So, how's quarantine going for everyone? Well, technically quarantine is over in my country (for three-ish weeks already). I went to my first bar-outing yesterday with friends. It was weird, wearing a mask and gloves, drinking my beer in a corner whilst everyone tried to practice the 1.5m distance from one another. Quarantine was really heavy for me. Although I am an introvert in nature, it was hard not being able to jog or urban sketch. Ah well, I had uni projects anyway. In any case, looking towards the (possibly) bright futures. I have a four month break until my last semester of uni starts (hoowww?!). Soon I'll have to begin looking at master's programmes. HELP. How are you guys, my readers? (new readers, eh... sorry if you had to read that) Did you also succumb to the comfort that fanficton provides in these times? I ran into the open arms of fanfiction and Conan O'Brien's remotes haha.

In any case, new concept for a story, new chapters, probably the first thing I've written in 2020 (although I am writing a novel! Exciting!), but in any case, enjoy! Probably won't have any pairings but it will feature a friendship between Harry and Albus, so if you're a 'Dumbles Basher' I recommend you get out now haha. If you see any spelling mistakes, then that's probably my keyboard - it's broken and it tends to randomly type some letters out multiple times!

This story will feature a more powerful and ambitious Harry. Powerful because he actually realises he can tap into his untapped potential and because I want to explore some magical theory, which JKR never really did. Also ambitious, because Harry will now finally be able to pursue whatever the hell he wants to do without anyone telling him what he is supposed to do. He'll also finally accept that he has a more... cunning side...

Also I'm borrowing some things from the Fantastic Beasts franchise like the fashion (ohmygod can we talk about 10s/20s fashion?! this story begins in the 1890s, but will eventually progress to the war) and some plot points (maybe) but I probably won't be following the story... to be it just doesn't really feel like a Harry Potter story as it doesnt have that same 'mystery of the book' characteristic. It's more of an adventure story that isn't really my thing (probably why I could never get into LOTR, sorry).

The prophecy ball seemed to burn against his leg in the pocket of his trousers, maybe it was psychological—

Woosh.

Harry ducked away from a green-tinged curse. Definitely the Avada Kedavra. Without turning to glance at whoever had cast it, he turned sharply to the right, Hermione and Neville following him, into the round chamber at the centre of the Department of Mysteries. It rotated once, twice, and showed them a door. Harry glanced at his compatriots, and they both nodded once, completely trusting him.

They pushed through the door, panting as they slammed it shut behind them, casting spells upon spells on it so as to lock it as tightly as they could.

"We've lost the others!" Neville exclaimed loudly. Harry shushed him. Even now, they could hear the faint footsteps of the Death-Eaters on the other side of the door.

"Stand aside!" said a rough voice. "Alohomora!" As the door flew open, Harry, Hermione and Neville dived under desks. They could see the bottom of the two Death Eaters' robes drawing nearer, their feet moving rapidly.

'They might've run straight through to the hall,' said the rough voice. 'Check under the desks,' said another. Harry saw the knees of the Death Eaters bend; poking his wand out from under the desk, he shouted, 'STUPEFY!' A jet of red light hit the nearest Death Eater; he fell backwards into a grandfather clock and knocked it over; the second Death Eater, however, had leapt aside to avoid Harry's spell and was pointing his own wand at Hermione, who was crawling out from under the desk to get a better aim.

'Avada –' Harry launched himself across the floor and grabbed the Death Eater around the knees, causing him to topple and his aim to go awry. Neville overturned a desk in his anxiety to help; and pointing his wand wildly at the struggling pair, he cried: 'EXPELLIARMUS!' Both Harry's and the Death Eater's wands flew out of their hands and soared back towards the entrance to the Hall of Prophecy; both scrambled to their feet and charged after them, the Death Eater in front, Harry hot on his heels, and Neville bringing up the rear, plainly horrorstruck by what he had done. 'Get out of the way, Harry!' yelled Neville, clearly determined to repair the damage.

Harry flung himself sideways as Neville took aim again and shouted: 'STUPEFY!' The jet of red light flew right over the Death Eater's shoulder and hit a glass-fronted cabinet on the wall full of variously shaped hour-glasses; the cabinet wobbled a little for a few seconds, before it toppled over, glass instantly smashing to a thousand tiny pieces as it fell on Harry.

