in your pocket."
Flabbergasted, Harry couldn't raise an adequate reply. "Your wife's- you think I've- why would I-?"
"I don't know. Perhaps the rages in France don't have jewelry like hers."
"I haven't-"
"Perhaps you can't help yourself. Perhaps you need to steal from hard-working couples."
"No, I-"
"Perhaps you have no money. Perhaps you're homeless and want to pawn it off for money." The man had continued walking closer and closer until Harry was half-in the hedge and the gun's muzzle was pressed against his sternum, hard. "You certainly look homeless," his eyes darted down to his cheek, where Harry could feel a slight sting and assumed he'd been caught with a jinx of some kind, "get that at your last house did you, you little prick?"
It appeared he'd lost control of the situation.
"I think there's been a bit of miscommunication here," Harry said placatingly, putting his hands back up in surrender. The man scoffed.
"Do you? Well, when the police get here they can decide for themselves whether there's been," he leaned closer and sneered, "miscommunication."
Harry felt his face pale slightly and had the miraculous thought that this Muggle and Snape would've gotten along. They had a similar sneer, and the same relished look when it became clear that Harry was uncomfortable with the direction a particular conversation was going. "The police are hardly necessary."
"You and I have two different ideas of what is necessary." Holding the shotgun firmly into his chest with one hand, the man made to grab at Harry's pocket in which he'd put the golden chain. Harry balked, hand coming down to hold the pocket entrance against his thigh and his eyes widened as the branches in the hedge he was leaning against made a worrying crack.
Then it hit him, his position and who the man he was feeling threatened by was, and a hysterical laugh bubbled up at the bottom of his throat. It escaped, despite his better judgment, as a snort which only heightened the Muggle's glare.
Fighting for breath, and desperate to not laugh in his face, Harry looked to the side, staring at the hedge, and held up a hand to the man. "S-sorry. Two seconds. I'll be alright in a second. Sorry."
"What is so fucking funny?!" Practically spitting with rage, the man leaned close into Harry's face and snarled. Harry bit his bottom lip in an effort not to outright laugh in his face.
"Nothing. Nothing. There is nothing funny about this, of course." Harry put on a faux-stern expression and nodded. "I am, after all, being held at gunpoint with a very daunting hedge behind me."
The Muggle man's eyes bugged out of his head as he realized too late what Harry was about to do, "Wait- don't move- I'll shoot-!"
Pushing off the lawn firmly, Harry launched himself backward through the hedge, landing heavily on his back, the hard pavement making him groan and arch his back in pain.
"Bloody... buggering... fucking... Muggles... stupid..." Harry muttered to himself as rolled onto his front and clambered uneasily to his feet, hands pushing off against the floor with every few steps as he struggled to find his balance. When he was further down the road, and could only hear the Muggle man shouting to himself and slamming what he assumed were the double glass doors behind him again, he slowed to a walk and picked his head up, looking around.
He was coming up to a small roundabout with four roads; one the way he'd just come from, back to the man, another straight-ahead, one to his left, and one to his right. Praying to the Gods, and to Merlin, Harry chose the road to his left, hoping that it was less likely to double back on itself than the road to the right.
There was no chance of apparating, not when he had no idea of his location and was still unsure of any injuries he had gained either in that garden or in... whatever it was that happened before. He wasn't about to compliment Theodore Nott with the favor of calling it a duel.
Wouldn't compliment himself that way.
His mind took that moment to flash through scenes of the last hour, and Harry shook his head desperately thinking of something else and landed on how he hadn't felt that brand of fear since... since he'd lived with his Uncle and Aunt in Privet Drive.
Merlin, he thought humourlessly as he moved at pace along the road as it curved around to the right, he hadn't felt that crippling, stilling fear in seven years. He mused that the fear stemmed from the fact that he couldn't fight with magic against Muggles, though the thought sprung to mind that he knew how to throw a punch.
Perhaps it had just been too long since he'd been threatened by someone he wasn't legally allowed to throw a curse at.
After his graduation from Hogwarts, and the following, long-awaited, growth spurt, Muggles stopped looking down their noses at him and instead silent respected the tall, muscular man in the clearly expensive cloak whenever he walked along the Muggle streets in London.
Though it helped that he was more often than not flanked by Ron and Neville, or even Hermione. Both Neville and Ron were well over six feet in their own right, and Hermione was almost always dressed head-to-toe in office wear and had this intimidating flare about her. Not even the most idiotic of Muggles were foolish enough to stare at Hermione Granger when she was in work mode like she was lesser than them. If they were to do so, Harry had no doubt the outcome would be positively disastrous.
And whenever he walked along Diagon Alley, or through the halls at the Ministry, magicals continued to treat him like a Knight who'd finally come home from war, so he never had to worry about people thinking lesser of him there.
