Excentryke's Musings

Title: The Time Turner
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Fandoms: Harry Potter Series / Bridgerton (TV Series)
Pairings: Harry/Simon, (one sided) Simon/Daphne, (one sided) Luna/Rolf Scamander
Word Count: 3k
Rating: PG
Warnings: time travel, Muggles, slightly grasping Daphne, runaway groom, Penelope is definitely Lady Whistledown, slight suggestion of time appropriate homophobia (1813)
Prompt: for bluedragonflyblue who wanted Simon/Harry maybe with a time travel twist (and maybe with Daphne being jealous she no longer has Simon’s attention in their plot to deceive the ton)

The Time Turner

Simon was waiting for Daphne to come back after dancing with Lord Montague.  Their plan was going well.  All the matchmaking mamas no longer were after Simon as they thought he had found his future Duchess and Daphne was now once again the belle of every ball.  It had only been about three weeks and they were still waiting for marriage proposals to begin to appear.  Any day now.  Perhaps he should send expensive flowers to the Bridgerton Household again tomorrow.  Perhaps petunias this time…

There was a commotion from the top of the stairs, and Simon glanced up, not really caring.  He was expecting to see yet another society miss, but instead a well dressed man in cravat and waistcoat—sans jacket—was walking down the stairs.  He was causing quite a sensation by appearing in only his shirtsleeves.  And were those stitched vines eating each other as an actual fashion choice?

Hearing the whispers erupt around him, Simon continued to take in this man.

He was rather tall, taller than Simon, if Simon was any judge of height. With a mass of black hair falling into his eyes, spectacles, and the hint of a scar on his forehead, this unknown gentleman cut quite the figure.

Surely the spectacles could have been put away for the evening, Simon thought as he tugged a little at the seam of his red evening coat.  A little near sightedness was worth it for an unhindered—

“Simon?” Daphne asked sweetly as she came up to him, taking his arm.  “What are you looking at?”

He tore his attention away from the newcomer and refocused on Daphne.  “Nothing, I assure you,” he promised, his gaze quickly glancing to the man before centering again on his supposed prize.  “Who is next on your dance card?”

Daphne preened and opened it up to check.  Simon knew, for a fact, that she had all of the names memorized.  Checking it was only a pretense.

When he had pawned her off on another unsuspecting suitor, Simon tracked the man-in-the-billowing-sleeves to the refreshments table.  Everyone was giving him a wide berth understandably, (he was, after all, unsuitably dressed for a ball), and Simon felt as if he was being pulled by some sort of dark magic into this man’s orbit.

“Er-Hello,” the stranger greeted when he saw Simon.  “Do they have anything stronger?”

Yes, there was some definite sort of scar on his forehead, Simon realized now that he was having a much closer look. 

Smirking to himself, Simon asked cooly, “stronger than punch?”

The stranger made a face.  “Is that what they call this?” he asked, gesturing to the punch.  “Not even the Weasley twins would call this punch back at—”  He let his voice trail off and looked at Simon.  “Potter.  Harry Potter.”  He offered his hand.

Grasping it, Simon felt a frisson of sheer want skate up his fingers and paused. 

Potter blinked as well and then let his astonishing green gaze settle on Simon.

“Hastings,” Simon answered.

Potter paused, as if waiting for more.  “Sorry,” he apologized after an agonizing second.  “Is that your name?”

Potter clearly had no idea who he was. For some reason that bothered Simon.

“It’s my title,” Simon clarified.

A look of intensity passed through Potter’s eyes and he looked around the room.  Their hands were still very firmly clasped in on another’s, not that Simon minded.  A strange pulsing was emanating from where they touched and traveling up his arm, and it was—apart from startling—rather pleasurable.

“Oh, if we’re talking titles,” Potter told him, “I’m the Earl Black… hopefully here.”  His eyes looked around again at everyone around them.

“Black,” Simon checked.

“Black,” Potter confirmed.  He loosened his grip, causing the pulses to fade from Simon’s arm, and Simon reluctantly let him go.  He picked up a punch and took a small sip from it.  “A man named Rolf Scamander hasn’t been around, has he?” Potter checked.

