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over insane sycophantic followers of a murderer of all people. The
last of what he considered family, gone. It still hurt to look at his
dead — no, murdered — godfather’s predecessors, now that he
had to spend time with them.

The 1940s were different in ways he hadn’t imagined. The
never known-of-but-never-experienced type. It was how the
purebloods openly sneered at the mere idea of non-magical
people, muggles, existing; or how the muggleborn students
cowered, knowing no one would come to their defence when
harassed; or how the entire student used or at least tolerated the
term mudblood, a slur, found in every casual conversation about
the 'disgusting muggles bred to steal our magic,' Abraxas Malfoy
often said. Half of these actions would have ended with expulsion
in his time.

He was fighting for his life during an attack before time
turner dust somehow poured over him, so when he first arrived
here with blood covering his entire being, he planned to stay out of
attention. Really.

That plan went out the window the moment that damned
Sorting Hat decided it was a jolly good idea to put him in Slytherin
instead of Gryffindor. He was currently Henry Evans, a muggleborn,
as it brought the least questions of his heritage. So, a muggleborn
who just somehow started to exist out of nowhere being put in
Slytherin, the house that detested everything muggle. That just did
not happen. That was stereotyping for the most part, but it held true
to a far extent. He groaned. Why can't I just disappear?