chapter 1. I'm partially Sirius Black
unnamed island, North sea, July 11th 1993
it was the most ordinary summer morning one could imagine. The blazing sun, having just risen above the horizon, promissed another borderline boiling hot day for the Brittish isles and the surrounding waters. People, both mundane and magical, as well as a few merpeople of as far as the North sea, once again prayed to whatever gods for rain. In other words, everything was just as usual as could be expected in July. Except for an unnaturally thick layer of fog over some rocky outcropps a few miles south from Azkaban, left in the wake of dementors travelling to Britain. Except from prayers for heavenly water intermixed with begging for protection from Sirius Black. In other words, it was the morning the world learned: Sirius Black, the most dangerous criminal in recent history, broke free.
Only one man, at the moment trapped by an elven petrification spell in a magical tent, on one of said rocky outcropps, was yet unaware of the events in Britain.
Marcus Longhurst, also known by a whole bunch of nicknames such as crazy flier, master flier, or simply crazy man, woke up with a start from what he thought to be drunken slumber. Truth be told, the wizard was used to mornings like this, even to finding himself petrified, on his camping cot outside Longhurst keep, if not in a tent of all things. Alexa, his trusty if too scientific house elf, would force feed him hangover potion, all the while ranting about stupid irresponsible boys. Except that this time, the creature was nowhere in sight, and the weather seemed way much colder than usual at this season of year in the isles of Scylly, penitrating even the tent's inbuilt automatic warming charms. If it was not suspicious enough, Marcus's head wasn't pounding as usual after a party, but rather spinning in all directions at the same time, despite of him laying flat on his back. Fantasies, no, snippets of memories about Azkaban, Peter Pettigrew (as if he knew who Wormtail was) and Harry Potter (why would he think about fourty-years-old, self-sufficient, independent auror as a child?) kept mixing with bits and pieces of synchronised flying training sessions, competitions and victory parties. "He's at Hogwarts", - the wizard mumbled to himself. „the rat is at Hogwarts... have to save Harry... Thornbush will kill me if I'm late... just wait til I get my hands on you..." that last part was almost said aloud, for Alexa, having just returned with the Daily prophet of all things, nearly fainted.
"what happened?" – croked the wizard, fighting the sudden wave of dread over his changed voice, only now realizing how exhausted he sounded. In truth, the broken rasps that came out of Marcus's dry mouth were far from his own clear baritone. "where are we? Why did you petrify me and leave?"
Resisting the urge to back away into the farthest corner of the world, Alexa regained her composure and switched to full scientist-healer mode, in which she felt almost as a fish in water: "yesterday, or what I thought was yesterday, you were unknowingly given Polyjuice potion with delayed timing, with incorporated portkey and, impossible as it sounds, time travel element. Just look at the mirror and see for yourself." She summoned a mirror from the bathroom, setting it afloat above Marcus's prone form. Only a single glance at his reflection made mt Longhurst erupt, breaking free from full body bind. The unkempt, unwashed crows nest of black locks had replaced his short brown hair; gone were bright, hawklike eyes, having become sunken and nearly lifeless; limp stretches of skin hung from skeletal cheekbones, showing years and years without proper food or sunlight… in other words, the wizard was now a carbon copy of a dead man, who's photos he had himself seen in history books. Added to his lapsing into foreign memories only fueled his desperation: "polyjuice! It wasn't damned polyjuice! Why do I look like Sirius I just escaped from Azkaban Black, who died before I was born?! Get me out of here this instant, I need to see a healer!" the wizard sprung up from the bed, but was instantly met with another dose of elven full body bind spell, along with grade 2 calming draught being forceably shoved down his throat. Having fallen to the floor in a heep, he could only glare daggers at Alexa, who continued as if nothing happened: "it wasn't Polyjuice, even if I hoped so since yesterday. As I said, the potion had a portkey and a time travel element in it. now that you're properly calmed down, prepare to hear the truth." The elf paused, gathering her courage, but continued after only a moment: "it was a memory dissolved in distilled water, mixed in whatever concoction you drank away from home. A memory of Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban, to be precise."
"Adam Thornbush!" – Marcus growled, partly overcoming the effects of the calming draught. "he gave me a pepper-up before the session, spouting something about manufactured potions containing prohibited substances, for which I could be thrown off the team. Then we trained as usual, got yelled at by that madman of a coach, then went for a drink… I nearly blacked out after just one glass of firewhiskey, but managed to call you at the last moment… then everything went blank… then I woke up here, wherever it is, bound, head spinning, body aching, with you nowhere in sight… and you left for the Prophet! as if a newspaper could pull us out of crap we're kneck deep in!" the elf stood waiting, too shocked to voice her suspitions. Fortunately for her, as suddenly as it started, the wizard's rant came to a hault when realization struck him like a landslide. There was just too many coincidences for everything to be a joke or temporary transformation. Too tired to argue further, Marcus tried to grab one last rescue straw: "so, I'm partially Sirius Black, however impossible it may sound. Let it not be the year 1993 please…" Alexa had no other choice but to shake her head. "unfortunately it is."
Brittish synchronized flying arena, July 10th 2023
"did it work?" – a disembodied voice echoed through the empty training area, followed by non other than Adam Thornbush, the recent coach of the Brittish acrobatic flying team, shrugging off the invisibility cloak. "as a clock", - another voice, steady and determined if not for a heavy Hispanic accent, replied. "he disappeared some time ago, with that stupid elf of his". The coach flinched a little at the mention of the elf, but nodded in satisfaction. "here's your reward, and don't forget to come tomorrow at 8:00 sharp." With that, the bag of gold mr Thornbush had been clutching to his chest for several hours changed hands, and the two conspirators aperated out.