“Scamander? No,” Simon told him, taking in Potter’s casual grace.  “Does he fail to wear evening coats as well?”

Potter laughed into his punch and quickly set him down.  “Quite possibly,” he admitted.

“No, I have not seen such a gentleman in society.  You are the first,” Simon told him flat out, now taking in how strong Potter’s arms seemed in his shirt sleeves.  “Where is your coat?”

“Left it with my hippogriff.”

Simon didn’t know what a ‘hippogriff’ was.  Perhaps it was some sort of code for a secret society.  Simon didn’t much go in for those, content to be a member at White’s.  Cocking a brow, Simon murmured, “Did you?”

Potter looked surprised and then pleased.  “Perhaps you can help me.”

Simon was not one to be overly generous, but he was willing to do almost anything for this gentleman, strangely attired or not.  “How may I be of assistance?”

The music was just now rounding out and Simon inwardly cursed.  Daphne would soon show up again and Potter would certainly like to dance with her.  She was, after all, this Season’s diamond.  Simon must somehow put her off.

“The Ministry—” Potter was now explaining, his voice taking on a hushed quality.  “I can’t find the entrance.  The telephone has yet to be invented.”  He reached into his waistcoat, pulled on a golden chain, and showed the top of what appeared to be an hourglass. 

Confused, Simon leaned forward to take a closer look.  “Is that a family heirloom, my lord?” he inquired.

Potter smiled to himself.  “Not at all, Hastings,” he promised.  “Picked it up by accident and followed Scamander here—who was after a Niffler—” (again with the code words) “—problem is, it was Scamander’s wedding to my friend Luna and I need to bring him back.  If we could only get to the Ministry—” He looked at Simon meaningfully.

Simon had no idea what Potter was on about.  Someone named Scamander had jilted a bride at a wedding, clearly, though why Potter would be looking for him at a ball—unless he liked the ladies—

At that moment, Simon felt a familiar presence beside him and he turned a tight smile on Daphne.  “How was dancing with Sir Timothy?”

“Nothing but a disappointment,” she told him with a dull look in her eye.  “Still, chin up.—Should you like my next dance?”

Simon knew from looking at her dance card half an hour ago that the Allemande was promised to Lord Pettifleur.  “What would Pettifleur say?” he asked her, quite reasonably.  “I’m certain he was most assuredly looking forward to dancing the next with you.”

Potter was looking between them with only a hint of politeness in his gaze.  It was clear that society misses bored him, at least going by the twist of his lips.

“Lord Pettifleur,” Daphne countered, but Simon spied him over her shoulder, “—is approaching,” he filled in for her.  He reached out and beckoned him forward.  Lord Pettifleur was a stout young man with whiskers and hardly what the ladies would call fashionable, but he would do in a pinch.  “Your dancing partner awaits.”  He picked up Daphne’s hand, deposited it in Pettifleur’s, and then watched them walk away.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Very well done,” Potter complimented, his eyes shining brightly behind their spectacles.

Simon didn’t dare grin, not wanting to give the game away.

“Does she want to marry you?”

The question surprised Simon.  Daphne did not want to marry him.  That was the agreement.  He was merely helping her find her ideal husband.

Potter was looking at him knowingly.  “I see how it is,” he sighed.  “I have one of those myself—back home—”

“A lady who wishes to dance with you?” Simon qualified, taking in Potter’s britches despite himself.

“Yes,” Potter agreed.  “Her name is Ginny Weasley.”

Well, Simon didn’t like the sound of this Miss Weasley, whoever she was.  She certainly wasn’t in the society pages and was therefore beneath Simon’s—and therefore Potter’s—notice.

“Shall we go to the Ministry?” Simon wondered, hinting at a suggestion.  “You can give my carriage driver directions, and we can see if we can gain entrance.”

Potter’s face lit up.  “We don’t have Scamander yet—” he reminded Simon.

That, unfortunately, was true.  They did not have the wayward groom.

“Do you see him among the dancers?” Simon inquired, looking out at them himself.  Daphne was trying to catch glances at him, but he was decidedly not looking back at her.

“No.”

