This chapter was fun to write, at least when I was able to muster past my writer's block and do so. I've been listening to a lot of Marauders-era playlists on YouTube to keep the muse going, and it's only gotten me more excited to keep plugging away.

Anywho, enjoy this one!


Chapter Three: First Impressions

Like Hogwarts, Diagon Alley hadn't changed (or wouldn't have changed—bah, Harry was tired of this already) from 1973 to 1994. Harry did note with some dismay that Florean Fortescue's had not yet opened, and in its place was some manner of briefcase and leather goods store. While disappointed at the lack of hot fudge sundaes available (even though it was hardly the weather for such a thing), Harry did need a schoolbag.

In fact, he needed everything. Including money with which to purchase his things.

Harry had been dropped into 1973 with only the clothes on his back and the contents of his pockets, which had included his wand, the pocket watch, a stick of lip balm, and a receipt from a rest stop in Texas. Feeling a bizarre sentimental attachment, he'd kept the small slip of paper—if he thought quite hard, he could vividly recall the feeling of Mafalda clutched to his sleeve as she'd quietly slid a bottle of Gatorade onto the counter while he'd been paying for his, Hermione's quietly amused laughter at his side.

It was silly, but it was like a lifeline to him, connecting him to his present as a sort of promise that he'd be back.

But it wouldn't exactly go any lengths to buying him books or parchment or quills. For that, he needed Gringotts. There was apparently a school fund set up for students with no means of their own of purchasing school supplies, and it was either that or mooch off of James Potter—that wouldn't exactly set the sort of tone Harry was going for as far as their interactions.

Again, as he made his way down the winding lane of the alley, Harry noted that the only stark difference between the wizarding world of the seventies and his own time were some slightly dated fashion choices on the muggle-borns. He saw more rather large haircuts and big and round glasses, though he noted that almost no one had opted to wear any muggle attire. As he reached the bank, he discovered exactly why. Just inside the high white-stone lobby, a small podium had been placed, stacked with pamphlets. He took one up, consulting it as he crossed to the tellers' desks.

Imperius use is on the rise!
How well do YOU know your loved ones?

Curious, Harry opened it, and inside, dire warnings awaited:

The Imperius Curse is a spell which can be used to dominate the minds of others and control their every action. The curse can be used by anyone with sufficient magical prowess, and though varied results can be produced, all can be disastrous. Sufficient mental fortitude and willpower can break the hold of the curse, though such cases are rare and should not be considered a foolproof defense. Instead, one should take precautions and be aware of the actions of those closest to him.

How to tell if a loved one or associate is under the effects of the Imperius Curse:

- Glassy eyes. Victims of the Imperius Curse will have a glassy, "empty" look to their eyes.

- Vacant expression/listlessness. Imperius victims are at the mercy of the ones controlling them and will often fall idle without instructions.

- Lack of care/hygiene. A victim of the Imperius Curse often foregoes meals or showers.

If you suspect someone to be under the effect of the Imperius Curse, DO NOT CONFRONT THEM DIRECTLY. They may react violently or attempt to silence someone suspicious of their true nature. Instead, contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

We're here to help you!

Harry remembered well Professor Moody (well, Barty Crouch Jr.) and his lessons on the Imperius Curse, citing the Death Eaters' rampant use of it during Voldemort's rise to power. He wondered how effective this pamphlet actually was, knowing that there had been plenty of Voldemort's followers in the Ministry.

It was a chilling reminder of the gravity of his situation, of what it really meant to be dropped into 1973. With a strange sort of lurch, Harry realized that Voldemort was currently alive, out there and the most powerful he'd ever be. The man who in his own timeline had killed his parents and attempted to do the same to him was currently endeavoring to bring this society to its knees, to terrorize and victimize muggle-borns and muggles alike in his mad bid for absolute power.

In other words, Harry needed to work quickly.

"Can I help you, young man?" a reedy voice pulled Harry from his thoughts, and he realized he was next in line for a teller. Making his way to the goblin that had addressed him, he did the polite thing and introduced himself.

"Um, I'm Harry Granger, and – "

"Wand, please," the goblin said, and Harry blinked but automatically produced his wand, passing it to the goblin. A long-fingered hand took it and placed it in some manner of scale or measuring device Harry couldn't begin to guess the function of, but the goblin studied it with a calculating eye. After a few seconds in which absolutely nothing Harry could discern actually happened, the goblin gave a decisive nod. "Welcome, Mr. Granger. We've your key waiting as instructed, and Griphook will show you to your vault."

