Once More...
Lying in the cramped darkness of his cupboard under the stairs, Harry felt the bruises from the day's beatings with every shallow breath. I'm really back, he thought incredulously, pushing against the soreness that gripped his muscles.
Shifting around the darkness, Harry tested his range of motion. Based on my size, I shouldn't be older than 8 orso.
Time to find a wand and end this Game before it starts. He tested his magical core and felt it surprisingly weak. Surely that won’t be too large of a problem?
Apparating will be harder this time, he mused, recalling the feeling from his previous life. Yet, as he tried to focus, the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a tight tube was alarmingly absent. Each failed attempt not only deepened his frustration but also amplified his physical discomfort. Just a bit more, he urged himself, desperate to escape the confines of the Dursleys' house.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of concentration and willpower he cried out in frustration and the room around him blurred and he felt the familiar discomfort of being squeezed through a tube. Finally! But the triumph was short-lived as darkness quickly enveloped his senses, his body giving in to the exhaustion of the effort.
“Ugh,” Harry moaned as he woke, ice covering his small frame in the park. The frost on his body gripped him immediately as his relief turned to terror.
I can barely Apparate! How am I expected to do anything with this body! Why is my core so stunted?
A pit sunk in Harry’s stomach. The Dursleys. The bruises and pain must have been from work and the beatings. My core must be depleted from all that.
For a moment, fear gripped him—the fear of being weak, of his magic failing him when he needed it most. It was a stark reminder of his vulnerability, not just to the elements but to the monumental task he had set for himself.
“I will not fail. Not so close to the start.”
Repairing his core would take some time - perhaps weeks or months - but he had done it before. Duels with powerful Dark Wizards had left him in a similarly drained state in the past. But first he needed to get out of the freezing cold of this park.
He racked his brain for magical transportation his tiny and damaged core could maintain.
No portkey, no broom, no floo powder.
He snapped his fingers. “The Knight Bus!”
Harry approached the road, legs still wobbly from the nearly empty core and freezing temperature, and stuck out his right arm.
In the dim glow of this cool night, the Knight Bus lurched to a stop, its appearance far more imposing than Harry remembered. I don’t recall the Knight Bus being armored. Did it always have reinforcement?
As the doors swung open, a figure stepped out, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light around them. The wizard before Harry was a striking presence, his form ensconced in armor that gleamed with the unmistakable luster of goblin silver, intricate patterns woven into its design that caught the light with every movement.
At his side hung a sword, its craftsmanship exquisite, the handle wrought in designs that spoke of ancient times and battles long forgotten. The armor and the shield he carried, though bearing the gleam of goblin silver, were adorned with intricate patterns of a laurel wreath wrapped around eagles in mid-flight - symbols whose meanings were lost to Harry.
How bizarre…
The armored wizard's gaze upon Harry was one of mild disinterest, as if the sight of a young boy calling the Knight Bus in the dead of night was a common occurrence, or perhaps beneath his concern. His eyes, however, held a depth that suggested a wealth of experience and a hint of readiness for whatever threats might emerge from the shadows.
As Harry, still somewhat disoriented from his encounter with the sword-wielding wizard, stepped onto the Knight Bus, he gasped as he was greeted by the familiar frame of Stan Shunpike.
Stan is alive! It was almost impossible to believe Harry had been sent back in time, but here was living proof. A man that had been dead to Harry for nearly 20 years was standing right in front of him.
Stan was one of the many unfortunate victims made to be Death Eaters at the end of the Second Wizarding War. The Ministry was not kind to those who claimed to be Imperio’d and all were placed in Azkaban. Stan was one of many that passed before his sentence was complete.
Stan, in his conductor’s uniform, which seemed a bit more pressed and formal than Harry remembered, stood with a clipboard in hand, a kind, if slightly bored, expression on his face. The same pattern of wreath and eagle was sewn into his breast pocket.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard," Stan announced, his voice carrying that unmistakable accent that seemed to drawl and clip at the oddest times. "I'm Stan Shunpike, and I'll be your conductor this eve'nin’ and this metal man is Mr. Justin Oliver."
Harry stood slack jawed for a moment before shifting in his sodden socks. “Good evening Stan. I’m… Cormac McLaggen.”
“Well Mr. McLaggen, it’s 11 sickles for a ride, 13 for a hot chocolate, 15 for a hot water bottle and a toothbrush in your chosen color.” He extended a simple collection box as he explained the prices.
Harry’s blood turned to ice. Shit! I forgot about money!
