Writer of the Aether
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Time Between Us: Chapter 2 - To My Master
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 01:00:04 +0000 UTCThe first sound Harry heard was a frantic scratching against tree bark, close to his ear. An annoyingly sharp noise. It was followed by the crunching of dry leaves.
Consciousness returned to Harry. For a moment, he remained half-awake, the image of the white train station and Death’s pale face overlapping the darkness behind his closed eyes. Her voice—Don’t disappoint me—echoed in his head, like a voice not his own, trapped in his memory. Had that been a dream? It had to be. The strangest, most vivid dream of his life. Even more so than when he entered Voldemort’s memories.
Then, he felt something small and furry near his left hand.
Harry jolted awake, his eyes flying open. Above him, a canopy of oak and yew leaves cut through a sky painted in pale blue-gray. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the foliage, painting streaks of light on the forest floor. The air smelled of damp earth, and the morning chatter of birds was slowly starting to rise.
He sat up, a groan escaping his lips. Every muscle in his body ached, including some he didn’t even know he had, burning with a kind of exhaustion so deep it felt like he’d just endured another one of Wood’s brutal Quidditch practices from third year. He looked down at himself. He was still wearing the same torn clothes, covered in soot and—he hoped—just mud. He was filthy, exhausted, and somehow… alone.
He was in the same spot where he’d been hit by Voldemort’s Killing Curse. The clearing in the Forbidden Forest. He stood up so fast his bones protested. He scanned the area for any sign of life—human life. But there was nothing. No sign of people, not even Hagrid tied up. He was alone.
For a moment, a wave of despair washed over him. It hadn’t worked. It had all been a dream. That white station, Dumbledore, the yellow-eyed woman who called herself Death… just hallucinations, the final flicker of a dying brain. The offer, the chance to save everyone—he’d been tricked. And here he was, lying in the dirt, alone and completely unprepared for the first Death Eater that might show up. His heart pounded. Panic.
He had to move. He needed information. He had to get back to Hogwarts and help whoever he could, hoping Voldemort hadn’t already brought the castle down. Tempus, he thought—one of the most basic spells to tell the time. A start. At least he’d know how long he’d been out.
Instinctively, his right hand went to the back pocket of his jeans, where he had stashed Draco’s wand.
The pocket was empty.
He froze, his breath caught in his throat. Urgently, he twisted around, frantically checking all his pockets. Nothing. His eyes scanned the ground, brushing over the wet leaves, searching for a glint or any hint of the wand. But there was nothing—just dirt, grime, and branches.
Draco’s wand was gone. Probably taken by one of the Death Eaters who had checked his body. He felt completely powerless. Disarmed. Almost naked. How could he do anything without a wand?
A new kind of fear took hold of him. A wizard without a wand was a target—anywhere. But in the Forbidden Forest, he was prey. Especially considering the creatures that lived there. He remembered Aragog and all the other beings Hagrid had mentioned during their tea chats. He knew the most important thing was not to panic.
A sharp pain jabbed his scar. It felt like a needle being pressed into his forehead. Cold and hot at the same time.
Panic hit instantly—a reflex honed over sixteen years. It was like Voldemort was still there. The possibility that part of Tom Riddle’s soul remained inside him erased all logical thought.
Heart in his throat, he did what he always did: squeezed his eyes shut, his hand trembling on his forehead, bracing for the invasion. He waited for the flash of fury that wasn’t his, for the red eyes, the sibilant whisper of a consciousness that had long lived in the back of his mind like a parasite.
But there was nothing.
The space where Voldemort’s soul had always been was… empty. Deeply silent. And somehow, that made it even stranger. He realized the connection they’d always shared was gone.
Harry opened his eyes, gasping for breath. His hand was still on his forehead.
The scar was gone. In its place was smooth skin—something he hadn’t understood could even exist. At least since he’d returned in fourth year, he’d never realized how much of a maze his mind had been.
And then, finally, he understood.
