The descent down the floors was easy, with his invisibility cloak wrapped around his body. The sight of students carrying the corpses of people he knew made his insides twist with anger and guilt. Thinking about Ron and Hermione made him feel even heavier. How could he even tell them that he had to die? Were they even alive anymore? Harry banished the morbid thought quickly. Ron and Hermione always survived, no matter what. Yet they would not allow Harry to walk straight into his death.
But if Voldemort won here, all the resistance against him would be gone. His death had to come now, and there was no use delaying it; Harry could only pray someone would succeed in slaying Nagini. Otherwise, the immortal Dark Lord would eventually breach Hogwarts and slaughter its defenders. Riddle never forgave those who opposed him. Harry knew that if he tried to say goodbye to his friends, he would lose what little determination he had mustered. So, he trudged on, trying not to look at the grim yet familiar faces surrounding him.
As he passed Hagrid's hut, he couldn't help but remember all those visits to the jolly half-giant. Yet the windows were dark - the jolly half-giant was not here.
The ghastly chill of the dementors covered Harry like a carpet as soon as he stepped into the Forbidden Forest. His limbs started to tremble again, and he knew he could not summon happy enough memories or feelings to create a corporeal Patronus. It seemed that the foul wraiths had not yet noticed him, though. It was weird, especially since they had always been drawn to him. But, he would not look a gift horse in the mouth, especially not now. As he was trudging onward, Harry remembered the snitch Dumbledore had willed to him and the motto 'I open at close'.
It was his first snitch, the one he caught with his mouth.
Harry halted midstep then and gazed at the golden ball.
Could it be?
With some trepidation, he brought the snitch to his mouth. The moment his lips touched the gold, it broke open, revealing the destroyed ring Horcrux encrusted with the chilly dark stone. The Resurrection Stone.
The tale of the Cadmus Peverell was fresh in his mind - the man had taken his own life after speaking to the ghost of his deceased lover.
Harry snorted bitterly; it felt like a nudge from Dumbledore from beyond the grave. A reminder that he had to die. His gaze settled onto the gem-like stone, and a thousand questions ran through his mind - he could see his parents or even Sirius again.
And yet, it did not matter. Harry would meet all of them soon enough. Harry dropped it to the ground and soldiered on.
"Someone's there," a rough whisper was heard nearby. "He's got an invisibility cloak. Could it be?"
Harry stilled as two figures emerged from behind a nearby tree. As their wands lit up, he recognised Dolohov and Yaxley, and his grip on Malfoy's wand tightened. If he would die anyway, he might as well help those who still lived on after his death.
"Definitely heard something," said Yaxley. "Animal, I reckon?"
The duo were less than two metres from Harry and were facing away from him. Filled with decisiveness, he brandished his wand.
Pumping his magic through Draco's wand, he extended it from the invisibility cloak. Harry mustered his fury and aimed at Dolohov first, as he was the more dangerous opponent.
'Ignis Sectum'
He jabbed twice, casting two angry, searing red crescents from the tip of his wand. Dolohov tried ducking and turning, but the spell hit him just beneath the eyes. Harry felt bile rising in his throat as the Death Eater crumbled on the ground, with his brain, skull, and blood splattering on the nearby leaves and tree roots. For a short moment, Harry watched with morbid fascination as the freezing evening air was quickly filled with rising smoke from the remains on the ground. That moment of hesitation almost cost him, though, as Yaxley had managed to dodge the second spell and raise his wand.
Harry swished his wand, and the warning sparks were snuffed out before they could be launched into the sky. With a flick, he transfigured the nearby roots to hold Yaxley's legs, who, in return, sent a sickly yellow spell his way. Harry sidestepped it and angrily retaliated with another cutter.
With his legs bound, Harry's opponent panicked and barely managed to put up a Protego in time. The crimson crescent hissed through the air and tore through the shield as if it were paper, and Yaxley's head rolled down near Dolohov's mangled corpse.
Harry was heaving. His heart beat like a drum, and he felt his limbs go heavy as the adrenaline wore off. He almost made a fatal mistake. If one of them had shouted, or if the sparks had been shot in the air successfully, his location would have been exposed. He slowly looked around as he tried to regain his bearing.
The aftermath made his stomach churn. He tried holding it in but couldn't. Harry ended up kneeling and emptying his stomach right next to the corpses. Channelling his rage into the spells always made him feel emptiness afterwards, and the feeling of hollowness exacerbated his nausea. Could he truly kill more people in such a way?
He vividly recalled the corpses of his fellow students being carried in the Great Hall. It was not a sight he could ever forget, as it was seared deep into his mind. It took him a few moments to get up again and steel himself once more. Every Death Eater he killed now was one Death Eater less for his friends to face. He couldn't help but admire his spell's brutal power. A spell he had spent a few months creating while on the run. Admittedly, more magic was channelled than necessary, but not only had his cutting curse cleaved through bone and flesh effortlessly, but it had cleanly sliced through a third of the thick tree trunk behind.
His cloak had fallen off in the scuffle, so Harry gingerly covered himself again and headed in the direction the Death Eaters had come from. A few minutes later, he finally saw a light. Harry sneaked into a clearing with a bonfire in the middle; Voldemort and his followers had gathered around the roaring flames.
Most wore their masks, while some had discarded them. Two giants could be seen on the outskirts of the group. Nagini was coiled near the Dark Lord's feet. But Harry doubted he could take her out without going through Voldemort first. He might as well try, though; it was not as if he had anything to lose.
Everyone was deathly silent in the clearing, and only the fire crackling could be heard. Faces were filled with apprehension, anger, and even anticipation.
"Dolohov and Yaxley should have returned by now," Bellatrix's voice rasped in Harry's ears and made his insides twist with fury. Even two years after his godfather's death, he could only feel uncontrollable anger when seeing her. All his plans had been forgotten.
His wand slipped outside the cloak, and he channelled all his rage into a silent Ignis Sectum. Voldemort instantly raised the Elder wand, and Bellatrix was simply pushed out of the way of the spell that would have cleaved her in two. Harry inwardly fumed at this missed chance. He started moving around erratically, holding the cloak in one hand. With the other, he was flinging cutting and piercing curses as fast as he could into Voldemort's followers. Some of his spells hit their marks as screams of pain could be heard. He tried hitting Nagini, but the snake slithered away too fast, and he could not aim properly.
"He's here under that invisibility cloak of his!" a furious voice yelled while people were ducking around, casting blindly in retaliation and panic. Chaos engulfed the clearing, and spellfire was flying all over the place. As he kept moving, a few spells came close to Harry, but most of them harmlessly sailed past him or even hit some of their casters' comrades.
"Accio cloak." Voldemort's cold voice sent shivers down his spine. Harry gripped his cloak with both hands, but no pull ever came.
