Chapter One: Pink, Lace and Kitten Plates
Harry groaned softly. His head felt like it was about to explode. The sounds around him had changed: the thunder and lightning and thudding rain had gone. In the deafening silence Harry could just make out some distorted voices. He squinted, wincing at the pain in his head.
He was no longer outside, and definitely no longer in the Burrow. The walls were grey – stone perhaps? – and there were patches of white here and there. A few feet away from him stood two figures, the shorter one with a red head.
Ron?
Harry tried to sit up, but failed. The figures evidently spotted he was awake; they drew nearer and Harry blinked furiously, trying to get his eyes to focus. Where were his glasses?
"Are you able to sit up?" a sharp female voice said. Numbly he shook his head, then winced again as it protested violently. "Hmm. Keep your eyes open."
Harry tried not to blink, and a small light suddenly appeared in front of his face. He was reminded of being at a Muggle optician's as the light moved from one eye to the other. Finally, just as he thought his eyes would start watering, it vanished and he blinked.
"No concussion." Harry rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the pink and purple spots, and fumbled for his glasses. "How long has he experienced memory loss for?"
"For years," a younger, male voice explained. As Harry's vision came back into focus, he saw the redhead was actually not Ron at all, but a boy a few years younger than him, wearing glasses and Hogwarts robes. "It comes and goes, ever since he was a child."
The woman—Harry saw she was in the same uniform Madam Pomfrey wore—nodded. "Well, he seems to have suffered no lasting damage from passing out. I shall leave you to explain to him where he is."
"Thank you, Madam Wormwood," the boy said quietly. When the matron was out of earshot, he hurried over to Harry's bed. "Harry?"
"Um … yeah," Harry replied weakly. "Hi."
The redhead frowned. "What is?"
"I meant … hello," Harry muttered, confused. "Where am I?"
The boy glanced around, checking the matron wasn't coming back. "Hogwarts." When Harry stared blankly, he added, "The Hospital Wing."
"Where's Madam Pomfrey?"
"Who?—No, don't tell me. What happened to you?"
"I was at the Burrow," Harry said quietly, more to himself as he tried to work out what happened. "And, there was a storm outside … and … I went out to meet Dumbledore …" The boy's eyes widened, "… and then … I was here." He frowned. "Where am I really? This isn't the Hospital Wing."
"Yes it is." The smile had vanished from the redhead's face. He looked sombre now. "It's 1856."
"You what?"
"You're a time-traveller," he said quietly.
Harry managed to sit up at that. "What—how—"
"I found this in your pocket," the boy said quickly, passing Harry the Chocolate Frog card he'd unwrapped half an hour ago. "I had to hide it from Madam Wormwood. I told them your name was Aberforth Evans and you were a neighbour of my family's. I had to say something."
"You! Boy!"
The boy glanced behind. An older student was beckoning to him from the Hospital Wing doorway. "Take this." He pushed an envelope into Harry's hands. "It explains your existence to the teachers. I have to go."
"Wait—!" Harry began, but the redhead had already scurried off. Harry squinted but the boy had become a blur. He fumbled around and finally found a pair of glasses on the bedside table. By the time he'd put them on and looked back, both the boy and the other student had vanished.
Looking down at the Chocolate Frog card, he re-read it and groaned. Thank Merlin the boy, whoever he was, had the sense to hide it. Not only did it have his name and date of birth, the details on the blurb could change history in the wrong hands. Now he just had to keep it hidden and hope that he could trust the kid.
Harry checked for the matron, and opened the envelope, which had already been opened. The letter inside was brief and to the point.
Dear Headmistress,
Our son Aberforth suffers from occasional bouts of memory loss, and his tutor has become suddenly unavailable. We have decided it is time for him to try attending Hogwarts as a regular student. We are willing to pay fees for the whole year.
Yours sincerely,
Mr & Mrs J Evans
"Mr Evans?"
Harry quickly stuffed the letter back in the envelope and looked up. "Yes?"
The matron was standing a few feet away, wand in one hand and a potion vial in the other. "You need to drink this, it will help your memory loss. The dose is on the label, a capful twice a day. The Headmistress wishes to see you."
Harry blinked.
"I'm sure your friend will show you where her office is. Where did he go?"
"Er," Harry said awkwardly, "I'm not sure."
She sniffed. "Well, if he does not reappear, I can call one of the Professors to escort you there."
Harry waited, hoping the boy would turn back up, but he didn't. After a while a short, stout man entered the Hospital Wing, and shot Harry a curious but friendly smile.
"Mr Evans, I presume?"
"Yes," Harry said warily.
"Professor Ealing, Deputy Headmaster." He held out his hand, so Harry shook it. He was barely Harry's own height, middle-aged and had kindly brown eyes. "Welcome to Hogwarts. I am sorry to hear of the nature of your arrival. Waking up in the Hospital Wing is hardly what I would call a warm welcome."
Harry smiled. "Thanks."
Ealing led him out of the Hospital Wing and in the direction of the Head's Office. For show, Harry tried to look awestruck by the castle interior, as if he had not seen it before.
"Do you know much about Hogwarts?" Ealing asked conversationally as they walked.
