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Chapter 2 (No Prophecy This Time), Chapter 3 (Charm in the Chaos), Chapter 4 (Pleasure, Newspaper, and Three Sisters), Chapter 5 (The Invitation to Hogwarts), Chapter 6 (The Dance of Secrets), and Chapter 7 (The Price of Protection), are already available for Patrons.
The alley erupted in a violent flash of crimson light, reality itself tearing apart as Harry Potter materialized in a maelstrom of dark magic. His body slammed against cold cobblestones, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Crackling energy, red as fresh blood, danced across his skin and cast otherworldly shadows on the narrow walls around him.
"Fuck," he gasped, tasting copper in his mouth. His torn Auror robes reeked of ritual components – crushed moonstone crystals ground into the fabric, burnt sage and nightshade, and most prominently, the metallic scent of sacrificial blood. The ritual had worked, but the cost had been steep.
The ceremonial dagger in his left hand still radiated warmth, its obsidian blade stained with his own blood. His phoenix-core wand in his right felt uncomfortably hot, protesting the dark magic he'd forced through it. Harry's magical core throbbed with exhaustion, but he couldn't afford to rest. Not yet.
"Tempus," he whispered, watching as ghostly numbers formed in the air. 3:47 PM. The time meant nothing without the date, but at least the spell worked. His magic hadn't been completely drained.
Footsteps echoed from the main street. Harry cursed under his breath and began rapidly vanishing evidence of the ritual. Blood traces disappeared from his robes with practiced flicks of his wand. The dagger went into a mokeskin pouch at his belt, alongside the remaining ritual components. Another spell repaired the worst tears in his clothing.
The air felt different here – thicker, heavier with ambient magic. Harry had studied magical theory extensively during his preparation for the ritual, and he recognized what this meant. Modern-day Britain's magic had been regulated, controlled, sanitized by centuries of Ministry interference. This wild, heavy magic in the air could only mean—
"Hello?" A woman's voice called from the alley's entrance. "Is someone there?"
Harry pressed himself against the wall, disillusioned but barely breathing. The woman – middle-aged, wearing robes at least two decades out of style – peered into the alley before shrugging and continuing on her way.
Two decades out of style. The realization hit him like a Bludger to the chest.
Fighting waves of dizziness, Harry edged toward the alley's entrance. The Hogsmeade that greeted him was both familiar and jarringly wrong. Zonko's still occupied the building that would become Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes' second location. The Three Broomsticks' sign looked freshly painted, its design subtly different. A newspaper stand displayed the Daily Prophet, its headlines mentioning Abraxas Malfoy rather than his son Lucius.
"Keep it together," Harry muttered to himself, fighting down panic. He'd known this would happen – had planned for it, even. But the reality of time travel was far more disorienting than the theory.
His legs threatened to buckle as he took his first steps onto the main street. The magical exhaustion from the ritual was hitting him harder now, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision. The red magic he'd wielded had taken its toll, leaving him vulnerable in a time he couldn't afford to show weakness.
Groups of witches and wizards passed by, their fashion confirming what he already suspected. Men in wide-collared robes, women with distinctly 1970s hairstyles. A young boy pressed his face against the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, admiring a Nimbus 1500 – a broom that would be considered an antique in Harry's time.
The residual dark magic clung to him like a second skin. He could feel it, knew others with sufficient sensitivity would sense it too. But cleaning it completely would take time and privacy he didn't have. The best he could do was muddy its signature, mixing in lighter spells to confuse anyone trying to read his magical aura.
"Fresh Chocolate Frogs!" a vendor called out. "Now with new cards featuring Rising Star Seeker Ludo Bagman!"
Harry's head spun. Ludo Bagman, young enough to be a Quidditch star rather than the gambling addict he'd known. Which meant—
A group of students in Hogwarts robes rounded the corner, laughing among themselves. Harry's heart nearly stopped. He recognized the Ravenclaw prefect badge, the specific shade of blue trim that would be changed slightly in 1982. The temporal displacement wasn't just theory anymore. He was really here.
"Steady," he whispered to himself, gripping his wand tighter. "You planned for this. You prepared."
But all his preparation couldn't fully ready him for the sight of Honeydukes' window display advertising "New! Fizzing Whizzbees - Half Price!" or hearing snippets of conversation about Minister Jenkins' latest policies. The past wasn't just a concept anymore. It was real, solid, and overwhelming.
