A/N: Welcome back folks, here's chapter 2! Harry is thrust into the past head first.
Quick shout out to our beta reader, BoredBarrister! They slew quite a few grammatical monsters hidden in some of the dark corners between words.
AU Changes: Old Customs/Laws that didn't survive the 1980s.
The Tragedy of Harry Potter
By. Momento Virtuoso
Edited by. BoredBarrister
A/N: I do not own Harry Potter unlike J.K.
Chapter 2
A Name Left Behind
He was transported twenty-one years in the past. Twenty-one years behind everything and most of the people he would ever know. Whisked away from the conflict that claimed his life by two decades.
With a nod of his head and a wave of his hand, Dumbledore offered the young man to step in front of him, and ushered him inside his office.
Dumbledore's office was exactly how he had remembered it from before Snape's tenure there. All the various trinkets and knick knacks that the old man had collected sat in their usual places, wheezing and whirling about with their magical mechanics and machinations.
Fawkes sat perched near the desk, regal, and far from his death day that Harry could notice as the bird's feathers were bright and almost glowing. The Phoenix familiar eyed the boy with the lightning scar, and a trill sounded from the bird's chest, a calming melody for the boy who had just experienced the nature of death. The phoenix could sense its nature all over the young man.
Harry felt renewed by the phoenix song, but it was still not enough to overcome his shock.
"Before we begin Mr. Evans, how exactly did you find yourself upon the grounds here at Hogwarts? It is an enchanted land with quite the array of defenses preventing, shall we say, a stranger such as yourself from taking a lovely weekend stroll," Dumbledore asked.
Harry was stumped for a moment about potentially giving out too much information. He had just come back from the dead, by all reckoning, and traveled through time to boot. His entire world was gone. He should, and would, be locked up in St. Mungo's for his own good.
Sensing Harry's unrest, Dumbledore picked up a bowl of red candy, and offered it to Harry, who reluctantly took one of the sherry confections from the bowl and popped it into his mouth.
"Rest assured, Mr. Evans, whatever befell you before this according to your state, you are safe here. Hogwarts will always grant help to those who only ask for it," the Headmaster said calmly.
'It's what you said on the Otherside too…' Harry thought. What could he say though, exactly, without giving up more than he could afford to? He would have to give the Headmaster something — but not the entire truth, surely?
"It was a portkey gone wrong, sir. I don't understand how, but it was given to me in a snitch for safekeeping, only to be used in the most special circumstances. I was in a battle… and, well, it activated after I got wounded. I thought I was dying, but I woke up inside the forest just outside the castle," Harry lied convincingly. However, Dumbledore could tell the wizard before him wasn't being entirely truthful.
"Where did this conflict take place before you arrived in our Forbidden Forest, Mr. Evans?" Dumbledore asked, wanting to hear more of the boy's story before coming to any conclusion.
"My friends and I were defending ourselves from a Dark L— group of dark wizards. They were after something we had taken from them, but we destroyed it before they could retrieve it," Harry spun his story quickly, thinking of Ravenclaw's Diadem which now should be resting on its ugly mannequin head in the Room of Requirement. "I'm not sure where we were at the time - we were under a Fidelius Charm for a little while, but they found our secret. They had been chasing us for some time across the country, actually."
More lies with kernels of truth. It was hard for Dumbledore to sort through which was which by the young man's word alone. "What of your friends or family, Mr. Evans? Surely if anyone survived the attack they would be looking for you?" the Headmaster pressed his question. He looked Harry pointedly in the eyes and sent a probe of legilimency at the young man's mind.
Dumbledore was surprised to be blocked by what appeared to be almost natural defenses. Evans had a good hold on his Occlumency shields it seemed. Harry, however, didn't visibly react to the attack on his shields, but it made him more cagey about how he interacted with this version of Dumbledore.
"They won't be," Harry said with a harsh certainty. "They're all dead," Harry said, finalizing the reality for himself and Dumbledore. 'Or at least they're just not born yet,' Harry thought to himself bitterly"
"You are quite certain so?" Dumbledore asked, only receiving another nod from Harry.
Dumbledore eyed the young man before him, who bore a remarkable resemblance to a student currently enrolled in these castle walls. While the wizard before him looked to have the familiar traits of a Potter or Black him, it was the last name that was a more obvious stand out.
"Are you, by chance, related to one Lily Evans? She is a student here who will be entering her seventh year," Dumbledore questioned once more on Harry's family. Hell, the two Evanses even had the same eye color if Dumbledore's sight wasn't failing him.
Harry's eyes balked and his face gave away more than an accomplished Legilimens would need to see the truth from Professor Dumbledore's words, an expression that was noted by the old man. The young man before him knew the name — that much Dumbledore could be assured of.
His mother was alive — of course she was alive. It was 1977 after all.
'She's alive,' Harry thought as his heart soared. Lily Evans, eventually to be Potter, wouldn't be murdered until October of 1981.
"No, sir, I don't think I am," Harry took a moment to get his story straight in his head. He was now playing an extreme game of lies with the Professor. "I was born an only child," Harry answered.
Once more Dumbledore noted the lie and the truth sitting side by side, hand in hand.
"I don't know who my parents were, or anything much about them, except that dad was a wizard. I'm an orphan raised by my muggle aunt and uncle. They often spoke about how odd my parents were," Harry said with a sorrowful tone. "I had been told they perished in a car crash." Harry restated the old lie which he had been told for the first eleven years of his life, courtesy of his aunt and uncle.
