Juxtaposition

The Elder Wand rested in his hand, the intricate details of the Hallow now grounding Harry. He watched as Voldemort’s body began to flake away, drifting off into the wind.
There were cries of happiness all around him, but Harry was just too exhausted to do anything but stand there absently.
There was another cry, one louder than the rest, one that didn’t sound happy, but more sad, and angry.
“Avada Kedavra!” Someone yelled, the same familiar cry filling his ears again.
He saw the Killing Curse approaching, but he couldn’t summon the will to move, to defend himself. Harry watched as the green light enveloped him once again, still too disconnected to react. It was as if he was merely a spectator, watching the scene unfold from a distance.

The smell of dust and grime filled Harry’s nose as he slowly blinked, his eyes opening.
Harry's vision slowly sharpened, revealing the dim, shadowy surroundings of a place that felt familiar, yet Harry just couldn’t place it. The smell of decay and age lingered in the air. He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. Panic surged through him as he realised that he couldn't remember how he got here or what had just happened.

Harry leaned against the wall behind him, still struggling to sit up. The narrow walls of decrepit buildings leaned towards each other as if whispering long and forgotten secrets. There were shards of broken glass scattered across the floor, and now that he was looking, a thin yet steady stream of blood trickled down from his palm, which he guessed was from the glass. The cobblestone streets were slick with moisture, and the foggy atmosphere seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something to happen.

As Harry slowly forced himself to his feet, his heart sank, the events of what had just happened rushing back to him - Voldemort’s demise, Harry winning over the Elder Wand, and then the Killing Curse cast by some Death Eater.
“What the hell,” Harry murmured. He was supposed to be dead. The curse did hit him, and yet he wasn’t in the afterlife, instead, he was in Knockturn Alley.
He quickly checked his pockets for Malfoy’s wand, but didn’t feel it anywhere, leaving him wandless. Granted, he did know a few basic wandless spells, but it wasn’t nearly enough as he would’ve liked to have known.
Harry walked back into Diagon Alley, and to his surprise, the atmosphere here felt strangely normal. His mind was flooded with memories of a Diagon Alley partially destroyed by Death Eater raids. He expected to see the shattered windows, charred remains, and the lingering darkness, yet, Diagon Alley looked near pristine condition.
What had people had the time to rebuild Diagon?

His eyes scanned each building and person as he walked past, and grew more confused by each wizard that just ignored him. He didn’t want to sound cocky, but, he was Harry Potter. For the past 7 years of his life, he had been stalked by paparazzi every time he stepped outside.
He quickly walked over to a pair of witches, admiring various trinkets behind a glass window.
“Excuse me, do you know what the day is?” He asked, somewhat hesitantly.
“Uhh, it’s the second of July. Are you alright?” The woman said, glancing at her friend.
“Uh, yeah,” He said, now feeling dizzy, “I’m fine. Thanks…” Harry quickly walked away, desperate to understand what was going on.
How was it the 2nd of July?
Unless the witch was lying. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe this was all a prank.
But why would she lie? She didn’t even look like she recognised him. Which was weird on its own, considering the whole wizarding world has known his name for over 16 years.
Harry turned back around to the women who were now chatting and approached them again.
“What year is it?” Harry asked again, probably looking like a madman.
The woman looked even more concerned now, “It’s 1942. Are y-”
Harry could feel the blood draining from his face and his face pale. His hands were now subtly shaking, and his eyes were wide. He could hear her continuing her sentence, but he just ran.

His mind raced as he fled from the witches, their bewildered voices calling after him. 1942? It was impossible. He had been in that final battle against Voldemort, holding the Elder Wand, ready to meet his demise, and then... the Killing Curse. His memories were clear, and there was no way he had been sent back in time. Yet, the evidence around him was undeniable.

As he ran through the Alley, Harry's footsteps echoed on the cobblestone streets. He passed familiar shops and landmarks, but they all looked so different in this earlier time. He couldn't make sense of it. How was it possible that he had somehow travelled back to 1942?
The sensation of panic intensified within him, and it wasn't just due to the temporal displacement. He was wandless, vulnerable, and completely disoriented. How could he protect himself in this time without his wand, without his friends, and without any knowledge of the events that would unfold?

Harry leaned against a crumbling stone wall, his breathing heavy and laboured. After regaining his breath, he knelt on the floor where he originally landed, searching for any clues as to how or why he travelled here.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, well, the ordinary for Knockturn Alley. He didn’t feel any weird, evil magic, either.