The magical exhaustion made everything worse. Each step required concentration. The red magic had drained him more than expected, leaving him feeling hollow and raw. He needed a safe place to recover, to properly clean away the dark magical residue before someone noticed.
"Watch where you're going!" a wizard snapped as Harry stumbled slightly. The man's eyes narrowed, probably sensing something off about Harry's magical signature. Harry quickly mumbled an apology and moved away, drawing his torn robes tighter around himself.
The Three Broomsticks stood ahead, promising refuge. But Harry knew he couldn't risk it – not yet, not while traces of the ritual still clung to him. He needed somewhere more private first. Somewhere he could gather his thoughts and begin implementing the plans he'd spent years developing.
His gaze fell on the small alley behind Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop. It would do for now. Harry slipped into the shadows, his Auror training helping him move unnoticed despite his exhaustion. Once hidden, he leaned against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes.
"September 15, 1976," he said softly, remembering the date he'd aimed for. "Please let it be September 15, 1976."
He still held his wand tight, the wood warm against his palm. The dagger in his pouch seemed to pulse with residual energy. Both tools of a desperate gambit, using magic darker than he'd ever imagined himself wielding. But desperate times had called for desperate measures.
Now he just had to survive long enough to make it worth it.
Two young witches passed by the alley's entrance, their conversation drifting in.
"Did you hear about the disappearances in Devon?" one whispered, clutching a shopping bag from Gladrags. "Mum says it's not safe anymore to go out after dark."
"My father says it's just Ministry fear-mongering," her friend replied, though her voice wavered. "But he's increased the wards around our house anyway."
Harry listened intently, cataloging the information. The disappearances had already begun. Time was shorter than he'd hoped.
Pushing himself off the wall, he cast a subtle glamour to make his robes appear less disheveled. The street was busy with afternoon shoppers, and he needed to blend in while gathering information. His eyes fell on the spot where Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes would one day stand, and suddenly memories crashed over him like a wave.
He'd stood in this very spot during his third year, hidden under his father's invisibility cloak. Ron and Hermione had been there, arguing about Crookshanks and Scabbers. The memory of Ron's indignant voice and Hermione's exasperated sighs felt so vivid it hurt. They'd been so young, so innocent of what was to come. He remembered pelting Malfoy and his cronies with mud near the Shrieking Shack, the thrill of being unseen, the simple joy of a Hogsmeade weekend with friends.
"You alright there, son?" An elderly wizard peered at him with concern. Harry realized he'd been standing motionless, lost in memories. The old man reminded him somewhat of Elphias Doge, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Yes, thank you," Harry replied, straightening up. "Just... admiring the village. It's been a while since I've visited."
"Ah, nothing quite like Hogsmeade in autumn," the wizard smiled. "Though strange things have been happening lately. Best keep your wits about you." His eyes lingered briefly on Harry's magical aura, a slight frown crossing his face.
"I always do," Harry assured him, subtly adjusting his magical signature to appear more neutral. "Would you happen to know if Madam Rosmerta's still running the Three Broomsticks?"
The old wizard chuckled. "Still? She only took over last year! But yes, lovely girl, doing a fine job of it too. You must have been thinking of old Brendan, her uncle. He ran it for decades before retiring."
Harry filed away this information. Another temporal marker to help orient himself. "Of course, my mistake. Thank you for your help."
"Strange times we're living in," the old wizard muttered, more to himself than Harry. "Strange folk about... best be careful who you trust these days." He nodded politely and continued on his way, leaving Harry to contemplate his words.
A group of Hogwarts students passed by, their laughter echoing off the buildings. They wore the same uniforms he remembered, but the style was subtly different – wider collars, slightly different cuts. One of them could have been his mother or father. The thought made his head spin.
"Focus," he whispered to himself. The ritual's effects were still clouding his mind, making it hard to concentrate. He needed to find somewhere private, properly cleanse himself of the dark magic residue, and begin implementing his plans. But first, he had to confirm the exact date.
He pushed himself away from the wall, forcing his legs to move steadily. The Three Broomsticks loomed ahead, promising both refuge and danger. Someone there would surely have a copy of today's Prophet.
The Three Broomsticks was mercifully dim when Harry stepped inside, though his magical senses immediately registered the presence of powerful magic. His eyes adjusted to find the source – a young witch sitting alone in a corner booth, bent over an Advanced Transfiguration tome. Her dark hair fell in elegant waves around her face, and a Black family ring glinted on her right hand.