"…Er…alright," Harry said, dimly registering the small coincidence that he was yet again being shown to a vault he hadn't known had been in his possession by Griphook. Had there been a mistake? But they'd examined his wand and all. Perhaps it was best to just go with it for now? If there was some sort of error at play, the goblins would hopefully realize what was amiss and just boot him out.

Or lock him in a vault for the rest of his days. It was likely fifty-fifty.

Harry's memories of Griphook were fuzzy at best (there had been a lot going on during his first fateful trip to Gringotts), but he was also regrettably not the best at distinguishing goblins. Maybe that was something he needed to work on. In any case, he followed the vaguely familiar goblin through the white granite corridors behind the main lobby of the bank and down into the cavernous vaults beneath. Through a heavy metal door, a collection of mining carts awaited, situated evenly in a circle around a small turntable.

"Get in, if you please," Griphook instructed him. Harry did so, settling into a seat as Griphook climbed into the front. "Hang on tightly, keep your extremities in the cart, and do not exit until it has come to a complete stop."

Without so much as waiting for confirmation from Harry, Griphook pulled a lever, and the cart gave a heavy CLUNG before lurching forward and taking off with alarming speed down into the bowels of the bank. As they sped along around hairpin turns and over precipitous drops, Harry idly wondered if the goblins had designed the cart ride to be this discomforting as a small but powerful point of defiance against the wizards they served.

From the little he had managed to learn of them in his life, he was inclined to think so.

The ride to this new vault didn't take quite as long as he remembered the one to 687 had tended to be. It was likely a lower-security affair, opened a bit more recently. He didn't dare ask too many questions, as these goblins presumably thought the vault was his; it would look rather a bit suspicious if he started pressing them for information about it.

"Vault 896," Griphook announced as the cart slowed to a halt. The goblin smoothly disembarked, and Harry extricated himself behind him. They were down a long and straight tunnel, and in the distance, Harry could see other paths, other railways intersecting. Even as he watched, another cart rocketed by in the distance.

"Don't wander off, please," Griphook spoke flatly, fitting Harry's key into the door and unlocking it to slowly swing inward. "It's a labyrinth down here, and we don't exactly patrol every corner of it."

"Reckon you'd have to be mad to actually go for a leisure stroll down here," Harry chuckled to himself, watching as Griphook stepped back from the vault and fixed him with a grim sort of smile.

"Gold, Mr. Granger, is known to drive a great many mad," he said, gesturing inward. "Your vault. See to your business. I'll wait outside."

With that, he trotted back out, leaving Harry alone with…well, his new vault. Trotting down a small hallway formed by a privacy divider, he rounded the brickery to see a small room perhaps the size of his walk-in closet back at Grimmauld Place. The walls bore shelves that stretched floor to ceiling and were stacked with the expected galleons, sickles, knuts, even several thick bundles of muggle notes and rolls of coins—but there were also a few books, and at a glance, Harry saw that several of them were certainly titles that could not have possibly been published yet.

A Dark Lord's Rise; Guilty or Filthy? How Gold Bought Innocence; The Secret British Invasion; and New London: A Tapestry of Regret and Hope were just a few of the titles that Harry sifted through. Some of them were contemporary to the year he'd landed in, but most seemed to be anachronistic, to borrow a term from one of the chronomancy books he'd found in the Room of Requirement. More than that, the subject-matter was…well, precisely the sort of thing that would make his self-assigned mission a lot easier.

How had they gotten here? How had any of this gotten here? It sure seemed like all of this was meant for him; the idea that there was another Harry Granger who happened to have the same wand as him and was also wrapped up in a bunch of time-travel nonsense was even too much of a coincidence for him.

And he got wrapped up in a lot of coincidences.

Maybe it was Hermione's handiwork; unable to directly interfere with his work for fear of straining causality, she'd set him up instead with all of the resources he'd need to have at least an easier time of it. It sure seemed like her, always at his back and ready to help.

Bugger, he missed her so much.

No matter who was responsible, Harry didn't want to keep Griphook waiting any longer than was necessary. A closer inspection of the room revealed that whoever had set him up with all of this had even provided a bag for him, a handsome-looking leather satchel not unlike the ones he'd seen many students toting along at Hogwarts. At least he would blend.

For now, he packed away all the books and enough money to keep him well-supplied for a while; inside, the bag seemed to have been charmed to be quite a bit more spacious than its size implied. Idly hoping he didn't lose anything in the cavernous interior, he hitched the strap over his shoulder and made for the exit.

"How long has this vault been around, Griphook?" Harry asked on the ride back.

