Time Warp - Chapter 6

Summary: An incident with the Time Turners during the Battle of the Ministry sends Harry hurtling through time. Lost in a world that is no longer his own, he's forced to turn to the most unlikely of places for help…

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Chapter 6: Adversity

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“You okay?”

Bellatrix grunted and shot another spell off. The hissing purple orb slammed into the training dummy, severing its torso from its waist with a single slice.

“Fucking peachy, Cissy.” Her sister snarled.

Narcissa frowned and watched her older sister demolish two more training dummies with manic fury before she spoke once more.

“It’s okay to be angry. Dad was being an ass, as usual, and there were about a million different ways he should have handled that conversation differently, but you shouldn’t–”

“Shouldn’t what?!” Bellatrix snarled, spinning around to face the younger girl with a face full of fury. “Shouldn’t argue with our father?! Shouldn’t object to his plans to sell me off to some lickspittle house?! I AM NOT A FUCKING BROODMARE!”

Bella screeched, raw and full of emotion, as she whipped her wand towards another dummy. The wooden target exploded into a shower of splinters and smouldering ash. The area where it stood mere seconds ago was only a sizzling crater gouged into the stone.

Bellatrix stared at her handiwork and huffed, turning back to Cissy with her anger now cooled, but no less intense.

“I am a Black, sister. Toujours Pur. Father has forgotten these words, but I haven’t. I’ll not stand by while he lies and schemes his way into destroying everything our ancestors built.”

“Bella–” Narcissa reached forward and placed a hand on her sister’s arm. “It was just a small fight.” And it was, at least compared to some of their other arguments. It was common for her sister and father to trade spells when they fought. Nothing lethal, of course, but enough to cause some damage. 

Father had made the mistake of using the cruciatus against Bellatrix once. Grandfather found out, because of course he did, and had been…less than pleased. 

Only Grandmother and Uncle Orion know what truly happened after that. All Narcissa remembers was her father being confined to his bed for two weeks after that, and he never dared to use an Unforgivable against them since.

Bella wrenched her arm away. “So you agree with him?!”
“What?! No! I–” Narcissa sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t allow his threats to get to you like this. What I told Father is true. He may scheme all he likes, but Grandfather will never go along with his plans,” she scoffed.

“And when Grandfather is no longer around to control our father’s idiotic impulses?” Bellatrix growled.

“Then Uncle Orion will be Lord Black, and we’ll be out from under his control and married to hot French noblemen who spoil us while we become the best in our fields.” Narcissa tittered.

Her sister barked out a laugh, the anger finally seeping from her shoulders as she allowed herself to finally calm.

“Now that sounds divine!” Her sister cackled before her smile faltered. “Ugh! But that means Walburga would be Lady Black.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes and listened as her sister descended into yet another rant about their harpy of an Aunt. 

‘At least she’s not on the verge of murdering father,’ she thought, though with each day that passed, Narcissa was slowly beginning to consider the idea herself more and more. Though not today.

“--and her hair! I mean blech! Talk about a wild mess! Has that cow never heard of conditioner?!”

Narcissa rolled her eyes once more. Yes, not today. Today, her family was still just the same. Dysfunctional and slightly psychotic, yes, but still her family. As she wrapped her arm through Bellatrix and dragged her upstairs, intent on getting them both out of the house for the day, she couldn’t help but wonder how long that statement would ring true.

-

The ticking of a clock filled the room. A clattering of gears and springs, thunderous in their creaking, compared to the silence of the two individuals sat before one another.

Blue eyes, weary and wizened with age, stared into green, young but weary in their own way.

Not for the first time that day did Harry wish Andromeda had attended this meeting alongside him. Unfortunately, her husband, Ted would be returning from his trip later in the evening, and she did not wish for him to know about Harry or her involvement in a ‘supposed’ criminal’s escape.

“It’s not that he wouldn’t understand,” she said, “It's that he would understand a bit TOO much.”

