Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The alley erupted in a violent flash of crimson light, reality itself tearing apart as Harry Potter materialized in a maelstrom of dark magic. His body slammed against cold cobblestones, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Crackling energy, red as fresh blood, danced across his skin and cast otherworldly shadows on the narrow walls around him.

"Fuck," he gasped, tasting copper in his mouth. His torn Auror robes reeked of ritual components – crushed moonstone crystals ground into the fabric, burnt sage and nightshade, and most prominently, the metallic scent of sacrificial blood. The ritual had worked, but the cost had been steep.

The ceremonial dagger in his left hand still radiated warmth, its obsidian blade stained with his own blood. His phoenix-core wand in his right felt uncomfortably hot, protesting the dark magic he'd forced through it. Harry's magical core throbbed with exhaustion, but he couldn't afford to rest. Not yet.

"Tempus," he whispered, watching as ghostly numbers formed in the air. 3:47 PM. The time meant nothing without the date, but at least the spell worked. His magic hadn't been completely drained.

Footsteps echoed from the main street. Harry cursed under his breath and began rapidly vanishing evidence of the ritual. Blood traces disappeared from his robes with practiced flicks of his wand. The dagger went into a mokeskin pouch at his belt, alongside the remaining ritual components. Another spell repaired the worst tears in his clothing.

The air felt different here – thicker, heavier with ambient magic. Harry had studied magical theory extensively during his preparation for the ritual, and he recognized what this meant. Modern-day Britain's magic had been regulated, controlled, sanitized by centuries of Ministry interference. This wild, heavy magic in the air could only mean—

"Hello?" A woman's voice called from the alley's entrance. "Is someone there?"

Harry pressed himself against the wall, disillusioned but barely breathing. The woman – middle-aged, wearing robes at least two decades out of style – peered into the alley before shrugging and continuing on her way.

Two decades out of style. The realization hit him like a Bludger to the chest.

Fighting waves of dizziness, Harry edged toward the alley's entrance. The Hogsmeade that greeted him was both familiar and jarringly wrong. Zonko's still occupied the building that would become Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes' second location. The Three Broomsticks' sign looked freshly painted, its design subtly different. A newspaper stand displayed the Daily Prophet, its headlines mentioning Abraxas Malfoy rather than his son Lucius.

"Keep it together," Harry muttered to himself, fighting down panic. He'd known this would happen – had planned for it, even. But the reality of time travel was far more disorienting than the theory.

His legs threatened to buckle as he took his first steps onto the main street. The magical exhaustion from the ritual was hitting him harder now, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision. The red magic he'd wielded had taken its toll, leaving him vulnerable in a time he couldn't afford to show weakness.

Groups of witches and wizards passed by, their fashion confirming what he already suspected. Men in wide-collared robes, women with distinctly 1970s hairstyles. A young boy pressed his face against the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, admiring a Nimbus 1500 – a broom that would be considered an antique in Harry's time.

The residual dark magic clung to him like a second skin. He could feel it, knew others with sufficient sensitivity would sense it too. But cleaning it completely would take time and privacy he didn't have. The best he could do was muddy its signature, mixing in lighter spells to confuse anyone trying to read his magical aura.

"Fresh Chocolate Frogs!" a vendor called out. "Now with new cards featuring Rising Star Seeker Ludo Bagman!"

Harry's head spun. Ludo Bagman, young enough to be a Quidditch star rather than the gambling addict he'd known. Which meant—

A group of students in Hogwarts robes rounded the corner, laughing among themselves. Harry's heart nearly stopped. He recognized the Ravenclaw prefect badge, the specific shade of blue trim that would be changed slightly in 1982. The temporal displacement wasn't just theory anymore. He was really here.

"Steady," he whispered to himself, gripping his wand tighter. "You planned for this. You prepared."

But all his preparation couldn't fully ready him for the sight of Honeydukes' window display advertising "New! Fizzing Whizzbees - Half Price!" or hearing snippets of conversation about Minister Jenkins' latest policies. The past wasn't just a concept anymore. It was real, solid, and overwhelming.

The magical exhaustion made everything worse. Each step required concentration. The red magic had drained him more than expected, leaving him feeling hollow and raw. He needed a safe place to recover, to properly clean away the dark magical residue before someone noticed.

"Watch where you're going!" a wizard snapped as Harry stumbled slightly. The man's eyes narrowed, probably sensing something off about Harry's magical signature. Harry quickly mumbled an apology and moved away, drawing his torn robes tighter around himself.

The Three Broomsticks stood ahead, promising refuge. But Harry knew he couldn't risk it – not yet, not while traces of the ritual still clung to him. He needed somewhere more private first. Somewhere he could gather his thoughts and begin implementing the plans he'd spent years developing.

His gaze fell on the small alley behind Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop. It would do for now. Harry slipped into the shadows, his Auror training helping him move unnoticed despite his exhaustion. Once hidden, he leaned against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes.

"September 15, 1976," he said softly, remembering the date he'd aimed for. "Please let it be September 15, 1976."

He still held his wand tight, the wood warm against his palm. The dagger in his pouch seemed to pulse with residual energy. Both tools of a desperate gambit, using magic darker than he'd ever imagined himself wielding. But desperate times had called for desperate measures.

Now he just had to survive long enough to make it worth it.

Two young witches passed by the alley's entrance, their conversation drifting in.

"Did you hear about the disappearances in Devon?" one whispered, clutching a shopping bag from Gladrags. "Mum says it's not safe anymore to go out after dark."

"My father says it's just Ministry fear-mongering," her friend replied, though her voice wavered. "But he's increased the wards around our house anyway."

Harry listened intently, cataloging the information. The disappearances had already begun. Time was shorter than he'd hoped.

Pushing himself off the wall, he cast a subtle glamour to make his robes appear less disheveled. The street was busy with afternoon shoppers, and he needed to blend in while gathering information. His eyes fell on the spot where Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes would one day stand, and suddenly memories crashed over him like a wave.

He'd stood in this very spot during his third year, hidden under his father's invisibility cloak. Ron and Hermione had been there, arguing about Crookshanks and Scabbers. The memory of Ron's indignant voice and Hermione's exasperated sighs felt so vivid it hurt. They'd been so young, so innocent of what was to come. He remembered pelting Malfoy and his cronies with mud near the Shrieking Shack, the thrill of being unseen, the simple joy of a Hogsmeade weekend with friends.

"You alright there, son?" An elderly wizard peered at him with concern. Harry realized he'd been standing motionless, lost in memories. The old man reminded him somewhat of Elphias Doge, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Yes, thank you," Harry replied, straightening up. "Just... admiring the village. It's been a while since I've visited."

