26Harry Potter and the Unspeakable In Time
Summary: Unspeakable Harry Potter, 45 years after Voldemort's final stand, unwillingly enters the Veil, and finds himself back at the Triwizard Tournament. Now a master of magic and an Archmage himself, he turns the wizarding world upside down. "Karma is a bitch." MoD! Harry. Slight crack. Pairing?
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"Ahh…"
Harry drank another large cup of coffee, making sure not to waste a single drop as he chugged the entire serving in one go. Coffee was the only thing keeping him alive these days, other than Firewhisky, of course. Coffee in the day, Firewhisky in the evening, a good rotation by all standards. His health would stay in good condition, of course, but his body didn't really show that effect. His eyes were dark and baggy from all the late night rotations at the Ministry that he spent researching, but at this point Harry had no reason to care about his appearance at all.
Working as an Unspeakable was fun—Harry didn't really need to care about anything else. He had completely secluded himself from the rest of the world. There was a time where the name "Harry Potter" was a constant, and you couldn't round the next road in Wizarding Britain without hearing that name.
The-Boy-Who-Vanquished.
The Uncrowned King of Wizarding Britain.
Memories flooded Harry's mind.
It had been a long forty years, for sure. In terms of personality, Harry had changed a lot. The innocent, care-free, but responsible and righteous young man that had once existed in his body was gone entirely, replaced by a paranoid, arrogant, and very satirical old man. Some hated him. The remaining just feared him. No one was really around anymore to actually like him.
Harry just sighed.
For all it was worth, the wizarding world was a very peaceful place now. Through all the sacrifices he and everyone else made, the result had shown. And Harry didn't particularly think it was worth it.
It all started with the Horcrux Hunt.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron had found most of the Horcruxes, and the search party had mostly ended in a success. Then the battle at Hogwarts happened. The final confrontation (or it was supposed to be) against his final nemesis. Avada Kedavra versus his own signature spell. And Harry got completely destroyed. In an instant, everyone rushed in. Death eaters versus Hogwart's students. The result shouldn't have been surprising. Dead. Every single one of them. Hagrid had taken my limp, unconscious body in the middle of the fight, before going back into the fight to try and save as many people as he could. They should have known it wouldn't have been possible, yet they fought anyways.
Harry had obviously been very shaken after that happened—he had promptly lost his will to win. Ginny and Ron had died in the battle, leaving only him and Hermione to control the remaining situation. Voldemort had taken control of the Ministry and Hogwarts entirely, to the point of changing the names as well. He has control over the entirety of Wizarding Britain, acting as its Minister until he found a suitable substitute. The world has changed dramatically, with muggleborns dying left and right everywhere, and purebloods gaining a pedestal of power of the likes never seen before.
Hermione was his last remaining beacon of hope in the world, the only person he had left. They spent the next two years recouping when everyone else thought they had died. To start a rebellion, you had to start from the roots itself. They gathered everyone we could, from giants, werewolves, vampires, Death Eaters—they simply couldn't afford to deny help.
At the same time, Harry had spent most of his time studying the intricacies of magic. Dark magic, light magic, grey—it didn't matter. He just needed to become more powerful, and that's what he did. He has the Elder Wand at his disposal (thanks to his decision to use Expelliarmus on Voldemort and steal his wand), and the knowledge to back it up. Sure, it was nothing compared to the Dark Lord himself, but it was enough. Along with the cloak of invisibility, of course, which still held its uses to the day.
Soon enough, Harry, Hermione, Kingsley, and a few author trusted officials were heading the rebellion secretly as possible. Hermione had made oaths which would immediately kill any spies or backstabbers if they tried to give away information, finding it to be absolutely necessary in the situation they were in. A few spies were present here and there, but they were quickly dealt with.
Harry found himself obsessed at one point. So obsessed with the goal of killing the bastard that he forgot about everything else. He didn't sleep, preferring to read magic theory or practicing by himself to hone his skills even further. His muscles twitched whenever he was still, and his hands would constantly clutch at his wand even while eating. He just waited for his chance to come again. Another chance to kill the Dictator of Wizarding Britain.
