23rd of December 1978
Quiet A Few Books, Charing Cross Road, London

He hadn't bought a raincoat.

Amusingly enough, this was Harry's first genuinely serious thought for the last half an hour. It was honestly rather alarming how quickly one's mind could wander when surrounded by unstimulating surroundings, paired with the pitter-patter of morning rain on slanted windows.

Hermione would have called the sound relaxing; Harry preferred disconcerting, given the annoyance that was crawling around his belly.

He wasn't stupid, he was aware impervious charms existed and even the dimmest third year could cast one, it was just the principle of things.

Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, was stuck in the past. At every waking second, he was at risk of changing something so drastically that his future will no longer exist when – if – he ever got back to it. if they heard about this in his time of 2006, they likely wouldn't believe it. They would think that he would be on top of everything; confident that he would get back to his own time, get past the protective enchantments on the Time-Turner, repair the glass inside the Time-Turner, figure out a safe way to get the Time-Sand back into the glass, and fix the circle of glass after having to shatter it to get into it.

But instead, Harry had forgotten to bring or transfigure a raincoat on a day when it was raining. He forgot to do something so mundane that it was laughable.

He felt as if the gentle rain outside was chuckling away at him, laughing at his situation.

From his well-selected position, Harry could see right through to the street outside, therefore witnessing the so-called 'gentle' rain that chose the pedestrians as its victim. It was the kind of rain that when walked in without pac-a-mac or umbrella, you were soaked through to the bone in less than 90 seconds; left a shivering mess, and, with his own unfortunate hairstyle, looking like a drowned rat.

However, unfortunately for him, though he didn't have to bear the rain outside just yet, he instead was faced with an onslaught of customers the weather had evidently summoned to the small bookstore.

Due to this factor, Harry had chosen his placement carefully. From here, his back planted firmly against the wall next to the stockroom, he was not subject to any unwelcomed attacks and could easily avoid conversations. Not that he was anticipating an attack in the bookstore, it was just a precaution. And then, also from this position, he could watch the rain and berate himself silently for forgetting a raincoat.

His current plan was to remain where he was. He was not going to move unless absolutely necessary. He was firm in his decision, his feet, he had decided, were permanently planted on the ground. Should someone want to move him they would have to pry his shoes from the floorboards, and then pry his shoes from his feet because the door wasn't very wide, and the floorboards were far too heavy for someone to drag, especially when figuring in his own weight into the equation and the-

"Sayre!"

Harry jumped, thoughts running down and away like the rainwater on the front windows. His eyes flickered quickly to take in the man who was suddenly standing before him.

Mr. Healy was an elderly man; wrinkles dug deep into his skin, almost like scarring, revealing his age and arguable wisdom. His hair, though at some point Harry considered must have been voluptuous and full of life, now sagged in a sad way next to his ears. It was patchy and thin and looked as though it connected with the short scruff of grey tufty beard that sat upon his chin.

He was leaning heavily on a glossy wooden cane in his left hand, and in his right was a dark green hardback novel. Try as he did, Harry couldn't catch a glimpse of the title.

Though Mr. Healy appeared to be the kind of old man children in a small village would sing scary rhymes about, he was nothing of the sort. Harry knew this, despite only having met him a few days before.

Harry grimaced at being caught and tried his best to look helpful, "Mr. Healy, sir. How can I be of service?"

Mr. Healy, without preamble, shoved the novel in his hand into Harry's chest. Had the wall not been behind him, Harry thought that he would have stumbled as he brought his arms up to catch the falling book. Healy then used both hands to clutch at his cane.

He sneered at him, and Harry felt an astonishing warmth for the man. "'How can I be of service?'" Healy mocked in a high-pitched voice, which sounded oddly amusing with his thick Irish brogue. "Shut yer gob, boyo. Could start with doin' your feckin' job."

A woman with her son just to the left, both holding a few books in hand, shot them a scandalised glance out of the corner of her eye and Harry was reminded of his first arrival into the shop and fought the urge to grin.

It had been the day after his... arrival. Following awakening in the study, back crooked from being hunched oddly while asleep on the desk, with parchment containing a half-written plan stuck to his face, Harry had found himself extraordinarily hungry. Several years of experience living with Ron, particularly those spent in Auror training, stuck to the task of planning the simpler missions, meant the acknowledgement of the fact that he would get no salvageable work done with his stomach rumbling.

Ten minutes later, following a quick rummage through the cupboards at Potter Cottage, he'd concluded, as suspected the previous night, that there was no food in the house. No mouldy bread or even cans of peaches, which at that point he would have gladly accepted.

