Chapter Text
Harry Potter escaped death by the skin of his teeth and the might of his spirit.
He fled Voldemort and his loyal hounds, clasping the Triwizard Cup in one hand and Cedric Diggory’s rapidly stiffening corpse in the other. He poured every scrap of his considerable will into wishing himself away.
Take me back, he thought. I need to go back. Back to Hogwarts. Take me back.
Fortunately for Harry, the Cup had already been made into a two-way portkey, and a simple touch activated the spell to bring him back to the castle.
Unfortunately for Harry, and unbeknownst to him and everyone else, Barty Crouch Jr.’s charm work didn’t turn out quite the way it was supposed to. Such is the risk of attempting to alter old, magically powerful, and semi-sentient objects; one can never tell exactly how the modifications will interact with the innate magic.
When Harry touched the unstable Cup two things happened.
First, and far less significant, the Cup recognized that the task was complete and the boy touching it was the winner of the tournament. The words ‘Harry Potter, Hogwarts Champion, 1994’ were immediately engraved on the base of the Cup, joining the list of the many previous winners in immortalized glory.
The second, far more impressive, thing that happened involved a considerable bit of magical power and more than a little time travel. The Cup’s unstable magic heard Harry’s plea to go back, and so back the Cup took him.
Take me back, Harry thought desperately, body coiled tight with fear, half expecting a killing curse to strike him in the back in the very moment of his escape. The Cup obliged, and whisked him away, heading back, back to 1987.
I need to go back, Harry chanted internally, and the Cup heard and tried harder, grasping at 1963. Cedric’s body got lost in the whirl, but the Cup’s magic clung tight to its Champion.
Back to Hogwarts, every ounce of Harry’s magic said, reaching and pulling, and the Cup joined with it, pushing further and further back, to 1950.
Take me back, was Harry’s last, desperate thought before he lost consciousness. The Cup, a prideful, powerful object confused and aggrieved to be so manipulated by the likes of Crouch, did what it could for its Champion. With one last burst of effort it pulled back and back and back, until it had nothing left to give.
And so a boy and a cup appeared with a flash, in the middle of the Hogwarts quidditch pitch, on a rainy June evening in 1942.
Naturally, pandemonium erupted.
The students of Hogwarts had already spent the better part of 11 hours huddled in the stands watching a record-breaking long quidditch game between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. The score was nearing one thousand, but neither seeker had managed to find the snitch and so the game continued, to the abject misery of just about everyone involved.
Harry should consider himself quite lucky that the seekers were so incompetent, otherwise the pitch would have been empty and his unconscious body wouldn’t have been found until morning. Imagine the sniffles he would have contracted after spending a night lying on the cold, wet ground, unconscious with magical exhaustion after travelling the better part of a century through time.
As it was, a third of the school was watching the game and therefore witnessed the blinding flash of light that heralded Harry’s arrival. The students gasped and screamed and thoroughly enjoyed the shock. The teachers raced to the field, wands drawn and ready to defend against this mystery intruder.
Harry slept through all of it.
The teachers investigated his body and the Cup, quickly realizing Harry was a boy out of time, if not out of place. Harry slept.
They transferred him to Saint Mungos for medical care. Harry slept.
They alerted the Ministry, who quickly dispatched Unspeakables to investigate. Harry slept.
They contacted the Potter family, who arrived at the hospital in a bluster of confusion and self-importance. And still, Harry slept.
For three days Harry remained unconscious, body exhausted and magical core burnt out from the stress of the task, the trauma of Voldemort’s resurrection in the graveyard, and the odyssey through time. When Harry finally awoke, in an unfamiliar room and faced with unfamiliar people, he immediately wanted nothing more than to go back to bed.
He was not so lucky.
“Mr. Potter!” a mediwitch greeted him, robes as white as her blinding smile. “Welcome back. You’ve had quite a trip, I should say.” She laughed at her own joke. Harry didn’t get it.
“What?” he asked blearily. His head hurt and his mouth felt like a desert.
“Now naturally you’ll have quite a lot to say about how you travelled back in time –”
“What?” Harry asked, more desperately this time.