Harry had been put under the cuciatus curse only about a year ago by Voldemort himself in the graveyard in Little Hangleton, but this felt a thousand times worse. Time sand, shattered glass, and sharp metal bits rained down on him, cutting every surface. He cried out in a soundless scream as he was overwhelmed by physical pain. He heard a dulled cry of 'Harry!'

He collapsed to the ground, cutting up his knees as he did so. He tried to open his eyes, but saw only red. He barely felt the wind pick up around him, spinning around him in a tornado of sand and shattered glass. Another soundless scream later, he felt a pull at his navel and his world instantly changed.

.

Harry slowly woke up. He was in severe pain; every part of his body ached. His eyes opened gradually, and even that hurt. As they focused on the ceiling, he noticed that he was in some sort of dungeon-like, stone-vaulted room. He was in a bed, and even with his blurry vision, he could see other beds all lined up parallel to his. An infirmary, then.

Biting his lip through the pain, he reached out to the bedside table and haphazardly shifted his hand around until they met the unmistakable feel of his glasses. With a trembling hand, he placed them on his slightly crooked nose; it was broken, he noticed suddenly. Five years of quidditch had taught him this feeling.

The glass in his eyeglasses was broken in three parts, even so, they lent him a slightly clearer vision: He was alone in this infirmary. As he had previously deduced about half a dozen beds were lined up next to him. Tiny slits in the wall across let in golden afternoon light. Every now and then a shadow interrupted this as someone on the street above passed next to the dungeon-infirmary.

It didn't take long for Harry to realise that his entire body was covered in a sort of white muggle plaster and it was warm. Whoever had found him, had treated him. He definitely wasn't with the Death-Eaters — they would've let him die when those time-turners shattered on him.

"Ah, good you're awake!"

Harry's eyes instantly zeroed in on the newcomers voice. A woman with a tight bun and a sprinkle of wrinkles had walked into the room, wand in hand. Her clothes were muggle, but had a wizarding accent to them; the high collar and a different material.

"Drink this, boy," she said, passing him a little flask with a golden-like liquid. When Harry made no indication of willingly wanting to drink this, she harrumphed and pointed her wand at the vial. It disappeared and Harry instantly felt something running down his throat, it swallowing without his volition.

"Hey!"

She harrumphed again.

"My only job is to treat prisoners that the unspeakable bring in and bring them into shape — well, well enough for interrogation. You may call me matron."

Harry's mouth popped open. Prisoner? Unspeakables?

"Do you know what happened to my friends? Hermione? Ron? The Death-Eaters?"

"Death-what?" The matron blinked at him, even as she pulled several other vials from a small pouch hanging from her hips.

"Death-Eaters," Harry repeated incredulously. Had she been living under a rock? For two wars no less? "They attacked the Ministry last night — or whatever this days is."

The matron gave a small chuckle. "Young man, the Ministry is impenetrable. No one attacked it last night — indeed you were brought in last night — much less anyone calling themselves a 'Death-Eater'."

"Here." She gave him three more vials, which Harry suspiciously took, eventually swallowing the contents, knowing she'd just spell them down his throat anyway. It was odd, her referring to him as 'young man', and actually, since she had come in, she hadn't mentioned his name at all, or made any reference to his title. Odd. Especially with Umbridge's campaign this year to discredit him and give him as many unsavoury names as possible.

"Now, you should be feeling much better soon, when you were brought in, it took me and a large team of mediwitches from St. Mungo's to spell out all those pieces of glass from your body. Unfortunately the damage is from some sort of magical object… It might take some time for the scars to fully disappear."

And indeed, Harry was gradually feeling better and better. He supposed one of those potions had been a pain-dulling concoction because he suddenly didn't feel that terrible. In fact, he felt a bit energised too.

"Ma'am, could… you repair my glasses?"

"Repair? Ah, you might need to buy a new pair."

Harry blinked at her.

"Oculus Reparo," he murmured. "It's not a hard spell." This time the matron looked at him oddly.

"I've never heard of it." And with that, she rushed out of the infirmary, her stiletto shoes 'tap-tap-tapping' into the distance.

