Chapter Text
Harry woke before dawn.
The sky was a shade of blue, and the wind carried the damp scent of distant rain.
The mansion remained silent, but he felt the invisible gaze of the walls—watchful, patient, as if waiting for the decision he had been putting off.
He had been thinking about leaving for days.
Part of him wanted to stay there, sheltered between the echoes of the past and the safety of oblivion.
But another part—more restless, more alive—whispered that the world outside continued to turn, and that he needed to see it for himself.
Morgrim appeared shortly after, carrying a pile of neatly folded clothes.
"Are you going out, sir?" the elf asked, and there was an almost cheerful glint in his eye.
Harry hesitated.
He glanced at the fire, then at the window, where the mist moved like a cloak.
"Perhaps. Just for a while."
The elf smiled, satisfied.
"Then you must dress appropriately. The world has changed. People look at appearances now."
Harry arched an eyebrow, surprised by the enthusiasm.
Morgrim, with the proud touch of one serving an ancient lineage, handed him a dark, thick wool coat.
"It's good for you to see the world, Mr. Peverell. Old houses sleep too much."
Harry didn't answer.
He simply put on the coat, inhaling the scent of herbs and time permeating the fabric.
Before leaving, he picked up the newspaper left on the table.
The magical letters flickered in the pale firelight:
THE DAILY PROPHET — November 17, 1927
"Grindelwald Captured in Paris — Wizards Wonder: Is This the End of an Era?"
Below the headline, a smaller line:
"Tension Grows Between the Wizarding and Muggle Worlds. Europe Fears a New War."
Harry folded the newspaper carefully.
That sentence echoed within him as he walked through the mansion's gate.
Diagon Alley
The alley was different.
Narrower, darker, and the wooden buildings seemed ancient even by wizarding standards.
But the smell of parchment, ink, and boiling cauldrons was the same.
Harry stopped in front of the Flourish and Blotts window.
Books stacked to the ceiling. Young people discussing spells and defenses.
The scene struck him with unexpected force.
Ron, laughing as awkwardly as ever.
Hermione, passionately explaining ancient runes.
Ginny, her red hair burning in the autumn sun.
For an instant, time doubled.
He could hear laughter, the sound of hurried footsteps, the distant echo of the Leaky Cauldron.
But when he blinked, everything disappeared. The alley returned to the present—muffled, foggy, full of shadows and strangers.
A group of wizards hurried past, whispering:
"They say Grindelwald was taken alive."
"The Ministry is divided. Some wanted immediate execution."
"Europe is boiling... Muggles are talking about war too."
The voices faded, but the words remained.
The same fear. The same promises. The same cycle.
Harry sighed, and the cold seemed to penetrate the fabric of his coat.
The Muggle World
He crossed the Leaky Cauldron.
On the other side, London was breathing.
It was a city in transition.
The clank of trams mingled with the deep rumble of early automobiles.
Men in well-cut suits and fedoras hurried along, smoking thin cigarettes.
Women in knee-length silk dresses, fitted wool coats, and small hats adorned with veils or feathers walked along the wet sidewalks.
The shop windows displayed new radios, French perfumes, and movie posters.
Modernity gleamed in the windows, but it was a fragile light—the kind that shines before fading.
Harry watched it all in silence.
The city vibrated, alive and indifferent, unaware of what loomed in the shadows.
He walked to a small coffee shop on the corner.
The doorbell jingled as he entered.
The smell of fresh coffee and warm bread enveloped him.
He sat by the window, the fogged glass reflecting his tired face.
At the next table, a man was reading The Times.
The headline immediately caught his eye:
THE TIMES — November 17, 1927
“Europe on alert — radical movements growing on the continent.”
Words like “insecurity,” “rearmament,” and “hatred” leaped off the page.
The Muggle world was also in turmoil—unaware that, in its own way, it was repeating the wizarding world’s fate.
Harry looked away to the street.
A woman was quickening her pace in the rain, holding her son’s hand.
The boy laughed, trying to escape the drops, and the sound of his laughter mingled with the distant rumble of cars.
Harry followed the two with his eyes until they disappeared around the corner.
A lump formed in his throat.
Tom.
The name came again, heavy and inevitable.
The boy who still didn't know who he would be.
The boy he would one day meet.
The coffee grew cold, untouched.
The rain thickened, tapping on the windows like impatient fingers.
Harry got up and went outside.
The cold air greeted him with a shiver.
Fog shrouded the city, and the sounds of the world mingled—engines, footsteps, laughter, distant bells.
At the edge between the two worlds, he stopped.
Behind him, ancient magic.
Ahead, fragile, noisy, and alive modernity.
For an instant, the two merged—and Harry felt he belonged to both, and neither.
He took a deep breath.
The smell of gasoline, rain, and coal enveloped him.
And the sound of the bells seemed to respond to his silence, like an echo of recognition.