And it came.
Once more, four years after the initial failure, an attack at Voldemort's base was made. This time, there would be no more second chances. It was an all-out mission with the singular goal of assassinating Lord Voldemort.
But Voldemort was ready.
Harry didn't know how the information leaked, but at that point onwards, it didn't matter. Death eaters versus the rebellion forces—they had their enemies outnumbered. But Voldemort was a monster that quickly evened the playing field. The Anti-Apparition wards were in place, preventing anyone from escaping during the fight. It was here or never—something which Harry preferred.
Harry and Hermione focused on Voldemort, along with the help of Kingsley who supported them from the right. They had stacked up on enhancing potions to gain as many advantages as possible, and for a while, it worked. That was, until, Voldemort decided to stop his monologues and began to truly wreak havoc. Curses of all kinds mauled the pair, and Harry could see a few of his fingers missing in the middle of the fight.
But they didn't stop.
Voldemort, no matter how strong, was only one man. He managed to capture Hermione in a tendril of dark energy, a spell which Harry didn't even recognize, and brought her close, using her as a leverage for Harry to stop the attack. But Hermione wouldn't let that happen.
Her eyes were lit with determination.
She wouldn't let this opportunity slide.
In a second, her body exploded with a burst of pure magic.
Harry had screamed in shock—but quickly quieted down after. Voldemort was severely injured, and he took that to his advantage. The Elder Wand showed its superiority in the fight, and with a final killing curse—Harry killed Voldemort without a second glance, no Horcruxes left to act as a saving grace.
The seemingly never-ending saga had finally concluded.
It was a weird feeling.
When Harry finally killed Voldemort, he found himself…frowning.
The person that had made his life a living hell, killed all of his loved ones, and broken the Wizarding world into two halves had finally died, and Harry couldn't even smile. Was it really worth all of the sacrifices? Hermione would have said yes without a doubt. But Harry ended up having second thoughts. Were the deaths of Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville, really worth this end?
In a weird way, Voldemort being alive was a good thing for Harry's mental stability. Defeating Voldemort was the only goal in his mind, the only thing he could ever imagine himself doing. And once Voldemort died, everything faded.
He was empty. Broken. But he still had things to do. And so he trudged on.
The first few years after Lord Voldemort's death was the "Golden Age", or so they called it. Harry was declared the "Boy-Who-Vanquished", and thus the hero of Wizarding Britain once more. He was the most famous person in the Wizarding World for the next two decades, without a shadow of a doubt.
Hogwarts was under control, with Harry convincing Aberforth Dumbledore to take position as Headmaster of the school. Harry didn't find any reason to finish his final year. He was too old and couldn't bring himself to face the nostalgia and memories of that place.
Harry placed himself firmly on the side of politics. Although he wasn't Minister of Magic, which was taken up by Kingsley Shacklebolt, he was the poster boy of Britain and was responsible for many of the decisions taken place. He was the figure in the back controlling all of his pieces like a puppet show. His connections and power certainly helped do that.
There came the title of "Uncrowned King", which Harry thought sounded quite cool.
Once everything was set in place, he decided to take a break. Exploring the world, learning magic, discovering ancient runes sites, and more. He engrossed himself in the magic and culture of the remaining Wizarding societies left, and before long, was quite adept in many sorts of magic, to the point where he could have been called an Archmage if he had taken the MAT, which stood for Mage Aptitude Test. He hasn't attempted the test, but many officials had insisted he was at that point already, and listed his name regardless.
At the same time, Harry had collected all three of the Deathly Hallows in his possession. He didn't want a repeat of Grindelwald or even Dumbledore to occur. Unknowingly, that would backfire heavily a few years later. One thing was for certain, Harry had stopped aging. By the time he was thirty, he still looked like he was twenty-five or twenty-four. Sure, that could be taken as the fact that he had generally good genetics, but his face hadn't changed by a single millimeter. In fact, nothing was changing. This only confirmed that he was now the Master of Death, a title which he had attempted to dispose of several times with no success at all.
