Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry groaned, coughing a little as he forced his eyes open. He felt like he’d swallowed every particle of dust in his vicinity, and he grimaced at the taste still lingering on his tongue. There was a high pitching sound in his ears, and the hard floor was digging into his back in a very uncomfortable way. He could see nothing but darkness, and if he didn’t count the ringing in his ears, everything was silent.

What happened? Where was everyone?

Where was he?

He closed his eyes again, trying to focus. It was difficult to break through the fog in his mind, and he struggled to make sense of his thoughts. They’d been at the Department of Mysteries, he remembered that. He remembered being ambushed by Death Eaters too, and… He ground his teeth together, trying to recall what had happened next. The time room. Yes, he, Hermione, and Neville had run into the time room, and then… He frowned.

Everything felt a lot less clear from that point on, but if his blurred memories could be trusted, one of the Death Eaters had attacked Hermione, and Harry had tackled him to the floor. He'd been a little too late, and his spell had missed Hermione by an inch and hit the case with the time turners. And then… There'd been an explosion with debris flying everywhere, and that was the last thing he remembered.

And now he was… Where? He sat up, groaning as pain shot up his neck and to the front of his head. The world around him spun, his stomach lurching. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he pulled his legs to his chest and leaned his forehead on his knees as he tried to breathe through it. Tendrils of panic squeezed at his chest. He had no time for this. He had to find his friends. The Death Eaters…

The nausea subsided after a few moments, and he slowly lifted his head again, testing the waters. The vertigo picked up, but it was nowhere near as bad as before, and Harry allowed himself to sit up straighter. His hands anxiously reached for his pockets, and he sighed in relief when his fingers bumped against his wand. He quickly pulled it out. “Lu…” he croaked, coughing. Clearing his throat, he tried again: “Lumos.” The end of his wand lit up, and he raised it as far up as he could, looking around.

He was in some kind of a library, surrounded by towering bookcases with leather covered books squeezed onto the shelves. It smelled like moisture and dust, and he coughed again, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Whatever this place was, it couldn’t have been frequented often. The floor and the shelves were covered with a thin layer of dust, and he could see a thicker layer over some of the books. 

Bracing himself, he slowly climbed to his feet, swaying as the room spun around him again. He grabbed the nearest bookshelf for balance, grinding his teeth in frustration as he waited for the episode to pass. He really really had no time for this.

His body, unfortunately, didn’t care whether he had the time or not, and the vertigo persisted as he made slow, careful steps down the aisle, leaning on the shelves for balance. He had no idea if he was going in the right direction, but he should find a wall if he walked in a straight line, and a wall should lead him to the exit.

The room was large but not that large, and he reached the wall after a minute or two of walking. Okay, now follow it. This part was a bit more difficult with bookcases standing perpendicular to it and obstructing his way, but he managed it, soon stumbling across a simple wooden door. He pushed on the handle, his shoulders sagging in relief when it opened, revealing a dark hallway.

No, not a hallway. The hallway. The one they’d passed on their way to the Department of Mysteries. Harry bit the insides of his cheeks. That made no sense. He paused at the threshold, shaking his head then wincing as the pain shot through it. He took a deep breath. Shit. Okay. It couldn’t be the same hallway. There'd been no sign of the weird library/archive room he’d woken up in on their way in, and now that he thought about it, the door looked different too. The one here was wooden, a little beat up, and a far cry from the intimidating black door that led into the Department of Mysteries.

Harry frowned, stepping into the black-tiled hallway as he considered the possibilities. He was clearly still in the ministry, but maybe he’d been apparated a level above or below level nine? That was possible, right? Yes, he decided. Definitely possible.

He tried to ignore the nagging feeling of wrongness as he hurried down the hallway, walking as fast as his injuries would allow. He stumbled inside the elevator and leaned against the wall, having to rest for a moment before he could focus on the buttons. The tendrils of panic in his chest tightened when he realized the button for level nine was missing.

Was he still on level nine after all? He glanced back at the hallway, trying to think through his mounting panic and confusion. He could see the door at the end of it, and it was still wrong. He didn’t have to walk back there to know it would take him to the library/archive room and not to the Department of Mysteries. So, what now? He hesitated, then punched the button for atrium, deciding he had no other choice but to try to return to level nine from there.

The door creaked as it closed, and the elevator lurched before moving upwards. Harry almost lost his balance, barely managing to catch himself against the wall in time. Staying on his feet as the elevator shook and vibrated was a struggle, and he let out a huge sigh of relief when it finally spat him out in the atrium. The feeling didn’t last long, turning into horror once he saw where he was. It was the atrium, no doubts about it, but it looked different.

The peacock blue of the ceiling was gone, as were the gleaming golden symbols. Instead, the ceiling was the same dark brown as the paneled walls on both sides of the atrium. The fireplaces looked the same, but there were fewer of them, and the security stand had been exchanged for a heavy table, made from the same kind of wood than the walls. A number of armchairs and a small circular table stood nearby, Harry’s attention attracted by the newspaper lying on top of it.

The war rages on, spelled the title on the first page, and Harry blinked, reading on. Grindelwald and his allies march toward the North of France, and it is only a matter of time before the war fully reaches Britain. Harry stopped reading. Grindelwald? Who was Grindelwald? He’d heard the name before, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t remember where.

Grindelwald, Grindelwald. Right. Binns mentioned him in passing when he tried to sell them on taking History for N.E.W.T.s.

Harry swallowed, swaying a little when another bout of dizziness hit him. The newspaper slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, but not before he saw the date on the upper right corner. 23^rd of August 1942. Harry exhaled, bringing his trembling hand to his eyes to rub them. He held them closed for a second, two, his shallow breaths loud in the silence of the atrium.

Please say 1996, please say 1996. He forced himself to take a deep breath before prying his eyes open again, rechecking the date. It didn’t change. It still said 23^rd of August 1942.

Harry let out something between a whine and a laugh before half-running half-stumbling toward the exit. There had to be an explanation for all this, one that wasn’t… Someone must have left an old copy of the Daily Prophet in the atrium, and the Ministry looked so different because… Maybe it was spelled to change depending on the hour of the day?

His explanation didn’t make much sense, but it made more sense than time travel.

He practically fell through the door, ending up directly on the street. There was no sign of the telephone booth anywhere, but other than that, the Ministry building didn’t look any different. The same went for most of the street it was on, but the street lamps were wrong, and the road was too narrow.

London was a city that never slept, but now it was dark and empty, silence settling over it like a blanket.

Harry swallowed, moving down the street. He turned the corner, and then another one, but he didn’t make it far before he was forced to accept reality. This was the London he knew, but also not. Familiar buildings stood next to unfamiliar ones, the display windows advertised clothing styles that were long out of fashion, and the only car that drove past him was of a model so old that it barely looked like a car.  

It was impossible to deny it any longer.

He had traveled back in time.

Now what?

Harry would have paced up and down the street if he could, too jittery to sit still. He was too dizzy to move around though, so he was forced to make do by slumping against a nearby wall and anxiously fidgeting with his wand while he pondered his next move.

He had half a mind to storm back into the ministry, find the Department of Mysteries, get his hands on a time turner, and... Then what? He buried his head into his shaky hands, letting out a frustrated sigh. As far as he knew, time turners could only take you back in time, not forward. He could try to recreate the explosion, but that might take him even further back instead of returning him home.

He could think of no other way to get back to the future, and he couldn’t stay here, on the street, indefinitely. Dawn was approaching, and the street would soon be filled with muggles. He had to get out of here before that and find some place where he could stay until he figured things out.

Worrying at his lower lip, he studied his surroundings, trying to decide what to do. Leaky Cauldron was his first thought, but to stay there he would need money, which… He nervously patted his pockets, his shoulders slumping in relief when he touched the edge of his wallet. There should be at least 10 galleons inside, which should tie him over for some time.

Now, how to get there? He didn’t know the way, and it was probably too far to reach on foot anyway. He wasn’t sure about public transport. Was the subway already operating? Were taxis a thing? Buses?

Buses.

Maybe… Wincing, he pushed away from the wall and stumbled to the edge of the pavement. He had no idea if the Knight Bus already existed at this time, but he supposed it was worth a shot. He raised his hand, holding his breath as he waited. A second passed, then two, and then a violet triple decker bus appeared from out of nowhere, its brakes squeaking as it stopped next to him.

It looked exactly as he remembered, and Harry stared at it for a moment before snapping out of his daze and quickly dragging himself up the steps. The driver was an ancient looking man with thin white hair and thick glasses, squinting at him. “Young people and your fashion,” he grumbled, shooting a disapproving look at Harry’s outfit. Harry looked down, at his jeans and t-shirt, realizing his outfit probably wasn’t exactly 1940s approved.

He flashed the wizard an awkward smile, and the man clicked his tongue. “Where to then?” he asked.

“Uh,” said Harry, “the Leaky Cauldron.”

“That’ll be two sickles. Three if you want hot chocolate with it, and four if you want a toothbrush and a hot water bottle too.”

Harry’s stomach was too unsettled for hot chocolate, and brushing his teeth was the furthest thing on his mind right now, so he offered the driver two sickles. The driver accepted them, waving him away, and Harry quickly sat down on the nearest bed, doubting he’d be able to stay on his feet at all once they started moving.

He looked up and down the aisle. An old witch was snoring a few beds down, but otherwise, the bus was empty. He leaned back, grabbing onto the edge of the bed when the bus lurched forward, almost hitting a street lamp. It jumped backwards, and then they were on their way.

The driver turned out to be much better at his job than Stan, which was quite something considering he clearly couldn’t see very well, squinting at the road. He grumbled something under his breath every once in a while, but he didn’t try to start a conversation, which Harry was grateful for. He was too busy trying to keep his dinner in his stomach to talk, the vertigo and nausea returning with vengeance soon after they’d started moving.

He was surprised that he managed to get off the bus without face planting on the ground after they'd arrived, and he slumped on the sidewalk, trying not to move as he waited for the episode to pass. He felt a little better after a few minutes, and he took slow, tentative steps toward the entrance into the pub. It looked the same as he remembered on the outside, and its interior hadn’t changed much either, as shabby and gloomy as ever.

What did change was the bartender, Tom replaced by a strong young wizard. Or actually, Harry realized when he walked closer and noticed the familiar set of eyes, that was Tom. He was just fifty years younger. Of course. He swallowed. The reality of his situation clearly hadn’t quite set in yet.

“Good morning,” bellowed Tom, nodding at him.

“Go…” Harry cleared his throat. “Good morning. I need a room for…” He paused. “…the following week.”

Tom nodded. “That’ll be seven sickles.”

Harry paid, accepted the keys to room 111, and made the slow, difficult journey up the stairs and down the hall. Unlocking the door, he headed straight to the bed without paying attention to anything else on his path. He barely had the energy to kick off his shoes before climbing in, burying himself under the covers and closing his eyes.

He woke up 13 hours later, feeling marginally better but still at a loss on how to get back home. He thought about it at length, forcing himself to recall everything he knew about time travel. It was pathetically little. Time turners were the only method he knew of, and they couldn’t take you far back. Definitely not 50 years far back.

And they could be dangerous. The warnings about the consequences of messing with time flashed in his mind, and he anxiously picked at his cuticles as he stared out at the rainy, foggy London. Back in his third year, when and Hermione had used a time turner, everything they had done in the past had shown in the future they’d already lived through. Applying the same logic to his current predicament, his foray into the past should have already influenced the present he’d left behind.

He shouldn’t be able to change the timeline, not according to those parameters, but something about the entire thing nagged at him, and he suspected it wasn’t quite as simple. They’d only traveled three hours in the past back then, and they’d used a time turner. Right now, he was 50 years in the past, and the way he’d come here was unclear. His theory might not apply, which meant his actions might influence the timeline, and the future he returned to – if he managed to return at all - might not be his future anymore.

If he played around too much, he might erase himself out of existence.

Or his friends might never be born.

His friends, whom he really wished were here right now. Hermione would know what to do, and Ron would lighten the mood, making them all feel better about being stuck in the past. Without them here, Harry felt hopelessly lost and alone, and his chest tightened every time he thought about them, dread rising in the pit of his stomach when he remembered how he’d left them. He hoped they were okay. He hoped he could find his way back to the moment of the explosion or just before, so he could help them deal with the Death Eaters. It was his fault they were in danger, and it was on him to fix it. He would never forgive himself if something were to happen to any of his friends because of his stupidity.

He had to find a way back home, and until he did, he should avoid making any changes to the timeline, in case his actions did influence the future. It would be safer to stay invisible and unnoticed, and pulling it off shouldn’t be so hard. He was not famous here, and there were no official records of him. It was like he didn’t even exist.

Which could be, as he came to realize, a bit of a problem. He didn’t know how long he would be stuck here, and the money was going to run out eventually. He would need a place to sleep, food, and if he ever wanted to go back home, access to resources that could help him figure out how.

With other words; he had to find a way back to Hogwarts.

He had half a mind to send a letter to the headmaster right away, begging him to admit him, but he knew he couldn’t be so reckless. He needed a backstory first, a background that could adequately explain where he’d come from and why he'd never attended Hogwarts before, and to create it, he would probably have to learn a bit more about the 1940s. He could avoid that if he pretended to be a muggleborn, but it would never work. He knew too much magic to pass for one, and they would have enrolled him at eleven if that had been the case.

No, he needed a magical background, and he had to learn enough about current events and way of living to come up with one that made sense. And well, he really wished Hermione was here. She’d know all about life in the 40s already, while Harry had to start from the grounds up, skulking around Diagon Alley as he tried to collect as much relevant information as possible.

Thankfully, the Alley seemed mostly unchanged, though there were a few stores he didn’t recognize, and the building where Eeylops Owl Emporium used to be now held a shop that sold bats.

Harry spent a few hours at Flourish and Blotts, inspecting the tomes on sale and searching for anything useful. He had to change his area of operation for a nearby secondhand bookshop once the clerk gave him one suspicious look too many, and then to another one. And another one after that.

He probably checked every single bookstore on Diagon Alley in his first three days there, but none of what he found was helpful, the books too numerous to parse through and he too unskilled at research to be effective. He had more luck with the newspaper, buying a copy of the Daily Prophet every morning. He parsed through each from beginning to end, paying extra attention to the articles on the first page. They covered the war at length, and he was soon able to put together a loose timeline of events. The war was mostly contained on the continent for now, but Britain wasn’t fully exempt, and there'd been a few disastrous acts of terrorism performed by Grindelwald’s sympathizers.

Which, Harry supposed, he could use.

He wasn’t a good liar, so he should probably stick as close to the truth as possible when creating a backstory for himself. So, he could say he was a half-blood, his parents died when he was a baby, and he’d been raised by his relatives. The relatives were killed in one of the aforementioned terroristic events, and Harry had been left all alone in the world. He had no money, and he needed both a place to stay and a way to further his education. Hogwarts was his best bet, and he hoped they’d have him.

It wasn’t perfect, but it’d have to do. He just had to remember to keep it general and not go into too many details if he could avoid it, so he didn’t mix anything up. He wrote the letter that evening, addressed it to the headmaster of Hogwarts and dropped it at the Post Office, hoping it would get him through the door.

Three days later, he stood in front of the mirror, wearing the secondhand robe he’d bought after finding himself on the receiving end of a few too many disparaging looks. He anxiously tried to brush down his hair, ignoring the mirror’s mocking cackling. “When pigs fly, dear,” it quipped when the strand of hair he’d just smoothed down jumped upwards again. He groaned, throwing in the towel.

