Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything that you recognize, only my OCs.

A/N: Welcome, and I hope you will enjoy this story. I'm not a native English speaker, so if you see any strange formulations, feel free to send me a message and I'll correct it.

Prologue, or how it all began

Many may argue, that this story really began in 1993 or 1994, but I assure you that they are incorrect. It is true that many, if not even a vast majority of the most important twists and turns happened during those two years, but one day in 1945 and another day in 1946 two things happened, without which the uproar of the mid-nineties would not come to pass. Everything begins with a young man named Tom Marvolo Riddle – but I believe it would be better to show you rather than simply tell you.

End of June 1945

Tom Riddle watched his classmates melancholically reminisce about last seven years and he had to keep himself from rolling his eyes. Yes, there were some good times, such as the search, finding and opening of the Chamber of secrets and studying of ancient spells and rituals (some of which were far behind the line between neutral and malicious), but there was also much annoyance and things which had often made him angry.

His train of thought was interrupted when somebody touched his shoulder. He turned and saw one of his former classmates, a Ravenclaw named Andrew Wood. Tom had absolutely no inclination to chat and he made it perfectly clear by his behaviour.

"Yes?" he asked Wood curtly.

The Ravenclaw, who was about to start an eager talk about a planned celebration of a successful graduation without the danger of Dumbledore or professor Merrythought interrupting it and spoiling the fun began much less surely:

"Well, there is a party planned-"here he was interrupted.

"And everyone who comes will get nauseous from food and drink and they will all end up rolling in their vomit, including you. Thanks for the invitation," Tom sneered.

Wood sneered back, turned on his heel and returned to his large group of friends where he recounted what happened in great detail. Tom saw two of them, in particular a Hufflepuff named Alastor Moody and a former Gryffindor prefect Minerva McGonnagal make remarks which looked suspiciously like "I told you so" and "What else did you expect?"

He quietly growled. There were many times he wanted to curse them and also many times when he truly did it. Moody was a perpetual annoyance with his tendency to watch Tom's every move and badgering others to do the same. McGonnagal was just as bad when it came to the "guard duty" and worse, she was always trying to acquaint muggleborn and muggle-raised half-bloods with liberal purebloods and wizard-raised half-bloods, or convince those more conservative to "live and let live".

Tom gave his former classmates a baleful glare and apparated to Knockturn alley where he had arranged to rent a room. He had also planned a celebration of his own, much better than the one his classmates planned. He was finally free of the watchful eyes of the teachers at school and of Mrs. Cole at the orphanage. That fact would surely be better celebrated in private with Livia Rosier, one of his housemate's sister, who was just two years older than him. They were introduced the Yule before last, when the Rosiers invited Tom to stay for the holiday. They both showed the world a façade of a very proper, well behaved individual, but in reality they were anything but. Livia always played a shy, submissive girl, but in reality… well, in reality she was not above making him a proposition and he was not above accepting it. After he did so, he had ample opportunity to see that she was not scared of any perversity he came up with.

Ending his musings, Tom checked the time and looked out of the dusty window. Yes, there she was, out to "look for new robes". He smiled with anticipation. A few moments later she was knocking on his door and entering the room. They did not waste time. When their meeting came to an end, Tom was pleasantly fatigued and content, even more than was usual after a meeting with her, but Livia left the room nervous and perhaps even scared and never returned.

March 1946, somewhere in London

It was nearing midnight and nobody had heard or seen as a middle aged woman appeared in a park in an upper middle class neighbourhood. She carried a swaddled bundle in her arms and immediately started looking around for any curious eyes. Finding none, she exited the park and headed straight for one of the houses. She placed the bundle, which was now beginning to wiggle, on the doorstep and rang the doorbell. Then she disillusioned herself and waited.

After just a few moments there could be seen light turned on and a figure approached the front door, looking strangely deformed by the decorative glass. When the door finally opened, a man in his mid-thirties came out. He was very shocked when he saw what was left at his doorstep and angry at whoever left the child there, but he took the little one inside and closed the door on the chilly night. He thanked God that he and his wife already had a child of their own and therefore knew well what to do with the baby. He was going to wake up his wife and discuss finding the child (which he later found out was a boy) a home.

Outside in the street Mrs. Rosier nodded to herself. Giving her daughter's bastard child to the muggles was the best thing to do. It was true that when he re-entered the wizarding world in eleven years, somebody could notice a resemblance to Livia, but she would sort that out when it happened. For now, she had ensured a long time of peace for her family.

In the end, Mrs. Rosier didn't have to worry. Mr. McAdams, the man who found the baby on the doorstep, and later agreed with his wife that they would adopt it, got an offer from the company he was employed in to work for its American branch, which he accepted. Patrick McAdams, Livia's child eventually did come to Britain, but by that time the last member of the Rosier family, Mrs. Rosiers' grandson Evan, had been dead and buried for twelve years.

