The Floo flared, emerald flames casting their flickering light across the polished mahogany floor.

  Two figures stepped out of the Floo, their movement unbroken as they smoothly strode into the antechamber.

  Harry recognised them. He’d seen their faces on the Black Tapestry, and in old photographs scattered around Grimmauld Place.

  Even if he hadn’t, the resemblance to their daughters was strong.

  After the war, he’d come to know both Andromeda and Narcissa rather well.

  Andromeda had been raising her grandson, Harry’s godson, Teddy Lupin. Making time for regular visits with the boy was among the only socialization he’d allowed himself in recent years.

  Which meant time with the two sisters as well.

  The rest of his focus had gone to the work he’d grown passionate about.

  Public appearances as “The Saviour of Wizarding Britain” offered a ready-made excuse. He blamed the spotlight, the press, the politics. But the truth was far simpler.

  He’d been avoiding everyone.

  There was something difficult, something weighty in seeing those who’d been through the War with him.

  It was the reason he kept his distance. Why being around them hurt.

  George had died just as much as Fred had that day. The joyful prankster was no more.

  Neville had forged himself into something new. Something stronger. He’d grown beyond the war and was thriving like the plants he now tended at Hogwarts.

  And Ron. Ron had grieved.

  Harry knew that.

  He’d felt every ounce of loss, especially Fred. But somehow, miraculously, he’d held on to himself.

  He still laughed the same way. Still talked about the Cannons’ upcoming Cinderella season, whinged about his 9 to 5, and argued with Hermione over dinner.

  As if the war had left a few scars, but hadn’t truly changed him.

  And maybe that was real strength. Maybe that was resilience.

  But Harry didn’t have that in him. Couldn’t do that.

  He didn’t know how to be who he’d been before.

  So he avoided.

  And drifted.

  He let the unbidden thoughts go, retreating to the present. This strange new reality was somehow easier to face than his own past.

  While his mind had wandered, Cygnus and Druella had settled in.

  Please, go ahead, make yourselves at home… Oh bugger, I’m homeless now.

  Cygnus had just plucked up the copy of the Prophet from the table where Harry had left it. The pages snapped open between his fingers.

  “Knockturn was in disorder again.”

  Druella sat primly on the settee, resting a hand lightly over the silver handle of her cane.

  “I cannot imagine why you persist in reading that rag. It does prattle on endlessly.”

  Cygnus hummed, eyes scanning the column, his mouth tightening slightly.

  “Jenkins dithers and the rabble grow restless.” He flicked the page. “More attacks. More upheaval.”

  Druella leaned forward, fingers tightening around the handle of her cane.

  “And the Dark Lord’s men?”

  Harry’s mirrored the motion, knuckles white in clenched fists.

  So he’s already active. Have the Blacks already jumped into bed with him?

  Cygnus folded the paper with a soft snap and set it aside.

  “Simpleminded brutes, the lot of them. No discretion. No restraint.”

  He crossed to the cellarette and selected two decanters.

  “They believe chest-thumping and fearmongering will advance their cause.”

  Druella tilted her head, voice mild. “You sound as if you disapprove.”

  Cygnus scoffed softly, pouring them each a glass of refreshment. “Approve or disapprove, it makes no difference. I simply recognize foolishness when I see it.”

  He returned to his chair and handed Druella her glass. She accepted it with an elegant nod. He sat himself, then gestured to the discarded paper.

  “The Minister flounders. Thugs terrorize the alleys. Muggleborn and squibs strike for rights. And she plays at diplomat, believing parchment and civility carry the day.”

  He swirled his glass of port, eyeing the legs as they traced the glass.

  “It will not. Compromise and fair play will not stop this Lord Voldemort.”

  Druella hummed, swirling her own sherry languidly. She took a slow, deliberate sip.

  “And his young radicals?”

  Cygnus paused to consider.

  "They overreach. A firm hand is necessary, but it must be measured. A movement requires more than a cudgel."

  He took a slow pull of his port.

  "In their zeal to reshape our carefully maintained society, they risk crumbling its very foundations."

  Druella studied him over the rim of her glass.

  “It is not power that they misunderstand. It is time.”

  Cygnus nodded, slow and considering.

  "Quite so. Society cannot be bent by force alone. It must be guided. Tempered."

  Druella took another sip, setting her glass down gently.

  “And if these partisans press too hard before they’ve secured their footing?”

  Cygnus was silent a moment, watching the fire.

  “Then they will learn what all revolutionaries do: there are limits. Push too hard, and even the lowest will push back. Shatter that stability, and empires collapse.”

