A/N: This is a rather long chapter, I'm afraid.
Chapter 1 - The Next Great Adventure
3rd August 1935
A sharp intake of breath.
The world around him was silent, save for the rustling of leaves carried by the wind and the distant call of an owl. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and morning dew. Harry's eyes fluttered open, the morning light filtering through the iron-wrought trees above him. His head pounded slightly, his body aching as though he had just survived a gruelling duel then it occurred to him. He had. Yet, deep in his bones, he felt something unfamiliar—an energy thrumming beneath his skin, raw and uncontained.
He was lying on the ground, the cool soil beneath him a stark contrast to the warmth of his robes. Sitting up slowly, he took in his surroundings. The sight before him was unmistakable—he was in the graveyard at Godric's Hollow. The familiar headstones stood solemnly around him, some covered in moss, others standing tall and untouched by time. As he turned, his gaze fell upon a single, ancient grave, one more worn than the rest.
Ignotus Peverell.
The name was barely legible, carved into stone that had been weathered by centuries. A shiver ran down Harry's spine. Of all places, of all moments, he had awakened here—besides the resting place of the ancestor who had offered him this second chance. It felt deliberate, purposeful, as though fate had placed him here for a reason.
Panic did not set in immediately. Instead, there was a strange calmness, a sense of rightness. He had made his choice. The future—his past—was gone, rewritten by forces beyond even his comprehension. Voldemort didn't exist yet. The war he had fought, the deaths he had endured, all of it was nothing more than echoes of a life that no longer was. And yet, he remained. The last Veilborn, Death's Chosen, a relic of a future that would never come to pass.
He took stock of himself. His body felt different—stronger, younger, yet somehow more settled. Raising a hand, he felt the familiar jagged outline of his lightning-bolt scar. The faint remnants of other scars remained as well—Umbridge's cruel handiwork on the back of his hand, the long-healed wounds from battles past. It was as though his past pains had followed him through time, a reminder of who he had been. The ring—the Peverell ring—was snug on his finger, its dark stone gleaming with quiet power. He turned his hand, watching as the sunlight reflected faintly off the worn metal. The weight of it felt reassuring, an anchor in this new reality. His wand—the Elder Wand—was tucked safely into his robes, pulsing with latent magic. The Invisibility Cloak, however, was gone. It had merged with him as part of his new power, but still, It left him feeling oddly exposed.
He searched in his pockets and found the Marauder's Map. He was relieved to find that it had made the journey with him. The comfort of one of his old possessions warmed him slightly. His hand jumped to his neck where he was comforted to find the necklace that Ginny had given him still hung around his neck. It was nothing more than a simple black steel chain with a simple black ring with green inlay hanging from it. But it meant more to him than anything else. A reminder of where he had come from and who he had lost.
For a long moment, he simply breathed, absorbing the reality of his situation. He was alone in a time not his own, but he had been given an opportunity—a new life, a second chance to shape a world untouched by the darkness that had consumed his own. It was both a gift and a burden, and he wasn't yet sure how he felt about it.
As he pushed himself to his feet, he dusted off his robes, feeling their weight settle over his shoulders. The fabric was the same as it had been during the battle however, it was not ripped or covered in blood and grime. It seemed that even the smallest details had changed to fit this new reality. His legs felt steady beneath him, despite the lingering sense of displacement. He took a final look around, committing the scene to memory. This was the first moment of his new existence, and whatever lay ahead, he would face it with the same resilience that had carried him through every hardship before.
His gaze lingered on Ignotus' grave for a few more moments before he turned towards the village. He knew he had no money, no connections, and no clear plan—but there was one thing he did have.
A second chance.
Squaring his shoulders, he took a step forward, leaving the grave behind.
He took a deep breath as he left the graveyard, stepping onto the cobbled streets of Godric's Hollow. The village was small and quiet, the early morning light casting long shadows across the narrow lanes. It was a strange sight—familiar, yet untouched by war.
Not unlike the last time he had walked these streets, there were no signs of magical activity. The village was overwhelmingly muggle, with only a few discreet traces of wizarding presence. That meant he needed to be careful. His dark robes, though plain, stood out here, and he couldn't risk drawing attention. He pulled the hood over his head, keeping to the edges of the streets as he walked. A few villagers passed him, but none paid him any mind—just another shadow in the morning mist.
His first priority was finding shelter. Until he understood more about the world he had arrived in, he needed to stay hidden. There were too many unknowns. What year was it exactly? Had anything changed beyond what Ignotus had told him? He needed time to think, to plan, and most importantly, to avoid attracting attention until he was ready to step into this new life.
As he stepped into the shadow of a building, a thought crossed his mind. He no longer had the Invisibility Cloak, but Ignotus had said that its magic was now within him. Could he truly vanish at will?
Focusing, he willed himself to disappear, imagining the way the Cloak had always felt when he had pulled it over himself. A strange sensation swept over him—as if the shadows that surrounded him were being called forth to conceal him.
He raised one hand and nearly jumped with shock.
Nothing.
His hands, his arms—gone.
"Fucking hell" he muttered.
A grin flickered across his face. It had worked. The magic of the Peverell Cloak was his now. He took a cautious step forward, then another, watching as the villagers walked past him, oblivious to his presence. He waved a hand in front of his face, confirming that he was truly invisible. It felt effortless, like slipping into warm water. He walked further down the street, testing his silent steps. No one reacted.
A dog barked in the distance, and for a brief moment, the animal's eyes followed him, but it gave no further sign of noticing anything strange.
This was an advantage he hadn't expected and one he would need to rely on. He could move freely, unnoticed. The ability to disappear at will would help him gather information, observe the world he had entered, and ensure that no one would connect him to the past—or the future.
Now hidden, he moved silently through the village, searching for a place to stay. He couldn't risk approaching anyone directly—not yet. If he asked about the Peverells, people would become curious, and curiosity was dangerous.
Instead, he followed his instincts, moving towards a much older part of the village, where the houses were more worn and aged. He walked past familiar landmarks—the small church and the winding roads leading to homes. This area, he guessed, was the more magically populated area of the village. There was a gentle hum of magic surrounding it as he walked. He wondered, too, if the Potters still lived here in this time or if their family estate was somewhere else. He really had no idea about his family—old family, he corrected.
Eventually, he came upon a small, abandoned cottage on the far edge of town. It was overgrown, half-hidden behind ivy and gnarled trees. The windows were cracked and clouded with dust, and the door was slightly ajar, as though the house itself had long been waiting for someone to return. It didn't look like anyone had lived there in decades, if not longer.
As he got closer, he felt a strange pull from his magic, as though it was trying to guide him inside.
Harry placed a hand on the door, and a faint pulse of magic thrummed beneath his fingers. He inhaled sharply. This place had once belonged to a wizard.
He murmured a detection spell under his breath, scanning for enchantments or protective wards. Nothing—just the faint residue of long-faded magic. Whoever had lived here had left long ago, but their presence had lingered in the very walls.
With a whispered unlocking charm, the door creaked open, revealing a dust-covered interior. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and forgotten time. Dust motes floated in the beams of morning light that streamed through cracks in the wooden shutters. The furniture was rotting and broken and the paint on the walls was peeling. There were candle brackets on the walls but they were hanging from their fixings. At one end of the room was a small hearth made of stone.
