So I took a break to do some work/world-building on a story of my own, and then I just fell off the writing wagon altogether for a while. But then the other day, a Marauders playlist came up on YouTube, and wouldn't you know it, I got sucked back in. I might be a bit rusty, but what can you do?
Chapter Five: The Doctor
For all the travel and adventures and new experiences he'd been on in the past couple of months, there was something to be said for the simple joy of a warm tankard of butterbeer on a cold winter's day, for a cozy corner of the Three Broomsticks and a simple conversation with friends.
Granted, there was a sort of melancholy mixed in with the sense of nostalgia—Harry was still out of his time and away from Hermione, from Mafalda and Daphne and Terry and Astoria and those with whom he would normally spend such a lovely afternoon such as this—but Gideon and Fabian Prewett were more than alright, and they were a welcome reprieve from the Marauders and the Little Shadows.
The kiddos were a delight, but it was nice to spend some time with company his own age.
"You nervous about the match?" Gid asked as he slouched back in his chair and surveyed the packed inn. It was a brisk and windy day, perfect to duck into the warm and welcoming walls for a drink. Next to Gid, Fabian was taking a long draw of his own drink, setting his mug down with a clunk before snagging up a chip from the plate they had ordered to split.
"Nah, I'm ready for it," Harry said. "Been a while since I've gotten out and played a game."
"I'm curious," Fabian said, taking up a second chip and studying it ponderously. "You said you're muggle-born, right? Late-bloomer? When did you play quidditch before now?"
"Er…I was part of a private league, just some neighborhood kids, you know?" Harry said.
"Didn't get magic at first, but you got a knack for flying, did you?" Fabian grinned, and Harry chuckled.
"If you've got it, you've got it," he said.
They finished their drinks, Harry offering to pay for the other two against their protests.
"I won't hear it," he said. "You've been good friends, let me repay you how I can, alright?"
"You're a good one, mate," Gideon said as they made their way into the brisk afternoon. "Oi, proper cold out here, though."
"I think we brave Honeydukes and call it," Harry said. "Not much sightseeing going to happen in this."
"You're only right," Fabian said.
They made their way through the streets, which were unsurprisingly not all that crowded. Many of the older students had elected not to go to Hogsmeade in this bitter cold, and those that had braved the trip had no doubt made plans that involved being indoors.
As such, there were very few witnesses to what happened next.
"Harry, look out!" a voice Harry recognized as Alice Fawley shrieked from near the entrance to Honeydukes.
It was only because Harry had just spent the better part of his trip to America in a series of fights for his life that he had the wherewithal to do more than duck or flinch as Gid and Fabian did. Harry had his wand out and aimed behind him, in the direction he'd seen Alice's wide eyes staring in horror.
"Protego!"
Some manner of hex or spell bounced off of his barrier, and Harry saw three figures, two with their wands out aiming in his direction. He recognized Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov, the two future Death Eaters that had accosted him at the library. There was a third with them, a man in a hooded cloak, though he was simply hanging back for the moment and watching.
Perhaps he was a Death Eater scouting new talent.
Well, he was about to be sorely disappointed.
"Expelliarumus! Supplanto! Petrificus Totalus!" Harry fired a rapid series of spells, and Rabastan Lestrange's wand shot from his hand before his feet flew out from under him. Dolohov managed to block Harry's Body-Bind, but Harry was ready.
"Expelliarmus! Conjuctivo!"
Dolohov seemed to realize that Harry knew what he was doing, and he played the defensive while Lestrange scrambled to recover his wand. Harry had caught them off guard with his ready response, but they were rallying now, which wasn't exactly good.
"Bombarda – "
"Protego!" Gid shouted from Harry's side, and the Prewett twins flanked Harry, wands aloft. A sound like a gong rang out as Dolohov's Bombardment Spell bounced off of Gid's barrier, causing Harry's teeth to rattle.
"Not bad," Harry muttered.
"Can't let you have all the fun, can I?" Gid smirked. "Supplanto!"
"Melofors!" Fabian shouted, a laugh in his voice. It was apparent why seconds later, when Rabastan Lestrange rejoined the fight just in time to parry Gid's Trip Jinx only to have his head encased in a pumpkin.
