Author's Notes: This FanFiction was inspired by Altered Destinies, written by DobbyElfLord. The only two things that this really takes from that wonderful FF are, first, the general historical backdrop, and, second, the fact that Harry doesn't end up when he intends. After that, it's all me (with JKR's pieces, of course). It's also important to know that I have read almost all of the FFs in my "favourites" more than once, some even thrice. If there is anything that reminds you of them, well, it's because I probably stole it (or an idea substantially similar) from them. Hopefully, my fiction will be distinctive enough as to be enjoyed uniquely.

This Fic will be mostly canon compliant. I've changed a little about book seven (which mostly shows up in the first chapter), and you'll notice that some of the background information is changed (for example, Dorea Potter, nee Black is Harry's grandmother and she did not die of old age).

Also, I'm inviting criticism, as much as you got. Please give me as harsh criticism as you can fathom. Rants are welcome. Similarly, if anyone wants to be a beta, I'm on the lookout for one for this fic or the other one on which I'm working (see profile for details).

Disclaimer:

I'm not going to do a silly little "disclaimer" after this one. Legally, they don't mean shit. More to the point, JKR has already given us all her permission. Thus, they're not just irrelevances, but redundant irrelevances.

Let the show begin.

Chapter One: Time Travel for Fun and Profit

There is something painfully ironic about weather. In real life, it acts nothing like it does in books. Days of pain and suffering are not overcast, and days of hope and joy do not shine bright. Take for example the night that Professor Dumbledore died. It was clear, sharp, and, though not hot, certainly far from cold. The day he was buried, it was clear and warm, quite unusual for Scotland. And the day that the British Wizarding World collapsed, barely a month after Dumbledore's death, was another unseasonably gorgeous day.

The day I learnt that I was a wizard, on the other hand, was howling and glacial. The day of my first kiss – real kiss, Cho doesn't count – was windy and rainy as well. That one isn't a great example, though, since I was inside and so I didn't really notice the weather. Fine – the day that I lost my virginity then. Hogwarts was caught in a blinding blizzard, made even worse by the fact that it was the middle of October.

Well – the fact that Voldemort had just killed half of Hogwarts above fifth year and pretty much all of the Order didn't help either.

Anyways, my point was that it might be just that books don't know how life works at all, or maybe fate takes particular comfort in buggering me blind, but I've noticed that there is something morbidly ironic about weather. This recollection is fairly new too. It arose as I sat with my back against the outer wall of what was left of The Three Broomsticks, staring up at the happily naked sun or alternatively at the blackened, smoking corpse of my now deceased mortal enemy. It had been an hour, but I hadn't moved, though Susan Bones had brought me some tea and a scone, for which I would be eternally grateful.

To make this whole situation even worse, it was raining in London, where they were actually celebrating Voldemort's death and not mourning those who'd been slaughtered for our victory. Seriously fate, god, destiny, whatever-the-blah you are – what the fuck?

Just then, the sky opened up and it started raining right over me. Literally – right over me. Not anywhere else, just over me. I was so shocked that I yelled, at least in my mind. To the outside world, I barely moved my eyes upwards. I knew then, distantly, in the back of my mind, that there was going to be a serious reckoning with all the events of my life. The reckoning would probably involve a bottle or five of fire-whiskey, my photo album, and quite possibly a polyjuiced prostitute. That, or I could see if Fleur had survived.

"Harry," pause, "Harry – are you alright son?"

I moved my eyes left and they landed on Professor McGonagall. The rain had stopped. I meandered to the conclusion that she had cast the raincloud. I just sort of looked at her.

Then I dropped my gaze and thought of Hermione's final words as she rationalised Ron's execution, Ginny's sacrifice, and her own slow lingering assassination. I had held her hand for days, comforting her during her racking pain while awake, and begging her not to leave me while she slept. She caught me at it towards the end, me telling her that she was irreplaceable – like Ginny, like Ron, like Remus, like Dumbledore, like Sirius, like my parents. She sat there, with a sad smile on her face. She pushed herself up a little higher on the bed, despite the obvious pain it caused her, and grabbed my face. Placing a clammy kiss on my lips, she said 'Long before this war was fought, graveyards have been filled with irreplaceable people.'

I got the point. And I actually cried. She cried with me, and she died with me hugging her, begging her to stay just a little longer.

I've felt guilty about the begging every fucking day since.

It wasn't until I felt the pressure surround me, compressing me to the width of a straw, that I even knew someone had touched me. As we came out of apparition, I landed, rolled, and rose to shoot a violet burst of death at my enemy. It was deflected with a high shout. Her voice, technically her accent, not the circumstances, brought me back to reality.

"Sorry Professor."

"It's alright Potter," she panted.

We were at her family's town house in Glasgow. She had used it as a safe house during the war. The cots were still scattered around the living room. And I pondered about how the refuse of the war could still be scattered about, how I could still feel as if I were at war, and yet the war was done, over, completed, successful.

I gave a sad little snort at the word 'successful.' Luckily, it was drowned out by McGonagall turning on the wireless. A jubilant voice pattered on about who knows what for all of a second, maybe two, before McGonagall turned it off again.

"Sorry, wasn't really thinking," was said while a small little clank came from my side.

"S'okay – habit, I know," I chimed in after looking to my side. There was a tall glass of fire-whiskey. It wasn't Ogden's either, but genuine Hipworth – the good stuff. After a pause, I asked, "you wouldn't happen to have any polyjuice left, would you?"

"What? Why?"

I just shook my head. Taking a deep gulp, not just a sip, as I should have, I looked up at McGonagall. She was sprawled out on a lounging chair, looking at me with concern and puckered lips. Something in her expression made me remembering a comment Seamus once made in Fifth Year while we preparing for our OWLs: 'it's a wonder McGonagall hasn't died years ago from shit-poisoning, her ass is bound so fucking tight.' This lead Dean to ask how Seamus would know, exactly how he would know, how tight McGonagall's ass was.

And I did the most deliriously unexpected thing; I laughed. It started as a snort, followed by another snort, and then a ducking of my head. Then I started to chuckle, which turned quickly into a snicker and then a guffaw. The guffaw turned into a sharp, distinct, rolling giggle – especially after I thought of my laugh as a 'guffaw.' Then I dropped my head backwards and barked out a laugh – and then I laughed and laughed and laughed big bellied bursts.

I felt like how Sirius must have felt the night that Pettigrew fucked us all. It was over, the war was won, and I had survived. Yet, I lost everything and almost everyone. McGonagall, Fleur, and Percy and Arthur Weasley were the only people left for whom I actually cared. Yet, here I was, le survivant, as Fleur still calls me, the person who should have died to save us all, who ended up living and killing and not knowing what was left to do.

So I laughed. And my breath started to come in weak gasps, yet I couldn't stop. I pair of arms snaked around me, as McGonagall kneeled before me to give me a strong hug. I had never seen her give a hug to anyone before – ever. It showed in the hug too. The hug wasn't that comforting, wasn't motherly. It didn't matter, though. The act of physical kindness from a woman usually so cold, well, it broke me.

And I cried, and cried, and cried. The sobs struck at my chest like sledgehammers, tore through me like bullets. I could keep being lyrical about this, but, truly, there isn't anything lyrical about that type of pain. It bathes your heart in ice, while simultaneously putrefying your organs. And your soul, or your magic, or whatever it is that makes you, you – well, it all feels as if it's rotting away, lifting off of you in a fog.

I awoke an indeterminable time later. I chuckled, which came out more as a wet sniffle. The sun shone brilliantly out the window. Well fuck, I really am fate's bitch.

I sat on the bed in McGonagall's east guestroom and stared off into space. After about an hour of thoughts that whirled and fluttered, but did little else, I called for a house elf. Nimmy was quiet, probably from McGonagall's orders. Nimmy usual was as vibrant as Dobby had been. Well, not quite as vibrant, but close. Nimmy popped away to get me apples, nuts, and some bacon. About ten minutes after she returned, and right when I was finishing, McGonagall entered the room.

