Harry Potter growled in annoyance as something pounded in his temple. For one blissful moment, the world was safe. The-boy-who-lived was lying in his dorm chambers, in a familiar four-poster bed, red and gold drapes hanging before him. He would wake up, shove Ron off of his bed, get dressed and head down to breakfast.

Then he opened his eyes.

Reality came crashing down upon him. A dim light shone through the cracks in the boarded up window, to show the dust floating above him. Everything came back to him in a painful rush of emotions. The war, his death, and above all, his arrival in Hogsmeade, lost and out of control. He reached up a weary hand and pulled on his glasses, straightening them on his face. Tired and confused, Harry Potter stared at the ceiling of the shrieking shack.

How long he lay there he didn't know; his mind was blank, not even trying to figure out what was going on. Halfheartedly, he realized that he had been hoping this was all a bad dream, a very bad dream from which he could wake. Still, he stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore the thoughts that came after the battle was fought, the thoughts of everyone who had died in it. After the ministry, all he could think about was Sirius. Now he found that after the battle of Hogwarts, all he could think about was the many dead, grey faces...

Suddenly, he was upright and moving. He had to start moving, somehow. Unsticking his clothes from the ceiling, he found them completely dry and began layering on his entire wardrobe. He quickly slipped his shirt over his chest, shrugging into his pants and already feeling a bit warmer. The cold that was outside was slowly seeping in, making him shiver as he wondered how he had even slept through the night with only the cloak to protect him. Although, being exhausted probably helped.

Lacing up his shoes tightly, the Golden Boy remembered his first objective: get a look at the Daily Prophet. Once he found out how long he was gone he could go ahead and send an owl to Ron. The fur cloak created a warm air flow against his skin in a matter of seconds after he buttoned it up. Picking up his invisibility cloak from the couch, he realized it was too ominous to be a stranger wandering around with bulging pockets. Instead, he tied the cloak around his neck losely, letting it hang down his back like a cape and tucking it beneath the large fur jacket King's Cross had given him. The first hallow was completely invisible from sight, but easily accessible if anything happened.

The stone was light enough, but also small and too easily lost. Harry slipped the stone into the cloth sack with his galleons, tying the strings around his empty belt loop. The Elder wand had to lay, barely hidden, in his overly large pockets. He briefly thought of getting a holster for it, as sticking it in his pants just wasn't going to cut it anymore. Turning around, he looked at his broom. His old Firebolt seemed a little too outstanding for his purposes. After all, if Voldemort had won the war, he certainly didn't want to be recognized. After brief contemplation, he decided to make it less noticeable.

Hermione was the real genius in Transfiguration, but as Harry took out the Elder wand he decided it would be easier to transform his broom into a nimbus 2000 instead of something completely different, since he knew intimately what they looked like. It would presumably be easier with the Elder wand as well. He glanced uneasily at the wand, which hummed in his palm happily. If wands could have emotions, this one would feel content, its humming was so soft and steady. Harry knew the Elder wand would be in his command, and yet he still had to get used to the change in wands.

Holding the image of his old Nimbus 2000 in his mind, he pointed his wand solidly at the Firebolt leaning against the wall. With a quick flick of his wand, he cast the general transformation spell for inanimate objects.

"Vicissitudo!" Without the Elder wand, Harry may never had gotten it to work. On the first try, however, his familiar Firebolt mophed slowly and changed into an old, weather worn Nimbus 2000. The long wood twisted and became lighter, less polished, the twigs sticking out of the brush became wirey and thick, and sparkling gold letters drew themselves onto the handle. A wide grin spread across Harry's face, pleased as the broom began to settle. Stowing the rather handy Elder wand in his pocket, he grabbed his broom with one hand and promised to practice that spell with his Holly wand so he would always remember it. The Nimubs felt rough and familiar in his palm.

This was no time to marvel of the hallows powers, though. Harry shook his head, not wanting to face the hard reality of what had probably happened to him. It could be even worse than he thought, but the only way to find out was to go to Hogsmeade and figure out what was going on. The only thing he could do was move forwards, and hope that moving was enough to escape the pain of his many dead friends.