"Love it!" Gid shouted with glee. "Petrificus Totalus!"
As Rabastan struggled to extricate his head from the offending gourd, his limbs snapped to his sides, and he toppled over to the ground, leaving Dolohov standing alone. Clearly, things hadn't gone to plan; he had most certainly been counting on the muggle-born newbie to be an easy target, a quick curse to leave a message before scarpering without even a fight.
Well, he'd found a fight. And from the way his hooded observer was slowly backing away, he wasn't impressing anyone. Things had gone on too long, and that meant the possibility of retaliation, of interference by Hogwarts staff or the Ministry. Clearly, the talent scout didn't want to deal with that sort of heat, as he disappeared with a wooshing crack.
"Wait!" Dolohov shouted, glancing down at his prone companion and then toward the trio still with their wands trained on him. "This isn't over, mudblood!"
With that, he turned and ran. Or he tried. As he made a break for it, Harry hit him with another Trip Jinx, sending him sprawling before hitting him with a Body-Bind.
"Oh, good one, that," Fabian chuckled. "Reckon Slughorn'll want a word with these two?"
"Attacking fellow students in Hogsmeade while in the company of dodgy cloaked strangers?" Harry asked as the trio made their way forward. "Not the sort of behavior that'll have you in the Slug Club, that's for sure."
"I should certainly think not," a familiar voice spoke from behind them, and Harry turned to see none other than Horace Slughorn himself hurrying toward them as fast as his mass would allow. Along with him was Alice, who had clearly gone to get the professor once the fight had broken out.
"Professor," Harry greeted him, gesturing toward the two prone boys. "Two of your students attacked me in broad daylight."
"This is absolutely unacceptable," Slughorn said, looking stormily at the two students. "Let me assure you, Mr. Granger, these two will see punishment for their actions today. I certainly expect better from members of my house, especially those from such prestigious families. This sort of behavior is unbecoming of Slytherin house, boys!"
He whipped his wand at the pair, and Rabastan's head was freed from the offending gourd. He scrambled for his wand before realizing Slughorn was glaring balefully down at him. Quailing under the professor's gaze, he sheepishly fell in line along with Dolohov, his Body-Bind dispelling with yet another twitch of Slughorn's wand.
"Now, Mr. Granger, this is neither the time nor the place for such discussion, but I would love to have a chat later about how impressively you handled yourself today."
"Well, these two helped," Harry said with a gesture at Gid and Fabian, who shrugged.
"Just looking out for a friend," Fabian said, and Slughorn chortled approvingly.
"A group of consummate Gryffindors!" he said. "Professor McGonagall will be proud. Well, my boys, I would encourage you to put this matter behind you. These two will be punished, and I do believe you've each earned twenty-five points for Gryffindor, for your stunning display. And also to Miss Fawley, for your timely intervention."
He left with the two Slytherins in tow, and Harry could hear his voice (absent its usual jovial tone) letting the pair have it as he led them back to the castle.
"Why do I get the feeling Dumbledore won't be hearing about this?" Gideon muttered.
"Another rug-sweep, to be sure," Fabian said.
"Well, at least you know what awaits after we're done here at Hogwarts," Harry said with a sidelong look at the other two, who let matching humorless laughs.
"Too right," Fabian said.
"Well, you could go over his head," Alice suggested. "Go to Dumbledore yourselves."
"Dunno if it's worth the trouble," Harry shrugged. "We'd only be losing Slug's good graces and making Potions an ordeal for the next three years, and that would just have Dolohov and Lestrange that much more determined to cause us grief. At least if they do it now, Slughorn knows we'll leave them to him, and I don't think he's a fan of second chances. Not when his image is at stake."
"Look at you, the politician," Fabian chuckled.
"It's not my first time dealing with this sort of malarkey," Harry said.
"Seems like there's only more and more malarkey awaiting us, isn't there?" Gideon said.
"If you stick around here, yeah," Harry said. "But there's a great big world out there, one with a bit less malarkey."
"Say malarkey again," Fabian said.