"Vault 896 has been around since the construction of the bank," Griphook said. "The Grangers have been the account holders for approximately fifty years. I'm told there was a small sum of gold as well as some personal effects to begin with, but accrued interest has resulted in a substantial amount of growth."

"Well, lucky me," Harry said with a grin.

"Indeed," Griphook agreed.

Harry was seen from the bank by Griphook, who wished him good day and ushered him back into blinking sunlight. The day was clear but cold, with a brisk breeze that whipped cloaks, threatened to steal hats, and had Harry wishing he'd worn a muffler to protect his nose from going raw. With gold weighing down his pockets and the promise of a bit more direction in his quest, he set forth into the sparse crowd.

It was cold, and he wanted this done quickly.

Signs of Voldemort's looming presence—of the shadowy pall he cast over society—crept up on Harry in the most unlikely of places. Flourish and Blotts had a small section just inside the door dedicated to defensive spells and wards to put around the home. Madam Malkin (who looked significantly less rotund than Harry's memories of her) was offering a discount on protective hide jackets and fabrics charmed with defensive spells. The Magical Menagerie now boasted a new stock of kneazles and half-kneazles ("Guaranteed to spot suspicious or untrustworthy visitors!").

One shop that stuck out to Harry as somewhat familiar was Globus Mundi Travel Agents. He'd been in there once, back in his own time while preparing for his trip to the States. Actually, as he strolled by on his way to Quality Quidditch Supplies, he remembered the various pamphlets they'd had, about the quickest and easiest ways to get yourself all set to travel abroad.

That would certainly prove useful.

Deciding a quick detour was in order, he ducked into the place, unsurprised to see that there were actually rather a few people waiting to be seen. A small waiting area bore a few uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs, currently seating an assortment of visitors, from young couples to families to a dwarf with a massive cat across his lap.

"Hello?" a voice called from beyond the waiting area. Across a divider, several desks had been set up, with travel agents in crisp-looking business robes currently consulting with several customers. One of the agents, a nondescript man with sandy brown hair, was peering over at him with curious eyes. "I'm sorry, young man, we're currently only accepting visits from those that have made and confirmed an appointment by owl. Far too busy, you see."

"Oh—of course," Harry said, gesturing to the assortment of pamphlets and brochures near the door. "Er…mind if I take a few of these? For some friends of mine?"

"Not at all, lad, go on ahead," the bloke told him, and Harry grinned back.

"Cheers," he said, snagging up a few pamphlets and heading back out into the chilly day. He'd certainly have to consult them once he got back to the Room of Requirement.

If there was an avenue for escape, he'd make sure everyone knew of it.

Down the street, Quality Quidditch Supplies was the last stop, to pick up a brand new (for this time period, at least) Nimbus 1550, which would be a step down from his Firebolt but was still the best available option he had. Thankfully, his anonymous benefactor had ensured he'd have enough for a quality broom.

Maybe it had been Hermione.

In any case, after making a salesman's day upon walking in and requesting the most top-of-the-range broom there was available with no regards as to the price—no doubt making his commission quota for the week—Harry finally checked off the last item on his itinerary.

It had been a good day, a productive day. His supplies had been bought, resources at his disposal had been discovered and accounted for, and plans were forming. He felt a rush of accomplishment as he made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron—though it was immediately supplanted by a stab of melancholy. Because he wanted nothing more than to share his success with Hermione, to listen to Mafalda blithely cheer him on or Daphne tell him what a good Slytherin he was being. This was sure to be a fun and exciting little adventure, but it was also a solo jaunt, and the truth couldn't be ignored:

Harry missed his friends, deeply and profoundly.

Feeling a little glum as he made his way back through the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron into the dingy pub proper (Had the place ever been clean?), Harry bade farewell to Tom before tossing some glittering green Floo powder into the fireplace. One whirling ride through emerald flames later, he was staggering out of McGonagall's fireplace, though he at least managed to keep his feet.

"Ah, welcome back, Granger," the deputy headmistress's voice spoke from her tea table. Framed by a window letting in golden afternoon sun, she looked the picture of propriety as she sipped primly at a cup of tea.

"Professor," Harry said. "You're looking well."

"Tea?" the professor asked.

"…I will take some tea, actually," Harry said, a sudden thought occurring to him. Professor McGonagall had (after some convincing) been a staunch ally of his back in his timeline. Perhaps something akin to that could happen here as well.

"Well," the professor said, seeming faintly pleasantly surprised as she whipped her wand at the table before her. A second place-setting appeared, and the chair pulled itself back for him. "Do have a seat. I think you may be the third student in history to say yes to tea with me."