It wasn't much, but it was enough.
He stepped inside and let the invisibility fade. The shadows unravelled smoothly like a cloak being pulled away. His body reappeared, solid and real once more. The sensation left a strange tingle in his skin, but he ignored it for now.
He replaced his wand in his robes, making a mental note to buy a wand holster at his first opportunity and walked through the house, taking in its structure. There were two rooms on the ground floor—the one he had entered was a small sitting area with the fireplace and the second was a tiny kitchen which stood in the back, its shelves bare. There was also a small staircase that led up to the attic bedroom. The house was simple, but its seclusion was exactly what he needed.
Now that he had shelter, Harry knew he needed to secure it. The village might be largely muggle, but that didn't mean he was safe. If there were wizards nearby, they could detect his magic. And if someone discovered him before he was ready, it could ruin everything.
Taking out his wand, he walked the perimeter of the house, tracing charms into the air. He whispered old spells—protective enchantments he had learned over years of battle. A Notice-Me-Not charm shimmered over the walls, blending the house seamlessly into the background of the village.
Next, he cast Muggle Repelling Wards, ensuring that no one would accidentally wander too close. A layer of Anti-Apparition Wards followed, preventing anyone from magically arriving inside. Finally, he traced a protective charm over the doorway, a low-burning pulse of magic meant to alert him if anyone tried to cross the threshold uninvited.
The cottage felt different now—more secure, more his. The magic hummed faintly in the air, settling into the wood and stone as if it had always been there. With a final flick of his wand, he sealed the protections into place. It wasn't impenetrable, but it would keep him hidden while he worked out his next move.
Tomorrow, he would need to plan his next steps. He needed money, an identity, and a way to navigate this world without suspicion. The name Harry Peverell was the one he had chosen, but he wouldn't use it publicly yet. Not until he understood exactly what he was stepping into.
For now, he had shelter. That was enough to begin.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, Harry set about, with cleaning charms, removing all of the rust and dust from the surfaces. Once he was done, he took stock of his surroundings. Most of the furniture was beyond repair and would need to be removed. This was his task for the rest of the day. Taking the old, wooden furniture that looked like it could be centuries old into the small, overgrown back garden, he burnt it. After a couple of hours, it was done. All that was left was a small, wooded-framed bed in the attic room.
Running his fingers over the ring he now wore, he thought to himself. He had always been a survivor, adapting to whatever situation was thrown at him. This would be no different.
He would learn. He would wait. And when the time was right, he would step out of the shadows and into the world that had been reset before him.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he had a future to shape, and he would not waste it.
The weight of exhaustion pressed against his limbs, but despite the long day, sleep did not come easily. His mind churned with possibilities, dangers, and unanswered questions. He had no food, but strangely, he felt no hunger. Whether it was a lingering effect of his transition through time or the sheer weight of his circumstances numbing his physical needs, he wasn't sure. Either way, he let it be. One night without food wouldn't kill him.
The hard wooden floor provided little comfort, but compared to battlefields, prison cells, and years spent fighting for survival, this was nothing. He leaned against the wall, fingers absently tracing the Peverell ring on his hand, and let his body rest, if not sleep. As he listened to the faint rustling of leaves outside, he thought about what he had left behind—and what lay ahead. He had always fought to survive, but this was different. Now, he had to build something entirely new.
--
4th August 1935
Dawn broke in muted shades of gold, light slipping through the cracks in the shutters. Harry stretched, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders as he rose. His mind was clearer now. He needed resources, and that meant one destination: Gringotts.
He had avoided thinking about money the night before, but there was no denying it now. He had nothing—no gold, no identity, no proof of existence in this time, he wasn't even completely sure what time this was. That had to change. And there was only one place in all of Britain where he might claim something for himself.
Diagon Alley.
Focusing on his destination, Harry reached for the familiar pull of apparition. Despite the strange feeling of displacement since arriving in this timeline, his magic obeyed him instantly. With a sharp crack, the world twisted around him.
He landed in a shadowed corner of Diagon Alley, concealed between the narrow space of two tall buildings. Instinct kept him still, his hood pulled low as he scanned his surroundings.
The alley looked different—fresher, in a way. The signs above the shops were similar but different, the buildings still weathered by time but not war. The flow of people was more measured and less hurried. There was no sense of fear, no undercurrent of political tension. Wizards and witches bustled past him, dressed in robes that reflected the fashion of the time—longer, more formal, with heavier fabrics. A group of young boys ran past, laughing as they pointed at a display of racing brooms outside Quality Quidditch Supplies.
Harry let out a slow breath. It all looked so familiar.
Pulling his hood lower, he stepped out from the shadows and walked toward the centre of the alley. The scent of fresh parchment and brewed potions filled the air as he passed by familiar storefronts—Ollivander's, Flourish & Blotts, the apothecary. He was tempted to linger, to soak in the differences between this time and his own, but he had a mission. Wandering aimlessly would only attract attention.
On his way towards the large white marble bank, Harry remembered that he still had no idea what year it was. He had guessed that it was the summer, judging by the weather and the amount of school-aged children that were present, but after that… no idea.
He noticed a stall selling newspapers and glanced at the front page and nearly jumped. The date on it was 3rd August 1935.
He had travelled back 65 years.
Shaking off this rather immense revelation, he stepped onto the white marble steps of Gringotts, feeling a familiar unease settle in his chest. The goblins had always been unpredictable, their loyalties bound to wealth and power rather than any moral code. He had no vault key and no known ancestry that would be recognised under normal circumstances. And yet, he had the Peverell ring. If there was anything that might open doors, it was that.
The great bronze doors loomed ahead, guarded by two goblins in gleaming armour. Harry kept his movements slow, deliberate, as he approached. He did not want to appear nervous, but neither did he want to project arrogance. He was an unknown entity here, and the less attention he drew, the better.
The goblin at the desk barely spared him a glance as he entered. Harry stepped forward and, in a calm, quiet voice, said, "I need to speak with someone regarding ancestral accounts."
The goblin looked up then, his sharp black eyes narrowing. "And what claim do you have to such accounts?"
Harry slid his hand forward, the dark stone of the Peverell ring catching the light. "I believe this will suffice."
The goblin's gaze snapped to the ring, and something flickered across his expression—recognition, perhaps. Without another word, he gestured for another goblin to step forward.
"Wait here. You will be seen."
Harry nodded and stepped back, allowing himself to glance around the bank. It looked much as he remembered—towering marble pillars, chandeliers that bathed the main hall in golden light, goblins scurrying between high counters, measuring gold, weighing jewels. But there were differences too. The security measures were less severe, and the tension in the air was absent. This was a Gringotts at the height of its power, before the war.
A different goblin approached him now, older and dressed in deep crimson robes, clearly of higher rank. "Come with me," he said without preamble, turning toward a door leading deeper into the bank.
Harry followed without hesitation, his mind racing with the possibilities ahead. If the Peverell name still held weight in this era, he might gain access to wealth, knowledge, or connections that would help him solidify his place in this world. If not, he would have to find another way.
As he stepped through the doors, the marble halls behind him fading from view, one thing remained certain—his past life as Harry Potter was behind him. Whatever happened next, he would face it as someone new.
