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Time's Usurper Chapter 6 (The Dance of Secrets)
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 20:51:10 +0000 UTCTime's Usurper Chapter 6 (The Dance of Secrets)
The morning sun cast long shadows across the Three Broomsticks as Harry knelt beside the pub's foundation, his wand tracing intricate patterns in the air. Silver threads of magic followed his movements.
"Protego Totalum. Salvio Hexia. Muffliato Maxima." The basic protections settled into place first, but Harry was just getting started. "Repello Inimicum. Protego Horribilis."
From the doorway, Rosmerta watched with growing amazement as the magical defenses layered themselves around her establishment like invisible armor. "I've never seen ward work like that," she said, stepping closer. "Those aren't standard protective charms."
Harry didn't look up from his work, too focused on the delicate interweaving of magical protections. "Standard charms wouldn't have stopped what happened this morning."
"Caterwauling Charms integrated with Intruder Jinxes," he murmured under his breath, then louder: "Specialis Revelio Continuous. Finite Incantatem Resistance."
"Harry." Rosmerta's voice carried a note of concern. "Some of those incantations... I don't recognize them at all."
Because they won't be invented for another twenty years. Harry finally straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. The morning's work had been exhausting, but necessary. "Innovation born of paranoia."
She moved to stand beside him, studying the faint shimmer in the air that marked the ward boundaries. "This is military-grade protection. The kind of thing you'd see around the Ministry or Gringotts."
"You deserve to be safe." Harry's voice was quiet, edged with guilt. "Those men came here because of me. The least I can do is make sure it never happens again."
Rosmerta reached out, her fingers stopping just short of the ward line. The magical barrier flared briefly at her approach, recognizing her as the property owner and allowing her passage. "How does it know I'm allowed through?"
"Blood magic," Harry said simply. "Keyed to your magical signature and bound to the building's ownership. Anyone you explicitly invite will be able to enter safely. Everyone else..." He gestured to a small rock and flicked it toward the pub.
The stone struck the invisible barrier and erupted in a shower of harmless sparks before bouncing away.
"Bloody hell," Rosmerta breathed. "And you learned this where, exactly?"
Harry began walking the perimeter, checking his work with the practiced eye of someone who'd lived through a war. "You pick things up when people keep trying to kill you."
"That's not an answer." She followed him, determination clear in her voice. "Nobody just picks up ward work like this. The complexity of what you've done here... it would take a team of curse-breakers working together to achieve this level of protection."
And it did, in my timeline. Bill Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and half the Order worked for weeks to properly ward the Burrow. "I've had good teachers."
"Who? Where?" Rosmerta caught his arm, forcing him to stop and look at her. "Harry, I'm not stupid. The spells you used this morning against those Death Eaters, now this... you're not just some wandering monster hunter, are you?"
Harry studied her face—the keen intelligence behind those brown eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw. She deserved honesty, but the truth would put her in more danger than she was already in.
"I'm someone who's seen what happens when good people aren't protected," he said finally. "Someone who's lost too much to stand by and let it happen again."
The raw pain in his voice made her expression soften. "The war you mentioned to the professors. It wasn't metaphorical, was it?"
The war that's coming. The war that killed my parents, Sirius, Remus, Tonks... so many others. "No. It wasn't."
Rosmerta was quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. "Will you tell me about it? Tonight, when you come back?"
Harry completed his circuit of the building, noting with satisfaction how the ward network hummed with contained power. Any wizard with decent magical sensitivity would be able to detect the protections from a hundred yards away. Good. Let them wonder who had the skill and knowledge to weave such defenses.
"Some of it," he promised, though he knew he'd have to be careful. "What I can tell you without putting you in more danger."
"More danger?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Harry, after this morning, I think I'm already neck-deep in whatever you're involved in."
You have no idea. Harry touched the final ward stone, a small crystal he'd embedded in the pub's cornerstone. The entire defensive network flared briefly, then settled into invisibility. "Fidelius Partial—location masking only."
"What was that last one?" Rosmerta asked sharply.
"Insurance." Harry pocketed his wand and turned to face her fully. "If anyone comes looking for you specifically, they'll have trouble finding this place unless they already know exactly where it is."
The implications of that hit her immediately. "You expect more attacks."
"I expect trouble," Harry corrected. "The kind of people who sent those three don't give up easily." He stepped closer, reaching out to touch her cheek gently. "But you're safe now. I promise you that."
Rosmerta leaned into his touch, but her eyes remained troubled. "At what cost? What kind of life is it, always looking over your shoulder?"
The only kind worth living when the alternative is letting evil win. "The kind that means people I care about stay alive."
