A/N: It was supposed to be a drabble for my other fic, Snapshots of the Halliwells. Only it grew bigger than that, so I decide to put it on its own. If someone wants to know, the prompt was Curiosity.

Standing in front of the windows of his apartment, Wyatt watched his kingdom drowned by the rain under his feet, searching a solution for his new problems. Another wave of executions? It always calmed them before. But will it be enough this time?

Since a few days, hope reappeared amongst the mortals and the so-calling good witches, but nobody understood why. Even the demons didn't know what was happening, but they felt the optimism staining the air too.

The change was strong enough to be felt, but nobody could see or get it. Wyatt could. And from what he knew, he was the only one.

Just the last day, two guards of the prison in Valhalla were giving their rapports normally when one of them disappeared in a golden light and replaced by an inferior demon. Nobody reacted. Wyatt interrogated his colleague, who swore that the inferior demon always worked with him.

A fast and easy research let Wyatt know that the demon from his memory was killed years before. He wasn't the only one to face a new death or destiny. Every night, Wyatt stayed in front of the windows of his bedroom and watched the city, looking for the differences. Sometimes, he could even saw them happen. It had been interesting to watch the Bridge building itself to be destroy not a second after.

Christopher.

Chris was the responsible. All this changes were his fault, the consequence of his acts in the past, like dominoes playing his futile plan. All these efforts, and he was still the master of this world. It was still as dark as usual. People like their mother and their aunts were still killed for the 'greater good.'

Darryl was killed by Zankou instead of the Cleaners; he only won one year. The numbers of their cousins climbed or diminished, but in the end, only he and his brother were still alive. His mother died a winter later than the first time. Phoebe was killed before Paige this time.

Eventually, Chris will have to accept that he can't change History. Or else, he'll come back thinking he won, and he'll see the truth himself.

Wyatt smiled at this thought. Maybe he could use the advantage. After all, everything happening to Chris was old history for him. A few researches will help him to know what his little brother was playing.

Where should he begin?

Chris surely took another name, to respect the rules of the time travel. Maybe he found a job, an apartment. Or else, he lived in the Manor.

Wyatt went to his bed and took the album on his night-table. Until now, an out of his time Chris didn't appear in the photos but if he dug in his mind, he had vague memories of this strange adult, new memories too.

For those, he only understood during Bianca's funeral; her death was an accident and she almost was family. He didn't have any reason to refuse her this last respect, despite her betrayal. Who said he was cruel?

This day, while the earth recovered her casket, while a spell was put to protect her from looters, he wondered what Chris was doing, so far behind him. A clear image of who he thought was a long-forgotten babysitter appeared then in his mind, an adult Chris near his park, anger, hatred and pain so strong that the baby he was brought up automatically his shield.

Wyatt tried to forced more memories of his childhood, even used the magic, but everything he had stayed blurred.

But other traces, written, had to be somewhere. The P3 maybe? His dad had a place there when he was mortal, he wouldn't be surprised if Chris managed to have the same job than him.

Wyatt left his apartment for his office, calling the witch in charge of the surveillance of the club. The woman who appeared wasn't the same than the last time, but considering the survival rate of the guardians of his mother's old workplace, he didn't know the real reason of the change, and to be frank, he didn't care.

"The files and the papers of the club. I know we kept them, something about 'authenticity' for the museum. I want them, everything from the heat wave of 2004 to the birth of my brother." From what Bianca said, Chris thought his 'attack' happened around this time, and Wyatt supposed he'd leave before the arrival of the younger him.

The witch left without asking questions and reappeared one hour later with all they had. He took everything and closed himself in his office, refusing any help to dissect bills, letters and commands. For this situation, he wanted to be alone. It concerned his family, no one else.

&

Three hours later, he began to regret his decision. He found nothing about strange new employed, no bands with a surprising future success booked before their time, no trace of a cocktail create way too soon.

In a brusque, furious move, he threw everything on the floor and decided to go directly to the P3. Something may provoke another memory, if he's lucky.

A moment to advice the guardian to leave and forbade any interruptions, and Wyatt entered in the club for the first time for years. A hint of nostalgia tried to slip in him, he crushed it immediately. It only was walls and furniture, no reason to be sentimentalist.

The bar wasn't even complete anymore, result of the last battle to happen there. Vaguely, he wondered if the drawing he made at eight years-old for his mother was still somewhere. The last time he saw it, it was stuck near an old poster, in the office room.

If he made the turn of the club before enter, it only was to be sure he was alone and safe.

Since this last attack, the place was completely closed, and beside the guardians designed by a trusted lieutenant, nobody entered ever again, nothing was displaced or taken. The club like the office, and probably the back room, everything was in the same place than fifteen years before, but not protected from the assault of the time. And therefore, dusty, rotten, and broken.

