Harry Potter/Hogwarts Legacy AU : OO1

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        The Thread Between

         When Magic and Time Collide

        OO1 :

         When the Clock Struck Hollow

The echoes of battle still whispered through the stone halls of Hogwarts. Though the Goblin Rebellion had ended months ago, and Ranrok lay buried beneath the collapsed ruins of the Rookwood Castle, the scars lingered—both on the land and in the hearts of those who’d survived.

Oliver Thorne’s boots tapped quietly along the flagstone corridor of the dungeons. His dark green robes brushed the walls as he walked, and his black hair, perpetually untidy, caught the torchlight with a dull gleam. He’d grown quieter since the war, more withdrawn. People still stared when he ed—Slytherin’s war hero, they called him, though he hated the word.

Tonight, the air in the castle felt… wrong. It was colder than usual, even for September. The portraits on the walls had gone still, their eyes following Oliver with unease. A few whispered amongst themselves, retreating into the shadowed depths of their frames when he neared.

He paused near the entrance to the Potions classroom, where a rune had been scorched into the stone—one that hadn’t been there the day before.

It pulsed softly, like a heartbeat.

Oliver crouched down, reaching into his robe for his wand. “Lumos.”

The tip flared to life.

The rune wasn’t Goblin in origin. It was older. And worse—it was waking up.

He crouched beside the scorched mark in the dungeon corridor, wandlight flickering against the cold stone. The rune was faint but unmistakably magical—etched in precise curves and angles that seemed to hum with energy. It hadn’t been there yesterday.

He reached toward it, fingers stopping just short of the glowing surface.

“It’s reacting to you,” came a voice behind him, soft and familiar.

Oliver rose and turned to find Ominis Gaunt standing a few paces away, his pale eyes fixed slightly to the side of Oliver’s face, wand at his side.

“You felt it too?” Oliver asked.

Ominis nodded. “Every time I walk past this wall, I feel… pressure. Like something buried, trying to breathe.”

Oliver looked back at the rune. “It’s not goblin magic. It’s older.”

“I’ve been reading some of Salazar’s journals,” Ominis said quietly, stepping closer. “There are references to a hidden place beneath the school. Not the Chamber—something deeper. Something even he feared.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Salazar Slytherin feared something?”

“He called it the Hollow Sanctum. Said it was built by wandless witches who practiced an art not taught in any school. He claimed it couldn’t be sealed—only forgotten.”

As if answering their conversation, the rune flared—brighter this time. The wall trembled, and with a grinding sound of shifting stone, a narrow seam split open, revealing an archway descending into darkness.

The air that spilled out was ancient. It smelled of dust, metal, and magic that had long outlived its creators.

Oliver stared down the stairwell. “Did you know this was here?”

Ominis hesitated. “No. But I think it’s been waiting for someone like you.”

Oliver glanced at him sharply. “Someone like me?”

“Someone who’s already been touched by ancient magic.”

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then Oliver stepped through the arch, wand held high. “Then let’s see what it wants.”

Ominis followed without hesitation.

Behind them, the rune faded—sealing the age from sight as the castle swallowed their footsteps.

The ageway narrowed as Oliver and Ominis descended, the stone walls pressing in like a throat closing around them. Their footsteps echoed unnaturally—sharp and metallic—as if the very stones beneath them disapproved of their presence.

Neither spoke. The air grew colder with every step, heavy with ancient magic and damp earth. Along the walls, remnants of carved runes flickered with dying embers of enchantment—too faded to read, but pulsing faintly, as though aware of their movement.

After what felt like hours, the corridor opened suddenly into a vast underground chamber.

The ceiling stretched high above them, lost in shadow. Pillars of black stone rose like ribs around the space, and at its center sat a raised dais—circular, untouched by dust or time.

Atop it, suspended just inches above a stone pedestal, hovered a single object.

It pulsed softly with blue-white light. It wasn’t a wand, or a book, or a piece of jewelry—just a strange, smooth sphere etched with lines that shifted as they watched.

Oliver took a step toward it, transfixed. “What is it?”

Ominis didn’t answer. He was still at the threshold, wand raised, frowning hard.

Oliver mounted the dais slowly, hand outstretched.

“Oliver,” Ominis said, voice tight. “Something’s wrong. I can feel—”

But Oliver was already reaching.

The object flared the moment his fingers brushed the air beneath it, responding to his nearness. A pulse of light rolled through the room like a thunderclap muffled underwater.

Then, just as Oliver’s fingertips were about to graze its surface—

“No, wait!” Ominis shouted, lunging forward and grabbing Oliver’s arm.

The light exploded.

For one impossible moment, gravity vanished. The air warped and the chamber twisted around them like a ribbon in wind.

Then—blackness.

