Disclaimer: Still not the owner of Harry Potter. JK Rowling is ! But if one day she wants to share, I'm open to the idea !

Johnmonty: Wow ! First, thank you for the comment. The story is only one chapter long (in english at least), and you took the time to write so much. That's really kind of you. I'm glad you enjoyed the fighting scene. That's what I love to write the most, and I sure hope you'll be here for the next battles. Of course, even if Harry's powerful, he can't totally go all out, because he would cause too much damage and collateral victims. However, maybe you'll see him at his best later in the story ;). Then, about killing Ron, well, for now he's just a kid. While I would agree if we were talking about the older Ron I wrote in the Prologue, the younger one hasn't already made the mistake his older self did. Or did he ? Well, you'll need to read to know, hehehe. About Rita, well, you'll need to wait a little bit, but you might have what you want. Or not. Again, I can't tell you everything ! Still, thanks for the review, I appreciate it, and I hope you'll like my story.

tscchope: Well, to be exact he was there sometimes... but was he always useful...? Let's say that he could have been worse, I guess. And to be honest, he doesn't belong in Slytherin either. He may have ambition, but when it comes to resourcefulness and leadership... you know what I mean. Thanks for the review !

Darthdylan: To be honest, I hope that it won't stop you from reading what's coming next, but Ron isn't going to have a big place in the story. I really want to concentrate on Harry and his younger self, and how each of them grow in this technically new reality now that Harry time traveled. But, I mean, at least his stupid mouth was able to give Harry a second chance. Even if it was at a great cost ;) Well, that being said, glad to know you're hooked. Hope you'll be here for the next chapters ! Thanks for the review !

Hippothestrowl: While I agree, the story wouldn't exist if he did that, would it ? But still, I guess that would be funny to write something like that, that ends in like one chapter. That being said, I'm happy to know you liked it. If you are ready to wait, then see you for the next chapters ! If you're not, feel free to look at the french version (even if, as I said, it might be annoying to read with a translator). Thanks for the review !

Lilly1127: I'm very happy to know that you enjoyed the first chapter. Here's the second one. The third one is already ready, so maybe if I'm able to translate the fourth one quickly enough, i'll drop it before Sunday. Thank's for the review, and I hope you'll like what's coming next !

Well, with that being said, here's the next chapter !

11/07/1991, 00H05, London, England:

A sense of dread washed over him. The situation was critical, there was no doubt about it. But what on earth could have happened? Did he really find a way to time-travel?

He pushed that thought aside for later. Other priorities pressed upon him. If he didn't heal quickly, he would bleed out and die. The problem? His magic core was in such a state that casting even the slightest spell would only worsen his injuries.

So he had to find a way to heal himself. St. Mungo's? The option was feasible, but he would have to be extra careful. He would have to avoid questions at all costs. Plus, there was a risk that the Ministry would get involved, which would complicate matters further. Without his cloak and magical powers, he would be unable to defend himself.

But what else can he do? His blood was flowing, his broken bones were torturing him... His time was quickly running out, he couldn't afford to waste any more. Putting his wand back in its holster and making sure his weapons were still safe in his cloak, he undressed. Lifting his legs made him grimace in pain. He managed to extract the knife planted in his flesh and make a makeshift bandage from a piece of his cloak. He then removed the rest of his clothes, revealing with dismay the wounds that spread over his body already scarred by past wars.

"How do I manage to stand up? Is my body made of fucking tempered steel?" he asked himself with a certain irony.

His tolerance for pain was exceptional. No wonder, considering the trials he had endured in the first thirty years of his life. But, like it or not, he was still human. The ritual art had attracted him, yes, but the world war and the rise of multiple dark lords had not left him time to immerse himself in it.

He hid his belongings behind a dumpster, taking the opportunity to cast a disillusionment spell in the process. His magic core protested again, but he had no choice. He would be unable to explain the presence of so many weapons on him.

With his wand in hand, he limped along the alleyway, leaning against the bar wall to ease his weight. The biting cold of November and the pebbles that hurt his bare feet made him grimace. Each new step was more difficult than the last. His mind was constantly fighting to keep him conscious. Finally, with some effort, he finally reached the famous magical bar: The Leaky Cauldron.

Unleashing his hair to hide his face, he entered as discreetly as possible. His goal? Not to be recognized. Even though he knew that the real Harry Potter was currently at Hogwarts, he didn't want to take any risks.

