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Time's Usurper Chapter 8 (A Professor Out of Time)
🕑 Added 2025-08-23 20:06:57 +0000 UTCHarry Potter
The iron key felt unnaturally heavy in Harry's palm as McGonagall led him down the third-floor corridor. Not Gryffindor Tower, not the Astronomy Tower, but the faculty wing—a section of Hogwarts he'd barely known existed during his student years. The stone walls here were adorned with smaller, more dignified portraits than the boisterous scenes that decorated the main hallways. Their occupants watched him with curiosity, whispering behind painted hands.
"The previous occupant was Professor Jackhorner," McGonagall said, her footsteps creating sharp echoes against the flagstones. "Before he lost those last three fingers and decided a sabbatical was in order."
"Sounds like a fascinating predecessor," Harry replied, noticing how the torchlight caught in her hair—darker auburn than he remembered, with fewer silver strands. Twenty years made more difference than he'd expected.
They stopped before a heavy oak door with a brass knocker shaped like a griffin. McGonagall gestured for him to use the key, and the lock turned with a click.
"Your quarters," she announced, stepping back to allow him entry. "I trust you'll find them adequate."
The room opened to reveal a space both strange and familiar, stonework he'd known since childhood, but arranged into a home rather than a dormitory. A small sitting area with a worn leather armchair faced a fireplace that already crackled with welcoming flames. Beyond, a modest desk sat beneath a mullioned window that overlooked the Quidditch pitch. A doorway to the left presumably led to a bedroom and bath.
"This is..." Harry swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat. "More than adequate. Thank you."
McGonagall nodded briskly, her hands clasped before her. "I've taken the liberty of providing your class schedules and student rosters." She indicated a stack of parchment on the desk. "The elves will bring meals here if you prefer privacy, though we do encourage faculty to dine in the Great Hall when possible."
Harry set down his rucksack, pa little light for someone who'd supposedly traveled the world. "I appreciate that."
"Have you worked with children before?" McGonagall asked.
The question pulled a genuine chuckle from Harry. "I have some experience making people listen, yeah. Taught a few friends how to cast a Patronus once upon a time."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose. "A corporeal Patronus? At your age?"
"Desperate times," Harry said with a half-smile. "I find most people can surpass their limits when properly motivated."
"Indeed." Something flickered in her expression, perhaps approval, perhaps concern, it was definitely concern. "Well, I'll leave you to settle in. Breakfast is served at seven-thirty. Albus mentioned you might wish to observe classes tomorrow before beginning your own instruction on Monday."
When she'd gone, Harry stood motionless in the center of the room, letting the reality wash over him. Faculty quarters. His quarters. The silence felt like pressure against his eardrums, broken only by the soft pop and crackle of the fire.
"Right," he muttered to no one. "Home sweet home."
He moved to the desk and shuffled through the class rosters, heart hammering. Fifth years, sixth years, seventh years, all neatly arranged by house. His finger traced down the list of Gryffindor sixth years, stopping at two names that made his chest constrict:
Potter, James
Evans, Lily
His parents, listed like strangers. Like students he was meant to teach. His finger trembled slightly before moving on.
Black, Sirius
Lupin, Remus
Pettigrew, Peter
There they all were, sixteen years old and blissfully unaware that their new professor was the son of two of them. That he had loved them, mourned them, fought alongside them in another lifetime.
Harry exhaled sharply and pushed the roster away. Later. He'd deal with that later.
Unpacking took all of five minutes. A few changes of clothes. His invisibility cloak, carefully folded at the bottom of his rucksack. The ritual dagger, now cleaned of blood but still radiating dark energy. A small pouch of galleons. And, most precious, a collection of photographs he'd brought from the future, enchanted to appear as distant relatives rather than what they truly were.
He arranged these meager possessions, then moved to secure his new home. The wards he cast were nothing too advanced, he didn't want to make it too obvious that he was hiding something, but enough to warn him of intruders and protect his few secrets. No blood magic this time; Hogwarts wouldn't appreciate it, and the castle's own protections were formidable enough.
With his space secured, Harry found himself drawn to the window. He always loved looking at the grounds when the sun was setting. Four figures moved across the lawn below. Even from this distance, he recognized them.