He had stepped over the threshold into a small room with only a small desk and filing cabinet for furniture. The door swung shut of its own accord and his attention was brought to the elderly goblin sitting behind a desk.
"Good day, Wizard. I am Gafrod. How may I be of service to you today?" he asked, his voice coming raspy to Harry's ears.
"I am here to claim my family's vault." He replied, deciding that a direct approach would likely be the best course of action.
"I see," said Gafrod, eyeing Harry curiously. "And which family do you belong to?"
"My family's name is Peverell." Replied Harry, resolutely.
"Impossible. The Peverell family has been extinct for centuries. There is no living witch or wizard with that name anymore." The goblin replied curtly.
"Forgive me, sir, but I believe you will find you are mistaken. I wear on my finger the family ring of the Peverells. Peverell blood is in my veins and Peverell is my family name." replied Harry, politely raising his left hand for the goblin to see.
Gafrod peered curiously at the ring, his dark eyes widening when he saw the mark on the black stone.
"Moonstones and diamonds." He breathed. "Lord Peverell, I beg your forgiveness. I was not aware. I will be pleased to allow you access to your Family Vault momentarily. Due to the nature of your request as well as your family's history, I will need a verification of blood to confirm the action. I hope you understand."
Harry had been prepared for this, but it still filled him with nerves. He did indeed have Peverell blood, but had it been diluted by the Potters so much that it would not show in this verification of blood? Did he have enough of a claim to gain access to his vault? Or had something changed when he had travelled back?
"No trouble at all." He replied, trying to keep calm. "How best to do this?"
"If you would follow me down to your vault, I will ask you to cut your hand and place it on the vault door, if it accepts you, then you will have full access, if not…"
"I get the picture." Replied Harry with a grimace.
The goblin bowed and motioned Harry to follow him out of the door.
The cart ride down was a long one. He was going further down below the bank than even he had gone when accessing the Lestrange's vault. It ducked and dived around tight corners, passing through the 'Thief's Downfall' without incident eventually coming to a stop outside of three vault doors.
"The vault of the House Peverell is the oldest wizarding account here at Gringotts." said the goblin, hopping gracefully out of the cart and waiting for Harry to follow him. "Only that of the bank itself is older."
The two of them made their way to the middle of the three doors.
"Vault 2," said Gafrod, indicating for Harry to come right up next to the vault. From the inside of his clothes, he brought out a small, thin and, by the looks of it, razor-sharp silver knife.
"I would ask that you hold your left hand, open for me so I can slice across it. Such is the magic of the knife that it will open the wound but after fifteen seconds, will close it again perfectly. This will give you enough time to place your hand upon the vault door and give your offering of blood. Do you understand and accept this?" he asked.
"I do." Replied Harry, holding out his hand. The goblin took it and made a thin cut across his palm. As he did so, Harry took a sharp intake of breath at the pain but placed his hand on the door, nonetheless.
As soon as his blood made contact with the door, Harry felt the same, burning power course through his body as he had when facing Voldemort. It surged up inside him and he felt it pass through him, accepting the challenge the door offered.
"My word," breathed the goblin who was staring in wonder at the door. "It has worked, Lord Peverell. You now have access to the Peverell Family Vault. Do you wish to see inside of it now?"
"I do, you have my thanks, Gafrod." He said bowing to the small goblin who nodded and placed his own hand on the door which opened with a clink and a small hiss of the moving metal.
As the door opened, Harry saw himself looking into the largest vault he had ever seen. It seemed to go on forever. On the left wall were shelves of books, each looking older and more valuable than the one before. To the right of the vault was a mound of gold galleons, smaller than the one of his account that he had used before.
"As you can see, Lord Peverell, the vault is not overflowing with gold as others here at Gringotts but the books you can see are, themselves, incredibly valuable and, to my knowledge, unique. An inventory of the vault was made some fifty years ago by my predecessor. The total monetary value of the contents is 1248 Galleons, 2 sickles and 15 knuts. Not a small sum by any means but certainly nothing too large either."
"Thank you, Gafrod. I will make a withdrawal of 100 Galleons now."
The Goblin bowed low before producing a small bag of money. "Please accept this as a token of thanks for your business, Lord Peverell. The bag is bottomless and will be unable to be opened by any other than yourself, also, however much you ask the bag to take out, you will find in your hands so long as there is enough within the vault."
"My gratitude, Gafrod. This is a most kind gift. Please take ten galleons for yourself." He replied, keen to keep on good terms with the goblin and somehow knowing that this would be a surefire way to do so. "But I must ask the bank's discretion for the moment. I have just returned to Britain and do not want it to get out that my name has returned.
"Of course, Lord Peverell. Gringotts has a history of the highest discretion when it comes to Noble wizarding families. Now, In terms of assets, the Peverell Family is also the owner of a plot of land that was formally where the Peverell Manor was situated. The building itself is in disrepair, as I am sure you will understand, but the land is yours to do with as you wish. It is situated on the west bank of the Loch Maree, in the north of Scotland. As well as this, there is a small cottage on the outskirts of Godric's Hollow that has been abandoned for a number of years."
Harry almost hit the roof with surprise. The tiny little cottage that he had stayed the night was actually his? He almost laughed at his own luck before remembering the mention of the other property.
He had assumed that all of the lands that had once belonged to the Peverell Family had been turned over to the Potters. Still, he inclined his head to the goblin as they made their way out of the vault.
--
Harry stepped out of the grand doors of Gringotts, blinking as the sunlight hit his face. The weight of the pouch of gold at his hip reassured him—he was no longer penniless, and more importantly, he had secured his identity. The Peverell name had been accepted by the bank, and with it came resources, property, and knowledge he had yet to uncover.
Now, he needed to prepare himself for the world he had entered. His robes, though functional, marked him as different. The way he carried himself, the way he spoke—small details could betray him. If he was to blend in with 1935, he had to observe, learn, and adapt. And there was no better place for that than the very heart of wizarding commerce: Diagon Alley.
For the first time since arriving in this time, Harry allowed himself to truly look at the world around him. The shops were familiar yet different. Flourish & Blotts had an aged sign but its windows were newer and still filled with thick tomes, some bound in rich leather, others glowing faintly with enchantments. The apothecary, its cauldron-marked door slightly ajar, released the scent of herbs and potions into the air, the tang of crushed ingredients almost overwhelming.
A few shops that no longer existed in his own time caught his eye. One displayed elegant wizarding fashions—deep-coloured robes with silver embroidery, top hats, and dragon-hide gloves. Another seemed to specialize in enchanted luggage, with trunks hovering above the ground, occasionally flipping open to reveal endless compartments. He went in and bought a plain magical satchel of black leather that would magically expand when needed and left quickly, keen not to draw attention to himself.
He passed by Quality Quidditch Supplies, noting the brooms in the window were bulkier, their twigs carefully tied in neat bundles. There was no sign of the sleek, aerodynamic designs he was used to. The sport was alive and well, but the technology had yet to evolve. An older wizard near him was animatedly discussing a recent Quidditch match, his voice rising excitedly as he reenacted a spectacular goal. The game, it seemed, had always been a passion among wizards, regardless of the era.
