Chapter One

Hogwarts

Headmaster's Office

August 1932

Requisition forms for food – check. Updated Transfiguration textbooks – check. Request for Growth Charms for the grass on the Quidditch field – check…

Albus Dumbledore was hard pressed not to sigh at the stacks of papers littering his desk, overwhelming the efforts of his enchanted phoenix paperweight to keep them in some sort of order. The small statue, an old gift, hopped around the desk, flapping its wings forlornly at the disorderly piles of paper, in a vain effort at creating order from anarchy.

Come to think of it, that particular trait was very similar to a trait the gift-giver had possessed – Dumbledore quickly crushed the small bolt of pain which arose at that thought. He stared at the phoenix paperweight, still hopping over his desk, and reached out decisively, grabbing the statue and thrusting it into a conveniently half-open drawer. He gave the drawer a tap, watching with satisfaction as it shut with a small snap.

Never mind that this particular ritual had been repeated every day for close to three months, now. He knew that the small statue would once again find its way onto his desk before the day was out.

A knock sounded on his office door – Dumbledore scowled slightly, as he remembered he had left the gargoyle guardian open in anticipation of the pre-school-year visitors who would invariably come by for conference. Dumbledore straightened in his chair, smoothing down his simple, dark blue robes. Making certain that his face was pleasant, he gestured his visitor to the chair opposite of his desk.

"Professor Slughorn, it is a pleasure as always." He smoothed his long auburn beard as Horace sat in the chair across from him, a small frown etched across his features.

What – ah. The placement of the chair across from his desk. From Slughorn's perspective, Dumbledore was greeting him, not as an equal, but as a subordinate, or as a student called in for a reprimand.

Of course, Slughorn was technically Dumbledore's subordinate. But given the Board of Governor's concerns, it was not altogether unlikely that that state of affairs would continue on indefinitely.

Slughorn was as aware, if not more so, of this than Dumbledore himself was. His frown quickly turned into a somewhat sardonic smile as he discreetly scanned the headmaster's office.

Of course, Dumbledore thought drily. Measuring the room for furnishings. No doubt deciding how to redecorate. His hand fisted in his beard. He quickly released it, dropping his hand to his lap as he leaned forward slightly, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose.

"Horace," he said, attempting to force slight pleasure into his voice. "What is it that I can do for you?"

Slughorn's smile faded slightly, likely at the usage of the first name, before he recalled himself and puffed up once again. "Ah, Albus – I did want to ask if you had considered my recommendation for that new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor – "

"Yes. Horatio Potter – I have his resume here." Dumbledore shifted the stacks of paper on his desk, desperately searching for the resume. It would not do to look disorganized – he made an effort to keep his expression calm as his fingers finally hit on the lamia-skin folder the resume had been submitted in. "Clearly a pureblood," Dumbledore commented, as he ran his hand over the smooth, scaly material. "I have not seen lamia-skin for close to fifty years."

Slughorn's expression grew, if possible, even smugger. "Why, yes," he agreed. "Mr. Potter is the second son in the Potter family – I believe you know his grandfather, Lord Albert Potter –"

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed, ensuring his expression remained benign and pleasant. "Lord Potter does serve on the Board of Governors."

"Yes, yes – Lord Potter approached me, you know – we were at the Association of Potions Masters – and mentioned that his son was looking for work – and, you know, I did happen to mention that we were lacking ­–" here he paused to smirk – "a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor – but, really, Albus, it's a shame that Tom Riddle's only just graduated – he'd be a spectacular professor, would he not?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, his hand tightening on the lamia-skin folder. "But really, Horace, I don't think that Mr. Potter has quite the credentials that we are looking for on the staff here at Hogwarts."

Slughorn looked surprised and puzzled. "Well, really, Albus – whyever not? He does have an impressive academic record – comes from a family of impeccable reputation and social standing – really, Albus, even you should be able to appreciate that – "

Dumbledore felt his hand grip the folder even tighter and made a conscious effort to relax it. "You are quite correct, Horace, of course, but I would hardly agree that his family's reputation is unblemished."

Slughorn frowned, looking lost – then his expression cleared, and he waved his hand airily. "Ah, of course – you're referring to that unfortunate incident two or three years ago. Really, Albus, young Potter was never convicted, and I would think that you of all people" – he paused, throwing Dumbledore a significant look – "would be capable of appreciating the need for the concept of the assumption of innocence."

Dumbledore felt himself freeze for a moment, staring at Slughorn. The professor, taking that as his cue to leave, rose from his chair, leaning heavily on the arms, as he bent towards Albus. "Headmaster," he offered, with a slight bow, and tromped towards the door.

The door shut with a clunk. Dumbledore waited, until he was certain that Slughorn was gone, before he buried his face in his hands.

It never ended. It never ended. Without consciously thinking, he reached back down to the shut drawer and unlocked it, withdrawing the small phoenix statue. It began hopping once again over his desk, flapping again at the stacks of paper.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, and surveyed the room – with its sleeping and thankfully silent portraits of bygone headmasters, the empty plinths, the unopened boxes, the sparkling crystal astrolabe which was all he had unpacked, and wondered if he had not indeed made a grave mistake in accepting the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts.

