Chapter Two: Do Your Own Homework
"What have you done to my homework?" a boy howled, hurrying over to the table. He looked fifth year at least. Harry frowned.
"I-I'm s-sorry," the redhead stammered, but before Harry could say or do anything the older student seized him by the collar and held a fist to his face.
"That work is due in tomorrow, Four-Eyes. Write it out again or—"
Harry finally pulled himself out of his shock and stood, drawing his wand. "Put him down."
The common room seemed to freeze. Everyone was watching the scene.
"Who in Merlin's name are you?" the older student sneered. He somewhat resembled Draco Malfoy, only more heavily built with darker hair.
"Doesn't matter who I am, what matters is the fact that there are a hundred and one very painful spells in my head that I can choose from if you don't release that boy now."
The first-year yelped as he fell back onto his chair.
"You're new," the bully stated, looking Harry up and down, who had changed into spare Hogwarts robes befitting the time period before he came downstairs. "And obviously not used to the ways of this school yet." He drew his own wand and waved it in front of Harry's face. "These are of no use outside classes, New Boy. And outside classes there are no rules." He tucked his wand back in his pocket.
Someone tugged on Harry's sleeve and the boy's voice whispered, "Harry, just leave it."
Across the room, someone else called, "Get him, Fawley!"
The Malfoy-look-alike seemed to be bracing himself for something. Harry suddenly twigged and ducked to one side as he lunged at him with his fist out. Harry twisted round and caught Fawley's arms firmly from behind in a move Dudley's gang had learnt to avoid letting him perform.
"I don't believe in violence," Harry said in a low voice, although the whole common room heard. "Quite frankly, I've had enough of it. I don't want to hurt anyone. But if you go near this kid again, you've got me to answer to. Right?" Without waiting for an answer, he dropped the bully. The whole room stared in silence as Harry beckoned to the redhead and the two retreated upstairs, leaving the uncompleted homework behind.
"Is it really not possible to use magic outside classes?" was Harry's first question as he shut the door to the first-years' dormitory. The kid nodded. "That's something I've never heard of. Guess it wasn't boring enough for my History teacher to cover in class."
The redhead chuckled a little, but his face looked anxious. "I'm sorry, I would have warned you but it didn't cross my mind it might be different in your time."
"That's okay." At the puzzled look, he corrected himself. "Alright. Sorry. I'll try and stick to less—futuristic—language."
"Your world must really be different."
Harry nodded. "I suppose so. I haven't really experienced enough of yours to compare properly though. But …" he added, turning serious, "Some things never seem to change. I never realised the nickname 'Four-Eyes' went so far back."
The boy hung his head. "Oh, that. It's because I wear glasses, you see."
"Well, yes, I know that—do you think these things are just for decoration?" Harry gestured to his own pair. "I've had my fair share of being called names. In fact, I'm sure I exceeded the average. My point is, I know exactly how you feel." Harry took a deep breath. "Your name's … Bourdon, right? What's your first name?"
"Albus," the boy said quietly.
By now something inside Harry's memory was screaming at him, but he still couldn't work out what.
"Right. Albus. I think we have a few things to talk about, you and me … starting with the concept of bullying."
Albus squirmed slightly, and fumbled under his pillow, drawing out three bags of sweets: Chocolate Frogs, pumpkin fizz, and mint humbugs. "I don't see what there is to talk about."
"A fifth-year is making you do his homework for him," Harry said. "That doesn't bother you?"
"He's sixth year actually. And no. It's preferable to broken ribs."
Harry made a split-second decision: he was going to get home, but before he left, he was going to help Albus out. Not only did Harry hate bullies, but Albus had already helped him. It was only fair.
The boy looked rather overwhelmed now, however, so Harry sat down on the opposite bed and tried to look less intimidating. Maybe for now—until he had figured out a plan—he should change the subject.
"You don't by any chance know why—" Harry put his hand to his forehead as he spoke, and Albus predicted his question.
