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"In this world, one day death is going to take the life from everything that you love."

Chapter Five – Excuses, Excuses

One Week Later

10 Downing Street, London

"Consider this the end of cooperation between the Muggle and Magical worlds, Minister Scrimgeour," the Prime Minister said curtly, standing beside his desk, looking out of his window over the rooftops of London. Scrimgeour stood behind him, looking wan, his normally bushy hair looking relatively deflated.

"I know you are aware what happened. It seems we know what happened to the Home Secretary's son. He was found in his bed. All of his organs had been removed, and he had been sewn up again." The Prime Minister continued, his hands clasped behind his back, both of them shaking slightly. "While I appreciate the fact your people intervened and wiped the Home Secretary's memory, and the memories of all involved bar myself, I did not give you authorisation to do this." The Prime Minister knew, really, he was in no position officially to give Scrimgeour any orders; frankly, with the powers the man wielded, it was the other way around. Anger gave him strength.

"I was unaware we needed it to uphold our laws," Scrimgeour replied curtly, one hand on the back of the chair opposite the Prime Minister's oak desk.

"Have you studied any sort of politics in your lifetime, Minister?" the Prime Minister asked, still looking out of the window at the storm-grey clouds outside, which hung over the capital, swollen with potential rain.

Scrimgeour replied in the affirmative.

"Britain, that is Muggle Britain, has internationally and internally recognised sovereignty. To simplify this, the government, that is the democratically elected majority party in Parliament, has a power, through this sovereignty, to self-manage and be the ultimate authority. Now, the Wizarding World seems to have not grasped this concept." He spoke in carefully measured tones, still looking out of the window. Scrimgeour was apprehensive – it seemed that for this particular Prime Minister, two murdering wizards within three years was simply too many.

"We are doing the best we can, Prime Minister-"

"It is clearly not good enough!" the Prime Minister snapped, turning around, his blue eyes flashing behind his owlish glasses. Normally he was a mild mannered man in Parliament, some would call him weak, but in this case – when it came to the murder of a child he had known well – it was too much. "I am going to ask you once and once only. Remove that portrait, leave me an alternative form of contact, one which is one way only. If these murders continue, I will do my utmost to hold the Wizarding World to account. You may believe you can play with my mind, or addle my senses, or control me with your powers, but I have contingency plans which you are unaware of."

Shit. Scrimgeour thought, trying not to show it on his face. He had assumed he could carry out an emergency Memory Charm on the Prime Minister, but this was too risky now.

"If I become aware of any mental tampering with me or my staff after this meeting, I will consider it an act of war." The Prime Minister continued. "We helped you two and a half years ago, and I lost a good deal of very well trained military personnel, and equipment. In return I expected you to keep a bloody lid on the radical elements of your population. You seem to be unable to do this, so that's it. If the non-magical world requires your aid, which I doubt it will, then I will contact you. Otherwise if I receive any communication from you I will likely ignore it." He turned back to the window.

"Get out of my office."

Scrimgeour gritted his teeth, anger rising in his chest. He did not like being spoken to like that, but he knew he had been snookered by the Prime Minister, who was clearly smarter than he had given him credit. Scrimgeour did not like to think he had blood-prejudice, but it was hard not to look upon Muggles as generally less significant than wizards, if only because of their lack of magic. This, as they say, had come round to bit him in the arse.

With one last look at the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Scrimgeour strode over to the fireplace, taking the picture of the ugly man off of the way with a tap of his wand. Before he stood in the green flames, he took out a small velvet pouch from his robes pocket, tossing it onto the Prime Minister's desk. Inside was a small plain golden coin, which when tapped three times would alert him the Prime Minister wanted to see him.

With that, he was gone.

XxXx

"Harry!" Ron said, going up to his friend and giving him a hug – they were almost the same height now, with Ron having had a growth spurt to match Harry's unnatural aging. Harry smiled, and hugged his friend back, before doing the same to Hermione. They were standing just off of Oxford street, having been Portkeyed into a set of public toilets and met outside. Dumbledore was very good at arranging their trips out, generally into Muggle areas – they were all grateful for his hospitality.

