Author's Notes:

First, I'd like to thank all of my reviewers. Not only is it simply nice to know that my work is being appreciated (even in the traditional, and possibly negative, sense of the word), but it's nice to see some of my own ideas reflected back to me. I try to make sure that I get back to each of you. Make sure to tell me if you'd like me to respond.

Second, there is a part of this chapter where Harry must make a momentous decision (it will be fairly obvious when you read it). I had so much fun writing it because, quite honestly, I wasn't sure how Harry would decide until I almost finished writing. I knew he had to make the decision, but I was torn as to which decision he would make, though I knew, vaguely, how both would affect the world.

Third, I have seen on other FFs where authors give a sort of puzzle to their readers. I never participated in this, but I am curious to know if the little puzzles are effective in both generating ideas and getting some greater participation. Thus, here is my puzzle:

There is a pairing for Harry; I know who the woman is, and I know how they're going to meet. If you're interested in his progression, then please guess the identity of this mystery woman. I will tell you if you are correct (and tease you with some more information if you're on the right track).

And here is one clue to the puzzle: Harry will be reluctant to start a relationship with this woman because of who she is. I will not tell you if you know the woman from canon or if you simply know her relatives.

Enjoy!

And thanks for reading.

Last Time:

I address Amelia with my answer, "I don't think we should do anything legislatively. Our culture right now is superior, but, if we start passing laws, I fear that we'll start restricting the rights of muggleborns like that Bones wants to restrict the rights of people like your sister."

"I think that's well said," agrees Harold.

"Well, we are superior," adds Cygnus with a smirk.

"We're not going to have this fight again?" asks William in serious humour.

"Yes, let us not," says Albus, "after all, I think the point is that we do not need to regulate the superiority if it truly exists. The cream will rise to the top, as they say."

Violetta gives a rumble of laughter, before turning to me. "Thank you Mr. Dumbledore, for your contribution. You clearly know much more about the muggle world than any of us do."

"Yes," agrees Cygnus, "if I have any questions on them, may I owl you?"

"Of course," I agree.

There was some part of me, even then, that worried what domino I had just knocked down.

Chapter Three: Of Murder

It had been four days since the dinner at my ancestors. The last three days saw me doing little but lounging around the house in which my parents were murdered. Three days that were, for all intents and purposes, exactly like the thirty days before my little time travel trip. Albus spent his days at Hogwarts preparing for the upcoming term, leaving me alone.

On the first day, I set about repairing my relationship with Crookshanks. It was difficult. He ignored his toys and he'd swipe at my outstretched hand. He even burrowed under the covers, or a chair, or a bureau whenever I entered the room. Finally, he consented to be pet after a bribe of almost a pound of tuna.

On the second day, I unpacked in the morning. I grabbed the rest of my weapons, and pocketed them or repacked them. I wouldn't need six knives in Hogwarts, I wouldn't even need one. For the rest of the day, I mostly lay in bed wishing that I had a goal, something to do, and not simply to wait for another term to start. I slept quite a lot that day.

On the third day, I would occasionally fantasise about stabbing my eye out with my wand – just for a little excitement.

This boredom was punctured at night. Albus arrived home late, and our conversations would extend until the early morning hours. This was my favourite part of each day, for I finally got to know the man, or at least part of him, who had been so much in control of my life. We spoke mostly of magic – the use of transfiguration in everyday life, of wards, even of magical farming. Albus would sometimes try and engage me emotionally, but I resisted with coarse course correction – sorry, sudden topic changes.

Still, he would bring it up again and again. I left him frustrated, however. I absolutely refused to talk about my times. Occasionally, I'd even stand and walk out of the room if he persisted too long.

Yet he asked me again the next day. Hermione would say that my inability to talk about the war made my remembrance of it worse. I was of the firm belief that speaking about it at all would make it worse. And I didn't want it to get worse. From my outburst at my ancestors, I knew that I wasn't yet over the war.

Maybe I never would be.

That was one benefit of the long days of boredom. I had as long as I needed, far more time than I wanted, to think. Hours upon hours I lay in bed doing nothing else. As the sun started to set on the third day, only twenty minutes before Albus would returned, I'd come to a sort of understanding.

I was damaged, except it wasn't being actually broken. That doesn't make sense, I know, which is always the problem when you try to put pure understanding into words. So, let's go over this slowly.

I never quite had a friend or colleague take my side, at least until I was completely in charge. That may sound rather arrogant, whiney, and angst-y – after all, what are friends for but to point out, and support you through, your failings. But my point isn't that I should always be in charge or that everyone should always agree with me so much as I never had anyone who understood that my rash actions were part of why I always came out alive. The logical connection there really isn't. Fuck, bugger, damn, shit... blah! This is why I was never good at relationships. Girls demand talking, and here I am trying to explain it to myself and even that's not working.

There is some irony in the fact that I'm trying to explain in a logical pattern of forethought and explanation exactly why I am not a person who relies on logic, forethought, or explanation.

Okay, let's try one more time. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia always told me I was lazy, stupid, weak, and unthankful. In retrospect, I see how wrong they were, how cruel they were being. And Ron, of all people, eventually got it into my thick head that they weren't right. But, at the time, I thought they were right. So, what did I do? Naturally, I became unnaturally humble and painfully thankful. In a way, my eleven to thirteen-year-old self sort of reminds me of Dobby.

Then I became a teenager, and years of being better, I won't say good, treatment took their toll. I started to rebel. I chafed under Snape's cruelties, and was told that I should respect my elders. I suffered under the Ministry's idiocy and was told that there was nothing good people could do but be even more good and even more passive. And I was chased, beaten, broken, and tortured beyond death – once literally– by Death Eaters, their spawn, and Voldemort himself; to this, I was told to persevere and accomplish the impossible.

Uncle Vernon told me I was ungrateful. Hermione told me I was too impulsive. Snape told me I was too arrogant. McGonagall told me to keep my head down. Dumbledore told me to forgive.

Yet, through it all, I remained relatively unchanged, though rather unhappy. I yelled at idiocy, ranted at inaction, and would rather blast a hole through a roof than beg to be allowed through the front door. I felt as if I was failing not only myself but also my friends. I felt as if my innermost desires and passions were marks of inhumanity at best or a sacrilege at worst.

And so, sometime after I saw Snape blast Dumbledore's corpse off Hogwarts's tallest tower, I concluded that I was broken, that something was innately wrong with me. Again, this whole thing sounds painfully juvenile, as if the world has arrayed against me and it's so not fair and I wish it was just fair. Of course, the world was arrayed against me at it wasn't fair, but I had realised, probably sometime when I suffered under Umbridge, that the world wasn't meant to be fair.

So, since I still felt as if it should be fair, since I still was impulsive and couldn't forgive, and since I couldn't just keep my head down, I determined that there must be something innately wrong with me, that I must be broken.

Now, if this was a fairytale, I would then say that I spent my seventh year fixing myself whilst fixing the world. And, towards the end, right when I finally overcame whatever innate personality defect I had, I discovered that my best friend, or my best friends sister maybe, was the love of my life and had been secretly helping me along the whole while. Then I lived happily ever after.

Yeah, we know how well that would have worked out. Instead, I decided to put this 'discovering myself' crap on hold. Fuck fixing myself, I needed to fix the fucked up world.

I hunkered down, made McGonagall turn Hogwarts into a fortress, and slowly went about liberating the fucking world. Along the way, I lost most of my soldiers and pretty much all of my friends. But I did something. There were battles, and, though we lost far too many, we took at least two of them for every one of us. And we were kids, few of us long out of Hogwarts. It was just like the Department of Mysteries all over again.

Thinking back on this over the last several days, I realise something quite important. As amazing as Albus is and was, as supportive as Ron was, as brilliant as Hermione was, as loving as Mrs. Weasley was, as steady as Ginny was, as comforting as Remus was, as helpful as Snape was, none of them ever endorsed Harry Potter plans (well, Ron did occasionally). And, in the end, and note that it was only after they were gone, it was a Harry Potter plan that won it all.

Sometimes, dictatorship makes a whole heap of sense.

They all thought I was broken, damaged, or in some ways defective. And though I'm sure that I'm not perfect yet – I'm not yet quite that arrogant – I'm fairly fucking fantastic! And struggling underneath the weight of guilt that I've suffered with pretty much my whole life isn't making me any better.