Harry's breath caught. For a moment, he thought it was Bellatrix, well, a young one, but no, he had made a similar mistake when he had first seen her, the older version.
Andromeda Black. Not yet, Tonks. The resemblance to Bellatrix was striking, but there was something softer in her features, a hint of the warmth that would one day make her Tonks's mother. She looked up as he approached the bar, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. He felt her magic probe at his aura, subtle but skilled.
"Firewhisky," Harry told the younger Madam Rosmerta, keeping his voice steady despite feeling Andromeda's magical assessment. "Double."
"Rough day?" Rosmerta asked cheerfully, but Harry noticed her eyes flickering to his somewhat disheveled appearance.
"You could say that." He paid with galleons he knew were minted in this era, having prepared them specifically for this purpose.
As he turned with his drink, Andromeda's voice cut across the room. "Your magical signature is... unusual." Her tone was pure Black family aristocracy, but there was genuine curiosity beneath it. "I don't believe we've met."
Harry met her gaze. "Most people can't read magical signatures that clearly." He moved toward her table, noting how her fingers tensed slightly around her wand. "You must have excellent training."
"The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black believes in thorough magical education," she replied, gesturing to the seat across from her. It wasn't quite an invitation – more of a challenge. "Though I don't recall learning about magic quite like what clings to you."
Harry sat down, setting his firewhisky on the table. "Some magic isn't meant for standard education." He cast a subtle Muffliato, watching her eyebrows rise slightly at the unfamiliar spell. "Even for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."
Andromeda's lips curved into a slight smile. "Interesting." She closed her book, revealing its full title: 'Advanced Principles of Human Transfiguration and Metamorphic Theory.' "You're well-versed in privacy charms I've never encountered, yet your core magic..." She tilted her head, studying him. "Pure light, but wrapped in something much darker. Curious combination."
"Sometimes the darkest spells serve the lightest purposes," Harry said carefully, taking a sip of firewhisky. The burn helped ground him. "Your book – studying the theory behind metamorphmagi?"
Something flickered in her eyes – surprise, perhaps, at his quick recognition of the subject matter. "You're familiar with the field?"
"I knew a metamorphmagus once," Harry replied truthfully, fighting to keep his expression neutral as he thought of Tonks. "Fascinating ability. The genetic components are particularly interesting, don't you think?"
"Indeed." Andromeda's fingers traced the Black family ring absently. "Though some theorize it's not purely genetic, that certain magical conditions during pregnancy might influence its manifestation." She paused, watching him carefully. "You move like an Auror, but your magic... what exactly are you?"
Harry smiled, noting how she mirrored Tonks's habit of direct questioning. "What makes you think I'm anything in particular?"
"Please," she scoffed, and the familiar expression was almost painful to see. "Your robes are well-made but damaged, you cast unfamiliar spells with casual ease, and you're practically swimming in residual dark magic while maintaining a light core. You're either something very interesting or very dangerous."
"Why not both?" Harry took another drink. "Though I could say similar things about a Black studying advanced human transfiguration in a pub rather than her family library."
Andromeda's magic flared slightly – not aggressive, but definitely assertive. "Some studies are better conducted away from family scrutiny." She leaned forward slightly. "Just as some magic is better performed away from public view, isn't it?"
"Careful," Harry warned softly. "Those are dangerous observations to make in these times."
"These times?" Her eyes glittered. "You say that as if you're comparing them to other times." Her magic brushed against his again, more forcefully. "The residual energy around you... it's not just dark magic, is it? It's something more specific. Something..."
"Dangerous to discuss," Harry cut her off, pushing back gently with his own magic. He felt her surprise at its strength. "Even with privacy charms."
Andromeda sat back, reassessing him. Her fingers drummed once on the book's cover – a gesture so reminiscent of Tonks that Harry had to take another drink to hide his reaction. "You're not what you appear to be."
"Few people are, in my experience." Harry met her gaze steadily. "Especially those who choose to study advanced transformation theory alone in pubs."
A genuine smile tugged at her lips. "Are you suggesting I have ulterior motives?"
"I'm suggesting that someone with your magical sensitivity, studying that particular branch of magic, might have personal reasons for doing so away from family observation." He watched her expression carefully. "The Black family library has excellent resources on transformation theory, after all."
"You know an awful lot about my family's library," she noted, her tone sharpening slightly.