Harry tapped over his body as if was trying to find his coin purse, which looked awkward as he had no pockets in his oversized pajamas.
How do I justify this? I can’t go back to the Dursleys.
“I didn’t think so. Strange that such a disheveled boy is out this late,” Stan said.
“Leave your purse in your other britches, boy?”
The stiff response came from the armored wizard, Oliver. His gaze had shifted to one of frustration and he was standing upright.
“Where are your parents?”
Harry felt a pressure on the surface of his mind which shook him from his stupor. Legilimency?! I can use this.
Harry raised his deepest Occlumency barriers to protect his inner thoughts and guided the probe towards a series of fake memories he constructed. The ‘memories’ showed that Harry was told to travel by his father to the Leaky Cauldron and that his uncle would collect him. Every time the intruder tried to search for more context, Harry guided him back to this constructed memory making his father slightly more intimidating each time.
“They sent me to my uncle. He’s at the Leaky Cauldron. T-that’s in London.”
He forced his voice to waver. Better to sell the scared child act.
The pressure receded from Harry’s mind and a slight headache took its place.
Oliver stooped to Harry’s level and softened his expression. “Your father forgot to provide you with the money needed to use the Knight Bus. A careless mistake. We will take you to the Leaky Cauldron and your uncle will settle your debts.”
“Seems like they forgot to properly clothe the boy too…” Stan murmured.
Oliver grunted in agreement before standing and drawing his wand. He touched it to Harry’s chest and a flowing warmth spread throughout his body.
“Warming Charm. Sit in the bed and drink the hot chocolate carefully. We will reach the Leaky Cauldron shortly.”
Harry did as he was told, sighing internally. That was close. I need to fill and repair my core again very soon.
As Harry found his seat, a glass of hot chocolate levitated its way towards him. Its sweet and milky aroma aroused Harry’s appetite and he quickly consumed it. The Knight Bus jolted off with a bang and began weaving its way through the sleepy town of Little Whinging.
What a curious appearance. Goblin silver and a sword? A guard of the Knight Bus by chance? Why does the Knight Bus need a guard though?
Harry considered the appearance of this new armored wizard, stealing glances and scanning every detail of his equipment when the man wasn’t watching him. He appeared to be a serious man, repelling Stan’s jokes.
This wizard is strange. He stands and speaks with such comfort, it seems like he knows Stan.
“Excuse me,” Harry called out.
Stan and Oliver looked up.
“Why is it you carry a sword?”
Stan chuckled. “Never seen an Auror before, have you?”
Oliver stood up straight, chuckling at the childlike question.
“Stan is right Mr. McLaggen. I am an Auror of our Magical Imperium. I carry a silver sword both as my badge of office and as my primary offense against Dark Wizards. Stan is underage, so he requires an escort, and I scare off all the reprobates.”
WHAT?! Did me coming back change the past? What did that Aspect do?
The words "Magical Imperium" echoed in Harry's ears, causing him to pause mid breath. "Imperium?" he repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. He felt a knot form in his stomach. What happened to the Ministry of Magic? The world around him suddenly felt foreign.
Harry’s head spun. This changed everything. He had to know what else changed.
“I thought Auror were magical detectives. I didn’t realize you wore swords and armor,” Harry asked with as much innocence as he could muster.
“Every Auror specializes. Some act in law enforcement, some in national defense. Technically I am a Hit Wizard, but I am also an Auror and people understand Auror more so… My dream is to be a Paladin, and so I have to climb the ranks of our Imperial Military.” Oliver was lightening up, excited at the prospect to talk about something he was passionate about. Stan shied away, bored with the topic.
Yet another revelation. Now there is a military for this Imperium?
Harry’s curiosity got the better of him and he kept digging. “But how do you cast spells without a wand?”
Oliver grinned. “Well, all you really need to cast magic is a strong focus and the will to project your magic. A wand helps a lot with that but it isn’t necessary.”
He spun his hand and conjured a glass cube.
Aurors using wandless magic? Entirely wandless magic?
Harry didn’t have to feign surprise with this revelation. Oliver placed the glass cube in Harry’s hand. It was still thrumming with magic.
“Is your core still connected to this?”
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “I am surprised you understand what a magical core is. Yes it is, so I can continue to enchant or transfigure it without having to touch it.”
The glass cube transformed into a yellow sphere before levitating back to Oliver’s hand.
Specialized wandless transfiguration and charms? Legilimency? A magic sword? From a random Auror on the Knight Bus? What is going on?