"Who were the other two?" Harry asked as he moved to sit.

"Andromeda Tonks was the first, and I as I recall, we had a lovely chat about the systemic prejudice inherent in wizarding society," Professor McGonagall said, pouring Harry a serving of tea. "The other was only earlier this year, with Lily Evans. She rather badgered my ear off about muggle music—she inspired my recent purchase of a phonograph, in fact."

Harry chuckled at that, and McGonagall favored him with a small smile.

"She's a spitfire, that's for sure," Harry said, spooning some sugar into his tea and stirring before adding a splash of milk. "Professor…I did actually have some questions I think you could answer for me."

"I'd be happy to help however possible," McGonagall said. "As Deputy Headmistress and your head of house, it's my duty."

"During my shopping trip today, I saw a lot of pamphlets and…advertisements for defensive measures," Harry said, doing his best to play dumb. "Is there…something happening right now? A war or something?"

McGonagall's expression turned rather contemplative as she peered out of her window at the darkening grounds. It was late in the afternoon, which in mid-February meant the sun was already disappearing behind the Scottish mountains, casting golden light and long slanting shadows over the snow. After a moment, she wordlessly slid him a biscuit.

"I don't imagine Miss Evans will have told you much of this," she said into the quiet. "In fact, I daresay she knows very little of it herself. We try to keep the little ones…unburdened with such things. You, however, are old enough that you deserve to know. There is—not a war, not yet. But it is fast looking like that's the only outcome of all of this."

"All of…what, Professor?" Harry asked.

"I alluded to prejudices earlier," the professor said. "There are those who believe that to be of pure blood—to have two magical parents—makes one…superior to those who have one only magical parent and effectively royalty to those born of muggles."

"But that's mad," Harry said as he held the biscuit contemplatively before him. "By that logic, the only viable marriage partner would be another pureblood, and soon enough everyone's your cousin."

"Such matters don't seem to occur to those lot," McGonagall said wryly. "Or perhaps they're simply willfully ignorant."

"Emphasis on ignorant," Harry muttered, and McGonagall let an amused chuckle.

"You would get on famously with Andromeda," she said. "In any case, up until recently, such people were a nuisance but ultimately…mostly harmless. Harmless enough that those with any means of fixing the problem didn't see a reason to. The occasional policy here and there that was not so benevolent toward muggles or muggle-borns, certain high-ranking positions given only to purebloods… The sort of bureaucratic nonsense one could shrug off."

"What changed?" Harry asked. McGonagall shook her head, her mouth thinning into a line.

"A movement has begun," she said. "Led by a man styling himself as Lord Voldemort. He's begun to radicalize those who believe in pureblood superiority, leveraging that into pureblood supremacy. Those who once quietly believed themselves to be the betters of society now feel that that society owes them fealty for that reason."

"Sounds like a flimsy excuse to decide you just want to be the top of the pyramid," Harry said, and McGonagall gave a grave sort of nod.

"For some of them, it no doubt is," she said. "For others, it's simply the incontestable truth. I'm not entirely sure which is worse, myself. To be so greedy and hungry for power and status that you'd ride the coattails of such a horrid cause or to actually believe that cause."

"I guess both are horrible in their own way," Harry said.

"And that is the crux of the matter," McGonagall said, sipping at her tea. "It's simply terrible."

The two fell silent for a moment, Harry sipping his tea while McGonagall buttered a scone. After a comfortable silence, Harry spoke up while McGonagall wordlessly poured him another cup.

"Professor," he said, "is…is Voldemort very much of a threat outside of our world? Of Britain?"

"I daresay his ideals are certainly finding a welcome audience in other parts of Europe," McGonagall said. "However, I can't speak for his influence in America or, say…Australia. Why do you ask?"

"Well…it sounds like he's a threat to muggle-borns for sure, but what if all the muggle-borns simply…left?" Harry asked her. "Hop across the pond to where Voldemort's crusade hasn't reached and…might never. America's big, Professor. Massive. So is Australia. Voldemort couldn't hope to conquer the whole place."

"That would indeed be a solution, but to ask all of the muggle-borns to simply abandon their world seems rather a severe one," McGonagall pointed out.

"…That's true," Harry said, biting back a bit of diatribe about the fools that started this whole mess forcing the victims to fix the problem, to save a world they're barely part of. The last thing he needed was to have his second conversation with this younger iteration of McGonagall be an impassioned political argument. Still, the professor seemed pleased with his apparent concern over the subject.

"I wouldn't write us off as a lost cause yet," she said bracingly. "This world can still be saved, especially if young ones such as yourself are so involved already."