Her face was solemn and not unkind, but she gave little indication of the warmth that she displayed last night. She sat down in the chair next to my bed. We just sat there for a while, neither looking at the other. There really wasn't anything to say. So, I asked the only question that came to me, a question that was second nature by now, a question I was accustomed to asking every day.

"What happened overnight?" Usually, the response was a casualty count.

"The parties aren't as boisterous as last time. I think everyone fears that he might not actually be gone again."

That's right. It hadn't occurred to me really, but McGonagall had been here before. Except, instead of an aged Headmaster and brilliant Sorcerer, McGonagall got me – a kid barely old enough to apparate.

"Any new casualties?" Just checking.

"Filius died of his wounds."

That was a blow, although I had expected it. Flitwick's task yesterday had been to lead the charge from north of Hogsmeade, from the grounds. It was just as if he was leading the third years for their first taste of Hogsmeade, except that his army of thirty took constant spellfire from Voldemort's army of fifty odd. Still, it allowed McGonagall, Seamus, Neville, Percy, Fred, Ernie, Susan, Cho, and myself to get outside the wards within the Forbidden Forest and apparate to the west most portion of Hogsmeade.

Flitwick's force had dropped to just over ten people by the time my group of nine hit Voldemort from the back. The last thing I saw of Flitwick's force before Voldemort came right towards me was Flitwick's shield, and Flitwick himself, fall to Dolohov, McNair, and two other Death Eaters who I couldn't see or didn't know.

"Harry?"

I shook myself. "Um… yeah. Fleur?"

"Nothing more than a shattered leg," to which I gave a shattered sigh. There was a short, uncomfortable pause. I knew something was coming that I wouldn't like. "The minister wants to put on the award ceremony this Monday in Diagon Alley."

"Well fuck me."

"Quite."

The blowing wind was my only solace. It tended to drown out Minister Edgecombe's voice. She stood on a raised stage erected before The Three Broomsticks, pompously perched on the platform ostensibly to overlook the outcome of my merciless and muddled mêlée that violently vanquished Voldemort.

Hermione would have been proud.

She didn't live long enough to appreciate my recently re-acquired love of language. The love arose as a consequence, in fact, of Hermione's death. I had always appreciated her ability to research, recover, distil, and instil information, but I had never realised quite how rare that skill was. Even Flitwick couldn't quite match it.

When left with the option of entrusting research to Neville, Susan, Ernie, Fred, Cho, or myself, I chose myself. Cho helped. But I took on the brunt of the research, doing with dint of will and liberal use of pepper-up potions what Hermione did with talent and joy.

My research wasn't just new spells; I actually delved into the heart of magic, trying to figure out how it worked, and trying to figure out what power I could possibly have that Voldemort knew not. It would be boring to recite everything I learnt, but one of the most important things was in an introductory Ancient Runes text. It said that words themselves hold power, actual, true magic. This magic appears roughly proportional to the collective power of people who use the words, over with what precision those words are used. So, theoretically the author assured us, a stunner had the potential be instantly lethal to a wizard if a bunch of sorcerers came together and made a perfectly precise language to help power their spells – theoretically.

First off, why isn't this told to every first year that walks through the doors to Hogwarts? Sure, there's an old wizards' aphorism that goes something like 'grammar is a wizard's greatest power,' but I don't think that pureblood children even understand what that's supposed to mean.

More importantly, though, the text's author was not, and most likely didn't know anyone who was, a parselmouth. Voldemort and I, however, both were. I didn't realise this until after Dumbledore died, when I started studying Voldemort on my own, but his use of parseltongue spells was actually one of the reasons that he was so feared, not as if we needed anything more to fear. Being almost unapproachably powerful, incredibly charismatic, completely methodical, relatively immortal, to say nothing of his encyclopaedic knowledge of the dark arts and his neigh messianic ability to coerce magical creatures was more than enough.

Fuck, I'm glad that bastard's dead.

"And now, Mr. Harry Potter will say some words before he's presented with his Order of Merlin."

I stood – really, really not wanting to do this. Of course, it could be worse. One of the benefits of the size of the Wizarding World, especially after three cataclysmic wars in one century, was that there only needed to be one of these award ceremonies. All of the important people who survived were here. In fact, from the size of the gathering up and down Hogsmeade, it looked like half of Wizarding Britain was here. Maybe it was only a fifth, but there certainly weren't less than fifteen hundred people here.

Shaking myself, I made my way up and grabbed Minister Edgecombe's hand. She was another waste of a politician. They should have elected Arthur. Even with only one arm and no legs, he would have been a better Minister than Edgecombe. Everyone seemed to forget that she was partly responsible for our delayed response to Voldemort. The remaining Order were also quite sure that she was responsible Charlie's loss. He disappeared trying to travel from Romania to the U.K., and it was her department that oversaw international travel.

Whether she was truly responsible or not, I don't think we'll ever know.

Still, shaking her hand made me feel slightly dirty. The rebellious teenager in me demanded that I haul Edgecombe and the whole Wizarding World onto the carpet for what they did. If I called them out, maybe they'd change, maybe they'd improve, and maybe there would be a world that would make me feel proud. The jaded warrior in me realised the truth: if I told them anything too unsettling, they'd brand me unhinged from my fighting, a wounded, noble knight who deserved respect but who could no longer be taken seriously, who had lost too many friends. Then they'd go back to their normal life.

Vox populi does not respect a hero's bled-for knowledge or his actual sacrifices, but damn do they love his mythical struggle with his mythical wisdom.

So I shook the creature's hand and stood before a sea of the grateful. Some say that underneath a cynic is a wounded idealist. I can't speak for anyone else, but I know that it's true for me. And so, unsurprisingly, as I looked out on the sea of faces, I was unexpectedly overcome with anger.

Yes, that's right, I was unsurprisingly unexpectedly overcome with anger – suck it up.

I still didn't believe that they'd listen to me if I replaced my speech with didactic syrup, but perhaps some well apportioned praise would come to the same purpose. Maybe some people would listen.

"Warlocks of the Wizarding World," I started. And here's an interesting linguistic factoid: the third person plural of a mix gender group of magic users is not "wizards ad witches," although that works, but "warlocks." 'Warlock,' singular, is rarely used, replaced usually by a gender neutral 'wizard,' but 'warlock' can be when discussing a magic user of unknown gender. That's why Dumbledore's old position was "Chief Warlock."

"Warlocks of the Wizarding World," I repeated, just so everyone knew we were on the same page. "We stand at the beginning of a new day. Voldemort is dead!" There was a cheer; and I thanked Dumbledore, and to a lesser extent Tracy Davis, for introducing enough verbal ostentatious into my diet to pull this crap off.

"And since we are now at peace," another cheer, "there is no need for fancy speeches." To say nothing, naturally, of the fact that the Minister just made a fancy speech. "For there is no longer a great struggle, our greatest struggle will be to rebuild. But as survivors, we have another burden." Pause, and I can feel what they're thinking: 'oh shit, what's he going to lay on us.'

Another interesting linguistic point: 'survivors' in French is 'Les Survivants,' or, more than one of me.

"We must remember those who have sacrificed their sweat, their tears, their bodies, and even their lives. It is these brave souls to whom I wish to dedicate my speech. But first, to all the fallen, to all those who fought, let us give a cheer." And how could they resist?

"To Albus Dumbledore – our only true protection for so long, whom some maligned when he told us what we didn't want to hear, what we so desperately needed to hear. I was with him at the end, when he stood upon the tallest tower in the Castle that had been his home for more than eighty years. Draco had been sent, under pain of death, to kill our dear Professor. And Professor Dumbledore talked him down, though he was weak and knew he would die anyways. He simply refused to let Draco stain his soul. And he was right that night."