“—but it’s quite forbidden for anyone to speak with you about the time travel, other than the Unspeakables, of course.”
“What!?”
“But you’ve given us quite a bit of excitement! Our very own time traveller. Why, in your honour they’re thinking of reinstating the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts next year!”
“What?” Harry had given up on expecting an answer by this point, but he felt the need to ask, as a matter of principle.
The witch continued to chatter as she bustled around Harry, casting diagnostic spells and updating his chart. “Medically speaking there’s nothing wrong with you, so you’ll be released into the custody of the Department of Mystery’s this afternoon so they can go over the legalities and magical necessities of your time travel, and then I believe you’ll be in the care of the Potter family, Henry and Beatrice Potter – your grandparents, perhaps? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to be sent to Azkaban for such a silly question!” She laughed again.
Harry stared at her, jaw slack and eyes wide, and didn’t even bother to ask. He closed his eyes and wished very, very hard that he’d wake up in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts.
He did not wake up at Hogwarts.
Two witches in purple robes – Unspeakable MacWilliam and Unspeakable DesLaurier – bustled him off to the bowels of the ministry, ensconcing him in a tiny room that should have been cozy, with its stuffed arms chairs and soft lighting. Instead, it was creepy.
Harry felt like a bug under a microscope as they stared at him with hunger, plying him with more information than he could reasonably be expected to absorb at once.
“Operating within the theoretical paradigm of multiverse parallel temporal causality, we assume that your arrival in 1942 has created a parallel universe, and so it is quite impossible for you to ‘change’ your timeline, as the events of the past as you know it have ceased to exist due to your presence here –” Unspeakable MacWilliam said. Harry blinked at her, and failed to retain anything she said for the next five minutes.
“Now despite our assumption that changing the timeline is impossible, multiverse parallel temporal causality remains a theory, and as such every effort must be taken to avoid discussion of the future, just in case our theory is wrong –”
“Which it isn’t,” Unspeakable DesLaurier cut in.
MacWilliam gave her a quelling look. “So in an effort to preserve possible future timelines safeguards must be taken. You are not to speak of the future. If you do, you’ll be sentenced to five years in prison, as will the person or people who have learned of the future.
“Additionally, you’ll be expected to learn Occlumency to prevent against unwanted mental invasion from those seeking knowledge about the future. Occlumency is mind magic, young man, and we don’t expect you to have heard of it. You’ll receive intensive lessons over the next two weeks and then regular lessons through the summer, to be taught by an Unspeakable who will be obliviated immediately after the lesson. Any questions?”
Harry blinked once. He blinked twice. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, actually, a few. First of all, what the bloody hell is going on?”
Hours later Harry was released from the Department of Mysteries to the care of the Potter family. Henry Potter met him in the ministry atrium, immediately whisking Harry into the floo and over to Potter Manor, where his wife Beatrice was waiting.
“Harry Potter,” Beatrice said with a polite smile on her aristocratic face, offering Harry her hand. Harry shook it. Her grip was limp and he dropped her hand as quickly as possible.
Harry smiled stiffly. The room was large and well appointed. He didn’t know much about interior décor, but everything about the space exuded wealth, from the large bay windows to the vaulted ceilings to the gold trim lining the wainscotting. “Nice to meet you.”
Beatrice put her hand daintily on Henry’s arm, and they led Harry into an adjacent sitting room. A house elf unobtrusively served tea as they got settled. Beatrice and Henry shared a loveseat, posture perfect and clothes pristine. Harry felt like an unkempt lump on his armchair, ragged as he was in hospital issued robes. He shifted uncomfortably.
“Now of course no one can ask you for details, but as soon as the gentlemen at Hogwarts saw your name on the Triwizard Cup and got a good look at you they called us. You have the Potter look, of course, and given that you’re from 1994 we assume you’re a descendant. Great-grand child, perhaps? Not that I’m asking, of course,” Henry said, and then paused with an expectant air.
Harry read the cue. “Yes, you’re my great-grandparents.”
“I knew it!” Henry said, and slapped his knee. “Didn’t I say, Bea? Nice to see they kept my name alive, eh young Harry?”