Through Hermione, during the winter before the Final Battle, both he and Ron together had learnt more of Gamp's Laws of Elemental Transfiguration than all six years with McGonagall. Which was not to say anything negative against her teaching, it was more because they had been much more interested in transfiguring paper planes out of the wood shavings from desks and launching them at each other's heads, than listening and learning in her lessons.

It may have been due to the gravity of the situation they were in, but Hermione's teachings during that time did stay with him. Therefore, he knew that one of Gamp's Laws was that you couldn't produce food out of thin air, and should the neighbours nearby suddenly enter their kitchens to see foods flying out of the window towards the Cottage, Harry would've had to add 'Stealing' and 'Exposure of Wizard-kind' to 'Time Travel', 'Breaking-and-Entering' and whatever other illegal excursions he'd managed since finding himself in 1978 to the list of 'Things That Could Get Me Arrested'.

At this point, he had decided that he would need to get food somehow, and he would need to get food legally. Should he get caught by the 1978 authorities, Harry wanted his rap sheet to be as short as possible, despite the magnitude of crimes he had already committed, inadvertently or not.

Not that he was expecting to be caught. However, eight years with the Aurors at the Ministry had taught him something that he hadn't known while Hogwarts and when fighting Voldemort; planning was crucial. When he had been seventeen and eighteen, plans had felt like an unnecessary waste of time. They'd felt like a chore, something Hermione would bring up out of obligation every time before they went on one of their adventures, but ultimately something that they never did.

He'd had enough injuries throughout his team and on his own person on missions to acknowledge that sometimes plans were the best thing.

So, Harry then did a final sweep of the Cottage, fashioned himself a small leather satchel out of one of the coasters on the dining table, and placed The Pureblood Directory inside, along with the plan he'd half-written the previous night. He then tucked the Time-Turner underneath his robes safely, before he disappeared into the back garden, just on the edge of the wards, and disapparated to the one place he wished he wouldn't have to: Diagon Alley.

Harry had hoped to remain in Muggle villages and in Godric's Hollow, the latter purely out of necessity, for however long it took him to figure out how to fix the Time-Turner. But unfortunately, he could think of no alternative to his food problem. To get food or ingredients, in the way he wished and in the way in which he would cause no real changes to the timeline, he would need money. And to get money, he would need an income.

Which meant a job.

His aim when appearing just at the entrance of Knockturn Alley had been a small apothecary, a tiny shop down the alleyway, far from Borgin & Burkes and far from the main street. He'd figured that if he avoided both then he was sure to avoid meeting or coming face-to-face with anyone he recognised.

However, of course, luck hadn't been on his side. Throughout his lifetime Harry had already decided that there was no such thing as the so-called 'Potter Luck' and in his search for a job he had once again come to this conclusion.

Knockturn had been much like it had been during Harry's sixth and seventh years. The street was deserted, stores were closed away, many even had wooden panels hammered into the front windows to discourage thieves. There were no jobs in sight, and as he approached the very end of the alley and came about an exit onto Muggle London, he had even begun recklessly thinking of ways to make fast money in the wizarding world.

When he eventually turned out onto Muggle London, he had been surprised, having never travelled the whole way down Knockturn Alley before and not knowing where he would end up. He'd expected Fenchurch Street Station or Cooper's Row, but definitely not a small street on the outskirts of Chinatown just off Charing Cross Road.

Walking cautiously toward the main road and out of the street, he found himself in the middle of midday bustling Muggle London.

He had never felt more of an idiot in his life as his eyes landed on tens of hundreds of Help Wanted signs in windows of small and large stores up and down Charing Cross Road.

Muggle stores! Harry had thought to himself, admonishingly as he crossed the road and began walking down the street. His plan instantly changed; no longer was he interested in finding a wizarding store looking for a mild-mannered shop assistant. Now he was on the hunt for an unsuspicious Muggle shop-owner who just needed the extra help and would ask no questions.

And he'd found one. A small second-hand bookstore named 'Quiet A Few Books' had piqued Harry's interest as he approached, mostly for the pun. It was quaint, painted in dark green with gold accents. In the front window in gold-coloured lettering were the words 'Second-hand Books', and displayed underneath were an amalgamation of different genre novels. On the front door was a sign that indicated they were open, decorated in the colours of the Irish flag. Underneath was a small white sign with the words: Help Wanted.

Peering inside he saw no customers, only one man on a step ladder reaching for books higher than the step ladder allowed.

He'd thought that it was perfect and went inside.

