Chapter Text
To be fair, traveling back in time had never been the plan. Granted, lately it seems that much of Harry’s life hasn’t been well planned, so one can’t say that this is out of the ordinary.
Even prior to the ancient spell fiasco, Harry really never saw any of this coming.
Perhaps he had always been marching towards this situation, though. It’s not like Harry had ever spent that much effort on his academics, namely, his sub-par marks in Potions and A History of Magic, so it really shouldn’t be a surprise that after five – well deserved, might one add – Poors and a couple Dreadfuls, with an additional ban from playing in the International Quidditch League (apparently being ‘involved’ in the murder of a high ranking official wasn’t a great mark to have on his track record) Harry had officially given up on his far-fetched dreams of being an auror, to run a magical orphanage instead.
Under the current Magical Wizarding Statute of 1998, all magical children born to non-magical individuals, or muggles in plain jargon, would be subject to removal from their birth families, and be placed in a ‘magical institution for youths’ that would ‘best prepare them for integration into the magical world’. Whatever that means.
While Harry definitely can see why this law was passed in the first place, lest any magical children be beaten and abused by their non-magical family members like Harry had under the hands of the Dursleys, he couldn't exactly align himself with the ideals of the crazy old coot (Harry, be polite!) that had introduced these laws in the first place. Merlin be damned, Harry’s pretty sure Lord Voldatort or whatever his name is didn’t actually care about the children, he just needed an excuse to be able to perform those torturous ‘experiments’ on the kids’ unsuspecting muggle parents.
Like Harry would ever associate himself with a wizard supremacist. While his own experiences with muggles may be less-than fortunate, which is putting it very nicely, Harry isn’t as narrow minded as to assume that all muggles are equally distasteful.
Which ultimately puts him here: at a charity ball hosted by himself for his orphanage, who’s public purpose was to raise money to buy the school supplies that the newly turned 11 year olds would need for Hogwarts next year, but who’s real, unsaid reason was to merely provide an opportunity for upper-class purebloods to flaunt their wealth, blood status, and, most importantly, their incredible charity.
Harry’s about three seconds away from vomiting.
Now, let’s make one thing very clear, Harry feels nothing particularly horrid against the various purebloods that would be showing up, he had invited them after all, and the majority of them had been either classmates or friends from his seven years at Hogwarts (which, just to name a few, included his best mate Ron, Luna Lovegood with whom he once shared a quiet moment in the threshal-pulled carriages in fifth year, god-fearing Draco Malfoy, which Harry isn’t friends with per say, but has become, at the very least, cordial to, and Blaise Zabini, a tall slytherin that Harry definitely did not snog in the potions classroom after detention in sixth year, no matter what Hermione says about ‘being true to yourself, Harry!’)
Harry just really hates this Lord Valdemart character, okay. After all, Harry is a respectable pureblood lord himself, and if there’s one thing Harry hates almost as much as anti-muggle wizarding terrorists, it’s people that look down on him; especially those that rank lower. This Lord Whats-his-name isn’t even a real lord for Merlin’s sake! (Regardless of those ‘Lord of Slytherin’ claims) He’s just some two-bit politician from 50 years ago that somehow raised enough funds for his campaign, made it big within the British Wizarding World, and secured himself a seat in the Wizengamot beside Harry and Malfoy and the other ruling families.
But Harry isn’t going to be a pansy, personal and political differences be damned. He invited this geezer so he’s going to be the most generous, good-natured, and personable host in the entirety of Wizarding Britain, empty the foggy old fart’s thick pockets, and finally build that miniature quidditch pitch behind the main house the kids have been asking for.
Freshly invigorated, Harry decides that it’s about time to start freshening up, making sure his dress robes are crumb and cat hair free, polishing his wand just in case he would be in need of it during the ball, and, most importantly, making sure that his little charges, as energetic as they were, knew to be well behaved for the entirety of the event (perhaps Harry will coach a few of the littlest and cutest ones to cling to the robes of lavishly dressed witches and shine their big puppy-dog eyes for the purpose of rousing some maternal instinct within them to donate towards his great cause, if he has time).
Enraptured in his great plan, Harry strides briskly down the hall, giving each of the staff their respective nods, of course, he isn’t an oppressive employer, and quickly reaching the doorway of the kitchen, where the children were having breakfast with Hermione, who had dropped by in the morning to help him get ready.
“Harry! Did you finally decide to join us!”
“Yeah Harry! Auntie ‘Mione says you’ve been ignoring us alllll morning!”
“Yeah! Yeah!”
“I had very important business to attend to,” Harry laughs, making his way over to where Hermione’s seated, at the far end of the kitchen table.
“I can imagine that you just couldn’t do anything without my gracious presence! Especially since I know I’m the best director you’ve ever had, right!”
