Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. Cheers to nicknm and Bub3loka, my beta-readers.
Time ticked by as he enjoyed his ice cream and was carefully listening to his transfiguration professor. His gaze wandered to the street, searching for young, familiar faces. He recognised quite a few ones, but there were plenty of unfamiliar ones. That didn't mean much, though. Now that he looked back on it, he did not know quite a large part of the Hogwarts students.
"Your father and his friends gave me a lot of my grey hairs," Minerva concluded with a forlorn sigh as she finished her pistachio and strawberry ice cream with relish. Harry was somewhat relieved; for good or bad, his parents seemed to have been the same people. "Let's go pick up your wand, Mr Potter. We've been talking for an hour already, and it's getting rather late."
The sun had already begun to approach the western horizon, and the crowds had thinned, leaving the cobbled streets of the alley empty.
"Three hundred galleons for a simple enchanted necklace? Bonkers, the lot of them," a man muttered furiously after quickly leaving a small yet posh-looking jewellery store Harry had not noticed before.
After a five-minute walk, they arrived at the shabby shop front again.
"I shall wait for you outside while you receive your wand, Mr Potter."
Harry nodded to McGonagall, then entered through the door, feeling the tingling of magic on his skin again.
"Greetings once again, Mr Potter. I just finished," the wandmaker greeted him and motioned to the counter.
A lone, elongated box ominously stood there. It was plain, ordinary, no different than the others, but he couldn't feel a sense of foreboding.
What if this wand, too, rejected him? Things had the tendency to take a turn for the worse when he was involved. Harry opened it with trepidation and picked up the pale wand in his hand. The air immediately thickened, and he felt searing heat in his fingers. As he swished, the dusty air was drowned by a tidal wave of black and white sparks. He felt full of power for a short, fleeting moment, as if he could take on the whole world and win.
But it went as quickly as it came.
It took him a few moments to push aside the vague sense of emptiness dwelling inside his chest. Stars had appeared in his eyes, and Harry had to blink a few times to chase them away. A parchment on his desk had been set on fire, but the wandmaker extinguished it with a wave of his own wand.
"Extraordinary, Mr Potter!" A soft, genuine smile graced Ollivander's face, who seemed unperturbed by his singed eyebrows. "Twelve inches and three quarters, Yew and Thestral hair, reasonably supple. One of my finest creations to date… I myself tried it and received a rather dull yet volatile response. I suspect this would be the case for anyone else attempting to use it, but it matches you perfectly!"
"Thank you, sir," Harry responded after swallowing heavily. "How much?"
"That would be seven galleons, Mr Potter," the wandmaker hummed.
He placed the coins on the counter and paused for a moment. That was quite a paltry sum for something as valuable as a fitted wand. Yet he had never really thought about it before. He vaguely remembered unicorn tail hair being sold for ten galleons a piece.
"Mr Ollivander, do you mind if I ask you a question?" As he received a nod in confirmation, Harry hesitantly continued. "Are all your wands so inexpensive?"
"An interesting question for one so young," the wandmaker rubbed his chin thoughtfully as his pale eyes settled on Harry with interest. "Usually, most children care little about costs, especially after paying. But to answer your query, only the first wands of children under seventeen cost seven galleons. That alone is far from inexpensive. Everyone else has to pay forty-nine galleons to get a wand from me."
"First wand? Does that mean I can take a second?"
"No, Mr Potter. Wands, despite not being truly sentient, have a sliver of pride in them. It's nearly impossible for a second wand to choose an already bonded wizard. My creations are not easy to break, but it does happen that a wizard manages to lose their wands or even destroy them," Ollivander's voice was tinged with disapproval, and then his face turned grim. "Of course, there are very rare cases in which the wizard or witch in question manages to change so irrevocably, so drastically, that their original wand no longer responds, and they have to get another one."
Harry wondered if that was what happened to make him lose the connection to his Holly Wand. His death? This odd, unexplainable form of time travel? Or maybe even the lack of Horcrux in his scar? He couldn't help but grimace. What if his original wand had only chosen him because of the piece of soul in his head? But no, housing the soul of the Dark Lord did not compare to being tossed back in time to a different dimension.
He shook his head and grabbed his wand. Harry had no way of knowing, and he had spent far too much time dwelling on 'what-ifs'.
His hand mechanically moved towards his back pocket.
Don't put your wand there, boy! Better wizards than you have lost buttocks, you know...
Moody's warning rang in his head, and his right hand froze just as it was about to place the wand in his oversized jeans. The retired auror might have been paranoid, but he had a point. Did he want to risk it?