"Ah, nothing quite like Hogsmeade in autumn," the wizard smiled. "Though strange things have been happening lately. Best keep your wits about you." His eyes lingered briefly on Harry's magical aura, a slight frown crossing his face.

"I always do," Harry assured him, subtly adjusting his magical signature to appear more neutral. "Would you happen to know if Madam Rosmerta's still running the Three Broomsticks?"

The old wizard chuckled. "Still? She only took over last year! But yes, lovely girl, doing a fine job of it too. You must have been thinking of old Brendan, her uncle. He ran it for decades before retiring."

Harry filed away this information. Another temporal marker to help orient himself. "Of course, my mistake. Thank you for your help."

"Strange times we're living in," the old wizard muttered, more to himself than Harry. "Strange folk about... best be careful who you trust these days." He nodded politely and continued on his way, leaving Harry to contemplate his words.

A group of Hogwarts students passed by, their laughter echoing off the buildings. They wore the same uniforms he remembered, but the style was subtly different – wider collars, slightly different cuts. One of them could have been his mother or father. The thought made his head spin.

"Focus," he whispered to himself. The ritual's effects were still clouding his mind, making it hard to concentrate. He needed to find somewhere private, properly cleanse himself of the dark magic residue, and begin implementing his plans. But first, he had to confirm the exact date.

He pushed himself away from the wall, forcing his legs to move steadily. The Three Broomsticks loomed ahead, promising both refuge and danger. Someone there would surely have a copy of today's Prophet. 

The Three Broomsticks was mercifully dim when Harry stepped inside, though his magical senses immediately registered the presence of powerful magic. His eyes adjusted to find the source – a young witch sitting alone in a corner booth, bent over an Advanced Transfiguration tome. Her dark hair fell in elegant waves around her face, and a Black family ring glinted on her right hand.

Harry's breath caught. For a moment, he thought it was Bellatrix, well, a young one, but no, he had made a similar mistake when he had first seen her, the older version. 

Andromeda Black. Not yet, Tonks. The resemblance to Bellatrix was striking, but there was something softer in her features, a hint of the warmth that would one day make her Tonks's mother. She looked up as he approached the bar, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. He felt her magic probe at his aura, subtle but skilled.

"Firewhisky," Harry told the younger Madam Rosmerta, keeping his voice steady despite feeling Andromeda's magical assessment. "Double."

"Rough day?" Rosmerta asked cheerfully, but Harry noticed her eyes flickering to his somewhat disheveled appearance.

"You could say that." He paid with galleons he knew were minted in this era, having prepared them specifically for this purpose.

As he turned with his drink, Andromeda's voice cut across the room. "Your magical signature is... unusual." Her tone was pure Black family aristocracy, but there was genuine curiosity beneath it. "I don't believe we've met."

Harry met her gaze. "Most people can't read magical signatures that clearly." He moved toward her table, noting how her fingers tensed slightly around her wand. "You must have excellent training."

"The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black believes in thorough magical education," she replied, gesturing to the seat across from her. It wasn't quite an invitation – more of a challenge. "Though I don't recall learning about magic quite like what clings to you."

Harry sat down, setting his firewhisky on the table. "Some magic isn't meant for standard education." He cast a subtle Muffliato, watching her eyebrows rise slightly at the unfamiliar spell. "Even for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."

Andromeda's lips curved into a slight smile. "Interesting." She closed her book, revealing its full title: 'Advanced Principles of Human Transfiguration and Metamorphic Theory.' "You're well-versed in privacy charms I've never encountered, yet your core magic..." She tilted her head, studying him. "Pure light, but wrapped in something much darker. Curious combination."

"Sometimes the darkest spells serve the lightest purposes," Harry said carefully, taking a sip of firewhisky. The burn helped ground him. "Your book – studying the theory behind metamorphmagi?"

Something flickered in her eyes – surprise, perhaps, at his quick recognition of the subject matter. "You're familiar with the field?"

"I knew a metamorphmagus once," Harry replied truthfully, fighting to keep his expression neutral as he thought of Tonks. "Fascinating ability. The genetic components are particularly interesting, don't you think?"

"Indeed." Andromeda's fingers traced the Black family ring absently. "Though some theorize it's not purely genetic, that certain magical conditions during pregnancy might influence its manifestation." She paused, watching him carefully. "You move like an Auror, but your magic... what exactly are you?"

Harry smiled, noting how she mirrored Tonks's habit of direct questioning. "What makes you think I'm anything in particular?"

"Please," she scoffed, and the familiar expression was almost painful to see. "Your robes are well-made but damaged, you cast unfamiliar spells with casual ease, and you're practically swimming in residual dark magic while maintaining a light core. You're either something very interesting or very dangerous."

"Why not both?" Harry took another drink. "Though I could say similar things about a Black studying advanced human transfiguration in a pub rather than her family library."

Andromeda's magic flared slightly – not aggressive, but definitely assertive. "Some studies are better conducted away from family scrutiny." She leaned forward slightly. "Just as some magic is better performed away from public view, isn't it?"

"Careful," Harry warned softly. "Those are dangerous observations to make in these times."

"These times?" Her eyes glittered. "You say that as if you're comparing them to other times." Her magic brushed against his again, more forcefully. "The residual energy around you... it's not just dark magic, is it? It's something more specific. Something..."

"Dangerous to discuss," Harry cut her off, pushing back gently with his own magic. He felt her surprise at its strength. "Even with privacy charms."

Andromeda sat back, reassessing him. Her fingers drummed once on the book's cover – a gesture so reminiscent of Tonks that Harry had to take another drink to hide his reaction. "You're not what you appear to be."

"Few people are, in my experience." Harry met her gaze steadily. "Especially those who choose to study advanced transformation theory alone in pubs."

A genuine smile tugged at her lips. "Are you suggesting I have ulterior motives?"

"I'm suggesting that someone with your magical sensitivity, studying that particular branch of magic, might have personal reasons for doing so away from family observation." He watched her expression carefully. "The Black family library has excellent resources on transformation theory, after all."

"You know an awful lot about my family's library," she noted, her tone sharpening slightly.

"I know an awful lot about many things," Harry replied. "Just as you know how to recognize magical signatures that most wizards wouldn't notice."

They regarded each other in silence for a moment. Finally, Andromeda spoke again, her voice lower.

"The magic surrounding you... it's not just residual dark arts. It's something older. Something that feels almost..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Temporally displaced."

