Chapter Text
It started in a bookstore.
Harry would like to point that out to Hermione. All his trouble this go round began with him picking up her books in Diagon Alley, because she was working too many late nights to pick them up herself. He didn’t mind picking them up. It gave him an excuse to try out his latest disguise. He did mind, extremely so, what followed after.
His day started easily enough. No one stopped and stared. No one recognized him as Harry Potter as he ducked inside the dimly lit bookstore. No one begged for an autograph as he dodged flying books and harried parents to get to the counter. The bookseller didn’t bat an eye as he requested Hermione’s books.
He glanced down at the titles, curious to know what his best friend was researching now: Hadrian’s Wall, Myth or Magic? , A Comprehensive Guide to Britain’s Most Magical Places , and Advanced Arthimancy: Level XI . He hummed in thought. He knew for a fact that she wasn’t planning a trip, but the DOM could have asked her advice on a project. The DOM still bristled over the fact that they couldn’t entice her to work for them. She was too determined to see change, to be change.
Even five years after the war, Hermione still raged and bulldozed over anything in her path, setting up new laws and demanding amendments to the old. In just five years, Hermione made herself indispensable in the Ministry and set herself up as the front line for dragging old Purebloods into the bright, tolerant, peaceful world.
No one said no to Hermione Granger.
He paid for the books with an amused grin, stuffing them in his bag. With no need to be anywhere soon and enjoying the respite from fans and haters alike, Harry wandered the bookshelves for anything that might catch his attention.
Since (not) graduating from Hogwarts, since (not) dying, Harry pushed himself to explore more of the magical world, to know more of the inheritance and culture his parents left behind. He still pursued the Auror Acadamy and all remaining Death Eaters, still did his duty as hero and public figure to the Wizarding World, but he found small pockets of joy too. He didn’t want to be an Auror forever. And now, five years distant from the pain and despair, Harry could start dreaming about what he might want to do instead.
So maybe it started with him having hope for a future. Fate was rarely kind to Harry Potter.
He was pulling a book on charm and spell invention when the entire store rocked on its foundations. He stumbled and fell to his knees, his vision blacking out for a moment, only to stand and pull out his wand as his vision cleared.
The lights in the bookstore switched off, either deliberately or due to whatever caused the earthquake, so it took several tense moments for Harry to find the front of the store. He peered out the window, staying low and alert. It took much longer for him to process what he was actually seeing.
Death Eaters.
A dozen, at least, of wix in masks swarmed the street, picking off bystanders and attacking store fronts. Harry’s brain short-circuited at the sight. It shouldn’t be possible. There shouldn’t be any that bold or brave enough to attack Diagon Alley in the middle of the day. There’s no way he missed that many followers, no way he allowed so many to do as they please.
He stood slowly, instincts and training taking over while his mind whirled. Whatever was happening, whatever could have happened to allow this, was something to deal with later. Right now, people were getting hurt.
A scared shopper grabbed his arm, “Stay down, lad. The Aurors will be here soon enough. Stay down and stay out of sight.”
He stared at the older man, half crouched in shadow, and frowned, “I’m an Auror.”
Harry waited for the man to recognize him, to gasp and apologize and fumble over himself like everyone did when seeing Harry Potter, instead the man scoffed and made some comment about his age under his breath, “Still, you ain't much help against a dozen.”
That was true. But as spellfire flashed behind him, Harry didn’t care. People were hurting, dying, scared and Harry was here and able to help.
With a quick apology to Hermione for the reckless thing he was about to do, Harry pushed the door open and rolled to a knocked over table for cover. Mercifully, the Death Eaters didn’t notice the movement, too focused on the manic destruction. He shot several stunning spells at the nearest attackers, feeling grim satisfaction as they fell.
Unfortunately, that attracted attention.
Three others turned towards his hiding spot and it was another battle, another fight, another moment in the tumultuous life of Harry Potter. A few spells grazed his skin, but nothing too debilitating. He kinda zoned out, falling into the familiar repetition of fighting for his life.
That is, until a child screamed.
He downed the three Death Eaters facing him and glanced towards the commotion. A young girl had been ripped from her mother, who begged and pleaded in front of Eeylops. The Death Eater, mask framed by wild dark hair, held the tip of her wand at the girl's head, daring anyone to come close. She wasn’t looking at Harry, didn’t seem to notice him at the edge of the fight, focused more on the Aurors who took their bloody time getting here.
Harry counted the remaining combatants and the scattered Aurors. He didn’t recognize any immediately and couldn’t get anyone to make eye contact to get a plan devised. Harry swore under his breath.