"People you care about," she repeated softly. "Is that what I am to you?"
Harry's thumb traced along her cheekbone, and for a moment his careful emotional walls wavered. "You're someone who doesn't deserve to suffer for my choices."
It wasn't a complete answer, and they both knew it. But it was as much honesty as Harry could afford to give—to her, and to himself.
"I have to go," he said, stepping back reluctantly. "Dumbledore's expecting me at four."
"The teaching position?" At his nod, she smiled. "You'll be good at it. Teaching young people to protect themselves."
"We'll see. I'll be back tonight, and we can talk then."
As Harry walked away from the Three Broomsticks, he could feel the weight of the magical protections he'd left behind. They would hold against anything short of a concentrated assault by a dozen skilled dark wizards.
He only hoped that would be enough.
Harry stood before the cracked mirror in his room at the Three Broomsticks, straightening his collar with hands that remained perfectly steady despite the turmoil in his chest. The face looking back at him was older, harder than the boy who'd first walked through Hogwarts' doors ten years ago—or was it twenty-nine years in the future? Time travel made his head ache.
What would you think of me now, Professor? The Dumbledore he'd known had carried the weight of a hundred terrible decisions, eyes dulled by secrets and sacrifice. This younger version still had that spark of genuine curiosity, that twinkle unmarred by the knowledge of what Harry would become—what Harry had already been forced to become.
He thought of that first night in the Great Hall, eleven years old and terrified, the Sorting Hat heavy on his head while Dumbledore watched from the staff table with grandfatherly warmth. That man had believed in the power of love, in second chances, in the fundamental goodness of people.
Goodness of heart, Harry almost snorted. He knew from personal experience that some people could be turned, redemption was a thing, Dumbledore's problem was that he tried to see the light even in the most darkest of places, he searched for it for so long until the darkness swallowed him whole.
The strategy was simple enough in theory: be mysterious but not suspicious, knowledgeable but not impossibly so. Present himself as someone who'd seen enough darkness to recognize it coming, but not someone who'd lived through the worst of it already. A fine line to walk, especially with someone as perceptive as Dumbledore.
What does he already know? That was the crucial question. Dumbledore in any timeline was a master of information gathering. He'd have sources, contacts, ways of verifying details that most people would miss. The ward work alone would raise questions—protective magic that advanced shouldn't exist yet, but Harry couldn't afford to use anything less effective.
The mysterious warrior for the light, Harry thought with dark amusement. If only it were that simple.
The truth was more complicated. He wasn't fighting for the light so much as against the dark—and sometimes the distinction mattered less than it should. The men he'd killed this morning wouldn't be the last. Before this was over, he'd probably have to make choices that would horrify his younger self, the boy who'd once believed that good always triumphed because it was good.
Hogwarts. The name sent a complex mix of emotions through him. Home. Sanctuary. Prison. Battleground. How many times had he walked those corridors? How many friends had he lost in the final battle that raged through every stone and shadow?
And now his parents were there. Sixteen years old, probably worried about NEWTs and Quidditch and whether James had finally convinced Lily to go out with him. They were children—younger than Harry was now, though Harry was the same age as his parents when they died. The mathematics of time travel were nauseating.
What was his mother doing right now? Probably studying in the library, red hair falling like a curtain around her face as she bent over her books. Harry thought of Hermione, and that brought a smile to his face.
His father would be with Sirius somewhere, planning their next prank or discussing Quidditch strategies. James Potter at sixteen—confident, talented, probably still a bit of an arrogant prat but growing into the man who'd die protecting his family.
And Remus... probably helping them with their homework while secretly dreading the approaching full moon. Still believing he was a monster despite having the gentlest soul Harry had ever known.
The thought of Peter made Harry's hands clench into fists before he could stop himself. He'd always picked shields like a man picks masks—James, then Sirius, then Remus, each one more worn than the last. And when they cracked under the weight of war, he didn't stand. He didn't fight. He just reached for a darker one—sharper, crueler, heavier. Voldemort.
The urge to find Wormtail and end him before he could betray anyone was almost overwhelming.
Not yet, Harry forced himself to think. His time will come, but not yet.
But someday. Someday soon, Peter Pettigrew would answer for what he'd done—what he was going to do. Harry would make sure of that.
Harry's mind went to Severus Snape, the man might have tried to help, but only because of his mother, Harry wondered if he could somehow use that against Snape before the end of his seventh year, if he could not turn him, then Harry would make sure Snape will not be there to listen to a phrophecy.
