Hogwarts was in ruins. The sky, once painted with the pale light of dawn, was choked by smoke, thick and unrelenting. The air reeked of blood and burned flesh, but Harry didn't have time to process the bodies that littered the ground. His focus was solely on the figure standing before him.
Voldemort stood amidst the carnage, his crimson eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement. The hem of his robes was singed and tattered, a rare sign that the battle had not been entirely in his favor, but he still held himself with that same detached arrogance, as if this was nothing more than an inconvenience.
Harry's chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged breaths. His body ached, his magic burned low, but he stood his ground. The Elder Wand was steady in his grip, pulsing with raw power, as if it had been waiting for this moment, waiting for him. The wand belonged to him, no matter what Voldemort thought, no matter what claim he tried to stake over it. Harry had taken it from Dumbledore's tomb with his own hands. He had disarmed Draco Malfoy. It answered to him.
And yet, it wasn't enough.
"You have fought well, Harry," Voldemort said, his voice eerily soft. His fingers curled around the wand in his grasp—Harry's wand, his first wand, the one that had chosen him at eleven—twisting it lazily between his fingers. "Better than I expected, in truth. But then again, you always were a thorn in my side."
Harry adjusted his stance, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to move, to attack before Voldemort did, but he couldn't afford to be reckless.
"I'm still standing," Harry said, his voice hoarse but unwavering. "You're not as powerful as you think."
Voldemort's lips curled, something almost amused flashing across his gaunt face. "Still so willfully ignorant." His grip tightened around the wand. "Power is not about what you claim, Potter. It is about what you take. And here, at the end of all things, what do you have left to take?"
The words dug into him, but Harry didn't flinch. He kept his breathing steady, kept his focus razor-sharp.
Voldemort moved first.
His wand flicked, and a torrent of cursed green fire erupted from its tip, streaking toward Harry like a living serpent. Harry reacted instantly, slashing the Elder Wand through the air. A shimmering silver barrier flared to life, absorbing the impact before shattering like glass.
Harry didn't hesitate. He struck back, twisting his wrist sharply. The very ground beneath Voldemort buckled, stone splitting open as jagged shards of rock exploded upward, aiming to impale him where he stood.
Voldemort vanished.
Harry barely had time to shift before he felt a whisper of cold air behind him. He spun, raising the Elder Wand just in time to deflect the jet of sickly green light streaking toward his heart. The force of the impact sent him skidding backward, boots digging furrows into the blood-soaked earth.
"You're learning," Voldemort murmured, stepping forward, completely unfazed. "But you are not enough."
Harry's grip on the wand tightened. He was enough. He had come this far. He wasn't going to let it end here.
Magic surged through him, raw and untamed. He sent a pulse of it outward, a wave of force that rippled through the air, distorting everything in its wake. Voldemort barely managed to raise a shield before the blast sent him flying, his robes snapping like banners in the wind.
For the first time, Voldemort looked truly enraged.
"Crucio!"
The curse missed Harry by inches as he twisted out of the way, heat licking at his skin. He retaliated with a wordless hex, something dark and old that he hadn't even realized he knew. A streak of violet energy shot forward, warping the air as it traveled.
Voldemort shattered it with a snarl, his red eyes flashing dangerously.
"You cannot win," Voldemort said, voice low and sharp, his patience wearing thin. "You are a boy wielding a weapon you do not fully understand. Even with the Elder Wand, you are nothing against me."
Harry's muscles burned, exhaustion creeping in, but he forced himself to ignore it. He refused to fall.
"Funny," he said, breathless but defiant, "I seem to be doing just fine."
Voldemort's face twisted in irritation. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a dozen shattered weapons from the battlefield—swords, daggers, even a broken spear—and sent them hurtling toward Harry at once.
Harry barely managed to transfigure the incoming steel into harmless wisps of smoke before Voldemort was on him again, relentless, merciless.
"Expulso!"
"Confringo!"
"Diffindo!"
Harry dodged and parried, each spell pushing him further onto the defensive. He was fast, faster than he had ever been, but Voldemort was faster.
A searing pain tore through Harry's shoulder as one of the curses found its mark. He stumbled, vision swimming, his breath hitching in his throat.
Voldemort didn't hesitate.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The last thing Harry saw was the tip of Voldemort's wand aimed directly at him, a flash of green light, and the world went silent.
0o0o0o0o0
The first thing Harry noticed was the cold.
A sharp, biting chill pressed against his skin, seeping through the thin fabric of his robes. The scent of damp earth filled his lungs as he inhaled shakily, his fingers curling into the grass beneath him. It was soft and wet with morning dew, blades of green slipping between his fingers.
His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, all he could see was the sky—endless and gray, streaked with faint traces of pink and gold. Clouds drifted lazily, unbothered by the weight of the world, by the battle, by the war that had just—
His breath hitched.
The war.
Voldemort.
The killing curse.
