# When Magic Remembers
## Chapter 1: The Last Hunt
*England, October 31st, 2003*
The autumn mist clung to the Yorkshire moors like a shroud, thick enough that Harry Potter could barely see ten feet ahead through the gloom. His dragon-hide boots squelched in the boggy ground as he picked his way between the standing stones, wand held low but ready. Somewhere in this ancient circle, a rogue wizard was hiding—one who had already killed three Muggles and two Aurors.
"Bloody perfect weather for it," muttered Ron from somewhere to his left, voice muffled by the fog. "Couldn't have picked a nice sunny day for his final stand, could he?"
Harry almost smiled despite the tension. Three years as Auror partners, and Ron still complained about the weather during dangerous missions. Some things never changed.
"Focus, Weasley," came Kingsley's voice through the communications charm. "Target's somewhere in that stone circle. Approach from cardinal directions, but do not engage alone. Potter, you're coming from the north."
Harry adjusted his grip on his wand and began the careful approach toward the ancient monument. These weren't just any standing stones—Magical Crimes had identified them as a pre-Roman ritual site, one of the old places where magic ran deeper and stranger than anywhere else. The perfect place for a desperate dark wizard to make his last stand.
The stones loomed out of the mist like grey giants, each one easily twice Harry's height and covered in symbols that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. He'd studied ancient runes at Hogwarts, but these were older than anything Bathsheda Babbling had ever shown them. They predated Latin, predated even the Celts. They were from the time when magic and the land were one, when wizards didn't hide from Muggles because there were so few people that secrecy wasn't necessary.
A flash of green light split the fog to his right—not the Killing Curse, but something else, something that made the air taste of copper and ozone. Harry dropped to one knee behind the nearest stone, its rough surface cold against his shoulder.
"Ron? You all right?"
"Fine! Bastard missed me by inches. He's using pre-Roman curse work—stuff I've never seen before."
Of course he was. Barnabas Cuffe wasn't just any dark wizard; he was a researcher who'd spent twenty years studying the darkest corners of magical history. When he'd snapped and started killing people, the Ministry had hoped it would be a simple matter of overwhelming force. But Cuffe had proven as dangerous as he was knowledgeable, leading them on a chase across half of Britain before finally cornering himself here.
"The stones are amplifying his magic," Harry called back, pressing himself closer to the ancient rock. "Just like the Department of Mysteries predicted. We need to get him away from them."
"Easier said than done, Potter." That was Dawlish, somewhere to the south. "Every time we move, he—"
The world exploded.
Not literally—though the flash of light was bright enough to leave Harry seeing spots—but magically. Power erupted from the center of the stone circle, raw and wild and utterly unlike anything Harry had ever felt. It wasn't the controlled magic of spells or charms, but something primal, something that belonged to the very foundations of the world.
Harry was thrown backward, his shoulder slamming into the stone behind him with enough force to drive the breath from his lungs. His wand flew from his grasp, disappearing into the fog. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear shouting—Ron's voice, Kingsley's, others—but the words were lost in the roar of unleashed power.
He struggled to his feet, one hand pressed to his ribs where something had definitely cracked, and saw the impossible.
The stone circle was glowing. Not with the steady light of Lumos, but with pulses of white-gold radiance that seemed to come from deep within the rock itself. The symbols carved into their surfaces were moving now, flowing like water, rearranging themselves into patterns that hurt to look at directly.
And in the center of it all stood Barnabas Cuffe, arms raised to the sky, blood streaming from dozens of small cuts on his face and hands. He was chanting in a language Harry didn't recognize—older than Latin, older than anything he'd heard before. The words seemed to bypass his ears entirely and resonate in his bones.
"He's activating something!" Harry shouted, though he wasn't sure anyone could hear him over the magical maelstrom. "The whole circle—it's some kind of ritual site!"
He stumbled forward, searching desperately for his wand in the churned mud. There—a glint of holly wood near the base of another stone. Harry lunged for it, fingers closing around the familiar weight just as Cuffe's chanting reached a crescendo.
