His present condition was not unlike those he'd been in when he lived in the cupboard under the stairs.

The room that Guidry had provided him with was stuffy, without a window or crack of natural light to shine through even under the slit of his dwarfish door.

He even doubted whether there was ventilation or not. Was that even a thing at this time? He had always been a horrid brute when it came to history. Despite the similarities of the situations, though his environment felt much more different.

Although he had been given his sleeping quarters in both instances, the difference lay in his host's desire to have him there.

Guidry had carefully set up an array of fluffy blankets and thick pillows as a makeshift bed, setting a glass of cool water at his side and instructions to the bathroom as he had left, his face betraying worry about whether those sleeping conditions weren't too precarious.

And on the other hand, the Dursleys had merely shoved him in the closet in order to forget his existence and pray he might fester and putrefy there, still a nuisance, however, due to the annoying scent of his corpse.

Of course, he didn't expect hot cocoa and a welcoming hug with Guidry's disposition, maybe some shared tears. However, it still came off to Harry as a gesture of desiring him, or at the very least not considering his presence to be a complete, unwanted waste of space that he'd rather have dunked in the garbage.

He still felt like an intruder, however, and he didn't just toss and turn in those wee hours of the morning because the pillows were arranged strangely along the length of his body.

He lay with the scent of his stale vomit in his hair, dust, and nicotine in his breath. He was overwhelmed by his situation and horribly tired, of course, but not the kind of tired that would allow for any rest.

His eyes were open in the complete darkness of the small room, adjusted to the full, but since there was nothing to see, they might as well have been shut.

He had taken off his grimy, crusty jacket and his broken wand, and the mysterious orb lay by his side as he talked himself into sleep.

He knew by now that if he had to talk himself into sleep, then it was plain that sleep wouldn't come easily, if at all.

But he could still dream. Or, technically, he actually couldn't.

In a sudden, strange impulse, his hand reached out to touch the orb.

It was pleasantly cool in his hand in contrast to his surroundings, but it sent an unsettling shiver, like an electric current up to his hand, and it lingered in his wrist, nestling there like a venomous serpent.

He wondered whether he actually shouldn't be touching the thing - for all he knew, it probably carried some deep, dark magic that he did not want to mess with it.

After all, what kind of magic could set him back in time in such a way? But, unfortunately, time turners were rare to come across as it was, and they weren't even harmless even if used in moderation and in the correct way.

So what was this? What could this kind of power mean? It had to be the most powerful, obscure kind of magic.

He had never heard of such a thing.

Once again, he thought of Hermione and how he needed her massive brain at a time like this.

Maybe he needed her for other reasons, like her deeply empathic ways even when he didn't feel like explaining his emotions but still wanted someone to understand them. He wanted to know how they were, how all of them were - or at least that they were safe.

Or even know if they were alive. He would've given anything to have just a little bit of knowledge about them.

Sighing, he set the mysterious orb back on the ground and lay on his side. He saw that the dim, indigo glow that the orb had was still slightly visible even in darkness, and he felt that the opaque light it emitted would make it even harder for him to sleep, somehow.

He was convinced he would never fall asleep, thinking and rethinking everything and then nothing in particular, and when he didn't realize it, he fell into a fitful, troubled sleep.

He was partly awake as he slept and came to his senses fully by the clattering of pans just outside his door (his room was right beside Guidry's living room kitchen, whereas Guidry had disappeared somewhere to his own chambers) and the sound of hushed voices speaking discreetly.

Sort-of-waking up groggily, he tried to sharpen his senses to make out what the voices were saying. One of them was unmistakably Guidry's, but he was talking in a far more different tone than he had ever used with Harry.

It was softer, affectionate, even a bit submissive. Harry thought he could understand why when he heard the second voice. It obviously belonged to a woman, and there was a clear authority in her tone. "… the boy the gotdamned cupboard, Guid?

He ain't an animal!" But even her angry voice was hushed, presumably not to wake him up. It reminded him of Mrs. Weasley, and that sent a pang of simultaneous affection and pain through him. "What was I supposed to do, book him a hotel?"