"Alright, guys?" he said, with a smile. His bruises and injuries had been expertly healed by Sirius and Lupin, with a potion supplied begrudgingly by Snape. Dumbledore was also fine – the explosion from the magical trap had knocked him out on impact with the rocks, and he resolved to be more cautious in future.

They were no closer to figuring out what had happened to the children, and the gruesome redelivery of the bodies to their parents had not been easy to stomach. Dumbledore was positive they had been used in some sort of ritual, but in the absence of Harry's scar giving any clues about Voldemort, and a spell used to scry the Dark Lord showing that he was, indeed, still dead, they had drawn blanks. It had only been a week, but the Muggle-Magical fallout had not been pretty. Scrimgeour, whose birthday was in about a week and a half, was not happy.

"We're good," Ron said, falling into step beside Harry, with Hermione on the other side. "Revision is driving me mental, though."

"It would actually drive you mental if you did any, Ron," Hermione said with a frown, holding an umbrella up against the light rain that was drizzling down onto the shoppers. Harry laughed, steering Ron around a street lamp – his wizarding-raised friend was better at surviving on their Muggle trips out, though he still had to be careful pulling him out of the way of cars and trying to stop him staring at traffic lights and commenting loudly.

"I'll be fine," Ron said with a breezy air, as they walked into a coffee shop for a drink, something to eat and a talk. Generally their trips went like this – a catch up conversation, or failing that a trip out somewhere where they could have a good time and still catch up. Harry remembered a visit to a small theme park – Ron had never forgiven them for not telling him what it would be like. They ordered their drinks (Ron getting no small amount of help from an exasperated Hermione – over two years of trips and he was still a bit hopeless), and sat down in a corner table, away from eavesdroppers.

"So, apart from revision, how are things in the castle?" Harry asked, taking a sip.

"Same old, really. Ernie Macmillan and some girl from Ravenclaw are together, she's a Sixth Year," Hermione said. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Would her name happen to be Tara Hayes?" he asked, with a small smile as he took a bite of his Danish pastry, smiling broader when he saw the look of surprise on Hermione's face.

"How would you know... oh. Time Travel?" she said, with a raised eyebrow back at him. Harry nodded, and Ron laughed.

"Who else hooks up, then?" he said, and Harry snorted into his drink. He hadn't told Ron and Hermione that they would be an item – he thought that would be too weird. As far as he knew they didn't even really like each other in that sense this time around, without Harry there things probably changed. They were friends, but Harry had often been a mediating influence. And the lack of death-defying adventures had probably stopped them being bonded by trauma.

A cheerful reflection on their relationship, he decided.

"Well..." he said slowly, stirring his coffee with a small spoon. He smiled wickedly. "What do you know about Lavender?"

Ron's eyes flicked to Hermione, almost nervously, as she frowned.

"She's a bit of an airhead," Hermione said. "Why?"

Interesting, thought Harry as Ron looked slightly reproachful at Hermione's critique of their classmate. Seems he liked her before Sixth Year then.

"Oh, nothing. She got together with someone interesting last time," he said with an air of mystery, waving away their protests for him not to leave them in suspense.

"Enough of the class politics," Harry continued. "How's Birch doing as the DADA professor?"

"Pretty damn good I'd say," Ron replied, drinking his drink with a loud slurp, much to Hermione's disgust. "He's much better than bloody Lockhart ever was."

Harry nodded, as Hermione agreed, fleshing it out a bit to tell him a bit about Birch's most recent lessons. He knew they liked him, but he was interested to see how Birch would handle OWL teaching. He had taught Harry in Harry's, lamentably short, Seventh Year.

They continued their conversation, complaining about Snape, praising the Duelling Club, which had been set up the previous year, and generally gossiping about their classmates (apparently Neville had a crush on someone, and they were all desperate to find out who – Harry secretly put his money on Ginny). Quidditch came up; Gryffindor were winning the House Leagues, but things were by no means a sure bet. Ron was considering trying out for Keeper; Harry wholeheartedly supported him, implying he knew something Ron didn't. They often played this game when they met up – Harry would tease them with his knowledge of how things had gone in the previous timeline.

