Chapter Text
The Liminal Veil is something of an oddity. Created in 1592 by Charles Percival Wentworth Yates III, its true powers remain a mystery. Yates intended for it to be a gateway between the world of the living and the world of the dead, desperate to avenge his murdered wife. Yates spent years constructing the Veil, to the point of obsessiveness as he became elderly, but the Veil was never stable enough to work properly. Current academic research suggests that this instability originally stemmed from a lack of access to necromantic texts and improperly applied wards—Yates, a hedgewitch with little formal education, never had the proper tools to construct the Veil safely. Indeed, with these flaws, the Veil could never function as a doorway between our world and the world of the dead. Instead, Yates created a dangerous cursed object; one that eventually took Yates life after its completion in 1603. Reports say that he was drawn to the Veil in an almost hypnotic fashion. Only days after he finished its construction, he disappeared through it and was never seen again. His students and family assumed that he had joined his wife in the afterlife.
The Veil stood for many years on the abandoned Yates estate, too dangerous to move safely. For years, there were reports of people hearing the voices in the Veil and walking through its doorway; none were ever seen again. There were talks of trying to destroy the Veil but ultimately it proved impossible; the instability of its creation would have decimated any wizard who attempted to destroy it and nonmagical means left no mark. For nearly one hundred years, it stood abandoned and unnoticed except by the most curious of academics. It wasn’t until the creation of the Department of Mysteries and the passing of the Unattended Necromatic Objectics bill in 1700 that the Veil was brought back to public attention. Under the observation of trained Unspeakables, the Veil was transported to the Ministry and it has remained in the care and study of the Department of Mysteries ever since.
Despite the extensive study done by Unspeakables—study that cost at least five researchers their lives—the Veil has yielded few of its secrets. While it is clear that it is a doorway to somewhere, it is impossible to say where. Many theories have been put forward: some argue that it functions as Yates intended and sends its victims to the land of the dead while others make a case for time travel or, put forward by one particularly reckless academic, dimensional travel. However, none of the Veil’s victims have ever returned once the Veil has captured them in its thrall and without testimony, all theories cannot be proved or disproved—and indeed, may never be proved conclusively at all…
A Brief History of Mysterious Objects (1981) by Rigellus Rutherford
“SIRIUS!” Harry yelled. “SIRIUS!”
He had reached the floor, his breath coming in searing gasps. Sirius must be just behind the curtain, he, Harry, would pull him back out…
But as he reached the ground and sprinted towards the dais, Lupin grabbed Harry around the chest, holding him back.
“There’s nothing you can do, Harry—”
“Get him, save him, he’s only just gone through!”
“—it’s too late, Harry.”
“We can still reach him—” Harry struggled hard and viciously, but Lupin would not let go…” (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix)
“Harry, he’s—”
Harry broke free of Lupin’s grip. He felt hands scrabble at his elbows, try to catch him around the waist, but he ignored them. All he could see was the Veil. He had to go through it, he had to go after Sirius, he had to save Sirius—He ran, panting. The Veil whispered to him. He couldn’t make out what it was saying, but it didn’t matter. If Sirius had gone through that doorway, so would Harry. Nothing would stop him.
“Harry! Harry, no—!”
Harry passed through the shadowy curtain of the Veil just as Remus howled out his name. His last thought before darkness overtook him was Remus sounded as if someone had just ripped out his own heart.
It was dark.
He was alone and cold. He knew he was going somewhere but he couldn’t remember where or why it was so important. He couldn’t remember his name. He was sure he had one but it eluded him. Why was he here, in the dark and the cold? He needed to go somewhere. Somewhere important. No, not somewhere. He was looking for someone. But who? He closed his eyes and tried to force his mind to focus. Who? Who?
He couldn’t remember. Desperation rose and he opened his mouth. He would yell. He would scream—
Harry Potter opened his eyes.
It took him a long moment of staring up at the star-studded sky to remember who he was. Even longer to remember why he shouldn’t be looking at any sky right now. He surged up, but his body protested so fiercely that he heaved into the grass, gasping for breath. His vision spun but he forced himself to stay awake, stay aware. He didn’t want to pass out, not when he had no idea where he was. He’d had plenty of practice forcing his body to do what he wanted despite being dizzy or sick when he lived with the Dursleys—Aunt Petunia had never cared that he was about to faint with hunger when she demanded her rose garden be pruned.
Harry took several careful, deep breaths. The world stopped spinning and he felt less like vomiting. When he felt less like he was going to pass out he risked a look around.