  Druella sighed, shaking her head. “History repeats itself.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “And yet, no one learns.” Cygnus lifted his glass in a quiet, wry toast, then drank.

  Druella set the cane aside. “How was the Ministry today?”

  Cygnus let out a quiet sigh, rubbing his temple with two fingers.

  “Predictable. If I must endure another committee on ‘cultural integration,’ I may be forced to remind them which culture is doing the integrating.”

  Druella’s lips curved faintly. “You do suffer so.”

  He gave her a pointed look over the rim of his glass. “Your sympathy is noted.”

  She waved a graceful hand. “And Arcturus?”

  Cygnus sighed, settling back into his chair.

  “Still convinced Orion is hopelessly inept. He speaks of him as if he were a particularly dull student, rather than a man with two sons and a seat of his own.”

  Druella let out a quiet breath, something almost sympathetic.

  “Your cousin was not born to lead.”

  “No,” Cygnus agreed, rolling the glass between his fingers. “He wishes to. He simply does not know how.”

  Druella turned the topic elsewhere.

  “Andromeda is still sneaking about.”

  Cygnus’ expression flickered into something Harry couldn’t quite name.

  “She is young, but clever. She will come to her senses.”

  Druella arched a brow, unimpressed.

  “Cygnus, you are a wonderful father, but if you keep pretending she isn’t planning something, you will be very disappointed.”

  He refused to meet her gaze. “My girls are good girls. They know their duty.”

  Druella was silent for a moment.

  “Of course, dear.” She lifted her glass, taking a slow sip. “Fortunately, we have many promising suitors. A proper match with a good family will settle her.”

  Harry fought not to scoff.

  Like hell it will. She’s already decided. If she’s anything like the Andi I know, there’s no changing her mind once its been made up.

  Cygnus nodded in agreement. “So long as we find someone who deserves her. Has Bella finally decided on the LeStrange boy?”

  Druella grimaced. “Yes, I’m afraid so. They’re all too close to this Voldemort business. I do worry, Cygnus.”

  He grunted in agreement. “She’s a strong girl, passionate too. She won’t be dissuaded from this path. We shall simply be there to catch her… Should the worst happen.”

  Following that pronouncement the conversation stalled briefly.

  So Bellatrix is already waist-deep with the Death Eaters. Or maybe it’s still The Knights of Walpurgis at this point?

  After another moment Cygnus cleared his throat. “Has Narcissa decided on her post-graduation plans?”

  “Still uncertain,” Druella admitted, though she didn’t sound concerned. “She is weighing her options. She mentioned a growing interest in relics and enchantment objects. Maybe she’ll follow in your footsteps in the Department of Culture and Heritage.”

  A true, beaming smile settled across his face. “She’s her father’s girl, there’s never been any doubt.”

  Druella returned the smile. “None at all. The Malfoys have made further inquiries, though I’m concerned. Lucius Malfoy is too cold and controlling. She would wither under a husband like that.”

  She nearly had.

  Hard to believe a woman who outplayed Voldemort was shackled to a useless bellend like Lucius Malfoy. She deserved better.

  “That won’t do at all.” He sat forward, setting down his glass with a clink. I’ll make inquiries. There must be someone who can truly care for my little flower.”

  “Come, husband, let us retire.” Druella called, as she took a final sip.

  Cygnus came to her quickly, helping her to her feet, “Of course, my dear.”

  Their voices turned to fading echoes as they made their way down the corridor.

  With the room now empty, Harry looked around once more.

  It was queer… Feeling nostalgia for a future that only existed in his past.

  Harry let out a slow breath, centering himself.

  He’d seen enough for tonight. He had some answers, and more questions. But right now, he was a stranger standing in someone else’s drawing room.

  He needed to go. To find somewhere to think and to plan.

  · · ·

  Harry turned on his heel, the familiar pull of Apparition folding space around him.

  A breath later, he stood outside the Leaky Cauldron.

  For a moment, he just looked at it. The sign above the door swung lazily in the evening breeze, creaking against rusted hinges, a bit less worn than in his memory.

  Tom had hosted him once before, years ago, or rather, years from now.

  He’d been a scrawny thirteen-year-old, desperate and half-wild, fleeing the Dursleys after blowing up his aunt. It had done well enough then, it’d do well enough now.

  Despite the temporal displacement, his situation now was better than the last time. Back then he’d been fleeing from a home that felt more like a prison. One he was sent back to year after year.

  Those days were, happily, long gone.

  Admittedly, now he had no home to go back to at all… But on the whole it was still preferable.

  The sky had deepened into indigo, stars winking into place between the uneven shingled rooftops. Down the alley, streetlamps flickered to life, one after another, painting the cobbles in pools of warm orange.