"Glamour charm," he said promptly. "I thought it not a good idea for something that identifiable to be noticed. Especially if, as your … Chocolate Frog card says … it is famous in the future."
Right. Harry hadn't thought of that. Suppose he got caught on camera or something?
Wait, were cameras even invented yet?
"So … anything else I should be aware of? Assume I know nothing about Hogwarts, or—or anything, actually."
Albus paused thoughtfully, sucking on a humbug. After a moment he offered the bags of sweets to Harry, who took a Frog. "Professor Umbridge has been Headmistress for six years—since 1852—and she re-introduced every Medieval punishment in her first week. Detentions are to be avoided at all costs. You get them for lateness, poor work standard, breaking curfew and disrespect towards staff."
"Not fighting with the other students?"
"No. That's encouraged."
Harry paused to process this. "What about the other teachers; what are they like?"
"Umbridge is evil," Albus said simply. "I don't think the others are, as long as you abide by the rules. Ealing, the Potions Master, is probably the least strict. Ford is all right, but he's very absent-minded."
"I noticed."
"Myers—Charms—is agreeable enough most of the time, but you still don't want to get on her bad side. The others are all rather tough, and strict. And at the end of the day, Umbridge controls the whole faculty, even the more pleasant ones."
Silence fell for a moment. Harry took another Frog, but it didn't taste as nice as usual. "Albus, can you help me? Look, I really appreciate your help with covering up who I am and everything, but I really need to get back home and you're the only one who can help me."
"What makes you think that I can?"
"The fact that a student five years above you is willing to make you do his homework, and the way you came up with a cover for me so quickly. And, it's probably a coincidence, but I know an Albus in my time as well and he's an utter genius. So, please, I know you can help me figure this out."
Albus took a deep breath. "Fine, but first you have to tell me exactly what happened when you were transported backwards. You mentioned something about a storm?"
"Yeah – I think I must have been struck by lightning or something. But I don't see how that could send me back a hundred and forty years."
"Was that the last thing you remember then before you woke up here?" Albus pressed. Harry nodded.
"Yes. There was a storm, I was at my friend's house, I saw Dumbledore out the window and went out to see what he wanted. That's it."
There was a long pause before Albus spoke.
"Who's Dumbledore?"
"Oh—just … someone I know. Why?"
"I didn't think there were any Dumbledores left, that's all. I thought my mother was the last one."
Harry blinked. "Your mum was called Dumbledore?"
Albus nodded. "It was her maiden name. Does that mean I have relatives other than my father?"
"Your mum was called Dumbledore?" Harry said again dumbly.
"Yes … Why?"
Harry looked the boy up and down, his brain spinning. "The man I went out to meet, the one called Dumbledore? His first name is Albus. Albus … Dumbledore … Oh my …"
Red hair. Blue eyes. Glasses. First name Albus. Mother's maiden name Dumbledore. No other relations with the name. And by the looks of it, serious sweet tooth …
Harry finally let out an expletive. Albus blinked.
"What does that mean?"
"I'll tell you when you're older."
He was saved! Sitting in front of him was none other than his Headmaster—albeit a somewhat younger version. The genius. The one Harry had always looked to for answers.
"It's you!" he finally choked out. "Bloody hell! … Sorry. But … yes!"
Albus now looked thoroughly puzzled. "You mean … you know me in the future?"
Harry nodded. "It has to be you."
"Wow. You mean I live to a hundred and fifty-two?"
Harry chuckled. "And still young at heart. But … this is brilliant! You are a genius, Albus, you're the cleverest person I've ever met. If anyone can help me get home, it's you."
Albus' smile faded, and he dropped his eyes. "I can't."
"What?"
"I can't help you."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked incredulously.
Albus looked up at him, and Harry saw with a jolt that his eyes held the same solemn expression that had been in them the last time they had spoken in the present.
