The streets of Diagon Alley were alive in a way that Harry had almost forgotten was possible.
He'd emerged from the Ministry into the bright afternoon sunlight with the careful movements of a man still adjusting to his own body, still uncertain whether the solid ground beneath his feet was entirely real. The world had a clarity to it that seemed almost unnatural—the colors too vivid, the air too clean, the sounds too distinct. Or perhaps it was simply that he'd grown so accustomed to the grey, worn-down version of wizarding Britain that this vibrant version seemed like a fever dream.
The Leaky Cauldron was much the same as he remembered it, though somehow different in subtle ways. The wood of the bar was less scarred, the bottles on the shelves less dusty. Tom, the barkeep, was younger—or rather, less aged—his face smoother, his movements quicker. He gave Harry a curious look as he passed through toward the back entrance, but didn't stop him. Strangers came and went from the Leaky Cauldron all the time, and Harry's worn robes, while unusual, weren't so strange as to warrant comment.
The courtyard beyond was exactly as Harry remembered it from his visits years ago. The brick wall that concealed Diagon Alley stood before him, solid and unremarkable. He raised his wand and tapped the bricks in the familiar pattern, and the wall dissolved away to reveal the bustling street beyond.
Diagon Alley took his breath away.
It was the same street he'd walked down countless times, but it was also completely different. The shop fronts were brighter, fresher, the paint not yet faded by years of use. The cobblestones were cleaner, less stained by spilled potions and scattered refuse. And the people—the people were the thing that struck him most forcefully.
They were happy.
Not just content, but genuinely, openly happy. Wizards and witches moved through the street with a lightness that Harry had never seen in his own time. Parents walked with their children, pointing out shop windows, laughing at their offspring's excited chatter. Young couples strolled arm in arm, completely unconcerned. Elderly wizards sat on benches, soaking up the sun, unbothered by the weight of constant vigilance that had become the norm in Harry's time.
There were no aurors on patrol. No checkpoints. No one examining identification papers or asking questions about where people were going. The Ministry's presence, which had become so oppressive in Harry's own time, was virtually invisible here.
Harry walked slowly down the street, trying to process what he was seeing. The absence of fear was so profound that it was almost painful. He could feel it like a physical pressure lifting from his chest, a weight he'd carried for so long that he'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe without it.
Flourish and Blotts was doing brisk business, its windows displaying new releases that Harry recognized as books he'd read years ago. Gringotts' white marble facade gleamed in the sunlight, and the goblin guards at its entrance looked bored, not vigilant. Ollivander's wand shop stood unchanged, its window still displaying a single wand on a faded cushion.
Harry found himself drawn toward Knockturn Alley almost without conscious thought. It was a dangerous impulse—the dark side of Diagon Alley, where things were bought and sold that the Ministry preferred to pretend didn't exist. But Knockturn Alley was also a place where information flowed freely, where one could learn things that weren't printed in the Daily Prophet.
The alley was dimmer than Diagon Alley, its shops darker, their windows displaying items that ranged from merely unusual to genuinely disturbing. A shrunken head grinned at him from one window. Chains and manacles hung from another. A third displayed what looked like preserved organs in jars of murky liquid.
But what Harry was looking for was simpler. He needed information. He needed to know exactly when he was, and the best way to find that was through a newspaper.
He found a shop that dealt in used books and newspapers, its proprietor a thin, nervous-looking wizard who barely glanced up as Harry entered. The back of the shop was cluttered with stacks of old papers, their pages yellowed and fragile. Harry began to sift through them, working backward from the most recent dates he could find.
It took him nearly an hour of careful searching, but eventually he found what he was looking for. A Daily Prophet from three days prior, its headline proclaiming some minor Ministry scandal that Harry had never heard of. The date at the top was clear and unmistakable.
October 15th, 1970.
Harry's hands trembled as he held the paper. 1970. Which meant he'd traveled back forty-six years. Forty-six years before his own birth. Forty-six years before his parents had even met.