Clearly, there was nothing he could do to make himself more presentable, but looking like a war-torn orphan might actually work in his favor today. It might help him sell his story and buy him enough sympathy to get enrolled. He absently rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well, too jittery and on edge, and he hadn’t been paying much attention to his meals, barely remembering to eat at all.

“You look well,” said the mirror, “for an inferi.” Harry grimaced, shooting it an unimpressed look.

He slammed the door shut on his way out, traipsing down the stairs. He paused on the landing, bracing himself before walking into the main part of the pub. His eyes swept over the room, searching for anyone that could be a Hogwarts professor. He didn’t really know who he was meeting. Headmaster Dippet had informed him that he would send his Deputy to him without mentioning any names. Not that names would help. Harry probably wouldn’t recognize any anyway.

The pub was mostly empty at this time of day. Two older witches drank behind the counter, and a middle-aged wizard ate a late lunch at one of the tables. And there was someone else at the table in the back. Harry hesitated, then circled the counter, assessing the wizard as he walked to where he was sitting. He was halfway there when he realized he knew him. Professor Dumbledore. His hair was shorter, auburn instead of white, and his skin was smoother, with fewer wrinkles. His eyes were the same shade of blue Harry remembered, but there was no familiar twinkle in them, not even when he lifted his head and their gazes met. Instead, the look in his eyes was neutral, almost wary.

It gave Harry a pause, but he pushed through it, drawing attention away from his moment of hesitance by speaking up. “Are you the professor I'm supposed to meet?” he asked.

“Just the one,” said Dumbledore, his lips turning upwards. He smiled in a familiar way which loosened some of the tension in Harry’s shoulders. “Mr. Evans, I presume?”

A moment passed before Harry connected the name to himself, dipping his chin. Potter was a common muggle name, but he knew he couldn’t keep it. He looked too much like his relatives, and introducing himself as Harry Potter was sure to raise questions he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t afford to draw that kind of attention to himself. Evans was safe while still connected to him, and it made sense to use it instead.

It would still take some time to get used to it.

“My name is Albus Dumbledore, I’m not sure Armando mentioned that in his letter,” said Dumbledore, motioning to the spot opposite him. “Please sit.”

Harry obeyed, lowering himself on the bench. Unsure what to do with his hands, he fidgeted with his sleeves for a bit before clasping them on the table.

Dumbledore watched him in silence, his eyes lingering on his hands before moving to his face. “I'm sorry to hear about your relatives,” he said after a while. His expression was sympathetic enough, but the look in his eyes was appraising, and Harry shifted in discomfort, nodding.

He wanted to tell him the truth. This could be the opportunity to come clear, ask for help getting back home, because if someone could find a way, it was Dumbledore. But… something made him hesitate. Dumbledore had ignored him this year, making him realize he couldn’t always count on him, and that had been his Dumbledore. This Dumbledore was a stranger, and Harry had no way of knowing how he would react. Would he even believe anything he said? His story was absurd, and he had no proof. Making the wrong choice could be disastrous; he couldn’t afford to end up in St. Mungo’s, not if he ever wanted to make it back home.

Silence stretched, neither of them saying anything, and then Dumbledore’s lips pulled upwards, the tension between them dissipating. “Well then,” he said, “let’s move to the matter at hand.” He looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “You wish to attend Hogwarts.”

“I… yes.” Harry swallowed, hesitating. “I don’t really have anywhere else to go.” His voice came out more honest and vulnerable than he’d intended it to and he winced, averting his gaze.

He really did have nowhere else to go, did he? He clenched his hands, his chest squeezing at the thought.

“Hogwarts has been a home away from home for many witches and wizards before you, and it can be yours too, Mr. Evans,” said Dumbledore after a short pause, his voice soft.

Harry’s shoulders slumped, and he flashed him a tentative smile. Dumbledore returned it. There was still no twinkle in his eyes, but his expression was warm and familiar, and Harry found himself relaxing a little.

“How old are you?” asked Dumbledore.

“I…” Harry paused, having to think about it. “16. In July.”

Dumbledore nodded, lacing his fingers together before him as his expression turned contemplative. “Under normal circumstances, that would put you in 6^th year,” he said, looking at him with serious eyes. “However…” He paused. “You haven’t completed your O.W.Ls. yet, so I’m afraid I can put you any higher than fifth.”

Harry frowned. He’d almost completed his fifth year at Hogwarts, and what a disaster of a year it had been. He didn’t like the thought of having to repeat it, but it was probably for the best. His only goal was to find a way back home, and it’d be easier to give it his undivided attention if he didn’t have to worry about classes.

He nodded. “That’s okay,” he said.

A few details still had to be smoothed out after that, but the discussion was brief, and twenty minutes later, Harry was left sitting alone at the table, with an acceptance letter, a pouch filled with money, and written instructions on how to get to the Hogwarts Express on the 1^st before him.

Harry arrived a little before half past ten, slipping between students and parents alike as he made his way down the platform. His gaze swept over a group of friends standing in a circle nearby, laughing at something, lingered on a mother fixing her daughter’s coat, then moved along, over a number of other witches and wizards. It was such a familiar sight that he would almost believe he was back in 1996 if it weren’t for the period appropriate attire of the people around him. Most wore muggle clothing to blend in with the crowds at the station, and the scene reminded him of an old postcard. It made him feel even more out of place, and he hurried toward the train, wanting to be out of sight as soon as possible.

He climbed into the first carriage he reached, walking past multiple occupied compartments before he found an empty one. Slipping in, he shut the door behind him, letting out a relieved breath. He dragged his trunk to the middle of the space, fishing out a robe and pulling it on. It was probably too early to get changed, but he wore his jeans and t-shirt to the station, and his attire had attracted a bit too much attention for his liking. He wanted to go back to invisible as soon as possible.

After that was done, he heaved his trunk on the luggage rack and collapsed on the nearest seat. Exhaustion pressed down on him, and he felt a little like a ragdoll that’d been shaken one too many times. He leaned back, closing his eyes. Maybe a moving train would help, and he’d be able to get more than the few hours of restless, fragmented sleep he’d been getting ever since falling back in time.

Luck wasn’t on his side, however, and a little after the train had started moving, he was roused by the sound of the door opening. Two heads peeked in, and Harry blinked, having to do a double take. Both of the newcomers had red hair, and Harry almost mistook them for the Weasley twins. “Sorry,” said the more tidy one, an apologetic smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Are you expecting anyone? Or can we come in? The train’s rather full.”

Harry wasn’t in the mood for company, but he couldn’t turn the newcomers away, motioning to the seats with his head. “Go ahead,” he said.

The gingers smiled at him before sauntering in, closing the compartment door behind them. “I’ve never seen you before,” said the wizard who hadn’t spoken yet, lifting his eyebrows at him. He had hazel eyes, as opposed to the other's blue ones, and he looked a little less put together, his hair messy and shirt left half-undone.

“Oh,” said Harry. “I’m new.”

“Hi new, I’m Ignatius Prewett.” The redhead stuck out his hand, and Harry blinked at it before remembering to shake it.

“Harry P… Evans,” he said, suppressing a wince at his almost-mistake. He’d have to be more careful when introducing himself.

The other ginger gave Prewett a flat look.

“What?” said Prewett, flashing his friend an unapologetic smile. “I couldn’t not take the opportunity when it presented itself so nicely.”

The other ginger rolled his eyes before turning to Harry. “Ignore him,” he advised. “His humor leaves a lot to be desired.” He stepped closer, offering Harry his hand. Harry shook it. “Septimus Weasley,” the wizard introduced himself with an easy smile on his lips.

Weasley? Harry looked at him with interest, searching for any familiarity in his features. It wasn’t hard to find. He had the same red hair and freckles as the entire Weasley family, and he was blue eyed and lanky like Ron. Was he his grandfather? Grand uncle? A more distant relation? Harry bit the insides of his cheeks, trying to brush away the pang of anxiety at being reminded of his best friend. What if he never saw him again?

“So, Evans,” said Prewett as he plopped down on the seat opposite to him, stretching his legs. “What year are you in?”

“Fifth.”

“Perfect,” said Weasley, letting his knuckles rap against his trunk before sitting down next to Prewett. “We’ll be classmates then.” He paused. “It’s a bit odd to join in fifth year though, isn’t it? Any special reason?” He raised his eyebrows, his look curious.

“Uh…” said Harry, unsure how to answer. “The relatives I was living with… died.”

It was the background he’d decided for himself, figuring it made the most sense, but he hadn’t quite factored in how people would respond to it. Somewhat unsurprisingly, his statement plunged the compartment into an uneasy silence, Prewett and Weasley exchanging looks.

“Oh,” said Prewett at the same time as Weasley said; “I’m sorry.”

The friends looked at each other again, then back at Harry, their faces serious for the first time since he’d met them. The soberness didn’t fit them, and Harry tried to lighten up the mood with a smile, even though it probably came out a bit strained.

“So am I,” he said quietly. Every time he mentioned his supposed relatives, he pictured the Dursleys in his head, and he couldn’t help wondering if he’d be feeling any remorse at all if they did die. No, he decided. He couldn’t imagine a situation where he’d feel anything but relief that he didn’t have to return to the Privet Drive again, and he didn’t find it in himself to feel too bad about it. The Dursleys would celebrate his death if their places were reversed anyway.

“So, do you like the school?” he asked, wanting to stir the conversation away from his supposedly dead relatives. The less he talked about himself, the less likely he was to slip up.

The atmosphere lit up again right away, both Prewett and Weasley clearly relieved they were moving on. Prewett’s lips pulled into an easy grin, but it was Weasley who answered. “It’s alright,” he said. “A few too many rules for my liking, and Pringle is a maniac, but we’ve learned a lot.”

Harry tilted his head. “Pringle?”

Weasley nodded. “The caretaker.”

“A proper sadist,” added Prewett, absently playing with his wand. “You better watch out for him. He doles out punishments like candy, and he can be quite creative with them.”

“No kidding,” agreed Weasley, shaking his head. The friends shared a meaningful look, then turned back to Harry. “But let’s talk about something more pleasant,” said Weasley, giving Harry an appraising look. “Have you given any thought to the house you wanted to be sorted into?”

Harry didn’t have to think before replying. “Gryffindor.” Of course it would be Gryffindor. He couldn’t wait to enter the tower again, hoping the familiar sight would bring back a semblance of normalcy he so desperately craved. He needed something to ground him, to make him feel less like he was trapped on a small boat in the middle of an angry sea, minutes away from drowning.

Prewett clicked his tongue, his lips pulling into a grin. “You, my friend, have the right idea,” he said.

Harry smiled back, more genuine this time. “Let me guess,” he said, “you’re a Gryffindor yourself?”

“Of course.”

“We both are,” said Weasley. Harry accepted it with zero surprise, unable to imagine a Weasley in any other house.

“It’s the best house there is,” said Prewett.

Weasley looked like he wanted to add something, but his attempt got interrupted by the compartment door opening. A girl stepped inside, possibly a year or two older than them, a prefect brooch shining on her chest. Or no, not a prefect brooch. This one looked a little different, with the letters HG inscribed on it instead of P. Head Girl then.

She looked the part, her spine straight and head held high. A pair of cat-eye spectacles rested on her nose, and her face looked stern. There was something familiar about her, and Harry frowned as he tried to piece out why he thought so.

He came to the conclusion at the same time Weasley greeted the newcomer. “McGonagall,” he said, nodding at her.

Shit.

McGonagall, the McGonagall, Harry’s future transfiguration professor, now looking fifty years younger, shot him an unimpressed look. “Weasley,” she said. His eyes swept over the compartment, lingering on Harry for a moment before moving on to Prewett. “Prewett.”

Prewett sat up straighter, a loopy grin on his face. “Is something the matter?” he asked, blinking at her.

McGonagall’s gaze grew even more unimpressed. “I’m doing my rounds,” she said, inspecting the compartment with her eyes. “I hope everything’s in order in here.”

There was a moment of silence. “Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be?” asked Prewett.

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure you want me to answer that, Prewett?”

“I can assure you,” said Prewett, “I don’t know what you mean. And I find the implication insulting.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose higher. “The same way you don’t know what happened to Pringle’s office last year?”

“Did something happen to Pringle’s office?”

McGonagall pushed her glasses further up her nose as she looked down at him. “Only if you count a massive explosion as ‘something’.”

“That’s good, cause I don’t.”

McGonagall gave him a flat look. “I’d like to graduate on a high note, and I can’t do that if you cost us all of our house points again,” she said, looking from Prewett to Weasley and back again. “So how about you hold yourselves back a little this year?”

A short pause followed, the two Gryffindors exchanging looks.

“We can’t promise anything,” said Prewett.

“It depends on factors outside of our control,” agreed Weasley.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “Such as?”

“The behavior of our fellow witches and wizards, for example?” suggested Weasley, flashing her a pleasant smile.

McGonagall shook her head. “If you’re not the first ones to get detention this year, I'm going to eat my hat,” she muttered, then turned to Harry, clearly deciding the two were a lost cause. “You must be one of the new students.”

Harry tilted his head. “One of?”

McGonagall nodded. “According to the information I received, there’s two of you.”

Well, that was good news, at least. He’d attract less attention if he weren’t the only new student this year, which was all he could ask for.

“I’m Harry Evans,” he said, offering his future professor a hand.

She shook it. “Minerva McGonagall. It’s nice to meet you.” She shot a displeased look at Prewett and Weasley. “I’m just sorry these two are your first introduction to the student body.”

“Hey, now that’s a bit rude,” protested Prewett, though he clearly hadn’t taken her words to heart, an easy smile resting on his lips.

“Very accurate though, isn’t it?” asked McGonagall. He shot both Gryffindors another pointed look. “Behave,” she said before turning to Harry, dipping her chin. “Welcome to Hogwarts Evans.” With those words, she turned on her heels and walked out, closing the compartment door behind her.

“Well, there’s our Head Girl,” said Weasley, leaning back.

“Wait, she's been made Head Girl?” asked Prewett, sounding genuinely surprised.

Weasley rolled his eyes. “Were you paying any attention at all to your surroundings?”

“I was a bit too busy looking at the rest of her to bother with the badge.”

Weasley snorted. “Dream on Prewett, it’s never going to happen. She hates your guts.” He paused. “And you’re engaged.”

Engaged? Harry blinked, unsure if he heard that correctly. Weren’t Weasley and Prewett fifteen? Wasn’t that way too young for an engagement? Then again, these were the forties, and people had married younger in the past. Things could be done differently here. A wave of tiredness washed over him at the thought, and he wondered how far out of his depths he truly was. How much had things changed in fifty years?

Prewett groaned. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“I still don’t know why you dislike her so much,” said Weasley. “I know she’s a Slytherin, but it could be much worse.”

“Well, for one she’s stuck up and boring.”

“Of course that’d be your main criticism.”

The Gryffindors shared a look Harry was unable to decipher, then burst into laughter. It didn’t last long, Weasley shaking his head as he blinked the tears out of his eyes. His lips were still curved into an amused smile, but it turned apologetic once he caught Harry’s eyes. “Sorry about that,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Looks like we got a bit off topic.”