But his drawing, nearly entirely erased, was still there, in his favourite corner; he couldn't remember why it was his favourite, only that he loved playing there for a few months. He sat then against the wall for hours and played with a bit of clothes someone forgot, a bit of clothes his mother never tried to take back from him.

With a smile, a rare sweet smile, he came closer. And the reason of this strange interest became suddenly clear. Magic. The wall was soaked of magic. If there was a spell, it had to be a very powerful one, to still be so active years later.

He went to tear down everything on it but catch himself at the last second, choosing instead to gently take off the old memories. Looking for the table where put the posters and drawings, he almost tripped against a bundle of fabric, and let go a childish laugh when he recognised the bit of clothes which was his toy.

Now that he looked at it closely, what he thought being simply an old torn rag had a rest of buttons and some flags sewed on it. It only was a shirt. What did a shirt was doing here? Why his mother didn't throw it away?

It didn't make any sense. Clutching the clothe, he closed his eyes and concentrated, looking for any trace, vision or feeling…

He actually sensed something, but it was too weak, if familiar. Unpleasant.

He came back near the wall without letting go the shirt and brushed it with his hand, detecting the source of the magic. He found it hidden behind a brick he took off with his telekinesis. At first, he only saw dust in the hole. He thought he made a mistake until a flash of light caught his eyes. A simple spell warned him about the lack of danger so he orbed the round object to him.

It only was a little ring, a simple ring with a small rock. She had nothing magical, but the energy came from it, and he was unable to understand how. He was barely able to sense some very vague echo of pain, familiar too.

It was probably an engagement ring or something like that. Who could hide it in the office of his mother? Who could enter? With a power's projection like that, his father would have felt it when it was put in the wall; its strength would have been stronger at this time. So, it couldn't have been here before his mother buys the club.

He closed his hand, clutching the ring. Sadness, pain, where did he felt this exact combination? He concentrated, looked back on the years without finding anything, not before going far, very far.

Chris. It was what Chris felt after Bianca's death when Wyatt was a baby.

Chris had access to the office in the past. Wyatt brought the shirt to his face. He couldn't remember where he found the cloth when he was a kid, but he was sure the shirt always was been there.

He concentrated again on the unpleasant sensation marking the shirt, finding easily his answer now that he knew what to look for: Bianca's powers. Her trace when she took the powers of someone else.

He summoned a mirror and flew his hand over it:

"Show me the day of his return."

The scene was short, violent. But now he was sure. He looked the flags again. It was Chris's shirt. His clothes were in this office. Why didn't he bring them with him in the present?

Probably some rule or another. But he did let his belongings in this room. Even he needed to sleep, and he wouldn't have been the first, or the last one to use the couch for the night.

So now he knew where he lived, he only needed his fake name. A search on this name will gave him whatever he wanted.

Wyatt went back to his apartment and recovered the scattered files, looking for what he was interested, the authorised people's lists. The first time, he didn't really pay attention; he merely looked over the names and compared them to the list of the workers.

But now, someone who was welcomed all the time but not working inside was either family or a very good friend, and the list was short. And this time, Chris's name was like highlighted. Perry. Of course, he didn't give his real name, but took the name of his childhood's hero, from a film which didn't exist yet where, when he was. Wyatt touched the name of his brother on the paper. Did he eventually reveal his identity to their family?

It wasn't important. The next step was obvious. He may proclaim to be a Good and Nice Witch who fight Evil, Chris was, is, and will always be a child of this world, formed to questionable but effective methods. Sooner or later he'll do something which will attract the police's attention, and even if Darryl helps him, he won't be able to erase everything.

Next stop, the police station. What's left of it, anyway.

&

It didn't escape to the ravage of the time and the weather. Drawn upon, burned, destroyed in some places, it was almost a miracle that the building was still up. Wyatt met just one squatter, who ran away when he saw him, at Wyatt's enjoyment.

Of course, the inside wasn't better than the outside and finding a trace of something happened decades before was going to be difficult. Not a computer was still intact on those still there, and for the lockers which had to have the papers, they were all upturned, contents lost or burned. For anybody else, it would be hopeless. For him, it only necessitated a good spell.

"From past to present

All here to see

Recreate documents

Show me the life of Chris Perry"

On the moment, nothing happened, at the utmost surprise of Wyatt. Never before his magic failed him. Suddenly, a strong pain in his abdomen hit him, so surprising he fell on the ground. The pain left as fast as it came and Wyatt didn't understand what just happened. Did someone tried to attack him? No, he wasn't hurt, nobody appeared to end the job, there was not other magic than him around him.

And slowly, unhurriedly, ashes flew whirling in face of him, taking back their old appearance, papers, books, pens and other objects; furniture fixed themselves and took back their places; lockers and filing cabinets get up and hundreds of files flew in the drawers.

It was certainly better than before, but still not what he wanted. He'll need time to look in every drawer. It was incomprehensible, he never had something else than what he asked!