“Then he must be elsewhere.”  Simon inclined his head toward the staircase.  “We have stayed long enough to be polite.”

Potter, fortunately, seemed to agree.

The duo wended their way through the crowds and Simon, saying goodnight to their hostess, led Potter out of the ballroom and into the night air. 

“The carriage should be here presently,” Simon explained.

“I could have sworn that I followed Scamander here,” Potter was now saying to himself, looking around the hedges.  He even went so far as to cut through several of them and even go along to the servants’ entrance, but Simon waited patiently.  If he were a groom running away from his wedding, he might very well hide in the servants’ entrance.

“Aha!” Potter’s voice cried out.

There was the sound of a scuffle and Potter came out holding the—robe—of a man with a tuft of ginger hair and blue eyes.  Apart from the robe, he was wearing britches, boots, a waistcoat, and a cravat—all items Potter was wearing—but the robe was definitely odd.

“Cold feet, Scamander?” Potter inquired scathingly.  He seemed to be pointing a stick into the back of the poor man’s neck.

“Just popped out for a fresh spot of air,” Scamander defended, though he put no heart into it.

“In 1813?”

Simon blinked.  Indeed, it was 1813, but he was confused why Potter would bring up the year. 

“Time turners aren’t meant to go back that far,” Potter was now continuing.  “We have to go to the Ministry and beg them to send us back to our proper time.  Lucky for us, I found a friend who can help us.”

Scamander looked scared.  “N-n-n-no, please, Potter.  Let me stay.”

Potter screwed the stick harder into the man’s neck.  “Is marrying Luna really so horrible?”

“It’s so nice here!” Scamander babbled.  “I’ve been here nearly a fortnight.  I’ve made friends.  Dear Miss Penelope Feath—”

“—don’t finish that,” Simon ordered, knowing that the youngest Featherington girl was a friend of Eloise Bridgerton.  “Do not bring scandal on a young lady’s name!”

“N-n-no scandal!” Scamander promised, lifting his hand, a strange stick in his left hand.  “I love her!”

Simon sighed.  It was just now that the carriage was pulling up.

Scamander, eyeing the carriage, suddenly called out, “Penelope, darling!  Come out and explain!”

Simon looked at him in alarm.  Potter wrenched the stick further into his neck—and the youngest Miss Featherington emerged out of the shadows of the servants’ entrance, holding her hands up.

“What he says is the truth!” she told them.  “I found Rolf in Bloomsbury—”  (Bloomsbury of all places?) “—and we started a conversation.”

Potter looked livid.

“We fell in love,” Scamander quickly told them.  “She’s so nice to my Niffler.”

“He’s a platypus, dear,” Miss Featherington corrected.

Simon still had no idea what a Niffler—or indeed what a platypus—was.

Potter, though, seemed to be able to understand the conversation.

“So, you’re leaving Luna, and our—place and home—for here and now.  You’re holding a wand out.  She clearly knows what we are.”

“Wizards,” Miss Featherington gasped out, as if she still couldn’t believe it herself.  “Rolf told me he was a wizard when he asked me to marry him.”

Potter sighed and pushed Scamander away from him.  “Told her before your wedding night, did you?  You’re breaking the Statute of Secrecy, Scamander.”  He ran a hand through his black hair, making it even messier.  “What am I going to tell Luna?”

Simon was still back at wizards. 

The sticks they were carrying were wands.

Potter was a wizard.

The spark between them must have been—dare Simon think it—magic.

He glanced at his hand and realized, quite plainly, that Potter must have thought he was a wizard based on some assumption he had made—and Simon was decidedly not a wizard.  Potter, once he was done with Scamander, was going to disappear just as quickly as he appeared, and leave Simon with an aching hole where his heart had once been.

Scamander was babbling about how sorry he was.  He was also firmly grasping hands with Penelope Featherington.

“Lord Black,” Simon interrupted, silencing Scamander.  “Let him be a gentleman publisher—” (that statement had certainly been incongruous but Simon supposed there were publishers in Bloomsbury) “—he doesn’t want to marry Luna.  It is a stain upon his honor—”

“—an egregious stain—” Scamander agreed.

