Chapter Text
The letter, for the most part, was an inconspicuous thing.
It arrived in the post early on one particularly dreary morning to a '4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging', clumped together with the rest of the assorted parcels and by all means innocuous, an altogether dull item if not for the ornate branding on the back of the paper and the purple wax sealing the envelope, peculiarly bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large capital 'H'.
The entire thing felt almost startlingly underwhelming, like a thought without an action. Its expression of luxury, which alluded to the impression that it would be delivered in a more grandiose manner, clearly did not extend farther than the London postage service.
The address, perhaps, was the most curious thing about the entire ordeal.
It was penned in an emerald-green ink, and it seemed ill-fitting that such a letter - the presentation of which was only typically seen on fantasy television programmes with a rare care for detail - would, in any possibility of the word, be mailed directly to a 'Mr. H. Potter, the Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey'.
Indeed, the letter seemed much more deserving of the court of the Queen or Royal Ambassador, its exterior alone exuding an air of importance within its contents.The top-corner of the letter, which usually held the stamp, was blank. It was all so very peculiar, Harry didn't know what to think.
It was for this reason that Harry, caught in a shock and still in disbelief that such a letter could possibly be addressed to him, had been exceptionally eager to open the letter at earliest convenience, scurrying back into the dining room and discarding the other two letters - a postcard from his Uncle Vernon's horrid sister Marge, who was currently vacationing on the Isle of Wight, and a brown envelope that Harry had earlier identified as a bill - into Vernon's thick, pudgy hands as he slid into a chair much too large for his small frame.
Taking the letter from its place securely tucked into the waistband of his too-loose pants (which more or less resembled the fabric for a hot-air-balloon on him), he stared at it for another beat before hurriedly ripping into the thick parchment.
He'd been far too excited to see the contents of the mysterious letter, not careful enough to remember just whose company he had surrounded himself with; two of the three occupants at the table engaging in background chatter as they opened their respective envelopes and paid him very little mind.
Unfortunately, the third of those occupants happened to be his older cousin, Dudley Dursley - an obscenely rotund and spoiled boy with little care for the world outside of his own particularly large orbit, and a particularly sadistic tendency to dedicate himself to making Harry's poor life as miserable and unlivable as possible. His small, sharp eyes locked onto the letter currently in Harry's hand with a pinpoint accuracy, mouth immediately dropping open in disbelief as he began to shout.
"Dad!" He shouted, speckles of spit and half-chewed breakfast spitting across the table as the globs of fat around his chin wobbled precariously. "Dad, Harry's got something-!"
The memory sits under his skin, a piercing burn inching through his bloodstream.
He can remember it, clear as day. The mix of emotions, fear and anticipation bubbling under his skin when he discovered that there was so much more, so much he never knew about his life, his parents.
The overwhelming feeling of finding something so much bigger than himself, bigger than anything could have possibly imagined; an almost sickening, swallowing feeling of belonging so encompassing he almost wanted to drown in it.
For the first time in his life, he had a group of people so much like himself and so much to do, a life ahead of him outside of just being 'that' kid on Privet Drive. A life where he wasn't known as the freak.
And then that, too, was shattered; his childish fantasies and assumptions turning sour as he became an outcast in both worlds.
A disappointment to his parents, they reckoned. The devil's reincarnate himself.
A villain, or monster, or any other word they could find to mould into their hatred, a hatred so intense he found, for the majority of his life, that he was drowning. In their stares, burning holes into his flesh so deep he could use it as a looking glass through his torso and out to the other side. The hushed, jilted whispers that seemed to echo through the corridors and slowly, into his mind, never seeming to still as it bounced through the hollow cavern of his head.
It was a question he often asked himself. Was it worth it?
Had he known what would be waiting on the other side of that door, that brick wall to Diagon Alley (tap the brick that is three up and two across, three times), would he have accepted that hand which pulled him from chilling ground and into upturned palms, given him a home, if temporary? Raised him (like a lamb to slaughter), pulled him from dirt and gave him something, which is very much more than nothing at all? Was it the right choice, making the sacrifice for the lives of many?
The questions poked at his brain, tugging at his nerves like loose, volatile wire and demanding answers; seeking retribution.
He had thought he had been free of it all. Pulled into gentle arms and cradled, reborn and made new just as the fresh dew after a springtime shower.
Away from the pain stuck under his skin, printed as a tattoo and itching, scratching, biting at his chest. Unbound from memories of laughter, blood, death.
.. And yet.
And yet, it stared at him, a laughing mockery of everything he had strived (and failed) to be, its yellowed, stained parchment buzzing under his fingertips and magic, delicate and haunting as a flower in bloom staining the air with a bittersweet note.
With trembling hands, he picked the letter up from its spot on the floor, its unsuspecting form leaving no hint as to its contents (although just the sight of the vellum itself was enough for him to hesitate reading the address on the back).
'Mr H. Potter, the Space by the Front Door, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.'
Indeed, the sprawling script was eerily identical to that of which had been presented to him many years ago, yet its text was not reminiscent of any particular instance he could remember, often taking the form of his (at the time) current sleeping arrangement, only being upgraded twice in his time with the Dursleys; from the 'Cupboard Under the Stairs', to the 'Smallest Bedroom', and lastly to the 'Hut-on-the-Rock'; none of which brought back particularly pleasant memories.
Choosing not to focus on the implications of such a phenomenon (and somewhat worried that at any moment the emerald ink would jolt off of the parchment and towards him much in the manner of a killing curse), he flipped the letter over; the all-too-familiar wax seal burning ice into his bloodstream and cherry pits down his stomach.
With rushed desperation, he hurried to tear open the letter, lifting the wax from the paper and cradling the contents as if it were a live bomb. Which it very well could be, since this shouldn't be possible. Inside was a familiar set of papers, the text so heavily embedded in his mind he could recite it as prayer amidst even a war.
Pulling it from its envelope, he skimmed the message, each word furthering his deepening state of despair.
"Dear Mr Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress."
The other page held a list of required uniform and equipment purchases, as well as a series of unfamiliar book titles.
He shook it off - it had been quite a while since first year anyways (or at least, that's what it felt like) and studied the letter a little closer. The whole experience had been extremely peculiar. Why would he be receiving an acceptance letter for Hogwarts, now of all times?
He had thought, back in that forest- or at least, that's what it had felt like (but what could he be sure of these days); that sharp, excruciating feeling akin to a live wire held against his bare skin always seeming to follow him around, disturbing his sleep and indelibly lurking through his waking hours. Flashes of electric green, striking and lashing with a sense of threat, something menacing hanging in the air; suspended in time, the sweet aroma of rotting death always accompanying the action.
It had happened once, and as was fated, it happened once more.
