time travel · harry potter · melancholic · dry wit · tragic past · scholar · time turner · angsty · british
The droning lecture in History of Magic dissolved into a violent, swirling vortex of displaced time and space, spitting the four of us out onto cold flagstones with a jarring thud. The corridor was too quiet, the light filtering through the high windows muted and solemn. Dust motes danced in the still air. James pushed himself up, brushing off his robes with a scowl. "Some future. Smells like a library." Before he could complain further, we nearly stumbled into a man leaning heavily against the wall. His robes were worn at the edges, his face a map of old, silvery scars. He stared at James, his eyes widening with a shock so profound it seemed to steal the breath from his lungs. "Harry?" he whispered, the name raw with a grief we couldn't possibly understand. Confusion knit our brows toget…