The London sky had darkened considerably by the time Nym returned to their modest hotel room. Harry looked up from the parchment he'd been scribbling on, relief washing through him at the sight of her—a feeling that echoed across their newfound bond.
"Finally," he said, setting down his quill. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost in 1930s bureaucracy."
Nym's hair shifted from a nondescript brown to a shade of midnight black as she kicked off her shoes. "Bureaucracy is timeless, Harry. Just as mind-numbing now as it will be sixty years from now."
She collapsed onto the bed opposite his, tossing a small leather pouch onto the nightstand between them. The contents clinked softly—galleons, if Harry had to guess—along with several official-looking documents.
"But I've sorted it," she continued, satisfaction coloring her voice and flowing through their connection. "You are now officially Harry Peverell, educated in privacy, born and raised in magical Nova Scotia—small wizarding community, barely documented, perfect for our needs. Family records conveniently destroyed in a magical fire thirty years ago. And yes, the fire really did take place."
Harry nodded, pleased. "Nicely done. I have the claim, and no one would question it."
"Best lies have a grain of truth," she shrugged. "Makes them easier to remember. The British Ministry is also notoriously lax about checking international credentials from smaller communities, especially ones from the Americas. They're too busy being snobbish about the people across the pond to dig deeper."
"And you?" he asked, leafing through the documents.
"Nymeria Black," she replied with a hint of resignation in her voice. "Distant cousin from the Carpathian branch of the family—Romanian squibs who've kept to themselves for centuries. The British Blacks will be too proud to admit they don't know every branch of their precious tree, and the Romanian magical embassy has been closed for renovations for the past three months."
Harry nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude that wasn't entirely his own. "Thanks, Nym—or should I say, Nymeria? You've really thought of everything. I've been trying to make sense of all this, but..." He gestured at his scattered notes.
"Any luck?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows.
"Not much," he admitted. "I've been thinking about the bond, though. It's... evolving."
The air between them seemed to thicken. Through their connection, Harry could feel Nym's curiosity mingled with something warmer, more complex.
"I've noticed," she said quietly. "It's not just emotions now, is it? I can feel your magic even when we're apart. Like a compass pointing north."
Harry nodded, standing up and moving to sit beside her on the bed. The proximity intensified everything—her scent, the pulse of her magic, the warmth radiating from her skin.
"It's more than that," he said, his voice dropping. "I think we need to be honest with each other, Nym. About everything."
She met his gaze, her eyes shifting slowly from brown to a deep, vibrant green that matched his own. "About everything? That's a dangerous game, Potter."
"Peverell now, remember?" he smiled, but it faded quickly. "And yes, everything. This bond... it's amplifying what's already there. Between us."
The tension in the room shifted, becoming almost tangible. Through their connection, Harry could feel her pulse quicken to match his own.
"And what exactly is 'there' between us, Harry?" Nym asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You know what," he replied, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. "We've been dancing around it for months. Even before... this."
Nym's eyes fluttered closed at his touch. "Friends with benefits is what we called it," she murmured. "Convenient. Uncomplicated."
"It was never uncomplicated," Harry said, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Not for me."
The bond between them pulsed, and Harry felt a wave of Nym's emotions—desire, affection, fear—mirroring his own so perfectly he couldn't tell where his feelings ended and hers began.
"Not for me either," she admitted, opening her eyes to meet his. "But this changes everything, doesn't it? We're literally bound together now, Harry. No escaping each other even if we wanted to."
"Do you want to?" he asked, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Nym sat up, bringing their faces level. "That's the thing, isn't it? I should be terrified. We've been thrown back in time, magically bonded, essentially erased from existence..." She reached out, placing her palm against his chest. "But when I'm with you, I feel... safe. Like maybe this mad situation isn't the worst thing that could have happened."
Harry covered her hand with his own. "We've lost everything, Nym. Our time, our friends, our lives. But we still have each other."
"And now we're stuck with each other," she added with a wry smile. "A Peverell and a Black—imagine that. For better or worse."
"For better," Harry insisted, leaning closer. "Definitely for better."
The bond between them seemed to hum with anticipation, their magic intertwining like invisible threads of light. Harry could feel Nym's desire building alongside his own, a constant loop of growing intensity.
"We should probably talk about this more," Nym whispered, even as her free hand moved to the nape of his neck. "Make sensible plans."