Harry kept his face neutral, but inwardly he cursed her perceptiveness. The Black family training in magical sensitivity was clearly even more thorough than he'd anticipated. "Interesting theory."

"Not a denial," she noted. Her eyes fell to his hand, where he'd been unconsciously gripping his wand. "That's a curious wand. The magic flowing through it feels... conflicted. As if it's recently been used for something it wasn't quite designed for."

"All tools can be adapted to necessity," Harry said quietly. "Even if they protest initially."

Andromeda's eyes widened slightly. "That's a rather heterodox view of wandlore."

"Sometimes heterodox views prove necessary." Harry finished his firewhisky. "Just as studying advanced transformation theory might prove necessary for someone seeking... changes in their life."

Her magic flickered – he'd struck close to home. "You're a very dangerous man," she said finally, but her tone held more intrigue than fear.

"These are dangerous times," Harry replied, standing. "Though I suspect you're already well aware of that. Good luck with your studies, Miss Black. I have a feeling they'll prove more valuable than you currently imagine."

He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him. "I don't believe you told me your name."

Harry glanced back with a slight smile. "No, I don't believe I did." He felt her magic reach out one last time, trying to get a better read on him. "Be careful with that sensitivity of yours, Miss Black. Some magical signatures are better left unexamined."

As he walked away, he heard her soft laugh behind him. "Definitely dangerous," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. "And definitely not what you seem."

The Leaky Cauldron's room thirteen creaked as Harry closed the door behind him, immediately casting a series of privacy wards that would make Mad-Eye Moody proud. Ancient wooden floorboards protested beneath his feet as he moved to the center of the small space, their groans mixing with the muffled sounds of the pub below.

"Tempus Revelio," he muttered, confirming the time: 7:43 PM. The red magic still clung to him like a second skin, making even simple spells feel slightly wrong. He couldn't put off the cleansing ritual any longer.

Harry reached into his mokeskin pouch, withdrawing ritual components he'd prepared specifically for this moment. White sage to cleanse, moonstone to balance, and phoenix ash for purification. The ritual dagger came last, its obsidian blade still warm to the touch.

He pushed the room's sparse furniture against the walls, creating space for a ritual circle. Each movement was precise, calculated – skills learned from years of Auror work combined with knowledge that had taken him months to acquire from books that would have earned him an immediate trip to Azkaban in his own time.

"Mundare Sanguinis," he whispered, using the dagger to nick his palm. Blood dripped onto the floorboards, forming the anchor points of his cleansing circle. The red magic reacted violently, crimson sparks crackling in the air. Harry grit his teeth against the pain and continued the ritual.

Sage smoke filled the room as he chanted, ancient Latin mixing with even older tongues. The remnants of the time travel ritual fought against being purged, but Harry had prepared for this. Each wave of resistance met calculated counterstrikes, magical theory he'd spent years studying put into deadly practice.

An hour later, he collapsed into the room's single chair, magically exhausted but finally clean of the red magic's most obvious traces. Some of it would always remain – magic that dark left permanent marks – but at least now he wouldn't set off every dark detector in Britain.

"Accio Prophet," he mumbled, summoning the newspaper he'd purchased earlier. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded it, eyes fixing on the date: September 15, 1976. Relief flooded through him. He'd hit his target date exactly.

The headlines confirmed everything he'd prepared for:

MINISTRY DENIES PATTERN IN RECENT DISAPPEARANCES

Three More Missing in Devon Area - Aurors Claim No Connection

ABRAXAS MALFOY PROPOSES NEW MAGICAL COMMERCE REGULATIONS

"Protection of Traditional Trading Rights Essential," Says Influential Wizengamot Member

DARK MARK SIGHTED IN LIVERPOOL

Ministry Officials Claim "Probable Hoax" Despite Witness Accounts

Harry conjured a desk and chair, spreading the newspaper out while retrieving a leather-bound notebook from his pouch. The pages were already filled with carefully researched timelines and notes, but now he began adding new observations:

"A.B. already studying advanced transformation - earlier than expected. Knowledge of magical signatures extensive. Potential ally?"

His quill paused over the parchment. The encounter with Andromeda Black had been unexpected. He'd known she'd be here, of course, but hadn't anticipated her level of magical sensitivity. It could complicate things.

A smaller article caught his eye:

HOGWARTS BOARD OF GOVERNORS DEBATES CURRICULUM CHANGES

Traditional Families Push for "Return to Classical Education"

Harry's lips curved into a grim smile. He remembered this debate from his research. It was one of the first public moves in Voldemort's campaign to control magical education. The Death Eaters would use it to place sympathizers in teaching positions, spreading their influence to the next generation.

"Not this time," he muttered, making more notes. The wounds of his own timeline were still fresh – the deaths, the betrayals, the countless lives destroyed by Voldemort's rise to power. He'd sacrificed too much, delved too deep into forbidden magic, to fail now.

More articles demanded his attention. He noted each relevant detail:

EXPERIMENTAL CHARMS DEPARTMENT REPORTS FUNDING CUTS

"Budget Reallocated to Traditional Research," Says Ministry Spokesman

ANCIENT ARTIFACTS RECOVERED FROM ROMANIAN DIG SITE

Ministry Officials Refuse Comment on Nature of Discoveries

Each piece fit into the larger puzzle he'd spent years assembling. Harry's quill scratched across parchment as he updated plans and timelines, adding new variables and possibilities. The ritual dagger lay on the desk beside him, a constant reminder of how far he was willing to go.

A wave of his wand transformed one wall into a complex mapping of the next few months. Key events, potential intervention points, people who needed to live or die to reshape the future. The magic required to create the display made his head spin – he was still recovering from both the time travel and the cleansing ritual.

"Master Black returns to the family estate next week," he murmured, marking the date. "Regulus takes the Mark in October. Meadowes family targeted in November." Each event represented both a tragedy and an opportunity. The question was which ones to prevent and which ones to... redirect.

The fire in the room's small hearth cast dancing shadows as night fell. Harry's magical aura, usually bright with raw power, now churned with darker currents. The red magic had changed him, just as he'd known it would. But he'd made his peace with that long before attempting the ritual.

A letter caught his attention – correspondence between Abraxas Malfoy and the Minister's office, reprinted in the financial section. Harry's eyes narrowed as he read between the lines. The Malfoys were already positioning themselves, building influence they'd later use to protect more overt Death Eater activities.

"Your move, Abraxas," Harry whispered, adding another note to his growing collection. "Let's see how you handle someone who knows all your plays in advance."

