I don't own Harry Potter

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Lost Time

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Tides of Conflict

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The naked, dead body of Alan Stranger looked poised and tense, ready to fight even in death to keep his secrets. The premature scowl lines etched onto the face told a story of constant conflict, the scars across his body proving most of them were deadly.

Harry stared at the cold corpse for several seconds before reaching for the clipboard from his previous assignment. He was oddly collected considering the fact that he was all alone in stained, old examination room with two dead bodies. He had killed before, ended lives in many matter of ways, but it was entirely something different to be so indifferent to death outside of battle – a side of him that he didn't at all remember having. What kind of man did it take to dwell in such conditions for hours at a time, surrounded by death and the stench of blood, without even the slightest feeling?

How much of his older self still inhabited this body? The fact that a younger mind was controlling this older body raised the question of the whereabouts of its true owner. Had it been destroyed by his coming? Was it locked away somewhere in the depths of his consciousness? As what was quickly becoming common, questions dominated his every musing.

He looked through the extensive notes the elder Harry Potter had taken for the other body. There were mentions of many tests and ideas, but overall it seemed incomplete. Most of the techniques described were beyond him, the rest things he had read or heard of through conversations. Cutting curses, for example, tended to leave some sort of magical residue that could point toward certain types of wands when subjected to a Pollux test. His subject did not have any gaping wounds, however, making that particular technique useless.

After some thought, Harry decided on a general physical examination first. The true Dr. Potter had done the same. He went through the checklist completed on the first subject, diligently checking every area mentioned. There were severals bruises around the neck, along with a larger, purplish one behind the knee. Several other signs of a physical struggle became apparent. The assailant had presumably kicked the back of Stranger's knee after a long struggle and gotten him into some sort of chokehold.

He rifled through the notes again – 'Check for Signs of Strangulation' seemed the most relevant. The various qualities of a strangled person were listed below it. Harry first lifted an eyelid, checking for burst vessels. They appeared fine. Several of the other symptoms weren't present either, ranging from blue skin to deflated lungs. Harry amateurishly checked the last with a quick pump of the chest, finding abundant air leaving the subject's mouth.

The last, however, caught his eye - clenched hands stuck in rigor mortis. This was the telltale sign of a victim in close proximity of the murderer immediately before death, reaching helplessly for some sort of aid, trying to fend off an attack or struggling to break free. But if the subject hadn't suffered strangulation or wasn't outright beaten to death, only some sort of magic remained as the cause of death.

Here he brandished his wand, staring at it thoughtfully. Charms that resulted in some sort of physical change almost always were more difficult to cast than those focused on diagnostics or detections. Dr. Harry Potter had just enough magic to do his work, but never enough to cast anything beyond a cleaning spell. It had to be infuriating – it was infuriating. Harry kept remembering not to feel sorry for his older self. They were one now, and the man's problems were his problems as well. The injustice was overwhelming, so burdensome and unreal Harry couldn't bear to even think of it.

Angrily, Harry stalked over to the far side of the room, where an entire wall of photographs sat behind a counter. A surprisingly modern looking camera sat on it. The notes from the first subject included several photos. It was probably protocol, and something Harry could at least do. The magic based sections of the examination was something he'd approach later.

Harry briefly studied the pictures, finding each taken from a specific angle. A slight movement suddenly caught his eye, and he looked to see one of the photos depicting a body that seemed to twitch and move, wrangling around slightly as a result of some inner turmoil. Harry looked back at his own subjects carefully before continuing his watch. As he looked on, he saw all of them doing the same in various degrees. Some of the pictures had Colin or Daphne in the background, neither of which seemed to react at all to dead people moving.

He recalled something of this sort from Colin in Hogwarts. What is captured by a camera is not necessarily what is shown in picture. The boy was rambling on about photography when he had mentioned the fact that muggles couldn't appear moving in magical photos. Magic bestowed life to the figures, caught in the shutter and placed upon the film. Dead wizards still moved in death when photographed, ever so slightly and surely as the force drained slowly away.

Harry suddenly felt the morbidity of the entire affair and wanted to leave. He quickly took the shots from the same perspectives of the first set, noting all the specific positions depicted. Depositing the camera back in its place, Harry headed for the stairs to explore the Ministry.

--

Nobody gave him so much of a second glance as he came out of the stairwell and exited the newly named Department of Magical Peacekeeping Affairs. He found a kiosk near the lift with a map and studied it for several moments, looking for areas of interest. The cafeteria was above the atrium on the second floor, and doubtless where countless conversations took place throughout the day. It was nearing noon, and it would look odd if he didn't show up.