He was in a clearing, a bare spot in the middle of knobbly, tall trees. A forest. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might even be in the Forbidden Forest. He’d never seen trees like that anywhere else. But how had he gotten there? And… He looked up and breathed out, frowning as his breath fogged. It was much colder than it should be, even for a Scottish May. He didn’t know what had happened when he’d gone through the Veil but something was wrong. He needed to figure out what was going on and fast.
Standing took more effort than he’d expected, but he managed to pull himself upright without vomiting again so he counted it as a success. Looking down, he realized he was still in the clothes he’d worn in the Department of Mysteries, and he still had his wand tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Harry relaxed a little. He didn’t know where he was, but at least he wasn’t completely helpless. He drew out his wand and took comfort in its familiar warm weight.
“Point Me Hogwarts,” he muttered.
His voice was hoarse and ragged, but his wand spun as it should, pointing North. Harry stuck it back in his waistband and began his journey. Walking was almost too difficult—he staggered into trees, using them as props to hold him up when his knees felt too weak. He had to sit down several times to catch his breath. He still wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but he felt like he’d be run over by a herd of threstals.
It was bitterly cold. Harry was grateful for the thin sweatshirt he was wearing, but soon even that wasn’t enough to keep the persistent chill at bay. He began to shiver, teeth chattering. By the time he reached the edge of the forest, the chill seemed to be set in his bones. He couldn’t feel his hands, though he rubbed them constantly as he walked.
Despite the strange weakness of his body and the worrying cold, he relaxed when he saw Hogwarts. Since he’d first arrived there as a child, despite all the dangers that plagued him during his school years, he’d always felt that nothing could truly harm him as long as he was at Hogwarts. It wasn’t like Privet Drive, where he always felt hunted and defensive, where the wrong word or action could earn him a slap around the ears or a week with only scraps for dinner. Hogwarts, even at its most and destructive, was safe. If Harry was there, everything would be okay.
The path down the Quidditch field to the castle was shorter than his trek through the forest had been, but it felt twice as long without the protection of the trees from the wind. By the time he collapsed in the inner entrance, Harry just wanted to sleep for a thousand years.
But he couldn’t. He remembered going through the Veil, the whole mess at the Ministry. Sirius, falling— Harry closed his eyes and breathed, keeping the panic at bay. He’d followed. If he was here, Sirius had to be too. He’d probably gotten here before Harry, found his way to the castle. He would have gone straight to find Dumbledore, wouldn’t he?
Harry found himself oddly reluctant to see Dumbledore. Nothing like the strange anger and violence that had seized him when he’d last looked Dumbledore in the eye, but just a general desire to avoid the man as Dumbledore had been avoiding Harry all year. But if Sirius was there, Harry to go. He had to make sure Sirius was all right.
He dragged himself to his feet. The school was quiet, the lights dimmed. It had to be late. Harry made his way through the corridors without seeing anyone—not a ghost or Peeves or even Filch. It was so quiet that Harry began to feel deeply uneasy. Had something happened? Had Voldemort attacked? His breath caught. Without meaning to, he began to speed up until he was almost running through the halls, ignoring the stitch in his side and the way his legs burned. He could collapse later, he told his body fiercely. First, he had to figure out what was going on.
The statue in front of Dumbledore’s office looked as it always did. Harry paused in front of it, catching his breath.
“Sugar Quills,” he said, which had been the password the last time he’d come up. But the statue didn’t move. “Bertie Bott’s. Lemon Drops. Fizzing Whizzbees. Chocolate Frogs.”
He tried the name of every kind of magical candy he’d ever heard then, in increasing desperation, the muggle ones. But the statue didn’t open. Frustrated, Harry hit the wall next to it hard enough to make his half-frozen hand sting.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered.
Now what was he supposed to do? As far as he knew, this was the only way to get into the Headmaster’s Office. Perhaps he could go up to the Owlry and find an owl to send Dumbledore a message, let him know that Harry was here and let him up? But was Dumbledore even awake? Dismayed, Harry wondered if that was why the statue wouldn’t respond—maybe it locked down when Dumbledore went to sleep?
Harry rubbed his head. His legs were so weak and he was so cold. He needed to sit down. He picked a spot near the statue and slid to the floor, back against the wall. At least it was warmer inside Hogwarts. Pins and needles attacked his legs and hands as his body began to reach a normal temperature again. His eyes grew heavy. He needed to do something, make a plan, go to the Owlry or the Tower and find someone, anyone who could tell him what was going on. But his body wouldn’t move. His eyes were so heavy...
