For: Fire

From: Lin

Word Count: 506 (I'm really sorry it's so short, but this was a great place to end this!)

you will remember me (for centuries)

Harry didn't know how or why it happened, but somehow he had been transported into a totally unfamiliar region.

Quite frankly, at this point he wasn't sure why he was surprised as much as he was. Weird things happened to him all the time.

Now, after six years of magical education and one year on the run this was not really that strange. It kind of looked like London but almost all of the details were more than a bit off. The advertisements, the people, the cars; everything looked so old-fashioned.

Okay, so that wasn't exactly right. He had some vague idea how he had ended up here. It had something to do with the fact that Harry had been killed by Voldemort when he had confronted the madman in the Forbidden Forest. The figure that had pretended to be Dumbledore must have sent him here.

Wherever 'here' was, but in the end, it didn't really matter.

He was tired of fighting for the ungrateful wizarding world. They had ostracised him one time too many.

Harry had already died for them. What more could they possibly want? So he had chosen to board a train.

And now he found himself somewhere in the past. That much was obvious from the cars and fashion alone. If he had to guess, he probably was somewhere before the Second World War—something to look forward to, then—but after the Victorian Era—the women were behaving more freely than they had in that time.

Even with Hermione's history lessons he still had a window of almost forty years, but in the end it didn't really matter. No matter which exact year he was in, he still had no identity or anything but the things he had on him, which, thanks to the year he had spent on the run, meant quite a bit. They had started to split their resources between them fairly early, so that every one of them would be able to survive alone until they found each other again.

And Merlin, was he glad for that now! He still had money or food—or identity or connection to, well, anyone, really—but at least he had clothes as well as some books and other resources, provided that they had been transported with him.

Harry quickly moved to check when he realised that something else was off. He had no idea how he had not noticed this before, but he was several feet smaller than he had been before. He had always been small until he had hit his growth spurt the summer after his fourth year, but—after sneaking a glance of his mirror image in s shop window—he would guess himself to be around eleven.

That could not bode well for him. Then again, what ever did?

Harry sighed, looked around himself, and swallowed. The fence that loomed next to him was topped off by a sign he had only seen once before. Only once, in Dumbledore's memory when the old man had taught him about Voldemort's Life story.

Wool's Orphanage.