"Weird." Harry shrugged and sat up in bed. He noticed that the white duvet was stained red, or maroon, in some places where some blood had escaped the casts. He wrinkled his nose distastefully and turned his attention to the examination of the rest of the bed. To his surprise, he found a stack of clothes at the foot of it. He grinned; well, they were just begging for him to escape the infirmary.

They were incredibly old-fashioned, almost as though the department wanted to play a prank on him, but he shrugged. At least they were a little better than the white nightgown he wore.

His body pained him slightly as he took apart the bandages and casts and found that everything worked and moved pretty much as usual. His body was covered in tiny pink scars, as though he'd been struck by a dark cutting curse. But even as he watched, the potions he'd ingested began to work their magic and the scars lightened slightly until they became silvery-white. Now, he supposed, the rest of the healing process would have to occur naturally.

He put on the boxers, wollen socks, tweed trousers (and suspenders!), dress shirt, tweed vest, and jacket. They'd left him a pair of leather loafers too. Rushing a hand through his matted hair, Harry gave a small laugh, he looked like some sort of pre-war orphan.

He had just began moving to the large oak double doors when they burst open and two wizards sauntered in, wands drawn.

"Very, good. Dressed already!" Said the older gentleman. His silvery hair complimented the young-looking bright blue eyes. The second man was shorter in stature, stockier and built more like a boxer than a researcher… or at least that was what Harry thought unspeakables did — and their blue robes and the insignia on their breast proved as such.

"Who are you?" This stockier man asked. He was as direct in speech as his stocky build implied.

"Uh — Harry Potter?" Harry said slowly. They gave no indication that they recognised the name.

"Any relation to Henry Potter, member of the Wizengamot?"

"What?" Harry spat out in surprise. There was another Potter out there and no one had ever told him? Serving on the Wizengamot?

"You're muggleborn?" Again, the younger man spoke. The older wizard shook his head.

"That's unimportant right now. We want to know how you got into the Ministry last night. Why were you injured. And what were you wearing?"

"Where's my wand?" Harry demanded.

The younger man smirked. He pulled out a snapped wand from his robes which Harry instantly recognised as his. His heart sank to his gut.

"This one?"

"It's standard practice to snap our prisoners' wands when they are taken into custody," the older man stated blandly.

Harry sneered at him, "You had no right!"

"We had every right. We are the unspeakables. Now. Tell us what you were doing in our department last night — and what happened to cut you up."

Well, they were in a stalemate, Harry supposed.

He eyed them uncomfortably. It occurred to him now that they too were dressed in very old-fashioned clothes. What was going on? Something was nagging him at the back of his mind, an idea was forming but he swallowed it, unwilling to think it over right now. The repercussions of that theory were too vast for him to consider at this moment.

Well, he supposed he had no choice.

Acting as quickly as possible — a lifetime of running away from Dudley had prepared him for speed — He grabbed the sheets and tossed them in the direction of the older gentleman, who stumbled under them for a good few seconds. Using this bought time, Harry launched himself at the stockier man.

They were unspeakables, not aurors, and as such unprepared for such an attack. Grabbing the man's hand, Harry punched him viciously and caught the dropped wand as it fell to the ground.

"Expelliarmus!" He shouted in the direction of the older man. A second wand flew in his direction. He grabbed it and pocketed it.

"Hey!" The stockier man launched at him. Harry barely had time to speak his incantation:

"Petrificus Totalus! Incarcerous!" The man stumbled to the ground, paralysed instantly, and bound in ropes. The older gentleman raised his arms wearily.

"Now see here, Harry—"

"No you listen to me," Harry snarled. "I want to know where my friends are."

"Friends? No, no, son, you arrived alone."

"Arrived?" Harry echoed. Then shook his head. He pointed his wand slightly more aggressively at the defenceless man. "No, no, there was a battle down here last night. I thought my godfather had been taken hostage. Then Death-Eaters attacked and I crashed into a cabinet of—"

Oh.

Well, the crushed time-turners definitely lent him a new perspective.

Harry swallowed thickly. Time travel would explain a few things.

"Petrificus Totalus," he murmured, slightly unenthusiastically. The wand in his hand fought against his spell, unwilling to bend to someone who was not its master, but eventually Harry's overwhelming wave of power tamed it somewhat. The older gentleman also collapsed. Harry levitated them onto the beds and made sure they were tied down, then escaped the infirmary.