“Thank you Mr. Oliver,” Harry said gently.
“Of course lad.”
The bumpy ride continued, but Harry could barely pay attention. He was focused on the myriad changes he had experienced in just a few hours of being thrust back into his younger body. Was this Auror a special case or was this the standard? What about this Magical Imperium? Was that a replacement for the Ministry of Magic? If this much had changed, what else was new?
Before long, the Knight Bus slammed to a stop.
“Well Mr. McLaggen, this is your stop.” Stan stepped forward and Harry’s cup floated back to Stan’s hands.
“Thank you for choosing the Knight Bus. We hope you enjoyed your ride.”
“I will call when I am done, Stan. Shouldn’t be too long.”
Oliver gestured for Harry to follow him off the Knight Bus and they entered the frigid London air outside the Leaky Cauldron, the Warming Charm apparently finished. The outside looked exactly as Harry remembered it, but something was off about the magic within.
As Harry and Oliver approached the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron, Oliver's demeanor shifted towards the more formal aspect of his duties. The din of London's evening seemed to fall away as he addressed Harry with a focused intent.
"Mr. McLaggen," Oliver began, the title sounding odd in the context of their conversation, "before we enter, could you tell me where your uncle usually stays in the Leaky Cauldron? And what does he look like? It might expedite our search."
Harry felt a twinge of anxiety at the question. He hadn't anticipated needing to fabricate details about an uncle who didn't exist, at least not in this context. Scrambling for a response, he opted for vagueness, hoping it would be enough to deflect any real scrutiny.
"He's, um, tall? Maybe not too tall. And he has hair, sort of dark, I think," Harry stuttered, his description intentionally nebulous. "As for where he stays, it's hard to say. He travels a lot for work, so he doesn't have a regular room. Could be anywhere, really."
Oliver paused, assessing Harry's response with a thoughtful expression. It was clear he found the answer lacking, but he didn't press further, perhaps choosing to prioritize the boy's immediate welfare over the pursuit of details that seemed, at the moment, inconsequential.
"Very well, we'll just have to ask around then," Oliver concluded, his tone suggesting he was filing away the discrepancies for future examination. Without another word, he gestured for Harry to follow him into the Leaky Cauldron, the threshold of which promised a brief respite from the night's chill and the weight of Harry's uncertain return to a world that had shifted.
As Harry stepped through the door into the Leaky Cauldron, a wave of nostalgia and unease washed over him. The familiar musty scent of aged wood mingled with the tantalizing aroma of bubbling stews and roasted meats, a combination that spoke of countless evenings spent in the warm embrace of the wizarding world's most famous pub. Yet, as his eyes adjusted to the dim, flickering light cast by candles floating lazily overhead, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.
The Leaky Cauldron was larger than he remembered, its ceilings higher and its corners stretching further into shadow. The magic of the place, always a subtle, comforting presence, now felt older, denser, as if the very stones of the building had soaked up centuries of wizarding life and were now saturated with it. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, not entirely unpleasant, but reminding him of the depth of the world he had re-entered.
The noise of the place enveloped him like a living thing. Conversations flowed and crashed around him, a tumultuous sea of words and laughter. The clink of glasses, the sharp, sudden laughter from a group of witches in the corner, and the unmistakable sound of coins clattering together on the bar created a cacophony that was both overwhelming and comforting. It was the sound of life, unabated and unapologetic, and it filled Harry with a mix of longing and trepidation.
As he moved further into the room, weaving through clusters of patrons, he noticed the subtle glances thrown his way, the brief interruptions in conversation. His arrival had not gone unnoticed, but for now, curiosity seemed to hold hostility at bay. The faces were a mix of the familiar and the unfamiliar, echoes of his past mingling with reminders of the time he had lost.
The sights and smells of the Leaky Cauldron, so deeply ingrained in his memory, now carried an edge of strangeness. The savory scent of a pot pie from the kitchen was richer than he recalled, the spices more complex. The laughter of a group of young wizards in the back rang with an accent he couldn't place, their robes styled in a cut that was new to him. Even the wood of the bar, polished to a shine by countless elbows and hands, seemed to bear new marks and scratches, each a silent testament to stories Harry had not been a part of.
Feeling suddenly exposed without the familiar weight of his wand, Harry instinctively reached for it, only to remember it was not there. The absence was a hollow reminder of his vulnerability, a physical manifestation of the uncertainty that had dogged his every step since his return. In this moment, within the crowded, bustling confines of the Leaky Cauldron, Harry Potter felt more lost than he ever had, caught between the world he knew and the world he had yet to discover.