He joined the masses of people heading there for food, feeling somewhat safe in obscurity. A few wizards and witches he didn't recognize called his name from afar, but none felt up to pushing their way through to meet him.

A large passage took them to a massive room that made Hogwart's great hall pale in comparison. What seemed to be thousands of wizards – more than he'd seen in his entire life with the exception of the Quidditch World Cup – all sat down in long, clean tables with a plate and awaited the appearance of food. Harry stood in line and eventually took a plate, feeling slightly lost and alone as he looked for someplace to sit.

He should have known better, however, as several people motioned him closer. Tonks was a natural choice, but she was nowhere to be found. He settled on his boss, who he decided would be the worst person to snub.

"Hello, again." She remarked, looking at him with her strangely appealing eyes. "Any progress on Stranger?" Harry's mouth went dry. He made to respond, but was interrupted by the sudden deposit of food on his plate.
"Never mind that," She said suddenly, getting up, "Let's leave. I don't want to be here." Harry followed her dumbly, feeling slightly stupid and unsure. He hated being such a lapdog, but he didn't want to cause any trouble. There was nothing to be gained in being alone anyway.

"Where are we going?" He finally said, pulling up to her side.

She sent him a brief look of annoyance, but Harry could tell it wasn't directed at him. "My father's office. I can't believe he gets his food in his office. We have to come all the way upstairs to get food and mingle with the idiots that make up most of the Ministry."

Harry tried to look sympathetic, but he was too detached to really care. He could see his older self getting worked up over it as well. His vague image of the mysterious man was somewhat self-assured, slightly haughty, and more intelligent than Harry could ever imagine himself being. His gaze dropped again to the wedding band on his finger, thoughts drifting off to his wife.

What had the man done to her to make her so angry at him? He dreaded going home, as foreign as the word sounded to him, to the person that undoubtedly knew him better than any other in this new world. He resolved to try to appease her in the very least. Nothing good could come of more conflict, especially with his lack of ability to defend himself with magic.

The walk to the office was short, and Harry soon found himself looking at larger and larger offices, with prettier secretaries surrounded by more ornate décor. Daphne headed toward one such office, ignoring the protesting young woman sitting on the desk before it. Harry apologetically followed her, and entered the office.

An older, charismatic man sat behind the large, expensive looking desk. Harry looked at the placard before it. Paul Greengrass, Senior Undersecretary of the Ministry of Magic. It was the same position Umbridge had held years ago, before Harry had seen her dragged off to Azkaban when Fudge and his administration went under investigation.

"Hello, dear!" Paul said with a smile, getting up and kissing his daughter's cheek. He then turned to Harry, sizing him up with a grin and grabbed his hand in a firm handshake. "And you've brought Mr. Potter. Have you reconsidered my offer?"

Harry was saved by Daphne, who coughed and turned red. "No, father. Nothing of the sort. We're just here to escape the usual morons at lunch." Paul looked put down for a moment before sitting back down, ushering them to relax and make themselves comfortable. He conjured two chairs for them with a flick of his wand, earning a raised eyebrow from Harry.

Paul didn't seem to notice, and he quickly began devouring his own food. "How are you managing, Harry? I've heard the Aurors are finding bodies everywhere. Some new serial killer, it seems."

"That's right. Longbottom just dumped another one on him," Daphne answered for him, "A nasty time too, with all the other officers out in the Isle of Man for that nasty business with that crazy muggleborn."

Paul scowled somewhat. "And they say purebloods are all dark fanatics, or that dark magic is the scourge of the world. The pendulum has swung far in the other direction in recent years. What do you think, Harry?"

"I'd...say that you're correct." he said, trying to conform. Disagreeing meant debate, and debating was something he wasn't equipped to handle. More confidently, he added, "Alastor Moody himself, a pureblood, used a few dark curses to protect the wizarding world against those who abused it."

"Well put, Harry," Paul said, looking pleased, "I wish people would see it that way. They never listen to me. They say I'm a dark wizard, a pureblood, and that because my family has generations of wizards before me, I am obviously biased and lying. You could do so much – common sense coming from someone respected of your caliber..."

"...Someone who defeated the Dark Lord himself." Daphne said, eyeing Harry. Paul had an odd look directed at Daphne, but soon joined in.

"Join the Populist Party, Harry. The PPB needs someone upstanding like you. Those fanatics in the PNRP can't be allowed to take over the Ministry. They'd throw anyone who even thinks of using dark magic, even for good, in prison. They were angry when I pushed the Minister to close Azkaban!"