The corridor in which he now found himself was also made entirely of stone, with a vaulted ceiling and warm afternoon light. It looked nothing like the Department of Mysteries that he'd broken into with his friends.

His friends… Harry forced down a dry sob. It wasn't time for crying. Right now he had to figure out how to sneak out of the Ministry, and to understand what the hell was going on. Whether he truly was in the past.

He continued walking down the hallway, making sure to listen for footsteps or conversations. A couple of nerdy-looking unspeakables passed him, but they were so deep in their discussion that they didn't even notice Harry walk past them. Grabbing a flight of stairs, he found himself in a pentagonal room with four lifts. This area was bustling with people.

Harry stepped into a queue, the shortest one, and waited impatiently for his turn. He got into a lift with three other people.

"Boy, where to?"

Harry blinked at the lift attendant.

"Uh, main atrium?"

Two stops later (one of which was the auror department and made Harry's skin crawl in nervousness) he exited out into the main atrium of the Ministry.

It was largely unchanged from the one he knew. Safe for the propagandistic posters, little had changed, except for the people. They milled about in a different way. Not as directly and business-like as he had experienced when he'd come to the Ministry with Mr. Weasley earlier that year. They stopped and chatted with each other, laughing. Another difference was the fashion, upon which he'd already remarked.

It was startling though, how differently people dressed, if he was indeed in the past.

The style was much more muggle, with various wizarding accents, or with a cloak slung over the muggle-style three-piece suits. Almost everything was velvet and tweed, and almost everyone wore a hat and gloves.

Licking his lips nervously, Harry made his way to the fireplaces. Knowing the wizarding world, that was his ticket out of here. It was at this moment, when he was nearing the fireplaces, that a loud alarm rang out, much like those wartime air-raid alarms shown in documentaries.

"Caution. Dangerous criminal has escaped from Department of Mysteries. Caution."

This kept on playing in a loop.

Around him, people gasped audibly and began scuttling in this way and that. Suddenly this mass of people became a sea pushing Harry in all directions. It was like one of those summer raves he'd been to in his summers at the Dursley's. Only there was no music and definitely no inappropriate snogging.

He began pushing more viciously in the direction of the fireplaces. People were rushing there too, and Harry could see that one by one all of the gates were slamming shut.

"Expulso," Harry whispered, pushing power into the stolen wand. Instantly people were literally thrown out of his way by his magic, briefly parting his way to the nearest open fireplace. Harry winced in slight pain and sprinted as fast as he could, whispering another expulso to push someone else out of the way.

He slipped into the fireplace just as the gates slammed shut behind him.

"Weasley family home!" He shouted and was engulfed by green flames.

.

Harry was pushed out the other side rather unceremoniously. Coughing loudly, he dusted himself off and stood up. He was in the Weasley 'home' alright, but it wasn't how he remembered it. He was alone.

The little tudor building looked much like Hagrid's hut. There was, however, no staircase leading to further floors. Instead, it was just that one room, with that little kitchen, living space, and a bed to the side. He was also luckily alone. However, it did imply that he was far enough in the past that the Wesaley family did not have children yet.

Sighing deeply, Harry sat down at the kitchen table and steepled his fingers under his chin, eventually transferring his hands to cup and massage his face. Merlin, why did these things always happen to him — he'd promised Mrs. Weasley he'd stay out of trouble at Christmas. He'd promised the same to Sirius. Oh Merlin, Sirius.

He wondered then, how he had entered the Weasley home, if he wasn't somehow keyed into the wards. Or the wards of this time, anyway. Perhaps such wards hadn't been installed yet — or invented yet?

Laughter. He heard laughter.

Harry shot to his feet as a head passed near the window. Time to leave — the door was opening.

He rushed to the fireplace, found the nearest little pot and yes — floo-powder! He tossed a handful into the burning fireplace and got in, hitting his head against the grill as he did so. He only just managed to see the shocked expression of a red-headed head before he called out 'Leaky Cauldron' and disappeared in a shock of green flames.

This time, Harry stepped out of the fireplace, rather than fell. He had come out into the lively pub, which thankfully, was largely unchanged. There were a few different posters on the walls, and some portraits were 'missing' but it seemed that even the patrons had remained the same.