That, at least, he understood. From what he could remember about Tonks’s tales about her dad, Ted Tonks was a man who would go out of his way to help anyone in need. A true Hufflepuff through and through. Andromeda, however, thought her husband was in enough danger simply being a muggleborn married to a Black, and did not wish to put her husband in any more peril than he already was, unknowingly or not.

Harry wouldn’t begrudge her for that. He’d do the same if their roles were swapped.

Pulling his attention back to the matter at hand, Harry watched Dumbledore study him with an impassive gaze. It was far different from how the Dumbledore he knew would look at him. Gone were the twinkling eyes and grandfatherly smile. The man before him was younger, his beard shorter, mouth downturned into a frown, and his eyes calculating. 

Dumbledore looked at him not as a student or protege, but as an unknown. A potential threat. A mystery.

“You must have questions,” Harry said finally. He did his best to remain just as impassive as the man before him, though it was difficult to achieve. Though this Dumbledore was not the one he knew, he was still Dumbledore. A man whom, at least at one time, Harry trusted more than anyone he knew.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore replied, his eyes remaining affixed to Harry’s in a cold, calculating stare. “Many, in fact, though I believe there’s only one that truly matters–” the old headmaster leaned forward, his furrowing in suspicion, “Who are you?”

Harry released a breath. He had expected this.

“That's a–long story.”

“Is it? Then it’s all the better you begin your explanation now, then, hmm?” Dumbledore spoke, his expression offering no room for argument.

Harry sighed.

“My name–” He paused, waiting to hear the familiar whisper of Death warning him from speaking the truth. It never came, however, which Harry found both comforting and not at the same time. “My name is Harry Potter. I’m from the future.”

Dumbledore nodded, his stoic expression never wavering despite Harry’s claim. He most likely pieced this together himself from the memories Harry sent with the letter. When Dumbledore said nothing, Harry sighed and continued.

“I was born on July 31st, 1980. My parents–” He paused, licking his lips. “My parents were James and Lily Potter. They died when I was just a baby.”
At this, Dumbledore reacted. It was small. The barest widening of his eyes. But it was enough for the older wizard to finally speak.

“How?”

“Voldemort,” Harry said. “He killed them as they tried to protect me. He was there for me that night. I don’t know why–you never said.” He shook his head. “All I know is that there was a prophecy about him and me. Whatever this prophecy said, it was enough for him to hunt down an 18-month-old child and murder his parents.”

“Yet you survived,” Dumbledore whispered, a gleam of…something in his eyes. “Why?”

Harry shrugged. “You always told me it was my mother’s love. You said she sacrificed herself to save me, invoking some primal piece of magic that forced Voldemort’s spell to rebound and destroy him. I never really bought it to tell you the truth, but again, you never saw fit to share more than that.”

“I see,” the older wizard hummed. Dumbledore steepled his hands together as his thoughts raced. “And yet from the memories you shared, Tom was able to return.”

“He was never truly destroyed.” Harry grimaced. “It was like–his body was gone, but his soul still remained. He was this wraith–no better than a parasite leaching the life from others as he fought to fully return…and then he did.”

“Yes, in the graveyard. I saw.” Dumbledore nodded. “I did not recognise the ritual he used, but regardless, it is his ability to somehow cheat death that truly worries me. Magic like that, Harry, can only ever be born from the darkest, vilest actions. And it always has consequences.”

Dumbledore held his gaze for a beat, allowing time for his words to sink in before he leaned back in his chair.

“But that is something that can be discussed later. For now, I wish to know how you arrive in this time and–” Dumbledore paused, his eyes flashing once more with an emotion Harry could not discern. “--What your intentions are.”

Harry took a breath, his eyes flashing down one of the random gizmos whirring atop the headmaster's desk.

“Well…it started when my friends and I broke into the Department of Mysteries…”

-

Arcturus Black read the report in his hands with a frown. His contacts within the ministry hadn’t been able to glean much about this Harry Peverell, but he at least knew now why the Unspeakables had been so eager to get their hands on him.

Chronomancy.

An obscure field of magic, one that even a Black or two from generations past had devoted their lives to studying.