After a good hour and a half of amiable discussion, they got back up and headed to the public toilets they had emerged from, before sharing goodbyes. As he watched them enter the building, reaching into their pockets for the Portkeys which would take them back to Hogwarts, Harry reflected on the relationship he had with his friends.

These meetings were nice, there was no doubt about it, but he could never shake the feeling that these weren't his friends. This Ron and Hermione had been exposed to some drama, there was no doubt about that, but he seriously doubted they would be able to handle some of the things his previous Ron and Hermione had dealt with. Maybe their bond in the previous timeline was one of mutual shared horror?

Resolving not to self-analyse, he entered the filthy public toilet himself. Hopefully Tonks would have some leads for him to chase up; if not, hopefully he could do some more work on his animation magic.

XxXx

Three days later

"I'll have a shot of white sambuca, he'll have a double vodka, and they'll each have a glass of that red," Harry said, with a smile at the attractive blonde bartender, as he handed over a crisp twenty pound note, telling her to keep the change. Smoothing his shirt, carrying the three drinks expertly (with a little help from a Sticking charm), he turned back and carried them across the relatively full bar towards the table in the corner where Sirius and two rather nice brunette law students were waiting.

They had been frustrated by no further leads on the Muggle child kidnap case – the Ministry now had a small team of Aurors working specifically on it, with Tonks heading it up. Sirius and Harry had decided to cut their losses and head to a fashionable bar in Piccadilly, to unwind. So far it was going well.

He doled out the drinks with a smile, before taking his seat next to one of the students – was her name Janine? He would have to listen to what her friend called her – and taking the shot with a flourish. He was already a bit drunk, he knew, though not as much as Sirius, who was beginning to flirt outrageously and let his hand wander up and down the other girls' leg.

To the man's credit, she was not resisting. Quite the opposite, from what Harry could see. His godfather knew what he was doing.

He started up some idle chitchat with the other girl – definitely Janine, he remembered – about what she wanted to do after law school. In truth he was now half-listening, as he could see a man at the bar looking at him, and only him.

The man looked like he had just come in from the rain outside – it was quite a shower tonight – and still had the hood of his expensive-looking black raincoat up, making his face cloaked in shadow. He was drinking what looked like whisky, his obscured eyes not leaving Harry's face.

"Sorry, Janine," he said, interrupting her as she was describing a proposed trip to Peru, "I'm really sorry, but I just need the bathroom – do you want another drink while I'm at it?"

Janine replied, with a dazzling smile, that that would be perfect. One thing Harry had noticed was that the two they had picked up tonight were clearly not inexperienced drinkers.

He got up, heading ostensibly for the bathroom, passing by the bar and the hooded man. The man's head turned to follow him, a small smile clear on what was visible of his lower face, which was marked with blond stubble. Harry kept a look out of the corner of his eye, before actually going to the bathroom. When he left, the man was gone.

Very odd.

When he got back to the table, with another class of wine for Janine, he noticed a small silver tray with another shot of sambuca, and a folded up note.

"The bartender brought it over, she said it was from a friend," Janine explained, accepting the fresh wine. Harry frowned, sitting back down and opening up the note.

Potter, it read. Not a good start, very few people knew he was even alive.

Tumblehill farm, Somerset. Field four, fifteen metres from the south dry wall, ten from the eastern wall. You have one hour before I move it.

"Odd," Harry frowned, folding the note back up, a gnawing feeling of suspicion growing in his stomach, cutting through the pleasant alcoholic haze. "Hey Sirius," he said, causing his godfather to look up from his not-so-subtle glances down his companions' top. "I think I'm going to have to take a rain check on this one."

Sirius looked reproachful, as did Janine.

"Why?" he asked.

"Just got a letter which I think is about our current project," Harry said, lacing his words with no small hint. Sirius nodded, still looking fuddled by the alcohol.

"Right, right." He turned to the two students. "Did I mention what we did? Work for Interpol. Harry here is currently tracking a serial murderer from Argentina." The two girls' eyes widened, looking at Harry in a new light, who merely smiled and shook his head.

"I don't like to boast," he admitted. "I do have to go, however. I'm very sorry, ladies, but I think my godfather can probably look after you."

He got up, grabbing his coat and smoothing down his white dress shirt, before making for the door. Janine followed him, tottering on black heels. As he reached out for the door, she put her hand on his, and he turned to face her.

