…Cornelius Fudge was elected Minister for Magic in 1990, a peacetime minister who bolstered Britain's struggling economy following the first blood war, primarily through the introduction of tax cuts and generous government loans (Pickering, 1999). However, it's widely acknowledged that Fudge struggled with the enormity of Lord Voldemort's rebirth in 1995 and was ousted when his return was revealed to the public in 1996 (Granger, 2000). Many factors contributed to Fudge's rise to power, and so, before discussing the impact of his actions, his predecessors must be discussed and evaluated in turn…
…Stepping up to relieve Nobby Leach, Eugenia Jenkins demonstrated fortitude and resilience in the face of the pure-blood riots during the Squib Rights marches of the late 1960s. Jenkins was a stout midliner in British politics at the time, considered to be a liberal pureblood with sympathetic views to the Muggleborn cause and yet was acknowledged to hold a healthy respect for tradition (Abbot, 1979)...
An excerpt from Hermione Granger's thesis (2004): A Socio-Political, Economical, and Cultural Analysis of 20th Century British Wizarding Society: Causes and Consequences of the Wizarding Blood Wars.
Harry didn't trust the front door of Grimmauld Place, nor the gleaming bronze handle, or the curtains that framed it. Not after it had so traitorously betrayed him before, trapping him inside. With care, he turned the handle. The door opened. He stepped out onto the doorstep, mildly surprised he'd been permitted to leave.
Perhaps Grimmauld Place had achieved whatever it had intended to do by sending him back in time…
"Are you fleeing, future fiance of mine? I believe uncle made it quite clear you were permitted to stay in one of our spare rooms until he decided whether or not to accept your offer."
Harry winced. "Not… fleeing… exactly…"
Bellatrix scoffed and poked him in the shoulder, stepping out to join him. "You're one of the worst liars I've ever met. I'm amazed you managed to pull off a single word of that fabrication to my uncle, he's not one to be fooled."
"The Potters are distantly descended from the Peverells," Harry said. "I didn't lie."
The moonlight cast half of Bellatrix's face into silver and the other half into shadow. Harry was all too aware that anyone who wished to listen in on their conversation simply had to crack open one of the windows overhead.
He entwined Bellatrix's fingers within his own and pulled her instead into the orange light of the street lamp on the other side of the road. Her hands were cool and soft; he immediately let go once they reached their destination and flexed his fingers, unsure why they were tingling.
"Just because you told the truth, doesn't mean you didn't lie," Bellatrix said, a satisfied smirk upon her lips. "You can delude yourself as much as you like, but you knew exactly what you were doing."
It was hard to deny. Harry shrugged, tucking his hand into the pocket of his coat. The night air was chilled, his breath misting like a dragon's sigh.
"What's the date? Autumn?" he guessed. The trees were skeletal and a frost would likely greet them in the morning. He shivered.
"15th November." Bellatrix tapped his shoulder with her wand and Harry was somewhat amazed he'd allowed it, hadn't even flinched. She cast a silent warming charm, a spell Harry had always struggled with, as he often set his clothing on fire instead.
"Thanks," he grumbled. "Look, I need to get a feel for the situation here. Understand what it means to be in 1974. I will be back, I promise. But for now, I'm going to stay in the Leaky Cauldron. If that's still around…? Is it around yet?"
"The Leaky's been around forever, but you can't stay there." Bellatrix huffed. "You are such a plebian. If you're to marry a Black, then only the best accommodation for you. Stay at The Crystal Chimera, you'll find it on Palatial Alley. Turn right at the top of Diagon and walk through Carkitt Market."
So much had been destroyed during the wars. Harry recognised only Diagon from those directions, but no doubt would be able to find his way. He fished a handful of coins from his pocket; at least five Galleons.
"Can I afford it?" he joked. At the horrified expression on Bellatrix's face, he hastily tucked the money away.
"You just keep that in your pocket?"
Five Galleons was about twenty-five quid in 2005, but Harry hastily realised inflation had probably screwed with that.
"Uh, how much is that worth these days?"
"A week at the Leaky," Bellatrix sniped. "And breakfast in the morning. Most people use a coin purse, you know."
Harry patted the mokeskin pouch Hagrid had gifted him all those years ago/many years into the future. Travelling back in time was confusing.
"That's just spending money, in my day. I've got more here."
"You'll need twenty Galleons, at most," she decided. "Is that all you have?"
Guiltily thinking of how he'd emptied his vault into the pouch when the goblins had escorted him to it at spear point, Harry shook his head. Sure, he didn't have a fortune, at least in modern money, but around here hopefully it would last him a while.
"Farewell, then, fiance," Bellatrix crooned.
Harry grimaced. "Fiance-to-be," he reminded her. "Arcturus has yet to agree."
"Oh, he will," Bellatrix said, not an ounce of doubt in her. "He values purity, certainly, but he values power more."
Uncomfortable with the implication, Harry nodded. "Send me an owl, if you need me. Otherwise… I'll be getting a feel for the situation here."
"Fare thee well," Bellatrix said. "See you soon, Harry."
Harry woke as dawn crept over the horizon, warm pinks and oranges casting a soft glow about the room. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the canopy of a lush, evergreen forest, a magical illusion infused within the glass. The view was incredible and he'd never slept on a softer mattress. Begrudgingly, he could see why those that could afford it would choose to stay at the Chimera instead of the Leaky.
Moments after he resolved to stand and summon room service or dress himself for breakfast, a pot of tea and two slices of toast appeared on a tray hovering at the foot of the bed, the toast liberally buttered and smothered in raspberry jam. The Daily Prophet landed on his knees and Harry reluctantly picked the paper up. He propped himself up on his many pillows and ate breakfast while he skimmed the news.