Despite maintaining a calm, if not sorrow-filled, façade, inside Harry was reeling. Lily Evans, his mother, was a seventh year student here at Hogwarts. She was alive — but how? If his mother was here — then so was his father James — that meant Sirius was alive and well too…
Dumbledore nodded his head in understanding. He couldn't spot any discernible lie again from the truth in Harry's answer. If Harry was a half-blood, he could possibly be related to a muggle-born witch like Lily Evans. He could only assume that the young man was withholding the whole story from him. It was a subject to return to with the man another day, after some pondering, the Headmaster thought to himself.
Harry slowly accepted the information that he had learned from Dumbledore. It couldn't be. He was twenty-one years back in the past. He was four years away from being born. He was decades removed from the war he fought, yet he was at the start of the very conflict.
"Thank you, Sir. For being accommodating and patient with me," Harry said, offering the old man an olive branch of sorts.
Albus nodded at the young wizard before him, a smile finally gracing his face. The young man before him looked like he was close to breaking down fully. A thousand-yard stare peered out from behind his green eyes, almost glowing in the candlelight of the office.
"Is there any more of your situation you can tell me, dear boy?" Dumbledore requested.
Harry shook his head. What more could he say without outing himself as a time traveler? Hermione had explained quite thoroughly the bad things that happened to witches and wizards who messed with the concept. He'd be locked away in the Department of Mysteries to be studied quicker than he could apparate if the Ministry discovered him. More importantly, how did he travel here without the use of a time-turner? He had only been holding the stone when he died.
"I'm sorry, Professor, but I don't remember much. It's been a rough few months for me actually. I've been on the run. I can't explain more than that — please forgive me, Sir," Harry said.
Dumbledore was still wary of the young man before him, considering how little information he was being forthcoming with. However, Albus saw the lost look upon his face. No, that was a reaction that could not be faked.
Harry Evans was genuinely a lost soul — perhaps he could help him, a boy who openly admitted that he had been pursued by a dark wizard, and, if his state was anything to go by, no longer had a home.
After all, it was his duty to help all those who entered through Hogwarts. Even those who entered in the most interesting of ways.
"Tell me, my dear boy, you look about seventeen — in your final years of schooling. What about your education?" Dumbledore asked, "Perhaps we can find you a place here at Hogwarts, if possible, for a year?"
"Well, I was homeschooled, but I never finished my final year," Harry said, another lie in front of the truth.
The Headmaster nodded to Harry, "Well then, that will be settled. Would you perhaps be willing to submit to me your O.W.L. scores, or be willing to take the exams again by chance?"
Harry thought it over. A chance to attend his final year at Hogwarts. To see his mother and father — alive and in person. An opportunity he had dreamed of since he was living in the cupboard under the stairs.
"I don't have my exam scores anymore, sir, but I'd be willing to retake them for you. I'd like to finish my education… it's not like I have many more options for myself," Harry said, consenting to the offer that Dumbledore was giving him.
Dumbledore smiled down at Harry, popping a sherry candy from the tray on his desk into his mouth.
"Then I shall forward you a date on which you can take your exams — let's say for the end of this upcoming week, Mr. Evans?" Dumbledore wrote down some notes on parchment before him. "However, you'll need a letter from me for quite a few other things. Since you appear to be an interesting case, I shall grant you an allowance from the school to live off until the start of term." Dumbledore wrote what appeared to be a banking note to Harry — and another scroll that bore a seal Harry did not quite recognize, but the image of a phoenix was clearly stamped in the wax binding.
"Take this to Gringotts in Diagon Alley; the goblins will sort it out. They should approve your transfer under my recommendation," Albus offered. "You can reach the Alley through the Floo system. The Leaky Cauldron is often open to travelers, and I'm sure Tom will be happy to give you room and board for my coin," Dumbledore chuckled.
Not seeing a reason to refuse the Headmaster's generosity currently, Harry nodded his consent, taking the papers and holding them close.
Albus eyed the weathered state of the young man. His current dress would not do for leaving the grounds. He'd be immediately taken as a victim who had escaped the clutches of a Dark Lord — and for all Albus knew, Harry Evans may have just very well done that.
"If you wouldn't mind, Harry, my dear boy… would it be alright if I transfigure you some new clothes, and even touch up your appearance? If you left the grounds in this state, there would be quite the unwarranted question or two your way," the Headmaster said with a smile.
Harry looked at his worn and torn clothes, shredded and damaged from conflict, and stared at the blood on his hands — blood which belonged to Severus Snape. There was probably more dirt and grime that Harry was carrying than he had cared to notice.
Giving Dumbledore a nod of consent, the Headmaster pulled out his wand. With a subtle movement, Harry had to fight the reaction to flinch at the twirl of the Elder Wand over his body. Unlike the last spell it had cast upon him, this one brought no pain.
Harry's muggle clothes changed into long dark wizard robes not too different from the school ones. They looked more formal and held no identifying symbols or house colors.
Nodding in approval, Albus clapped his hands with a laugh.
"I am quite gifted with transfiguration, but to do the appearance of any living soul is often quite the task," Dumbledore said humbly.
"Thank you, Professor, I appreciate all the help you've given me," Harry sincerely said.
