The Resolute Urgency of Now—Time Travel—Trope Bingo 2020-2021

When Harry woke, he was a child, back in the familiar cupboard.

One of Harry’s most frequent nightmares was waking to find himself back in the cupboard at 4 Privet Drive. His sleeping mind took him back there more often than he could count. The worst of his nightmares always started there.

At first, he tried to wake up. Just closed his eyes and thought very hard about waking. When that didn’t work, he concluded that he must somehow be unconscious or in a coma. Something was keeping him asleep; there was no easy way out of what would—based on prior experience—be some mashup of the worst of his childhood.

Fortunately for Harry, he’d recently worked out how to extricate himself from the horrors his mind was waiting to spring on him. Luna had taught him a technique that allowed him to derail the nightmare, to take him to a safe place where he could activate one of the dream sequences he’d embedded into his mindscape for just this sort of occasion.

Unfortunately, that didn’t work either.

“Argh!” said Harry, annoyed. Even knowing it was only a dream didn’t make being beaten up by Dudley and chased by Marge’s dogs any less awful.

Ominous creaking from above signalled that his dream relatives were up and moving around. If Harry wanted to avoid falling too far into the dream to back out, he needed to hurry. He only had ten to fifteen minutes before he was dragged out of his cupboard to cook a mountain of eggs, bacon, sausage, and baked beans for Vernon, Dudley, and possibly Marge.

“Luna said that nothing is impossible in dreams,” murmured Harry to himself. “All I need to do is believe hard enough that I can do something, and I’ll be able to do it.” She’d called it lucid dreaming, and said it was like being awake while knowing you were asleep. Her descriptions of flying through the air like birds and swimming through the ocean like fish sounded marvellous. Harry had never managed it, but there was a first time for everything and this was the perfect time to try.

With that thought in mind, he closed his eyes and believed with all his might that he was the one place in the world that he’d felt truly safe; the Potter property in Stinchcombe that he’d discovered nearly two years after Voldemort finally kicked it.

It worked.

It was well-warded, with runic enchantments along the border to convince muggles that nothing was interesting about either the ten acres of land or the house. There was a short ditch just inside the boundary, and then a dry-stone wall topped with steel spikes. The stones were carved with the proper protections, the ones that kept intruders from intruding.

The gates looked more prominent than he remembered, which tracked with his dream body being less than eleven years old. There was a weird feeling about the whole thing; like, despite his poorly fitted non-prescription glasses, he could see details that he’d never noticed before.

The places where magic was active along the boundary and the stone wall were somehow standing out from the background. His sense of smell was better, and so was his hearing.

This really was the best dream he’d ever had.

The house itself had always seemed huge to Harry, who had grown up in a modern four-bedroom suburban townhouse built to maximise available space and minimise individuality. Potterstone was an old-fashioned manor house, intended to house a moderately prosperous family and their servants and also be able to accommodate guests.

It wasn’t the eight bedrooms that seemed so excessive, more the need to have a library, a games room, and a study, as well as a dining room, breakfast room, and sitting room.

It was also—in this dream at least—still completely blood-locked.

Luckily, Harry knew what to do. He pressed his thumb into the print embedded into one of the stones near the gate, feeling the hidden needle puncture the skin and take the necessary blood sample. It took two seconds for the magic to analyse the blood to confirm he was a Potter and ensure there were no signs of coercion.

Finding all to be correct, the protective wards accepted the application as valid and gates unlocked with an audible click.

Harry stepped over the threshold and breathed a sigh of relief.

v^v^v^v

From documents he’d found in the Potter Vault, Harry knew that this particular Potter property had last been used as a residence when Harry’s grandfather, Charlus, was a teenager.

Charlus’ great-uncle, Norman, raised his family here before turning it over to Charlus’ only cousin, Wilfred. Wilfred had married the youngest son of the magical branch of the Orléans family.

Neither family had been overjoyed by the match. The Orléans hoped to marry their sons to daughters of extant French nobility and thus regain some of their lost glory. The Potters were concerned about their families’ dwindling numbers and had been hoping that Wilfred might marry a fertile young lass who’d do her part to increase the Potter numbers.

Rather than face the disappointment of both families, Wilfred and Henri emigrated to New Zealand, adopted the last name Brown, and opened a patisserie.

Potterstone sat vacant and untouched until James Potter married Lily Evans. Dorea Potter, nee Black, had gone into a flurry of renovation and updating to get the house ready for her newlywed son, only to die in suspicious circumstances before she could present them with the finished residence.

After the funeral, James and Lily had toured the house and agreed that it was lovely, but perhaps a little on the large side for just the two of them. They decided to live in another Potter property—the cottage in Godric’s Hollow—at least until they’d had a few children. They figured that, at that point, they would probably be glad for all the room.

Pettigrew’s betrayal and Voldemort’s attack had conclusively ended those plans, along with many others.

Few knew of Potterstone’s existence, which had allowed it to remain unmolested during the second war. If Dumbledore had known of it, he would no doubt have asked Harry to use it as an Order stronghold. Despite how useful it might have been—both when Dumbledore was alive and afterwards, when Harry, Hermione, and Ron were on their horcrux hunt—Harry was glad that he still had some tangible family history.

In the waking world, Harry had invited Andromeda and Teddy to live here. Andromeda was grateful to escape the constant memories, at least for a time, and Teddy needed space to run around while he grew up. His strange werewolf genetics made him absurdly hyperactive on the full moon, and the grounds of Potterstone gave him the room he needed while ensuring he remained safe.

v^v^v^v

The old house looked just as it did when Harry first saw it. The household wards had done their job and kept vermin out, but there was a thin layer of just over everything. Last time, Harry had spent the good part of a day going through the house with dust removal and freshening charms. It had been an excellent way to explore, but this time he already knew where everything was. Including the innovative runeset that Norman Potter created so that his servants could spend their time cooking him delicious meals rather than taking care of dull and repetitive housework.

