ONE MONTH AGO, SEPTEMBER 7.

"Hey, hey, hey – watch it!" cried Andrew as he was pushed to the ground. The leather robes became dusty from the alley ground. Oh great, he thought bitterly as the two dark-clothed wizards began picking out his pockets. Miscellaneous objects began pouring onto the dirty ground – a pack of mints, a few galleons he had grabbed from a couple newbies, and a small scrap of parchment. "There – there has to be some mistake! I've always been faithful! It – it was just a slip-up!"

"And we can't allow slips ups if we're going to get where we're going," one of them men told him. "I'm sorry, Andrew. You had a lot of potential. It just…wasn't enough."

And with a whoosh of the cold night air, the back doors slammed shut, leaving Andrew lying in the alleyway with only the shirt on his back.

"Son of a…" Andrew sat up, looking around hopelessly, but there was no one to be found.

They hadn't taken the coat, he was glad at least for that. Though it wasn't technically his – I mean, what really was? – it felt like a second layer of skin. As long as he wore it, he was impenetrable. They couldn't break him. No one could.

Then why did he feel so confused?

In his mind, it was simple. He had a place where people respected him, a job he was actually good at, and most importantly, a cause to believe in. But in an instant, all of those things disappeared. He gripped the coat tighter, trying not to feel naked.

A single question, followed by a single answer, popped into his mind.

Whose fault is this?

That Malfoy prat.

If you have to give Andrew Smelting credit for something, it was his will to survive. He could change, adapt to his surroundings. He was the ultimate chameleon. And right now, the circumstances were not in his favor, so he simply had to…turn the tables, so to speak. His own home – his own family had betrayed him, turned him away at the slightest mistake. Maybe it really hadn't been home in the first place. Maybe he was still what he was two years ago…an orphan.

Pulling out two bricks from the alley floor, Andrew laid eyes on his second-most-prized possession – the bag. It had actually been his idea, really. Freed Blood suggested the whole "gun to the head" form of persuasion, but despite his unwavering support, he found it a little brash for his taste. Then on one lucky night at Hog's Head, due to some tactical trading, he had landed the Bag. Legend was it had claimed the lives of a hundred souls. The moral of the story? Believe it or not, flesh-eating slugs…eat flesh. Yeah. So don't mess around with them.

And so the Bag of a Hundred Souls was now being used to pick-pocket children. Tasteful, right?

But the trick to it – or to put it blatantly, the trick to not die, was to insert your finger in the small crevice at the bottom of the bag, momentarily immobilizing the charm.

Andrew did just that and soon poured out a good handful of galleons, rubber bands, a few sickles, and gum wrappers. It wasn't enough to last him forever, but it was enough to at least find a place to stay for the night.

Closing his eyes in concentration, Andrew soon felt his body twisting and turning until he finally landed in front on the first place he could think of – the Leaky Cauldron.

First and foremost, he felt his face for any major body parts missing…nose, mouth, eyes…only half an eyebrow. Not bad. It was better than the time he left behind half of his –

Gripping the coat tightly and shoving both hands in his pockets, Andrew made his way towards the door. It was a drizzly, cold night in London – colder than you would expect September to be. In a way, it almost made him feel consoled that the weather was seemingly sympathizing to his emotions. An appropriately cold night to match the strange, cold feeling in his stomach.

He approached the counter where a small, stooped-over man stood waiting. The room smelt of mildew and figs.

"Room?" the man asked in a wavering voice.

Andrew nodded and reached deep in his right pocket, coming up with a handful of coins and spilled them onto the counter.

The man gave him a look, but nevertheless, began looking through the money. The Leaky Cauldron wasn't a place to ask questions.

"I'd say it's enough for three, four nights," the man told him. "How long will you be staying with us?"

"Oh, I was thinking three, four nights," Andrew answered quickly. His voice was sarcastic, though his expression remained blank. "And if you don't mind, I'd like to put a pin in this conversation and go to my room. Thanks."

The man looked taken back. "Ah, well…um…yes, of course. Right this way."

Andrew followed the man through the dining room, which was mostly empty except for a few sleeping drunks by the bar, including the bartender himself. They went up the creaking steps, and finally down a long, winding hallway. Somewhere on this floor, Andrew thought mercifully, will be my salvation.

"That crazy land-lady still around here?"

The man looked back and asked, "I beg your pardon?"

"That land-lady," Andrew explained, exasperated. "The one with the crazy blonde curls. She still here?"

"Miss Abbott? Oh, from time to time, sir. When she's not visiting her husband," the man told him, trying to remain pleasant. "He's a professor at Hogwarts, you know. Longbottom, I'd like to say? Ever heard about him?"

Andrew sighed and mumbled bitterly, "Have I ever…"

At last they arrived at a paint-chipped door was the numbers 731 in gold lettering.