See, the sad part is, for all the horror of that last year, for all that I'd never want to relive it, I also had some of my happiest moments during it. I had good friends with whom I did important work. It was like the DA my fifth year. Um-bitch might have been as much fun as a serrated butt plug, but at least living below her laws meant that I didn't have to live up to her expectations.

It was the same whenever I did something truly great. McGonagall's refusal to listen about the stone never stopped me from saving it. Lockhart's sadistic need for fame never stopped me from killing the monster and saving the girl. And Snape's desperate need for revenge never stopped me from saving Sirius's very soul.

I wish that there were a clever life lesson to be had now. I wish that I could say my life was changed, my behaviour was changed, or that this was even really a revelation in any real way for me. But life doesn't work that way. I had been acting as if I was normal and whole, though perhaps cracked, since not long after Hermione died.

It just took these last three days for me explain it to myself in one, clean, uninterrupted stream of babble.

Whatever – fuck this introspective shit, let's get down to brass tacks – not those loser, pansy-ass steel ones. It's time for another Potter Plan. It's time to stop analysing shit and to start actually making it happen.

See, whilst I dealt with this angst, other questions started to present themselves. Mostly, these questions have been in the form of worries. For example, I have no idea what the Sorting Hat will think of the mess in my head. This might not be a problem, as I don't even know if it can get past regular occlumency shields, to say nothing of mine.

I don't know if I can ever set up a Gringotts account. To the best of my, admittedly limited, knowledge, you need to submit blood if you hope to open any real account. Having Potter blood show up among the goblins is not quite what I want to be doing. I trust goblins about as far as I can throw Gringotts.

Going from the mundane to the momentous, I don't know how I'm going to react to Grindelwald when he starts gaining power. And, more to the present point, I have to figure out what I was going to do about Voldemort.

So, I'm going to go to London with a plan inspired by Snape's most common criticism of me – that I always thought I had a perfect plan when I really had no plan whatsoever. Instead of thinking I have a foolproof plan, and then jumping in way over my head, I'm going to deal with baby Riddle with perfect knowledge that I have no idea what the fuck I'm going to do. I have the beginnings of a plan, the stirrings of a plan, I even thought of several plans, but I'm not going to commit to one. Somehow, I doubt that Snape would appreciate the irony.

So, with Albus out of the house yet again, I disappeared from Godric's Hollow with a small crack.

With a pop, I appeared in Diagon Alley. I apparated to the designated apparation point, to the hole in the wards. Except, I didn't actually. I apparated to where the designated apparition point had been. I apparated to right before a small shop selling used clothes and flying carpets.

Luckily, I didn't apparate besides anyone. I have had enough of randomly appearing places and scaring the daylights out of everyone involved. Still, I move from blocking the entrance. I have things to do.

My first thought is that Diagon Alley isn't warded against apparation in this time. It's a weird realisation. Everything was defined by those wards, and Diagon Alley was the only wizarding space, besides Hogwarts, that didn't really fall to Voldemort because of them.

My second thought is that time travel really fucks with your sense of space. Diagon Alley was completely different, and not just because it lacked an apparation point.

The best word to describe it would probably be 'seedy.' It's as if I'm in the pre-war Knockturn Alley, or maybe even Devet's Alley, which turns, or perhaps will turn, off just after Borgin & Burk's. Either way, with just a cursory glance, I see cursed silverware, a House-Elf emporium, and preserved human hearts for potion making. What will become Eelyops Owl Emporium is what appeared to be a polyjuice brothel house.

Good to know, I guess, but not quite what I expected. As I walk to what will be The Leaky Cauldron, I wonder what could have changed so much in the magical world. Getting to the pub, I realise something else rather unfortunate. It isn't there. In its place sits a black wall.

I start running the gambit of diagnostic spells. My first spell reveals that there is something magical where the entrance would have been. My second spell is often used to determine if there is a trigger phrase or action that ignites the magic, like on the Hogwarts common rooms or the Hogwarts kitchen. It reveals nothing. My third spell, used to reveal the type of magic involved, shows a charm and a recurring transfiguration, which was held by two other charms working in congress.

It's incredibly complicated magic. I could unwind it; for the life of me I couldn't cast it. Bill was the only one who could cast it with any skill. Flitwick would do in a pinch, but he'd need about three tries to get it right.

Luckily, given its use, there isn't much that this particular configuration could be. And I'm fairly sure I know what it is as I interrupt my fourth spell, which would have been a spell designed to highlight the grounding-stones. Instead, my fourth spell is to detect illusions, and it proves me right.

With a smile, I walk straight through the wall.

And find myself on Charing Cross Road, only to realise a fatal mistake with this whole plan. See, I've seen the innermost workings of Tom Riddle's orphanage, I've even seen it's entrance, but I don't actually know where in London it is. So, as muggle automobiles putter past me in infant joy, I look both ways before turning around and walking right back into Diagon Alley.

Fuck it. I didn't really want to do it this way, but I don't have the patience to wander about muggle London for hours hoping that I can find the orphanage without magic. My way's faster, and it's not as if I haven't done it before. Hermione, Ron, and I found the orphanage this way when we were searching for Horcruxes, at the very beginning of the war. It was the only time I ever tried a triple apparation, which I don't recommend to anyone, especially if you're going pretty much the entire length of the country.

With a crack, I again disappear. With a pop, I appear right before the tall, wide gates of a depressing, but well-kept building.

This time, though, I am not quite as lucky with my landing. I appear just besides an elderly couple walking down the street. The woman shouts and swings her handbag wildly. The man takes my sudden appearance a little worse. He falls. Only my preternatural reflexes save him from a sore arse and me from a bruised head.

"Obliviate, Obliviate." At least that problem isn't too hard to overcome.

With a look around, I confirm that no one else saw my sudden appearance. With that same look, I realise I'm still wearing a robe. With a wave of my wand, I change my robe into a pathetically ill-fitting suit. I told you that I sucked at transfiguration. I turn my robe back quickly enough, and thank my stares that I didn't screw that up. With yet another wave of my wand, I cast an illusion on my robe.

It's a version of a muggle repelling charm that Flitwick invented, which gave us rather wonderful flexibility in the war. The spell doesn't change anything about our robes. It doesn't even cast an illusion, as illusion spells are typically understood, about our robes. Instead, a muggle looking at our robes will do, more or less, what they do to the Leaky Cauldron. They'll notice it, but then think it's not worth their attention and immediately forget anything distinguishing about it.

Once that's done, I give a self-gratifying sigh, until I realise that this comedy of errors isn't quite over. See, whilst I changed my robes, changed them back, then cast the charm on them, well, the muggles I had obliviated still stood next to me.

Right now they were running away in terror. Once again I realised that a Potter Plan never goes smooth.

I check to make sure that no one is around; no one is. Actually, in 1927, the area around the orphanage is almost empty. I mean, it's not wilderness, but certainly more rural than even Little Whinging will become.

With a crack, I disappear. With a pop, I appear before the couple. They screech. I cringe. And with a double obliviate, none of the screeching, wincing, running, cracking, or popping matters.

I walk past them letting out another satisfied sigh. They give the piece of wood that I push up into my sleeve a glance, but I don't do anything completely weird, so I can let them go.

And I walk back to the orphanage. You have no idea how many junior obliviators forget to refrain from using magic after they've obliviated the muggles. I actually have no idea either, but Tonks and Moody told me stories, so I'm going to pretend like I know exactly what I'm talking about. If you find it frustrating, then you're probably male. Seriously, make up shit and the birds eat it up.

Anyways, soon enough I'm back before the orphanage in clothes that they'll forget and with determination to do – well, that's kinda the problem. I don't know what I want to do. I know what I should do, but I also know that that's the last thing that I ought to do. My indecision lasts only a moment – a long one, true, but only a moment nonetheless – and then I'm walking through the gate towards to too large double doors.

I knock. There's absolute silence for forever, which is probably just thirty seconds. I knock again, and this time I count the time. A minute passed before I bring my hand up once more. The door opens.

A young red-faced woman stands before me. Her hair is in a loose braid. Her eyes are bright, and the rest of her face sharp. Her face strikes me powerfully, although her body is off. The woman is Mrs. Cole, or at least a near relation. But where I remember Mrs. Cole as a skinny, harassed looking thing, the woman before me is happy and full bodied.