He asked a few general questions about the classes Harry planned to take after that, and their conversation soon branched into other topics, covering everything from O.W.L.s to how they'd spent their summers. Harry tried to be as vague as possible while describing an average summer at the Dursleys, determined to stick close to the truth. He didn’t talk much, giving short answers and letting the Gryffindors direct the conversation. He wasn’t here to make friends, and a lot depended on his ability to stay forgettable. Boring. Nice enough not to make enemies, but not interesting enough to catch anyone’s eye.

He still slipped up a little when it came to Quidditch, fully engaging in the discussion of their favorite techniques and famous players despite knowing he shouldn’t have.

It turned out Prewett played for the Gryffindor team. “I’m a beater,” he said, raising his arms to show off his muscles.

“Only because they couldn’t find anyone else,” muttered Weasley, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, that’s not true,” said Prewett, mildly offended.

“It is. With you on the pitch, your target is the only one who has nothing to worry about.” Prewett looked like he wanted to object to that, but Weasley raised his hands before he could say anything, turning to Harry. “Our team kind of sucks,” he admitted. “The Hufflepuffs have been wiping the floor with us for the past three years.”

“Maybe we’ll get some fresh meat this year,” said Prewett, shooting a look in Harry’s direction.

Harry pretended he didn’t pick up on the meaning behind it, already knowing he would have to disappoint him. He missed Quidditch, but he wasn’t returning to Hogwarts to have a good time. He was going with the sole objective of finding his way back home. He couldn’t afford to do anything that might take away the precious time he needed for the purpose.

Weasley let out a doubtful sound but didn’t argue, and the discussion soon moved to other things.

The day passed by quickly, and before Harry knew it, the sun set and they arrived at the station.

It was raining heavily when they departed the train, and he was about to follow Weasley and Prewett to the carriages when he heard a gruff voice calling from nearby. “First years and new students to me.” He stopped walking, flashing the Gryffindors an apologetic smile.

Weasley patted him on the back. “Take care Harry.”

“See you later,” agreed Prewett, waving him on.

Harry nodded, then turned around and followed the voice. The rain attacked him from above, wetting his glasses, and the station was filled with students trying to get to the carriages as soon as possible, so it took him a while to find the source of the voice in all the chaos. It was a tall wizard, wearing a rough looking brown robe that had been patched multiple times by the looks of it. He held a bell in his hand, ringing it at intervals, and a large group of first years was already gathered in front of him.

Harry frowned, pushing a strand of wet hair away from his eyes. The number looked wrong. There were two many, almost twice as many as he was used to, and not all of them were here yet, new stragglers joining the group every few seconds.

Were the generations in the past really that much bigger than in the 90s?

The answer to that seemed to be a resounding yes, which became even more apparent once they made it over the lake and inside the castle. Harry’s gaze absently swept over all the heads as they waited to be let into the Great Hall, wondering how many people were in his year if there were this many first years.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by someone tapping his shoulder, and he flinched, turning around. The person behind him could only be the other new student, a boy of around his age with wavy brown hair that was almost as wild as Harry’s, round features, and muted blue eyes.

“Hey, are you new too?” he asked with a subtle accent.

Harry nodded, shaking the boy’s hand when it was offered to him. “Daniel Cartier,” the boy introduced himself before throwing a wary glance over his shoulder. “This place is a little drab, don’t you think?”

“Is it?” asked Harry, tilting his head. Hogwarts had always been a home for him, so it was hard to look at it from the perspective of someone with no emotional connection to it.

Daniel shrugged his shoulders, a hesitant smile blooming on his lips. “I went to Beauxbatons before,” he explained. “My family moved to England to get away from the war, so…” He shrugged again. “How about you?”

Harry was, thankfully, saved from having to answer by a tall witch in a black robe moving to the front and demanding their attention. He only half listened to her explanation of the houses, relieved when she finally finished her speech and led them to the Great Hall.

Harry couldn’t help being a little overwhelmed as he stepped inside. The generations of wizards were, indeed, much larger in the 40s, and he’d never seen so many people in the same place before. The tables were longer to accommodate the massive student body, and the Hall seemed to have grown as well, longer and wider from what he was used to. Even the number of professors was larger than Harry expected, and he suspected there were at least two for every subject.

This would take some time to get used to, but it could work in his favor. It wouldn’t be hard to get lost in such a big mass of students.

He followed the first years to the front of the Hall, where Professor Dumbledore was waiting with a scroll, the Sorting Hat sitting on the chair nearby. Whispers echoed around him, students’ gazes oppressive on his back. He should be used to the attention by now, but it still felt uncomfortable, like thousands of tiny ants crawling all over his body.

He tried to ignore all the eyes on him as he waited for the first years to be sorted. It took ages with so many of them, and then it was finally Cartier’s turn. He skulked somewhat anxiously to the chair, closing his eyes when the Sorting Hat was placed on his head. A second passed, then two, and then the Sorting Hat shouted; “Ravenclaw”. Cartier quickly scrambled off the chair and joined the clapping Ravenclaw table, and then it was Harry’s turn.

He took a deep breath, straightening his spine as he walked over to the chair and sat down. The Hat was a familiar weight on his head, and he didn’t flinch when he heard his voice in his head.

Well, well, said the Hat, sounding mildly amused, this is a bit of a surprise. Time travel, huh?

Yes, thought Harry. Just put me back in Gryffindor, so we can be done here.

The Hat hummed. You do possess bravery and courage in spades, but that’s not all I see, no. You're determined, and you have a very ambitious goal. Resourceful too, yes. No, there’s a house more suited to your needs than Gryffindor, so it better be -

“SLYTHERIN.”

Harry winced, his ears buzzing from how loud the Sorting Hat had shouted. He hoped he heard it wrong, that his exhaustion and lack of sleep had made him hallucinate, but it was the Slytherin table that clapped for him, even if a little half-heartedly.

Horror came first, then gave way to anger, and he clenched his hands, tucking them in his pockets to hide them as he hurried across the Hall. Slytherin? Slytherin? It was supposed to be more suited to his needs than Gryffindor? Really? He sat down on the only empty spot left at the table, between one of the first years and a boy his age who didn’t spare him a single glance, too focused on glowering at the floor.

Harry took a quick look up the table, relieved when none of his housemates were paying him any attention. There were too many to count or even to see from where he was sitting, and Harry averted his gaze again, keeping it glued on the table before him. The feast was about to begin, the plates already filling with food.

He wasn’t hungry, still reeling from what had just happened. The Sorting Hat had dropped him into the snake pit without a second thought, and he could already tell he wasn’t going to enjoy the experience. His Slytherins were an awful bunch, and the 40s’ Slytherins couldn’t be much better.

Then again. He scooped some mushed potatoes on his plate, just to give the appearance of eating, his fork scraping against it harder than intended. Then again, he wasn’t here to have fun. He’d hoped he could stay somewhere familiar, somewhere that felt like home while he searched for a way back, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he couldn’t. He just had to keep his head low and his mouth shut, and the Slytherins would hopefully leave him alone. He didn’t have to interact with them more than absolutely necessary.

He absently nudged his food around his plate while he tried to convince himself that this wasn’t as big of a drawback as it felt like.

The feast was over in a blink, the students dismissed by an old, weak-looking wizard who Harry assumed was the headmaster. Chaos erupted as everyone began to stand up from their tables, moving to the exit like a landslide. Harry remained sitting, figuring it was safer to wait until most of them were out before attempting to leave as well.

The boy next to him didn’t seem to share his thoughts on the matter, jumping up as soon as he could. He looked at him as he did so, the look in his eyes sharp and derisive. “Good luck,” he said before joining the mass of students leaving the Great Hall.

Harry could only linger on his words for a moment, a girl appearing at the end of the table and drawing his attention by stepping on the bench. “First years,” she called, waving her hand. “And Evans.” She looked straight at him as she said it, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Harry couldn’t read it, but it looked knowing and a little amused, almost like there was an inside joke he was missing. A green badge with the letter P sat on her chest, partly covered by a strand of long brown hair. Her features were delicate, and she was short, but the steel in her eyes suggested she shouldn’t be underestimated.

Harry got up, approaching the girl and the first years. She waited until they were all gathered before speaking, her voice loud enough to carry over the clamor in the Hall. “Welcome to Slytherin. I’m Thetis Carrow,” she said, “one of the Sytherin’s prefects.” She tapped the badge on her chest, then jumped off the bench. “Follow me,” she said, heading for the door.

“Sytherin’s common room is in the dungeons,” she explained as she led them to the door on the left side of the Entrance Hall. Stairs hid behind, long and narrow. Harry wrapped his robe tighter around himself as they descended, feeling the chill of the dungeons on his skin. The cold was probably going to get worse before the year ended, and he absently wondered how the Slytherins kept warm during winter.

“Curfew is at eleven. You have to be back by then, no exceptions,” said Thetis as they reached the bottom of the stairs. She took them down the only corridor, stopping in front of the wall Harry knew doubled as the entrance to the Slytherin common room. “There are other rules, of course,” she added, “but you’ll learn those during your stay. For now…” She paused, turning to the wall. “Pureblood,” she said.

Harry could hear the gasps coming from the first years when the entrance opened, but he wasn’t paying attention, too busy watching Thetis Carrow. Pureblood was an expected password for Slytherin, and Harry wouldn’t have given it much thought if it weren’t for the way she said it. The sharp upturn of her lips as she emphasized the word, and the subtle glint of something in her eyes.

Harry bit the insides of his cheeks. Had the password been chosen with intention? Were the Slytherins subtly letting the first years know who was welcome and who wasn’t? Was this how his stay here would be? Mind games and subliminal messages?

The anger from his Sorting had dimmed a little, but now it burst forward again, and he pressed his nails into the skin on his palms, struggling to keep it at bay. Nothing had been going his way since the moment he’d stepped over the Ministry’s threshold, and he hoped he could break the pattern before the universe threw even more obstacles on his path.

He followed the others inside the common room, taking a quick look around. It looked much the same as he remembered from that one time he and Ron had sneaked in, low-backed black and dark green leather sofas, tables and cabinets made out of dark wood, and multiple large mantelpieces built into the stone walls. Green lamps hang from the ceiling, and one side of the room was all glass, the green water of the lake visible beyond it. The room was, however, much larger than he remembered, and he assumed the same magic was at work here than in the Great Hall.

He lingered in the back while Carrow gave the first years directions to their dorms, standing straighter once she turned to him. “You’re with Yaxley, Flint, and Crabbe,” she said. “15^th door to the left.” She motioned to the side of the common room, where a huge archway, twisted into the shape of a serpent, separated the common room from the bedroom area.

Crabbe? Seriously?

Surrendering to his fate, Harry made his way across the common room, entering the hallway that led to the bedrooms. It was wide, with tall green doors with serpents carved into frames on both sides. Most of them were wide open, their inhabitants getting ready for bed. Harry kept his head lowered and avoided making eye contact with anyone as he counted down the doors, searching for his bedroom.

It was bad enough that he’d ended up in Slytherin, but now something else was nagging at him. Crabbe's name reminded him of something he should have thought of before. When had Voldemort attended Hogwarts again? Harry wasn’t good at remembering dates, so he couldn’t recall the exact year, but he did remember that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened exactly 50 years before his second year at Hogwarts. That had been in 1992, which meant that the Chamber had opened in… 1942.

He came to an abrupt stop, having to lean against the nearest wall as the hallway spun around him and dark dots appeared in his vision. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, his stomach churning with nausea and dread.

He'd been dropped to the same year the Chamber of Secrets had opened.

Voldemort was here. Possibly in one of these rooms. Wearing a human face and walking down these halls, scheming and planning. And Harry could do absolutely nothing about it. He couldn’t risk messing up the timeline, which meant he couldn’t stop any of his future actions. The only thing he could do was find his way back home as soon as possible, before Voldemort killed Myrtle and Harry had to live with it for the rest of his life, unable to forgive himself for doing nothing to stop it.

He pushed himself away from the wall, still reeling as he stumbled down the hallway, wanting to be in his room and out of sight as soon as possible. He couldn’t help shooting nervous glances at his surroundings as he walked, half-expecting Riddle to appear before him at any moment. Thankfully, that didn’t happen, and he reached his room without any further incident, hurrying inside.

The room was similar to his room in the Gryffindor tower, four four-poster beds standing in a circle, with the trunks at their feet and wooden nightstands next to them. The curtains were green instead of red, and the wood was darker, but otherwise, the room looked familiar, and Harry found himself relaxing a little.

Two of his roommates were already here, a boy with dark hair, darker eyes, and bronze skin perching on the edge of his bed while another boy, short, with wavy black hair and blue eyes, stood nearby. They both raised their heads when Harry entered, the first boy standing up to greet him.

“You must be Evans,” he said, his lips slightly upturned. His smile looked a little wooden, but it wasn’t completely unwelcoming.

“Yes.”

“I’m Cassius Flint,” he said, offering him his hand. Harry shook it.

“This is Charles Crabbe.” He pointed at the other boy who nodded, and Harry studied him for a moment, searching for any similarities with the Crabbe he knew. There weren’t many. He could see a few in the shape of his mouth and cheekbones, but otherwise, this Crabbe looked different from his future relative.

“And Yaxley is hogging the bathroom,” added Flint, throwing an accusing look at the bathroom door. “Bad news if you were about to use it – he’ll be there for a while.”

“An hour, at least,” agreed Crabbe, pounding on the door. There was no answer, so Crabbe pounded some more, than shook his head. “Dammit Yaxley.”

“I was going to go straight to bed,” said Harry, deciding that was his plan on the spot. Fighting with his new roommates for the bathroom was something he’d much rather avoid. He moved to the first bed on the left, the one with his trunk at its foot, and kneeled on the floor to open it.

“That’s probably a good idea,” said Flint, dragging his hand through his hair. “We have to be up bright and early tomorrow.”

Crabbe grumbled something indecipherable in reply, and no one spoke again for the next few minutes as they got ready for bed. Harry climbed in it as soon as he was in his pajamas, drawing the curtains and lying down. His roommates weren’t far behind, and he listened to someone’s, presumably Crabbe’s, bed creak as he lied down while someone else, probably Flint, closed the door and turned off the lights, plunging the room into darkness.

Harry lay on his back, staring at the canopy above his head while he tried to relax. It was a losing battle, his mind loud and awake, reeling from all the ways things had gone wrong today. Just this morning, he’d thought he would be safe in the Gryffindor dorms come nightfall, the only worry on his mind how to get back home. Now, he had to deal with the fact that he’d been dropped into the snake pit, and a serpent above all other serpents lay in one of these rooms, spinning its destructive plans.

Needless to say, his sleep was fitful, and he spent most of the night tossing and turning, his brain conjuring one bad scenario after the other. He was exhausted when it was time to get up, but he tried not to linger on it.

None of his roommates were morning people, and they all got dressed in sleepy silence. Yaxley was here too now, a lithe boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. He nodded at Harry when their gazes met but otherwise paid him no mind, and Harry copied him, silently following his roommates to the Great Hall.

He ended up sitting in the same spot as last night, between one of the first years and the student who had wished him good luck. He didn’t seem any more talkative today, ignoring Harry completely as he ate his breakfast.

Harry tried to focus on his, but he was too on edge to eat, his stomach churning at the mere thought. He kept stealing glances at his housemates, looking for a familiar face, but he was sitting close to the end of the table, and he couldn’t see much from his vantage point. Which was probably a good thing. He couldn’t imagine his appetite would improve any if he were to lay his eyes on Voldemort right now.