"Here's your key," the man told Andrew, handing him what he had promised. "I hope you enjoy your stay."

The man nodded and began hastily walking down the hall. Inserting the key and turning it twice, Andrew let himself inside. It was a plain room, but still better than he was used to.

Right before he shut the door, Andrew called to the man, "Hey!"

He whipped his head around. "Yes, sir?"

"If that land-lady or her husband comes around…let me know, will ya?"

Though his expression was obviously confused at the odd request, the man said quietly, "Yes, sir. I'll see to it."

With a loud creak, the door shut behind him. Andrew was alone, betrayed, and as much as he tried to ignore it, a little bit afraid.

0o0o0

The next couple days he spent in the bar, gambling on whatever he could, trying to scramble up more cash to lengthen his stay. If he couldn't, what was next? An alley? A park bench? Nothing seemed like a good option for the simple reason that nothing was a good option. Andrew Smelting would go back to being a nobody – just another nose-wiping Hogwarts dropout.

Did he want to go back? No, of course not. He had made his decision long ago – there were bigger and better things than school. There were things he could fight for, things he could be a part of. To put it simply, Andrew was looking for something bigger than himself. And he thought he had found it…but it had been too good to be true.

He was busy drowning his sorrows in firewhiskey when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Smelting. Long time, no see."

Andrew turned to face a huge giant of a man. Boris Huckleberry was ten times bigger, ten times stronger, and therefore, ten times scarier than Andrew Smelting ever could be. Throughout his career of having no career, he and Boris had bumped into each other numerous times. And they all had to do with Boris's favorite topic in the world…money.

"Boris!" Andrew greeted cheerfully, holding up a mug. "My amigo, my pal, my buddy…"

Boris scoffed at the pathetic lifeform in front of him. "It's a shame we must always meet like this, Smelting, but you owe me. And don't try to act surprised…this is a year in the running, and I'm tired of your excuses." His voice dropped. "Your little Freed Blood buddies can't protect you now," he added hoarsely.

Andrew raised his eyebrows and took another gulp of whiskey. "Yeah, well, there won't be a problem with that anymore."

Now it was Boris's turn to raise an eyebrow. "They cut you out? After all this time, you got the boot?"

"Shut it, Huckleberry," Andrew told him off. "It was a…misunderstanding of sorts."

"You know," Boris began, taking a seat beside him at the bar, "rumor has it that a certain Malfoy might be a part of all this…know anything about that?"

"What's it to you?"

"Well, I'm just saying, Smelting. I might be willing to forget this whole little escapade for some valuable information…people want to know. They're scared – Malfoy breaks out and just yesterday, one of Kingsley's little spies got taken –"

Andrew choked on his drink. "Wait, what?"

"You didn't know?" Boris asked, shoving a sickle on the bar and nodding to the bartender to fetch him a drink. "Yeah, in fact, I think it was Malfoy's grandson who got grabbed at the rally. Prophet's supposed to release something later today. Heard that Skeeter's got all the details, and we all know how we can count on her."

Andrew just stared at him. "I can't tell if you're joking or not."

"Look, all I'm saying is that people want to know. Kingsley's paying anyone he can find just to get information, so if you were there –"

Eureka.

Slamming his drink onto the bar, Andrew got up and fixed his coat, slinging a bag over one shoulder. "Well, Boris, it's been nice to catch-up, but I really should be going."

"Hey – what about my money?" Boris called angrily as Andrew inched towards the door.

"In a day or so, I'm going to be a millionaire, compadre," he told him, smirking. "Money won't be a problem."

Feeling relieved and a little insane, Andrew strutted over to the front counter where the hunch-backed man stood waiting.

"Sir, can I help you?"

"That land-lady and her husband…are they going to be coming in today?"

The man frowned. "I should think so; they usually come in every Sunday. I was going to tell you, sir."

Andrew waved him off. "Doesn't matter. Do you know what time?"

"Around noon, I would think."

"Perfect."

"Should I pass on a message, sir?"

Andrew smiled. "Tell them that I have some news they may find to be quite…interesting."

0o0o0

The years following the war had been the roughest in Draco Malfoy's life. His father was now in prison. His mother's heart was now in shambles, as was her piece of mind. Draco, however, was fighting a battle all his own. Potter had saved him from any sort of major punishment – what he had done at Malfoy Manor payed off, and it seemed that the worst thing coming his way would be trying to pick up the pieces.

But there were no pieces.

It had been a week since Draco left the house. The only times he went out anymore was when he was required to – either for a hearing of some kind or meetings about his father's fate. All money and property would go to him, per his mother's request, but he almost didn't want it. It was blood money, accumulated over years of lies and deception, and owning it didn't make him feel any better about the situation at hand.