Except, he supposed, feeling slightly disoriented with the struggle of trying to come to terms with it all, it hadn't? Why else would he be receiving this letter? Was it some kind of sick joke, a prank designed to mock the memory of those many lives lost? Why then, was it penned with that unmistakable signature, ancient and familiar magic lazily trailing the air to follow the envelope's path?
He dropped the letter, a cold delirium washing over him as nothing seemed to process within his mind. He was still wearing the clothes from when he- from before all of this had happened (although they seemed much larger on him, peculiarly), so it was with little hesitancy that he swung the door open and stepped into the warm June air.
Taking one glance at the 'For Sale' sign hammered into the barren dirt near the front driveway seemingly confirmed Harry's suspicions. He would have assumed that after the end of the war and subsequently, leaving the Wizard Protection Program that they would have moved back in, far too emotionally attached to the place that even temporarily leaving in the first place had been much of a battle.
Instead, it seemed that they had decided that coming back was much more trouble than it was worth and deeming nothing too important to come back for (Harry included), they decided to move their horizons elsewhere. He couldn't blame them- it was what most logical people would do. Still, a flash of bitterness and the distinct ache of loss ricocheted through him.
Glancing down the street, he saw the familiar sight of pocket houses stacked in a row, identical cars parked in the driveway. Oddly, the model seemed to be much older than what Harry remembered, but he dismissed the thought as quick as it came.
The night was dark, streetlights doing little to illuminate the road and fend off the almost oppressive blackness that threatened to consume the rest of his vision, and it had been a long while since he had seen this street, much less remember which car model was popular at the moment. To his right, an identical house which seemed much more fitting for the Dursleys, garden pristinely planted and maintained to an obsessive degree, the budding flowers freshly watered and still glistening with dew.
Sighing, he collected his bearings. Right, Hogwarts letter. He didn't know what had happened in the period between him losing consciousness and now; though he assumed someone had healed him and moved him back to his former house, likely expecting his estranged relatives to come back soon enough (though, why they left him lying near the front door was beyond him). A trip to magical Britain would need to be in order. Quickly realising that he was short of anything else to do, Harry made up his mind, deciding a trip to Diagon Alley was due. Although…
Looking down at himself, Harry sighed. His clothes, which were covered in enough dirt and grime to be classified as part of him, were in such a sorry state that he felt they would draw more attention than anything, even if he were to go parading around with a giant neon sign pointing to his scar. He would need to get new clothes then, so he would need to stop by Gringotts before anything.
A chilling thought struck him down to his core. This whole time, he had assumed that he had won the war, that Voldemort had been defeated, but he was in such a state of unconsciousness that it was difficult to confirm anything at all.
What if, somehow, his sacrifice was in vain? Harry reasoned with himself. If Voldemort had truly won the war, he would have wanted to ensure Harry's death (and make a great spectacle of it, he's sure), which he clearly didn't do, seeing as Harry is alive and breathing in his childhood home. Therefore, the light side must have won.
The realisation filled him with a comforting sense of relief and, sufficiently calmed, infected him with such an abundance of giddiness and adrenaline that he bounded down the full length of the driveway and onto the road, before becoming acutely aware of the fact that he had zero clue how to get to the Leaky Cauldron.
Almost comically on cue, a loud BANG echoed through the empty street and Harry instinctively flinched, throwing his arms up against the barrage of light and wind that suddenly hit him. Raising his head, he was overcome by a sense of Deja Vu, having only seen the bulky, purple triple-decker bus aptly named 'The Knight Bus' once before; that time having been, he noted with more than a hint of sadness, when he first met Sirius as Padfoot.
The over-eccentric conductor (whose name Harry couldn't recall for the life of him) stepped off the bus, tipped his hat, and began to ramble rapidly.
“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve —”
Harry felt the most peculiar urge to turn and look behind him (as he's sure he did on his first encounter with the magic bus), memories of a great black dog lurking in the shadows in the alleyway between the garage and the fence filling him with an indescribable sense of sorrow. With a jolt, he realised that Stan had been staring at him expectantly, having asked Harry a question of some kind. A sheepish, lopsided grin spread across his face in apology.
"Er, how much would it be to get to London?" He rushed out, worried the conductor might burst into another rant should he take any longer to answer. Instead, the man simply sighed, adjusting his hat slightly on his head. He looked much older than Harry recalled, though he supposed he had been quite busy, and had seen little of the man aside from his unfortunate imperio a couple years back.
“Eleven sickles,” said Stan, “but for firteen you get ’ot chocolate, and for fifteen you get an ’ot water bottle an’ a toofbrush in the color of your choice.”
Harry cursed silently, praying he had some sort of payment within his beaten clothes. Rummaging through his jacket, he found a single sickle which had fallen through a rip in his pocket and in between the layers of the coat, and almost cried in both relief and heavy embarrassment. Looking towards the conductor with a sheepish smile, he waited for the man to yell at him for being too dirt-poor to afford even the 'cheapest service in all of Britain, aye'. The man simply raised an eyebrow and, after a second of stilted silence, sighed in defeat before holding his hand out and beckoning for the money.
Passing over the tarnished coin, he watched as Stan rubbed the bottom of his shirt against the coin, inspecting the now visible silver with such rigorousness that Harry worried for a moment his eyes would pop out of their sockets. After a split second though, the man turned around and beckoned Harry onboard, vanishing into the bus.
There were no seats; instead, half a dozen brass bedsteads stood beside the curtained windows. Candles were burning in brackets beside each bed, illuminating the wood-paneled walls.
"You 'ave any you want, quiet night tonight, eh Ern?" Stan joked, startling Harry with his sudden reappearance as he nudged the shoulder of a worn but jovial man. "This is our driver, Ernie Prang. Best in the industry 'e is."
Taking a closer look at the driver, Harry tried to connect the healthy man in front of him with the elderly wizard he remembers by the same man. He wondered if perhaps the Ernie Prang that Harry had met had long since died, and Stan just hadn't fully realised that yet. He glanced at the man through the corner of his eyes with a frown on his face. Though, now looking between the two characters, he was taken aback at the utter lack of any sort of tension or sadness lurking between the two (as there would be, if one was simply a stand-in for a long-dead individual); instead watching them share an upbeat conversation as Ernie started the bus with another tremendous BANG, and then they were off before Harry could further analyse their relationship.
Still not accustomed to the violent nature of the transport, Harry found himself thrown backwards by the sheer speed of the vehicle. The Knight Bus rolled through the darkness, scattering bushes and wastebaskets, telephone booths and trees, and Harry lay, restless and miserable, on his feather bed.
"Right then," Stan shot up from his armchair next to Ernie, "whereabouts in London?"
“Diagon Alley,” said Harry.
“Righto,” said Stan. “’Old tight, then . . .”
With another tumultuous BANG, the bus was rocketing down the streets of muggle London, though Harry felt uneasy at the idea of sitting up to watch the surroundings; feeling much too queasy from the ride to even think about enjoying the moment.