“Oh my.”
Harry slid to awareness fuzzily, blinking several times. His entire body throbbed and his legs had gone numb. There was someone in a bright orange robe standing in front of him. Harry’s sleepy brain took a minute to realize it was Professor Dumbledore and another to remember why that was so important. Gasping, he struggled to his feet. But his legs were still weak from all the walking last night and from sitting on them for hours and he tripped, nearly falling on his face. Dumbledore caught him around the elbows and hauled him up.
“And just who might you be, young man?” Dumbledore asked, surveying him carefully from over his half-moon glasses, a look that Harry had seen many times before. But there wasn’t any kindness or affection in his expression, only wary suspicion. Harry realized, shocked, that Dumbledore didn’t recognize him.
Had his appearance changed somehow? Why wouldn’t Dumbledore know who he was?
“Professor, it’s me,” he said, grasping Dumbledore’s arm. “Harry? Harry Potter?”
Dumbledore frowned. “Potter, you say?”
Harry opened and closed his mouth, flummoxed. And then he looked at Dumbledore more closely and his stomach dropped. Dumbledore had never looked particularly fragile, but he’d been indisputably elderly. The man in front of Harry still looked older, but there were fewer lines on his face, and his hair was more gray than white. His glasses were different too; still the same shape, but they had a pale silver rim instead of the gold Harry was so used to. Harry’s panic mounted. What on Earth—?
“Professor, you’ve known me my whole life,” he said helplessly. “I’m Harry. Please, you’ve got to tell me what happened. Is Sirius here? Did the others make it back safely?”
Dumbledore stared at him. The suspicion had been wiped from his face, but the lack of expression was almost more unnerving. It gave Dumbledore’s usually gentle face a calculating edge. It reminded Harry that Dumbledore wasn’t just his kindly headmaster, a man he thought of as almost a grandfather, but a powerful wizard and war general. He shivered, unnerved, and took a step back, taking his hands off of Dumbledore’s arms. For a moment, he and Dumbledore regarded each other: Dumbledore thoughtful, Harry disoriented.
“Why don’t we go up to my office,” Dumbledore said at last. “I have a peculiar feeling this may be best discussed in private.”
Dumbledore’s office was different too. Harry sat down in the plush chair across his desk and looked around, feeling more and more lost. Fawkes’ perch was still in its usual place, but the trinkets on Dumbledore’s shelves were completely different. There was as bookcase near the entrance that hadn’t been there the last time Harry had visited and a tea service in one corner that Harry had never seen before.
Dumbledore sat down and steepled his hands under his chin. Harry shifted uncomfortably under his long look.
“Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore said. “I must admit some confusion. You seem to be very well acquainted with me, but I do believe I have never seen you before in my life.”
Harry’s stomach bottomed out. How could Dumbledore not know him? What was happening?
“Sir,” he said, miserable and confused, “I’m—I don’t know what to tell you. I’m Harry. We met when I was eleven. I’ve been going to school here for five years, please, you have to know who I am. Isn’t Sirius here? Didn’t he tell you?”
“The only Sirius I know of,” Dumbledore said slowly, “is Sirius Black.” Harry’s relief was short-lived. “But as he is currently with his family for the holidays, I’m not sure why he would have told me anything.” Dumbledore adjusted his glasses. “Why don’t you explain to me how you came to be in the castle,” he said. “Perhaps we can figure out the source of the mystery together.”
Harry floundered, uncertain. He’d expected to find a Dumbledore who knew exactly what needed to be done. How was he supposed to explain everything that had led up to the events at the Ministry to a Dumbledore who didn’t seem to have any idea who Harry was?
“I was in the Department of Mysteries,” he said slowly. Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up and Harry flushed. If this Dumbledore really didn’t know him, this story probably wasn’t going to make a good first impression. “I was there with friends, we were… looking for something important.” Did this Dumbledore know about the Prophecy? “We got caught by Death Eaters and they attacked us. Sirius came after us to help, but he—” Harry closed his eyes, seeing it again as if he was back in that room. “He fell through a—a veil. I’m not sure what it was, but he disappeared through it.” Harry saw it again, that terrible moment of Sirius falling, falling— “And I followed him.”
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. His eyebrows were still raised.
“This veil,” he said after a long moment of consideration, “did it whisper to you?”