Harry sat up abruptly, his heart hammering in his chest. His hands flew to his torso, searching for some wound, some evidence of the spell that had cut through the air and struck him down.
But there was nothing.
No pain, no scar, no trace of the battle he had just fought. His body was intact, whole, unbroken. His clothes, however—simple, unfamiliar robes of plain black fabric—were not the ones he had died in. The Elder Wand was still clutched in his right hand, warm against his palm, as if it had never left him.
His head swam with confusion.
"Am I—?" He swallowed thickly, trying to steady his breath. Dead?
This wasn't King's Cross. There was no Dumbledore, no great beyond, no veil of white nothingness. This was real—the scent of wet grass, the distant chirp of birds, the soft rustling of wind against the trees. He wasn't in some afterlife.
But that only raised a far more unsettling question.
Where was he?
Harry forced himself to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. He took in his surroundings, scanning the landscape with wary eyes. Rolling fields stretched out around him, broken only by clusters of trees and winding dirt paths. There were no ruins, no bodies, no signs of the devastation that had consumed Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest.
This wasn't the battlefield. This wasn't anywhere he recognized.
His grip tightened around the Elder Wand as his pulse quickened. Something was very, very wrong.
Turning in place, he took in his surroundings once more. In the distance, past the rolling hills and scattered trees, a town lay nestled between the fields. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and even from here, he could see the faint glow of lanterns dotting the streets. It was small, quaint—not quite modern, but not ancient either.
His stomach twisted.
He had no idea what year it was.
Shoving down the panic threatening to creep in, he forced himself to move, trudging through the damp grass toward the town. The walk was longer than it looked, the fields stretching endlessly as if testing his patience. The robe he wore was simple, unembellished, offering little warmth against the chill in the air.
As he neared the town, the distant hum of life became clearer—the murmur of voices, the creak of wooden carts, the occasional bark of a dog. The streets were quiet but not deserted, bathed in the soft golden glow of morning lanterns. Harry's boots scuffed against the uneven cobblestones as he stepped into the main road, scanning the unfamiliar buildings with narrowed eyes.
His heart pounded.
Trying to keep his expression neutral, he moved toward the nearest shopfront, its large display window stacked with neat rolls of parchment and glass inkwells. A small metal stand near the entrance held a pile of newspapers, the crisp pages rustling slightly in the morning breeze.
He reached for one with careful fingers, his breath hitching as his eyes locked onto the date printed in bold at the top.
July 2nd, 1977.
Harry's fingers tightened around the paper.
1977.
Harry's breath came sharp and uneven as the realization sank in. He had gone back twenty years.
His parents were alive. Right now, they were still students at Hogwarts, still young and reckless, untouched by the horrors that would one day consume them. His father, James Potter, was his age. So was Sirius. Remus.
Harry stood frozen for a moment, staring at the date printed on the front of the newspaper, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that it was 1977. His mind raced as he pieced together the implications of what that meant. His parents were still alive, Sirius was still with them, and Voldemort was still on the rise. He was back in time, but he had no idea why or how.
The cold, damp air nipped at his skin as he tried to process the enormity of it all. He had no plan, no idea where to go from here. All he knew was that he was alone and completely unprepared for what lay ahead.
"Oi, mate, if you keep standing there staring at it, you're going to have to pay for it." The voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Harry looked up quickly, startled by the interruption.
An older man, hunched slightly with a flat cap perched on his head, stood a few feet away, holding a cart of newspapers. His expression was one of mild amusement, though there was a certain edge to his voice that suggested he was used to people getting caught up in the news.
"Oh—sorry," Harry muttered, flustered, quickly folding the paper and placing it back on the cart. "I didn't mean to—"
The man raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking over Harry's worn robe and unkempt appearance. "You alright, lad?" he asked in a thick British accent. "You look a little out of sorts."
Harry hesitated for a moment, his thoughts still jumbled. He didn't want to give too much away, didn't want to raise suspicion. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... a bit lost," he said finally, offering a half-hearted smile.
The man gave him an appraising look, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced at Harry's worn robes. "Lost, eh? Well, you've come to the right place... if you want to stay lost." He chuckled to himself, turning his attention back to his cart of newspapers. "You're in Bridgefort, mate. Small town, about an hour outside of London. Nothing much here, just the basics."
Hadrian nodded, absorbing the information. Puddlemere. A place he'd never expected to be. He'd heard the name before, but it didn't matter now. He had bigger things to worry about—mainly, he needed to get to Diagon Alley and figure out what the hell was going on.
Hadrian smiled politely, then turned on his heel. "Thanks, sir. I'm sure I'll figure it out," he said, walking away before the man could ask more questions.
He ducked into a narrow alley, the buildings on either side closing in, offering the perfect cover.
Without hesitation, he focused, his thoughts narrowing down to the familiar feeling of the space around him, and with a swift twist of his wrist, he apparated. The world around him blurred, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone from Bridgefort.