"Malarkey," Harry said, making full eye contact, and Fabian snickered.
"Alright, might be time to explore our options across the pond," he said.
And that was good enough. For now.
ooo
Harry had forgotten how much fun a game of quidditch could be.
Even after the tumultuous past several months (or perhaps because of them), there was a delightful sort of comfort, a familiarity with the relative simplicity of a match. He knew the rules, he knew his part, and he actually found that he meshed quite well with the 1973 iteration of the Gryffindor quidditch team.
He also knew one or two techniques which wouldn't be invented for another decade or so, which felt a little like cheating but not enough for him to refrain from using them.
"Another unorthodox move from Granger!" the commentator announced. Harry only knew that it was a girl named Finnegan—possibly an aunt of Seamus's?—who really knew her stuff and showed a level of enthusiasm for sports commentary that even Lee Jordan couldn't match. "I dunno what that little maneuver was, but Hufflepuff seeker Colin Higgins is going to be feeling that in the morning."
Harry was certain that someone had to have used the Wronski Feint sometime before Josef Wronski popularized it during Poland's bid for the 1982 Quidditch World Cup. After all, it was simple enough bait-and-switch maneuver. Then again, the wizarding world was far from innovative; in fact, they seemed the opposite more often than not.
Well…hopefully he wasn't setting into motion some housefly effect that would result in the Wronski Feint never being invented or…some horrible tragic accident happening to Josef Wronski. Seekers tended to be magnets for misfortune, after all.
Him more than most.
While Colin Higgins collected himself down on the ground, Harry circled the pitch, thoroughly enjoying the fact that he could do so without a glare or the unobtrusive but still there outline of his glasses. His updated prescription combined with the Perma-Lens Treatment he'd gotten done in the States meant that he felt like he could see everything.
Including the snitch! There it was!
"Granger, watch it!"
Harry pivoted his broom, spinning into what he personally thought was a textbook Sloth-Grip Roll to dodge an incoming bludger. The nearby THUD of a beater's bat told him that Malcolm had pelted the thing away, and Harry took off, banking past one of the Hufflepuff beaters as they sloppily attempted to head him off with another bludger. Around him, the crowd began to roar once it had become apparent that this was no feint and he had actually spotted the snitch, but the deafening noise fell away as he zeroed in on the snitch, the world blurring except for that glint of gold.
His fingers closed around the snitch, and Harry pumped his fist in the air as the crowd exploded around him.
"Granger has the snitch! The breakout new seeker has just clinched it for Gryffindor! Gryffindor wins, 210 to 40!"
The stands erupted in cheers, and even the Hufflepuffs, ever magnanimous, cheered for the new seeker's promising debut. As they landed, the Gryffindor team converged on Harry, cheering as Malcolm clapped him on the back.
"Not half bad, lad," he said.
"Harry, that was brilliant!" Betsy cheered as she got closer. "The way you dodged that bludger, that roll was ace!"
"You're the real deal, mate," Gid said, sounding a bit awed. "Never seen anyone fly like that."
"Stop, you'll make me blush," Harry said, to chuckles from the whole team.
"Right," Malcolm said, turning to the throng of Gryffindors. "Party in the common room, all!"
Cheers went up, and the scrum of students began to filter their way toward the castle. As Harry made to join them, he felt a small body collide with his back, Lily Evans absolutely monkeying onto him in a manner eerily similar to Mafalda.
"Harry, that was the absolute coolest thing I've ever seen in my whole entire life!" she cheered. "I've never seen someone fly like that!"
"That was very impressive," Mary said with a smile up at Harry. "Secret American techniques?"
"You know it," Harry said, hauling Lily toward the school. Nearby, James was being mobbed by the Tiny Marauders with similar congratulations, though he was looking sullenly in the direction of Harry and the Tiny Shadows. "Oi, Potter! Coming to the party?"
"Yeah, wouldn't miss it," James said, and Lily sighed as they boys made their way over.
"Horrid boys," she muttered.
"Be nice," Harry said in equal tones amused and exasperated.
"I am very nice, thank you," Lily huffed, and Harry laughed, hitching her up his back.