Pause. And how they cheer for the lost wise man that they ridiculed during life.

"To Draco Malfoy," there, let them digest that, "one of the many who never had a real choice in life. His family was held at wand point. Still, when he could have killed Professor Dumbledore and wrest glory from his fellow Death Eaters, he refused. When he could have turned me over to Bellatrix Lestrange and thus lost us our war, he refused. When he could have prevented me from killing Voldemort, right at the end, he refused. Though he was held at wand point, he consistently did what was right, in his own way. There were thousands who did less than he, though he had more arrayed against him than all but the Aurors and the Order." There, let the inactive sheep suck on that.

Now, I won't tell the sheep this, but I hope that my pulling for Draco in this speech will open some doors for the poor boy. He's one of two alive whom I'm going to name, and for all his father's original wealth, Voldemort really did a good job of squandering it. Last I heard, the Malfoys had little more left than their mansion, which sounds sort of stupid when I say it that way. Nonetheless, it means that, to keep the mansion that their family has owned since the hunts of the 17th centuries, Draco is actually going to have to join the working masses, for which he is so completely unqualified.

"To Severus Snape," and now I've really confused them, "you may all remember him as… well… to be frank, as a complete and utter arse," a few chuckled at that, but most seem confused and upset. "And let me not mistake you, he actually was a complete and utter arse." There! – that's real laughter. I've relaxed them and haven't lost them yet. "Still, whatever his personal… difficulties may have been, he did more for our cause than anyone but Dumbledore or myself. From the very moment that Voldemort was reborn, after the Triwizard Tournament in my fourth year, he inserted himself among the Death Eaters. From within Voldemort's inner circle, he fought a vicious battle to keep our secrets. From within Voldemort's inner circle, surrounded by people who would kill him in the most painful ways had his true goals been discovered, he stole their secrets and saved hundreds of lives. He even was forced to kill Professor Dumbledore, a man who was like his father, to keep Draco safe, to insert himself further, and to save Dumbledore himself from a most painful, slow, gruesome death. Even at the end, when he was killed by Voldemort for no other reason than to wrest from Severus a secret Severus did not possess, Severus made sure that I would be informed of my destiny."

Some people clap. There are just enough applause for it to be only the Order and those in our extended family. They've heard this all before. I knew for about four weeks; I couldn't do anything but praise him since then. I feel really fucking weird about it too; as I said, he was a complete and utter arse.

"And let me indulge in my own reminiscence for a moment. To Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Ginny Weasley–" and I suddenly can't continue. I look over at Arthur; he's crying. For the sake of Merlin – Percy is crying. And damn, I never thought I'd see that. He didn't even cry when his mum died. He just nodded, eyes glistening, mouth twitching, and stood to secure our camp for the night.

With a shake of my head, I swallow, and try to continue. "Ron, Hermione, Ginny – thank you. Without you, more than anyone else, the war would have been lost. I would have been lost. You saved me more times than I can say." I sort of understood at this point that I wasn't talking to the crowd anymore, but it didn't matter. It's kind of like when you're drunk and talking to a bird, saying things you just know that you're going to regret the next day, but can't seem to do anything else. I had one of those days with Tonks once – told her … well, let's not go into what I told Remus's wife.

"You blokes were the best. And yes Hermione, bloke will have to do – suck it up." Distinctly I heard a couple of laughs, but I was so in my own head that they didn't even register until I was regretting this whole speech later. "Ginny, thanks for saving me from thinking Voldemort possessed me. You were a better friend than I deserved. Keep them laughing up there; you could always cheer me up. Ron, you never needed to be jealous of me. All I wanted was your family; it's funny, innit it? How you were jealous of my money and fame and I was jealous of your family – especially your mother. Still, you stuck by me when no one else would. Thanks for that. And Hermione… well, like always, you know what I want to say better than I ever could. Still, I guess you'd like to hear me say it. Isn't that what you always said? Maybe I'll just make it a gesture rather than an avalanche of words. Starting tomorrow, I'm giving two million galleons to SPEW … but I'm renaming it. Thanks."

There was a long pause now. I was too in my own head to really pay attention to anything that was happening. No one seemed to want to disturb me either. Their saviour had just spilled his guts in front of most of the Britain. That and he had just pledge two million galleons, more money than anyone else had in Britain anymore, almost as much money as the entire Black Fortune, on a cause about which only about six people in the crowd had ever heard. It was damn uncomfortable.

Eventually, Percy came up and shook me out of it. I thanked him with a shaky nod. I'd later be told that I was spacey for five minutes, which I took to mean just about a minute. People are so damn bad at keeping proper time.

"And finally, to Arthur Weasley, the steadiest, kindest, and one of the most capable men I've ever had the good fortune to know. He kept us informed when Fudge refused to accept that Voldemort had returned. He even was attacked for his trouble, poisoned by a giant snake. He helped Scrimgeour when he was minister, and was one of the few ministry employees to survive the Minister's assassination, fighting off three Death Eaters by himself. He then lost his legs and, far more tragically, his wife successfully protecting his children and Minster Abbot. Now, though he lost more than any man still living, he helps Minister Edgecombe and her ministry. He should be receiving this medal."

There is a pause and I could almost feel Minister Edgecombe's glare at my back.

"So, as I receive the Order of Merlin, First Class, let us stand a give a cheer for those who also deserve recognition. After me everyone," and everyone does stand. "Albus Dumbledore!" Either because of my oratory, or because of the man himself, there is a rather deafening cheer. Rita Skeeter – bite me.

"To Draco Malfoy!" The cheer is considerably lessened, but it's there.

"To Severus Snape!" Another cheer, even softer now. I think everyone's still confused as to why their cheering the two most responsible for Dumbledore's death right after they cheered for the man himself.

Then, without my voice breaking even, I say, "To Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Ginevra Weasley!" Ginny would kill me for the use of her full name, but Molly would be pleased and all the lads would be grinning like idiots. The cheer here, I'm glad to see, is deafening – even moreso than for Dumbledore.

"And finally, for Arthur Weasley – the finest man I know!" And the crowd is hysterical.

I'm happy to know that I can deliver a good speech. Still, I get out of there before Minister Edgecombe can corner me.

Less than a month later, I'm lying on the floor of a flat I think I own in Hogsmeade. I don't really know what's going on, but Percy is yelling at me about something. I can't really seem to figure out what it is. I assume it's my fault, since it usually is, but it's all so damn confusing. His bird's a looker, though, whoever she is. She looks familiar, but she doesn't look like Penelope. Of course, it's been several years since I've seen the enigmatic Ravenclaw, and I don't really know what became of her during the war.

I realise after – well, a while – of staring at the totty that I was making her uncomfortable. She'd been blushing for a while, but I hadn't figured out why. I tried zoning back into what Percy was saying.

"… distinguishing… hero of the… the dirtiest pub… and to think that Ron and Ginny… Hermione… my father would… but no… McGonagall wants to come here… bits from the tallest tower… Morgana's Tits, I tell you… and Dumbledore's portrait…"

I interrupt. "Huh?" Maybe not my most eloquent, but it'll have to do.

Except it doesn't. He's still going. "… Snape would have… sniffing potions… Teddy… and Winky are… but no… well fuck me… started on Draco…"

I try again. "Wha…?"

But he's worse than Hagrid when the Half-Giant saw a dangerous creature. "… the Burrow… Kretcher at Grimmauld…"

"Bu.. huh?"

"… Marauder spirit… started on Fred and George…"

Finally, I get some relief. The bird speaks up, "Percy, stop." Her tone is mild, yet it stops him in his tracks.

"What?" he asks her, completely flatfooted.

I zone out for a while after that, don't know how long. Then a potion is thrust into my hand. I almost drop it, but manage to keep hold of it – seeker skills to the rescue. I bow to the bird, almost falling over in the process, and I can't read her response.