The Marauders.
One tall and lanky. Sirius. Another with that telltale Potter gait, all confidence and energy. James. A third moving more carefully, as if perpetually aware of taking up space. Remus. And trailing slightly behind, shorter and rounder. Peter.
Something cold and hard settled in Harry's chest at the sight of the fourth figure. To think that the betrayal that would destroy everything was already planted in that boy, growing like a cancer while his friends remained oblivious.
Not this time.
Harry pressed his palm against the cool glass, watching as James slung an arm around Sirius's shoulders, both of them doubling over at some shared joke. The simple, brutal fact of their aliveness.
"I'll fix it," he whispered, the words fogging the window. "All of it."
A flicker of movement on the edge of the grounds caught his attention, a flash of dark robes disappearing into the Forbidden Forest. Harry wondered who this one was.
That was a problem for another day. Right now, he had more pressing concerns. The Marauder's Map would be somewhere with that laughing group below, the only artifact in this castle that would reveal his true name. If James or Sirius activated it and saw "Harry Potter" moving through the halls...
One step at a time, he reminded himself. First, establish his position. Build trust. Then find the map before it could expose him.
Harry turned from the window. He'd killed Greyback. He'd survived Death Eaters. He could handle teaching a bunch of teenagers, even if two of them were his parents.
"Welcome home, Professor Potter," he said to the empty room, and there was only the barest tremor in his voice.
The Next Day
Harry's boots made no sound on the stone steps as he descended toward the Great Hall. The castle hummed with morning energy, portraits yawning as they shuffled within their frames, suits of armor creaking as they shifted positions. Everything about Hogwarts felt impossibly familiar yet disconcertingly different, like a dream where home has grown extra rooms.
The massive doors to the Great Hall stood open, releasing a wave of sound and the rich scent of breakfast. Harry paused at the threshold, his heart doing an uncomfortable stutter-step. The four long house tables stretched across the hall, crowded with students in black robes, their voices creating a tapestry of overlapping conversations. But instead of walking toward the Gryffindor table as muscle memory insisted he should, Harry forced himself to turn left, toward the raised dais where the staff table waited.
Wrong direction, Harry. Table's that way. His inner voice sounded suspiciously like Ron's.
Something twisted in Harry's chest as his gaze automatically sought the spot where Ron and Hermione should be—would have been—will be, someday. But that spot currently held a group of third-years he didn't recognize, laughing over toast and pumpkin juice.
Get it together. They're not born yet.
"Ah, Mr. Harry!" Dumbledore's voice cut through his thoughts. "Come, join us. I believe there's a seat between Professors Slughorn and Vector."
The staff table felt like a stage, elevated above the students, exposed. Harry moved toward the empty chair, acutely aware of curious gazes tracking his progress. McGonagall nodded in greeting, her expression professional but watchful. Tiny Professor Flitwick offered an enthusiastic wave that nearly toppled his stack of cushions.
"The new defense instructor, eh?" A portly man with an impressive walrus mustache extended his hand as Harry took his seat. "Horace Slughorn, Potions Master. Delighted to meet you, absolutely delighted! I've heard the most fascinating things about your werewolf hunt."
Harry shook the offered hand, finding it soft and slightly damp. "Just Harry is fine. And it wasn't so much a hunt as a necessary intervention."
"Modest too! Splendid, splendid." Slughorn's eyes gleamed with the particular interest Harry recognized from another timeline—the look of a collector assessing a potential prize. "You simply must tell me how you managed to track the beast. I have a colleague in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures who would be most interested in your methods."
"Perhaps another time," Harry said, reaching for the tea pot. The ceramic was warm against his palm, grounding him in the present moment.
"Of course, of course! We'll have plenty of time for professional discussion." Slughorn leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "I host the occasional small gathering, you see. Select students, distinguished guests. You'd be most welcome."
Harry suppressed a groan. The Slug Club, already in full swing. "I'll keep that in mind."
A slender witch on his other side cleared her throat. "Septima Vector, Arithmancy. Don't let Horace monopolize you, Mr. Harry. Some of us are curious about your academic background, not just your monster-slaying talents."