"Nonsense, Mr. Evans. I look forward to seeing you this autumn upon receiving your O.W.L. results," Dumbledore expressed with a twinkle back in his eye.
Harry put the papers that Dumbledore wrote out for him inside his newly transfigured robes, nodding in thanks. He looked at Fawkes with a smile, the Phoenix eyeing him from its perch.
Harry grabbed a handful of Floo-powder, throwing it down at his feet in the fireplace.
"The Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley," he said with a loud voice. In a bright green flame, the young wizard was gone through the Floo.
Albus' eyes lost their twinkle the moment Harry disappeared from his fireplace, his weathered hands coming together in front of his chin. The Headmaster was pondering much about the curious meeting of the strange young man who suddenly appeared on the grounds. Even upon subtle legilimency, Albus couldn't penetrate too far into Harry Evan's defenses.
He could only tell when a lie was being told, but with no clear way to discern about what.
Fawkes cried out in a melodic tune to his partner.
"Yes, my old friend. You are quite right indeed, Harry Evans is an interesting figure," Dumbledore concluded. "We'll have to keep an eye on the young man, of that I am sure."
Harry fell to the floor upon exiting the Floo Network. Ash was now generously covering the robes that Dumbledore had transfigured for him.
Several patrons turned and looked at Harry in token interest — not because he was world famous, but rather because his face was new and, for once, completely unknown here. In stark contrast to his first time in the pub, Harry was not nearly assaulted by patrons in an attempt of a greeting. This time, he was essentially avoided and watched warily from a distance.
Almost everyone was closed off and keeping to themselves. An eerie atmosphere hung over everyone. It was the edge of the fear that Voldemort's silent campaign was instilling into magical Britain at the time.
Sitting down at the bar away from the other patrons, a younger barkeep Tom approached Harry.
"What can I do ya for?" asked the barkeep, rubbing a glass clean with a towel. Tom still had a full head of hair, his characteristic balding head shockingly not shining in the candlelight.
After his day so far, Harry found he needed a drink, and a strong one at that.
"Firewhisky please, sir, and two glasses," Harry requested, intending to drink both.
Soon, two glasses of the amber liquid were carelessly placed in front of him, and Harry wasted no time in tossing one of the glasses back.
Twenty-one years — his parents, alive and well — Dumbledore's renewed meddling while dead and now alive — dying on the ground in the Forbidden Forest in 1998 — having his soul ripped from his body…
It was all so much, Harry bitterly thought.
Knocking back the second glass of firewhisky, Harry lost himself to a darker train of thoughts floating in his head.
He was back in the middle of Voldemort's first reign of terror. The unsettling feeling tightening around his neck like a hangman's noose, Harry was back at the gallows ready to swing.
He was still marked by the prophecy, for all intents and purposes, but Harry had always been marked for death by the Dark Lord, ever since he was born. This was nothing new; it would be business as usual where the Dark Lord was concerned.
It was a bitter pill to think that Voldemort would be a stable constant in his life at the moment. Harry would be truly lost if he didn't have the Dark Lord to focus his attention on.
Looking at the empty glass in his hand, he thought of Dumbledore's words on the Otherside. His request for Harry if he had decided to return — which the old codger knew he would do regardless.
"By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart, that even those beyond current redemption have a hand held out to them in their darkest moment," Albus had asked of the young man before him.
The old fool was asking too much of him again. He always did. Dumbledore knew that Harry wouldn't be able to help himself. Like Hermione always said, he had a 'saving people thing'. Harry's thoughts went to his parents, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred — all the people he had lost to Voldemort and his followers.
Harry knew he couldn't just live his life peacefully though, not while Voldemort lived. The prophecy all but outright demanded a confrontation between the two. Even if Harry walked away from the words divined by the heavens, Voldemort surely would not when he heard them in a few years time.
Had he not given enough? Had he not bled enough? He had been orphaned, pawned, tortured, and even sacrificed in the end. What more did Harry have to give to the war that he already hadn't?
Why did it have to be him? Harry's hand tightened around the glass enough to warrant a crack in its side. The fracture diverted off from the lip of the glass halfway down to the bottom.
Everything simply left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had been so close to beating Voldemort - only a couple of horcruxes away. Why couldn't he find a way back to 1998 to just finish the job there? He'd reunite with his friends — but he'd lose the opportunity to meet those he never had the chance to or reunite with those he already lost here.
Another glass of firewhisky was placed in front of him by Tom. Harry nodded his thanks at the old barkeep. Bringing the crystal up to his lips, he downed the amber liquid in one go once again.
"You were wrong about me, Albus. I'm not a better man," Harry whispered, hoping that the ghost of Albus Dumbledore on the Otherside could hear him now.
Breathing deeply to clear his head from the several glasses of whisky now clouding it.
Harry pulled the wax sealed envelope that Dumbledore had given him out of his robes. The foreign name, Harry Evans, made out in the headmaster's fine calligraphic handwriting poking out from underneath its seal.
"A letter of recognition, eh?" asked the barkeep Tom, eyeing the sealed paper in Harry's hand nosily. "Don't see many of those nowadays. Not many purebloods are willing to give those out, 'specially not to just anyone. Ever since they passed some of those laws in favor of the half-bloods and muggle-borns a decade or so back," Tom supplied.
Harry's eyebrow raised, he wasn't even really aware of what the letter he was handed by Dumbledore was. "A letter of recognition?" he asked the barkeep dumbly.
