Echoes of tomorrow.

Chapter one: ghosts of the past

The scent of burning tobacco lingered in the cool evening air as Harry Potter leaned against the rusted railing of his fire escape. The apartment complex, nestled in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, was a far cry from the stone walls of Hogwarts. Here, in the heart of New York City, he’d found some semblance of peace—a peace he didn't truly deserve, but one he had tried to embrace all the same.

The city lights below him twinkled like stars, casting a soft glow over the streets. A cool breeze ruffled the dark streaks of color in his hair, currently a bright violet, as he took another slow drag from his cigarette. The habit was a relic from the past decade, one of many things he'd picked up since the war. The streaks of color in his hair? That was for Tonks. A tribute to a life cut too short. The jacket? Sirius’s, the same one he wore the day he fell behind the veil in the Department of Mysteries.

Harry exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl and disappear into the night sky. The years had changed him. His once messy black hair was now streaked with color, shifting week to week, a bittersweet homage to the friend who had taught him what it meant to be brave in more ways than one. His scar had faded, barely noticeable now, though the memories that accompanied it had not. The war had left its mark on him in other ways: the hardened edge in his voice, the way his eyes no longer sparkled with youthful curiosity, the way his wand hand never strayed too far from his jacket pocket.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, after the funerals and the rebuilding, Harry had left Britain. It wasn’t a conscious decision at first, just a need to breathe, to escape the endless reminders of everything and everyone he had lost. America had seemed distant, unfamiliar, and that had been its appeal. The offer to join MACUSA’s Auror division had come at the right time—a fresh start in a place where he wasn’t "The Chosen One."

But no matter how far he ran, the ghosts of the past had followed him.

The cigarette burned to its end, and Harry flicked the stub into the street below. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was wrong, something far more dangerous than anything he’d encountered since arriving in New York. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the peace he didn’t feel he deserved. Or maybe it was the small, gold hourglass tucked safely away in his desk drawer—the one relic from his past he hadn’t been able to part with.

The Time-Turner.

He had been given the task of guarding it by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, ensuring that it never fell into the wrong hands. Time was a delicate thing, dangerous to meddle with, and MACUSA had deemed Harry responsible enough to handle it. After all, he was the boy who had once used time to save a hippogriff and a wrongly accused godfather. But this… this Time-Turner was different. It had more power, more potential than the ones he’d encountered during his third year at Hogwarts.

He pulled it from his pocket, its golden surface catching the dim light of the city. He hadn’t dared use it. Not yet. But the temptation had been growing, gnawing at him. Ever since Dumbledore’s portrait had appeared in his dreams, ever since that cryptic warning, Harry had known there was something he was supposed to do—something that had been left unfinished.

“Harry…”

The voice echoed in his mind, soft, yet commanding. It was Dumbledore's, the same tone he had used when guiding Harry through the darkest moments of his youth. But there was something more—urgency.

The wind picked up, and Harry clutched the Time-Turner tighter, his jaw set. He had been toying with the idea for weeks. The chance to change everything. The chance to save them all.

Sirius.

Remus.

Tonks.

Fred.

They had all died because of him. The guilt had never left. He had moved on, learned to live with it, but now—now there was a chance. A chance to fix things. A chance to rewrite the past. He closed his eyes, remembering Dumbledore’s final warning.

“You must not meddle with time, Harry. But… there are exceptions. The moment will come when you will have to choose. And when that time comes, know that some things… are worth the risk.”

The moment had arrived. The decision had been made.

Harry stood, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he adjusted it on his shoulders. The familiar weight of his wand pressed against his side. His heart pounded in his chest as he twisted the Time-Turner, his fingers brushing against the cool glass as the world began to spin. The colors of the city blurred and twisted, melting away into nothingness.

The familiar sensation of being pulled through time gripped him, and for a moment, he was floating in the vast expanse of nothing. Darkness consumed him, and his mind reeled as images flickered through his consciousness—moments from the past, fragments of memories he had long tried to forget. He saw Sirius smiling at him, his face alight with laughter. He saw Remus, weary but determined, ready to fight for a better world. He saw Tonks, her bright, bubblegum-pink hair glowing in the moonlight, her eyes full of fire and hope. And then, the battlefield. Bodies lying in the rubble. His friends, his family—gone.

A voice called out through the darkness. Dumbledore’s voice.

“Be brave, Harry.”

The spinning stopped abruptly, and Harry gasped as he was thrown back into reality. His feet hit solid ground, and the cold London air stung his skin. He stumbled, catching himself against the side of a building, his breathing ragged.

The night was silent, save for the distant sounds of cars passing by on the nearby streets. He straightened, pulling his jacket tighter around him, the Time-Turner slipping back into his pocket. He looked around, his heart racing.

It was 1995.

And Harry Potter had just stepped back into his past.