"Harry!" a voice called out, and he saw Alice making her way over to fall into step next to him. She spared Lily a look of amusement before beaming at him. "I was going to come over and tell you how amazing you looked, but it looks like the little ones piled on first, hm?"
"They're incorrigible, aren't they?" Harry asked.
"Harry has a girlfriend, you know," Lily said in waspish tones, and Harry chuckled as Alice looked over at him with a wide-eyed blush and a shocked smile.
"Oh my goodness!" she laughed. "Um…"
"Lily, c'mon," Harry sighed.
"Well, you dooo," Lily said petulantly. "Her name is Hermione, and she's from America."
"Oh, an American girlfriend?" Alice asked. "However did you meet?"
"I was on vacation," Harry said. "Over in the Questlands."
"I've heard you talking about that place," Alice said. "It sounds lovely."
"Lovelier than a lot of places," Harry said.
"Right, you're still on a crusade to chase us all out of Britain, aren't you?" Alice said as the Tiny Marauders reached them.
"We're all being indoctrinated, after all," Sirius said with a sage nod. "Into the pureblood machine."
"Right on, mate," Harry said with a chuckle. "Fight the power."
"So, was that you that left all those pamphlets in the Great Hall?" Remus asked. "About the Questlands and such?"
"Pamphlets?" Harry asked innocently. "I've no idea what a pamphlet even is."
"You do toooo!" Lily giggled. "Silly."
"And how are we supposed to get to the Questlands, exactly?" Alice asked him. Harry simply shrugged.
"Hop a plane, don't you?" he said. "Get yourself a muggle passport—they're easy enough for the Ministry to make up for you. I think Barty Crouch recently set up a Muggle-Worthy Documentation Committee or something to make it easier, as well."
"Barty Crouch?" Frank Longbottom spoke up as he drifted toward the conversation. Harry was pleased to see Alice light up a bit at his arrival—maybe she was just going through her "boy-crazy" years? "My dad's been raving about him lately. Says he raided the travel agency in Diagon Alley, found out the bloke who runs it's been selling out muggle-borns trying to flee all this pureblood nonsense that's going around. It was a whole scandal."
"A scandal in the government?" Harry asked wryly. "Tosh, that sort of thing never happens."
Frank chuckled at that, shaking his head. "You've trust issues, you do."
"Not for no reason, believe me," Harry said. "Why do you think I'm so keen to evacuate this whole society and leave it to the nutters?"
"You did leave those pamphlets," Remus said with a nod.
"I don't know what a pamphlet is," Harry insisted while Lily shook against his back with giggles, nearly falling off. "Is it food?"
"If you're hungry enough," James said, and Lily squeaked out a final laugh as she fell from Harry's back, snorting and falling into James. "Oi, careful there, Evans."
"James Potter," Lily greeted him cordially. "Not bad out there. You scored nearly half the points."
"I told you I'm not half bad at this," James said with a grin. "Oh, I, er… I was going to ask you… What's your favorite, er…Rolling Stones album?"
Lily paused, falling behind Harry and nearly causing James to walk into her. Her eyes were wide, and she fixed James with a look of mingling incredulity and intrigue.
"How…how d'you know about the Rolling Stones?" she asked. James grinned proudly.
"Sirius told me about them," he said with a gesture to the boy, who waved. "I heard you talking to Sniv—er, to Severus about them. Sirius's uncle is a fan."
"Aren't your family all purebloods?" Lily asked Sirius, who shrugged.
"He's the black sheep," Sirius said. "Pun intended. I hate the lot of my family, so I decided I wanted Uncle Alphard to be a bad influence on me."
"Tell her about motorbikes," James said, and Sirius rolled his eyes.
"I'm rather sure she knows about motorbikes, Jamey," he chuckled.
"Of course you'd find motorbikes fascinating," Lily said, though she now wore an impish little smile at the pair. "They're loud and dangerous and obnoxious, just like you."
"Looka that," Frank said with a chuckle. "A whole conversation without them at each other's throats. You really are a little miracle worker, aren't you?"