Chapter 1

Summer of 1993, Alastor Moody's home

Alastor Moody was deep in thought. The reason for his brooding was a roll of parchment which he got from Nymphadora Tonks, an Auror trainee. Apparently, when she heard him complaining for the umpteenth time about Crouch Sr. getting scolded for allowing lethal spells during his time as the Head of the DMLE, the "no lethal spells policy" and other problems and restrictions the Aurors and even whole DMLE struggled with, and how in his youth the minister and the Wizengamot trusted the Aurors to use their brain and the trainees truly had brain, she got curious and managed to find out where the aggravating policy came from and also what were the trainees taught fifty years ago. She ranted and raved, and it was her rant that started his current train of thought…

They were sitting in the Ministry cafeteria, a privacy bubble around them.

"I can't believe it. Scratch that, I can. Of course it were Cygnus Black and Abraxas Malfoy who came with it. What a way to make sure that their school friends and later dear Uncle Lucy and Auntie Bella and perhaps Auntie Cissy would get away from any sticky situation.

That spell is not necessary, this one has too bloody results, blah blah blah. What are we going to use on the criminals five years from now, tickling jinx and leg locker curse? And don't get me started on the Wizengamot. I'm not surprised that Parkinson, Nott and their friends supported it, but why the hell didn't Dumbledore and company try harder to convince Greengrass and the other fence-sitters to support their side? Do they want criminals strutting around as if they owned the world? As for the fence-sitters, when their kids start to behave like idiots, do they make sure that the Aurors won't get them when they grow up instead of punishing them for the idiocy?"

Here Tonks stopped ranting, let out a frustrated sigh and continued in a normal tone: "Well, here is the list of the restrictions. There are also some "interesting" rules and laws mentioned. Funny that they started to appear mid-sixties, continued through the seventies, then became less frequent after 1981, but never really stopped." Tonks' words practically dripped sarcasm.

Moody thought for a moment and then answered: "I'm not surprised that Malfoy, Black and their cronies would press for those rules to be issued or that they were passed. When somebody finally noticed what they were trying to do, things were in hell for a long time. Any strong protest and you were as good as dead."

Tonks frowned. "I can't believe that somebody like Augusta Longbottom, Crouch or Dumbledore didn't notice in time and still don't see it. None of them is stupid or blind."

As he sat in his study and swirled around some firewhiskey in a glass, Moody thought that Tonks had a good point. He went to school with Augusta Longbottom and some other members of the light and neutral factions of the Wizengamot, and many of them had a good head on their shoulders. Yet, the light side almost lost the war and they were saved by what was in his opinion a stroke of luck. He started to reminisce about the time and about actions of the people involved. The conclusion he came up with gave him a very unpleasant feeling.

Summer of 1993, Azkaban prison

After twelve years, the mind of one Sirius Black was finally clear again. Before, he had been struggling to stay sane and desperately tried to fend off the thoughts and memories the dementors' presence caused to appear. Now, there was something he had to do and he had to do it right. Peter, the traitor, was dangerously near Harry. Also, if there was some truth in Bella's ravings, Malfoy, Avery and some others walked away free after the end of the war. Sirius just couldn't see Lucius Malfoy sitting at home poring over bank statements in the morning, flying over the countryside in the afternoon and enjoying sex, firewhiskey and classical music in the evening. He would bet a week's worth of the grey sludge he had to eat that the former Death Eaters were not idle and if there was an opportunity for some mischief, they would gladly take it.

Sirius was getting more and more determined to get out of Azkaban. One thing that had kept him sane over the years, the knowledge that he was innocent, was joined by other thoughts. A dangerous man was near Harry. Other dangerous men were walking free in the world, his godson was bound to meet them some time and nobody had prepared him for such meetings. Sirius had to get out and soon.

Sometime later a dementor guard arrived with another bowl of sludge. By then, Sirius had already changed into his dog form and waited for the door to open. A key rattled in the lock. Then the door slowly opened. First, there could be seen a narrow crack which slowly grew wider and wider. When it got wide enough, he slipped through ran as fast as he could. He sprinted away from the high security area, through the lower security areas, through the gate, down a slope and into the cold sea which surrounded the island. The water was chilly and the weather was getting windy, but he paid it no mind. He had to get away from this place. And get away he did.

Summer of 1993, Little Whinging, Surrey

Harry Potter sighed as he finally got a chance to lay down after a day filled with chores. The Dursleys still clearly remembered the incident with Dobby and the Masons and Harry's escape, and apparently they wanted to get back at him for it. Every day he got a long list of chores and if he didn't finish them by the time Vernon came home in the evening, he was denied a part of his dinner. He could manage without the food, but it was much worse when they did not give him water. He didn't have many opportunities to drink during the day and if he didn't get any water in the evening, his head ached and he felt awful overall. He wanted to get away from Privet drive, but the Weasleys were in Egypt and Hermione was in France with her parents, so he had nowhere to go.

The cat flap in his door opened and Petunia's hand put in a glass of water and a plate with some lukewarm leftovers. After last summer Harry was permanently banned from the dining table.

He took the food and quickly ate it before it got completely cold and put the empty dishes back near the cat flap. After the long and tiring day filled with chores he had no inclination to do homework or do any thinking at all. He only wanted to get some sleep, so he marked another day on his makeshift calendar and fell asleep.

