The second time Harry Potter opened his eyes, it wasn't with panic—but with an exhausted reluctance.
His eyelids felt heavy, crusted with dried sweat and frost. For a long moment, he lay still, breathing shallowly, afraid that if he moved, the pain would return. But it didn't. Not entirely. Only a dull ache in his bones, the kind that reminded him he had been dragged through hell and back.
He blinked.
The ceiling above him was made of dark, uneven wooden beams, thick with age and spiderwebs in the corners. The scent of smoke, pine sap, and something earthy—maybe dried meat or animal fur—hung in the air. He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the room.
Stone walls, roughly cut, stacked by hand—not the neat, symmetrical stonework of wizard-built cottages. There was no wallpaper, no insulation. The gaps between the stones were packed with straw and mud. On one wall hung a rusty iron hook, and a few pieces of firewood leaned in a corner beside a blackened hearth.
There was no light switch.
No lamp.
Just a dying fire casting soft orange glows across the floorboards.
No hum of electricity. No magical flicker. No enchanted ceiling.
Just silence.
And cold.
The bed creaked beneath him as he shifted. It was barely a bed at all—a wooden frame with a mattress stuffed with straw and old cloth, uneven and lumpy. One corner of the bedframe dug into his back, forcing him to lay twisted to avoid the discomfort.
A heavy fur blanket, coarse and unfamiliar, was wrapped around him. He had no idea what kind of animal it came from. It smelled faintly like smoke and rain.
For a few minutes, Harry just sat there, slowly sitting up, rubbing his aching temples.
Where am I?
He looked toward the shuttered window. Light filtered through the cracks in slanted gray beams, but there was no glow of magic. No streetlights outside. No moving pictures on the walls. No radio. No Daily Prophet. No trace of the modern wizarding world or the Muggle world either.
Just… old stone, old wood, and the ever-present cold.
This isn't England.
This isn't home.
This isn't the wizarding world either.
Not the part I know.
He swung his legs off the bed, grimacing at the cold touch of the floor beneath his bare feet. His boots—yes, there they were, neatly placed near the fireplace. His wand, to his relief, lay just within arm's reach atop a rough-hewn table.
He grasped it quickly.
Still warm in his hand. Still his.
He exhaled in relief, then looked around again, slowly rising to his feet.
The room was small—barely larger than a cupboard at the Dursleys'. A wooden chair sat near the hearth. There was a tin cup and a folded cloth on the table. In the far corner, a curtain hung loosely from a rope, blocking off what he assumed was the entrance to the rest of the cottage.
Who brought me here?
His memories were foggy.
He remembered the cave.
The dragon.
The snow.
He remembered walking aimlessly through endless white, his fingers numb, his breath ragged. And then…
Nothing.
Someone had brought him here. Someone had saved him.
But were they wizard? Muggle? Something else?
He didn't know.
Harry gripped his wand tighter and took a cautious step toward the curtain. He wasn't ready to fight—but he wasn't about to be caught off guard again either.
Think.
Assess.
Survive.
The door creaked open with a deep groan as Harry stepped into the cold morning light.
A sharp gust of wind nipped at his face, and the furs around his shoulders rustled in protest. He blinked against the brightness—snow glittered beneath the rising sun, and the world outside was still white and gray. There were no lamp posts, no chimneys coughing up steam, no Muggle cars passing by.
Only trees. Stone. Ice.
He turned to look at the building behind him.
It wasn't a house in the usual sense.
A mill, he realized.
A medieval stone mill, sturdy but old. The mill's tower stood several feet taller than the rest of the structure, capped with a wooden fan—its large blades slowly turning with the wind. The roof was patched with thick slabs of bark and moss, and a narrow frozen stream snaked beside the building, long since dried for winter.
Harry stared at the rotating fan and the simplicity of the mill's construction.
Stone. Timber. Nails forged by hand.
This isn't London.
This isn't even anywhere in England.
And it's not summer anymore.
He remembered it clearly—it had been late June in Britain when he took that dragon ride straight through the vault and into fire. Which meant this... this couldn't be anywhere nearby.
Either I've time-travelled...
Or the dragon dropped me into the farthest north imaginable.
Harry stood in the snow, arms folded, trying to make sense of it all—when he heard the sound.
Footsteps. Quick ones.
Snow crunching.
Small voices.
He turned just in time to see two little girls come darting up the hill toward him, scarves flapping, cheeks red with cold and excitement. They were bundled tightly in wool and fur cloaks, though everything they wore looked worn and patched with loving care.
The taller of the two had straw-colored hair tied in a crooked braid. The younger one had dark curls poking out from beneath her hood.
They skidded to a stop just before him, both beaming up at him with awe.
Then, with great effort, they each attempted a formal bow—awkward, lopsided, and entirely charming.
Harry, against every tired bone in his body, smiled.
"Are you up, milord?" the older girl asked cautiously.
Harry blinked. "I'm... awake, yes," he said, voice still hoarse. "But... why are you calling me 'lord'?"
The little girl straightened up, puzzled by his question. "Me papa said you were Lord Gryffindor. That you were going to take us to your castle. And give us gold. And silver. Because we saved you from the snow."