So Harry went straight to the old scullery and activated the appropriate runes.

Windows opened, letting in the fresh air and sounds of birdsong. On the west side of the house, the conservatory’s exterior doors opened too, startling the herd of goats that had the run of the grounds.

The goats were a magical variant of a now rare breed. They lived long lives, bred slowly, and were prized in temperate climates for being year-round mobile lawn-mowers that could double as guard dogs. Aside from grass, they ignored non-magical plants unless they were trained to eat them. Instead, they delighted in blossoms from a magical lilac cross-breed that bloomed all year round. Norman Potter had planted several near the walls.

Were Harry of a mind to it, he could sell the younger goats for upwards of five thousand galleons each, ten times the amount the average wizard made in a year. He couldn’t bring himself to separate them, though. He would have been a rubbish farmer.

A ripple of magic flowed through the house like a wave, eradicating dust, airing fabrics, cleaning glass and ceramic surfaces, polishing silver, brass, and copper. It was like the house exhaled, and every speck of grime that had built up just flowed out. It made a tidy pile out behind a cluster of outbuildings that had initially been a combined haybarn and stables with an attached workshop before Dorea had renovated them into magical work areas for enchanting, alchemy, potions, and runecrafting.

It wasn’t until Harry caught sight of himself reflected in the newly cleaned glass that he realised just how young his dream self was. He immediately went to find a mirror.

“I can’t be more than six or seven,” he said to the scrawny boy with messy hair and lopsided glasses staring at him.

Harry’s reflection wrinkled its nose. “You could do with a haircut and some proper clothes.”

Harry frowned. “Right, I got rid of you, didn’t I?”

The enchanted mirrors at Potterstone were designed to be unbreakable, since Norman believed there was no point in spending money on an enchantment if the damn thing might break before you got your moneys worth out of it.

Harry had eventually moved this mirror, along with another one that was just as rude, to the attic, with the vague idea that if anyone he detested came to stay, he could quietly rehang them. He didn’t need them in his daily life; mirrors were good enough at brutal honesty without adding commentary into the mix.

Although, since this was his dream, and he could do what he liked…maybe these mirrors would do more good in the Dursley household.

Laughing in a way that would have given a hyena reason for concern, Harry used his finger as a pretend wand and did a switching spell that he would never have attempted in the real world. Dream Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley were in for a lot of brutal honesty in the future. How sad that Dream Harry wouldn’t be there for them to take their frustrations out on.

Priceless.

Still chuckling away to himself, Harry wandered into the sitting room and threw himself down on the sofa.

What else would make this dream the most fantastic dream ever? If he was six or seven, then it was obviously too late to save his parents…unless his dream self could time-travel? But that seemed unlikely.

Getting Sirius out of prison would be less problematic.

“I really should have my wand if I’m going to be going to Azkaban,” said Harry to himself. “It will be in Ollivander’s shop, but that’s easily solved. Accio wand!” He shoved all his magic into the spell. Surely that would be enough to drag his wand all the way from Diagon Alley.

To Harry’s great surprise, wands started flying in through the open window. He managed to catch the first two, but after that, he decided to get out of the way because the wands kept coming.

Harry watched with shock and amazement as his sitting-room filled up with wands. The sofa he’d been sitting on when he’d cast the spell was soon buried, the stack reaching up to the ceiling. It went on for over half an hour. Maybe he should have been a little more specific. He cleared his throat. “Accio phoenix feather and holly wand.”

The mound of wands shifted, wands scattering even further. Eventually, a familiar-looking wand worked its way out of the pile and flew to his hand.

The familiar feel of his old wand was lovely, but now Harry was left with what must be twenty or thirty thousand wands cluttering up his sitting room.

“It’s a good thing this house is so big,” said Harry to himself as he closed the door behind him. What was that old saying? Out of sight, out of mind.

Now, time to do something about Sirius.

In real life, Azkaban was warded against apparition. That didn’t bother Harry at all. This was his dream; if he wanted to apparate through non-apparition wards, he would totally be able to.

Of course, Harry didn’t know precisely where Sirius was being kept. He knew it was the high-security wing, but the only time he’d actually been to Azkaban—part of auror training—he’d not gone further than the warded gatehouse where the wardens took their breaks.

But that didn’t matter. According to Luna, when you were lucid dreaming, you always either ended up exactly where you wanted to be or, if your control was shaky, exactly where you didn’t want to be. This dream was well under Harry’s control; ergo, he was bound to get to Sirius on the first try.

v^v^v^v

Sirius was in his animagjus form when Harry arrived, but transformed as soon as Harry cast his patronus.  “I must be dreaming,” he said, sounding dazed. “Why else would you be here?” He watched as Prongs the Patronus ambled around the cell. “And James is here too.”

“It’s my dream, not yours,” explained Harry. “That’s not Prongs. Or it kindof is. It’s my patronus which coincidentally takes the shape of Prongs.”

Sirius looked dreadfully confused. “But what are you both doing here?”

“I’ve come to get you out, of course,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. “In real life, I’ve been knocked unconscious or given a draught of living death or something. Want to come and live with me at Potterstone?”

“Potterstone?” asked Sirius, managing to get to his feet with wobbly determination. “James and Lily told me about that once.”

“It’s beautiful,” Harry enthused. “Lots of natural light, nothing like Grimmauld Place.”

“How are we going to get there?”

“I’ll apparate us.”

“No one can apparate into or out of Azkaban,” said Sirius. “Not even Dumbledore, and he’s the only one who can apparate on Hogwarts grounds.”