Summer of 1993, Hogwarts

Minerva McGonnagal had to keep herself from skipping as she walked to the owlery. The document she had to send was one she never expected to deal with. It was an advertisement for the Daily Prophet and the international History Monthly offering the position of a History teacher.

She still had to laugh when she remembered the row between Cuthbert Binns and Batsheba Babbling which ended with the Ancient runes professor firing the spell which finally exorcised the annoying ghost. Afterwards, Albus tried to give Batsheba a look of disappointment, but it didn't work on her. She insisted that Binns had not been a teacher, only a constant annoyance. In this she was supported by almost all of her colleagues.

As soon as Minerva entered the owlery, an eagle owl flew down from the rafters and stuck out its leg. The Transfiguration teacher tied her two letters to it and sent the owl on its way. On her way back to her quarters she met Severus Snape.

"Sending out advertisements for a new History teacher" he asked.

When she nodded in answer, he continued: "Binns should have been gone a hundred years ago. He always managed to make the students even stupider than they really are. In the Potions classes which directly followed History there were much more accidents than in the others."

"I can believe that," replied Minerva. "Pomona and Silvanus (A/N: Kettleburn, CoMC professor before Hagrid) had similar problems."

"Let us hope then that we won't get another Lockhart or Binns. By the way, did Albus find another idiot to teach defence yet?"

Minerva shot her younger colleague a reproachful look. "Yes, Severus, Albus did find a new defence teacher. He said we should both remember him. According to Albus, he is your former classmate and my former student."

"Well, that is not very comforting. The students in my year group were mostly average, totally dunderheaded, or if they actually could do a spell properly, they were arrogant idiots."

The transfiguration teacher frowned. "Isn't that a little harsh? I would say that your year group was definitely above average and there were several very bright students."

"You think that, Minerva, if it gives you comfort," growled Snape. "Have a nice day." After this he sped up his steps and walked away, with his black cloak billowing behind him.

Minerva sighed. She also hoped that the new additions to the staff would be intelligent and capable, but now she was also reminded that there was one other thing she should pray for and it was the ability of the new teachers to hold their own in a verbal battle with Severus, or, in the words of one of her Gryffindors, their ability to show that they wouldn't put up with his crap.

Summer of 1993, Office of the USA ICW representative, Washington, USA

Newly elected ICW representative for USA Patrick McAdams sat in his office during the lunch break and discussed British wizards with his daughter Irene and his friend Charles Brown, head of Potions Department at American Magical University.

"So, Charles, how was your time in Britain?" Patrick asked his old friend.

"I'd like to say I have thoroughly enjoyed myself, but that wouldn't be true," sighed Brown.

"What has spoiled your trip?" asked Irene.

"Some of the people Horace introduced and also the attitudes and airs of many British wizards. For example, when I mentioned that my team and I are trying to find use for some muggle analytical and preparative methods in potion making, one Mr. Damocles Belby looked at me as if I have gone mad, he hardly ever spoke to me afterwards, and when he did, he treated me as if I was mentally retarded. Horace was a bit better, he remained a gracious host, but he wouldn't hear about the research. It is best to stay with old reliable methods, my foot. He was not interested in something which could make his work easier and even save him money," ranted Professor Brown.

"Were you trying to talk to him about the various extractions you were testing?" inquired Patrick.

"Yes. I should have saved my breath though," grumbled the potions master. "Oh, and before I forget it, he was going on and on about somebody named Severus who would perhaps give my articles a look when he has nothing to do!"

Brown's last sentence was accompanied by a disgusted huff. Both McAdamses were slightly amused when they heard the rant, but they were also understanding, because their own work was sometimes mocked or thought unimportant. As a history teacher Irene had encountered questions like 'I'm going to be a Charms master, so what use do I have for History?' and Patrick, before he earned a reputation of someone who you should listen to and take seriously, encountered his own share of Belbys.

"So if I understand you correctly, uncle, British wizards are extremely conservative and arrogant?" asked Irene.

"I would hope that not all of them are like that, but when it comes to the old families, they each have at least one person who is backward in their way of thinking."

"And what about my future boss, Dumbledore? I know that he has three important positions in Britain and according to dad's predecessor he likes to use emotional blackmail to get things to be how he wants them. What do they say about him in his homeland?"

The potions master smiled and answered: "Well, there are basically three different opinions on Dumbledore. The Light side thinks he can do no wrong, the Dark side looks down on him because they think he is, what did they call him? Ah, a muggle-loving fool, and the neutrals believe that he hands out sweets instead of solutions."

There was a quiet moment when both Patrick and his daughter thought about Charles' words. Then the elder McAdams spoke.

"The Light side thinks he can do no wrong? I think he is bound to make a mistake. A headmaster, the Chief Warlock of the British Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the ICW? I think that is too much for one person to handle well. Of course, it is possible that one of the positions is really handled by some poor deputy who doesn't even get the credit for it."

Irene frowned at this and in dejected tone said: "I really should have taken the position at Salem Institute."

"You should," retorted Charles. "Oh, and Irene?"

"Yes?"

"Buy a boxing bag and gloves. You have inherited your father's temper and many of the magical Brits are exactly the kind of people who can easily set it off."