The dark lord frowned and twisted the Death Stick, causing a tidal wave of water to erupt from its gnarly tip in every direction. While Harry was invisible, the droplets of water now covering his cloak were not.
With another flick of Voldemort's wrist, a smouldering sickly red flame in the form of a basilisk formed quickly and lunged directly towards Harry's location. He tried to run from it, but his limbs felt like lead, and the fire was fast approaching. He gritted his teeth and willed his heavy hand to raise once more.
"Protego Maxima!"
Harry poured everything into the shield. For a quick moment, he regretted not putting in the time to create his defensive spell, not that it would have done much against fiendfyre. The translucent shield held for little more than two heartbeats before it broke.
The last thing he saw was the fiery maw rapidly closing in on him, and then searing darkness took him.
"Get up, boy! Breakfast is ready!" Harry groaned at the shrill voice, which he was not supposed to hear again.
Did he somehow end up in hell? Was he going to be tormented by his relatives even in the afterlife?
He groggily reached for his glasses. There was a taste of ash in his mouth, and moving his limbs felt incredibly awkward and tiresome. After listlessly rubbing his face, Harry placed his glasses on and opened his eyes, only to be met with one giant botched blur.
"Bloody hell," he muttered and took his glasses off. Just as he was about to clean them with the hem of his shirt, he realised everything was crystal clear. Harry blinked a few times. Confused, he pinched his hand and then promptly froze.
In disbelief, he looked down at his thin and small arm. His mind felt muddled. As if in a dream, he automatically put on some of the oversized clothes he found in the small drawer in the corner, and his feet walked him to the bathroom.
A small, scrawny boy with unruly hair and piercing green eyes blinked from the mirror above the sink. Dread began to twist his insides, and he felt bile rising. Did he have to go through all of it over again just to die in the end? Was this some sort of cruel punishment for failing to defeat the Dark lord?
Just as despair overtook him, he noticed something was not quite right with his reflection. Where was his scar? He leaned closer and carefully inspected his face but found it completely clear of blemishes. After squinting his eyes for half a minute, he barely saw it. The lightning bolt was still there. But, it was so faded, small, and thin that even with his sharper vision, he would have missed it had he not looked for it carefully.
Harry slowly ran a finger over where the shard of Voldemort's soul had resided and tormented him for the last few years. It did not feel any different from the rest of his face. There was no pain, itching, irritation, or even the slightest sense of discomfort.
Happiness filled him for a brief moment.
Terrible things happen to people who meddle with time.
At the oddly familiar voice, his joy was quickly replaced by terror. Harry had thought this was a second chance for him, a do-over, where he was not a Horcrux and got to live, really live. But when have good things ever happened to him?
Was this even time travel? He was not in his original body, and things were different. For one, he no longer needed glasses.
Harry gritted his teeth. No, things could not be worse than the last time. The only thing left to determine was how far back he was thrown in time.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he needed food. After splashing his face with cold water, he quickly headed downstairs towards the kitchen.
Sitting at the head of the table, Vernon was already hidden behind the morning newspaper. Next to him, Petunia was sipping a cup of tea, lost in thought. Both looked younger and stiffer than he remembered. Harry quickly sat down on the nearest empty chair and discreetly looked at the date on the newspaper from the corner of his eye.
Twenty-fourth of July, 1991.
His cousin was loudly munching on the last pieces of bacon, lost in his own world. Three toasts were left on a big plate in the middle of the table, and a still very young and very fat Dudley quickly grabbed the bigger two, leaving the smallest one for Harry.
Beggars couldn't be choosers, so Harry quickly snatched the last and devoured it before his cousin decided to stuff himself some more. He had forgotten how young Dudley was so fat he looked like a big, human-sized ball. If either his aunt or uncle noticed the lack of glasses on his face, they did not say a word. And Dudley was not exactly the brightest tool in the shed.
Yet neither of the Dursleys even pretended Harry existed, which suited him just fine. Soon after breakfast, Dudley played with his new Smeltings stick. The click of the mail slot and the soft thud of the mail hitting the floor were heard.
Today was that day, Harry realised.
"Get the mail, Dudley," Vernon grunted without averting eyes from his precious paper.
His cousin's round head looked around warily.
"I'll get it," Harry volunteered hastily. He quickly stood and headed towards the door without waiting for a response. He had no desire to trade barbs with his relatives. Not when he was weak, small and without a wand. Three things lay on the doormat. A postcard from Marge, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter adorned by a familiar crest. Harry's heartbeat sped up, and remembering what had happened the last time he was supposed to receive that particular letter, he quickly folded it in two and shoved it inside his oversized pocket.
He handed the rest to Vernon and headed towards his room.
"Don't forget that you have to weed the garden today, boy!" his aunt's high-pitched voice followed him as he climbed the stairs.
Just as Harry entered the room, he stilled. Before the Hogwarts letter arrived, the Dursleys had been content to let him sleep in the cupboard under the stairs, not in the spare room. Not that he would ever complain about not sleeping in the cupboard. Was this a result of accidentally messing up with time? If his accommodation in the Dursleys' house was different, what else had changed?
Shelving the matter for later, Harry carefully pulled the letter from his pocket. Just as he was about to open it, he glanced at the address and froze.
Mr. H. Potter
The Smallest Bedroom
6 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey24th of July, 1991
He had no idea how long he was staring at the dark ink.
Privet Driver number six? Was his memory faulty? Or was this just another change? He remembered the Dursleys lived in Number Four Privet Drive, not Number Six.
He sighed and rummaged through a small drawer in the corner to find a pen and a piece of paper. What would he even write? He knew Vernon would not spare even a penny for him to visit London. Without a wand, Harry Potter was utterly helpless. During the last year on the run, he had grown used to using magic for everything - big and small.
Without a wand, Harry could not call the Knight Bus. And even if he did, he had nothing to pay for the ride. He could maybe try apparition without a wand, but he had never tried it before— not consciously, at least. It would be disastrous if he splinched himself, and even if he succeeded, he did not have his Gringotts key either.
Dear Ms McGonagall,
I'd love to attend Hogwarts! However, I have no money to pay for tuition or supplies, and I don't know where to purchase any of the books or items listed in the letter.
Yours Sincerely,
Harry Potter
He carefully folded the letter, placed it in his pocket, and went to the garden. Thankfully, his uncle's car was gone, meaning he had already left for work, and his aunt was busy cleaning the house for probably the fifth time this week. After looking around, Harry saw a brown barn owl perched on a nearby tree, looking at him expectantly. After waving the owl over, it flew up and landed on the fence before him.
"Bring it to Professor McGonagall for me, please," he murmured as he handed the letter. The owl carefully grabbed it with her talons and gave him an expectant look.
"Sorry, but I don't have any treats for you," Harry shrugged apologetically. The owl gave him the sharpest glare possible and flew away.