A brief walk into muggle London was the ultimate piece of proof that he'd been somehow transported into the past. It was undeniable, when one stood in a pre-war London. The cobblestoned streets, the Gothic revival and Victorian architecture, the horse-drawn carriages… It was odd to see London so vibrant, exuberant, and dare he say it, clean. The streets were in a terrible state and everything from the people to the ground he walked on stank, but the buildings themselves weren't discoloured with a century worth of soot.

All the women wore dresses, and all the men hats. And all of a sudden, Harry realised, that the wizarding and muggle worlds were much more aligned in terms of progress. The international statute of secrecy would've come into effect some two hundred years prior, meaning that both societies hadn't had quite enough time to divorce themselves from one another.

After walking around central London for what felt like hours, Harry finally decided to find his way back to the Leaky Cauldron. There he would at least feel somewhat at home and maybe he'd be able to catch a meal and plan his next steps.

It took him a while to find his way back to the Leaky Cauldron. London had changed just enough for it to be disorientating and finding his way back became a challenge. Eventually he stumbled through the warded door and letting out a sigh of relief, Harry sat down at the counter of the bar area. The barman wasn't Tom, he was about the same age — maybe his father, or perhaps even grandfather?

He sat there deliberating his situation for a few moments. As much as he loathed to admit it, his best bet was Dumbledore. Although he had spent the better part of this year ignoring Harry and his pleads for help and tutoring, he genuinely was one of the greatest wizards around and also most knowledgeable. He would definitely know what to do. Then again, how old would Dumbledore be? Certainly he couldn't be too far in the past? But who could tell with the wizarding world. Even in the 90s it felt like it was stuck in the Middle Ages in many things.

"Sonnie, what can I get yeh?" Asked the barman. He had tended to the other people sitting at the bar and now stood in front of Harry with his hands on his hips. He was also wearing a dress shirt and a vest. He'd slung a dirty towel over his shoulder and another rag hung from his belt. It was odd to see people so well-dressed in the past.

"Er, I don't have money," Harry murmured. The barman raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry laddie, but then what business do yeh have in this pub?"

Or did he? Harry reached around in his pockets but found nothing. Sighing, he moved to get up.

"Shouldn't an educated boy such as yerself be at Hogwarts?"

Actually, that sounded like a good idea. But the how was a little fuzzy.

"I would like to. I'm not a student there though. Do you know how I could get there?"

The barman grimaced. "I didn't get in either. Not powerful enough, you see. Nothin' like a squib, of course. But only the best of the best get accepted. Yeh can only visit if yer visiting a known family member, of course…"

It was kind of odd, Harry decided. He'd never heard of anyone not getting in to Hogwarts based on a power level. Crabbe and Goyle shouldn't've been able to get in on that alone, never mind intelligence.

"I see, thank you," Harry said kindly. He'd always been fond of Tom the barman. This one also seemed relatively kind, if a little wistful.

"Who're yeh anyway? Squib, running from yer family?"

Harry bit his lip for a second, then slowly turned around to face him, as an idea formed.

"Actually, I've been disinherited — because of my lack of power. I'm close to a squib. Pureblood families really hate that, you know," Harry said, giving his most pitiful look. He felt slightly guilty for tricking the kind barman.

The barman sighed and nodded knowingly. "We get a couple of yeh every year. Look, I'll pay yeh two galleons a week to help out in the pub, until yer back on yer feet."

Harry's eyes widened. He had no idea how much two galleons were worth in this time, but this would definitely give him a place to stay, as well as a possibility to think over what his next steps would be.

"Merlin! Thank you, yes please!"

The barman smiled and reached out to shake Harry's hand. "I'm Francis. Pleasure to meet yeh."

"Harry, I'm just Harry," he said, smiling back.

.

Life settled into a routine fairly quickly.

Harry would wake up early, around five or six, come down to the kitchen and help Francis's wife, Hannah, cook breakfast for those clients staying the night. Then they'd clean up and get ready for the first visitors of the day. It'd get really busy at around twelve to five and in that time it was all hands on deck. Francis, Hannah, Harry, and Sam, their son, would run around, serving cold drinks and pot pies. Harry had nights off, as he worked mornings, and as such usually retired to the small room he'd been given.

It consisted of little else other than his bed, a sink, and a closet. But as he had no possessions, he had to rely on the magic of the scourgify charm. And thank goodness he had magic.