He took a deep breath, centering himself. Emotional reactions would only make this harder. He needed to be the mysterious stranger, the warrior who'd seen darkness coming. Someone Dumbledore would want to trust, but not someone who'd raise too many inconvenient questions.
Time to go meet my old headmaster.
Harry straightened his shoulders and headed for the door. Hogwarts was waiting.
Hogwarts
The path from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts had never felt longer. The castle loomed ahead, its towers and turrets exactly as he remembered, yet somehow different—cleaner, perhaps, or maybe it was just the absence of war damage that wouldn't happen for years yet.
The grounds were pristine in a way that made his chest tight. No scorch marks from magic fire, no hastily repaired walls where curses had blown holes through ancient stone. The Whomping Willow was smaller, its branches less gnarled. Even the Great Lake seemed more peaceful, its surface unmarred by the memory of Inferi rising from its depths.
Home, he thought, then corrected himself. Not yet. Maybe not ever again.
A group of students was making their way back from what looked like a Care of Magical Creatures lesson, their robes dusty and their voices carrying across the grounds. Harry's heart stuttered as he recognized the distinctive voices before he saw their faces.
"—telling you, Prongs, if you'd just listened to my brilliant plan instead of trying to show off—"
"Your brilliant plan involved setting yourself on fire, Padfoot. Forgive me if I wasn't entirely convinced."
James Potter and Sirius Black were walking side by side, their faces animated with the kind of argument that was more performance than genuine disagreement. Behind them, a shorter boy with sandy hair—Remus—shook his head with fond exasperation, while Peter scurried to keep up.
Harry stopped walking entirely, his breath catching in his throat. His father was so young—tall for sixteen, with the same unruly black hair Harry had inherited, but his face still held traces of boyish softness that would disappear in the coming years. Sirius was leaner than Harry remembered from the photographs, his aristocratic features unmarked by Azkaban's horrors and he still had his handsome features.
They were alive. They were young and alive and completely unaware that death was already reaching for them with pale fingers.
"Excuse me," a cool voice interrupted his thoughts. "You're staring."
Harry turned to find a girl watching him with calculating dark eyes. She was beautiful in the way that dangerous things often were—sharp cheekbones, perfect posture. Her dark hair was pulled back severely, and her Slytherin robes were immaculate despite the outdoor lesson.
Bellatrix Black. Even at sixteen, she carried herself like she owned the world.
"I apologize," Harry said smoothly, inclining his head slightly. "I was... reminiscing."
Her eyebrows rose with interest. "Reminiscing? About Hogwarts? You're rather young to be nostalgic about school days." She stepped closer, studying his face with the intensity of a predator scenting prey. "Though you do look familiar. Have we met?"
More times than you could imagine, and you tried to kill me in most of them. "I don't believe so. I would have remembered."
Bellatrix smiled, and Harry caught a glimpse of the madness that would consume her in later years—just a flash, quickly hidden behind practiced charm. "Bellatrix Black," she said, extending a gloved hand. "And you are the mysterious hero from the Prophet, aren't you? The one who killed that beast Greyback."
Harry took her hand briefly, noting the way her fingers lingered just a moment too long. "News travels fast."
"Oh, it does indeed." Her smile sharpened. "Particularly when it involves such... creative methods of execution. The Prophet's description of your work was quite detailed. Most impressed by your technique."
"Sometimes creativity is necessary," Harry said carefully. "When conventional methods aren't sufficient."
"How refreshingly honest." Bellatrix's laugh was like broken glass. "Most people pretend they don't enjoy the violence. It's so tedious, all that false virtue." She tilted her head, studying him with renewed interest. "You know, my sister mentioned meeting you in the Three Broomsticks?"
Andromeda. Harry kept his expression neutral. "Your sister has good instincts."
"Oh, Andromeda has always been the clever one," Bellatrix said with what seemed like genuine affection. "Narcissa has the beauty, I have the power, and Andromeda has the brains. We make quite the trio." Her smile turned predatory. "She said you were dangerous. I do hope she was right."
Before Harry could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps made them both turn. Professor McGonagall was striding toward them, her tartan robes billowing behind her and her expression thunderous.
"Miss Black," McGonagall said crisply, "shouldn't you be preparing for evening meal rather than accosting visitors?"
Bellatrix's demeanor shifted instantly, becoming the picture of proper pureblood politeness. "Of course, Professor. I was merely welcoming our guest to Hogwarts."
"How thoughtful," McGonagall said dryly. "I'm sure Mr... Harry, was it?... appreciates your consideration. However, the Headmaster is waiting."
