Harrison Potter is about to do what the Muggle call "pull a fast one" and win the election when he gets fucking yeeted across time and into a cupboard.

His first thought is that this is hell, because he's an aspiring politician and everyone gets what they deserve eventually. He's not sure what his big sin is yet. He's sure there is one. But broom cupboards are not hell, so it seems he's lucked out. Again.

He then notices a locket on his chest that wasn't there before. Had he put it on, and just hadn't remembered it? A cursed locket from a political adversary? IS this hell?

He pushes open the door and his face, the face of the defiance, becomes the face of getting-slammed-into-the floor. Right. This is fine. He's dealt with worse, which is a thought he only has until Kreacher, his god dog father's prejudiced house elf, pops in and screeches at him. He says something that sounds like slurs, are used like slurs but aren't, to his knowledge, slurs.

It's usually blood-snatcher, not Mudblood. Before Harrison can politely correct the elf, Sirius Black comes bursting into the room, wand held in hand. When he notices it's just him, he lowers his wand, confused. "Harry?" he says. That's... not his name. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at Hogwarts?" He looks him over, brows furrowing and suspcioun rising. "Why do you look so much... older? Did something happen?"

He was fairly certain he'd stopped attending after his fifth year. And fairly certain he dog god father called him Prongs -- not Harry. So instead of answering Sirius's question, he pinches himself. When he doesn't wake up, he runs a hand through his hair. "I'd love to answer you, but I need to know something first. Is your name really Sirius?"

"Harry, wha--"

"Or is it, like, Lucifer? Satan?"

"Harry!"

"Sorry, sorry." He sighs. "Fuck me."

"Harry!" he exclaims again, but it's interurrpted by the sound of the Floo coming from the other room. "I'll... be right back." He leaves Harry be with Kreacher, who glares at him.

That's fine. He can work with this -- hell, or not. He searches his person and curses lowly when he can't find his wand. Sure, he can do some wandless magic, but enough to sustain itself in an unfamiliar enviournment? Unlikely. But maybe he won't need magic, after all.

He's not a politan, not in hell, for nothing.

Next step in Harry's certified try-not-to-die plan: don't die. Check out the surroundings. From what he can gather, which isn't much given he had removed his glasses to bring out his eyes in the election photos, this place is just... good ol' Grimmulad. Just and or almost -- because from he can see, though he cannot see much, there are differences. Slight ones. But ever there. The painting to the left is supposed to be blue, and not brown. Kreacher is shorter. Even the slurs are different. 

So, he's not where he was before. Not even fucking remotely. But ruling out where he isn't doesn't answer the bigger question; where he is.

And then Albus Dumbledore, his best and worst friend, appears with Sirius Black and another version of himself (one that looks snobbish enough to be a Malfoy), and his world comes crumbling down around him because, really, what the fuck?