But more importantly, it meant he was ten years before Voldemort's return. Ten years before the Dark Lord would begin his rise to power in earnest. Ten years before the first disappearances, the first murders, the first signs that something dark was stirring in the wizarding world.
Ten years before everything fell apart.
Harry sank onto a nearby crate, the newspaper still clutched in his hands. His mind was reeling, trying to process the implications. Ten years. It seemed like both an impossibly long time and no time at all. In ten years, the entire course of history could change. Or it could remain exactly the same, with only minor variations.
The question was: what was he supposed to do with ten years?
He forced himself to think rationally, to push aside the panic and the shock and focus on what he actually knew. Tom Riddle was still a Ministry researcher, still young, still in the early stages of whatever dark plans he had. The Death Eaters hadn't been formed yet. Voldemort's followers were still scattered, unorganized, unknown.
But the seeds were there. Harry knew that much from his studies of history. The seeds of darkness were already being sown, even if they hadn't yet sprouted. Riddle was already searching for Horcruxes, already planning his ascension, already laying the groundwork for his future empire.
And Harry had ten years to stop him.
The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Harry purchased the newspaper from the proprietor—who barely seemed to notice the transaction—and made his way back out into the street. The afternoon was beginning to fade into evening, the shadows growing longer across the cobblestones. He needed to find somewhere to stay, somewhere to think, somewhere to begin formulating a plan.
The Leaky Cauldron would do for a night or two, but he couldn't stay there indefinitely. He needed a base of operations, somewhere secure where he could work without drawing attention. He needed resources, money, connections. He needed to figure out who he could trust and who he absolutely couldn't.
And he needed to do all of this without revealing who he actually was.
The thought struck him as he walked back toward the Leaky Cauldron. He couldn't simply announce that he was Harry Potter. In 1970, Harry Potter didn't exist yet. His parents were still students at Hogwarts, still years away from meeting each other, still completely unaware of the son they would eventually have.
The paradox of it made his head spin. He was a man who didn't exist yet, walking through a world that didn't know he was coming. He was a ghost of a future that hadn't happened, a phantom haunting the corridors of a past that was about to become his present.
The realization was both liberating and constraining. Without an identity, he was free. He could be anyone, do anything, reshape himself into whatever he needed to be. But without an identity, he was also vulnerable. He had no history, no connections, no established place in this world.
He needed a name. A new name, something that wouldn't draw attention but would also serve his purposes. Something that would allow him to move through wizarding society without raising suspicion.
Harry considered the options as he walked. He couldn't use his real name. He couldn't use any variation of it. He needed something that sounded authentic, something that fit the era and the culture, something that wouldn't raise red flags.
By the time he reached the Leaky Cauldron, he'd made a decision. He would call himself Hadrian Harrow. Hadrian was close enough to Harry that it would feel natural when people used it, but different enough that no one would make the connection. Harrow was a surname that sounded appropriately wizarding, with just a hint of darkness to it that might prove useful in certain circles.
Hadrian Harrow. A man with no past, no family, no connections. A man who had simply appeared in Diagon Alley one day with a pocket full of galleons and a head full of dangerous ideas.
Tom, the barkeep, looked up as Harry entered the Leaky Cauldron. "You're back," he said, more as an observation than a greeting. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"I'm looking for a room," Harry said, keeping his voice level. "For an extended stay. Several months, perhaps longer."
Tom's eyebrows rose slightly. "That'll be expensive."
"I can pay," Harry said simply. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of galleons. It was a risk—he didn't actually know how much money he had, or whether the galleons from his own time would be acceptable currency in this one. But they looked the same, felt the same, and Tom seemed to accept them without question.
"All right then," Tom said, scooping the coins off the bar. "I've got a room on the third floor. Quiet, private, good view of the alley. Breakfast included, dinner available for an extra fee."
"The room will do," Harry said. "I'll take my meals elsewhere."