He sat back, surveying his work. The wall-mounted timeline glowed with magical markers and connections. The desk was covered in newspapers and notes, each piece representing a thread in the tapestry he planned to reweave. His expression hardened as he contemplated what lay ahead.

The wizarding world wasn't ready for someone like him – a warrior from a future they'd never see, armed with knowledge of their mistakes and willing to use any means necessary to prevent them. The light magic at his core still burned bright, but now it was wrapped in layers of darker power, tools he'd never imagined himself wielding before desperation and loss had taught him better.

A clock struck midnight somewhere in the pub below. Harry touched the ritual dagger, feeling its residual warmth. "Time to begin," he murmured, and started writing out his first moves in this deadly game of temporal chess.

Harry's eyes drifted to a small article near the bottom of the page:

HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH SEASON OPENS WITH GRYFFINDOR VICTORY James Potter Scores Record Points Against Hufflepuff

His hand trembled slightly as he traced his father's name in the paper. James Potter. Alive. Sixteen years old and probably celebrating in the Gryffindor common room right now. And with him would be...

"Sirius," Harry whispered, his throat tight. His godfather would be there, young and untouched by Azkaban's horrors. Still alive. Remus, not yet worn down by years of prejudice and loss. And Peter... Harry's fingers clenched around his wand. Wormtail hadn't betrayed anyone yet. He was still just a boy, still capable of choosing a different path...

A sudden, desperate longing seized him – to go to Hogwarts now, to see them all. To watch his mother and father fall in love, to save Sirius from twelve years of torment, to prevent Remus from losing everyone he cared about. To kill Peter and be done with him.

But he couldn't. Not yet. 

"Soon," he promised the newspaper photo of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, where a boy with messy black hair waved victoriously. "But first, I need to make sure you all have a future worth living in."

He returned to his notes with renewed determination. The future – his future – would not be allowed to happen. No matter what it cost him to prevent it.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the sound of distant laughter, and for a moment, he thought he was back at Hogwarts—until he remembered he was 21, not 11, and the year was 1976. The realization hit him like a Bludger to the chest, sharp and disorienting. He blinked against the dim light seeping through a grimy window, the room around him swimming into focus. The bed beneath him creaked as he shifted, springs groaning under his weight. It was a narrow thing, shoved against a wall of weathered wooden beams, the kind of furniture that had seen too many travelers and too little care. A faded quilt, patched and fraying at the edges, clung to his legs like a stubborn ghost.

He rubbed his eyes, gritty from a night of fitful sleep, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards chilled his bare feet, sending a shiver up his spine. The Three Broomsticks.

That's where he'd stumbled after the ritual—Hogsmeade, alive and bustling in a way he'd only ever imagined. Outside, the faint hum of morning life filtered through the glass: a cartwheel rattling on cobblestones, a shopkeeper's muffled shout, the trill of laughter again—high and carefree, cutting through the fog of his thoughts. It sounded so bloody normal.

Harry's gaze drifted to the chipped washbasin in the corner, its porcelain stained with rust, then up to a cracked mirror hanging crooked on the wall. He stood, joints popping from the cold, and shuffled over to it. The face staring back wasn't the boy who'd faced Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest. This was a man—21 years old, with dark hair fallingmessily over his forehead, hiding the faint lightning scar that still marked him. A smaller scar, a jagged nick above his right eyebrow from some forgotten Auror skirmish, caught the light. His jaw was sharper now, dusted with stubble he hadn't bothered to shave, and his green eyes held a weariness no teenager should carry. Handsome, he supposed, if he cared to think about it—Ginny had said so once, and strangers sometimes lingered on him too long in Diagon Alley. But here, in 1976, that face was a liability. Too old to blend with the students. Too unknown to belong.

Merlin's beard, what am I doing? The thought clawed at him as he gripped the edge of the washbasin, the cold porcelain grounding him. His parents were alive—James and Lily, sixteen and reckless, probably bickering over breakfast in the Great Hall right now, a mile away at Hogwarts. Sirius would be there too, smirking over some prank, Remus rolling his eyes, Peter trailing behind. Alive. Whole. He could see them, hear them, maybe even save them—but not yet. Not like this. To them, he was nobody.

He turned away from the mirror, his reflection too much to bear, and rummaged through the battered rucksack he'd brought through time. His fingers brushed the smooth handle of his wand—holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather, unicorn crystal—and then closed around a crumpled piece of parchment. He unfolded it on the bed, smoothing the creases with a trembling hand. The ink was smudged, scratched in a haste he barely remembered: Stop Voldemort early. Save them. No prophecy this time. Simple words, heavy as iron. Below them, a messy list: Dumbledore—truth? Order—join? Death Eaters—track? Each idea trailed off, half-formed. He'd been too desperate to plan properly when he'd found the ritual in that dusty Black family grimoire, too broken to care about the details.

The laughter outside spiked again, louder now, and Harry's head snapped toward the window. He glimpsed two figures darting past through the warped glass—Hogsmeade locals, maybe, or early risers from the village. Their voices carried, light and teasing: "Oi, reckon she'll hex you for that?" "Not if I hex her first!" It was so achingly familiar—that Harry's throat tightened. He'd had that once with Ron and Hermione. Before the war. Before, the losses piled up like stones on his chest. Now, here he was, chasing a chance to rewrite it all.

You're not a kid anymore, he told himself, shoving the parchment back into the bag. You've fought Dark Lords. You've survived worse than this. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Surviving wasn't the same as living. He'd defeated Voldemort, saved the world, and still woke up every day hollowed out, staring at a life that didn't fit. The ritual had been a gamble—a blood-soaked incantation, a circle of runes carved into Grimmauld Place's floor, a whispered plea to fix what he'd lost. And it had worked. He was here. 1976. A second chance. But standing in this dingy room with no name, no allies, and a face that didn't belong, it felt more like a sentence.

He crossed to the window, pushing it open with a creak. Crisp, woodsmoke-laced air rushed in, tugging at his hair. Hogsmeade stretched out below—rooftops dusted with frost, chimneys puffing lazily, and the distant silhouette of Hogwarts' towers piercing the morning mist. His heart thudded. 

No, he thought, jaw tightening. Not yet. I need a way in. A name they'll trust. He was a stranger in a world that didn't know Harry Potter, and that was his biggest obstacle. He couldn't stroll up to the gates and announce himself—not without proof, not without influence. He needed a foothold, something to make them listen when the time came to warn them, to fight. And he didn't have long. Voldemort's rise was already underway, the First War brewing like a storm on the horizon. Every day he wasted was a day closer to the night his parents died, to Peter' betrayal, to all of it.