Meeting and convincing the owner that he, an unknown and strange man in odd clothing, would be the perfect new hire had been much easier than he had anticipated. In fact, Harry hadn't had to do any persuading whatsoever. Mr. Healy, the owner of the bookstore, turned to the front as the entrance bell tinkered signifying Harry's arrival, took one look at him and Harry supposed that he probably had looked mildly anxious, and said, "You come in 'ere lookin' for a job, boyo?"

Harry had nodded, tried to exude confidence, but it had appeared that Mr. Healy was having none of it.

Instead, he'd shakily stepped down from the ladder, grabbed his cane from where it had been leant up against the bookshelf, and wobblily made his way towards what appeared to be a stockroom in the back. When Harry didn't follow, the man had beckoned impatiently over his shoulder and yelled out, "Come on 'en, follow me! Wan' me ter teach ya the ropes or nah?"

The lone customer in the bookstore was an older woman who he hadn't spotted at first glance, who looked aghast at the way the man spoke to Harry upon clearly just meeting. Harry had just grinned at his gruff attitude and quickly followed.

Mr. Healy was arguably rude, snappy to customers and Harry, occasionally difficult to understand, and all-around not what he had expected to find in a boss that day, but Healy and Quiet A Few Books had been perfect, no questions were asked, and Harry had gone back to Potter Cottage that evening with a job and the knowledge that he would be paid at the end of the following week.

More so than anything else, Healy's attitude was actually reminiscent of a Professor Harry had once had, one he hadn't treated in the deserved way, in hindsight. Therefore, he had promised to treat Mr. Healy with nothing but the utmost respect, which unfortunately meant doing his job when he was told to.

Harry sighed deeply as the man drew menacingly closer, evidently having remembered that he had paying customers in the store and so lowered his voice. He had nowhere to go, with the wall up against his back, and could see how this was a downside to his 'perfectly selected position'.

"I hired you to work, Sayre. Not to lounge aboot like some rugrat."

"Sir, yes, sir!" His boss glared at him, and Harry grimaced and lowered his eyes sheepishly, "Sorry. There was no one at the till so-"

"Do ya take me for some gobshite?" Healy whispered, he moved far too quickly for an older man and waved his arm to reveal a queue of two relaxed looking people waiting in front of the till.

Harry nodded quickly and edged around the man and started toward the till, "Sorry, Healy, I'll sort it out."

Healy called out as he went, along with a bang on his cane on the floor, "An' put that there book back in the Travel section."

Harry spun to face him and nodded, saluting faintly at him. He felt the man's eyes burn into his skull as he got to the till and heard him mutter darkly, "Hire the Sayre boy, sure, it'll be grand… feckin'… prick…."

He approached the customers at the till with a wide, welcoming grin and swept his arms grandly. Both people in the queue gave an answering smile back, "Welcome to Quiet A Few Books! I trust everything was top-notch today for you?"

That was the other thing Harry had spent a good number of long hours figuring out the night he'd travelled to 1978; the alias he would be using during his time here.

After several years of planning, and then those plans eventually going AWOL, he'd come to terms with the fact that he would always need a backup plan should something go wrong.

When crafting his plan this time, however, all he had been thinking about was how much he needed his friends with him. He could plan, sure, he had two years of Auror training and arguably six years experience fighting and planning against dark forces whilst studying at Hogwarts, but with them by his side, this would be a piece of cake.

Hermione would figure out step-by-steps, Ron would strategize and paint it in a realistic situation, and Harry would put it into motion. They were a well-oiled trio and had been for about fourteen years.

But now he was alone. It wasn't the first time he had to figure something out himself, he's been on undercover investigative missions well he hasn't been able to contact anyone, but those missions different than this. He had been able to go over meticulous details with both Hermione and Ron and his team at the Ministry. This time he hadn't had that opportunity, and that was the intimidating part.

Thankfully, Harry over the years had constructed a WWHGD.

What Would Hermione Granger Do?

First and foremost, when he found the bookshelf in the study Potter Cottage in Godric's Hollow, his first initial movement was to scour the bookshelf for something that would help him mould an identity out of nothing. He would need something fun and something that didn't draw too much attention from both Muggles and Wizards alike. However, on the other side of that line he also needed a name that wasn't too Muggle, in the unfortunate (and hopefully unlikely) case he happened upon a Death Eater or a magical who supported Voldemort's cause.

And that was when he happened upon The Pureblood Directory, something that he had carried around with him on that first day when he was looking for jobs, just in case he found himself unable to go back to Godric's Hollow and do more research. He hadn't wanted to leave it in the Cottage in case he couldn't return, as he wasn't sure where he would be able to get another copy without arousing suspicion.

To go back in time is one thing, it is completely another to take on a fake identity and parade around as though it's true.

