Chapter Text
Senior Auror Harry Potter was drowning in parchment.
That, at least, was familiar.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as his quill scratched out the final lines of yet another incident report. Case files were stacked neatly to his left—completed, signed, and sealed—while an equally tall pile waited accusingly on his right.
War hero or not, paperwork was eternal.
A soft knock sounded at the open office door.
“If this is another request for revisions,” Harry said without looking up, “I swear I’m transferring to Magical Transportation.”
A familiar, amused voice answered instead. “Still threatening career suicide, I see.”
Harry glanced up and snorted. “Kingsley. To what do I owe the pleasure? Please tell me this isn’t about the missing requisition forms.”
Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, stepped inside, impeccably composed as always, eyes warm with humor. “Relax. I wouldn’t waste a Ministerial visit on paperwork. Even yours.”
Harry capped his ink bottle and leaned back. “That doesn’t reassure me.”
Kingsley smiled faintly, then sobered. “We’ve developed something new in the Department of Mysteries. A time turner.”
Harry’s shoulders stiffened immediately. “No.”
“Harry—”
“No,” he repeated, more firmly. “Every time someone says those words, people die or reality fractures.”
Kingsley regarded him steadily. “This one is different. Newly constructed. Stable theory. Limited jump. Thirty minutes forward. Observation only.”
Harry dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re saying all the words that make this sound worse.”
“And yet,” Kingsley said mildly, “you’re the best field-tested anchor we have.”
Harry met his gaze, silent for a long moment.
“…I hate that you’re right.”
The Department of Mysteries was quiet in the way only that place could manage—too quiet, as if sound itself had learned to tread carefully.
Harry followed Kingsley past the familiar veils and archways until they reached a reinforced chamber humming with contained magic. At its center stood a pedestal.
On it sat a perfectly ordinary-looking time turner.
No elaborate runes. No ominous glow. Just gold, glass, and a delicate chain.
And standing beside it—
“Well,” Harry said, stopping short, “this just got more interesting.”
Daphne Greengrass looked up from where she’d been adjusting her wand holster. Unspeakable robes, sleek and dark, fell perfectly into place as she straightened.
“Senior Auror,” she greeted lightly. “I was wondering when they’d drag you in.”
“Dragged is the correct word,” Harry replied. “Please tell me you’re here to stop this.”
Daphne’s lips curved faintly. “I’m here to monitor it.”
“That’s not comforting.”
She tilted her head, eyes briefly scanning him in a way that was professional—mostly. “You’ll survive.”
“High praise.”
Kingsley left them with the Head Unspeakable, who explained the parameters again: one turn, thirty minutes forward, controlled return.
Harry listened, nodding, even as every instinct he had screamed that this was a bad idea.
Daphne noticed.
“You look like you’re about to hex the device,” she murmured.
“Just considering my options,” Harry replied under his breath. “If this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”
She smirked. “Naturally.”
She stepped closer as they prepared to activate the turner. Close enough that Harry caught the faint scent of parchment and something crisp—mint, maybe.
Daphne, for her part, carefully did not linger on the familiar steadiness of his presence. Not the way he grounded rooms without trying. Not the way he always made impossible situations feel… manageable.
This was not the time.
The chain slipped through her fingers.
The turner spun.
Time did not move forward.
It collapsed.
Harry’s breath punched from his lungs as the world fractured around them. Images slammed into him in brutal succession—too vivid, too real.
The Ministry in ruins.
Aurors falling.
Dark banners hanging where light once stood.
Hogwarts burning against a blackened sky.
“This isn’t—” Daphne gasped, gripping his arm as the magic surged violently. “These are memories—but not ours—”
Harry clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay conscious. He knew these sights.
He’d lived them.
Or versions of them.
And then—
Impact.
They landed hard on cold stone.
Harry rolled instinctively, wand up, heart hammering. Daphne was already on her feet beside him, breathing controlled, eyes sharp.
The air was damp. Old. Heavy with ancient magic.
Harry swallowed. “Hogwarts.”
Daphne closed her eyes briefly, reading the space. “Lower levels. Near a significant magical locus.”
A faint, familiar echo drifted through the stone.
A sobbing voice.
Harry exhaled slowly. “Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.”
Footsteps echoed somewhere above them—students, voices light with relief.
“It’s over,” one said.
“They saved her.”
“The monster’s gone.”
Daphne’s eyes widened slightly. “Second year.”
Harry leaned against the wall, grounding himself. “After the Chamber.”
They exchanged a look—professional, steady, unspoken understanding passing between them.
“We don’t interfere,” Harry said quietly.
Daphne nodded immediately. “We observe. We gather information.”
A pause.
“And Harry?” she added, tone light but sincere. “Try not to relive the war too much. We’re not there yet.”
He gave a dry huff. “I’ll do my best.”
She allowed herself a small smile—one she didn’t let reach too deep.
Friends. Colleagues. Two witnesses standing where time had never meant them to be.
And somewhere nearby, a girl lived who had almost died.
Time had already shifted.
The question was whether it would let them leave quietly.