Chapter 2
Harry woke with a scream lodged in his throat.
In his dreams—or nightmares, he couldn’t tell which—he had seen death. Not the cold, distant kind. Not the quiet, peaceful kind. But something grotesque, something alive, something pulsing.
He had seen bodies torn apart, their insides spilled like ink across stone slick with red. He had seen witches and wizards fall, their eyes wide, their wands still raised in useless defence. He had seen Muggles crushed beneath rubble, their mouths frozen in silent screams. He had seen hands reaching for the sky, begging for a salvation that would never come.
He had seen children weeping over their mothers' corpses. He had seen wizarding soldiers trying to cast spells even as their throats gaped open. He had seen blood running like rivers, drowning screams, memories, lives.
And pain. So much pain.
Then—a voice. That voice again.
Soft. Almost regretful. And yet full of warmth.
"Wake up."
And so, Harry woke.
The first shock came as his lungs filled all at once, like a drowning man breaking the surface of the water. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—his arms, his legs, his entire being jerked, desperate to escape, to flee. But something held him back.
Invisible restraints bound his wrists and ankles, pressing into his skin like spectral chains. He struggled, pulling hard, gasping, terror sinking into his bones like a hot blade. It crawled through every cell, making his skin prickle, his breath come in short, ragged bursts.
He had to get out. He had to run
A hand touched his shoulder.
Harry flinched violently—but barely noticed. He kept pulling, twisting, thrashing, the panic making his movements clumsy and wild.
"Shhh… dear. Drink this. You’ll feel better."
The voice was soft. Melancholy, even. There was something unbearably gentle about it, something that made no sense. None of this made sense.
A vial pressed against his lips. Harry fought it, but the liquid slid down his throat before he could resist.
The effect was immediate. A warmth spread through his body, and his limbs, once rigid, began to loosen. His breathing remained fast, but the blind panic, the raw terror gripping his mind, began to ebb—receding like the tide.
Only then did he manage to open his eyes.
The world was still there. But distant.
A woman stood before him, watching with a quiet smile. She looked to be in her thirties, long blonde hair falling in soft waves, violet eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of the infirmary. Her gaze was kind—but Harry had the distinct feeling that if he tried to bolt, her hands would be firm enough to stop him.
His eyes flickered past her, scanning his surroundings.
Tall windows. White curtains. Rows of perfectly aligned beds. The faint scent of herbs and potions.
The Hogwarts Hospital Wing.
His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
His mind screamed that this was impossible. He remembered the spell. The green light. The exact moment he had known, with dreadful certainty, that he was dying.
And yet—he was here.
Alive.
Had he done it?
"My name is Abigail Lestrange, dear. But you can call me Abby."
The healer’s soft voice pulled Harry back to the present, momentarily pushing aside the lingering terror coiled in his chest. "You’re in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing."
Harry blinked, frowning.
He forced his voice out, though it was rough—like shards of glass scraping his throat.
"I know." His reply was short. Automatic.
But then—like an avalanche—the realisation crashed down.
His body tensed. His heart pounded.
"Is he dead?" His breath hitched, each word tumbling out faster. "Did we win?"
They had to have won. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.
Harry sat up abruptly, his eyes scanning the infirmary with growing desperation. Where was everyone? Where was Hermione? Where was Ron? Was the war over? Had he—had he slept for too long?
Abigail’s brow furrowed, a deep crease forming between her eyes. Her gaze, once merely careful, now held something else—something hesitant. Something genuinely confused.
If Harry hadn’t been consumed by his own fear, he would have noticed. He would have realised that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
"I’m sorry, dear," she said gently, "but I have no idea what you’re talking about."
Harry’s world lurched.
"What?"
Confusion morphed into disbelief. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.
"What do you mean?" His voice sharpened, edged with panic. "Voldemort is dead, right? Where is everyone? My friends—they must be worried! I need to see them!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Abigail’s expression softened—but not in a reassuring way.
There was something in the way she looked at him that made the fear in Harry’s gut tighten, twisting like icy fingers around his spine.
"I’m afraid I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, dear." Her voice remained gentle, but there was tension in it now—a weight beneath the calm. "Headmaster Dippet and Professor Dumbledore will be here soon. Perhaps they can explain things better."
Harry froze.
He blinked once. Then again.
Her words made no sense. They didn’t fit.
What?
A cold dread swept through him.
Dumbledore was dead. Harry had seen him die. He had mourned him.
And the other name—he knew that name. He had read it in Hogwarts: A History. He knew exactly who Armando Dippet was.
And he knew that he had been dead for decades.
Real fear—the kind he had only felt in the worst moments of his life—coiled around him. A wave of cold terror climbed his spine, raising the hairs on his arms.
He needed to get out. Now.
Harry tried to move.
Nothing happened.
