Well into thirty eighth hour of interrogation, Harry felt very nostalgic about that Avada Lord Voldemort would have oh so graciously provided.
It was established early on – that is, about three hours after he awoke and had a vial of Veritaserum poured down his throat (and what it was with Ministry's employees and the truth serum, for crying out loud, even he knew three drops would suffice and he was rubbish at Potions!) - that no, he wasn't a solder in Grindewald's army, and no, he wasn't the Dark Lord himself in clever disguise, and last but not least – no, except for juicy story of Grindewald's questionable past relationship with Albus Dumbledore, Harry didn't know much about the Dark Lord, because he barely passed History of Magic.
Harry thought it left his interrogators feeling a bit at loss – or at least, the Auror who's been questioning him visibly deflated and left the interrogation room soon afterwards. The Unspeakables, on the other hand, were as expressionless as ever, and the moment they were left alone with Harry, they proceeded to squeeze out of him the story of his whole life. And random historical facts he remembered from Binn's classes or had learned elsewhere. And every single detail concerning what they dubbed as the Accident.
Halfway through, one of the Unspeakables took pity of him and spiked his Veritaserum with coffee.
The subject of the Killing Curse and his scar brought up another round of Unspeakables poking him with strange devices; Harry had a feeling that round number one was conducted while he was still unconscious. But at least, while at it, they had also patched up his injuries. Looking down at his bandaged hand, Harry thought he must have had looked pretty gruesome, when he was first brought in here. Well, he supposed, running back and forth on a battlefield and then, being way to close for anyone to be healthy to a magical explosion, would do that to a person.
Around forty third – or maybe it was forty forth, he wasn't sure – hour of interrogation the Unspeakables decided their curiosity was satiated for now and generously offered to answered some questions of his own. Harry might have had some quarries around hour number one, like what on earth is going on?!, but at this point he felt dead tired and ready to fall asleep on his feet, so he didn't give a damn about it anymore.
No wonder then, that once the Unspeakables, unprompted, informed him he had apparently travelled over fifty years into past, Harry felt very blasé about it.
Then, finally, they allowed him to get some rest, although Harry wasn't thrilled with his accommodation. In Department of Mysteries there was simply no place suitable for long and what's more important – undisturbed slumber, yet Unspeakables scoffed at the thought of letting him far from their sight, thus he was escorted to the Ministry's cell.
On the second thought, however, it wasn't so bad. He had a nice, fluffy mattress conjured for him to emphasise the point he technically wasn't a prisoner, so all in all, Harry decided dazedly, life was looking up.
He fell asleep the moment his head hit the mattress.
Harry woke up to the sight of a Unspeakable holding a tray of food.
Later Harry would suspect that someone thought it an excellent idea to wake a wary wizard with such a peaceful, domestic sight and theoretically, he would have been right. But unfortunately 'domestic' and 'Unspeakable' did not collocate well, so instead of nice, fuzzy feeling, first thing in the morning Harry almost went into cardiac arrest.
Said Unspeakable, on the side note, was appointed to guard his cell whenever Harry resided in it, because as it turned out, he was now one of the top secret projects the Department of Mysteries was working on, so he was ought to be supervised by one of its employees at all times.
If the Unspeakable felt the tiniest bit of shame – as, in Harry's opinion, every decent human being should – for causing him...unrest, he most certainly hid it well. Not beating an eyelid, he set the tray down by his mattress and instructed him to eat up, because someone would be sent to collect him shortly.
It was shortly indeed, for no sooner had the Unspeakable spoken his part than one of his colleagues sprung out of nowhere. They exchanged nods, few murmured words and then turned in unison to watch Harry choke down his breakfast. Unblinkingly.
That was the beginning of his oh so delightful two-weeks long stay in the Ministry.
During that time Harry discovered a number of fascinating things he never wanted to know about Department of Mysteries and its employees. For instance, that the room he was brought every other day for yet another round of him being poked with strange devises reminded him uncomfortably of the secret labs where aliens were always kept in science fiction films. He also confirmed what he had feared – that the ridiculous amount of Veritaserum he was forced to consume during his first, never-ending interrogation was very slow to wear of, meaning he was prone to random confession concerning odd and often embarrassing facts about himself, usually in least appropriate places. Like that one time, around eight o'clock, in a lift crowded with the Ministry's employees, Harry remembered and cursed for the umpteenth time the potioneer who created the truth serum. In that setting, he loudly declared his secret fondness of odd numbers. In response, the Unspeakable who escorted him back and forth between his cell and the ninth level – and that was one and only time Harry had ever heard him speak – admitted, with a little blush colouring his cheeks, that personally, he had always favoured even numbers, because they divided by two so nicely.
The reception of both confessions came in a form of horrified silence and on the next stop, whether it was their destination or not, Ministry's employees hurried out of the lift.
But then again, no matter how bizarre the circumstances, should one be subjected to said situation for an extended period of time, the bizarreness would eventually loose its absurd edge and turn into familiar pattern. And so, in the end, he did get used to being questioned about every agonising detail of what the Unspeakables wanted him to say. Out of necessity, he built up resistance to their default creepiness; freaking out every single time he realised his guard had been watching him, unblinkingly, in his sleep, was getting rather exhausting. In time, even examination room could hardly phrase him.
There were other things, however, to which he couldn't grow accustomed to. Like, seeing date 'September 1944' printed on the newest issues of the Prophet carried every morning by the Ministry's employees.
This whole time travelling thing. He didn't know how to feel about it.
He shouldn't be here and not only because it defied the laws of both, magic and science. He should have been brave enough to face Voldemort for the last time and end, once and for all, this nightmare. It had stretched for far too long.
Even if it would cost Harry his life.
And yet, he didn't feel guilty. Well, not exactly.
His wish coming true meant he valued his own life over the fate of wizarding world, ashamed as he was to admit it (and imagine disappointment in Dumbledore's kind eyes).
But now – what? Voldemort and Harry were over fifty years apart now. They were like – how should he put this...like a story that was supposed to reach its conclusion by now, but instead was left unfinished at the beginning of its last chapter.
...Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, he thought how things would have been better for everyone, had someone made sure Lord Voldemort would never rise to power. He entertained that idea and since 'past' became his 'present' – maybe he would be able to change it?
Create a future without the Dark Lord in it?
But then, he would turn on his side and see the Unspeakable looking back at him; and with sudden sense of absolute certainty, he would know that it couldn't possibly be as simple as that.
Harry dreamt.
He was swirling his wand between his long, spidery fingers.
His wand. Elder wood and Thestral hair.
His brow creased. He could feel the power buzzing pleasantly in the wood underneath his fingertips, but still something didn't feel right. No matter. Should the fabled wand remain inadequate, soon enough he would be able to wield his old wand again.
He listened to the sounds of Forbidden Forest, a victorious smirk on his face. It was only a matter of minutes now.
Lord Voldemort was waiting.