He swallowed, absently playing with his toast. Maybe, with generations so big, he wouldn’t have to deal with him much anyway?

He only raised his head again when he noticed a short portly middle-aged wizard in tidy green and violet robes making his way down the table. There was a pile of parchment in his hands, and he handed one to each student he passed, engaging most of them into a short conversation before moving on. He had to be the Head of Slytherin then, distributing the timetables.

“Ah, our new fifth year student,” he said once he reached Harry, his mouth pulling into a jovial smile, “Mr. Evans. Any connection to Josephine Stokes-Evans, perhaps?”

“Uh,” said Harry, confused. “Maybe, but probably not?”

“No matter, no matter,” said the professor, his head bobbing up and down. “Ah, where are my manners?” He laughed a little. “My name is Slughorn Horace. I'm the Head of Slytherin, and the subject I teach are, of course, potions.”

“It’s nice to meet you, professor.”

“Likewise, likewise,” said Slughorn, handing him a piece of parchment. “And here is your timetable.”

Harry threw a glance at it. It seemed he had Herbology first, followed by History, and then two hours of Charms to finish off the day.

“Well then, welcome to Slytherin,” said Slughorn, dipping his large chin at him before moving on.

“Are you finished?”

Harry startled, shooting a surprised look at his seatmate who had, apparently, deigned to talk to him again. He scowled when Harry didn’t immediately answer, standing up. “Let’s go,” he said.

Harry blinked at him, but he did as he was told, following him out of the Hall. “Uh,” he started as they walked down the corridor, “where are we going?”

The seatmate shot him an annoyed look. “Herbology,” he said, turning the corner. Harry frowned but picked up his pace, falling into step with him just as they exited the castle. He had no idea why the Slytherin was showing him the way when Harry’s existence itself seemed to irritate him, but he decided not to linger on his reasons too much.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

His classmate let out an exasperated sigh. “Sebastian Walton.”

“I’m…”

“I know who you are.”

Harry nodded, closing his mouth. They had nothing else to say to each other, and they walked the rest of the way in silence. Despite his unwelcoming attitude, Walton stuck with him even after they entered the greenhouse, pulling him to the back. Harry cautiously observed the other Slytherins, but Crabbe’s face was the only one he recognized. Flint and Yaxley weren’t here, and Harry pursed his lips, wondering if it was possible that not all Slytherins shared classes. It'd made sense considering the generations were larger and class sizes didn’t seem any bigger.

His shoulders sagged in something close to relief, and he could feel some of the tension leave his body. He didn’t share his dorm room with Voldemort, he sat far away from him during meals, and now it seemed he wouldn’t be sharing all the classes with him either. It truly was the best-case scenario given the circumstances.

His musings were soon interrupted by the approach of two Hufflepuffs, one of the girls hiding half behind her friend, while the other stood straight, staring Walton down. “You don’t mind, do you Walton?” she asked, motioning to the open spots next to him and Harry. Harry took a cursory look around, unsurprised to see they were the only spots available.

“Does it matter?”

“No,” said the girl, lifting her chin.

Walton made an exaggerated motion with his hand, rolling his eyes, and the girl glared at him, placing herself opposite him while her friend took the spot opposite Harry. The tension was thick in the air, and Harry scratched his elbow, resisting the urge to shift his weight from one leg to another.

Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait long before the professor chose to address them. “Welcome back,” he said easily as he took up his place at the front of the greenhouse, smiling at them. He was young, possibly somewhere in his late twenties, with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He had a long face and sharp features, and a surprising amount of presence for someone so young. Harry glanced at his timetable, noting that his name was Harold Beery. “Or welcome,” amended the professor, his gaze lingering on Harry for a few moments before moving on. “I hope your summer was at least half as enjoyable as mine.”

“What did you do, professor?” asked one of the Hufflepuffs.

“You’re going to find it hard to believe, but I finally got permission to visit the hanging gardens of Babylon.”

Harry had no idea what those were, but they had to be important if the excited whispers of his peers were any indication. Questions were asked and answered, but Harry tuned them out, too exhausted and disinterested to follow the discussion. He wasn’t sure how long it took, but at least fifteen minutes had to have passed by the time they stopped talking about the gardens and Professor Beery focused on the lesson.

“As I’m sure you’re all aware,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “this is your O.W.L.s year.” A few groans could be heard around the greenhouse, and he raised his hands to shut them up. “But you have nothing to worry about as long as you participate in class and do your homework. The first half of this year will be dedicated to covering new subjects and the second to revision. We'll start with those,” he pointed to the shrubs in front of them. They were small, weak looking things, but Harry knew enough about magical plants not to trust their appearance. “Now, who can tell me what those are?”

Multiple students raised their hands. Professor Beery called on one of the Slytherins. “Miss Parkinson?”

A tall girl with dark brown hair and a round face answered: “Self-fertilizing shrubs, sir.”

“That’s right. And what do they eat?”

“Flesh.”

“Good job Miss Parkinson, five points to Slytherin.” He turned to the large wooden box behind him, pulling open the lid. Some of the nearby students recoiled, waving hands in front of their faces or pinching their noses. “We’re going to be feeding them today,” said Professor Beery, pretending not to notice their reaction as he clapped his hands. “The ones here are still babies, but they shouldn’t be underestimated. They eat flesh, and they will try to take a bite out of you if you let them. So, don’t.” He directed a serious look at the students, making sure they all understood. “Divide into groups of four, put on your gloves, and let’s begin.”

The students did as they were told, Harry, predictably, ending up with Walton and the two Hufflepuffs. None of them turned out to be much help. Walton went white as soon as he saw the meat they were supposed to feed to the shrubs, recoiling away from it. The two Hufflepuffs were a little braver, taking the pieces of meat and offering them to the plant, but they always jumped backwards prematurely and the shrub was unable to latch on.

Harry had to do the job by himself, holding the meat for the shrub and relying on his reflexes to pull back before it could take his finger. It took quite a bit of focus, but he found himself relaxing into it, the task a temporary distraction from his troubles.

“You’re good at this,” said the Hufflepuff standing opposite to him, a reluctant smile blooming on her lips.

Harry shot her a glance, then directed his attention back to the plant. “Thanks,” he said.

“I’m Alice,” she said. “Alice Webb.” She motioned to her friend. “And this is Regina Sowle.”

Harry nodded, feeding another piece of meat to the shrub. “Harry Evans.”

“Evans,” said Regina, nodding at him. “You have better manners than Walton here.” She directed an ugly look in the Sytherin’s direction, and he crossed his arms over his chest, staring her down without saying anything.

They shot scathing looks at each other for the rest of the period, and Harry was relieved when it was over and he could escape the tense atmosphere. Walton had Charms next, not History, but their paths partly converged, and Harry was still accompanied to the first floor and shown where to go from there. He thanked Walton, receiving an annoyed sigh in response, and then they went their separate ways.

The History classroom was still where it’d been in the nineties, and Flint waved at him as soon as he stepped through the door, gesturing at the chair next to him. Harry reluctantly walked over and sat down. “Enjoying your first day so far?” asked Flint, treating him to the same wooden smile than last night.

“I guess,” said Harry. He hadn’t seen Voldemort yet, so he’d give his day a solid 6 out of 10 for now.

“Met any of the other Slytherins yet?”

“Walton.”

Flint’s gaze darkened at his answer, but he brushed it off without commenting, pointing at the row in front of them, where four students in Slytherin uniforms sat. “Alright,” he said, “up ahead we have Thetis Carrow. I assume you already met her.”

Harry nodded, and Flint motioned to the boy next to her. From where he was sitting, Harry could only see his slicked blonde hair and a part of his side profile. He was animatedly explaining something to Thetis, and she was smiling back, her teeth showing. “Edmund Avery,” said Flint before his gaze slipped to the boys sitting on Avery’s other side. “And those are Antonin Dolohov, and Leonard Rosier.” Harry didn’t have the best vantage point from behind, but he could see Dolohov’s dark hair and pale, long neck, and Rosier’s slightly lighter hair. Neither of them spoke, both staring up ahead.

“And of course,” said Flint, directing his attention to their own row and the students sitting on his other side, “Yaxley, the bathroom hogger.”

Yaxley rolled his eyes. “Are you ever going to let that go?” he asked.

“Maybe when you kick the habit,”

Yaxley crossed his arms over his chest. “My skin needs a lot of attention.”

Flint ignored him, gesturing at the girl sitting next to Yaxley. Harry blinked, forced to do a double take. She looked exactly like Thetis, just that her hair was shorter, barely reaching her shoulders. Her lips pulled upwards when she met Harry’s gaze, saluting him. “Issa Carrow,” said Flint.

“And behind us,” he turned around, Harry reluctantly copying him, “are Diana Rowle, and Ainsley Greengrass.” Diana Rowle smiled at him, giving him a small wave, and Ainsley Greengrass nodded, the look in her eyes mostly disinterested.

Harry nodded back.

“So, Evans,” said Flint, attracting his attention again, “I wanted to ask you this before, but I didn’t get the chance. What’s your story?”

“My story?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You know, how come you’re here in your fifth year?”

“Oh,” said Harry, “my relatives died, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Flint furrowed his brow, leaning closer. “What about your parents?”

“They died when I was a baby.”

“That’s a lot of death.”

“Yeah well,” said Harry, flashing him a helpless smile.

“For what it counts,” said Flint, “I’m sorry.”

Harry nodded, and a pause followed, the silence toeing the line toward uncomfortable but not quite reaching it. Flint was the first to break it. “So, were you homeschooled? Or did you go to school somewhere else?”

Harry shook his head. “My aunt and uncle homeschooled me.”

Flint lifted his eyebrows, his face breaking into a smile that looked a bit more genuine this time. “Feel ready for the real deal?”

Harry shrugged. “I guess we’ll see.”

History of Magic was, as it turned out, still taught by Professor Binns. He droned on, putting the students under a sleepy spell in seconds. Harry folded his arms on the table, leaning his head on them and closing his eyes. Binns’ drawl would have usually done it, but sleep refused to come this time, his mind too loud and his thoughts caught in an anxious spiral. He couldn’t wait for the classes to be over, so he could focus on what actually mattered.

After History, he followed Flint and Issa to the Charms’ classroom, sitting down in the back row with them. Yaxley didn’t have this class with them, but Thetis, Rowle, and Greengrass did. The other Slytherins were new faces, and Harry’s eyes lingered on the one in the front. He reminded him of Sirius, possessing the same handsome features, striking grey eyes and black hair. “Alphard Black,” said Flint when he noticed where Harry was looking at.

Harry tilted his head. Alphard? Sirius’ uncle who’d left him a decent amount of gold and got himself wiped off the family tapestry for it?

Harry couldn’t ponder over it for long, distracted by the new batch of students entering the classroom. His attention was immediately drawn to the boy in the back, and he found himself caught in the center of his gravity. A jolt traveled through him, electric and painful, his heartbeat speeding up as the classroom swayed around him. He shifted in his seat, almost knocking the heavy charms textbook off the table. He managed to right it in time, but he was unable to look away for even a second.

Voldemort.

Tom Riddle.

Looking a lot like he had as a diary but more substantial, more real. He was even more handsome in the flesh, tall with high cheekbones, and perfectly proportioned aristocratic features. Both his hair and his eyes were black, and he held himself with a regal air, his posture straight. His eyes swept over the classroom, and for a moment, their gazes met. Harry held his breath, his heart hammering in his chest, but Riddle looked away right away, his expression unreadable.

Harry’s shoulders slumped in relief, some of the tension leaving his body. Voldemort didn’t seem interested in him at all, barely even noticing him.

Thank God.

Despite this, frankly speaking, positive turn of events, Harry’s heartbeat refused to slow down, and it took genuine effort not to sneak glances toward where Riddle sat with Alphard, Thetis, and another boy Harry didn’t recognize.

He could barely pay attention to the lesson, and Professor Garraway wasn’t helping much, lecturing them about the importance of O.W.L.s at length, his voice a monotone drawl that almost rivaled Binn’s. Harry tuned him out for the most part, briefly tuning in when the professor introduced the spell they were about to work on today. It was the silencing charm, which Harry had already learnt, so he promptly tuned out again.

He did start paying attention when Professor Garraway finished explaining the theory and they started with the practical part. He didn’t show them the spell like Harry was used to from Flitwick, explaining it with some sort of a points system instead. They were supposed to move their wands from point A to point H, and then to point L at medium velocity.

Harry frowned, consulting his textbook. He could find no explanation of the points, but he did find the sketch of the spell, suppressing a groan as he traced it with his eyes. It was similar to the spell he knew, but not the same, which meant the silencing charm had to have been modified some time between now and the nineties. The possibility hadn’t crossed his mind before, but it was a logical conclusion in hindsight. Magic wasn’t static – it changed and evolved through time, and with how many essays Harry had had to write about a history of this spell or another, he really should have thought of that.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. His hopes that he’d be able to course through the workload had just been dashed, and he realized this was a huge problem. He couldn’t use the spells from the nineties without attracting attention, and attracting attention was the last thing he could afford to do. Which meant he couldn’t use magic at all without first checking if the spell he was about to cast was still the same.

 He suppressed a groan. Great. This was great.

“You’ll be practicing on crows,” said Professor Garraway, pointing at the giant cage to his left. “Come collect one, and begin.”

Harry risked a glance at Riddle, the Slytherin leaning back in his chair and not as much as attempting to get up. Instead, the boy whose name Harry still didn’t know got the crow for him, passing it to him with a quiet whisper. Harry waited until their entire row was sitting back down before he scurried to the front, giving Riddle and his sycophants as wide of a berth as possible.

He collected his crow and returned to his seat, placing the bird on the table. It let out a loud caw, shooting him a judgmental look as it shifted its weight from one leg to another. Harry ignored it, frowning at his textbook. He had no idea what the points system meant, and the only solution he could think of was following the sketch.

He pointed his wand at the bird. “Silencio.” The crow cawed as if to mock him, and he sighed, consulting the textbook again. He was pretty sure he’d followed the sketch correctly. He tried again, slower this time, but the results were the same. It still didn’t work.

He looked around the classroom, studying what his classmates were doing. A few were waving their wands around, muttering the spell, and as far as Harry could see, their wand movements were the same as what he’d attempted. Not all of them cast the spell successfully, but some, Flint and Issa included, did, so he didn’t understand why it didn’t work for him.

He glanced at Riddle again, finding him absently playing with his wand. His crow was opening and closing its beak, but no sound escaped it, so he’d clearly already figured out how to cast the spell. Harry wasn’t sure why that annoyed him, but it did, and he ground his teeth together as he directed his gaze back at his crow, trying to execute the spell again.

The crow cawed, as loud as ever, and Harry pressed his lips together. Maybe the points system was actually important, and he was missing a necessary component somewhere?

He tried to make it work for the rest of the lesson, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t coax even a tiny bit of magic out of his wand. Frustration built inside him, and by the time the second hour rolled around, he was about two seconds away from burning his textbook – and possibly the crow he was practicing on. It looked at him with judgmental eyes, letting out a mocking caw every time he failed.

The lesson drained him, and he trailed Flint and Issa to the Great Hall in a tired daze. He sat down on his spot next to Walton, staring at his lunch more than eating it. He managed a few spoons of soup and two bites of bread, the food sitting heavy in his stomach, before he hurried to the library. Most of the students were still at lunch, so it was mostly empty when he entered, the librarian shooting him a stern look from her desk but not bothering with him.