Hermione snorts, “as if, I’ll have you know that I am perfectly capable in taking care of children, I’ve read all of Goldie Merryweather’s books on wizarding childcare, I doubt even you have more knowledge than I do.”
“Knowledge is as knowledge does, ‘Mione. Even if you’ve read more books, I have definitely got all the more experience” Harry retorts. He won’t be shown up by Hermione’s obsession with ingesting literature of varying levels of relevancy, especially since said obsession was the very thing that had kept Hermione from achieving a perfect all-Outstanding O.W.L. report in fifth year, much to her displeasure.
Hermione responds with a shake of her head, and Sara, one of longest residents of the orphanage, albeit one of the youngest at six years of age, stumbles up to Harry with sticky, jam covered fingers, and gives a violent tug at the bottom of Harry’s dress robes, leaving a dark stain on the expensive fabric.
Harry, dejected at the fact that he would have to use his freshly polished wand to clean the end of his robes, leans over with his wand in hand, only to be pulled down further by a sticky hand tugging at his ear.
“James is still sad, Harry” Sara intones, oblivious, or perhaps merely unperturbed, by Harry’s violent flinch backwards from the hot, gummy breath coating his inner ear and neck. She looked up at him with big round eyes, and sent a quick glance off to the side, as if ordering him to go do something about the youth hunched over himself in a lonely corner behind the cupboard. (Sara was definitely one of the leg-hugging puppy eyed children)
Harry was now definitely feeling a bit downtrodden by the fact that he had been marched about by a mere six year old, and a deceptive one at that, but heaved a great sigh and made his way towards the sullen looking boy at the far end of the room, stopped halfway by a pat on the back and an encouraging smile from Hermione, which Harry will pretend has nothing to do with the fact that the child shared the name of Harry’s father, and had been separated from his parents as Harry had.
“Hey buddy,” Harry crouched down to be eye-level with James, well, approximate eye-level if the boy lifted his head from within his arms, “don’t you want to go eat a bit with the rest of the kids? Today is a big day after all, you wouldn’t do well to sulk in front of the most important witches and wizards of this decade, now do you?”
Silence.
“Look, Richie is sitting right there at the end of the table. The two of you have been getting along well, haven’t you?”
More silence.
And the quietest sniffle.
“I know being separated from your parents is rough, and you’ve only been here a few weeks, but please, try to get along with some of the others, okay? I know you’re upset, but this is something that none of us can change now, so we might as well make the most of it.”
Harry honestly had no idea where he pulled that riveting speech from, given that he himself had been an ardent, but ultimately unsuccessful, dissenter of the bill when it had passed through the Wizengamot, but hey, Harry isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
James let out one last tremulous breath, and then picked himself up and plopped down next to Richie, who sent Harry a blinding smile full of missing teeth, and shoved a raspberry tart into James’s grubby hands.
Harry sighed, tilting forwards to rest his head against the cool surface of the tiled wall, and rested there for a second or so before forcing himself into an upright position and dusting himself off, belatedly remembering to cast a tergeo on the jammy handprint at the bottom of his robes, and a scourgify to remove any jam that may have found its way onto his face via Sara’s messy fingers.
Nodding at Hermione, and rubbing a few of the childrens’ heads along the way, Harry made his way back to the kitchen table, picked up a pumpkin tart, and, taking a savage bite, strolled his way back out of the kitchen, waving to the kids at the doorway.
Spending a good few minutes looking about in search of Mrs. Griffin, the housekeeper in charge of the manor, which had been graciously donated by some widowed french noblewoman to house the orphanage, Harry casually sauntered about the grounds, enjoying a few minutes of peace before the hall would be filled with witches and wizards of high class and varying backgrounds, leeching off the plight of children to better their public image.
Even if these people were the ones allowing him to lavishly support himself and his many charges, the very mention of these high-class elitist nobles would send bile up Harry’s throat.
After successfully managing to track Mrs. Griffin down, who had been hidden in the midst of decorating the maze of rose bushes in the garden, Harry spent much of tea time rushing about the grounds of the manor, helping the staff with whatever he could, and trying, whether consciously or unconsciously, to ignore the impending doom that is the wizarding social hierarchy.
And then, after three hours spent toiling under the sun, setting up the tents and streamers and other what-nots for the ball, the first patrons started apparating just outside of the gates.
Thankfully, the first to arrive was Bill and Fleur, who, after greeting Harry enthusiastically, rushed off to see the children, informing him that Ron might be “just a tad late, if you know what I mean.”