The bell above the door chimed softly as Harry stepped into Ollivander's, the scent of old wood, varnish, and magic thick in the air. The shop looked much as it had in his own time—narrow and dimly lit, with towering stacks of wand boxes pressed precariously against every wall. Dust hung in the sunlight like fine mist, and there was a hushed reverence to the place as if the walls themselves remembered every wand that had ever passed through.
Harry let the door close behind him and took a slow breath. He wasn't here for a wand. He already had one—an ancient one, older than any wand in this room. But he needed something else. Something that would make it easier to conceal and access the Elder Wand quickly, especially in the kind of duels he knew might be coming.
A holster.
Footsteps echoed from the back of the shop, deliberate and unhurried. An older man emerged, not Garrick Ollivander but his father, Gervaise Ollivander, silver-haired and thin as a reed, with deep-set eyes that gleamed with curiosity.
"Good morning," he said, voice soft but clear. "Looking for a wand, young man?"
Harry shook his head. "No, thank you, sir. I've already got one."
Gervaise's eyes sharpened just slightly. "Do you now? Most curious. But if not a wand, what brings you to my shop, Mr...?"
"Harry," he answered simply. No surname, no title. Just enough truth to pass.
Gervaise studied him for a moment. Not suspicious—simply assessing. "Very well. And what is it you're looking for, Harry?"
"A wand holster. Something discrete. Quick-draw. Ideally enchanted."
The old wandmaker's eyes lit with professional interest. "For duelling, then? Or... other pursuits?"
"Both."
A faint smile tugged at Gervaise's lips. "Of course. Follow me."
He led Harry to a narrow cabinet along the side wall, unlocked it with a murmured charm, and pulled out a velvet tray. Inside lay several holsters—some sleek and leather-bound, others cloth-lined or worked in dragonhide. Each bore a distinct enchantment: anti-summoning runes, moisture protection, and concealment charms.
Harry's gaze settled on one crafted from midnight-black hide, etched with faint runes that shimmered slightly in the light. The holster felt warm in his hand, pliable yet sturdy, and when he slid the Elder Wand into it, it vanished instantly from view—weightless against his arm, hidden beneath the sleeve of his robe.
"It bonds to your magic," Gervaise said quietly. "Responds to intent. It'll release instantly with a wordless command. Pricey, but very rare."
Harry nodded. "I'll take it."
He paid in gold from the pouch Gringotts had given him, making sure that his ring was hidden.
"Strange times ahead," the wandmaker murmured, as he wrapped the holster in protective cloth.
Harry offered a quiet thanks, slipped the holster beneath his robes, and stepped back into the summer light of Diagon Alley. The crowds moved around him like water past a stone, unaware of the war quietly brewing beneath the surface of this world.
He glanced once more at Ollivanders before disappearing into the flow of the crowd.
Further down, he noticed a shop selling potion ingredients, its glass jars glistening under the dim lighting. A young apprentice argued with an elderly potioneer over the correct way to prepare asphodel root, while a few customers examined fresh dragon liver, its sheen still wet with preserved fluids. It was a different time, but business remained the same.
The people of Diagon Alley moved with a casual ease, chatting with vendors, flipping through books, and haggling over potion ingredients. There was no sign of war, no fear or tension in the air. Pureblood families walked proudly in finely tailored robes, their children trailing behind them. Shopkeepers greeted customers with familiarity, exchanging gossip as they conducted business.
Harry kept to the shadows, listening. He heard snippets of conversation—the Ministry strengthening its stance on international magical travel, of a recent duel that had drawn the attention of prominent families. Nothing to concern himself with just yet.
He turned toward the 'Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions'. If he was to integrate, he needed to dress the part. Stepping inside, he was met with the scent of fresh fabric and a wall lined with bolts of cloth in every colour imaginable. The soft murmur of a few customers filled the air as seamstresses adjusted hems and pinned cuffs.
A young witch, who he recognised to be a much younger version of the same proprietor that had been in his time, approached him with a practised smile. "Good afternoon, sir. Looking for something in particular?"
Harry hesitated only a moment before answering, "Something traditional. Something that won't stand out."
She nodded knowingly. "Of course. We have a fine selection of everyday robes. Do you prefer house colours, or something more neutral?"
"Neutral," he replied. "Dark colours."
As she moved to gather a few options, Harry ran his fingers over the fabric samples at the counter. This world felt distant from his own, yet here he was, standing in the middle of it, preparing to make himself a part of it.
The assistant returned with a selection of robes—rich blacks, deep greens, a midnight blue that caught the light beautifully. "Would you like any embroidery? Family crests?" she asked.
Harry shook his head. "No markings. Just simple… And a muggle jacket, shirt and trousers."
She nodded and led him to a curtained fitting area. He tried on the robes, noting the difference in the cut and weight compared to what he had been used to. They fit well, though, and that was what mattered.
As he inspected himself in the mirror, he realized that this was more than just clothing—it was a step toward establishing himself in this world. He would need to shape his story and create a persona that would allow him to move without suspicion.
After paying for his clothes and tucking the package into his satchel, he stepped back into the alley, the sounds and scents of Diagon Alley wrapping around him once more. He had his gold, his identity, and now, proper attire for both the wizarding and muggle world. But there was still more to do.
As he adjusted the weight of the gold in his pouch, he let himself take in one last deep breath. This was only the beginning. He had carved a place for himself in this world, and now, he would build upon it.
--
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon by the time Harry returned to the cottage. Stepping inside, he placed his newly purchased robes on a chair he had conjured after his purge of the old furniture and set the pouch of gold on a similarly conjured table. The weight of it was a comfort—proof that he was no longer stranded in this time with nothing. He had a place to stay, money to survive, and most importantly, a plan beginning to form. He lit a single candle with a flick of his wand, the flickering flame casting long shadows across the bare stone walls.
The fireless hearth sat cold in the sitting room, cracked and unused, but something about it tugged at him tonight. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was something deeper. He remembered Ignotus' words about the Codex. If this was once a Peverell house, could it be here?
He stared at the grate, its iron bars rusted and warped with age. He stepped closer, wand lit. The air grew colder near it—subtle, but distinct. Harry crouched, brushing soot and ash aside with a conjured cloth until he found it: a seam in the stone that shouldn't have been there.
He tapped it with his wand. Nothing.
He whispered, "Revelio."
Still nothing.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he placed his palm against the stone—left hand, the one bearing the Peverell ring. For a moment, there was silence.
Then a soft click. A breath of cold air. And the stones began to shift.
The back of the fireplace groaned, stone grinding against stone, and slowly pulled inward, revealing a narrow staircase that looked as though it led to a cellar or basement.
Heart quickening, he set off down the narrow tunnel and after thirty seconds, it widened into a chamber.
The ceiling arched high overhead, and the room was carved entirely from black stone, veined with silver threads that pulsed faintly under his wandlight. It was large and spacious, bigger than the cottage above. Along the far wall stood a mirror—tall, cracked, framed by serpentine metal. In its reflection, his own eyes glowed faintly green.
There were no furnishings. Only a circle etched into the floor, inscribed with runes so old they looked almost like scratches. At its centre stood a small plinth with a dusty tome laid closed atop it. On the cover were three words:
"Mors Ombibus Venit."
Harry stepped into the circle, the air tightening around him like a held breath. He had done the rite. Maybe this book was the key to unlocking his Family Magic truly.