By the shadows cast into the bus, the sky was getting a little lighter. He would lie low for a couple of hours, go to Gringotts the moment it opened, then head back out to muggle London in search of some clothes. Although, perhaps he should just skip that entirely and head to Madam Malkins.. he would be needing a few new sets of robes for school, anyways. Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby-looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay the magical entrance to Diagon Alley.
"Thanks," Harry said to Stan, who briefly acknowledged him as he stepped off the bus, glad to be finally rid of that experience for a second time.
He watched the vehicle depart with no amount of sadness, instead turning to the Leaky Cauldron. The tiny, grubby-looking pub never got any more noticeable even after the many years of utilising its hidden Diagon Alley entrance. Barely a hole in the wall establishment, the sign at the front was worn and faded and the bricks surrounding the stone entryway were crumbling and dusty. The place in its entirety wasn't much more than another wall, the door blending into its surroundings. The entire building was missable (although Harry assumed that was the point), nothing more than a single glance leading many to the assumption that there was hardly a diner there in the first place.
There was very little effort put into the front of the store, and the door creaked from misuse when Harry pushed it open. It took considerable effort to walk through, as if something had been pushed against it from the other side.
Once he had moved it somewhat, he could see that there had, in fact, been a large bookcase pressed against the wall. The wallpaper had torn where the door was pushed open. It seemed that the place had little use from the muggle side of the wall, and so it was largely forgotten for the most part. Taking advantage of his lithe frame, Harry slid through the small crack he had formed between the restaurant and the door and walked inside, taking note of his surroundings.
Upon first glance, the establishment seemed to have just opened. The place, although homely, was filled with a sense of desolation, and Harry could see that there were no patrons within the building. The tables, usually adorned with cutlery and other miscellaneous decorations, were surprisingly bare, having not yet been set up. Peering around the bar, Harry could hear more than see Tom somewhere in the back, likely prepping for the day as he bustled around whistling an unfamiliar tune reminiscent of early 70s rock.
Harry was distantly surprised that Tom was still working at the Leaky Cauldron, having assumed him to have left the store one way or another midway through Harry's fourth year. The man looked more lively than Harry had remembered, looking not a day over fifty and adorned with a large, jolly moustache that covered the barkeep's face. His head, which Harry was sure he had likened to a weathered walnut at some point during their first interaction, was covered in a thick layer of tousled hair in a deep chestnut shade.
Harry was sure the man had been suffering from a severe case of male pattern baldness when they had first met, although perhaps there was some form of hair growth potion or hair transplant charm in the Wixen world (although he doubted it somewhat). Indeed, the man seemed to be a different person entirely. Harry would be keen to consider that perhaps the restaurant had hired a new tavernkeep following the old man's unfortunate departure, if not for the distinctly familiar facial features (and the given fact that this was, after all, the Leaky Cauldron).
The man was also endowed with a very familiar Tom feel, although, Harry supposed, perhaps somewhat less grubby and goblin-like. It was an almost infectious aura which Harry supposed is what drew the customers in; otherwise Harry was unsure of any reason that the building would be frequented by anyone except for the start-of-year intake of muggleborn first-years. With the mention of customers, Harry was reminded that he should be on his way to Gringotts before he could be spotted and haggled; either by the press seeking a new headline, or a group of young Wixen looking for something more intimate from him. He shivered with disgust at the thought.
Hurriedly, he made his way through the Leaky Cauldron, weaving through the maze of tables and loose floorboards that littered the room.
Stepping through the back door, he could feel an immediate difference in the air, the brick wall which had seemed so mountainous in first year now little more than a garden fence. It seemed to beckon him, the stones glowing with magic. He looked through his pocket, frowning when he could not find his wand, and hoped against anything that simply tapping the brick (two up and three across, three times) with his hand would work the same trick.
It was such a painfully intimate sequence that for a moment, flashes of a large pink umbrella appeared in front of his hand, images of a large, scratchy beard running through his mind. Shaking the visions off, Harry stood back and waited as the wall unfurled to reveal the magic that was Diagon Alley.
In such early hours of the morning, Diagon Alley was much less overwhelming; the absence of both people and their magic leading to a disorienting, hollow feeling floating through the air.
A foggy glow was cast through the streets as the early morning clouds dissipated with the rising sun. Heading towards Gringotts, Harry strolled through the empty alley at a leisurely pace, basking in the relaxed bustle of various shopkeepers as they prepared to set up their store for the day. The mouth-watering scent of baked goods lingered in the air, and though Harry had never been to Diagon Alley without the rushed bustle of other Wixen making their rounds through the shopping area, he found the early morning experience just as magical.
There was something there, a quality to the atmosphere, perhaps, that was so utterly Wixen that Harry couldn't help but bathe in it, feeling just as he did when he visited these streets for the first time, many years prior.
He came to a stop in front of an imposing white building on the corner that towered over Harry and the rest of Diagon Alley. It was a structure that seemed almost too magnificent to find a place amidst the quaint surroundings, and Harry almost felt underdressed before it, as though his magic was simply not enough to compare to the Brobdingnagian edifice. The front (corner?) of the establishment was supported by a three-tiered set of pillars which waned ever-so-slightly in either direction and would have had Harry doubting the structural integrity of the place had he not had such a past with the place.
The large words 'GRINGOTTS BANK' had been inscribed on the front of the building and it was so intimately familiar that Harry almost felt if he had been looking towards the top of the bank he would have been able to catch the last glimpse of a magnificent dragon taking flight after being freed from its oppressive constraints. The burnished bronze doors of the entranceway seemed to mock him, daring him to enter. Even the goblin standing at the door seemed to bare its whetted teeth towards him, an unconscious shiver of guilt flowing through Harry just as the breeze whistled through the alley.
He didn't think he was quite as recognisable anymore, but just in case he averted his gaze as he took a step through the ornate entry. The goblin paid him little mind aside from the languid bow it presented him, sharp beady eyes flitting between the surroundings with an astounding speed. The second, silver pair of doors swam into Harry's vision, and the far-fetched script that littered it with warning seemed much more necessary now.
Enter stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
A long-forgotten memory flitted past Harry's eyes, faster than clockwork. It was gone before it had even been there, really, but it didn't stop a sickening sort of sadness from perforating through Harry's barely-calm composure. With a lurch, he felt the nauseating urge to vomit somewhere rise through his stomach, and he had to clench his hand into a fist to steady himself-
“Like I said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” Hagrid announced, noticing Harry's gaze. Harry, freshly eleven and still overstimulated by the seemingly boundless quantities of information which had been revealed to him, cast a sidelong glance towards the half-giant before turning back to the inscription. It was sharp and pointed, almost as if it had been scratched into the door and embellished with a golden paint.