Harry smiled weakly, a bit overwhelmed. He still couldn’t believe he’d time travelled; getting to meet his long deceased great-grandparents, of whom he knew precisely nothing, was almost too much. His stomach twisted with nerves. As much as he’d always wanted extended family, he didn’t exactly have a great track record with it, and he wasn’t sure how to make Henry and Beatrice like him.
“And to think we’ve got a time traveler and a Triwizard Tournament winner to add to the family line now! Quite a feat. You’ve done the family name proud, that’s for certain, young man. Why, Beatrice and I have always been proud as punch of our boy, but he’s certainly been taking his time lining up an appropriate match. Still not engaged, at his age! Though perhaps we shouldn’t worry, if you’re the son of his son. So long as that doesn’t change! He’s made us nervous about the future of the family, you understand, but now that we can add you to the line – well I must say, it takes a weight off!”
Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “Oh, erm –”
“You seem like a fine, upstanding young wizard, and as magically powerful as any family could hope for. Tell me – no details of course, nothing illegal, but were you the heir?”
“Well, yes, I suppose –”
“Ah, excellent, so you’ve started the training. The hospital tests indicated you are 14, almost 15 – is that right?”
Harry nodded.
“And I assume the Potter house has only grown in power and prestige over the decades. We still have our Wizengamot seat, of course?” Henry looked at Harry piercingly.
“Erm, well –” Harry hoped Henry would cut him off again. He didn’t. “I don’t know.”
Henry did the posh-person version of gaping, his jaw softening and eyes widening minutely. “You don’t – you don’t know? How can you not know? Does your father not hold our seat? Or – are you a secondary line?”
“Well, no,” Harry said awkwardly. Henry waited. “My parents died when I was 1. There were no other Potters left. I was raised by my muggle aunt and uncle.”
Beatrice gasped quietly and raised a dainty hand to her mouth.
“Muggles!? In our family? Preposterous!” Henry cried.
Harry frowned. “My mother was muggleborn.”
Henry and Beatrice exchanged a look. “How progressive of your father,” Beatrice said lightly. Harry's frown deepened, a cold feeling settling in his gut. “Of course, since you’re forbidden from sharing details of the future, it would make sense to keep your mother’s blood status a secret. Just as a precaution to protect the timeline, of course.”
The cold feeling in Harry’s gut settled into a lump.
“Quite right, darling, quite right. Best not share that sort of information. Have to keep these details of the future quite secret. Ministry decree, and all that. And all the Potter’s dead! How did – not that you can tell me, of course, but that’s. Hmm. Well, I don’t mind telling you that troubles me greatly.” Henry stared at Harry, the expectant air returning.
Harry recalled the Unspeakables’ dire warnings, thought about how little he wanted to explain Voldemort in this moment, and kept his mouth shut.
Henry and Beatrice exchanged another look.
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to arrange for private tutors for you this summer. The usual subject matter tutors to give you a head start for the school year, of course, but Beatrice and I will also have to do something more intensive for your, well, let’s call it family training. Nothing fancy, just the sort of education given to all young men from good families. Raised by muggles,” Henry finished with a disbelieving scoff.
“You must be quite far behind. This is most unusual, really. Most improper. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if your muggles hadn’t taught you the difference between a cake fork and a salad fork, or between the legislative house and the assembly in the Wizengamot!” Henry chortled, as if such a thing was too preposterous to even countenance. Harry, of course, knew as much about cake forks as he did the legislative house, what was to say, nothing at all.
Beatrice placed a gentle hand on Henry’s arm to still his grumbling. “Henry dear, Harry seems like such a bright young man. I’m sure he’ll be caught up in no time.”
“Yes, well, naturally. He is a Potter.” He gave a proud nod to Harry. Harry, not sure what else to do, nodded back.
“You must be quite fatigued, Harry dear. Why don’t I call an elf to show you to your rooms?” Beatrice said.
Harry followed a house elf across the manor to a large, elegantly decorated room. He ignored the bay windows and the fireplace and chairs, and collapsed face first on his bed.