It was as powerful and dangerous a branch of magic as it was impossible. What little success wizardkind has had unravelling its secrets was useless at best. Time-Turners were perhaps the greatest achievement the Unspeakables themselves have achieved, and even then, one can only travel a mere dozen hours into the past utilising such a device, give or take.

Until now, at least.

Peverell hadn’t possessed a Time-Turner when he appeared, meaning it was either destroyed or he used some other form of magic to travel as far as he did.

If what this report says is true, then this stranger managed to travel over a century into the future. Two impossibilities in one. Time travel into the future has never been achieved before, at least across recorded history, and over a century at that. It was…mind-boggling to say the least. If it were true.

Arcturus had his doubts.

By all accounts, Harry Peverell hadn’t acted like a man from a hundred or odd so years ago. It was true that the wizarding world advanced at a tenth of the speed the Muggle one did, but they did advance.

Yet, Harry Peverell hadn’t been surprised in the least by the future he found himself in. He took it in stride, as if it were all completely normal to him. Even his speech was modern, from what Narcissa told him at least. By these facts alone, Arcturus’s intuition told him that Harry Peverell travelled from much more recent times than the Unspeakables thought. If he even time-travelled at all.

That Arcturus had doubts of too.

Going by his medical file, Harry Peverell was only 19 years old. The same age as Narcissa. And while he was of the opinion that his granddaughter was exceedingly intelligent, he doubted she or someone her age would be capable of such an impossible feat of magic. Not even Merlin himself had been able to achieve such dominance over Chronomancy; what hope did a boy not even in his seventh year of Hogwarts have? 

Arcturus scoffed. Leave it to the ministry to jump to conclusions, as always.

There was a different truth behind this stranger’s appearance. That Arcturus was sure of. The only question now was what connection did he have with the Blacks AND the Potters?

Before he could ponder this further, he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a Black family house-elf.

“Lord Abraxas Malfoy here to meet you, master.” The elf said with a bow.

Arcturus growled and shoved the report into his desk drawer. Of all the bloody times the Malfoy fool has chosen to disturb him…

“Show him in!” He barked. The house-elf bowed again without a flinch, disappearing with a ‘pop!’

Half a minute later, the door to his office opened, and Abraxus Malfoy in all his simpering, smug glory, waltzed in, his acromantula silk robes billowing behind him.

The silvery-haired fool smiled greasily and opened his lips to speak, but Arcturus beat him to it.

“What the fuck do you want now, boy? I told you last time that if you arrived at my home uninvited again, I’d shred the very hide from your bones.” Arcturus growled.

If Abraxus was affected by his words, then the man certainly didn’t show it. Instead, he simply laughed with all the ego a man of stolen wealth would.

“Charming as always, Arcturus! I do so hope the rest of our Wizengamot fellows enjoy your candour as much as I do.” The blonde man smirked.

Arcturus glared at the man and stood. “Dispense with the witty remarks. State your business and leave Abraxus, I’ll not suffer your presence any longer than I have to.”

Abraxus raised his hands in surrender. “Very well! May I?” He asked, gesturing to the chair in front of Arcturus’s desk.

The older wizard nodded, watching the Malfoy lord sit with a steely gaze. Once situated, Abraxus sighed with a smile.

“Now, it is my understanding from our last discussion that you have little interest in betrothals for your granddaughters–”

So that's what this is about. Arcturus nearly cursed the fool then and there.

“Tread carefully, Malfoy,” he growled.

Abraxus once more held up his hands. “Peace, my lord. I respect your decision and am not here to argue a lost cause. I simply wish to discuss our chances for an…alternative business arrangement.”

Arcturus raised a brow but kept his face otherwise unreadable. Inside, he doubted Malfoy’s words more than the Burkes’ claims that they were the true descendants of Salazar Slytherin. However, whatever scheme Malfoy was planning this time was sure to involve others as well. Arcturus wasn’t foolish enough to send the younger lord away before he could determine if this ‘arrangement’ of his was any threat to House Black.