He wondered if they had paint in the Wizarding World. It seemed very much like something they would not have, something only shrewd people with a permanently sour face like Aunt Petunia would invest in. Muggles… he found the word rolling through his mind as a wave crashing to shore. The word felt odd around his tongue, as if he was putting a descriptor to something that did not belong or drinking tar in the place of crystalline water.
The thought of even robbing the bank seemed so inane that Harry couldn't help but let out a soft breath, watching as Hagrids' eyes crinkled at the corners in adoration. How anybody could even attempt such a thing, he was unsure; just the sight of the many goblins roaming around - some taller than Harry himself - was enough to scare the boy into a submission in the same way a child would become weary of the dangers of strangers after being told a nursery rhyme by their parents. In fact, if Harry only knew that he would be the one endeavoring to break this very rule, he was sure he would -
Harry came back to himself with a breath, gone the forgotten whispers of times long past. He found himself before the door, sweat beginning to bead along his collar and his hands lightly trembling. Heaving out a sigh, he looked around, noticing the two goblins standing on either side of the door waiting to bow him in and glancing at Harry a little strangely. He felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck in shame, pursing his lips in fear of nervously rushing to explain himself and instead hastily making his way through the second set of doors.
A vast marble hall greeted him, crystal-spun chandeliers fit for a king adorning the ceiling and the familiar sight of about a hundred more goblins sitting behind the long counter on their high stools, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales and examining precious stones through eyeglasses flooded into his vision. He was hit with another surge of memories and forced them down, away from his senses before he could make a fool of himself.
There were still a great many doors leading away from the main hall, although due the empty nature of the building they remained steadfastly closed rather than a bustling hubbub of interaction as they were every other instance he's visited. It almost appeared as though the number of doors had decreased by a great many, but Harry shrugged it off, realising it likely just occurred that way in part from their inactive essence.
He walked up to the first free goblin, a bit intimidated by the still silence of the building; the place usually harbored such a cacophony of sounds that it sounded eerie and off-putting without it. The goblin looked up at him, disinterest and poorly concealed distaste in its gaze. Harry winced; he would probably be in a right horrid mood too, if someone talked to him at the asscrack of dawn.
"Er, I'm here to withdraw some money…" He hastily tacked on a 'sir' to the end of his sentence before cringing further. Do goblins even answer to the honorific? Maybe he had just violated, like, every single magical inter-species law and offended the goblin so heavily it would refuse to service him at all. He really hoped that wasn't the case. It was enough that he had gotten in without being turned over for being some sort of war criminal (although he wasn't so sure anymore that that was the case; he really needed to get his hands on the closest paper and catch up on the past few weeks), he didn't need to be escorted out so soon.
Not without a golden coin or two in his pocket, anyways. If all else fails, he would need some way to get back to Privet Drive, after all. Harry didn't think he could handle facing Stan again without proper reimbursement, the eccentric man slightly too charitable for his own good. Luckily, the clerk pulled him from his self-induced misery, sneering over the top of his half-moon glasses at Harry as if he were nothing more than a bug under its shoes. What would be the goblin equivalent to that phrase, he wondered? A defenceless enemy behind its outstretched sword? He ignored that train of thought, tuning into the last half of the goblin's sentence.
"-name, sir?"
He fumbled for a bit, before sighing. Surely goblin laws (whatever they were) prevented it from turning him over in any case? Gringotts was neutral ground, right? He decided to take the risk, faraway voices of Hermione and Ron nagging him from over his shoulder.
"Ah, er, Harry Potter. Sir." At that, the goblin (and God, he should really find a better descriptor for the creature) eyed him with a bit more renewed vigor and Harry, slightly uneasy over the sudden skepticism, averted eye contact. The clerk made some aborted hand movement, attracting the attention of a few nearby goblins as one hurried from across the room. The clerk briefly bent down to whisper into its ear, watching it quickly scuttle away for a split second before turning back to Harry.
"Of course, Mr… Potter. We'll just need some identification. Your key, if you will?"
Harry blanched. Of course he would need his key. With a sinking feeling of dread beginning to worm its way into his stomach, he put on a show of searching through his clothing; although he knew with heavy certainty that there would be no miraculous outcome from the action. After a few minutes of the frankly disastrous and probably unbelievable act, he gave up, turning to look the goblin in the eyes.
"I, uh, don't have it, sorry. Is there any other way?" The clerk narrowed its seedy eyes at him, searching through his expression for something Harry wasn't entirely sure it would find. At last, it nodded (to itself or Harry, he didn't know) before reaching down and pulling something from underneath the desk.
"We can conduct a blood inheritance test, if that's what you're referring to, sir." Harry had not, in fact, been referring to that; he hadn't even known it was a thing at all. Still, he wasn't completely hopeless and could make inferences to what exactly that decision would entail. He was hesitant at first - he wasn't sure he wanted the members of an independent species withholding his blood, but after deliberating his choices he realised he had no other option. With a note of finality, he nodded to the goblin, who brought out a small letter opener and a slip of paper.
With a flourish, the goblin handed him the knife, gesturing to the paper in a matter-of-fact manner that almost painfully reminded him of Hermione in such a way he was tempted to search the clerk's head for the coils of bushy hair she was recognised by. "If you'll do the honours, sir. Three drops of blood in the marked space allocated; no more, no less."
Gulping, Harry stared down at the object with a sudden tunnel vision. The memories he had desperately shoved down before walking into the building came back with such a force that it was a task in itself to remain calm.
He could do nothing but watch as the silver dagger pierced through his flesh, drawing blood in such copious amounts that Wormtail rushed to pull a glass vial from his robes and bottle the red liquid which dripped through Harry's veins just as a river would rush through a mountain. He staggered back to the cauldron, little hesitancy in his movements as he poured the substance in. Suddenly, a bright white light flashed through the dim graveyard, bursting forth from the cauldron and burning an image onto Harry's retinas so horrible he wished, not for the first time in his life, that this was all a terrible nightmare.
With quivering hands, he gripped the letter opener tighter, toughening his resolve before the goblin could comment on his suddenly pale appearance. Using perhaps a bit too much force, he dug the tool into his finger, hissing at the onslaught of pain that rushed through him at the creation of the deep wound. He twisted his finger, allowing three big droplets of blood to land onto the parchment - a shimmering, opaque red, deep enough in color that it was hard, at first, to tell whether the substance resembled more of a cherry or coal makeup.
Once the page had been stained with his blood, little splatters of pain forming on the paper, Harry brought his finger to his mouth; finding himself both disgusted and slightly comforted by the taste of his own blood. It had a harsh, coppery tinge, but it was such an intimately recognisable flavour that it helped somewhat to ground him away from the trauma he fought to keep down for the time being.
Pulling his finger from his mouth, Harry watched in fascination as a cursive script formed on the parchment, catching glimpses of words he wasn't quite sure the meaning of. Once it seemed the page had been filled, Harry leaned over to read in detail - not managing to get quite far before the goblin clerk (whom he had managed to almost completely forget was standing in front of him) snatched the page from the desk and read it with such rigour that Harry was left dumbstruck that the script was legible enough to be digested at such a speed.