There's a pause in which I'm staring at the two of them and they're staring right back at me.

"Well drink the potion Potter!" That's Percy. And Merlin he's a pain.

But I do anyways. The world instantly stops spinning. I double over and let loose the dogs of my stomach – all over the table in what I'm rapidly coming to understand is not my apartment but Aberforth's pub.

"Fuck me Perce. You could have warned a bloke. And where's the Ashwood and Viper Venom? You know that takes the bite out of a hangover."

His answer really demonstrates how pissed I was. It's simple and to the point: "I added them."

So we don't talk for a while after that. Percy's huffing away as if he ran a mile. I'm sitting – standing – here, trying to steady my stomach. The bird cleans my sick up. And I cast a room cleanser by habit. Then I realise that my habit was picked up from the amount of strongholds I raided, and the amount of people I killed, and I spew again.

This time I clean it up, and smile up at totty, saying, "Not that this is the best way to meet someone, but, hey, I'm Harry Potter."

The thought of introducing myself is kind of ridiculous. She seems to enjoy it, though. Or she thinks I'm an idiot. Either way, she snorts and says "I'm Melinda Bole."

I recognise the name. She was a Gryffindor prefect during my younger years. But Percy let's me know that I know her more recent work, "She was Terrance Higgs's girlfriend."

"Ah, Jill."

"No," Melinda puts in as if I'm deaf or dumb or both, "Melinda."

I get her confusion, but it doesn't make it any less amusing. "No… no, Jill is what we called you when we were around others." Then I realise exactly what she's done for us, and I actually hug her. She seems taken aback by this for some reason. "Thank you, thank you," I say.

See, Jill, or Melinda as her name apparently actually is, played a sycophantic girlfriend to the egotistical Terence Higgs. Higgs was the Seeker for Slytherin my first year. He was a jerk, but actually a better flyer than Draco. None of that matters, of course, it's just interesting background. At least to me it is. But I'm getting off topic.

Anyways – my point was that Higgs got beat out of his spot in his seventh year, after being on the team since his second year, because a pin-prick of a boy without much real talent bought his way onto the Slytherin team. He stewed his whole Seventh year, but ended up doing quite well on his NEWTs and going off to a luminous and boring career as a Ministry flunky.

He wasn't even a very successful Ministry flunky, and three years after he joined the Ministry, he had still yet to be promoted. Even Percy was promoted above him, which actually shouldn't have surprised anyone because Percy's scary smart. Regardless, when Voldemort returned, Lucius had the brilliant idea of using Draco's humiliation of Higgs combined with Percy's humiliation of Higgs, combined yet again with a promotion to get Higgs to join up.

As far as we could ever tell, Terence was actually the first new Death Eater. He was quickly installed into the Floo Department to watch, irony of ironies, the present Minister of Magic. Ms. Edgecombe was a loosely aligned pureblood whom Voldemort wanted to convert, and move slowly towards his side. He wanted control over the Floo for his final take over. Terence was one of the others who set up the nets that probably caught and killed Charlie. With some well-placed flattery by the newest Death Eater, along with some crushing financial defeats by other Death Eaters posing as 'mudbloods,' Voldemort was able to control Ms. Edgecombe almost entirely by the end of the year.

It would have worked perfectly but for two things. First, when Voldemort was outed at the end of my Fifth year, Ms. Edgecombe fell in line with the new minster, and quit all of her pureblood clubs, trying to distance herself from Voldemort's cause as quickly as possible. Even more importantly, though, was that Terence Higgs had gotten himself a girlfriend – Melinda.

The first night she slept at his place, she awoke in the middle of the night to hear him at the Floo. From snippets of conversation, combined with things her younger brother Ernst had been saying, and she was able to figure out that Higgs was in bed with – poor choice of words, now that I've thought it over – Death Eaters. She was friends with Percy, as they had been Prefects together, and came to him with her concerns. Though Percy had yet to reconcile with his family, he still set her up in a meeting with Bill.

From there, she was unofficially named 'Jill,' and took on the role of spymaster extraordinaire. Or is that spy-mistress extraordinaire. Either way, for over two years, we knew almost everything that Higgs knew, thanks to her. We were able to support Snape's credibility as a spy thanks to her. We were even able to stop a massacre in Galway because of her. Sans Snape, she was our most valuable spy.

So, I guess that leads me to hugging her and chanting "thank you" into her, admittedly rather nice, hair. She pats me on the back awkwardly, and I feel as if I've overstayed my welcome. Still, I can't bring it in myself to stop.

Eventually, Percy jolts me. Better yet, he explains why he interrupted a perfectly good drunken night. "Harry – stop! I swear, Melinda, he's not usually like this. What the daemon is wrong with you mate?"

I disentangle myself from Jill – Melinda – and look at them. Jill is bright red. Percy's wide eyed and seems fairly nervous.

"What'd you interrupt me for then?"

"McGonagall and Dumbledore's portrait want you. Also, my dad wants you to stop sulking."

"I'm not sulking!"

"You were drunk and it's not even – zeit– three in the afternoon yet."

"I'm not usually drunk this early."

"From what Abe tells me, you were like this since last night."

"It's also not comforting that you had to qualify that with "this early," that was Melinda. And, sadly, she has a good point.

"Still's not usual."

"Drunk often or not, you're still sulking."

"Am not"

"Are too"

"Am not"

"Are—"

"—Oh will you lads just stop it!" She's kinda cute when she's angry.

"You're kinda cute when you're angry." And I can't believe that that just came out of my mouth. She goes bright red again, even cuter.

Percy then tries to get control of the situation. "Okay… whatever. Melinda and I are here to escort you to the Headmistress's office."

I remember asking her if she had some polyjuice when he says "mistress" and I start to giggle. Maybe I have lost it a little. Percy surely seems to think so if the boogie-eyed stare is anything to go by. Melinda's still bright red. Damn it's easy to make her go red. I'm sort of amazed that she made such a good spy if she's so easy to read.

"Okay, the cat lady wants me? Why?"

"Would you stop calling her that!" Percy, normally so calm, soft, and reserved, really shows that he's a Weasley when he gets annoyed. Melinda just seems flabbergasted at my disrespect.

Percy's a good bloke, but, even after fighting a war, he's still a stickler for respect. Though, I guess he's not quite so intense about the rules now. Still, it's fun to take the mickey out of him. "What? Would you prefer I called her 'the old pussy'?"

Given the disgust on his face, I'm guessing the answer is no.

Then we hear laughter. We both turn towards Melinda, and she's holding her stomach and pretty soon she's gasping for breath. I guess she got over her awe at my audacity rather quickly.

"I like her."

"Shut up Harry."

"Yes sir!"

"What did I just say?"

"Shut up Percy."

"See, even the totty agrees." Pause with some female laughter and two rising blushes. "Did I – really – just fucking say that out loud?"

"McGonagall's Office. Now."

And so we went. The walk was fairly easy going. We didn't talk much, though I kept catching Melinda giving me the eye. She either wanted to kill me enthusiastically, or shag me violently. The problem was that I couldn't figure out which one it was. I figured about just asking her, but, given the day, I thought I'd leave it alone for a while. Soon enough, we found ourselves before the gargoyle.

Percy says, "Reconstruction," and we enter.

I miss Dumbledore's passwords. If nothing else, they made you hungry. McGonagall's version of the office was different too. Whereas Dumbledore had splashes of colour everywhere and thousands of shiny whirling instruments, McGonagall had several pictures, and then simply walls of bookcases. It was very dull. She did, however, still have the pictures of Headmasters past. And lemon drops. She still had lemon drops.

Dumbledore's portrait hung off towards McGonagall's left, and so he and his omni-twinkle-ness was the first thing we saw.

"Harry my dear boy!" That got McGonagall's attention. And Aberforth's too, it seemed.

"Hey Professor."

"Albus dear boy, Albus. After all, I can't be your Professor if I'm dead."