Then came the title: The-Man-Who-Vanished.
Fast forward a decade later, he was an Unspeakable. Wizarding Britain was flourishing more than ever, thanks to Kingsley's great policing and a lack of dark wizards ruining the place. However, there were more than a few times where Harry was called to dismiss a particularly nasty dark wizard or witch, and sometimes High Mages and Grand Mages. There was one incident where an Archmage from Japan had gone on a rampage, destroying civilian homes in an empty country land north of Scotland. That particular fight had his blood running for the first time in forever, though a shame that the world had one less Archmage now. He had demanded a lot of money for that particular brawl, something Kingsley was more than willing to accommodate. With the loss of Albus Dumbledore and Voldemort, the only remaining Archmage in Wizarding Britain was Harry himself.
As an Unspeakable, Harry explores the nuances and mysteries of magic to a frightening degree. He learned the intricacies of spells and made many of his own in the same time. Forward another few decades, and here he was. He hasn't aged a second more, to the shock of all of his remaining, few friends, who simply just thought it was another of those "Harry things".
Kingsley was still alive and kicking, though he no longer held the position of Minister of Magic, instead preferring to relax with his family. The new Minister, David Scrimming, was a self-taken Apprentice of Kingsley and did a good job at handling everything.
Unspeakable life was fun. Of course, he knew everybody in his branch, even though, legally, he wasn't actually supposed to, and everyone knew him. Harry refused to wear the disguise masks everyone else wore, a trait that the rest of his branch copied from him.
"See you later, Mr. Potter!" Harry heard from behind him as he began packing his bag.
Work time was over, meaning Harry could finally go back home and get the rest he really wanted. He began to truly value sleep ever since he slept in the middle of a conference with the biggest names from all over the world a few decades ago. It was a moment that spread all over the world, and Harry had personally received a lot of slander and hate for his carelessness. Not that he gave a flying shit, but a few hours of sleep could have prevented the annoyance from occurring.
The rookie Unspeakable that said that to him was a newly recruited member of the "Ancient, Modern, and New Magic" sector that Harry currently headed, though he clearly didn't do a good job seeing how the rookie ran away laughing with her friends. Eventually, everyone left. As head of his sector, Harry had to make sure there were no intruders with several perimeter spells and also to check the conditions of all the projects one more time before leaving. A brief twenty minutes later, he began to walk to the main hall, where the main, front exit was also present.
It all seemed clear.
Or so they thought Harry would assume.
"You can get out now," he called out to no one in particular.
Harry spun his wand in his right hand. "I guess I'll just do it for you. Magnum Revelio!"
A pulse of magic spread from the tip of his wand, encasing the entire hall in a seam of golden glow that refused to go away. In an instant, fifteen or so figures bled into reality, the spell having broken their Disillusionment spells quite easily. Wands were up immediately, some on the ceiling, some behind Harry, some to the right, and some to the left.
In the face of impending danger, Harry just laughed. "You're going to have to do a lot more than that…"
Flashes of green, red, and orange lights flew towards Harry, who simply twirled his wand and flew into the air, avoiding everything in one go. Harry sent stunners towards one group absentmindedly, not even caring whether it managed to hit or not. The remaining few continuously sent curses at him, which he blocked by raising a wall of earth in front of him with a quick swish. The wall trembled and eventually broke down from the pressure of the spells, which included explosion curses, boiling curses, and more. But that didn't matter. At that point, Harry was already blitzing towards another location.
The hall erupted into a light show as Harry managed to maneuver himself to the top of the hall using his flight, a spell that he had copied from Snape and Voldemort after several hours of ruthless practice. His eyes were glowing with vibrant energy as he sneered down at the insects below him.
How dare they? How dare they attack the territory of an Archmage?
From this height, Harry had to bellow with the effects of a voice-modifying spell. "YOU HAVE MADE A SEVERE MISTAKE, UNKNOWN ONES. TO TREAD ON THE TERRITORY OF AN ARCHMAGE IS TO TREAD WITH DEATH. AND I…AM THE MASTER OF DEATH ITSELF."