Finally, the clerk seemed to finish looking through the piece of paper and dropped it into what Harry had thought to be a large card slot on its desk, the former of which eagerly gobbled up the page. Upon closer inspection, Harry was sure he could see some form of fire or brightly-colored orange magic licking at the parchment as it fell down the chute. So much for reading it himself, he supposed.
The goblin cleared its throat, and Harry snapped to attention, remembering what he came in the bank for in the first place. The sun had truly risen now, light shining brightly through the windows and coating the building with a warm glow that brought heat to Harry's tense form. He itched to leave quickly, not wanting to be caught in the traffic of Diagon Alley that was sure to appear soon enough. "Thank you for your cooperation while we've verified your identity, sir. If you'd like to step this way, Fradlast will be with you shortly to take you to your vault. The Potter vault I assume, sir?"
Despite the confirmation that he was, actually, Harry Potter (an odd thing to say about himself, all things considered), the goblin still regarded him with such a deep analytical gaze that Harry felt dissected from the inside out. Wanting to rid himself of such company as soon as possible, he hurried away from the stand and towards the waiting goblin, who bowed upon his arrival.
Fradlast showed him to one of the doors towards the end of the hall and Harry stepped through, hit with a chill and the distinctly recognisable smell of a cave. The narrow passageway he'd stepped into was marked by flaming torches illuminating the path ahead, and made it possible for Harry to spot the railway tracks littering the floor. With a lurch, he remembered the goblins' preferred method of travel and barely managed to steel himself before a small cart came lurching up towards him.
He climbed in, not sure what to expect - it had been a while since he'd last come down here (legally, anyways), so he was sure the ride would be less comfortable than he'd gotten used to.
He was right, it turned out - although he had still sorely misjudged by how much - as the cart careened down the rickety path, making odd grinding noises every few yards and seemingly jumping slightly off of the tracks every few bumps. A bright yellow heat drew his attention, although it was gone before Harry could properly get a look - so he wasn't quite sure if it was from a dragon's fiery breath (and where could they possibly get another trapped dragon from?) or the sparks that were flying precariously from the back of the cart's churning wheels.
The ride slammed to a stop in front of a small door dug into the wall so roughly that it was almost funny how much it blended in. Harry might've mistaken it for a workers' passage, if not for Fradlast jumping from the cart much more steadily than Harry and pulling a tiny golden key from his pocket. Opening the door, Harry was thrown back seven years ago when he first came here, acid green smoke pouring from the door as it was thrown open for the first time in years and golden coins stacked against the floor, walls, countless priceless artifacts littered around the room.
As the door swung open this time, there was little fanfare; little of anything, actually, except for an unnerving silence. With the entry exposed to Harry, he allowed his eyes to adjust before glancing inside. Just as before, enormous piles of golden Galleons greeted him - although it seemed to be in a much smaller quantity than he had first been gifted. With a frown, he stepped inside. He didn't realise he had spent so much over the years; he had hardly been down here (or in Gringotts at all) to check on things. It was jarring, the magical experience he had the first time noticeably absent this time around.
Fradlast handed Harry a pouch before standing guard by the door. Looking around at the small vault, it almost felt like stealing for Harry to take any more from the poor room, knowing he had been so careless with his expenses in the past. Nonetheless, the reasoned with himself, he would need a decent amount in order to buy some new clothes - distaste flooded through his senses as he was reminded once again that he looked like a street urchin - and, with a warning growl from his already precariously thin stomach, some food would be nice.
With that in mind, he grabbed a few handfuls of galleons, not bothering to count them as he knew it would upset him further, and instead just dropping them into the satchel; which he assumed had been imbued with featherweight and expansion charms. He took a glance around the vault, letting the magics of the cell wash over him. Gently, he imagined he could feel the tugging of his father's magic briefly wrapping around him in a welcoming embrace, before slipping away to entwine with the other magics in the air.
Once he was sure he had everything he would need, he turned back to Fradlast, pleased to see the other already standing behind the door. Stepping out of the vault, the comforting atmosphere of the room disappeared; leaving only the stale cavern air to clog his sinuses. Stepping back into the cart, he readied himself for another rickety journey and clung to the satchel, afraid of the repercussions of dropping the thing.
The ride was just as dangerous and tiring as before, and Harry clung to the seat with a much tighter hold; fingers turning white from the force of his grip. The journey was spent in silence, Fradlast much more occupied with other goblin matters and Harry's mind already thinking of the day ahead. School began in little over a month, so he would need to find some form of accommodation within that time, as well as restocking on all of his school supplies. He wasn't sure what being 'accepted' into Hogwarts again entailed; though the supplies list contained much of the same materials for first year, so he supposed he would begin there.
The cart stopped in the same passageway it had begun within, and Harry stepped off, pleased with himself for disembarking much smoother than half an hour before. He stepped through the door back to the main hall of Gringotts and turned to say goodbye to Fradlast, who had already bowed and walked off to help another patron.
The foyer was much more bustling now, certainly more fitting for his description of Gringotts than earlier in the day. A good majority of the goblin desks were in use, people flitting about between the numerous doors and the clerks stationed throughout the bank. Harry didn't realise he had spent so long in his vault, but he supposed he had left for the cavern just as day broke - so it would make sense that the bank would fill with customers during that time.
Not wanting to stick around for much longer, he weaved through the crowd and pushed through both doors, warm summer air finding its way through the building despite the magical charms likely coating the place. As he stepped out onto the street, he could see that Diagon Alley wasn't in much better shape than Gringotts; it too, had been heavily populated, and magic swirled through the air in an array of colors and textures that Harry wasn't quite sure he wanted to deal with.
Sighing, he made his way into the crowd, amassing some difficulty in discerning his location in the street due to the large number of Wixen that bustled through, going about their daily shopping and; Harry supposed, the first wave of families (purebloods, he reckoned) pulling their children by the arm as they roamed from store-to-store in search of the school supplies indicated on their own Hogwarts letters. Harry was almost tempted to tag along with one of them (Merlin knows he hadn't needed to go school shopping for himself in a long while) but decided against it, sensing it would be much more awkward than his already exhausted demeanour would suggest.
His first stop of the day would be at Madam Malkin's. He desperately needed to change out of the dirty clothes he was currently wearing, as he feared that if he wore them for any longer they might begin to meld into his skin. It certainly felt that way to Harry already, the smell of death permeating around him and seeping into his pores.
With a quick look around the alley, he located the store down the walkway he had originally come through. He hurried over, careful to avoid bumping into strangers or their children. He certainly didn't need the extra attention at the moment. The street seemed to stretch impossibly long as he weaved his way through, and he could swear on his magic that he had seen the lily white hair of the Malfoys, or the trademark Weasley ginger; although they always seemed to disappear into the crowd just as he turned.
