Prologue: The Last Hope
The smell of blood and ash filled Harry Potter's nostrils as he stumbled through the remains of what had once been the Department of Mysteries. His dragonhide coat was torn in several places, revealing the numerous scars that crisscrossed his body underneath. At forty-three, Harry Potter had seen enough death and destruction to last several lifetimes.
The second wizarding war against Voldemort had been just the beginning. The peace that followed had been short-lived, broken by the rise of new dark lords and the collapse of the fragile wizarding government. Years of conflict had transformed the Boy Who Lived into the Warlord of Britain, a title he despised but had been forced to embrace.
"Headmaster!" Harry called out, his voice hoarse from shouting spells for the past several hours. "They've breached the eastern wards!"
Neville Longbottom, the last Headmaster of Hogwarts before it fell, limped toward him, his face covered in soot and blood. "It's over, Harry. The Ministries of Europe have fallen. The ICW has surrendered. We're the last ones standing."
Harry clenched his jaw. Twenty-six years of fighting, and it had come to this. They were cornered in the ruins of the Ministry of Magic, with the combined forces of the New Blood Alliance closing in.
"The ritual?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer from Neville's grim expression.
"Hermione completed the calculations before..." Neville's voice cracked. They both still couldn't accept that Hermione Granger-Weasley had fallen just two days ago. "Luna is setting it up in the Time Chamber."
"It's not right," Harry growled. "Sending just one person back—"
"It's all the magic will allow," Neville cut him off. "And it has to be you. You know the timeline better than any of us. You've seen the patterns. You've been preparing for this possibility for years."
Harry's hand unconsciously touched the mokeskin pouch hanging from his neck. Inside were decades of research, memories, and plans. Insurance, Hermione had called it. Their last resort.
"There's no guarantee it will work," Harry said quietly. "Creating an alternate timeline—"
"It's better than this one," a dreamy voice interrupted. Luna Lovegood appeared from the shadows, her once bright silver eyes now dulled with age and grief. The last surviving member of their inner circle besides Neville and Harry, Luna had become their resident expert on experimental magic after Hermione's specialization in more conventional approaches proved insufficient.
"The ritual is ready," she continued. "I've modified it as Hermione suggested. It won't just send you back in time—it will send you to an alternate timeline, one where events have proceeded similarly but not identically to our own."
"Why not our own timeline?" Harry asked, although he already knew the answer. They had discussed this theoretical possibility for years.
"Because we can't change our own past," Luna explained patiently. "But we can create a branch, a new timeline where our mistakes aren't repeated. Where people don't have to die." Her eyes flicked briefly to a locket hanging at her throat—inside, Harry knew, was a picture of her son, lost in the Battle of Ottery St. Catchpole five years ago.
An explosion rocked the building, sending dust raining down on them.
"We're out of time," Neville said grimly, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "The ritual will send you back to the end of third year, when the timeline was still malleable. Before the critical events that led to this future began to unfold."
Harry nodded. That made sense. The return of Voldemort had been the beginning, but the real problems had started later, with the Ministry's corruption and the international conflicts that followed Voldemort's defeat.
"You won't be able to return," Luna warned. "And you'll arrive with only what you're carrying. The transfer magic isn't precise—we can target the time but not the exact location."
"I understand," Harry said, his voice firm despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. These were his oldest friends, the last of his family, and he was about to leave them to die.
"Don't look at it that way," Neville said, seeming to read his thoughts. "You're not abandoning us. You're saving another world from our fate."
Another explosion, closer this time. The sound of spellfire intensified.
"They've reached the atrium!" a voice called out—one of their last fighters.
"Come," Luna said, taking Harry's hand. "I'll need to make one last adjustment to the ritual."
She led him into the Time Chamber, or what remained of it. In the center of the room, a complex array of runes had been carved into the stone floor, glowing with a soft blue light. Surrounding the array were dozens of Time-Turners, all modified, their sand glowing the same ethereal blue.
"Hermione's work," Luna explained. "She spent years collecting and modifying them for this purpose."
Neville handed Harry a vial of silvery liquid. "Phoenix tears mixed with basilisk venom, freely given from the last phoenix and the basilisk you killed in your second year. We recovered it from the Chamber years ago."
Harry took the vial, understanding its significance. The opposing magics, balanced perfectly, would help anchor him through the transition.
"You remember the identity we created?" Luna asked, beginning to make adjustments to the runic array.
Harry nodded. "Hadrian Peverell, distant relative of the Potter family from the American branch. Trained at Ilvermorny but educated privately due to my family's reclusive nature. Returning to Britain after the death of my parents in a magical accident."
"Good," Neville said. "The paperwork is in your pouch, along with the genealogy that should hold up to scrutiny. Dumbledore might suspect, but he won't be able to prove anything."
"And the appearance alteration ritual?" Luna asked.