Harry exhaled, the breath clouding in the cold. He'd figure it out. He had to. This wasn't about happiness anymore—happiness was a dream he'd buried with Fred, with Tonks, with everyone he'd failed to save. This was about redemption. About making sure no one else had to carry what he did. He grabbed his cloak from the bedpost, the fabric worn but familiar, and slung it over his shoulders. The parchment's words burned in his mind: No prophecy this time. No baby to bear the scar. No Chosen One. Just him.

He paused at the door, hand on the knob, and glanced back at the room. It was alien, yes, but it was his now. His starting line. With a grim nod, he stepped out, the creak of the floorboards fading behind him.

⚯ ͛

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Harry descended the narrow staircase of the Three Broomsticks, the wood creaking under his boots like it was protesting the morning. The air shifted as he reached the bottom—cool and musty upstairs gave way to the warm, yeasty scent of spilled ale and polished oak. The pub was quiet, save for the soft clink of glass and the rustle of a rag on wood. Early sunlight slanted through the diamond-paned windows, catching motes of dust in lazy spirals.

Behind the bar stood Madam Rosmerta, all 23 years of her radiating a kind of effortless glow. Her blonde curls bounced as she wiped down the counter, catching the light like spun gold. She wore a green apron over a simple dress, the fabric hugging her curves in a way that wasn't lost on Harry—not that he was here for that. Her hands moved with practiced ease, the rag leaving a gleaming trail across the wood. She glanced up as he approached, her sharp blue eyes flicking over him—quick, appraising, then warm.

"Morning, stranger," she said, her voice carrying a lilt that was both teasing and welcoming. "Sleep well, or did the bed try to eat you?"

Harry managed a grin, sliding onto a stool at the bar. "Survived it, just about. You run a tight ship here." His tone was easy, practiced—he'd learned charm could open doors when wands couldn't. Up close, she was striking—full lips, a dusting of freckles across her nose, and a wit in her gaze that promised she didn't miss much. Not bad for intel, he thought, leaning an elbow on the counter.

"On the house for new faces," she said, sliding a pint of amber beer his way before he could ask. The glass was cool, condensation already beading on it. "You're not from Hogsmeade, are you? I'd remember a face like that." Her smile quirked.

Harry took the pint, his fingers brushing the damp glass. "Just passing through," he said, keeping it vague. "Family trouble sent me wandering. Needed a change of scenery." The lie rolled off his tongue smooth as butterbeer—he'd had years of dodging questions as an Auror. He lifted the beer in a mock toast. "To new faces, then."

Rosmerta laughed, a bright sound that cut through the stillness. "Cheers to that. Hogsmeade's quiet this early—give it an hour, though, and the students'll swarm in. Hogwarts lot, always up to something." She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the bar, close enough that he caught a whiff of lavender and something spiced—her perfume, maybe. "So, what's your story, wanderer? You've got that look—handsome, sure, but like you've seen a few storms."

Handsome, huh? Harry's lips twitched, a flicker of amusement breaking through the weight in his chest. Ginny used to tease him about that too, said it was the eyes that did it. He shrugged, playing it off. "Storms, yeah, you could say that. Hogsmeade seems peaceful enough, though. Keeps you busy, I bet—ruling over this place like a queen."

She smirked, straightening up to tuck a curl behind her ear. "Queen of chaos, maybe. Between the locals and the students, I'm half barkeep, half Auror some days. You should see the messes I clean up." 

Harry sipped his beer, the bitter foam grounding him. "How'd you end up here, then? Running a pub's not exactly a quiet life." 

Rosmerta paused, her rag stilling on the bar. "Grew up not far from here—little village up the glen. Mum and Dad were Muggle-born, kept a small shop 'til it got too rough with all the whispers going 'round lately." She shrugged, her smile tightening briefly. "Came to Hogsmeade a few years back, took over this place when old Tom retired. Suits me—keeps me in the thick of it without too much fuss." She flicked her eyes to him, playful again. "What about you? Where's a storm-chaser like you been?"

Harry leaned back, spinning the glass between his fingers. "Oh, all over. I like exploring—seeing how magic works in different places. It's... unique, you know? Every corner's got its own tricks." It wasn't entirely a lie—he'd tracked Dark wizards across Europe after the war and seen spells he'd never dreamed of at Hogwarts. Now, it was a cover he could sell.

"Unique, eh?" Rosmerta's brows lifted, intrigued. She propped a hip against the bar, crossing her arms. "Go on, then. What's so special out there? Don't tell me you've just been dodging dragons in Romania."

Harry chuckled, the sound looser than he felt. "Nah, dragons are overrated. Ever been to Egypt? The wizards there—they've got spells you'd never see here. Practical stuff, too." He set the pint down, fishing his wand from his sleeve with a casual flick. "Here, watch this." He murmured under his breath—"Lumen Sphaera"—and a tiny orb of golden light bloomed at the tip, no bigger than a Galleon. It hovered, then flattened into a shimmering disc, spinning lazily. With a twitch of his wrist, it darted to the bar, scooping up a scattering of crumbs and dust before winking out, leaving the wood spotless.

Rosmerta's eyes widened, her mouth parting in a surprised laugh. "Well, I'll be hexed. What's that supposed to be?"

"Cleaning charm," Harry said, tucking his wand back with a grin. "Egyptian street vendors use it—keeps the stalls tidy without fussing over brooms. Handy when you're in a rush."

"That's brilliant," she said, leaning closer to inspect the now-pristine bar. "No one round here's got anything like that. You could make a fortune selling that trick to the house-elves—or me, next time the jukebox explodes." Her tone was teasing, but her gaze lingered, impressed. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Gotta keep things interesting," Harry quipped, his chest easing a fraction. 

Then the two heard a sound outside, and Rosmerta let out a groan, looking annoyed. 

Harry sipped his beer, the bitter foam grounding him. "I take it students are already coming here? They sneak in here a lot?" He kept his voice casual, but his pulse quickened. Hogwarts was a mile away, and with it, his parents, Sirius—everyone he'd lost. He needed to know more and needed a thread to pull.

"Oh, all the time," Rosmerta said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated exasperation. "Sneaky little devils think I don't notice them slipping in with fake Magical IDs or under cloaks. Most are harmless—buying sweets or snogging in corners—but some..." She paused, shaking her head. "Sirius and James—those two are a menace. Always dragging their mates into some scheme. Last week, they charmed the jukebox to blare 'Godric's Hollow Rock' every time I turned my back. Took me an hour to hex it quiet."

