A.N. Whatever the reason, I may not be able to complete it -and my ff-writing trend says I won't-; don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Ch. 1

This was the first day Harry had 'come back' from a future that had no need for a Harry Potter. He had done his duty to the letter and was duly cast aside. His wife had cheated on him when he was away fighting a prolonged, low intensity war; his children were afraid of him because of whom he had to become; his friends refused to talk with him as the little common ground they had left was reduced to subjects related to the war as it progressed in this future. Something was wrong in this future; so, he had decided to fix it all; friendship, familial bonds, relationship, all of it.

Not right away, though. Something had awakened him from his feather-light slumber-- out of necessity than a conscious choice previously. He grasped the handle of his trusty wand that was habitually sheathed between the mattress and the right-side rail just in his reach and held it to his side as he rose from the bed as silently as possible. He checked the street from the barred window first-- it was empty save for a stray dog from the size of the figure stalking in Mr. and Mrs. #7's garden. Then he walked over to the door. Wand still ready at the side to be sprung into action, he opened the door silently, not neglecting to listen through it first. The narrow corridor that connected the bedrooms and the bathroom was devoit of any life. He ignored the shiver his bare feet and chest meeting the early hours' harsh cold sent through his skinny body and moved on to the next door, which was suspiciously ajar. He looked for any movement from the slight opening-- there was none. Then he strained his ears to hear anything out of the ordinary-- only the expected soft snoring from Dudley.

Harry skipped the bathroom in favor of checking out the master bedroom as the latter was a more likely target for a malevolent deed.

Through the door, Harry could hear his uncle's heavy snores and his aunt's light sniffs. He opened the door silently. Vernon and Petunia were fast asleep and nobody else was in the room. He heard a gurgling sound from his uncle as he was inspecting the vanity mirror and he turned back to the bed. Uncle Vernor's sloom was interrupted by his need to breathe, it seemed. As Vernon's unfocused eyes fell on him by the door, he made a universal gesture of silence by laying his forefinger across his lips and then held his hand to Vernon to stop any movement from the man which might alert anybody in the house. Harry backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Harry took a deep breath to calm the nerves that had arisen because of the yet unfruitful search and began his descend from the staircase to the main floor of the house. It didn't take any more than searching the upper floor and proved just as unfruitful. He checked the front and back doors; both were locked. Windows were tightly shut and bolted as he had left them. There was nothing in sight when he looked out -even the stray dog had left #7s' garden. He tried to decide if anything was out of the ordinary from what he could tell out of the memory he had before going to bed. Nothing looked disturbed. He re-checked all the locks and bolts. With an uneasy mind and heart did Harry return to his room-- sleep was a long way off.

Harry fished out an old but clean sock and set on cleaning and polishing the wand that had served him well countless times, saved his ass more times than he could count. Once, twice, three times over he cleaned and polished, yet he wasn't ready to sleep just yet. Something was disturbing his sleep. Had it been two days before, he could have sworn that it was a Death Eater just outside, plotting an ambush, but they weren't even active yet. They would stay dormant for another year even if everything should play out the same way they had previously-- that wasn't even a probability let alone one that deserved consideration. Maybe his arrival had set into motion things that sped up the process? Or was it another kind of Dark activity?

His dark brooding was halted with the door opening cautiously. Vernon walked in, with his double-barrel shotgun -repaired or replaced after the encounter with Hagrid- in hand. "Anything abnormal, boy?" he asked in an odd voice.

Harry shook his head, not moving his eyes from his wand.

Vernon nodded his head in acceptance and left without saying anything else, but Harry couldn't find the strength in himself to ponder on this 'abnormal' behaviour; it was almost dawn and sleep was a ship at the horizon, passing him by.

---

Harry was in a damn foul mood, understandably. Even the menial job of cooking the breakfast -which he could probably do even in his sleep- was frustrating him in its banality. He was yet to conceive a course of action other than the vague 'don't let the future happen again.' Oh, he had learned of a lot that he could have done better throughout the course of his life: like how to protect himself better against a basilisk -which was not necessary at this point in time,- or how to aim at a fleeing rat, conversely, but winning against Lord Voldemort would require a much more intricate plan than doing the best he could, crossing his fingers and praying for the best. He had won, there was no mistake about that part, but it was a win for the sake of winning; no price had remained for him to take afterwards other than a mockery of a life.

The sizzling of the meat jolted him into reality of his situation; he was supposed to be cooking the breakfast and it would simply not do to burn them in the process. He served the dishes promptly as the wait would get unbearable for the two third of the male population in the house, and consequently, the remaining one third.

"Well, enjoy your breakfast." Harry said and sat down to drink his tea from a very big, un-British-like cup as much time efficiently as possible while trying not to seem rude-- just like how he liked to refuel himself for the day, but something, namely the constant 'mom, there's no salt in it,' or 'dad, can I get this, and this, and this,' or 'hey, pass the syrup,' whining coming from directly across him in a manner that was quite irritating. He made very quick work of the cup in his hand just to have a reason to pull his wand to summon the pot to himself and effectively shut the boy up but then remembered the underage magic monitors that would put him in quite a position. At least -one saving grace- he had a reason to leave: replenishing his cup.

Harry had had enough of the high pitched, screeching, whiny voice by the time he was back at the table, and he hit the table with his open palms to create as much noise as possible and pushed his chair with the back of his thighs. He was leaning over the table towards his cousin, though his stature was not near impressive enough to intimidate anyone. The murderous glint in his eyes must have been noticed by his cousin, nevertheless, because the next moment, Dudley recoiled back in his seat. "Eat your breakfast!" Harry hissed in the same high pitched tone as his cousin, -a child's tone of voice,- and made a hasty retreat -with his cup in his hands- to his room before punishment was dished out for his audacity.

