Frogging The Loom

Moons before the tides of time
Twisted in its cosmic rhyme
Here the fledging seed is sprung
From thoughts of Wyrd hence are spun

“I do hope you remember that we can’t go with you,” she sniffed, correcting the position of a sigil. “You’re utterly hopeless sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you’ll be there properly.” Harry checked his watch to find that he had less than twenty minutes left before sitting down on the damp grass.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m here properly too.”

“Yeah? Then why do you still look like you’re seventeen?”

“Oi! Not nice to mock the dead, mate.” Ron plopped down beside them and bumped his shoulder. “You know what she means though.”

Nodding, he sighed and took back the book, causing Hermione to yelp in protest. “You’re not the one that needs to memorise this,” he reminds her gently. “I won’t see it again until the summer of ’99.”

“It’s possible that you’ll manage it in October of sixth year,” she points out, her eyes not leaving the book.

“Yeah, but that’s not a total eclipse. There’ll be totality over Cornwall in ‘99.”

“And we don’t know that totality is required and...”

“Hermione,” he interrupted. “We have fourteen minutes.”

It was the early morning of 21 January, 2017 and the so-called Golden Trio were sitting in a long forgotten graveyard. It was a beautiful morning, and it was about to become an extraordinary one for in – twelve minutes – there would be a total lunar eclipse over the countryside, and at that point the ritual they’d spend years researching could be performed.

The rapid disruption of the natural order when night suddenly becomes day was a powerful symbol, and was necessary for what he was about to do.

“You can’t go further, you know,” Hermione quietly states. “It says… it needs an anchor. A proper one. Dark and light can start it, but you need to move towards life and death.”

“Second year…”

“No. No way are you risking yourself like that: you’ll be disorientated. Injured and distracted and out of sorts in the Chamber of Secrets with a nearly tangible horcrux is a terrible idea!” Hermione hissed. “It has to be Little Hangleton – you’ll be safe there.”

Ten minutes.

“Right. Potter’s Field.” Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m not convinced that its needed though. The Underground…”

“Stop that right now. It wasn’t your fault!”

“I should have…”

“It was a fucking terrorist attack Harry! A suicide bombing!”

“She’s right, mate,” Ron added. “And you didn’t die then, just got banged up.”

Lies.

“Fourth year,” Hermione repeated. “Little Hangleton graveyard. Priori Incantantum: the brother wand effect satisfies the requirements.”

Eight minutes.

Harry turned the page.

He wasn’t going to remember a damned thing beyond the ritual, he decided, and dropped the book onto the grass.

“Six minutes,” Hermione whispers, then launches herself at her first friends to envelop both boys in a hug. “They won’t be us, not really. Not yet. Please don’t give up on us.”

“I won’t,” he promises, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. His eyes were wet, he knew, and even over a decade later he couldn’t get used to the sad look in his friends’ unnaturally dry eyes.

The dead cannot cry, after all.

“Up you get.” Ron gives him a shove towards the flat stone set into the soil before them. “It’s nearly time. Do you need the book?”

Harry shook his head. “Memorized it.” He knelt in front of the stone, his best friends flanking him.

Two minutes.

“Hermione Jean Granger, I release you,” he whispered, tears now running freely down his cheeks. “Ronald Billius Weasley, I release you.”

He swallowed roughly, alone for the first time in years, and glanced at his watch.

Three, two, one…

Begin.

He found himself in a field of heather, a startled herd of deer fleeing under the eerie light of the solar eclipse.

It was not where he meant to go. It was not when he meant to be.

And time passed.

…

Seven robed magicians stood in a circle, their arms aloft, as the magic rose to meet them and the stones fell into place.

…

Seven robed magicians stood in a semi-circle, their faces strict and shadowed, as they negotiated the return of stolen children.

…

Seven robed magicians stood in supplication, fear of foreigners in their hearts, as they begged for assistance.

He laughed. They didn’t want him to interfere, had signed the writ in blood.

…

The seven robed magicians were slaughtered, disbanded, discarded and the rule from across the channel began. A new council, an assembly, a mark of proper birth and bearing reigned supreme, and so timed passed.

…

Years and decades and centuries and time passed with war and grief, peace and joy. The rise of this lord, the slaughter of that lord, and he slept.

And he dreamed.