He slipped between the shelves, soon realizing that he had no idea where to start searching. There wasn’t a specific section for the topic of time, and he aimlessly wandered around for a while, missing Hermione more than ever. He finally settled on the Magical Theory section, inspecting the shelves in hoped of finding something useful. He had his first bout of luck after half an hour or so, discovering a thick tome with a somewhat encouraging title; Theory of Time.

He looked up and down the aisle before pulling it out. Hugging it to his chest, he skulked to one of the hidden tables in the back and sat down, stretching his fingers before opening it on page one.

He was no stranger to research, but having to do it alone, without Hermione’s helpful guidance and Ron’s humor was torture. It felt like pulling teeth, and he struggled to stay focused on the text, the letters dancing in front of his burning eyes. Academic language didn’t come easy to him either, and it sometimes took him multiple tries before he could parse out the meaning. And even then, he often wasn’t sure if he really got it.

He stayed in the library until curfew, not bothering with dinner, but he barely made any progress at all. He couldn’t even determine if the book he’d found was useful, still stuck on the introductory part despite the hours of work he’d put in. He contemplated skipping it, but the quick skim of the rest of the book revealed multiple references to it, so he didn’t dare.

He hid the book in his bag before leaving, sneaking it out of the library. He figured it was better if he wasn’t under a time constraint, and he didn’t want to leave behind any evidence of his research. The possibility of someone figuring out he was a time traveler was miniscule, but the consequences could be disastrous, and he refused to take the risk.

His roommates were in the common room when he made it through the passage, and so was Riddle, sitting next to the fire with whom Harry assumed were his sycophants. He could see Avery, Dolohov, Rosier, Thetis, and Alphard, and there were four others Harry didn’t recognize. One of them had sharp, pointed features, and white-blond hair that reminded Harry strongly of Draco. Probably his grandfather or something. This was exactly the type of company Draco’s ancestors would keep.

Harry lowered his head and hurried past them, marginally relaxing once he was out of sight. He was early enough to get to bathe before Yaxley could hold the bathroom hostage again, and he was in his bed, with the curtains drawn, before any of his roommates made it to the bedroom.

The week passed in a tired, grey daze. It was raining the entire time, which fit Harry’s mood perfectly.

He spent all of his free time researching, dressing the Theory of Time into his Charms textbook's jacket and towing it with him everywhere. He read it at meals, and at breaks, and he would have read it during History too if Flint wasn’t looking over his shoulder. He spent every evening in the library, searching for new reading material, and when he inevitably couldn’t sleep, he studied instead of tossing and turning the entire night.

Despite the unholy amount of hours he dedicated to the task, he barely made any progress at all. He had made it past the introductory part and was now stuck on the History section. He often asked himself if it was even useful and if it wouldn’t be better to just skip it, but he couldn’t dismiss that he knew almost nothing about the subject. He suspected he would find no easy answers to his predicament, and no simple solutions. If he wanted to have any hope of getting back home, he had to learn as much about time as possible, so he could figure out what had happened at the Ministry and how to reverse it.

He just wished it wasn’t so difficult.

He hadn’t learnt much so far, and only a small portion of what he had was actually useful. Not much was known about time and time travel, and there were few concrete answers and a lot of guesswork. The introductory part of the Theory of Time was very clear on that.

The History section covered the appearance of the main schools of thought, well-known academics, and important breakthroughs. The time turner was, as it turned out, first discovered in the 1850s, though there had been a number of earlier versions with questionable effectiveness. It’d been modified multiple times, and the current version allowed one to travel up to five hours back in time. Its main component was the so-called Safety Loop which prevented the time traveler from being able to change the future.

Which, unfortunately, meant Harry had been right in his assumptions that his presence here could destroy the timeline. Time turners had been involved in how he’d ended up here but not in the usual way, which meant the Safety Loop wasn’t in effect and his actions could trigger the butterfly effect and influence the future in a major way.

He had to put the book down after he’d read that, staring at the wall without really seeing it for a few minutes. He’d already suspected it, but finding out for sure still packed one hell of a punch, and panic rose within him, threatening to overwhelm him. It’s okay, he told himself, trying to believe it. It’ll be okay, I just have to find a way back as soon as possible and keep a low profile in the meantime.

He had to take the rest of the day off, unable to think about his predicament without immediately getting caught inside a panic spiral. He used the time to work on homework, which he was severely behind with. His full focus was on finding his way back, and he had neither the time nor the energy left for schoolwork.

Hopefully, he’d be back in the 90s by the time the school year ended, because at this rate, he was going to fail his O.W.L.s.

It wasn’t just Charms he struggled with. Transfiguration and Defense against the Dark Arts used the same weird points system, and quite a few of the spells they covered were completely different to those he knew.

Dumbledore was a competent teacher, and his lessons were more engaging than McGonagall’s, but he also demanded more from them. He demonstrated every spell they covered, so Harry could somewhat follow, but learning how to cast the same spell in a different way turned out to be a lot harder than he’d expected. He had to fight his instincts through the entire process, messing up his wand movements more times than he could count.

Defense against the Dark Arts wasn’t much better, and Harry found himself struggling with it for the first time in his life. Professor Merrythought was skilled but stern. Like Dumbledore, she showed them all the spells, so Harry wasn’t completely screwed, but it still wasn’t a walk in the park. What made everything even worse was that all work in her classroom was done in pairs she assigned, and Harry spent the entire lecture jittery and on edge, dreading he’d end up with Riddle. It was difficult to focus under those circumstances, and his results were pretty abysmal as he was only able to cast about 2/3 of the spells they covered. It was miles better than Charms and even Transfiguration, but still far from ideal.

Ancient Runes were kicking his ass too. He probably shouldn’t have chosen them, but he’d considered they might be useful with his ‘displaced in time’ problem, and he hadn’t expected his other subjects would turn into such a train wreck. Every other person in the class with him had taken them last year, so he was very behind and struggling to understand what was going on at a very basic level.

Potions were a little easier. The recipes had changed the same as spells had, but they were easy enough to follow, and Slughorn was a good teacher, preferring to build up his students instead of tearing them down like Snape. He spent a lot of time chatting with his favorites, who Harry definitely wasn’t, so he was mostly able to work in peace, without anyone looking under his fingers. It did wonders for his concentration.

Care, and Divination were fine. No one would loud him as a great student, but he was able to mostly follow along, which was a relief after all the problems he had with the other subjects.

Needless to say, Harry was more than a little relieved when the weekend finally rolled around, planning to spend most of it in the library. He wanted to finish the History section of the Theory of Time, and he had a mountain of homework to get to.

He doubted anyone would bother him during the weekend. The Slytherins were… fine. He hadn’t really talked to anyone other than Walton, his roommates, and occasionally Issa Carrow, but even they were distant, not really trying to include him in their group. With the exception of Walton, they were polite, engaging him in a conversation here or there, but it never went anywhere further than that, which suited Harry fine. The less people he interacted with the better.

Voldemort, thankfully, didn’t even seem to know he existed, having not as much as glanced in his direction after the first time. Harry kept a reluctant eye on him. He’d prefer to ignore him entirely, forget he was there at all, but he couldn’t in his right mind coexist with someone so dangerous without being wary of him. He felt like he was walking on glass every time they were in the same room, and he tried to make sure it happened as rarely as possible. Unfortunately, they shared most of their classes, with the exception of Divination, History, Herbology, and Care, so Harry was forced to spend quite a lot of time in his proximity.

He had thought his age and inexperience were the reasons he’d been so easily fooled by him back in his second year, but he now realized that wasn’t the case at all. The mask Riddle wore was impeccable, not revealing a single inkling of the monster hiding behind it. He was charming, luring everyone in with a smile and a few well-placed words, and he could get people to eat out of his hands.

Harry watched, with a mix of dread and disgust, how his female classmates batted their eyelashes at him and how his male classmates tried to impress him. Even the professors weren’t immune, and discounting Dumbledore, he was everyone’s favorite student. It wasn’t just his charm though, no. He was talented, able to execute every spell and brew every potion perfectly, and he knew the answer to every question asked in class.

Harry loathed to admit it, but he started to use him as a workaround during Charms, and to a lesser extent DADA and transfiguration as well. When he wasn’t sure how to perform a spell, he watched him, copying his wand movements. Results varied, but it worked better than anything else he’d tried so far, including copying other students. Harry preferred not to linger on the whys, suspecting he probably didn’t want to know.

He really needed to learn that points system, so he could stop relying on Voldemort as his reference for spells. Something was really wrong with that picture, and the thought of learning anything from Voldemort left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

Chapter Text

Saturday passed in a tired daze. Harry got up early, jolted awake by the familiar nightmare. He could still see the cemetery sprawling before him when he stumbled out of bed. Green light, Cedric collapsing to the ground, and his unseeing eyes replayed in his mind like a broken recorder, the images staying burned into his retinas even when he dragged himself to early breakfast, the Theory of Time tucked under his arm.

The Great Hall was mostly empty when he arrived, only a handful of students sitting at the tables. He'd be happy about it, usually, but not today - not when Riddle and a few of his sycophants were also there and the crowd that would have usually hidden them from Harry’s view was absent. Harry had learned most of their names at this point, and he could easily recognize Black, Avery, and Lestrange. They were sitting a healthy distance away from the spot Harry had come to see as his, but they were still far too close for comfort, and the Great Hall was so quiet Harry could hear fragments of their conversation.

“…today?” asked Black. Harry pressed his lips together, keeping his gaze on his breakfast. Alphard reminded him so much of Sirius that it was hard to look at him or listen to him, unpleasant what ifs running through his mind every time he did so. What if he never found his way home? What if he never saw his godfather again?

“No…” said Avery, the rest of his sentence lost.

“… should have…” said Riddle, his voice sending an uncomfortable shiver down Harry’s spine. It wasn’t the same as Voldemort's, but the precise way he pronounced the words and even the slow rhythm of his speech was a bit too similar, and Harry didn’t like it. Listening to it brought out too many unpleasant memories.

He hadn’t had much appetite to begin with, but what little he’d had was gone now, his stomach churning with nausea. He pushed his plate away and got up, walking out of the Great Hall as quickly as he could.

He spent the rest of the day in the library, slowly dredging through the history section of the Theory of Time. Letters danced in front of his eyes, and he often lost focus, his thoughts slipping away. He kept having to reread the same paragraphs time and time again before he absorbed their meanings, but he still finished with the history by the evening, his success raising his spirits enough that he decided to give dinner a try.

He got to the Hall at a prime time for dinner, relieved when he couldn’t see Riddle and his sycophants from his spot at the table. Walton was there as well, his nose buried in his potions textbook, and the sight of him reminded Harry of all the homework he hadn’t gotten to yet. He sighed, absently stirring his soup with his spoon as he contemplated how to go about it. He still had the whole of tomorrow. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?

“Are you going to eat or are you going to play with your food?” asked Walton, shooting him an annoyed look.

Harry winced, looking down at his soup. He’d barely eaten anything today, and not because he didn’t want to. Good nutrition was essential for a healthy mind, and Harry needed to be able to think if he wanted to find his way back home. He knew that, but he just… couldn’t. His stomach was too unsettled, and the food tasted like sand, course and inedible. What little he could ingest lay like stones in his stomach, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was worth it.

It didn’t matter anyway.

He’d be fine as long as he got out of here soon, got back home.

He pushed the plate away. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

Walton’s eyebrows furrowed, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to say something. Then he pressed his lips together, shaking his head before directing his gaze back to his textbook. “Suit yourself,” he said.

Harry did, aborting his failed attempt at dinner to return to Slytherin. It was still early, but he was exhausted, and his mind grew suspiciously quiet and slow, his thoughts buried under the fog swirling around in his head. He should take advantage of it. When things got this quiet that usually meant he’d be able to fall asleep.

Once he reached his bedroom, he kneeled next to his trunk to get his pajamas out, opened it, then frowned, his hand hovering in the air. Was it just him or had someone moved his things? He wasn’t the most tidy person, and his trunk was, frankly speaking, a mess, but he always knew where everything was and this wasn’t right. This wasn’t how he’d left it at all. His textbooks lay too close to the middle of the trunk, and his pajamas were buried at its bottom even though they’d been the last thing he’d thrown in this morning.

He bit the insides of his cheeks, wondering if he was being paranoid. No, he decided, he had to remember where he was; in the snakes’ pit, surrounded by snakes with dubious morals. Just because they hadn’t acted like the Slytherins he knew so far didn’t mean they weren’t more similar to them than it seemed, and the Slytherins he knew could be sneaky.

He sighed, then began to remove everything from his trunk, trying to figure out if anything was missing. He didn’t have many things, and what little he had wasn’t worth much, but he suspected that didn’t matter to whoever went through his trunk. It didn’t seem he’d been stolen from. All his secondhand textbooks were still there, as were his two school robes, seven pairs of socks and underwear, pajamas, and the coat for winter months. His wallet was still tucked into the pocket of his jeans, and no money had been taken out.

He frowned, throwing everything back in the trunk. He was sure he wasn’t making it up and someone had actually searched his trunk, but why? Would they have stolen from him if they’d found anything worth having? But if that had been the intention, why not take the money? He had five galleons left, and they were worth more in the 40s than they would be in the 90s. Was it just curiosity instead? Or something else?

He did his best not to linger on the incident, but it left him more unsettled than he wanted to admit.

Sunday was… better. He slept relatively okay for the first time since falling back through time, and his mind was clearer than it'd been in weeks. Food was still a struggle, but he did manage to eat some toast with jam at breakfast, which was better than usual.

He was in a decently high spirits when he sat down at his usual spot in the library, piling his textbooks in front of him. He’d much rather work on the Theory of Time now that he’d finally made it through the less important parts, but he was too behind with his homework, and he knew he had to get it out of the way as soon as possible.

He started with the potions essay and was about halfway done when someone walked into his secluded section of the library. He glanced up to see who it was, meeting Alice’s gaze. She lingered between the bookshelves, Regina Sowle and another Hufflepuff Harry had seen around but didn’t know the name of close behind her.

“Hi,” said Alice hesitantly, an unsure smile on her lips. The greeting got her friends’ attention, and they both looked in his direction, the unknown Hufflepuff shooting a skeptical look at his Slytherin robes.

“Hi?” he said.

“Um,” said Alice, stepping closer.

“Did you see a kitten, Evans?” asked Sowle, crossing her arms over her chest.

“A kitten?”

“Yes, a kitten,” said Regina. “Small, orange, goes by the name of Pumpkin?”

Harry shook his head. “It doesn’t sound familiar, sorry.”

“That’s okay,” said Alice, her unsure smile still lingering on her face. “But let me know if you see him. I’m afraid he got lost.”

“Or eaten by something,” muttered the unknown Hufflepuff, earning herself a warning look from Regina. “What,” she said, “I’m just saying.”

Alice’s smile turned a bit wobbly, but she didn’t comment on her friend’s words, just nodded at Harry as Regina pulled her away, their friend following behind them.

No one else bothered him after that, and he managed to finish about half of his homework by lunchtime and the other half by early evening. He'd planned to focus on the points system after that, but he hadn’t taken a single look at the Theory of Time yet, and he couldn’t allow the day to pass without working on it at all. He settled on doing a little research first and moving to the points system later.