The world tilted.
Reality folded in on itself like origami made of light and time and the space between heartbeats. Harry felt himself falling, not down but sideways through dimensions that had no names. The stone circle spun around him, or perhaps he spun around it—direction had no meaning here, in this place between places.
He tried to call out, tried to reach for Ron or Kingsley or anyone, but his voice was stolen by the howling wind that came from everywhere and nowhere. The last thing he saw before consciousness fled was Barnabas Cuffe's face, twisted with triumph and terror in equal measure.
Then there was nothing but the dark.
-----
Harry woke to birdsong.
Not the tentative chirping of English sparrows, but the full-throated dawn chorus of a dozen different species, their calls interweaving in complex harmonies that spoke of wilderness untouched by human hands. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, taking inventory. His ribs still ached, and there was a tender spot on the back of his head where it had struck something hard, but he was alive. More importantly, he was apparently somewhere safe enough that birds felt comfortable singing.
When he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the sky. It was the deep blue of early morning, unmarked by contrails or the orange glow of distant cities. The second thing he noticed was the trees—oak and ash and beech, but somehow different from any he'd seen before. Larger, older, with a wild majesty that spoke of forests that had never known an axe.
The third thing he noticed was that he was no longer wearing his Auror robes.
Harry sat up abruptly, wincing as his injured ribs protested. His dragon-hide protective gear was gone, replaced by rough woolen clothing that smelled of woodsmoke and herbs. A brown tunic that reached mid-thigh, woolen trousers cross-gartered with leather thongs, and soft leather boots that looked hand-stitched. His wand was still in his hand, thankfully, but everything else—his communications charm, his emergency Portkey, even his watch—was gone.
He was lying at the edge of a clearing dominated by a familiar arrangement of standing stones. But these weren't the weathered, moss-covered monuments he'd seen in Yorkshire. These stones were pristine, their surfaces smooth and unmarked by time. The symbols carved into them were crisp and clear, still sharp from the chisel.
The same stones. But new.
A chill that had nothing to do with the morning air ran down Harry's spine. He stood slowly, turning in a circle to take in his surroundings. The forest stretched away in all directions, unbroken by roads or buildings or any sign of human habitation. In the distance, he could see smoke rising from what might have been a settlement, but it was thin and scattered—the smoke of cooking fires, not the industrial haze of the modern world.
"This isn't possible," he whispered to himself, but even as he said it, he knew it was. Magic had taught him that impossible was just another word for unexpected.
The question was: when was he?
Harry pointed his wand skyward and whispered, "Tempus." The spell that should have shown him the date and time produced only a faint shimmer in the air before fading. Either the spell didn't work here, or—more likely—the magical framework that supported such complex charms hadn't been invented yet.
*Yet.*
The word hung in his mind like a death knell. Because if the stones were new, if the forest was pristine, if his Tempus charm didn't work, then Barnabas Cuffe's ritual hadn't just moved him through space. It had moved him through time.
The question was how far.
Harry began walking toward the distant smoke, his mind racing through possibilities. He could be anywhere from a few years to a few centuries in the past. The state of the forest suggested the latter—this was what England had looked like before the Romans, before the Saxons, before anyone had thought to drain the marshes and clear the ancient woods.
But as he walked, he began to notice other things. Scorch marks on some of the trees that looked suspiciously like curse damage. Plants growing in patterns too regular to be natural. And once, when he crested a small hill, he glimpsed what might have been a figure in robes disappearing between the trees.
Magic. There was magic here, active and unashamed. Which meant wizards.
The smoke he'd been following led him to a village that couldn't have housed more than a hundred people. The buildings were small and simple—timber frames filled with wattle and daub, thatched roofs that came down low over the walls. Pigs rooted in the muddy streets between houses, and the smell of woodsmoke and unwashed bodies was almost overpowering.
But it was the people that told Harry exactly when he was.
They dressed like illustrations from a medieval manuscript, all rough wool and undyed linen. The men wore their hair long and most sported impressive beards. The women covered their heads with simple veils, and children ran barefoot through the mud despite the October chill. It was a scene from a history book, brought to vivid, smelly life.