He blinks at the busy street. There’s no golden cage, there’s no phoenix song, there’s no “Harry hold on!” and quite obviously no Voldemort. There’s just hard pavement beneath his knees and a drizzle of rain on the back of his neck.

Lifting his head, he spots the lunar eclipse lighting the night sky in stark relief and swears. This was not the plan. Well – it was what he had hoped for, but wasn’t the official plan. Hermione was going to murder him.

And if his laugh was slightly unhinged when he stumbled to his feet, well, nobody seemed to want to brave the rain to watch the eclipse.

Step one: where am I? Step two: when am I?

Step one was as complex as step two, as he had no idea where in the hell he was: nothing looked familiar.

Shrugging, he started walking, looking for the nearest shop. They’d have newspapers, and the newspaper would tell him the date. And, hopefully, where he was.

Pushing open the door, he wandered over to the nearly empty rack and froze.

January 29, 1972.

He didn’t even realize that was an option. The newspapers, however, seemed to be the most concerning. The Vancouver Sun, The Vancouver Daily World, The Vancouver Observer… He was in Canada? The hell?

It was, according to the clock inside the shop, nearly three of a morning and his parents were eleven. Twelve at the most: he wasn’t even sure when their birthdays were.

Sighing, he walked away from the corner shop and… Cornwall.

Bloody hell, would a lunar eclipse work too? He glanced at the sky – he knew that while solar eclipses were quick with totality lasting mere minutes, this was a lunar one. And those could last for nearly an hour. He couldn’t see the moon anymore, the clouds providing the drizzle of rain had seen to that, but… it couldn’t hurt to try. Would it?

He appeared at the Maidens, shaking off the too-far apparition and found that the drizzle of rain in Canada was a downpour in Cornwall. Grimacing, he cast impervious on his clothes as he orientated himself. Spinning in a slow circle, he suddenly stopped and grinned: it was here. A cool breeze, a thread of magic, it called to him as he paced through the Dance. He stopped at the centre, dropping to his knees, and placed his hands on the grass as the magic within the Dance rose and he spoke words he’d never heard before:

“Wisdom of the ancients, painted on the stones; forged within the fires and carved upon the bones. Wisdom of the ancients, hidden in deep waters; your blood flows in my veins, memories of Potters.”

He blinked as the small leather-bound book appeared on the ground between his hands, but then the magic of the land rose again, slamming into him, and he fell forward onto the grass.

It never occurred to him that it shouldn’t have worked. That the eclipse was on the other side the world, that the darkness was due to the rain instead of the hour, that it shouldn’t have worked.

He dreamed.

He was impatiently pacing within the Dance, his body taught with stress and the need to lash out.

His children had been taken.

The letter had arrived two days prior tied to the jesses of a kestrel, the most common message bird of the Wizard’s Council, demanding a treaty between them in exchange for the safe return of his two daughters.

He knew what they wanted: they desired an end to the hunt. An end to the judgement of those beyond his borders. An end to the helplessness.

He closed his eyes as he felt them arrive nearly a full mile from his position within the Giant’s Dance and the ancient burial ground whispered to him.

Their hopes, their dreams. Their intent, and their good faith.

He smiled. He would talk with these magicians, and he would make concessions. The safety of his progeny and bloodline in exchange for the sanctity of his lands. The hounds bound to the council in exchange for no laws binding him and his.

And when the treaty was broken, well. Wouldn’t that be an interesting sight to see?

He had awoken within the Dance of the Merry Maidens at dawn, nearly a full day later, his face pressed into the damp earth and the book digging into his chest. Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, he tucked the journal into his pocket, dried himself off with a flick of his wand and left the stone circle behind with nary a crack of displaced air.

He blinks as he realizes where he had taken himself: the cottage is unkempt and nearly invisible even in the early morning light, but he’s finally able to relax as he strolls up the cobblestone laneway to the little cottage near Bryn Celli Ddu. This place? This is home, in a way he hadn’t been able to find elsewhere, even after nearly forty years of searching. Even if it looks like the house he had found twenty years ago, and not the one he had slept in two nights past.

Preservation charms have kept the place from crumbling with age, to be sure, but a thick layer of dust has settled over the centuries nonetheless. Shrugging, he pulls his wand: time to start cleaning. If it was anything like the last time, well. He’d be here for a couple days first freshening the place up and then modernising it: he doesn’t fancy sleeping on what amounts to a box filled with ancient straw, after all.