"I'm … really sorry, Harry. But … if lightning brought you back here … there's only one way that's possible."
"And that is?"
"By a Time Storm." Albus took a deep breath. "They exist solely to complete history—destiny. If it brought you back here, that means there is something in this time you have to do—something important. Maybe even more than one thing, I don't know. But you cannot return to your time when you've done it … there's no way for you to get home."
Harry could never return to the future.
He would never see his friends again. Never see the older counterpart of his only friend here again. Never see the Weasleys, Hermione, any of the Order, any of the DA …
Albus may only be twelve years old but Harry trusted that the boy knew what he was talking about. Still, it was extremely hard to accept. He didn't sleep at all the first night, which was nothing to do with the fact that Fawley had told him menacingly to watch his back whilst he slept.
Harry lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the other boys' breathing as they fell asleep one by one. He refused to cry, but resisting was difficult. He missed home.
Everything was different here—this wasn't the Hogwarts he knew. Heck, even the pyjamas were different. To be more precise, there weren't any. The other boys were all sleeping in their underwear, which for this time seemed to be white linen button-up one-piece suits. Harry would have much preferred to sleep in his boxers and t-shirt, but he had been getting enough strange looks—if he was going to be staying here, he needed to blend in. None of these suits had been provided, but he had sneaked some clothes out of the fresh laundry until he could figure out how to buy his own.
He almost regretted it. The suits were seriously uncomfortable, rubbing and pinching certain areas when he turned over. No wonder people had progressed to modern pants. Harry wondered when they had been invented, and hoped it wasn't too far in the future.
Money was going to be a problem. Harry didn't have any. He couldn't even pay for clothes and textbooks, let alone his school fees. What was he going to do when Umbridge discovered the deception?
He didn't like to ask for financial help. Albus had done enough for him. And Harry frankly didn't trust anyone else here. He was going to have to figure this one out on his own.
Hours passed, as Harry tossed and turned whilst trying not to, and by the time the sun started coming up, the other boys were stirring.
Harry was exhausted, but he knew he needed his wits about him. The other four boys in the dormitory—a blonde named something Smith, a dark-haired Scot the others called 'Kid', a boy called Byrd who acted permanently on a caffeine high, and Suco Leben, a pale boy who kept to himself—he could probably take, one on one, if he had to. But Fawley was bigger than Harry, and the behind-the-back move only worked so many times. Besides, if they ganged up on him …
Maybe he was getting paranoid, but Harry thought it was better to be safe than sorry. For that reason, he hurried to shower and dress before the others were up, and made it out of the dormitory before Fawley had his eyes opened properly.
In the common room, he almost ran into his Head of House.
"Evans! Watch where you're going," Professor Ford said sharply.
"Sorry, sir." Harry wondered why Ford was there. Professor McGonagall—he felt a miserable pang—had hardly ever come into the common room in his time, only to break up parties or if someone was ill. Ford, if Harry wasn't much mistaken, was dressed in exactly the same way as he was yesterday, right down to the upside-down glasses.
"I suppose I should be grateful I don't have to wait around for you. We have to discuss your timetable."
"Oh."
"I don't know which subjects you were planning to take, or which ones you have been taking—Did you take your OWLs at all?"
Harry thought quickly. If he said yes, surely Hogwarts would want proof of grades. But if he said no, would he have to re-do them?
Either way, it was a risk. Harry took a gamble. "Yes. I passed Defence, Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures, Herbology and Astronomy."
"This is a list of the sixth-year subjects." Ford passed Harry a piece of parchment. "If you check all the subjects you wish to do NEWTs in, they will appear on the timetable. Bear in mind that you are starting part-way through the year, and the teaching may not correlate exactly with your tutoring—"
"I understand," Harry said, though he was rather concerned how much catching up he would have to do. It was February here—he had essentially skipped the first five and a half months of the course.
Then again, he had befriended a genius. Maybe catching up wouldn't be as difficult as he thought.