No, Harry liked his buttocks the way they were, thank you very much.
"Do you have anything… to hold my wand in, Mr Ollivander?"
"I do sell wand holsters, Mr Potter. Anything from simple leather to dragon hide or enchanted bicorn skin," the wandmaker said in his usual soft voice.
"Enchanted how, sir?" He had no memory of wand holsters in his previous world. Was this something unique here, or was he simply ignorant after being raised in a muggle household?
"A notice-me-not, a charm to prevent breaking, protection against misfiring, and more. Invisible to nearly everyone else after you strap it to your leg or forearm, and just by willing it, your wand will appear in your hand immediately," was the quick response.
This sounded darn bloody useful. Why wasn't everyone using wand holsters?
"What's the difference between bicorn leather and dragon hide?"
"Dragonhide is extremely magic resistant, and any enchantments placed on it wouldn't hold for too long if you managed to enchant it. On the other hand, bicorn leather is somewhat physically tough and a great conductor of magic!"
"How much for your best enchanted holster?" Harry asked as he spun his wand between his fingers absent-mindedly.
"two hundred and seventy galleons," the wandmaker said simply, and Harry gaped. So that's why… he had plenty of money, but… this was quite a lot! Ollivander must have seen the disbelief on his face because he quickly continued, "My best is made out of the finest bicorn hide, which is incredibly resilient. The enchantments were painstakingly done in a way that would last without fail for many decades, unlike the… cheaper versions made out of inferior materials. A normal leather wand holster with no enchantments costs two galleons."
Harry felt indecisive for a moment. He had more than enough gold, and his vault was overflowing. But if he started spending freely like this, he could quickly end up with nearly nothing. Yet Ollivander would not dupe him.
"I'll take your best bicorn holster," he decided in the end and started piling golden coins next to the previously given seven galleons on the counter.
A few minutes later, the wandmaker was looking with exasperation at the pile of gold in front of him. Harry graciously received a sleek black holster with intricate silver lining and was just about to strap it to his hip.
"From a particularly vicious Bicorn. This one is best worn on your forearm, be it under or over your clothes, Mr Potter." Seeing his confused expression, the wandmaker quickly elaborated. "The insides are bigger than they look."
Harry quickly attached it to his forearm instead. It felt completely weightless, and if he didn't see it with his own eyes, he would not even know it was there. The yew wand that was longer than his forearm effortlessly fit inside. He cautiously moved his limb; it did not stick out or impair the movement in any way, nor could he even feel any additional weight. With a simple thought, his new wand was instantly back in his hand. A smile bloomed on his face as he holstered his wand back in; this was worth every single galleon. He felt foolish spending seven years without this.
"Do you sell wand-care kits?"
"I do. Oh no, the kit will be on me. Consider it a gift," Ollivander hurriedly said as Harry reached for his mokeskin bag again.
"Thank you, sir."
After handing him a small, varnished box, the wandmaker's face turned deathly serious, and his pale eyes bore into him like a pair of drills.
"There is not a single shred of doubt in my mind that you're destined for great things, Mr Potter. Do not make me regret crafting this wand."
Harry gulped and left the store with mixed feelings and an emptier purse. Deep down, he still yearned to be a normal boy, but it was not meant to be in this life either. He had not even started the First Year yet already possessed a unique wand with a legendary core, second only to the Death Stick.
"Did you get your wand, Mr Potter?" The transfiguration professor asked him as soon as he came outside.
"Yes, Professor," he absentmindedly nodded.
"It's time to return you back home. Hold on tight." McGonagall grasped his hand before Harry could say anything; he was being squeezed through a straw. He shakily landed on his feet, and the professor handed him a standard school trunk. "All your books and the ticket for Hogwarts Express are in here. It leaves at 11 AM sharp, so be there on time."
A loud crack later, and a dazed Harry was now standing alone with his trunk on the front lawn of Privet Drive Number Six. For a short moment, he realised that his future professor had not told him how to get to platform nine and three-quarters again and sighed heavily.
Harry tiredly looked at the house in front of him and frowned. While it was not exactly the same house as the one in his previous life, it was similar. Way too similar. In fact, the only true difference was the address.
Unpleasant memories from his previous life found their way to the forefront of his mind. Harry had already taken his goodbyes with the Dursleys and intended never to see them again. Hell, even living in a magical tent as a fugitive was preferable to staying in the tender care of his relatives.
Harry was confused and in sore need of rest. There was this nagging feeling in the back of his head that he had forgotten something. His mind felt too muddled to come up with any profound plans, but there was a quite simple and obvious solution that his tired mind quickly provided.