"Call me." She said simply, before giving him a very deep kiss. Harry, slightly thrown off balance, agreed to do just that as soon as he was done, before gathering enough presence of mind to give her a wink and open the door, stepping out into the damp rain, wandlessly casting a Sobriety charm on himself – something normally only taught to DMLE workers, and generally closely guarded for fear of alcohol abuse (it didn't remove the alcohol in your system, just the effects).

Not bad, Potter, he thought to himself. Still got it.

XxXx

Tumblehill Farm

10 minutes later

"Fucking weather," Harry grumbled, squinting up at the storm that had turned this part of Somerset into a quagmire, dimly lit in the cold night air. His shoes were ruined; he spelled the rest of his clothing to be waterproof and surveyed this farm before him. The note had said field four – he assumed that the makeshift sign (more just two bits of wood nailed together) that had a number four spraypainted onto it meant he was in the right place.

He didn't have much time to fetch anyone else. Whatever the note meant, it needed investigation. He felt confident enough to handle anyone trying to do him harm; this wasn't the Horcrux cave – he was prepared this time.

He squelched forward, counting steps from the south wall where he had Apparated to. The field was currently fallow, its neighbours finely ploughed.

Harry reached the spot where the note had said. He squinted at it again, through the pounding rain which plastered his hair to his head. It was written in, from what he could tell, masculine handwriting. Diagnostic spells which he had cast once out of the bar had yielded nothing.

With a shrug, he whipped his wand around himself to layer defences onto his skin. He was wary after the cave.

Next he pointed his wand at the muddy ground, before whispering an incantation which shifted out a large quantity of claggy soil, exposing something pale and white, pointing up at the stormy sky.

"Ah, shit," Harry muttered. It was a hand. A human hand, poking up out of the muddy earth, swiftly being submerged under a layer of filthy water.

He whispered another spell, moving more earth into a small sloppy pile to one side. As the rain beat down, filling up the small hole he had excavated with muddy water, he managed to levitate the body out. He took a look around; no one in sight. Just farmland, divided up by low walls and hedges, as far as the eye could see – not very far in this weather, admittedly.

He lay the corpse down, face first, in the mud, before refilling the hole. The body was dressed in robes – a wizard? It had messy black hair from the back. Harry rolled it over, and gasped in shock.

It was him. Harry Potter. Or a corpse made up to look like him. The corpse looked like it had been killed with the Killing Curse, and Harry felt a curious warmth being given off by it. He looked closer, seeing it was wearing a silver necklace of some description under its muddy black robes. Trying to ignore the fact he was staring himself in the face, he gingerly pulled out the necklace, the source of the warmth, before immediately diving backwards and erecting a defensive shield.

The bronze pendant, which had been inscribed with minute but numerous Blasting Runes, detonated, tearing the corpse apart in a spray of blood, mud and filth, making Harry's ears ring. The rain drowned out most of the noise, swiftly filling the new crater with rainwater, and the stench of death filled Harry's nostrils as he tried to wipe the bits of... himself, off of himself.

What the hell? He thought, glancing around at the scraps of flesh and robes that now littered the surrounding area. Deciding this was too weird, even for him, he summoned most of the flesh together, checked around the area one last time, and turned on his heel to Disapparate, the rotted and blackened flesh coming with him.

XxXx

Two Hours Later

"It appears our enemy is trying to confuse us or demoralise us," Dumbledore observed, as Scrimgeour ran a hand through his hair.

"That corpse was just of some random homeless Muggle, made to look made up like Harry. Whoever this guy is, he knows you're alive, Harry. That is not a good thing." Scrimgeour said.

"It was fucking surreal," Harry replied, staring at Dumbledore's desk. "I was just in the bar, saw this hooded guy, got the note, and then suddenly it was just an exploding corpse!"

"What is obvious is that that trap was not meant to kill you, Harry. It was meant to send a message – a statement that this "Master" knows we are onto him, knows Harry is involved, and assumes he is one step ahead of us." Dumbledore said, looking at Scrimgeour. "Minister, I assume you have upped security at your birthday?"

Scrimgeour nodded absently.