Picking himself up off of the ground, Harry sighed. He cursed quietly as he made his way over to the Leaky, just wanting to drown himself in his sorrows.

“A pint of butterbeer, please,” He asked, staring down at the bar.
“‘Course. What’s your name, lad?” The bartender asked, picking up a glass.
“Harry,” Harry said simply, hoping this would be the end of their conversation.
“Harry what?”
Harry’s shoulders sagged as he realised this bartender was quite chatty.
“Just Harry.” He said abruptly.
“What’s got you feeling so sad then, just Harry?”
Harry eyes the bartender suspiciously, wondering if he should just completely lie.
“I played with a time turner and it didn’t react how I was expecting it to,” He lied, pretty effortlessly.
“You look too young to be doing experiments. Shouldn’t you be in Hogwarts?” The bartender asked again, which was starting to get on Harry’s nerves.
“I just moved here.” Technically, that wasn’t a complete lie. Harry did just move here… back to 1942.
The bartender gave him a curious look but eventually filled a glass with butterbeer and slid it across the counter to Harry. “New in town, eh? Well, welcome to London, Harry.”
Harry nodded, taking a sip of the butterbeer to hide his unease. He glanced around the Leaky Cauldron, taking in the familiar yet distinctly different atmosphere. It was quieter and less crowded, and the patrons appeared to be dressed in outdated wizarding robes.

As he sat there, Harry’s mind raced, trying to make sense of the impossible situation he found himself in. He knew he had to be cautious and not draw attention to himself, but it was clear that the time turner had somehow propelled him back to a different era.

The bartender leaned in a bit, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “If you’ve just moved here, you might want to visit Gringotts. They handle all your wizarding finances and vaults. A bit old-fashioned, but it’s where you’ll find the best goblin bankers.”

Harry’s ears perked up at the mention of Gringotts. Maybe this was the lead he needed, something to anchor himself in this unfamiliar time. “Gringotts? Can you tell me how to get there?”
Harry, of course, knew how to get to Gringotts, but the bartender still didn’t suspect a thing.
The bartender nodded and provided Harry with clear directions. It seemed that Gringotts was still very much in operation in 1942.

Finishing his butterbeer, Harry thanked the bartender and left the Leaky Cauldron. His determination grew as he walked down the winding alleyways of this bygone era, his path leading him closer to Gringotts and the mysteries that awaited him there.

Gringotts loomed before Harry, its majestic white-marble exterior gleaming under the cloudy sky, just as it had in 1998. The massive bronze doors stood imposingly, guarded by the stern visages of goblin statues that flanked them. Each statue seemed to scowl down at anyone who dared approach, a clear warning that this was a place not to be trifled with.

Harry approached the doors, half-expecting to be challenged or questioned by the vigilant guards. But much to his surprise, the statues remained motionless, and the doors swung open with a heavy creak, allowing him to enter.

The grandeur of the bank’s interior was still awe-inspiring, and it appeared to have remained unchanged in the intervening years. Tall, gleaming white-marble pillars soared towards the high-vaulted ceiling, where a massive chandelier bathed the vast banking hall in a warm, golden light. Goblins, just as unfriendly as ever, bustled about, conducting their business with the same air of solemnity. Harry couldn’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu as he made his way through the marble hall, which he had last visited so long ago. The teller counters stood in neat rows, and the goblins behind them scribbled away on parchment, seemingly oblivious to the passage of time.
Approaching a free counter, Harry cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, I need some assistance.”
The goblin behind the counter peered at him with a gaze that could freeze fire. “Name and business?”
“Uh, I need to speak with a goblin about a rather private matter.”
The goblin huffed, got down from its row and started walking into another hallway, gesturing for Harry to follow.
The room they were situated in was dark and dimly lit, with ancient tapestries adorning the stone walls, portraying goblins in various acts of cunning and commerce. It was clear that this room was reserved for the most confidential and delicate of discussions.
A large ornate desk was situated in the middle of the room, where the goblin was now sitting.
“What matter do you wish to discuss?” The goblin asked, voice harsh.
“I seem to have time travelled back 56 years. I have no clue how, or what to do.”
“Time travel you say?”
Harry nodded in response.
The goblin’s eyes gleamed with interest as he steepled his long fingers under his sharp chin. “Time travel is a precarious and dangerous business. You find yourself in an era far removed from your own. How did this happen?”
Harry proceeded to explain the events that had transpired, from his duel with Voldemort to his sudden arrival in Knockturn Alley in 1942. The goblin listened attentively, occasionally grunting or nodding in understanding.