He continued from where he left off, with the first chapter that covered the actual theory. It was, unfortunately, even harder to understand than the history section, and he found himself rereading certain paragraphs multiple times before he comprehended what they were trying to say.

What he found out over the next few hours was that time as a concept was so under-researched and underdeveloped that experts couldn’t even agree if it was linear or circular. The linear theory was what Harry imagined when he thought of the passage of time, so he somewhat understood what the book was trying to tell him even when the details evaded him. The circular theory, however, was much more difficult to comprehend, and the explanation in the Theory of Time didn’t help as much as it should have.

He sighed, massaging his temples. Maybe he should try finding more books on the topic. He couldn’t leave it like this; he needed to understand how time moved if he wanted to find his way back home.

It all started to feel more and more hopeless. If not even the experts who had studied the subject for years understood it, how could Harry? How was he supposed to find his way back home with such lacking information?

Monday brought more rain and regret.

Harry somehow knew it was going to be a horrible day as soon as he got up in the morning and got ready for the day in dead silence. It wasn’t unusual – neither him nor the people he roomed with were morning people, and they often got dressed without speaking to each other. Still. The silence between them felt different today, more stony than sleepy, and Harry didn’t miss the way his roommates avoided looking at him.

It was weird but it slipped out of his mind by the time he made it to the Great Hall for breakfast, sitting next to Walton who grumbled something indecipherable in response to his good morning. They walked together to Herbology after that, pairing with Alice and Regina again.

“Did you find your kitten?” asked Harry at one point during the lesson, watering the dittany seed he’d just planted.

Alice’s lips wobbled before she shook her head.

“I’m sure he’ll appear eventually.”

Alice flashed him a sad smile. “I hope so,” she said.

After Herbology came History, and it was then that Harry knew for sure something was up with the Slytherins. They seemed to have shuffled seats, leaving no spot open for him. He hesitated on the threshold once he noticed it, contemplating what to do, then he shrugged his shoulders and moved to the table in the back.

He could feel Flint and Issa's eyes on him, but he didn’t bother raising his gaze, calmly placing his textbook and utensils on the desk. He and the Slytherins had barely talked before, so them freezing him out changed nothing. This was probably the best-case scenario for him anyway.

The same thing repeated in Charms, and Harry quietly moved tables again, showing no visible reaction to having to do so. He had worse problems than the Slytherins and whatever it was they were trying to do, which became even more apparent after Professor Garraway began the lesson and got them working on today’s charm.

Harry had run out of time for the points system during the weekend, and he was paying the price now. He should have at least started working on it. That way he might have known what ‘start at point T, move to point C at medium velocity, then to point A and B at high velocity before finishing at point S’ meant, and he wouldn’t have been staring at the sketch in the textbook, trying to figure out how to cast a simple growth charm.

He ground his teeth together, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Charms had become an exercise in frustration, both because he couldn’t cast the damn spells and because he felt like he was wasting his time trying to do so. He could be making progress on the Theory of Time instead of sitting here, struggling to cast a spell he already knew in a completely different way.

He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the room before stopping at the Gryffindor two rows in front of him. If he remembered correctly, her name was Alison Payton or something similar. From what he'd observed so far, she was quite proficient and was usually able to cast the spell in the first few tries. Unlike Riddle - who only executed a spell once and then read for the rest of the hour - she practiced it multiple times, which allowed for more opportunities to copy her. That being said, it hadn’t worked out for him so far, but Harry wasn’t ready to stop trying yet.

He raised his wand and followed Alison’s wand movements as closely as he could, sighing when nothing happened. The thought of learning something from Voldemort made his stomach churn, but he was the only one he’d managed to successfully copy so far. Unfortunately, he’d missed his opportunity today, unable to observe him quite as subtly from his new seat.

He sighed, attempting the spell one more time. The bean on his table remained stubbornly bean-sized, not growing an inch, and Harry bumped his forehead against the table, suppressing the urge to groan.

He hadn’t managed to perform the spell by the end of the lecture even though he’d tried, tendrils of frustration still rising within him as he followed his classmates to lunch. He collapsed onto his spot next to Walton at the Slytherin table, leaning his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand instead of grabbing himself some food. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come here. To attempt to eat something, probably, though he could already tell it wasn’t going to happen now, feeling nauseas at the mere sight of food.

Walton was studying while he ate, as he usually did, but he teared his gaze from his textbook for long enough to scowl at him. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“Charms,” muttered Harry.

Walton’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t say anything, and Harry bit the insides of his cheeks, hesitating. “Do you know why the Slytherins are acting weird?” he asked after a moment, unsure if he even wanted to know. It didn’t matter as long as they left him alone, but they’d turned 180° rather abruptly, and Harry worried it could be a precursor to something worse.

Then again, would Walton even know anything? He was still talking to him, so he was clearly not involved in whatever the other Slytherins were doing, and he was a loner as far as Harry knew. He hadn’t seen him talking to another Slytherin once.

Walton scoffed. “They don’t waste time with people who are of no use to them,” he said, shooting Harry a sharp look. “They’ve decided you have nothing to offer.” He clenched his jaw, his lips turning downward. “But you’re lucky - you have magical relatives, so they’ll leave you alone.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then asked: “What about you?”

“What?”

“Do you have magical relatives?”

Something passed over Walton’s face, and he closed his textbook with more force than necessary before stuffing it into his bag. “I’m a muggleborn,” he said, standing up. He turned around without saying anything else, stomping out of the Great Hall.

Harry watched him go, frowning. He remembered what Draco had said to Hermione in their second year, and he could imagine the situation would be much worse for Walton. He had to live with those people. The knowledge left a bad taste in Harry’s mouth, but he knew there was nothing he could do. That, and he was trying not to mess up the timeline, so he couldn’t have gotten involved even if he had been able to make a difference.

The rain didn’t let up for most of the week, and it was still pouring on Thursday, lighting flashing in the sky every few minutes. The weather didn’t stop Professor Twitty from conducting his lectures outside, but at least, thought Harry as he shivered in his drenched robe, the class was interesting enough and decisively safer than Hagrid's had been. And there were no spells to learn, so Harry wasn’t struggling and drowning in his frustration, which was always a plus.

They were covering phoenixes today, and Dumbledore had kindly lent them Fawkes for the hour. The phoenix sat on a branch, occasionally readjusting his feathers as he watched the students below him with a curious gaze. “Phoenixes are caught in an endless cycle of rebirth,” explained Professor Twitty, motioning to Fawkes. “When it’s their time to die, they burst into flames and are reborn from the ashes.”

Harry was only half listening, his thoughts wandering. Endless cycle of rebirth. Was that how time was supposed to work? An endless repetition of the same events? He’d been trying to get to the bottom of the circular theory for most of the week so far, finding two other books on the topic that somewhat explained it, but he still wasn’t sure he got it. It seemed illogical to him, and he struggled to conceptualize time as a circle, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was incorrect. The earth didn’t look round either.

Harry suppressed a sigh, shifting his weight from one leg to another as he struggled to direct his thoughts back to the lecture. Lightning flashed in his peripheral, and he shot a nervous glance at the sky. It didn’t look like the rain would stop anytime soon. Like everything else, his glasses were wet, and he could barely see through them. He would have used impervius on them ages ago if he’d dared to cast an unchecked spell in front of his classmates. After a moment of hesitation, he slipped his glasses off his nose and tucked them in his pocket, figuring he could see better without them.

He turned his head back to the front and accidentally met Prewett’s gaze, squinting a little at his blurred face. Both Prewett and Weasley were in this class, but they hadn’t tried speaking to him so far. It wasn’t unexpected. Just like back in the 90s, the other houses mistrusted the Slytherins and gave them a wide berth any time they could, and the Slytherins weren’t too keen on hanging out with them either. Even during classes, Slytherins stayed stubbornly on one side of the classroom and everyone else huddled on the other.

And well, Walton’s presence probably didn’t improve his approachability. He’d hidden somewhere last week, leaving Harry with Flint and Issa, but this week, he lingered next to him, scowling at anything and anybody. Harry wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen him in good mood, and the glare he shot at Prewett was quite impressive.

Prewett raised his eyebrows, his gaze turning challenging. Harry tried to give him an apologetic smile, even though he wasn’t sure if it’d be accepted, and Prewett hesitated for a moment before nodding at him. He turned away after that, and Harry saw him whisper something to Weasley, but neither of them looked in his direction again.

The lecture ended, and Harry trailed after Walton back toward the castle. “You go ahead,” he said after a minute or two, waving at him. “I think I'll skip lunch.”

Walton’s eyebrows pinched together, his jaw locking. “You shouldn’t,” he said, clipped, “but fine.” He turned around and walked away.

Harry watched after him for a moment, then took a quick look around to make sure no one was looking at him before slipping into the forbidden forest. He didn’t plan to go far in, just far enough not to be visible from the path. Hiding behind one of the trees, he pulled out his glasses.  He dried them with a quick drying spell, cast impervius, and placed them back on his nose.

Now that was much better.

He was about to return to the path when something rustled nearby. His wand was back in his hand in a second, its point directed at… a kitten. An orange kitten. He sat under a bush, his fur matted and muddy, watching him with weary yellow eyes. He turned around after a moment, darting deeper into the forest.

Harry hesitated, wondering what to do. This wasn’t his problem, but he didn’t trust the kitten to survive for long in the forbidden forest. He was too small, and if he lingered around for long enough, something might actually eat him. He worried at his lower lip, then cursed under his breath and ran after the kitten as quickly as he could without scaring him even more.

The kitten was fast, slipping between the trees and jumping over roots, and Harry was worried he'd lose him. Thankfully, his orange fur clashed with the greenery around them, its color even brighter in the gray weather, and Harry could always find the kitten again even when he lost sight of him for a few moments.

They were moving deeper and deeper into the forest, and after a few minutes, Harry considered stopping his pursuit and going back. He didn’t, figuring he’d come this far, and it seemed like a waste to give up now. He jumped over a root, ducked bellow a low-hanging branch, and swerved around a tree, his eyes trained on the moving orange blub in the distance.

The forest rustled around him, rain pounding against the leaves as the wind shook the branches. It was loud, and Harry almost missed the sound of something else scurrying toward him in the cacophony of noise surrounding him. He sensed its approach at the last possible moment, throwing himself out of the way and pulling out his wand. His shoulder slammed into a nearby tree, and he winced, sure it would leave a bruise.

The something ran past him, going straight for the kitten. The kitten scaled the nearest tree and arched his back, his fur rising as he hissed down at a… spider. It was a spider the size of a smaller dog, and it quite obviously planned to have the kitten for lunch. Harry cursed, pointing his wand at it as he tried to come up with an effective spell. He was about to cast one when footsteps sounded from behind him, unmistakably human.

“Don’t hurt him, please,” said the newcomer as he reached him, desperation lacing his words, “I promise he’s not dangerous.”

Harry turned his head, blinking. The newcomer was big, much taller and wider than a wizard should be, but his face was that of a child, smooth and rounded. His hair was a mess, and he was looking at Harry with wide frightened eyes. Familiar eyes. Hagrid. Harry shook his head, a bit more unsettled by the image of Hagrid as a child than he had any right being. He hesitated, lowering his wand. “He’s going to hurt the kitten.”

The kitten’s escape onto a tree was a temporary solution. Aragog – and the spider had to be Aragog – could climb, and he was obviously preparing to do so, his legs tapping against the trunk as he looked for purchase.

Hagrid looked from Harry to the kitten and back again, his messy hair slapping him in the face with how abruptly he moved his head. He hesitated for a moment, then walked over to the tree and reached his arm toward the kitten. He was tall enough to reach him with no problem, and to Harry’s immense surprise, the kitten moved closer to him, sniffing his fingers. Hagrid easily lifted him off the branch, then carried him over to Harry and offered him to him. Harry reluctantly took him, his movement careful so he didn’t spook him. He hugged him to his chest, the kitten squirming a little but not trying to escape, and Harry let out a relieved breath.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding at Hagrid.

Hagrid fidgeted with his hands, shifting his weight from one leg to another as he stole nervous glances at Harry. “Could you…” he started, swallowing. “Could you not tell anyone about Aragog?” he asked. “I’m not supposed to have him. I… I keep him in a box, but I have to let him out sometimes.” His eyes widened even more, pleading. “He’s not dangerous, I promise he won’t hurt anyone.”

Not dangerous. Right. Harry grimaced but didn’t voice his thoughts out loud. He knew how Hagrid was with beasts, and nothing he said would change anything. “I won’t tell anyone,” he promised. “But you should be more careful.” A lot more careful. Hagrid was way too trusting, admitting the spider was his to a complete stranger. Stranger. Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat, trying not to think about the fact that was what he was to Hagrid now. A stranger.

He glanced at Aragog, goosebumps erupting down his arms at the sight. The spider was unpleasant to look at even now when he was still relatively small, and remembering what he would grow into sent a chill down Harry’s spine.

“Thank you,” breathed out Hagrid.

“I mean it,” said Harry. “You’re going to be in a lot of trouble if someone finds out about him.” He bit the insides of his cheeks, dread rising in the pit of his stomach when he remembered how this ended.

Hagrid dug his toes into the dirt, still fidgeting with his hands. “I’m careful,” he said. “I only let him out a few times a week.”

“What about anti-spying charms?” He should cast them over a general perimeter to make sure people didn’t stumble on him and Aragog by accident, like Harry had had.

Hagrid hesitated. “I…” He gulped, averting his gaze. “I’m not that good at magic,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing.

“I can teach you.” The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he could think them over, and he winced when he realized what he’d said. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should stay out of it, allow fate to take its natural course. He should think about the timeline and make sure he didn’t cause any irreversible changes. And he should spend as little time with people he knew from the future as possible to make sure they didn’t recognize him when he got back to his time.

But… Harry looked at Hagrid, so young and vulnerable, and he wanted to protect him. He couldn’t help it.

Hagrid’s face brightened. “Do you mean it?”

Harry should say no and take everything back, but instead he nodded, unable to feel bad about it when Hagrid beamed at him. “My name’s Harry,” he said after a second, remembering they haven’t introduced themselves yet.

“Hagrid,” said Hagrid, and Harry nodded.

“Nice to meet you Hagrid.”

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep. It was in no way surprising considering sleeplessness was an almost daily occurrence for him at this point, but it felt worse than usual. On any other day, he would have at least been able to work on the Theory of Time and the two other books he ‘borrowed’ from the library, but tonight, he was far too jittery and anxious to focus. Or to stay still really.

Meeting Hagrid had shaken him more than he’d expected, and he couldn’t stop turning their conversion in his mind over and over again, second guessing every choice he’d made. He shouldn’t get involved with Hagrid. He shouldn’t be spending any time with him at all, but that was easy in theory and a lot harder in practice. He was starting to realize that wishing to help an old friend wasn’t all that had influenced his actions, even though it had been a big part of it. No, he was trying to cling to a piece of home. Hagrid was one of his oldest friends, and he was here. A lot younger and different but still him. It was impossible not to hold onto him, even when he knew how impossibly dangerous and stupid that was.

Harry sat up. He couldn’t stay laying down for another second, needing to move. Glancing at his sleeping roommates and the kitten peacefully snoring next to his pillow, he quietly slipped out of bed, padding to the door. He carefully closed it on his way out, walking down the hallway with soft footsteps before coming to an abrupt stop a little before he reached the common room. It was around 2am, but he could see shadows moving around, quiet whispers carrying through the air. He frowned, then peeked around the corner, his eyes zeroing on the multiple figures moving toward the exit. Riddle. And his sycophants. All 9 of them.