Harry blinked. “Yes.” How had he known?
Dumbledore let out a long breath through his teeth. “The Liminal Veil,” he murmured. “Is it really possible…?” Harry frowned as he stared off into the distance. “Mr. Potter,” he said, coming back into focus, “tell me what year it is, please.”
Harry’s frown deepened. Maybe Dumbledore had somehow actually gone batty since the last time Harry had seen him?
“1996, sir. May.”
“I see. And if I were to tell you that it is in fact 1976?”
Harry laughed. “1976?”
“In two days,” Dumbledore allowed. “You see, today’s date is December 29, 1975.”
Harry waited to hear a laugh, a punchline, but all Dumbledore did was stare at him. His heart thumped against his breastbone, oddly fast. 1976? That couldn’t—
“No,” he said. “No, that can’t be—that can’t be right. I followed Sirius! We went—well, I don’t know where we went, but there’s no way this is—”
He fell silent as Dumbledore reached into his desk and pulled out a copy of the Daily Prophet, setting it down in front of Harry. The date at the top matched what he said. Harry stared down at it. The front page was a story about the Ministry deliberations on outlawing certain dark magic. He thought he recognized the woman staring out of the photograph from his trial last summer, but she was much younger. Harry sat back, oddly numb.
1976?
“The Liminal Veil is a portal, of sorts,” Dumbledore said, ignoring Harry’s mounting panic. “But it is wildly unstable. The people who go through, we’ve never been able to definitively prove where they went. Some theorized that they had gone into the past… and you seem to be living proof of that theory.”
Harry couldn’t think about that right now. He tucked away his hysteria and panic and focused on the thing that truly mattered.
“But if I’m here, surely Sirius must be too!” Harry said. “Haven’t you seen him?”
Dumbledore looked very somber. “Mr. Potter… I’m afraid to tell you that what little research done on the Liminal Veil has concluded that it may very well send one person to one place… and one person to another. If your Sirius did indeed go on before you, he may have ended up in an entirely different time or…”
Harry found it difficult to breathe. He’d managed to hold on past his confusion and fear because he’d been sure, so sure, that he’d be with Sirius soon and they could figure it out together. He didn’t want to believe what Dumbledore was saying, but he knew that if Sirius had landed in the same place Harry had, he would have come to Hogwarts too, looking for Harry just as Harry had looked for him. That he wouldn’t have rested until he made sure Harry was all right. If he wasn’t here… Harry swallowed.
“I have to find him,” he said. “Please, I have to—” A thought occurred to him and he grabbed it with both hands. “Can I go through the Veil again? It’s still in the Department of Mysteries, isn’t it?”
“That would be most inadvisable, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore said. The coolness in his voice was unpleasant and unfamiliar. “You could certainly go through again, but there is even less guarantee that you will find yourself in the same place as your Sirius. And while time-travel has been a theory proposed for the Veil, many believe it leads to the land of the dead.”
Harry stood. He wanted to run out of the room, back to the forest, and pretend that he had just woken up again, that he could still find Sirius if he tried hard enough or walked far enough. But running away wouldn’t do him any good and wouldn’t make this farce he experiencing in any less real or immediate. Harry knew that intimately. Instead, he began to pace. He wished Hermione was here; she’d always been his best sounding board and he needed ideas, fast.
“If I go through,” he said after a long moment making dizzying circles in the carpet, mind furiously working, “can I end up back in my own time?”
“You may,” Dumbledore allowed. “But you also may not. The Veil is unstable, as I said. It could take you many tries to get back to your time—or you may never be able to.”
“What about using something other than the Veil?” Harry asked. “A Time-Turner?”
Dumbledore frowned. “Those are recent inventions, just created by the Department months ago,” he mused. “I suppose in your time they must become used enough to be more well-known? But no, a Time-Turner would not work—for one, the current model only sends one back in time, which I think you’ll agree isn’t much help for your predicament. But even if they were able to send one forward in time as well, they are only capable of hours of time travel, not years.” Dumbledore shook his head. “No, I’m afraid there isn’t any device capable of the kind of time-travel you need.”
Harry slammed his hand into the nearest wall. The trinkets on the nearby shelves shivered but didn’t fall. His hand throbbed.
“So I’m stuck,” he said, not looking at Dumbledore. “That’s what you’re saying. I’m trapped here.”
In 1976, years before any of his friends were even born. Tears prickled at the back of Harry’s eyes and he forced them back down. Crying wouldn’t help him. It had never helped him.