"LET HELL REIGN UPON YOU ALL."
Harry spun his wand around himself in a wide circle before pointing directly downwards.
"Infernum Ortus!" He roared.
The spell roughly translated to "hell rises", and was an arcane spell well forbidden within the grounds of modern magic, but Harry couldn't care less. Spells like these were meant to stay hidden forever, and were purposefully destroyed by ancient wizards and witches to prevent any further destruction than they once caused. It was unfortunate people like Harry and the other Unspeakables existed to cover this type of stuff.
The ground erupted into a layer of fire, stunning the shadowed figures who immediately began to cast water spells of the highest intensity.
They forgot one thing.
The flames of hell could not be quenched.
Harry brought his wand up. In response, tendrils of red, hot something grew from the layer of fire, grasping onto the unknowing, and already scorched legs and hands of the unfortunate victims with vigorous tenacity. They hollered in pain as they felt the screaming hot pain of the attack directly onto their skin. Harry didn't show any mercy to their pain. He had fought too long to make such a mistake. He floated downwards, before grabbing one of the alive member's heads and forcing him to look into his eyes.
Legilimency was a subject of magic he was forced to learn for the title of Archmage, though that doesn't mean it didn't have its blatant uses. Occlumency, he much preferred, due to its passive nature and the massive side benefits that it came with.
He scanned the memories of the captive before immediately coming out.
Shit.
They were going for the Department of Mysteries. This was only a distraction for Harry to save them some time. They knew they had no chance to fight against Harry bloody Potter no matter if they were outnumbered in such a way. Harry flew towards the intended area, wondering for a second if he should brute force the Anti-Apparition wards and simply apparate to the Department of Mysteries. No—he might end up allowing more backups inside—he couldn't let that happen. Harry ended up activating an alarm system by a code spell only the Unspeakables knew, and just decided to go full speed.
The closer and closer he went to the department, the more and more eerie feeling of dread that he experienced. There was…something emanating from the area. Harry couldn't describe it. Something strange. Unholy. No—he couldn't even describe it as such. Whatever was happening was interfering with the laws of magic itself. Harry's connection with magic was deep—due to his position as Archmage mostly—but he could feel the fabric of magic itself folding and hurting itself as it continued.
Harry gritted his teeth. "How dare they?!"
To damage the core of magic itself—to risk the integrity, and purity of magic itself? It was disgusting.
Harry made his way through the main exit of the Department of Mysteries, opening the door without any hesitation. His eyes widened as he saw what was happening.
"What the actual fuck?" Harry shouted in genuine confusion and shock, even though his voice couldn't be heard through all of the commotion.
A circle of magic radiated around the center of the large main room, where a chorus of sounds could be heard emanating from inside the room. Voices. They were singing—no, they were chanting. A dialect Harry couldn't understand. Literal skeletons danced around the center, moving in slow, rhythmic poses which seemed to symbolize something. And all of it was focused on…
The Veil.
A direct passage between the living and the dead. The only thing that linked us to the soul of the dead. Something so strange that the Ministry was forced to form the base of Unspeakables around the Veil itself. And someone was using the passage for their own deeds. There could only be a single objective for what they were trying.
They were attempting to raise the dead.
In control of it all—looked to be a woman in her twenties or thirties. She covered her pretty face with long, baggy robes which didn't allow anything for Harry's eyes. He could feel her energy from here. It was so distinct and dark that there was no other option to entertain in the slightest. She didn't even look bothered by his entrance, instead preferring to continue her chant. Without a doubt, she was a modern-day Necromancer.
Harry smirked. And there was a good reason. He loved Necromancers.
"Good day, fellow servant of Death!" Harry introduced himself, ignoring the dancing skeletons as best as he could. He strolled casually towards the center. "How's it going? You know, except for the weird-ass skeletons and crazy outfits, you could totally work as a singer! How about it? After I destroy you and your crazy little plan, I'll personally fund your career in singing, assuming I get a fifty-fifty cut, all right?"
She continued her chant.