He sighed and started weeding the garden under the rays of the summer sun. It was not as if he had anything better to do while waiting for a professor to come, and he did not want to have any confrontation with his relatives.
In truth, almost nobody cared for Harry Potter, but The Boy Who Lived was another story. Hopefully, the letter should raise enough alarm bells for someone to quickly show up because he had no desire to stay on Privet Drive longer than necessary.
After about two hours of toiling, he was finally finished.
After a quick shower to wash off, Harry was in his bed, staring at the grey ceiling of his room.
He wanted to begin planning, but would there be any point if things were different? And it was not like his plans so far had been very successful. The one for planning had always been Hermione. Was she the same? Did she even exist anymore? A sinking realisation slowly appeared in his gut.
His Ron and Hermione were gone.
Even if Ron and Hermione were here, they were not his friends but eleven-year-old children, young and without the experience of all the adventures and difficulties they had faced together.
How many times did the three of them have a close brush with death because of him? Was Harry selfish enough to put them through all of that again? They often survived or got out of trouble only because of pure luck. What if they were not lucky this time? Could he even be friends with children and their childish dreams and worries after all the death and horror he went through?
Was it fair to impose the expectations of the friends he remembered on two eleven-year-old children who had never met him?
The bitter feeling returned as Harry realised they would probably be better off without him. He was strong and more experienced now and would deal with whatever may come on his own without dragging others into mortal peril.
Feeling the drag on his consciousness, he closed his eyes and drifted into the darkness.
Crack!
The familiar sound of apparition woke him up. A loud knock on the front door was heard. Harry quickly got dressed in his cousin's oversized cast-offs and rushed downstairs.
"No, no! I won't have it. I won't have you and your… kind impose yourself on MY home again! You've done enough!" Petunia's shriek could be heard from the second floor. Thankfully, Vernon was at work, and Dudley was out with his friends.
At the front door, he saw his aunt facing the stern visage of Professor McGonagall. His Transfiguration Professor was dressed in the usual emerald robes and a pointy hat.
"You've done enough… you've done enough…" Petunia was visibly upset now and fled towards the kitchen, weeping.
Harry was left at the front door alone with an exasperated Deputy Headmistress. He opened his mouth to greet her but quickly stopped himself. At this point in time, Harry was not supposed to know what Minerva McGonagall even looked like. He was also supposed to behave like an eleven-year-old. How the bloody hell did an eleven-year-old act like, anyway?
"How can I help you, Ms…" he trailed slowly, settling on acting polite. Yes, eleven-year-olds were polite!
"Minerva McGonagall. I'm here for one Harry James Potter," she said.
"Err…that's me." His former… no, his future Transfiguration teacher's gaze slid towards his face where the barely visible lightning bolt scar was. "I'm Harry Potter. Are you really from… Hogwarts?"
"Yes. I am the current Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." McGonagall's piercing eyes did not move from his brow. "I'm here to help you acquire your supplies."
"I don't have any money to pay the tuition, let alone the supplies, though," he replied mechanically.
"Students don't need to pay tuition to attend Hogwarts, Mr Potter," her lips thinned. "Your parents left you more than enough to pay for simple school supplies."
"You knew my parents?" Were James and Lily Potter the same here?
A small yet genuine smile bloomed on Professor McGonagall's face. "Why yes! I taught them myself during their youth. Both were some of the most brilliant students ever to walk the halls of Hogwarts." Just as he was about to ask for more details or just stories about his parents, she took out a small ornate bronze watch from her robes. "Time's ticking, and I'm afraid we have to get going, Mr Potter. Grab my hand."
He gripped her outstretched arm and quickly braced himself. The world suddenly twisted. The feeling of being squeezed through a small tube was unpleasant, but less so than his first time, as he was not unprepared.
He still landed, slamming his legs on the ground unevenly, barely avoiding falling face-first on the pavement. As usual, the methods of wizarding transportation other than brooms did not agree with him. As Harry steadied himself, he saw they had landed in an empty alleyway.
"Quite good for the first-time apparition, most children tend to… lose their lunch," McGonagall finished with a brisk nod. It was not his first time, yet he still felt quite nauseous. "How much do you know about your… situation?"
"Err, the dark lord?" He muttered with trepidation.
"The very same that killed your parents," the older witch shuddered. "Good, I won't need to waste time explaining. Our trip would go faster should you remain incognito. As you can probably imagine, you're somewhat of a celebrity in the wizarding world."
"Alright," Harry agreed quickly. There went his dreams of being a nobody.
"Well then, follow me."
Professor McGonagall was already moving onwards. They quickly walked down the crowded Charing Cross Street and stopped at the tiny, grubby-looking pub that none of the people around could see. Harry remained silent, feeling he might throw up if he opened his mouth again. Maybe it was better to stay quiet. He wasn't sure he could act like a proper eleven-year-old.
"This is the Leaky Cauldron, entrance to Diagon Alley, the wizarding shopping district," she explained shortly before entering.
The inside was just as Harry remembered-dark and shabby and filled with a clamour of wizards and witches.
"Professor McGonagall, leading the muggle-born around again?" The barkeeper greeted them jovially.
"You can say so, Tom. We'll be going quickly," the Transfiguration mistress nodded and dragged Harry to the courtyard in the back.
For a short moment, his heart leapt in trepidation. But the expected attention never came. It took him a few moments, but he finally realised what was happening. Nobody seemed to recognise Harry without his scar and glasses easily. To people, he was just another young boy. He revelled that people's eyes passed over him; the feeling of being unnoticed felt thrilling. There were a few curious glances, but none lasted more than a second or two.
The Professor stopped straight in front of the trashcan and turned to him.
"Mr Potter, you will come here without me in the future, so you should memorise the combination necessary to open the entrance. Three bricks up from the bin and two across to your left. Observe," her wand appeared in her hand, slowly tracing along the wall with the tip and tapping on the final brick.
The brick in question shifted, and the whole wall soon turned into a wide archway. He looked in wonder as the rustic cobbled street was bustling and full of people again. The last time he visited in the summer before his sixth year, only a few hurried souls could be seen across the Alley then, and half the shops had been closed.
"And this is your vault key. Don't lose it. If you do, Gringotts will charge you a small fortune to make another one." McGonagall carefully handed him the familiar small golden key before leading him to Gringotts's silver doors.
As he remembered, the bank was a cold place lined with gold and marble. Both sides of the walkway were lined with tellers counting coins with almost fierce diligence. None of the goblins spared them a glance; all were busy with their sparse customers or shoved their pointed noses into a stack of parchments.
Harry's nausea finally receded just as they stopped before an empty counter.
McGonagall had to cough loudly to force the teller to tear away his gaze from his desk.
"How may Gringotts be of help?"