“—but look at them.”

Potter looked over at them.

Scamander and Penelope Featherington were curled around each other and looked quite the perfect couple, despite Scamander being strangely dressed and holding a wand. Simon only hoped that his footman and carriage driver would be silent on all they had seen tonight.  He would have to give them a monetary incentive.

“I guess I don’t need the Ministry—” Potter was now saying.  He waved off Miss Featherington and Scamander.  They quickly scampered down the servants’ entrance.  It seemed they were passing the hours of the ball down there in relative seclusion.

Potter turned to him with a weary look on his face.

“Shall I take you to my club?” Simon offered.

“There is much to discuss,” Potter agreed. 

Giving the direction, Simon let Potter precede him into the carriage and they closed the door behind them, sitting opposite one another.

At first they were silent, Potter looking out the window at the passing of London scenery.  Simon watched him carefully, at the light reflecting off his spectacles, at the shadows playing off the curves of his face, and realized he didn’t want to let Potter go.

“You shall return then.”  It wasn’t a question, merely a statement of fact.

Potter turned to him, his green eyes wide.  “That is one of the options—if you wish to come with me.”

Surprised at this (and realizing he was missing key information), Simon decided to go along with the conversation.  “Where would we go?”

“Don’t you mean when?” Potter teased, a light coming into his eyes.

Simon forced himself not to react.  The hourglass around Potter’s neck—hourglasses told time—Potter hadn’t followed Rolf Scamander through the streets from the wedding, he had followed him through time.  Potter was from either the past—or the future.  Given the fact that he had mentioned that a—a tele—phonograph?—hadn’t been invented, he was probably from somewhere in the future.

Leaning forward and pressing elbows on his knees, Simon asked the very important question, “When, then, Black?”

Potter looked at him carefully.  “Nearly two hundred years.”

Simon’s mind veered off.  “The title of Hastings does not exist in two hundred years, then.”

Looking at him oddly, Potter admitted carefully, “Just because I do not know the current—” he paused.

“Duke,” Simon supplied.

“—Duke of Hastings, does not mean the title does not exist.”

Simon closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  “You would know if the title exists.  The title is too important not to know.”  He sat back up.  “Good.  I swore the title would end with me.”

It was Potter’s turn to look confused.  “You wish for your title to die out?”

Simon nodded and he looked out the window.  “If I go with you—the title will end.”

“It will restart up again.”

“Not if we—” Simon caught himself.  He shouldn’t presume.

Potter reached out and carefully took his hand, that strange, powerful, wonderful feeling of magic spreading between them again.  “I don’t want to leave you and it will be easier in the future.  Men are permitted—” His voice drifted off.  “Of course,” he told Simon, “it will be difficult for me to convince the Ministry to let me take a wizard from 1813 with me to 1999.”

“I’m not a wizard.”  Simon whispered it so softly, he wasn’t certain that Potter was able to hear him.

However, Potter’s grip on his hand tightened, and he leaned forward and placed his other hand on the side of Simon’s face, causing warmth and power and need to erupt with that single touch.

“How can we be soulmates,” Potter whispered, “if you’re not a wizard?”

Simon looked into Potter’s green eyes, not having an answer to his question.

“No,” Potter determined, “I will not leave this behind.  That is, if you are willing.”

Reaching up, Simon clasped Potter’s hand to his face.  “I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what this is, but I am willing.”

“Then this will take nearly sixty-eight thousand turns, and it’s very hard to count accurately to that number,” Potter explained, reaching back into his waistcoat and pulling out the hourglass.

“Sixty-eight thousand?” Simon breathed, horrified.

“One for each day of one hundred and eighty-six years, give or take a couple of weeks.”  He smiled.  “We’ll have to find a secluded spot.”

“In the alley behind White’s,” Simon suggested with a small smile.  “Do they dance in your time?”

“Dance?” Potter asked with a grimace.  “Certainly at weddings,” he admitted.

“Well, lucky Scamander’s wedding to this Luna is canceled.”

Potter looked at him askance.  “Let’s jump ahead a couple of days,” he suggested.  “Miss all the weeping.”

Simon could only grin at that.

The End.