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You're coming around. About time.

Harry grumbled slightly, content to remain in the darkness and silence. The unwelcome intrusion of the voice miffed him. He attempted to lift his arm, to bat it away, before realizing that this was physically impossible. His arm – was it tied down?

"Boy, try not to move that arm."

Panic. He was back – he was back in the cold and the dark, propped up against the dank wall, breathing in the putrid smell of fresh meat and old blood, hearing the rats scrabble against the stone floor – he arched his back, trying desperately t o escape from the restraint –

"Don't fight – wait, wait – boy, calm down –"

Boy! He tried to grit his teeth, to fight harder, but realized to his horror that he could not possibly fight any harder than he already was – he felt as though he had gone a few rounds with a Muggle weedwhacker, and come out the worse for it –

Although, actually, the analogy was not entirely incorrect. Although the Wizarding Weedwhacker from Hell might be a better way of putting it.

Wait. Why was he no longer in pain?

"Boy, can you open your eyes?"

Open his eyes? Well, why not? If it was Voldemort, it wasn't like he'd ask politely. Or he might, just for fun, and then cast an Eyelid-Removing Dark Curse of Power ™ to stay in character.

Regretfully, he decided that it was probably a better idea to live with knowledge then remain blissfully ignorant. He opened his eyes.

A man's face stared down at him. It was a hard face. His eyes were a muddy brown, wrinkled at the corners from constant exposure to the sun – Harry guessed, eying the evil-looking mouth and sharp nose, that his (rescuer? captor?) was not accustomed to laughter or smiling. The face was framed by gray hair, tied back in a low horsetail, and drenched in sweat from the scalp down.

The man's eyes skimmed over Harry's face and upper body, stopping at his left eye, his nose, his shoulder, and his collarbone. Harry winced as each glance seemed to reawaken the pain in that area – the black eye, the twice-broken nose, and what he suspected was a dislocated shoulder and broken collarbone. And that, he thought, grimly attempting to move his legs, was only the upper body. In fact, the only part of him that did not hurt was his left wrist, which still wore the black armguard he had worn since before the Catastrophe and which Voldemort had never been able to remove.

Harry and the man stared at each other for what seemed to be an eternity, before the man broke the stare, snorting softly. "Someone did a number on you, boy", he muttered, putting a firm but gentle finger on Harry's black eye.

Harry coughed, testing his vocal chords. "Yes, sir," he replied, his voice coming out a low grumble. He frowned, the grumble confirming that his voicebox had probably been damaged, possibly permanently. He grimaced, and tried again. "Sir… who are you?" he ventured.

The man looked at him for a moment, and snorted again. "I'm a healer, boy, and today is your lucky day. I don't know how you ended up almost encased in solid rock, but if you hadn't deApparated a second before you did, you'd be in the wall."

Harry blinked. "What?"

The man sighed heavily. "You, boy, are in the Royal London Hospital, Magical Wing. You deApparated barely two feet from the barrier separating us from the Hospitals. Now, I assume that you were attempting to come here for treatment for your – not inconsiderable – injuries…"

Harry nodded, frowning. What had happened? How had he gone from Voldemort's camp to the Royal London Hospital? For that matter, why was he not in St. Mungo's? "Sir… why am I not in St. Mungo's?"

The healer's gaze hardened. "St. Mungo's? Where's that?"

"St. Mungo's Hospital… the magic hospital…"

The healer frowned, taking out his wand and moving it closer to Harry's eyes. He blinked as a small light shot out of the wand, directly into his pupils. "No sign of concussion, boy," the healer growled, putting the wand away. "This is the only magical hospital we've got here in Britain."

Harry blinked again. "What?"

The healer sighed. "Boy, this is 1932 and we're being hit by the depression just as hard as the Muggles are. St. Mungo's was proposed to the Ministry almost five years ago – you can see how important they think it is to give all the Wizarding accessible health care…"

Harry felt his mouth open slightly as he looked at the healer. The healer was looking back, with no trace of deception in his eyes or face. Could this be some sort of trick of Voldemort's? If so, though, what purpose could it possibly serve? Slowly, and wincing as the pain in his shoulder intensified, he turned his head to the right. He saw a bare cinderblock wall, covered in some sort of ingrained dirt and odd yellow-green stains. He turned his head to the left, and saw a small, wrought-iron bedside table where his wand rested, and a chipped plaster water pitcher. A wooden chair, one leg shorter than the other three, stood next to the door, which opened onto a hall paved with the same sort of cinderblock as the wall.

"Is this – some kind of prison?"

The healer seemed about to roll his eyes, but changed his mind mid-gesture. "No, boy, like I said, this is the London Royal Hospital. For Magical folk. Since you Apparated here, you are Magical. Since we don't know who you are, you're in one of the more secure wings. And as soon as you pay up, we'll fix you up."