Dumbledore was silent for so long that Harry finally dared a peek. He looked uncommonly somber. Harry had really only seen that kind of gravitas on him once—when they’d learned that Voldemort had returned.
“Yes, my boy,” he said at last. “I’m afraid you are.”
They sat in silence for a long time. Eventually, Dumbledore summoned tea and breakfast for two. Harry ate half-heartedly at first but he began to scarf it down as his stomach remembered how hungry it was. Dumbledore watched in bemusement, drinking a cup of tea.
“Ah, to be young again!” he mused, sounding so like the Dumbledore Harry knew that Harry was overwhelmed with homesickness. He put his fork down. Dumbledore, noticing his sudden mood change, set his cup of tea aside as well.
“Now that our appetites are sated, I suppose it is time to discuss business,” he said. Harry stared at him apprehensively. “Nothing bad, my boy. But if you are indeed stranded here, then there are accommodations that need to be made. You have no identity in this time and no place to go. You said you were a student here? What year?”
“Fifth,” Harry said. “Well, sixth I suppose now. My fifth year just ended.”
He shivered, remembering the horrific dream during OWLs. He’d been so preoccupied with Sirius he hadn’t spared a thought for his friends. Had they made it safely out of the Department of Mysteries? If Harry had led them all in there and then abandoned them to get hurt…
“Hm,” Dumbledore said. “Second term will begin in a week, after the holidays. I would propose you join as a student. However, though you may have finished your fifth year, I would hardly want you to start your sixth mid-term… Perhaps you can join the fifth years? That would give you some time to acclimatize.”
Harry shrugged. He was finding it difficult to care, though normally he might have protested the indignity of having to re-do half a year’s worth of schoolwork as well as his OWLs. His mind was still on his friends. The Order had arrived, hadn’t they? Surely they would keep everyone safe. But Ron and Neville had been injured and Hermione had been in the thick of the duel and Ginny and Luna were both younger—
“Yes, yes, very good,” Dumbledore said, getting Harry’s attention back. “Now, as to your name and background—well, we can hardly tell the school the truth, as you might imagine. You’d be overrun. However, your appearance is too clearly a Potter’s to concoct a flimsy lie…”
Harry perked up a little, drawn out of his dark musings on his friends’ fates. “What?”
Dumbledore smiled at him. “The Potters are certainly recognizable,” he said. “Most pureblood families are. Even if you had not told me, I might have guessed. That hair!” Harry reached up to smooth at his hair self-consciously, but Dumbledore only laughed. “Anyone who looks at you is going to guess what family you’re from and we might have an easier time of it if we allow their suspicions to be correct.”
Harry frowned. "A lie, you mean?"
Dumbledore didn't seem to notice his unease. “Precisely. Reginald Potter was a bit of a cad if I remember correctly—he was involved in several scandals with married women and there were always a few rumors about him floating around. He died several years ago, but it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility that he fathered a son—perhaps with a muggleborn woman?”
Harry couldn't place that name. “Reginald?”
“You don’t know him?” Dumbledore asked. “Well, perhaps… He was Charlus Potter’s brother.” When Harry just blinked, the name basically nothing to him, Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed. “James Potter’s uncle?”
Harry sat up so quickly he knocked the teapot off Dumbledore’s desk.
“I see,” Dumbledore said, but Harry barely heard him.
Why hadn’t he realized when Dumbledore had mentioned another Sirius Black? His parents were here! Young, whole, alive, and—Harry did some quick mental math—in the middle of their fifth year at Hogwarts. Not dating yet, according to Remus and Sirius, but alive. Harry’s heart began to thud against his breastbone in hard, irregular beats. If he stayed, he could meet them. If he stayed… could he save them? Hermione had lectured him on the dangers of time traveling, but how could he just sit by and let his parents get murdered again?
“Sir,” Harry said slowly. “I don’t want to mess everything up. But there are some things… some things I think you need to know.”
Dumbledore regarded him solemnly over his half-moon glasses. “We are diving into undiscovered territory together, Mr. Potter,” he said. “As far as I am aware—and considering the vessel that brought you here, it’s entirely possible that my own awareness is limited—there have been no other cases of long-term time travel. Knowing the future may help prevent undesirable events or may simply make things incredibly worse.”
Harry deflated. “So you don’t think I should do anything? I should just… sit by and let it all happen?”