It wasn’t the pain of Voldemort’s presence. It was the anchor Death had mentioned. The soul fragment was gone, but something else now occupied its place. It wasn’t a doorway to his greatest enemy anymore. Now, it was a chain—a reminder that he was bound to a pact. He was free from a parasite only to be tied to a master.
Harry was angry. He should’ve trusted Dumbledore. He should’ve known better than to strike a deal with an entity—especially one that claimed to be Death. He felt like he’d sold his soul to something even worse.
The peace of the train station. Dumbledore’s gentle face. You can… board. Move on. The words he’d said before Death appeared.
A groan of regret escaped Harry’s lips.
“What did I do?” he asked aloud.
He could’ve chosen peace. Silence. He could’ve been on that train now, heading somewhere without pain, without scars, without the weight of the world on his shoulders. He could’ve let it all go. Or better—he could’ve come back. Come back for his friends. Come back for Ginny. He was in a place he knew… but didn’t belong.
And for what? This endless agony? Death had tricked him. And he, in his arrogance—in his stupid need to be the hero—had walked straight into the trap. The pain was unbearable. For one terrifying second, he wished he could go back—not to the beginning, but to the station, to undo the deal and choose the other path. The easy path.
He reached for his forehead again. The pain was growing stronger. That was when, at the height of his despair, they came. The memories of those he’d lost. The memories of those who made him choose this path. And Harry understood: he wasn’t doing it for himself. He was doing it for them.
The pain in Harry’s head didn’t go away. But suddenly, it changed. It was no longer just meaningless agony. It felt like the price he had to pay for what he was doing. It was the currency he had used to buy the chance to rewrite those memories.
He straightened up slowly, his body trembling, breath ragged. The forest was still quiet, and the morning was still breaking. But inside him, the war had already begun. And he had just won the first battle. The pain was terrible, yes. But the image of his dead friends was infinitely worse. He began to control his breathing, focusing on the moment. With each breath, the pain faded a little more. He remembered the Occlumency lessons with Snape. The principle was the same. The problem was, this pain was much more physical.
No, he hadn’t made the wrong decision. He had made the only choice he could have made. And suddenly, the pain vanished. He understood: the pain wasn’t just a punishment. It was a reminder of what needed to be done.
With his resolve set and the pain under control, Harry began to walk, limping slightly, in the direction where the castle should be. The absence of a wand in his pocket made him feel dangerously exposed. He needed to get out of the forest before someone—or something—found him.
He walked for a few minutes, feeling something guiding him in the right direction. In a small clearing ahead, the morning light seemed to curve around a large, flat stone covered in moss. The stone itself wasn’t remarkable, but the objects arranged on top of it with such precision made Harry stop in his tracks.
He stepped closer, heart pounding unevenly. This couldn’t be real.
There was his Invisibility Cloak—at least, what he remembered of it—folded more perfectly than he’d ever seen. Its silvery fabric seemed to absorb any light that touched it. Resting on top of the cloak was the Resurrection Stone, which he was almost sure he had dropped deep in the Forbidden Forest before confronting Voldemort, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows clearly visible. And beside both lay the Elder Wand.
Harry recognized it instantly—the knotted dark wood, the ancient, powerful aura. He’d only ever seen it in the hands of Dumbledore and Voldemort, and only for moments. Seeing it there, as if it had been waiting for him, felt like both a temptation and, somehow, a trap.
There was one more thing. A single, dark, dried leaf placed on the cloak. Written on it in elegant, shimmering silver handwriting were the words:
To my master. May it serve you well.
Harry looked around, a chill running down his spine. This wasn’t luck. This was a gift.
He reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the wand. A familiar warmth—only far more intense than anything he’d felt with his first wand—rushed up his arm, and golden-red sparks burst from its tip.
He had power. That much was obvious. Power more than enough. And the only thing he could think was: why had she sent him this?