A second passed in confusion before he tried again, yanking his arms, his legs. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Nothing.
He was trapped.
His eyes darted to his wrists—and only then did he see them.
The bindings.
Thin, spectral chains wrapped around his skin, holding him down.
The panic slammed back into him, full force, burning through his veins. His breath hitched, turned erratic. He fought against them, pulling harder, harder—useless.
"Why am I tied down?" His voice cracked with disbelief and fury, his gaze fixed on his bound wrists.
And then—he saw.
His heart stopped.
His fingers—his hands—were blackened. As though ink had been spilled over them, sinking deep into his flesh. Thick, twisted lines spiralled up from his fingertips, curling along his arms, disappearing beneath his sleeves.
Harry’s stomach turned. A bitter taste rose in his throat.
His breathing shallowed.
"What…?" His voice broke. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "What is this?"
"We had hoped," came a voice, quiet but firm, cutting through the oppressive silence, "that you might tell us."
Harry went rigid.
He looked up—towards the source of the voice.
And felt the air leave his lungs.
This was impossible.
He knew those blue eyes.
Glinting behind thin-rimmed spectacles, warm yet sharp. He knew that face, that voice—the very voice that had guided him, protected him, shaped his path.
But the man standing before him was not the same Dumbledore Harry had known.
Dumbledore was here. But he was much, much younger.
Harry’s heart pounded against his ribs. Cold sweat prickled at his nape. His mind spun wildly, scrambling for any rational explanation—anything to ground him.
And beside him…
A man with a stern, deeply lined face, but eyes that held a genuine concern, studied him closely. Harry recognised him. He knew that face. He had seen it before—on a portrait in the headmaster’s office.
Armando Dippet.
This isn’t happening.
This cannot be happening.
Panic swelled inside him like a caged beast, pressing against his ribs, tightening the air in his lungs until each breath felt thin, useless.
Dippet took a step forward, lifting his hands in a gesture of reassurance. His voice was calm, almost paternal.
"Apologies for the restraints." He gestured towards the invisible bindings keeping Harry locked to the bed. "We were unsure if it was safe to let you move freely, given that we know nothing about you. I hope you understand—it was merely a precaution."
His words were kind. Soft, even. But they did nothing to settle the storm in Harry’s chest. His breath came faster, his thoughts spinning too quickly for him to hold onto them.
This makes no sense.
None of this makes sense.
Dippet tried again, offering a small, encouraging smile.
"You arrived at the castle in a rather… unexpected manner, my boy. We weren’t exactly expecting visitors." He cleared his throat. "I am Armando Dippet, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Harry felt something ice-cold crawl down his spine.
Headmaster.
"And this," Dippet continued, nodding towards the reserved-looking man beside him, "is my Deputy Headmaster and Professor of Transfiguration, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly in a polite nod, but his eyes—his sharp, piercing eyes—remained locked onto Harry, analysing him with unsettling precision.
He did not look concerned like Dippet.
He looked watchful.
Harry swallowed hard.
Dumbledore spoke, and his voice held none of the warmth Harry remembered. There was no grandfatherly fondness, no twinkling amusement.
There was only studied calm.
A courtesy so measured it felt more like a cage than a kindness.
"We have a few questions for you, child."
A pause. Just long enough for the air to thicken between them.
Then, a slight tilt of the head. A shift in his tone that left no room for argument.
"I trust you understand, given the rather abrupt nature of your arrival."
The walls of the infirmary seemed to shrink around Harry.
Terror still curled inside him, pressing against his ribs. But now, layered atop it, was something else.
Something darker.
A terrible, sinking certainty.
He was not where he should be.
He was not when he should be.
Harry tried to speak. Tried to ask what year it was.
But the words—they wouldn’t come.
His throat was dry. His mouth moved soundlessly.
Dumbledore watched him carefully. Then, with a voice smooth as silk, he murmured:
"We would greatly appreciate it if you agreed to take a dose of Veritaserum. Nothing too strong."
Harry’s stomach twisted.
"Given the high concentration of Dark Magic in your body—and the likelihood that it is the very thing that brought you here—we would like to ensure there are no… loose ends."
Dumbledore smiled.
A soft, almost kind smile.
But there was something wrong with it.
"It is merely for our safety… and yours as well."
His head tilted slightly.
"I trust you understand?"
Harry said nothing.
He couldn’t.
This was Dumbledore. His Dumbledore. His mentor. His guide.
The closest thing to a grandfather he had ever had.
Someone he trusted. Someone he loved.
But this Dumbledore…
This wasn’t the same man.
The face was identical. The voice, the posture, the calculated patience.
But every word felt like a threat wrapped in silk.
Was this what Voldemort had felt when speaking to his headmaster?
The thought sent an icy shudder through Harry’s spine.
