Chapter Text
The room around him was still spinning, gold and red pulsating and blurring together as the boy’s memories struggled to catch up with him. White strings of dust clouded the place he’d just stepped away from, clinging to any piece of him they could find.
‘Harry Potter,’ he managed, quickly shaking his head at the sound of his own voice, which was rather harsh and unwelcome in the silent dormitory he found himself in.
Of course he’s Harry Potter; there was no doubt about it. Why he’d spontaneously declared his own name after what felt like a rough apparition, he did not yet know.
He’d been in his own dormitory mere seconds ago, and though he thought Ron and Hermione might have been there with him, he couldn’t recall the moment he got sucked away from it.
The black-haired boy let himself recover to the best of his abilities for a good moment before taking in his surroundings, wondering where on earth he could be.
For a brief second, he thought a spell might have gone wrong, but he quickly discarded the idea; he’d just spotted a Pride of Portree flag sticking out of a stack of books.
Nobody liked The Pride anymore, Ron had once informed a much younger Harry. Not since McCormack retired, anyway.
‘Where am I?’ Harry asked, unsure of who he was expecting to respond to him. He ran a hand through his hair, letting the silence answer his question, though it did not do much.
He looked through the dormitory once more, taking in every little detail. A red sweatshirt lay haphazardly on the floor, obscuring the path to the door leading to the staircase.
The bed next to that one had a book lying open on it, a piece of parchment, and a quill. Harry thought Hermione’s bed might look like that, too.
Across the circular room, a glasses case had fallen onto the floor next to the Quidditch flag, and the owner of the bed to which those items belonged had pulled the curtains of his four-poster shut.
Next to that bed, a massive poster hung on the wall, depicting a red-haired rockstar with a lightning bolt painted across his cheek. Harry subconsciously let his fingers travel towards his scar, which sported a similar shape, as he took a step towards the poster.
He did not recognise the person on it, and the name “Ziggy Stardust” told him nothing, but upon closer inspection, the small “David Bowie” rang a faint bell in his head.
‘Sirius,’ he whispered, letting his fingers trail the letters of the poster now. ‘Didn’t think there’d be another Wizard who liked Bowie,’ he added, a small smile curving Harry’s lips upwards.
The very first time Harry entered 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius had spent hours showing him around the place, forcing the boy to listen to records that hadn’t been used in years.
David Bowie had been a recurring topic that evening, and while it generally wasn’t that hard to avoid him in the Wizarding World, the black-haired boy still did everything to ensure he didn’t hear or see anything about the musician.
It’s been his primary coping mechanism since Sirius’ death, really. Hermione often told him that it wasn’t healthy, that he should learn how to properly deal with his feelings, but he always told her he didn’t have the time for that. Draco was acting far too suspiciously, and he spent most of his time trying to figure out what the blond boy was up to. There was no time to grieve.
Realising he was still touching a stranger’s poster, Harry quickly took a step back, letting his gaze fall on the open book. Careful not to touch too many things, he carefully navigated his path towards that side of the room, picking it up.
He didn’t recognise the book ’Salem’s Lot, but that’s not why he wanted to look at it, anyway. He couldn’t care less about what books a stranger liked to read in their free time.
He opened the first page, grinning at the sight of a folded piece of parchment. That’s what he’d been looking for. Some kind of information that could help him figure out what was happening to him.
‘R. Lupin,’ Harry read aloud, opening the piece of parchment. ‘Weird coincidence, but… I guess there’s another Lupin at Hogwarts.’
He skimmed the page, reading over some practical notes about the book like genre, author, and the date of publication, all written in a rather familiar handwriting.
He quickly found something more pressing, though: “Started: October 9th, 1976.”
Harry paused, turning the piece of parchment around in his hand. It was supposed to be 1996. The piece of parchment didn’t look old enough to be twenty, but he supposed magic made anything possible.
Feeling quite unsure of what to make of this odd book, he decided to turn to the corner of the room he hadn’t paid much attention to before. The red sweater, in all honesty, told him nothing. In October, every sensible person was a sweater person.
Upon spotting what looked like a trunk underneath the bed, Harry quickly made his way towards it, leaning down to pull it out of its designated spot.
The trunk looked rather old and beat-down, but very loved nonetheless; patches of fabric covered what Harry could only assume to be dents, or maybe even holes.
‘Immature,’ he scoffed upon seeing the name tag on it. “P.P.” was nearly completely covered by a large penis scribbled onto the tag, more than likely not done by “P.P” himself.
‘Original, too,’ Harry sarcastically added, sitting down next to the bed.
He hauled the trunk onto his lap, deciding it was far too late now to worry about angering its owner.
He didn’t find anything that helped him much at first; he pulled out a bunch of textbooks, a pair of spare robes, a timetable and Quidditch schedule, which he paused to read. It was interesting to see how Quidditch practice got scheduled twenty years ago, especially to a struggling Quidditch Captain.
He paused to look through the Chocolate Frog Cards inside the trunk, too, briefly wondering whether it would be unethical of him to take a card he was still missing for his own collection.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d spent on the training schedule or trading cards, but it was an embarrassingly long time to be too occupied to notice the framed photograph on the bottom of the trunk, Harry thought.
He quickly pulled it out, his mind struggling to catch up with what he was seeing. A group of four boys around his age were standing in front of Gambol and Japes, admiring it like it was an important monument.