The barkeep nodded at him with a smirk. "Ay, it's needed for anyone to do any major business anymore. Gringotts vaults, licensing — hell you can't even apply to a position in the Ministry without one, let alone actually get the job," Tom answered.
"Used to be one of the only ways muggle-born or half-bloods like you could even improve themselves in wizarding society. It opens doors ya see, but it also makes you beholden to the patron in some ways. You must have made quite the impression with a patron to get yourself one of those." Tom winked at the young wizard before him.
Harry nodded in response, eyeing the letter in his hand more critically, and holding it away from him like it was now bearing a curse. Anything that made him in some way beholden to Dumbledore was something to be extremely wary of in Harry's book.
Letters of Recognition though definitely weren't a normal thing for wizarding Britain in two decades' time from what Harry could remember. If they had existed in 1991, then Hermione would have talked the ears off every pureblood in their year at Hogwarts about how discriminatory it was. Not that many would have cared; Draco would have loved to lord one of these letters over her head.
Just what kind of world did his parents grow up in? Did his mother ever have one of these letters?
Harry snorted at the thought of his mom trying to get on these letters from Professor Slughorn, who would have been more than happy to give his student just about anything to further his own agenda.
Harry considered burning the sealed letter from Dumbledore, knowing full well that any aid given by the eccentric professor was tainted with a potential debt or an unknown consequence down the line. However, he did need the Headmaster's help…
Albus Dumbledore may have once been his mentor, but the Headmaster was no longer his friend. That was for sure. Remembering the words so often quoted in Rita Seeker's exposé on the Hogwarts Headmasters life, how quickly would this Dumbledore offer Harry up or use him in an advantage against Tom Riddle? All for the greater good — the phrase might as well have been carved into Dumbledore's grave with the blood of those the man had neglected to save.
Harry had been potentially the most innocent of those neglected — merely a babe being used by the world renowned wizard in his schemes against the Dark Forces.
Harry was embittered by it all. Could he save those who were destined to die? Families were already being torn apart by Lord Voldemort, and those beyond redemption he was meant to save; how deep were their wands dipped in blood by now? It was a fool's errand, Harry surmised.
Then again, the quest for the Horcruxes had also been a fool's errand crafted by a dying old man in an attempt to one up the Dark Lord without his knowing. Three teenagers had been expected to hunt down the soul fragments and kill the greatest Dark Lord of all time — and they had almost done it.
When he had agreed to continue, it wasn't supposed to be like this. However, Fate seldom asked Harry what he wanted. He thought of his friends, of Ginny, and all those he left behind.
Before, he could have handled the weight of the prophecy on his shoulders because he had his friends right there with him. Now, it felt like a herculean task, utterly insurmountable by himself.
He had never been just a child, always the hero, ever since he was a baby. The only years of respite, ironically, enough were those where he had been starved, beaten, and overworked like a house-elf by the Dursleys.
Pulling himself from his thoughts, Harry showed Tom the bank note from Dumbledore. "Put it on my tab please, and a room as well, Sir, until September 1st," Harry requested of the barkeep.
Looking over the note from Dumbledore, Tom nodded in understanding. "Ay, I gotcha lad, no worries about that. I'll have one made up for you on the third floor. Nice view of the Alley. Off to Hogwarts then, are ye though? And don't worry, I don't mind if you're a couple months shy of proper for these," Tom winked again, shaking the empty firewhisky glasses with a smirk. "Got to say, can't say I've ever heard of a transfer student attending there. At least not in this century."
"Yes sir, but until then I'll be attending business here in Diagon Alley," Harry said.
Harry was certain Slytherins' Locket wasn't at Borgin & Burkes' shop, but he could at least make sure the Vanishing Cabinet they possessed was thoroughly sabotaged beyond repair. He wouldn't let a future Draco, nor anyone else sneak Death Eaters into Hogwarts that easily again.
"I'll have the room ready for you later this afternoon lad, the entrance to the Alley is just over there at that brick wall," said Tom, "You'll have to use your wand to enter, just tap the worn stones and you'll be right through."
Harry got up from the bar and approached the brick wall with Tom, remembering the sequence that Hagrid tapped out with his umbrella during his first trip to the center of wizarding Britain.
The barkeep pulled out his wand tapping the bricks in the same order. Harry shook his head at the lack of security. It was the same code, even twenty years earlier.
Diagon Alley was bustling and vibrant with visitors. Commerce was alive and well, currently, despite the heightened tension in the air due to the unspoken war against the Dark Lord, something that was not so in the later years of the second war. No shops were boarded up, abandoned, and people were visiting with each other, talking together instead of shifting past everything in a hurried fever, fearful of associating with someone of the wrong crowd.
The whole scene before Harry reminded him of a happier time, like when he came to the Alley for the first time with Hagrid just before his first year at Hogwarts in 1991.
The thing that really disturbed Harry was how he could stand in the middle of the road looking about and not a soul paid attention to him, no one was pointing, trying to get a glimpse at the Chosen One or the Boy-Who-Lived. Here, he wasn't even Harry Potter anymore, let alone some destined savior. Here he was nobody.