“He can?” asked Harry, remembering that one time when he’d nearly been killed by Voldemort over the Philosopher’s Stone while Dumbledore was on a broom ride to London. “That bastard. It doesn’t matter; this is my dream; I can apparate through the wards if I want to. I apparated here, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t notice,” Sirius confessed. “I try to sleep as much as possible.” He frowned. “I wonder why the guards haven’t come by? I thought there were sensors to count the number of magical signatures in each wing. It’s how they know if someone’s dead or just faking it.”

“Who knows,” replied Harry. “Now, are you coming with me or not?”

“Why not? Sure beats hanging around this dump.”

Apparating Sirius out was more challenging than apparating in, but Harry managed it. They wound up back outside the gates to Potterstone.

Harry frowned. “I was supposed to take you into the entryway.”

Sirius staggered over to the grass and dropped to his knees. “It feels so real. It feels better than real. I never want to wake up.”

“Well, you can’t,” pointed out Harry. “I already told you it was my dream. Come to think of it, it’s weird that we got dropped out here. Still, it’s not a long walk. Come on inside.”

Sirius looked up from where he’d bent down to run his face over the grassy surface. “The house probably wants you to add me to the permissions.”

Harry had a vague memory of Andromeda explaining it to him. “I suppose I’ll need your blood, then.”

Sirius held out his hand. “Sure, why not? My mother always told me never to give my blood to anyone without some kind of vow in place, but I’ve always liked disobliging that cantankerous, murderous, mad bitch.”

“I get that,” agreed Harry, remembering the horrid portrait of Walburga Black that liked to hurl obscenities at everyone. “She’s dead at this point, I think.” He took Sirius’ offered hand and pressed it to the embedded thumbprint before releasing it and replacing it with his own thumb, the same one he’d used earlier that day. “Dedimus potestatem.”

The sparkly magic on the walls sparkled extra hard for a moment. When Harry looked at Sirius, he saw that he was sparkling too.

Sirius shook himself like a dog. “Merlin’s saggy ball sack, Harry, warn a fellow when you’re going to bring out the heavy stuff!”

“What heavy stuff?”

Sirius gestured to the gate. “All that ‘unlimited access’ stuff. Also, as your godfather, I feel like I should warn you that you shouldn’t be giving strange men you just picked up in Azkaban authority over your wards.”

Harry blinked. “Hang on, what? How did that give you authority over the wards? I thought I was just giving you access to the house so I wouldn’t need to keep letting you in.”

“You told the wards that I acted in your name,” explained Sirius, getting to his feet. “You mean you didn’t know? This is basic stuff; who taught you warding?”

“No-one taught me warding,” said Harry, feeling off-balance. “Dumbledore told me I needed to grant the Order members access to Grimmauld Place with that so they could access the house while I was in school.”

Sirius looked more confused than ever. “But why…never mind. The point is that you shouldn’t be giving those sorts of permissions to anyone but your spouse. In fact, in ancient times, a marriage wasn’t considered valid unless the spouse was given those rites. Some older families will still take such an act to be as good as a signed betrothal.”

Harry thought about how he’d given Snape, Mad-eye Moody and Mundungus Fletcher access to Grimmauld Place. He wrinkled his nose. “Ew.”

Sirius patted Harry gently on the shoulder. “Not to worry, pup, a bit of work with the primary ward stone, and you can reset everything.”

“How do I do that?” asked Harry. “We might as well do it while we’re out here.”

Sirius stared at him. “You really don’t know anything, do you? The primary ward stone will be in the house. In a basement, most likely.”

“There is no basement.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Well, it won’t obviously be a basement, will it? Only an idiot keeps their primary ward stone where any old muggins can find it.”

Harry frowned. “I wonder if this conversation is a reflection of my desire for a father figure to guide and teach me? Luna would probably know.” He thought about that. “Or she might say I was infected with wrackspurts or something.”

Sirius shuddered. “Don’t even joke about something like that. Do you know just how hard it is to get rid of wrackspurts once they set in? Now, are we going to go inside, or do you want to sit out here chatting all day?”

“We’ll go inside,” decided Harry. “You need a bath or ten and maybe a haircut.”

v^v^v^v

When Norman Potter had done his runework, he didn’t bother with temperature variations because there were several spells for heating liquid, none of them magically exhausting. There was a rune for filling the bath, but it was up to each person—or their caregiver—to set the right temperature.

Unfortunately, heating water was one of the things Harry had yet to get the hang of. He ended up with water either so piping hot it was just short of boiling, or lukewarm to cold.

“How can you apparate through Azkaban’s wards yet not know how to heat water?” asked Sirius, snatching his hand back from the boiling water after Harry’s third attempt.

“It was never important to learn,” said Harry. “Andromeda liked being able to help me with stuff, so she used to do it for me.”

“Give me your wand,” said Sirius. “I’ll do it.”

Harry handed it over, watching with interest as Sirius failed spectacularly too.

“Maybe you’re not hopeless after all; maybe it’s this stupid wand,” Sirius muttered after several attempts resulted in temperatures even more extreme than the ones Harry had managed. “I don’t suppose this house has any spares floating around?”

Harry shrugged. “If you want to try another wand, I’ve got plenty in the sitting-room.”

Sirius handed Harry’s wand back. “Can’t hurt to look. I’ve never had a wand fight me so hard before.”

Harry led him to the sitting room and opened the door.

Sirius looked at the mountain of wands in silence for several long moments.

Harry cleared his throat. “They’re not sorted or anything. You can probably see that. Anyway, there’s bound to be something here that suits you.”

“This really is a dream, isn’t it?” Sirius said to himself, edging around the pile, shuffling his feet along the wooden floor, gently nudging aside stray wands. “Why else would my baby godson have Lucius Malfoy’s wand?”

“I’m not a baby,” replied Harry, offended. “And I already told you, this is my dream.”