Medieval. He was in medieval England, at least a thousand years before his birth.
Harry stood at the edge of the village, trying to process the enormity of what had happened to him. He was stranded in the past with no way home, no way to contact anyone, no way to even prove who he was. Everything and everyone he'd ever known was centuries in the future. Ron, Hermione, Ginny—they wouldn't be born for another millennium.
The grief hit him like a physical blow, doubling him over with its intensity. He would never see them again. Never finish that conversation with Ginny about moving in together. Never stand as best man at Ron and Hermione's wedding. Never meet the children they might have, or grow old watching them build lives of their own.
He was alone in a way that few people had ever been alone.
But even as despair threatened to overwhelm him, Harry forced himself to straighten. He'd survived worse than this. Maybe not worse in scope, but worse in immediate danger. And if he was truly stuck here—in whatever 'here' was—then he needed to start thinking about survival.
Food. Shelter. And most importantly, information.
Harry pulled his cloak—where had he gotten a cloak?—more tightly around himself and started toward the village. He'd taken perhaps a dozen steps when a voice called out behind him.
"Hold there, stranger."
Harry turned to find a man approaching through the trees. Middle-aged, with graying brown hair and a close-trimmed beard, dressed in better clothes than the villagers but still unmistakably medieval. What caught Harry's attention, though, was the carved wooden staff in the man's hand and the way the air seemed to shimmer around him.
A wizard. Had to be.
"Peace, friend," the man said, raising one hand in what was probably meant to be a calming gesture. "I mean no harm. But it's been many years since anyone emerged from the old circle, and I confess myself curious about your purpose here."
Harry's hand moved instinctively toward his wand, then stopped. This was his first contact with the magical world of the past. Whatever he said here, whatever impression he made, could determine whether he lived or died.
"I'm afraid I'm quite lost," Harry said carefully, trying to match the man's formal speech patterns. "I was… traveling, and became separated from my companions. Might I ask where I am?"
The wizard's eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't know? How curious. This is the territory of Earl Godwin, in the kingdom of Wessex. The village yonder is called Hogges Mede, though few outside this valley know its name." He paused, studying Harry more intently. "Your clothes are strange, friend. And your accent… you're not Saxon, nor Norman, nor Celt. What manner of man are you?"
*Wessex.* Harry's heart sank. That placed him somewhere in Anglo-Saxon England, probably between the 9th and 11th centuries. But the wizard's clothing, his manner of speech, the very fact that he was walking openly with a staff that practically screamed 'I do magic'—all of it suggested a time when wizards and Muggles lived side by side without the elaborate concealment that would later become the Statute of Secrecy.
"I am Harry," he said finally, settling on at least that much truth. "Harry of… Potter's Field." It was weak, but it was the best he could manage on short notice.
The wizard smiled. "A man who names himself for his profession, how refreshingly honest. I am Aelfric the Learned, though most hereabouts simply call me Aelfric. And I would guess, from the way you hold yourself and the faint trace of power that clings to you, that you share my calling."
So much for keeping his magical nature secret. But then, Harry reminded himself, there was no reason to. These people lived alongside magic every day.
"I do practice the arts," Harry admitted. "Though I fear my education has been… incomplete."
Aelfric's expression grew sympathetic. "Ah, another casualty of the troubles, I'd guess. There are many these days who find their masters dead and their learning half-finished. Well, no matter. There are worse places to wash up than Hogges Mede, and worse guides than myself." He gestured toward the village with his staff. "Come. You look hungry, and I suspect you have tales to tell. My cottage has room for a guest, if you've nowhere else to be."
Harry hesitated for just a moment. Trust had not come easily to him, not after a childhood with the Dursleys and a war against Voldemort. But this Aelfric seemed genuine enough, and Harry was in no position to be picky about allies.
"I would be grateful for your hospitality," he said.