She spoke with complete certainty, as if the future had already been written.
Harry's eyebrows lifted. "Did he now?"
The younger girl nodded fiercely, her blue eyes wide. "He said you'd make us rich."
Harry rubbed a hand over his face.
So that was it.
They thought he was a lord. A noble. Someone important. Someone with coin. Maybe even a castle.
Gryffindor.
House Gryffindor.
Of course. That's what he'd mumbled when they asked for his name—his house—before he passed out.
And here, apparently, that meant everything.
"What are your names?" Harry asked gently.
"I'm Elsa," said the older girl, puffing her chest proudly. "I'm six."
"And I'm Nina," the smaller one added quickly. "I'm four. And I'm brave."
"You certainly are," Harry replied, trying not to chuckle.
He leaned forward slightly. "Elsa, Nina... is your papa the man who found me?"
They nodded in unison.
"Papa and Uncle Ollie," Elsa explained. "They went hunting this morning. We don't have much to eat."
Nina's small voice piped in. "Only turnips. I don't like turnips."
Harry's smile faded slightly.
The pieces clicked together.
These people were poor. Struggling. Likely close to starving. And now they believed they had rescued a lord who would reward them. Maybe they were depending on it. Maybe it was the only hope they had.
He felt a pang deep in his chest.
They saved him, not knowing who he was. And now they waited—expecting salvation.
Harry exhaled slowly and crouched so he was eye-level with them.
"You two should head back to your cottage," he said gently. "It's cold. And I'm going to rest a little longer, all right?"
Nina pouted, but Elsa took her hand and nodded. "We'll tell mama you're awake, Lord Gryffindor."
And off they ran—scarves trailing, laughter echoing.
Harry stood there a while longer, snow crunching beneath his boots, eyes fixed on the woods beyond the mill.
He didn't know what kind of world he'd fallen into.
But it was clear now—he was someone here.
And he'd have to decide what to do with that.
Harry stepped back inside the mill and closed the wooden door behind him with care.
The warmth of the hearth welcomed him again, though the fire had begun to dim. He checked the room quickly—no one in the bedchamber, no shadows behind the curtain, no voices outside the shutters.
Alone.
Good.
He took out the magical trunk he got from gringotts. Its exterior was charmed to look like a simple wooden chest but enchanted with all sort of protection and even muggle and wizard repellent ward. Harry whispered the unlocking phrase and let a few drops of blood touch the rune-latched clasp. The lock clicked open, and the illusion shimmered away.
Inside, mountains of gold, silver, and bronze coins glittered faintly in the firelight—Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts by the hundreds of thousands, enchanted to never tarnish. Atop the heaps were smaller pouches of rare gems, books and scrolls from the Black vaults, and many magical artifacts.
Harry had never felt so rich.
But now, staring into that trunk, he realized just how much he truly had.
Way too much.
He rummaged through the coins and pulled out two heavy handfuls—Galleons and Sickles, ignoring the Knuts. He grabbed a coarse linen cloth from beside the fire, wrapped the coins into it, and tied the corners into a makeshift pouch.
It won't save them forever… but it'll buy them many years.
He set the pouch aside, then paused, frowning.
Wait.
A new thought crept in. When his rescuers had found him, he'd had nothing on him. No cloak, no pack, no visible coin.
If he suddenly handed them a pouch of gold out of thin air, they'd ask questions. Dangerous questions.
Where did he get it?
Did he steal it?
Where was he hiding it?
Harry didn't want to lie. But he also didn't want to start explaining magic vaults and enchanted trunks just yet—not in a place where he wasn't sure how magic was treated.
Better to leave. Return with the coin. Let them assume I buried it in the snow. Or kept it hidden nearby.
It wasn't perfect, but it was safer than revealing the truth.
And if he was leaving for a bit… he might as well hunt.
He looked again at the dwindling supplies in the room—dry roots, empty bowls, and the faint smell of desperation lingering behind the fur-lined blankets.
The girls were half-starved.
And Harry don't know how to hunt—with magic, it was hardly a challenge.
He grabbed his wand and stepped back outside.
The snow had grown deeper since earlier. Flakes fell gently, drifting across the windmill's blades. The trees beyond the hill stirred, beckoning.
He held his wand flat in his palm.
"Point Me: Elk."
The wand trembled. Slowly, it rotated and pointed west, quivering slightly in that direction.
Harry tucked the pouch of coins under his cloak, braced against the wind, and started walking—his boots crunching through the frozen drifts.
The forest swallowed him quickly.
Trees, tall and skeletal, loomed like sentinels over the snow-covered earth. The wind whispered through their branches, and the sky above was veiled in cloud.
Harry walked with purpose, wand guiding him deeper and deeper into the woods. Frost clung to the bark. No birdsong, no footprints. Just endless white.
And yet… he felt calm.
For the first time since arriving, he felt like he had a purpose. Something he could do. Something he could give.
A wizard may not have a castle…
But I can still give them warmth.
Food.
Hope.
And in the silence of the forest, with his wand glowing softly at the tip, Harry Potter hunted—not for glory, not for survival.
But to repay a kindness.
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