"I suppose it just worries me that even if the immediate threat is taken care of, what's left after?" Harry asked. "All of the systemic problems will still be there, won't they?"

"…Perhaps you should have been sorted into Ravenclaw," McGonagall muttered, though she looked pleased. Harry shrugged with a small laugh; truth be told, he'd just been repeating something Hermione had told him once. "As it is, Granger, I would encourage to focus on one problem at a time. Yes, changes will need to be made, but there will be plenty of time to fix our society once we've ensured it will not be overthrown completely."

"Right," Harry let a quiet chuckle as he spoke. "Priorities."

"Indeed," McGonagall said with an indulgent smile. "Now, I do believe I've taken up enough of your time. No doubt you'll need time to settle in and sort through your purchases."

"And take my new broom out for a spin," Harry added. McGonagall perked up a bit at that.

"Oh, of course," she said. "Did you get yourself a Cleansweep? Or one of the new Silver Arrows?"

"Actually, I went with a Nimbus 1550," Harry told her.

"Those are rather pricey," the professor said, peering at him calculatingly.. "You don't buy a Nimbus broom unless you're confident your skills are worth it."

"Well," Harry said with a grin, "luckily I am."

"That, Mr. Granger, is what I like to hear."

000

The next day was Monday, and Harry was thrown into the deep end, both in regards to resuming his education and finding his way twenty years in the past. Chatting with one or two people was one thing, but interacting with a student body for hours on end while trying to make sure he didn't spit out another anachronism was…difficult. On the wizarding side of things, it wasn't so bad; society hadn't changed much (or wouldn't change much) in twenty years, so other than a few outdated laws (something he'd never kept much track of anyway), he was able to fake his way along most of the time.

The muggle side of things was another matter entirely. Muggle society was so vastly different in the 70s than the 90s that Harry sometimes felt he was communicating with an alien race when it was brought up, which it was unfortunately often owing to his pretending to be a muggle-born. He did as much research as he was able, retreating to the Room of Requirement fairly often to read up on the culture when possible, but there was a fundamental difference between information learnt from a book and that absorbed through simple cultural osmosis.

Hermione proved that every time she tried to talk quidditch with him, adorable though her efforts were.

Still, Harry found a sound strategy in simply responding to conversational hooks as they were provided and never volunteering information. It served the dual purpose of keeping him relatively out of hot water as well as providing a mysterious and enigmatic air.

Of course, falling out of the sky and joining the student body in the middle of February didn't hurt.

Classes were fairly easy to settle back into, at least; from a curriculum standpoint, Harry had only really spent a month and a half away from school, and it was a simple matter to pick up where he'd left off, especially given that half of the staff were familiar (if slightly less lined) faces. That brought with it its own sort of melancholy toward his situation, but he didn't dwell on it.

The new (well, old) members of staff were…actually a refreshing change. The Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Professor Kettleburn, reminded Harry strongly of Hagrid, and it was easy to see where Hagrid had gotten his teaching policies from, as well is gusto for the subject. Professor Kettleburn's passion was rivaled only by his absolutely blithe approach to even the most hazardous of beasts, and judging from the fact that he had only one and a half of his own limbs remaining (an arm and half his left leg), this had been a lifelong policy of his.

Harry thoroughly enjoyed learning about thestrals from the teacher, even if he was unable to actually see them.

Potions went from an interminable slog to one of Harry's favorite subjects by simple virtue of the fact that Severus Snape was now two years younger than him and thus thoroughly unqualified to teach the subject—that was a whole can of worms he wasn't fully prepared to open yet. In the meantime, he was happy to study under the sterling tutelage of Professor Horace Slughorn—in the old Potions classroom that had served as the Sack Snape Cooperative's headquarters, no less. Slughorn was a singularly large and rotund man with a massive and burly mustache and a chortling laugh that left Harry unable to think of anything except Uncle Vernon crossed with Father Christmas.

What an extensively long Naughty List that would have been.

He began the lesson by taking attendance, though he paused on several names and pressed them on how their weekend had been, asked after apparently famous relatives, and spent a moment asking Harry if he was any relation to Hector Dagworth Granger.

"Apologies, sir, no," Harry said. "I'm a muggle-born."

That comment drew several knowing smirks from the Slytherin contingent, some of whom looked at him in an absolutely predatory manner.

Yikes.

"Well, perhaps you'll carve your own name into future history, won't you?" Slughorn chortled gamely. "If you need any help keeping up, you need only ask, my boy. We'll set you right."

"He seems jolly," Harry said as the professor set them to brewing a shrinking solution. Gideon rolled his eyes.