"Um," Harry said, "my—er—parents told me a lot about it."
He was feeling very nervous and out-of-place. Ealing seemed friendly enough, but he kept giving Harry's t-shirt and jeans odd looks. Hoping to distract him, Harry asked, "What do you teach?"
"Potions," was the reply. Harry's expression must have conveyed something bad, for Ealing gave a wry smile. "I would hazard a guess that it is not your favourite subject?"
"I've never been very good at it," Harry muttered. He had half a mind to tell Ealing about Snape's teaching methods, but that wouldn't really go with his cover story.
"I am sure we can remedy that."
If Harry was going to be sticking around a while, maybe he could get Ealing's help with his essay subject for when he returned to the present. The thought cheered Harry up slightly, but he was still on edge.
There was no sign of the younger boy. There didn't seem to be anyone else about. Looking out the window, Harry saw it was dark outside. He didn't even know what time of year it was—it could be any time in 1856, if the boy was right and that was where—when—he really was.
His hand tightened on his wand. If he or most of the students in his time had come across a time-traveller, they would have gone straight to Dumbledore. The fact that the boy had covered up for him made Harry very nervous and told him that he should be very careful who he chose to trust. Until he could find the kid, he would have to play along with the memory-loss story and hope that he didn't run into any Legilimens.
"Here we are." They stopped in front of the gargoyle, which sprang to life and jumped aside without waiting for a password. "The Headmistress is expecting us."
Still keeping up appearances, Harry took the spiral staircase upwards and knocked on the door.
"Enter."
Harry swallowed and pushed the door open nervously. The sight inside made him stand still in shock. For a moment he thought it had all been a trick and he was back in Umbridge's office—the walls were pink, everything was covered in lace, and the horrible plates on the wall with the gambolling kittens were very familiar. Then he realised that though the contents were very similar, they were definitely not in Umbridge's office but the Headmistress', and the woman behind the desk was not Umbridge.
However, it was an easy mistake to make.
"I do apologise," she simpered, "I believe the sight can be a little startling to one who has not yet laid eyes on my office before."
You could say that, Harry thought.
"Come, sit!"
It took every effort for Harry to follow Ealing into the room and lower himself into the puce cushion of the chair in front of her desk, all the while keeping the revulsion off his face. He tried to keep his expression curious.
The Headmistress, while not identical to Umbridge, still bore a striking resemblance. She was taller and less dumpy, her hair greying, her voice was not quite as honey-laced, and there was no bow perched on top of her head. Other than that, they could have been twins—but from the time period, Harry guessed it was more likely this woman was her grandmother or something. He also got the impression that she was likely to be just as dangerous as her descendent.
"Well, Mr—Evans, is it?" she inquired sweetly.
"Um, yes," Harry answered.
"I am Professor Umbridge, Headmistress of Hogwarts." Even knowing it wasn't Dolores Umbridge sitting in front of him didn't stop Harry from desiring to curse her out of the Head's Office and all the way to the Ministry. "I understand your parents have sent you here to be schooled?"
Harry remembered the letter and handed it over to Umbridge Senior, who read it quickly. "I see." She looked rather happier—Harry guessed it might have something to do with the promised full year's fees. He hoped that he managed to get home before the end of the year, whenever that might be—he didn't want to find out what she would do when the fees didn't turn up.
"All seems to be in order. Once you are Sorted, your Head of House can show you to your common room."
Harry knew perfectly well what she meant, but tried to look curious. "Sorted, Headmistress?" Calling a person Headmistress was the strangest experience so far.
"Into your House. We have four. Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Professor Ealing here is Head of Hufflepuff." Umbridge gestured at Ealing, who was silent in a corner. Maybe he was waiting to see if Harry would be placed in his own House.
"Each of our Houses has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards," Umbridge continued in a well-rehearsed tone. "While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn you House points and any rule-breaking will lose your House points. At the end of the year – that is not until June – the House with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour."
Harry wondered what Professor McGonagall would have to say if she knew her speech had come almost word for word from Umbridge's grandmother.
"To Sort students we have the Sorting Hat."
Harry braced himself for the worst as the Hat was placed on his head. He knew what he had to do.
'I'm from the future,' he thought immediately. 'Please just put me in Gryffindor and don't look into my head, I can't tell or show you anything I know or I'll change history.'
There was silence for a long moment. "From the future, you say? I haven't heard that one before."
'Please, don't look in my head,' Harry begged. 'Just put me in Gryffindor and don't ask me anything.'
"Very well …"
'Wait!' Harry suddenly thought. 'Can you tell me who I can trust?'
"That's a difficult question, young man. I cannot answer it without delving into your head past the surface thoughts and seeing what you deem trustworthy."
'Forget it, then,' Harry thought bitterly. 'But—can you tell me this boy's name? Red hair, looks about twelve, wears glasses—'
"I see an image. I think you know who he is."
'I do? Who?'
"The Headmistress is getting impatient. I must say goodbye now, young man."
Harry heard the Hat announce Gryffindor and pulled it off his head. That had been helpful. Not.