"We will," Harry promised, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," she agreed, her fingers threading through his hair.
Their magic surged between them as they finally closed the distance, their lips meeting in a kiss that felt like coming home and setting off on an adventure all at once. The bond flared brilliantly, wrapping them in a cocoon of shared sensation—every touch, every breath, every heartbeat perfectly synchronized.
What had started as gentle exploration quickly deepened into something hungrier, more desperate. Months of tension, years of unspoken feelings, and the raw, primal terror of their situation all poured into that kiss, transforming into something new—something powerful and undeniable.
When they finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, Harry rested his forehead against Nym's. Through their connection, he could feel her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud: Whatever happens next, we face it together.
"Together," he whispered against her lips, before pulling her back into another searing kiss.
The bond between them seemed to sing with a wild, ancient magic as they surrendered to the current that had always pulled them toward each other. Harry's hands traced the curve of her spine, mapping territory both familiar and thrillingly new. Through their connection, each touch rippled with doubled sensation—what he felt, she felt, and back again in an intoxicating loop.
Nym's hair shifted colors with each racing heartbeat—crimson to violet to midnight blue—as her fingers tangled in his unruly dark locks that shifted colors in perfect sync with hers. The air around them seemed to crackle with unspoken magic, small objects on the nightstand beginning to quiver and levitate slightly.
"Harry," she gasped, breaking the kiss. Her pupils were dilated, her breathing ragged. "The magic—it's responding to us."
He nodded, equally breathless. "The bond is strengthening."
A soft golden glow had begun to emanate from where their skin touched, tracing intricate patterns that resembled neither runes nor any written language Harry recognized. Yet somehow, he understood their meaning perfectly—unity, protection, eternity.
"Do you feel that?" Nym whispered, her fingers tracing the luminous patterns on his forearm.
"I feel everything," he answered truthfully. Every point of contact between them hummed with a tone that seemed to vibrate at the very frequency of his soul. Their magic had begun to dance together, intertwining in ways that transcended physical intimacy.
Nym laughed softly, the sound tinkling like crystal. "It's like being drunk on Liquid Luck," she murmured, "but a thousand times more potent."
Her eyes had shifted to match his exactly—that distinctive shade of emerald green that had always been his most recognizable feature. But now, looking into them was like gazing into an enchanted mirror, one that reflected not just his face but the very essence of who he was.
The hotel room around them seemed to recede, the mundane world falling away until there was nothing but this moment, this magic, this connection. Outside, a light rain had begun to fall, droplets tapping against the window in rhythm with their synchronized heartbeats.
"I never believed in fate," Harry said quietly, brushing his thumb across her lower lip, "but this—us—it feels inevitable now."
Nym smiled against his touch. "Perhaps it always was, Harry. Perhaps we just needed the universe to give us a rather dramatic push."
Harry laughed, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "A sixty-year push through time? Bit excessive, don't you think?"
"Well, you've always been rather thick," she teased, but the affection flowing through their bond took any sting from the words.
As they leaned toward each other once more, the golden glow intensified, casting dancing shadows across the modest hotel room walls. Whatever time or fate or accident had thrown them into, they were no longer merely survivors of circumstance. In this new world, they were becoming something else entirely—something bound by magic older than history, stronger than time.
Their lips met again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty—only a hunger born of perfect understanding and the knowledge that in all the chaos of their impossible situation, they had found the one constant that would anchor them through whatever lay ahead.
-Break-
The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves and wood smoke as Harry—now Harry Peverell—stood on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. Though he had walked these streets countless times before, the sight that greeted him now was both familiar and startlingly different.
Store fronts that had been fixtures in his time were replaced by unfamiliar establishments, while others remained unchanged, if only younger versions of themselves.
Flourish and Blotts stood where it always had, though the facade appeared newer, the gold lettering more vibrant. Ollivanders remained exactly as Harry remembered it—dusty, ancient, and seemingly untouched by time. But where Quality Quidditch Supplies had once been, there now stood a shop called "Cleansweep Brooms," advertising the latest model—the Cleansweep Three.
Harry did not miss the sheer number of witches and wizards in Diagon Alley, easily twice the number there had been in his timeline. That said a lot about the impacts of two wars on the wizarding population.