Guidry answered meekly but irritatedly. "You got yourself into a real mess this time, Guid. I thought them boys weren't going to be showing up no more.

You promised!" "Can't be anymore after this one. I'm sure." "You was sure last time," the female voice reproached tiredly, her voice resounding together with another soft clang of a pan. Something began sizzling. A fire crackled. "I'm sure now. Anyhow, the boy's here.

Should I've just left him out?" "No, no," the female voice admitted, weary, "can't throw the child out, now.

How old this creature, anyway?" "Can't be over thirteen, for certain. Scrawny little thing." Harry tried not to be offended by that. "Poor boy, poor boy. And he ain't know how he got here? What he say?"

"Well, we ain't exactly had a heart-to-heart, Molly! Thing passed out 'fore I got annthing concrete outta him." The woman made a tsk sound, and then they both fell silent for a bit. Her name was Molly.

It was Molly, just like Mrs. Weasley's. Harry tried to ignore the heavy stone that dropped to his stomach. The sizzling now translated into the loveliest smell of cooking food, and Harry, though clearly in an altered state, took the deep growling of his belly as his cue to go out.

He stooped in his little room and, putting his jacket back on as best he could in the cramped space, pocketed his wand and the orb before stepping out. Guidry barely thought him worthy of a side glance and mostly ignored him, but the woman he was with jumped at the sound of Harry's door opening.

She was squat, with a flat, dark face and the warmest, kindest features Harry thought a person could have. In spite of that, however, she stood and carried herself in an assured, confident and self-possessed way.

Just like Mrs. Weasley. God, stop thinking about that, Harry. Shut up. "Oh!" She exclaimed, rushing over to him.

"How'd you sleep, darlin'?" She asked a smile on her face and her hand on her hips. Her clothing was simple and dull-colored, a stained, raggedy apron draped over them. "Uhm, fine," Harry replied. "Name's Molly. Molly Cormier. I'm Guid's wife," she extended a plump hand. Well, at least her surname isn't Weasley.

"Harry Potter," Harry took her hand, feeling that relief of his name not meaning anything once again.

"My, what a strange accent you have!" She said, not unkindly. "Well, would you look at the state of you?" She remarked, one of her hands reaching to his hair, where a chunk of vomit hung. She pulled a disgusted face and then immediately corrected it.

"Why don't you get washed up? Bathroom's right over there - water barely runs, but it'll do," she smiled. "Got any clothes on you?" Harry shook his head, and by the look on her face, he felt that she was more heartbroken about his lack of clothes than he was. "My… Guid, d'you have any old clothes you can lend this young man?" "All my clothes are old," Guidry muttered grumpily from his stool.

Mr.s Cormier pursed her lips. "Guidry," she warned. "Alright, alright, I'll see if I can find something." He stood up grouchily and began heading for the stairs. "Why don't you go on ahead, Harry? Breakfast'll be done by the time you're out, for sure."

"Don't you go an' spoil him now, Molly," Guidry warned, halfway down the stairs. "Oh, hush, you old fart," Molly smiled at Harry once again, and Harry smiled back wonkily, heading to the bathroom

00-00-00-00

He hadn't even noticed when they'd set the clothes in the bathroom for him, but by the time he was done scrubbing the filth and dust from his body and hair with the scraggly little spout that came out of a tap in the bath, the clothes were neatly laid out by the door.

They were about three sizes too big for him, but he was used to wearing Dudley's oversized clothing, anyway, so it was like being back home.

In fact, despite this place's complete unfamiliarity, he somehow felt it was far more connected to him than he had previously assumed.

But maybe his mind was just making connections where there weren't any in a desperate attempt not to feel like an alien.

When he left the bathroom, his dirty clothes in a bundle under his arm, a breakfast of many eggs and about double the amount of bacon was laid out on the table, together with what he assumed to be a jug of coffee, cups, and a something that looked to be a mess of beans.

Three chairs that weren't there before had been set around the table, and Mr.s Cormier and Guidry were seated at two of them, patiently waiting for something.