Bellatrix turned back to Harry, her dark eyes glittering with interest. "How delightful. It seems we'll be seeing more of each other." She inclined her head in a mockery of proper etiquette. "Until next time, Mr. Harry."
Harry watched her glide away toward the castle, her spine straight and her head held high.
"A word of advice," McGonagall said quietly once Bellatrix was out of earshot. "The Black family has a reputation for... intensity. It would be wise not to encourage Miss Black's interest."
"Noted," Harry said, though he suspected it was already too late for that. Bellatrix had scented something intriguing, and she wouldn't let it go easily.
McGonagall studied his face with the same sharp intelligence he remembered from his school days, though her features were younger, less lined with worry. "You handled that well. Most men of your age would have been either charmed or intimidated by her attention."
"I've met dangerous women before," Harry said truthfully.
"I imagine you have." McGonagall's tone suggested she was filing that information away for later consideration. "The Headmaster is most eager to speak with you. Shall we?"
As they walked toward the castle, McGonagall kept glancing at him sideways, her curiosity barely concealed. "The ward work you performed this morning at the Three Broomsticks," she said finally. "It's been detected by several members of our staff. Quite impressive for someone so young."
Here we go. "Experience ages you quickly in some professions."
"And what profession would that be, exactly?"
Harry smiled, letting just a hint of steel show through the charm. "The kind that keeps good people safe from bad ones."
McGonagall's lips twitched in what might have been approval. "A noble goal. Though I suspect the methods required for such work aren't always noble themselves."
"No," Harry agreed quietly. "They're not."
They walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, though Harry could feel McGonagall's gaze cataloguing every detail about him. She'd always been sharp—too sharp for his comfort, sometimes. It would be a challenge to maintain his cover around someone so perceptive.
The entrance hall was exactly as he remembered, though the house points hourglasses showed different standings and the faces in the portraits were unfamiliar. Students hurried past on their way to dinner, their voices echoing off the stone walls.
So many of them won't survive what's coming, Harry thought, watching a group of first-years practically bounce with excitement as they discussed their latest Transfiguration lesson. How many will die because I can't save them all?
"This way," McGonagall said, leading him toward the spiral staircase that led to Dumbledore's office. The gargoyle sprang aside at her approach, recognizing her authority.
As they ascended, McGonagall spoke without looking at him. "Whatever game you're playing, Mr. Harry, I hope you understand that Albus Dumbledore is not easily deceived. He has a way of seeing through people that can be... unsettling."
"I'm not playing any games, Professor. I'm just trying to do the right thing."
"The right thing," McGonagall repeated softly. "How remarkably few people can say that and mean it." She paused at the office door, studying his face one final time. "I hope, for all our sakes, that you're one of them."
So do I, Harry thought as she knocked on the door. So do I.
"Come in, come in," Dumbledore's voice called as McGonagall knocked. The door swung open to reveal the familiar circular office, though Harry's breath caught as he noticed what was missing. The wall behind Dumbledore's desk didn't have two portraits—no Snape with his perpetual sneer. Even Dumbledore's own portrait was decades away from claiming its place.
"Harry," Dumbledore said warmly, rising from behind his desk. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit." He gestured to a comfortable armchair positioned across from his desk. "May I offer you some tea? I have a lovely Earl Grey, or perhaps some peppermint? And I do recommend the sherbet lemons—they're particularly good today."
Harry settled into the offered chair but shook his head politely. "Thank you, but no. I prefer to keep my wits about me during important conversations."
Something flickered in Dumbledore's eyes—approval, perhaps, or recognition of a kindred spirit. "Ah, a cautious man. Wise, given recent events." He settled back into his own chair, folding his hands in his lap. "Though I confess, I'm curious about what makes this conversation important enough to warrant such... vigilance."
"A man who kills werewolves and survives Death Eater attacks doesn't do so by being careless, Professor."
"Indeed not." Dumbledore's smile was gentle, but his eyes were sharp. "Tell me, what did you think of Hogwarts as you walked the grounds? It's been some time since we've had a visitor with your particular... perspective."
Harry leaned back slightly, matching Dumbledore's casual pose while his mind raced. "It's beautiful. Peaceful. The kind of place worth protecting."
"Worth protecting," Dumbledore repeated thoughtfully. "An interesting choice of words. From whom, might I ask?"
"From anyone who would see it burn." Harry's voice was quiet but carried an edge of steel. "From those who call themselves the Death Eaters."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his expression growing more serious. "The men who attacked you this morning—they mentioned a Dark Lord. What can you tell me about him?"