He knelt, placing his hand over the book. The Peverell ring pulsed once, dark stone glowing faintly, and from his palm, a wisp of smoke unfurled—black and slow, coiling like a living thing. It slipped into the ashes, and for a moment, nothing happened.
Then the room darkened.
The shadows deepened and moved—not around him, but with him. Like breath. Like blood. Smoke curled around his arms, chest, and spine. It was cold at first, then burning—pain and power in equal measure. He gasped, biting back a cry, and the shadows answered.
They welcomed him.
His mind filled with images—not memories, but sensations. Fear. Death. Cold steel and whispered secrets. The breath of a raven on his shoulder. And beneath it all, the soft, persistent thrum of shadow magic, not destructive, but patient. Watching. Waiting. Willing.
A voice—not spoken, but sensed—echoed in his thoughts:
You are the key. You are the bridge between worlds. You are the Last Veilborn.
When the darkness receded, Harry was on his knees, breathless and trembling, but not broken. He felt… changed. Sharper. Colder. More real than he had in weeks.
And the shadows didn't leave.
They lingered at the edges of his form, coiling at his feet, hidden in the folds of his robes.
When he stood, the mirror reflected not just a boy—but a Peverell. A legacy of death and defiance. Death's Chosen.
And for the first time since arriving in this quiet past, Harry Peverell smiled.
He opened the ancient tome and drew a sharp breath. It was the codex. He had found it.
He thought how easy it had been. He had found the cottage immediately, found the codex. Was Death guiding him?
Harry retreated back through the passage and sealed the hearth behind him. Sitting down, he considered his next move. On the wall opposite him was a long rectangular mirror. It was aged and cracked but he could still see his reflection looking back at him.
He stood and walked over to it, inspecting his new features. He was taller now, noticeably younger but broader, not the skinny boy he knew he had been at this age in his original time, but rather lean and muscular. Then he remembered.
His guide.
He undid the shirt and let it fall to the floor as he inspected the inky black tattoo that now adorned his left ribcage.
A raven inked in shadow, wings half-spread, talons extended, caught mid-flight. It shimmered faintly, as though not entirely on his skin, but within it.
He traced it with a finger. The mark was warm.
He didn't know why he did it, only that it felt right. He closed his eyes, and in a quiet breath, wished:
"Nyx... come."
The shadows around him stirred.
The air shifted, pressure rising, and with a whisper of smoke curling from his chest, the raven emerged. Not from the air, but from him. Born of the mark, shaped by will.
She burst forth in silence, wings spread wide as she took shape mid-air, her form sculpted from smoke and shade. She circled once, then landed neatly on the back of the nearby chair, her head cocked, watching him.
Harry stared at her.
He knew.
She was his. Not a pet. Not a conjuration. A companion. A sentinel. An extension of his very magic. Shadow-forged. Soul-bound.
"Hello, Nyx," he said softly.
The raven blinked slowly, and a strange warmth stirred in his chest—not affection exactly, but kinship.
She tilted her head to the side and cawed once, quiet and knowing.
He formed a small smile. For the first time, he wasn't alone.
Sitting back down, Nyx resting on his leg, he stroked her feathers and thought to himself. He could not go around using the Peverell name openly—not yet. It was too old, too well-known in certain circles, and if he wasn't careful, it might attract attention he wasn't ready to handle yet.
Instead, he needed something simpler, something unassuming. A name that would allow him to move freely without raising suspicion.
His mother's maiden name came to mind almost immediately. Evans.
It was common enough that it wouldn't stand out, yet personal enough that he wouldn't forget to respond to it. He nodded to himself—Harry Evans would do for now.
Next, he needed a story to explain his presence. He had no records, no schooling history, and no known relatives in this time. That meant he needed a backstory that would excuse any gaps in knowledge while keeping him from unwanted scrutiny.
He settled on the truth, or at least some of it. Harry Evans had been an orphan from birth. His parents, a pair of unknown British witches and wizards, had died before he could remember them. He had then been taken to live with muggles for a few years and then been taken again by an old family friend—his godfather—who had taken him abroad to raise him in seclusion. His godfather, a reclusive but powerful wizard, had taught him magic outside of traditional institutions, giving him a unique but unconventional education.
That would explain his lack of records, his advanced magical abilities, and his unfamiliarity with modern wizarding society. It would also give him the flexibility to claim knowledge where he had it while avoiding topics he wasn't sure about. His godfather, now deceased, had left him with little more than knowledge and legacy.
It was a plausible story—one that had just enough mystery to discourage people from asking too many questions while still making sense but with just enough of the reality that it would be easy to tell.
As Harry pieced together his new identity, a single name kept circling his thoughts—Dumbledore.
Even in this time, the man would still be a force to be reckoned with. He wasn't the legendary figure Harry had grown up hearing about, not yet, but he was already known as a brilliant and formidable wizard. If there was anyone who might be able to help him—or at least understand the impossible nature of his situation—it was him.
But could he trust him?
The Dumbledore Harry had known had always been a man of secrets. Even when he had cared, even when he had guided, he had withheld truths for what he believed to be the greater good. If Harry told him the truth—about who he really was, about what had happened to him—there was no telling what Dumbledore would do with that knowledge. Would he help? Or would he see Harry as a threat, a variable that could change the course of history in ways he might not approve of?
On the other hand, if he chose to stay silent, he would be completely on his own. No allies, no guidance, and no one who could even begin to understand the burden he carried. And as much as he was used to working alone, he couldn't deny the value of having someone like Dumbledore in his corner.
He was not quite sure exactly how old he was and as his body had changed somewhat since when he had been around this age, he had taken his best guess and come to the conclusion that he was 16 so he would still need to go to Hogwarts so he could enrol for the upcoming year, however, regardless of whether he told Dumbledore the truth just yet.
With a deep breath, Harry stood and moved to the small mirror hanging on the wall. He studied his reflection, the familiar green eyes staring back at him. If he was going to be Harry Evans, he needed to embody the persona.
His posture straightened. His expression relaxed into something more neutral, less guarded. He imagined himself as someone new—someone without the weight of a war behind him, without the expectations of a prophecy pressing down on his shoulders.
He was just Harry Evans now. An orphan raised far from the spotlight. A wizard with no past ties. A man ready to carve out his future.
--
5th August 1935
The next day, he woke early and set about exploring the rest of his new home. He ventured out into the small back garden. There were weeds everywhere and a large oak tree covered most of the small plot of land in shade, but it was his. He cleaned it up as best he could before deciding that today was the day that he would go to Hogwarts. Even if he wasn't going to tell Dumbledore everything, he knew that he would have to enrol for next year. Packing some of his things into the small black satchel that he had bought the day before; he left the property and apparated to just outside the Hogwarts grounds.
Upon his entrance, he remembered one of the powers of the Peverell Magic that he had heard during his reading the previous night from the codex and decided that now was as good a time as any to give it a try.
He called the shadows around him and let himself sink into them, reemerging on the other side of the wrought iron gates that guarded the school.
He had just Shadowalked.
Smiling to himself at how easy it had been to infiltrate the grounds of the most protected building in Britain, he made his way up to the large castle in front of him. As he walked, he stared up at what had been his first real home and grinned, remembering all of the adventures he had experienced in those walls.