The next minute found Harry fuming in his room, nursing yet another bruise from a fall; he was still getting used to these shorter limbs. His wand had been polished to the point that if it were flat, he could have used it as a mirror. There was nothing to do but to ponder on why a whiny little boy had aggravated him so. His own children used to be able to rouse that emotion readily but he felt no familial connection with Dudley.

Silence is bliss indeed; that there was no whiny brats in his hearing range was all he could've hoped for right at this moment. But every good thing had to come to an end. So with a feeling of dread did he finish his second cup of tea and after claiming whatever Wizarding currency he had left from the previous year, along with his Gringott's key, descend the stairs. He threw a hasty fare-thee-well for the benefit of whoever was listening and cared and escaped the building.

First order of business after his hasty escape was to find a secluded road and call for the Knight Bus; it would simply not do to just disappear into thin air tracable only by the ministry's devices as barely a flash of magic. Nobody probably would notice as there would almost always be one flash such as that at any given time -appearing and disappearing too fast to notice,- but if his disappearance were to be noticed, some difficult questions were bound to arise-- questions he would be hard put to answer such as 'where in the hell have you learned how to apparate?'

A phanthom spike ran through his head in this empty street he had chosen to call for the bus, and with the spike came revelations about his predicament just as he raised his wand. He had not been transported into the past and conveniently de-aged; no, the spell he had cast was far from it, he remembered, even though he had no memory of any forgotten or not-remembered memories previous to that moment. He had transported his memories in time, somehow, and implanted them into this body, conveniently doing something about any previous memory this body might have had in order for them not to interfere with his line of thinking. And he had a plan... Even though he had no idea on how to implement it in his current state and the general lack of opportunities that was the fate of the youth. The feeling of the phanthom spike increased as the remaining holes in his memory were filled in completely-- or was it 'completely?' He had not any notion of those holes being there in the first place. He rubbed his nose which had began to tickle and saw the blood on the backside of his hand. The sudden blast that announced the Knight Bus' arrival was the proverbial last drop; first a dizziness hit him heavily, then his consciousness faded to a comforting black in which there was no pain, phanthom or otherwise.

---

Harry woke up to the smell of cleaning material -magical cleaning material, to be exact. He felt far too groggy to make out if he was at Saint Mungo's or Hogwarts. He opened his eyes to a darkened room then sat up on the bed and leaned his back on the headboard. The drapes were closed keep the moonlight out though some soft, white light filtered in to illuminate the presumably soft, white beards of Professor Dumbledore who was peacefully slooming in an armchair by his side.

This was the part he was dreading most, probably: to see his 'had been dead more than two decades' mentor alive. What could he say to the man that would not bring forth the disappointed look to which an angry, even furious one would be preferable? He had selfishly sent his memories back in time to wipe his younger self's memories just to... what, exactly?

While Harry was raking his brains to find a plausible excuse, Dumbledore stirred and opened his eyes. A gnarled hand righted the half-moon spectacles that had been hanging from a crooked nose precariously. "It's most pleasant to see you unharmed, my boy! You've given us quite the scare!" Dumbledore exclaimed with an indulgent smile. He had a warm radience that made Harry smile in spite of the situation. "I have to ask, though: what were you doing outside?"

Harry's insides squirmed with guilt; he had never got over the feeling that Dumbledore's suggestions were to be followed to the letter no matter what. "I- Sirius Black- I wanted to be ready, professor-- if our paths ever crossed." Double meaning... Good...

"Not by forcing your paths to cross, I hope?" Dumbledore admonished Harry lightly.

"No! I just-- It's not like that..." Harry couldn't explain that he was planning to go behind Dumbledore's back to get a few vital supplies. He felt like a schoolboy waiting for the verdict after being caught doing something childish and mischevious.

"Harry," Dumbledore began, "I'll give you a secret. Even though my position as the Headmaster of Hogwarts requires impartiality, I care about you on a personal level. Let me assure you, nothing you might say or do would be judged from a Headmaster's point of view."

Harry, staring at the white material of the covers, confessed to his plan, "I wanted to get a wand that I could use outside of Hogwarts... Maybe buy a few artifacts..." He could feel the blood rushing up to his head, turning his cheeks crimson in contrast to his fair skin.

Dumbledore turned to look out the window that was still covered by the two-piece curtain. "Ah! The temptation of the forbidden... although I imagine your reasons were of a more serious variety." He sighed deeply. "I've come across a quaint volume of Muggle literature -you wouldn't believe how imaginative they are- and I wish to quote a passage to you:" Here he turned back at Harry and looked somberly into his eyes, as if trying to convey a deeper meaning with his mere gaze, "ask and ye shall receive," and he produced a wand from the folds of his robes, within the blink of an eye, and held it out to Harry handle first. "One word of advise, though: be very careful with how you use this wand; it's said to be a powerful artifact."

Harry grasped the Elder Wand reverently-- the instrument of Death hidden under the guise of simplicity.

"Now that I've killed the two birds you were after with one stone, so to speak, -crushed any chance my lions might have had as it is- and presented you with them, I should allow your relatives some time with you; they've been most distressed since they heard of the incident."

Harry was bewildered by the ridiculous statement that was conveyed in a 'matter of fact' tone but didn't voice his poisition in order not to get caught in the act. "S-sure, professor." He said, then he asked as an afterthought, "When am I going to see you again?"

"Whenever you wish, my boy!" exclaimed Dumbledore joyfully, "After all, I'm but an owl away..." His eyes had an inner brilliance that rivalled any before it. Dumbledore left it at that and walked out of the room -a room at Saint Mungo's, now that Harry took a better look around,- as regal as ever.