A blond boy stood next to a scarred brown-haired boy, seemingly laughing at something he said. Next to them, an untidy black-haired boy had his arms wrapped around another black-haired boy, this one with much longer, curly hair.
Though he’d never admit it, Harry recognised Sirius before he recognised his own father.
For a short moment, the photograph remained perfectly still. Harry was halfway through a thought about how rare a Muggle photograph was at Hogwarts, when the four boys inside of it suddenly stirred.
James’ hand came up to rub his knuckles on Sirius’ head, making the taller boy duck and shove him off. Peter nearly tripped over Remus’ shoes in his haste, trying to avoid getting knocked into by a dangerously flailing James. Sirius threw his head back in laughter just as Remus rolled his eyes and took a step back.
The sight of Sirius’ laughter made something in Harry’s chest ache, his stomach turning at the thought of the last time he’d seen Sirius laugh like that: right after Sirius had mistaken him for James.
His godfather had died mere minutes after.
A burst of laughter suddenly echoed from beyond the dormitory door, followed by more than one set of footsteps.
‘Shit,’ Harry hissed, scrambling up and looking around for a hiding spot at the same time. When his eyes trailed over the wardrobe furthest away from the door—Sirius’ wardrobe—he quickly darted towards it.
Climbing inside without making too much noise proved to be harder than he’d expected, but he managed to hide just in time; the wardrobe door clicked shut just as the dormitory door creaked open.
‘Did you see the look on her face? I bet she didn’t even know what hit her,’ Sirius exclaimed, chuckling heartily as he entered the room.
‘I don’t think anybody’s ever pulled a better prank in, like, the history of pranks,’ a voice Harry didn’t immediately recognise replied.
It must be his dad, a small, hopeful part of him realised. His heart was doing somersaults in his chest, and he worried that his heartbeat might be as audible to them as it was to him.
‘Merlin, Pete,’ Remus groaned, the sound of his voice followed by something scraping across the floor. ‘What did you do to your trunk?’
‘What? I didn’t do this,’ another voice squeaked. ‘I was the first one out of the door this morning!’
Harry’s fists balled, and his jaw clenched at the sound of Peter’s voice. He’d met Peter before, and hating him had come as easily as breathing then, but this Peter hadn’t betrayed his parents yet.
He should keep it together. He could dislike the blond boy, sure, but he shouldn’t make a scene, no matter how badly he wanted to. Merlin knew he wanted to; he imagined jumping out of the wardrobe and attacking him, warning the three other boys about his future betrayal, and preventing Peter from joining the Order altogether.
‘Maybe Evans’ cat got into your stuff,’ Sirius huffed. ‘Precious little Marmy-Pie wanted to show you no member of the Evans family respects you.’
‘Stop making up ridiculous nicknames for her cat,’ James responded. Going off sound, Harry thought James might have plopped down onto his bed.
‘Stop talking about her cat,’ Remus groaned, his voice becoming louder as he approached the wardrobe.
Harry’s breath hitched, and he quickly put a hand in front of his mouth to quiet his breathing.
‘You’re acting like Marmalade is a common topic of conversation here. It is not,’ James countered, seemingly having decided his bed was too boring; his voice was becoming louder, too.
Were they standing in front of Sirius’ wardrobe?
‘It is. Don’t lie to yourself,’ responded Remus.
‘If it isn’t about Evans, it’s about her cat,’ Peter agreed.
‘Sirius brought it up!’ the black-haired boy argued.
Harry nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of something thudding against the wardrobe. Given James’ charming curses, he gathered it was probably his father throwing his head back against the wooden doors.
‘I said both Evans and her cat hate your guts. That wasn’t an invitation for you to start talking about them; it was an insult. And also, have a go at your own wardrobe, Potter! Leave my precious furniture alone. Break down on your side of the room.’
Somebody snorted in response, but Harry couldn’t quite make out who it was.
‘A breakdown? Excuse me? I’ll have you know I’m perfectly fine. I was showcasing my exhaustion with your antics,’ said James.
Harry let out a sigh of relief at the sound of James’ voice growing more silent again. Maybe he really had moved to his own wardrobe.
A surge of panic hit him again nearly instantly, though; when would he be able to get out of this wardrobe?
He didn’t carry a watch on him, so there was no way to tell whether the four friends had just finished classes or had already finished dinner and were ready to settle down for the night.
Deciding there really wasn’t anything to do but wait, the black-haired boy leaned back in the wardrobe, trying to find a comfortable position whilst staying as quiet as he could.
He didn’t think the Marauders would have noticed if he made a noise anyway; they were too busy bickering over his mother.
Harry closed his eyes, letting their voices wash over him. He listened to James’ loud voice, to Sirius’ lingering laughter, to Remus’ attempts at keeping them in check, and to Peter’s quiet jokes.
The simplicity of it all, of getting to look into what once was like this, was almost enough to make him forget about where he was.
A little voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him of the fact that every voice in the room had met a horrible, horrible fate and that their friendship had not stood the test of time.
His father would die trying to protect both him and the girl he so adored now. Sirius would die in front of Harry’s eyes, trying to protect Harry and his friends. Remus would live a rather lonely life; though he was still alive, it was obvious he did not think there was much more left to live for. Peter would live a dull, miserable life, living in fear of the Master he chose to serve himself.
Harry had no idea how long he’d get to sit here and listen, but he was certain the moment wouldn’t last.
He’d better cherish what little time he’d been given.