Thinking that he would try to find someone inside, Harry made his way to the large, wooden front doors of the entrance hall. As he reached them, however, they swung open, and he was met by a tall, thin man with shoulder-length auburn hair and a neatly groomed beard. His piercing blue eyes, framed by half-moon spectacles, studied him with quiet intensity.
Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Even if Dumbledore no longer had the familiar twinkle in his eyes, even if his wand was held at the ready, the sight of the man was grounding. He was younger, yes, but still unmistakably Albus Dumbledore.
"Who are you?" Dumbledore demanded, his voice sharp, his posture tense. "How did you pass the wards? It is summer, and the school is locked down."
"There is no need to be alarmed, Professor Dumbledore," Harry replied, raising his hands in surrender. "My name is Harry Evans, and I have just arrived. Would I be able to come in so we could discuss a few things? I swear that I mean you nor the castle any harm."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed slightly. "You look familiar, Mr. Evans. Are you, by any chance, related to the Potters? You bear a distinct resemblance to Charlus."
Harry's stomach twisted at the mention of his grandfather, hoping that he would not be outed just yet. "No, I am afraid not, Professor. Would I be able to come in?"
Dumbledore hesitated, studying him with that sharp, calculating gaze. "Headmaster Dippet is not in the castle at present," he said at last. "But I suppose we may speak in my office. However, be warned—I am not a man easily fooled, nor challenged."
"I wouldn't dream of trying, sir," Harry said, inclining his head.
Dumbledore stepped aside, allowing Harry to enter before leading him swiftly through the corridors. The walk through the castle was eerily familiar, yet subtly different. The portraits he passed were occupied by figures who should have long been gone, and the suits of armour gleamed as though they had only just been polished. It was Hogwarts, and yet it wasn't.
As they climbed the moving staircases, Harry took the opportunity to observe Dumbledore closely. He moved with quiet authority, but there was a sharp edge to him, something not yet softened by the wisdom of age. This was Dumbledore before he became the leader of the Order of the Phoenix before he became the mentor Harry had once known. This Dumbledore was still a man with secrets, a man watching and waiting.
Eventually, they arrived at what, in Harry's time, had been Professor McGonagall's office. Dumbledore gestured for Harry to take the seat opposite his desk, and he did so with a nod of thanks. The room smelled of old parchment and faintly of lemon drops, though the dish of sweets was nowhere to be seen.
"Well then, Mr. Evans," Dumbledore said, settling into his chair, his expression unreadable. "Let us start with something simple. Would you kindly introduce yourself?"
Harry met his gaze and gave a polite smile. "Of course, sir. My name is Harry Evans. I was born in Britain, but I was raised abroad by my godfather after my parents passed away. I was taught magic under his tutelage, though it was an… unconventional education. Now that he has passed, I have returned to Britain in hopes to continue my studies and make a future for myself."
Dumbledore regarded him carefully. "A fascinating tale. May I ask your godfather's name?"
Harry hesitated only briefly before replying, "He was a private man. I would prefer not to betray his memory."
Dumbledore's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "I see. And what is it you seek, Mr. Evans?"
"I wish to enrol at Hogwarts as a sixth-year student," Harry said without hesitation. "While my education has been thorough, it has not been formal. I wish to complete my studies and integrate into British magical society."
Dumbledore's expression remained carefully neutral, though his eyes gleamed with curiosity. "An unusual request," he admitted. "Transfers at your age are quite rare."
"I understand," Harry said. "But I am confident I can meet the academic standards required."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Headmaster Dippet will need to approve your admission, but I suspect he will be open to the idea. However, you will need to pass an entrance examination to ensure you are prepared for NEWT-level coursework. As well as sitting your Ordinary Wizarding Levels."
"That is acceptable," Harry replied.
Silence settled between them, but it was not uncomfortable. Harry could feel Dumbledore's mind working, trying to make sense of him. But Harry's Occlumency was perfect—years of shielding his mind from Voldemort had honed it into an impenetrable fortress. Even if Dumbledore attempted to probe, which he had not, he would find nothing but an unshakable wall of calm.
Dumbledore finally leaned back slightly; his expression thoughtful. "There is something about you, Mr. Evans. Something that does not quite fit. But I have always found that time reveals all things."
Harry inclined his head, unfazed. A small grin started on the edges of his mouth. "Perhaps it will, sir."
Dumbledore gave him a long, measuring look before his lips curled into a small smile. "Very well, Mr. Evans. I will arrange a meeting with Headmaster Dippet. In the meantime, you are welcome to stay at Hogwarts until your place is confirmed."
Harry exhaled slowly, feeling the first real step of his plan settling into place. "Thank you, Professor. I appreciate the opportunity. I have a small cottage that my family owned so I will not need to stay at the castle but I appreciate the offer, nonetheless."
Dumbledore studied him for another moment before nodding. "Of course, Mr. Evans." He stood and gestured toward the office door. "I shall inform Headmaster Dippet of our conversation and arrange your entrance examination." He extended his hand, and Harry shook it firmly. "I look forward to seeing what you will bring to Hogwarts, Mr. Evans."
"As do I, Professor," Harry replied.
As he stepped out of the office and into the corridor, he allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. He had taken the first step, but there was still much to do. He had a second chance, and he intended to make the most of it.
The castle felt different beneath his feet, but it was still home. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he had a future worth shaping.
He apparated home once he had left the grounds and sat down on his spindly chair. He took out the codex and began to read it, hoping that it would answer some of the questions that he still had about his new abilities.
--
6th August 1935
Harry woke to silence.
Not the tense, too-still silence of a battlefield before the fighting resumed, but the quiet that came with early morning in the countryside—soft and unbothered. A breeze whispered through the cracked windowpane above his bed, cool and clean. Somewhere outside, a bird called into the dawn, and the faint rustle of trees replied. A stream babbled faintly in the distance, its sound comforting in a way few things had ever been.
He sat up slowly, the thin blanket he had conjured falling from his shoulders. The chill in the air made his breath mist for a moment before it faded. The bed beneath him creaked softly—old springs, worn linen, and a mattress that had seen better decades. It was the only real piece of furniture that he had left in the cottage after his initial purge other than the chair he had conjured. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared around, adjusting to the dim morning light that filtered through grime-speckled windows.
The rest of the room was bare stone and wood, unadorned and hollow. Empty walls, no curtains, no bookshelves, and certainly no signs that anyone had lived here in years. Just an unused hearth with a cracked grate that he knew held an extra secret, a crooked little kitchen in the adjoining room, and a faint layer of dust over everything that hadn't been disturbed in years. The place smelled of aged timber, forgotten memories, and a hint of fresh air through the cracks. Cobwebs occupied corners. A small draft from beneath the door made the single candle on the windowsill flicker, casting distorted shadows across the stone walls.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet brushing the cold floor. The stone was rough and unkind beneath his toes, reminding him just how far he was from the warmth and comfort of Hogwarts. His wand—the wand—rested on the sill beside his old one. The Elder Wand barely pulsed with magic now; it didn't need to. Its presence was as natural to him now as breath. No one in this era would sense it for what it truly was. And if they did… well, they'd find themselves very surprised indeed.
He didn't need to hide it. Just like he didn't need to be Harry Potter anymore.