Harry was surprised. "Ah. Not the type for monologues, eh? I always hated your type of villains. So boring. So edgy. Say what you want about Voldemort, at least his monologues were entertaining."
She stopped her chant.
Immediately, a loud screeching noise came from underneath the Veil, followed by the laughter of the Necromancer witch. Harry just realized he was caught on the opposite side for once. He was the one who delivered the monologue and ended up paying for it. It was funny how karma worked. Either you died a hero or lived long enough to see yourself become a villain.
Bright-blue spirits began to rise from the Veil, their transparent, ghostly bodies rising into the overworld one by one. Eventually, the rate of rise increased. Hundreds of souls began to rise into the air, relentless in their search for…nothing. The screaming of the thousands of souls hurt Harry's ears, who promptly shut the door and blocked any chances of escape into the outside world. The worst thing that could happen is for some stray souls to escape and latch onto some sort of host.
The Necromancer finally turned to face him, looking defiant with the army of souls behind her, begging to follow her every command.
Harry grinned. "Ahhh…now it's time for the monologue!"
The Necromancer frowned. "Your reign will soon end, Harry Potter, the chosen one. The stars have finally aligned. Your time on this earth is no longer, fate itself deems it so. I have personally come to deliver the end to you, the only obstacle remaining in my path to divinity. These souls aren't just any souls, you see. The evilest of the evil. Lord Voldemort, Grindelwald, Ivan, Salazar…the greatest wizards of all time—under my fingertips!" She cackled wildly, her eyes lit with a manic craze Harry hadn't seen in a long time. "I have won. I HAVE WON. I have more control over death than any mortal in this world! Now face—"
Harry yawned. Loudly. "Voldemort's monologues were a lot more terrifying, you know?"
She seemed confused. "What?"
"Your monologues are tasteless!" Harry started, having been thoroughly annoyed from the start of listening. "Where is the passion? The fear? It almost sounded like you were reading off a script for Merlin's sake! What happened to the villains of this generation? Do you know how many people have said the same shit you've said for the past four decades? Everyone is so unoriginal it's starting to piss me off."
The villainess looked honestly confused. "What are you talking about?" The ghosts wailed, their voices echoing off the hall, producing an almost siren effect on Harry's ears. They were eager to escape, eager to possess a body.
Harry shrugged. "Not only was your monologue utterly boring."
He took a step forward. "It was absolutely false."
Harry's smile curved evilly. "You said something about having more control over death than any mortal alive, no? Ah…do you not know who the Master of Death is?"
The woman scoffed, her eyes looking amused when he mentioned that title. "The Master of Death? That myth that died a century ago? Are you insane? Even if such a thing existed at one point, they are dead. Ghosts of the past! Is it true that the legendary Harry Potter has cracked with his old age? Master of Death, he says!" If things weren't weird enough, the spirits began to cackle along with the witch, forming an strange, inhuman noise that would break any lesser man.
Harry tried to keep a poker face. He really did. Soon enough, one crack appeared. The cracks spread across his entire face until he was bellowing in laughter. As in, tears coming out of his eyes, type of laughter.
"The Master of Death is dead? Do you even understand what you're saying?" Harry asked, slowing down his laugh. "The Master of Death is an entity which cannot be killed. They are essentially immortal. The only mortal who can have any claim on Death is him alone. A shame, Necromancers like you gain an inkling of vast power and think they own the world."
"And why does any of this matter now?" She asked, clearly annoyed by the tangent they were on.
"You're not a sharp one, are you?" Harry questioned with an unnerving smile.
He twirled his finger, where a ring seemed to suddenly appear out of thin air. A bright, golden shank holding up a dark stone with some sort of markings on it. The Resurrection Stone was an artifact of the past, a legend that was quickly written as a myth and brushed aside as the greedy wishes of humans a century ago. Harry had made sure to destroy all copies of the stories of the Deathly Hallows, erasing the existence of those three items for the rest of history.
But they still existed.