"Excuse me," says the Mrs. Cole look alike. I realise that I've been starting at her chest. She doesn't seem fazed one bit, which is not something I'd expect from a muggle raised woman in the early 20th century.

"Em... yes, sorry." I shake my head, "Mrs. Cole?"

"No sir, I'm Dorothy Edwards." Her eyes are moving around behind me now, as if searching for danger, and I realise that I'm probably not making a good impression.

"Ah, yes, sorry. Could I please speak to the manager of the orphanage?"

"What for sir?"

"I'm looking for T—" and I cough. I almost asked for 'Tom Riddle,' which, if I'm to pull this off, I should not know. I clear my throat. "Sorry about that. I'm looking for a baby that may have been left here, a baby whose name may be Riddle."

Her eyes light up, and, if I needed any confirmation besides my own memories, I would have just struck pay dirt. She controls herself, however. "I'll be back with the director presently. Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, thank you." Done with the first hurtle.

And Ms. Edwards walks off in such a way that I almost hope she's giving me some extra emphasis. If she walks that way naturally, then she's going to be in a whole heap of trouble over the next two decades. If I'm right, though, then she'll be married within the decade.

My thoughts wonder from there, further and further into the gutter. I'm saved from being a rolling, churning ball of filth by the appearance of a stern man.

His features are as sharp as Ms. Edwards's, but his eyes are shadowed. His mouth is turned into a frown, yet it doesn't appear as if he's frowning. It's almost like his face as soured. His suit is quality, but frayed – a man of fine taste and limited budget.

He reminds me of a funeral director.

"Hello Mr..." the funeral director asks by way of greeting.

"Mr. Rochester," because orphanages bring out the literary in me.

He raises thick eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes Mr..." let's see how he likes the same trick.

"For whom are you looking?" Behind him, Ms. Edwards seems angry. I bet there's a story there. Then again, there are stories everywhere.

"A baby Riddle, or possibly Gaunt." Perhaps my uncertainty will assist me here.

"And what is your relationship to this child?"

I look at him, "So you do have him?"

The funeral director's eyes narrow. "And how do you know that he's male?"

Ms. Edwards behind him rolls her eyes. I feel like doing the same. "Thank you Mr. Whomever-you-are. You have now just confirmed not only that the baby is here, but also that he's a him."

"Huh?" This man should work for the Ministry of Magic he's so brilliant.

"See, I ask after a baby Riddle, and, instead of telling me he's not here, you inquire why I want to know, which you wouldn't do unless he was here. Now, I know that he's a he for very similar reasons. I asked if you had him, and you didn't say no, which further confirms that you have him by the way; instead, you asked how I knew the kid was male, thus confirming that the kid is male. May I see him?"

I can tell that I'm not Mr. Funeral Director's favourite person in the world right now. I can also tell that Ms. Edwards is trying really, really hard not to laugh. I give her a wink, and now she blushes. You catch me staring down your chest, then saunter your ass at me without even blinking, but I wink at you and you blush?

Women are fucking nuts.

After several seconds of bluster from Mr. Funeral Director, he finally answers, "Yes, he is here. His name is Tom Mervolo Riddle. But you will not see him until I know who you are sir."

I smile, "Mr. Rochester. I've told you this."

"That is only a name." He's quite distressed, and I know I'm being an ass, but it's too damn fun not to be. I really love actually doing something.

"Yes, but you still have not introduced yourself."

"I am Mr. Jones," to which I cannot help by reply silently 'of course you are.' Jones has got to be the most boring name ever imagined by the British psyche.

"I am a friend the Gaunt family, which is the family of the mother."

"And what is your interest sir?"

"I want to see how the child is."

"This is not a petting zoo, Mr. Rochester. We do not show off our orphans to please the public, however they might be related to the child."

I want to protest that the third person generic of 'public' is actually 'it,' not 'they,' but I think that might be a little much at this point, even for me.

"If you were family or if you were coming here to adopt the child, then we could talk. If you are just here to see," he makes the word sound painful and I wonder how far up the stick goes, "the child, then you must turn back and walk right out that door."

I growl and give a half-truth, hoping it will work. "Look – I understand that you're trying to protect him, and I thank you for that. But let me make this as clear as possible. The child's maternal uncle is imprisoned. The child's maternal grandfather is imprisoned. The child's father wants nothing to do with him, and his paternal grandparents don't know he exists. I, as a friend of his late mother, would like to see what I can do. But, until I figure out exactly what I can do, I would like to see the child."

True tragedy has a way of sobering people, of beating down their illusion of grandeur. Ego is a powerful tool, a potent weakness, but I don't have time for it. Still, somehow this bloke manages: "however noble your intensions are, I'm sorry but we can't show you the children unless you're interested in adopting one."

"Unless I'm in the market," I add. I just want to make sure we both know what we're talking about. Again, the funeral director seems to be incomprehensive while Ms. Edwards is heroically restraining her laughter. "Are you sure you can't make an exception for an old family friend," I add, just in case – although, at this point, I almost want to do this the hard way.

"No," he replies promptly. Pause. Then, with unction, he adds, "You may leave now."

"Okay, fuck this." And now they both seem offended. To be fair, Ms. Edwards seems more surprised than offended.

I withdraw my wand in a fluid movement. Mr. Funeral Director says "what the..." as Ms. Edwards's eyes grow large.

"Philia, Philia" I say, and the two are blinking stupidly at me.

Mr. Funeral Director then asks, "Wait, what were we talking about?"

"I was asking you to take me to Tom Riddle."

"Ah yes, of course. Right this way." And I follow behind them.

Magic really is extraordinary sometimes. The poorly named 'love curse' is an old derivation of the imperius curse, though it isn't illegal at all. What it does is induce in the subject immense feelings of friendship and companionship. Useful in situations where the subject is opposed to the caster and not the action or in situations, like this, where the subject is simply authoritarian and unreasonable.

Otherwise, the spell is quite useless. See, if you tell the subject to do anything truly contrary to his personality or bodily integrity, from something as simple as 'take off your clothes' to as extreme as 'jump off a cliff,' even most muggles can toss it off. It's actually one of the first things magical children learn, sort of like how muggles learn not to get into a car with strangers. Magical children are told that, if you suddenly feel much more comfortable around someone you don't know well at all, as if they're your best mates, then get help as fast as you can because they probably cast a spell on you.

So, it's a useful little spell, though I feel a twinge embarrassed about using it. I know I said it was perfectly legal, but my time in the muggle world had instilled in me a deep, deep fear of mucking with people's minds. The muggles have a much broader definition of what 'forcing' someone really means, and, as much as I prefer the magical world, I always think the muggles have the right of this question.

See, the magical world believes that, as long as you don't actually squash another's will, such as with the imperius curse or a love potion, then it's their own fault for doing stupid shit. Not that anyone would phrase it that way, of course. As I said, I'm on the muggle's side, and I don't really see a difference between bending him to my will and making it so his will will only flow in one direction. It's like stopping the left fork in a river and saying that you didn't force the water to go to the right fork because you didn't physically push all that water there. It's technically accurate, but mayhaps a too narrow a meaning of 'force.'

Still, Mr. Funeral Director was being ridiculous, and I needed to just get this stupid mission finished.

Soon enough, I stand above a baby Tommy Riddle in a poetic role reversal. I had switched wands in transit, and now I hold a long stick of yew with a Fawkes feather over the helpless little creature. For he is actually small and helpless, not even old enough to open his eyes and regard the world with wonder.

And so there I was. A survivor – le survivant, as I said the French called me – standing over the baby form of my nemesis with two love-drunk muggles standing irreverently over my shoulder.

I'm two words away from ending it – again poetically – from ever starting. There is no prophesy now, though I guess I haven't actually checked that with the Department of Mysteries. And yet I'm not sure if I can, much less want, to try and end of the life of a baby.

Said baby gurgles and turns over.

His hair is blonde now, I absently note. I heard a lifetime ago that the eyes of newborn babies are always blue. His eyes are closed, so I can't tell. Not that any of this matters, they're just evidence. They're evidence of how much harder premeditated murder is than killing in the midst of battle.