Harry's grip tightened on his glass, the cold biting into his palm. Sirius and James. The names slammed into him like a Stunner, sharp and electric. His father—cocky, brilliant James—and Sirius, wild and loyal, alive and tearing up Hogsmeade like nothing could touch them. He could picture it: James' lopsided grin, Sirius' barking laugh. His chest ached, a hollow thud where his heart should've been, but he forced his face to stay neutral. Years of facing Death Eaters had taught him how to hide a crack. He took a slow sip, letting the beer wash down the lump in his throat, and managed a smirk. "Sounds like they keep you busy."

"Busy's putting it mild," she said, chuckling. "They're charmers, though—half the girls in here swoon when they strut in. Reckon they know it, too." She gave him a sidelong glance, playful. "You've got that charm yourself, you know. Bet you've broken a few hearts on your travels."

Harry snorted, ducking his head to hide the flush creeping up his neck. "Me? Nah, I'm more trouble than I'm worth." If she only knew. He leaned in a fraction, mirroring her ease. "What about you? Ever get tired of running this place, keeping the likes of Sirius and James in line?"

"Sometimes," she admitted, her smile softening. "But it's home. Keeps me sharp." She tapped the bar with her rag, then froze as a shadow darted past the window. An owl swooped in, talons clicking on the sill before it dropped a rolled Daily Prophet onto the counter. Its wings rustled as it took off again, leaving a single feather drifting down. Rosmerta unrolled the paper, her brow furrowing. "Oh, bloody hell," she muttered.

Harry's eyes flicked to the headline, bold and black: "Werewolf Attacks Escalate—Greyback Suspected." A grainy photo twitched below it—a hulking figure, half-man, half-beast, fangs bared in a snarl. His stomach twisted. Greyback. He kept his face blank, but his mind raced. "What's that about?" he asked, nodding at the paper.

Rosmerta sighed, sliding it toward him. "Werewolves. Been tearing through villages the last two months—Highlands mostly, but they're getting bolder. Ministry's got a bounty on this one—Fenrir Greyback. Nasty piece of work. They reckon he's leading a pack, but no one knows why they're so riled up." She shivered, her flirty edge fading. "Folks are scared. Can't blame 'em."

Harry traced the photo with a finger, the snarling face stirring memories—Lupin's quiet pain, the full moons at Grimmauld Place. Greyback's already here, already ruining lives. The werewolf crisis wasn't news to him, not really—he knew the First War had been brutal, knew Voldemort had weaponized creatures like this. But seeing it now, in real time, lit something in him. A spark. A plan. If I take him down... He could stop some of the damage, earn a name, get a foothold. His pulse steadied, purpose cutting through the fog.

"Why Greyback?" he asked, probing deeper, keeping his tone curious rather than urgent. "What's he done to get the Ministry's wand in a twist?"

"He's a savage," Rosmerta said, voice low. "Likes turning kids, they say—building his pack. Ministry's been after him for years, but he's slippery. Now with these attacks..." She shook her head, blonde curls swaying. "Feels like something bigger's brewing."

Voldemort, Harry thought, biting back the name. She wouldn't know it—not yet, not like he did. But Greyback was a thread, a loose end he could pull. He forced a casual nod, leaning back. "Sounds like a mess. Hope they catch him soon." Inside, the gears were turning. Greyback's my way in.

Rosmerta tapped the paper, oblivious to the shift in him. "Aye, me too. Bad for business, all this fear." She glanced up, her smile returning, softer now. "Stick around, wanderer. Might need a handsome face to cheer me up if it gets worse."

Harry chuckled, the sound masking the fire in his chest. "I'll think about it," he said, and took another sip, the beer bitter and cold as his resolve hardened.

Harry set his empty pint glass on the bar with a soft clink, the bitter aftertaste of beer lingering on his tongue. "Got something to sort out," he said, sliding off the stool. "Thanks for the drink."

She paused, rag in hand, and tilted her head with a playful smirk. "Don't go getting into too much trouble, wanderer. Have a good day—and come back if you need another round." 

"Will do," Harry replied, tipping his head in a nod before turning for the door. Good lass, he thought, stepping over the threshold. Keeps things simple. The heavy oak swung shut behind him, muffling the pub's warmth as he emerged into Hogsmeade's crisp morning air. The weight of his wand in his cloak pocket pressed against his thigh—a quiet promise. He'd find Greyback, and he'd end him.

The village was waking up, cobblestone streets buzzing with life. Vendors hawked their wares from rickety stalls—apples piled high, cauldrons glinting in the sun—while early shoppers shuffled past, their voices a low hum of haggling and gossip. A witch in a patched shawl called out, "Fresh gillyweed, two Sickles a bunch!" as a gaggle of kids darted by, chasing a bouncing Fanged Frisbee. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth, sharp and alive in a way London never was. Harry pulled his cloak tighter, the worn fabric brushing his stubbled jaw. Greyback was his target now—kill him, and Voldemort's future claws get dulled early. Plus, it'd give him a name in this time, a foothold to change everything.

To track the bastard, he'd use a spell he'd cooked up after the war: Lupus Venator—Wolf Hunter. He'd invented it during a grim stretch hunting rogue werewolves with the Aurors, a way to sniff out their scent and magical residue when Ministry tactics failed. It wasn't fancy—just practical, honed from sleepless nights and Lupin's quiet lessons about his own curse. The spell needed a few things: wolfsbane to zero in on the werewolf signature, phoenix ash for a boost of power, and a silver thread to tie it all together. Simple, but rare—and he'd have to scrounge them up without drawing too much attention.

He wove through the crowd, keeping his head low but his eyes sharp. First stop: Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop. The bell above the door jangled as he stepped inside, the air thick with the musty scent of parchment and ink. Shelves towered with rolls of paper, quills twitching in pots like restless birds. A balding wizard behind the counter looked up, peering over half-moon spectacles. "Help you, lad?"

"Just need some parchment," Harry said, voice casual as he plucked a few sheets from a stack. He fished a Galleon from his pocket—old ones, thankfully still good in '76—and slid it across. "Keep the change." The wizard grunted, pocketing it without a word, and Harry slipped out before questions could start. He'd sketch his plan—Highlands, Greyback's last sighting, a rough map. No point rushing in blind.

Next was the apothecary, a cramped shop wedged between Honeydukes and a broom repair stall. The sign creaked overhead: Pestle & Potion. Inside, it was a maze of shelves—jars of shriveled roots, vials of glowing liquid, a pickled newt floating in amber. The air stung with the tang of dried herbs and something faintly sour. A stooped witch with a wart on her chin shuffled from the back, her gaze narrowing as it landed on him. "What's a handsome stranger like you after?" she rasped, her tone more curious than friendly.