The rest of the next hour passed in a similar fashion, with Harry standing at the gates of the manor to greet the multitude of witches and wizards popping into existence. About twenty minutes in, Hermione joined him, along with a few of the cute younger kids, who were very helpful in diverting the attention away from Harry himself, not to mention extremely successful in tugging the heartstrings of many an elderly witch and wizened wizard.
At one point, Harry noticed a looming figure near the back of the lawn, characterized by two spindly horns shooting from the figure’s head, reaching for the sky.
“Shite, it's Lord Voldey-twat. That old bugger, doesn’t even have the decency to show us his entire face, always masquerading under that horrid mask, spouting nonsense about being the ‘heir of Slytherin’. What an arse, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had permanent spell damage or muggle dementia.” Harry muttered under his breath.
“Harry! Be polite, regardless of what you think of him, he’s a respected wizarding figure!” Hermione snorted quietly, but otherwise kept her polite smile plastered on her face as she made a show of tending to the children.
“I’m sorry, Hermione, I really can’t do this.” Previous pep-talk be damned, Harry just couldn’t bring himself to face that pretentious old man. So, fully embracing his sudden, fantastic cowardice, Harry briskly turned and strode away, back towards the manor’s courtyard.
Fortunately, Harry couldn’t have left sooner, as he caught the first bits of the fake lord’s perfectly pleasant conversation with Hermione about some new political faction or another on his way out of the situation.
Halfway back to the main doors leading to the foyer, Harry was stopped by none other than his former childhood nemesis Draco Malfoy, of whom he ever so lovingly referred to by soley his family name.
Harry personally never believed that he and Malfoy’s enmity ever surpassed that of childhood competition, or just plain house rivalry, so he wasn’t particularly worried that Malfoy had called him over. In fact, although Harry had been so sure that Malfoy, with his lofty position as the Malfoy House Head in the Ministry of Magic, would immediately rise up with many an insult towards Harry’s personally unappealing but no less noble profession, he had been pleasantly surprised when, last year on the official opening of the orphanage, Malfoy had visited the manor on behalf of the Ministry’s Spell Creation Advisory Board with gifts for the children, greeted him somewhat amicably, and then left without another word.
So yes, they certainly weren’t enemies, but Harry couldn’t fathom a reason why Malfoy would flag him down at this moment, unless something dreadful had happened in the Ministry building again and they needed a few more people with a bit more magical prowess than your average witch or wizard to come help remedy the situation and fix all things that needed fixing.
“Potter! Mate, how’ve you been doing?” Malfoy made his way through the crowd over towards Harry, who noticed Blaise leisurely trailing behind the blonde’s quick strides.
“Fine, just fine. I can’t imagine that you’re calling me over for small talk though, are you Malfoy?”
“In your dreams, Potter.” Malfoy replied, clapping his hand roughly onto Harry’s back, while Blaise stood a bit away, a faint amused look on his face.
“Listen though, Blaise and I need to talk to you. He overheard something at the ministry and I went and investigated it. It’s about that kid you took in recently, Jamie or something, that one.”
Harry was now worried, although he couldn’t quite figure out what about James was so important as to be talked about at the ministry, after all he was merely one of many muggle-born wizarding orphans, Harry still didn’t want the child to be exposed to anything that would worsen James’s already gloomy disposition.
“Do we need a more discreet place to discuss this then, if it’s something Blaise overheard I don’t expect this to be public knowledge…”
“Yeah Potter, why else do you think we’re seeking you out at this ball of all things, instead of coming on a personal visit and then inevitably having the Ministry breathe down our backs about dark and light wizarding politics.” Malfoy rolled his eyes.
“Come on, chap, lead us to the back. I heard from Hermione that you’ve got just the prettiest patch of roses” Blaise snickered.
“For one, she’s married, so unless you’re okay with Ron being an integral piece in your future relationship plans, I would bugger off bruv.” Harry huffed. “I wouldn’t expect you to associate with a Weasley in the first place, considering the company you carry”
Harry sent Malfoy a sidelong glance and Malfoy responded with a death stare. “Secondly, sure. I need to get away from a certain old curmudgeon anyways.”
“Speaking of which, you won’t be pleased to know that he’s involved in what Blaise had overheard.” Blaise nodded along with Malfoy’s words.
“Well fuck.”
Harry lifted his hand from his side and took a firm grip on the sleeve of Malfoy’s robes, then looked intently at Blaise, who lifted his arms in a surrendering position, the smirk still on his face. Successfully obtaining the compliance of the other two men, Harry raised his wand, swung his foot over the back of Blaise’s knee, hooking Blaise’s leg and bringing the other man closer to where he himself and Malfoy stood, and promptly apparated them to the back of the manor.
After the still disconcerting feeling of his head being stretched and his eyes popping from his sockets had vanished, along with the faint need to vomit, Harry stood up, straightened himself, and looked around to make sure his two companions weren’t missing any body parts or brain functions.
