AN Back again with more KoA! minor formatting changes, addition of a Prologue tag to the last chapter, and a header on this one introducing Part 1! I have plans for this fic to include different POVs, but rather than switching back and forth chapter by chapter they'll be divided into chunks like this. As always massive thanks to my crack beta team. Gamer0890 and Palkey both have great in-progress fics you should go check out, and Red the owner of the Flowerpot server and curator of all things Flowerpot.

Part 1: New Storms for Old Lovers

Chapter 1

Harry awoke with a groan, his head pounding before he'd even managed to open his eyes. He clutched at it and moaned, the simple action of raising his arms sent pain racking up to his shoulder and down to his wrist. This was not the dull ache that usually plagued his bad knee and shoulder on occasion. No, he felt like he'd been strung up like a side of beef and pulverized with meat tenderizers. He felt all of this in the first few instants after regaining consciousness. He was sore and hungover, and he couldn't for the life of him remember why.

Had he gotten drunk?

He'd never really been the type of drinker to overindulge to the point of blacking out. In the last few years, as his childhood left him, he'd begun to experience the hangovers older witches and wizards were wont to complain about, but he'd never felt something like this. He let his hands drop back to his sides and the action sent fresh waves of agony through his body. Maybe he had gotten drunk, truly pissed, and made an arse of himself and Fleur had put him in his place? Her particular brand of physical admonishment was never forceful enough to cause this kind of pain though.

His ponderings were brought to an abrupt halt however when he became aware of two things simultaneously. The first was that he was laying on smooth cool tile, he felt it when his hands flopped back to the ground. The second was that he had been roused from his sleep by voices all around him.

His eyes flew open as he jerked upright and his shock was so great that he momentarily forgot his pounding headache and aching body as he looked around. He was surrounded by more people than he'd seen in one place in years, more people than it sometimes felt were left in Britain. They were everywhere, coming in and out of shops with bags, lingering against shop fronts, and seated on benches. Those closest to him gave him dodgy looks and went wide to avoid walking too close.

He could hear the cacophonous roar of hundreds of people conversing. Children yelling and laughing, and parents trying to wrangle them with harshly bit out commands. Friends chatting away rapid-fire bits of gossip that he couldn't make out, and the mutterings of those closest to him as they eyed him wearily.

"Ruddy goths," one middle aged man grumbled disdainfully to his wife as he steered his family of four clear across the walkway to avoid him. His children looked over their shoulders with interest as they were herded away. Another woman thought he was staging a protest by lying in the middle of the path and speculated as much aloud to her friend.

It was a mall. A muggle mall, brimming with shoppers. He jumped to his feet, getting more odd looks for it, but he didn't care. The protests from his head and body were growing easier and easier to ignore in the mounting befuddlement and panic of his confusion. He looked down at himself, he was wearing his red dragon leather vest over black robes. The piece was more akin to a flak jacket or bulletproof vest the muggle law enforcement wore and explained some of the onlooker's comments. He would appear quite strange to them in full length robes cinched down with vibrant red scaled leather. With similar bracers on his arms and an odd bit of wood strapped to his forearm in a holster. He would have laughed if he wasn't so confused, and if he was being honest with himself: scared.

He strode forward, the crowd gave him a wide berth that made it easier to navigate. He was near the food court, the main source of the thunderous voices he could tell now. It was strange, not something he would've noticed in its absence, but the din of people all around him was wreaking havoc on his nerves now that it was present after so long. He strode through the tables catching the curious eyes of everyone he passed, dressed as he was, and he felt more on edge than he did walking the war torn streets of London.

He made as much of a bee line for the bathrooms as he could manage in the packed space. It was with a heavy sigh of relief that he slipped in, the sound lessened as the door closed behind him. He made a quick sweep of the bathroom out of habit and instinct more than anything else. It was empty apart from the largest stall, there were no traces of magic or wards though. He crossed to the sinks, turned the cold tap, and scrubbed his face with the barely cool water.

His head was pounding less now, and he could master his own body no matter how much it protested. He closed his eyes and leaned over the sink, trying to force his way past the pain and remember what had happened the day before. Vague snippets that made no sense were all he got for his efforts. Trying another approach, he thought back to what he remembered last and built up from there. He remembered getting home from his trip down to Brighton, Fleur had somehow managed the ingredients for a birthday cake, and … and a letter from Hermione. Beyond that, everything dissolved into odd sensory flashes.

The feel of long silver hair sticking to his face when he woke up in the middle of the night.