Nothing of note, other than commentary on how the Aurors hadn't yet found the culprit of the Piccadily Bombing in October. Harry's faith in the Ministry of Magic prior to the 1998 reforms wasn't strong and so he couldn't say he was surprised. Sure, there were gems such as Mad Eye Moody, but by and large, the ministry was intentionally incompetent. Voldemort's fault, of course. He'd been cultivating a weak ministry for decades.
Hermione had written a whole bloody essay on how the political ruling system of wizarding society had fallen apart in the late 20th Century. Harry had read parts of it, because he was a good friend, and she'd asked him to proofread. In essence, she'd claimed that wizarding society had started to deteriorate, in comparison to Muggle society, just after World War II. There had been something about extreme legislation passing and something about the Ministers for Magic and Harry struggled to remember any of it. At the time, he hadn't cared how the war had originated, only that it finally had come to an end.
He wished he'd paid it more attention, now. "History teaches us our most important lessons, Harry!" she'd say. He'd always figured she'd be there to educate him when he needed her.
It was a bludger to the stomach to think that Hermione would never fondly lecture him again. She'd never again kiss him on the cheek, her way of telling him she loved him, without forcing him to hear the words aloud. Ron would never again relentlessly mock Harry's attempts at dating or hug him the way he hugged Percy, and Fred, and all the other Weasleys, calling him family with each and every warming touch. Ginny would never challenge him to another race across the Quidditch pitch and smugly grin each and every time she won. He'd never be knitted another sweater by Molly… never share another evening of boozy commiseration with Neville… never go thestral riding with Luna…
There were too many nevers to count. To think and dwell upon them all would be unbearable. Harry had left his life behind, but they hadn't left him. Each and every one of them would stay in his heart.
If he did this, however, their lives would be immeasurably improved. If he could end Voldemort fifty years earlier than before, then Voldemort would be reduced to nothing but a silly name in a history book that future students giggled over while making notes in the Hogwarts library.
In the quiet of his room in the Chimera, Harry swore to his parents, to Sirius, to Ron and Hermione, to all those who had died in a cruel and pointless war, that he would ensure his actions brought nothing but happiness to their lives. He swore to the friends and family that he'd left behind that he would preserve their memories, the hardships they had endured, the love they had gifted him, even as he tried to shape the future and what they would become.
Harry splashed cold water on his face to shake off the melancholia that had overcome him. The people he loved no longer existed and now… never would. It was up to him to ensure their happiness and he wouldn't achieve that sitting around moping.
After a refreshing pot of tea in the restaurant downstairs, drinking out of china cups and saucers so delicate Harry feared he'd break them if he squeezed too hard, he decided to get on with what he was mentally calling Operation: Unfuck the Past.
He left the inn and took a stroll through the various alleys, soaking up the atmosphere. Last night he'd been too tired to notice, but there was a veritable maze of wizarding streets that curved through London, sprawling alleys and hidden markets that hadn't existed even when he'd visited Diagon age eleven. No one cowered like they had in the late 90's but there was an atmosphere of wary anticipation. He ambled towards Gringotts, aware that right now the only legitimacy he had was the word of Bellatrix Black. If he was here, if he was truly in 1974, and he was going to do something about it, he needed to prove he was who he claimed to be. Unfortunately, Gringotts was his best option, no matter how much he loathed the place.
The goblins narrowed their eyes at him as he entered, but that was nothing unusual. They were naturally suspicious of all who stepped foot in their domain. He joined a queue and waited nearly an hour to be seen by a clerk, who didn't deign to look at him, even as he snapped, "yes?"
"I'd like to inquire as to the state of a family account and open one if I'm not acknowledged as heir."
"Name?"
"Peverell."
The goblin looked at him then, teeth bared in the facsimile of a smile.
"Peverell?" he scoffed. "They're dead. All of them."
"And yet, here I am," Harry said, shrugging. Despite the confidence he projected, he wasn't sure if he'd qualify to access their rumoured wealth.
"Do you know how many come each year, attempting to claim the Peverell vault?"
"None who have succeeded."
The goblin sucked in a breath then furiously drew forth a scrap of parchment and quill. He scribbled down a few words then shoved it at Harry.
"Go see Scraplock. But I warn you, boy. If you are false, he'll eat your eyes and roast your tongue and your death will be something you plead for."
Goblins. Such a delightful folk. Harry pasted on a smile.
"Not if I eat him first," he quipped, and strode further into the bank, looking for office 17. Certainly, this was goblin sovereign land. But since Harry had broken out of the bank on the back of a dragon, he'd not feared goblins, nor Gringotts, not in the way he feared so many other things.
After all, the worst they could do was kill him.
He knocked on the door to office 17 and then entered, not satisfied to wait another hour in a play of power. Scraplock sat behind a desk, a thestral head mounted on the wall behind him. All the other walls were bare and not a single scrap of parchment was visible on the desk. Scraplock himself was dressed in a suit from the 1920s and a scar curved across his eye and into his cheek, disfiguring it.
"Good morning," Harry said. "Lovely day we're having."
"Harry Peverell," Scraplock inhaled deeply through his nose. "Curious name. Not true. Not a lie."
Harry smiled and said nothing further.
"Well, sit." Scraplock gestured at the chair in front of the desk, obviously designed for another goblin.
Tempted as Harry was to transfigure it into something reasonable, he instead perched on the edge of it. Goblins, he found, preferred to be met on their level. Pettiness with pettiness.
He held his arm forward, so Scraplock could scrape past his skin and taste the blood, and believed that he was a Peverell.
The rest would come.