Astonishingly, the presence of a half-naked man, who was wearing nothing else than his wand, a boxer and, above all, was covered of various injuries, didn't seem to disturb the other occupants of the pub. "Probably because the only idiots still awake are too drunk to care about what I'm doing here," he scoffed inwardly. "Thank goodness Tom isn't here. He could have made things more complicated," he added inwardly, scanning the small pub for the bartender.

Taking advantage of the lack of reaction and the absence of the old man, he limped as quickly as possible towards the fireplace. Fatigue was catching up with him. He knew he wouldn't stay awake much longer. He then grabbed the Floo powder, stepped into the fireplace, and, using the little strength he had left, distinctly muttered, "St. Mungo's Hospital" as he threw the powder at his feet.

11/07/1991, 00H19, London, England:

Healer Cassandra Smith, Cassy for her friends, just finished taking care of one of her patients. "Finally, a break !", she told herself as she let out a silent sigh of relief after the long day she went through.

She truly loved her job, even though it was not without its flaws. Working hours were often deplorable, patients frequently unpleasant, even sometimes openly hostile. Remuneration, while fair, hardly matched the amount of work involved. It was hard work. But she had to admit that it gave her a lot of pride.

Helping people in need, saving lives or simply cheering up people in difficulty. The daily satisfaction this brought her more than made up for the inconveniences of the job.

However, even after nine long years of loyal services, she had never been confronted with such a situation. Indeed, as she entered the hospital lobby, where patients in need of care usually waited, she saw the fireplace light up with a green glow.

The newcomer, covered in blood and almost naked, immediately collapsed to the ground. "Sir! Are you all right?" she exclaimed, running towards him. Her medic robes fluttered behind her as she crossed the room. Arriving in front of the man's body, she crouched beside him to take his pulse. "Phew, he's breathing," she thought with relief.

Grabbing her wand, she cast a levitation spell on the man and ran to the nearest available room. "301... 302... 303... Bathroom... 304... 304 !". With the unconscious man still floating behind her, she opened the bedroom door and flew the man into bed. She had no idea who he was. He had a rather aristocratic face, but his solid, scarred body made him look more like a mercenary than anything else. In any case, she had to look after him. It was her duty, after all.

Casting a few spells on him to make sure he didn't die in the next few seconds, she ran to find the few remaining colleagues in the hospital.

11/09/1991, 14H31, London, England:

Harry stirred slightly in his bed. The pain he expected to feel upon waking didn't immediately assail him. This took him by surprise. He felt rather good. Ensuring his other four senses were working before acting, he finally opened his eyes.

"The hospital," he immediately thought to himself, seeing the ceiling above him. He had spent so much time there during the war, nursing his wounds and visiting his companions. This time, it was his turn to be lying in one of those beds.

He searched for his wand around him, and found it lying on the nightstand to his left. Suddenly, the memories of his situation flooded back to him. Rome, the helicopter crash, the squad, the fight against Sethom and Siena, the outcome of that fight, the time travel, the alleyway, his core... His core!

Focusing on his Occlumency, he sought out his magical core. "They've patched me up a bit, apparently," he thought to himself, seeing the state of the source of his magic. His core seemed to be holding, albeit barely. He could cast basic spells. But if he found himself in a situation requiring an area-of-effect spell, or rapid chains of spells, he would be screwed.

Distracted, he didn't notice the two healers enter his room. "Good morning, sir. I hope you were able to rest. You arrived in a very bad state! When Mrs. Smith found you, she thought you were already dead!" said a short, brown-haired man, nodding towards his colleague.

Harry turned his head towards the source of the noise and, praying not to make a mistake, spoke: "Good morning to you too. Were you the ones who treated me? Thank you. And thank you for the clothes," he added, seeing the blue jeans and brown sweater at his feet.

"It's our job, don't thank us. We were able to heal your bones and wounds. Fortunately, you didn't lose any limbs, which would have made your recovery much more complicated. However, your magical core seems to have been greatly damaged. We did what we could... but...". The healer trailed off.

Harry nodded. He wasn't surprised. The state of his core was no secret to him. Pondering what to say next, he turned to the man who, before he could speak, asked him: "I'm sorry, but I have to ask you this anyway. Would you like to contact the Ministry? I recognize this kind of injury from the war, so I doubt you fell down the stairs."