He turned around to face the street, the yew wand appeared in his grasp, and he raised his arm first to the road and then towards the skies.
26th of July, 1991
His stomach grumbled and angrily twisted in hunger, forcing Harry to open his eyes. He looked blearily at the rustic wooden ceiling and scowled. All he wanted to do was lay down and fall asleep, but the persistent and noisy protests from his own guts prevented him from returning to the sweet embrace of nothingness. Sleeping without any nightmares or visions was simply blissful.
His hand mechanically wandered towards the oaken nightstand and froze. A small measure of joy welled up within him when he remembered that he no longer needed glasses.
Harry forced his stiff limbs to move, got up, and went to freshen up in the bathroom. The cold water jolted him fully awake, and his eyes wandered towards the mirror again. He looked small, scrawny, and pale. A weird sight, especially without the round glasses, but at least he could see properly now. The small details in the lavatory, the faint, barely noticeable scar on the middle of his brow, or every single tear in his crumpled, oversized shirt. Usually, he would be celebrating, but…
He wanted to think this was all a dream, but the pain of pinching his arm was real enough, and the alternative was… being dead. Why him? Why always him? He faced so many perils, fought so hard, only to die, and now he had to do it all over again?!
Anger bubbled up within him, and he wanted to scream and shout and rage against the injustice of the situation, but he found himself gritting his teeth, shaking his head, and squashing it all down. Harry knew well enough that being angry solved nothing and that the world was not fair. Crying or sulking about it would only waste your time.
He was already a deft hand at being in a crappy situation and could only accept it as it was and force himself to keep going.
As Harry was sluggishly putting on his robe and wand holster, an errant thought made him halt. Maybe this was the real world, and he had been having strange dreams from another life altogether.
This made his blood run cold for a short moment, but he realised it was something easily checked. Harry carefully strapped his holster to his forearm, and the pale wand appeared in his grasp again and froze.
He was underage again, and the pesky Trace was probably applied to his wand. But…was it? He had no idea how the Trace really worked. He vividly remembered Dobby getting him into trouble in the summer after the first year. Hell, didn't Dumbledore explain that the ministry had no way of tracking who cast the spell, just the location? If he used magic here and now, could the Ministry know that he was the one to cast it and not…one of the adults in the Leaky Cauldron below?
A small grin appeared on his face, and he pointed the wand at the small candlestick on his nightstand. Swish and flick.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
Harry felt a small pull in his gut, and the candlestick uneasily floated up as he slowly raised his wand. The spell felt choppy, clumsy, and rather taxing, but it worked well enough. Casting with this wand felt… odd and different in a way he could not put his finger on, but not unpleasant. It didn't matter. A small yet genuine smile bloomed on his face; his memories were most definitely not a product of his imagination but something he did live through. He stopped the channelling, and the candlestick fell sharply with a loud thunk.
Minutes ticked by as he tensely looked at the window…and no letter came. Only the morning sun was shyly peaking over a handful of clouds to the east. All this time…he could have avoided the Dursleys and cast magic freely just by staying in Diagon Alley. Harry let out a self-deprecating chuckle; he had not felt so foolish in quite a while. At least he had taken the right decision to come here.
Harry thought he imagined things at first, but magic itself felt a bit different. Although it could have been the wand, he wasn't so sure.
His gaze settled on the pale yew in his hand. He carefully spun it between his fingers, but it felt awkward as it was longer than his former Holly wand and his hand incredibly smaller. Harry grasped it strongly before gently jabbing while twisting the tip of his wand.
"Ignis Sectum!"
His insides lurched, and his wand belched out a small, misshapen streak of fire that fizzled out harmlessly in the air half a second later. Harry, however, fell on the ground, heaving heavily. Large beads of sweat had formed upon his brow, and his heart was beating like a drum, making him feel as if he had been running for hours. His stomach twisted painfully, and let out a loud, hungry grumble in protest.
'Bloody fucking hell!' He cursed inwardly for a few seconds more as he gasped for breath while facing the wooden floor up close.
Nearly seven years of effort gone just like that. Wasted. Harry angrily slammed his fist on the floor, and the sharp pain in his hand jolted his weary mind. It was not necessarily for nought. All the accumulated knowledge from his studies was still there; now, he just had to practice again. And having the ability to cast magic during the summer would help him along even further. But it was not enough. He vividly remembered Voldemort demolishing him as if it were child's play. The memory of Dumbledore's fight against the Dark Lord in the ministry was even more sobering. He had a long way to go if things were even the same here.