"Sometimes you just need an outsider's viewpoint, is all," Harry said with a flippant wave of his hand. "Poor lad just couldn't see the forest for the trees."
"…I don't think that metaphor really applies here," Frank pointed out, and Harry shrugged.
"Nuance," he said. "Shall we get to the party?"
…
Harry was pleased to discover that the postgame victory party was just as raucous and window-rattling in the 1970s as they were (would be?) in the 1990s. Butterbeers and snacks were obtained from the kitchens, banners were made, and someone had procured perhaps a bit too much scarlet and gold confetti, which was enchanted not simply to fall but then float back up and fall once more.
Harry vacillated the whole night between hatred for and utter enjoyment of the stuff.
The team celebrated their victory, the house welcomed their newest seeker, and Malcolm tearfully reconciled with Travis Willingham—the former seeker apologized profusely for their falling-out and wished Harry good luck as his replacement.
All in all, it was a fine evening, and Harry was feeling quite good about things when he awoke Saturday morning to a slanting shafts of cold winter sunlight shining through the windows of Gryffindor tower. Grumbling as he rolled over, he prepared himself for the monumental task of extricating from the luxuriously soft Hogwarts bedsheets without the looming threat of being late to class to motivate him.
It was a weekly struggle, one which most students found themselves undertaking each weekend with varying degrees of success.
As Harry flumped onto his back in an effort to perhaps sit up—he was just considering simply rolling out of bed and onto the floor (which he logically knew would only create more problems)—his ear brushed up against something that was not his criminally soft pillow. Shuffling about a bit, he saw that a letter awaited him.
How had it even gotten here? Some sort of mail-delivery elf? An owl with incredible accuracy?
Mail gnomes?
No matter the case, Harry figured the most sensible course was to read the thing. It was addressed to him (well, his 1970s secret identity of Harry Granger) and bore rather an official-looking purple seal not unlike the Ministry letters he'd received a fair few times in the (future) past. Tearing the envelope open, he withdrew a thick folded piece of parchment, unfolding it to see a letter written in such precise script that it almost looked typed:
Mr. Granger,
It's come to the attention of the Office of Special Containment that you may be linked to a temporal event that has recently taken place at Hogwarts. Due to the sensitive nature of the event, it is the office's wish to send a representative to meet you in person in order to discuss the details of your arrival in this timeway as well as whatever business you wish to attend to during your time here.
Please report to the headmaster's office at no later than noon today. Failure to do so will result in continued and increasingly bothersome methods of correspondence.
With cordial regards,
Dr. Daimler Molotov
Office of Special Containment
Department of Mysteries
Ministry of Magic
That was…curious. Folding the letter and placing it in his trunk for the time being, Harry crawled from his bed and set about getting himself dressed and presentable, his thoughts turning over what he had just read.
The Ministry of this time was aware of his presence and his status as a time anomaly. This was hardly surprising—according to Hermione, there was an entire section within the Department of Mysteries devoted to the study of chronomancy. Noteworthy, though, was their use of his assumed surname, and not his real one—they were aware that he was from another timeline, but they also didn't know who he really was, only the name he'd given the school. That meant he needed to play things close to the vest until he could be sure that this Dr. Molotov didn't have any sort of ulterior motive, or at least one opposed to his own.
As he dipped his comb in some Sleekeazy's and ran it through his hair, Harry could almost see Daphne's proud little smirk at how very Slytherin he was being.
"Right," Harry said to the mirror. "Time to go change the world."
"Knock 'em dead, lad," his mirror said.
…
The trip to the headmaster's office was one long familiar to Harry, wrapped up as he tended to be in whatever mess or drama had come to Hogwarts—often in direct pursuit of him. The corridors were a bit crowded on such a brisk Saturday; none but the staunchest outdoorsman dared to brave the grounds in the grip of a Highlands winter, but it was still Saturday and no time to stay cooped up in the common room. Harry waved to a few familiar faces as he passed; his performance at the quidditch game (and rumor of his tussle in Hogsmeade) had all but cemented him as something of a minor celebrity among the students.
At least this sort of popularity was infinitely more tolerable. He could stomach being an enigmatic quidditch talent and formidable duelist much more readily than being the Boy-Who-Lived.