Not that he was.
Worried about it.
He wasn't.
Rounding the corner, Harry spied an alleyway across the road and picked up his pace, racing over, immediately pressing his back against the wall as soon as he got there, facing the way he'd just come.
Breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through his veins, Harry took him a moment to gather himself.
It took him a few minutes to properly calm down, and Harry thought he was owed that time after the last drama-filled hour. After all, if he didn't have the chance to go out for that drink Ron had promised him after work, then he was going to take his time now.
What eventually succeeded in slowing his heart rate was lifting a hand to his hair to pick out the leaves and small sticks which had tangled themselves there after he'd rolled through the hedge, and his eyes catching Nott's blood drying on his hand.
The Muggle had pointed it out, and Harry'd spotted it when the lights had come on firstly, but it still came as a shock to the system to see it without having a more pressing issue to deal with.
Nott wasn't the first man, adversary or otherwise, to die in Harry's arms. He wouldn't be the last. But knowing that never made it easier.
Though he was the first to... do whatever it is that he had done to him. His final act, Harry supposed as he reached into his pocket and lifted out the golden chain. His shoulders drooped slightly in relief after examining it and confirming that there weren't any parts missing or further broken following the... hedge debacle.
Harry's lips quirked. The Hedge Debacle.
That was henceforth how he decided he'd refer to it in the future.
He lifted his hand and hung the time-turner from his fingers by the chain, the glass circle swung gently back and forth in the winter breeze.
He forced his mind to think back to the last time he had seen a time-turner in the flesh, this close and came up with third-year, with Hermione in the Hospital Wing.
Brow furrowing, his lips curled down again as memories drifted back up of scuttling rats, broken legs, old rivalries, wolf howls, pumpkins, hospital wings, swirling school robes, and golden flashes.
Harry choked as his breath caught at the bottom of his throat.
Golden flashes.
He thought back to half an hour ago when he'd landed in that garden.
Golden flashes.
Perhaps he should...
Harry lowered the time-turner carefully, warily, and with his other hand he reached into the pockets inside his cloak and pulled out his wand. He lifted it and with an action like flicking paint onto a canvas, whispered, "Tempus."
A vibrant orange mist was pulled from the tip of his wand like it was being dragged by an invisible fishing line and lit up the dark alley. Harry was reminded of his surroundings and quickly cast a furtive glance around the corner, in the direction of the Muggle gunman's house and the roundabout.
No one was there, the street deserted in what he supposed was the early hours of the morning. He looked back at the spelled mist as it began to pull at itself and twist into wispy, fire-like numbers.
02:43
21/12/1978
The time formed first and Harry had the momentary, ridiculous thought that surely the man should have been asleep at this time, not shouting and accusing innocent wizards and shooting at rabbits, but then his eyes had trouble moving from the date that finally contorted into existence from the orange mist.
21/12/1978.
The 21st of December, 1978.
1978.
Harry lowered his wand and stared blankly at the opposite alley wall as the orange spell dispersed, the wind blowing the few sparks left down the alley and around the corner, disappearing behind the brick wall.
1978... how was that even possible?
He scoffed at himself and glanced at the time-turner now clutched painfully in his palm. But, Harry had never heard of a time-turner manufactured to send someone back further than six hours. It was... absurd. Impossible.
Harry's mouth twisted; clearly not.
He didn't like this at all.
Suddenly finding the small space in the alley to be far too much, Harry spun and faced the brick wall behind him. He pressed his forearms against it, bracing his head between them, and breathed heavy gasps of the cool air. Catching the corner of his eye, he saw that the time-turner had pushed itself through the gap in his fingers, which had begun to shake minutely. He willed the tremors to stop as his mind was flooded with a rushing noise, not unlike a waterfall, opposing the quiet street. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, shoving past the confusion and fear, and multitudes of other emotions he couldn't begin to decipher, trying to grasp onto what was important as he stared at the device that had evidently sent him twenty-eight years in the past.
What was it that Ron always said whenever Hermione got too caught up in a particular legislation?
One thing at a time.
His vision blurred and he could taste bile clawing its way up his throat. He was either going to pass out or be sick- probably both.
Hold it together, Potter. Harry closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. Focus on your breathing. Count to three… breathe in, breathe out… remember your training; you didn't let Hermione attack your mind for months just to lose it over something like this… breathe in, breathe out…
It took longer than it usually did, but Harry soon calmed his racing thoughts enough so that he was no longer on the brink of a panic attack. Six months of Occlumency training- not really the standard for new Auror recruits, but he was Harry Potter and Hermione needed to practice her Legilimency skills, so he'd offered his mind in exchange for her expertise, which was much gentler than Snape's- had come in handy more times than he could count. It was more about finding inner peace and a sense of control than it was about being defensive, and that was a skill that was applicable to nearly all situations.