"I'd like to withdraw some gold," Harry said quietly, handing the key to the goblin, who carefully inspected it with a magnifying glass.
The teller seemed to find the golden key to his satisfaction, nodding curtly and leaning over to look at Harry. "I will get someone to take you to the vault. Rognot!"
"Mr Potter, I'll wait for you outside at the entrance. Make sure you get at least fifteen Galleons to cover for your supplies." Before Harry could reply, McGonagall turned around and headed for the entrance, leaving the stunned boy behind.
Another goblin, probably Rognot, ushered the flabbergasted Harry towards one of the many doors leading off the hall. They entered a familiar narrow stone passageway. Rognot whistled, and a cart quickly zoomed up the rails before suddenly stopping in front of them.
When they got on the cart and flew wildly through the dimly lit tunnels, Harry realised Professor McGonagall was probably not a fan of the speedy cart ride. Even his mind refused to conjure the stern Transfiguration mistress riding on the crazy cart
Looking at the dark depths, he idly wondered how many dragons the goblins had imprisoned down there, never to see the light of the sun ever again. But he quickly banished that thought from his head. What was Harry going to do? The world was not fair, and if he tried to make it so, he'd never get a moment of rest.
The cart stopped, breaking him out of his dark thoughts. The goblin quickly unlocked the vault with his key; it was just as full as he remembered it. Harry looked around in fascination before grabbing a handful of galleons. He stopped, realising he had nowhere else to put the gold coins but in his pockets. Something that he would not want to do, as the galleons would weigh his pants down big time, and he could not go around like that.
"Mr Rognot, do you provide any bags?"
"Five galleons for a normal bag and seventy-five for a mokeskin pouch," Rognot, eyes alight with greed, replied with a toothy smile.
"I'll take the pouch," Harry begrudgingly decided, missing the useful pouch that Hagrid had gifted him for his 17th birthday. Judging by the goblin's greedy smile, he was probably being ripped off one way or another, but Harry had no desire to carry a lot of coins in his pocket nor return to the bank multiple times.
After handing two handfuls of galleons, he got his mokeskin bag and filled it with gold and silver. A few minutes later, he had made a visible dent in one of the mounds of gold coins. Harry had poured what felt like a thousand galleons and a few hundred sickles before being satisfied. The memory of Griphook's betrayal was still fresh in his mind, and he would avoid dealing with the treacherous little buggers as much as possible.
One wild cart ride later, Harry was back outside the bank, where McGonagall was waiting in the sun. She quickly led him to a familiar narrow and shabby shopfront. Harry looked nostalgically at the peeling gold letters on top of the door that read 'Ollivanders: Maker of Fine Wands since 382 B. C.'
"Mr Potter, you go get your wand, and I'll get your books and other supplies."
"Are you not going to come in with me, professor?"
"No, Mr Potter, picking a wand is very personal to every wizard. Besides, it can take a lot of time. If you're done early, wait for me outside," the Professor hurriedly strode towards Flourish and Blotts.
Harry shrugged and entered the wand shop. Just as he passed through the doorway, his skin tingled, and the hairs on his neck stood up.
The store was seemingly empty, but Harry knew better. After a few seconds, he quickly spun around and stood face-to-face with Mr Ollivander. His unusually pale, unblinking eyes stared at him with surprise.
"Good afternoon," Harry greeted evenly.
"Good afternoon indeed, Mr… Potter?" The boy confirmed with a nod as wandmaker quickly regained his bearings. "Ah, you have your mother's eyes. It seemed only yesterday when she was here for her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. A great wand for charm work."
Mr Ollivander moved closer to him, and Harry finally took a good look at him. His last memory of the wandmaker was when he was just rescued from Malfoy Manor and looked gaunt and tired. Yet now he was full of energy, and his eyes were no longer as dull.
"Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for Transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it – it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."
Harry wondered what had happened to his parents' wands. Were they destroyed during that night? Did the ministry have them? Or did they stay on display in Godric's Hollow? He realised he had zoned out and shook his head, focusing on Ollivander's quiet voice.
"...Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful wand and in the wrong hands...well, if I'd known what that wand was going out in the world to do…"
The wandmaker pulled a familiar long-measure tape with silver markings out of his pocket.
"Which is your wand arm, Mr Potter?"
"My right hand."
Ollivander quickly started measuring him with the tape. "Every wand I make has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Potter. I use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two dragons, unicorns, or phoenixes are quite the same. And, of course, you will never get such a good result with another wizard's wand."
The familiar words brought him an odd sense of relief. Soon, the wandmaker went around the shelves while the tape was still measuring on its own.
"That will do," Ollivander said, and the tape crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Maple and dragon heartstring, nine inches. Supple."
Harry picked up the wand and waved, making a vase on the side burst into pieces.
"No, not this one," the wandmaker quickly snatched the wand from his hand. "Beechwood and unicorn hair. Seven inches and three quarters, swishy."
Just as he picked up the wand and was about to wave it, it was snatched out of his hand. "Not this one either."
"Aspen and phoenix feather. Ten inches, fairly bendy…"
"Blackthorn and dragon heartstring. Eleven inches, whippy…"
"Cedar and unicorn hair. Nine inches and a quarter, slightly yielding…"
"Elm and unicorn hair. Ten inches and a half, brittle…"
Harry's annoyance grew alongside the stack of wands and boxes on the counter, yet Ollivander seemed thrilled at the challenge. With that said, he still had not brought out his trusty holly wand for testing.
At least two dozen wands later, it was finally here.
"Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Nice and supple," as soon as the wandmaker placed the elongated box on the counter, Harry grabbed the wand and gave it a wave expectantly. To his dread, his trusty companion felt dead and cold in his hand, and nothing happened. Harry gaped at his holly wand, but Ollivander quickly snatched it from his grasp.
"Not this one either, eh?" The wandmaker looked excited, yet Harry could not muster anything but a feeling of devastation and defeat. "Try this. Cherry and dragon heartstring. Thirteen inches, unyielding…"
"...No? How about ash and unicorn hair...?"
Harry numbly tried every wand placed in his hand, but all felt cold and unresponsive. The pile of tried wands on the counter grew until it became a small hill. Ollivander's excitement slowly disappeared, and his face turned pensive.
"Curious, how very curious. This is a first." The wandmaker paused at the sight of all the discarded wands on the counter. He quickly disappeared in the back of the shop before bringing a big, heavy-looking blue case.
"Ever since I started using unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, and phoenix tail feathers, I have been able to match a wand to every wizard that walked into my shop. But it seems that those cores are fit for you, Mr Potter. Hmm, this will require a different core and a more personal touch." He opened the case, revealing an array of feathers, small bones, scales, and hairs of different colours and sizes. "Personalised wands have been proven fickle or ineffective before, but it might just be what you need."
"I thought the wand chose the wizard?" Harry found himself asking with trepidation.