Hadrian landed outside the Leaky Cauldron with a soft thud, the familiar tingle of Apparition still fading from his bones. He straightened himself, glancing around. The pub looked the same on the outside, but something was different. The bustle of people inside was unmistakable—the chatter, the clinking of glasses, the general hum of activity that filled the air. The Leaky Cauldron was more alive than he'd ever seen it.
As he stepped through the door, he was almost immediately greeted by the warm glow of candlelight and the scent of ale and roasting meat. A group of wizards was laughing loudly at one table, while a pair of witches huddled in the corner, whispering to each other with occasional glances toward the door. The place was packed, almost to the point of chaos. The patrons seemed to spill out of every corner, their conversations mingling with the sound of mugs being raised and plates being clattered on the bar.
He approached the bar, his steps purposeful, but his mind still racing. He had no idea what was going on, where he was, or what had happened to bring him here.
Tom, the barman, looked up from polishing a glass and raised an eyebrow at him. "You look lost, mate," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Hadrian forced a smile. "Just a little." He glanced around, trying to get a read on the crowd. "Is it always this busy?"
Tom shrugged, setting the glass down with a thud. "Oh, it's been like this for weeks. Lot of folks coming and going—It's summertime and in the Alley everyone does there shopping before the school year." He gave Hadrian a sideways look. "Where're you from?"
Hadrian didn't falter. "Surrey, but I'm just passing through. Been a while since I've been in the city."
Tom nodded like he'd heard that story a hundred times before, but he didn't press. "Fair enough. What can I get you?"
Hadrian hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the door leading into Diagon Alley. The urge to just slip in, see if it was the same place, same alley, was almost overwhelming. But he forced himself to stay calm. "Just water," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Tom didn't argue, sliding a mug of water toward him. "On the house," he said with a wink. "You look like you could use it."
Tom, having a moment's reprieve from the rush, leaned toward him, eyes narrowing with suspicion or perhaps just habit. "Anything else for you, mate?"
Hadrian paused, his gaze shifting back toward the door that led into the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. He felt the pull, but his attention snapped back to Tom's waiting look. "No," he replied softly, shaking his head. "I'm alright."
Tom nodded and returned to his work without another word. Hadrian lingered for a moment, finishing his drink, before deciding he needed a moment of quiet. His thoughts were still a storm, and he needed to process what was happening. He needed to know exactly where he was and what he was carrying with him. So, he excused himself and moved toward the back of the pub, making his way down the narrow hallway to the bathroom.
As the door swung closed behind him, he took a moment to breathe, the dim lighting of the small room almost soothing in its solitude. He turned toward the mirror, staring at his reflection, waiting for the disorientation to settle. But as his eyes locked with his own, something felt off. He looked the same but different, like he was looking at a version of himself that no longer quite fit.
His face, for one, was different. The lines of wear from years of battle, the exhaustion and weight of the past, were all gone. His eyes, once tired and haunted, were now bright and vibrant green, almost too bright. He ran his fingers over his cheek, touching it as if it might somehow reveal the truth. His scar was gone, that unmistakable lightning bolt mark that had defined his entire life. It was as if the last remnants of his old self had vanished in the wake of whatever had happened, leaving only this new version of himself.
His fingers drifted lower, brushing over the edge of his robe. It was simple, black, unadorned, yet somehow it felt different. The weight of it was foreign. There was something more to this robe, something that hadn't been there before.
He tugged the fabric aside, revealing the bare skin of his chest. At first, he thought nothing of it. But as his eyes traced the lines of his skin, they stopped, focusing on a small, unfamiliar mark on his left side, just over his heart. He blinked, his pulse quickening.
The mark was dark, intricate—something almost ancient, the shape familiar yet unrecognizable. His fingers hovered over it, and then he gently tugged the robe further to the side, exposing the symbol completely.
It was unmistakable.
The Deathly Hallows.
The three intertwined symbols, the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility, were burned into his skin. Not ink, not paint. This was something far deeper, far more permanent. The symbol was seared into him, and as he stared at it, a flood of memories seemed to rush back, the Hallows, the legend, everything he had been through.
This was why the wand had come with him through time.
He took a shaky breath, his reflection staring back at him with an unreadable expression. This was something new, something far beyond what he had expected when he'd first died fighting Voldemort. He'd thought death would be the end. But this—this was only the beginning.
The world outside the bathroom suddenly felt too small. With one last look at the symbol on his chest, he quickly pulled the robe back into place, covering the mark. He didn't know why, but there was something about it that felt too important, too dangerous to share. Not yet. Not until he understood what was happening to him.
Turning away from the mirror, he made his way back to the pub, stepping back into the noise and chaos that had seemed so far away a moment ago. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, or how he was going to make sense of it all. But one thing was clear.
Harry Potter no longer existed. Well…at least not yet.