"Already completed," Harry replied. He had undergone the ritual months ago in preparation. His once unruly black hair was now a dark auburn, his eyes a deep blue instead of emerald green. His facial structure had been subtly altered—cheekbones slightly higher, jaw more defined, nose slightly straighter. He was still recognizable as a Potter, but could easily pass as a distant relative rather than an older version of the Boy Who Lived.
The ground shook again. Dust and small pieces of ceiling crashed down around them.
"We're out of time," Neville said grimly. He pulled Harry into a tight embrace. "Remember what we fought for. Remember what went wrong. Don't make the same mistakes."
Luna hugged him next, pressing something into his hand as she did. Harry looked down to see a delicate silver ring set with a moonstone.
"My mother's," she explained, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "For luck."
Harry slipped the ring into his pouch, unable to speak around the lump in his throat.
"The ritual is ready," Luna said, stepping back. "You'll need to stand in the center of the array and drink the potion once the Time-Turners begin to spin."
Harry moved to the center of the runic circle, his hand tight around the vial of phoenix tears and basilisk venom.
Neville and Luna raised their wands, beginning the complex incantation that would activate the ritual. The runes beneath Harry's feet glowed brighter, and the Time-Turners surrounding him began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster until they were just golden blurs.
"Now, Harry!" Luna called above the growing magical wind that had begun to swirl around the chamber.
Harry uncorked the vial and drank its contents in one swallow. The liquid burned and froze simultaneously as it went down his throat, magic surging through his veins like lightning.
The Time-Turners spun faster, their hourglasses shattering one by one, releasing the enchanted sand into the magical vortex surrounding Harry. The runes beneath his feet pulsed with power, and he felt a tugging sensation behind his navel, similar to a Portkey but a thousand times stronger.
The last thing he saw before the magic consumed him was Neville and Luna, standing side by side, their wands raised as the door to the Time Chamber burst open and dark-robed figures poured in.
Then everything went white.
* * *
Harry Potter, thirteen years old and freshly returned from the adventure of saving his godfather Sirius Black with Hermione's Time-Turner, was walking across the grounds of Hogwarts when the sky above the Forbidden Forest suddenly lit up with a flash of blue-white light.
"What was that?" Ron Weasley asked, shielding his eyes against the glare.
"I don't know," Hermione Granger replied, her brow furrowed in concern. "It came from the forest."
Harry felt a strange sensation, like a tug on his magic. Without thinking, he started walking toward the forest.
"Harry! Where are you going?" Hermione called after him.
"I... I need to check something," Harry replied, not entirely sure why he felt so compelled to investigate.
Ron and Hermione exchanged worried glances before hurrying after their friend.
* * *
The impact was like being hit by the Hogwarts Express. Hadrian Peverell, formerly Harry Potter, crashed through time and space and slammed into the forest floor of the Forbidden Forest with enough force to leave a small crater. For several minutes, he lay there, unable to move, his entire body feeling as though it had been simultaneously frozen and set on fire.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. The world spun around him, and he retched violently, expelling the remnants of the potion along with what felt like half his internal organs. When the spasms finally subsided, he collapsed onto his side, taking inventory of his condition.
He was alive. That was a start. His dragonhide coat had protected him from the worst of the impact, though he could feel several broken ribs and possibly a fractured arm. His mokeskin pouch was still secure around his neck, which meant he still had his emergency supplies and the critical information he'd brought with him.
Pushing himself into a sitting position, Hadrian pulled his wand—15 inches, elder wood with a core of thunderbird feather, acquired during a desperate mission to America fifteen years ago—and cast a diagnostic charm on himself. Three broken ribs, a hairline fracture in his left radius, moderate magical exhaustion, and a concussion. Nothing immediately life-threatening.
He cast a series of healing charms, wincing as his ribs knitted themselves back together, then took a pain potion from his pouch. As the worst of the pain receded, he finally took stock of his surroundings.
He was in the Forbidden Forest, not far from Hogwarts if he was judging correctly. The trees were familiar, though younger than he remembered. The ambient magic felt... cleaner, somehow. Less tainted by the dark rituals and magical warfare that had scarred the land in his time.
It had worked. He had traveled back. Or rather, sideways and back, to an alternate timeline.
Hadrian closed his eyes, focusing on his Occlumency shields to center himself. The emotional impact of what had just happened threatened to overwhelm him—he had left his friends to die, had left his entire world behind. But he couldn't afford to break down now. He had a mission, a purpose. He needed to establish his new identity and begin making the changes necessary to prevent this timeline from following the tragic path of his own.
First things first. He needed to confirm the date and make contact with Dumbledore to establish his cover story. Then he would need to find accommodations, access the Potter fortune through his alternate identity, and begin laying the groundwork for what was to come.
He had just pushed himself to his feet when he heard voices approaching—young voices, achingly familiar.