"That is most certainly true, Mr Potter. During my father's time, however, almost every wand was custom-made. Wizards and witches often brought their magical core, or their parents would, for the young Hogwarts students. Usually, a token they had a close connection to, like whiskers from their favourite kneazle or a mane of a kelpie that a witch had met on holiday. Needless to say, such wands did work, but not as well. They were not as balanced or easy to use as my current wands. Or so I thought until now," Ollivander muttered thoughtfully and scratched his stubby chin before motioning towards the open case. "Here is my collection of interesting cores from when I travelled in my youth. Hold your hand above each one, and tell me where you feel the strongest connection."
As soon as his arm was over the case, he felt a strong pull almost immediately. His hand was drawn to a pitch-black silky hair.
"This one."
"Goodness gracious! I'm surprised that you can even see it. Though, considering your...experience, you should indeed be capable of seeing and maybe even wielding it." Ollivander rubbed his chin again and glanced at his faded scar.
"What exactly is it...?" Harry tried his best to suppress his trepidation; he just wanted this day to end.
"This, Mr Potter, is thestral hair." A tired groan escaped Harry's throat; he wasn't even surprised. Yet, Ollivander looked like a child with a shiny new toy. "I see you're not unfamiliar. The core of the legendary Elder Wand is said to be thestral hair plucked by Death itself! Every wandmaker, even I, have attempted to make a wand with it but with no success. Thestral hair is fickle and volatile, making any wands made with it unwieldy. The story goes that only those who have truly accepted death can master it!"
"Mr Ollivander, if thestral hair is so… troublesome, will I even get a working wand?" The image of Ron trying to wrangle with his brother's wand back in the second year appeared in his mind.
"Fret not, Mr. Potter. It is a worthy challenge, one that I would be glad to undertake. The strong connection to the core would undoubtedly help you." The wandmaker closed the heavy case and carried it to one of the back rooms. Soon, he returned and arrayed a couple of dozen elongated and slender wooden blocks on the remaining space on the counter. "These are different types of woods. Tell me if one of them draws you in."
Harry ran his hand through the blocks. There was no pull this time, but a particularly pale piece felt warm compared to the others.
"This one," he carefully tapped it.
Ollivander was silent for a moment. "...Yew. Wands made of such trees are said to have the power of life and death. I harvested this particular piece from the ancient Fortingall Yew."
Harry gulped. Voldemort's wand was made of the same stuff.
"But this could be said for all wands," the wandmaker continued, talking more to himself than anyone else. "Yew wands do retain a fearsome reputation in the spheres of duelling and curses, and for a good reason. However, that does not mean that you're destined to walk a dark road in the future. I have found that users of yew wands could also prove to be fierce protectors of others."
Ollivander quickly collected all the wooden blocks and rushed into the back room.
"Oh, yes. This will take me quite some time. Come back in an hour to collect your wand," the wandmaker's muffled voice was barely heard from the opened door. Tired, Harry turned around and left the store.
"What took you so long, Mr Potter? You've been inside for more than an hour! And where is your wand?" An exasperated Professor McGonagall asked as soon as he stepped outside.
"Err, none of Mr Ollivander's wands chose me, Professor. He is making me one right now. It will be ready in over an hour," Harry mumbled, feeling a touch of guilt for making her wait outside for so long.
"Come, let's get you your robes." The older witch sighed, leading him towards Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The insides of the store were just as he remembered.
"Minerva, another first year?" a familiar squat witch asked merrily.
"Yes. However, this one seems to be quite picky. He was stuck in Ollivander's for over an hour."
"No doubt making him ecstatic. The old wandmaker loves a challenge," Madam Malkin snorted and turned towards Harry. "Come, dear. A young lady is getting fitted for Hogwarts in the back."
She quickly led him to the back of the shop, where a girl his age was standing on a stool, getting her robes measured by a second witch. There was something oddly familiar about the girl, and Harry tried to jog his memory but did not recognise the face. She was tall–or well, taller than him, with frosty blue eyes, long and curly raven locks, and aristocratic cheekbones.
Was she one of the upper years? But Harry simply couldn't recall seeing her face before, despite the fleeting sense of familiarity.
He obediently stepped on a second footstool, and Madam Malkin slipped a long robe over his head and began to pin it to the correct length. Harry only grew more curious about the girl and wanted to say something. However, the cold and haughty look she threw at him before facing away quickly made him reconsider, and he kept silent. She was probably another one of those pureblood snobs.
After a few moments, he realised he was still wearing Dudley's old and oversized cast-offs and looked ridiculous. This time, he would get clothes of his own, everything else be damned.
"You're done, dear," After a few minutes of silence, Madam Malkin finally finished her work and sent him back to the shopfront, where McGonagall was waiting.
"Come, Mr Potter," she urged. Thankfully, the proprietress had not returned to the counter, and nobody heard his name. He had no desire to be crowded and followed by an overenthusiastic mob for something he did not do. Why almost everyone believed a fifteen-month-old toddler could vanquish a notorious Dark Lord was baffling. Even Voldemort himself had said it was something his mother had done.
"Where next, professor?"
"We have some time before your wand gets ready, and I know just the place to go. There's an ice cream shop right across the street." There was a hungry glint in McGonagall's eye as she looked at the ice cream parlour. Harry scarcely believed his eyes, as he never took his stern Transfiguration professor as a fan of iced desserts. Yet the prospect of indulging in Fortescue filled him with energy and chased the drowsiness away.
Things would not be the same this time, but Harry had no idea how different everything would end up being.
Time ticked by as he enjoyed his ice cream and carefully listened to his Transfiguration professor. His gaze wandered to the street, searching for young, familiar faces. He recognised quite a few, but there were plenty of unfamiliar ones. That didn't mean much, though. Now that he looked back on it, he did not know many Hogwarts students.
"Your father and his friends gave me a lot of my grey hairs," Minerva concluded with a forlorn sigh as she finished her pistachio and strawberry ice cream with relish. Harry was somewhat relieved; for good or bad, his parents seemed to have been the same people. "Let's go pick up your wand, Mr Potter. We've been talking for an hour, and it's getting rather late."
The sun had already begun to approach the western horizon, and the crowds had thinned, leaving the cobbled streets of the alley empty.
"Three hundred galleons for a simple enchanted necklace? Bonkers, the lot of them," a man muttered furiously after quickly leaving a small yet posh-looking jewellery store Harry had not noticed before.
After a five-minute walk, they arrived at the shabby shop front again.
"I shall wait for you outside while you receive your wand, Mr Potter."
Harry nodded to McGonagall, then entered through the door, feeling the tingling of magic on his skin again.
"Greetings once again, Mr Potter. I just finished," the wandmaker greeted him and motioned to the counter.
