Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Let's Try That Again, Shall We?
The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.
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Chapter 11: At Hogwarts
Sunday, September 2, 1990.
Oren had set an alarm for just before dawn. He got dressed as quickly as he could, and grabbed a bag which he had packed the night before. His father had paid for him to have a private room, so he wasn't worried about waking anyone up; he wondered how the other houses managed with open dormitories, but figured that after so many centuries it must work okay for them. He was relieved to find the Slytherin common room empty—nobody had a reason to get up on the Sunday before classes started. He was lucky school started on a weekend this year.
By the time he got out of the dungeons it was past curfew hours, and he moved confidently through the empty halls. No sense breaking the rules if you don't have to.
The existence of the Room of Requirement had become common knowledge after Umbridge's tenure, and the story of Voldemort's horcruxes had gotten out among his surviving supporters. Oren's father had managed to stay out of the war, but within the family he was open which side he favored, and in fact still complained to Oren about it whenever he came to visit.
Oren had personally been horrified at the way Dumbledore's supporters had handled the horcuxes. Basilisk's venom and fiendfyre were a terrible fate for priceless artifacts of the founders. He didn't even want to think about the idea of destroying a fragment of a soul, even Voldemort's.
Oren knew he couldn't do much about most of the artifacts, but he hoped he could at least save the diadem from getting caught up in future battles. And if the note was to be believed, there might be other time travelers about. They had obviously been hard at work already this summer, partially discrediting Dumbledore and getting poor Harry Potter away from those awful muggles. He had to calm himself down every time he thought of that—the idea of leaving the boy in an abusive environment for nine years, isolated from his own society and any potential friends—not even Voldemort was evil enough to commit atrocities on that scale.
In any case, he had to assume the other time travelers, however sensible they had been so far, might not precisely share his priorities. So he had spent much of the last week preparing to make this rescue mission a nice, clean, and above all swift operation, which it in fact turned out to be.
Twelve minutes to walk to the room, arriving seven after sunrise and the end of curfew. Thirty seconds to get the door open, carefully envisioning the piles of lost objects from his classmates' descriptions. He had several detection devices ready as he walked in the door, and the diadem probably wished to be found anyway. Forty-five seconds to locate it, all spent simply walking there. Another thirty to get it safely into his great-grandfather's luggage, which he had put some heavy protective enchantments on. A leisurely fifteen minutes to walk back to his room—utterly unobserved—and shut the door. The luggage went into an open drawer of his trunk and was safely locked in. Total time to save an irreplaceable piece of wizarding Britain's cultural heritage from wanton destruction: about half an hour.
He might have seemed excited or nervous at breakfast, but then, so was every other first year.
❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧
Chapter 11: At Hogwarts
Sunday, September 2, 1990.
Oren had set an alarm for just before dawn. He got dressed as quickly as he could, and grabbed a bag which he had packed the night before. His father had paid for him to have a private room, so he wasn't worried about waking anyone up; he wondered how the other houses managed with open dormitories, but figured that after so many centuries it must work okay for them. He was relieved to find the Slytherin common room empty—nobody had a reason to get up on the Sunday before classes started. He was lucky school started on a weekend this year.
By the time he got out of the dungeons it was past curfew hours, and he moved confidently through the empty halls. No sense breaking the rules if you don't have to.
The existence of the Room of Requirement had become common knowledge after Umbridge's tenure, and the story of Voldemort's horcruxes had gotten out among his surviving supporters. Oren's father had managed to stay out of the war, but within the family he was open which side he favored, and in fact still complained to Oren about it whenever he came to visit.
Oren had personally been horrified at the way Dumbledore's supporters had handled the horcuxes. Basilisk's venom and fiendfyre were a terrible fate for priceless artifacts of the founders. He didn't even want to think about the idea of destroying a fragment of a soul, even Voldemort's.
Oren knew he couldn't do much about most of the artifacts, but he hoped he could at least save the diadem from getting caught up in future battles. And if the note was to be believed, there might be other time travelers about. They had obviously been hard at work already this summer, partially discrediting Dumbledore and getting poor Harry Potter away from those awful muggles. He had to calm himself down every time he thought of that—the idea of leaving the boy in an abusive environment for nine years, isolated from his own society and any potential friends—not even Voldemort was evil enough to commit atrocities on that scale.
In any case, he had to assume the other time travelers, however sensible they had been so far, might not precisely share his priorities. So he had spent much of the last week preparing to make this rescue mission a nice, clean, and above all swift operation, which it in fact turned out to be.
Twelve minutes to walk to the room, arriving seven after sunrise and the end of curfew. Thirty seconds to get the door open, carefully envisioning the piles of lost objects from his classmates' descriptions. He had several detection devices ready as he walked in the door, and the diadem probably wished to be found anyway. Forty-five seconds to locate it, all spent simply walking there. Another thirty to get it safely into his great-grandfather's luggage, which he had put some heavy protective enchantments on. A leisurely fifteen minutes to walk back to his room—utterly unobserved—and shut the door. The luggage went into an open drawer of his trunk and was safely locked in. Total time to save an irreplaceable piece of wizarding Britain's cultural heritage from wanton destruction: about half an hour.
He might have seemed excited or nervous at breakfast, but then, so was every other first year.
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