Harry walked back to the Gryffindor tower that evening, the book clutched tightly in his hands, his stomach churning. Ella had told him to stay, to marry Annabelle, who according to the tree in the book, was his great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother, or something like that. He supposed she had a point, but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel sick about it all. Where was Henry, anyhow? Was he trapped in Harry's body, trying desperately to understand the world around him?

These questions plagued Harry's mind as he dragged his feet up the stairs and into the Gryffindor tower. Richard passed him and greeted him cheerily, but Harry merely nodded and kept his head down. He was exhausted and confused and in no mood to talk to anyone at the moment. Unfortunately, Annabelle had a different idea in mind.

She was in Harry's room when he returned. The room was empty, except for her. She had lit the candles in the room, and sat upon his bed. Harry stopped in the doorway. Annabelle's dress was in a crumpled heap upon the floor, and next to it, the headdress she had been wearing earlier in the day, a heavy fabric stretched across a headband, embroidered with rubies and gold thread.

"Henry?" She called out, and Harry winced as he squinted in the direction of his bed. Annabelle was sitting straight up, her golden hair spilling out over her shoulders, her face stretched out in a seductive smile as she bit down on the corner of her lip. The sheets were pulled up around her chest, thank god, but Harry could see her shoulders were bare, and judging by the state of the dress on the floor, he assumed she was naked underneath the covers.

"Oh, god," Harry whispered, feeling sick, and he quickly closed his eyes. "Annabelle, what are you doing?" He held up a hand, as if attempting to block out the memory of walking in on her.

"What do you think I am doing, m'lord? Is it not apparent?"

"I think you should really get dressed," Harry muttered, trying to keep his cool.

Annabelle let out an affronted huff. "Henry, my love, I beg of you to tell me what bothers you. I feel that as of late, you wish to have nothing to do with me. It is not as if I have never visited your bedchamber before, in fact-"

"Really, Annabelle," Harry interrupted. He sighed. This had gone too far. Everything had gone on for far too long, and he was sick of it. He knew what he had to do know, his future be damned. "Put on your dress, please. There's something I have to tell you."

Annabelle let out a small sniffle, and Harry heard her scuffling around, the dress rustling as she pulled it from the floor. He couldn't help but feel quite sorry for her; he had been rather abrupt lately.

"Are you decent?"

"I am a lady, m'lord. I do not understand such a concept of being indecent."

"I apologize. Let me clarify, are you covered?"

"Yes, m'lord." Harry opened his eyes to see Annabelle before him, her head bowed. Her eyes were puffy and red, and Harry could see tears streaking down her face. He sighed again. "Annabelle, sit down. We need to talk."

She daintily took a seat on the edge of his mattress, wiping her eyes with the corner of her long sleeves. Harry sat beside her, being sure to keep a gentlemanly distance. He placed the book down between them, a buffer of sorts.

"I want to apologize to you. I understand that lately, I have not been myself."

"You haven't," she echoed. "Is it something I have done, m'lord? I wish to rectify-"

"No, it's not you," Harry interrupted. "And please, don't call me a lord. I don't…I'm not…" He shook his head. Annabelle stared at him, her reddened eyes reflecting her confusion. "Annabelle, I'm not who you think I am."

"Henry Potter. My betrothed," she said, smiling a little. "Lord of-"

"No," Harry interrupted. "I mean, yes, that's who I'm supposed to be. But I'm not. And I know you can tell, I've been different lately. As you said. And that's because I'm not Henry."

"Don't say such things," Annabelle said quickly. "Henry, you should not act upon feelings of inadequacy-"

"That's not it," Harry interrupted quickly. "No, Annabelle, think about it. You've noticed things about me lately that don't add up. Things that don't quite make sense. Things Henry wouldn't say, things he wouldn't do. And that's because I'm not Henry."

Annabelle was quiet, and Harry was unsure if she was fighting the urge to laugh or cry. When she spoke, her voice quavered slightly.

"Then, pray tell, who do you claim to be?" Her voice was dubious, extremely so. She thought he was a nutter, Harry could tell.

"My name is Harry," he told her. "And I'm…well, I'm a relative of Henry's. Of yours. I'm a Potter."

"Henry," she whispered, and began to cry. "Don't say such things. You've gone mad."

"No, no. Think about it. A few weeks ago, I had a fall. I couldn't remember who I was, or anything about myself. About Henry. Because I'm not him, I'm Harry. I'm someone else, and I'm…well, I'm from the future. I'm your ancestor."

Annabelle sobbed harder, placing her hands to her face to cover her tears from him. Harry gently touched her shoulder, and she flinched away. He picked up the book.

"Annabelle, please. Will you just look at this?"

She shook her head.

"Annabelle, please." His voice was increasingly desperate, trying to please, and she finally snatched it away from him.

"What is it? A prop for this joke you are trying to foist upon me? Do not toy with my emotions, Henry, I do not find this amusing." Harry didn't reply, he simply thumbed through the book and smoothed open the page to his family tree. Thankfully, he saw, the text had not changed, his name was still inked at the bottom. Annabelle squinted at the top of the page, and then blanched.

"Why…that's my name. Right there." She tapped the name with her finger. "It says…how did you…?"