“Does it even matter whose dream it is?” Sirius asked. “Maybe it’s a crazy shared dream, or something.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” replied Harry. “Bit hard to share dreams with a dead person.”

Sirius ran his hands over several wands. Some were long and bendy, others short and rigid. One or two glowed faintly at his touch. Finally, he touched one that made magic zing through the air. “Am I dead then? I don’t feel dead.” He waved the wand, smiling slightly when red and gold fireworks leapt from the tip to explode near the ceiling, causing the nearest wands to start rolling in a mini avalanche.

“Well, you are,” said Harry, feeling a little uncomfortable at how suggestive the whole wand thing was now that he was a grown-up. Sort of. “Voldemort sent me a fake message that he was torturing you in the Hall of Prophecy, and when I went to rescue you, a bunch of death eaters attacked. Then you came to rescue me, and Bellatrix ended up knocking you through the Veil of Death.”

“I’m pretty sure I would remember something like that,” mused Sirius. “Unless I really am crazy.”

Harry shrugged. “Depends on your definition of crazy. Why don’t you go and have a bath, and I’ll find something else to do.”

Sirius started making his careful way back to the door. “Maybe you could arrange some food. I can’t remember the last time I ate something hot and filling.”

“Good plan,” said Harry, since Norman Potter had outfitted the kitchen with what had once been state of the art preservation enchantments. They were no longer cutting edge, but they’d lasted the test of time. Dorea hadn’t bothered updating them, only ensured that the kitchen was stocked with everything a young couple might find useful.

Harry went into the kitchen to inspect the range of oven-ready meals Dorea had provided for those times the newlyweds might not be interested in cooking.

He popped a lasagne into the oven, set it to ‘Warm through’ rather than ‘Piping hot,’ and then wandered over to the windows to watch the goats. Two goat-babies seemed to find a lot of joy in jumping all over the place, and just watching their antics was relaxing.

Harry was still engrossed in the goat dramas when Sirius came in looking much better. He was still gaunt and a bit wild-looking, but he’d trimmed his hair, shaved his scraggly beard, and either conjured or transfigured some clothes to wear.

“That smells amazing,” said Sirius. “I haven’t had a decent lasagne since your grandparents died. Dorea was an amazing cook, you know. Pity James wasn’t interested in learning from her. For all that he was a dab hand in the potions lab, your father couldn’t reliably make decent toast.”

“I don’t know much about my grandparents,” said Harry, extracting the lasagne from the oven and taking it over to the breakfast bar so he’d still be able to watch the goats. “Why don’t you tell me about them?”

They sat at the breakfast bar for hours as the sun went down. Harry listened raptly to stories about Charlus Potter and his wife Dorea, how they’d welcomed Sirius into their home and never made him feel like he was overstaying his welcome or that they’d prefer not to have to deal with him.

It was the kind of evening that Harry had daydreamed about after Sirius had asked him to come and live with him back in his third year. They talked long into the night, not going upstairs to sleep until after midnight.

Harry really didn’t want to go to sleep at all, too worried that it would be the end of this fantastic dream. In the end, he was too tired to stay awake.

v^v^v^v

Harry awoke to sunshine streaming in his window and a familiar big black dog jumping on his bed.

If Sirius was here, then that meant…

Harry sat up in bed and beamed at his godfather. “I’m still asleep!”

Padfoot barked agreeably before scrambling off the bed and transforming into Sirius.

“I made breakfast!” he announced. “Well, I made eggs and toast. I hope you like your eggs scrambled because that’s the only way I know how to make them.”

“That sounds great,” Harry assured him, sliding over the edge of the bed and dropping to the ground.

The pyjamas Sirius had transfigured for him the previous night from a towel were still holding their shape—and it wasn’t like Harry had anything to change into but his old Dudley hand-me-downs anyway—so he wore them down to breakfast.

If Harry was honest with himself, he was much better at making scrambled eggs than Sirius. Sirius’ eggs were hard in some spots and mushy in others. Still, just being able to eat eggs that Sirius had made for him was enough to make them the best eggs he’d ever had.

“In the summers, Charlus used to take us all camping in Snowdonia,” Sirius shared. “Peter and I were the only ones who were any good at cooking, so I was in charge of eggs, and Peter did the sausages. Remus managed toast…most of the time.” He sighed. “I can’t believe Peter betrayed us like that.”

Harry blinked. He’d forgotten about Wormtail.

Sirius had already moved on. “What do you want to do today? It’s a pity we don’t have brooms; it’s brilliant flying weather.” He poked at the remains of his breakfast. Sirius had served himself up a big plateful but had only been able to eat half of it.

Harry was still thinking about Wormtail, who right now would be masquerading as Percy’s pet rat. “I could bring Peter here, if you wanted.”

Sirius’ eyes widened. “You could?” A smile of unholy glee spread across his face. “Yes! I want to rip that bastard’s…” he trailed off, smile dimming. “Uh, that is….” He looked around before shrugging uncomfortably.

Harry tilted his head to one side. “What? I thought you wanted to kill him.” When Harry saved Peter from Remus and Sirius in his third year, he’d done it because it was the right thing to do, the moral choice.

In return, Wormtail kidnapped him, resurrected Voldemort using his blood, and killed Cedric right in front of him. Both those things still gave Harry nightmares. He sometimes wondered how things would have gone if he hadn’t stopped them. Harry didn’t actually want to kill Wormtail himself, but he no longer had any problem with Sirius doing it.

Sirius sighed. “I don’t want him here,” he admitted. “I don’t want to taint this happy place with his blood, and I don’t really want to leave here, either.”

Since Sirius was a figment of his imagination, that probably meant that Harry subconsciously still had issues around the whole ‘killing Wormtail’ thing. Fine. Harry could think of other ways to get even with Wormtail that didn’t bother him in the slightest. Like turning him into the Ministry, or better yet, the Daily Prophet.

