Chapter 1

The alarm clock woke me, like it did every morning, at exactly 6:24. Don't ask me why, I had simply never bothered to reset it – it came with the house I was living in.

Automatically, I hit the snooze button. When, ten minutes later, the alarm clock began to ring again, I sighed and dragged myself out of bed. Looking out the window, I could see the entire village: the church, the school, the grocery store and the bowling alley.

I stretched a little before I grimaced and turned around to walk down the stairs. Like every morning, I took the butter out of the fridge, placed the kettle on the stove and popped two slices of toast into the toaster.

Pulling my bathrobe tighter around myself, I went to the front door and opened it. I saw a young boy biking up the small road, "Hey, Mr. J." he waved at me and threw the newspaper directly into my hands.

I grumbled a little and turned around, closing the door behind myself. Carelessly throwing the newspaper on the kitchen table, I walked upstairs to take a quick shower and brush my teeth. I walked down the stairs and entered the kitchen just as the kettle began to whistle.

Quickly, I poured myself some tea and buttered my toast before sitting down at the table.

I picked up the Newspaper, like every morning, and leafed through it. It had been years since my friends had last encoded a message in the advertisements.

Like every morning, I sat at the table until well after I had finished drinking my tea and eating my toast. At exactly 7:32 – the time when the clock in the living room chimed – I went into the neighboring room which functioned as the library.

Officially, it was the public library, but no one ever came. The villagers had other worries and did not spend much time reading. The only person who came by sometimes was the pastor.

And thus I spent all day long sitting in my chair, waiting for customers that would never come. This was my life.

I had left London a week after magic had ceased to exist and had began to wander around, working odd jobs here and there. Until it had become too cold to do so as winter approached. As fate would have it, I was stranded in this little village whose librarian was an old man looking for a younger replacement.

He had stayed with me for about a year before he gave me his house and the library and left. And thus I had taken over his life.

With my thirty-odd years, I felt like an old man. I didn't even recognize myself when I looked into the mirror. My eyes were dull and I had already gained a few white hairs along with a pretty respectable beard. After all, it wouldn't do to have anyone recognize me.

In that spirit, I had changed my name to Phillip Jameson and socialized as little as possible. Instead, I spent my mornings in the library and my afternoons in the attic, looking through the things I had rescued from the collapsing building and working out. After all, I had to stay in shape in case it was ever needed.

I had had a few months' time to decide what I should take along, and still I regretted my choices. Most of the things I had taken had been destroyed as magic had failed or didn't work anymore. My wand, for example, was now a completely useless stick which I stored in a box in the attic and took out every once in a while to polish.

I knew that there was no point to it, not really, but still I held on to that tiny bit of hope that one day, maybe, I could go back.

At two, like every day, the streets got louder as the children came home from the school. I glanced outside and sighed a little as I got up from my chair. I had long ago stopped listening for the chime of the old librarian's cuckoo-clock (which rang at 2:04) to indicate that my day was over. Instead, I left the library as soon as I could hear the children approaching.

That day, however, just as I was putting the book I had been reading back into its shelf, the door chimed.

You have to understand that this is not only an unusual occurrence – it is a highly unusual occurrence. I turned around, a little startled, and saw a young woman standing in the door, smiling a little awkwardly.

"Can't you read?" I asked, rather abruptly, "We're closed."

"I'm sorry," the woman said, pulling a loose curl behind her ear, "I'm actually looking for you."

"For me?" I asked, pulling up an eyebrow, "Why on earth would you be looking for me?"

"You're a hard man to find, Mr. Potter," she said, smiling a little, "Can we discuss this over a cup of tea?"

"I'm sorry," I shook my head, "You have me confused with someone else. My name is Phil Jameson."

"Of course," the woman nodded, "Can I come in?"

"No," I shook my head, "What is it that you want to talk to me about?"

"I was sent to you by a Mister Dursely," the woman offered, smiling a little.

"I'm sorry," I shrugged a little, "I don't know a Mister Dursely," I said, before closing the door in her face. She stood there for a moment before shrugging and turning around leaving.

As she walked away, I took a deep breath. How had she found me? And, more importantly, why?

I took a second deep breath and walked into the kitchen where I opened my cupboard and took out a bottle and a glass. Pouring myself some Firewhiskey I sighed sadly, knowing that I would have to leave. Even if this woman did not mean me any harm, I would have to leave. I took out my phone and was about to dial the Newspaper's number to encode a secret message for the others when, suddenly, the door bell rang again.

I picked up my glass and walked over to the door, opening it carefully.

"Hello, again," the woman said, smiling brightly, "Would you care to join me for an early dinner?"

"It's not even three yet," I replied, a little astonished.

"Indeed," the woman replied, nodding, "That is true. Still, I need to talk to you."