He didn’t think he could do that, not when it was his parents on the line. Merlin, and Sirius—! He might not have been able to save his own Sirius Black, but this one was still free and happy, and if Harry could prevent him from going to Azkaban this time around…
“What I’m saying, my boy,” Dumbledore said, “is, considering the delicacy of the operation it would be prudent to proceed cautiously. Does anything you wish to prevent happen soon?”
Harry thought it over. Almost everything he wanted to stop—his parent’s death, Sirius’ imprisonment, Pettigrew’s betrayal—happened years from now. He reluctantly shook his head. Dumbledore sighed.
“In that case, my suggestion is to start small. We will introduce you as a lost Potter, reclaimed and ready to be educated at Hogwarts. You will be sorted. The people you know in the future, you may get to know them now, but I would advise against telling them about your true circumstances. Try changing small things in the past events that you know of. If that doesn’t cause any major catastrophes, perhaps we can try something bigger.”
Harry nodded, chewing the inside of his mouth. The problem was that he knew so little about this time period. Sirius had shared some stories, but all of it was vague. The most concrete thing he knew was that his father and the others had already become animagi. What else was there? He thought hard, trying to comb through what he remembered of Sirius’ stories. Finding out Remus was a werewolf, when his mum and dad started dating, a bunch of stories about the pranks they used to play—
Harry froze. The pranks.
1976. Fifth year. They had just taken their OWLs, hadn’t they? Harry shivered. In five months time, James Potter would offer a jeering crowd a free look at Snape’s underwear. Merlin. Seeing it as a memory had been bad enough. Harry didn’t know how he’d be able to endure it in person. But it was the only thing he knew would happen this year, the only possible concrete landmark he had.
“Mr. Potter?”
Harry startled. Dumbledore surveyed him and smiled.
“Shall we get the most pressing issue out of the way, then? We can get you settled in a dormitory once you’ve been sorted.”
“I’m a Gryffindor,” Harry said, glancing automatically at the Hat in its corner.
“In your time, perhaps,” Dumbledore said. “But no student may stay at Hogwarts unless they’ve been properly sorted and as far as the Hat is aware, you never have been. So just pop it on and we’ll be on our way.”
Harry frowned, but Dumbledore was already reaching for the Hat and offering it to him. Harry picked it up and put it on his head a little gingerly. He half-expected a sword to fall out of it again.
“Ah,” the Hat said. After his failed Occlumency lessons, having the Hat’s voice in his head was even more unnerving. It was almost as if Harry could feel its presence. “How interesting! Time travel is such a wild and unstable form of magic, it’s amazing you landed even moderately close to your own time! And entirely in one piece as well! Rowena posited it could be done, but she thought it would cause too much damage to the body to ever try. Most peculiar. And your parents are here as well, aren’t they? My, my.”
Had the Hat talked this much last time? “Can you get on with it?” he asked out loud.
He thought he heard a muffled sound from Dumbledore’s direction, but the Hat’s brim was pulled too low to check.
The Hat sounded petulant now. “No need to get snippy, Mr. Potter. I so rarely get to talk to someone outside of Sortings, you know! And as dear as Albus is, even his company gets tiring after so many years. Now, let’s see…” Harry shivered at the odd sense of a mental rustling, as if his brain was full of papers being sorted through. “Ah yes. A good mind, no doubt about that. You think well on your feet, Mr. Potter - you’d do quite well in Ravenclaw! And yes, there’s a lovely bit of loyalty here… But not much patience, I’m afraid. As for the bravery—well, well! There’s little wonder you were a Gryffindor, Mr. Potter! But there’s more here… a talent for trickery, a lust to prove yourself, self-preservation in spades… Yes, I do believe I know where to put you, Mr. Potter, and this time there will be no backroom deals to get out of it!”
It took Harry a moment too long to realize what the Hat was about to say—as he was ripping it off his head, it was already shouting, “SLYTHERIN!”
Harry glared at it. “I am not!” he shouted back.
The Hat made a kind of hissing sound. “Yes you are!” it said, though its voice was quite a bit weaker than normal.
“Headmaster!” Harry said, turning to Dumbledore, who was stroking his beard, looking thoughtful. “You can’t seriously—”
“I’m afraid the Hat’s decisions are quite permanent,” Dumbledore said. “We’ve rarely had to sort an older child and never been able to re-sort a child… I must admit, it is fascinating! Did you nearly get into Slytherin during your first sorting?”
Harry scowled. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I asked it for Gryffindor instead.”