Why would Death give him tools to make things happen? If she only wanted him to fix and return Voldemort’s soul, why give him the most powerful artifacts in the world he knew? It didn’t make sense... unless the outcome wasn’t all she cared about. She didn’t just want him to win; she wanted to see how he would win. She wanted to see what a boy would do with that kind of power. He wasn’t a champion. He wasn’t a hero. He was her entertainment.
“What the hell,” he muttered to himself. He felt like he was in a TV show, being watched by whatever that was. What the hell was he supposed to do?
The sound of his stomach cut through his train of thought.
He looked at the wand in his hand, then in the general direction of the castle, its towers beginning to appear on the horizon. Death’s intentions were a mystery for another day. Right now, his mission was much simpler.
He desperately needed to find his way to the kitchens. The thought of a feast—toast, eggs, bacon, pumpkin juice—was so vivid he could almost taste the food prepared by the house-elves. He adjusted the cloak as he always did, tucked the stone into a safe pocket, and with the wand in hand, started walking toward the castle.
There was Hogwarts. But something was wrong. It was too quiet. There was no sound of hundreds of students, no warm glow of lights from the Great Hall windows. It was silent. And then, like a lightbulb going off in his head, he remembered. He had no idea when he was. It could very well still be the students’ holiday break. Or worse—maybe Hogwarts was still occupied. So how could he just walk onto the school grounds without setting off every possible alarm? Sirius had done it using the secret passages, but he had the advantage of being an Animagus. Harry was someone who wouldn’t go unnoticed.
The plan was incredibly stupid. He needed a new one. A place to eat, yes, but also to think. A place where no one asked questions.
Hogsmeade.
The idea came to him, clear and obvious. The Three Broomsticks was too risky; Madam Rosmerta was too sharp, and there were always too many witches and wizards there. He couldn’t go to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop—not alone. But the Hog’s Head... the Hog’s Head was perfect. The bar was perpetually dark, smelled like goats, and its patrons made a point of not noticing anything—or anyone. It was the ideal hideout.
But not in the state he was in. He found a small stream and looked at his reflection. He looked like a ghost—face smudged with soot, clothes in tatters. Pointing his wand at himself, he muttered, “Tergeo!” The dirt and mud vanished from his face and clothes. He felt dizzy at how easily the spell had come to him—and strange for not even remembering it existed. He muttered again, “Reparo!” and the rips in his shirt and jeans stitched themselves up with a neatness that not even Dobby or Mrs. Weasley could match.
He started checking his pockets more carefully now. He felt a small weight in an inner pocket he didn’t even remember having. Frowning, he reached in and found the cool, familiar edges of coins. Three gold Galleons. He held them in his hand, and a wave of longing washed over him. He thought of Hermione—who, at this time, didn’t even know him yet. During the Horcrux hunt, she’d insisted that he and Ron learn a simpler version of the charm she’d used on her bag, mainly to store small items. Her idea had, once again, saved his life.
Clean, wand in hand, and three gold coins in his pocket, Harry felt, for the first time since waking up, a little less like prey in a forest.
Sticking to the shadows of the trees, he skirted the edge of Hogwarts and followed the worn trail toward Hogsmeade. Half an hour later, he stood in front of the small, grimy inn with a wooden sign creaking in the wind, showing the severed head of a boar.
Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The Hog’s Head was even darker and smelled worse than Harry remembered—a mix of stale dust, cheap drink, and something vaguely goat-like. Only a handful of patrons were scattered among the tables, all hunched in their cloaks, faces hidden in shadow, clinging to an air of anonymity that suited Harry perfectly. He chose the darkest table in the farthest corner, feeling the customers’ eyes slide over him without interest before returning to their mugs.
The pain in his forehead was now more like an old memory. He felt the urge to rub it—something he often did when he was bored. He knew a movement like that could draw attention. He had to look indifferent.
Heavy footsteps approached, and a tall man with long, graying hair and a beard stopped beside his table. He wiped a nonexistent stain on the wood with a rag that looked just as dirty as the table itself. Harry looked up and met a pair of sharp blue eyes—bright like Dumbledore’s, but without any warmth.