Unless…It was such a long time ago…They didn't exist anymore, it was impossible. Or else, another force that the Elders? Someone higher than them? Someone who tried to stop him. Resuscitated by Chris, probably.

Someone didn't want him to find his answers. It was courageous. Stupid, but courageous. Impressed that his adversary managedto have a result, the fact was that he could still do his researches. This other person could always try to lose his time to stop him, eventually Wyatt will win.

And once he'll have what he want, he'll find this pest and get rid of him.

Wyatt got back on his feet and looked around the room. Pointing his hands before him, palms up like if he was waiting for something to appear in them, he tried something else, more direct.

"Paper wearing the name of Chris Perry

Come to me immediately"

Again, he didn't have the expected result. Several sheets of papers flew in the air and turned around him before falling at his feet, in a complete disorder.

"Well tried!" he shouted to the invisible force blocking him.

Wyatt sighed and crouched down to rummage the pile. Here and there, he was only a mention linked to the sisters, or a witness in a demonic business he disguised into something else, and here… Wyatt burst of laughing.

"A car! You can orb, and you, you…"

Forget to use his powers, use them to the minimum, it's Chris for you. While he continued to search, he felt a strange pang to his heart.

Next, he found many convocations for Chris Perry; he didn't come to any of them, of course. This Sheridan really got at his family fiercely. She couldn't guess at this time that she'll become one of the most ferocious leaders of the Resistance, hiding and training the young lost witches or the voluntary mortals.

One of them was sent a few days before Chris's birth. There will not be another after this one, Wyatt was certain of that.

Thinking to the birth of Chris reminded him that it was nearly his birthday. Maybe he should prepare him a party for the occasion in the same time that one of welcome back. Just before making him regret to having defy him.

Wyatt got up again and called all the magic of his lineage, wanting a clear answer, and repeated his spell. This time, when the papers flew, they sorted by themselves in a file marked by the name of Chris Perry.

Wyatt smiled. Clearly, whoever tried to stop him earlier gave up.

He turned the pages rapidly, only interested by the last one. The same twinge that earlier reappeared when he recognised the date. The same that today. He was exactly twenty three years after the ink dried out.

He read the page once. Twice. If one of his demons were in the room, they would all have disappeared by pure survival's instinct.

Wyatt lifted his head, his face emptied of any expression. Strange, he didn't remember getting back to the ground. He torn down the sheet of paper, noted the hour in the rapport and checked with the present time.

&

Suppressing all emotions, he found himself in the living room of the Manor. Without a word, without letting to the persons inside even a second of reaction, he made all of them disappear with a move of his hand. He had no idea of where he sent them, and he didn't care. It was a special day, just for his family, nobody else should be here.

His heart was pounding in his chest, his control onto his feelings was slipping faster and faster, all so varied and different he didn't know where to begin.

Like crying, for example. Could he remember how it worked?

Slowly, he climbed the stairs, walked along the corridors avoiding to look the portraits hung on the wall. He knew them by heart anyway, to the missing corner on Victor's photo, broken the day Chris tried to send a vase to a demon by telekinesis and missed by miles.

He tried to block them while he passed every bedroom, but the memories refused to stay silent, to stay hidden. All came back at the sight of an old stain, a bump, a drawing never completely erased and the punishment that followed. The chest where he used to hide behind all the time. The plants, now false, for which they always fought to have the right to water…

Wyatt stopped in front of the door of his parent's bedroom and was surprised to feel the need for courage before enter.

It was cleaned every day; therefore the perfume was only the result of his imagination. The sounds of laughs were only in his head. Wyatt entered slowly, his eyes on the bed, refusing to look the rest of the room. He touched the covers, watching something which wasn't really there. Not yet.

Without taking his hand back, he made the turn of the bed, away from the door. Without realising it, he let go the page; it fluttered to the floor, forgotten. He always found strange that the weather adapted to the horrors of his life. He was unable to remember the last time he felt the sun, and yet, he could feel it burning his neck.

He lay down the bed, his eyes on the empty space near him.

Someone appeared in the room but Wyatt didn't move his stare.

"Leave. I don't want to see anyone."

"But Master, people said…"

He didn't even have the time to scream, the flames disappeared as fast as they came. Wyatt turned slightly his head, to checked that he was alone but the intruder came with a scared to death Dark Lighter. Wyatt turned back his eyes on the pillow, his vision beginning to be blurred.

"I don't want to see anyone. Nobody enter the Manor. Let us alone." Why his voice was chocked like that?

The Dark Lighter left, and as a supplementary act of security, Wyatt called back a long forgotten and ignored power, his shield. He brought it around him, big enough to contain completely the bed. Then he reinstalled himself more comfortably, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks, the pain in his chest.

"Chris come back home, today."

The end.

Reviews? Please? There is a Drew Fuller offered with each comment.