I've never done the former. I have become too accustomed to the latter. See, I killed my first man when I was eleven. Professor Quirrell was a man possessed – literally. And while I'm sure my biographers back in my original time will say that I didn't know what I was doing – well, maybe not Rita Skeeter's biography of me – and that I killed Quirrell by accident, I'm perfectly comfortable telling you differently. I meant to kill him. He was trying to steal immortality for Voldemort. He was trying to kill me. And, given that I had no idea how close Dumbledore was from rescuing me, I did the only thing I could do – end him.

Same my second year. Sure, Tommy Riddle was again trying to steal the soul from Ginny. He was an evil boy who had already killed a little girl and blamed it on another little – well, young – boy. And I knew he would kill again, to say nothing of being certain that he would kill me, if I let him suck Ginny dry. So, I did the only conceivable thing. I killed him. I stabbed a great big poisonous Basilisk fang through what I later learnt was part of his soul. And he died.

It's funny that I wasn't sixteen until I killed another person. Okay, maybe not funny, but you'd think I'd keep with my track record. Certainly my track record on almost dying held up pretty well. Then again, I more than made up for my four slow years of death. It seemed that I did nothing but slaughter, help slaughter, and avoid being slaughtered during what would have been my seventh year.

I still remember my first killing curse. Charlie and I just chopped off the heads of two werewolves when we were bum-rushed by two more. We each fell to one, but I managed to get my legs above me and kick out the stomach of mine. He flew over my head, and I brought my wand down in an insanely overpowered blasting curse. Once he was gore, I looked to Charlie. Charlie was not doing well. His face was already a fantastic pulp, and the werewolf howled over his immobile body in triumph. The werewolf leaned forward to feast, and rage overtook me. The creature was dead before I knew what spell I'd cast.

But this was the first time I had time to contemplate murder. Before I killed always to protect someone, myself or a friend. And even my first killing curse hadn't left the stain that I thought it would, hadn't left me woozy or cold or grief-stricken or anything. But this was different, or, at least, I want it to be different, I think that it should be different. The problem is that I don't feel any different.

Looking down on this innocent bundle of gurgling mess, I wonder why I still want it to die. This creature, this baby, is not evil. He's cute. He's small. Yet he will become evil; he will kill.

And it isn't just because of this crap environment. See, I saw Dumbledore's memory of Mrs. Cole when she ran this place. She was more scared of Tom Riddle than angry at him. She pitied him more than hated him, even. This was not a nurturing environment, nothing like the Burrow, but it was far from a horrid, twisted, sad one. Even looking around this place now, with Mr. Self-centred Arsehole at the helm, it is a pleasant enough place. Again, it's not luxurious or cushy or even warm, but far from torture.

I can't assume that it was the environment that corrupted him. My environment was as bad, maybe worse. Yet, I still turned out okay.

But this is where Dumbledore and I differ the most. He thinks everyone is innately good and turned bad by circumstance. I believe that some people are just naturally bad. And perhaps it's not even being bad so much as having certain temptations. There is no real reason why Tom Riddle went dark and I stayed – relatively – light, except that his temptation was to know everything and be an authoritarian and mine is to get angry at idiocy and be lazy. Snape's temptation was to blame others for what was chance or his own failures. So, even after he escaped his abusive and made friends with the love of his life, he still was a selfish prick. Even in his thirties, he abused a child who represented his failures even though he knew that I was innocent of all – well, maybe just most – of the crimes for which he blamed me. Dumbledore fell victim to the call of power and accidently killed his sister; he never put himself in a situation to grab power again, simply because he knew – knew, knew, knew – that, however much he guarded against temptation, it was in his very nature to be tempted if power was given to him.

Yeah – people don't fundamentally change. And, unless I want to raise this child myself, being overbearing in my administration and his edification, then the child would invariably turn dark. He might turn dark even if I took his education upon myself. And, however selfless I have been, I could never raise Voldemort – even his pathetic younger doppelganger – by myself. To say nothing of how hard that would be to explain at Hogwarts.

I also have to correct myself, I now realise. This isn't the first time I've stood over someone helpless and thought, known maybe, that I should kill him. I once stood over Peter Pettigrew in the Shrieking Shack, held down by Sirius and Moony, and commuted his death sentence. Even after Peter escaped and Sirius was condemned, I felt justified that night, as if my parents would be proud of me. Dumbledore certainly was – 'not many men,' he said, or something close to it, 'would let the murderer of his parents face justice instead of vengeance.' I felt good that day.

Looking back on it now, knowing that Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore, and everyone else has died for that mistake, I realise that, however proud I was, whatever self-righteous satisfaction Dumbledore thought I should feel, meant nothing in the end. Pettigrew resurrected Voldemort. Pettigrew, in short, made the entire second war possible.

I lower my wand.

Looking down at the infant, I know that I should kill the creature. Yet, I cannot. I stand here, knowing what horrors he may cause, knowing what he could do and yet I'm impotent. Even after all the dead I've made, even after all the dead I've mourned, I cannot kill an infant, however deserving.

Fuck.

I console myself with the thought that Dumbledore will watch him at Hogwarts and that a twelve, fifteen, or even seventeen year old Riddle will be almost laughably easy to kill if need be. I stick to that thought like a rosary – all blind faith, no matter of reason – and roll it around in my head hoping, exalting, wishing, and despairing at its truth.

Fuck.

I raise my wand again, but this time I turn to the others. I can't believe I'm doing this for Tommy-fucking-Riddle. "Imperio, Imperio." And the two muggles are my slaves.

On first glance, I seem somewhat insane. Whatever I could possibly need to do, chancing life in Azkabam is not worth it. And it's not, if I was actually chancing life in Azkabam. See, there is a little loophole in our glorious judicial system. Although it is illegal to cast an unforgivable on any "being," a being is defined within that section as any "creature with a magical core."

And no, muggles do not have magical cores. And yes, that means it's not technically illegal to dominate, torture, or murder a muggle – so long as you don't break the statute of secrecy. Actually, muggle torture will be made illegal, but not until Voldemort's first rise.

There's something wrong with me hoping that muggle torture will never be made illegal.

Back on topic, if I felt bad about using the philia curse on the muggles, then I certainly should feel bad dominating them. And I would, except, if I can't kill Riddle, then I have to do my damndest to make sure he is as little fucked with as he possibly can be by the time he gets to Hogwarts. Also, as I said, I don't see much of a difference between the two spells.

Extending my hand, I transfigure one of the small rings on the left hand into a small steel knife. Yeah, magic is way awesome. Ms. Edwards moves forward while the Funeral Director runs off to get a large bowl of water.

Then I stand there for a while. The baby Riddle is being surprisingly quiet. Again, I don't know much about babies, but my understanding is that they whined a lot. Riddle isn't doing that. He's just sort of squirming to a non-existent song. He's sort of cute.

Luckily, the return of the Funeral Director yanks me from my dreary thoughts. I set the bowl and the knife down on the ground. I draw my Yew and from my right sleeve and use it to hover the bowl while I maintain a flight charm with my Phoenix wand.

I'm about to try and slice open Ms. Edwards's hand with the knife via flight charm when I remember my imperius curses. The Funeral Director comes forward and grabs the knife. Then, methodically, blankly, and far more exactly than he probably could have otherwise, he slices a thin, clean line down the length of the Ms. Edward's palm.

Ms. Edwards drains some of her blood into the bowl. With my Phoenix wand, I heal and clean her cut. Ms. Edwards takes the knife from her boss and walks towards Riddle. With another clean, thin slice, she makes Riddle bleed into the bowl. And now he's crying – bawling his little baby eyes out.

I feel bad. So, after she finishes, I heal his cut, clean it, and then cast a sleeping spell on the poor little boy. He's in dreamland immediately.

And now that's a question. We don't know if animals dream, since we don't understand their brains at all. But we get humans, and we know we dream. So, do babies dream? And, if they do, how can they conceive of their dreams before they can dream. This, of course, raises yet another question: do the blind dream in colour?

Anyways, none of this matters. What does is that I've just realised I need a pinch of sulphur, a small ruby, and crushed dragonfly wings. I can't conjure that. This is the one down side about using a Potter Plan. I should have packed my emergency potions kit, just in case.