"Don't trust him far as you can throw him," he said.

"Not likely that far, is it?" Fabian added.

"Is he not so jolly?" Harry asked, and Gideon snorted.

"He's a performer," he told Harry. "Only has the time of day for you if it makes him look good."

"And he collects," Fabian chimed in. "If your family's got a famous a name in it or if you're making a name for yourself, even if he just likes the look of you, you're in. You get to join the cultural elite."

"The cultural elite?" Harry asked.

"The Slug Club," Malcolm said from the next desk, grinning at Harry. "The Ponce Brigade. A bunch of self-important eejits gathering up and inflating Slug's ego so he can feel a bit of important himself."

"Malcolm, you're in the Slug Club," Gideon chuckled, and Malcolm waved an airy hand.

"I go for the food."

Class went on, and as Harry had already brewed a shrinking solution for Snape a (relative) year or so ago, he was rather ahead of the game, a fact that caught Slughorn's eye as he strode past his desk.

"Excellent job chopping those daisy roots, Granger," he said. "You've a knack for this subject."

"I've always been a dab hand in the kitchen, sir," Harry said, and Slughorn chuckled.

"Just see to it you don't end up with a bisque instead of a potion," he said.

"Perhaps a lovely shrinking bisque and some biscuits, light salad?" Harry asked. Slughorn chortled, his mustache twitching with a smile.

"A maître d' in the making, old boy!" he boomed. "I shall look forward to what you cook up for us all in the future."

He sidled his massive weight between the desks to check on another student, and Harry heard a snicker to his left.

"See you at the next dinner," Malcolm told him.

"Oh, shut it," Harry chuckled.

Aside from Potions, the other major staffing change was actually a refreshingly familiar one; Defense Against the Dark Arts was still quite unable to hold onto a professor for longer than a year, at least according to Gideon, Fabian, and Malcolm.

"Been flummoxed, Dumbledore has," Malcolm said. "According to Auntie Minerva, at least. For the last few years, you'd swear the position's cursed or something. I think they hired Professor Scamander just to see if he could break it."

"Scamander?" Harry asked. "Newt Scamander, who wrote Fantastic Beasts?"

"Nah, his older brother," Fabian said. "Theseus. Big-time auror. He helped bring down Grindelwald. He was Dad's boss—Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement—but he retired last year."

"Quite a resumé," Harry nodded.

"Only the finest for Hogwarts," Gideon chuckled.

Well, Harry mused as his mind turned to memories of Quirrell, of Lockart, of Snape—that wouldn't always ring true.

Theseus Scamander sure looked the part of the venerable former war hero. Tall and lean (and quite old), he had the severe look of a man used to being in control of the situation and loath to have things otherwise. Gnarled hands of iron gripped a walking stick as sharp blue eyes studied the incoming queue of students, fixing on Harry for a moment.

"You the new lad?" he asked. His voice, though old, was a strong baritone, befitting his commanding presence.

"I am, sir," Harry said. Professor Scamander regarded him with a piercing look before he stuck his hand out for a shake, which Harry returned. Nodding in satisfaction, the Professor fixed him with a small grin that did wonders for his hawkish features.

"Good strong handshake," he said in satisfied tones. "Well, you seem to have a decent enough head on your shoulders. What say we see what we can put into it?"

"It's not got nearly enough, unfortunately, sir," Harry said, and Scamander let a small chuckle at that.

"That's why you're here, isn't it?" he asked, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Have a seat, then."

Harry took the desk next to a round-faced Hufflepuff girl with blue eyes and sandy-blonde hair that fell about her shoulders in voluminous ringlets. As she shot a bright smile at Harry, he recognized the same toothy grin he'd seen often when Neville had gone on about some Herbology fact he'd just learnt.

"Hello! I'm Alice. You're the new boy…Henry?"

"Harry," Harry corrected her.

"Lovely to meet you, Harry," Alice said. "If you need any help settling in, just let me know."

"Appreciate that," Harry told her. He idly wondered if Alice was already dating Frank Longbottom or if they'd even met yet.

Best to let that unfold naturally, though.

Scamander set the class to work learning the Reductor Curse, which Harry had learned from Remus already during their road trip. Still, he listened attentively to Scamander's instructions, and the professor set them each up with a target dummy to use. With Alice on one side and Gideon on the other, Harry wondered for a moment if he would be able to play the part of magical newbie with any level of believability.

"Reducto!"

CRASH!

"…Blimey, Harry, you obliterated that thing!"

No. He would not.