He took a slow breath. His body was weak, heavy. Every muscle ached with exhaustion, his magic felt… drained.
He had no wand.
He was trapped.
What choice did he have?
His eyes flickered towards the spectral bindings still wrapped around his wrists. He could feel the magic in them—tightly wound, like an unyielding chain. One wrong move, and his situation could spiral even further out of control.
Maybe… maybe he should tell the truth.
If anyone could help him return home, it was Dumbledore.
The real Dumbledore.
His Dumbledore.
Forcing his voice to remain steady, Harry murmured:
"Alright."
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. His eyes gleamed with something unreadable.
Satisfied.
He turned to the healer—Lestrange, she had called herself—who had remained silent all this time. She looked uneasy.
"Healer Lestrange, would you give us a moment? I promise we won’t take long."
There was a pause. A hesitation so brief it almost went unnoticed.
But Harry saw it.
She didn’t like this.
Her violet eyes narrowed slightly, a faint crease forming between her brows. But in the end, she merely nodded.
"Call me at once if you need anything, Dumbledore."
A glance at Dippet.
"I’ll be in the next room, Headmaster."
Then she turned to Harry, her expression softening.
"Rest well, dear."
There was something in her tone. Something weighted. But before he could grasp it, her footsteps were already fading beyond the door.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Dippet broke it first.
"Well! Now that that’s settled—would you care for a sherbet lemon before we begin?"
The sheer absurdity of the question made Harry blink.
What?
Dippet was already fishing inside his robes, pulling out a small paper bag. His eyes twinkled with an almost childlike delight as he held it out towards Harry.
"No? Oh, what a pity. A well-mannered young man like yourself surely enjoys a sweet treat."
He turned to Dumbledore, shaking the bag.
"Here, Albus, I know these are one of your favourites."
Dumbledore took one without a word, popping it into his mouth with a small click of his teeth.
Harry’s stomach twisted.
None of this felt right.
The room was too warm. The air too thick. Everything—every little detail—was slightly off, like a dream where nothing quite fit.
Dippet turned back to him.
"I don’t believe we know your name, child."
Harry hesitated.
"Ah… Harry, sir."
Dippet smiled.
"Lovely. Now, let’s get this over with, shall we? Albus, the potion?"
Dumbledore slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his dark robes, drawing out a small vial.
The liquid inside shimmered gold beneath the flickering candlelight.
"Here it is." His voice was calm, almost velvety. He removed the stopper and held the vial out to Harry. "Just one sip will do."
Harry took it with trembling fingers.
The cold glass touched his lips. He tilted his head back and swallowed.
It burned.
Like fire pouring down his throat.
A searing heat spread through his chest, scorching his thoughts, turning them hazy and distant. His vision flickered—just for a second, as if the world itself had trembled around him. His muscles slackened, his hand slipping from his lap as the empty vial tumbled onto the sheets.
And then—the burning stopped.
In its place came the cold.
A deep, unnatural chill crawled down his spine. Something curled around his chest, pressing gently—like an unseen touch, a whisper in the darkness of his mind.
And then, a voice.
His voice.
But not his.
"I will handle this, master."
"What is your full name, child?" Dumbledore asked.
"Hadrian Ambrose Peverell."
The name left his lips, but he did not feel himself speak it.
The reaction was instant.
Dumbledore took a step back, his eyes widening for the briefest second before his expression smoothed over once more.
But not fast enough.
Harry saw it.
Surprise.
Fascination.
A glimmer of something sharp, something hungry beneath the headmaster’s carefully measured composure.
Dippet, on the other hand, made no effort to hide his shock. His expression was nothing short of astonishment.
"How is that possible?" His voice came out almost hoarse. "The Peverell line died out centuries ago."
Dumbledore remained silent, his mind clearly working at a feverish pace. Then, after a beat, he cleared his throat and straightened, resuming his usual meticulous poise.
"Who are your parents?"
"Alexandra Astley Calbett and Rubert Calbett-Peverell."
Dumbledore did not move.
His eyes glimmerwith something unreadable.
"Were they both magical?"
"My mother was Muggle-born. My father… a Squib."
Dippet muttered something under his breath. His gaze drifted, as if piecing together a puzzle only he could see. Then, almost to himself, he murmured:
"It makes sense, Albus. Some long-forgotten branch of the family, perhaps."
But Dumbledore was no longer looking at Dippet.
He was looking at Harry.
His blue eyes, deep as ever, burned with something that made the hair on Harry’s arms stand on end.
For a single, fleeting moment, Harry felt that Dumbledore might reach out, might tilt his chin up, might break him apart just to understand how he existed.
And then—like the snapping of a spell—Dumbledore blinked, and the moment passed.
When he next spoke, his voice was firm. Controlled.
"Was?" He emphasised the word. "What happened to your parents?"