Harry shook his head. "No, that's alright, don't worry about it. The problem has been taken care of. And then, I can always go there later. You have everything noted in a file I suppose," he indicated, showing the sheets in the hands of the older healer.

"Well... if you say so, we'll take your word for it. Anyway, it's not like we can do anything without your consent, because… well… healer-patient confidentiality you know. However, we need a name to know who to bill for the care," he explained.

This sentence made Harry pause. He couldn't shout from the rooftops that he was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, just older. Still, physically, apart from his eyes, he had the Potter features. It was true that his hair had grown, but his face still resembled his father's. So he had no choice but to pretend to be a Potter. Now, which Potter? To his knowledge, all the Potters were dead. Maybe there were some left in America, or in other countries of the world, for that matter. Yes... he could try that.

"I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself. My name is Hadrian, Hadrian Potter... Yes, from the same family as THAT Potter," he added, seeing the look of the healers. "I'm from America. Our family has been attacked several times, hence the reason for these injuries. I managed to escape, and I came here."

"Oh my God! Attacks! Are they serious? My sister works at MACUSA and- ", Cassandra began before being cut off by the man. "Don't worry. Only the Potters were attacked, and despite the death of... far too many of us, the attackers have joined the other world," Harry lied to reassure the young woman.

Admittedly, the emotion on his face was very convincing. At the same time, it was real. Inventing this story made him think back to the death of his squad, as well as his fight against the two dark wizards. In a way, it was relatively similar to what he had told them.

"I'll note all that down, Mr. Potter. In any case, your arrival in Britain is a surprise. I'm sure young Harry will probably be happy. Since the death of his parents, many, including probably him, thought he was the last Potter," the healer said.

"Oh I see, I see. Anyway, tell me, when can I leave?" he asked, the subject of his younger self making him uncomfortable.

"We're going to take a small blood sample to make sure you are indeed a Potter. Once that's done, and if you are indeed the person you claim to be, we'll send the bill to Gringotts, give you some potions to take for the next few days, and you'll be free to go."

"Thank you very much Mrs... ", "Smith, Cassandra Smith Mr. Potter," the woman replied to his unspoken question.

Harry held out his arm to the woman, who pricked his middle finger with her wand. He felt nothing, "Probably the effects of the pain relievers," he thought. The collected blood fell onto a parchment held by the other healer. After a few seconds of worry, the sheet lit up green, signaling that the transaction had been approved.

Harry thanked the healers who gave him the potions Cassandra had mentioned earlier. His body was almost fully healed, according to what they had explained to him. However, his core was a whole other story. The potions should allow him to hold on without losing his magic completely for a few months at most. After that, he would be on his own.

Gathering the potions, he waited for the healers to leave his room, got dressed, and, slowly gathering his magic, tried to Apparate. He didn't want to rush his body, so he took his time. After about a minute, he spun around and disappeared from the hospital.

11/09/1991, 15H00, London, England:

The powerful green-eyed wizard arrived in the alley where he had landed two days before. Well, at least on the basis of the quick Tempus he had cast before leaving the hospital, and the one he had cast upon arriving.

He saw a homeless man sleeping next to the dumpster where his belongings were hidden. Walking as delicately as possible, he approached and cast a spell to levitate his belongings towards him. He canceled the Disillusionment Charm and quickly delved deeper behind the bar. Once out of sight, he took a look at his belongings. There were tears here and there, but otherwise nothing serious.

Taking his time, he slowly repaired the damage to all of his clothes. This allowed him to become aware of his limitations. Indeed, the Apparition, the Tempus, the spell to repair the clothes and the conjuration of a few revolver bullets had completely exhausted him.

The repair of his core at the hospital was incomplete. That was logical. The fact that they had been able to make potions that allowed him to remain a wizard for a few months was already an incredible achievement in reality.

His first mission would therefore be to fix that, and he had an idea of how. He knew that there were no spells or potions that could heal him. But... if one looked for rituals... that would be different.

Where to find rituals in that case? Well... in Egypt. It was there that Voldemort had found many rituals. Even Harry, on a trip, had managed to find a book containing several.

However, there was a problem. The book containing the rituals had been found by his team following a trip to a cave hidden in the Muggle part of the country. Exploring the cave had not been a problem. But the back of it, where the book was stored, was behind a very powerful enchantment.