“Ah, well that might help explain it,” Dumbledore said. “The Hat does hate to be dissuaded when it feels it’s made a good choice. Ah, well! Perhaps this is fortuitous. It will make your play as a new student more likely if you are staying in an unfamiliar dorm. Now the Slytherins have dorms in—”
“—the dungeons. I know,” Harry said miserably.
Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. “Your time at school must have been very interesting indeed,” he observed.
Harry snorted. “Professor,” he said with feeling, “you don’t know the half of it.”
Since it was the holidays, the Slytherin dorms were deserted.
“We rarely have students stay during breaks,” Dumbledore explained as he led Harry down into the bowels of Hogwarts. “In fact, this year there are only three! It will be much easier for you to adjust until the rest of the students come back in January, I think."
Harry wondered if Dumbledore was saying that to reassure Harry or himself. As they descended into the dungeons, he couldn't stop himself from gloomily wondering what Ron would think of him being sorted into Slytherin. Nothing good, that was for sure. Harry wondered if this sorting would even count if he returned to his own time. He winced. When he returned to his own time. Whatever Dumbledore thought, it had to be possible, didn't it? He'd ended up here somehow, surely he could go back somehow. Somehow.
Dumbledore stopped in front of a stretch of wall and gave the password—“Aurora Borealis”—before stepping aside to let Harry go first into what would be his new common room. Harry took a deep breath and marched forward.
The Slytherin dorms seemed much the same as the last time Harry had seen them, although admittedly his memory was mostly just an overwhelming amount of silver and green. The deep, plush couches weren’t that different from Gryffindor’s dorm. The lighting was darker and there weren’t any windows, but otherwise, the layout seemed similar. Harry looked around and wondered why he’d thought they were so drastically different from Gryffindor in second year.
“There’s quite a bit of room in the dungeons,” Dumbledore explained. “That’s part of the reason Salazar decided to put his students down here. Third years and above usually room with only one other student from their year and seventh years are allowed private dorms, permitting their grades are good.”
Harry’s eyebrows went up. He hadn’t known that. He wondered if the living situations were different in all the Houses; he’d thought everyone was like Gryffindor, living on top of each other for all seven years. He supposed he wouldn’t have minded not having to room with Seamus, though Dean and Neville were all right.
“In fact, you’re in luck; we have an uneven number of Slytherin fifth years, so there’s space for you in Mr. Snape’s dorm without having to move anyone about.”
Harry stopped walking. Dumbledore continued on without for a moment, then noticed that he was alone and turned back, brow furrowed.
“Mr. Potter?”
“Snape?” Harry said weakly. “You want me to room with—Snape?”
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed. “You are familiar with him from your time?” Harry nodded furiously. “Ah. Well, that is rather unfortunate. However, if I try to put you with one of the other boys, it will raise questions when Mr. Snape is currently rooming alone—to the vehement protests of his fellow Slytherins, I might add.”
“Why let Snape room by himself?” Harry asked, frowning.
Dumbledore’s mouth firmed. “His mother requested it.”
Snape’s mother? Harry remembered the dark-haired woman in Snape’s memory, cowering before his shouting father. He wondered why it was so important to her that Snape have his own room, enough that she would come ask the headmaster of Hogwarts to allow it. And he wondered why Dumbledore had allowed it. But Dumbledore’s expression said the subject was closed and Harry had enough experience trying to get answers out of Dumbledore to know better than to try.
Dumbledore shook his head and began to lead Harry up the stairs. “In any case, many of the other fifth years have been vocal in their protest of perceived favoritism and will only grow more so if I try to room you elsewhere. How well do you know Mr. Snape?”
Harry opened his mouth, closed it again. Strangely, he felt like he knew Snape too well and didn’t know him at all. He knew Snape hated him and still saved his life, he knew that Snape inexplicably spied on Voldemort and was a nasty git. He’d seen those memories, that dark-haired child sobbing in a corner, Snape’s skinny legs in the air. And yet Snape was still a stranger to him, an unknown.
“Well enough,” he said. Reluctantly, he added, “I might… slip up. We don’t really get along.”
“Think of it as a test,” Dumbledore said, as if Harry wasn’t shit at tests. “I’m afraid it’s your only option. You’re lucky, in fact - Mr. Snape almost always stays during the holiday breaks, but he elected to go home this year. You’ll have a week to prepare.”