"I'm telling you, it came from over here," a voice said, and Hadrian's heart nearly stopped. It was his own voice, but younger, unscarred by years of war and loss.
"Harry, we should really go back and tell a professor," came another voice, female and bossy in a way that made Hadrian's chest ache with grief and longing. Hermione. Alive and whole.
"Since when do we ever tell professors anything?" a third voice chimed in, and Hadrian had to brace himself against a tree as Ron's voice washed over him. Ron, who in his timeline had died protecting his family during the fall of the Burrow.
They were coming closer. Hadrian quickly disillusioned himself, not wanting to be discovered until he had made official contact through the proper channels. But as he watched the three teenage figures push through the underbrush, he couldn't help the surge of emotion that threatened to drown him.
They were so young. So innocent. His younger self still had the lanky, underfed look of the boy raised by the Dursleys, with none of the hard muscle and scars that Hadrian had acquired over decades of fighting. Hermione's hair was bushier than he remembered, her face still round with childhood. And Ron—tall, gangly Ron with his freckles and easy grin, showing no signs of the battle-hardened strategist he would become in Hadrian's timeline.
"Look!" young Harry suddenly exclaimed, pointing directly at the crater left by Hadrian's arrival. "Something crashed here."
The three approached the crater cautiously, wands drawn. Hadrian held perfectly still, though he knew his disillusionment charm was nearly perfect.
"Whatever it was, it's gone now," Ron said, kicking at the disturbed earth.
"Not necessarily," Hermione replied, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the area. For a heart-stopping moment, her gaze passed directly over where Hadrian was standing. "Something magical happened here. I can feel it."
"Should we tell Dumbledore?" young Harry asked, and Hadrian noted the slight hesitation in his voice—already, his younger self was developing the habit of handling things independently rather than trusting authority figures. A habit that, in Hadrian's timeline, had eventually served him well but had also led to numerous disasters when taken too far.
"Yes," Hermione said firmly. "This could be serious. Especially with Sirius Black still on the loose."
Hadrian almost smiled at that. They still thought Sirius was a threat, which meant they had just completed the events of their third year. The timeline matched what Luna and Neville had calculated.
"Fine," young Harry sighed. "But I want to check the map first, see if anyone else is in the forest."
Hadrian tensed as his younger self pulled out the Marauder's Map. He had forgotten about that. If they activated it now—
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," young Harry murmured, tapping the parchment with his wand.
Hadrian didn't hesitate. With a silent Accio, he summoned the map from his younger self's hands before it could fully activate and reveal his presence.
"Hey!" young Harry exclaimed as the map flew from his grasp, seemingly vanishing into thin air.
"What happened?" Ron asked, looking around wildly.
"Someone's here," Hermione whispered, raising her wand. "Someone invisible."
Hadrian knew he needed to leave. He wasn't ready for this confrontation yet. Silent and wandless, he cast a mild confusion charm at the trio, followed by a sound like a large animal moving in the undergrowth some distance away.
"What was that?" Ron yelped, spinning toward the noise.
"Let's get out of here," young Harry said, grabbing his friends by the arms. "We'll tell Dumbledore about all of this."
The three retreated quickly, heading back toward the castle. Hadrian waited until they were out of sight before canceling his disillusionment charm and examining the map he had taken. It was a necessary precaution, but he felt a pang of guilt for stealing from his younger self. He would find a way to return it eventually, perhaps even with improvements.
For now, though, he had more pressing concerns. He needed to get to Hogsmeade and send an owl to Dumbledore requesting a meeting. The story of Hadrian Peverell was about to begin.
Tucking the map away in his pouch, Hadrian cast a glamour charm to hide the worst of his disheveled appearance and began making his way out of the forest. As he walked, he mentally reviewed the extensive backstory he and Hermione had crafted for his alternate identity.
Hadrian Peverell, descended from a branch of the Peverell family that had emigrated to America in the early 19th century. Born to Franklin and Eleanor Peverell, both of whom had recently died in a tragic magical accident involving experimental charms work. Educated privately due to his family's reclusive nature, though officially registered with Ilvermorny. Returning to Britain to connect with his distant roots and claim a modest inheritance left to him by a forgotten great-uncle.
The story was deliberately crafted to be plausible but difficult to verify. The Peverell name carried weight in magical Britain due to its ancient lineage and connection to the Potter family, but the American branch was obscure enough that few would know much about it. The paperwork Hermione had created was flawless, backed by selective Memory Charms placed on key officials in the American magical government before their departure from the States years ago.
As he reached the edge of the forest, Hadrian could see Hogwarts castle in the distance, its towers gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The sight of it, whole and undamaged, without the scorch marks and broken turrets he remembered from the final siege, brought a lump to his throat.
"I'm back," he whispered to himself. "And this time, things will be different."