Since he needs to pick up groceries and toiletries from a nearby shop and has no money to speak of, that means he needs to stop by Gringotts.

Fucking goblins.

He makes sure to arrive as early as possible, strolling up the steps into the bank a few scant minutes after the place opens for the day and crossing his fingers that few would be around at eight on a Saturday morning. Thankfully that turns out to be true, and he’s able to walk right up to a teller uncontested.

“The Potter.” The goblin in front of him is looking at him in wide eyed shock. Which, he supposes, is to be expected. As far as they knew there hasn’t been a Potterer in centuries.

“Good, you can tell. I need to speak with somebody privately regarding my account.”

“The magic is… quite obvious,” the goblin grunts. “Follow me.”

He refrains from raising an eyebrow as he’s led off immediately instead of being told to stand around and wait, deciding that it must be because these particular goblins aren’t used to him yet. Something similar had happened the first time he had entered the bank after ‘inheriting’ his title, but they were back to sneering at him soon enough. Likely something similar would happen this time.

But, he’s barely gone three steps when he hears a gasp. Spinning, he finds a woman staring at him like she’d seen a ghost.

“You’re a Potter,” she bites out, before clasping her hand over her mouth.

“You’re a Black,” he retorts. She has to be, he decides: the eyes and hair and chin were a dead giveaway.

“Who married a Potter. Who the hell are you?”

“Married… oh. Dorea?”

Her eyes narrow, silver irises sparkling. “Yes. And again: who are you? The only Potters in Britain are my husband and son, and our child is eleven.”

“Adam. And I assure you, the relation is fairly… distant.”

“And who exactly are your parents?”

He refrains from rolling his eyes, but just barely. “I’m not your husband’s bastard, Dorea.”

“If you don’t mind, Potterer, the accounts foreman is ready for you.”

She mouths the word Potterer as he nods at her and turns away. “Wait! Please, won’t you come stay with my husband and I for a few days?”

“I…”

“Please,” she scoffs. “You’re supposed to seek my husband out, not the goblins.”

He eyes her for a moment. “Been hearing some family secrets, have you?”

“Yes. At the same time as the heir, as is proper,” she sniffs. “Come, join us this afternoon.”

“Very well. Which property do you live at?”

“The one in Wales, Linfield House. I’ll have Charlus add you to the wards as soon as I get home.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he tells her wryly before turning back to the goblin. “I do need to withdraw funds, but it seems like the other matters can wait.”

“Of course, Potterer. This way.”

“Dorea,” he says. “I’ll be over after I get my wardrobe sorted out.” His clothes aren’t from this century, and he still had no idea why.

“Naturally. Until then.”

Clothing is dealt with quickly, thank goodness, and he leaves the shop with a pair of outfits and more on order.

Arriving at the Potter home in Wales shortly before noon, he finds the wards no more a concern than a warm breeze, and Charlus and Dorea are waiting for him on the steps of the home. His grandparents, but not his grandparents: he’s much too old to still be that boy.

He hasn’t been Harry in…

He shakes it off, those niggling thoughts, and extends his hand. “It’s lovely to meet you,” he says, and Charlus is barely holding his excitement at bay while Dorea simply looks pained.

Afraid, he realizes. She’s afraid. That’s…

“Please, do come in. Lunch will be served momentarily.”

And it is. A light meal, to be sure, but grilled chicken and a salad hit the spot and he eats enough food for an army, as if it had been decades since he’d eaten and not a day but…

Charlus and Dorea are both watching him carefully during the meal, and they barely speak beyond introductions (and why does he introduce himself as Adam?), but honestly, he’s too concerned with filling his face to deal with conversation.

It’s Charlus who finally breaks the silence.

“You’ve just awoken, haven’t you?”

Adam raises an eyebrow, unsure what he’s talking about. He has just came from 2017. Right?

“Only… the stories say that it takes time to remember things.”

“I suppose. It certainly seems like things are missing.” His clothes were strange when he arrived. He doesn’t have his wallet, or money, or…

How did Dorea recognize him? How did he know about family secrets? … And more importantly, what family secrets? He can’t…

Charlus continues speaking. “Well then. Naturally, if you plan on staying… incognito… you’re welcome to claim a closer relation. An elder son that was hidden and educated abroad, perhaps?”