The world knew him only as Harry Evans, a quiet, unassuming newcomer. Forgettable. Safe. A name borrowed from his mother's side, chosen as much for its anonymity as for its connection to the past, he still carried with him.
He padded barefoot into the kitchen, where a dented kettle sat atop the cold stovetop and a few tins of food sat stacked haphazardly on a shelf. A house-elf from Hogwarts—Gilly, he remembered—had brought him the basics after his meeting with Dumbledore. A loaf of dense bread. Butter that had already begun to harden. A jar of honey and several tins of soup. It wasn't much, but it would do. He'd meant to return to Diagon Alley to pick up real supplies, maybe furnish the place and make it more of a home.
For the first time in years, he didn't need to rush.
Staring out the crooked window above the sink, the trees swaying outside gently in the wind, he thought of his new home and what it meant. Godric's Hollow stretched quietly into the hills, its cottages tucked among ancient oaks and ivy-covered stone. It was peaceful in a way he could hardly remember ever experiencing. He could almost pretend, just for a moment, that he was someone else. Someone normal.
Somewhere nearby was a house he once knew and never really knew at all. He hadn't gone to see it yet. He wasn't sure if he could. The thought of standing before the place where his parents died—where he had almost died—felt too raw, too final. He wasn't ready for that chapter. Not yet.
He looked down at his hands. Calloused. Steady. Older than they should be, on a body that felt sixteen. Power still hummed beneath his skin, quiet but ever-present. There was something about the way magic responded to him now—not with obedience, but with reverence. As if it knew who he was. What he was.
He was no longer just a survivor. No longer just a soldier.
He was a legacy now. A myth reborn.
And yet, as he stood in that quiet kitchen, with a rattling kettle and half-empty shelves, he felt more human than he had in years. The trauma still lingered beneath the surface—the faces, the losses, the choices—but here, there was room to breathe. To build something new.
Here, in this quiet, empty house, Harry Ignotus Peverell had begun to live again.
But first… breakfast.
--
Harry stepped out into the crisp morning air, the old wooden door of the cottage closing with a hollow thud behind him. The scent of damp earth and distant chimney smoke filled his lungs, and for a moment he simply stood there, absorbing the stillness. Godric's Hollow was quiet at this hour, only the faint clinking of metal from a blacksmith's forge and the rustle of leaves overhead offering any sound. The sky above was a soft, pale blue, streaked with the last threads of dawn, and a thin mist curled around the garden fence like lazy fingers reluctant to leave the earth.
He took a few steps forward and stretched his arms above his head, muscles stiff from a night spent in an unfamiliar bed. The morning light felt good on his face. He breathed it in deeply, trying to centre himself. Each morning here was a fresh reminder that he was no longer at war, no longer hunted. He could walk freely, unmasked, even if he wore a different name.
The path from his cottage curved around a hedgerow and joined a cobbled lane that wound gently down toward the heart of the village. Wildflowers lined the edges; their colour was soft and sleepy in the dim light. He paused where the path met the road, adjusting the strap of his new leather satchel slung across his chest. It contained his coin pouch, a short shopping list, and an empty transfigured crate he planned to expand once he arrived in Diagon Alley. Today was about outfitting his new life: furnishings, food and decoration.
He focused his thoughts on Diagon Alley. The magical current within him thrummed slightly in response to his intent like a string pulled taut. But just as he took a breath to twist on the spot, something in the distance shifted—a movement on the road ahead, subtle but enough to catch his eye.
A boy, about his age, was walking slowly down the lane in the opposite direction. He was dressed in casual muggle clothes, jet-black hair tousled by the breeze. His gait was confident, and relaxed, with the easy rhythm of someone who belonged. He moved with the unconscious grace of youth unburdened by tragedy. There was something familiar about the curve of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the thoughtful way his eyes flicked over the landscape.
Harry's breath hitched, and his whole body went still.
He knew that face. Not well, but well enough.
Charlus Potter.
It was unmistakable. He had seen old photographs of him in the Black family tapestry at Grimmauld Place and had glimpsed a moving portrait tucked behind layers of spell-locked archives in the Ministry during the war. James' father. His grandfather. The man who had died just before Harry was born before any stories could be passed down to him in earnest. And right now, he was walking no more than twenty feet away, utterly unaware of the grandson he would never know.
Harry froze, every nerve alight, as if someone had cast a full bodybind curse on his sense of reason. It was one thing to be told that he would live alongside people he once only knew through stories and legacy. It was another to see them, breathing, laughing, living normal lives.
Charlus hadn't noticed him yet. He looked like he was headed toward the bakery—a small parcel tucked under one arm and his other hand casually buried in a pocket. His expression was calm and faintly amused, as though he'd just remembered something funny from a conversation the night before. There was warmth in his face. Kindness. Harry suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to speak to him. To introduce himself. To say anything.
But of course, he shouldn't. Not yet. He was Harry Evans, not a Potter. Not a grandson. The past must stay buried, at least for now.
And yet... curiosity tugged at him like a hook behind the ribs. Here was someone from his own bloodline, someone who might have held him as a baby had the world gone differently. Someone who had been lost too soon. It was too much to just let pass without a second glance. He had seen so much death—too much to ignore the sight of life where it shouldn't exist anymore.
Without fully deciding why, he followed, the thought of Diagon Alley forgotten for the moment. He stepped quietly off the path, heart pounding like he was back in a duel. Each step felt like stepping into forbidden territory like he was trespassing in a timeline not meant for him.
He watched as Charlus exchanged a few words with an older man passing by, his voice just out of earshot. The smile he offered in farewell was wide and easy—so very much like James' from the old photographs he had of his father. Harry felt the sting of emotion rise in his throat, unfamiliar and hard to swallow. He wasn't used to feelings like this anymore. Wonder. Longing. Hope.
He had faced Voldemort. He had held Death's gaze and lived. He had watched friends die, had walked through fire, and risen from ash.
But nothing felt quite as terrifying—or as precious—as seeing a piece of his family alive in front of him.
And for the first time since arriving in this new life, Harry wasn't sure what to do next.
Charlus turned the corner just as Harry hesitated mid-step, caught between decision and impulse. The boy—no, the young man—seemed to notice something out of the corner of his eye, because he paused, glancing back with a polite curiosity, the kind one reserved for strangers who lingered too long in your periphery.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, Harry felt the world narrow. He fought the instinct to freeze, instead mustering a smile that he hoped passed as casual. He forced his gaze to drop slightly, as if embarrassed to have been caught staring.
Charlus offered a courteous nod and half-smile, then continued walking—but slowly, clearly giving Harry a chance to speak if he intended to. There was something unhurried about his manner, the kind of calm confidence Harry associated with those who'd never known war. It stirred a deep ache in his chest.
"Morning," Harry said at last, quietly.
Charlus glanced back again, his smile widening a little. "Morning. Lovely one, isn't it?"
"It is," Harry agreed, his voice steadier than he felt. He took a step forward before he could overthink it, closing some of the distance between them. "Er... do you live nearby?"
Charlus nodded, tapping the parcel under his arm. "Just around the bend and up the path. My mum asked me to grab breakfast rolls before she started her day. You new to the village?"
Harry hesitated. "Sort of. Just moved into the cottage up the hill. Number twelve."