He shook his head and slowly forced his weary limbs to get up; he had no idea what to do now. His guts painfully twisted in hunger again, reminding him that he did not even remember the last time he had a decent meal. With a thought, the yew wand was returned to the holster; Harry left the room and headed down the wooden staircase.
Tom nodded at him as soon as he entered the pub proper. Aside from a pair of old wizards playing chess in a dark corner, the Leaky was empty. Harry made his way to a table near the fireplace and waved the barman over.
"Mr Creevy," Tom greeted with a toothless smile, and Harry stared in incomprehension for a moment. Right, he had completely forgotten that he had introduced himself as Evans Creevy. "How was yer sleep, lad?"
"Very good, sir," Harry managed to reply, only for his stomach to rumble loudly in hunger, making his cheeks redden slightly. "What's for breakfast?"
"Bacon 'n eggs and shepherd's pie," Tom chortled with amusement.
"I'll take a large portion of both."
As he watched the man move towards the kitchen, the nagging feeling that he had forgotten something appeared at the back of his head again, but nothing came to his mind no matter how hard he tried to remember.
Voldemort was on the cusp of victory.
But on All Hallow's Eve in 1981, the Dark Lord attacked the Potters in their cottage in Godric's Hollow. James and Lily Potter were easily killed, but when the Dark Lord attempted to slay their son, a fifteen-month-old baby, something went wrong. Nobody knows what or how, and there have been many speculations ever since. The only certain thing was that Harry James Potter survived the Killing Curse, and the Dark Lord was defeated.
He slammed 'The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts' shut.
Lily! Take Harry and go! It's him! Run! I'll hold him off!
Crack!
The sharp sound brought him back to reality. He stared at the nearby vase, which was covered in cracks. His breathing was laboured, and he became acutely aware of the pain in his right hand. It was painfully balled in a fist, and his nails were digging into his flesh, drawing blood. Harry slowly unclenched his hand and carefully looked around to check if someone had noticed his outburst of accidental magic. Thankfully, nobody had noticed, so he carefully grasped his wand and spun the tip.
"Reparo!"
Some of the cracks disappeared, but a large portion mockingly stayed. Harry had to cast two more times before the vase looked… unbroken. Even then, when he approached, there were faint lines where the cracks used to be.
He shook his head, wiped the beads of sweat that had formed upon his brow, returned the wand to his holster, and went back to the book. Compared to what he was used to, he got tired far too quickly when casting simple magic now. Hopefully, this would be easily fixed with enough practice.
It took him a few minutes, but he finally found the entry he was seeking.
On the third of November, 1981, Sirius Black, the notorious right-hand of the Dark Lord, was apprehended after killing twelve muggles and Peter Pettigrew, of whom only a single finger was left. He has also been rumoured to be the Secret Keeper to the Potters and the person who betrayed their location to the Dark Lord. He is currently residing at the high-security wing of Azkaban Prison, along with the Dark Lord's most dangerous followers.
It seemed that some things did not change. His faint scar was a dead giveaway, but he had secretly hoped things were different. Now he had to somehow free his godfather from prison in a way that did not involve breaking him out of Azkaban. And that would probably require him to capture Peter Pettigrew. Harry grimaced at the yellow pages, closed the book, and returned it to the shelf. He was not sure if he could be so merciful to the rat again this time. But he had no idea where to start. Was Pettigrew even still at the Weasleys?
He sighed tiredly; another problem for later.
Harry had looked over his school books earlier, and things looked mostly the same. He did not truly remember many details from the first-year material, but nothing seemed particularly different. Last time, he had studied religiously and practised hard for seven years, but in the end, Voldemort was still way out of his league. He could fight his death eaters just fine, but the Dark Lord easily toyed with him. Maybe Voldemort never made Horcruxes here?
'As if I'd ever be so lucky,' he snorted inwardly.
Knowing his luck, Tom Riddle was still alive, after his head, and probably more powerful than in his own world. Harry had to consciously fight off the desire to return to his bed and fall asleep or run away from Britain altogether. Ignoring the fact Harry had never gone outside of Britain before, pretending that his problems didn't exist or running away from them did not make them go away. He had ample experience in this regard. Not that he could successfully escape from Voldemort even if he wanted to. Not with the prophecy hanging ominously over his head. The Dark Lord believed it enough to personally go and kill a fifteen-month-old baby.