"Have you told that to Professor Binns?"

He – or, more accurately, it – laughed good naturedly. "I, uh, guess not, no. Bobby does seem to have an insistent need to hold on."

"Bobby? His name is Bobby Binns?"

"Well, his name isn't Robert, but, as young men, we took to calling each other Robert, and it just sort of spiralled from there."

"Wait... you just took to calling each other Robert?" The portrait nodded. "Whatever for?"

"Well, you see—"

A throat clearing interrupted us. McGonagall smiled slightly, as if in apology, and we got onto more important things – like the actual point of the meeting. That is, after Percy and Melanie left. They were simply an escort apparently.

"So, Albus has something he'd like to share with you Harry."

I raise my eyes and he smiles benignly within his frame. I really have to remind myself that it's an 'it.' But the likeness, physically and personally, is astonishing. I finger his old wand, feeling its warmth. It's slightly comforting, and I can almost feel his magic surround me. He seems to know what I'm doing, as his smile slips slightly. I mean, it seems to know what I'm doing – damn.

When the painting spoke, it – finally – didn't have even a trace of sadness in his – damnit – voice. "We spoke once about retreating in time to rescue me from death, do you remember?"

"Yeah, it was in October that first year, after the first couple of missions, after we lost Bill and Mad-Eye. I didn't know how I was going to win."

"Ah yes, do you remember why we couldn't do it?"

"There were hundreds of reasons we couldn't do it."

"Specific reasons yes, but what about the general reasons."

"Paradoxes – no one knows what we do if you fuck with paradoxes." McGonagall barely let out a low growl, which really, really sounded like a cat by the way, at my curse. During the war, she went on a surprising number of raids with us, and so she'd sort of become inoculated to the cursing. I keep telling her to blame the Weasley boys, but she seems to have a problem with blaming dead people.

"And when you asked me what would happen, what did I say?"

"Um..." I actually had to think about this one. It was so long ago and I threw the idea away, so, well, I guess what I'm trying to say is there isn't that much room up in my head and I need all the space I can get. "You said that I could destroy the fabric of space-time as we knew it, thus killing everyone everywhere for all time," that one stuck, mostly because it sounded so bloody cool. "You also said that a paradox might be impossible, and so I could be stuck reliving what at that time was the worst five months of my life. You also suggested that, when I came to a paradox, I would randomly be sucked back into the past, and have to re-do the whole thing over again until I could finagle it such that there would be no paradoxes. You said I might be thrust into an alternate universe, and so all the people I knew at home would be lost and gone and the world into which I travelled could be anything from a utopia to a place like now where everyone's dead, yet I'd still have to kill Voldemort. You even said that I could be thrust into a world where I was the right hand of Voldemort, which would be horrid in so many ways I can't begin to innumerate."

"And, you're missing one very important one. The one you're missing is so like you too."

"Huh? Oh! Everything could be fine and we could have won the war without any of the casualties."

"Precisely. Now, the real question is, if you had to face Voldemort right now, could you kill him again."

"Right this second?"

"Let's say we give it a day or two."

I look down at myself, not really liking where this whole conversation was going. Over the course of the war, I developed a keen sense at determining when I was about to be polled in the ass. I was getting that feeling now. It seemed in the month since Voldemort's defeat, I'd gained a few pounds, and I could almost feel how lazy my magic had become.

"Um... give me a week, maybe two, and it's a sure thing." As much as this stuff is ever a sure thing anyways. "Send me now, and I could drive him back if we weren't in a pitched fight, but I most likely wouldn't kill him and he could quite possibly kill me."

"Good. Good. I think we found a way to stop the second war entirely."

"What!" Yeah, wasn't expecting that. I was expecting to have to be dragged back to before the final fight, maybe save a few more lives while my other self was killing Voldemort or something.

But Dumbledore wasn't done yet. "And, perhaps, save your parents lives as well."

I collapsed. It wasn't dignified really, but I bet anyone else in those circumstances would do the same thing. Seriously – 100 galleons? No? Fine!

"But... what about space time continuum stuff..."

"This is a different sort of time travel, similar to a time turner. After all, you didn't think we'd give Ms. Granger anything too dangerous as a third year, did you?" That was McGonagall.

"But doesn't that only send you back so far? Something like no more than a full day, right?"

"Correct," Dumbledore – the living one, "but this would not be a time turner, just similar in how it works. This would send you back in time in your current body. You would arrive in the past, completely decoupled from your original continuum, and live as if you were a natural player in the new continuum."

That didn't quite make sense at first, but after a while, I seemed to get it, "So... wait... if you're sending me back to 1981 or somewhere similar, then what you're saying is that I arrive in time to save myself from being marked and my parents from death, kill Voldemort, and then, during the years from that time until forever, I live like normal, as if I had been born in" – I did the math quickly – "1963."

"More or less," said the dead Dumbledore. "Of course, you'd still have to kill Voldemort, destroy his horcruxes, and then make a life for yourself. You wouldn't have Ron, Ginny, or Hermione except as, eventually, much younger versions of people who would only look similarly, without the same experiences. But, you wouldn't ever have to worry about paradoxes arising from meeting your past self. Most importantly, you'd have your parents, and, if I may be so bold, you'd have Minerva and me."

I swished this around in my mind for a while. It sounded far too good to be true. Seriously, leaving this whole shit-world behind. Don't get me wrong, having Voldemort dead is nice, but there's nothing for me to do now. The ministry can't stand me. They feel as if every time I step anywhere near them, I detract from their legitimacy; in their defence, I they're probably right. McGonagall won't hire me, saying that, even with all my experience, I was too young. I needed a mastery before she'd accept me, apparently. That didn't seem to have stopped Lockhart or Moony, but I guess (read: know) that the old cat is a little more prickly about the rules than Dumbledore was.

I even thought that I'd be a shoe-in for a Quidditch team. I'm, if I must say, rather fucking fantastic, and my name brings with it its own sort of magic. Yet, even with that I'm out of luck. Apparently, when you become too magical, no one wants you. It's like how Dumbledore found himself, after a while, on the outskirts of Ministry politics. Unless a group absolutely needed him, no one wanted to touch him. They feared that it would raise the ire of all the other groups. They didn't want to be overpowered later. The Quidditch teams seemed to think similarly. I was told quite plainly that they'd love to see me play for England, but no national team would take me.

Well fuck that. A walk back through history sounded like just the thing to get my blood flowing. Yet, right as I opened my mouth to agree, I realised that my feeling of being polled was increasing.

So, instead of accepting, I asked, "wait, what's the catch? How can I travel back there now when I couldn't travel back before?"

Dumbledore, the dead one, smiled, as if I had gotten a question right in his class. McGonagall scowled, as if worried. Dumbledore, the live one, just looked bored. I wondered what he was doing here. He'd been a fairly good spy during the war, but not very cooperative beyond simply passing snippets of information over.

The portrait spoke, "Well, this method functions under the alternative universe theory and is absolutely safe, we're sure of that."

"How are you sure?"

"It's the only one that's been used."

"By whom?"

"Merlin of course!"

"Right... of course." There's a pause as I realise that he didn't really answer my question. Then I realise that he did; like usual, though, he wanted me to discover it for myself. "Okay, so you didn't tell me this before because, if I'd taken it, you'd be left here to fight Voldemort by yourself and end up being fucked anyways." I didn't say it with any malice, but McGonagall still looked like I'd knifed her kidney or strangled her kitten or something.

That's a thought on which you never really want to dwell. What would happen if McGonagall, when in cat form, got impregnated by a male cat? It's the stuff of nightmares, I tell you. But it's still interesting. Similarly, if I took polyjuice to become a woman and got impregnated, and I kept taking polyjuice for nine months, making sure I took it every hour, could I deliver a baby? Finally, what happens to the baby if I change back after only five months, or could I not get pregnant to begin with?