"Granger, that was quite a first try," Scamander said admiringly, studying the pile of dust that had once been Harry's target dummy. "You sure you've not done this before?"

"I've always been exceptionally good at breaking things, sir," Harry said.

"Some would call that potential," Scamander told him with a nod, glancing around at the other students and their targets in various states of dismantlement before whipping his wand to fix the dummies. "Alright, second group, give it a go!"

"That was really good, Harry!" Alice told him with a smile as they moved back to let the rest of the class try the spell. "Very impressive."

"Not bad, Granger," Gideon said with a wink. "Making an impression already, are you?"

"At least it's a good one this time," Harry said. "I'm not always the best with those."

"Oh, by the way, Harry," Malcolm said, "are you still coming to quidditch practice? Four o'clock. Travis won't even be there, so if you do well enough, you can save me the trouble of holding a tryout."

"Yeah, I'll pop right up to get my broom after Defense," Harry said.

"Brilliant," Malcolm said. "Should be easy enough to fit in with the team, considering you're friends with half of us already."

"You play quidditch?" Alice asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she smiled at Harry.

"I try to," Harry told her. "Might be getting a bit rusty at it these days, but I should be able to get back into the swing of things."

"And hey, if not, it'll be fun to watch you make a fool out of yourself on the pitch," Fabian added, and Harry pointed at him.

"Yeah, that too."

Later, Harry made his way from Defense and toward his dorm by way of a secret passage behind a tapestry near the Defense corridor. As he mused that he had in fact found this passage on the Marauder's Map, things took a turn for the ironic when hushed voices met his ear.

Quite familiar ones.

"…still spends time with him even though he's acting all chummy with a bunch of scummy Slytherins," James could be heard saying, and Harry rounded a corner to see him leaning against the wall as he peered out of the passageway's exit.

"The fact he's keeping company with the Lestranges is all there is to it," Sirius said. Currently, he was all but draped against the wall opposite James, once again looking effortlessly as though he were posing for a catalogue. "They're horrid, they are."

"Oh, speaking of that," James turned back to Sirius with a grin, "how was the wedding?"

"Macabre, of course," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "Felt more like a funeral. I expected the whole thing to end with some sort of ritual murder or something."

"I'm a little disappointed to find out it didn't," Remus said. He had settled onto the floor and was currently sharing a bag of crisps with Peter. "They should fire that wedding planner."

"Too right," Sirius chuckled.

"Oi, lads, face front," James said. "I see a Snivelly and a Lily."

Harry crept closer to the boys, leaning against the wall behind them and watching as James peered out from behind a tapestry. A glance over his shoulder revealed the northern rotunda, the massive windows letting in slanted beams of afternoon sunlight which were currently glinting in Lily's copper hair as she sat on a bench while reading a book. Next to her sat a reedy, spidery-looking boy with lanky black hair, dark eyes, and a familiar hooked nose.

Severus Snape, aged twelve. Bizarre.

"What are we gonna do to him?" Peter asked with a mouthful of crisps.

"It's a tough one because he's so close to her," Sirius said, his eyes on James.. "Don't want Evans getting caught in the crossfire, do we?"

"Sticking charm on his feet?" Remus suggested. "If he tries to get up, he'll just fall on his nose."

"It might get stuck in the floor," Sirius cackled. "I love it, Remy."

"Doesn't have the impact I was hoping for, but we can't always be so grandiose," James said. "We'll run ourselves ragged."

"You lot need to learn art of the long game," Harry said, causing all four boys to jolt. They wheeled around and laid eyes on him, and Harry shot them a crisp little salute. "Afternoon."

"Granger," James said stiffly. "Heard you're joining the quidditch team."

"Maybe, maybe not," Harry said, waving a flippant hand. "You lot picking on Snape?"

"You know him?" Sirius asked.

"I know of him," Harry said. "Scrawny, runty, neck deep in dark arts and pureblood nonsense. And best friends with the object of your little affections."

"He's got the measure of you, Jamesy," Sirius chuckled while James offered up a very small glare that was definitely more of a pout than anything.

"Evans won't hear a word against him," James said. "Bad enough he's a Slytherin, but now he's always hanging 'round with the sort of people that think muggle-borns and muggles are lower than dirt."

"Like my charming cousins," Sirius said.

"I don't like it," James said. "What if he does something to hurt her or…his friends use him to get to her?"

"She's too kind to realize he's going down a bad path," Remus said.

"Maybe she hopes…if she keeps seeing good in him that it'll actually be there?" Harry suggested. "People are excellent at projecting what they see onto a person without it actually being there. Or she knows he has it in him to go down that path and is trying to keep him from it. If she leaves him to the wolves, that's his last lifeline gone."