Harry sighed. The hallways of the Slytherin dorms were made of dark stone and lit with low lanterns, their twisting paths almost like a labyrinth. Green and silver doors were unevenly placed, marked with student names near the handle. Dumbledore stopped at a door at the end of the hall marked S. Snape. Harry watched, eyebrows rising, as he waved his wand over the handle and a name was inscribed just below Snape’s: H. Potter. Guess it’s official, he thought a little gloomily as Dumbledore opened the door and led him inside.
The room was plush and dark, furnished in green and silver. One side was clearly lived in. The bed was neatly made, but the desk was an absolute mess - parchment spread across its surface, books stacked in messy heaps and teetering stacks, inkwells and half-inked quills and crumpled papers and strange knick-knacks holding everything down. The other side was completely empty.
“We have a charity fund for orphaned students,” Dumbledore said. “You’ll need clothes and supplies. I’ll send you over to Diagon Alley with one of our students to pick them up later today, hm?”
Harry nodded, still staring at Snape’s side of the room. It was odd that seeing the way Snape lived reminded Harry that he was an actual person - and that right now, he was actually Harry’s age. Hell, depending on his birthday, Harry might be older than him!
This is so weird, Harry thought, feeling a little faint.
“Why don’t I let you get settled in,” Dumbledore said. “Please come back to my office after lunch and we'll get your things for school. The password is 'Cream Puff.'”
He patted Harry once on the shoulder, very gently, before he left. Harry sank into the empty bed - his bed, how weird was that - and took several deep breaths. Panic, which had been kept at bay thanks to Dumbledore’s comforting, almost familiar presence and leadership, threatened to overwhelm him. He was stuck in time, at least seven years before he would even be born, among people he’d known as teachers and adults. With his parents. He’d never been a good liar and now he needed to pretend to not know or care about them? How was he supposed to do that?
He wished, a little desperately, for Hermione and Ron. Neville. Ginny. Even Luna’s zaniness would be helpful right now.
He laid down on the bed and buried his face in the pillow. For a long time, he tried not to think.
Lunch was a quiet affair. There were several teachers at the high table, but none of the other students showed up, so Harry awkwardly grabbed a few rolls and high-tailed it out of the room before anyone could speak to him. The teachers all watched him with raised eyebrows but no one tried to stop him. Harry still wasn’t quite sure what his story was and he didn’t want to mess it up, so he was relieved to make his escape quietly. He nibbled on his bread as he wandered up to the Headmaster’s Office, not really registering the taste.
The gargoyle opened easily this time and Harry climbed the stairs. He hesitated outside the door, then knocked several times, waiting for Dumbledore’s admittance before he came inside.
Dumbledore was alone, sitting at his desk and reaching over a scroll which he set aside as Harry entered.
“Please take a seat, my boy,” he said. Harry sat. “Your guide will arrive in just a moment, but I thought it would be a good idea to talk before you interact with anyone else in this time. I have entered you in our records as Harrison Potter, the son of Reginald Potter and a muggleborn, whose name you may make up if you wish. Unless you have a preference, I plan to say that your mother raised you until recently, teaching you what magic she could at home.”
“Wouldn’t I have gotten a Hogwarts acceptance letter?” Harry asked.
“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “But there is a right of refusal from the legal guardians or parent.”
Harry stared. Thank Merlin Hagrid had implied that there wasn’t, otherwise the Dursleys definitely wouldn’t have let him go!
“You may want to make up some sort of reason for her,” Dumbledore said, “but the effect is that you were homeschooled for the last five years until your mother died. After her death, you became a ward of the state and they have elected to have you finish your education at Hogwarts. Does that sound all right to you?”
“What should I say she died from?” Harry asked.
“The best story is one you will remember,” Dumbledore said. “One that sounds like it could be real. Natural causes may work - perhaps she was ill and that was why she wanted to keep you home.”
Harry nodded slowly. He knew that, he thought. Once upon a time, lying had come to him as easily as breathing: surviving the Dursleys made deceit a necessary tool and Harry had practiced enough to become good at it. But when he’d come to Hogwarts, he hadn’t really needed it anymore. At least, not with his friends. He’d fallen a little out of practice.
Well. Seemed he’d get plenty of practice now.
“Are you ready?” Dumbledore asked.
Harry considered it. An absent cad for a father, a mother who died of an illness. Simple enough and Harry figured he could probably fake grief if his guide tried to ask any deeper questions. He nodded and Dumbledore waved the door open. Harry turned, trying to paste on a smile that didn’t look fake and stopped cold as he stared directly into Remus Lupin’s eyes.
Oh shit, he thought.