The familiar stone gargoyle greeted Harry as he approached the entrance to the headmaster's office, flashing the pass that had been sent along with the letter. The gargoyle leapt aside to reveal the ascending spiral staircase that had carried him too many times up to this office.
Too many times.
In short order, Harry was once again reaching up to rap the knocker on the headmaster's office door.
"Enter," Dumbledore's voice spoke, and the door sprang open. Making his way in, Harry was once again struck by how little Hogwarts would change in thirty-or-so years; the headmaster's office was nearly identical to the one Harry had frequented back in his own timeline. The only striking difference was the headmaster himself—while he also seemed unchanged at a glance, Harry noted that he didn't seem nearly as wearied as his 1994 counterpart had. This was a Dumbledore that hadn't yet seen the height of Tom Riddle's reign of terror, hadn't yet been forced face-to-face with the consequences of the pragmatism he would stoop to during the coming conflict.
And, if Harry had his way, he wouldn't have to. Because the war would fizzle out once Tom's movement was robbed of victims. Ideally.
"Good day, Mr. Granger," Dumbledore said as Harry entered his office. He stood, making his way around his desk and extending a hand for Harry to shake. "We have yet to be properly introduced. My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts."
"Quite a mouthful," Harry said, and Dumbledore chuckled.
"You should hear when I have to introduce myself during official Wizengamot business," he said, gesturing at one of the chairs in front of his desk as he circled back to his seat. "I carry no less than three very official and lengthy titles within the Ministry; they share their muggle counterpart's penchant for needlessly wordy names."
"It's probably a deterrent from letter-writing," Harry said as he took his seat. "Can't send them anything if you can't fit the address on the envelope."
"Perhaps!" Dumbledore said with a genial smile. "We shall need to invest in larger envelopes. Tea?"
"Oh, go on," Harry said, and Dumbledore waved his wand at the desktop before him. A polished tea set appeared, the kettle already steaming. He set about pouring them both a cup, speaking as he did.
"Your Ministry appointment is running a bit late, you may have noticed," he said.
"Ironic," Harry pointed out, and Dumbledore offered another chuckle. "Do you know much about this Dr. Molotov?"
"Quite little," Dumbledore said with a thoughtful hum, offering Harry milk and sugar. "However, it should hardly be surprising from a man who works for the Department of Mysteries, most particularly the Office of Special Containment."
"I've never heard of that one," Harry said before sipping at his tea. "What's the Office of Special Containment?"
Dumbledore was pensive for a moment, possibly contemplating how to explain such a thing to a fourteen-year-old or whether he should even do so at all. Perhaps the fact that Harry was a person of interest to this Molotov fellow worked in his favor, as the headmaster took a sip of his tea and then spoke.
"Within the magical world, Mr. Granger, there are often…anomalous happenings," he said. "Magic, you see, exists as an energy field, intrinsic to the very universe itself. Witches and wizards such as you and I are able to tap into that energy, as are numerous other living things that make up our world. But sometimes that energy simply…flares up, all on its own. And it does so in often very unusual ways, ways which are dangerous to magical and muggle alike."
"And the Office of Special Containment…contains those flare-ups?" Harry guessed.
"Exactly so," Dumbledore said with a smile. "Daimler Molotov specializes in temporal events. I believe his work mostly centers around the mishandling of Time-Turners, though the odd quantum vortex has been known to create a hassle for him here and there."
"The only hassle here is you, Albus," a man's voice spoke from near the fireplace. Behind him, green flames were already dying down to the usual orange and red; distracted as Harry and Dumbledore had been with their discussion, they hadn't noticed the new arrival Floo in. "I asked you to entertain the lad not risk spilling highly classified information."
"Oh, Dr. Molotov," Dumbledore said in blithe tones. "I'm afraid we missed your entrance."
Standing near Dumbledore's fireplace and briskly dusting soot from his robes, Dr. Daimler Molotov spent a moment fixing the black gloves covering his hands while studying the pair imperiously. He was younger than Harry had been expecting; rather than a graying old man, Dr. Molotov was likely no older than his forties. He had handsome, hawkish features, Harry noted, with a long face and deep brown eyes that were almost black against his fair skin. His close-cropped black hair was swept back away from his face in a severe style that only added to his intensity.