Gripping his wand, Harry rushed forward, casting a spell as he did so. A dome of protection bloomed over the Death Eater and the girl and, with a roll inside quickly, Harry. The movement and flash had the Death Eater whirl and cast at him. It was only Harry’s quick reflexes that kept him from colliding with the nasty purple light.
He stood slowly, cautiously, eyes on the Death Eater, but focused on the young girl, “Just us in here. Let her go.”
Flashes spelled across the dome to accentuate his point and pops of cowards fleeing in the wake of the Aurors echoed down the street, muffled from the dome. A dueling dome was not standard Auror practice, but in a pinch, it could even the odds out a bit. This Death Eater wasn’t going to get any help from her buddies outside.
Of course, Harry wouldn’t be getting any help either, but whatever.
The Death Eater snarled, eyes roving around the circle madly, holding tighter to the girl. The child whimpered.
Harry didn’t fire, didn’t raise his wand, “Let her go. She’s a child and she’s scared. Killing her will just remove any leverage you have left.”
He barely breathed as the Death Eater weighed their options. They could apparate, get away clean, Harry couldn’t stop them in time. They could hurt the girl, take the precious seconds to inflict more damage, and risk getting arrested. They could engage Harry in full battle, assume they were stronger.
A few tense moments of silence, as muted yells and orders filled the space outside their bubble, and the Death Eater raised their wand. In a split second, Harry tethered a summoning charm on the girl, pulling her to safety, as the Death Eater disappeared with a crack.
The child stumbled in his arms, sobbing and incomprehensible. Harry rubbed her back, “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. You were so brave. Hang on, let’s get you to your mum.”
He cast a subtle diagnostic charm, relieved to find nothing majorly wrong with the girl, before dropping the dueling dome. The young mother rushed forward, “Helen!”
“She’s okay,” Harry said, easily passing off the child to her mother, “It’s alright. She’s okay.”
He knew better than to try to pass along any more information with a hysterical mother and child. A mediwix would do better. The mother thanked him in babbles as she stroked her child’s hair. Harry nodded stiffly and stepped back as someone else pushed through.
He straightened and looked for the Head Auror to report.
“What in the realms of all the fates were you thinking, boy?” A craggly older gentleman pushed through the growing crowd until he came face-to-face with Harry.
Harry faltered at the limping figure of a much younger, much less scarred Alastor Moody.
“Um,” was all he could say.
Did he hit his head? Had Harry been hit with some spell to produce hallucinations? Maybe he wasn’t in Diagon Alley. Maybe he was asleep in his flat after consuming a poisoned tea. Maybe George left an experiment in the flat again.
Maybe-Moody scowled, a bleeding gash over what should be a fake eye, “What’s your name, kid?”
Did he lie? Did he pretend this was an alarmingly realistic dream? He ran his hands over his face, over the fake features he put on this morning to go about undetected. He opened his mouth, hoping something would come out when two figures interrupted.
“Sir, Fortescue’s has a curse on it. We could use your expertise.”
Maybe-Moody huffed, wiping blood off his face, and nodded, “Take this kid’s report, Potter. Black, with me.”
What.
Harry’s eyes darted to the two Junior Aurors. Sirius Black and James Potter. Sirius gave a jaunty salute to…to James before following his commanding officer. James Potter rolled his eyes and faced his very confused, very displaced, very terrified child out of time.
“You alright, mate? Need a calming draught?” Hazel eyes narrowed and studied him, “Maybe a mediwitch?”
Yes. Though Harry didn’t think it would help make anything clearer. He shook his head, “No, sorry. Bit overwhelmed. Maybe a bit of shock. Death Eaters in Diagon Alley and what not. The…Auror said something about a report?”
“Yeah. Just need to know what happened, from your perspective,” he said with an easy smile, “Not every day we have civilians in the thick of the fighting.”
Harry bristled despite the strangeness of the situation, “You have civilians in the thick of it every time. That child could have died.”
The possibly James Potter held up his hands in appeasement, “You’re on edge from the duel. How about we just focus on what happened. Alright?”
He pursed his lips and gave a curt nod. The surreality of the situation hit him full force. Here Harry was, being lectured on shock, by his dad, who was currently younger than he was and undoubtedly less experienced. He was giving a report to James Potter to take to Alastor Moody who looks like he just lost his eye. What was his life?
“Great. How about we start with a name?”
“Hadrian,” he said, the first name popping into his head. He silently cursed Hermione and her weird book choice, “I’m Hadrian.”
James offered a slightly calmer smile, “Nice to meet you, Hadrian. I’m Junior Auror James Potter. So where were you when the fight broke out?”