Closing, locking, and soundproofing the door with my Phoenix wand, I gently lower the bowl to the ground, un-transfigure the knife and put it on my finger, then crack away. As I pop back into my room at Dumbledore's, there is a slight pull on my mind. Controlling people via the imperius is made harder by four factors: the number of subjects, the magical power of the subjects, the will of the subjects, and the distance from the subjects. Even muggles can throw off the curse if the other factors are strong enough, and I just increased the distance between myself and the subjects rather dramatically.

Still, my willpower is neigh unbeatable. Stubborn, they call me. And my magical power is, let's be honest, the second strongest in the world – or at least Europe – right now. I rather easily overpower the muggles again, and within the minute, I have my emergency potions ingredients.

With another crack, I return. With Yew, I raise the bowl. With Phoenix, I hover the ingredients over the bowl.

Now comes the hard part. See, I might be wilful, skilful, and powerful, but even I have my limits. Passing the hovering off from Phoenix to Yew, then using Phoenix to direct a stirring spoon from the kit, then conjuring a fire, using the spoon to stir the ingredients in one by one, very slowly, while maintaining the fire at the right temperature, still hovering the bowl, and keeping the two imperius curses on tight – yeah, that's fucking hard.

I get it done though, and soon enough my potion is finished. I ladle out two unevenly distributed doses, one encased in a goblet, the other in a bottle. I have Ms. Edwards drink the goblet full of steaming red liquid. I have her then feed the bottle to Riddle. They both glow softly, and even through the imperius curse, the woman manages a little smile down at the infant.

The mixture I'm making is a powerful derivation of a love potion. The potion does not induce the simulacrum of romantic love – lust with happy thoughts – into its subject. Instead, it induces in the subject a great desire to protect, support, and guide the other person whose blood was used. We often mixed the cocktail during the war and fed it to captured Death Eaters – instant spy.

I've never tested what will happen when two different people ingest the potion. Hopefully, it will make Riddle more susceptible for the teachings of Ms. Edwards. I like the bird already. She seems to have a good head on her shoulders, and I know that, eventually, she'll be in charge. Maybe Riddle will turn out better. I hope Riddle will turn out better.

Using Yew to pack everything up again, I re-sheath the wand. I'll only need Phoenix from here on out.

It takes about five seconds for the average person to fully appreciate what has happened under the imperius curse. It takes the average person a full three seconds for someone to recover from being obliviated. It takes a skilled person less than a second to cast an overpowered finite incantatem. It takes even a slow person less than a second to apparate.

When well practiced, one can drop an imperius, snap off two precise obliviates, overpower wards already cast around a room, and apparate home and still have time to survey a well-finished job and regret the work you've done.

War allowed me to suppress my shivers until I was home. Then I couldn't stop.

That night I'm particularly moody. I can tell that Albus knows something's up, which isn't, you know, exactly a surprise. He's fairly sharp, is Albus. And I'm not hiding this well. I keep twitching. That makes it sound like I have some sort of nervous tick. I keep squirming; there, that's better. Half of me wants to apparate back there and put Voldemort's rise down for good. Half of me is convinced that I made the right move. And half of me, yes, the third half, is sick, just sick of the whole time-travel thing and making hard decisions thing and, to a certain degree, the whole life thing, which sounds so melodramatic and isn't meant in a maudlin, suicide-contemplating way. It just sucks.

Fuck it.

When Voldemort was ascendant, everything was so much easier. Kill or die - that was it. And you never wanted death, so you killed.

I had heard stories about it, killing that is. Again, this was in books. Like with weather, it doesn't work the same way in reality. There is no cataclysmic recognition that you've taken a life. There is no sudden epiphany; there is no horror, no self-loathing, no nothing. I dodged a killing curse, snapped off a blaster, then deflected a garrotting curse, then shot off an overpowered severing charm. Suddenly, my leg shattered – hit by a bone breaker, and hard – and so I shot back the same, overpowered a bit, and I vaporised Avery's ribs and spine.

I didn't take pleasure in it, but I never cried over it. I cried over Mrs. Weasley. She'd been battling Bellatrix. Mrs. Weasley took out the evil bitch's right arm, but lost her life in exchange.

Ginny eventually got revenge.

Anyways, so I sat there in silence, realising that life in peacetime is actually far more confusing than life during war. Albus sat there in silence too. And it stretched on.

Just after Albus refilled my tea, he spoke, "How'd it go today?"

Silence. I can't be sure if Albus knew where I went or not. I assume that he didn't, that he couldn't possibly know, but, then again, he was Albus Dumbledore.

We pass another minute or two in silence, now decidedly uncomfortable.

"Do you like the tea?" he asks.

"Uh... yeah. It's grand. Thanks." It is rather good, not that I'd noticed before.

"It's the ratio of lemon to honey that makes it just right."

I nod.

"Have you ever hosted a tea?"

"Can't say I have."

"Ah" and then there was more silence, calmer now.

It's one of the things I know I've mentioned a hundred times already. If it seems that I'm beating it over the head, then it's only because I feel as if it is a ton of bricks that keep whacking me. Anyways, I should probably get to what 'it' is: Albus is so much more awkward in the 1920s!

Fine, so he actually has better social graces than anyone, besides ol' Slughorn and perhaps McGonagall, that I've ever known. Still, I remember the Dumbledore who could talk down murderers as if he was talking about the weather, the Dumbledore that could warn off politicians as if he was discussing puppies, and the Dumbledore who could lift the mood of the most depressed with a well-placed observation.

This Dumbledore seems like a social idiot in comparison.

"So..." he clears his throat, "I have your book list. What are you electives?"

"Arithmancy and Ancient Runes," as in everything I never took in my old life.

"We can go tomorrow."

"I can go by myself. It won't be a problem."

"I can go with you. I ... em... need to go regardless."

"Sure, that's cool."

"That's cool?"

I shut my eyes for a moment, then open them. Like a lethargic wince. "Yeah, anachronism. It means ... em... grand, wonderful, except less so. Maybe just good, but more so."

"So it's a measure of expressing joy, gratitude, or otherwise happy emotions that falls between saying good and grand."

"Yeah, that."

"Thank you. Your lexicon is fascinating. I wonder what runic implications your arrival will have on English spells."

I wonder if there are any other parselmouths. I might be the first person since Voldemort killed his relatives – which I guess is still in the future – to be... but nevermind. It's in the future. That means that the relatives are around now. Bugger – there are currently at least four parselmouths extant. It was a nice thought.

I wish that had made more sense.

"So... em... tomorrow, we'll go to Diagon Alley?" Dumbledore is just trying to confirm.

"Yeah. What time?"

"Let's say just after breakfast," which I know means about nine or ten.

"Sure." There is another silence, but I interrupt it before it gets too long. "Okay, well, I think I'm off to bed."

"You don't want dinner?"

I had forgotten that he hadn't eaten yet. Still, "No thanks. I'll eat in the morning. Night."

I'm almost out the door before Albus can repeat my farewell.

The next morning, I feel a little better. Albus and I are discussing the runic implications of my arrival, and how my unexpected introduction into the world might change the English language. Remember how I said that the words of an incantation are actual magic? I also said that the precision of their use determines, in part, its power. Well, the magic of this is like gravitation – the larger the body, the greater the pull.

In the universe of magical power generated by the English language, I'm a very strong pull – a very, very strong pull.

So too is Albus. It is something you get used to right quick when living with the bloke. His older self either hid his power well or had it sapped by old age. Either way, the younger Albus was a monster. When I awake each the morning, I feel his power pulsating through the walls. When I go to bed at night, I feel the hum of his power vibrating through the floor.

Being still a teenager, I can't control my power anywhere near even the forty year old Albus. He too must have gotten used to it. It's one of the reasons, I expect, he never asked me how I killed Voldemort. You don't feel this kind of power without expecting it to do great things.

Which makes me somewhat sick. As I said, I'm not a scholar, just a solider.

But living in the same house with Albus, I finally understand Ollivander's insistence that I'd do great things. If you're sensitive to the magic, you can feel the magic of the world humming around you. And if I'm anywhere near as powerful as Albus – and I know I am – then I must show up bright and clear on anyone's radar.

I miss a step as I realise that muggle radar probably hasn't been invented yet. Magical radar doesn't, and never did, exist, so I don't know why I specified that the radar was muggle.