Harry remembered Aberforth very clearly. The memories hit him hard: Aberforth, standing firm, saving their lives, opening the secret passage during the Battle of Hogwarts. A wave of gratitude for an act that hadn’t even happened yet rose in Harry’s throat, and he swallowed it with difficulty.
“What can I get you?” Aberforth’s voice was a rough growl.
Harry tried to sound older, more tired than he really was. “Firewhisky. Double. And whatever hot food you’ve got.”
Aberforth didn’t move. His blue eyes narrowed, scanning Harry’s face—the lack of a beard, the clothes that, while clean, clearly belonged to a teenager.
“You old enough for that, kid?” he asked, clear suspicion in his voice.
Harry held his gaze, his heart beating a little faster. “I’m old enough to pay for it.”
For a long moment, Aberforth kept staring at him, and Harry was sure he was about to get thrown out. But finally, with a grunt that could’ve been contempt or indifference, the man turned and walked back to the bar. Harry let out a quiet sigh of relief.
A few minutes later, Aberforth returned, placing a glass of amber liquid and a plate of questionable-looking stew on the table with a dull thud. When Harry reached for his Galleons, Aberforth paused, his hand hovering over the coins.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked, eyes once again fixed on Harry’s face, brow furrowed in a genuine, though irritated, attempt to remember.
Panic spiked in Harry’s chest. “I don’t think so,” he said, a little too quickly. “I’ve got one of those faces. Common.”
“You look like a young guy who used to come around here a while back,” Aberforth said, leaning closer. “You sure you’re not related? You two could pass for brothers.”
“Positive. I’m new in the country,” Harry deflected, giving the man a half-smile.
He pushed the coins toward Aberforth’s hand—a clear sign for him to leave. Aberforth stared at him for another second, his sharp blue eyes full of suspicion, before finally scooping up the Galleons and walking away, muttering something about kids with common faces and his lousy memory. Harry picked up the whisky with a trembling hand, the first sip burning down his throat.
The warmth of the whisky and stew spread through his limbs, and for the first time in a long while, Harry felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in ages: control. The pain in his forehead was still a chilling constant, but his mind was clear. The plan was risky, nearly insane—but it was a plan. Protect the Philosopher’s Stone, stop Quirrell, destroy the diary... one step at a time.
Of course people might recognize him. He hadn’t thought of that. People always said he looked just like his father. And now, it was more obvious than ever. That was another problem he’d need to solve—and quickly. He was lucky Aberforth’s memory was crap.
He took another sip of the whisky, the burning liquid giving him a courage that didn’t quite feel like his own. He began thinking about his next move. What should come next?
That’s when the voices at the next table, a low, disgruntled murmur until then, rose in volume.
“I’m telling you, my Galleons are on Ireland!” said a burly wizard with a tangled beard, slamming his mug on the table. “Their Chaser lineup is the best I’ve seen in years! Troy, Moran, Quigley... they’ll tear through Bulgaria’s defense.”
“You’re mad, Cormac!” snapped his companion, a small man with a sunken face. “You’re forgetting Bulgaria’s got the prodigy! They’ve got Krum!”
Harry froze, his hand around the warm glass. Krum? Of course he recognized the name. They’d met in his fourth year. He focused on the conversation, sipping slowly and forcing himself to swallow the stew Aberforth had brought him.
“A Seeker doesn’t win a match on his own!” the bearded wizard growled. “No matter how good the kid is.”
“He’s not ‘good,’ he’s a force of nature!” said the smaller man, his voice full of admiration. “If Bulgaria has any shot at the final, it’s because of him. You’ll see!”
The word hit Harry like a stone to the gut. Final. They weren’t talking about a game that had happened. They were talking about one that was going to happen.
The Quidditch World Cup. Ireland versus Bulgaria.
Summer of 1994.