"Just Harry, please," he repeated, finding it easier to smile at Vector, whose shrewd eyes reminded him somewhat of Hermione. "Though I'm afraid my academic credentials might disappoint. My education has been... unconventional."
"This makes this even better," she replied, buttering her toast. "I understand you've developed some unique defensive spells. The theoretical foundations must be fascinating."
The conversation flowed around Harry as he ate, faculty members taking turns probing his background with varying degrees of subtlety. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—a nervous-looking man named Dearborn who Harry vaguely recognized as a future Order member—seemed particularly anxious about Harry's role, repeatedly emphasizing the theoretical foundation of his own curriculum.
"Of course, practical application is valuable," Dearborn said, his fork stabbing the air for emphasis, "but without proper grounding in magical theory, students risk—"
"Getting themselves killed by an Unforgivable because they can recite its properties but can't dodge it?" Harry suggested mildly.
Slughorn chortled while McGonagall's lips thinned to a disapproving line. Dearborn's face flushed pink.
"Well, I—that is—"
Harry took pity on him. "I'm not looking to undermine your curriculum, Professor. Just supplement it. Theory and practice work best together."
The uncomfortable moment passed as platters of food vanished and reappeared, refreshed with second helpings. Harry used the distraction to finally let his gaze drift over the student tables, seeking specific faces.
The Gryffindor table came into focus first—habit, instinct, home. And there they were: the Marauders, clustered at the center of the table like they owned it. James Potter's laugh carried across the hall, his hand rumpling his hair in that gesture Harry had seen in Snape's memories. Beside him, Sirius lounged with aristocratic grace, his handsome face animated as he recounted some story. Remus, thinner than the others and with faint scars visible even at this distance, smiled tiredly. And Peter—
Harry's grip tightened on his fork until the metal bit into his palm. Peter Pettigrew sat among them, round-faced and unremarkable, watching his friends with naked admiration. Looking at him was like staring at a bomb that hadn't yet detonated but would kill everyone around it when it did.
Not this time.
His gaze shifted, seeking another face, and found her: Lily Evans, sitting further down the table with a group of girls, her dark red hair falling over one shoulder as she bent to write something in a notebook. The sight of her—alive, young, intense—sent a physical pain through Harry's chest.
"Ahem." Dumbledore had risen to his feet, and the Hall gradually quieted. "Good morning to you all. Before you dash off to your studies, I have a brief announcement. As some of you may have already noticed, we are joined by a new face at the staff table today."
Harry felt hundreds of eyes swivel toward him. The weight of their collective gaze crawled across his skin like ants.
"This is Harry, who has kindly agreed to offer a specialized course in practical defensive magic for our fifth, sixth, and seventh-year students. His classes will be held in the evenings, beginning this Monday, and attendance is voluntary though strongly encouraged."
A wave of excited whispers broke out. Harry caught fragments of conversation:
"—the one who killed Greyback—" "—heard he took down four werewolves alone—" "—called the New Defender in the Prophet—"
"Harry comes to us with considerable practical experience," Dumbledore continued, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Those who wish to enroll in his course should speak with their Heads of House. That is all for now. Enjoy your Saturday."
As the announcement concluded, Harry scanned the other house tables. At Slytherin, he found Bellatrix Black immediately, her dark eyes fixed on him. Unlike the other students, she wasn't whispering to her companions. She was watching, assessing, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Beside her, Andromeda's expression was more measured, thoughtful rather than hungry.
Further down the Slytherin table sat a lanky, hook-nosed boy with lank black hair, hunched over his plate as if protecting it from thieves. Severus Snape. Surrounded by future Death Eaters, already well on his path toward the Dark Mark. Harry's feelings toward Snape had always been complicated—the man had been both hero and villain in his life—but right now, looking at the sixteen-year-old version, all Harry saw was potential. Potential to choose differently. Potential to be turned.
Or removed, if necessary.
Harry broke off his gaze as Slughorn began another attempt at networking. The Potions Master's voice faded to background noise as Harry's mind calculated, planned, counted days on a mental calendar. Monday evening, his first class. A room full of students, some of whom would grow up to be killers, some of whom would be killed. Some of whom were his family.
And all of them looking to him for guidance.