"Oh, that place!" Charlus said, his eyes lighting with recognition. "It's been empty for ages. Looks like it could use a bit of life again. You fixing it up, then?"
Harry gave a quiet chuckle. "That's the idea."
Charlus looked at him more closely, curious but friendly. "You planning to stay long, or just passing through?"
"Long enough," Harry said with a small shrug. "Trying to settle."
Charlus nodded. "Well, welcome to Godric's Hollow. Quiet place, but nice. Not much to do unless you like walking through fields or helping Mrs. Aubrey with her cat problem."
Harry smirked. "Sounds like paradise."
Charlus laughed. "Depends on who you ask. I don't mind it. You'll get used to the pace."
He extended a hand. "Charlus Potter."
Harry shook it, firm but careful. "Harry Evans."
"Nice to meet you, Harry. So, where are you from originally?"
"Here and there," Harry replied with practised ease. "My family moved around a lot."
Charlus accepted that without pressing. He glanced down at the satchel over Harry's shoulder. "You headed into town, then?"
"Yeah," Harry nodded. "Errands."
Charlus grinned. "Then I won't keep you."
Charlus took a step back, about to turn away, then paused.
His gaze dropped to Harry's right arm, where the edge of his jacket had shifted just enough to reveal something. A narrow strip of dark leather. The slight shape of a wand holster tucked against his forearm.
Charlus blinked, his smile faltering for just a second. Then his expression shifted—surprise first, then a spark of understanding.
"That's a wand holster," he said, tone casual but eyes sharp now.
Harry didn't respond immediately. He could lie, but there was no real point.
"Good eye," he said quietly.
Charlus grinned. "Thought so. You've got the look, too. Most don't notice it, but wizards can usually spot their own. You going to Hogwarts?"
"Yeah. Sixth year. Transferring."
Charlus's grin widened. "Brilliant! Then we might end up in the same classes. I'm Gryffindor. I don't suppose you will know what house you're in yet. It will be good to have someone my age in the village. There aren't so many wizard families here anymore. See you around, Harry."
Charlus offered a wave and turned, his pace light as he headed off toward the village bakery again. Harry stood rooted to the spot, heart still thudding in his chest.
He had just met his grandfather.
And for the first time since arriving in this new life, Harry felt the surreal weight of the past and future folding in on each other—quiet, impossible, and utterly real.
Harry waited until Charlus was well out of sight before preparing to disapparate. His heart was still beating faster than it should, the echo of the conversation playing back in his head. Charlus had recognized the wand holster. Of course, he had. It was subtle, but not invisible. And Charlus, even at his age, clearly had the instincts of someone raised around magic. Harry didn't regret the encounter, but it left him unsettled—an emotional aftershock he hadn't anticipated. There had been warmth there. Recognition. A spark of something that could grow into friendship, or something more complicated.
He didn't linger. With a sharp twist and a soft crack, he vanished from the quiet lane in Godric's Hollow.
The world reformed around him in the narrow, bustling passage of Diagon Alley.
It was still early, and the usual crowds had yet to swell, but shopkeepers were beginning to open their doors, sweeping out doorsteps and levitating signs into place. The smell of fresh bread and parchment hung thick in the air. Sunlight angled through the crooked rooftops, catching on gold lettering and brass door handles. A witch in vivid green robes rearranged self-writing quills in a window display, while a young boy tugged on his mother's cloak, pointing excitedly at a rack of toy broomsticks.
The Alley looked nearly the same as it had in his own time, though everything had an untouched crispness to it—less worn, less weary. The cobblestones were cleaner, the storefronts brighter, and the sense of looming threat absent. The war that had scarred his lifetime had not yet cast its shadow over this place. It was like stepping into a memory he'd never lived.
Harry took a slow breath, letting the sounds of the magical world wash over him. There were no posters with his face, no headlines screaming about Death Eaters or disappearances. No tension lurking behind every corner. Just life, as it should be. He let himself savour it—this world, untouched, open. Here, he wasn't the Chosen One. He wasn't the Boy Who Lived. He was just Harry Evans.
He pulled his list from his satchel and glanced over it. First: furniture. His cottage was liveable, barely, but he needed basics—a table, chairs, maybe a proper bed. He wouldn't transfigure long-term items; he wanted something real. Solid. Durable. Something that wouldn't vanish if he let his focus slip. His next stop would be provisions: parchment, ink, food, and maybe a few comforts to make the cottage feel like more than a temporary refuge.
As he passed a shop window displaying polished cauldrons, he caught his reflection. The muggle jacket and plain trousers helped him blend in with the earlier crowd—but the holster on his wrist now seemed more obvious in hindsight. He tugged his sleeve down a little more tightly, though he doubted it would go unnoticed by anyone who knew what to look for. He was still learning how to exist in this time. Still adjusting.
The encounter with Charlus lingered at the edge of his thoughts. There had been a moment—brief, but unmistakable—when Charlus had seen him. Not just noticed but truly registered him. And the grin that had followed, full of potential and welcome, stirred something in Harry he hadn't felt in years. A sense of familiarity, of kinship, he hadn't known he'd missed until it hit him like a shock to the ribs.
Belonging.
He blinked the thought away and turned down a narrower lane branching off the main thoroughfare. The shop he was looking for wasn't on the popular maps—Alfred Bitterstalk's Second-hand Essentials. It was tucked between a shuttered apothecary and a boarded-up clock shop, barely marked save for a weathered wooden sign and a brass bell over the door.
He pushed it open. The smell of old wood, beeswax polish, and faintly burnt cinnamon hit him immediately. Inside, the shop was cluttered but clean. Repaired magical furniture hovered slightly off the floor, tagged with glowing prices. Chests of drawers opened and shut rhythmically as if breathing. A small writing desk sat in the corner with inkwells already enchanted, never to spill.
A stout witch behind the counter looked up from a levitating tea set. Her grey curls bounced slightly as she smiled. "Morning, love. Looking for something cosy or practical?"
Harry smiled. "Bit of both, if you've got it. Cottage-sized. Something sturdy."
"Let's have a look then," she said, bustling out from behind the counter. "You've got the look of someone who wants a place to feel like home."
"That obvious, is it?"
"To an old woman with good eyes? Clear as crystal."
She led him to a row of charmed armchairs and started asking about preferences. Fabric, colour, enchantment strength, repelling stains—questions he'd never thought to ask. He answered them all, realizing as he did how badly he wanted this: a place to come home to, something ordinary to return to at the end of the day.
He settled on a few pieces that were shrunk down and tucked away in his satchel.
By the time he got home, there wasn't enough time left in the day to get started with the renovations but he unpacked his satchel with all of the furnishings that he had purchased and stacked them neatly, ready for work to begin.
The sun was setting when it came time for him to eat something. He whipped up some leftovers that Gilly had brought him and smiled. He would need an elf, he thought and he had liked Gilly when she had come from Hogwarts. Perhaps he could ask Dumbledore if he could take her on as his.
He sat in his chair in the living room, staring out the window at the peaceful sunset. For the first time in what felt like his whole life, he was content. Not worrying about looking over his shoulder or facing down an enemy, he was content.
A/N: Here's the next chapter. I'm settling on every Monday for uploading. Let me know what you all think of the real start of the story!