Maybe Harry could run away. But where? He had never been outside Britain before and did not know any other languages. He could maybe learn, but that would take time, and he had no idea where to start. And, even if he went to America and somehow enrolled in Ilvermorny, there was no guarantee that Voldemort would let him go. Did Harry want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the Dark Lord or his followers?
No! He was not a coward and was done running away!
And the only way to deter Voldemort was strength. The Dark Lord avoided confronting the Headmaster. Harry also remembered that Voldemort seemed just as monstrously powerful despite his training and efforts. Thankfully, the Dark Lord was probably still a shade right now.
Or maybe possessing the DADA teacher…
It would be great if Harry could get rid of Voldemort before he regained his body, but he doubted it. The Horcruxes, if they were even in the same items and locations as before, were hidden behind deadly protections. The last time, it had been mostly luck that Harry had managed to destroy any. But what if his luck ran out this time? He was not going to drag a young Ron and Hermione into this whole mess. Not to mention that his spellcasting was shoddy right now, especially his control and reserves.
For a moment, he entertained the idea of going to the Headmaster and acquiring his assistance. Surely, Dumbledore could do something more with Harry's knowledge from his previous life. Surely, the Headmaster could deal with all the problems on his own?
A scoff escaped his mouth, and he tiredly ran his hand through his unruly black hair. A few days ago, Harry would have gladly done it. But now… now he simply did not trust the Headmaster. He wanted to; he truly wanted to have faith in Albus Dumbledore, but… he simply couldn't anymore.
He could pretend he was a normal kid, enjoy school, and try and make friends with the eleven-year-old children whose greatest problems were detentions with the teachers. Harry's gaze slid towards a young boy his age who was animatedly trying to convince his mother to buy him 'Quidditch Through the Ages'. Could he forget the spiral of desperation and terror that were the last three years? For a short moment, he imagined himself sitting there, trying to convince Lily Potter to buy him his favourite book…
But such a thing would never come to pass.
A forlorn sigh tore from his lips, and he shook his head. Harry Potter would never get to see his mother and father because they gave their lives so he could live.
Magic is Might!
Harry grimaced and looked at the vast shelves laden heavy with all sorts of books. Doing what he did last time would not cut it. If the standard books of spells were enough to defeat the Dark Lord, he would have been apprehended by a pair of Aurors. His self-made spell was all well and good, but Voldemort had simply stepped out of the way. Harry needed something different. Something more.
Nearly two hours later, Harry left Flourish and Blots with a loaded trunk. He had forced himself to fork out another three hundred galleons for an enchanted trunk with a vast library space that could fit hundreds of tomes and another two hundred galleons to buy every book that seemed remotely useful.
It was early afternoon outside, and the cobbled streets were brimming with people. Harry walked slowly and relished in the hubbub as nobody even spared him more than a passing glance. In front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, he even saw a young man, probably just out of Hogwarts, fully dressed in black leather and surrounded by a group of swooning witches. He was quite pretty, better looking than the fraud Lockheart even. Then, the man's hair lengthened and changed from black to silvery, and if you asked Harry later, he would deny gaping like a fish out of water.
"Eros, marry me!" A red-haired witch shouted, and Harry almost choked while the other witches went crazy.
The man simply smiled, pulled the redhead and kissed her deeply, eliciting sighs and squeals from the crowd.
It took him a few moments, but Harry quickly rushed away, unwilling to watch this… show any further. And who the hell would name their son Eros?
A few moments later, the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something incredibly important appeared again. He had his wand. He had his ticket for the Hogwarts Express. He had carefully checked his trunk earlier; McGonagall had purchased all of his necessary school supplies, from pewter cauldrons to dragonhide gloves.
So if he had everything, what in the bloody hell was he missing?
A moment later, Harry froze on the spot, face rapidly paling. He spun around and rushed towards the Eeylops Owl Emporium. How the bloody hell could he have forgotten about Hedwig?!
Author's endnote: Harry has had enough of the Dursleys.
He also finally makes up his mind about what to do after some introspection.
Well, it appears that I failed to keep my own set schedule, and, well, busy IRL didn't aid me either; for some reason writing HP is a far bigger struggle than ASOIAF. Hopefully, this will not repeat itself, and I will grow more comfortable with writing HP as a setting as time passes. A chapter will be up two weeks early on Discord (dgj93pNeAD), as usual.
Struggle or not, I'll see this whole thing through one way or another, so fret not, I'm not one to give up once I've set my mind on it.
Either way, comments and reviews are always welcome and help motivate me, and to all the people who shit on me for the sake of whinging and not giving actual constructive criticism - sod off; simply don't read if you don't like the fic.