Harry hesitated when he read the last three subjects on the list: Time Studies, Healing and Ancient Magic. As if reading his mind, Ford said, "Have you studied any of the NEWT-only subjects at all?"
"No."
"The Headmistress did suggest that, if that were the case, it would be unwise to try and take any of them. Usually NEWT students are advised to take at least one, but—"
Harry placed a firm tick next to both Time Studies and Healing. He had considered the matter enough over the last few weeks to know he wanted to do Healing—with his luck, it would be an ever-useful skill—and, given his position, to pass up Time Studies would be insane. "I'll catch up, sir."
"Very well." Ford tapped the list with his wand, and it turned into Harry's timetable. "Run along now, then, Mr Evans."
Harry had just finished picking anxiously at his breakfast in the Great Hall, when Albus sat down opposite him.
"Morning," Harry mumbled.
Albus glanced around them before leaning in. "Harry," he said quietly, "I didn't think to ask before—have you any money?"
"Not a Knut," Harry replied. "I had to borrow someone else's underwear." Albus sniggered, and he smiled. "Not my finest moment!"
"I could lend you some for getting clothes and books. I don't have much but it should cover—"
"Really, Albus, I can't ask you to—"
"Asking isn't necessary," Albus insisted. "I am offering. We're … friends, are we not?"
"Yeah, 'course we are."
"Don't friends let other friends help them out in your time?"
"Well …" Harry thought of Ron, with a pang. He had never easily accepted things from him or Hermione. But he had, sometimes, been successfully talked into it. "I suppose so. Thanks, Albus." He sighed. "Wish I knew what to do about the fees."
Albus bit his lip. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have promised that. I didn't expect you to be staying long."
"It's okay," Harry assured him. "You've bought me time to figure it out. But so far my only idea is rob Gringotts, and I'd rather not resort to that."
Albus laughed properly this time. "Understandable." There was a pause while he helped himself to orange juice, and then he hesitated. "What about … well, it's just a thought …"
"What?"
"Do you know anything about your ancestors?" Albus asked.
Harry frowned. It seemed a bit of an odd question. "Not really. I know my mum was Muggleborn and my dad was a pureblood, but … otherwise, zilch." At Albus' expression, he corrected himself. "Nothing."
"So …" Albus lowered his voice. "Your name—Potter—is definitely from the wizarding line Potter, right?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I don't know the Potters personally, but I know them by reputation. The ones alive right now, I mean," Albus said. "I don't know what exact relation they would be to you, but …"
Harry swallowed hard. It hadn't occurred to him that he would have relatives alive and well in this time.
"From what I hear, they're a family of very good people. Everyone speaks highly of the Potters. Well, almost everyone. The Fawleys consider them blood traitors because they're friendly with Muggles, but …"
"Don't worry, I'm familiar with that attitude," Harry said darkly. His heart was racing. His ancestors sounded something like the Weasleys. Was it possible he could have a family here?
Common sense caught up with him. "What are you suggesting—I just knock on their door and say 'Hi, I'm your descendent from a hundred and forty years in the future, do you have a spare room'?"
"Maybe not those exact words," Albus admitted, "but if the Potters are half as kind as people say they are, they'd accept any family with open arms, no matter how crazy the story of how they got there."
Harry dropped his eyes, trying to hide from Albus the fact that they were prickling badly. He was tempted. He was so tempted. "I can't."
"Why?" Albus sounded surprised. "I'm sure you could find a way to convince them who you are."
"That's not it." Harry took a deep breath. "I don't want to go running to strangers for money, no matter whether we're related or not. I'll figure this out on my own."
Now he knew something of how it felt to be Ron. Harry had always been so frustrated by his friend's reluctance to accept anything, but now he was beginning to understand. He didn't want to feel like he was using his family for their money—or for them to feel that way either. Maybe one day … when Harry had sorted the money problem … he could track down the Potters. But not before.
TBC …