I shake my head, and try to tune back into what Albus is saying. "So," he concludes, though I don't remember what he said before, "We're going to apparate to Gringotts. You'll drop off your money. Then we'll go to Betty's Bountiful Books, and then we'll grab you some potions supplies. You'll have the rest of the week to finish the assignments for class, though I'll give you a pass."

"Thanks Albus." I want to say that he can suck his pass, that I don't want special treatment, especially if I'm going to be posing as his cousin. But I really don't want to do essays again. I remain silent instead.

Albus and I both crack away.

And we're looking at Gringotts. I stumble a little and glare at the case I'm rolling along next to me. Then I look up; the white imposing stone is still the same as ever. Off to my right, I see what is now 'Master Malkin's Robes' for All Occasions. At least everything hasn't changed.

One thing that had, though, was that there were now six goblin guards standing outside of Gringotts, not just two. I can't think of anything in my history classes that made them change the practice. The last Goblin rebellion was a small one that ended in... fuck. Hermione was always better at the history crap than I was.

But there's an easy solution. As Albus and I pass through the large marble doors, I turn to Albus, "When was the last goblin rebellion?"

"1901."

Well, that would do it. Goblins had long, long memories.

We stand in line. I'm wheeling a huge obsidian case. Galleons are great, very useful to have money and all, but they're damn near magic-proof. It's hard to make the feather-light charm stick for any length of time. Apparating with them had been next to impossible. But it was like activating a wand from distance – all you need is extra power.

Albus and I bounce from foot to foot as we wait. No one really talks in Gringotts. It's not a very welcoming place.

Finally, we're up front and facing a nondescript goblin. I've never been able to tell them apart. Still, I know the basic niceties, "Hello Master Counter, I have a deposit to make." Goblins are very into titles and they're very into saving time. If you can manage both, they stomach you fairly well.

Griphook is still a little fucker though.

The goblin gives a feral smile at my greeting. "How many galleons would you care to deposit Mr. ..."

"Dumbledore," I say. "I'm Cederic James Dumbledore, and I'd like to deposit all the galleons in this," I motion to the case, "case in a level one vault." A level one vault is the lowest security level. It has few protections – not that it truly matters, given Gringott's obscene level of security. But it also is the only level I know of that doesn't demand a blood sample.

"Sure thing Mr. Dumbledore. How many galleons are in the case?"

"It has thirty-one thousand, seven hundred, and twenty eight galleons, eighty two sickles, and seven hundred and three knuts."

The goblin goes absolutely still, which is akin to a human's eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. In fact, Albus's eyes do just that. And I curse myself for coming out with it like it's no big deal. To me, money never has been. But, before the second war, this money was a lot, quite a lot. Only the really old families had more, and Arthur made less than one hundredth of this a year.

The Potters were wealthy, what can I say? The goblin and Albus are just lucky that I, in a fit of abnegation, promised Hermione's memory to fund SPEW with two million galleons. I'm not sure what they would have done had I tried to deposit a hundred times this amount. Still, I should have known this would catch too much attention. Any attention is too much attention.

The goblin recovers fairly quickly. "Surely Mr. Dumbledore. Right this way." The blighter leads us through the double doors towards their executive account managers, and I'm already regretting visiting Gringotts.

I'd always found the hallways in Gringotts rather creepy. They were long, fairly dark, and yet blindingly white. Marble polished beyond belief – even ten overpowered scourifys couldn't do it that well.

Also, for creatures so small, Goblins sure liked their ceilings large. The overpowering space helped make me feel insignificant when I first entered Gringotts. And I know that's part of the intent. It's not the main reason, however. When you know why the ceilings really are so high, the whole thing is even more ominous. Gringott's ceilings are so high because Goblins have golems that they've created, used to guard against an attack or a break in at Gringotts. The golems guard only the top floor because they're so heavy, but they're also neigh impossible to penetrate with magic, huge, unbearably strong, and astonishingly quick.

I'd never seen them in action, but I'd fought against a wizard-made Golem, said to be weaker, and it was still tough as fuck.

So, yeah, the height of Gringotts kinda freaks me out.

The goblin leads us down one hallway. Then, at a dead end, we turn right. Halfway through this hallway, we make another right, then we turn left, then another right, then left again, then right into a curved hallway, and if you're confused by this time, then I sure as fuck am. Finally, we make another right, another left, a sharp right, and an abrupt left. The goblin stops before a golden door, and the only reason I haven't shit myself is because Albus and I are the two most powerful wizards in Europe right now, and we could probably take apart half the bank, or at least its wards, if needed.

The goblin bows before the door and says, "Director Veinfist to see you," and the door opens.

Hermione complained a little about goblins not being allowed to use wands, and Dean always said it was somewhat unfair too. They never quite understood what I learnt from the wizards, and from history. Goblins don't need wands. Yeah, they're prohibited from using them, but mostly because a warlock treats his wand like all men treat their dicks –too invested in something of such disappointing potency.

Goblins can't use wands; wands are banned just to rub it in their faces. Goblins use magic differently; they forge it into their armour, weapons, and doors. Or they wield it through swords. Seeing a goblin use magic, as our guide-goblin did in opening the door, is disconcerting.

Regardless, the door creeks open, and I barely manage to not shit my pants. We enter and I chance a look at Albus. He is surprisingly composed. I wonder if I look the same.

"Hello." I'm shocked back to the present.

Director Veinfist stands before me. "Hello Director," I say, and I'm glad to hear that my voice doesn't tremble.

He simply lifts an eyebrow. When neither Albus nor I respond, he speaks again. "Why are you here?"

I smile slightly, "I'm not really sure. I want to open a level one account."

His eyes narrow, "and you bother me for this why?"

I shrug and my smile glows, "I have no bloody clue, honestly. I'm here 'cause I was brought here."

"I see" he stretches the 'see' out, and I wonder if he's seen the telly of super-evil people who create tension in the heroes' quest by giving sarcastic replies and holding over him not yet defined punishments.

Then I realise that the telly doesn't exist yet. I await the next thing he's bound to say. And I wait some more. Awkward pauses really suck when you want something done.

"And how much do you want to deposit?"

"Just over thirty thousand."

"Galleons?"

"Galleons."

"And you want a level one vault?"

Oh, well if that's their only concern. "When was the last time any Gringott's vault was breached?"

He sneers, and I realise that I should know the answer to this already. "Twenty-six years ago."

"And before that?"

"Eighty-four years before that."

"And so why would I want a more secure vault?"

"Maybe yours'll be the one vault that's breeched." I raise my eyebrow. "Fine!" He's angry, and I'm not sure why. Maybe because I've just cheated them out of a good fee. Maybe just because he doesn't like back-talk, especially from a human.

I've also just cheated them out of getting to know my real name, of course, but I'm sure that has nothing to do with it.

Less than a half hour later, Albus and I are walking out of the bank. Say what you want about goblins, and I do, but they are efficient little buggers.

Oh, that reminds me. Now that we're talking about goblins, I just really need to get something off my chest. Some people – muggleborns mostly, myself included at one point – seem to think that goblins are just sad, misunderstood creatures who desperately want freedom and to integrate into society. The thought is that goblins would behave and help society flourish if only purebloods and wizards generally wouldn't look down on them so.

This is a load of shit. I understand the draw to be egalitarian, and I admire it. Seeing how Dobby and Kretcher were treated, to say nothing of how Um-bitch treated the Centaurs, I really do appreciate it. But it's misguided when applied to goblins.

The goblins have a motto. I don't know the exact translation; I don't speak gobbledegook, but it roughly translates to: 'bash a child's skull with a boulder; if the child breaks, then you shouldn't have fed him; if the boulder breaks, then put the fear of death into him every day and he'll grow into a fine young man.' The translation leaves something to be desired, sure, but I'm assured than it's actually quite literary in the original. The point is that goblins are fucking scary.

But that isn't the worst of it. Their society is painfully hierarchical. A boss can order his subordinate killed for any reason at any time and by any means. Seriously – you don't blow your boss exactly as he demands, and he can kill you. Of course, lineage protects you somewhat; their lineage laws are even more bloodline-obsessed than Wizarding laws. Even worse, their hierarchy is disturbingly sexist. If you know anything about the muggle Saudi Arabia or Iran, you have some idea what I'm talking about. Childless goblin women cannot be punished or executed. Therefore, if a goblin woman 'deserves,' and I use that term as loosely as possible, punishment, they rape her, make her produce a kid, and then torture her to death for giving them 'such trouble.' Yeah – the uneasy peace we have with the goblins is fine by me.