Later
The weekend quiet of Hogwarts wrapped around Harry like a familiar cloak as he wandered the corridors, retracing steps worn into his memory from another lifetime. Suits of armor stood sentinel at corners he'd once hidden behind, polished to a gleam he'd never seen during his own school days. The war hadn't happened yet—wouldn't happen, if he succeeded—and the castle breathing with peace.
His footsteps echoed against stone floors as he climbed the moving staircase to the third floor. A group of second-years scurried past, their eyes widening as they recognized him, whispering furiously once they thought they were out of earshot. The fame felt different this time—earned rather than inherited, at least.
Harry paused at a window overlooking the grounds, watching a gentle rain mist the surface of the Great Lake. From this vantage point, he could see the spot where Dumbledore's tomb would someday stand. Empty grass now, peaceful in its ignorance of what was to come. The cold glass fogged with his breath as he leaned closer, momentarily lost in thought.
Focus, Potter. You're here to work, not reminisce.
He continued his exploration, cataloging small differences between this Hogwarts and the one he'd known. The trophy room lacked the Triwizard Cup that would someday display his name. The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom showed none of the battle damage it would accumulate over troubled years. Everything felt brighter, somehow. Untainted.
The library doors stood half-open. Harry stepped inside, drawn by habit more than purpose. Madam Pince, younger but no less severe, glanced up from her desk, her eyes narrowing with automatic suspicion before recognition smoothed her features into something marginally less hostile.
"Professor Harry," she acknowledged with a stiff nod. "The faculty section is to your right, should you require it."
"Thank you, Madam Pince. Just familiarizing myself with the layout for now."
The library's high ceilings absorbed sound, creating pockets of hushed isolation among the towering shelves. Harry moved through the stacks, fingers trailing lightly across leather spines, eyes scanning familiar sections. Herbology, Transfiguration, Potions—
A flash of dark red hair caught his peripheral vision, stopping him cold. There, at a table near the Charms section, sat Lily Evans, surrounded by books and parchment. Two other girls sat with her—one blonde with a Hufflepuff tie, another brunette in Gryffindor colors. They were bent over their work, quills moving rapidly across essays.
Harry's heart hammered against his ribs as he debated retreating, but it was too late. Lily had glanced up, her green eyes—his eyes—widening with recognition.
"Oh! Hello, Professor," she said, straightening in her chair.
Her voice was lighter than he'd imagined, with a slight northern accent he'd never known she had. Harry forced his face to show no emotion.
"Harry is fine," he confirmed, approaching their table. "Working on Charms homework?"
"Flitwick's essay on Atmospheric Charms," the brunette confirmed, her gaze lingering on Harry's face a beat longer than necessary. "I'm Mary MacDonald, by the way. This is Dorcas Meadowes."
The blonde Hufflepuff nodded in greeting, and Harry felt another jolt of recognition. Dorcas Meadowes—killed personally by Death Eaters before Harry was born. Another ghost, sitting here alive and smiling.
"Your class sounds fascinating," Lily said, setting down her quill. "Practical defense... will you be teaching us proper dueling techniques?"
Harry found himself relaxing slightly into the familiar territory of teaching. "Among other things. Dueling has its place, but real combat rarely follows formal rules."
"That's what I told Jam—" Lily cut herself off, looking irritated with herself for a moment. "I mean, that's what I've always thought. The theory is important, but Professor Dearborn never lets us actually practice countering real hexes."
"Probably afraid we'd use them on Slytherins," Mary stage-whispered, earning a reproachful look from Lily.
"You've had experience with real combat, haven't you?" Lily pressed, her gaze intensely curious. "The papers said you fought four werewolves at once."
"The papers exaggerate," Harry replied automatically, though in this case, they hadn't. "But yes, I've had my share of fights. That's why Dumbledore brought me in—to share practical knowledge."
Dorcas leaned forward. "What's the most important thing to remember in a real fight? If you could tell us just one thing?"
"Stay moving. A stationary target is a dead target."
"That's not what the dueling manuals say," Mary pointed out. "They emphasize proper stance and—"
"Dueling manuals are written for controlled environments," Harry interrupted gently. "They assume your opponent follows the same rules you do. Dark wizards don't."
Lily's eyes hadn't left his face. "You have the most unusual eyes," she said suddenly. "They're almost exactly like mine."