When Harry had finished, the goblin leaned forward. “Your situation is indeed unusual, and not one that we have ever dealt with.”
“How long do you think it would take for me to return?”
“I am not sure. Considering that, we should establish you a new name, and possibly an inheritance test to see if there are any vaults you could claim.”
“How do I take an inheritance test?”
“A drop of blood on one of our parchments.”
The goblin summoned a piece of parchment and a small knife, which appeared on the desk, right in front of Harry.
He hesitantly picked up the knife and made a small slice along the tip of his finger.
He watched a large drop of blood fall from his finger and onto the parchment.
Harry read the words which were slowly appearing:

Name: Harry James Potter
D.O.B: 31/7/1980
Parents:
Lily Potter (nee. Evans)
James Fleamont Potter
Blood status: Halfblood

House affiliations:
House of Potter
House of Black
House of Peverell

“It seems that the only vault from this list you can access is the Peverell vault, which has been stationary for many years.”
“Why just the Peverell vault?”
“The Blacks and Potters both have Lords, or heirs, which both outrank you.”
“Oh. I see. How do I become the heir of Peverell?”
“There is a ring for each noble house that must accept their heir. When you place it on your finger, it will see if you are worthy.”

After waiting for the goblin - who introduced himself as Grinok - to retrieve the Peverell heir ring, Harry silently slipped it on.
A feeling of deja vu washed over him again, the feeling the same as when he bought his wand. He looked down at the ring, which looked a lot like the Gaunt ring.
“Do you feel any pain?” Grinok asked, staring at Harry, who shook his head in response.
“Then, it has accepted you.”
“Fantastic,” Harry said, still looking at the ring.
“Have you decided on a name?”
“Uh. How about, Hadrian Peverell?”
“You should come up with other details and a backstory, in case you need it in the future.”
As Harry and Grinok meticulously planned for every scenario of questions, Harry felt more relieved by the fact that he now had a backstory in case he got too close to anyone.
“Also, there are a few estates that now belong to you, seeing as you are heir Peverell.”
“Where are they?”
“There are 2 estates in England, the 1st has 6 bedrooms, 5 bathrooms, a small library, a study, a potions lab, a ballroom, a kitchen and 2 living spaces, and a few more things. The second has 4 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a potions lab, a study, a small greenhouse, and a laundry room.”
“Any other estates outside of England?”
“There is 1 estate in Scotland, and 1 in France,” Grinok said, pushing some papers into the middle of the desk. They contained photos of the estates, along with more details about the different properties.
“Do any of them appeal to you?”
Harry looked down at the papers again.
“I’ll take the 6-bedroom house in England.”
“Perfect. It will need some repairs. We can repair it for you, for a price.”
“Do whatever.”
The goblin grinned wickedly, all of his teeth showing.

Harry followed Grinok down to the Peverell vaults, yes, there were multiple. Harry was handed back his new key after Grinok opened the vault, and Harry felt his jaw going slack.
The amount of galleons and gold piled up in his vault didn’t look like that much, but the amount of heirlooms, books, trinkets and artefacts surrounded the majority of the room.
The Peverell vault was a vast chamber, with towering shelves carved into the rock and filled with heirlooms and relics of ages long past. These treasures were illuminated by the soft, ethereal glow of enchanted lanterns hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Books with ornate, ancient bindings lined one wall, and Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement as he realized he had access to generations of magical knowledge.
Ornate trunks sat along the floor, their contents exuding an air of mystery. On a stone pedestal at the centre of the room, there was an onyx locket that quickly caught Harry’s attention.
He walked over to it, occasionally stepping over books and other items, and noticed the words engraved on the pedestal.
“Le médaillon de la mort” Harry paused for a moment, trying to translate what the message said.
Back when he and Dudley were in Primary school, the second language they were taught was French, so he did know some basics.
“Death's Locket” is what the inscription translated to. The locket had subtle yet intricate engravings of the yr rune, meaning death. He slipped the locket into one of his pockets and walked to one of the piles of books. As he touched and examined each book, he noticed one of the books he picked up had a worn leather cover adorned with symbols that he couldn't immediately decipher. As he carefully opened it, the pages rustled with the weight of centuries. The text inside was written in elegant, flowing script that Harry recognized as a historical form of magical calligraphy. He began to read, intrigued by the possibilities.
The book contained information about the Peverell family, their connection to the Deathly Hallows, and their long history of magical achievements. It also held detailed accounts of spells and enchantments that had been developed by the Peverell ancestors. Harry marvelled at the depth of magical knowledge contained within this one volume.
As he continued to explore, Harry found other books on topics ranging from potion-making to rare magical creatures. Harry carefully selected several books to take with him.