"What?" Harry couldn't stop the sudden outburst. Azkaban had been a fixture of Wizarding Britain for longer than Hogwarts. The closure of such an iconic location, a place synonymous with hell and punishment, the very wrath of the Wizengamot, was unthinkable.

"Yes," Paul said, looking fierce, "Longbottom wanted my head. He gathered up a bunch of his ruthless cronies in the DMLE and nearly managed to petition the last Minister to fire me. Luckily he knew better, and when his replacement came around, he had enough sense to listen and shut down the damn place. From then on, Longbottom formed the People's National Reform Party to stamp us out. They don't even have a presence in the polls, and don't represent Wizarding Britain at all. It's just a band of lunatic Aurors and ex-Aurors with hysterical mothers fearing another war."

Harry found himself wondering what exactly had happened to Neville. He knew the boy he knew no longer existed, but how had he become this? An influential, if not outright leader of a political party that endorsed the existence of Azkaban?

"We understand if you don't want to get into entangling alliances, but give it a thought." Paul said gently. "All this outrage over my decision to rename certain departments is just to soften up the image of the Ministry. Many citizens are becoming concerned with the aggressiveness the Ministry has been showing lately, especially the law enforcement arms. I'm just trying to soothe some tensions."

"I'll give it a thought." Harry said. He didn't want to commit, but he didn't want Paul's disapproval either. The man exuded a sense of purpose and righteousness he didn't want to stand in the way of.

"That's good." Paul smiled. "If you ever need anything or have any questions, just talk to Daphne here. Or, if you're close, just stop by my office anytime. I'm always up to getting away from all this interoffice politics that comes with the job."

--

Harry left the office and parted ways with Daphne, who reminded him somewhat mock sternly to do some more work on the bodies. He grudgingly realized that he had to keep appearances and actually do something. People expected him to pull off some sort of miracle, to break the case. He resolved to do some more research on himself, an odd prospect that made him feel somewhat like a voyeur.

He entered the lift, now empty with the majority of people at their desks, and pressed for the third level. The doors were about to close when a single hand stopped it. The doors shot open again, revealing a red faced Longbottom. Harry made to greet him before he was thrown into the wall of the lift, the large, powerful arms of his old friend pressing him painfully under his throat. The lift doors closed moments later, leaving them alone.

"You didn't think I'd notice, Harry?" Neville spat at him, tilting his said to the side, eyes boring into his own. "I'm watching that fucking Death Eater every moment of his existence. There isn't a single thing he does that I don't know. So imagine my surprise when washed up hero Harry Potter shows up in his office, hanging off his new fuckbuddy. What are you trying to do? You in something I should know about?"

Harry's shock gave way to similar anger, and he struggled to come free. "It's nothing, Neville. What the fuck is wrong with you? Get off - "

"No, you listen to me. That scum is behind all this. He's a fucking pureblood supremest bent on power. He just wants me out of the candidacy for Minister. Paul Greengrass is a dark representative for all the evil in this country. He won't be happy 'till he gets to throw around dark magic as he likes, getting his rocks off as he and his whore of a daughter torture muggleborns. So what does that make you? Their lapdog? Are you gonna cover for them now? I know they're behind these murders, Harry. I'd hate to have to put you down because you're consorting with the wrong side."

"All I hear is that you're a bigoted prick," Harry gasped out, uncaring, "No better than those you hunt." Neville scowled and slugged a heavy fist into his stomach. Harry fell hard as the wind was knocked out of him.

"Yeah? I'm a bigot for hating those dark bastards. I see. But you must be so much better. You cheat on your wife with every new piece of ass that walks by your desk. Now you're probably fucking your boss. First it was Tonks, now this. You can't even stay faithful to the woman you cheat on with – she fucking talks about you all day, and here you are bedding death eaters." Harry had nothing to say, and winced when Neville lifted him front the ground, pressing his wand to his throat.

"If I hear you're consorting with this scum again, I'm going to show the world who you really are. And not just you being a squib. It isn't enough for me to reveal that you're now a magicless has-been behind that arrogant face of yours. No – not just Tonks and Greengrass – hell, I'm going to unearth those two Death Eaters you tore to pieces that night. Remember them, you sick fuck? We still haven't found the heads. I shut down the investigation because I knew you did it, and why you did it. You actually loved Hannah back then. You wanted to avenge her, to hunt down the kind of soulless monsters I'm still trying to fight today. So don't fuck with me, Harry. You're going to do exactly what I say, or I'm going to fucking squash you like the piece of shit you really are."

With that, Neville let go of Harry and left the lift, leaving Harry shaken and confused, with a slither of self-loathing for his older self.