He followed Tom up the narrow stairs to the third floor, where a small, cramped room awaited him. It was exactly what he needed—nothing fancy, nothing that would draw attention, just a simple bed, a wardrobe, a small desk, and a window that looked out over Diagon Alley. The view was indeed good, affording him a clear sight line to most of the street below.
Once Tom had left, Harry locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed, finally allowing himself to fully process what had happened.
He was in the past. Forty-six years in the past. He had ten years before Voldemort's return, ten years to build an alternative power structure, ten years to change the course of history.
And he had absolutely no idea how to begin.
Harry pulled out the Daily Prophet and read through it more carefully this time, looking for clues about the state of the wizarding world in 1970. The Ministry seemed stable, if somewhat corrupt. The pureblood families were still influential but not yet dominant. The muggle-borns were still relatively safe, though there were hints of tension in some of the articles.
One article in particular caught his attention. It was a brief mention of a new research initiative in the Department of Magical Artifacts, spearheaded by a promising young researcher named Tom Marvolo Riddle. The article praised Riddle's innovative approaches to artifact preservation and his groundbreaking theories about magical conservation.
Harry read the article twice, then a third time. There was nothing in it to suggest that Riddle was anything other than what he claimed to be—a brilliant young researcher with a passion for his work. No hints of darkness, no suggestions of sinister intent. Just a young man doing his job, earning the respect of his colleagues.
But Harry knew better. He knew what Riddle would become. He knew the darkness that lurked beneath that handsome, aristocratic facade. And he knew that somewhere in the next ten years, Riddle would begin his transformation into Voldemort.
The question was: could Harry stop it?
He thought about what he'd learned over the years about Riddle's rise to power. The Dark Lord had built his empire through a combination of fear, manipulation, and carefully cultivated alliances with the pureblood families. He'd offered them power and prestige in exchange for their loyalty, and they'd accepted eagerly.
But what if there was an alternative? What if, instead of allowing Riddle to offer the pureblood families power, Harry could offer them something better? What if he could build a coalition that was stronger, more unified, more resistant to Riddle's influence?
It was a dangerous idea, perhaps even a foolish one. But it was also the only idea he had.
Harry stood and walked to the window, looking out over Diagon Alley as the sun sank lower on the horizon. The street was beginning to empty as shops closed and wizards made their way home. The magical lights that lined the street flickered to life, casting everything in a soft, golden glow.
It was beautiful. It was peaceful. It was innocent.
And it was all about to be destroyed.
Unless he did something about it.
Harry clenched his fists, feeling the familiar weight of determination settle over him. He'd spent fifteen years fighting a losing battle against Voldemort. He'd watched friends die, watched the wizarding world crumble, watched darkness spread across the land like a plague.
But now he had a chance to change that. Now he had the opportunity to prevent all of that suffering, all of that loss, all of that pain.
He wouldn't waste it.
Over the next few days, Harry began to establish himself in Diagon Alley. He rented a small shop that had been vacant for several months, a narrow building wedged between a potion supply shop and a bookstore. The proprietor, an elderly wizard named Cornelius Fawley, seemed surprised but pleased to have a tenant.
"What sort of business are you planning?" Fawley asked as Harry signed the lease.
"Artifacts," Harry said simply. "Rare items, historical pieces. Things of value to collectors."
It was the perfect cover. An artifacts shop would allow him to move through wizarding society with credibility, to meet people of influence, to gather information about the various pureblood families and their interests. It would also give him a legitimate reason to be asking questions about Riddle and his research.
The shop itself was small but serviceable. Harry spent the first week cleaning it, setting up shelves, and arranging the few items he'd managed to acquire. He couldn't stock it with actual artifacts—he had no money for that, and acquiring rare items would draw attention—so instead he filled the shelves with books about artifacts, reproduction pieces, and carefully selected items that looked impressive but were relatively common.
But the shop was really just a front. What Harry was actually doing was building a network.