A bell chimed above him as he entered, childlike and tinny. The shrill noise echoed through the store, and a plump saleswoman rushed over. Her appearance, although frazzled, was quite proper, and various miscellaneous tools lined her dress. A small pin cushion was attached to her hip, pins sticking out in various degrees as a porcupine's spikes would flare in response to threat. She had seemingly created a belt of sorts composed entirely of scissors, and from her ears hung two small rolls of thread attached through a small sewing needle. It was a largely practical outfit, despite the impression it gave of a rather eccentric and overly obsessive individual.
"Hello dear," The woman rushed out, her voice just as breathless as her appearance. "How can I help you?"
Harry thought for a moment. Should he ask for Madam Malkin? Last time he came here, she didn't have any staff working under her - perhaps she had made such a name for herself that it was now necessary to continue business? For some reason, Harry doubted it.
"Er, just a bit of everything, thanks."
The woman, who Harry found he had nothing else to refer to her as, quickly brightened, beckoning him towards the middle of the store.
"Of course, right this way sir!"
She led him onto an elevated platform in the middle of the room which he obediently stood on, holding his arms out as instructed and trying not to squirm too heavily under her analytical gaze. She pulled a tape measure from around her neck and began pressing it to his body, occasionally muttering a word or two of nonsense that was too quiet for him to properly comprehend. Next to her, a quill was dutifully jotting notes down in a small notepad that had seemingly conjured from midair. It was all quite an odd experience, and Harry wasn't entirely sure there had been this much going on the first time he came into the store.
The woman snapped her fingers, and the walls of the room began to spin so frantically that Harry was worried they might fly away in an odd recreation of The Wizard of Oz. The constant spinning messed with his head, and he had to contain the urge to puke. Soon enough, however, the walls returned to their original position. Weirdly, they seemed to be constructed entirely differently than the last set of walls. Where stained glass windows and mauve wallpaper sat, now housed an array of fabrics and deep oak shelves currently lined with more shoes than Harry could count. A maze of racks had formed in front of him, holding everything Harry could possibly imagine; blouses, blazers, pants, even some types of shirts he had never seen before.
The woman detached herself from Harry, hurrying over to the shelves as she began to flit through the racks with a precision Harry himself was unsure he could ever be capable of. He closed his eyes against the small migraine pressing against his temples, distantly aware of the woman running between the racks and him (if the rustle of fabric against his own ratty clothes was anything to go off).
After a short moment, the woman cleared her throat. Harry blinked open his eyes slowly, relaxing at the warm, cozy lighting that floated through the space. She looked at him with a sheepish smile, stepping aside to reveal a large pile of clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor behind her in a rush to finish her tasks.
"If you'll take a look, dear?" With another snap, the clothes lifted from their place on the floor and formed a sort of floating line in front of him. The first item in the line was an expensive looking black robe which was lined with shocks of emerald green fabric. Although it resembled a Slytherin robe too much for his taste, he had to admit that the color did suit him when he tried it on. He nodded a slight affirmative, and the piece flew to his right.
The next piece was a cream blouse with an excessive amount of frills sewn into it. They lined almost every inch of the fabric, and it was such an immediate 'no' from Harry that he was sure he was going to get whiplash from the force of his negative gesture. A smile pulled at his lips subconsciously, the thought of Ron's Yule Ball gown forming in his mind. The memory was bittersweet, tension strung between his eyebrows as he wondered where his friends were. Surely, they would have come to visit. Or at the very least, owled..
The process for the rest of the clothing pieces was largely similar, two piles forming on either side of Harry as he eliminated the items he wasn't interested in; although, the pile on his right was considerably neater than the one on the left. Harry wondered if half of these clothes would be used after this for somebody else, considering the tailored-to-fit quality of each item.
Once he had amassed a considerable stack (which he was sure was going to bite into a large chunk of his spendings), the walls spun again and he was transported back into the original store. He made his way to the register, his purchase being shrunken and packed tightly into a small box that he could carry on his way out. He pulled his satchel from his pocket, handing the woman a pile of Galleons; it's weight enough to combat the mountainous piles of clothes which still lay on the floor of the store.
He paused as he turned to walk out of the store, looking at the woman with a little more clarity which had been absent during his entire visit. "Thank you, Miss..?"
The woman smiled, waving him off as the store bell rang again, signalling the entry of another customer. "Madam Malkin, please. Have a nice time at school, dear!"
As Harry left the store wordlessly, quite shell-shocked that the young woman was anything similar to the old woman he remembers tailoring his first school robe, he ignored the head of shockingly white hair which had just entered the store. If he had, he might have noticed a few more inconsistencies in the world. However, he continued on his way out of the store, already on his way to his next stop.
With his experience in Madam Malkin's, Harry began paying more attention to his surroundings. He began to notice that things did not match up as much as he had been excusing previously, as though something had undergone a major shift; though what, he could not say.
Now that he was listening to it more closely, Harry could very clearly sense that the magic in the air was twisted; not evil, or dark, but wrong, as if he had landed himself into an alternate timeline. God, please don't let him be stuck in an alternate timeline.
His mind, which had previously been very stuck on trivial events, was now so consumed with the implications of what could have happened, that he made his way through the rest of his school shopping in a daze. If asked, Harry could tell you little about his visit to Flourish and Blotts, or when exactly he had whittled away the majority of his money on the other miscellaneous school supplies required in the acceptance letter.
He could briefly remember stepping into Eeylops Owl Emporium, as he had been somewhat pulled from his thoughts by the utter nausea and dread which crept within him upon stepping through the door; not quite over the death of Hedwig, but too stubborn to simply deal with the Hogwarts owned owls.
He couldn't even stomach stepping near the quidditch supplies store, partly unsure whether the sport would continue at school anymore following the destruction of the beloved pitch, and also partly due to the memories of Sirius, of times when life was little more worrisome than figuring out whether or not Snape was cursing him or saving his life.
And Snape. The recollection of the man forced another upheaval of unpleasant memories through his system, the urge to puke now returning tenfold as he remembered the man who had been playing double (triple?) agent for Harry's entire life.
With a shaky exhale, the weight of the summer sun still beating down upon his (now finely tailored) back, he came back into himself in front of Ollivanders. With a huff (he should've known the man would've kept the shop open through a war), he stepped inside - a blast of magic hitting him with such unexpected force that he stumbled mid-step, coughing against the sickly sweet scent of vibrant power in the air.
"Good afternoon," a soft voice sounded through the air. Harry, having been much too consumed with his thoughts, startled violently and made an awfully embarrassing sound he wasn't sure he would recreate if even Merlin himself ordered him to. A man, quite old but not as weathered by age as Harry recalled, stepped out from behind the thousands of shelves. A look of recognition dawned on his face.