Sometimes, he'd go out for a walk in Diagon Alley, or visit the book store, where he'd hide in a corner and try to read up on current events. He'd only just discovered the library, but couldn't register without having an official identification from the ministry.

So he spent the first two or three weeks in the past — and now it was obvious that it was the past — trying to ascertain exactly what his new circumstances were. It was 1897, almost 100 years in the past. It shocked him how happy this era was. There were more pests and illnesses, more deaths caused by the emerging industries (at least in the muggle world), but it was happier and more hopeful. Merlin, the Soviet Union didn't even exist yet!

World War I would happen in about twenty years, and people were blissfully unaware. The first global wizarding war would take place in about 25 years… Grindelwald was probably a teenager. As was Dumbledore.

Dumbledore — a teenager! That was one of the things that boggled his mind the most. But this also all meant that he was entirely alone. Had he been sent back to the generation of his parents, he would've actually known things. He would've known his parents, who Alice and Frank Longbottom were, he would've been able to find the Headmaster and McGonagall (speaking of the latter, she probably didn't even exist yet).

But now he was alone and save for a few historical figures like Flamel, or Phineas Black, there was truly no one that Harry knew of. He didn't even know the names of his grandparents. His great-grandparents would now probably also be toddlers at best.

This realisation had sent him into a few hysterical crises.

There was also a second realisation that he was ultimately completely free. He couldn't kid himself to believe that there was a way back, he was stuck here for good. But he was free and in a way that was his only comfort. There were no expectations. He wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived. He wasn't even a Potter. He'd been somehow brainwashed, or only maybe lead into the idea that becoming an Auror was right for him, but now he was uncertain. There was no pressure, perhaps now was precisely the time to figure out what he wanted to do with his life.

Working in the Leaky Cauldron was incredibly educational. He learned fairly quickly to read customers and their mannerisms and to understand almost subconsciously what their attitude was like so as to get a better tip for a certain kind of behaviour. He also spoke with a lot of people and got to know a lot of them. Some began to recognise him as did he them. Some patrons became great sources of information.

For example, an extraordinary thing in the past that no one had ever thought to express to him, was exactly how many wizards existed on the planet. Two wizarding wars in the future had cut down their ranks significantly. In the past, however, there were enough wizards and witches that multiple alleys such as this one existed, various schools (Hogwarts still being the best and oldest) existed up and down the country. And most remarkable of all, was that not all wizards were educated in magic for some reason. Perhaps because magic was more diluted between more people, it was less powerful in some? Well, in the future, someone like Francis, the barman, would've been able to attend Hogwarts. In the past, he hadn't been able to attend a single wizarding school, except for the very basic that taught up to third or fourth year.

It shocked Harry that not everyone owned a wand. That was seen as a privilege for those who were educated. There was a very notable hierarchy; educated purebloods at the top, uneducated squibs at the bottom.

It caused Harry to wonder whether he would've been able to attend Hogwarts in this time, but not entirely because of his power, rather because of his blood status. Blood purity was even more pronounced now, to the point that it was almost better to be a pureblood squib than a muggleborn.

He'd been working at the pub for almost two months, when something extraordinary finally happened.

Harry had been serving an elderly couple a large pot pie to share (really, the only thing that the pub served) when a gentleman had entered from the muggle side. It was evident from the way with which he was dressed, that he was financially unrestrained and the way he carried himself spoke of inbred confidence.

He also radiated enough power that those themselves powerful enough around him, turned to glance at the newcomer.

This man was in his mid thirties but had a youthful face. His cheeks were flushed and his hair thick and voluminous. His eyes contrasted starkly with his energised body and lively countenance.

"Harry-" Francis began from behind the bar. He usually served the drinks or passed them to Harry or Sam to bring to the tables. Harry nodded smiling.

"Got it, 'Cis."

"Sir, what may I get you? We can offer you a pot pie today (this was a running joke, that was the only thing they could offer on any given day). And for drinks butterbeer, firewhiskey, tea, and coffee. Perhaps a potion infusion of your favourite relaxant."

The man eyed him unblinkingly. Harry pulled at his collar uncomfortably as the silence drew longer and longer.