Well, the situations he often found himself in.
Harry opened his eyes again, glaring at the brick wall ahead of him.
He was injured, or so the stinging on his cheek told him, covered in blood. He had no idea where or, more importantly, how he'd come to be here.
He had…nothing.
Harry screwed his eyes shut again, halting the dizzy spell that hit, and thought back.
An hour ago, he and his team of Aurors had been in the Entrance Hall of Nott Manor, Hertfordshire.
They'd been working on getting a warrant to search the residence for seven months, Harry becoming Head Auror two months into them vying for it only accelerated the process.
Following his graduation, Harry had joined the Auror Corps, helping make arrests of on-the-run Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathizers. He was there for two years as a newbie, before moving up the ranks and being awarded the role of Team Leader. He was in charge of his own six recruits and would adventure out on missions with them, fighting as a team and working together on plans of attack. He was good at his job, he wasn't ashamed to admit it, wasn't too modest. It was what he'd done with Hermione and Ron for five years, and then with a larger group of people for the last two during his schooling at Hogwarts.
But what he wasn't used to was being the sole person in charge of hundreds of people, which is what threw him when six months ago, he was promoted to Head Auror. He hadn't been enjoying it; there was far too much paperwork, far too many meetings, far too many people to please, and worrying about the public's view of missions.
This one in particular.
Several calls from neighbors and concerned members of the public had made them aware of flashes of gold and silver at the Manor followed by loud shouts and screeches, sometimes even continuing on until the early morning. That and Nott's title as one of the only suspected Voldemort sympathizers not on 24-hour surveillance due to the wards surrounding his property had put him at the top of their watch list.
Once the Wizengamot had granted Harry's team the warrant, he'd announced that they were going to act straight away to general acceptance from both his boss' and team members.
They'd apparated directly into the grounds, the wards allowing them through on a technicality. Harry had hoped not waiting until the morning meant they would catch Nott unawares and in the midst of something illegal.
Due to the nature of the warrant and the specification he'd requested, they hadn't even needed to request access to the gates, merely were permitted to apparate onto his doorstep. Instead of being met with a sniveling, terrified Theodore Nott, as expected, they'd learned that he must have been tipped off by someone at the Ministry because he'd known they were coming and had put up a fight.
Four of Harry's six team members were taken down within the first five seconds after walking through the front door, and the two of them that were left were more focused on the device that Nott held mockingly in his hand: a time-turner. One that they'd presumed, if they got too close, he would use and go back six hours, fleeing the country before they got to him, or something equally as dangerous.
So, instead, Jenna, Harry's last standing team member who was only four months out of training, had tried to sneak up on him while Harry kept him talking, which he was rather good at, especially with Nott, considering their history.
Harry grimaced as his memories grew murkier as he tried to remember what happened from then on, but all he could recall was Jenna casting a cutting curse at Nott after he had spat out a rather nasty insult, and the man tackling Harry to the floor at the same time, avoiding the spell and incapacitating him with the same move, and then... flashes of gold.
He frowned, trying to keep a tight grip on his simmering panic as the hand not holding the time-turner clenched tightly. None of this made any sense, but with the tempus charm screaming the facts at him, what else could Harry think?
Some practical joke? Unlikely. Perhaps he'd hit his head when Nott had tackled him and was unconscious in St. Mungos.
But as Harry shivered lightly in the winter breeze and opened his eyes, staring once more at his bloody hands against the wall, he knew this wasn't a figment of his imagination. His mind wouldn't and couldn't possibly make this up.
A car drove past suddenly, headlights flashing over the alleyway's walls, breaking Harry out of his stupor. He quickly flattened himself against the bricks, hands coming down to his sides.
Something heavy settled itself in his chest: he couldn't stay out in the open. Who knew if the Muggle man had actually called the police? Surely he would if he'd been frightened enough to shoot at a rabbit, accuse Harry of stealing, and all but shove him through that hedge.
That meant that Harry had to be cautious now; there may be police roaming the streets looking for a figure in dark clothing and Harry wouldn't be able to explain to them that he hadn't meant to land in this man's garden, but the magical device that had been planted on him against his will by an experimental Dark Wizard in the year 2006 had forced him too.
They would either lock him up or send him for a psych evaluation. Both, with his luck.
Harry came to the realization that he needed someplace safe to stay for the night, somewhere preferably out of the area. But the only way to find a safe place was to move from the alleyway and come to a vague understanding of his whereabouts.
Nott's time-turner was confirmed to send him more than six years back in time. Who knew what else it could do; where it could send him?
Slowly, craning his neck to see over his shoulder, Harry stepped back from the wall.