Harry thought for a moment that he actually seemed somewhat familiar. Had he met this Molotov in his own timeline?
"Good afternoon, Albus," he said, and even his voice sounded almost rigid and no-nonsense. His gaze fixed on Harry, who peered back expectantly, the two falling into some manner of stare-off.
"Did you invite me here just to look at me, or are you planning to actually tell me what you want?" Harry asked. Dumbledore let a singular little chortle while Dr. Molotov rolled his eyes.
"Just wondering how a scrawny beanpole like you can cause such a massive temporal twist," he said.
"Yeah, I'm bothersome like that," Harry grinned.
"Right, right, I bet you just think you're all boyishly charming and such a little rule-breaker, don't you?" Molotov said as he sat next to Harry while Dumbledore stood. "This shouldn't take terribly long, Albus."
"Then I shall return before terribly long," Albus said, gesturing at the portraits of the headmasters around them, which Harry only just noticed were all blank, their occupants having vacated for the time being. "Daimler, you have the room."
He left, the door shutting with a soft click behind him, and Dr. Daimler Molotov turned to regard Harry while preparing himself a cup of tea, which he seemed to favor black, with not a drop of milk or sugar. Harry watched, steeling himself and taking a moment to remind himself not to let anything slip, to carefully consider every word. Molotov was an unknown entity and certainly able to make things difficult for Harry during his jaunt through time. This wasn't the time for carelessness, not with the future of this timeline at stake.
"So, Harry Granger," the doctor said, sipping his tea. "I won't beat around the bush. Care to tell me what it is you're doing here in 1973? And how you came to be so?"
"Perhaps," Harry said, mirroring the man's gesture as he took a drink of his own tea. "I think it depends on why you need to know. What's the Office of Special Containment's interest in me?"
"Is that a joke?" Molotov snorted. "The Office of Special Containment's entire existence is predicated on cases such as yourself, little blighters who've gotten themselves twisted up in a quantum vortex and now threaten to seriously damage an unsuspecting timeline and unravel causality as we know it."
"…I suppose when you put it that way," Harry shrugged, "it sounds all bad and such. Have you considered, though, that I'm the one writing the causality, and you're actually interfering with my work and doing the threatening?"
"D'you want to argue cause and effect with me, boy?" Molotov spat, his cool demeanor beginning to unravel. "I've spent the last twenty years in the OSC dealing with incursions just like yours."
"Maybe, but I've got a trump card," Harry said. "Back in my timeline, I spent a fair amount of time interacting with a future version of someone from this timeline who got shot there by this quantum vortex of yours. So if you start trying to muck about with what I have going on, you could be the one damaging your causality."
"And did this anachronistic version of your friend happen to inform you of what you're going to have going on?" Molotov pressed, and Harry frowned.
"Not really, no," he said.
"Then for all you know, my interference could be part of your predetermined path, so we're back to square one, aren't we?" Molotov spoke.
"Well now my head just hurts!" Harry huffed.
"Welcome to my entire career!" Molotov shot back.
They were silent for a moment, both rather testily sipping at their tea. Once again, Molotov's dark eyes surveyed Harry over his cup, and Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he'd met the man before.
"Right," Molotov sighed after a moment. "I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot. So how about this? We start again, but with the understanding that our goals may in fact be aligned. I'm not here to arrest you or try to force you to go back to where you came from. I just need to understand what your situation is."
"…Fine," Harry said.
And then he told Molotov all of it—his trip to America, his finding of Ellis Locke's floating workshop and the time machine contained within, the explosion that triggered his sudden presence here, and his newfound purpose in changing this timeline's lot for the better. Molotov listened attentively, at least, sipping at his tea and silently allowing Harry to unpack his rather tumultuous backstory.
It actually felt really nice to tell someone the whole truth for once. Well, someone that wasn't a twelve-year-old girl.