He had sat and watched as people died.

He had sat and watched as the Dark Lord killed his own followers.

He had sat and watched as all he had ever known was ripped away from him, churning and churning until it became twisted and cold.

And then there was the mark on his arm.

The mark of a coward.

But today was different. He had received a message from Kingsley, the newly appointed minister of magic, asking him to come into his office sometime that day. And so, taking a deep breath, Draco closed his eyes and apparated to the phone booth.

When he opened them, he was already inside. Relieved that no one had recognized him yet, Draco pushed a few buttons and descended to the Ministry.

Then came his least favorite part – the bathrooms. There was just something so outlandish about the idea that bothered him. Maybe it was the needlessness of it; maybe it was just the fact that lowering himself into a toilet didn't seem like the best situation in the world.

Nevertheless, he brought himself to flush and soon found himself sucked away.

As he made his way through the emerald tiled room that opened up before him, Draco gripped his trench coat tightly, hoping that by doing so, no one would notice him. But the act was futile.

First, came the glares. The looks spoke without words. "We know what you did and what it cost me," they said. "And we will never forgive you."

Neither will I, Draco often thought to himself. But telling them so wouldn't help the problem.

Then, the whispers. You didn't have to be able to fully hear them to know they were about you. The worst ones were whenever someone might combine the two, glancing and whispering, all the while being obviously subtle. It was a fire that could never touch you, but burn you all the same.

Through the roar of the fire, Draco hadn't noticed that he had already arrived. Two great wooden double doors stood before him, reading, KINGSLEY SHACKLEBOLT, MINISTER OF MAGIC.

He didn't even have to knock before he heard, "Come in, Draco."

Draco had to appreciate Kingsley for the lack of grandeur in his office, unlike so many of the ministers before him. This man had nothing to prove to anyone, and because of his forgiveness and knack for reason, he had the upmost respect for him.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Draco asked, taking a seat.

Kingsley wore dark blue robes – a more subdued color than he was used to, but appropriate for the time. Despite the plain appearance of his office, which consisted of desk, chairs, and a filing cabinet, the man still had style.

"Yes, please, take a seat." And once Draco had done so, he continued, "These are difficult times, Draco, as I'm sure no one is more aware of then you. But we must persevere. One day there will be another great threat, another great tragedy, and the horror we are dealing with now will one day become only that of a long-ago nightmare."

Draco nodded, unsure as to where he was going with this.

"But the path to redemption is a steep, narrow one. Those who walk it will often fall, fail time and time again, and yet there is no better alternative. You, Draco, have proven to me that you deserve that redemption, and most of all…my trust."

"Sir?"

"I'm going to add you to my private security council. Your knowledge from the war, particularly what you have learned on the other side, makes you a strong ally. I've spoken with Mr. Potter numerous times on the subject, and he agrees. We need you on our side more than ever. There are Death Eaters still out there, retaliations still occurring, and our world needs stability. And who better than someone who's seen the effects of war, power, and greed firsthand?"

"Oh, sir…that – that would be an honor – but I just don't think I deserve this. Not so soon…"

"I'll give you a week to make up your mind, but I sincerely hope you take me up on my offer, Draco. You have potential, and I'd hate to see it wasted because of the man you used to be."

"Thank you, sir."

"But…I'm afraid that's not the only reason I called you in here today."

Reaching underneath his desk, Kingsley revealed a small wooden chest with gold trimming. Strange markings were carved onto the lock, nearly impossible to interpret. He placed it gingerly on top of the desk.

"This was your father's. We found it as we were going through his vault…I was going to give it you when the time was right – when you had proved to be a changed man. Key?"

Draco immediately reached into his back pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. Tucked into the last compartment was none other than a golden key.

"He gave it to me a long time ago….but I never realized that it might…." Draco's voice trailed off. After many years, he had dismissed the key as another one of his father's mysteries he may never solve. But now, before him, could quite possibly be the answer.

With a shaking hand, Draco leaned forward and placed the key inside the lock. He turned it twice until it clicked and unhinged itself, then Kingsley turned the chest around and slowly lifted the lid.

Draco couldn't believe his eyes. "B-But I thought they were all destroyed –"

"As did we," Kingsley said quietly, marveling at what lay in the chest. "But your father had one all these years…"

"My God…"

"We need you to protect it, Draco. If something as powerful as this gets in the wrong hands…the consequences could be disastrous."

"I won't let you down, sir."

"Terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time, Draco. Prove to me that you are capable."

"I am. I promise."

"I certainly hope so, Draco. I hope so. This object has the ability to alter reality as we know it, corrupt the strong, and destroy all that we hold dear. We may never see another one like it, for it is quite possibly the last of its kind…the last time turner."