And silence.

Oliver hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through his arms as he caught himself against the cobblestones. Ominis landed beside him with a grunt, quickly rising to his knees, wand still clutched in his hand.

The first thing Oliver noticed was the cold. Not the chill of a dungeon or the damp of ancient stone—but the crisp, biting wind of open air.

He looked up and froze.

They were in Hogsmeade.

The familiar main street stretched out before them—sloping roofs, lantern-lit windows, the sweet scent of pastries drifting from Honeydukes. Footsteps echoed around them as witches and wizards bustled about, wrapped in cloaks and scarves, chattering in small groups. The village looked exactly as it always had.

But something tugged at Oliver’s chest.

He turned slowly, eyes scanning the crowd.

Everything seemed normal—too normal. Every building stood exactly where it should. The shops were open, people ed them by without a second glance. And yet…

He didn’t recognize a single face.

None of the usual Hogwarts students. None of the regulars from the Three Broomsticks. Not even Madam McLoughlin, who ran Spintwitches and always waved when he walked by.

“Ominis…” Oliver murmured, stepping closer to him. “Do these people look… familiar to you?”

Ominis tilted his head, listening. “No. But they sound real. Smell real. This is Hogsmeade.”

“I know.” Oliver’s gaze lingered on a man stepping out of Zonko’s. The man glanced their way—just for a second—but there was no recognition. “It just doesn’t feel like ours.”

They stood still for a moment as the village moved quietly around them—familiar streets filled with strangers.

Something had changed.

And Oliver couldn’t shake the feeling they weren’t supposed to be here.

The sun had vanished behind the highland peaks, leaving only a bruised sky and a hush over the path from Hogsmeade. The boys walked quickly, the weight of the village’s unfamiliar faces pressing on their shoulders even as the quiet of the open fields offered some small comfort.

Oliver broke the silence. “We should head back to Hogwarts. It’s getting late.”

Ominis nodded without hesitation. “Yes. I’ve had enough of this… version of things.”

They moved briskly, boots thudding against the worn trail, the lights of Hogwarts flickering in the distance like a promise. The closer they got, the more the landscape soothed their nerves. Trees they knew. Stones they’d ed a hundred times. Even the soft lapping of the Black Lake felt familiar.

It wasn’t until they reached the castle itself that the air shifted again.

The great oak doors creaked open beneath Oliver’s hand, revealing the vast entrance hall bathed in torchlight and echoing with silence. The corridors stretched outward, still and undisturbed.

Then—footsteps.

A figure emerged from the shadows near the Grand Staircase. He stood tall, with sharp features and pale skin, his blonde hair parted with surgical precision. His Gryffindor robes were immaculate, and a gold prefect’s pin gleamed on his chest.

“Out after hours,” the boy said, voice like flint. “Wandering about like you’ve no sense.”

Oliver slowed to a stop. He glanced at Ominis. Neither of them recognized the boy.

“We were just returning from Hogsmeade,” Oliver said, cautious.

“I don’t recall asking,” the prefect snapped. “You’re both out of bounds. Next time I see you breaking curfew, I’ll report you to Professor Snape myself.”

Oliver’s stomach turned.

“Who?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

The prefect narrowed his eyes. “Are you daft?”

Ominis placed a hand on Oliver’s arm—firm, warning.

“Understood,” Ominis said smoothly. “We’ll head to our dormitory.”

The prefect didn’t move. He only watched them with cold scrutiny as they ed.

As they headed towards the stairs, footsteps echoing in the tense silence, Oliver leaned toward Ominis.

“Did he say… Snape?”

Ominis’s voice was low and strained. “Yes. And I’ve never heard that name in my life.”

The entrance to the Slytherin common room opened as it always did, stone shifting smoothly aside with a quiet groan.

Oliver stepped in, greeted by the soft green glow of lanternlight and the gentle ripple of water outside the great submerged windows. Shadows flickered along the stone walls, and the low murmur of conversation filled the air. A few students lounged near the hearth, cloaked in sleepiness, the fire crackling low.

For a moment, it felt normal.

They walked through in silence. The furniture was in the right places. The carved serpent over the mantle still loomed with its familiar, cold gaze. But the air was too still. And something about the way the green light bent off the walls didn’t sit right with Oliver.

Ominis leaned close as they crossed the room. “Does anything feel… off?”

Oliver gave a single nod. “The shadows. The light. It’s like everything’s been put back together slightly wrong.”

They climbed the stairs to the dormitories, too tired to speak more, hoping for sleep if nothing else.

But as Oliver pushed open the door to their shared room, his heart jolted.

There were figures already in the beds.