Harry made his way down the length of Diagon Alley to the lopsided pillars that bore the name 'Gringotts Bank' over them, and moved past the goblin guards who watched him ominously. The Bank was the same as it was during his time, it seemed. Looking down at the floor, Harry thought about the Ukrainian Ironbelly residing in the lower vaults, blinded and chained. He hoped he wouldn't make that dragon's acquaintance again in this timeline.
Harry's eyes passed along the desks and counters of working goblins, noticing one goblin that looked quite familiar to him, but just a varying degree younger: Griphook.
"Excuse me, sir, I have a bank note from Albus Dumbledore to give to the bank," Harry asked his old bank robbing acquaintance, approaching the goblin's desk. Harry handed the wizarding bank note to the goblin, placing it in his long clawed hands.
Griphook eyed the wizard before him warily. His gaze squinted at the young man, his eyes roaming over the scar along his forehead before looking down at the note.
"Do you have your letter of recognition? It is required for any transaction such as this," the goblin banker asked, holding his claw-like hand out for the suspected envelope.
Harry pulled out the sealed letter that Dumbledore had drafted for him inside his office. Harry still couldn't fathom that nobody could just walk up and do what they needed to do if they weren't pureblood at one point, with this stupid custom requiring they be referred to the Goblins by a pureblood or a high-up ministry official.
Looking over the letter, Griphook nodded his consent at the magical signature mark of the Wizengamot's Chief Warlock, "Follow me to my office, sir," the small goblin growled at the taller wizard.
Hopping down from his counter, Griphook led the way down the lobby to a hallway off to the side. The goblin opened the door to a large meeting room containing one long table with several chairs placed around it. The windows of the meeting room were closed, but Harry could see the ongoings of Diagon Alley upon looking out from them.
With a snap of his fingers, the goblin produced a folder containing the paperwork for the transfer of funds. "You'll surrender a blood print, and sign upon your magic for us, please. This is so we can register you as being a ward of Hogwarts," Griphook stated icily, sitting down across from Harry.
Harry nodded his consent. "Can I have a knife please?" Harry requested from the goblin. However, Griphook eyed him oddly, the goblin almost bearing his teeth.
"Do you not possess a wand like most of your kind?" he questioned with a raised thin eyebrow. Harry shook his head at the goblin.
Griphook reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin silver knife. His eyes never left Harry's face. "You will draw your blood with this and sign. It will record your magical signature as well," the angry bank teller said.
Pressing the knife against his thumb, blood pooled on the digit of the finger. Harry then pressed his thumb down onto the top paper, using the point of the knife as well to sign his magical signature to the document, at Griphook's instruction.
Griphook picked up the paper and stared hard at the parchment. His eyes darted around, as if at some offending words on the document, and then to the wizard sitting in front of him.
"May I ask if you find this situation amusing, Mr. Evans? Or would you prefer the name of Potter?" Griphook sneered, putting the papers down in front of Harry, a long and pointed finger pressed against the damning letters.
Harry James Potter
Age: 17
Blood Status: Half-Blood
Parents: James Fleamont Potter, Lily Evans Potter (Not Yet Bonded)
Current Lord to the Estates of Potter — Willed by former Lord James Fleamont Potter
Current Lord to the Estates of Black — Willed by former Lord Sirius Orion Black
Harry stared down at the ink declaring his birth name. He realized his parents left him a vault upon their death, and that Sirius had named him his sole heir. But how could that still be in this timeline? He didn't even know or care if he was a Lord of both houses back in 1998.
"I don't understand, sir…" Harry said slowly. Griphook's eyebrow and sneer heightened further. The goblin leaned forward, barring a row of sharp teeth.
"Oh, I believe you do, Mr. Potter. For, you see, these documents are filed and controlled by blood wards. The document has absolved the signature of being false and our security ward systems have weighed the legitimacy of your blood's submission. I assure you Mr. Potter… blood does not lie," Griphook emphasized with a snarl.
"However, it raises the question of how exactly your magic is recognized by these families, because I am the manager of the Potter account here at Gringotts. I know with the utmost certainty that the young Potter heir does not currently have an offspring such as yourself."
Harry ran a hand through his hair. He was caught. He found himself wondering whether or not Dumbledore had suspected something - perhaps this was the reason the Headmaster had given him a donation to live off of the Hogwarts accounts.
"I don't think you'd believe me if I told you, Mr. Griphook…" Harry whispered, hoping to stave off the explanation. Regardless, the goblin waited patiently, an omnipresent sneer resting on his face, for the wizard to answer his query.
"James Potter really is my father — at least he will be. I was born in 1980 — I came back here from the year 1998." Harry finished.
"Ah, so… time-travel — a likely culprit," the goblin hissed in dissatisfaction, eyeing the wizard before him even more warily, as if Harry would try to break into a vault then and there.
"We goblins at Gringotts are familiar with the concepts that you wand-folk play upon with no respect for the ancient magics. Your ministry plays with dangerous magic in those dark bowels, far too much for your own good sometimes." Griphook chuckled darkly. The goblin took on a pensive look, his long finger tapping away at his pointed chin.
"This is unprecedented, though. We've never had a Lord travel back to us. Usually you wand-folk just send back useless nobodies, or those who are doomed to quickly die from sickness," the goblin finished.
Harry's attention was captured. The ministry was playing with time travel and sending people back? He remembered the room full of time-turners, and the experiments they were performing upon the objects during his foray into the Department of Mysteries in his fifth year. Maybe an answer to his problems was there — he could find a way in. He'd done it before. He could return back to his own time. Back to his friends. Back to Ginny. Back to defeat Voldemort then instead of now.