And I kinda went on a little rant there. I don't like goblins. But anyways, Albus and I are walking out of the bank and we go off on our other errands. The whole alley is a wonderland of novelty.

'A wonderland of novelty' – where the fuck do I come up with this shit? Still, however saccharine that sounds, it's true. When I popped into Diagon Alley the first time, I spent the whole twenty seconds I was here realising that I should have just apparated directly to the orphanage. Now that I'm back, I realise how weird the place truly is.

I remember Diagon Alley as a magical place – pun very much intended – of shocks, surprises, and safe, wholesome stores. I remembered Knockturn Alley as a place of darkness and dangerous and perilous adventure. I didn't even know of Devet's Alley until my seventh year, and then only by association. My understanding was that it was the slums of Wizarding London – brothels that couldn't afford polyjuice and inns that couldn't afford to keep a Hogwarts graduated wizard on staff.

As I walk past seedy enchanters on my way to their neighbours – high-end apothecaries – I wonder just what could have happened to turn Diagon Alley into the 'proper' alley.

As we exit 'Enticing Ingredients,' Albus says "the best bookstore is around the corner," meaning Knockturn Alley. My confusion increases.

And increases again as we enter Knockturn Alley. The Alley is dark and overcast as I remember it, but seems somewhat brighter than before – seventy some-odd years in the future. I still don't like time travel. But anyway, the Knockturn Alley of the present appears even more high class than Diagon Alley. It has toy stores and pet stores, and I see even a fine restaurant or two.

Our time spent down Knockturn Alley, which only thrust us about half a street down into the alley, ended quickly. The benefit of hanging with Albus is that he's fairly well stocked when it comes to books. The detriment of hanging with Albus is that he knows everyone.

There's a copy of Rare Wards of the World on the stands outside the store, and I grab it as we walk through the doors. It was out of print by the time I was born and almost impossible to buy. Albus approaches the shopkeeper first thing. He appears to be a fairly old man, and yet simultaneously as young as Albus. His smile is easy, his posture relaxed, and his gait unencumbered. His eyes are somewhat wide set, but I ignore that entirely. In short, I like him already, and he hasn't even opened his mouth.

"Albus!" he shouts, "My friend. I thought you had all the books you needed."

"I do Jonathan. But my cousin is about to enter Hogwarts," Albus motions to me.

So I step forward, "Cederic sir," I say as I stick out my hand.

He looks at my hand oddly and bows before taking it. "Clearly a man of the continent," he says to Albus. Then to me, he adds, "My name is Jonathan Prince, Mr. Dumbledore. It's a pleasure to meet you. Your cousin is a favourite customer of mine."

"I'm sure he singlehandedly keeps you in business," I say with a smile. Both men laugh.

"Not quite, but I can always count on ol' Albus." There is a slight pause, and I wish I could say something. I don't like being mute and feeling like a child again. Jonathan speaks up quickly enough, though, "So, you're from the continent?"

I smile. It's the lie we've agreed upon. I just didn't know that I'd fit the lie so well that others could tell. "Yes sir. How could you tell?"

Albus cringes a little, and I realise that I should know. Luckily, Jonathan doesn't seem to find it odd, "you move to shake hands boy," he says with a smile, "that's a continental thing. A muggle thing."

He's still smiling, so I know that he doesn't get uppity about blood purity. From the smile on his face, he doesn't get uppity about much. "Um..." and don't I feel like an idiot. It's not as if I've killed any Dark Lords recently or anything. Fuck – "I didn't even notice. It's no wonder the Potters thought me odd. I bowed to them, but I don't quite know the proper forms."

Jonathan laughs good naturedly. And it's then that I fully realise what his last name means. He's a Prince. He might be the granduncle or the grandfather of Severus Snape. Well fuck. I look at the man with greater appreciation now.

He's fairly tall, almost as tall as Albus and quite a bit taller than me. He's fairy lanky, with sleek – one might, if one was uncharitable, call it greasy – brown hair. He hunched a little and a large nose dominates his face. I could actually see quite a bit of my least favourite professor. It's the smile, Jonathan's large almost overpowering smile, that seemed completely out of place for an ancestor of Severus.

Jonathan speaks again, "with the old families, no one quite knows the proper forms nowadays." Then Jonathan looked to my cousin, "Albus seems to get by fine. Otherwise, we're all a little uncomfortable."

I ask a question before I can even think, "Really? The whole wizarding world seems a little off recently." I then add something that I hope saves me, "France certainly was."

Jonathan laughs easily again, but there is a weariness to his eyes that wasn't there a moment ago. "Aye. France got the worst of the Goblin rebellion, and I even heard that their wizards were engaged in that Great War the muggles had."

I nod as if I agree, and, as I'd hoped, Jonathan continues, "Yes, I don't know about France, but England has had an influx of muggleborns and we're still not sure how to deal with 'em. My daughter, Amelia, was courting a muggleborn man named James Churchill. The man was a good sort of lad, responsible, intelligent, and fierce, but he was such a pompous little arse. He learnt that Amelia had lain with two of her classmates and went quite ballistic. It was so odd. I never truly heard the full story."

I nod, hoping to placate him. He might not know the full story, but I already do. Muggles, especially in the early decades of the 20th century, were far more prudish than wizards had been for thousands of years. I increasingly got the impression that the wizarding world was in a sort of surreal culture shock.

And Jonathan's confusion suggested that the wizarding world was even more liberal than I remembered. I remember when Ron feared that Skeeter had made Hermione out to be a 'scarlet woman.' Apparently, that wasn't quite the concern that Jonathan had if was willing to tell an almost complete stranger about his daughter's promiscuity.

In sum, I feel completely-fucking-adrift.

Luckily, Albus quickly rescues us, "So, Jonathan," he says, "do you have anything new in stock."

Albus and Jonathan talk about books as I scamper about finding the books I need for the new term. I add several on wizarding history, just so I sort this whole thing out. In twenty minutes, we're out of there, and we're home soon enough.

Mrs. Weasley hadn't seen me for months. Her hug is suffocating, though I still manage to enjoy it. She's a mother hen if ever there was one. Her children await their own suffocation, but she hugs me first. Their faces are amused, mine is rather embarrassed. She should be paying attention to her children, I think. They all seem to disagree.

As if he can read my mind, Ron laughs blithely, saying, "Told you you were a Weasley mate!" As if we didn't know this already.

Something about this meeting is different though. There's a tension in the air that's more piercing than the November cold. A Minister has been assassinated for the first time since the Goblin rebellion of 1857. And the ministry building was destroyed for the first time since ever. Voldemort's power grows.

And the new minister, Minister Abbot, is the consummate politician. His first public act in office is to tour the defences of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. His demeanour is gruff, direct, and suspicious. I'm actually somewhat comforted by that.

Professor Dumbledore, Minister Abbot, MLE Head Kingsley, and I spent several hours that very morning really discusses defence. Dumbledore and I, mostly I, told them everything we knew about Voldemort – everything pertinent at least. We agree to restrict apparation travel, over my objection. And we authorise the use of the unforgivables, over Dumbledore's objection. The Professor and I stressed the need to erect anti-transit wards over Hogsmeade; Kingsley agreed with us; but Abbot vetoed us all.

We also discussed my training. Dumbledore's already assigned Moody and Tonks to me, when they have free time. Abbot went a step further. He assigned two full time bodyguards and trainers – Aurors Abbot and Dawlish. I fear somewhat that he's just trying to get his son out of danger, but I've seen Dawlish fight. The man's an ass, but he's damn good.

I'm glad that I decided to take only three NEWTs this year.

After we discussed security for real, we took the tour and pretended to discuss security. Our army of ministry flunkies, Professors, and reporters had just entered Hogsmeade when more ministry flunkies and reporters, plus a sizable portion of the town itself, overran us.

And that's when we met Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Later, Walking besides the Minister, I continue trying to convince him that anti-transit wards are actually necessary over Hogsmeade.

"We made apparation illegal," he says patiently, "or, at least, we will. We don't also need to erect wards."

I roll my eyes, and Dumbledore explains, "But only Voldemort actively flaunts his power through the illegality of his actions."