"A pity," Professor Ealing said, shooting Harry a small smile. "But never mind, I'm sure you will be happy in Gryffindor."
"Antimony, go and fetch Congreve," Umbridge said with a touch of impatience. She quickly plastered the sickly smile back on as Ealing nodded to Harry and left the office.
Harry tried not to fidget, desperate to get out of the room. He started to wish he had asked to be in Hufflepuff instead, that way he could have left with Ealing. He hoped the Gryffindor Head would be as welcoming.
Umbridge glanced at the clock. "Dear me. It's almost curfew. Perhaps I should escort you to Gryffindor Tower myself—"
Alarmed at this, Harry tried desperately to think up a way out of that, but with relief he heard a knock on the door.
"Enter."
A tall wizard, dressed haphazardly with apparent bed hair, appeared in the doorway. "You wanted to see me, Atrocia?"
Harry bit his lip, trying not to snigger.
"I did, Congreve. This is Aberforth Evans, your new sixth-year student. Mr Evans, this is Professor Ford, Head of Gryffindor House."
Harry jumped to his feet, more out of a relief to be able to escape Atrocia Umbridge than because he was eager to meet another new teacher.
"New Gryffindor, eh?" Ford looked him up and down through upside-down glasses. "Follow me, then."
Harry let out a sigh of relief as they left the office. He would be quite happy to never have to look another Umbridge in the face again, ever. Hopefully he wouldn't have to stick around here long. He just had to figure out how to get back to 1996 …
Ford stopped suddenly, and Harry almost ran into him. Then he realised they were outside the Fat Lady.
"Password?" she asked.
"Tempus Fugit," Ford said in an absent tone.
Well, Harry was unlikely to forget that one.
"In you go, then."
Harry climbed through the portrait hole, and turned around to face Ford again.
"Your bed will already be made up for you," Ford said. "Just look for the dormitory with Sixth-years on the door. The other students will assist you with anything else."
Harry hoped so.
The bed made up for him was the same one Harry had in his own time. He chuckled darkly at the irony, but the humour vanished a moment later.
The reality of his situation was beginning to sink in. He was stuck in the past with no-one to go to for help, under the rule of an Umbridge, and the only person who knew of his predicament was a younger student whom he didn't even know if he could trust.
Harry paced the room a few times, trying to think. The thought popped into his head that, at least, he was experiencing no pain in his scar anymore—for the first time since he had arrived in that graveyard a year ago. Well, Voldemort didn't even exist yet, did he? So things could be worse.
He glanced into the mirror, and paused, frowning. He pushed his fringe up to make sure he wasn't seeing things.
He had no scar.
Harry ran a finger down where it used to be, stunned. He could sense a tingle of magic—some sort of glamour charm maybe? How did it get there?
Perhaps the redheaded kid had done it, but Harry failed to see why.
He had to decide on a plan of action. Only after he figured out what had happened to him could he find a way to get home. So. First things first.
Find the boy.
His watch didn't seem to be working – Harry had removed it and hidden it under his mattress so no-one could ask about the digital face – but he remembered it was nearing curfew, and he could hear the sounds of the common room filling up with students. If the kid wasn't a Gryffindor, Harry would have to wait till the next day to hunt for him – but he hoped he'd be in the same House. It would make everything easier.
His first piece of luck so far in this time: as Harry scanned the common room at the bottom of the stairs, he spotted a mop of red hair and a pair of glasses bent over a stack of textbooks.
Bingo.
Harry sidled over to the boy and sat down in the empty seat next to him. The kid didn't pay him any attention, the end of the quill in his mouth as he chewed a question over. Harry glanced at the page. Arithmancy.
"Are you a third-year?" Harry asked in surprise. The kid looked barely a day over ten.
There was a yelp and a tinkle of breaking glass, and then a moan as a black ink stain started growing on the parchment. Harry hastily dabbed at it with his sleeve. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump."
"That's all right. It hasn't stained too badly. At least it didn't cover up anything I wrote." The redhead pulled out a handkerchief and wiped off as much of the ink as he could. "And no, I'm a first-year. It was my twelfth birthday last week, if you want to know." He glanced sideways at Harry for the first time. "Oh, it's you."
Harry grinned unsurely. "Yeah, me, the amnesiac. Out of curiosity, what made you tell them that?"
The boy shrugged. "You were unconscious when I found you; the chances were you had travelled back by accident and would not be aware of the fact until you came around. I had to think of something that would explain your confusion when you woke up. I thought telling them you routinely suffered from memory loss would be preferable to telling them you were on release from an asylum."
"Er … thanks," Harry said, somewhat taken aback. "I've had enough of people thinking I'm loony. Which leads me to my second question: why did you cover up for me in the first place? You don't trust the staff?"
The redhead gave him a withering glance. "Have you met the Headmistress?"
"Good point." Harry racked his brains for another of the million and one questions. Instead he settled with, "If you're a first-year, how come you're doing Arithmancy homework? In my time it doesn't get taught till third year …"
For some reason the boy seemed to withdraw into himself at this question, and mumbled something that sounded like "Here as well", but Harry's question was answered by someone else.
"Bourdon! What have you done to my homework?"
TBC …