It could be a present for Sirius! Which meant that he’d have to distract him with something else while Harry went to take care of it.

After some thought, he recalled hearing that Sirius had been good at potions.

“Why don’t you investigate the potions lab?” Harry suggested. “I’ve got a couple of things to take care of, but I’ll stop by Diagon Alley and bring back a couple of new brooms.” An afternoon spent flying did sound rather marvellous.

Sirius visibly perked up. “There’s a potions lab?”

v^v^v^v

Having left Sirius to potter around happily in the lab, Harry was left with a minor conundrum. He wasn’t entirely sure where Percy would be. Since Harry had no idea of his age in this dream, that meant Percy was either at the Burrow or Hogwarts.

He decided that he might as well try the Burrow first.

Apparating to the Burrow was easy; Harry knew the landscape well. He landed just outside the gate, just in time to hear a childish voice declare, “I now pronounce you King and Queen Potter!”

He turned around.

Ginny Weasley took one look at him and fainted. Thankfully the warmth of spring meant the ground was no longer as hard as it was during winter, so it was unlikely to actually hurt her.

Luna stared at him, pale blue eyes wide. “You’re Harry Potter.”

“You’re Luna Lovegood,” Harry replied. He looked down at Ginny, who’d opened her eyes and was looking at him in horror. “And you’re Ginny Weasley.”

“Why are you here, Harry Potter?” asked Luna. “Is there a rampaging nundu that needs taming?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Hopefully, his imagination wouldn’t conjure one. Harry had no idea how to deal with a nundu, rampaging or otherwise. “Actually, I’m having a rather brilliant lucid dream right now.”

Luna nodded seriously. “That sounds wonderful. Daddy told me that lucid dreaming is the most fun you can have with your clothes on, more fun even than eating cake.”

“If you’re in control of your dreams, you can have as much cake as you want,” agreed Harry. “If you like cake, that is. I prefer treacle tart.”

“Ginny, Luna, come inside for lunch,” Mrs Weasley called from the door. “Oh, you’ve been making a friend. You should probably head home now, young man; your mother will probably be wondering where you are.”

“It’s Harry Potter,” announced Luna.

Harry waved cheerfully. “It’s okay; my mother won’t be expecting me on account of being dead.”

Mrs Weasley sighed, leaving the doorway and coming towards them. “Luna, we’re not playing games right now. Young man, it’s in very bad taste to…you’re Harry Potter!”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Yes, Luna already told you that.”

Someone new spoke from the doorway. “Molly?” The speaker was a woman who looked so much like Luna that it had to be her mother, Pandora, who’d died when Luna was still young. Pandora Lovegood was a spell researcher or something and had been working on an experiment that went awry.

“But what are you doing here?” asked Mrs Weasley. “Did Albus bring you? I’ve told him repeatedly that it would do you a world of good to spend time with my children. Why don’t you come inside and have lunch with us? It’s only sandwiches, I’m afraid, what with the wand situation, but there should be enough.”

Luna skipped over to her mother. “Mummy, Harry Potter came to visit.”

“I can see that,” said Mrs Lovegood. “I can’t help but notice that you’re holding a wand, Mr Potter. Did you borrow it from your guardian?”

“No, it’s mine,” replied Harry. “Are you Mrs Lovegood? I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.”

Mrs Lovegood’s eyebrows rose. “You have?”

“Luna’s such a good friend, and talking to Xenophilus is always a bit like working out an upside-down riddle…well, I’m sure you know what he’s like. But Luna always said you had a good head on your shoulders. At least, until you decided that thistle could substitute for blossom. Or was it blossom for thistle? I can’t recall. Something to do with fruit.”

“Do you mean cox blossom and gouthorn?” Mrs Lovegood asked slowly.

Harry shrugged. “That might have been it. I’m not all that good with herbology, to be honest. I always left that up to Neville. Anyway, the arithmancy worked out on paper, but the whole thing went up in noxious flames because there’s no way to keep oxygen out. Neville said you should have tried peach thistle.” He frowned. “Or was it peach blossom? I can never remember.”

Mrs Lovegood had gone pale. Well, paler than she already was. “I see.”

“She really did grow up to look a lot like you,” said Harry. “Although her eyes were grey, I think.” He scratched his head. “Huh, it’s weird how they’re blue now.”

“Mummy, mummy, does that mean I’m going to be like grandma?” Luna asked, tugging at her mother’s hand.

“Not if I can help it, darling,” replied Mrs Lovegood, pulling Luna in for a tight hug. “Thank you, Harry Potter. Do you know what life debts are?”

“Sort of,” said Harry, wrinkling his nose at the memory of Dumbledore telling him that Pettigrew owed him a life debt and how that hadn’t stopped him from hurting Harry on more than one occasion. “I prefer to think it doesn’t count when it’s your friends.”

“Then the Lovegood family will be honoured to call you our friend,” said Mrs Lovegood, smiling warmly at him. She looked less like she was going to faint, which was probably a good thing.

“Don’t talk such nonsense, Pandora; this is hardly an appropriate subject for a child! Come inside and have lunch, Harry,” said Mrs Weasley, trying to hustle them inside. “If only I hadn’t sent Errol to Hogwarts this morning, I could’ve owled Dumbledore to ask why you’re running around with no supervision!”

Staying to play with Luna and the Weasleys did sound like fun, but thinking of Pettigrew had reminded Harry of why he’d come to the Burrow in the first place. “I actually wanted to see Percy. Is he here?”

“He’s at Hogwarts,” offered Luna. “He’s in his second year.”

Harry tried to work it out. “Hmm. That would make it…1988? 1989?”

“It’s the thirtieth of April 1989,” said Mrs Lovegood, narrowing her eyes.