Shapes beneath the covers. Steady breathing. The soft rustle of blankets shifting.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

The room was familiar—but not. The rugs were a darker shade, coarser than he ed. A new shelf sat between the beds, cluttered with books he didn’t recognize. His bed—the one he always took, second from the door—was neatly made… and occupied.

Oliver took a step in. The quiet seemed to press in around him.

A boy stirred in one of the beds, sitting up groggily, his face pale in the low light.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

Oliver hesitated. “This is our room.”

The boy blinked at them, clearly confused. “No, it’s not.”

Ominis stepped in behind him, his voice low and grim. “Let’s go.”

Oliver backed out slowly, one last glance at the strange furniture, the unfamiliar belongings, the faces he couldn’t place.

They returned to the hallway in silence.

Then Ominis spoke, barely above a whisper.

“We don’t belong here.”

Standing in the dim corridor, just beyond the dormitory door that no longer felt like theirs. The silence between them was heavy, only the faint hum of the lake outside and the crackle of distant torches breaking it.

Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, his voice quiet. “That orb… we shouldn’t have touched it.”

Ominis gave a tight nod, his jaw clenched. “We didn’t even touch it. Just got close enough, and now—this.”

Oliver looked down the hall, then back at him. “We’re in the same castle, same stones, same halls. But it’s not our time. Not our people.”

“Not our world,” Ominis murmured.

Then, a voice rang out from below—loud, firm, and clear enough to silence everything else.

“Oliver Thorne. Ominis Gaunt. You are to report outside the Slytherin common room. Professor Dumbledore is waiting.”

Both boys froze.

Oliver’s eyes widened. “Did they just—?”

“They knew our names,” Ominis said quietly, a cold thread winding through his voice.

Neither of them moved.

Whoever this Dumbledore was, he had called them specifically—by full name. In a castle where no one else recognized them, that meant something. Oliver wasn’t sure if that was more reassuring or terrifying.

Ominis exhaled slowly. “Let’s go.”

They moved toward the stairs, the familiar turns of the Slytherin dormitories suddenly foreign again, the soft murmur of the common room below growing louder with each step.

Whoever Dumbledore was, he was waiting.

And he knew they didn’t belong.

The common room was quieter than usual as they descended the final steps. A few students glanced up, but no one said a word. The name Dumbledore seemed to carry weight here—whatever this place was. Enough weight to silence a room.

They pushed open the stone door leading out to the corridor.

Waiting just beyond, lit by the flickering green hue of the lanterns, was a man neither of them had ever seen before.

He stood tall and still, hands clasped loosely in front of him, his robes deep blue and edged with silver thread. Half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, and his long silver beard flowed down to his chest. Despite the sharpness in his eyes, there was something calm in his presence, as if he knew more than he was letting on.

“You must be Oliver Thorne and Ominis Gaunt,” he said, voice warm but measured. “Thank you for coming.”

Oliver and Ominis exchanged a glance. It was one thing for a stranger to call them by name—but this man looked at them as if he’d been expecting them.

Ominis was the first to speak. “You are… Professor Dumbledore?”

A faint smile touched the man’s lips. “I am. And I believe you and I have much to discuss.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes slightly. “You know who we are.”

“I do,” Dumbledore said. “Though I suspect you don’t yet know where you are.”

The corridor felt colder suddenly.

“Come,” Dumbledore said, turning away down the hall. “We’ll talk somewhere more private.”

Neither boy moved at first.

Then slowly, silently, they followed.

The three moved quietly through the corridors of Hogwarts, their footsteps echoing through the stone halls. The castle felt colder at night—emptier—and though the torches still flickered in their sconces, the shadows they cast seemed longer than Oliver ed.

Dumbledore led the way, walking at a thoughtful pace, hands clasped loosely behind his back. After a long moment of silence, he spoke—not with interrogation, but with genuine curiosity.

“I’ve always ired the way magic adapts,” he said softly, glancing toward Ominis. “Your use of your wand to sense your surroundings—it’s refined. Impressive, even by our standards.”

Ominis’s grip on his wand tightened slightly. “I’ve had practice,” he said evenly.

“More than most, I imagine,” Dumbledore replied. “And more awareness than most with eyes open.”

Oliver glanced sideways at Ominis, who gave nothing away.

Dumbledore’s gaze shifted next to Oliver. “And you—beginning your magical education in your fifth year is no small feat. Let alone… triumphing over someone like Ranrok.”

Oliver stopped mid-step. “You know about that?”

Dumbledore looked back at him with a glimmer in his eyes. “I know quite a bit. Though the details of how that particular confrontation unfolded… are rare and tightly held.”

Oliver said nothing. He wasn’t sure what unnerved him more: that this man knew about Ranrok, or that he spoke of it like history—something already written.

They continued on in silence a few moments more, rounding a familiar spiral staircase.