"They've sent others back?" Harry asked the goblin, keen to know more of what the goblin was privy to.
Griphook eyed Harry skeptically, then nodded his head once, his pointy ears twitching.
"Yes, many times. However, it is quite seldom done now. It's been nearly a decade or so since we've seen a traveler such as you. Normally, you all make the same mistakes, trying to access a vault you owned in another time, or coming here to make a deposit that'd benefit your future," the goblin explained.
"Would you happen to know in any of these cases of the traveler returning to their own time?" implored Harry, desperately wanting to know.
Griphook pondered the question for a moment, before shaking his head negatively.
"Like I said, your lot favors sending back those who don't last long, or are not capable of changing timelines. The last few were squibs…" Griphook said with a chuckle.
Harry's eyes widened at the knowledge. The Unspeakables were essentially performing human experiments upon squibs.
"What about the lordships then?" Harry asked, trying to understand the implications of what he discovered. He was a Lord of not one but two Noble and Most Ancient houses.
"The lordships belong to you, Mr. Potter. You were appointed by two heads of the respective houses, even if those heads are only heirs at the moment. The magic from the future would remain binding, in a way. In a sense, you currently share the Lordship of the House of Potter with Charlus Potter, and Arcturus Black for the House of Black," Griphook started looking over the document once more.
The banker turned to Harry again. "However, your rule will succeed theirs since you will live longer than they will naturally. The two lords cannot act against you, nor you them. Upon their deaths, you shall retain sole lordship with the current heirs being passed over… unless you decide otherwise," the goblin added the latter snidely.
Harry was surprised to say the least. He had little to no knowledge about this time period, except for the stories he had been told by other Order members. That, however, never included anything on Sirius' family when they were alive, nor on Harry's paternal grandparents.
"So I have access to everything that Charlus Potter and Arcturus Black do?" Harry asked the goblin banker to clarify. Griphook simply nodded his small head.
"The family assets are yours as well — this includes houses, bank vaults, family magics, and even your coveted Wizengamot seats. But, I'd stress you do not seek use of anything. The pureblood wand-folk won't take kindly to someone unknown to them accessing family fortunes. We at Gringotts may validate your claim, but you will find little love from your kind," Griphook explained to Harry.
Thinking of the few Black family members that Sirius told Harry about baying for his head at the thought of being able to access their fortune made Harry extremely uneasy. He already had a Dark Lord among many other things after him. He didn't want to add a Dark family to that list as well.
So, he had all the wealth of the Blacks and Potters at his fingertips, but he couldn't use it without sending a massive signal flare on himself. Harry grumbled under his breath. It was always something, he supposed. However, this would mean he could stop whatever funding the Blacks did for the Dark Lord's campaign in the coming years; Harry knew that Sirius's mother, Walburga had donated much to the Dark Lord before his first fall.
"And I suppose this meeting will be only between you and me?" Harry asked the small goblin, hoping for once that he could take Griphook at his word. Of course, given their past history said goblin knew nothing about, Harry wasn't holding his breath.
The small banker eyed Harry warily in front of him once more. His sharp teeth almost smiled at him.
"I suppose it'd be doable… however, it'd require a bit of incentive. While it's routine we keep our privacy in business with wizards… you are a special case Mr. Potter; we'd have to keep our silence about your lordships, and keep our silence about your status as a time traveler," Griphook grinned, seeing the multiple ways he could extort the wizard before him.
While goblins were honorable in their nature of managing the integrity of finances, itt couldn't be said that they ever passed on an opportunity to line their own pockets through extortion when it suited them.
"How much?" Harry asked, knowing that the answer would potentially be worth more than the single check that Dumbledore handed him.
"A wand," the goblin said simply with an evil smile. He knew that the wizard did not have the money to pay him, nor did he have this means either.
Harry was taken aback. A wand?
"A wand? You don't need it though, you can do your own kind of magic without it," Harry said, knowing full well that the goblin was asking for something he thought he couldn't provide.
Griphook sneered up at Harry, his small eyes squinting in irritation.
"Yes, we may be able to cast our magic without the use of one. But still you wand-folk restrict its access to other magical creatures according to your 'Clause Three of the Code of Wand Use' by the Wizard Council of 1631. It is a tool like all others, no matter how foul your kind has perverted — regardless, that is the price," the goblin argued.
How badly did Harry need his secrets kept, he wondered? He knew the moment the Blacks discovered him, he'd be murdered in his sleep. While he had nothing to fear per say from the Potters, Harry wasn't assured of what kind of reception he would receive from the family. However, the thing that made him truly consider was whether or not the goblin would run to Dumbledore and tell the old wizard what he knew.
In reality, the world was Griphook's oyster in all the ways he wanted to sell Harry off to the highest bidder for his head.
He recalled ignoring Bill's words about not trusting a goblin completely back at Shell Cottage when he, Hermione, and Ron were planning their heist of Gringotts with the very goblin before him. He remembered exactly how Griphook had betrayed them in the end for the goblin-made Sword of Gryffindor. Nevertheless, he had no other options — he'd have to surrender the broken hawthorn wand.
"Any wand would do?" Harry asked the goblin, eyeing the creature critically for any falsehood or misgivings. Griphook simply nodded his small head, still showcasing his sharp teeth as a threat.