Harry flashed a grin. "Bit of this, bit of that. Got any wolfsbane?"

She squinted, hobbling to a shelf. "Pricey stuff. Three Galleons an ounce."

"Done," he said, digging out the coins. "And phoenix ash—any of that lying around?"

Her brows shot up, but she didn't ask. "Lucky day, then. Got a pinch left—five Galleons." She rummaged behind the counter, producing a tiny vial of shimmering ash and a bundle of wolfsbane, its purple flowers wrapped in wax paper. Harry hesitated—silver thread was trickier—but spotted a spool of it glinting on a high shelf, likely for potion binding. "Throw in some of that thread, and I'll make it ten total."

The witch cackled, a dry sound like cracking twigs. "Sharp one, eh? Fine, take it." She tossed the spool into a paper sack with the rest, snatching his Galleons with bony fingers. Harry nodded his thanks and slipped out, the sack tucked under his arm. 

Back in his room at the Three Broomsticks, the door clicked shut behind him, muffling Hogsmeade's hum. He dropped the sack on the bed, the faded quilt sagging under its weight, and spread the parchment on the rickety table. His wand tapped the edge—"Inkis Revelio"—and faint lines bloomed: a rough sketch of Scotland, the Highlands circled from Rosmerta's tip. He marked a path, muttering to himself, "Start here, follow the spell..." His voice trailed off as he emptied the sack, the wolfsbane's bitter scent hitting him first.

He crushed the flowers in a chipped mortar he'd nicked from downstairs, grinding them into a fine powder. The phoenix ash followed, a dusting of silver-orange that sparked faintly as it mixed. He unraveled a length of silver thread, wrapping it around his wand tip like a tether. Lupus Venator wasn't Ministry-approved—but it worked. He'd tested it in the Yorkshire moors once, chasing a werewolf who'd gutted a Muggle family. Found the beast in under an hour.

Harry leaned back, the chair creaking, and closed his eyes for a moment. Lupin's face flickered in his mind—those tired grey eyes, the scars crisscrossing his skin. "You'd hate this, mate," he murmured aloud, a wry twist to his lips. "Me hunting wolves like some bloody bounty hunter." But Lupin would get it—Greyback wasn't just a werewolf; he was a plague. Every kid he bit, every life he shattered, was a ripple Harry could stop now. Before Voldemort turned him into a weapon.

He opened his eyes, focusing on the mix. Wand in hand, he traced a circle over the powder, the silver thread glinting as he whispered, "Lupus Venator." The air hummed, a low vibration that prickled his skin. The powder swirled, then ignited into a faint silver glow, pulsing like a heartbeat in his palm. It stretched into a thin, shimmering line, hovering, waiting. Harry's breath caught—it's alive—and a grim satisfaction settled in his chest. This was his spell, his mark. Not Dumbledore's tricks, not Hermione's books—his.

For a second, he wondered what Ron would say if he saw this. "Bloody hell, Harry, you're mental," probably, followed by a grin and a slap on the back. Maybe a crack about spiders next time. The thought tugged a half-smile from him, but it faded fast. Ron wasn't here. No one was. Just him, a wand, and a monster to kill.

Harry stood, the glow coiling around his wrist like a leash. His arm throbbed faintly where he'd gripped the table—old habits from too many fights—but he shook it off. Greyback was out there, lurking in the Highlands, and Harry had the scent. He grabbed his cloak, the sack's remnants shoved into a pocket, and headed for the door. The silver line pulsed brighter, tugging north.

Lupin, this one's for you, he thought, stepping into the hall. The stakes were clear: kill Greyback, save lives, shift the war. He'd lost too much to hesitate now. The door clicked shut, and he was gone, a hunter in a world that didn't know his name—yet.

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Harry stood at the edge of Hogsmeade, the village's chatter fading as he gripped his wand. The silver glow of Lupus Venator coiled around his wrist, restless, tugging north. He took a breath—sharp with pine and frost—then twisted on his heel, Apparating with a crack to the Highlands' fringe. Rosmerta's tip had pinpointed the werewolf attacks here, and he trusted his spell to do the rest. The world snapped back into focus: jagged hills loomed under a sky heavy with slate-grey clouds, wind whistling through heather that scratched at his boots. The air bit at his face, raw and wild, nothing like the tame bustle of Diagon Alley. Perfect place for a monster to hide, he thought, squinting into the expanse.

He raised his wand, the silver line streaking forward like a hound off its leash, cutting through the mist. "Go on, then," he muttered, voice swallowed by the wind. The glow pulsed, darting over rocks and boggy patches, and Harry followed, his cloak snagging on thorns as he moved. Hours bled together—his boots sank into black mud, cold seeping through the soles; a drizzle started, plastering his hair to his forehead. The spell held steady, a thin lifeline in the chaos, pulling him deeper into the wild. 

The silver thread veered sharply, dipping toward a shallow valley. Harry slowed, crouching behind a gnarled rowan tree. There, nestled against a hillside, stood a crumbling stone croft—its walls weathered to a dull grey, roof sagging like it might collapse under the next gust. Smoke curled lazily from a makeshift chimney, a thin wisp against the brooding sky. The spell's glow flickered, then dissolved into his wand with a faint hum. Got you, he thought, heart kicking up a notch. He crept closer, boots silent on the damp earth, until he reached a cracked window, its glass spiderwebbed with age.

Peering through, he saw them. Fenrir Greyback dominated the room—hulking, his matted hair a tangle of grey and brown, claws tapping a splintered table like a restless predator. His face was a mess of scars, yellowed fangs glinting as he snarled something low. Three wiry werewolves flanked him, their frames lean but coiled, eyes flashing an eerie yellow in the firelight. One gnawed a bone, another sharpened a crude blade. The air inside reeked of wet fur and blood—Harry could smell it even through the glass, a sour tang that twisted his gut. Four of them, he cataloged, pulse steady despite the odds. Greyback's the head. Cut it off, the rest scatter.

He edged closer, slipping toward the door, when a floorboard creaked under his weight. Greyback's head snapped up, nostrils flaring. "Who's skulking out there?" His voice was a gravelly rasp, cutting through the croft like a blade. The others tensed, claws flexing, eyes darting to the shadows.

Bloody hell, Harry cursed inwardly, grip tightening on his wand. No point hiding now. He straightened, pushing the door open with a slow creak, and stepped inside. The heat hit him first—stifling, laced with the stench of unwashed bodies. He kept his wand loose at his side, posture relaxed but ready, green eyes locked on Greyback. "Just passing through," he said, voice cool, testing the waters.