It was comfortable. He tried to think of that and only that, to focus on how the mattress was the perfect level of firm to support his spine, how the blankets felt soft yet heavy, and how he’d surely sleep well here.
He tried not to think about how distressed his grandparents were to learn that Harry’s mother was muggleborn. He tried not to think about what that meant, and about what their focus on the family line might indicate. He refused to think about how much he’d longed for a family, and how he might just end up disappointed with the one he’d gotten.
Avoiding thinking about the Potter’s left Harry’s mind skittering over what he’d learned at the Department of Mysteries. He reviewed bits and pieces of the conversation: Can you send me back? He’d asked. I want to go back.
Impossible, MacWilliam had answered. Weren’t you listening to our explanation? The timeline has already changed. There’s no back for you to go to.
Welcome to 1942, DesLaurier said. You’re stuck here. Best get used to it.
Harry tried and tried not to think.
He failed.
If he cried himself to sleep that night, at least no one was there to see. And who could he tell? Harry was alone here. That reminder made him cry harder.
The rest of the summer flew by in a haze of tutoring and mingled grief and disbelief.
Harry had never been worked so hard in his life. Whenever he wasn’t at the Department of Mysteries learning occlumency to protect his secrets, he was receiving private tutoring in a wide variety of subjects.
He spent July and the first half of August reviewing the basics of his Hogwarts classes until the tutors – two wizened old sisters who split the subjects between them – were satisfied with his proficiency in everything except potions, which required a further week and a half of intensive tutoring. Harry took no responsibility, and blamed Snape entirely. They spent the end of August preparing him for the OWL exams he’d take in his upcoming 5th year.
Harry learned more that summer than he had in his first four years of Hogwarts combined, and by the time September 1st rolled around he was excited to go back to school just so that he could get a break from learning.
Beatrice also spent significant time coaching him through appropriate pureblood comportment and decorum. They didn’t call it that, of course. When he used the words pureblood Beatrice told him not to be gauche; these manners were appropriate for anyone ‘well bred’, never mind the fact that it was only purebloods who put stock in such things. Harry didn’t think much of the flimsy distinction, but he didn’t argue about it too much. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate the only family that had ever wanted him.
He learned appropriate greetings – including that he should have bowed over Beatrice’s proffered hand when they met, rather than shook it – as well as dancing, table manners, the art of small talk, and myriad other things Harry cared not a whit about but managed to fumble his way through without too much trouble.
At the end of the summer, Henry and Beatrice hosted a few of Henry’s Wizengamot acquaintances, and Harry managed not to embarrass himself at all. He even remembered the right way to unfold his napkin before placing it on his lap, a detail he often forgot. Beatrice patted his hand proudly at the end of the night, and Harry beamed, hoping this meant the end of lessons.
Tedious as comportment and decorum were, Henry’s lessons were somehow worse. Harry had been lulled into a false sense of security with the first week of lessons, which focused on the Potter family tree and their contributions to and place in society.
Henry was 61. He had two younger sisters, both long since married out to respectable families, with children of their own. Harry didn’t ask what respectable meant; he had a feeling he knew, and that it’d involve far more blood politics than he was comfortable with. Beatrice was 56 and born a Wilkes, the youngest of two children. In addition to Fleamont – Harry’s grandfather, now aged 25, whom Harry still had yet to meet since he was ‘away on business’ in ‘the Continent’ – Henry and Beatrice had two daughters, both married as well.
Harry listened eagerly to the family history he’d never known, absorbing story after story of past Potters. When the subject abruptly changed to governmental structures, including the role of the Wizengamot and what holding a family seat entailed, Harry struggled to hide his disinterest. He was far from sure he succeeded.
There were a few bright spots over the summer. For one, Harry was so busy and mentally drained he didn’t have time to wallow in his misery. For two, the grounds at Potter Manor were excellent for flying, and Henry encouraged Harry to take to the air as often as his limited free time allowed.
“With skills like that, you’re sure to make the school quidditch team,” Henry observed gruffly, a pleased smile on his face.
“I was Gryffindor’s seeker, before.”