“We would love to host you, of course,” Dorea adds, but her voice still rather strangled.

“I stopped in at Tŷ Celli Ddu before going to Gringotts,” he admits, “and started cleaning and modernizing it.”

“That is….?”

“The Potterer property on Anglesey.”

“Oh. I wasn’t aware that…” Charlus stops himself and takes a breath. “Do you… have plans already made? You usually…” he trails off, unsure.

“Vague ones,” he admits, “around the dark lord that popped up recently.” At least, he hopes that it’s a recent occurrence. Voldemort became active in the early 70s – didn’t he?

“Oh.”

“What do I usually do?”

“Meddle,” Dorea says bluntly.

“For the good of my family,” Harry responds automatically, then frowns. When had he meddled?

“See? Memory problems,” Charlus offers, voice triumphant. “So! Do you want to play act as my kid, or go your own way?”

“Play act,” he says, and frowns again. He really ought to look at that book from the Dance – perhaps it could tell him what the hell he was missing.

“Excellent. Tippy!” A bouncing elf arrives at Charlus’ command. “Please show Adam to his rooms in the family wing. He’ll be masquerading as my son, for now.”

“I should go back to Gringotts and get that sorted,” Adam begins, but is cut off by his ‘father’.

“Nonsense. Tippy can handle that for you.”

The elf in question nods frenetically. “Yes Potterer, sir. Tippy can pass letter to goblins for my Master.”

“Remember, I’m not the Potterer in front of anyone other than Charlus and Dorea. I’m just Adam.”

“Yes Potterer, sir.”

“How are we going to justify keeping James as our heir?” Dorea interrupts.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Adam says with a shrug. “You were bonded in the summer of 1949, right?”

“Yes…”

“Then I’m 21, born in July of 1950.” At Dorea’s baffled expression, he clarifies. “A family rule states that any child born within two years of marriage is ineligible to be the heir if there is a more suitable candidate.”

“But…”

“… because the marriage bond wouldn’t be fully sealed at conception. Which also explains why I was sent away. Hide the accidental spare, educate him abroad and only bring him back once his schooling is complete. And my age allows me to claim a couple masteries.”

“Oh? What did you plan on choosing?”

“Mmm. Warding techniques and either charms or defence.”

“I’d suggest you pick defence,” interrupts Charlus. “That course of study would allow you to easily infiltrate Hogwarts if you so choose.”

Sharpspear,

I have changed my plans and instead will be posing as the elder child of Charlus and Dorea Potter. Adam Sirius Potter, born 31 July, 1950. Educated in South Africa at the Table Bay Academy, with convocation in summer, 1968.

Please arrange the following credentials with the African Education Initiative:

N-Level equivalents in: Defence & Dueling, Transfiguration, and Charms at grade level 7; Herbology, Potions, Arithmancy and Runes at grade level 6.

O-Level equivalents in: Defence & Dueling, Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Herbology, Arithmancy and Runes at grade level 7; Astrology and History at grade level 5.

Mastery in: Defensive Magic and Warding Techniques.

Arrange for them to be completed under the same master, who has a strong background in charms-based warding.

Once that is completed, file the paperwork with the British Ministry.

In addition, please transfer 10,000 galleons from vault zero to a family vault, for appearances sake.

As per the agreement of 1241 at the Giant’s Dance, these actions and my true identity will be kept in confidence until and if I choose to reveal myself.

He leaves the letter unsigned but for the magic that lingers on the page.

Days, and weeks pass and while he feels like he’s still missing wide swaths of his memories, some did indeed return.

Vancouver isn’t his first stop after the ritual in the Little Hangleton graveyard, no. It isn’t even the second, or the third.

The first, as far as he can tell, was the Salisbury plain before the construction of Stonehenge. Or during it – the first wave, at least. He remembers building it, he remembers gathering the hunt and riding with it, he remembers children.

His children.

Children who grow old, and pass on, followed by his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren… and then he sleeps, and dreams and awakens and does it again.

He never wakes in the same place he began dreaming in, and he always awakens during the odd light of an eclipse.

And, he always comes when his descendants are in danger. Because yes, Charlus and James and those that came before? Descendants.

This time is stranger in a way that previous awakenings aren’t: this time, he’s around people who knew him during his first life. His mortal life.

Even if they don’t know that.