The first time, Harry had simply destroyed it with his brute strength. This time, due to his lack of magic, he would have to solve the problem honestly.

"Well... well, who says Egypt, says travel. Let's hope the Muggle travel methods are open," he thought with amusement.

To travel, it was better to have money. So he would have to make a detour to Gringotts. This will also allow him to take over the Potter house. If he could get his young self out of the Dursleys, that would be a godsend. He had no idea how to do it after that, but he would think about it after repairing his magical core.

11/09/1991, 15H24, London, England:

A heavily cloaked man strode purposefully down Diagon Alley, grateful for the concealing charms on his garments. Without them, he knew, every eye would be upon him.

Harry had to admit, seeing all the familiar shops again, bustling with smiling shopkeepers and excited young adults, warmed his heart. Even he, whose emotions and feelings were so deeply buried beneath his occlumency that he thought he had lost the ability to feel them altogether, had to admit that he had missed the warm atmosphere of the Alley.

It made him realize something. He was truly back. He could change things, prevent so many deaths, avoid so many wars. With his current power, he could reshape the wizarding world for the better. Or at least lay the seeds for future change.

Well, he would think about all that in due time. For now, the priority should be to get his magical core healed. It was with that thought that he entered Gringotts, nodding curtly to the goblins who guarded the entrance.

He had never been a big fan of the little creatures. They were greedy, and would sell out the entire wizarding world, children included, if it meant making a few more galleons. The only thing he had in common with them was his appreciation for getting straight to the point.

He approached the nearest counter, secretly pleased by the lack of people in the bank, and asked: "Good morning. I would like to inquire about my vaults. My name is Hadrian Potter."

Without waiting to be asked, he took off his glove and extended his palm to the goblin in front of him. The goblin looked up from his desk to see a dark-haired man with his hair covering his face. Though he seemed annoyed, he showed a hint of appreciation for the man's initiative.

"Very well, Mr. Potter. Are you related to Harry Potter?" the goblin asked, making a small cut on Harry's hand with his fingernail, causing a drop of blood to fall onto a parchment that had just appeared.

"Distant cousin. I'm from America. What's left of our family was wiped off the face of the earth there, so I fled here. Well, fled is a bit of a stretch. Let's just say I'm traveling," he explained as he watched the parchment glow green. Harry silently healed his hand and put his glove back on.

"I see. You have been recognized by the parchment. Follow me, I'll take you to the Potter family advisor. You have some... issues... to resolve," the little creature chuckled darkly.

Harry followed the goblin through the labyrinthine corridors of the bank before stopping in front of an office. "Sharpclaw's Office," he read on the door.

The goblin knocked on the door. A grunt resonated from the other side, presumably giving permission for the goblin to open the door, which he did.

"Let me handle this, Thinblade," grumbled the other goblin, whom Harry assumed was Sharpclaw.

Thinblade nodded and quickly disappeared into the corridor, closing the door behind him. Harry waited no longer and sat down opposite to the goblin who was staring at him strangely.

"You are a powerful warrior, Mr. Potter, I must admit. I rarely see such dark eyes and so many scars on a living man. But anyway, we are not here for that. We have things to settle, starting with Harry Potter," the goblin began, pulling out a pile from under his desk.

"What do you want to do? His magical guardian is currently Albus Dumbledore. However, with a blood relative, however distant, still alive, you can try a guardianship transfer. This will have to be approved by the Ministry, however, which complicates things," he continued, gauging Harry's reaction.

Harry took a moment to think. He wanted to get younger-him out of the Dursleys' hell. But with Dumbledore blocking him, it would be impossible for him to regain custody of Harry. What to do?

"Nevertheless... for a certain sum, we can... get the documents through certain hands, and have you get custody before anyone can stop you," the goblin said slyly.

Harry, his smile almost as wide as the goblin's, replied: "Of course, Master Goblin. I would be delighted to pay you a… certain sum. Just, remind me of one detail please... What happens if a Class Five cursed object is discovered in a vault?"

Sharpclaw cocked his head to one side, curious. Few people knew the classification of Gringotts' dark objects. It would seem that the Potter in front of him was a... special man. "That would result in the removal and destruction of the object from the vault, as well as the seizure of all the property inside. Half of the vault would go to the bank and the goblin who retrieved the object, and the other half to the informant if there is one," he explained.

