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Harry had expected to wake up in the Gryffindor dorm room he’d fallen asleep in. He expected Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna (fair was fair, she’d let him into Ravenclaw tower), all in a pile, having come up to celebrate the war being over. He expected Kreacher and Winky, who had been sharing a pack of butterbeer to remember Dobby. He expected Ginny, who had kissed him so hard that he nearly saw stars.
He did not expect to wake up on a couch in a flat he didn’t recognize, being stared at by someone who looked at Harry like he had just said the sky was orange. The man sat in a chair with a cigarette in hand.
“What’s going on?” Harry asked.
“Brilliant question, mate,” the man said. “You wouldn’t happen to have an answer, would you?”
Harry shook his head.
“Figured.” The man took a drag on the cigarette and exhaled the smoke. “By the way, never pick up smoking, nasty habit. So, you’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”
Harry was used to having strangers recognize him at that point.
“Yeah,” he said.
The man took another drag on his cigarette. “Damn. Yep, I need a drink.”
The man was short and had dark hair and a scruffy beard. He walked over into the kitchen and poured a brown drink into a glass. The bottle didn’t look like butterbeer or firewhisky.
“Are you a wizard?” Harry asked.
The man paused to look at Harry, then drank what was already in the glass and poured another drink.
“You really don’t know what’s going on, do you?” the man said. “What day do you think it is?”
“May 2.”
"What year?"
Harry wasn't sure he liked that question. "1998?"
“Nope,” the man said. “Try March 25, 2019.”
“Sorry?”
“Did I stutter?” the man asked, walking back to his seat.
Harry paused. He’d missed twenty years. How was that even possible?
“Who are you?” Harry asked.
The man paused. “Dan. Call me Dan.”