A lone, elongated box ominously stood there. It was plain and ordinary, no different from the others, but he couldn't feel a sense of foreboding.
What if this wand, too, rejected him? Things had a tendency to take a turn for the worse when he was involved. Harry opened it with trepidation and picked up the pale wand.
The air immediately thickened, and he felt searing heat in his fingers. As he swished, the dusty air was drowned by a tidal wave of black and white sparks. For a short, fleeting moment, he felt full of power, as if he could take on the whole world and win.
But it went as quickly as it came.
It took him a few moments to push aside the vague emptiness in his chest. Stars had appeared in his eyes, and Harry had to blink a few times to chase them away. A parchment on his desk had been set on fire, but the wandmaker extinguished it with a flick of his wand.
"Extraordinary, Mr Potter!" A soft, genuine smile graced Ollivander's face, who seemed unperturbed by his singed eyebrows. "Twelve inches and three quarters, Yew and Thestral hair, reasonably supple. One of my finest creations to date… I myself tried it and received a rather dull yet volatile response. I suspect this would be the case for anyone else attempting to use it, but it matches you perfectly!"
"Thank you, sir," Harry responded after swallowing heavily. "How much?"
"That would be seven galleons, Mr Potter," the wandmaker hummed.
He placed the coins on the counter and paused for a moment. That was quite a paltry sum for something as valuable as a fitted wand, yet he had never considered it. He vaguely remembered unicorn tail hair being sold for ten galleons a piece.
"Mr Ollivander, do you mind if I ask you a question?" After receiving a nod in confirmation, Harry hesitantly continued, "Are all your wands so inexpensive?"
"An interesting query for one so young." The wandmaker rubbed his chin thoughtfully as his pale eyes settled on Harry with interest. "Usually, most children care little about costs, especially after paying. But to answer your question, only the first wands of children under seventeen cost seven galleons. That alone is far from inexpensive. Everyone else has to pay forty-nine galleons to get a wand from me."
"First wand? Does that mean I can take a second?"
"No, Mr Potter. The ministry requires the registration of every spare wand lest the owner face a heavy penalty. And despite not being truly sentient, wands have a sliver of pride. It's nearly impossible for a second wand to choose an already bonded wizard. My creations are not easy to break, but it does happen that a wizard manages to lose their wands or even destroy them," Ollivander's voice was tinged with disapproval, and then his face turned grim. "Of course, there are very rare cases in which the wizard or witch in question manages to change so irrevocably, so drastically, that their original wand no longer responds, and they need to procure a new one."
Harry wondered if that was what happened to make him lose the connection to his Holly Wand. His death? This odd, unexplainable form of time travel? Or maybe even the lack of Horcrux in his scar? He couldn't help but grimace. What if his original wand had only chosen him because of the piece of soul in his head? But no, housing the soul of the Dark Lord did not compare to being tossed back in time to a different dimension.
He shook his head and grabbed his wand. Harry had no way of knowing, and he had spent far too much time dwelling on 'what-ifs'.
His hand mechanically moved towards his back pocket.
Don't put your wand there, boy! Better wizards than you have lost buttocks, you know...
Moody's warning rang in his head, and his right hand froze just as it was about to place the wand in his oversized jeans. The retired auror might have been paranoid, but he had a point. Did he want to risk it?
No, Harry liked his buttocks the way they were, thank you very much.
"Do you have anything… to hold my wand in, Mr Ollivander?"
"I do sell wand holsters, Mr Potter. Anything from simple leather to dragon hide or enchanted bicorn skin," the wandmaker said in his usual soft voice.
"Enchanted how, sir?" He had no memory of wand holsters in his previous world. Was this something unique here, or was he simply ignorant after being raised in a muggle household?
"A notice-me-not, a charm to prevent breaking, protection against misfiring, and more. Invisible to nearly everyone else after you strap it to your leg or forearm, and just by willing it, your wand will appear in your hand immediately," was the quick response.
This sounded darn bloody useful. Why wasn't everyone using wand holsters?
"What's the difference between bicorn leather and dragon hide?"
"Dragonhide is extremely magic resistant, and any enchantments placed on it wouldn't hold for too long if you managed to enchant it. On the other hand, bicorn leather is somewhat physically tough and a great conductor of magic!"
"How much for your finest enchanted holster?" Harry asked as he spun his wand between his fingers absent-mindedly.
"Two hundred and seventy galleons." The amused response had the boy gaping like a fish. So that's why… he had plenty of money, but… this was quite a lot! "My best is made out of the finest bicorn hide, which is incredibly resilient. The enchantments were painstakingly done in a way that would last without fail for many decades, unlike the… cheaper versions made out of inferior materials. A normal leather wand holster with no enchantments costs two galleons."
Harry felt indecisive for a moment. He had more than enough gold, and his vault was overflowing. But if he started spending freely like this, he could quickly end up with nearly nothing. Yet Ollivander would not dupe him.
"I'll take it," he declared as his throat went dry. Harry quickly piled golden coins next to the seven gold coins on the counter.
A few minutes later, the wandmaker looked at the pile of gold before him with exasperation. Harry graciously received a sleek black holster with intricate silver lining and was just about to strap it to his hip.
"From a particularly vicious Bicorn. This one is best worn on your forearm, though you can place it above the knee, be it under or over your clothes, Mr Potter." Seeing his confused expression, the wandmaker quickly elaborated. "The insides are bigger than they look."
Harry quickly attached it to his forearm instead. It felt completely weightless, and he would not even know it was there if he didn't see it with his own eyes. The yew wand, which was longer than his forearm, effortlessly disappeared inside. He cautiously moved his limb; it did not stick out or impair the movement in any way, nor could he feel any additional weight.
With a simple thought, his new wand was instantly back in his hand; it was easier than calling a broom. A smile bloomed on his face as he holstered his wand back in; this was worth every galleon. Harry felt foolish spending seven years without this.
"Do you sell wand-care kits?"
"I do. Oh no, the kit will be on me. Consider it a gift," Ollivander hurriedly said as Harry reached for his mokeskin bag again.
"Thank you, sir."
After handing him a small, varnished box, the wandmaker's face turned deathly serious, and his pale eyes bore into him like a pair of drills.
"There is not a single shred of doubt in my mind that you're destined for great things, Mr Potter. Do not make me regret crafting this wand."
Harry gulped and left the store with mixed feelings and an emptier purse. Deep down, he still yearned to be a normal boy, but it was not meant to be in this life either. He had not started the first year yet, but he already possessed a unique wand with a legendary core, second only to the Death Stick.
As soon as he came outside, the Transfiguration professor asked, "Did you get your wand, Mr Potter?"
"Yes, Professor," Harry absentmindedly nodded.