“That makes me eight,” Harry muttered to himself. “Huh. I thought I was younger than that. Oh well, never mind.” He gave them all a wave. “I’ll be off then. Enjoy your lunch!”

Given that it was lunchtime, that meant Percy was probably in the Great Hall. Concentrating on his destination, Harry turned on his right heel and disapparated from the Burrow.

v^v^v^v

Harry’s appearance in the Great Hall might have gone unnoticed if someone hadn’t tripped over him almost immediately.

“Watch where you’re going! Five points from—”

Harry picked himself up off the floor and looked into the face of Severus Snape.

Snape recoiled as if Harry had bitten him. “Potter!” he gasped. “But you’re not old enough yet!”

“I’m not here as a student,” Harry assured him, aware that the previously noisy students were turning to watch the floor show. “Wow, it’s a bit empty in here, isn’t it? Although I suppose that with Voldemort and his minions running around happily torturing, raping and killing, a lot of people either didn’t think it was a good time to have kids or moved to France or something.”

Snape scowled at him. “Don’t say that name!”

“It is a bit grandiose, isn’t it?” agreed Harry. “Mind you, I can see why he changed it. ‘Tom Riddle’ just doesn’t inspire the same respect as ‘Lord Voldemort.’ Although, I personally think that calling himself a lord just screams of teenage angst. I tried to anagram my name, you know, and it came out as ‘Pyjamas the Terror.’”

There was a loud whistle.

“Silence!” announced Dumbledore from the staff table. He’d risen to his feet and was holding a wand that Harry didn’t recognise. “Who are you, and how did you get into this school?”

“My name’s Harry,” said Harry. “And I’m here to pick up Percy Weasley’s pet rat.” He scanned the Gryffindor table for redheads, but while Bill and Charlie were definitely present, there was no sign of Percy.

“Hi Bill, I don’t suppose you know where Percy is?” Harry asked. “I need to borrow Scabbers. Well, less borrow and more ‘take,’ but that’s semantics.”

Bill looked surprised to be addressed. “He was here earlier. Oliver would probably know.” He gestured to a face that Harry knew well.

“Oliver Wood? That’s incredible; you look so tiny!” gushed Harry. Second-year Oliver was adorable. No wonder McGonagall used to let him get away with all sorts of crazy Quidditch shenanigans.

Oliver frowned at him. “You’ve got a bit of a nerve calling me tiny.”

Harry flapped his hand dismissively. “Yeah, well, you can’t help some of the stuff that happens in dreams, even when you are controlling them.”

The whistle sounded again, getting Harry’s attention.

Dumbledore had lost much of his jovial twinkle. “I believe I asked you a question! Professor Snape, take that wand off him.”

Harry had no intention of letting Snape have his wand, dream or not. On the other hand, since this was a dream…

Harry kicked Snape in the shins as hard as he could and then dived under the Gryffindor table. He wiggled through the sea of legs and popped out the other side, rising to his feet just in time to sidestep a magical rope flung in his direction.

Harry had learned a thing or two in his auror training. One of them was that the seize and pull charm had the unfortunate effect of occupying the wand until it was dismissed, which required a three-step wand movement.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry snapped, dodging the rope again. “Accio wand!” Moments later, he was holding two wands.

The occupants of the Great Hall gave a collective gasp of shock.

“Sorry, Oliver, we were interrupted,” said Harry, keeping one eye on the head table. “Where’s Percy?”

Oliver glanced at Snape, who was still clutching his leg and glaring murderously in Harry’s direction but making no other attempt towards him. “He said something about checking the library for more information on shrivelfigs, but he might have gone back to the common room first.”

Harry frowned. It was entirely possible that Percy wasn’t in either of those places but somewhere between. Harry didn’t really want to be traipsing all over the school trying to catch up with him. Catching sight of Filch jogged his memory. The twins weren’t at Hogwarts yet, which meant that the Marauder’s Map was in Filch’s office.

Since Filch was here, then his office was empty. All he needed was some way to keep everyone occupied for a couple of minutes while he went to get it.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Harry admitted out loud, then cast an overcharged cheering charm on the entire room. He was particularly amused to see Snape laughing hysterically while also managing to send him a glare of death.

“I’ll have to find some way to show Padfoot,” Harry muttered, then turned on his heel and disapparated.

Filch’s office was as dreary as Harry remembered it. Thankfully, the map was where Fred and George had told him they’d found it. It only took a moment to find Percy and Pettigrew. They were in Gryffindor Tower, Percy was walking down the stairs, probably on his way down from his dorm room, and Pettigrew was by himself in the common room.

Harry stuffed the map back into the drawer he’d pulled it out of and apparated into the Gryffindor Common Room.

He got there at the same time as Percy.

Percy blinked at the sight of him. “How did you do that? Was it a concealment charm?”

“I apparated,” explained Harry, sending a stunner at the sleeping Pettigrew. That done, he tucked both wands he was holding under his right arm like he’d seen policemen do and used his left hand to lift the rat animagus up by his tail. The stunner held, and the rat didn’t wake. “Hi Percy, sorry about taking your pet. Well, I’m not sorry. Actually, he’s an illegal animagus, and the fact that he’s been sleeping in the same room as a bunch of schoolboys is a bit suspect even if I didn’t hate him for betraying my family.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Percy. “Who are you, anyway, and what are you doing here wearing a bad Harry Potter disguise?” He held his hand out. “Give me my pet rat, liar; everyone knows you can’t apparate on Hogwarts grounds.”

“Trust me, you probably won’t even miss him,” said Harry. “It’s not like he ever did anything but laze around and eat anyway. The owl that your dad got you when you made prefect was heaps better. Regardless, he’s coming with me.”