Harry had seen them following Riddle around, and he knew their faces but not all of their names. Two sixth years were in the group, one of whom Harry was pretty sure was a Malfoy. He didn’t know his name, but knowing the Malfoys, it had to be something pretentious. He didn’t know who the other sixth year was either, but the rest of the sycophants were his classmates. Flint had pointed Thetis, Dolohov, Avery, Rosier, and Alphard out to him, and he’d witnessed the other two being called out in class enough times to know who they were too.

The first was Clarence Lestrange, tall and muscular with a slightly crooked nose, brown hair that curled around his nape and dark brown eyes. The second was Theodore Nott who shared his name with Harry’s Slytherin classmate from the 90s and was likely his grandfather. They looked alike too, both tall and lanky, with dark hair. Their eyes were different though, Theodore Nott senior’s blue and piercing while Theodore Nott junior’s were murky brown.

The entire group, which Harry decided to call Baby Death Eaters, was going somewhere, leaving the common room two by two. Harry lingered by the arch, hesitating for a moment before deciding he might as well follow them. It was a bad idea, especially without his invisibility cloak, but it wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his night.

He waited for another minute or so before following them out of Slytherin, pausing just outside the passage and straining his ears. Voldemort and his Baby Death Eaters were on the staircase, their footsteps quiet but echoing in the silence of the castle.

Harry was no stranger to sneaking around during the night, his footsteps secure as he slowly climbed up the stairs, relying on his hearing to be able to follow the Slytherins.

They climbed up and up, and Harry began to suspect he knew their destination. It was confirmed when they reached the seventh floor and the Slytherins paused next to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Harry peeked around the corner, watching as Riddle walked up and down the hallway three times. A door appeared a second later, disappearing again after all the Slytherins passed through.

Harry sighed, then turned around and began his walk back to the dungeons. He couldn’t follow them into the room of requirement, and he couldn’t help wondering what they were doing in there. Knowing Voldemort, it had to be something unsavory and Dark Arts related. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but he knew he couldn’t meddle. He had to stay away from Riddle and his sycophants and avoid drawing their attention.

He just reached the landing on the third floor when he heard something in the distance, freezing on the spot as he listened. Were those… footsteps? Yes, he decided after a moment, they were, and they were approaching him fast. He looked around, desperately searching for some place to hide. There was a broom closet nearby, and Harry threw himself in, carefully closing the door behind him. He peeked through the crack, just able to make out a tall wizard with a comically large nose and scraggly hair stomping past, muttering something to himself. Harry wasn’t sure if he imagined it or if he heard Weasley’s and Prewett’s names coming out of his mouth.

He waited until the air was clear before he scurried back to Slytherin, a bit more paranoid now that he knew the current Caretaker had the same habit of walking around during the night as Filch. Thankfully, he reached the common room without incident, and he quickly slipped back into bed, determined to give sleep another try.

Tom Riddle and his Baby Death Eaters looked disgustingly rested and alert during the first period next day. Harry was less so, exhaustion pressing down on him so heavily that he could barely keep his eyes open. It was nothing new, but it was worse than usual. Yawning, he threw some more peppermint in his cauldron. They were working on Invigoration Draught today, and he wished he’d be allowed to sample some. Or rather, that he’d be allowed to sample some of someone else’s, considering he didn’t exactly trust his own.

He peered at it, observing its light blue color with apprehension. It wasn’t too off, he didn’t think, but it should have been darker by now. He glanced at his seatmate’s cauldron and studied his potion for a moment before turning back to his own, feeling a bit better about it. At least his was blue, while Atticus Selwyn’s was violently red. Harry heard him sighing, then cursing under his breath. “Do you have any more Alihotsy leaves?” he asked.

Harry nodded, pushing the leaves toward him despite doubting his potion could be saved at this point. Selwyn seemed to have the same thoughts, sighing again as he mixed a few leaves into his cauldron.

Harry glanced at him, then looked away again. The longer he was here, the less clear he was on what was going on with the Slytherins. Selwyn was another outlier, and Harry didn’t understand why. He was nothing like Walton. He was a pureblood, and the other Slytherins didn’t ignore or treat him unkindly. That being said, he didn’t seem to be close to them, lingering on the sidelines instead. And he still talked to Harry, obviously. Not a lot and only during potions but he did.

Harry stirred his potion, relieved when its color began to darken. Maybe he got it after all. Or not. A look at Riddle’s cauldron revealed that its color was still way off.

He stirred it one more time, and it grew another shade darker just as Slughorn stopped by their table. He looked into Selwyn’s cauldron first, his eyebrows arched. “What happened here, Mr. Selwyn?”

“I…” started Selwyn, his shoulders slumping. “To be honest professor, I have no idea.”

“Hm…” said Slughorn, sniffing the potion. “It appears you added too much infusion of Wormwood, and you forgot the scurvy grass, didn’t you?”

“I…” Selwyn sighed. “It seems so,” he muttered, his eyebrows pinched.

“Be a bit more careful next time, Mr. Selwyn.”

Slughorn moved to Harry’s cauldron after that, and Harry waited for his commentary with bated breath. He was so used to Snape and his ever-present criticism that he always anticipated Slughorn’s evaluation with trepidation. “Not bad,” said Slughorn, and Harry let out a sigh of relief. “A bit unconventional though.”

Harry blinked. “Unconventional?”

“You added Mandrake, honeywater and billyweed seeds first even though they would usually come at the end, but you offset the effects by mixing in more peppermint. Good job, you only forgot to add another spoon of infusion of Wormwood.” Slughorn patted his shoulder. “I usually prefer my students don’t experiment during my lessons, but I can’t fault them for it when it’s done so masterfully. Keep up the good work, Mr. Evans.”

With those words, he walked away, and Harry turned back to his potion, wincing. He was so exhausted that he’d forgotten to follow the recipe, relying on his muscle memory instead, and he’d brew the potion the way Snape had taught them to, which was, apparently, the wrong way.

Shit. He really had to be more careful from now on. He sighed, trying to look on the bright side. At least he hadn’t made this mistake with a spell. That would have been much harder to explain. Still. People thinking he was some kind of a potions prodigy would do him no favors, and he had to make sure it didn’t happen again.

The day dragged on, Harry growing more and more exhausted. Transfiguration caused him even more trouble than usual, so much so that Dumbledore himself stopped by his desk, showing him how to correctly perform the spell. It didn’t work, and Dumbledore moved on with a sigh, telling him to work on it beside his homework. Harry wasn’t sure he’d have the time to, his research into time still firmly his main priority, but he promised to apply himself anyway.

Herbology was better. Harry hadn’t liked it that much in the 90s, but here it was almost relaxing. It was a welcome reprieve from his other classes, and it usually didn’t demand too much of his focus, just good reflexes and intuition, both of which Harry had in spades. They were learning about the Chinese Chomping Cabbage today, and all the dangerous tasks were once again relegated to Harry, the others preferring to stay out of the line of danger.

“I found your kitten, I think,” he said as he threw a fistful of bugs at the cabbage they were working with.

Alice’s face brightened. “Really?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “Orange and small, right?”

“Yes!” Alice leaned a bit closer. “Where did you find him?”

“The forest.” He threw some more bugs to the cabbages. “He’s in my room right now. Where do you want me to bring him?”

Alice patted her chin with her index finger as she thought about it, and after a short discussion, they agreed to meet after lunch. Harry was glad that the kitten would be going back to his owner. He was pretty well behaved, but Harry couldn’t stomach having to take care of another living being right now, already struggling enough to take care of himself.

His last class of the day was Divination, and Harry spent most of it half dozing off. Professor Vega, a tall witch with short black hair, dark eyes, and sharp and elongated features, was lecturing them about stars and constellations. She was mostly repeating what he’d already learnt in Astronomy, so he could tune her out without fearing he’d fall too far behind.

The lesson ended with the professor assigning them a horrifying amount of homework, and then it was finally time for lunch. Harry followed the others to the Great Hall, collapsing on the seat next to Walton. Walton, for his part, didn’t acknowledge his presence at all, his nose buried in his Charms textbook.

Harry grabbed himself some soup before pulling out the Theory of Time. He continued from where he left off in the morning, absently stirring his soup instead of eating it while he read. The further he progressed, the less he understood, and lately, it wasn’t unusual for him to have to read a page multiple times or look things up in other books before he comprehended the meaning. It was frustrating and time-consuming, but it wasn’t like he had a better option. He had to find his way back home no matter what it took.

He didn’t make much progress during lunch, only reading through a paragraph or two. He returned to Slytherin afterwards, retrieving the kitten. He left him with Alice before moving to the library, where he planned to stay for the rest of the day. He sat at his usual table, and pulled out the Theory of Time, leaning his chin on his hands when a voice rang from behind him.

“Time.”

Harry startled badly enough that he almost fell off the chair, whipping his head around. A boy stood by the bookcase, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against it. Harry didn’t know his name, but he recognized him as one of his classmates. He was of average height, with curly brown hair and grey eyes, and he was wearing a Ravenclaw uniform. His lips were curled upwards, forming an easy smile as he observed him.

Harry hadn’t noticed him approach at all. “What?”

The boy pushed away from the bookcase, walking over to Harry’s table and plopping down across from him.

“I couldn’t help but notice that was what you’ve been reading about instead of working on your homework,” he said easily, a glint of mirth in his eyes.

Harry gaped at him. He truly had been doing that, but he’d been careful, changing the books’ jackets and always checking he was alone before pulling them off the shelves. He had no idea how this guy had managed to pick up on what he was doing, but apparently, he hadn’t been careful enough after all.

He sat up straighter, tendrils of anxiety wrapping around his chest. “Oh, it’s an… interest of mine,” he said, cringing. “I want to go for an unspeakable once I graduate, so…” He shrugged his shoulders, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. He wasn’t sure how much sense he was making, but the Ravenclaw seemed to buy it, leaning closer to him as he beamed.

“Me too.”

Harry blinked. “You too…?”

“Yeah, though I’m more interested in the mind.” The Ravenclaw tapped his temples with his finger as he smiled at him. “I’ve been researching legilimency.”

“Right,” said Harry, unsure how to react. His chest tightened at the mention of legilimency, remembering the ministry. He was pretty sure now that Sirius had never been in danger and Voldemort had planted the vision in his mind. Harry should have applied himself more during his lessons with Snape and maybe the ministry wouldn’t have happened at all. Guilt rose in him at the thought, strong and suffocating, and he bit his tongue hard enough to hurt. It was all his fault. He’d put his friends in danger.

“And, of course, occlumency.”

“Uh,” said Harry, still not knowing what to say. “That sounds… interesting.”

“Doesn’t it?” asked the Ravenclaw, tapping his fingers on the table. “I want to try it in practice, but it’s not really something you can learn on your own, and no one else is interested.” He paused, leaning closer to Harry. “Tell you what,” he said, lowering his voice, “– you help me with it, and I’ll help you with this.” He gestured at the Theory of Time.

Harry stilled, staring at the Ravenclaw in disbelief. The guy didn’t even know him, and he wanted to dig around Harry’s mind – or let Harry dig around his mind? He wasn’t sure how to respond to such a preposition, and he ended up going with: “I’m not sure I need any help.”

The Ravenclaw didn’t seem surprised by his response. “You’ve been stuck on the same chapter for the past two days,” he pointed out, motioning to the Theory of Time – and making Harry realize he’d been watched for longer than he’d thought. Who was this guy? “Believe me, as a fellow academic, I understand. You need someone to bounce theories off of, and I’m offering my expertise. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

Harry spluttered. The Ravenclaw had a point, he couldn’t deny that. Having someone to discuss his research with would be of great help, but it was a risk even without putting the legilimency/occlumency into the mix. “We’ve just met,” he pointed out.

The Ravenclaw shrugged his shoulders. “And…?”

Harry just stared at him, the Ravenclaw easily meeting his gaze. He shrugged again after a while. “My name’s Jasper,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Jasper Fawley.”

Harry hesitantly accepted his hand. “Harry Evans.”

“Well, we know each other now.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, and Jasper laughed. “Tell you what,” he said, “think about it some more and let me know if you change your mind.” With that, he got up, patting down his robes.

“Sure,” said Harry despite having zero intentions of doing so.

The weekend rolled around again, and the rain finally lifted, the castle grounds swimming in sunlight. It was good news for most of the students, but not so much for Harry. He’d promised Hagrid to meet him in the forbidden forest today, and he could already tell sneaking in was going to be difficult. Most of the student body was spending the day outside, basking in the sun. Their presence would have complicated things even in the 90s, but it was absolutely disastrous now given the size of the generations.

It took ages before he found the opportunity to slip between the trees unnoticed, and he ran the rest of the way, paranoid someone would see him and alert a professor. Detention was the last thing he needed right now.

He found Hagrid where he’d stumbled upon him last time, Aragog inspecting a rabbit den nearby. Harry hoped no rabbits were inside and he wouldn’t be treated to the sight of the spider feasting on one.

He still thought what he was doing was a bad idea, but he knew he wasn't going to be able to take it back as soon as Hagrid flashed him a shy smile. Harry bit the insides of his cheeks, trying not to think about how badly this could screw up the timeline as he walked over to the half-giant, returning his smile.

“I brought this,” he said, pulling a book out of his backpack. It was titled Practical Spells for Mischief Making, and it contained what they needed.

Harry had contemplated what to go with for a while, figuring he could show Hagrid the muffliato and one of the spells for deflection. He’d ended up deciding against it, however, concluding he was already taking a big enough risk by helping Hagrid and he shouldn’t make it worse by teaching the half-giant the spells from the 90s. As such, he’d spent almost half an hour searching the library for something else he could use, eventually settling on a few spells from the Practical Spells for Mischief Making.

The first spell he considered was this decade’s version of muffliato, and the second one was a spell he’d discovered anew but that had a similar effect to the one he’d initially had in mind. That being said, he had no idea if he’d be able to cast either of them.

Opening the book on the correct page, he showed Hagrid the spells he had in mind. “To be honest,” he said, rubbing his nape, “I’m terrible at charms, so it might take me a while to be able to cast this. We can try to figure it out together?”

Hagrid nodded, looking excited despite Harry’s words, and they got to work, using the sketch in the book as reference as they attempted to cast the spell.

It turned out just as disastrous as Harry had expected it to. He tried to follow the sketch as closely as he could, but no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to coax any magic out of his wand. Hagrid had no luck either, though he did manage to start a fire which Harry quickly put out by stomping on it.

Hagrid’s shoulders slumped after that, and he hid his wand behind his back as he shifted his weight from one leg to another. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Harry shook his head, smiling at him. “I’m not doing any better, so I really can’t judge,” he said. “Try again?”

Hagrid hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

They tried it out a few more times before admitting their defeat and sitting down on the ground facing each other. Harry absently played with grass, making sure not to look in Aragog’s direction as he did so. He got a traumatic flashback every time he accidentally caught sight of the spider, and he was a living reminder of the Chamber of Secrets and what Riddle had in mind for this year. Harry’s stomach churned at the thought, and he tried to push it away. Worrying about it now would do him no good.

“Why are you helping me?” asked Hagrid after a while. He refused to meet Harry’s gaze, his cheeks flushed as he stared at the ground.