“Gryffindor! I should have known. I was a Gryffindor myself, you know. Many Potters are. Say, I could put in a word with old Dumbeldore, the Gryffindor head of house. Let him know you’re a real talent.”
“Oh, erm, that’s alright.”
“Right, right, of course, no need for me to pull any strings! Talent like that, you’ll get in on your own merits!” Henry clapped a strong hand on Harry’s back. The man may have been short, just like Harry, but he was stout in a way Harry wasn’t. Harry kept his feet, but it was a close call. “A good thing too, yes, a very good strategy to build your reputation. Not that you need it, of course – a time traveller and Triwizard Tournament winner! – but being on the quidditch team will keep you at the front of everyone’s minds. Very good, yes.”
Naturally, Henry purchased a top-of-the-line broom for Harry. It was one more extravagant purchase on top of all the other’s Henry and Beatrice had made for him over the summer. When Harry had tried to protest that he didn’t need so much clothing or books or trinkets, they’d waved him off.
“Nonsense!” Henry said. “You’re a Potter! Can’t have you wandering around like a vagabond with only a few pairs of trousers to your name! It would cast shame on the family!” He said it in his usual jovial tone, as if he was joking, but it was clear he meant it.
Harry hadn’t brought it up again. And while he might have wanted to protest that he didn’t need six pairs of shoes and four different dress robes, he was hardly going to argue against receiving a broom.
(And if the performance of the Cleansweep Two broom made him miss his Firebolt enough to lose his appetite, well, that was just one more thing he didn’t think about.)
Harry boarded the Hogwarts express with an ache in his chest. Henry and Beatrice waved him off from the station. Harry shook Henry’s hand, kissed the air beside Beatrice’s cheeks, and strode onto the train.
His family might not be exactly how he’d pictured them, but they were still family. They came all the way to King’s Cross to see him off, waving and waving until the train pulled out of the station. No one had ever done that for him, and it set a warm glow in his chest.
The pleasure wasn’t quite enough to outweigh Harry’s mixed feelings about returning to Hogwarts. The castle had been his home for the last four years, and he was overjoyed to finally be going back to somewhere familiar. He needed that, after how lost he’d felt since arriving in the past. But at the same time, he wasn’t going back, not really. It was Hogwarts, yes, but not his Hogwarts. His friends weren’t there, nor were the teachers he knew. It would be different. Would it still feel like home?
Harry cloistered himself in an empty train car, spelling the door shut and not feeling an ounce of guilt over monopolizing an entire compartment. The attention he’d drawn on the platform was enough, and he’d gladly put off the mob of busy bodies for as long as possible.
He spent the long train ride to Hogwarts psyching himself up. He could do this. It would be weird, but it would be fine. He was adaptable. The great hall would still be the same. Gryffindor tower would still be the same. All he had to do was making it through being sorted, endure dinner, and then he’d be falling asleep in his comfortable, crimson clad four poster bed, in the same tower he’d spent the last four years in. He could do this.
He repeated his mantra to himself as he joined the first years in the rickety boats over the lake, knees pressed up to his ears.
He took deep breaths and thought of the Gryffindor common room as he entered the Great Hall, all eyes drawn to him standing head and shoulders above the little eleven-year-olds walking as a group to the front of the room.
Truly, Harry’s emotional regulation had improved by leaps and bounds with his occlumency training. His self-soothing probably would have worked, had the sorting hat not laughed itself silly upon being placed on his head, and shouted out the last word Harry wanted to hear.
“Slytherin!” the hat cried, and the Great Hall exploded.
Harry bravely resisted the urge to scream. He didn’t know why he was surprised at this point. He strode confidently toward the Slytherin table – Beatrice had drilled him relentlessly about his posture, and the lesson had stuck – and sat in one of the free seats amidst the first years.
He absolutely, categorically, refused to look at the handsome face of his new dormmate, Tom Riddle, seated halfway down the table. He’d avoided thinking about Riddle all summer, and he was determined to avoid thinking about him until it was inescapable. The universe owed Harry that much.
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In another life, Tom Riddle would have spent the first evening of his 5th year eagerly anticipating the fulfilment of plans years in the making. Tom Riddle had always known he was no mere mudblood. How could he, with more magic in his pinky finger than most wizards had in their whole body, be descended from only muggles?