So maybe Harry hadn’t quite forgiven Percy for being an arrogant, sanctimonious twat while they were at school. This was his dream, and if he wanted to steal Percy’s pet rat, then he would.

v^v^v^v

Diagon Alley was never as busy during the school year as it was in the summer holidays. Still, there were usually more people around than this.

Harry made directly for the London premises of the Daily Prophet, Pettigrew still dangling by his long, wormy tail.

The front counter was staffed by a bored-looking wizard far more interested in the book he was reading than paying attention to the member of the public that had walked in the front door.

Harry thought about making a fuss but decided he couldn’t be bothered. It took him a minute to examine the rather ornate plaque on the wall, which listed the managerial staff and senior writers and decide on the person he wanted to talk to.

After that, he calmly walked around the desk and through the pretty light display that sparkled over the archway leading to the back rooms.

“Wait!” the wizard behind him called out. “You can’t go back there!”

Harry ignored him. The Managing Editor was called Victoria Abbot. Harry had vague memories of Hannah talking about her aunt who’d been fired from the Daily Prophet for reporting on things that embarrassed the Ministry. Harry’s subsequent dreams about a fair and honest reporter who listened to him and didn’t publish sensationalist garbage included a woman who looked a lot like Hannah.

Harry kept that last detail to himself. Not at all because he worried that Neville would plant some venomous tentacula under his bed when he wasn’t expecting it, just because it wasn’t anyone’s business.

Ms Abbot’s office wasn’t far, next to the stairs on the ground floor. When Harry poked his head in, she was frowning down at a piece of parchment. There was a distinct family resemblance to Hannah.

“Hi Ms Abbot,” said Harry, giving a perfunctory knock and then walking in. He placed Pettigrew’s stunned body on her desk. “How would you like a story guaranteed to sell newspapers?”

Ms Abbot looked surprised but recovered quickly. “That sounds wonderful. Please, take a seat, introduce yourself, and tell me all about it. Oh, and call me Victoria.” She gave him a swift once over before smiling at him. “Would you like tea? I’ve got some lovely ginger biscuits that go brilliantly with tea.”

v^v^v^v

Victoria Abbot was every bit as brilliant as Harry had always dreamed she’d be. She was intelligent and kind, as well as being rather pretty. She accepted his unexpected intrusion into her office with grace and only a little suspicion. Harry made a mental note to never meet her in real life; it would be bound to lead to disappointment.

The tea was substandard. The wizard from reception obviously had no idea that he needed to steep the leaves. The biscuits were scrumptious, and while they ate, Harry explained the whole secret-keeper switcheroo. How Peter had been hiding in his animagus form and that Sirius had never had a trial.

Unsurprisingly—since he was dreaming her—Victoria was perfectly willing to consider the notion that Sirius Black was innocent. “It never seemed right,” she said. “I was three years behind them in school, you know, and the party line that Sirius was secretly You-Know-Who’s right-hand man all along never tracked.”

“Really?”

“Sirius Black might have been one of the most talented people I’ve ever met, but he was rubbish at lying; it’s one of the reasons he was in detention so much,” explained Victoria. “It wasn’t a secret that he had difficulty holding onto his temper. What also wasn’t a secret was that the easiest way to get him to lose it was to threaten James Potter somehow. The idea that he would then turn around and betray James to his death? No. They said he confessed, but getting hold of the trial transcripts to see exactly what he said has been impossible.”

“They could hardly send you transcripts to a trial that never took place,” Harry pointed out.

“Which means that either someone is purposefully diverting my requests to hide the miscarriage of justice, or they just don’t care enough to follow up on the irregularity,” said Victoria. “I don’t know which is worse.” She poked Peter with her quill. “I wish I had my wand. I want to believe you, but I can’t publish something like this based on hearsay.”

“Here,” said Harry, remembering that he had a spare wand. He handed over the one he’d got from Dumbledore. “I don’t need this one. Will it work for you?”

Victoria gave it a familiar swish and flick, levitating Peter off the desk and then making him do a figure of eight in the air. “It’ll do until Ollivander is open for business again. If you really don’t need it, can I buy it off you?”

“Keep it,” said Harry. “Call it a bonus.”

Victoria smiled at him, making Harry lose his train of thought. “I’m not familiar with the spell to reverse the transformation, but revelio should at least indicate his identity. Let me see if I remember the correct wand movements.”

Her wand movements were graceful and precise, and soon a misty image of a sleeping Peter Pettigrew rose briefly from the stunned rat on the desk.

Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “That despicable horklump. Wait here. I need to look up the animagus reversal spell.”

She was only gone two minutes, but that was long enough for Harry to recover slightly and give himself a good scolding for his poorly timed infatuation. Even if she wasn’t a figment of his imagination, she was seventeen years older than him. It was a doomed, one-sided crush, and he needed to get his act together.

Victoria came back and sent another stunner flying at the limp rat. “On the way to the library, it occurred to me that I should probably get some auror support before proceeding,” she said. “Do you want to be involved with that? Or would you rather be my anonymous source?”

Harry frowned. “Are the aurors going to stop you from publishing an exposé?”

“I know a few honest ones,” Victoria assured him. “If he was a pureblood, I’d worry that he could invoke some of the blatantly partisan laws the purebloods refuse to revoke or rewrite, but he’s a half-blood.” She shrugged. “It’s unfair and discriminatory, but it’s working in our favour this time.”

“Then I think I’ll leave it to you,” decided Harry. “I don’t really want to spend all day answering questions. I promised Sirius that we’d go flying this afternoon.” He slipped out of the chair he’d been sitting on. “Thank you for taking care of this, Ms Abbot. If I can ever do anything for you, send me an owl.”

“It’s Victoria,” she reminded him. “And if you really wanted to do something for me, then maybe consider introducing me to your godfather when he’s been exonerated.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

Victoria blushed. “He saved me from a group of death eaters once, and I never got to say thank you.”

