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Harry was leaning back gently in his chair, reading a paperback, when suddenly he was falling. His first thought was that he had leaned back too far – decades of practice had left him complacent, so sure that he would never rock back too far – but the flash of white light before his eyes did not drain away, and he realised that there was no chair below him at all. He cast a Featherfall Charm wordlessly, spread his arms wide, and landed softly on the ground, the force of the impact spread across his whole body rather than concentrated on a single spot. At his age, Harry was not able to shrug off even small falls. His left elbow cracked and a jolt of pain shot up his arm. Harry quickly repaired the damage – a chip to the humerus –and cut off the pain signal, before getting to his feet.
There were two other figures in the room, both men, and both considerably younger than Harry, lacking his white hair or wrinkled skin. They’d also both landed on their feet, which was embarrassing. Harry blinked, his eyes struggling to adjust to the brilliant white light that surrounded them on all sides. He recognised one of the men. He was unmistakable, with a face covered in scars, a fake blue eye, and a peg leg.
“Good to see you again, Professor,” Harry said with a smile. He supposed that it was about time. He had lived a long and happy life, almost as long as Dumbledore’s, and for most of it the world had been at relative peace, largely thanks to his own efforts. He had a stable and healthy marriage. He had seen several generations of Potters and Weasleys grow up and start families of their own. He had great-grandchildren approaching retirement age! He had enjoyed a brief but effective spell as Minister for Magic when Hermione had drained her own pool of political goodwill, and in retirement had found success as a writer of guides to defensive magic. Tipping back too far in his chair was a slightly embarrassing was to die, but it was at least a natural death that should ensure the Elder Wand died with him.
“Two things. One, I have never seen you before in my life, and I don’t forget faces,” said Alastor Moody. “And two, I have never been a professor of anything, and I don’t think Dumbledore would ever be stupid enough to put me around impressionable children.”
Harry squinted at Moody some more. Now that he mentioned it, yes, this figure wasn’t quite right. He was unmistakably Moody, he had the scars and the eye and the leg, and the voice was perfect, but… no. He was too young, sturdier and more muscular than the emaciated retired Auror Harry had known.
“Did you say Dumbledore?” said the other figure. He was a young man – younger than Moody – and there was something Harry couldn’t quite place about… no, he had it now. It could, possibly, have been a young Aberforth, but Harry was pretty sure he was looking at a young Albus Dumbledore.
“Yeah, Dumbledore, Headmaster at… alright, what in the name of Merlin is going on?” Moody said, drawing his wand and pointing it rapidly between Harry and Dumbledore.
“My first guess was that we were all dead,” said Harry. He resisted the urge to say I’ve done it before and it was a bit like this, knowing that it would set off Moody even further. “From my perspective, you see, both of you… well, to put a fine point on it, you’ve been dead for over a century.”
Moody growled. “And who might you be, the Ghost of Christmas Future?”
“Now, gentlemen,” said Dumbledore, stepping forward, “we’re all wizards here. There’s no need for hostilities…”
“Finite incantatem,” Moody fired a counter-spell at Dumbledore. It had no effect. “Well, you’re not transfigured. Could be Polyjuice, or a Metamorphmagus, or a Boggart.”
“Do you know how to cast Thief’s Downfall?” Harry asked Moody.
“You can’t cast Thief’s Downfall,” said Moody. “It’s a potion, not a spell.”
Harry sighed. “I suppose it was just a potion when I was young, but at some point we started working out how to produce the effects of potions using only spells.” Harry cast it upon both the other men. “You aren’t Polyjuiced, and you aren’t Metamorphmagi, either. And I know you’re not going to take my word for it,” Harry said, anticipating Moody’s objection. “But I trust you both completely.”
“It’s entirely possible that you are a fake,” said Moody.
“Given that neither of us know who he is, I don’t see any reason for him to be a fake,” said Dumbledore.
Moody opened his mouth as if to protest, and then closed it again. “You’re right, Dumbledore. If anyone is a fake then it’s you. Maybe the two of you are in on it together. For all I know, you’re his Boggart, designed to trick me into trusting you.”
“My Boggart is a Dementor,” said Harry. “In fact… Moody, do you know James Potter?”