The glass trembled in Harry’s hand, the clink of it hitting the wooden table sounding absurdly loud. The plan he had considered—so solid and clear just moments ago—crumbled like a sandcastle in the tide.
He was in 1994. Not 1991. He had assumed Death would send him back to before he started at Hogwarts. Not to a time when he was already there.
The Chamber of Secrets had already been opened. The diary had already possessed Ginny. Peter Pettigrew had already escaped. Sirius was still a fugitive. Everything he had planned to stop... was already history. A history he could no longer change.
She had tricked him. Again. Death had placed him at the beginning of the most important year. The year of the Triwizard Tournament. The year Cedric would die. The year Voldemort would use Harry’s blood to rebuild a body.
His scar throbbed with a pain that felt like mockery. Don’t disappoint me. Her voice echoed in his memory, and now he understood the cruelty of what she had done. She didn’t want him to prevent the war. She wanted him to actively participate in a war already underway. Again. But this time, without the help of his friends—friends who didn’t even know who he really was yet.
He looked into the bottom of his glass. The warmth was gone. He understood he had to somehow stop certain things from happening. The question was: how?
Some events had already come to pass. That much was certain. He tried to remember the details of the disappearance of Ministry employee Bertha Jorkins, but at this point, she was probably already dead. The Quidditch conversation at the next table went on. But somehow, Harry realized he already had the information he needed.
He tapped the table absentmindedly. Hermione would know what to do. Damn. Even Ron would probably have a good idea. He was completely lost right now.
What do I do now?
He knew panicking wouldn’t help, especially after everything he’d been through escaping in his own timeline. He had learned that when panic hit, he desperately needed a fact to latch onto—or he’d make the worst possible decision. And the truth at that moment was that without money, he wouldn’t survive another day or two. Hermione’s three Galleons barely covered one more night and a greasy stew. He needed access to a vault.
But the Potter vault was out of the question. He was Harry Potter—a thirteen-year-old boy who was supposed to be in Little Whinging, under the “protection” of the Dursleys. Trying to access Gringotts as himself would trigger a million alarms and suspicions. He’d have a better chance sneaking into Hogwarts that way. He’d get caught, interrogated, and his mission would be over before it even began. He needed a new identity.
He turned his wand over in his hands, trying to form a train of thought. To my master, the note had said. Death had called him Master. Why? Because he had united the Hallows. The Hallows of the Peverell brothers.
Peverell.
The Peverell brothers—an ancient wizarding family, nearly legendary, extinct. Harry couldn’t remember ever hearing of another Peverell. If Dumbledore’s story was true—that the Cloak had always passed from father to son—then the Potter line could somehow be traced back to the Peverells. In a way, he wouldn’t be lying. Not completely. It would be like claiming a long-lost inheritance.
It was a bold, dangerous idea. To walk into Gringotts as an unknown teenager and claim to be the last heir of one of the oldest wizarding families? Madness. They’d laugh in his face. But what could they expect from someone who had once broken into the so-called most secure bank in the world? And escaped on the back of a dragon?
Besides, he had proof. Proof no wizard had seen united in centuries.
The Elder Wand. The Resurrection Stone. The Invisibility Cloak. He’d only use them as a last resort—that much was true.
A slow smile crept across Harry’s lips. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who had just realized that, although Death had clearly set a trap for him, he had an ace up his sleeve she hadn’t seen coming.
He couldn’t be Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. That was someone else’s title. A title from his past life. He needed to write his own story now. One free of prophecies or expectations. As much of a shot in the dark as it was, he understood that it was the wisest choice at that moment.
Harry stood up, gave a slight nod to Aberforth as he left, and walked through the streets of Hogsmeade, always careful not to be noticed. He threw the cloak over his shoulders as soon as he neared the edge of the forest. He needed to visit Gringotts as soon as possible.
He Disapparated, leaving his old story behind. He was going to write a new one. And he would, without a doubt, give his younger self a better future.