The color purple, pulsing and bright.

The smell of lamb cooking.

Hermione's cat.

An image of Fleur looking up at him with that frustrated pout she gave when he wasn't cooperating.

A loud buzzing in his head accompanied by a pins and needles sensation all over his body that crescendoed into the most excruciating pain he'd ever felt.

Darkness.

His eyes snapped open at a sound behind him. He whipped around, halfway through pulling out his wand, when a bored teenager exited the stall. The boy gave him a single glance and left without washing his hands. He must've been quite the sight, dressed all weird as Vernon would've put. With a crazed look in his eyes and a big ugly scar marring half his face. Harry was turning on the spot before the door had even fallen closed again, disappearing with a soft pop.

He staggered and almost fell upon arriving in Diagon Alley, as if it were his first time apparating again. Diagon Alley should have been a desolate wasteland. The most intact building should have been Gringotts, and even its marble and gold wrought walls were cracked and charred and half-collapsed. Courtesy of the Fiendfyre Voldemort had unleashed.

That was not the state of Diagon Alley, however. It was not as packed as the muggle mall he'd just left, but there were people. And they weren't scurrying from one pile of rubble to the cover of a half-collapsed shopfront. No, they were lounging outside Florian's eating ice cream, or coming out of Zonko's laughing.

"Bloody fucking hell," he swore weakly under his breath.

He felt like he might pass out, and then he realized that was because he was beginning to hyperventilate. Someone coming into the alley from the Cauldron bumped him and he stumbled a few steps forward. It snapped him out of it and he broke out in a brisk walk even as they called apologies.

He still got odd looks here, just of a different variety. His attire was a sort of homage to the Aurors from the Ministry, so while no one gave him a wide berth he still turned heads. He ignored them as he walked down the cobblestone street, not entirely sure what was going on. It couldn't be a dream, he was in far too much pain. The only time dreams hurt this much was when they came down the line from Voldemort, and his scar had been dormant since the soul fragment was killed. That thought led him to the next and far more likely possibility, that he was dead. Death had appeared to him as King's Cross once after all, this wasn't too far off really. His heart dropped when he realized if he were dead that meant he'd left Fleur alone with-

He squeezed that thought like a half filled balloon and shoved it down where he could no longer feel it. Marshaling all of his meager Occlumentic ability to do so before it could swell any larger and consume him.

No, no, no.

No time to think about that, focus. Breathe. Need a plan, figure out what's going on first. He scanned the area, he was getting close to Gringotts now and there was a little newsstand at the base of its steps. He nodded to himself and strode over to it.

The headline on the front page made no sense, but Harry stared at it dumbly for a few seconds regardless. Confusion reigned, panic was trying to bubble up in him but it was struggling to find a foothold with all this pesky confusion in the way.

World Cup Stadium Construction Under Way!

16 days 4 hours 37 minutes 16 seconds

The timer was ticking away in a running countdown. It couldn't be. It couldn't be. He glanced up at the corner of the page.

2 August 1994

"Oi! You gonna buy that paper or what? It's not a bleedin library I'm running here is it?" He jumped, but no one was there, it was just an enchanted voice spelled into the news stand itself. He threw the paper down, back on to the stack, and ran up the steps of the bank three at a time.

Okay. Okay, so… So it's 1994 again. Alright that's fine.

He wasn't going to think on it too much, not yet, the newsstand had brought to his attention a problem. An easier problem to fix than somehow being nine years in the past. Not even a problem really, more an objective, a task. He needed money, and the bank was back- still in operation. Easy.

He burst through the gold and glass doors, earning evil glares from every goblin in the anteroom. He ignored that completely and paced immediately to a teller's desk. The goblin across from him seemed intent on ignoring him, he was vaguely aware of the fact that he was supposed to wait to be called on. He couldn't be arsed.

"I need to make a withdrawal," he said after a few seconds of nervous bouncing.

The goblin continued scratching something out with its quill, most likely weighing the options of ignoring him further or getting his transaction over with. It decided the latter it would seem as, without looking up, it finally said:

"Vault number?"

"Err- Potter vault." He placed his wand on the counter as he didn't have his key, wands counted well enough as wizarding identification anyway.

"The Potter vault has been sealed." It wasn't exactly possible for a goblin's harsh accent to sound bored, but this one was making its best effort.

"What? Why?!" he snapped, trying to stop himself from shouting. Still the goblin didn't look up, but he could see its lip curl.