"Listen," I said, suddenly, "I don't know who you are or why you have come but I'm not Harry Potter."

"I never mentioned that I was looking for Harry Potter."

"Damn," I cursed, quietly. I had become careless. During the war, this could have meant my death – as a matter of fact, it could still mean my death.

"So you admit to being Harry Potter?" the woman asked.

"Let's put it this way," I sighed a little, "I used to be Harry Potter. Now, what does Dudley want?"

"I don't rightly know," the woman admitted, "I was given a letter."

"A letter?" I asked, confused.

"Yes," the woman nodded, "A letter. Now, where did I put it?"

She looked through countless pockets until she pulled out a crumpled letter. "How long have you been looking for me?" I asked.

"As I said – you're a hard man to find." She smiled a little.

I took the letter and tore it open.

"Dear Harry," the letter began, and I wondered what was wrong, since Dudley had never been this civil to me.

"First off, I would like to apologize for the way I acted all these years ago. I don't think I ever really understood what you were going through. But I do know that you didn't deserve the way I treated you.

I have a favor to ask of you, Harry. It's my daughter, Celia. She is, well, like you."

I put down the letter, staring at it incredulously. This was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. We had destroyed magic – Dudley's daughter could never be magical. This had to be a trap.

"I can't raise her – I simply can't. I love her, don't doubt that but I simply can't have her here. Mom died last year and my dad, well, you know how he is. And then there's her little brother whom we have to think about.

I don't want her to have to live like you did. I don't want to put her through that, but I know that being different will do that to her.

Please, Harry, think about it. I will, of course, pay for her upbringing. I don't know anything about your situation but if it is possible, please, please take care of her.

Thank you, Dudley Dursley."

I stared at the woman before me wondering whether this was the truth. "Tell me," I said, suddenly, "How is Dudley?"

"I don't know," the woman shrugged, "It's been years since I saw him. As I said, I spent quite a while looking for you."

"Very well. Tell Dudley that I will be in London on Monday. Tell him that I'll meet him at the train station. And if you tell anyone else…"

"Don't worry," the woman smiled crookedly, "I'm not telling anyone else. I was hired to find you, give you the letter and take your response back to Mister Dursley - and that is exactly what I will do."

"Very well," I nodded, "And if this is a trap I will come back and haunt you."

"Oh, Mister Potter," the woman laughed silently, "We both know that that is not possible anymore."

"I'll make it possible," I said, "As you know, I have made quite a few things possible."

"True," the woman shrugged a little, "But back then you were young and you had help – you weren't a shell of your former self, you hadn't given up."

I smiled grimly, nodding at her. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Mister Potter," the woman smiled a little.

"I never did catch your name," I said, suddenly.

"No," she shook her head, "No, you didn't. I'm Karen Lovegood."

"Lovegood?" I asked, smiling a little, "Well, it's no wonder you found me."

"No?" the woman asked, confused.

"Well, with your mother being who she is…" I trailed off, before shaking my head, "Well, tell her that I saw a knargle the other day."

"Knargle?" the woman pulled up an eyebrow, "My mother sounds more and more crazy the more I learn about her, even before she actually went crazy."

"What happened to her?"

"Losing magic, it, well, it did things to her."

I nodded, sadly, before putting the letter into my pocket. "Well, tell her about the knargles anyway."

"Will do," the woman nodded before turning around and leaving. I sighed and hoped that she would keep her word and not tell anyone about finding me.

The following Monday I made my way to London. As soon as I got onto the train station, I could see Dudley standing in the middle of the station, a young girl by his side.

He looked around nervously and approached the place where the barrier between platform 9 and 10 had once led to platform 9 ¾.

I approached him and smiled a little, "Hello, Dudley. Long time no see."

Dudley whirled around, "Don't do that," he said, "I nearly had a heart attack."

"I'm sorry," I replied, "So, this is Celia?" I asked, turning to face the little girl.

"Yes," Dudley nodded, "She's…" he looked around and lowered his voice before speaking, "like you."

"No, she's not." I shook my head, "Dudley, magic doesn't exist anymore."

"What do you mean?" he asked, astonished.

"Exactly what I said," I replied, "Magic doesn't exist. I destroyed it."

"Well, you didn't do a very good job of it. I know the signs, Harry, I saw them on you. She is definitely magic."

"She can't be."

"Thank you," the girl said, smiling at me, "See, dad, I told you that you were going crazy. Magic doesn't exist. You said so yourself."

"She is magic," Dudley insisted, "Listen, Harry, I know that we were never very close but you know as well as I do that I wouldn't make this up. She makes things float. She changes the color of her t-shirts...granted, she doesn't seem as powerful as you were but I know magic when I see it."

"When was the last time you actually saw her do anything unusual?"