"Full Auror detail, spell scannings, checking for Polyjuice, the works. I'll have a Portkey on me at all times, and a bandoleer of potions. Plus it's in Germany, anyway, so I doubt we'll have that many problems," he answered. "We have Aurors working on the children case. I'll tell Auror Tonks about this, but not anyone else. Too weird if we have Harry Potter's corpse turning up in a field and exploding."

"The field, incidentally, seems to be of no significance," Dumbledore said to Harry. "I feel it was simply a convenient location."

Harry grimaced, glancing at Fawkes, who was staring at him with beady black eyes. The Headmaster's office was quiet – most of the portraits knew to be out of the room when Harry was there. The window was shut, and the grounds outside were barely visible in the night air. It was tidier than Harry had seen it – two and a half years of peace had lightened Dumbledore's workload – although there were still myriad eclectic devices scattered around.

"We need to work out who this guy is, and what he actually wants. He's driven a rift between Muggles and Wizards already," Scrimgeour winced at Harry's words, "although he doesn't seem to want to resurrect Riddle. Which leaves us firmly in the dark."

"No update on who the mystery powerful Death Eater is, or was, either," Scrimgeour said to his fellow wizards. "We speculate he probably rejoined Voldemort, and died in an ensuing battle, and we just didn't pick up on it."

"Do you think we should contact the old crowd...?" Harry left the question hang in the air. Dumbledore paused for a moment, where he was standing behind his desk next to Fawkes, and shook his head.

"We may have to reform the Order, but only when we know what we are facing. This "Master" may turn out to be something you, or I, or both of us can handle, Harry." The implications were clear – Dumbledore had not been happy about the murdered children.

"I'll do my best to patch things up with the Prime Minister," Scrimgeour promised, as he moved back towards the fireplace. "Hopefully I won't have to see you two until next week. Dumbledore, Harry – you know how to contact me if you need anything, and vice versa. Good night," Scrimgeour said with a firm nod, as he threw Floo powder into the fireplace and span off towards his office.

"Well that's my night ruined," Harry said, with a remorseful look as he idly picked up a lemon drop from the bowl on Dumbledore's desk. Dumbledore smiled a mischievous smile.

"There will be other girls, Harry. I wouldn't worry about that."

Harry flicked his eyes up to meet the Headmaster's.

"Indeed. But I would prefer to be currently enjoying Janine's company, rather than guessing over which madman made a corpse that looked like me explode. Or even which madman it is this time."

"It's never easy. I don't think it ever has been, I don't think it ever will be. Fighting Grindelwald in the 1940s was similar in its taxing nature."

"I don't think I've ever actually heard you talk about that one, Professor," Harry said, curious. He had read of the final battle; occurring in the skies and streets of ruined Berlin, as the Red Army blew the place to hell and back in their final assault. The Muggles had been perplexed to find a square kilometre of factory district totally gutted when they arrived, having had no artillery or strikes targeted on the area. Wizards knew better. Some of the powers summoned in that battle were, even to Harry, staggering. It was said nothing would ever grow again in that spot of the city.

Dumbledore paused for a beat. "I don't think I will be discussing that particular period of my life, Harry. It is something I would rather forget."

Harry longed to pressure the Headmaster, but thought better of it, nodding in understanding.

"What disguise am I using for this birthday party?" he asked, moving towards the fireplace. He just wanted to sleep after tonight. He could touch base with Sirius tomorrow and find out how his night went. Maybe he would even call Janine.

"Most likely something unobtrusive; a random Muggle's hair, and we'll claim you're a cousin of Sirius', or somesuch. He is, incidentally, invited. Rufus is making a big deal of the first major Ministry event since Voldemort's downfall, aside from the celebrations. He wants to ensure Sirius was there to make it look like the Ministry is truly sorry for his incarceration."

"How political of him," Harry said with a small smirk. "I'll keep in touch, Headmaster. Hopefully I won't have to see you again before next week; I hope even more that we get a handle on all this."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly.

"As do I, Harry."

Fawkes trilled, as Harry stepped into the Floo, a burst of pure Phoenix song.

Dumbledore sat down at his desk, picking up a fine eagle quill.

"I agree, old friend," he murmured. "I quite agree."