As they walked toward the village, Aelfric kept up a steady stream of what seemed to be local news. The harvest had been good this year, despite the late rains. A merchant from Winchester had passed through last week with news from the south. Young Brand the Smith's son had finally shown signs of the gift and would be sent to learn from the wise woman in the next valley.
It was the last comment that made Harry pay closer attention. "The gift?"
"Magic, of course," Aelfric said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Not everyone is born with it, but those who are usually show signs by their tenth year. Poor Brand has five children, and this is the first to manifest. He was beginning to think his line was barren of power."
"And the boy will be trained?"
"Naturally. We can hardly leave a child to fumble about with uncontrolled magic. The wise woman, Edith, she's skilled in the healing arts and plant-lore. She'll teach him the basics, help him find his particular talent." Aelfric glanced sideways at Harry. "Surely it was much the same where you learned?"
Harry thought of Hogwarts, with its moving staircases and talking portraits and strict separation from the Muggle world. "Something like that," he said diplomatically.
They reached Aelfric's cottage—a building only slightly larger than the others but set apart at the village's edge—just as the sun cleared the treeline. It was a humble place, with a garden full of herbs Harry recognized from Potions class and others he'd never seen before. Smoke rose from a hole in the thatched roof, and Harry could smell something cooking that made his stomach growl.
"Welcome to my home," Aelfric said, pushing open the wooden door. "It's not much, but it's warm and dry, and the roof only leaks when the wind's from the east."
The interior was a single room dominated by a central fire pit. Rough wooden furniture scattered about, shelves lined with clay pots and scrolls, and bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters. It was primitive by Harry's standards, but it felt lived-in and comfortable.
More importantly, Harry could sense the magic here. It was different from what he was used to—earthier, more organic, tied intimately to the natural world rather than the refined spellwork of modern wizardry. But it was undeniably powerful.
"Sit," Aelfric said, gesturing to a stool near the fire. "You look like a man with much on his mind. Tell me, Harry of Potter's Field, what brings you to our little corner of the world? And please, speak truth. I've lived long enough to know when a man is carrying secrets, and yours are heavier than most."
Harry stared into the flames, wrestling with how much to reveal. The truth was impossible—no one would believe he was from a thousand years in the future. But he needed allies, needed information, needed to understand this world he'd been thrust into.
"I was caught up in a magical accident," he said finally. "A ritual gone wrong. When I woke, I found myself here, far from everything I knew. I have no coin, no possessions save what I wear, and no clear idea of how to return home."
It was true enough, if not complete.
Aelfric nodded slowly. "Dangerous work, ritual magic. Most who attempt it without proper preparation find themselves dead rather than merely displaced." He ladled something that smelled like porridge into a wooden bowl and handed it to Harry. "But you survived, which suggests either great skill or great fortune. Which was it?"
"Probably fortune," Harry said, accepting the bowl gratefully. The porridge was thick and bland but warm, and he realized he was ravenous. "I've always seemed to have more luck than sense."
"A valuable trait in our line of work," Aelfric agreed. "The question now is what you plan to do with that luck. A man with your obvious education—for I can see it in the way you speak and hold yourself—such a man could make a good living in these parts. We have need of learned men."
"What sort of need?"
Aelfric's expression grew serious. "Dark times are coming, Harry of Potter's Field. Darker than most realize. There are rumors from the north, stories of a wizard-lord who claims dominion over all magical folk. He calls himself Herpo the Foul, and they say he has rediscovered arts that were old when the Romans walked this land."
Harry's blood ran cold. He knew that name from his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. Herpo the Foul was mentioned in *The Dark Arts: A History* as one of the first Dark wizards, credited with creating the first Horcrux and breeding the first basilisk. But the books had placed him in ancient Greece, centuries before this time.
Unless… unless the books were wrong about when he lived. Or unless time itself was more fluid than Harry had assumed.
"You've heard the name," Aelfric observed, watching Harry's reaction carefully. "Good. Too many dismiss the rumors as tales to frighten children. But I've seen signs—magical creatures fleeing south, strange omens in the sky, plants withering for no natural cause. Something is stirring in the northern reaches, and I fear it will not long remain contained there."