"Five years ago," Dudley replied, "But she's going to turn fifteen soon, and, well, I thought you might take her in for the holidays while she's at…your school," Dudley had lowered his voice again and was looking around nervously, "I wonder why she didn't get the letter when she turned eleven…" he said, suddenly.

"Dudley, the letter won't come." I said, "You don't have to worry about that. Nothing out of the ordinary will happen."

"But it's dangerous." Dudley argued back, whispering fervently, "An untrained witch, you know how disastrous that could prove to be."

"How do you know about that?" I asked, confused.

"When she first did magic I read a couple of the books that you had left behind. I…I brought them along," he pointed at the old suitcase that still had my initials engraved on them. It was my old Hogwarts trunk. I smiled a little, astonished that it still existed.

"Okay," I sighed a little, "Celia, tell me, how did you do it?"

"I…I guess I just wanted it." The girl said, looking at me in a suspicious manner.

"Okay," I smiled a little, opening my trunk carefully and pulling out a feather, "The most important thing in your life, right now, is to make this feather float."

"Why?" she asked, confused. Or, maybe, not confused but rather defiant.

"Because, if you don't, I'm going to kill your father," I said, pulling out a knife. Ever since the war I had never been unarmed.

"What?" Dudley exclaimed.

"Well, if she can't levitate the damn feather then she is no witch. And if she is no witch, then this whole thing is a trap."

"A trap?" Dudley asked, "Why would I do that?"

"You tell me, Dudley," I shrugged a little, "Why would you?"

"I would not risk my daughter's life."

"But you would give her away to save your own?" I asked, pulling up an eyebrow, "You're despicable."

I applied a bit more pressure to Dudley's neck and was now even drawing a bit of blood when, suddenly, the feather began to float.

I gasped audibly and let the knife fall to the floor where it clanked loudly against the cement.

"Merlin," I whispered, "This is impossible."

"I know," Dudley agreed, "my daughter is a witch."

"Celia Dursley," I muttered, "I never thought I'd see the day when a Dursley is a witch."

"So, will you take her?"

"As I said, Hogwarts is closed," I said.

"So?" Dudley asked, "Just…take her. I'll pay you."

"I have enough money," I said, shaking my head, "It's never been about money."

"She needs to learn how to control it." Dudley said.

"If I take her in, you are not to contact each other – ever. Do you understand?" I could not risk anyone watching the Dursleys and finding me due to Celia.

"Thank you," Dudley smiled, "Here," he handed me a thick envelope, "All the papers you need."

I nodded and turned around when Dudley called out to me, causing me to turn around again, "I really mean it, Harry. Thank you. I knew I could count on you."

"You always could," I sighed a little, picked up my Hogwarts trunk and walked off. A few meters in, I turned around, "Well, are you coming?" I asked when I noticed that Celia wasn't following me.

"Yes," the girl nodded and picked up her suitcases before she turned to follow me.

"All right, Celia," I said, "My name is Phil Jameson. You can call me Uncle Phil or Mister Jameson."

"But I thought dad said…"

"Forget everything your dad said. You are now an orphan. You are not to contact anyone from your past life, are we understood?"

"Yes," Celia nodded, "But why?"

"Because I will not be found by anyone." I said, staring her down, "You are not to let anyone know anything about your life – or mine for that matter. If I find that you do…" I trailed off, "Let's just say you don't want to find out."

"Yes, Mister Jameson," she nodded.

"Good. Now, in case anyone asks you, you are a distant relative of mine and the authorities have finally reached me. You were orphaned years ago and you don't remember your parents. Your name is Celia Jameson."

"Okay," the girl nodded again.

"Right." I said, "Let's go."

And with that we turned to leave. Over the whole journey back to my house, we didn't talk. Finally, we arrived and the cab stopped. I exited the car and picked up the trunk, leaving Celia to struggle with hers.

"Well," I said when we entered the kitchen, "I suppose that this is it. I don't have a room ready for you – after all I didn't expect that you would actually be coming along."

She just nodded and said nothing. I wondered what had happened to that somewhat-sassy response at the train station. Maybe I had just scared her with my stunt with the knife. I had just learned long ago that for me magic was triggered easiest when I had the additional adrenalin running through my veins.

"Very well," I sighed a little, "You can sleep in the guest room for now. Tomorrow we'll enroll you at the local school."

The girl nodded and followed me up the stairs obediently. After all, what other choice did she have?

Still, her actions astonished me. In her place I would have reacted in a completely different manner. I would have asked for reasons, I would have been angry and I definitely wouldn't have complied so easily.

As I walked up the stairs, another thought suddenly occurred to me. How, exactly, had Luna's daughter found me?

I pushed open a door to a small room. There was a bed, a lamp, a small closet and an old rug. Otherwise the room was completely bare. I stepped aside to let Celia enter the room before me, "Don't break anything," I said as I turned around and went downstairs.