"And that's why we don't need to do it," says Abbot. "If our sensors discover apparation anywhere, we simply apparate a short distance from them with overwhelming force. In this way, we cut off you-know-who's support. If we put the wards around Hogsmeade, we've have less of an opportunity to discover his agents."

Dumbledore just grimaces and haphazardly lifts his blackened, dangling arm, "Or he could ambush us."

Have I ever said how much I fucking hate fate? Practically as soon as those words leave Dumbledore's mouth, my scar flares with pain and a cacophony of pops sound.

Acting on instinct alone, I dive into the Minister, tackling him to the ground. I count at least four killing curses that fly over our heads. One strikes the Minister's wife in the arm; she falls. Another curse clips Auror Savage as he dives. Or, I thought it had clipped him. In actuality, it must have only touched his shirt. The man doesn't die, but his shirt explodes into flame. Auror Savage writhes on the floor screaming his lungs out.

And we're fighting. Hogsmeade is a shit show already. I see Dumbledore and Flitwick trading spells with Voldemort. Lucius is trading spells with Arthur and Tonks. And for a moment, the Minister and I are left alone.

But that doesn't last long. I feel a spell coming at me and I dive. Rolling, I see that Luna was hit with it – the cruciatus curse. Her screams are horrible, and surprisingly audible. It's one of the weirdest things about magical combat, something being raised by muggles made almost impossible to comprehend.

Unlike guns, which make an impossibly loud popping noise, most spells don't have sounds. I mean, sure, a blasting curse may be deafening if it slams hard enough into a wall close to you or something, but the spell itself doesn't make sound. It's why formal duelling is more like tennis than fencing. There are occasional grunts – in war accented with screams of pain – and there is an occasional explosion, but mostly it's silent spell, shuffle from a dodge, shouted spell, grunt, shuffle, silent spell, rinse, repeat.

I get my footing, parry a piercing curse, and decapitate the man cursing Luna.

I feel another spell coming at me, and I twist out of the way. It only partially works. Had I not dodged, I would have had a hole straight through my heart, which even magical medicine cannot fix. Instead, my left shoulder has a seeping galleon thick hole where a piercing curse flew through.

I turn to face my attacker. It's Bellatrix. I see red and start firing everything I know at her. But even the illegal shit I know – the demolition curses, the severing curses, even the bone-shatter-ers – she manages to block or deflect like so much rubbish.

And I'm starting to tire. The blood loss can't be helping, and she's laughing at me like she laughed at Sirius. She throws some dark curses at me. I can feel the hate, or authority, or lust radiating off of them. I fucking hate dark magic. It doesn't help that I don't know dark magic for shit. And the bitch is still laughing.

I retaliate with the only dark spell I know at her – rupture. It's the thin purple curse that Dolohov threw at Hermione.

I get the pleasure of hearing her shriek as she barely dodges the third deep purple line. But dark magic is even more tiring than regular magic – I don't yet know why. And so I start to throw the normal shit again, and end up falling on my face from exhaustion just as a compression curse finally slams into the bitch's side.

She cackles even through the pain, crazy fucking bitch. "Oh, little Hawwy, that the best you can do? The mutt would be so vewy sad. Avada Kadavra!"

And I can't dodge, so I know I'm dead. Fuck the prophesy, a bint with crazy eye'll finish me off.

But she doesn't. The spell goes wide, and I realise it's actually me who's going wide. I smash down on to the ground, only then realising that I was hit by a banisher. I shake my head slightly, trying to re-attach my mind to my body. I had been so prepared to die – yet again – and I lived – yet again.

The shock is debilitating. It might just be the blood loss.

I look at Bellatrix and see her exchanging spells with Mrs. Weasley. The spells fly back and forth at a pace I can barely see, but both women seem to deflect, shield, and dodge with ease. Neither have been hit once.

I need that training more than I thought.

Bellatrix palms off a cutting curse, and flings back a thick orange curse. Mrs. Weasley summons a flock of birds, one of which takes the curse and disintegrates in thick gooey strands. Then Mrs. Weasley flings a deep green curse, followed by a light purple one that looks like Ginny's famous Bat-Boogey.

Bellatrix takes the green curse and bats away the purple one. The green curse doesn't seem to do anything, and I can seem Mrs. Weasley's surprise as her next four spells are batted away as if they were nothing.

I feel cool hands on my shoulder. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. Ginny's perfume is quite recognisable. She thrusts a potion into my hand – blood replenished – and then raises her wand. We're both distracted by the battle.

Bellatrix just shot off several sky blue spells. Mrs. Weasley shrieks as she conjures a thin slab of stone. The spells all sparkle off the wall in rainbow coloured sparks, leaving no trace that they had any power whatsoever. Bellatrix smashes the wall and both witches banish it – but Mrs. Weasley wins. The shards streak towards Bellatrix who tries to melt them and throw them back.

Splitting her attention like that, her two spells are no match for Mrs. Weasley's one. Mrs. Weasley's second banisher is stronger than Bellatrix's and the melted mass collides with Bellatrix's right arm.

I wish I could say that I find Bellatrix's shrieks of pain as disturbing as Luna's. But I don't. I simply wish they'd go on longer or be silenced forever. Ginny stands up, and flanks her mum as the two redheaded women stalk towards Bellatrix.

For her part, Bellatrix has fallen down, still screaming. She'd probably have put out the molten stone by now, except that her wand's been incinerated. I smile. I'm a bad man.

Mrs. Weasley's a better person than I am. She sends a stream of water out of her wand, cooling the molten rock and obscuring my vision with a brief bout of steam. I take that time to look around the battlefield and try to stand up myself.

The battle is over. We've won. Hopefully, the information extracted from the Death Eaters, including Bellatrix, will prove invaluable. Hopefully, we'll be able to save ourselves from another of these pitched battles. They'd not been working for us so far.

And the aftermath is never pretty; there are bodies strewn about, most of them groaning. It's one of the difficulties with after battle mop-up. It's far better to just stun the wounded, so they don't feel the pain and you don't have to listen to them moan. Stunning spells are, however, intensely dangerous to the wounded, as the heart is weak enough trying to keep a wounded body alive.

But I can already see Healers popping in and tending to the wounded.

There was then a scream of rotting pain. It tore through me worse than the bitch's piercing curse. It froze my heart, churned my stomach, and ignited my throat with bile. I turned.

I turn to see Ginny's shield shatter and a diminished purple line splash into her chest. She crumples to reveal a victorious Bellatrix behind. The bitch has a wand in her left hand, appears somewhat unbalanced, and, upon seeing me, gives a vicious wink before tapping her hip and swirling away.

I hate portkeys.

I rush to Ginny and am shocked to see the amount of blood covering her chest. It's only later that I realise it's not all her blood.

With a small voice, Ginny says, "mum," before she passes out.

With rising fear, I look to where Mrs. Weasley had been standing. Her stomach is a ruin, her intestines pooled on and underneath her legs, her eyes wide in pain. It's almost worse that she's still alive. Her gaze is weak, but it finds me. She looks to Ginny and then back at me, the plea clear in her face.

I could call for help, but I know it'll be too late. "I'll take care of her Molly. I promise."

She gives a small smile. Her mouth opens, just a little. I strain to hear. The battlefield is noisier in the aftermath than during the fighting. "Good" is the only word I make out, though I know there's more. Then, still with that small smile on her face, she closes her eyes.

I sit there and cradle her daughter, promising to myself, to Mrs. Weasley, to her brothers, to everyone that Ginny will never come close to harm again.

With a scream not at all repressed, I leap from my bed. I stand, naked, in the darkness, relishing the feeling of my sweat as it slowly freezes on my body.

My deep breaths aren't slowing my heart rate. Even after what must be five minutes, my heart still pounds like a train. This is exactly, exactly why I'm so happy that I never dream.

I failed them all, every single last one of them. It's not at all right that I get to have peace, that I get to go back in time where I don't have to face the devastated world I left behind. It's no fair that I am wealthy, and powerful, and whole. My worst fucking injury was the loss of my left hand. And I'd already learnt enough by that time to construct a Wormtail-like replacement seconds after it happened. I even made it flesh coloured. And then I just kept on fighting, and fighting, and fighting, and failing, and fuck!

And today I return to Hogwarts.