“I don’t know who you think you are,” Moody said, turning on Harry, “but I’m not going to start spilling all my secrets for you.”
“Look at me, Alastor,” Harry said. “Look me in the eyes.”
“Why, so you can Legilimens me? Imperius me? Give me a break.”
Harry thought about meeting little Molly, his eldest grandchild and now the head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation. “Expecto patronum.” Prongs burst forth from his wand.
“I’m Harry James Potter,” said Harry. “My parents were James Potter and Lily Evans.”
Now Moody looked Harry in the eye. “That adds up. You’ve got your father’s Patronus and your mother’s eyes.”
“I’m told I used to look a lot like my father, but the sands of time…” Harry said with a self-deprecating smile.
“Alright, fine. I believe you. I don’t know if I should trust you, but I believe you.”
“And so you should.”
All three of them span on the spot. Dumbledore drew his wand. Harry didn’t bother. He could defend himself just fine with his wand in his sleeve, and their latest arrival was facing down Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody. She was a tall red-haired witch who Harry estimated was about 50 years old. With the combination of her hair and her coffee-coloured complexion, she bore an obvious resemblance to Rose Weasley-Granger and her daughters, but not to the extent that Harry could mistake her for any of them. She was more heavily freckled than any of Ron’s descendants – perhaps she was from George and Angelina’s branch?
“Now who the devil are you?” said Moody, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Easy, Moody,” she said. “I am the Minister for Magic from long in your future. My name, not that it will mean anything to you or Dumbledore, is Hermione Granger. Usually I’m known as “the Younger” to avoid confusion with my ancestor of the same name who was also Minister for Magic.”
“You’ve dropped the ‘Weasley’ from your name,” said Harry.
Hermione shrugged. “The Granger name is more prestigious. The Weasleys are a big family. The Granger name makes it clear I’m descended from Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger specifically.”
Harry smiled at that. His generation had always dreamed about the wizarding world becoming a society where people weren’t judged on their background, but it was something when a Minister for Magic was emphasising her Muggle-born ancestry for clout.
“What are we doing here, Hermione?” Dumbledore asked. There was a steel to his voice that was unfamiliar to Harry.
Hermione grimaced. “In my time, magic is running out.” Dumbledore lowered his wand, but Moody didn’t ease up at all. “We believe this is due to an event that happens in the Pyrenees in the early 2160s.”
“What sort of event?” Dumbledore again.
“A group of dark wizards were active in the region. They performed some sort of occult ritual which was intended to amplify their power at the expense of everyone else. We don’t know the precise details, but we will transport you to the area and request that you stop it.”
“Why us?” asked Moody. “Can’t you do it yourselves?”
“Unfortunately, no. As I said, magic is running out. There are far fewer witches and wizards than in the 21st and 22nd centuries, and those of us who remain aren’t able to match the duelists of the past. Even the Stunning Spell does not work. This needs a crack team of three of history’s greatest duellists. Albus Dumbledore, probably the most powerful wizard who ever lived. Alastor Moody, the greatest Auror of the last three hundred years. Harry Potter, the greatest wizard of the 21st Century, with greater knowledge of modern spells in his old age.”
“I can see why you’re the Minister for Magic. You talk all fancy, but it doesn’t add up,” said Moody. “You can’t perform a Stunning Spell but you can… scoop us out of time?”
“Only with great difficulty. Half our Unspeakables are focusing on maintaining this spell. That being said, it isn’t a spell that would present any of you with any difficulty – it just won’t be discovered in your lifetimes.”
“Speaking of which,” said Harry, “are you sure that pulling us out of our natural times isn’t going to have implications? Paradoxes and,” Harry glanced for a second at the young Dumbledore “- You Know Who.”
“Oh, please don’t tell me you’re the suspicious type, Potter?” Moody rolled his eye.
“I’m not afraid to say the name, I just don’t want to give our young friend any undue previews in case it makes things worse.”
“To answer your question, Potter, no, there will be no implications for taking you out of your natural time. We experimented by extracting a Quidditch player from recent history. It resulted in no change in any Quidditch results. And no, you don’t need to worry about your friends finding out about the future. Our experiments suggest that none of you will retain anything you learn here when you return to your time.”