Soon, they stood before a tall wooden door set into a stone archway.

Dumbledore paused, then turned to face them fully. “I ask for your patience. What you’re experiencing is not a dream or illusion, and I suspect the truth will take some time to fully understand. But I promise, you are not alone.”

With a wave of his hand, the door creaked open, revealing the warmly lit chamber beyond.

“Please,” he said. “Come in.”

The office was warm and dim, filled with soft candlelight and the steady ticking of magical devices that seemed just on the edge of comprehension. The shelves were crowded with books whose spines bore titles neither boy recognized. Faint steam curled from a silver teapot, untouched on a side table.

Dumbledore gestured toward two chairs before the hearth. “Please. Sit.”

They obeyed cautiously, exchanging a glance before settling in. Dumbledore remained standing for a moment, gazing thoughtfully at a slow-turning orrery beside his desk.

“You must be disoriented,” he said finally. “That much is clear.”

Oliver leaned forward slightly, hands clasped between his knees. “We didn’t mean to do anything. We found something—beneath the castle. A glowing object. When I got close, it reacted. Pulled us in.”

Ominis nodded. “One second we were in that chamber… the next, we were in Hogsmeade. But everything was strange. Off.”

Dumbledore turned to them fully now, his expression kind, but grave.

“That’s because you are no longer in the time you once knew,” he said. “What you found was an anchor of ancient magic. A very rare kind. And by touching it—by awakening it—you were drawn forward.”

Oliver blinked. “Forward?”

Dumbledore nodded. “One hundred years, give or take.”

The fire crackled behind them. For a moment, neither boy said a word.

Ominis was the first to speak. “You’re saying… we’ve traveled a century into the future.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said simply. “To the year 1994.”

Oliver sat back, as if the words physically struck him. “Then everyone we knew…”

“Gone,” Dumbledore said, not unkindly. “Time moved on without you.”

A long silence settled in the room. The weight of it was suffocating.

“But why us?” Oliver finally asked. “Why would that… thing pull us forward?”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That is what we must learn. You were not chosen at random—I am certain of that. Ancient magic rarely acts without purpose.”

He moved behind his desk and sat, steepling his fingers. “And I believe your arrival is connected to something stirring beneath the castle. Something that was buried long before even your time.”

Oliver swallowed hard. “You’re saying there’s another secret underneath Hogwarts?”

Dumbledore offered a faint smile. “There’s always another secret at Hogwarts, Mr. Thorne.”

The fire crackled softly in Dumbledore’s office, casting its golden light across the cluttered walls and countless instruments ticking in quiet rhythm. Oliver sat still, the heat brushing one side of his face, the rest of him cold.

“A hundred years,” he said, the words dry in his mouth. “We’ve lost everything.”

“Not lost,” Dumbledore said gently. “Only… left behind.”

Beside him, Ominis turned his head slightly toward the sound of the fire. His face was pale. “And we’re stuck here.”

“For now,” Dumbledore said. “But I don’t believe you were brought here without cause. This kind of magic—what you touched—it doesn’t act on whim. It responds to power. To need.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying something needed us. In this time.”

“I suspect so,” Dumbledore replied. “Something old is stirring again beneath the castle. Something that hasn’t awoken in your time—or mine—until now. I’ve felt its weight growing for months. And now… here you are.”

The silence stretched between them. The only sound was the ticking of a slender brass instrument on a nearby shelf.

“You said people will notice us,” Ominis said suddenly. “The other students. They’ll ask questions.”

“They already are,” Dumbledore itted. “You appeared on the grounds tonight out of nowhere. And you’re not in any current records. Your names, however… they are known to the school. As if it re who you were once meant to be.”

“Meaning what?” Oliver asked.

“Meaning you exist here—but without a history. You are, to them, new arrivals. Unfamiliar. Suspicious, perhaps. But not impossible.”

Oliver and Ominis exchanged a glance.

“Lie low,” Dumbledore said. “For now. Attend classes. Act like you belong. Most students won’t bother prying too deeply.”

“And if someone does?” Ominis asked.

“You’ll tell me.”

Dumbledore stood and moved toward the door. “I’ve arranged for your beds to be prepared. Not the ones you , I’m afraid.”

Oliver stood slowly. “Will we ever get back?”

“If there’s a path back through that magic,” Dumbledore said, “we’ll find it. But until then… Hogwarts is your home.”

He paused, resting his hand on the door handle.

“If you see anything—hear anything—that feels too familiar… trust your instincts. Magic like this leaves threads. Loose ones.”

The door creaked open.

The corridor outside was still and dim, torches flickering low along the walls. The castle felt different somehow, quieter than it should have been—even for night.

The boys stepped out.

And the door shut softly behind them.

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