Dark, purple energy arose from his left hand where the ring was located, bringing out a disgusting, evil stench that a Necromancer would assume was the best of perfumes, as those well used to contact with the dead wouldn't feel the effects. Harry could feel his hand burning with energy but ignored the feeling. It had been a long time since he had used the powers of the Master of Death, the last time he used it was against the Japanese Archmage, obviously.
After he had been made Master of Death, Harry quickly began to uncover and dig into what the special connection really gave him. The easiest to find was the ring, he found. It could do much more than just raise shades of dead spirits, something which an average Necromancer could do with relative ease–the only difference being that the ring had no limit to the number of shades produced. The ring's alternate abilities, however, proved to be far more useful than its initial one.
Violet and black tendrils of energy spread around Harry's hand entirely, humming with ancient, archaic magic.
"The Master of Death…is me."
Harry released all of the magic at once, aiming it directly at the army of spirits behind the Necromancer. He felt the sudden pressure of the thousands of armies on his will and gritted his teeth in determination. He had to wrestle for control over the spirits by fighting against their own, dull individual wills and the Necromancer's will.
The witch's eyes lit up in confusion, feeling a foreign source of magic invading her ritual, before realizing what was happening. She snarled in anger and instantly began to try and push Harry out.
Harry smirked.
He had already won.
The spirits turned into a shade of purple, symbolizing their shift in dominance. The witch looked shocked to the core. Harry couldn't blame her.
"Your first mistake was having me as a target," Harry pronounced as a matter of factly. "You still have many decades to go before challenging me, young one. Say your final words…nevermind, I honestly can't wait for that long. Goodbye."
Feast.
The spirits roared with hunger as they surrounded the Necromancer's body with ravenous speed. She tried her best to fight back while shrieking in agony, but the effort would do nothing. Harry wasn't even sure what he would do in her position, to be honest. The spirits ate like vultures ripping away the body and leaving only an empty vessel left. They didn't feed on the body, of course, but on the soul.
Harry clapped his hands together. "Yay! Another threat to the world averted by your friendly neighborhood wizard." Harry brought his focus back to the ring and instructed one last time.
Return.
The spirits wailed with disappointment but listened to their Master. Thousands of souls flew to the veil, exiting back through the passage without any second thoughts. Eventually, they were all gone.
Yet, Harry couldn't particularly place it, something was amiss.
Something was wrong.
He realized he could still feel a trace of magic left in the room.
And it was steadily increasing.
Harry's eyes widened. The ritual!
BAKRAM!
Yellow, almost celestial looking magic erupted from the veil, destroying the dancing skeletons and illuminating the entire enclosure. Harry felt a tremendous pressure on his body right when the light contacted him, his eyes bulging outwards as he attempted to resist the force. He could feel his control over his own magic beginning to slip away as he felt the foreign magic invade his own system.
That shouldn't have been possible.
The pressure converted itself into a pulling force, directing him towards the Veil. Harry's eyebrows raised—he knew what was happening. And he wouldn't let it happen. With a strained roar, he pushed his wand forward.
"Eruca Impulsus!"
Continuous pillars of fire blew out of his wand, propelling Harry backwards with great force. The rocket propulsion charm was a spell that rarely had any uses, with how slow it was to cast and how uncontrollable it was in general. Harry sighed in relief as he could feel him going backwards—as long as he made it out of the room, the magic wouldn't have any effect on him.
He spoke too soon.
The pull tightened even further. Harry shook with unimaginable pain as the energy continued to pull harder—no longer focused enough to hold the spell. It was a thousand times worse than a crucio. In an instant, he cleared the space between him and the Veil.
And it was over.
Harry Potter was pulled through the Veil without a second thought—no one to ever see him again.
—
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Harry groaned with pain as he felt his head spinning vigorously and with no intention to stop. He squeezed his right hand, finding comfort in the familiar presence of his wand. He waited until he could feel his right hand before immediately casting healing charms on his body. It felt slightly better, but still far from comfortable. A weird ringing effect remained in the edge of temples.
He finally opened his eyes.
Darkness.