These unsolved problems bother me. Ginny always hated when I asked those questions.

"Right." It was alive Dumbledore, and he brought me back to reality, though I was confused at first. I had forgotten what we were talking about.

Soon enough, I was back on track. "Okay, any other little snags or set-backs?"

Now all three looked uncomfortable. Ah, here comes the poll up the ass. "Well..." trailed off dead Dumbledore. I absent-mindedly wondered what he was worried about. It wasn't like I could kill him again. "There are only a couple of times back to which they can actually send you. You could to arrive ten minutes before you become a horcrux."

"Okay. That doesn't sound so bad. Why are you looking as if someone die... oh." See, I was an accidental horcrux, which meant that Voldemort didn't need to spend the half hour preparing the place. And, my father and mother both died before me. If they delayed him too long, if my mum delayed him too long, or if Voldemort waited after killing my parents to gloat, to talk to any of his followers, to set up another ritual, to savour the experience, or if any 1001 things that could have happened actually did happen, then I could arrive and my father and or my mother could already be dead. "Well... fuck."

"There is another option—"

"—No Abe!"

"Wait," I said to the two Dumbledores, "what other option?"

"It's too risky." That's McGonagall, but the portrait is nodding along.

"For you or me?"

"You," said the live Dumbledore.

"Then I should make that determination." I gave the painting my stare of death. The painting was sometimes far too lifelike.

With a grave and put upon sigh, the painting said, "Well, they could also send you back ten minutes before you were born, which, while not the most pleasant place to find yourself suddenly or for your parents to find you suddenly, does not carry the risk that your parents would be dead already. The danger is that you're... well..."

"Rather unique," put in the other Dumbledore.

"You can't be "'rather' unique" said two irate warlocks and one irate painting simultaneously. "'Unique' is an absolute," finished Harry.

Aberforth just brushed it off. Albus's portrait continued, "Given your unique magical experience, we're not sure what could happen. The magic would send you back to a beacon, where your magical signature exists, which is why we'd do this in Godric's Hollow. But we don't know where Voldemort was on the night of your birth. If he happens to be in Albania—"

"—which isn't out of the realm of possibility," supplied McGonagall.

"Then, given that you had his magical signature on you for so long, you could wind up being pulled both towards Voldemort's current location and your own almost born location."

"Lots of guts and ... well, just guts." Aberforth peddled the idea like I would have peddled it to Ron – with jokes and subtle insults to my courage. It made me smile. I wondered if he was a pyromaniac, or just a sadist.

"But if he's in England?"

"You should be fine, no matter where he is in England."

"Then I'll do that one Albus." I was slightly shocked that I took him up on the offer to call him Albus, but calling them both Dumbledore was getting bloody confusing.

"Harry..."

"No – if I'm going to go back to save my parents, I might as well, you know, actually save my parents. We can't be sure about that in the other one. We can be sure about that here."

"So long as he's in England," said McGonagall with heavy scepticism.

"So long as he's in England," I agreed. After a moment, I realised another thing. "It also means we can do this right now. If I'm sent back to my birth, then I will have over a year to train. I don't need to worry about it right now." Well, if that wasn't just a fucked up sentence, I don't know what would be.

McGonagall seemed deeply uncomfortable with the idea. Her frown was pronounced, almost exaggeratedly so. Albus just looked sad. Aberforth, I couldn't read.

McGonagall spoke up, "Harry, think this through. Do you really want to jump back into war so fast?"

Her tone was pleading, and I found myself surprised by how powerful the appeal was. I guess it hadn't really occurred to me that what I'd just agreed to was essentially starting the whole war over again.

"I..." I didn't know how to respond, actually. "I... well... everyone's dead. You're alive. Fleur's alive. Percy's alive. But, well," I just shrugged, throwing my hands up at the same time. I had a sad, defeated smile on my face.

I think she got it, for her eyes softened. "But after so many years, you're free."

Freedom – what I always wished for during the war. I wished that I'd have the freedom to pursue my dreams. I wished I have freedom to enjoy the simple pleasures of a warm, sunny day, without the fear of hovering horror or of my responsibility to Britain. I wished for a freedom of soul. I wished for happiness.

It was only in my deepest bits of despair, when I huddled close to whomever I was going with that week, when I ever asked myself whether those dreams actually existed, whether they were actually possible, and if anyone ever really had those pleasures.

So I turned to look at the painting. "When you and Grindelwald had your summer of scheming," his lip twitched at my phrasing, "did you feel free?"

"At moments." My glare answered his pathetic attempt. So he continued, "But no, we felt trapped. Part of the reason that we dreamt so much was that, despite floo and apparition and portkey, well, portkey hadn't been invented yet, so, despite floo and apparition, we felt as if the world was slowly passing us by."

"In other words, you felt as if you were missing something." The portrait nodded sadly. I turned to McGonagall. "I don't know if my parents are that thing. I don't know if I'll ever find it, even when I have them. But I'm pretty sure that I'll never find it here, not with everyone dead. Not with... well, everyone, everything..." I trailed off. They understood.

So that was the end of the debate.

"It won't be quite as simply as leaving right now, though," said Aberforth.

I was about to ask why, but McGonagall spoke up, "we want to send you as close to your past self as can be. It will help the transition. We also need to set up a ritual circle."

"So, Godric's Hallow in ... how long will you need?"

"Tomorrow, noon. Get to the house and we'll be there."

I nod and turn to leave. I can feel their sad gazes on my back. As I open the door, I realise with a start how silent the other portraits of Headmasters past have been. Even Phineas hasn't said anything, though he's watching the last black walk from history. I don't know exactly what the conversation must have been like to ensure their silence, but I can't imagine it was anything less than brutal.

"And Professors, Abe – thanks."

With that, I leave. I still have some preparations to make.

And part of my plans, she waits at the bottom of the stairs. "Hey Perce, Ms. Totty... I mean Melina."

She smiles this time, without blushing much. "Hello yourself Mr. Hero. Did they assign you any damsels for the saving? Any dragons for the slaying?"

"I don't slay dragons, just out-fly them. And, though there are no damsels in distress, quite, there is a damsel who took time out of her day to escort me to the castle, and I think I should repay that, don't you?"

"Hey – what about me?"

"Shush, Perce, I'm working. So, what do you think?"

Now she's blushing again. "Being repaid by the saviour of the world... I'll have to think about that." We both laugh.

Percy just rolls his eyes. "It seems you're unharmed. I'll return to the office. Melinda," she nods her head, but doesn't take her eyes away from me, "I'll tell them that you're taking the rest of the day off." He leaves with a sad, inevitable laugh.

"So," she says, "what do you have in mind?"

"Well..." I let myself appear to be thinking, "I need to go to Diagon Alley to pick up some stuff anyways. If you would do the honour of accompanying me, I'm sure we can find a nice restaurant to visit."

"What do you have to do?"

"I'll show you."

"And so then, what do I do. We've learnt only one spell, but even that doesn't pop into my head. Nope – I jump on the back of the bloody thing, my nose goes right up its wand... I mean, wand up nose."

We're both laughing uproariously. Part of it's the wine, sure, but most of it is the tales. Tales of danger, daring, and certain death are, when told in the right tone of voice, bloody hilarious.

"What did you do then?"

"Well... there wasn't much I could do, was there? I'm an eleven year old rail thin little tyke hanging onto the back of a bloody mountain troll for dear life. I mean, I now realise that the thing was just a runt – only eight foot tall. But put that in front of most adult warlocks and see how well they do!"

I give her a saucy little wink, and take another sip of my wine. "Nah – it was Ron, the little blighter. Percy's brother, he up and uses the only real spell we'd learnt so far. Wingardium Leviosa, he says, completely ignoring the fact that just that morning he got the spell wrong and that's why Hermione's in the bloody toilet in the first place. Nope, he up and uses the spell. And guess what? It works! The bloody thing – the club – lifts into the air. Well, he's so shocked, he releases the spell immediately, and down it goes. Boom! Right on the troll's head it lands. The troll's knocked out, just like that." I snap my fingers.