He swept out of the room, leaving everything as it was. The fire had burned down to embers, casting a ghostly glow through the dark room. The neat couch was fluffed and clean, sitting very out of place in the rest of the grey house. Planks of wood settled against the fireplace, half chewed and gnawed by its current tenent. As Harry stalked on the muddy track back towards Hogsmeade, sheltering himself against the wind, he had not even an inkling that anyone would come across it, and wonder who in gods name would spend the night in a shack where a werewolf lived?

The Boy-Who-Lived turned up his hood as the first roof came into his view. Raindrops drizzled lazily as the storm clouds moved, climbing their way back to the ocean. The morning was grey and dreary, and the storm was just dissapearing by the time Harry got out. He couldn't tell if it was morning or midday, but he supposed it didn't matter. The watch he got from Mrs. Weasley had vanished off of his wrist, but he was sure that The Three Broomsticks would have some sort of time telling device.

The muddy road beneath him squished and sqealched beneath his shoes, and Harry grimaced and he yanked his shoes out of a puddle. Already soaked and muddy, he hurried the pace, left hand gripping the 'old' broom tightly. He stalked across the middle of the road, the only one who was outside, and he ducked his head further into his cloak in waryness. Why was everyone hiding? Then again, they could all just be tired and not to keen on wandering in the aftermaths of a storm. He was probably just overreacting. As Harry neared the Three Broomsticks, he quickened the pace.

He had breifly debated going to the Hog's head, but there were many complications to be had with that plan. Aberforth may recognize him and freak out, maybe even cursing him and interrogating him. The Hog's head was less crowded and quieter, but it was also MORE suspicious to be seen there than the Three Broomsticks. It was a matter of reverse psychology. Besides, the Hog's Head didn't serve food.

As he stepped before the door, a small pit of worry formed in his stomach. Something was off about the place, he decided as he inspected it, but he couldn't put his finger on what. The people inside were mulling about, attempting to smile and laugh by the warm fire but slowly falling back into the sad looks and staring at their butterbeers. Other than the patrons mood, he could find nothing different. Quickly scourgifying his shoes, he pushed the door open.

The warm atmosphere and smells shot through him like an arrow. It was happiness and at the same time, pain. It reminded him of a better time, a time when Ginny was always near him, a time when his friends and him laughed, and the thoughts of that made him cringe. As soon as he found the date, he was going to apparate straight into Ginny's room. He just wanted to hold her in his arms, feel her heart beat against his, safe and warm.

He wandered in a daze to his typical table, pulling up a chair to face the door. He kept his hood up, covering his view and hiding his face in shadow. Setting his broom against the wall, he leaned back as Rosmerta came up, cherrfully taking out a pen and paper.

"What will you have, dear?" She chirped, smiling down at him. Thankfully, she seemed to be the only one not suspicious of him and his hood, as everyone was sending him fearful glances.

He lowered his voice slightly. "A warm mug of Butterbeer. Scrambled eggs, sausage, black pudding, crisp bacon, mushrooms, a spoon of baked beans, hash browns, and half a tomato, please. Oh, and I would also like today's Daily Prophet, if you have it." He smiled, tilting his head up so Rosmerta could see, and perhaps the rest of the customers as well. The girl wrote everything down quickly, finally turning to face him.

"It'll be right up." She bounced off, her hair swinging casually behind her.

Harry leaned back in his chair, glancing around. Rosmerta seemed off as well, and still he couldn't quite place his finger on why. Soon, the girl came back, swiftly depositing the paper and steaming mug before him. And then it hit him.

He stared as the young woman hopped off, carfully tending to her other customers. There was no doubt about it, that wasn't Rosmerta, not exactly. Her step had a slight hop to it, her eyes were brighter, and the wrinkles Harry had gotten so used to see crinkling at him were vanished. Her dress hung to her curves, and though she was still older than Harry himself, if he had to guess he would have put her at twenty five at the most.

The shock caught him off-guard. For a moment, all he could do was stare as the girl walked away, his hand fumbling for the warm mug. He brought it up to his mouth, his mind stalled once more, and took a deep drink. The warmth tingled his sense, the slight tang of alchohol pinching his tounge. Harry found butterbeer always helped him think in the worst situations. Looking down, he glared at the paper and searched for the number on the top.

He wasn't quite prepared for that shock, as well.

July 2nd, 1927