Chapter Text
It began, as many great adventures start, with an accident.
It had been two years since the finale of the Final Battle at Hogwarts. Those who had survived – and indeed it had been a scarce number – celebrated and inwardly mourned. Those who had been killed, or had not survived their injuries, had been surrounded my family and friends and taken home. The same could not be said of the dead Death Eaters, which were carted off by the ministry, and of Voldemort’s remains, which stayed, untouched, in the centre of the Great Hall.
Then, without the power and magic fuelling the pale veins, his body seemed – not pitiful, but perhaps weak. Without the hate and hunger that could only be seen in his face, there was a trace of Tom Riddle’s handsome features, the slightest
whisper of what could have been if it hadn’t been for a mad hunger for power.
As days and months passed, Death Eater after Death Eater went on trial or were captured, and those who had been captive under the Imperius Curse were finally freed and could tell of the horrors they were made to complete. This time, to avoid any final remnants of Riddle’s influence, anyone who claimed to have been under Imperius were made to drink Veritaserum.
Harry Potter made headlines – yet again - when he successfully partook in Draco Malfoy’s trial and vastly reduced his sentence, after telling how Draco had saved his life at the Manor by not giving him up to Voldemort. Inwardly, he thought that perhaps he and Malfoy were not that different. Both had sacrificed everything for their family, but they had gone in opposite directions and as such were seen, one as a hero, and the other as a villain. Outwardly, however, he said no such thing, and shoved that thought into a box in his mind.
Currently, the trials of Draco Malfoy were the furthest thing on his mind. All he was currently focusing on was if he could use his new-found growth spurt – the latest one since he was sixteen, which brought him to slightly above Ron’s shoulder – to reach the last box sitting atop the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. He was helping Ron and Hermione, who had at last moved in together after being in a reasonably steady relationship since they left school, to get settled into their new home, and was currently packing the last of Hermione’s things from her old apartment.
This was a perfect moment to practice using his wand-less magic. He had discovered, after becoming the most recent and final Master of the Elder Wand, that the moment he had snapped it dramatically in half the thing seemed to transport some great amount of power into him. His magic, though it had always been powerful, remained at its point of knowledge - he didn’t suddenly become aware of a thousand new spells and hexes, disappointingly. Instead, it became far less easy to control, liable to simply burst out at any given time.
It was also vastly easier to use his hands and push magic through his body instead of his wand. Really, the only downside was the way his emotions now seemed to rule his magic. When he was angry, or sad, or surprised, or really feeling any sort of strong physical feeling, the power seemed to lurch out of him in an unstoppable manner.
With a little bit of concentration, he focused on lifting the box up where it lay slightly out of reach. The box rose gently, rattling slightly, floating perhaps a millimetre off the surface and edging nearer to him.
With a final nudge in his mind the box toppled over the edge of the wardrobe – and directly onto his head. The flaps at the bottom were pushed up and he ended up with the entire box stuck over his shoulders like some ridiculous muggle Halloween mask.
Now blind, with his eyes and mouth full of dust and some horrible powder scattered all over his hair, he yanked the box off and allowed all the rubbish inside to come crashing to the ground as he coughed and spluttered. The powder he began to roughly shake off, his eyes firmly closed, until he felt sufficiently clean enough to survey the damage he had just caused.
He cracked open his eyes and took in the scene. The box had apparently been filled with old school books and parchment, covered in Hermione’s neat handwriting, which were now scattered across the empty room. The powder looked like gold, and there were tiny fragile bits of what could be broken glass mixed in with the rubbish on the floor.
Hermione had apparently heard him from the kitchen and came to lean on the doorframe, trying and failing to hide a smile. “Everything
alright?”
He turned to her, tried and failed to think of a suitable response, and sneezed.
Hermione couldn’t hold back a snort.
“What on earth happened? Anything damaged?” She cast a slightly worried eye over the rubbish.
“I was – achsoo – trying to reach the last box on top of the wardrobe and the blasted thing fell on my head. Don’t think anything’s damaged, it was all old school stuff and its pretty hard to break books. Although, there is this weird powder stuff I’m now covered in, and I think it came in a little glass bottle which is now broken, so sorry about that. Didn’t know you were the glitter type, Hermione.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Neither did I. What is it?”
“No idea, but its gold and shiny and I’m covered in it.”
She crouched down to the shattered glass and lifted up the biggest piece of unbroken glass. “Doesn’t look like something I’d own…” she inspected the gold powder and pieces of glass scattered lightly over the carpet. “Oh Merlin!”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Get it off you, get it off- where’s my wand?!” She stood and was frantically searching her pockets, her face terrified.
“What’s wrong?”
She finally looked at him, her eyes wide.
“It’s – it’s Time Sand, Harry. Like the stuff you find in Time Turners. I had the one from Third Year in that box. Time Sand’s really unstable stuff, there’s barely any research on it and it’s bloody dangerous. And I need to find my- wand!”
She darted out the door and Harry watched her leave, bewildered. She ducked her head back in, her eyes scared.
“Do you feel anything? Any tingly or painful feelings on your skin?” He shook his head and she looked relieved. “Well, don’t move and I’ll scourgify the crap off you.” She darted back down the hallway. He could hear her calling from the kitchen.
“Don’t worry Harry, if nothing’s happened yet I really doubt anything’s going to happen now.”
But as he heard her footsteps begin again at the end of the hall, things began to go wrong.
A warm and -oh crap – tingly feeling spread across his skin, slightly painful, making the hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck stand straight up. Then a tugging sensation began, similar to that you’d feel when taking a Portkey, but all over him an pulling him every direction. He began to feel very, very afraid.
“Hermi- oh shit.”
There was a blinding flash of light and he disappeared with a pop.
It was a horrible feeling. What felt like a million tiny threads were tugging his body every which way , his arms locked tightly to his sides and his eyes scrunched closed. It was far worse than a Portkey – the feeling of pulling had his chest so tight he could hardly breathe, and he was already starting to feel light-headed. When he dared to crack open his eyes he closed them a split second later after he was temporarily blinded from the bright white light around him.
It continued for what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes. He could now hardly breathe and his head felt like it was going to explode from pressure. He could barely feel the pulling now, and his head was empty of thoughts or fear except for the desperate hope this hell would end soon. There was a roaring sound in his ears, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the whiteness around him or from loss of oxygen. He felt weak and heavy, and didn’t think that he could move if he tried.
He welcomed the darkness gratefully and wasn’t conscious when he felt his body suddenly slam into concrete.