Glancing at the golden chain still wrapped around his left fist, Harry sighed deeply before lifting it up, unhooking the clasp, and bringing it to rest around his neck, locking it in place. He fiddled gently with the glass circle, ignoring the low thrum of pulsating power as the sand shifted in its hold. Then, letting go and watching it fall back against his sternum, Harry tucked it underneath his cloak. He shivered at the feel of the cool metal against his skin.
After considering it for several seconds, he also pulled his hood up over his head, leaving enough space for him to see but not enough for outside viewers to catch a glimpse of any defining facial features.
Keeping his wand down at his side, ready to cast should any real danger present itself, Harry poked his head around the corner of the brick alley wall.
He decided, upon confirming the emptiness of the street, that he would go in the opposite direction that he had run from, therefore there was less chance that he would be confronted by psychopaths, or angry men with guns, though he was now sure the two were synonymous.
When certain that no one was around, he ducked out of the alleyway and walked at a brisk pace down the left-hand-side pavement, skidding slightly on the ice as his stride quickened with each step.
It was December 1978.
Harry shook his head in astonishment, eyes flickering over each house's door and front windows, watching for any sign of movement, though he doubted there would be any at all at this time; the man with the shotgun must have been an unlucky chance. Though if Harry knew Theodore Nott, it had probably been purposeful.
Despite the fact that he had no idea how the man would be able to configure that. When he and Hermione had used the time-turner in their third year, it'd brought them back in time but they had stayed in the same location as when they'd left. Would Nott have been able to change the location Harry would end up in?
Harry shook his head; focusing on the past would get him nowhere.
Focusing on the future.
If Ron was with him, as he usually was when something like this occurred, he would want to apparate to the Leaky Cauldron or Diagon Alley to see if they could haggle a room and a meal out of someone. Knowing Ron he probably would be able to; he smiled despite himself as he thought back to countless times the three of them had been summoned to Professor McGonagall's office, Harry and Hermione with their heads down stifling laughter as Ron talked absolute rubbish to an angry, but exasperated, McGonagall.
And managed to get them out of trouble every time.
Well, the majority of the time; transporting illegally bred dragons to the Astronomy Tower after hours wasn't something even Ron Talk-A-Lot Weasley could fix. Despite how much he begged to differ.
Harry knew Ron's chattiness in the face of immediate, deathly danger had rubbed off on him, and he would be forever grateful for it.
If Hermione was with him, it would be a different story. If she was here... well, Harry most likely wouldn't be in this position in the first place.
She either would have had Nott in ropes and bound before he'd managed to get a word out or would've known how to work the time-turner and sent them straight back to Nott Manor to help Jenna and get the rest of the team medical help.
Merlin, he hoped they'd got help.
He swallowed past the hard lump in his throat at focused on the team member left standing; Jenna.
Harry sighed; he hadn't known her very long, but as a team leader, it was his job to know everything about his group.
She graduated top of her class from Hogwarts and was fresh out of Corps training, twenty years old, almost twenty-one. They were going out for drinks on Friday at the Hogs Head to celebrate her birthday.
She'd invited him on a whim, he assumed. Not many of the younger trainees and officers had the balls to personally come up to any of Dumbledore's Army, let alone him (he wasn't completely unaware of the effect he had on people who hadn't known him personally during the war) and invite them to after work drinks and parties. But she'd done it following her first successful mission detaining an on-the-run Death Eater and Harry suspected she'd been on a high.
Armed with the knowledge of how he'd felt after his first rodeo, he had accepted, promising to bring along some friends; Neville, Ron, Hermione, and Luna. Ginny was in the northwest of Wales, training for an upcoming reserves match with the Holyhead Harpies and Dean and Seamus were holidaying in New York, enjoying their freedom and peace, so none of the three had been able to come.
But Jenna, and friends, had been ecstatic all the same. Hermione had teased him when she'd heard the giggles and murmurs of the 'great Harry Potter going to Jenna Smithe's birthday party', but he knew she had been pleased he'd accepted the invitation.
His social life had taken a hit after the war. Not that he had been a party animal beforehand, but with the further recognition that defeating a Dark Lord for the second time, and in front of about one hundred people, gave him, he was never eager to venture out into the public, where people stopped in their tracks just to stare and summoned items into his path so that he would have to stop and walk around it, and then that's when they would pounce and hug his arm, pressuring him for an autograph.
Which he didn't mind, not after fifteen years of it. It's just that... this was a different magnitude than before.
It was nicer, in a way, however.
His friends now understood his woes, even Ron got sick and tired of the attention after three months of it. It was part of the reason, Harry knew though his friend didn't tell him explicitly, that Ron had moved from the Aurors to working at Weasley Wizarding Wheezes with George two years ago.