“Uh-huh,” replied Harry. “Thank you. Sure. He’ll want to thank you too, probably. It’ll be one big thank-fest.” He made a mental note to warn Sirius to be on his best behaviour. “I’ll just leave you to it, shall I? I’ll pop back in a couple of days to see what’s happening.”

If he was still unconscious at that point. Technically, Harry could wake up at any time. If he wanted to get the chance to go flying with Sirius, he needed to get a move on.

Gringotts was close, so Harry decided to stop by and pick up some coin.

The trip to the bank was over quickly. Since he didn’t have his key, Harry had to prove his identity by bleeding on the special rock the goblins kept for that purpose, but once he’d verified that he was who he said he was, everything went smoothly.

Harry left the bank having arranged the cancellation and reissue of his keys and a brand-new blood-linked pouch that would let him take money directly from his vault without having to go back and make an in-person withdrawal. The pouch itself cost five hundred galleons, which was what the average wizard earned in an entire year, but Harry liked the convenience, and it wasn’t like he’d ever be hurting for money.

A couple of red-clad aurors were going into the Daily Prophet, and over the road and up a bit, he could see a big ‘Closed’ sign in front of Ollivanders. It was difficult to miss, what with the way it oscillated between pink and purple. It was a bit of an eyesore, really. Harry was glad that he was heading in the opposite direction.

The man at the counter of Quality Quidditch Supplies almost fell over himself in his haste to serve ‘The-Boy-Who-Lived.’ Harry did his best to ignore him. When he left the store ten minutes later, he had two Nimbus 1500s, a couple of maintenance kits and a home Quidditch collection that included two complete sets of Quidditch balls, beater bats in different sizes, and hoops.

Harry shrank everything down so they’d fit in his pockets, only to realised that he was still wearing the pyjamas that Sirius had transfigured for him, and they didn’t have any pockets.

It was probably a good idea to get some clothes. Luckily, Madam Malkins was two doors up.

Harry spent twenty minutes picking out some off the rack clothes for both him and Sirius, mostly guessing about the sizes. He figured that Sirius could make adjustments to anything that didn’t fit quite right, and it was better than wearing a towel, transfigured or not.

“Are you sure you don’t want something a little more formal, dear?” asked Madam Malkin as she manually added up the price. “The tape measures still work, you know.”

“No, thanks,” replied Harry. “Maybe next time.” He saw her eyeing his wand, no doubt wondering if it was legal for someone his age to be carrying one in public. Come to think of it, Harry didn’t know if it was legal either. Did it even matter?

“Thanks, Madam Malkin!” Harry said once everything was shrunk down and stashed in the small travel bag that she’d already convinced him to buy. “Bye!”

v^v^v^v

Even though he’d only been gone a couple of hours, coming home felt amazing.

Sirius was still in the potions lab, engrossed in a handwritten journal. Going by the mess, he’d started doing an inventory of ingredients and then been distracted.

“I got you some clothes,” Harry informed him. “Come inside and see them!”

It turned out they were a bit on the large side, but Sirius didn’t mind. “It’s better than if they’re too small. If I’m hit with a stray untransfiguration spell in public, there won’t be any issues with splitting seams to worry about.”

Harry blinked. “Why on earth would there be stray untransfiguration spells flying around?”

Sirius shrugged. “Some people—no one we know, of course—might find it funny to see what other people are really wearing. You’d be amazed at how many snobby rich people don’t actually bother buying their pretty clothes.”

Harry snickered at the idea of Lucius Malfoy being exposed as a spendthrift whose fancy clothes were really tattered old robes.

“What else did you get up to?” asked Sirius when they’d finished looking through the new clothes.

Harry decided to leave the brooms till last. “I dropped Wormtail off with a very sympathetic reporter. Her name is Victoria Abbot; she said she owed you a favour and never believed you betrayed my dad.”

Sirius’ brow creased in thought. “Victoria Abbot, Ravenclaw. Huh.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You remember her?”

“She was memorable,” said Sirius. “Played chaser for Ravenclaw in our last year. Too young for me, of course—she was a firstie when we were in fourth—but it was obvious she was going to grow up into a looker.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, she said that she wants to meet you when you’ve been exonerated.”

Sirius grinned. “It’s that old Black charm, Harry. When you’re older, I’ll give you a few pointers.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “I think I’ll wait to see if it actually works before I take you up on that.”

“No one believes in me,” said Sirius with mock sadness. “My own godson is turning against me.”

“Maybe this will make you feel better,” said Harry, pulling the new brooms out of the travel bag. “Ta-da!”

Sirius laughed with delight, then sighed. “This is a bit backwards; I’m supposed to be buying brooms for you.”

“I don’t know if that’s actually a rule in the godfather handbook.”

“It was in mine. I told James I’d make sure you always had top-notch brooms to fly on, since Lily wasn’t a big fan of flying and didn’t see the point in spending a lot of money on fancy brooms. I’d already started, got you a kiddie-broom for your first birthday.”

“You can buy the brooms next time,” Harry assured him. “Now come on, let’s go flying!”

The brooms weren’t as good as the ones Harry was used to using, but they were perfectly adequate for a bit of fun. Sirius was far more impressed, praising their speed and manoeuvrability. It made Harry glad that he’d gone for the high-end brooms rather than the Cleansweeps, which were on sale.

They flew over the property for a while before taking the beater bats and one of the bludgers with them and playing a sort of air tennis, batting it between the two of them. The family-friendly bludgers were softer and much less aggressive than those they played with at Hogwarts, so when Harry inevitably missed and was hit, the bludger didn’t even leave a bruise.

The goats paid no attention to their antics, just wandered here and there.

The afternoon sun was warm, and Harry was flying with his godfather. This really was the best dream he’d ever had. He was going to be so sad when it was inevitably time to wake up.