"In that case, would half of the vault of Bellatrix Lestrange, formerly Black, be enough payment for you?" Harry asked, staring into the goblin's eyes.

"That would be more than enough indeed!" he retorted, rubbing his hands together.

"In that case, raid her vault. You will find a cup there. This cup is a Horcrux of the self-proclaimed Dark Lord Voldemort," Harry decided to drop the bomb.

A Horcrux?! In their bank... it was unimaginable. Not only was it against the rules, but that alone was enough to permanently ban Bellatrix and Voldemort from all magical banks in the world.

"I... see. We will investigate this further," he said, grimacing. "If what you have said turns out to be false... Well, you already seem to know the treatments we reserve for bad wizards. If it turns out to be true, expect to be the legal guardian of the young boy soon, and for the rest of your days. No one will be able to take him away from you if the Goblin nation has anything to say about it."

"Two birds, one stone," Harry thought proudly. He had gotten rid of a Horcrux, regained custody of little Harry, and regained access to the Potter accounts.

The conversation then resumed, and Harry understood why Thinblade had used the plural form of the word "problem."

11/09/1991, 17H02, London, England:

It had taken less time than Harry had actually anticipated. He had expected to be there most of the night, having to catch up on nearly eleven years of Dumbledore's neglect of the accounts, but the problem was solved. He had retrieved the Potter ring, which he was currently wearing on his finger, concealed by a charm.

Many topics had been discussed. He had checked the Potter investments, sold some of them, and bought others. His knowledge of the future had been rather useful for that. He had also recovered a number of galleons, which he put in one of the pouches on his belt. This one had previously contained potions against various poisons. He had never used them, having discovered rather quickly that thanks to the Basilisk's blood in his veins, he was immune to most of them.

He stopped at an apothecary to sell the potions. He didn't sell them for much, they were rather simple potions after all. He had never been very good at that. "Thank you Severus Snape," he thought bitterly. He respected the man for his role in the war, but despised him for everything else. His trained mind now protected by occlumency, he wondered how he could have accepted Ginny's suggestion of naming their second child after the man. He was a brave man, yes, but so was Neville, Hermione, and every kid that fought in the war back then.

He felt a twinge in his heart as he thought of his boy. The rage he held against the Dark Wizards was solely because of their attacks on his family. Himself? He didn't care. If they wanted to challenge him, and manage to beat him fair and square, well, too bad for him. He would die fighting to the bitter end. But attacking his family? That was similar to signing their death warrant.

When he was a child, they took his parents away from him, and then when he was a parent, they took his children away from him. How could he have any pity left for these monsters?

Shaking his head at the bad memories, he refocused on his next moves. Accounts, money, and guardianship aside, Sharpclaw had mentioned the sealed Potter will. Harry knew its content and knew that opening it would probably get Sirius out of Azkaban. But it would also mean going to court with the Ministry and Dumbledore to force it open, which would complicate things... as long as his magical core was not healed.

Once at full power, he knew he would be able to face most of the threats that could come his way.

"Guardianship obliges, I have to take little Harry for the next holidays. They start on Saturday, December 21st... So I have barely over a month to sort this out... I might as well get my sweaty ass moving," he grumbled as he slipped into an alleyway.

He had money. Now he had to reach the Djara Cave in Egypt. Slowly concentrating his magic again to avoid further damaging his core, he Apparated to London Heathrow Airport. He had a long journey ahead of him.

11/09/1991, 17H19, London, England:

As he arrived, he made a mental note to take the time to write a letter to Harry, explaining who he was.

After he was sure no one had seen him appear out of nowhere, he cast a few refreshment charms on his clothes and headed to the nearest restroom.

Once inside the stall, he took out the clothes the hospital had provided from one of his pockets and put them on. "Thank goodness they put showers in airports. I was getting tired of cleaning spells," he rejoiced silently.

Clean and dressed normally, he tied back his hair, conjured a backpack, and put his belongings in it. As he did so, he felt a tug at his stomach. "Damn, already running low!? Djara Cave, here I come!" he growled, annoyed at his own weakness.

He had no idea what he would do next, or how he would do it. But if he had learned one thing from his life as head of the Auror Department, it was to be methodical. By solving one problem at a time, he would reach his goal much faster and easier than if he tried to do everything at once.

Not wasting any more time, he left the restroom and, heading for the counter to book a flight, thought to himself: "Muggles, ready or not, here I come!"