It was always difficult being Harry Potter and it isn't much easier now that he is an overworked employee of the Ministry of Magic, a husband, and the father of three school-age children.
While Harry grapples with a past that refuses to stay where i...
The interrogation chamber of the Ministry of Magic was a stark contrast to the grandiosity of the atrium above. Thick brick walls enclosed the musty and bleak space, casting an oppressive atmosphere that even the flickering fluorescent lights couldn't dispel. At the center was a polished wooden table flanked by two cushionless chairs. Seated in one, an elderly man with a long silvery beard cascading over the front of his jet-black cloak. His eyes, deep-set and dim, narrowed intermittently as he glared at the harsh bars of unnatural light glaring down from above.
The heavy door creaked open, and Harry Potter entered with an air of casual authority. He wore the robes of his office, but there was an ease to his movements that belied the seriousness of his position. Without a word, he drew back the vacant chair and placed a folded copy of The Daily Prophet onto the table. Beside it, he dropped a worn leather briefcase, its edges scuffed from years of use.
"Good afternoon," Harry began dryly, taking his seat. "My name is Harry James Potter. I am the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. I'll be asking you a series of questions over the next few minutes. Please answer them honestly, and to the best of your ability. I will not be using Veritaserum. I will not be using Legilimency."
He unlatched the briefcase and retrieved a folder, an ink pot, and a feather quill, arranging them meticulously beside the newspaper. For the first time since the encounter at King's Cross Station, Harry made direct eye contact with the man across from him. A long silence stretched between them, thick with puzzling tension. The fluorescent lights flickered, causing the man to wince. He scanned the cobwebbed iron sconces on the walls around them.
"Would it be too much to ask?" the man inquired, his voice raspy yet measured. "My eyes are-unacquainted with this sort of illumination."
Harry reached into his jacket and extracted his wand, laying it delicately on the table. "I would, but... my wand is rather glitchy these days. Untrustworthy," he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. "I fear I might accidentally set this building ablaze were I to accommodate you. Besides..." He glanced up at the long and glaring bulbs. "This is my preferred aesthetic. I grew up with Muggles, and I've found over the years that the use of electric lighting tends to yield... favorable results."
Unfolding the newspaper, Harry's eyes traced the headline before settling back on the man. "The article in The Daily Prophet describes you as a retired bookseller. The patch on your robes, however, tells me that you are an Unspeakable from the Department of Mysteries. Yet you own a house. How is that possible, I wonder? As I understand it, your sort aren't allowed to leave the Ministry."
"I've done many things my sort are not historically allowed to do," the man replied evenly.
"Can't say I'm surprised to hear that."
From the opposite side of his jacket, Harry produced the Time-Turner-a delicate, golden device that glinted in the unforgiving lights. Tenderly, he set it on the table just out of the man's reach.
"Mind explaining this?"
Another profound silence settled over the room. The man's eyes lingered on the Time-Turner, but his expression remained inscrutable.
"The raid of your home was due to repeated violations of the twenty-third and forty-seventh decrees of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Ordinance-illegal acquisition or display of inappropriately enchanted Muggle objects," Harry continued.
"A walking garden gnome," the man said softly.
"Yes. Which begs the question, why would you risk being exposed when there were all sorts of egregious breaches of wizarding law within your home? I can think of but two explanations. The first, that you are a foolish old man with a natural inclination toward acting rebelliously when lawn ornaments are involved. The second, that you wanted to be discovered. Or, more accurately, you wanted this Time-Turner to be discovered. Which is it?"
The man offered no reply, but not out of objection. The silence had a heaviness to it. As if it carried the weight of several untold secrets. Harry exhaled sharply, his patience waning. He opened the folder with a swift motion, uncorked the ink pot, and dipped his quill, poised to write.
"Weasley's citation has you down as one"-he glanced at the parchment-"Theodore Nott. Can you confirm this?"
"That is my name," the man acknowledged.
"Any relation to the Theodore Nott, former Death Eater, who was present many years ago during the battle that took place in your department-where Sirius Black was murdered-where all the Time-Turners were destroyed, as well as most of the prophecies?"
"Direct relation."
"Am I then to assume you are the man's father?" Harry asked, inking the quill.
"No. I am the man."
Harry dropped the quill, ink slashing the parchment as he was momentarily thrown off balance.
"S-Sorry?" he questioned, studying the deeply lined face before him. "You are easily over a hundred years old. I was there during the battle. The Death Eater in question couldn't have been half that."
"And yet..." the man replied, leaving the implication hanging in the air.
Impatient, Harry reached across the table and grasped the man's left arm. He pulled back the sleeve of his robes to reveal a faded tattoo of the Dark Mark.
"What are you saying?"
"Allow me to show you," the man offered. He lowered his sleeve and extended an open palm toward the wand on the table.
Harry hesitated, eyes narrowing. "I see no problem with that. This room offers me many protections. If you think for a moment that you can use this faulty wand to harm me or escape, you're mistaken."
With a languid shrug, Harry passed his wand to Nott, who pointed it directly at his own chin. Closing his eyes, the man began to murmur an incantation. The room seemed to brighten subtly as his features began to transform-wrinkles smoothing out, the silvery beard receding into soft, clean-shaven skin. His hair darkened and thickened, regaining the fullness of youth. Nott lowered the wand and reopened his eyes to complete the transformation and reveal a visage decades younger.
"You are him," Harry whispered in astonishment. "Why transfigure yourself to appear older?"
"I haven't. In fact, the opposite is true," Nott replied calmly.
He raised the wand once more, and the transformation reversed itself. The elderly face returned, etched with the lines of age and experience.
"I... don't understand," Harry admitted.
"We age-every last one of us, Philosopher's Stone permitting," Nott explained. "The ability to travel through time is both a gift and a curse. We are forever on our own path, Potter, moving steadily forward through time. This device simply allows you to visit other paths along the way."
"Why have the Unspeakables allowed you entry into their department after all you've done?" Harry demanded.
"You will learn the answer to that soon. Now is not the time for such questions."
"Is that how this works? You act as if you've witnessed this all before," Harry observed, skepticism creeping into his voice.
"I have."
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