  His boots clacked against stone as he crossed the threshold into the Leaky Cauldron.

  The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Warmth, the low murmur of conversation, the scent of ale and pipe smoke hanging thick in the air.

  The pub had the same timeless, lived-in charm as always, but it was a little tidier and better kept.

  A younger Tom worked behind the bar, sleeves rolled up as he poured drinks with the practised ease of a man who hadn’t yet been worn down by time and sorrow.

  Harry took one of the few open seats at the bar, sliding onto the worn wood stool beside two men nursing pints. Older than him, but not by much. In their late twenties or early thirties.

  Muggleborns, if the details were anything to go by.

  Their clothes had a more modern cut than the usual wizarding fare. One of the men checked his battered Timex, not a brand found on Diagon Alley.

  He raised two fingers toward Tom, signalling for a drink, but his attention snagged on their conversation just as the stockier man leaned in.

  "Nah, still nowt from ‘im. Not since that Leicester mess." His voice was low but carried, slipping between gulps of ale.

  He had a sweaty face, a full banker’s moustache, and the rough shadow of a day's stubble creeping across his face. A bowler hat that had seen better days crowned his head.

  The taller bloke exhaled sharply, dabbing at his forehead with a crumpled napkin.

  "Knew it. Knew summat was off. He were workin’ up that way with Eddy. They ain't givin' us jobs no more, not round ‘ere. Bloody purebloods got us blacklisted, Yaxley’s got ‘em right riled up. Tommy told me ‘bout this gig, but I were tied up wiv another contract."

  "Count yerself lucky, mate." The first man shook his head. "Folk been disappearin’ since all this kicked off. Nutters, the lot of ‘em."

  The taller man stiffened, darting a quick look around before muttering, "Keep it down, yeah? No need to put a bloody target on us. C’mon, talk about summat else. Did ya see Arsenal’s match Saturday?"

  Harry didn’t react outwardly, but he noted the information.

  So the Death Eaters are already growing active. This is by the book. Leave them with no work and a fear of harm. They’re being pushed to flee to the Muggle world.

  Tom appeared at his side, and Harry let the conversation fade into the background.

  "What can I get ya?" Tom asked, polishing a glass because… well, that’s what barkeeps always seemed to be doing.

  "A pint, a bite, and a bed," Harry grinned, reaching for the pouch at his belt.

  Tom grabbed a glass and filled it from the nearest tap, the amber liquid frothing up to the rim before he slid it across the counter.

  "Ah, thought you was new in town. Didn’t recognise you, and I never forget a face."

  Harry caught the glass, fingers wrapping around the cool condensation. He took a sip, the bitter tang settling on his tongue.

  "Fresh off the boat," he said smoothly. "Been working abroad. Just need a place to stay for a spell while I sort myself out."

  Tom gave a nod, not prying but filing the information away the way all good barkeeps did.

  "Well, a room’s no problem. Food’s simple: we got lamb stew, fish and tatties, or steak and kidney pie tonight. Just let me know what you want, and it’ll be ‘round soon enough."

  Without waiting for a response, he turned to deal with another customer waving him down at the other end of the bar.

  Harry let himself settle, the familiar comfort of the Leaky Cauldron offering him some welcome respite.

  Not the worst day I’ve ever had. Could’ve been a Monday.

  · · ·

  Sleep came easier than he’d expected, and before he knew it, Harry woke to the sounds of the alley coming to life.

  Harry pushed himself up, rubbing a hand over his face as he let the fog of sleep clear. After a few minutes of debating going back to sleep, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and grudgingly sat up.

  He’d gotten what he needed last night: food, a bed, and some information.

  Today, he had a lot to figure out and to do.

  First and foremost, he needed a paper trail. Living as a drifter in the 70s was not appealing. Fortunately, he knew someone that could be convinced to help if he slipped them a few Galleons or twist their arm.

  He reached for his mokeskin pouch to confirm his assets before taking off for the day. He slipped his hand inside, pulling out stack after stack of Galleons.

  A few hundred, at least.

  Right, I found this lot in the chamber… Why do they look modern?

  It was not the sort of coinage he’d expect to find beneath a Neolithic henge. They were not irregularly hammered discs, with crude loops punched through for threading onto a belt.

  These were precise and almost looked machine-cut. They had no place in a chamber that seemed untouched since magic was young.

  Very bizarre… But in light of the impossibility of my spontaneous time travel, let’s set this mystery aside for now.

  For now, he had things to do and people to see.

  He secured the bag tightly before standing and withdrawing his wand.

  “Point me Mundungus Fletcher”