With Death’s Locket safely in his pocket, a few interesting books and quite a few galleons in an expanding bag he found, and the knowledge of the Peverell vault stored in his mind, Harry followed Grinok back to the main part of Gringotts.
“You have been whitelisted to floo into the estate you chose. Say, ‘Peverell Estate’ and the wards will let you in.”
“Thanks so much, Grinok.”
Grinok grunted in response, and Harry took that as his clue to leave.

Harry walked back into the Leaky Cauldron and opened his bag, dropping a galleon on the table, where the bartender was standing at.
“Keep the change.” He said, smiling slightly, before walking to the fireplace that allowed wizards to floo. He picked up a handful of floo powder, stepped into the large fireplace and spoke, “Peverell Estate,”
The green flames engulfed him and with a whooshing sound, Harry was hurtling through a network of interconnected fireplaces. The sensation was disorienting, like being caught in a whirlwind, and he had to fight to keep his head still and focused on his destination. Just when he thought he might be consumed by the emerald flames, the spinning and swirling came to an abrupt halt.

Harry stumbled out of the fireplace at the Peverell Estate, coughing and sputtering as he was covered in soot. It had been a rough ride, but he was relieved to find himself at his intended location.
Harry’s eyes widened almost comically as he looked around, the high grandiose walls with art painted on the ceilings. There were wooden wall trims on each wall, and the wallpaper of the room he was in was a rich tapestry of deep forest green, adorned with intricate golden patterns that seemed to move and shift like living creatures.
He walked out of the sitting room and ventured through the rest of the house. He wandered through spacious hallways, adorned with more paintings and tapestries depicting the Peverell family's heritage. Each room held its unique charm and held artifacts that he was sure collectors would kill for.

The dining room was a vision of elegance, with a long mahogany table set with ornate silverware. It was as if the room was frozen in time, waiting for the next family gathering that never came. A sense of melancholy hung in the air, showing how long this estate had been left untouched before the goblins came to repair it.

In the library, Harry found rows upon rows of ancient tomes, some dating back hundreds of years. There was a small seating area with two plush armchairs and a small settee, along with a coffee table. There were French double doors in the library, leading to the gardens outside.

The gardens outside were equally enchanting. A well-manicured labyrinth of hedges wound through the grounds, leading to a serene pond surrounded by weeping willow trees. The air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and the soft chirping of magical birds added to the tranquillity of the estate.

After more than an hour of exploring, Harry finally found the master bedroom: which was a sight to behold. The massive four-poster bed was adorned with dark green and silver drapes, and a canopy hung overhead, casting soft shadows on the lush carpet below. The bed was framed by intricately carved wooden pillars, each etched with runes, most of which Harry did not recognise.
A grand fireplace, framed by a magnificent marble mantle, dominated one side of the room. It was currently unlit, but Harry imagined how it would cast a warm and inviting glow when used. A chaise lounge sat beside it, and a collection of more leather-bound books was neatly arranged on a nearby table.

Harry walked over to the bed, kicked off his shoes and flopped down, exhaustion spreading through his body. He didn’t have any energy to change his clothes, and even if he did, he didn’t have any clothes to change into. Harry made a mental note to go do some shopping tomorrow, including buying a wand.

Harry turned and turned, trying to get comfortable, but all of his effort was useless. The bed in the master bedroom was large and soft, but all he felt was discomfort: the sumptuous comfort of the grand bed was unfamiliar to him. He had spent too many nights on the hard, uneven ground, in forest clearings and tents while on the run with Ron and Hermione. This softness felt foreign, almost unnatural.

Harry sighed and with a resigned shrug, he grabbed a pillow and blanket from his bed and himself a small makeshift bed on the floor. He stared up at the ornate ceiling as the grand chandelier overhead a soft, warm light.
“Nox” He whispered, hoping his wandless magic would allow him to do this simple spell, even if he was exhausted.
The light, thankfully, turned off and Harry pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes. The thoughts of the day’s events swirled in his mind.
He was in a time he didn’t belong to, with no one with him.

The minutes stretched into hours as he lay there in the dark room, trying to make sense of it all. Eventually, exhaustion won over his racing thoughts and he drifted into an uneasy sleep on the floor of the grand master bedroom.

“Hello, Harry Potter.” A foreign voice said, making the hairs on Harry’s arms stand up.