"What can be done?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"What has always been done when darkness rises," Aelfric said grimly. "Those with the power to stand against it must choose whether to act or flee. And if enough choose to act…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but Harry understood. War. Magic war, just like the one he'd left behind in his own time. It seemed that no matter where—or when—he went, he couldn't escape the call to fight against dark wizards who sought power over others.
But this time, he wouldn't be the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the symbol everyone looked to for salvation. This time, he was just Harry—a stranger in a strange land with nothing but his wand and his knowledge.
Somehow, that felt like freedom.
"I think," Harry said carefully, "that I would like to learn more about these rumors. And about the people who might stand against this Herpo, should he prove more than mere legend."
Aelfric smiled, and Harry saw approval in the older man's eyes. "I thought you might. Tell me, Harry of Potter's Field, how do you feel about traveling? Because if you're serious about learning, I know of a place where the greatest minds of our time are gathering. A school, of sorts, though unlike any that has existed before."
"A school?"
"Four of the most powerful wizards in all the lands have come together to create something new," Aelfric explained. "A place where magical children can be taught properly, safely, away from the chaos that seems to follow our kind wherever we gather in numbers. They call it Hogwarts."
Harry's bowl slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor and spilling the remains of his porridge into the rushes. Hogwarts. They were talking about founding Hogwarts.
Which meant he hadn't just traveled back in time—he'd traveled back to the very beginning of the magical world as he knew it. The founders were alive, building the school that would one day be his home. Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw…
And Salazar Slytherin.
"You know the name," Aelfric said, misinterpreting Harry's shock. "I thought you might. Word of their work has spread far, though few have actually seen the castle they're building. They say it will be the greatest seat of learning in all the world, a place where magic can flourish without fear."
Harry forced himself to nod, not trusting his voice. Hogwarts. The founders. He was being offered a chance to witness the creation of the most important magical institution in history. To meet the legendary figures he'd grown up hearing about.
To perhaps change history itself.
The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. Whatever Barnabas Cuffe's ritual had done to him, it had given him an opportunity no one else had ever had. He could see the magical world at its very foundation, understand how the choices made a thousand years ago had shaped everything that came after.
But with that opportunity came responsibility. He knew how this story ended—the schism between the founders, Slytherin's departure, the Chamber of Secrets. He knew about the basilisk, about the monster that would terrorize future generations of Hogwarts students.
Did he have the right to change that? Did he have the right not to?
"When would we leave?" Harry asked, his voice steadier than he felt.
"Soon," Aelfric replied. "I've been planning to visit Hogwarts myself—to offer my services as a teacher, if they'll have me. The founders are still seeking learned men and women to help shape their vision. A man with your evident education would be welcome, I'm sure."
Harry nodded slowly. "Then yes. I would very much like to see this Hogwarts."
As Aelfric began outlining their travel plans, Harry stared into the fire and tried to wrap his mind around what he was about to undertake. He was going to Hogwarts—not the Hogwarts of his time, but the original, the first, the school as the founders themselves envisioned it.
He was going home to a place that didn't exist yet, to meet people who were legends, to witness the birth of everything he'd ever known about the magical world.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered that perhaps this wasn't an accident at all. Perhaps this was where he was always meant to be.
The thought should have terrified him. Instead, as he listened to Aelfric's plans and felt the warmth of the fire on his face, Harry found himself almost… hopeful.
Whatever came next, at least it would be something new.
-----
*Author's Note: This begins our journey into the founding of Hogwarts through Harry's eyes. Each chapter will explore this medieval magical world while building toward the greater conflicts to come—both the external threat of Herpo the Foul and the internal tensions that will eventually tear the founders apart. Harry's modern knowledge and unique perspective will shape events, but not in the simple, straightforward ways he might expect.*
*Next chapter: "The Road to Learning" - Harry and Aelfric begin their journey to Hogwarts, and Harry gets his first real taste of medieval magical society.*