Harry's stomach plummeted. He'd forgotten that detail—the eyes that everyone in his time had commented on. His mother's eyes.
"Merlin, you're right," Mary said, glancing between them. "That's uncanny."
"Green eyes aren't that uncommon," Harry said, forcing a casual shrug. "My mother had them too. Family trait."
"Well, maybe you and Lily are long-lost relatives," Dorcas teased. "Though I think James Potter might have something to say about that."
Lily rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed slightly. "Don't be ridiculous, Dorcas. Potter has nothing to say about anything regarding me."
"Yet," Mary added with a knowing smile.
Harry cleared his throat, desperate to change the subject. "I should let you get back to your essays. Looking forward to seeing you all in class on Monday."
"We'll be there," Mary assured him, with a bright smile. "I'm very interested in your... techniques."
"Mary!" Lily hissed, scandalized.
Harry managed an awkward smile and backed away, heart still pounding uncomfortably. His mother. He'd just had a conversation with his mother. And she'd noticed his eyes.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
He was so distracted by the encounter that he nearly collided with a figure rounding the corner as he left the library. Sharp nails caught his forearm, steadying both of them.
"Well," a silky voice purred. "If it isn't our mysterious new professor."
Bellatrix Black stood before him, her dark eyes glittering with interest. Unlike most students, she wore no school robes—just the regulation skirt and blouse, the Slytherin tie loosened at her throat. Her black curls cascaded wildly past her shoulders, untamed in a way that reminded Harry painfully of Sirius.
"Miss Black," he acknowledged, carefully extracting his arm from her grip. "Shouldn't you be enjoying your weekend somewhere less... academic?"
She let out a burst of laughter, which didn't have the same sound of madness Harry used to hear whenever Bellatrix Lestrange laughed. "I find academia has its... attractions." Her gaze raked over him appraisingly. "Especially when new subjects present themselves."
Harry kept his expression neutral, though his instincts hummed with warning. This wasn't the broken, fanatical Bellatrix he'd known—but the seeds were there, hidden behind beauty and charm.
"Was there something specific you wanted to discuss?" he asked, maintaining a professional tone.
Bellatrix stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "I was hoping you might elaborate on your encounter with Greyback. The techniques you used... they sounded rather inventive."
"The Prophet tends to dramatize," Harry deflected. "It was a simple matter of superior spellwork."
"Superior indeed." Her smile sharpened. "Bursting a werewolf's lungs from within? That's not taught in any curriculum I'm familiar with."
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly. "You seem remarkably well-informed about the details."
"I have... connections at the Ministry." She waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing important. But I am curious—where does one learn such effective methods? The standard defensive spells seem so... restrained by comparison."
There was a hunger in her voice that Harry recognized—the same hunger for power that would someday lead her to Voldemort's side. But there was something else too: genuine curiosity, intellectual interest. The brilliant witch she might have been, before darkness claimed her.
"Effectiveness sometimes requires innovation," he said carefully. "When conventional methods fail, new approaches become necessary."
"Innovation," she repeated, savoring the word. "Yes, I've always thought so too. Magic has so much untapped potential, doesn't it? So many unexplored corners." She leaned closer, her perfume...Harry was a little surprised that she had perfume. "The power that lives in those shadows... it calls to certain people. Those with the courage to reach for it."
Harry maintained eye contact, refusing to be intimidated. "Power isn't good or evil, Miss Black. The intent behind it is what matters."
"Intent," she echoed, her smile enigmatic. "And what was your intent when you destroyed Greyback? Justice? Vengeance? Or simply the thrill of proving you could?"
The question was surprisingly perceptive, hitting closer to home than Harry was comfortable with. "Protection," he answered truthfully. "Some people need to be stopped before they hurt others."
"How noble." There was no mockery in her tone, just curiosity. "And yet, the methods you chose weren't exactly... Light magic, were they?"
Harry weighed his options carefully. Alienating Bellatrix completely would close a potential intelligence source. But encouraging her darker impulses was equally dangerous.
"Sometimes," he said finally, "protecting the innocent requires walking in shadow. The trick is finding your way back to the light afterward."