"Er, sir, if you need a moment, I can come back—"

"No, no that's alright. I'll have the pot pie… and ah, yes, the sativa relaxant infusion."

"Thank you, sir." Harry gave a small bow and returned to Francis to pass on the order to Hannah in the kitchen.

"Who is that?" Harry asked as he stood next to the bar. Francis was polishing his glasses while Harry observed the patrons to see when the next one would be in need of service.

"I dunno. Works in the Alley, sometimes. I think he and his wife own the potions and alchemy store. Erm — 'Foos' Potions and Alchemy' I think it's called. Why?"

Harry gave a shrug.

"Pot pie and infusion!" Hannah declared. The plump woman had appeared at Francis' side, plate in hand. Harry smiled and took both from her.

"You look radiant today, Hannah," Harry said with a small wink. The woman blushed, but grinned back. She reminded Harry very much of Mrs. Weasley, and had found a comforting warmth in her friendship.

"Hey, hey, hey, that's meh wife yer talkin' 'bout!"

Hannah gave a musical laugh and kissed her husband on the cheek before disappearing back into the kitchen area.

He brought the dish and drink to the man — Foos? He had pulled out a notebook and was writing out a short text in a spidery language that made absolutely no sense to Harry… until it suddenly did. His eyes widened, when the letters suddenly began to rearrange themselves and the ink seemed to move until they formed English words.

'Qualities of Unicorn Hair in potion-making' read the title of his text — the next instant, the booklet was slammed shut.

"Ah, my meal, excellent," the man said, his English only very slightly accented. Was it French?

"Erm, sorry, I didn't mean to read," Harry said slightly awkwardly. The man had just begun to place his napkin on his lap when he paused and slowly looked up to blink at Harry in surprise.

He put down his knife and fork and raised the leather-bound notebook.

"You understood what was written here?"

He opened it to the page he'd been writing in and shoved it under Harry's nose. The same thing happened; the odd letters and worm-like lines rearranged themselves and he began to read. It was fascinating actually. Whatever research this man was working on, though, had been taught to Harry in potions in his fourth year. It was about the effect that morally pure ingredients had on the outcome of the potion.

"Well it's about potions theory. For example, the purer the ingredient, the more intense the potion. I guess what you're positing is that if the standard hair of demiguise in the dreamless sleep potion is replaced with unicorn hair — which is in it's essence completely morally pure — then the potion turns into a potentially dangerous concoction able to put its drinker in an eternal sleep," Harry said in almost one breath. He'd been studying that only three months ago for his O.W.L.s. There was no way he'd forget the potions knowledge he'd been drilling into his brain those last few months.

"Fascinating…" The man trailed off. He snapped the notebook shut. Harry felt as oddly observed as he had that time when Ollivander had continued to stare into his eyes whispering 'curious' over and over again until Hagrid had appeared with Hedwig.

Harry blinked at him. Then cursed himself for having felt the need to show off like that. This was nothing revolutionary in the future. And especially here in the past, he'd been trying to keep a low-profile until he understood what he wanted to do.

"Erm, if you'll not be needing—"

"Stay. What's your name, boy?" Harry pursed his lips. Five years on, away from the Dursleys, he still hated when people called him that. Besides, he'd be 16 in a few days.

"Harry. I'm a squib. I was disowned a few months ago and Francis gave me a job to get back on my feet," came his rehearsed reply. He'd said it so often to so many patrons. Usually after learning he was a squib most of the pureblood folk sent him on his way.

The man gave a humourless smile.

"Oh you and I both know you are no squib." His eyes wandered over Harry's waistband, where his wand was hidden. Or rather, the one he'd stolen from that Unspeakable. The second one was stuffed in his mattress. A backup.

"I assure you, I am," Harry insisted.

"A squib wouldn't have enough magic to read parseltongue," the man said conversationally.

"Parseltongue is only spoken — oh," Harry deflated slightly as his eyes settled on the notebook. Of course those spidery… snake-like, notes had been parseltongue.

"Sit down, Harry."

Harry glanced nervously at Francis. He was waiting with drinks to serve.

"Don't worry, I'll speak to him if you don't accept my offer."

"Your offer?" Harry asked, eyebrows climbing under his fringe. He sunk down into the seat opposite the other man's.

"Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Nicolas Flamel."

Hope you liiked that! Stay safe :)