Little kids didn't stare as often when there were desirable treats and fantastic tricks waiting on shelves just a few steps away, and parents didn't ask after autographs when they had to make sure their children didn't destroy the shop in their effort to trial every item. It was still just as fast-paced as chasing after Dark Wizards and creatures, but with less paperwork.
He didn't need to say anything, but Harry knew that Ron was also happy that Harry had plans that involved social interaction. His own acceptance of Harry's invitation laid that out clear enough, though Harry suspected Hermione had put pressure on Ron to accept that too. They were a package deal, and the majority of the wizarding world knew this; Ron and Harry were equally unsociable these days.
Startlingly enough, Hermione was the one most visible in the papers; grainy pictures of her and Ginny at lunch, at the Burrow, walking through the Ministry with scrolls and parchment floating behind her as her nose was stuck deep in a book. This meant that she did, unfortunately, have a leg to stand on when she bullied and harrumphed them both about getting out. So, Harry had accepted Jenna's invitation. More to shut Hermione up, than anything else.
It hadn't helped that Jenna's blonde hair had been curled and heavy from where it'd been tied up for the mission, her face was flushed with exertion, and her blue eyes bright.
Ron and Neville mocked him about his 'type evolving' whenever a blonde waitress served them at lunch and at the bar after work but promised to not say anything to Hermione.
That would be bad.
Which was why he tried to ignore the burning in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Jenna, helpless, surrounded by her older and more experienced teammates bleeding out on the floor. Instead, he focused on his steps, watching windows and doors and cars parked out on the street as he passed them.
Which meant he noticed when the number of cars began to dwindle until there were none.
Harry blinked and stopped walking.
He was standing in a snowy lane, the pavement thinning out into road before him, under the pitch-black night sky in which the stars were glimmering feebly against the strains of cloud that were trying to settle in. Cottages stood, in place of houses, on either side of the narrowing road, all with their curtains drawn closed, each window dark and gloomy.
A short way ahead of him, a glow of golden streetlights indicated the center of a village.
It was recognizable. Harry knew he should know where he was and the name of the village whispered in the back of his mind as he started walking once more, slower this time, eyes searching for something that would give away his location.
The icy cold air stung his face beneath the hood as he passed more cottages: any one of them, he thought bitterly, could have a witch or wizard who'd be willing to help, be willing to take him in until he could figure out a plan of action.
If he was in his own time. If he could be Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, Head Auror.
1978.
Harry shook his head and prodded on, gazing longingly at the front doors, their icicle-burdened roofs, and their front porches.
The lane along which he was walking curved to the left and the heart of a village, a small square, was revealed.
And Harry felt the breath left in his lungs be sucked out as he recognized it, finally: Godric's Hollow.
He continued walking and craned his neck over the chest-high wall to his left to peer into the graveyard. Looking on ahead he saw the rusty kissing gate at the entrance, the one that always creaked when opened, despite how gently it was pushed. Luna never failed to wince each time, citing that the spirits which resided on the grounds despised the sound.
After years of her accompaniment to Godric's Hollow graveyard, Harry had learned to respect and understand her musings and had begun to wince himself.
Hermione, the few times she and Ron joined him and Luna on Christmas Day to visit his parent's and Godfather's gravestones and lay flowers, scoffed. Luna was nonplussed, as per usual. It always made for an amusing time, when a group of them would go together, whether it was just the four, or Ginny, George, and Neville joined too.
Harry never went by himself; he thought that perhaps his friends had made a pact behind his back to make sure that he was with someone whenever he went near Godric's Hollow. He suspected that the perpetrator behind it was Hermione, after their first experience here.
The cold winter's night had nothing to do with the sudden shivers that jolted down his arms, the goosebumps that rose on his skin as his mind flashed through still images of unfurling snakes, old women deteriorating before his eyes, white necks trembling with high cackles, red eyes, snapped wands and splinched arms.
He didn't let his eyes linger on the graveyard, didn't let them search absently for the three headstones that he knew, logically, wouldn't be there, and instead focused on the point up ahead where the rows of cottages ended and the lane turned into open country.
Walking as quickly as he dared on the icy road, past more and more dark windows, Harry didn't let his eyes stray from his predetermined destination, should he see something that he didn't want to.
The year was 1978, three years before that night, which meant that it should be intact.
In fact, he was almost certain that it would empty; he knew only that his parents moved there after finding out that his mother was pregnant, and the prophecy that Sybil Trelawney gave referenced their unborn child. He knew that Trelawney gave her prophecy to Dumbledore around 1980, and he knew that only a few months later the Potter's moved into the cottage in Godric's Hollow hidden under a Fidelius Charm.
What he didn't know was whether anyone had lived there before that. A friend, renter... ancestor. There could be someone living there now, someone with Potter blood running through their veins.