"If I gave you one, what would you do with it?" Harry asked Griphook.
The grin had never left the goblins face sitting across from him.
"Hypothetically, another time-traveling wizard without a wand… that is what I'd gain immediately from our transaction," Griphook grinned, letting the dark implication sink in for a moment. "As for what I'd do with a wizard's wand, my intentions are my own. There are spells that even we goblins cannot work with our magic, ways lost to us without the use of a medium," the goblin answered.
However, Harry was desperately thinking of a loophole to the deal, but couldn't think of one clever enough to fool the goblin this time. Harry nodded to the goblin in agreement.
Reluctantly, Harry removed the split pieces of the black hawthorn wand from his pocket, studying the object that had once belonged to his rival Draco Malfoy, the wand that had seen him through battle until his sacrifice in the forest.
Ollivander had said that the wand chose the wizard — and the wand's allegiance was his. It had served him well, but unfortunately it couldn't survive the trip over, it seemed.
Harry handed over his wand, the dragon heart string hanging limply out of the half broken wand.
Nodding in consent, the goblin made a vow of his own to keep Harry's secrets.
The goblin inspected the two halves of the ten inch wand of hawthorn with its simplistic design, a curious gaze adorning his sharp visage. Its simply carved darkened handle, the lighter hew of wood running up to the tip, broken in the middle the wand showed no display of magic at being handed over to the goblin. It shot no sparks of indignation, even in its broken state, like Harry's had been prone to do when he had broken the phoenix-wand last Christmas.
"Hmmm, it is doable. I believe this can be fixed right up," the goblin whispered to himself. "I'll begin to withdraw the funds for you to use, Mr. Potter, until your departure for Hogwarts."
Harry barely heard Griphook though, being deep in thought about the current wand issue he now faced.
His old wand would be sitting unbought in Ollivander's shop, wouldn't it, waiting for a young Harry Potter to come collect it in 1991? How he longed for the holly and phoenix feather wand that had seen him through more trials imaginable, the wand that ultimately saved his life in the graveyard against a newly risen Dark Lord. He'd be subjected to the issue that lay in the power of the twin cores once again, but that was a bridge Harry could cross when he came to it.
The goblin banker swiftly retreated out of the room, after the exchange was completed.
Harry nodded and got up from the table, leaving the room with oddly less than he entered — the titles he had gained unknowingly notwithstanding. Harry walked over to the goblin's desk at the front, and received a bag of gold for all of his troubles from Dumbledore.
Upon leaving the wizarding bank, Harry immediately made his way to Ollivander's wand shop with his newly acquired galleons. He had never intended to reuse the phoenix wand, believing it to be damaged beyond repair, but with its younger self unbought, Harry saw no sense in letting the wand sit idle for now. He knew he could trust the magic of the phoenix feather in the holly wood.
Entering Ollivander's store held another sense of déjà vu for Harry.
Stepping back into the store, he felt like he was eleven again, being guided through the Alley by Hagrid after his liberation from the Dursleys. The store was a time capsule. It looked exactly how it did in 1991; perhaps it looked like it had back in 1977 back then too.
"Well, hello, young man. How can I assist you on this fine day?" the old wandmaker asked from behind a counter.
Garrick Ollivander looked, well, alive for one. Blinking his eyes quickly, Harry dismissed the old broken man that he and his friends rescued from Malfoy Manor. The wandmaker was surely alive and well, twenty years younger.
"I need to purchase a wand, I've misplaced mine," Harry said. It was better that no one knew he had just willingly handed it over to a goblin.
Ollivander's eyes darted all over Harry, taking in the features of the young man, rom his deep green eyes, white scar on the back of his right hand, to the lightning shaped on resting upon Harry's forehead which made Harry grimace involuntarily. Garrick nodded and hummed to himself in thought.
"Hmmm, yes. Peculiar indeed. Yes, I'm sure I have something for you, young man. Interesting. Gifted. Stubborn. A knack for the light magic, but yet there is a darkness too…" muttered Ollivander.
A tape measure flew out of the Wandmaker's pocket and began to unfold and retract over Harry's wand arm, torso, and even his other arm. Ollivander retreated into the back of the shop, shortly returning, his arms filled with wand boxes.
"Here, here, try this one. Eleven inches, ash with the core of a hippogriff feather," Ollivander said excitedly.
Handling the ash wand, Harry felt no life or greeting from the wood. It bore no magic at the flick of his wrist.
The old wandmaker cursed, snatching the wand from Harry's grasp and immediately putting another into his hand.
"This one! Nine inches, springy and pliable, chestnut with a core of hair from a rather nasty Kneazle,"
This wand too held no reaction to Harry's touch and was soon snatched away by an irritated Ollivander.
"Oh-ho! You are quite the troublesome customer sir! But I'll find the perfect match for you… hmmm maybe?" Ollivander scratched his head, reaching for another box.
"A rarer one, eleven inches, sturdy yet compromising, oak with a horn from a lethal Hungarian Horntail as its core."
Warily Harry held the wand, which eerily felt every bit as uncompromising as the female Hungarian Horntail he had the pleasure of flying against during his fourth year.
"Blast, that should have been it. You had a touch of the creature about you. I can see the magic you know — the wands choose the wizard — but they see the mark. It's the basis for all partnerships, you see," Ollivander mumbled incoherently, fully immersed in trying to find a match for the young man before him.