Harry had no intention of parading, however, the name he would need to take would have to be unrecognisable to Muggles, fairly unknown in the Wizarding World, and it also would have to run through his bloodline, so if he ever had the need to change the Muggle money that he will be paid in into Galleons, Sickles, or Knuts at Gringotts, he wouldn't fail their tests when he requesting to open a vault in that name.

He had never read the pureblood directory before though it was obvious from the black hardcover and the blood-red writing what it was going to contain. To begin the first few opening pages listed twenty-eight families judged to be pure-blood by the author. These families were dubbed the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Harry recognised many of these families if not all. In particular, Black, Longbottom, Malfoy, and Weasley. At this point, he wished he could select one of these names past his own, Harry knew that should he be questioned but any wizard throughout the wizarding world and he gave this last name there would be suspicions and interrogations that he would not be prepared for.

To avoid these kinds of suspicions, Harry had then moved through each individual name and searched for the last name of 'Potter' listed under relation. His blood relation to whichever name he chose would need to be close, but not too close to the direct family line.

Of course, when arriving at specific families such as black he avoided the pages altogether. Some families it would not pay to be seen as related to.

One of these names was one, against his own will, he had learned much about during his time in Hogwarts, and over the year that he, Hermione, and Ron spent on the run.

That name was Gaunt.

In his sixth year Dumbledore had spun him the story and history of the Gaunt's, and how that family line had become extant in the female line, and to an outside viewer who had no knowledge of Tom Riddle's parenthood, extinct in the male.

To avoid suspicion, Harry knew that he could not take the last name of Gaunt, and the thought of doing so disgusted him. Still, after all these years, the idea of his minuscule relation to Voldemort still caused him to feel ill.

Despite this, there were many families under the title of relations to the Gaunt family.

This included a family that Harry did not recognise, one of the few so far and therefore it piqued his interest.

This family was named Sayre.

As far as he could tell they weren't considered to be in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, which suited his needs, and due to his inability to recognise the name, it appeared that it wasn't very well known.

However, they were a Pure-blood Wizarding family. This meant that they had, unlike other families in the book who often had several pages, a short page describing their existence. From what Harry saw, he could tell they were closely related to the Gaunt family, through Rionach Gaunt. Rionach married William Sayre and together they had one child: Isolt Sayre.

Rionach's sister, a pureblood supremacist, did not agree with William Sayre's agreeability with Muggles, which Harry thought perhaps ran through their blood, the burnt their home down with them inside.

Isolt then spent ten years with her aunt, and Harry, despite not having any more knowledge of the girl, felt a kind of kinship. He too had been through something similar and felt as though he could understand when he read that her Aunt disallowed her to go to Hogwarts when the letter arrived on her eleventh birthday.

Harry had even found himself grinning with joy and brimming with pride at reading that she'd stolen her Aunt's wand, and escaped to America, disguising herself and hiding in the mountains. Of course, the Directory painted this as an assault on her Aunt and that Isolt was clearly deranged thanks to her Muggle-loving parentage.

Reading between the lines, Harry had continued his research. A few years later, Isolt had met a Muggle boy named James Steward, and they'd fallen in love with each other. Isolt took his name, which The Directory had a lot to say about, Harry didn't even understand some of the slurs used. James had helped her construct a stone house and they'd named Ilvermorny. Eventually, they founded the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The Pure-Blood Directory had a record of four children; two orphaned boys they adopted, and two girls. One of the girls was named after Isolt's mother, Rionach. The Directory stated, in gruesome and scathing terms, all records showed Rionach II Steward never had children or married as rumours said she had the ability to speak parseltongue like her ancestor Salazar Slytherin and did not want his powers passed down any further.

The last thing The Directory had to say on the Sayre family, was that Rionach II went on to become a Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Ilvermorny.

Harry's plan seemed to crash upon him like a wave. Rionach II Steward, in his eyes, was the perfect ancestor figure to base his false identity on. It could not be proven, The Directory itself had stated, that she had not had children. If needed, Harry could most definitely argue, he thought, that she had hidden her line away from the spotlight of Ilvermorny School so that the remnants of the Gaunt family could not find her or them. she even changed their names from Steward to Sayre, in the hopes that no one would any longer be looking for Sayre's, only Steward's.

Harry had found some parchment and began to scribble down basic points: it would be fairly easy to lie and say that he had lived in isolation all his life in America, had not just recently travelled over. He could say his father was a British Muggle and his mother had been a Pure-blood, whose ancestor was Rionach II.

His father, James, died through complications from an injury he received during the War when Harry had been young. His mother, Hermione, had raised him in a small house in the woods in Massachusetts, near the wards of Ilvermorny. It was a family home, passed down through generations.