“Go on.” He grunted with a nod.

“It’s simple, really. I trust you’ve heard of a particular…movement that’s been gaining popularity?” Abraxus asked.

“I have,” Arcturus nodded. "And as I’ve said before, I have no interest in fanatics. They are oft’ short-sighted, selfish, and bad for business. A fact your father knew well, Abraxus.”

At the mention of his father, Abraxus’s smile faltered the tiniest degree. It was quick, but Arcturus had been playing this game for a long time and was easily able to spot the flash of anger on the Malfoy lord’s face.

“Ahem–yes. Well, I have on good authority that this particular movement is different, my lord. I’ve spoken with their leader directly, in fact.”

“And this changes things how?” Arcturus pressed. “Honeyed words and false promises are all well and good, boy, but seldom do men who like this Lord Voldemort truly deliver on their claims. Why would he be any different?”

Abraxus smiled. “Because, Lord Black, he has something the others haven’t. Power. Power to rival that of even Albus Dumbledore. I’ve seen it myself.”

“Grindewald had power. You know well how that turned out for him.” Arcturus spat.

“Grindelwald allowed his rivalry with Dumbledore to cloud his judgment, a mistake the Dark Lord will not allow to pass.”

“The Dark Lord!” Arcturus barked out with a laugh. “Is that what you fools are calling him then? Arrogant.” The elder wizard peered down at the younger with a steely gaze. “I have a counterproposal for you, boy. Crawl back to your precious Dark Lord and tell him if he wishes for the Black’s support, then he can make his case in person. I’ll not pledge my wand nor my family in support of a man who’s too much of an insipid coward to face me. Now go!” He spat, throwing open the door with a wave of his hand. “And do not return without the Great Lord Voldemort in tow.”

Abraxus stood with a nod, the smile gone from his arrogant lips and instead replaced with an emotionless frown.

“Very well. Good day Lord Black.”

Arcturus grunted, watching the egotistical wizard leave with a feeling of foreboding growing in his gut.

One thing was for sure, this ‘Lord Voldemort’ was more than what the rumours said. That meant he was a threat. Now only time would tell who he was a threat to, and something told Arcturus he already knew the answer. 

-

Harry looked around the sparse quarters he’d been given. They were bare, for lack of a better term, with only a bed and a small nightstand to take up what little space there was. 

It was a far cry from his normal open dorm room, with its four-poster beds, red curtains, and maroon sheets–the sounds of his friends’ laughter. Ron’s snoring, Seamus’s bad jokes, Neville’s random Herbology facts–everything that had made it feel alive.

Harry sighed and did his best to swallow down the melancholy that threatened to bubble up in his chest. Even with this empty room and the plain white sheets, he was still here, at Hogwarts.

This castle was still his home…

…At least as much as it could be without all the people who had once made it just that.

His talk with Dumbledore had stretched on through the day. It was only when the sun began its farewell behind the Scottish mountains that the headmaster announced they would stop for the day and resume their talk in the morning. Harry had wanted to protest at first, but the reality was that he was bloody exhausted. Recounting the entirety of his adventures from first year till now, his confrontations with Voldemort, and his journey to the past was perhaps one of the most mentally draining days of his life. It wasn’t until he was led to this very room by a charmed suit of armour that the tiredness finally let itself be known.

With a groan, Harry threw off his glasses and collapsed into bed, wishing to simply slip into the serenity of sleep.

It would never come.

As sleep took him, it was not darkness that greeted him, nor the visions of dreams, but a familiar tree and a grey mist landscape that surrounded it.

“Tell us–what is the worth of a single mortal life?”

Harry turned, far calmer than he’d been the first time he was brought to this plane, and looked up to the tall, sinewy figure.

“Quite the question,” he said. “What's the reason for it?”

“Curiosity. Nothing more.” Death rasped.

Harry hummed to himself in thought. Looking back out at the monochrome expanse before him, he weighed Death’s question in his mind. Was this a test of sorts? It didn’t feel like it, if so. Death didn’t seem to be the type of–whatever they were–to waste their time with silly little quizzes such as this one. Perhaps it was simply curiosity then?