"They were murdered when I was born."
Dippet hesitated, something in his expression shifting, as if sensing that this conversation was beginning to stretch beyond their grasp. But it was Dumbledore who leaned in slightly.
His eyes were ice.
"By whom?"
"Grindelwald."
Dippet inhaled sharply.
Harry saw Dumbledore’s jaw tighten, his stance shift. Something dangerous flickered behind his gaze. But he said nothing.
Not yet.
"Why?" His voice was quieter now. "Why would Grindelwald kill your parents?"
"Because he wanted me."
Harry’s heartbeat was erratic.
"Why, Harry?"
"Because I was the last living Peverell." His own voice sounded distant, as if echoing from somewhere far beyond him. "He wanted to make an example of me. A trophy. And he believed I would lead him to the Deathly Hallows."
The air in the infirmary turned cold.
Dumbledore blinked. Slowly.
His eyes were wide now—not in shock.
In pure, unfiltered curiosity.
"And where are they?"
Harry barely had time to react before Dippet cut in, his voice carrying an obvious unease.
"Albus, I don’t see why that is relevant—"
"I don’t know."
The words escaped before Harry could even think.
Dumbledore was silent.
Harry could see—could feel—the effort it took for him to remain composed. To bury his burning questions beneath that unshakable mask of serenity.
He inhaled deeply. Took a step back.
But his eyes…
His eyes still burned.
"Very well." His voice was almost normal. "And how did you come to be here, Harry?"
"I ran."
The words left his lips without hesitation. "I found an old book in a prison and tried to recite it. I wanted safety. I didn’t know where it would take me."
The silence that followed was thick.
Harry saw Dumbledore’s lips part, as if about to push for more. As if every part of him ached to ask more.
But then—he simply smiled.
A light smile. Simple.
Perfectly calculated.
"That will be all for now. You’ve done very well, my boy."
He reached for another vial—this one already uncorked.
"Here. This is the antidote to the Veritaserum."
Harry took it, drank.
The cold in his bones lifted instantly. His body felt lighter. Normal.
But relief did not come.
His mind swam with the weight of the words he could not say.
The truth he could not reveal.
He had lied. Under Veritaserum.
That should have been impossible.
Something twisted inside him, a shiver running down his spine. There had been a presence—a voice, something—that had kept the truth from leaving his lips.
But what?
Who?
Dumbledore was still watching him.
And the light in his eyes—it was not the warm, reassuring glow that Harry knew. No.
There was something sharper now.
Something predatory.
A hunger for answers that flickered just beneath the surface before he smothered it completely.
For a fraction of a second, Harry saw the man behind the legend.
A scholar obsessed with the unknown. A seeker desperate for understanding.
It lasted only a moment.
Then Dumbledore blinked. Took a slow breath.
And the mask slipped back into place.
His features softened. His smile returned—gentle, serene, measured.
Dippet cleared his throat, as if sensing the tension hanging in the air like a thick fog.
"Let’s allow the boy to rest." His voice was light, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence before. "I believe Albus and I have much to discuss. I will return later to talk about your arrangements… and, well, the magic in your arms."
Dippet cast a meaningful glance at Dumbledore.
"Albus?"
For a moment, Dumbledore hesitated.
Then, at last, he inclined his head.
He turned back to Harry.
And smiled.
"Until next time, Harry."
His voice was gentle. Kind.
Before they could leave, Harry spoke.
"Wait."
Dippet raised a brow.
Harry nodded toward his bound wrists.
Dippet blinked, as if only now noticing the restraints.
"Ah. How foolish of me. Of course."
With a murmured spell, the bindings vanished.
"There you are. Rest well, my boy."
And then, they were gone.
The door closed with a soft click.
But the silence left behind was deafening.
Harry inhaled deeply, filling his lungs—as if for the first time in years.
He had to see it.
He had to know.
With a hesitant movement, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold stone floor. His entire body ached, a strange heaviness settling in his muscles, but he ignored it.
Every step towards the window felt agonisingly slow.
He reached for the curtain.
And pulled.
The sight before him nearly sent him stumbling backwards.
Hogwarts was there.
Not Hogwarts in ruins. Not the battlefield he remembered, littered with fallen bodies, the sky thick with smoke, the stench of ash and death clinging to the air.
No.
This was Hogwarts before it all.
The Black Lake shimmered gold beneath the setting sun. The Forbidden Forest stretched beyond the grounds, quiet, untouched. Students wandered the lawns in small groups, laughing, talking—carefree. Unafraid.
Unburdened by war and loss.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
A shaky step back made his gaze shift—
And then, he saw.
His own reflection.
It was him.
The same green eyes, perhaps even brighter. The same dark, perpetually untidy hair. The same scar, carved into his forehead like a mark of destiny.
But his face…
His face was different.
Younger.
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