Harry ignored the longing building in his chest as he maneuvered quickly around a sheet of ice on the road; he wasn't the only Potter in this time. His parents and grandparents were alive, arguably thriving. They may even be...
His eyes locked onto the last cottage on the final row before the lane changed into open country.
As his stride lengthened and his pace quickened, he could see it was dramatically different to that first night in Godric's Hollow, in which he'd been stupidly surprised to see the wild hedge, the rubble scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Now, eight years later, Harry thought that he should've expected that it would be overgrown and beat down; after all, he had spent seven years at Hogwarts being told he was the last of the Potter line, meaning he was responsible for the properties, even if he hadn't known they existed.
As an orphan, it had fallen to his magical guardian to gradually hand over control of the Potter family artifacts and properties, and inform him of them.
Unfortunately, that had been Sirius.
Due to his Godfather's lack of trial, his incarceration had never been made official, therefore the old magic had never passed along the title of magical guardian to someone else, despite the fact that Albus Dumbledore took on that role in the eyes of the paper and public.
This meant that the Potter family shares had been laid to rest for his entire childhood, until the summer of his fifth year at Hogwarts after when Sirius died. Then, the title had fallen to Remus as requested in his parents' wills, but unfortunately, Remus had been going through his own grief for his friend, and fighting in the Order, and wasn't home often enough to receive and open any mail.
That meant that he hadn't opened the letter from Gringotts informing him of his new title of magical guardian to Harry Potter.
After Harry turned eighteen, an adult in the magical world, his name was sown into the deeds of the Potter shares, and he was officially responsible for all family properties, companies, artifacts, and monetary items. Of course, he'd been busy fighting Death Eaters and a Dark Lord, and the Goblins hadn't been particularly happy with him due to the whole... escaping dragon, destruction of Gringotts Bank palooza.
But following a groveling apology made by himself, Ron, and Hermione after the war, of which the Goblins had grudgingly accepted, they'd informed him of his new responsibilities and explained why he might've not known about any of it beforehand.
Harry's first item on the agenda, after overcoming his shock, had been to restore Potter Cottage to its former glory. He appreciated the thought and gesture that Ministry officials had when they'd left the house in its ruined state as a monument to his family and parents, but he thought that his parents would rather he rebuild it. It had been the only place where they'd spent their time with him after he'd been born.
And he was pleased to note, as he came to a stop outside the front gate, that his restoration had looked very similar to the original.
It was comfortably sized; two stories, both floors with two windows peering out onto the dark street, and a small gate and hedges surrounding the front garden. It was simple, neat, and homely.
But most importantly, Harry decided as he leaned over the gate, peering through the dark bottom floor windows that revealed the living room inside, it was empty.
Which meant he could enter and recuperate without anyone knowing he was here.
Harry lifted his wand and gently tapped it on the latch of the gate. With a click, it unlocked, the latch lifting itself up. The gate swung open, accompanied by a low creaking that had Harry glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being watched.
He stepped inside, swishing his wand in the direction of the gate behind him and it closed gently like it was pushed by an invisible breeze. Another click confirmed the gate locked again, and Harry steeled himself before moving up the path.
The grass on either side was cut neatly; Harry hoped that the wards around the house made sure to keep the outside of it presentable and a house-elf didn't pop in every week or two to check on things.
For a Potter family property, Harry liked how normal it was; it was nowhere near any of the Purebloodean Manors he'd seen in his time; no brass doorknobs, no silver-plated window frames, no chandeliers, or so he could tell from outside. It was homely, comfortable. It warmed him as he stopped at the front door and lifted his wand to touch the top of the doorknob.
It rattled in its place but didn't click.
Harry scowled; locked. Then he rolled his eyes at his stupidity, it was 1978, a year at the height of the war. Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathizers were roaming the streets of Britain and Europe. Of course the bloody door would be locked.
He chanced a glance to his right, and to his left, before tucking his wand away into his cloak.
He reached out, hooked his left hand tight on the doorknob, and placed his right hand flat against the door. Just as he braced his legs and readied himself to shove into the door with all his might, a searing red hot pain burned into the hand gripped onto the doorknob, and he immediately let go, yelping before the door clicked, opened, leaving him helpless as he fell through, landing on his side and clutching his hand.
"Bloody shitting hell!" Harry hissed, biting down on his tongue to prevent another yell from escaping his lips. He whipped out with his legs and kicked the door shut, quickly cutting off the view of anyone from the outside who might have heard him and come to investigate.
Still on the floor, Harry stared down at his throbbing hand.
There was no identifiable mark, no red burn, or white blister. Harry looked to the door; perhaps that was the wards granting him entrance; had they recognized his Potter ancestry? Was there an identity charm on the handle?