“Well, that’s a bloody shame,” said Moody. “I still don’t see why I should trust you, or help you.”
“The loss of magic would be a humanitarian disaster,” said Dumbledore. “The order of the world would collapse. All the people dependent upon magic for their lives would die. We would live like mere Muggles.”
“I might not have met you, Alastor Moody, but have you ever refused to help someone who needed it?” Hermione asked.
“Stupefy,” Moody said, firing a bolt of red light at Hermione. She didn’t react. It passed straight through her and continued out into the void. Harry followed up with Thief’s Downfall and Hermione flickered and became two-dimensional.
“Please don’t do that,” she said calmly. “I don’t have a corporeal form here. Your hexes are only going to give our Unspeakables headaches.”
Moody raised his wand again. This time, Harry disarmed him before he could finish his spell. “Accio wand,” Moody said, and his wand was redirected back into his hand.
“This is no time for curses, Moody,” Harry said. “We need information.” He looked at Hermione. “What can you tell us – descriptions of the suspects? Abilities? Specific locations? Any sort of timeline of events?”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” said Moody.
“Unfortunately we haven’t been able to pinpoint any details. The final confrontation between the sorcerers in question and Spanish and French Aurors was explosive. We still haven’t identified the recovered corpses.”
“Very convenient,” said Moody.
Hermione ignored him and powered through. “We do know that, between 2162 and 2167, this group of over a dozen sorcerers was active in the Western Pyrenees, mostly in Navarre and the surrounds. They had bases in mountain caves, but we don’t know exactly where. But given that two of you are renowned Aurors, I think you should be as well-equipped as anyone to find them.”
“We’ll do it,” said Dumbledore.
Harry tried not to look too surprised.
“If Dumbledore’s in then so am I,” said Moody.
“Potter?” asked Hermione.
“I have no further objections,” said Harry. “I think you’re right. Moody and I should be able to track them down, and Albus will complement our skills well.”
“I’m glad you concur.” Hermione flicked her wand and a dusty sandal appeared in the air. The three wizards each grabbed hold of it, recognising it as a Portkey. “That will take you to a safe date and place. You will have two weeks to complete the mission, at which point you will be returned to your own time to continue living out your lives. Your bodies will serve as return Portkeys.”
“That’s not how Portkeys work,” said Dumbledore, and Harry found himself in agreement with the young man. “They let you travel in space, not time. We’d need a time turner for that.”
“There’s no time to explain.”
“Please just try.”
“Well, you see, Muggle scientists have discovered that space and time are actually…”
And then they plummeted away. Harry hadn’t used a Portkey in many years, but the sensation was unforgettable, as if he had a fishhook stuck in his stomach and was being reeled in by an almighty angler. His head span, and his stomach churned audibly.
They materialised with a thump in the middle of a wheat field. Dumbledore doubled over and vomited. Moody looked noticeably off-colour, but stood stoically upright. Harry was unable to keep his balance, and fell over again. This time he broke on of the bones by his left wrist. He repaired it wordlessly, trying not to let the pain show.
“Looks like Northern Spain, alright,” said Moody, his fake eye swivelling rapidly in its socket. Then he apparated.
“What the fuck?” said Dumbledore. Harry tried not to laugh at the sound of Dumbledore swearing. This young man really wasn’t the Hogwarts Headmaster Harry had known. Not yet, at least. Harry worried that Dumbledore would also apparate away, before Moody appeared in front of him again.
“Spoke to the goblins at Gringotts. They confirmed the date. 2163, just like Granger said. I find it hard to believe that Gringotts would be in on whatever this charade is. I’m not going to go charging into this situation like a raging bull, but I will entertain it.”
Dumbledore dusted himself off. Harry thought he was probably in the middle of his phase of caring for Ariana. A young man, idealistic to a fault, and not yet the rounded character he was due to grow into. He was razor sharp and the greatest wizard of his lifetime. He was also smart enough to notice other people’s capability and know when to trust it. “You two are supposedly fantastic Aurors. Would you care to show me where we shall begin?”