“Bloody hell Harry! You couldn't have warned us that you were bloody apparating here? I was under the impression that we would be taking a leisurely stroll!” Blaise coughed.
“Sorry, there are certain people I’m actively avoiding as of late. It truly couldn’t be helped mate.” Harry let out yet another dejected sigh.
Malfoy flicked off an invisible patch of dust from his robes and shot the both of them a stern look.
“Look, we need to get down to business. Harry, Blaise overheard Kingsley talking about reeducation institutions for the muggle parents of magical children. The very children you take care of, Harry. We’re talking about punishments and memory wiping, not to mention I really wouldn’t be surprised if there were unforgivables flying around there.”
Harry was absolutely livid. “That’s outrageous! I know Kingsley isn’t a light wizard, but he’s the bloody minister! Hell, the two of you are leagues darker than he is, and yet you aren’t spouting nonsense about muggle subjugation, so why is he!”
Blaise looked up from where he had been admiring the roses.
“Mate, that isn’t even the worst bit. Draco did some research into it and apparently this institution is legitimate. Some of the olde families were in on it, and they appointed that crazy, blood-thirsty Lord Voldemort to be the overseer. God damnit, that insane old fucker gives all of us true dark heirs a bad name, always spouting nonsense about torture when there are perfectly more classy ways to ensure the magical-mundane hierarchy.” Blaise, realizing he had gone on a tangent, shot Harry a quick look before proceeding.
“Anyways, Draco also found out that this James kid’s parents were one of the first to be sent to this institution. Apparently they had been told that they could take James back if they completed this ‘training’ to ‘learn how to healthily develop their child’s magic’ or some other absolute bull.”
“Oh for Merlin's sake!” Harry fumed. “That Voldy-wart character’s probably already up to his waist in the bodies of muggles, goddamnit that old fart probably gets off on abusing the helpless, I fucking swear I–”
“You’ll what?”
Harry whipped his head around, searching for the intruder that had interrupted their supposed-to-be private conversation, only to be greeted by a gaunt figure decorated in flamboyantly embroidered dark green robes and an all too elaborate mask-headpiece creation.
“You.”
“Yeah, me.” The masked man grinned.
“You know, I knew you were a muggle sympathizer, but I didn’t think you felt this strongly about their wellbeing. Especially since you are doing such a great favor to the entire wizarding community by taking these children under your wings and giving them a good, proper education.” The false lord’s crinkled mouth pulled up into a sharp grin. “Why, I think your work deserves quite the round of applause, does it not? After all, that poor muggle couple you were so heartily discussing, they couldn’t have possibly taught young James anything even close enough to integrate him into wizarding society. Don’t you think it’s just so practical that he was turned over to you? This James child grows up to be a true wizard, and his parents will be a great sacrifice to the advancement of innovative wizardry.”
The Voldy-lord character suddenly stared intently at a point around Harry’s right shoulder, “any wizard worth their African Sea Salt would know that the best test subjects are those that are alive, however briefly.”
Harry bristled in response to these words, but Blaise quickly lifted an arm to block his movements, and shot Harry a warning look.
Indignant, Harry tightened his grip on his wand, and was just about to push Blaise aside, when his plans were interrupted by a soft –
“Sniff”
– Harry whipped his head around to see the tail end of a child’s red dress robes, and the flash of James’s curly blonde hair.
“YOU ARSE, ONLY AN INSANE OLD FUCKER LIKE YOU WOULD GET OFF ON TORMENTING CHILDREN!” Harry fumed.
He forcibly shoved Blaise out of his way, and turned to face the looming masked lord.
Seeing both wizards draw their respective wands, and sensing the impending duel, Malfoy shot Blaise a look, before muttering quietly “I’ll go secure the grounds and make sure no one comes over, you can get Granger.” Blaise returned with a quick nod, and the both of them hastily made their way out of the rose bush maze, just as Harry’s furious “EXPELLIARMUS” rocked the ground beneath them, and flashes of light made their way into the sky, charging the air around them.
The two duelling wizards, so enraptured in their fight that they paid no mind to the ruined garden around them, nor the well being of the other ball patrons that could possibly make their way over towards the back of the manor (lest they be stopped by Malfoy), were vastly different in their fighting styles. While Harry was wild and destructive in his spellcasting, the other lord was swift and precise. Additionally, unlike the older lord who only casted difficult and calamitus dark spells, Harry sent forth a slew of simple hexes and jinxes, relying on sheer power in his spellwork.
In that moment, Harry himself was completely oblivious to almost everything else going on around him. And perhaps it is this exact ignorance that landed him exactly 60 years into the past.
So yeah, Harry definitely did not see ANY of this coming.