He stayed in his position on the floor for several minutes, long after his hand stopped throbbing, waiting for an investigative neighbor to come and peer through the windows, or even some Muggle police. But when none arrived, Harry heaved himself up into the sitting position and cast a long look about the room he'd fallen into.
It was dark and quiet, the only noise coming from a ticking clock in the corner. It appeared to be a square entrance hall; a mirror directly ahead was hung on the wall next to a coatrack and an empty cabinet, a shoe rack to the right of that, a door, and then in the far corner of the little room was a set of stairs that curved up and disappeared behind the second-floor wall. Harry reached into his robes as he slowly clambered to his feet.
Each movement he made, the wooden floorboards creaked and the hairs on his arms stood to attention.
He raised his wand, after gingerly standing straight once again, and intoned, "Homenum revelio."
Nothing happened and he sighed in relief.
He was alone.
The thought hit him strongly in the chest and he ignored the scratching pain that tried to claw its way up his throat. He turned toward the front door and flicked his wand tiredly at the doorknob, glaring at it for burning his palm, despite the fact that it was fine now. "Colloportus."
The door settled into its place with an odd squelching noise and Harry let out a sigh of relief. It wouldn't keep anyone who wanted to get in out, any second-year Hogwarts student with a love of adventure could easily walk straight in, but Harry hoped the wards would sort them out.
If there were wards. He assumed there were.
Before he moved any further, he turned and pointed his wand at the heavy cream curtains and they snapped shut of their own accord, dropping the entire room into pure darkness.
Whispering, "Lumos", Harry's wand tip lit up the space around him in a low glow. Deciding it was better than nothing, he started towards the door, leaving the stairs for later on. He avoided the coat rack as one of the hooks lashed out and tried to grip and snatch the hood of his cloak, being well-versed with charmed coatracks. They were, more often than not, deadly.
He gave a heavy sigh as he moved past it, promising himself that he would chuck it in a closet somewhere soon as he reached the door.
For a moment, he stood just inside the doorway of the living room. He wasn't surprised that much like the entrance room, and the garden, it was devoid of dust and decay, and once again hoped that there were simply just upkeep charms on the house, rather than the odd Potter house-elf that popped in and cleaned every few months or so.
He waved his wand at the curtains that sat side by side with the two large bay windows that peered out onto the garden and the dark road beyond and they closed with a snap. Holding his wand high above his head, Harry moved further into the room. Like what he'd see of the house so far, it was simple and had the bare necessities; a small two-seater couch and coffee table facing the windows. He imagined it was nice during mid-afternoon in the summer when there were people milling about on the road beyond and you could people-watch from the safety of inside.
The rest of the room was more of the same; there was a small kitchenette overlooking the couch, a countertop with two wooden stools, and a small rounded table with four chairs tucked underneath hidden away in the corner of the room. The fireplace, that Harry had renovated to become much more grand in the future, was unlit and dark just to the left of the couch. In his time, it was constantly roaring with fire, casting warmth across the room. But he decided that it helped there were always people at the cottage after he'd renovated it; currently, it was Teddy's 'bachelor pad'.
Harry breathed in, wishing for the scent of Luna's citrus candles and Ginny's lemony perfume.
Instead, there was a lingering scent of stale air that came with the feeling of abandonment and lack of care. He found himself feeling bad for James and Lily Potter when they would eventually come to live here; they'd have a lot to do to make this place homely.
Against his own wishes, it reminded him of Privet Drive. The quiet atmosphere, the flowery couch cushions, the dead and cold fireplace.
Harry turned his back on the living room, ignoring the rumble in the pit of his stomach as his eyes glanced over the kitchen cupboards. He doubted there was any food, and if there was, it wouldn't be anything other than moldy bread and cans of peaches in cream.
Back in the entrance hall, quickly ducking out the way of the coat rack, Harry stared warily at the staircase.
Once again he found himself thanking his lucky stars that his friends had pressured him into renovating the house, and then further helped him with the upstairs.
Harry walked up to the first step and placed his hand on the banister, thinking of the good and the bad times this staircase had seen.
Will see.
Lily Potter sprinting up them away from certain death, Voldemort following carrying the stench of certain death with him. Severus Snape hugging his mother's lifeless body out in the hallway just above, leaving him crying in the crib. Sirius Black running up them empty-handed and coming back down with a child who would change everything, an action that changed everything.
Neville Longbottom tripping on a loose plank of wood and breaking his arm in two places as he tumbled down the stairs. His and Luna's first kiss had been at the bottom after she'd healed him. Ginny and his own break up after he'd graduated from Hogwarts, their getting back together, and their penultimate breakup at the hidden cove near the top of the staircase where it curved around at Hermione's 21st birthday. Teddy sliding down the banister almost every day, and every time making his heart halt in his chest. He thought about late nights in October when it was getting colder and he and Luna would sit on the stairs with their hot chocolates and fluffy blankets, waiting for Teddy and Victoire to fall asleep in front of the fire before Luna apparated her home.