He had admired his father greatly, and often while his mother had been sleeping or busy picking herbs from the garden, he would adventure to the nearby town where many British men had been stationed for the War and stayed following its end, and he would hide and listen to them speak, and it would be as though his father was still alive. That could be the explanation for why his accent was distinctly British. Harry supposed that he could pour a slight American twang onto it.

He noted down that he had been born in July of 1949, and that his mother tutored him Until she died recently of dragon pox. In their relative seclusion, there was no one who could have helped them or kept her alive for longer.

Following her death, Harry decided to come to Britain where his father had been from, only to find it war-torn and helpless.

Harry then spent another hour on top of that trying to think of any scenario that would be able to poke holes through his plan. He believed that his lineage was close enough to the one he had created for himself so that he could fool Gringotts should he need to sign for a vault. If someone should question his story, Harry was fairly certain he could think on the spot and improvise and that his story left enough room for him to do so.

The only issue then, after finding his last name, he came to the realisation that he would need a first.

He contemplated for a while keeping Harry or a variation however came to the conclusion that should he come into contact with his parents, even his name being introduced to them or spoken in their vicinity could alter the timeline.

At this point, Harry was exhausted. He began flipping randomly through the pureblood directory once again until he landed on a page that seemed vaguely interesting and on a family that had lots of history recorded, considering the fact that he would have to go quite far back in time to see a name that wasn't in use often today.

Harry landed on the Lestrange family. he prepared himself to flip by once again, however, his eyes landed on one name.

Rigel V. Lestrange (23rd February 1911 – 20th March 1961)

Rigel Lestrange was a name that Harry had never heard of before, and he considered this signifying this man's importance in history as minuscule. Rigel Lestrange had been born three centuries before Harry's false identity had been and died 17 years before his arrival.

It was perfect.

Rigel Sayre.

"Sayre!"

Harry flinched hard, as though he had been struck on the face. Mr. Healy was stood, leaning heavily on his cane, in front of the till looking unaffected by his reaction.

Blinking hard in surprise, Harry peered confusedly at his boss.

Healy scoffed, "It's lashin' outside, and it's been busy as feck in 'ere and ya canne bring yourself to work for five fecking minutes?"

"Sorry, Healy. I was just-"

"Jus' not doin' your job." Healy nudged his chin aggressively toward the stockroom and Harry finally looked around the shop to see it empty apart from one sole woman in the corner sat on the old-broken-down chair, engrossed in a book on exotic birds.

Huh, Harry thought, he must have daydreamed through serving all the customers. Well, at least he could multitask relatively well.

"Get your bake back there an' sort them books. I'll be in tha' office." Healy said, and Harry watched as he hobbled toward to small office in the corner of the little shop. He was muttering again as he went, and Harry suppressed a smile as he made his way to the stockroom.

It had been two days since Harry had formed his plan and got the job at Quiet A Few Books. It was both disheartening and motivating when he thought about the father in those two days, he had made no headway with the Time-Turner whatsoever.

He knew in the grand scheme of things that two days were bad anything; he would sit in the Auror Mission Room for days on end with his team and think through different scenarios and planning missions down to every last detail. But it was lonely, and tiresome, to have nothing but being lost in time to think and worry about.

Harry got to his knees next to three huge boxes filled to the brim with books in the stockroom.

A few days ago, the daughter of an elderly woman, who according to Mr. Healey used to come in a lot, entered the shop with two friends who told Healey that unfortunately, her mother had died. Her mother had had all these books that she now didn't know what to do with, so was wondering if she could donate them to the store.

Before Healy could say no, Harry had quickly accepted and led her and her friends through to the stockroom. There were about one hundred books altogether that all had to be categorised, priced, entered into the system, and eventually shelved.

Ten minutes later, Harry was elbow deep in one of the boxes when the bell on the front door rang out. Not wanting to aggravate Mr. Healy anymore today, feeling nice, Harry picked up six books that were ready to be shelved and tried to trust his knowledge of the doorway placement, the bookshelves and the whereabouts of the till in the store as he walked to the front with the books blocking his vision.

"Good afternoon, let me just set these down I'll be with you in a minute," Harry said politely as he took more careful steps.

He heard a few footsteps get closer toward him and to make sure he didn't walk into the customer, he stopped still.

Then, something horrible and unthinkable happened.

A voice rang out, right in front of him.

A very familiar voice.

Suddenly, the two top books from his vision-skewering pile were picked up and off and Harry could see again.

"Here, let me help you with those."

And Harry Potter, now Rigel Sayre, stared right into the face of a 1978 Remus Lupin.