"I know an awful lot about many things," Harry replied. "Just as you know how to recognize magical signatures that most wizards wouldn't notice."
They regarded each other in silence for a moment. Finally, Andromeda spoke again, her voice lower.
"The magic surrounding you... it's not just residual dark arts. It's something older. Something that feels almost..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Temporally displaced."
Harry kept his face neutral, but inwardly he cursed her perceptiveness. The Black family training in magical sensitivity was clearly even more thorough than he'd anticipated. "Interesting theory."
"Not a denial," she noted. Her eyes fell to his hand, where he'd been unconsciously gripping his wand. "That's a curious wand. The magic flowing through it feels... conflicted. As if it's recently been used for something it wasn't quite designed for."
"All tools can be adapted to necessity," Harry said quietly. "Even if they protest initially."
Andromeda's eyes widened slightly. "That's a rather heterodox view of wandlore."
"Sometimes heterodox views prove necessary." Harry finished his firewhisky. "Just as studying advanced transformation theory might prove necessary for someone seeking... changes in their life."
Her magic flickered – he'd struck close to home. "You're a very dangerous man," she said finally, but her tone held more intrigue than fear.
"These are dangerous times," Harry replied, standing. "Though I suspect you're already well aware of that. Good luck with your studies, Miss Black. I have a feeling they'll prove more valuable than you currently imagine."
He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him. "I don't believe you told me your name."
Harry glanced back with a slight smile. "No, I don't believe I did." He felt her magic reach out one last time, trying to get a better read on him. "Be careful with that sensitivity of yours, Miss Black. Some magical signatures are better left unexamined."
As he walked away, he heard her soft laugh behind him. "Definitely dangerous," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. "And definitely not what you seem."
The Leaky Cauldron's room thirteen creaked as Harry closed the door behind him, immediately casting a series of privacy wards that would make Mad-Eye Moody proud. Ancient wooden floorboards protested beneath his feet as he moved to the center of the small space, their groans mixing with the muffled sounds of the pub below.
"Tempus Revelio," he muttered, confirming the time: 7:43 PM. The red magic still clung to him like a second skin, making even simple spells feel slightly wrong. He couldn't put off the cleansing ritual any longer.
Harry reached into his mokeskin pouch, withdrawing ritual components he'd prepared specifically for this moment. White sage to cleanse, moonstone to balance, and phoenix ash for purification. The ritual dagger came last, its obsidian blade still warm to the touch.
He pushed the room's sparse furniture against the walls, creating space for a ritual circle. Each movement was precise, calculated – skills learned from years of Auror work combined with knowledge that had taken him months to acquire from books that would have earned him an immediate trip to Azkaban in his own time.
"Mundare Sanguinis," he whispered, using the dagger to nick his palm. Blood dripped onto the floorboards, forming the anchor points of his cleansing circle. The red magic reacted violently, crimson sparks crackling in the air. Harry grit his teeth against the pain and continued the ritual.
Sage smoke filled the room as he chanted, ancient Latin mixing with even older tongues. The remnants of the time travel ritual fought against being purged, but Harry had prepared for this. Each wave of resistance met calculated counterstrikes, magical theory he'd spent years studying put into deadly practice.
An hour later, he collapsed into the room's single chair, magically exhausted but finally clean of the red magic's most obvious traces. Some of it would always remain – magic that dark left permanent marks – but at least now he wouldn't set off every dark detector in Britain.
"Accio Prophet," he mumbled, summoning the newspaper he'd purchased earlier. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded it, eyes fixing on the date: September 15, 1976. Relief flooded through him. He'd hit his target date exactly.
The headlines confirmed everything he'd prepared for:
MINISTRY DENIES PATTERN IN RECENT DISAPPEARANCES
Three More Missing in Devon Area - Aurors Claim No Connection
ABRAXAS MALFOY PROPOSES NEW MAGICAL COMMERCE REGULATIONS
"Protection of Traditional Trading Rights Essential," Says Influential Wizengamot Member
DARK MARK SIGHTED IN LIVERPOOL
Ministry Officials Claim "Probable Hoax" Despite Witness Accounts
Harry conjured a desk and chair, spreading the newspaper out while retrieving a leather-bound notebook from his pouch. The pages were already filled with carefully researched timelines and notes, but now he began adding new observations:
"A.B. already studying advanced transformation - earlier than expected. Knowledge of magical signatures extensive. Potential ally?"