"Ah, James Potter…" The man, who Harry had come to realise was Ollivander; despite the much more youthful appearance, quickly shook his head.
"No, not James… his son, perhaps?" Harry considered this to be quite odd, considering the many encounters he was sure he had had with the man in previous years. The man's speech was also stilted, as if considering something incomprehensible, or trying to wrap his head around a particularly absurd proposal. It was odd to Harry then, that despite not recognising him at first, Ollivander looked particularly bemused as he considered Harry's relation to his father.
He was sure the man knew that he was James' child, the whole wizarding world knew at this point- but no further look of recognition had formed on the man's wrinkled brow. With Ollivander's rejuvenated form, Harry was unsure he could attribute the confusion to perhaps a symptom of dementia or other disease. Instead, he stepped forward, a small hanging fixture attached to the ceiling bathing him in warm light.
"Er, Harry. I seem to have misplaced my wand, and was hoping I could perhaps get another?" Ollivander frowned harder at this, tutting under his breath as he studied Harry with much more vigor than he previously had. Harry, uncomfortable under the sudden development, backed away, hitting the wooden door frame he had entered through. "No.."
Harry blinked, not prepared for the man to begin speaking amidst the tense silence which had settled over the store. "I'm sorry?" Ollivander simply shook his head further, straightening as he moved away from Harry. He waved a hand in dismissal, already heading around the back of the store to disappear from sight.
"No can do. A wand only bonds to one owner within its lifetime. You should know the importance of wand ownership, should you have the audacity to show your face within my store after admitting to such a misdeed." The man took a breath, a muscle in his jaw twitching in slight exasperation as he turned to face Harry one last time.
"A wand cannot simply be lost, Mr Potter. It takes a very stupid, and very dull-minded wizard to be able to do that. For that, I cannot help you. Goodbye." Harry, in shock that the previously thought-to-be senile old man was capable of such an insult, watched in stunned silence as the older Wizard disappeared around the shelves lining the room. With a start, he chased after Ollivander.
Harry rounded the corner, spotting a small door at the end of the dimly-lit row of wand shelves which stood ominously, secrets untold hiding behind its mysterious frame. Having little conscious thought to perhaps stop at this point, Harry quickly ran through the door. He had no time to marvel at the sudden change in scenery as he spotted Ollivander, already back to tinkering over a small desk and now looking up at Harry; enraged at his space being invaded. He went to speak again as Harry cut him off.
"Wait! Before you kick me out, can you please just give it a try? My old wand wasn't working very well, anyways, and it's probably gone and broken in the time between now and when I last saw it.."
The old man perked up at this, staring at Harry with an interest he did not previously have. He leapt from his seat, abandoning his goggles as he made his way over to Harry. "Wasn't working well, you say? I wonder, perhaps…" He grasped Harry's right hand in a surprisingly harsh hold, studying the arm with rigor. "Is this your wand hand, young man?" Harry nodded dumbly, unsure of how to react to the new twist of events.
"Tell me, how was your wand acting before you parted with it?" He shrugged, leaning away from the eccentric character before him. He hesitated a little, before speaking. "Er, it didn't work as well? It wasn't as strong as it was, and it was harder to cast spells..? Uh, I don't know what else to say."
Ollivander simply hummed, dropping Harry's arm as he started back out the door he had come through moments before. Harry followed him, uncomfortable to remain in the space without the other man's permission (which, he supposed, was quite hypocritical; considering he had barged in moments before). As he exited the small wooden frame, a small box was shoved crudely into his hands. Glancing up at Ollivander, he could see the other looking at him expectantly.
"Acacia and dragon heartstring, eleven-and-a-half inches with a slight bend. Well go on, try it out!"
Harry had barely lifted the wand out of the box before Ollivander had snatched it from him, replacing it with another wand.
"Cherry oak and unicorn hair, thirteen inches exact, somewhat stiff." Again, Harry had little time to pull the wand from the box before Ollivander had swapped the wand with another.
"Beechwood and phoenix feather, ten inches, rather flexible." This time, Harry pulled the wand from its casing, eyeing the older man with a slight suspicion as he made no move to pull it from Harry's grasp. Raising his arm, he made a simple motion-
And an empty box exploded into sparks somewhere to his left.
Ollivander, with a simultaneously disappointed and excited look (that sent shivers down Harry's spine), pulled the wand from Harry's hand, another box already at bay.
The next half-hour or so continued much the same, with few wands having a reaction, if all, from Harry. The rest were taken from his grip before he had time to even study the carvings engraved individually into the wood. Harry began to grow tired from the constant repetitive movement, and a sinking feeling gathered in his chest as he worried, for the first time in his life, that he might not have a wand belonging to him any more.
As another box was placed onto the steadily-growing pile of attempts (ten, fifty, one-hundred and ten) Ollivander suddenly clapped his hands, shaking his head in disbelief. "Am I to be correct in the assumption that you've only ever owned one wand in the past, Mr. Potter?"
Harry nodded his affirmative, unsure where the man was heading with his question. Despite his answer, Ollivander shook his head in denial, already sorting the wands back into their rightful place on the shelves. "Well, it appears that is not so true, hm?"
Harry looked at him blankly, unsure of what he was implying. Ollivander sighed, walking back to the front of the store as he gestured for Harry to follow him. "Wands do not act in such a way, Mr Potter, unless you are currently the owner of another wand." The words rang through Harry's brain, and he raced to catch up with its meaning.
"So… you're saying I somehow lost ownership of my wand, and gained ownership of another?" It was all very confusing to him. He could feel his head growing woozy from the sheer strain of attempting to make heads or tails of it. Ollivander shook his head, a wild grin growing on his face.
"Not quite. You see, ownership of a wand is usually only transferred if the wand is designed to be transferred, and the prowess of a wand is stronger than that of an individual's previous wand." He paused. "This would explain why you felt your wand was growing weak, prior to your severed connection, as you likely gained ownership of a more powerful wand."
Harry thought back, brow furrowing. When would he have done that? Transferring a wand.. that would require a duel of sorts, right? Harry had fought a lot of people in his life, but he didn't think any of those wands had been transferrable. He sighed. How could he sort through hundreds of wands? He couldn't even guarantee that he had ownership of any of them. It was all a load of bollocks, in his opinion.
"I see you've lots to think about. I hope you find the answers you seek." Ollivander began to turn away, ready to head deeper into the store (and away from him), when Harry called out, his voice echoing through the store.
"Wait-! How would you get your wand back, if you were its master?"
Ollivander looked deep in thought, as if he had never considered the question before. "I suppose, you must find its whereabouts, and take it back into your possession." With that, he exited, leaving Harry to his thoughts in the middle of the eerie wand store.