Another wand was thrust into Harry's hand. Like a promise of reunion from an old friend, a warmth spread from his hand up his arm to his chest. Thrumming with magic, Harry looked down at the familiar eleven inch holly wand containing the phoenix feather that he knew once belonged to Fawkes.
"Unusual… never sold two of the same. The twin," whispered Ollivander, eyeing the wand that was now held in Harry's hand, accepting the wizard fully with a warm glow.
"Hello, old friend," Harry whispered low enough to be unheard. A tear threatened to slip from his eyes at the sight of the holly-wand back in his hand.
Ollivander continued to eye the wizard and wand, seeing more of the former than the latter.
"Yes, a strong bond between you two — like old friends, it seems. That'll do perfectly."
Harry nodded at the old wandmaker with his lips resting in a smile. He hadn't felt the warmth of his wand since that Christmas on the run with Hermione. His old wand had been on the wrong end of a blasting curse and had been damaged beyond repair.
"Well, I'm sure you know the rules. Every wand here is traced, since we sell mostly to young students ,and each has a limiting rune enchantment placed upon it. Thus most dark curses, Unforgivables, and even blood magic will be restricted and unusable," Ollivander explained to a wide-eyed Harry.
Traced and limited with enchantments for the spells it's capable of casting! Harry had never heard of such a thing. He could remember casting the Cruciatus Curse upon Bellatrix Lestrange with this very wand — if it was limited how could he have done such a thing? Furthermore, how could his wand's twin, also a creation of Ollivander's, be responsible for its deeds with such a handicap?
"I'm sorry sir, but I don't understand. What do you mean by traced and limited with an enchantment?" Harry asked, wondering if this was another custom that had not survived till 1991.
Ollivander's head turned at the question in confusion. He hadn't heard such an odd question in over a hundred years. "Well they've always been sold this way, at least since the ICW Convention of 1814 in Vienna," answered the wandmaker.
"In an attempt to trace underage magic, all licensed wandmakers must install a trace within their creations to be surrendered to their Ministry for regulation. Furthermore, after several nasty conflicts on the continent, mind you, there was a call to enchant wands to be incapable of casting several outlawed spells such as the Unforgivable Curses for instance," Ollivander explained.
Looking down at the wand in his hand, a wand that he was only too familiar with, a wand that Harry realized was useless to him with the task he was appointed with by the prophecy. The twin cores prevented him from destroying Voldemort, but bureaucracy prevented him from destroying his followers as well, it seemed.
The prophecy's words, 'and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives', seemed to bore a hollow hole in Harry's chest.
"Can it be removed? The enchantments and Trace?" Harry unsubtly asked, knowing he was asking the sweet Ollivander to break the law.
Garrick Ollivander flinched at the question. His eyes closed and his body shuddered.
"No. No, young man. They can't be easily removed; it takes another kind of magic, and neither would I be willing to. It's better for us all if wands have some restrictions in their use. We can't trust some wizards nowadays — especially these days," Ollivander's voice shook in a tremble at the end.
The wandmaker's eyes glanced to and through the windows of his shop out on the street, almost like he was expecting an onlooker to be watching their conversation.
Not knowing what to do, Harry nodded and fetched out the galleons for the wand, handing the coins over to Ollivander's shaking hand.
"Thank you, sir, I appreciate all you've done for me," Harry said. Everything that the old wandmaker had helped with in a previous life was not forgotten, despite the fact he couldn't help in this moment.
Ollivander nodded. "Yes, yes, of course young man. By chance what is your name? I don't believe you introduced yourself…" Garrick asked.
"Harry, sir, Harry Evans," the new owner of the phoenix feather holly-wand said. With another nod of farewell, Harry slipped his wand into his robe and departed from the store.
Harry made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, far too many troublesome thoughts circling around in his head. He was twenty-one years in the past, with no inherent allies, with the only answer to his predicament potentially buried somewhere in the Department of Mysteries, a place that Harry was not keen to visit again.
He was the current Lord of two very prominent — and very much alive — families, and surrendered a broken wand over to a goblin just to keep its mouth shut. Then, finally, upon being reunited with his preferred wand of choice, a law that surely couldn't have been a thing during his previous time period was a potentially deadly bureaucratic handicap.
Harry had no use for the Killing or Cruciatus Curses, but he didn't hold that opinion for the Imperius. The use of the curse could mean success or failure against the Dark Lord. While the curse was morally wrong in many ways, Harry couldn't discredit it after using it to rob the Lestrange Vault, nor could he dismiss any other dark spell he'd have to learn to combat Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
There were many things that Harry needed to navigate in this time period. It was a dangerous time. While he held some knowledge, he was still severely lacking for the ongoings of the day. He'd have to educate himself, and quickly.
Harry morbidly chuckled at everything. He never would have found himself thinking that his last few years having faced everything he did would be less daunting than the trial he was currently within.
Arriving back at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry sat down at an empty table, smiled at the now middle aged Tom, and pulled out his holly wand, twisting and flipping the comforting wood through his fingers.
His work was cut out for him, that was for sure. Harry began to think of a way he could sneak back into the Department of Mysteries once again, this time, alone, and in search of something other than his kidnapped godfather.
A/N: Hope you all enjoyed the first chapter. I apologize for any errors. Please let me know & I'll edit as we go.