As Harry's gaze wandered over the Leaky Cauldron's patrons, lost in the maze of his own thoughts and the peculiar sense of displacement, a voice cut through his reverie, grounding him back to the present. "Can you see your uncle, then?" Oliver asked, a note of impatience threading through his concern.
The question jolted Harry from his reminiscences. He scanned the room quickly, a reflexive response, knowing full well the person he described didn't exist. "No, I don't see him," Harry replied, his voice steadier than he felt. The reality of his situation was beginning to press in on him, the walls of the pub seeming to inch closer with each passing second.
Oliver sighed, a sound heavy with a mix of frustration and concern. "You're sure he's here?" he pressed, his brow furrowing as he peered around the room, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive uncle himself.
Harry nodded, his heart racing. "Yeah, he's definitely here. Just... not in sight, I guess." The words felt hollow even to his own ears, but the tightness in his chest was real, a tangible sign of his growing anxiety. He needed to move, to do something—anything—to escape the increasingly watchful eye of Oliver.
Without waiting for further questions, Harry started to wander through the room, his eyes darting from face to face, not in search of his fictional uncle, but for a distraction, a way out of the scrutiny he found himself under. Each step felt heavier than the last, his body acutely aware of the many eyes that followed him, the whispers that seemed to rise and fall in his wake.
The Leaky Cauldron, with its deep shadows and flickering lights, suddenly felt like a maze, each turn revealing another cluster of tables, another group of wizards and witches whose curiosity added weight to the air around him. Harry moved with a purpose he didn't feel, his mind racing for a solution, for any opportunity to slip away and regain the semblance of control over his situation.
His gaze landed on a merchant by the bar, a man with a frazzled appearance who was heatedly bargaining with a patron, oblivious to the precariously stacked cages beside him. Each cage buzzed with the energy of nifflers, their noses twitching, drawn to the smallest hint of something shiny. Memories of his Care of Magical Creatures classes surged forward—nifflers, harmless yet fixated on anything that glinted. It was the perfect ruse.
With a feigned clumsiness, Harry brushed against the cages, sending them tumbling to the floor. Several cages burst open, unleashing a wave of nifflers into the pub. The creatures, ecstatic with their newfound freedom, darted across the floor, their noses leading them in a frenzied hunt for coins, jewelry, anything metallic.
The room descended into chaos, just as Harry had anticipated. People jumped up, some attempting to catch the elusive creatures, others desperately trying to protect their belongings from being spirited away. Oliver, momentarily distracted by the sudden uproar, was a step too slow to notice Harry slipping out the back.
Without a wand, Harry approached the brick wall leading to Diagon Alley with a sense of determination. He remembered the pattern required to open the gateway. Jumping to reach the higher bricks, he tapped them in sequence with his fingers, each touch a silent plea for the passage to open. The bricks obeyed, shifting and realigning to grant him access.
As he stepped through the archway into Diagon Alley, Harry was hit by the overwhelming sights and smells of this familiar yet altered place. The air was thick with the scent of roasting chestnuts and the tangy aroma of potions ingredients from nearby apothecaries. The alley itself had transformed, now sprawling in every direction, its shops and stalls extending further than Harry remembered, an intricate maze of commerce and magic.
Feeling suddenly exposed without his magic to shield him, Harry was acutely aware of his vulnerability. The vibrant hustle of Diagon Alley, once comforting, now seemed daunting. The whisper of cloaks brushing against cobblestones, the flash of wands in the hands of passersby, everything reminded him of what he lacked.
As Harry delved deeper into Diagon Alley, he embraced the anonymity the bustling street offered. Without his wand, without the immediate access to his magic, he felt every bit the outsider, yet it was this very detachment that offered him a new perspective.
He was determined to use this time to observe, to learn the rhythms of this world that had evolved in his absence. He had survived on the fringes before; he could do it again. This was his chance to understand the changes that had swept through the wizarding world, to gauge the pulse of this new society from the ground up.
He would need time to heal and rebuild his magical core. Perhaps his parents left money in Gringotts as before? He would need to see what, if anything, Gringotts had to offer. Yet still he needed to explore this new world. Death had clearly changed much when it sent Harry back and he was at a disadvantage without information.
So much to do…
As Harry Potter merged with the faces in the crowd, he became just another soul navigating the complexities of a world that had moved on. And in that moment, he was free to explore, to adapt, to grow—unseen, yet more present than ever.