Harry kept the details of his arrival vague, starting with being in the bookstore, ignoring the random earthquake, and then launched into the details of the various duels he engaged until he ended with the fight to save the little girl. It was extremely difficult to think as he stared at his father’s very young and very real and very alive face. For some reason staring at him made Harry want to babble incomprehensibly. James took notes with a dicta-quill, interrupting occasionally to ask a prevalent question or encourage him to expound, but mostly let him talk.
Once he was done, James put away the quill and notebook, “That was some quick thinking on your part with the dueling dome, but don’t expect it to work a second time. Aurors are trained to handle hostage situations.”
Harry really wanted to laugh, but he was a little worried it would come out hysterical and further cement the idea that he needed a mediwix. He nodded, “Yeah, no saving the world for me.”
A voice that sounded a lot like Ron was laughing in his head and Harry pursed his lips from reacting. He needed to get out of here and figure things out.
“You sure you’re alright?” James asked and Harry blinked, wondering how much he had zoned out, “I haven’t gotten my first aid training yet but I don’t mind calling someone.”
“No, no. Well, actually.” He needed a few details before retreating and attempting to wrap his head around what happened. He ran his hand through his hair and tried coming off as harmless and confused, “Maybe. I mean, I could’ve gotten hit by a stray confounding charm. Should probably check my facts.”
James nodded, the tension in his shoulders dropping for a moment, “Right, can you tell me-”
“No, no. I ask the questions to verify. Isn’t that standard procedure?” Harry gave a wide grin, but judging by James’ stare, it missed the mark for ‘innocent’.
“Uh, I think-”
He didn’t wait to let him think it over or call someone to check it out, “What’s today’s date?”
“August 17.”
“Right, right. Good. And the year?”
“1978.”
“78, yeah. That sounds right.” August 17, 1978. He ran the dates in his head quickly. James would have graduated the past May, making him 17 or 18. Wow, Harry had no clue when his dad’s birthday was. Either way, Harry had several years on his dad now and there’s no way to make that not hurt his brain.
James tilted his head, “Say, have we met?”
“Ah, no, I don’t think so.” Oh, this was a bad line of questioning. Harry needed to get out of here quick. “You know, I think I might swing by St. Mungo’s. Just to be sure.”
“No need. I’ll flag down a mediwitch. We always bring one or two with us.” He turned to the street where curious, fearful people slowly emerged from store fronts and alleyways now that the danger had passed.
Harry seized the moment of distraction and apparated. He landed with a low curse in the one place he hoped to never venture again.
The Forest of Dean. Merlin, he hated this place. He hated that he was about to doom himself to camping until this situation, whether a hallucination, injury, or…impossibly, time travel, worked itself out. With shaking hands, okay, maybe he got hit by a bit more than he remembered, Harry pulled out a small piece of cloth and glared as it popped up into a tent. He should be grateful he had the tent on him at all, though camping under the trees sounded more appealing by the second.
“Camping’s the worst,” he muttered, then paced the boundary of the clearing, setting wards on instinct. “Should’ve burned this patch when I got the chance. Fire’s cleansing, right?”
Once the perimeter was secure and Harry was confident that he wouldn’t be interrupted by a suspicious Auror or unsuspecting tourist, he stepped into the tent.
And promptly stepped back out again.
It didn’t matter that the tent looked nothing like the worn out one they used in the war, something he ensured when he bought the thing in a moment of paranoia. It didn’t matter that the tent came with its own yard and high ceilings that he paid extra for. It was a tent. In the Forest of Dean. And Harry was back to being 17 and tired and angry and desperate.
He paced around the tent.
“Right, okay, what are the possible scenarios,” he muttered as he walked, “Option one, this is a hyper-realistic dream brought on by either an attack or accident. I don’t have any memory gaps, so unlikely, but possible. If it’s a dream, I have no way of confirming it and no way to end the dream. Theoretically I couldn’t die, but I’m not gonna test it.”
He was liking that theory less and less. A dream meant he was trapped, vulnerable, stuck in his own mind. And he knew what his nightmares could end like.
“Option two,” he continued, slowly wearing a circular path in the undergrowth, “Accidental time travel. It’s happened before, especially in the early timeturner days. But what was the catalyst? The earthquake? I didn’t notice any displacement energy, but that could have been masked by the attack in the Alley.”
He stopped and stared through the trees, eyes tracking movement of chipmunks and birds darting between the limbs. Time travel was the most obvious option and his instinct said that’s what happened, as much as he didn’t want that to be the case. And he supposed it didn’t really matter what happened so much as it mattered what he would do now.
Did he hunker down and ride out history as a callous bystander?
Or did he try to save the lives he could, the lives he knew would be lost in the next few years?
He snorted. As if there was truly an option. He squared his shoulders and glared at the growing shadows, “Right, where do I start?”