It looked like he was in some sort of deserted alley, filled with dust, soot, and garbage all over. Harry probably had been sleeping in this alley for quite a long time, as evidenced by the dent in the large trash bag in front of him, which looked like he had been sleeping on for a long time. Harry could feel the cold wind on his skin, before realizing a second later that he was bare naked.
He quickly transfigured himself some plain black robes. That would have been really awkward if he hadn't noticed sooner.
Where the hell was he?
And how?
Harry's latest memories included going inside the veil, a blackness overcoming his mind, and then waking up here.
Had he somehow made it out? Maybe he had been teleported somehow? That was the most likely solution. He was just glad that he had somehow escaped the whole situation, which had been looking worse and worse every second.
He noticed some weight on his chin that hadn't been there before, in the form of scraggly hair along his chin. He had a pretty large beard along his face, which gave some clue to how long he had been sleeping. Harry's beard didn't grow that fast normally, and it would take at least a month for something of this size to grow out.
Had he really been sleeping on trash for that long?
It made sense as to why he stinked so much now.
He cast some spells for the scent and left the beard alone for now, even though it looked terrible from the zero maintenance he gave it. With the beard and robes, he had a sort of mad scientist vibe that Harry didn't particularly mind. Unspeakables were mad scientists in a way.
Harry groaned. "Ugh…now I have to explain to the crew why I wasn't there for a month straight."
They would understand, right? It wasn't everyday you fought a Necromancer trying to raise the dead, after all.
He made his way out of the alley, instantly understanding where he was from the scenery alone.
He smiled widely. "Hogsmeade. Not bad at all."
The village was ornamented with bright orange lights, indicating the time of the year well. It was already snowing heavily, covering the roads and buildings with foot-long slow that budged away every step that Harry took. There were many people walking around as well, some Hogwarts students and others just inhabitants or visitors.
The place hadn't changed much in the past few decades, other than the huge statue of Harry that was supposed to be right in front of Three Broomsticks. The statue had taken a long time to build, and was made through the insistence of Hogsmeade's inhabitants. Harry had showed up for the inauguration of the statue, which showed him doing an heroic pose and was supposed to be a representation of his final fight with Voldemort.
What an awesome statue! Harry exclaimed in his head.
Wait…where was the statue?
"WHO THE FUCK REMOVED MY STATUE?!" Harry roared in fury.
Students and adult wizards and witches instantly turned towards him, whispering in confusion as they saw a tall, bearded man yell about his statue being gone. Harry ignored them all. He was furious. He rushed towards Three Broomsticks, where his good friend Alan Becker, the person who owned a majority of the land here, would be. Alan wouldn't let this happen, right?
He opened the door urgently, before instantly coming to a sight he had long since forgotten.
Rosmerta?
The brunette witch was still running about, looking as young as ever as she continued to serve customers.
That shouldn't be…
He ran outside, looking for any stalls that held newspapers. As soon as he saw one about twenty meters away, he simply held out his hand, resulting in the newspaper zooming towards him at high speed. One witch screeched as a piece of newspaper whacked her in the face as it flew towards its destination.
Harry's heart was racing.
The newspaper in his hands was light, but felt like a ton. He immediately checked the title and the date.
July 17th, 1994
THE DAILY PROPHET
Quidditch World Cup in one month!
by Rita Skeeter
That's right readers! In one month, we all will have the great honor and excitement of viewing the finals of the Quidditch World Cup in England between Ireland and Bulgaria!
Here are the few do and don'ts while you're there:
Firstly, do not—
Harry froze.
1994.
Ah shit. Here we go again…
—-end
Yo!
Alert: this is a new fic. Priority however, is still towards MPGTOI.
This is the classic Unspeakable Harry going back in time, but things will deviate here onwards.
A lot of things are unexplained, and a lot of things you will find in the next chapter. The length will be around 5K to 10k at most.
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Pa / PaladinKaladin. It's just a way to support me while getting some other benefits, but do not feel any way pressured to do so lads.
Again—a lot of things are unexplained. There's a reason for that.
As for pairing—undecided. Tell me what you think.
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Cya' next chapter (1 or 2 weeks).