He spent his evenings in various wizarding establishments—pubs, restaurants, social clubs—listening to conversations, learning about the various factions within wizarding society, understanding the complex web of relationships and rivalries that characterized the pureblood families.
What he learned was both encouraging and deeply troubling.
The pureblood families were divided. Some were more progressive, interested in modernization and reform. Others were deeply conservative, clinging to traditional ways and old prejudices. There were rivalries between families, disputes over influence and power, disagreements about the direction the wizarding world should take.
It was a fractured society, and into that fracture, Voldemort would eventually insert himself like a wedge, using the existing tensions to drive the families further apart and consolidate his own power.
But if Harry could unite the families before that happened, if he could forge a coalition strong enough to resist Riddle's influence, then perhaps he could prevent the Dark Lord's rise entirely.
It was a monumental task. It would require years of careful maneuvering, strategic alliances, and calculated risks. It would require him to become someone he'd never been before—not a warrior, not a hero, but a politician, a manipulator, a man willing to play the long game.
But Harry had always been good at adaptation. And he had nothing to lose.
One evening, about a week after arriving in 1970, Harry was sitting in a small pub near the Ministry when he overheard a conversation that made his blood run cold.
Two wizards were discussing recent thefts from the Department of Magical Artifacts. Several items had gone missing, valuable pieces that the Ministry was having difficulty explaining. The thefts had been attributed to a disgruntled employee, but there were rumors—unconfirmed, whispered rumors—that something more sinister might be involved.
One of the wizards mentioned Tom Riddle's name. Not as a suspect, but as someone who had been questioned about the thefts. Riddle had apparently been cooperative, had answered all the Ministry's questions, and had been cleared of suspicion.
But Harry knew better. He knew that Riddle was almost certainly behind the thefts. He knew what items the Dark Lord had been searching for in the past—objects of power, items with historical significance, things that could be used to create Horcruxes or to enhance his magical abilities.
The realization hit Harry like a physical blow. Riddle had already begun. He was already searching, already gathering, already laying the groundwork for his transformation into Voldemort.
Harry had thought he had ten years. But the clock had already started. The countdown had already begun.
He finished his drink and left the pub, his mind racing. He needed to accelerate his plans. He needed to move faster, work harder, think more strategically. Every day that passed was a day that Riddle was getting closer to his goals, a day that Harry was falling further behind.
Back in his room at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry sat at the small desk and began to write. He wrote down everything he could remember about Riddle's rise to power, everything he'd learned about the Dark Lord's methods and goals. He wrote about the pureblood families, their strengths and weaknesses, their likely responses to various stimuli. He wrote about the Ministry, its corruption and its vulnerabilities.
And as he wrote, a plan began to take shape. It was rough, incomplete, full of gaps and uncertainties. But it was a start.
By the time the sun rose the next morning, Harry had the outline of a strategy. He would begin with the Black family. Sirius's father, Orion Black, was still alive in 1970, still the patriarch of one of the most powerful pureblood families in Britain. If Harry could gain Orion's trust, if he could convince the Black family to align with him, then other families would follow.
From there, he would work to build a coalition. Not just of the pureblood families, but of progressive elements within the Ministry, of influential merchants and business owners, of anyone who had a vested interest in maintaining stability and preventing the rise of a Dark Lord.
It would be a delicate balance. Too aggressive, and he would draw unwanted attention. Too passive, and Riddle would slip through his fingers. But if he could navigate that balance, if he could play the game just right, then perhaps he could prevent the darkness from ever taking hold.
Harry looked out the window at Diagon Alley, at the innocent faces moving through the street, at the vibrant, living world that was about to be threatened by a darkness that hadn't yet taken shape.
He had ten years. Maybe less. But he had a plan.
And for the first time since arriving in this strange, beautiful past, Harry Potter felt something like hope.
He was no longer the Boy Who Lived, fighting a battle that had already been lost. He was Hadrian Harrow, an architect of destiny, a man with the knowledge of the future and the will to reshape it.
The game was about to begin