Such an idea was preposterous, and though his housemates were too stupid to see it themselves, Tom was determined to show them the error of their ways. He had spent the last four years researching his family tree for evidence of wizarding blood. Every jeer from his dormmates spurred him on. Every contemptuous glance, every moment of social exclusion, every refusal to socialize with him as an equal for fear of being sullied by association, became fuel to his fire.
And this summer, he had done it. He had found the link: his mother was a Gaunt, a descendant of Slytherin, and therefore he, Tom Riddle, had the blood of one of the mightiest wizards of all time running through his veins. It was fitting.
In another life, Tom Riddle would have taken the scraps of respect he’d earned over the last four years and immediately leveraged them into something greater. In another life, he would have spent the year searching high and low for the Chamber of Secrets, and once he found it, he would have revealed his Slytherin ancestry to his housemates. He would have entered 5th year in the lower-middle of the ladder of the Slytherin hierarchy – having fought and bled to get there based on nothing more than his brilliance, his magical might, and his impeccable manners and flawless social mask – and left his 5th year at the top, climbing his way up with his ancestry and the threat of Slytherin’s monster at his back.
In that life, Tom Riddle would have taken steps down the road to irredeemable evil before he’d even written his OWL exams.
In this life, Tom Riddle spent the first evening of his 5th year hastily revising his plans for the year. He had just learned that Hogwarts would host the Triwizard Tournament, open to fourth years and above, in honour of the time traveling Potter boy, Tom’s new dorm mate.
Simply participating in the Triwizard Tournament would open doors, and winning it would give him previously unimaginable opportunities. The prize money alone was worth it; 1,000 galleons was almost an entire year’s entry level salary. Tom would be able to rent a wizarding apartment next summer, and leave the filthy, war-torn muggle world behind for good. But more than that, the prestige would be incomparable, and the networking opportunities with ministry personnel – British and foreign! – could not be garnered elsewhere. He salivated at the thought.
He’d nominate himself, and should he be chosen – and surely he would be; no one at Hogwarts held a candle to him in wit or raw magical power – he’d spend the year focused on making a name for himself and forging advantageous connections. He would milk his participation in the tournament for all it was worth, and it was worth quite a lot.
Tom spent the night ferreting out information about the tournament from his housemates and making plans to raid the library first thing in the morning. He would have asked Potter for intel, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. It was no matter; Tom would find him eventually. It’s not like the lad could hide forever.
In this life, by the time he went to bed Tom Riddle had decided: he’d spend his fifth year earning international acclaim by winning the tournament, and he’d spend his sixth year opening the Chamber of Secrets and getting Slytherin house under his thumb. He didn’t have sufficient time to dedicate to both tasks at once, and anything worth doing was worth doing perfectly. With a little patience he could reap the rewards of both paths.
And most fortunately for Tom, he had a primary resource right at his fingertips: Harry Potter, the only living Triwizard Champion, would be sleeping feet away from him all year, in prime position to share his wisdom. Not that he’d really need it, of course, but Tom was wise enough to use all resources at his disposal.
Tom, like the rest of the school, had craned his head to get a look at Potter when Dippet had mentioned him whilst introducing the tournament. He appeared to be hiding his face behind his goblet, cheeks red as a tomato. Tom had wanted to jump down the table and shake him for information right then and there. How did one get selected for the tournament? How could Tom better his chances? What were the tasks like, and how did one win? Tom’s blood felt alight with excitement, his magic fluttering at his fingertips.
Tom eyed the closed curtains around Potter’s bed speculatively as he completed his nightly ablutions. He hadn’t seen Potter in the common room at all, but the boy had somehow beaten him into the dorm room, seemingly eschewing any introductions to his new housemates. A mild curiosity, but one Tom wouldn’t forget. Surely Potter’s anti-sociability indicated something? Tom would learn the truth, sooner or later. He always did.
But more importantly, he’d learn what Potter knew about the tournament. He was going to represent Hogwarts, and he was going to win. Harry Potter would aid him, whether he knew it or not.