"I don't know what's supposed to have happened," Harry said. "Pettigrew didn't tell me anything, probably so as not to trap me into anything. All I know is, things could have gone differently in my timeline and saved a lot of people a lot of suffering. If I can make things better for this lot," he gestured vaguely around him, "why shouldn't I?"
"It won't affect your timeline," Molotov told him after a quiet moment. "You won't be changing how things went for you, only creating a divergent timeway."
"Then at least someone will benefit from this," Harry said. "At least I get to meet them. I get to know them, for however long I'm here. And when I leave, I'll know that they're safe. And they're happy."
"Who are they?" Molotov asked. "Family? Your parents?"
"My parents," Harry nodded. "In my timeline, they're killed, before I'm even two years old. Lord Voldemort targeted me, thinking I was some…prophesied child meant to kill him. My parents were…in the way."
"Voldemort…" Molotov grumbled. "Been hearing that name crop up a lot lately. Things go quite badly with him in your timeline, then?"
"They go about as horribly as you can imagine," Harry said. "Because this backwards society sets up the dominoes perfectly for him to show up and give them a little nudge. The pureblood rhetoric and the muggle-hating drivel, and the – "
"Right, right," Molotov said with a wave of his hand, likely not eager for a tangential rant. "And what's your big solution to all this? Inspire the locals to change their ways, rally them and stomp Voldemort's reign before it even starts?"
"Nope," Harry said with a shake of his head. "I'm going to convince everyone to leave."
"…Leave?" Molotov quirked an eyebrow, studying Harry with renewed interest.
"Voldemort can't subjugate anyone if there's no one left to subjugate," Harry said. "When all the half-bloods, when all the muggle-borns are just gone, all he's left with is about a dozen of his toadies and an empty alley. He could try to go international, he could start victimizing muggles, but that's a great way to get the ICW to really notice and put a stop to him."
"So your plan is simply to leave this society to clean up this mess?" Molotov spoke in dubious tones.
"To clean up their mess," Harry corrected him. "A man like Voldemort doesn't simply rise to power out of nowhere, not without a populace that shares his views. The Malfoys and the Notts and the Blacks and the Bulstrodes—the whole inbred pureblood shrub."
Molotov snorted at that, doubling over for a moment in a rare chuckle.
"Never heard it described that way, though it's apt," he said. His teacup sat forgotten as he studied Harry. "You understand that this is quite an undertaking, right? It may not work. It may end with things worse off than your own timeline."
"I have to try," Harry insisted. "I won't let this go badly. I won't let them go badly. They're so…wonderful. They're just a bunch of ridiculous children, who were handed this flawed, broken world and expected to clean it up like they owed it that. They didn't create Voldemort, they didn't build this society up to be a bigoted dystopia—they shouldn't be saddled with trying to fix it when they can just let this world burn itself down and maybe build something worthwhile from the ashes and wreckage."
Molotov was smiling now as he peered at Harry, a glint in his eyes that hadn't been there before. Shaking his head with a small snicker, he sat forward in his seat.
"Alright, lad," he said. "I'll leave you to it, then."
"…Just like that?" Harry asked as Molotov stood.
"Mhm," Molotov noised. "I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were in for, that you had the gumption to stick to it. And I can see that you do, and in spades."
He made for the fireplace, stopping and turning to give Harry one last look.
"You've got a fire in you, boy," he said. "Spirit. I think you'll do well."
"Can I expect the Office of Special Containment to leave me be, then?" Harry asked, and Molotov let a noise of amusement.
"For now," he said. "But we'll be monitoring this timeway. Any sign of instability, and you'll be hearing from us again."
With that, he tossed a handful of glittering green powder in the fire, and in a roar of Floo-travel, he had disappeared, leaving Harry to a quiet, empty office. Moments later, a shuffling above him announced the return of the former headmasters to their frames, some of whom eyed him curiously while others paid him absolutely no mind and began discussing the latest gossip from about the castle.
The office door opened, and Dumbledore made his way in with a curious smile on his face.
"Ah, I see Dr. Molotov has already left," he said. "I trust your meeting was productive?"
"Very," Harry told him, standing with a renewed sense of purpose.
There was work to be done.
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