"It's time to return you home. Hold on tight." McGonagall grasped his hand before Harry could say anything; he was being squeezed through a straw. He shakily landed on his feet, and the professor handed him a standard school trunk. "All your books and the ticket for Hogwarts Express are in here. It leaves at 11 AM sharp, so be there on time."
A loud crack echoed, and a dazed Harry was standing alone with his trunk on the front lawn of Privet Drive Number Six. For a short moment, he realised that his future professor had not told him how to get to platform nine and three-quarters again and sighed heavily.
Harry tiredly looked at the house in front of him and frowned. While it was not the same house as the one in his previous life, it was similar. Way too similar. The only true difference was the address.
Unpleasant memories from his previous life came to the forefront of his mind. Harry had already taken his goodbyes with the Dursleys and intended never to see them again. Hell, even living in a magical tent as a fugitive was preferable to staying in the tender care of his relatives.
A million questions ran through his mind, and Harry was confused and desperately needed rest and quiet. There was this nagging feeling in the corner of his mind that he had forgotten something. His head felt too muddled to come up with any profound plans, but there was a quite simple and obvious solution that his tired mind quickly provided.
Turning around to face the street, the yew wand appeared in his grasp, and Harry raised his arm first to the road and then towards the skies.
26th of July, 1991
His stomach grumbled and angrily twisted in hunger, forcing Harry to open his eyes. He looked blearily at the rustic wooden ceiling and scowled. All he wanted to do was lie down and fall asleep, but his guts' persistent and noisy protests prevented him from returning to the sweet embrace of nothingness. Sleeping without any nightmares or visions was simply blissful.
His hand mechanically wandered towards the oaken nightstand and froze. A small measure of joy rose within him when he remembered that he no longer needed glasses.
Harry forced his stiff limbs to move, got up, and went to freshen up in the bathroom. The cold water jolted him fully awake, and his eyes wandered towards the mirror again. He looked small, scrawny, and pale. A weird sight, especially without the round glasses, but at least he could see properly now. The small details in the lavatory, the faint, barely noticeable scar on the middle of his brow, or every single tear in his crumpled, oversized shirt. Usually, he would be celebrating, but…
He wanted to think this was all a dream, but the pain of pinching his arm was real enough, and the alternative was… being dead. Why him? Why always him? He faced so many perils, fought so hard, only to die, and now he had to do it all over again?!
Anger bubbled up within him, and he wanted to scream and shout and rage against the injustice, but he found himself gritting his teeth, shaking his head, and squashing it all down. Harry knew well enough that being angry solved nothing and that the world was unfair. Crying or sulking about it would only waste your time.
He was already a deft hand at being in a crappy situation and could only accept it as it was and force himself to keep going.
As Harry sluggishly put on his robe and wand holster, an errant thought made him halt. Maybe this was the real world, and he had been having strange dreams from another life altogether.
This made his heart skip a bit, but he realised it was something easily checked. Harry carefully strapped his holster to his forearm, and the pale wand appeared in his grasp again and froze.
He was underage again, and the pesky Trace was probably applied to his wand. But…was it? He had no idea how it worked. He vividly remembered Dobby getting him into trouble in the summer after the first year. Hell, didn't Dumbledore explain that the ministry had no way of tracking who cast the spell, just the location? If he used magic here and now, could the Ministry know that he was the one to cast it and not…one of the adult wizards and witches in the Leaky Cauldron below?
With a grin, Harry pointed the wand at the small candlestick on his nightstand. Swish and flick.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" Harry felt a small pull in his gut, and the candlestick uneasily floated up as he slowly raised his wand. The spell felt choppy, clumsy, and taxing, but it worked well enough.
Casting with this wand felt… odd and different in a way he could not put his finger on, but not unpleasant. It didn't matter. A small yet genuine smile bloomed on his face; his memories were most definitely not a product of his imagination but something he did live through. He stopped the channelling, and the candlestick fell sharply with a loud thunk.
Minutes ticked as he tensely looked at the window… but no ministry owl with a letter appeared. Only the morning sun was shyly peaking over a handful of clouds to the east. All this time…he could have avoided the Dursleys and cast magic freely just by staying in Diagon Alley.
Harry let out a self-deprecating chuckle; he had not felt so foolish in quite a while. At least he had made the right decision to come here.
Yet there was a niggling feeling at the back of his mind; wand aside, spells and magic itself felt different.
His gaze settled on the pale yew in his hand. Harry carefully spun it between his fingers, but it felt awkward as it was longer than his former Holly wand, and his fingers were smaller. Harry grasped it strongly before gently jabbing while twisting the tip of his wand.
"Ignis Sectum!"
His insides lurched, and his wand belched out a small, misshapen streak of fire that fizzled out harmlessly in the air half a second later. Harry, however, fell on the ground, heaving heavily. Large beads of sweat had formed upon his brow, and his heart was beating like a drum, making him feel as if he had been running for hours. His stomach twisted painfully before grumbling loudly in protest.
'Bloody fucking hell!' He cursed inwardly for a few seconds more as he gasped for breath while facing the wooden floor up close.
Nearly seven years of effort gone just like that. Wasted. Harry angrily slammed his fist on the floor, and the sharp pain in his hand jolted his weary mind.
It was not necessarily for nought. All the knowledge he had accumulated from his studies was still there; now, he just had to practice again. And having the ability to cast magic during the summer would help him along even further. But it was not enough. He vividly remembered Voldemort demolishing him as if it were child's play. The memory of Dumbledore's fight against the Dark Lord in the ministry was even more sobering. He had a long road ahead of him.
Shaking his head, Harry forced his weary limbs to get up; he had no idea what to do now. His guts painfully twisted in hunger again, reminding him that he did not remember the last time he had a decent meal. With a thought, the yew wand was returned to the holster; Harry stumbled out of the room and headed down the wooden staircase.
Tom nodded at him as soon as he entered the pub proper. Aside from a pair of old wizards playing chess in a dark corner, the Leaky was empty. Harry approached a table near the fireplace and waved the barman over.
"Mr Creevy," Tom greeted with a toothless smile, and Harry stared in incomprehension for a moment. Right, he had completely forgotten that he had introduced himself as Evans Creevy. "How was yer sleep, lad?"
"Very good, sir," Harry replied, only for his stomach to rumble loudly in hunger, making his cheeks redden slightly. "What's for breakfast?"
"Bacon 'n eggs and shepherd's pie," Tom chortled with amusement.
"I'll take a large portion of both."
As he watched the man move towards the kitchen, the nagging feeling that he had forgotten something appeared again in the back of his head, but nothing came to his mind, no matter how hard he tried to remember.
Voldemort was on the cusp of victory.
But on All Hallow's Eve in 1981, the Dark Lord attacked the Potters in their cottage in Godric's Hollow. James and Lily Potter were easily killed, but when the Dark Lord attempted to slay their son, a fifteen-month-old baby, something went wrong. Nobody knows what or how, and there have been many speculations ever since. The only certain thing was that Harry James Potter survived the Killing Curse, and the Dark Lord was defeated.