Presumably him. He wasn't used to that kind of consideration, so he rushed to dump his clothes in his room and sat down, feeling guilty even for that small kindness. Mr.s Cormier smiled as he sat, whilst Guidry seemed growingly irritated the kinder Mr.s Cormier was to him.

She took a massive plate, loaded it up with the various foods on the table, and handed it to him. Next, she filled Guidry's plate and finally her own. Finally, Guidry filled the cups with coffee,e and Harry sat there like a small child, unaccustomed to people serving him.

That had only happened at the Weasleys. "Eat up, now, gotta grow those bones," Mr.s Cormier winked.

That seemed to be the final straw for Guidry. "Who in the hell are you, boy?" He asked suddenly. Mr.s Cormier eyed Guidry severely, as if about to reprimand him, but didn't say anything.

"Now that you know us, you know where you at and what's goin' on, I'd like to know who I'm putting a roof over."

Harry gulped at his words. The man was right, of course, but Harry didn't even know where to begin. Would they even believe him if he told them the fantastical and particular reality that was his life, or would they think he was a liar?

The best he could do was probably spoon-feed it to them as slowly as was acceptable, and in order for them to believe it, maybe it would be best if he had some evidence. He stood and quickly rushed back to his room, extracting the orb from his pocket. Going back to the table, he showed the queer little thing to Guidry.

"I think this is what transported me here. Like a Portkey - I just touched It, and it sent me here," he explained.

When he had pulled the orb out, Mr.s Cormier had had a repulsed reaction that he hadn't missed, like she was allergic to it.

She had a dark look in her eyes. Guidry, too, seemed extremely wary of it, as if Harry had pulled out a gun instead of a black crystal ball.

"Where did you get that?" Guidry questioned in a small voice. Harry paused. "The Department of Mysteries," he finally said.

"The Department of Whatta?" "In the Ministry of Magic," Harry looked to the both of them to see some recognition in their faces. But, unfortunately, they both came up blank. "The British Ministry of Magic?" "You mean the Magical Congress?" Mr.s Cormier asked shyly. "Yes, that must be it," Harry was a bit confused. "I don't understand.

You said you're not a wizard," he looked at Guidry, "how do you know so much about magic?" Guidry took a big gulp of his coffee, and Mr.s Cormier blushed a red deeper than her skin tone. "Moll,y here's a squib," Guidry explained.

"But don't get side-tracked with me, boy." Harry swallowed and proceeded. "I was being chased. In the Department of Mysteries, I mean - they keep their prophecies there in these spheres-" "Could you talk slower, boy?

Can't understand a damn thing you say with that accent of yours." Harry did his best to stifle a laugh since to him it seemed that it was Guidry that spoke as if with a potato in his mouth. "Right.

They keep their prophecies in these orbs. They started crashing down around us, thousands of them.

I fell down, and my hand touched this one," he said, enunciating very carefully and holding up the orb, "it worked as a Portkey. It brought me here. That's all I know." Guidry and Mr.s Cormier were listening attentively and after a moment of consideration.

"Your parents, sugar?" She asked. "They're dead," Harry said, a little bit shocked.

It had been a long time since he had had to clarify that, and it was one thing that his identity being unknown to them wasn't good for. Mr.s Cormier pursed her lips. "Any family?"

"A godfather. Some friends," Harry said in a small voice, realizing how pathetic it sounded that all the people that he cared about could be summarised in four meager words.

Mrs. Cormier nodded, not letting the sad empathy she felt leak onto her face, but Harry could tell that she felt for him. Guidry didn't look as empathetic, but he still seemed deeply respectful of it.

"You know when your parent's weres born?" Guidry asked. "1960, I think," Mrs. Cormier tensed up completely at that, but Guidry had probably expected a date along those lines. Harry assumed she handt known the small details that Harry's time was about a hundred years from now.

"Good, that means you ain't gone have any temptation to go looking for them and messing up the timeline.

It's important you stay far away from anyone you could know, you hear me?" He wagged his finger at him, taking a laden fork in one hand. Mr.s Cormier seemed physically uncomfortable with the situation. "Enough of all that - get eating, Harry. Food's gonna get cold."