Remus bristled at that last comment, his gaze falling to his shoes.

"The real question is, do you really wanna keep piling on excuses for him to hate everyone except the snakes?" Harry asked, and James blinked several times at that. "Or, put it this way. Which do you care about more? Making Snivellus suffer, or leaving a good impression on Evans?"

"…What d'you mean?" James asked.

"You keep picking on him, what does Lily do? She gets mad, right? Tells you stop picking on him. And what is Lily Evans?"

"Pretty?" James suggested.

"Scary," Peter said.

"Bit shrill," Sirius added.

"Stubborn," Remus sighed, and Harry nodded at him.

"You keep insisting her best pal is evil and terrible while getting into endless tit-for-tat prank wars with him, she's going to double down," Harry said. "She'll take Sev's side just because you're telling her not to because she finds you insufferable and mean-spirited."

"What d'you know?" James shot at him, and Harry shrugged.

"More than a bit," he said, reaching out to pat James's head. It was so hard to reconcile this huffy boy as his father—aside maybe from that scowl, if Hermione was to be believed. Granted, he'd never had any sort of relationship with his father, so there was that to contend with. Still, what he saw now was a brat with a crush in need of some guidance, so here he was. "Anyway, see you at practice."

He rolled away from the wall and ambled toward the portrait that marked the exit of the passage, slipping out as surreptitiously as he was able before ambling along past the bench that held Lily and Severus. The pair looked up at his passing, and Lily let a gasp of delight.

"Oh! Harry!" she sang as she sprang to her feet and skipped over, all but dragging Severus with her. "This is Severus Snape. He's a friend of mine from back in Cokeworth!"

Meeting his parents had been something a shock for Harry, though given he'd had no metric against which to measure them, it was simply a way to retroactively learn about them. Meeting a young Sirius Black had simply demonstrated to Harry that he'd always been the same; with a confident swagger and a devil-may-care attitude about him. Even young Remus was almost amusingly similar to his thirty-something counterpart.

Meeting a preteen Severus Snape was…rather a bit jarring.

Severus Snape at the tender age of twelve was weedy, hunched, and shrinking, a posture that Harry was rather familiar with. It was the same way Harry had carried himself all through primary school, when he'd lived in absolute terror of another smack, another beating, another verbal beratement from a classmate or teacher. He was so the opposite of the man Harry had known that it was even a bit of a shock.

Even so, niceties had to be observed.

"Nice to meet you, Severus," Harry said. "I'm Harry Granger."

"…Are you related to – "

"No, I'm not related to Hector Dagworth Granger," Harry chuckled. "I get that a lot."

"You look like Potter," Severus said. His voice bore the same drawl, though like Remus, he was in the throes of puberty and thus bore a small bit of a bleat.

"Been getting that a lot as well, recently," Harry said. "No relation, though. That I know of."

"Lily told me you fell off a…wonky portkey?" Severus asked him with a quirked eyebrow.

"The guy seemed trustworthy enough," Harry said with a shrug. "Goes to show you, never buy portkeys in Knockturn Alley."

Lily giggled at that, snorting out a laugh and tapping Severus on the elbow. "I told you he was funny!"

"Hilarious," Severus said flatly with a look at Lily. "I need to go. Potions club."

"Oh, right," Lily said, wiggling her fingers in a wave. "See you later, Sev!"

Severus waved over his shoulder as he wandered off, and Harry watched closely while he strode past the portrait he'd emerged from. He continued his trip unbothered, at least, which was promising.

Although, there was also the possibility that James had gotten his nemesis with some horrible delayed spell. These things took time, after all.

"Did you really join the quidditch team?" Lily asked Harry, who grinned down at her.

"Am I significantly less cool if I have?" he asked. Lily poked her tongue out at him, following him as he made for the stairs.

"No, quidditch is just a lot more cool," she said loftily. "I may even be bothered to watch a game now."

"I'm truly honored to hear that," Harry told her, and Lily giggled with a toothy little smile up at him.

"Just make sure you win," she insisted quite impishly.

"Why, Miss Evans," Harry said with a smirk. "I will dedicate my first victory to you."

Lily's eyes grew wide at that, and she beamed a smile at him, hopping quite happily in place.

"Even more cool."


I will quite possibly begin poking at the present-day counterpart to this story, as I've recently had an absolute brainwave of inspiration for it and can't wait to get moving. In addition, Housefly is always burbling away on the back-burner.

In short, there's a lot of plates spinning at varying speeds at the moment.

Reviews and feedback are always appreciated.