"At the request of its owner of course, now if that was all." It gestured toward the door, still scratching away.

It took everything in his power not to slam his hands down on the counter and yell at this goblin. Instead he leaned over the counter and hissed at it.

"I'm the owner of the vault, it's my money and I need. To. Make. A. Withdrawal."

"You are not the owner," the goblin started to say, but Harry steamrolled over it.

"Yes I am! I'm Harry Potter, it's my vault!" That got the goblin to look up at last. Its eyes roved his face as a sneer formed on its ugly features. He could see it tracing his scars, taking in his hair, and inspecting his body armor.

"No, you are not," it drawled in a derisive spiteful tone Snape would be envious of. "If you do not leave my counter this instant I will be forced to call security, sir."

Harry was almost certain he could reach across the counter and throttle the life out of this little shit before security could stop him, but he mastered himself and brushed off the urge. Without another word he turned on his heel and marched out of the bank.

Okay. Okay, minor setback. Think.

"Dumbledore!" he shouted it even as he thought it, getting a startled look from the witch making her way up the steps. He paid her no mind, simply apparated off the top step, straight into Hogsmeade. It was still quite the walk from the edge of the village to the gates of Hogwarts, he would've taken it at a run if it weren't for his knee. Nevertheless the walk gave him time to think.

That lasted all of a few steps, enough time to curse the goblin and rage at his own ignorance, before he wished not to think anymore. The gates to the school were, of course, locked. Term didn't start for another month. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry, so he grabbed the bars and shook them as violently as he could while screaming his frustration at them. This obviously accomplished nothing, but it made him feel ever so slightly better.

"Okay think Harry, make a plan, come on…"

He was thinking out loud now, not a good sign, but he needed something to reign in his focus. He was rapidly descending into panic, and he knew from seven years of war that some kind of plan was the difference between life and death. He didn't know where Dumbledore lived, didn't know if he even kept a residence outside of Hogwarts, but he had the feeling the Headmaster lived on campus full time. Most of the teachers did keep a residence, but he didn't know where a single one was.

"Aberforth!"

He grinned manically as he spun around yet again and set off back up the hill toward the village. Dumbledore's brother could get him in contact with the man surely. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part of him that was still calm and sane, noted the waning of the afternoon by the sun's position overhead. It must've been past three by the time he made it to the main stretch of Hogsmeade. The Hog's Head was on the other side of town, closer to the shrieking shack and down a side street. He was so wrapped up in his anxiety and single-minded mission it didn't even occur to him that he could get onto the grounds through the shack. He was passing the three broomsticks when a booming voice from within stopped him in his tracks.

Hagrid! Of course! He lived on the grounds year round and frequented the local pubs. He stopped so abruptly, mid stride, that he almost tumbled into the street. He didn't explode into the pub, as he had in Gringotts, through sheer force of will alone. It was emptier inside than he'd ever seen it, but considering he'd only ever been in on Hogsmeade weekends with 5/7ths of the school milling about, that wasn't surprising. Hagrid's massive frame took up two chairs in the corner by the bar, other than that there was only a handful of people scattered about, all residents of the village he recognized vaguely from one shop or another.

"Hagrid!" he called, rushing over.

"Whassat?" Hagrid was drunk. Harry fell into a chair next to him, suddenly feeling his exhaustion and relief in equal parts. "Do I know yer?" He hiccuped and Harry took a second to massage his temples, now that he was off his feet and still again his headache was returning full force.

"Yes. Look, Hagrid, I need to speak with Dumbledore." He was staring bleary down at Harry with one eye closed, probably to combat double vision.

"Ye look-" the half giant was starting to say, but at that moment Madam Rosmerta popped up beside them.

"Be needing anything to drink deary?" she asked with her charming smile that so often reduced Ron to goo. She directed the question at him, he thought, but she turned to Hagrid as well who boomed out a response first.

"Oh go on then, another round fer us, and som'in fer me friend 'ere." He knocked back the last of his giant mug and proffered it to her. Harry didn't think he needed another round, but she took it without comment, and she had to be plenty experienced with Hagrid and his limits. She turned to him, holding Hagrid's mug under one arm, propped on her hip like a baby. He opened his mouth to refuse but to his own surprise found himself saying:

"Firewhiskey, if he's buying." She nodded with another smile and crossed back to the bar.

"You look," hiccup "migh'y familiar," Hagrid said, leaning in conspiratorially to say it.

"Hagrid, it's me, Harry…" he was hesitant to say his name after what happened at the bank. Hagrid just blinked at him a few times.