Something flickered in her eyes—interest, calculation, perhaps even respect. "I look forward to your class, Professor Harry. I suspect we all have much to learn from you." She stepped back, giving him a small, formal curtsy that somehow managed to seem both proper and mocking. "Until Monday, then."
As she glided away down the corridor, Harry released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Bellatrix Black in her prime—brilliant, beautiful, and balanced on the knife-edge between potential paths. In his timeline, she had fallen irrevocably to darkness.
But this wasn't his timeline anymore.
Another piece on the board, Harry thought, continuing his walk through the castle that had once been—would someday be—his only true home. The question is, can she be turned? Or will she have to be removed?
The disused girls' bathroom on the second floor was exactly as Harry remembered it—eerily quiet, perpetually damp, with its cracked mirrors and dripping faucets creating a melancholy atmosphere. Afternoon light filtered weakly through the high windows, catching motes of dust that swirled like lazy ghosts in the air.
Harry closed the door softly behind him, his footsteps echoing against the worn tile floor. He'd chosen this moment carefully—dinner hour approaching, corridors emptying, the castle's attention directed elsewhere. His wand remained in his hand.
A sudden drop in temperature announced her presence before he saw her. The silvery, translucent form of a young girl in Hogwarts robes rose from the U-bend of the farthest toilet, her pigtails floating as if suspended in water.
"You're not a girl," she said accusingly, her voice high and petulant. She adjusted her pearly spectacles, peering at him with increasing interest. "Not a student either. What's a handsome boy like you doing in my bathroom?"
Harry carefully schooled his features into polite confusion. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was in here. You are...?"
"Myrtle," she said, drifting closer, her expression shifting from suspicion to preening in an instant. "Most people call me Moaning Myrtle, but you don't have to." She batted her eyelashes behind her ghostly glasses. "You didn't answer my question."
"I'm Harry. The new defense instructor." He glanced around the bathroom as if assessing it for the first time. "I needed somewhere private for a bit of research. Somewhere students wouldn't interrupt."
Myrtle pouted, hovering just feet away now. "This is my place. I died here, you know. It's very rude to barge in without asking." Despite her words, she preened slightly, clearly enjoying the attention from someone who wasn't fleeing at the sight of her.
"I apologize for the intrusion," Harry said, infusing his voice with gentle authority. "I need just a few minutes alone. In return..." He paused deliberately. "I could help you with your snake problem."
Myrtle's translucent form went rigid, her eyes widening behind her spectacles. "What do you know about—"
"Enough," Harry said quietly. "Will you give me some privacy, Myrtle? Just for a little while."
The ghost girl wavered, conflict playing across her features. Curiosity warred with suspicion, and beneath both, a desperate loneliness that made Harry's chest tighten with unwanted empathy.
"Fine," she finally huffed. "But don't think I won't be watching you, handsome Harry. Everyone has secrets in my bathroom." With a theatrical wail, she dove back into her toilet, sending water splashing across the floor.
Harry waited, counting a full minute in his head before moving. Then, he cast a series of spells in rapid succession.
"Muffliato," he murmured, ensuring their privacy from eavesdroppers. "Colloportus Maxima." The enhanced locking charm sealed the door with a squelch that suggested it would take considerably more than a simple Alohomora to breach.
Satisfied with his precautions, Harry approached the circular row of sinks at the room's center. His fingers traced the worn copper tap where a tiny snake was etched—invisible unless you knew to look for it. The serpent seemed to watch him, a silent guardian to secrets buried far below.
Harry took a deep breath, the sound unnaturally loud in the protected silence he'd created. Then, focusing on the small engraved snake, he opened his mouth and released a series of hisses. Tthe gift he'd inherited from Voldemort himself.
"Open," he commanded in Parseltongue.
The sink began to tremble, porcelain vibrating against porcelain as ancient mechanisms stirred to life. The tap glowed with a brilliant white light, and the sink began to move, descending into the floor to reveal a wide pipe. Large enough for a man to slide into.
The Chamber of Secrets lay open before him.
Comments
oWell
No, that was my mistake, no one knows that his last name is Potter. Thank you for pointing it out.
The Humble CTurtle
In case it wasn't mentioned, one of the professors speaking to Harry calls him Mr.Potter. Are the staff supposed to know his last name?