And we're both laughing away. Getting the stuff I needed at Diagon Ally was easy. The fact that Melinda got to see just how rich Harry James Potter was didn't hurt the night I had planned either. We wondered around the Ally for a while, and she continued to pester me about what I was doing. I got out of it by half truths and some misdirection. I'm pretty sure she now thinks I'm taking a vacation, planning to buy a rather large tropical island, or hoping to invade a small country in the Balkans.

Then I took her to Ferran's, a nice little Spanish place off Diagon Alley. The owner moved here just after the first Blood War ended, and I saved him during an attack on Diagon Alley shortly after the second one began. Free food, free wine, and pretty much any table I want – forever and whenever. It's rather nice. Melinda enjoyed it too.

Two bottles of wine down, and we flooed back to my manor. Kretcher kept it clean, which is good, 'cause I've kinda been a slob for the past month. We sat down in the lounge I made out of Sirius's old bedroom. I thought he'd appreciate the number of women I attempted to seduce in the room. I imagine he'd also find it fairly amusing how seldom I succeeded.

This one seems to be working though.

As if she was reading his mind, Melinda asked, "So, Mr. Potter, does this night live up to your expectations?"

"I'll tell you in the morning."

She laughs – still surprised by my audacity. Snape ended up being right; I am an arrogant little prick. I hope the old prick would find it funny that it's the only way I could get my Occlumency to work. Sadly, I don't actually think he'd appreciate the irony.

"So sure of yourself, aren't you Mr. Saviour-of-Britain? Well, let me tell you, stories of your eleven year old self sticking your wand up a troll's nose aren't the way into a girl's heart."

"Where would you prefer I stick my wand?"

"Harry!" She's laughing again.

"I don't think I could stick my wand into myself. Not without the help of a healer or three, at least."

"Stop, stop stop!" The next day I'll realise that I'm not really as funny as I now think I am, but it still feels pretty great now.

About eight hours later my wand shoots out an annoying whine, kind of like a tea kettle boiling. I turn over and hit it, a result of being raised by muggles. Hitting the wand doesn't actually do anything usually. This time, though, it makes the whole situation worse. My wand falls to the ground.

Luckily, I'm no normal wizard. I yell out "Finite Incantatem!" The buzzing stops immediately. Sometimes, it's good to be me.

Turning over, I look into the bleary eyes of Melinda. She groans. I chuckle a little.

"What time is it?" Her voice is raspy. I can tell we'll both have hangovers today.

"Kretcher!" I say instead. He pops into existence, and I tell him, without turning around, "please make us some breakfast and bring it to the lounge." Then I answer Melinda's question, "I have no idea."

"Huh?" I don't think she remembers asking the question.

"I don't know what time it is."

"Just use your wand." She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"It's on the floor."

"Huh? How'd you make it stop then?"

"I'm Harry Potter."

"I know you're Harry Potter. You're the most famous wizard in the world, and I did just slept with you. How does that have anything to do with – Oh."

"Yup."

I smile, even through the hangover. She doesn't seem to have quite the fortitude that I do. Her glare is the only response I get. Then she closes her eyes, and buries her face under her pillow.

The thought of going back to sleep is fairly appealing, but, I have a date with destiny soon. I had set my wand to wake me up after eight hours. Problem was, I have no idea at what time I set it. With a whispered, "accio," I have the wand in my hand. With a silent zeit, I discover it's just after half ten. I have less than ninety minutes.

"Bugger me."

"I already did that," comes the muffled and sleepy reply.

"Very well too, I might add." I pause to see if she's going to continue the witty banter. She isn't. "But no, that's not what I was talking about. I have a meeting with McGonagall in just over an hour."

"Oh bugger me."

"I already did that."

"Shut up."

Yeah – definitely not good with the hangover. With a mighty stretch, I pop a couple of the bones in my back. I am so out of shape; it's pathetic. Being only half-awake, I mutter that aloud.

"It didn't seem to slow you down last night." Melinda has freed her head from the pillows, and is now blearily looking up at me from the bed.

I just sort of smile at her. It's probably not a very good smile. My brain really isn't up to this. She shoots back a coy smile, which makes me hope that my smile isn't as deformed as I feel it probably is. Then her smile turns mischievous. With unbelievably strong arms, I am pulled atop her.

Well, the day could start worse.

"Harry, you're late!"

I've popped into existence outside the memorial for my parents; then I made my way through the illusion. There was a long hallway, mostly burnt out at this point. At the end of the hallway sits a broad, sunlit kitchen. That's where the ritual will be performed. The nursery was right above the kitchen, so it was pretty much left unmolested.

It's almost half twelve. Melinda and I finished a little too quickly for my tastes, or my pride, but I couldn't quite leave without a shower. The thought of facing my parents smelling of sex, even if those parents would be only four years older than me, was far from palatable.

Speaking of palatable, I also had to eat breakfast. It turned out I was rather famished.

"Yeah... yeah... sorry. Complication."

"Since when did Miss Bole become a complication?" Aberforth really is a mean old man. I glare at him and get a wink for my trouble.

"Mr. Potter!"

I just wave McGonagall off before she can even start to think to plan to build up a full head of steam. "Professor – you're a doll, but I really, really don't want to have this conversation right now."

"I won't get another chance at it!"

"If I promised you that I'd tell your doppelganger and allow her to yell at me, would you let me go without making my ears bleed?"

She studies me for a while, probably trying to figure out if I'm serious. The depressing thing is that, if she agrees, I will end up informing her past counterpart. I'm not very good at not fulfilling promises. After staring at me a while, she nods. I let out a deep sigh. After a pause, she adds, "Plus, she won't understand the extenuating circumstances like I do and is likely to be far less lenient than I am."

"Fuck me."

"Quite."

There is a chuckle from the wall. I jump and my first impulse is still to go for my wand. Luckily, even Aberforth isn't going to begrudge me those reflexes. The chuckle dies too.

"Sorry dear boy. I thought you knew I'd be here." It's Professor Dumbledore's portrait.

"How would I know?"

"Well, you knew that I grew up here, did you not?"

"Of course I knew you grew up here. This's where you..." I shot a glance at Aberforth. I could tell, even at this distance, that his eyes were glazed with the pain of his sister's loss. "Um..." I shot a look at McGonagall. She seemed unsure; whether that stemmed from ignorance or indecision, I didn't know. "Anyways... wait. Do you mean that you grew up here, as in Godric's Hollow, or here, as in here, here – in this house?"

"Here here, as you so eloquently put it, as in this house. I lent this house to your parents, and then committed it to posterity when you defeated Tom the first time."

"Ah" The thought that Albus owned the house is actually fairly comforting. It means that he gave away a piece of his own property, not mine, when he dedicated the house to posterity.

A deep pause then stretches during which I look at McGonagall and Albus. They had been so helpful, and so infuriating, over the last seven, almost eight, years. After what feels like forever, I nod to them. "Thank you."

McGonagall is teary-eyed. And she actually hugs me again. She just walks right up to me and wraps me in a hug. I give it back to her threefold. We stand there long enough that, had Ron and Ginny still been around, I'd be fairly embarrassed. I think Hermione'd understand though.

When we break apart, I look towards Dumbledore's portrait. "I'm ready sir."

His response is to nod and then to look at me. Portraits can't cry, and a crying Dumbledore would be even odder than a crying McGonagall, I think, but I can tell by the waver in his smile that this is hard for him too.

"Step into that circle Harry."

The circle is made of what appears to be pulverised rubies, with some gold dust, and several other substances added. The magical property of substances, outside of potions of course, is not a field with which many are comfortable. I'm certainly not. Albus's portrait and Filius were training Hermione when she died, and I still remember her marvelling about the power of emeralds. Anyways, long story short, this looks really powerful.