Good times and the bad, but as he started up the stairs, hand running lovingly up the banister with a small smile, he rather thought the good outweighed all else.
But then he came to the first room on the left and felt his smile fall. Harry hadn't touched this room when they'd renovated it. Hermione and Ron had sat with him on the front porch while Ginny, Luna, Seamus, Dean, and George went to town; ripping up floorboards and painting the walls, exploding empty, rotting cribs and baby dials.
He walked past it without a second glance. It had been years, twenty-seven almost, but Harry wasn't able to face it.
The next door along held the bathroom and the stinging in his cheek suddenly came back tenfold and he winced and walked in to peer at himself in the mirror.
He came to an abrupt stop when he was immediately confronted with a wide, shining mirror, and stared at the face looking back at him.
He felt bile rise in his throat.
It wasn't that the jagged cut looked too terribly grave, no. It was simply the jinx that he'd been hit with that made the injury seem so... unreal.
But Harry was only able to examine it for a second before the trickle of blood obscured it. Forcing himself to concentrate, he pointed the wand tip at the wound, and murmured the words, "Vulnera Sanentur."
The gash slowly sewed itself shut. His skin mended, and the bleeding ceased. He wiped at the excess blood with his palm, ignoring the sticky warmth, and stared at his eyes in the mirror.
He looked terrified; his eyes were wide and sparking and his mouth hanging open like he'd been panting with adrenaline. But, he hadn't.
He didn't feel terrified, but he figured that he was probably just in a permanent state of shock, which he appreciated.
Harry exited the bathroom and peaked his head around the next door, looking with unseeing eyes; it was a simple study with a small desk, a chest-of-drawers and he caught a glimpse of a bookshelf before he left again.
Not finding any purpose or motivation in these rooms, and silently cursing God's name, he moved on down to the final door at the end of the corridor. It was a master bedroom, with a double bed, wardrobe, and another set of chest-of-drawers that he imagined would be empty.
Harry leaned heavily against the doorframe, staring blindly at the bed.
What was he going to do? He could hardly live in this time as Harry Potter. James and Lily were alive during this time and relatively well known. As were Remus, Sirius, Albus Dumbledore... well everyone. He thought that he was relatively safe here, but just in case someone came looking... he didn't know if the wards would alert the head of Potter House that someone had accessed the wards, it was likely they would.
So, he needed a backstory, a good one.
He would need to come up with everything he needed to convincingly be someone else… but he couldn't be from England. He couldn't have gone to Hogwarts. It was almost impossible that he wouldn't run into the Potter family while here, and by extension, his parents and their friends, and they would surely realize that they'd never seen him in the castle before, and if he was caught in a lie, he was doomed.
He would have to be from somewhere else, from a different school, with a different life.
He was also going to need food. He could [summon] water, so that was easy enough, and despite the coppery taste, he was happy to survive on an augamenti for however long he needed to. How would he get food, he had no money whatsoever, and no means of walking into Gringotts and demanding some from a vault that didn't exist in this time.
Harry's head was spinning. It appeared that he was going to have to alter history, in one way or another, but he recognized that the least of his concerns should be the employer of whatever meaningless job he was going to find himself in.
Maybe, he thought, if he was fortunate, he wouldn't make any significant changes at all. He could simply go by another name until he managed to fix or find someone else to fix the bloody time-turner...
A thought stopped him.
Time-turner's went back in time.
Not forward.
The suffocating feeling began to build in his chest once again, but Harry quickly cut it off, squeezing his eyes closed to breathing in and out slowly.
He needed a step-by-step guide. He needed someone to tell him what to do. He needed...
Well, he needed Hermione Jean Granger, planner extraordinaire.
And so, he asked himself:
What would Hermione do?
Seconds later, Harry found himself sprinting back along the hallway. He ran to the study, barging into the room, almost toppling over and slamming his shoulder into the door in an effort to balance himself. He braced his arms on the doorframe and felt his knees buckle.
"Thank Merlin," Harry breathed to himself, elated. He never thought he'd be so happy to see a bookshelf filled with fictional novels and instructive guides in his life, but found that he didn't care at this present moment that he was probably fulfilling this 'What Would Hermione Do' mindset a little too well, and promised himself that he would bully himself later as he almost danced toward the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.
As he looked, he found texts on the history of Magical Education and Creatures Of The Deep, which while helpful to some, he was sure, weren't really what he was interested in.
His eyes came to rest on a thick black text that sat on the end of the third row- The Pureblood Directory.
Harry grinned and looked to the book in reverence, "God bless Hermione Granger."
And then he began to plot.