Releasing a soft sigh, he adjusted the high collar of his formal robes, still unaccustomed to the stiff fabric and antiquated style that was apparently the height of fashion in this era. Both he and Nym had spent the last two weeks meticulously crafting their new identities, establishing vaults at Gringotts with a substantial amount of gold in each (courtesy of several well-placed anonymous bets on Quidditch matches in the black market whose outcomes he already knew), and securing a modest but respectable lodging in a quiet corner of wizarding London. It was a temporary place for until the end of the month. A permanent residence would be chosen soon. There was no need to hurry.
Amidst the bustle of shoppers, Harry's gaze fell upon the figure of a young woman exiting Twilfitt and Tattings. Even without the telltale purple hair, he would have recognized her anywhere. Nymeria Black—formerly Nymphadora Tonks—did her best at carrying herself with the aristocratic bearing befitting her assumed name, though Harry could see the slight tension in her shoulders that betrayed her discomfort with the role. Still, anyone else would be hard pressed to tell that she was putting a front. That one was a talented actress.
As they had planned, Harry pretended not to recognize her. Instead, he made his way toward Gringotts, his stride easygoing but resolute. His business at the bank was legitimate—he needed to finalize the paperwork for his vault and retrieve the necessary documents for his enrollment at Hogwarts. But it also provided the perfect opportunity for their "first meeting."
Inside the bank, the familiar sight of goblins scurrying about their business greeted him. Harry approached an available teller, clearing his throat politely.
"I have an appointment with Account Manager Silverclaw," he stated, his voice carrying just the right amount of authority without crossing into arrogance.
The goblin peered at him over half-moon spectacles. "Name?"
"Peverell. Harry Peverell."
The goblin's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, the only indication that the name had any significance. "Very well, Mr. Peverell. Wait here." The goblin disappeared through a door behind the counter.
Harry stood patiently, aware of the curious glances thrown his way by other patrons. He had expected this—the Peverell name, while not frequently spoken of in modern times, carried enormous weight in certain circles. It was a risk, but one he had calculated carefully.
"Mr. Peverell?" A new goblin had appeared, this one older and more distinguished. "I am Silverclaw. Please follow me."
Harry followed the goblin through the labyrinthine corridors of Gringotts, eventually arriving at a well-appointed office. As the door closed behind them, Harry noticed another figure already seated within—Nymeria, her expression carefully neutral.
Silverclaw took his seat behind the desk, regarding them both with shrewd eyes. "Miss Black informs me that the two of you have business to discuss. I shall leave you to it. Ring the bell when you wish to proceed with the vault matters, Mr. Peverell."
With that, the goblin departed, leaving Harry and Nymeria alone.
"Well met, Miss Black," Harry said formally, inclining his head slightly. "I don't believe we've been introduced."
Nymeria's lips quirked in a barely perceptible smile. "Indeed not, Mr. Peverell. Though your name precedes you. News travels fast in certain circles."
Harry took the seat across from her, maintaining the charade. "I've only recently returned to Britain. My family has been... abroad for some time."
"How fortunate for those of us who value interesting company," Nymeria replied, her eyes glinting with hidden amusement and a subtle amount of flirtation. Harry barely prevented himself from rolling his eyes. Her demeanor relaxed, she continued, "I find myself in need of a... business partner. Someone with resources and discretion."
Harry raised an eyebrow, playing along. "And what business might that be, Miss Black?"
"Investment opportunities," she said smoothly. "Particularly in education. I understand you've applied for admission to Hogwarts?"
"Word does travel fast," Harry murmured. "Yes, I have. Though at my age, it's somewhat unconventional."
"Unconventional is merely another word for interesting," Nymeria countered. "As it happens, I too am seeking to continue my education there. Perhaps we might find mutual benefit in collaboration."
Their conversation was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Before either could respond, the door swung open to reveal a tall, imposing wizard with auburn hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His piercing blue eyes, not yet hidden behind half-moon spectacles, swept the room before settling on Harry with unnerving intensity.
"Ah, pardon the interruption," said the man, his voice lighter and more energetic than Harry remembered, but unmistakable nonetheless. "I was informed that a Mr. Peverell was meeting with Account Manager Silverclaw. I hope you don't mind my intrusion."
Harry stood, his heart hammering in his chest despite his outward calm. "Not at all, though I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir."
"Albus Dumbledore," the wizard replied, extending a hand. "Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I understand you've applied for admission?"
The man smiled politely, although Harry did not miss the calculating gleam in his eyes.
The game was afoot.
TBC.
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