There, on the kitchen counter lay the newspaper that I had not read that morning. I quickly skimmed over the advertisements when my eyes caught a familiar one. It portrayed a woman holding an owl on her arm and lifting it high. I grinned a little – friendly contact ahead. I had a whole catalogue of different messages upstairs and I had looked through them so often that I knew them nearly by heart.

I grimaced a little, "Gee, thanks, Hermione," I muttered to myself, "that was a little late."

"Who's Hermione?" a voice behind me asked, causing me to pull out my knife and whirl around.

"Geez, it's just me," Celia exclaimed, putting up her arms. I smiled a little and put the knife down.

"Right. What are you doing here?" I asked, throwing the newspaper down on the kitchen table.

"I'm sorry, Mister Jameson," Celia said, timidly, "I'm just hungry."

"Right," I said, again, feeling stupid for not thinking of this earlier, "I suppose that is natural." I looked around and found my cupboards frighteningly bare. I sighed and pulled out the last package of spaghetti and found some more tomato sauce in the refrigerator, "Right, I know what else we're going to do tomorrow," I muttered as I put the spaghetti into the boiling water.

"What?" Celia asked from her seat on the kitchen table.

"Nothing," I shook my head, "We'll have to go shopping tomorrow."

"I can see that," she muttered quietly.

"If you have something to say," I said, whirling around, the spoon I had used before to stir the pasta raised high, "Then say it, but cease this muttering."

I must have looked pretty ridiculous, but Celia just nodded, "I'm sorry, Mister Jameson."

I just shook my head and turned back to face the stove again. It had been a while since I last had had company. Looking back, I don't know why I behaved the way I did. Maybe I just had had too much time on my own. Maybe I was just a bitter old man.

Anyways, a few minutes later, we were sitting at the table and eating. I had nothing to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

"So…" Celia said, suddenly, "Why are you so afraid of being found?"

I sighed, "I suppose I'll have to tell you eventually. I destroyed magic and now there are a few people who are pretty mad at me for doing that. They've been looking for me ever since magic failed completely twenty years ago."

"How do you destroy magic?"

"By using too much of it and thus depleting the supply."

"Won't the supply replenish itself?" the girl asked.

"It would," I replied, a bit astonished that she had picked up on that fact when most of the grown wizards and witches hadn't, "The theory is just that it'd take centuries until it's replenished enough."

The girl nodded, "Then how do you explain me?" she asked.

"Magic," I smirked a little, "Sometimes it isn't completely explainable. Sometimes you have to just accept it."

The girl nodded again before she turned her full concentration back to her pasta. Another ten minutes passed until we were finally done. I picked up her plate and stashed it on mine.

"Now, there are a few rules concerning the use of magic. I assume that you can control it already – you are, after all, fifteen."

"I can stop it from occurring," the girl said, "But I can't make anything specific happen."

"Right," I nodded, "So, there is really only one rule: don't."

"Don't?" she asked, confused.

"Don't do it." I said, sighing a little, "I know that it might feel as though it is your birthright and I understand that you might see no harm come from it but trust me, it's better if you just forget about magic."

"Like you're forgetting about it?" the girl asked, scoffing, "You're still pining after it."

Ah, there she was, the defiant girl I had been looking for. I suppose I jinxed it myself.

I felt myself grow angry. I just remembered why I'd pulled back from other people: they had the tendency of pointing out our faults. Faults that we are aware off but want to just gloss over.

"You will not use magic while you live in this house. And should you ever do so, there will be consequences, trust me."

"Trust you?" the girl asked, "I will never trust you. I've been with you for a grand total of five hours and you've already threatened both me and my father with a knife."

"Fine, then just believe me. I will not hurt you and whatever you may think, this is for the best."

"Whose best? Yours or mine?"

"Both of ours." I replied, sighing a little, "What do you think they'll do to you if they find you living here with me?"

"Do they even exist? These people that are looking for you?"

"Of course they exist," I replied, sighing a little, "Now, listen to me, Celia, you will not practice magic. You will concentrate on not using any magic whatsoever. Understood?"

The girl nodded and I sighed. I had won – though it was a hollow victory as the girl got up and left the room without another word.

I got up and cleaned the plates by hand, missing magic once again though it had been twenty years since I had last used it. And now, today, that wound was fresh again, the scab that I thought had finally formed was torn away again in that one second when I saw Celia make the feather float.

I sighed once more and picked up the trunk to walk up the stairs with it. As I did so, I couldn't help but smile slightly – maybe, just maybe magic was coming back. Maybe, someday soon, I would feel the familiar core within me come back to life. Maybe someday soon, I would be able to wash my dishes with a simple flick of my wand.

I made my way to my room, wondering once again how Dudley could give up his daughter. Did his hatred for my kind – or, more precisely, witches and wizards – really run deep enough to even include his own daughter?