"Enough to know he's dangerous. Enough to recognize the signs of his influence spreading." Harry paused, choosing his words carefully. "He's not content with simple terrorism. He's building an army, a movement. And he's intelligent enough to do it slowly, carefully, so that by the time people realize what's happening, it may be too late to stop him."
"You speak as though you've encountered his followers before."
"I have." Harry's jaw tightened slightly. "Not all of them were as... civilized as the ones who came for me this morning."
Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, studying Harry's face. "The ward work you performed at the Three Broomsticks—Professor McGonagall was quite impressed. She mentioned several techniques she didn't recognize."
Here we go. "Necessity breeds innovation, Professor. When standard protections aren't enough, you learn to... adapt."
"Adapt indeed." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with what looked like genuine curiosity. "The integration of Caterwauling Charms with Intruder Jinxes, for instance. Most ward-crafters would consider such a combination unstable at best."
Harry blinked. He'd muttered those specific techniques under his breath while working—had Dumbledore somehow observed him from the castle? "It's only unstable if you don't properly account for the magical resonance frequencies. The key is layering the detection matrix through the jinx framework rather than attempting to run them in parallel."
"Fascinating." Dumbledore leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "Such advanced theoretical knowledge in one so young. Where did you study, if you don't mind my asking?"
At Hogwarts. "Here and there. War makes teachers of us all, as I mentioned before."
"Ah yes, the war." Dumbledore's voice remained light, but Harry could sense the increased attention. "You've mentioned it several times now. Which war, exactly?"
Harry was quiet for a long moment. "The one that's coming, Professor. The one that's already begun, even if most people don't realize it yet."
"You speak of the future with remarkable certainty."
"I speak of patterns." Harry's voice was soft but steady. "History repeats itself, Professor. The same hatred, the same rhetoric, the same gradual erosion of decency until suddenly decent people find themselves complicit in atrocities." He met Dumbledore's gaze directly. "I've seen what happens when good people do nothing."
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment, his blue eyes searching Harry's face. "Tell me," he said finally, "if you knew that stopping a great evil would require... morally questionable actions, what would you do?"
I'd kill a sixteen-year-old boy if it meant saving thousands of lives. The thought came unbidden, and Harry had to suppress a shudder at his own casual acceptance of it. "I would do what was necessary," he said carefully. "And I would live with the consequences."
"Even if those consequences included the loss of your own soul?"
Harry smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Professor, I think you'd be surprised how much a soul can endure when it's protecting the people it loves."
"Love," Dumbledore repeated softly. "Yes, I suppose that does make all the difference." He studied Harry for another moment. "The Death Eaters who attacked you this morning—they tried to recruit you, didn't they?"
"They did."
"And you refused because...?"
"Because I've seen what they build." Harry's voice was flat, emotionless. "Because I know what their 'pure' world looks like, and it's not a place I'd want to live in."
"Yet you killed them without hesitation."
"Yes."
"That doesn't trouble you?"
Harry was quiet for a moment, thinking of all the faces that haunted his dreams—enemies and friends alike. "Professor," he said finally, "I sleep better knowing that those particular monsters will never hurt anyone again."
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "You're a complicated young man, Harry. Full of contradictions."
"Most people are, in my experience."
"Indeed." Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Though not everyone carries their contradictions with such... grace." He paused, then continued more seriously. "You mentioned wanting to help protect places like Hogwarts. What did you have in mind?"
"Young people need to know how to defend themselves, Professor. The kind of real, practical training that will keep them alive when theory isn't enough."
"And you believe yourself qualified to provide such training?"
Harry thought of the Room of Requirement, of Dumbledore's Army, of teaching his fellow students to fight for their lives. "I believe I have something to offer, yes."
"Even though you're barely older than the seventh-years students?"
"Age and experience aren't always the same thing, Professor." Harry's smile was sharp. "I think you of all people would understand that."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with what looked like genuine amusement. "Touché, young man. Touché."
The silence stretched between them. Finally, Dumbledore spoke again.
"Very well, Harry. I believe I can help you."
Comments
oWell
Well, Harry has thought about it, and it is one of those things he has to deal with as soon as possible.
Jebus03911
Hmmmm has Harry accounted for the fact that the Maurader's Map exhist? How long until James and the crew look at the map and see Harry's full name there and start asking questions ?
Jack Lee
I am ready for Dumbledore to drop the “Potter”.
Cody Wyka
Quickly becoming my favorite story of yours!
Victory For The People
I don't know what to think about the dude who can manage a ward job that usually takes a team but doesn't think to fix a cracked mirror with a simple Reparo.... But it was a fun and immersive chapter. Good job!
Maxime Cusson
phrophecy -> prophecy