Harry's eyes widened. "I- I don't understand," he said weakly.

The healer stood, this time completing the eye-roll gesture. "Fine. Think about it. I'll come back when I have the chance, which, considering my schedule, should be – never." He strode towards the door. "A nurse will come by in a bit. Tell her when you want to see me," he tossed out as he left the room and vanished out of sight.

Harry put his head back on the pillow, exhaling heavily. He looked down at his own body, and realized that the clothes he had been wearing – a Muggle jumper and jeans – had been removed. He was wearing some sort of white robe; his bloody leg had been tied neatly with a tourniquet of some sort. He moved it experimentally, wincing. For a hospital, they weren't big on painkillers. He reached absently for the water pitcher; it was only after five minutes of struggle that he was able to move it close enough to lift over to his bed, putting minimal strain on his injured shoulder.

So. He was, supposedly, in the London Royal Hospital, in 1932. He was badly injured, wearing a white robe which made him look like some sort of bloody invalid –

although, to be fair, he was –

and, more to the point, he had no idea if this was some trick of Voldemort's, a hallucination brought on by extreme pain, or if he had actually travelled through time. He briefly wished that Hermione was there – she'd no doubt have an answer, supported by no less than three primary sources, four secondary sources, and a give him good dose of her own opinion to go along with it. He closed his eyes briefly, as Hermione's and Ron's faces swam into view. He stayed like that, leaning back on the bed (which smelled, he realized vaguely, like a combination of cabbage and liver), and fingered the black wristguard, running his fingers over the metal grommets which held it together.

He heard a noise at the door; he started, his eyes opening convulsively as the pain in his leg aborted his attempt to leap to his feet. He gasped, eyes watering from the lightning bolt of pain ripping up and down the bone and through the muscle, as a figure dressed in what he vaguely recognized as an old-fashioned wizarding nurses' uniform approached. She stood silently, allowing him to recover, until her figures swam into focus.

She was identical to Pansy Parkinson – the pug face, the calculating expression, the short and crouching stature. Unlike Parkinson, however –

who he had last seen screaming at the end of his wand –

she was smiling, seemingly genuinely.

"So you're the mystery patient, then," she said brightly, stepping further into the room. "Everyone's talking about you, you know – they want to know what on earth possessed you to deApparate so close to the ward against the muggles!" She paused, seemingly waiting for a reply.

"Accident," Harry grumbled, the pain in his vocal chords returning full force. She looked at him with a stricken expression.

"Oh, no – we can't have that! You must be in terrible pain already!"

He said nothing, letting his expression speak for itself. She noticed, and flushed. "Of course – just – just give me your name, and payment information, and we can get your treatment started right away – "

He looked at her. "Don't have money," he grunted.

The nurse looked startled. "What? But – what's your name?"

Harry winced. "I'm – er – I'm Heimrich. Heimrich Evans."

The nurse looked at him, a tight expression in her eyes. "You're German, then?"

Oh, bloody hell. He thought fast. "No. No – I'm British. It's an old family name."

The nurse did not look satisfied. She said, rather coldly, "Well, Mr. Evans, I'm afraid that we can't treat you without some guarantee of payment. Considering the economic climate of the times –" She grimaced, and muttered, seemingly to herself – "Why the wizarding world is so dependent on the leeches I'll never know –" She snapped her attention back to Harry. "Mr. Evans, I'm afraid that you'll simply have to leave," she glared. "You've got your bandage, there's your wand."

Harry stared at her. "What? I'm bleeding – I'm clearly in pain – can't you do anything?"

The nurse stared back. "We already have. We gave you a bandage, didn't we now? Now, up you get. There's your wand – go on, we're discharging you. Nothing's life-threatening."

Still staring, Harry lurched to his feet, gritting his teeth as the pain in his leg burned harder. He limped to the door, sagging against the frame as he lost his energy. This was insane. Pomfrey would have had him in bed for no less than a month if she was here – well, and alive -

The nurse's shoes tapped behind him. He gritted his teeth again. "May I –" he asked, with exaggerated politeness – "at the very least, have a crutch to lean on?"

The shoes tapped again as she considered it. "Very well," she snapped. "But mind you leave quickly." He felt her shove, none to gently, by him as he stood leaning on the door frame. He watched her march purposefully down the hall, and bit back a combination of a sigh and a pained groan.

His magic was shot to hell – there was no way he'd be able to do anything with it for at least the next week. He could barely walk, and there was no way he could Apparate. The only clothes he had was the hospital robe on his back… the Muggle jumper and trousers had been far too bloody to even think of salvaging… and with his luck, the bleeding hospital would want it back and he'd be naked.

He was in trouble.

No, Potter. To borrow the Muggle vernacular, you're screwed.

Harry winced as he brought his hand to his forehead. Of course, if the voices were back, then at least he could count on having some company. He glared resentfully at the wristguard. Useless thing.

Of course, he had his usual amount of luck to depend on. In other words, none at all.