Harry opened his mouth only to close it again a second later, at a loss on what to say. The truth was, clearly, out of the question, and he couldn’t think of a good excuse. “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” was what he finally settled on, sighing. “Not that I’m helping much,” he added, flashing Hagrid a strained smile.

Hagrid shook his head. “You’re helping!” he said, sitting up straighter. “We’ll figure it out - let’s try again.” He stood up, pulling his wand out again, and Harry laughed.

“Okay,” he said, copying him. “Let’s try again.”

They were, unfortunately, still unable to cast the spells after that, but they agreed to meet again and give it a few more tries then.

A few more days passed, all blurring together. Harry made slow, but steady progress with the Theory of Time, finally finishing with the linear and the circular theories. He understood the latter better now, though the intricacies still escaped him. There was nothing he could do about that, and he understood enough to move on to the theories surrounding time travel that the next few chapters of the book covered. It was impossible not to be a little excited about them, hoping to find something that would help him return home.

Harry would have loved to be able to dedicate even more time to research, but it was unfortunately impossible with all the schoolwork piling up. Despite promising himself that he’d learn the points system, he still hadn’t gotten around to it. He’d made it as far as to find a book that covered it during the weekend and read the first page before giving up. It was more complicated than he’d expected, and he’d clearly need more energy and time to learn it as he’d thought. There were complicated equations to calculate the distance and the angles between the points, and a few even more complicated equations for velocity. Harry saw no point in it, and he suspected it’d take him a while before he could excuse the waste of time.

As it turned out, it didn’t take long at all, Professor Merrythought taking care of it during the next DADA lesson by instilling so much fear into him that he was ready to get to it immediately.

“Mr. Evans,” she said a little before the end of the lecture, waving him to the front of the classroom. They were working in pairs, as usual, and Harry had ended up with Olivia Hornby for today’s lesson. Her name had sounded familiar to him from the beginning, but he’d needed a while to figure out where he’d heard it before. Wasn’t that the girl that had bullied Myrtle? If she was, she didn’t look it, staying perfectly polite and pleasant to Harry even when he was unable to perform the spell correctly.

Jasper Fawley was here too, shooting him an occasional look which Harry ignored.

“Yes Professor?” asked Harry as he walked to the front of the classroom, his knuckles turning white with how hard he clutched his wand. In his experience, it was never a good sign when a professor wanted to speak to him, and he didn’t believe Merrythought would have anything pleasant to say.

“I wanted to talk to you about your performance,” she said, confirming Harry’s suspicions that this wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation. Her eyes were serious as she looked at him, but there was a small smile on her lips, almost like she was trying to reassure him. It did nothing to put him at ease.

“Oh,” he said, at a loss for words. He knew his performance in class was atrocious. His ability to cast a spell unfortunately depended fully on whether a) it was the same as in the 90s, or b) he could watch Riddle execute it first. Needless to say, Harry absolutely hated that the latter was the case and was periodically trying to copy other students, hoping it would work eventually.

It hadn’t so far.

“There’s no need to be discouraged,” said professor Merrythought. “Albus mentioned you’d been homeschooled, and you might need some extra help.”

Harry nodded, still unsure what to say. Professor Merrythought regarded him in silence for a few moments before turning to the rest of the class. “Mr. Riddle,” she called.

Harry flinched, taking an automatic step backward. Oh no. This couldn’t be what he thought it was, could it? Professor Merrythought wouldn’t ask Voldemort to help him, would she? Horror rose inside him at the thought, and he suddenly felt like he was going to be sick, his stomach churning. He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to dispel some of the panic in his chest by counting to ten as he exhaled.

Riddle responded promptly, walking over to them. “Professor?” he asked, a polite smile on his face. His eyes flickered to Harry, lingering on him for a moment before he turned back to Merrythought.

“Mr. Riddle,” said the professor, nodding at him. “You still remember what we spoke about last time, I presume? About the tutoring?”

“Of course, professor,” said Riddle, turning to Harry. Harry tensed under the weight of his gaze, struggling to keep his emotions from showing on his face. Tutoring? This was a disaster, and he couldn’t imagine Riddle was pleased about it either, though no displeasure was visible on his face. No, the smile he directed at Harry was pleasant, almost friendly, charming. And knowing Voldemort, definitely fake.

“You can have the classroom on Wednesdays,” said professor Merrythought, her expression contemplative. “Let’s say 8?”

“That works for me, professor,” said Riddle.

Both of them turned to Harry, and he froze at their attention, biting his tongue. “Er-“ he started, “Is this really necessary professor?” he asked, desperately trying to save himself from the terrifying predicament he’d just been thrown into. He’d rather be eaten by the giant squid than spend so much time alone with Riddle. He didn’t need that kind of stress in his life, truly. “I’m sure Riddle has better things to do with his evenings.”

Riddle’s lips twitched at that, but Harry couldn't tell whether in displeasure or amusement. He was impossible to read, his mask impeccable.

“I’m afraid it is,” said professor Merrythought, giving him an encouraging look. “It’s an O.W.L.s year, and we have to get you up to speed if you want to have any hope to pass.”

Harry suppressed a sigh, realizing there was no way out of this. “Okay,” he said, defeated. “Thank you.”

Needles to say, sleep was even more elusive than usual that night, and he was unable to concentrate on his research, replaying what had happened at DADA again and again in his mind instead. He tried to convince himself the situation wasn’t as terrible as it felt, but it didn’t work, and the closer to the morning it got, the more his anxiety grew.

It was Wednesday tomorrow. He'd have to spend the entire hour in Riddle’s company tomorrow.

He finally dozed off an hour or two before sunrise, waking up even more exhausted than before. He dragged himself to breakfast, grabbing a piece of toast only to stare at it instead of eating.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” asked Walton, scowling at him. Harry blinked at him, his eyes bleary. Walton and he shared the DADA class, but it was likely that Walton had missed what had happened yesterday with the general clamor and chaos in the classroom. Then again, even if he hadn’t, would he have seen it as a big deal? It seemed like such a stupid thing to worry about from an outsider’s perspective.

“Professor Merrythought decided I needed tutoring,” said Harry, sighing.

Walton lifted his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“With Riddle,” added Harry.

Walton flinched, dropping the toast he was eating. It fell to the floor, but Walton paid it no mind, staring at Harry with a horrified expression on his face.

Harry tensed, startled by the display. “What?”

“What does a king do when a peasant causes him trouble?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Walton buried his face in his hands for a moment, taking an audible breath. He raised his head again after a few moments, his eyes sharp as they bore into Harry. “You clearly have no idea what goes on in Slytherin,” he said, “but if you want to survive the year in one piece I’d suggest you learn and follow the rules.” He stood up, his breakfast forgotten. “If it isn’t already too late,” he shook his head at him before spinning on his heels and hurrying out of the Great Hall.

Harry stared after him, unease curling in his gut as he turned his warning in his head.

He wasn’t sure how he survived classes that day, hours blurring together and becoming indistinguishable from one another. He felt like he was stuck in a fever dream, and the closer to 8 p.m. it got the more anxious and uneasy he was. The thought of having to deal with Riddle was already bad enough, but now Walton’s warning rang in his mind too, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He knew Slytherins were purist assholes, and he found some of their behavior weird, but he hadn’t thought it went any deeper than that. Not until Walton’s warning at least. Harry didn’t know him well enough to take his words at face value, but he couldn’t forget that he lived in the snake’s pit – he’d be an idiot not to take it seriously, whether it was true or not.

The Slytherins could make achieving his goal of getting back home more difficult than it needed to be, and Riddle, at least, was willing to go as far as to kill for what he wanted. Harry shouldn’t cross them, and he should make sure not to draw any more of Riddle’s attention. He didn’t want to think what would happen if he were ever to learn Harry was a time traveler, but he strongly suspected he’d be better off dead.

Walton was probably right – he had to pay more attention to what was going on in Slytherin, and if there really were rules, he had to learn them. Which, unfortunately, meant he’d actually have to spend some time there. So far, he’d only gone back there to sleep, unwilling to stay for even a second longer than necessary.

He suppressed a sigh. He wasn’t going to research time anywhere Riddle could see him, but he supposed he could start doing his homework in the Slytherin common room? He could observe the dynamic around him as he did so, and hopefully he’d be able to learn something.

A few minutes before 8, he resentfully got up from his table at the library and made the walk to the DADA classroom, feeling like an animal being led to slaughter. Why did these kinds of things always have to happen to him? It was like he was a natural trouble magnet. Somewhat hysterical laughter built in his throat at the thought of getting tutoring from Voldemort, but he suppressed it, aware that losing it right now would do him no favors.

He just had to do what Riddle told him to and make sure he didn’t accidentally use any of the spells from the 90s or do anything else that could attract his interest. And it’d probably be best if he didn’t piss him off either, which seemed even more essential after Walton’s reaction this morning. He shouldn’t make things worse for himself than they already were.

He paused in front of the classroom, took a deep breath as he steeled himself, and then he entered. Riddle was already here, sitting on the professor’s desk and absently playing with his wand. He looked a little bored, but he still directed a friendly smile at him.

Though… Harry tilted his head, finding himself relaxing a little. He knew how it was to have the full weight of Voldemort’s attention on him, and this wasn’t it. Riddle wasn’t Voldemort yet, sure, but Harry could still see some similarities between them, and he was pretty sure about this. Riddle wasn’t interested in him at all.

Good. Let it stay that way.

“Evans,” said Riddle, jumping off the desk. The move was elegant, and there was a silent authority in the way he stood, his posture straight. His height didn’t make him any less intimidating, and Harry caught himself standing up straighter, trying to make himself seem taller. It was a losing game. Riddle had at least half a head on him. At least.

Harry nodded, unsure what to say.

Riddle gave him an appraising look. “You don’t like me very much,” he observed.  

Harry almost flinched. Was he really that easy to read?

“But you still stare at me all the time,” added Riddle, curling his lips upwards. There was sharpness in his smile, sharpness and something else that sent heat traveling up Harry’s neck, and he felt himself blushing. Riddle picked up on it, his smile turning even sharper.

Harry shifted his weight from one leg to another, not even trying to deny it. Riddle had a point, though Harry really hadn’t expected him to notice. If he discounted the first time, they’d never even make eye contact. It was probably one of the Baby Death Eaters who had told him. Harry should have been more careful.

He blinked. Eye contact. He quickly averted his gaze, fixing it at the nearby desk instead. He couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to forget about the legilimency. Granted, Riddle was younger right now, and maybe he couldn’t do it yet, but was that really a risk he could take? No, he decided, not having to think about it at all, he obviously couldn’t.

“Anyway,” said Riddle, and Harry wasn’t sure if he imagined it or his voice grew colder, “your failure’s going to reflect badly on me, so I suggest you apply yourself.”

“You could have just said no to this,” said Harry. And saved us both a lot of trouble.

“No,” said Riddle, “I couldn’t have.”

Well yes, he was a bit of a teacher's pet, wasn’t he? Harry took a steady breath, forcing himself not to grind his teeth together. He had to stay calm. Or as calm as possible when stuck alone in a classroom with Baby Voldemort.

“Let’s start with yesterday’s spell,” said Riddle, leaning against the desk. “Protego.”

Harry winced, remembering the extent of trouble the said spell caused him. It was just similar enough to the version from the 90s that it completely confused him and he kept mixing the two up. It was, probably, the worst possible spell they could have started with, and Harry wondered if Riddle had somehow figured that out and chose it on purpose.

“Start at point G, move to point H and C, and finish at point V, all at medium velocity,” said Riddle. He was still leaning against the desk, and he loosely crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes boring into Harry.

“Uh,” was all Harry could get out. He, naturally, had no idea what any of that meant. He’d try the spell out from memory, but with protego, he was way too worried he’d mixed the 40s’ version of the spell with the 90s’ one.

Riddle continued to stare at him for a moment or two longer, and then his lips moved slightly upwards, forming a faint smile. It looked almost mocking, though not quite, Riddle maintaining some benefit of the doubt. Harry still tensed, not liking the sight of it.

“So, that’s the problem,” said Riddle, his voice soft. “You have no idea what that means, do you?”

“Uh,” muttered Harry, nervously shifting in place. “No.”

“You’ll have to learn,” said Riddle, “and fast.”

“Yes,” said Harry, recognizing the truth in his words. He would have to learn as soon as possible, so he’d stop struggling so much and professor Merrythought would allow him to drop the tutoring.

Riddle narrowed his eyes, and Harry tensed even more. He still couldn’t read him well, but he suspected Riddle doubted his ability to learn the points system. He bit his tongue, straightening his spine in defiance. It looked like he’d have to prove him wrong.

“Until then,” said Riddle, raising his wand. Harry’s gaze fixed on it, and he stilled. The wand wasn’t pointed at him, but it was in the hands of Baby Voldemort, so Harry saw it as a threat anyway. “Copy me.” Riddle waved his wand, his movements both elegant and precise. The shield appearing in front of him was strong, perfect, magical energy rolling off it in waves. Harry couldn’t help being impressed despite himself.

“Well then?” asked Riddle, letting the shield fade as he raised his eyebrows at him.

Harry shook himself out of his daze, raising his own wand. Taking a measured breath, he copied what Riddle had done as closely as he could. A faint shield formed before him. It probably wouldn’t stop a single spell, but it was better than anything he’d managed so far. He rolled his shoulders before letting his hand drop, unable not to be a little happy with his progress. Riddle, on the other hand, seemed thoroughly unimpressed by his performance.

“Do it again?” asked Harry.

Riddle sighed, but he still performed the spell again. Harry paid more attention to his wand movements this time, making sure he could copy them in their entirety. Raising his wand, he did so, the shield appearing before him just as strong as those he could cast in the 90s. He couldn’t stop his lips from curling upwards, and he only stopped smiling when he remembered how he’d gotten here. He’d only learned the spell so quickly because of Voldemort, and the knowledge was like a bucket of cold water thrown over his head. He still didn’t want to think why copying him worked while nothing else did.

Riddle, for his part, studied the shield with suspicion in his eyes. He waved his wand, and Harry tensed, tightening his grip on his own wand, but it was just a stunner, harmlessly bouncing of Harry’s shield.

“Beginner’s luck,” decided Riddle after a moment.

“No,” said Harry, “I got it.”

“Show me then,” said Riddle, waving his hand.

Harry did. Three times as a matter of fact, before Riddle finally believed he’d gotten it. He clearly didn’t quite know what to think of it, his eyebrows pinched and his eyes calculating as he studied Harry’s shield.

It crossed Harry’s mind then that he should have perhaps pretended not to get it. Being too proficient would do him no favors. On the other hand, the sooner he got up to speed, the sooner the tutoring could stop. He weighed his need to stay unnoticed with his need to get away from Riddle, trying to decide which one he should fulfil. Both had risks connected to them, but he ultimately decided that the less time he spent in Riddle’s presence the better. He’d take the lessons seriously and learn enough for professor Merrythought to change her mind about tutoring. After that, he and Riddle would go back to ignoring each other, and all would be well.

They covered two more shielding spells after that, both of which Harry got just as quickly as the first one.

“Same time next week,” said Riddle once their designated hour was over, giving Harry a slow once-over. Then he walked out of the classroom without sparing him another glance.

Harry had to sit down for a moment after he was gone, feeling like a deflated balloon as all the adrenaline left his system. Being around Riddle for an entire hour while he waved his wand around had been even more nerve-wracking than he’d expected, and he was exhausted now, his energy thoroughly depleted.