He slammed 'The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts' shut.
Lily! Take Harry and go! It's him! Run! I'll hold him off!
Crack!
The sharp sound brought him back to reality. He stared at the nearby vase, which was covered in fissures. His breathing was laboured, and he became acutely aware of the pain in his right hand. It was painfully balled in a fist, and his nails were digging into his flesh, drawing blood. Harry slowly unclenched his hand and carefully looked around to check if someone had noticed his outburst of accidental magic. Thankfully, nobody had seen, so he carefully grasped his wand and spun the tip.
"Reparo!"
Some of the cracks disappeared, but a large portion mockingly stayed. Harry had to cast two more times before the vase looked… unbroken. Even then, when he approached, there were faint lines where the cracks used to be.
He shook his head, wiped the beads of sweat that had formed upon his brow, returned the wand to his holster, and went back to the book. Compared to what he was used to, he got tired too quickly when casting simple magic. Hopefully, this would be easily fixed with enough practice.
It took him a few minutes, but he finally found the entry he sought.
On the third of November, 1981, Sirius Black, the notorious right-hand of the Dark Lord, was apprehended after killing twelve muggles and Peter Pettigrew, of whom only a single finger was left. He has also been rumoured to be the Secret Keeper to the Potters and the man who betrayed their location to the Dark Lord. He resides in the high-security wing of Azkaban Prison, along with the Dark Lord's most dangerous followers.
It seemed that some things did not change. His faint scar was a dead giveaway, but he had secretly hoped things were different. Now, he had to somehow free his godfather from prison in a way that did not involve breaking him out of Azkaban. And that would probably require him to capture Peter Pettigrew. Harry grimaced at the yellow pages, closed the book, and returned it to the shelf. He was unsure if he could be so merciful to the rat again this time. But he had no idea where to start. Was Pettigrew even still at the Weasleys?
He sighed tiredly; another problem for later.
Harry had looked over his school books earlier, and things looked mostly the same. He did not truly remember many details from the first-year material, but nothing seemed different. Last time, he had studied religiously and practised hard for seven years, but in the end, Voldemort was still way out of his league. He could fight his death eaters just fine, but the Dark Lord easily toyed with him. Maybe Voldemort never made Horcruxes here?
'As if I'd ever be so lucky,' he snorted inwardly.
Knowing his luck, Tom Riddle was still alive, after his head, and probably more powerful than in his world. Harry had to consciously fight off the desire to return to his bed and fall asleep or run away from Britain altogether. Ignoring that Harry had never gone outside Britain before, pretending that his problems didn't exist or running away from them did not make them go away. He had ample experience in this regard. Not that he could successfully escape from Voldemort even if he wanted to. Not with the prophecy hanging ominously over his head.
The Dark Lord believed it enough to go and kill a fifteen-month-old baby personally.
Maybe Harry could run away. But where? He had never been outside Britain before and knew no other languages. He could maybe learn, but that would take time, and he had no idea where to start. And, even if he went to America and somehow enrolled in Ilvermorny, there was no guarantee that Voldemort would let him go. Did Harry want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the Dark Lord or his followers?
No! He was not a coward and was done running away!
And the only way to deter Voldemort was strength. The Dark Lord avoided confronting Dumbledore. Harry also remembered that Voldemort seemed just as monstrously powerful despite his training and efforts. Thankfully, the Dark Lord was probably still a shade right now.
Or maybe possessing the DADA teacher…
It would be great if Harry could get rid of Voldemort before he regained his body, but he doubted it. The Horcruxes were hidden behind deadly protections if they were even in the same items and locations as before. The last time, it was mostly luck that Harry destroyed anything.
But what if his luck ran out this time? He would not drag a young Ron and Hermione into this whole mess. Not to mention that his spells all felt shoddy right now.
For a moment, he entertained the idea of going to the Headmaster and securing his assistance. Surely, Dumbledore could do something more with Harry's knowledge from his previous life. Surely, the Headmaster could deal with all the problems on his own?
A strangled scoff escaped his throat, and Harry tiredly ran his hand through his unruly black hair. A few days ago, he would have gladly done it. But now… now he simply did not trust the Headmaster. He wanted to; he truly wanted to have faith in Albus Dumbledore, but… he simply couldn't anymore.
Perhaps he could pretend he was a normal kid, enjoy school, and try and make friends with the eleven-year-old children whose greatest problems were detentions with the teachers. Harry's gaze slid towards a young boy his age who was animatedly trying to convince his mother to buy him 'Quidditch Through the Ages'.
Could he forget the spiral of desperation and terror he had experienced in the last three years? For a short moment, he imagined himself sitting there, trying to convince Lily Potter to buy him his favourite book…
But such a thing would never come to pass.
Harry Potter would never see his mother and father because they gave their lives so he could live.
Magic is Might!
A forlorn sigh tore from his lips, and he shook his head. Harry grimaced and looked at the vast shelves laden heavy with all sorts of books. Doing what he did last time would not cut it. If the standard books of spells were enough to defeat the Dark Lord, he would have been apprehended by a pair of Aurors. His self-made spell was all well and good, but Voldemort had simply stepped out of the way. Harry needed something different. Something more.
Nearly two hours later, Harry left Flourish and Blots with a loaded trunk. He had forced himself to fork out another three hundred galleons for an enchanted trunk with a vast library space that could fit hundreds of tomes and another two hundred galleons to buy every book that seemed remotely useful.
It was early afternoon outside, and the cobbled streets were brimming with people. Harry walked slowly and relished in the hubbub as nobody even spared him more than a glance. In front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, he even saw a young man, probably just out of Hogwarts, fully dressed in black leather and surrounded by a group of swooning witches. He was quite pretty, better looking than the fraud Lockhart even. Then, the man's hair lengthened and changed from black to silvery, and if you asked Harry later, he would deny gaping like a fish out of water.
"Eros, marry me!" A red-haired witch shouted, and Harry almost choked while the other witches went crazy.
The man simply smiled, pulled the redhead and kissed her deeply, eliciting sighs and squeals from the crowd.
It took him a few moments, but Harry quickly rushed away, unwilling to watch this… show any further. And who the hell would name their son Eros?
A few moments later, the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something important appeared again. He had his wand and his ticket for the Hogwarts Express. Harry had carefully checked his trunk earlier; McGonagall had purchased all his necessary school supplies, from pewter cauldrons to dragonhide gloves.
So if he had everything, what in the bloody hell was he missing?
A moment later, Harry froze on the spot, face rapidly paling. He spun around and rushed towards the Eeylops Owl Emporium. How the bloody hell could he have forgotten about Hedwig?!
Author's endnote:
Spoiler