A Little Behind the Times

Author's Notes: Dedicated to excitedrainbow. Also dedicated to Dr Who, because I love time travel.

A Little Behind the Times

A funny thing, time.

Harry had thought it might be almost fun, to go back in time all by himself, even if he was Horcrux-hunting, and it wasn't exactly supposed to be fun. But now that, in the last forty-eight hours since he'd been back in his pre-pubescent years, he'd been to Albania and back and grabbed the unguarded Horcrux; and now that he was standing in a side corridor of the British Ministry of Magic under his invisibility cloak, watching a clock and waiting for it to strike ten, he really just wants to go home.

Besides. The early nineties, he is finding, were not that markedly different from the late nineties.

The British Ministry is exactly the same, at least. Maybe the robes are a bit brighter.

He still has twenty minutes to wait. Then, he can wind the time turner in his pocket forward six times, and arrive in the Department of Mysteries, where Ron and Hermione will be waiting for him at five past ten on the 17th of June, 1998. But until then, he has to wait here in his surprisingly boring past, in a corridor down which only about three people have walked in the last half an hour.

Maybe he should go exploring, or something, but the truth is, he's tired.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees an old man walk past. His features, his manner of holding himself, look strangely familiar, and Harry looks up.

It is Dumbledore.

He feels it like a punch to the stomach. That old, careworn, benevolent face; that calm and sprightly way of walking, missing from the time of war to which Harry is returning; those two whole, healthy hands.

He opens his mouth, ready to call out; and then he stops himself.

What is Dumbledore doing at the Ministry? It's 1992, term hasn't finished yet -

June, 1992.

Dumbledore at the Ministry.

Harry doesn't remember what the date was, but suddenly he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what is going on at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore hums to himself as he walks.

"No sooner had I reached London than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left."

"We were dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore when we met him in the entrance hall. He already knew - he just said, "Harry's gone after him, hasn't he?" and hurtled off to the third floor."

With a sick feeling in his stomach, Harry realises what he has to do. Taking a deep breath, he pulls the cloak off of himself, and steps forwards. "Professor?"

Dumbledore turns, smiling; and then he sees the skinny, black-haired boy approaching him, silver cloak in hand, and his eyes widen. Harry stops, and Dumbledore's blue gaze flicks over him, over his hair, his face: over his eyes and his scar. Harry stays very still.

Eventually, Dumbledore speaks. "Mr Harry Potter, I presume?"

"Er, yes," says Harry, his throat feeling dry. "Listen, Professor, you have to go back to school. There's - trouble."

Dumbledore considers him. "For your younger self?"

"Yeah -"

"The Stone?"

"Er, yes," says Harry, wondering, as he did when he was eleven, how much Dumbledore knows. "But it's also - it's Quirrell."

Dumbledore's eyebrows shoot up into his hair. "Quirrell? Quirrell wants the Stone?"

"Yes," says Harry, unwilling to say more, as Dumbledore had - has - clearly not anticipated this. "You need to -" He swallows. "Harry's in danger. You need to go back and save him."

Dumbledore pauses, and then nods decisively. He eyes Harry up and down again, and a smile plays across his face. Harry, for some stupid reason, starts to feel panicked.

"Tell me, Mr Potter. From how many years in the future do you come?"

"Six," says Harry hoarsely.

Dumbledore nods. "And what, if you do not mind me asking, are you doing in this time and place?"

"I'm -" Hermione's warnings on the dire consequences of meddling in the past ring in his ears. "I'm looking for a - a ..." Oh, bugger it. "I'm looking for a Horcrux."

He compromises with his conscience by refraining from mentioning that said Horcrux is currently burning a hole through his pocket.

Dumbledore meets his gaze. "So it is coming, then," he says quietly.

"Yeah," Harry breathes. Then he bites his lip in the attempt to physically stop himself from blurting You're going to die before Harry's seventeen and if you could have given him a little more information on destroying Horcruxes that would really have come in useful, oh and also FIRE SNAPE -

"So soon ..." Dumbledore says sorrowfully. "Are you all alone?"

"No, I'm with - Ron and Hermione."

A beam breaks out on Dumbledore's face. "You're still friends with Miss Granger and Mr Weasley? Oh, I am glad." His smile fades slightly. "I suppose you can't -" Then his eyes widen again. "Quirrell?"

"Yes! Quirrell and -" Harry stops, his tongue thick. It is funny: out of all the people in the world, dead or alive, it would be Dumbledore who he suddenly can't say the name in front of. "Just go, all right? Sir," he adds to his plea, and finally Dumbledore seems to understand, because with one last look at Harry, he turns and strides back to the door he's just come through.

"Professor!" Harry cries, and it's stupid and a waste of time and Dumbledore will probably find this out some other way, but Harry blurts it out anyway, "give Neville some house points - he tried to stop me from doing it."

Dumbledore looks at him appraisingly, nods, and turns and leaves.

Harry stares at the door, swinging closed, and fingers the time turner in his pocket.

A funny thing, time.

::

Author's Notes: "'Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times,' said Dumbledore. 'Quirrell does not have the Stone.'" ~ PS, Chapter 17, page 214 (British paperback).