“I suppose it depends on the mortal’s actions,” he frowned. “A person is a culmination of all their beliefs, memories, and experiences throughout their life. I don’t think there’s a measurable ‘worth’ of anyone’s life. We all live, we all die. It's an aspect shared by all living things.”

He felt, more than he heard, the figure hum behind him. The sound reverberated through his bones, rolling over the grey hills and echoing out like a crack of thunder.

“Through us, this is so. Very well, we are satisfied.” Death spoke.

Harry nodded. Silence prevailed between them for a moment as more unseen lightning boomed with thunder in the distance.

“I never asked, what is this place?” He questioned.

“The beginning. This is where our paths intersected for the first time–when you wore another face and we held a greater curiosity for humanity’s follies.”

That was…confusing. Harry shook his head. Every interaction he’s had with Death thus far has left him with more questions than anything. It seemed this would remain a common theme.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Death was silent, and it took Harry a few moments to realise the outer-dimensional being was taking a moment to think. It seemed even immortal concepts needed to consider their words from time to time.

“Your arrival in this world has caused many…disturbances. The path you’re meant to tread is no more, yet destiny is not so easily discarded.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Destiny? You mean the prophecy?”

“Prophecies are creations of the material world,” Death said with a shake of its head. “Fickle and convoluted. No, we speak of the fabric that tethers the very nature of cause and effect.” Death waved its hand, its long, spindly fingers seeming to tear through the air like a knife through a sheet. The tear widened, and through it, Harry watched as an older version of him stood in the ruins of the Great Hall, wand in hand, while Voldemort glared venomously from the other side.  “In your world, you and the abomination Tom Riddle were meant to face one another as equals. A balance to be tipped in either direction. A war won or lost. Yet that reality can no longer happen.”

The image changed, cracking like shattered glass as hundreds–thousands–millions of new possibilities all played out at once. Harry tried to study some, but the images of what could or never be flashed by too fast for his mind to catch up.

“Now–this reality attempts to right that missing link. Changes that never should have been are now unfolding. The end is unclear, but the intent is the same.” With a snap of its fingers, the tear Death opened slammed closed, and Harry was forced to his knees as his head reeled with pain. “You and Riddle will battle. It is unavoidable. You will not accept defeat, Peverell.”

It sounded more like an order than a prediction, and Harry very much doubted he could argue.

“You said–” He groaned, standing up with a bit of effort. “You said that the past is adapting to my presence, though. What does that mean?”

“It means the past is no longer. This reality–This NOW you find yourself in, is a fact. An unchangeable certainty. The history that you know has ceased to exist, and events will unfold differently than how your linear mind remembers them.”

“Well–” Harry sighed. “Bugger.”

His foreknowledge was useless then. He was just as much in the dark as he’d been in his time. Worse yet, he didn't have his friends to help him as he had in all his past adventures. There was something…staggering about that.

“What am I supposed to do then? Voldemort is already gaining power and influence every day. It won’t be long until there’s war!” He exclaimed.

Death glided forward, his faceless hood tilting down till it was inches from Harry’s face.

“You must remember, Peverell.”

“Remember? What does that–Ack!”

Harry fell back, clutching his chest as a searing hot pain bloomed against his sternum. Gritting his teeth, he chanced a glance down and saw what appeared to be a strange triangle symbol burned into his flesh.

“Claim our gifts. Reunite the whole. This will be the last we speak, Peverell.”

“Wait!” Harry shouted. The burning pain in his flesh grew to a mind-numbing degree. Images flashed before his mind. 

A river. A raven with white eyes. A knarled oak tree. A river. A raven with white eyes. A knarled oak tree. A river–

Then everything went white.

-

Author’s Note

I’ve had this chapter brewing for a while now, but could never get the interaction with Harry and Dumbledore quite how I liked it. In the end, I did cut it somewhat short in order to instead put more emphasis on the talk between Harry and Death at the end of this chapter. 

Thanks for reading!