Chapter 2

Harry Evens locked his front door behind him and activated his alarm, a bunch of letters tucked under his arm, stepping into the living room of his apartment. It was cosy, modern; just how he liked it. There was plenty of room, it had a nice kitchen, and there was not a single reminder of his past life…

… Yeah. Past life. It had been seven years since he had been sucked into, what he thought to be, an alternate reality. No magical community in this world. No Hogwarts. No Voldemort… and no Harry Potter. Of course, the magic was still there; but it was wild, untamed.

So, Harry Evans was born. A new identity, a fresh life… but it hurt. After all he had lost, he still had not managed to let go of his original world. This American dream, with the fast car, nightlife and money, was nothing. Sure, he had woken up in the middle of a field, in a crater, with his trunk, a bag of pure gold blocks at his feet (at least $800 000 galleons – he kept getting all the American "pounds" confused, so all he knew, really, was that he and any future children of his would never have to work again) and a very disgruntled Crookshanks. So he had adjusted to his new life. It was confusing, and scary, but he had eventually made it. He had an apartment, a job to keep him occupied and a new life.

During the day, he was Harry Evans; Supreme Espresso Maker. In lunch breaks, he was Harry Evens; bi-sexual, cute guy with a love of Diet Coke and talent for pissing off Sasha without getting fired. During the afternoons, after work, he was Dr. Harry Evans (a few confundus charms got him into the local university studying a double degree easily), professor of all things mysterious and supernatural, such as black holes and wormholes and people appearing out of nowhere (in his defence, it was interesting!).

At night, he was Harry Potter; the slayer of Voldemort, Boy-who-lived and soldier. It all came back in the nightmares. Violently. Dreams of war, destruction, blood, torture… he could not handle it. The permanent, dark rings around his eyes, however, were the only evidence of his memories the next morning, however.

Setting his bag down on the table and tossing the letters on the bench, he collapsed down onto his modern, fancy couch, glancing up as an enormous, ginger cat brrriiiiipp-ed and trundled over to him, rubbing its back against his legs, tail held high.

"Alright, Crooks; dinner time." He murmured, smiling slightly as he stood up and wandered over to the kitchen. After Hermione's… well, he took Crookshanks in. The cat still searched for his late owner, but he and Harry had some sort of bond now. Both had lost their loved ones, and both were all each other had left.

Placing a tin of cat food into a bowl, Harry stumbled over to the dining room (the cat was weaving in and out of his legs, tripping him) and placed it down, presenting the famished cat its meal. Smiling slightly as Crookshanks almost choked himself from the amount of food he was scarfing down his throat, Harry shook his head and wandered back up to the kitchen, intending to get something to eat for himself.

As he reached for the refrigerator door, however, his eyes were drawn to one of the letters on the bench. Or, more precisely, the tiny stamp one the corner of the envelope.

F.B.I.

All thoughts of food immediately forgotten, he snatched the envelope up, turning it over a couple of times. It had no address written on it; for all he knew, it could have been meant for the Queen. But, there it was; a blank envelope, marked F.B.I., fresh from his mailbox. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. What could they possibly want with him? He sincerely hoped they hadn't figured out his false paper trail…

Figuring he should get it over and done with, he dug his nail into the paper and slit it open, pulling out a letter. His eyes brushed over the words, his frown deepening as he read.

Dr. Evans;

It has come to our attention that you have superior skills and knowledge on the topic of numerous subjects in which we are trying to keep quiet at the moment. If you would not mind, we would like you to come to our headquarters at Washington to meet with Director N. Fury, head of S.H.I.E.L.D., to discuss the disclosure of such subjects.

He grimaced as he read over more of it, picking up on numerous, underlying tones in the writing; if he did not meet with them, they would meet with him. And if he did not help them… he would be in deep shit.

Muttering a few choice curse words, he tossed the letter back down on the bench, committing the date and time the F.B.I. wanted to meet with him to memory. This was exactly was he was trying NOT to do! The last thing he needed as the F.B.I. watching his every move! What if they… noticed him? And his… gift? He had tried his best to stay under the radar, living as casually as possible, even working at a coffee shop, of all places, but it seemed they had still noticed him.

Harry stopped and glanced down at his wrist. Tattooed in thin, black lines was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. Small enough to not be too noticeable, but quite easy to spot if you knew it was there. Not that anyone in this world knew what it was.

When Harry had gone to destroy the Hallows, he held the three together in his hand, preparing to cast them into the fire. Fate had other plans, though, because suddenly his body was frozen, as the Hallows warped and shrunk, burning their way through both his body and magic until all that was left of them was a tattoo on his wrist.

He was one with the Hallows. He was the Master of Death. And since that day, he had not aged. At all. It had scared him at first, but he was used to it now. Or, well, as used to it as he could get. He supposed that was possibly what got him noticed; despite being 24, going on 25, he still physically looked around 18. It was enough that he always had to show his (fake) ID when purchasing alcohol, and the number of times he had been asked if he should be at school... ugh!

Oh the annoyances of magic. It came as both a blessing and a curse in this new world. When he had arrived, he had quickly discovered that he was a LOT more powerful. Perhaps, he thought, it was because there were no other magic users like him in the world, for the earth to share her magic with; the Superheroes seemed to run on slightly different juice. Or perhaps it was because of the Hallows merging with him.

Either way, his first attempt using magic in this world had ended with a bang. Literally. And flames. And a mile-wide crater. Fortunately, he was in the middle of nowhere at the time, so there were no muggles around to witness his… accident.

That was also the moment when he realised he could not die. Well, at least, not die by any usual means. The face that he was blown up, burnt to a crisp and thrown three miles from the explosion place (and then woke up sporting only a major headache), confirmed that fact. Although he had not tried much else, he somehow knew that most things – including magic – would not kill him anymore. After that, he had stuck to smaller, less noticeable spells.

He no longer needed a wand; he knew that much. In fact, when he picked up his old Holly and Phoenix feather wand, it had exploded from the amount of raw power pulsing through it. So, instead, Harry had taken to carry two knives and a pistol, concealed in his clothes. He was not stupid enough to go running around un-armed. Even though he was a nobody in this world, trouble always found him. So he was ready for it. One knife in his boot, one hidden in his jacket sleeve, and a gun at his belt. Perfect.

That afternoon was spent typing up a report on a strange, mutated chimp found in Malaysia (Odd… but not the strangest thing he had seen) and playing chase with Crookshanks.

That night was spent hearing the haunted screams of his friends, ringing in his ears. He could see the devastation, hear the screams, taste the blood and sweat, smell the fear and death…

And so he awoke in the morning, dreading his 8:00am appointment with the F.B.I.