"Don't reckon I know-" Hagrid gasped and slapped the table with an open palm. The action made Harry jump, and it was that moment Rosmerta returned with their drinks. She admonished him with a fiery glare for abusing her table but he was shouting over her.

"James Potter! Look a 'im 'Merta! If he ain't the spitting image o' ol James Potter!" She did, and if his day was any less trying it would have been amusing to watch her give him a second look and disagree noncommittally. He was, scars or no, the spitting image of James Potter. She set off to make her rounds and Harry picked up the tumbler of amber liquid morosely. Firewhiskey, true to its name, had a sort of glow about it that muggle bourbons couldn't match. He threw it back, drinking the whole of it in a gulp that would've killed him in his teens. Hagrid outdid him, demolishing a third of his barrel-esque mug in two massive pulls.

"Dumbledore, Hagrid, I need to speak with him."

"You come all the way out 'ere fer tha?" he asked between hiccups "why'n'ya not jus send an owl?"

Hedwig- no! No. No.

"There was no time- it's urgent Hagrid, please." He studied Harry for a few more seconds, taking another drink.

"Oh alright, alright! You Ministry blokes…" Whatever else he had to say about Ministry blokes was lost in his mug as he finished what had to be a couple litres of ale in a minute flat. Harry realized Hagrid was misinterpreting his getup for Aurors robes and did nothing to correct this. Not if it got him into the castle. They were off with a few galleons left on the table and a bellowed farewell. It felt good to be on the move, action focused the addled mind and all that.

His unknown pains seemed to fade into the usual aches centered around his right knee and left collar bone. It was probably the fire whiskey, but he chose to believe it was normalcy returning. Hagrid, it seemed, had quite the metabolism for alcohol. Their walk took maybe twenty minutes, and by the end of it he was no longer swaying and had both eyes open. It was heartwarmingly familiar to walk with Hagrid again, half running to keep stride so that his knee flared with every other footfall. The half giant hummed a tune that was strangely familiar, but once they were through the gate he seemed to clear up enough to reevaluate the situation.

"Wha' you say yer business with the headmaster was again?" he asked suspiciously, peering down at Harry with unmasked scrutiny.

"I didn't," he said to buy a second to cast around for an answer. "Just tournament stuff, you know." He lied with a cool practiced ease. He knew that Hagrid, for all his talents, was not hard to deceive.

"Ohh yeah! Jus got in the word I'll be host ter three dragons," Hagrid said wistfully, and Harry wondered if he was thinking of Norberta.

"Yeah, should be a laugh." Hagrid didn't appear to pick up on his sarcasm at all. "Anyway it's Durmstrang I'm here for now. Karkaroff's being difficult."

"Dumbledore'll sort 'im out, no problem." Hagrid nodded knowingly, all suspicion gone. When they reached the split in the main drive that led off toward the greenhouses, and Hagrid's hut beyond, Harry stopped.

"I can make it from here, if you want to head home," he offered. "Password still Sugar Quill?" It was a complete stab in the dark, but again he knew that it didn't matter. Even if that had never been the password, it was close enough that Hagrid wouldn't make the connection until after he'd already met with the Headmaster.

"Nah, it's Fudge Flies."

"Thanks, it's… really good to see you, Hagrid." The gamekeeper blinked at him and smiled with a bit of a blush peaking over his beard. He had the air of someone embarrassed they couldn't remember the name of a schoolmate they'd bumped into at the store.

"Yeah, er- you too." Harry just chuckled, waved, and left him standing at the split path as he walked off at a much less bruising pace.

Walking through Hogwarts was equal parts stunning and heartbreaking. The last time he'd been here was for the battle, when so many had died. He could pinpoint, with perfect accuracy, the spots where his individual friends had fallen. He made every effort to avoid them as he made his way up to the seventh floor. He'd seen the castle, a few years after that, using heavily modified binoculars, from the cave Sirius had once hid out in. Then, it appeared as if they never even really attempted to clean up after the fighting, chunks of gargoyle and wall still littered the grounds and there were only a couple dozen Death Eater's kids and blood purists getting a mockery of an education.

"Fudge Flies," he told the Gargoyle, who allowed access to the revolving stairs wordlessly. He felt supremely calm all of a sudden, as if the surety of Dumbledore's assistance washed away the delirium of the last few hours. He reached the top and stepped up to the door of the Headmaster's office, just like he had so many times before. Taking a deep breath, he knocked.