His quill paused over the parchment. The encounter with Andromeda Black had been unexpected. He'd known she'd be here, of course, but hadn't anticipated her level of magical sensitivity. It could complicate things.
A smaller article caught his eye:
HOGWARTS BOARD OF GOVERNORS DEBATES CURRICULUM CHANGES
Traditional Families Push for "Return to Classical Education"
Harry's lips curved into a grim smile. He remembered this debate from his research. It was one of the first public moves in Voldemort's campaign to control magical education. The Death Eaters would use it to place sympathizers in teaching positions, spreading their influence to the next generation.
"Not this time," he muttered, making more notes. The wounds of his own timeline were still fresh – the deaths, the betrayals, the countless lives destroyed by Voldemort's rise to power. He'd sacrificed too much, delved too deep into forbidden magic, to fail now.
More articles demanded his attention. He noted each relevant detail:
EXPERIMENTAL CHARMS DEPARTMENT REPORTS FUNDING CUTS
"Budget Reallocated to Traditional Research," Says Ministry Spokesman
ANCIENT ARTIFACTS RECOVERED FROM ROMANIAN DIG SITE
Ministry Officials Refuse Comment on Nature of Discoveries
Each piece fit into the larger puzzle he'd spent years assembling. Harry's quill scratched across parchment as he updated plans and timelines, adding new variables and possibilities. The ritual dagger lay on the desk beside him, a constant reminder of how far he was willing to go.
A wave of his wand transformed one wall into a complex mapping of the next few months. Key events, potential intervention points, people who needed to live or die to reshape the future. The magic required to create the display made his head spin – he was still recovering from both the time travel and the cleansing ritual.
"Master Black returns to the family estate next week," he murmured, marking the date. "Regulus takes the Mark in October. Meadowes family targeted in November." Each event represented both a tragedy and an opportunity. The question was which ones to prevent and which ones to... redirect.
The fire in the room's small hearth cast dancing shadows as night fell. Harry's magical aura, usually bright with raw power, now churned with darker currents. The red magic had changed him, just as he'd known it would. But he'd made his peace with that long before attempting the ritual.
A letter caught his attention – correspondence between Abraxas Malfoy and the Minister's office, reprinted in the financial section. Harry's eyes narrowed as he read between the lines. The Malfoys were already positioning themselves, building influence they'd later use to protect more overt Death Eater activities.
"Your move, Abraxas," Harry whispered, adding another note to his growing collection. "Let's see how you handle someone who knows all your plays in advance."
He sat back, surveying his work. The wall-mounted timeline glowed with magical markers and connections. The desk was covered in newspapers and notes, each piece representing a thread in the tapestry he planned to reweave. His expression hardened as he contemplated what lay ahead.
The wizarding world wasn't ready for someone like him – a warrior from a future they'd never see, armed with knowledge of their mistakes and willing to use any means necessary to prevent them. The light magic at his core still burned bright, but now it was wrapped in layers of darker power, tools he'd never imagined himself wielding before desperation and loss had taught him better.
A clock struck midnight somewhere in the pub below. Harry touched the ritual dagger, feeling its residual warmth. "Time to begin," he murmured, and started writing out his first moves in this deadly game of temporal chess.
Harry's eyes drifted to a small article near the bottom of the page:
HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH SEASON OPENS WITH GRYFFINDOR VICTORY James Potter Scores Record Points Against Hufflepuff
His hand trembled slightly as he traced his father's name in the paper. James Potter. Alive. Sixteen years old and probably celebrating in the Gryffindor common room right now. And with him would be...
"Sirius," Harry whispered, his throat tight. His godfather would be there, young and untouched by Azkaban's horrors. Still alive. Remus, not yet worn down by years of prejudice and loss. And Peter... Harry's fingers clenched around his wand. Wormtail hadn't betrayed anyone yet. He was still just a boy, still capable of choosing a different path...
A sudden, desperate longing seized him – to go to Hogwarts now, to see them all. To watch his mother and father fall in love, to save Sirius from twelve years of torment, to prevent Remus from losing everyone he cared about. To kill Peter and be done with him.
But he couldn't. Not yet.
"Soon," he promised the newspaper photo of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, where a boy with messy black hair waved victoriously. "But first, I need to make sure you all have a future worth living in."
He returned to his notes with renewed determination. The future – his future – would not be allowed to happen. No matter what it cost him to prevent it.
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