Greyback's laugh was a guttural bark, his claws scraping the table as he leaned forward. "What's a pretty boy like you want with wolves? Lost your way, pup?" His pack snickered, a low, feral sound that grated on Harry's nerves. The werewolf's bulk was intimidating—broad shoulders, a chest like a barrel—but Harry had faced worse. Voldemort. Dementors. You're nothing, he thought, holding his ground.

"Heard you're the big name out here," Harry said, keeping his tone even, probing. "Wondered who's pulling your strings. Someone like... Voldemort?" The name dropped like a stone, and he watched Greyback's reaction—eyes narrowing, a flicker of surprise.

"How d'you know that name?" Greyback growled, voice dipping dangerously low. His pack shifted, claws twitching, but he waved them down with a meaty hand. "What's some wand-waving runt care about him for?"

Harry ignored the question, tilting his head with a faint smirk. "You're werewolves—supposedly better than wizards and witches, right? Stronger, faster. And yet here you are, relying on a human to help you. Doesn't that chafe?" He let the words hang, sharp and baiting, aimed straight at Greyback's ego.

The room stilled, the fire crackling louder in the silence. Greyback's lip curled, baring more teeth, and his claws gouged the table. "That little wizard's just a helper," he spat, voice thick with venom. "Gives us scraps, points us at prey. We don't kneel to him—we take. I'm the alpha here, boy, and you're meat." His eyes gleamed, predatory, but Harry caught the dodge—Voldemort was in play, early whispers of allegiance forming. Already recruiting, he thought, gut tightening. This ends now.

"Helper, huh?" Harry said, voice dry. "Sounds like a leash to me." He shifted his stance, wand twitching in his fingers. Greyback's arrogance was a crack—he'd exploit it. The werewolf's laugh rumbled again, darker this time, and he shoved the table aside with a crash.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that," Greyback sneered, rising to his full height, claws flexing. "Let's see 'em spill." He lunged a blur of muscle and fury, claws slashing for Harry's throat.

Talk's over, he thought, adrenaline surging. This wasn't about words anymore—it was about blood.

The croft erupted as Greyback charged. The air hissed with the swipe, and Harry twisted aside, years of instinct snapping into place. His wand flicked up—"Expulso!"—and the splintered table between them exploded in a shower of wood and nails, blasting the pack apart. Shards peppered the walls. The three werewolves scattered, snarling, their yellow eyes glinting like feral beacons in the dim firelight. Greyback roared, a guttural bellow that shook the rafters, and Harry's pulse thrummed—here we go.

The wiry trio circled, claws clicking on the stone floor, their breaths rasping in the smoky air. Harry moved fast—"Stupefy!"—a red jet slammed into the nearest one, a lanky brute with matted fur. He crumpled, head cracking against the wall with a dull thud. The second lunged, teeth bared, and Harry whipped his wand—"Incendio!"—a lash of flame coiled out, searing the beast's flank. It shrieked, a high, ragged sound, as fire licked up its side, the stench of burning hair choking the room. Two down, Harry thought, pivoting, his boots scraping the grit-strewn floor.

Greyback hurled a chair, splintered legs tumbling end over end. Harry threw up his wand—"Protego!"—and the shield flared, deflecting it with a crash that showered splinters. The werewolf's scarred face twisted into a snarl, bloodlust in his eyes, and Harry met it with a cold glare. You're mine. He slashed his wand—"Sectumsempra!"—and invisible blades tore through the air. Blood sprayed as gashes ripped across Greyback's chest, dark and wet, staining his ragged shirt. He staggered, a guttural choke escaping his throat, but lunged again, claws gleaming. Tough bastard, Harry thought, adrenaline spiking.

The third werewolf leapt from the shadows. Harry spun, wand arcing—"Confringo!"—and a blazing orange blast slammed into its gut. The creature burst apart in a fiery mess, guts and embers splattering the walls, the wet smack of flesh hitting stone drowned by its dying howl. Harry didn't flinch—one left—but Greyback's claws raked his left arm, tearing through cloak and skin. Pain flared, hot and sharp, blood welling fast, but Harry shoved it down. Not now. He gritted his teeth, focusing through the sting, and raised his wand again.

Time to end this. He'd made a spell after the war—"Ventus Exhalare"—something dark, something his younger self would've balked at. He hissed the words, wand steady, and the air around Greyback shimmered. The werewolf's eyes widened as the breath ripped from his lungs, a violent gust spilling from his gaping mouth. He gasped, a loud, desperate wheeze, clawing at his throat as if he could drag the air back in. Harry didn't hesitate—"Aeris Frigidus et Calor"—and thrust his wand forward. Warm and cold air surged into Greyback's chest, a brutal clash that swelled his lungs like overfilled balloons. A sickening pop echoed—his ribs cracked, lungs burst—and he crumpled, blood bubbling from his mouth, eyes glassy and dead.

The last werewolf, the one he'd stunned, stirred, dazed and twitching. Harry's arm throbbed, blood dripping onto the floor, but he stepped forward, wand steady. No loose ends. "Diffindo," he said, voice low, and a razor-thin slash cut the air. The werewolf's throat opened in a clean, red line, blood pooling fast as it slumped, lifeless. Silence crashed in, heavy and absolute, broken only by Harry's ragged breaths sawing through his chest. The air was thick—smoke, copper, charred flesh—a battlefield stench he knew too well.

He stood there, wand still raised, staring at the carnage. Greyback sprawled in a heap, chest a ruin of gashes and burst lungs, his pack strewn around him like broken toys. Blood slicked the floor, gleaming black in the dying firelight, and Harry's arm pulsed, the torn sleeve sticking to his skin. He wiped his wand on his cloak, the fabric smearing red, and let out a slow breath. One less monster, he thought, the weight of it settling in his bones. One step closer. Greyback was gone—Lupin's tormentor, Voldemort's early pawn—erased before he could sink his claws deeper into this war.

Harry's mind churned as he flexed his injured arm, wincing at the raw pull of torn flesh. This isn't the kid who fumbled through Hogwarts, he thought, a bitter edge to it. Back then, he'd hesitated, doubted—let Dumbledore talk him into sparing lives that didn't deserve it. Not anymore. He'd killed four here, swift and brutal, and it felt... right. Not joy—no, never that—but a grim necessity. For Mum. For Dad. For everyone, Greyback won't touch now.

With a wave of his wand, the bodies started hovering; Harry knew he would need to bring Greyback to the Ministry of Magic; he was wanted there, as for the others who weren't wanted. 

Incendio...