And it is. I step over the threshold and it's as if I'm in the middle of a supercharged ward. No one has even cast a bloody thing yet, and I still feel somewhat intoxicated by the circle's power. This journey is going to be weird.

I almost regret it too. I can feel a grip of fear in me, a small little thrill that tells me I should stay here. I should go out and find myself a good bird. Maybe eight good birds – I'm the Man-who-Conquered, I could get away with unapologetic polygamy. I could live the rest of my life in a pleasure garden. I could probably even elect myself Minister of Magic and do nothing with the title. Or I could do anything I wanted – pass all those social programs Hermione wanted.

But by the time I look up to those who are here to spirit me towards my past, I know that I'm not going to back down. I'm not made for sitting by the side lines. Maybe one day another Dark Lord would arise here and I might be called again, but that would be years, probably decades of lethargy. I can't do that.

And as for being a politician – well, Albus might have made his inter-war years wrestling with politicians and getting Hogwarts ordered. I wouldn't have the patience for the former and McGonagall won't let me do the latter.

Voldemort was rather right in the end; he and I were quite a lot alike. Tom Riddle had the skills to become the most charismatic and persuasive politician we'd seen for hundreds of years, perhaps ever. Yet he couldn't do it; he couldn't take the time; he was too impatient with other people, too resistant to having to slowly convince people of his point. He wanted action. So, he delved into the depths of magic instead and became the most fearsome dark lord in hundreds of years, perhaps ever.

I too am too impatient for politics, though I have a similar ability to become the most persuasive politician of the past several hundred years. Yet, I thrive too much on battle and conflict, though luckily was spared the blood lust that drove Riddle mad. And now I stand in a circle that would thrust me into the past so I can fight all over again the war I'd just won. Well, here goes nothing.

"Harry." I looked up into the painting of Albus. "When you get there, if you can't convince your parents or you can't convince me, remember the phrase 'wer ist der Dieb, unbemerkt tötet, wenn Sie fliehen aus seinem Stream.' It'll tell me that you know of my search with Gellert for immortality."

"Um... sir, I haven't learnt German yet. I don't know what that means, and I don't think that I'll remember it."

The painting seemed to think, "then try the French: Qui est le voleur qui tue indétectable, sauf si vous fuir son flux."

I sound its meaning out in my head. "Who is the thief who kills undetectably unless if you flee him flow?" Okay, I'm confused.

Dumbledore seems somewhat pained. "Literal... too literal. I would translate it thusly: 'Who is the thief who undetectably kills unless you flee from his river.' The answer is 'time' or, as I'm sure you know 'le temp'"

"Um... okay. And that's going to tell the past you what exactly?"

"That I had confided in you."

"You make things too complicated. Why can't I just tell you what I know about Grindelwald?"

"Oh... um... how curious. I would never have thought of that." There is a pause in which I shake my head in equal parts disgust and amusement. "My way is much more specific and will ensure I know that you've either talked to Gellert or myself."

With a snort, I let just the amusement play out across my voice as I say, "Okay. Thanks Professor."

"One more thing dear boy."

Oh by Merlin's soggy nuts, what now? "Yes Professor?"

"Remember that you are stuck there. So find a good woman, enjoy your time with your parents, go back and finish your schooling, and go find a career, or a project, you love."

My smile is genuine now. "Sounds great Professor, but are you sure I need only one woman?"

"Mr. Potter!" But the chuckles of the Dumbledores drown out McGonagall's anger.

I give McGonagall a lopsided grin, and she huffs. It's a little terrifying that I can see Hermione in most of her actions. I wonder how much time they truly spent together while I was at Quidditch or in detention or if they're distantly related. "Okay, let's get this thing done with."

I am told to stand facing north. McGonagall stands to the northwest, while Aberforth takes up the southeast. I'm not sure why the locations matter; I'd never learnt that much about ritual magic, but Albus is directing them with uncharacteristic seriousness. I just stand there staring at McGonagall and Albus, wondering if, meeting them for the first time as an adult, I could actually build a relationship based on equal trust and if we could work together as equals to kill Voldemort. For, even after all this time, I still felt fairly thrust to the side during the war. It was only when they needed me, or only when I forced the issue, that they took me on as an equal partner, and even then, with great reluctance.

In complete fairness, Albus never allowed me full access until he was nothing more than a canvas and oil, and McGonagall relented much easier than I anticipated.

"Tempus capiam eum." McGonagall and Aberforth started chanting. The circle glows an angry green. "Tempus gubernet eum." I started translating the spell in my head: 'time take him; time guide him.' "Tempus movere eum. Concitaverunt eum sua nativitate." 'Time move him. Move him to his birth.' "Moventes inde retinebit, et celeritate" 'move him there and keep him there.' "et magicarum sanguis erat."

"What!" I yelled, but it's too late. Just as they command their magic and blood to speed me on my way, they slice their hands open over the circle and both let out a scream. McGonagall simply staggers, righting herself quickly, but I can hear Aberforth's body fall to the ground.

"Sorry my boy." My head, which had been turning to look at Aberforth's body, swivelled back to Albus with a glare. "I knew you wouldn't take the chance if you knew the danger." Albus's portrait started to curve into an odd angle, as if the left side was melting while the right was stretching upwards and downwards. "They chose it; they wanted you to have a full, joyous, and unencumbered life." Now the portrait was twisting, as if it was slowly being flushed down a muggle toilet. "Don't let them down. Live my boy – live! And don't be too hard on my past self. He will know nothing of this or any other crimes against you."

Before I can reply, or even think of reply, there is nothing but darkness.

There was no sensation of fall, no sensation of a tug behind the navel, no sensation of squeezing through a straw, no sensation of moving in any direction. There was simply darkness. Yet, no sooner had I noticed that only darkness existed, then I started to feel cold – deathly cold. It was worse than the ten minutes I stood out by the lake before the start of the second task, when it was the middle of February, and all I had on was some overlarge muggle bathing shorts.

Then the vertigo hit. I would have thrown up if I still had control of my body. Instead, I just floated in petrifying cold, in inky blackness, without being able to move or feel my body, but feeling completely overwrought with nausea. And then the electricity started. When I was seven, my cousin Dudley once convinced me to stick a paperclip into an electrical socket. He then made sure I couldn't withdraw the paperclip. Looking back on it, I'm not sure I'd have survived if I'd been a muggle. And that's, more or less, how I felt right now.

Then I started to spin. Luckily, the nausea disappeared right when the spinning started. The cold too was slowly dissipating. I still couldn't feel my body – no feet, no hands, no throat. But I was spinning, so that must mean that my body, at least, was intact. I think.

Suddenly, it was light, I had stopped spinning, it was no longer freezing cold, and I could feel the claws of gravity digging into me.

With an almighty crash, I collapsed onto something. With a snap, whatever it was on which I landed broke. I heard a deep voice I recognised yell "by Merlin!" And then my head slammed into something fuzzy.

"Eh..." I groaned. Turning my head to the side, I emptied the contents of my stomach onto whatever I was besides. With unfocused eyes, I searched around me for something that would make whatever just happened make sense.

What greeted me was completely unexpected. There was a man of about forty, with a shock of close cropped auburn hair who had a full and equally auburn beard. He was staring down at me, standing before a tipped over chair. I appeared to be in the same kitchen as before, on a recently broken table. The man's face was a mask of equal parts shock, confusion, and fear. He pointed a long, thin wand of what looked like Vinewood at my face, and he was panting somewhat.

"Who the fuck are you?" I gasped. Probably not my most diplomatic of greetings, but I felt like crap. Apparently, travelling through time is not easy on the body.

The man either didn't notice the offense of my question, or found the whole situation so ludicrous, that he answered almost immediately. "Albus Brian Dumbledore," said the forty year old, "at your service."

"Oh you have got to be fucking me!"