"I didn't do it," Harry replied immediately. "This book…it appeared to me. I think it was brought here for a reason. Perhaps to prove my lineage to you. I'm not sure of its purpose."

"But then…" Annabelle looked to the bottom of the page. She ran a hand over Harry's name. "But you claim to be him? Harry Potter?" She let out a small gasp. "My great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson? What trickery is this?"

"It's not trickery, Annabelle. Please believe me. Look through the pages. I did. It explains the Potter history. There's a chapter on me," he pleaded. "Look to the end, if you wish. It is an biography."

Annabelle cautiously turned to the end. Harry could see the chapters about himself, about his life with the Dursleys. She turned the pages and Harry winced when he saw a picture of himself, age eleven, captured outside Ollivanders, Hagrid waving in the background. She let out an audible gasp.

"But…it's uncanny…" She stood up abruptly, dropped the book. "You are not lying," she whispered, staring down at Harry.

"No," he confirmed. "I'm not." She swooned, her knees buckling, and Harry's arms shot out to catch her. She collapsed, and Harry carefully transferred her to Richard's bed. She placed a hand upon her brow and whimpered.

"The behavior," she whispered. "The language. My god, your refusal to bed me. It all makes sense now, I suppose. And Ella…my god, Ella!"

"Ella?" Harry asked, confused. He frowned. "What about Ella?"

Annabelle turned her gaze upon him, pale as a sheet. "Holden approached me. Gods, he believes that you and Ella…that the two of you…I cannot even fathom…"

Harry knew, by her awkward pauses, what she was suggesting. What Holden had suggested. "He thinks we're having an affair."

Annabelle paused. "Yes. Henry…Harry, then. M'lord, I am sorry. I'm afraid I was hurt by the suggestion, and I was frightened. I agreed with him, I told him that I would look out for signs that the two of you were…together. This morning, I'm afraid I told him a lie…I was so hurt, you must understand…"

"What did you tell him, Annabelle?"

She lowered her gaze. "I told him I witnessed you and Ella embracing."

Harry almost laughed. "Well, I don't think he's going to draw conclusions from a hug. I mean, that could mean anything, really."

"I'm afraid you don't know Holden. He has quite a temper." She lowered her voice, as if she were afraid Harry could hear what she was about to say next. "I hear he expresses his anger through his fists. And Ella…she bears the brunt of it."

"Are you telling me that he beats her?" Harry had never quite heard the tone of his voice grow so dangerously angry. Annabelle nodded and covered her mouth with her hand.

"I need to find her," Harry said quickly. "This is my fault."

Without another word to Annabelle, he sprinted from the room. All that had seemed important to him, everything that had mattered an hour ago wasn't even close to being important anymore. Henry who? The thought of Ella consumed him, beautiful and headstrong Ella. He feared for her.

Harry found himself running into the common room, shouting for Holden, and alarming some of the younger students who sat around the fireplace, flourishing their quills with extreme relish. Richard, alarmed at Harry's demeanor, told him that Holden was not in the tower, he had not been for some time.

"He went to the Ravenclaw tower, Henry. He was visiting his lady." Harry shoved Richard aside and dashed through the group of students coming through the portrait hole. His feet had never quite moved so fast as he dashed through the hallways, causing shouts of alarm as he drew his wand and held it aloft. He had been to the Ravenclaw tower, and he steeled himself as he approached it, thinking of the question he would be asked when he got to the door. He had to answer it correctly, there was no time—

But it seemed he wouldn't have to answer a question this time. He heard a small cry as he approached the corridor, and when he rounded the corner, he saw what he had feared. Ella was against a wall, her back shoved against a corner. Her arms were up, her elbows jutted out as she attempted to cover her face. Holden stood before her, a hand raised. His palm was flattened, and Harry realized he was slapping her, and judging by the bit of her face he could see, he had been doing that for some time. Her face was raised and bruised. Harry's wand fell from his hand with a clatter, and Holden turned to see who dared approach.

"Potter-" he spat. "Perfect timing." Without thinking it through, without pausing even, Harry leapt at Holden. His fists flew out, his vision red, and he saw Holden's blood spatter across his tunic as Harry punched him once, twice, a third time. Ella screamed loudly, her tone terrified, but Harry couldn't—wouldn't—stop. He felt the bones in Holden's nose crunch as he fell to the floor, and Harry kneeled on his chest, closed his hands around Holden's throat—

"Harry, Harry," Ella sobbed, grabbing his shoulder. "Stop it. You're killing him." Harry stopped at her touch. Her small hands, delicately long fingers, clutched at his tunic. Harry rose to his feet, breathing hard, and looked down at Holden, surprised. He was unconscious, his face unrecognizably bruised and bloody. Ella sobbed harder.

"I'm sorry," Harry said immediately. He turned to her, alarmed at her loss of cool. He had never seen her loose her composure before—it was almost scarier than the image of Holden's hand raised so threateningly. He reached out towards her, hesitantly, and she slid into his arms, her face tucked into his neck. Harry could feel her tears soaking into his skin, and he stroked her hair, holding her tightly but gently against him.

"He surprised me," she murmured. "As I came back, he came from no where…he's never hit me like this before…I've never had this happen…"

"It will never happen again," Harry assured her. "Holden will never touch you again. I promise."