Ollivander's answer was the opposite of what Harry wanted. It gave him absolutely zero answers, something he had been starved of all his life and now ached for. A task like that… could very well take his entire life to complete. With how many close encounters he's had over the years, Harry wasn't even sure if that was a long time. Though… he supposed he would be quite bored, considering he's purged the world of all visible evil and all that. Well, he thought to himself as he exited the dreary store, it can take all the time it needs. I have more than enough of that, now.
King's Cross Station was just as bustling and overwhelming as the last time he had stood here, looking out at the platforms and feeling slightly stupid for not finding the elusive platform nine-and-three-quarters. Standing between platforms nine and ten, Harry had to pull his acceptance letter from his pocket and double, triple check that this was absolutely not a prank. It was surely too elaborate to be the work of anyone except the magical school, so Harry's worries eased quite a bit.
Folding the letter back into his pocket and wiping his sweaty hands on his robes, Harry let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. People around him had begun to eye him oddly, and he was sure that if he looked far enough he could just make out an older woman pointing in his direction as she conversed with a gruff security guard. Not wanting to cause more of a scene, Harry made quick work of forcing down his anxiety into the pit of his stomach and preparing to run through the platform wall.
Glancing around one final time- he couldn't be sure if he would ever come back, so this was a bit nostalgic for him… Harry took in the architecture of the grand building. It seemed brighter than before - the bricks were less yellowed (maybe the place had undergone a grand redesign?), and oddly enough, the train models looked to be many decades before Harry's time. He didn't even know they made trains like that anymore.
Realising the procrastination for what it was, Harry didn't give himself time to steel his nerves before running at the wall with all his might. He gasped in a breath (as if he would need to hold onto it during the time between platforms) and was distantly aware of the majority of his muscles tensing beneath his outerwear. It was only once he focused back into the world and noticed the shift in atmosphere, that he could safely say he was across to the other side of the platform.
Opening his eyes - Harry had instinctually closed them when he ran forwards - he first noticed that the train station was different. There wasn't much physical change, but there was something swirling in the air that was both intimately familiar and so structurally different, that Harry wasn't sure what to make of it. Of course, magic changed through the years, and Harry could pick up on the slight differences in the air as students came and went through their lives; but there was a quality about it that made its way through his esophagus, choking his throat as it exuded an almost cloying, inexistent scent.
Harry's first thought was Sirius, which was almost an entirely odd thing to think, considering it had also been, to a somewhat lesser extent, an imperceptible James…Well, the more he thought about it, the less it made sense in either direction. Why would the Hogwarts express remind him of either of them? It almost made Harry feel a little insane, as though he had consumed an excess of hallucinogens back during birth and was only now feeling the consequences.
Through the fog crowding his mind, he could hear a clear, "Padfoot! Moony!", followed by the sound of boyish laughter. Embarrassment flushing his face, he shook away the imaginary sound and stepped to the side, careful of an older Witch who had come through the platform and almost ran straight through him. He almost wished he was back fighting Voldemort. At least then, he supposed, he wouldn't have to fill his mind with silly made-up daydreams of his parents with their friends. The last thing he needed right now was to become manic with delusion and imagine himself a world in which he was not, pathetically, an orphan.
The thought was so absurd that he choked out a laugh before coughing, heaving on the dry fumes wafting from the front of the Hogwarts Express. Turning to look closer, he could see that the train looked freshly polished, the school crest proudly borne on the side. It was nice, he supposed, that they'd tidied it up a bit- it gave him high hopes for the rest of the school year; although he was just glad to be in such a familiar space after such a long period of time, he wasn't sure if the school would remain open after the war prior to receiving his letter.
Not wanting to remain on the crowded platform for any longer than necessary, Harry weaved through the crowd; past first-time mothers ("And don't forget to owl every day, do you understand?!"), lonesome children from older grades expected to care for themselves, and the odd Witch or Wizard who didn't quite look like they knew what they were meant to be doing. It was all very interesting to Harry, who had never properly taken the time to study the effects of the simple train platform, but he trudged onto the locomotive regardless.
He walked through the general seating and found an empty compartment- children hadn't yet started boarding yet, he supposed, slamming the door with perhaps more force than necessary and downing the blinds as he stowed his trunk. The seat scratched uncomfortably against his back at first, but it became more manageable as time went on. He spent the remainder of his time before the train left simply staring out the window, content to watch other families bid their children adieu rather than form a comprehensive to-do list for his upcoming year.
He had lost such a considerable amount of time this way, that he was shocked back into his seat when he heard that ever-present whistle indicating the train's first movement, along with the decreasing populus of Wixen within the platform.
A smile tugged at Harry's face despite everything: he was unsure of what the new year would bring, but Hogwarts had always been, for as long as he could remember, his primary home. He was so giddy with anticipation, that for a moment perhaps he was sure that he would be able to take anything life gave him head-on. 'Those are some fighting words', perhaps Ron would've chastised during some annual escapade of his, but for once in his life Harry felt as though he had nothing to be worried about.
Of course, his name was Harry Potter, and misfortune did seem to be drawn to his scent.
With a jerk- he almost missed it as the train pulled away- he pushed himself out of his seat. Harry was unsure for a moment what exactly had demanded his attention so heavily, when he spotted it again. There- laying innocently on the platform floor, muddied by footprints with the text heavily smudged and scraped off, was a newspaper. He was too far by now to make out any of the headings, but the date seemed etched into the very core of his brain.
His knees buckled from below him with a resounding sound, but it was of little concern to him as memories began flitting through his visions; discrepancies he hadn't paid enough attention to before now coming to light.
All through his trip to Diagon Alley. Ages not matching up, faces distorted in his memory. He didn't realise things had changed that much, but he had been living in a tent for a good year or two of his life, so what did he know? Tom, Ernie Prang, Stan Shunpike, Madam Malkin - all people he distinctly remembers pointing out the oddities in their appearance. The goblins at Gringotts reacting oddly to his name, Vault 687 looking different from what he remembered…
And most of all, something he felt idiotic to admit he overlooked, getting an acceptance letter. From Hogwarts. At seventeen. Not a letter of re-enrolment, or a notice of education, an acceptance letter. How could he have missed that? Was he so deep in his own excitement that he had foregone all semblance of reason?
Perhaps Moody was right, he thought, with his badgering for 'constant vigilance!' Harry would have given anything to utilise his unfortunately powerful skill of remembering important pieces of information at the worst possible moment, because he was now well and truly fucked.
If he had connected the dots in (the seemingly) only possible way, the end it pointed to depicted a very upsetting year ahead. Because, although the third number in the year was scratched off, Harry could take three guesses as to what date it was.
September 1, 1991.
The express suddenly seemed a lot more cramped with that knowledge. His vision swam concerningly, and Harry had to resist the urge to vomit. Or cry. Or both.
Somehow, between the final war and the time he woke up, Harry had gone back to his first year at Hogwarts.
Well, fuck.