"Nothing like stale cake at one AM, huh?" Justin says jovially as he passes Luna a plate. He found half of a sheet vanilla cake in the freezer, apparently forgotten, but thankfully still edible.

Luna glances apologetically at the unconscious Harry. "He probably won't miss it."

"Exactly." Justin pokes his fork into the cake, and it crumbles a bit more than it should. "Cake cannot go to waste! That'd just be tragic."

Luna laughs in agreement. They sit on the floor, Justin kneeling and Luna cross-legged, one of Harry's many knitted blankets spread beneath them. The lamplight burns as steadily as ever, casting the apartment in a cozy orange glow. On Justin's temporary worktable, the computer hums tirelessly away.

A lock of blonde hair falls over Luna's shoulder, dangling precariously close to the frosted cake. Justin's hand twitches as he deliberates whether to tuck it behind her ear or not. Before he can decide, Luna does it herself without a second thought.

It's silly, he thinks, how he hesitates at laying a hand on her shoulder, or touching her hair, but can easily pass her a blunt or hold her by the waist as they kiss. It feels like young love, though young for them means the eve of their thirties. Justin decides to take the childish butterflies in his stomach as a good sign.

"I feel really lucky to be here," Luna says. Justin looks up, smiling, but her gaze is on the erasing equipment. "We're witnessing the dawning of a new technological age! Manipulating minds - um, that makes it sound bad." She chuckles. "But there's a lot of potential to do good with the research we do at Lockhart."

"Yeah." Justin loves when Luna gets like this, all starry-eyed and passionate when she talks about tech and science.

"After all, just look at what Padma, well, Dr. Patil has done. Giving people a fresh start."

The admiration for Dr. Patil is not new for Justin to hear. He gets it; what she's done is incredible. But given the past…

He recalls a manila card in the post, addressed to a Mr. Justin Finch-Fletchley.

"I don't think I'd ever get one done, though," Luna says seriously, interrupting Justin's thoughts. "I see the benefits, of course. But losing such a big part of my life, no matter how painful it may be… it's not worth it." Her luminous eyes turn on Justin.

"Yeah," He says again. Earnest, sweet Luna. Justin would put up with her chattering about Dr. Patil to keep her. Hell, he already does. "I don't think I'd do it, either."

With a sigh of satisfaction and an empty plate, Luna lays back on the knitted blanket. "I'm glad Pansy left," Luna remarks.

"You don't like her?" Justin asks. He can't blame her for that.

"She's okay. I just like having time alone with you." Luna smiles, looking up adoringly at him. He wishes she'd sit up and kiss him, but she doesn't. So, he leans over and kisses her instead.

It's too early for "I love you." But when Justin pulls away, fingers laced with hers, he feels like saying it.

Afternoon light filters through the curtains, casting orange, red, and gold on Draco's face. Harry, staring at him, thinks at first that they're still in the forest. But he shifts, feeling the couch beneath him, and realizes they're back in the apartment.

"What are we doing to do?" Harry asks.

Draco, curled towards him, doesn't answer for a moment. His hand moves absentmindedly over Harry's thigh, fingertips against bare skin. Harry's breath catches at the way Draco fits perfectly against him, narrow shoulders encircled by Harry's arm.

"Maybe we should be trying to make this last," Draco murmurs. "Before it all goes away. Do you really think you can stop something going on outside your body, while you're asleep?"

He voices Harry's own thoughts of doubt. Harry shakes off the words, but he doesn't let go of Draco. He won't let himself be taken away from him, not matter how much Draco's cynicism stings of truth.

"I can try."

He watches Draco's eyes close, pale lashes on pale cheeks. Harry can tell by the furrow in his brow that he's thinking. "Just go where I'm not," Draco says. "They made a map for me, right? If you drop off the map…"

"We can escape from the erasing," Harry realizes. Draco opens his eyes, and they glimmer with satisfaction. "You're brilliant, absolutely brilliant," Harry proclaims, covering Draco with kisses, one for each word.

"All right, all right, I know," Draco laughs, pulling away. "I wasn't top of our class for nothing. So…" His fingers absentmindedly run through Harry's messy hair. "Where can we go that I won't be?"

"Before sixth form," Harry replies immediately. "Before we met."

"Mm-hmm."

"We might run into Ginny," Harry says slowly.

Draco makes a face. "She'll be, what, fifteen? Fourteen? I can handle a kid."

Harry closes his eyes, remembering the smell of dewy morning grass. The piercing whistles of the referee. Calves and short hair and grins, teenaged sweat and determination. Cleats sinking into the sod.

"Harry."

It's been a while since Harry's been in England. But he recognizes it right away, the shift in the air, the velvet green, fog-shrouded moor that heads off beyond the football field. The sky is comfortably overcast. Chilly, Harry rubs his arms, and finds them clothed in tight black spandex, worn underneath his red and white striped jersey.

"Wiltshire," Draco mutters, standing next to him. He's wearing a jersey, too, over jeans, with a black overcoat. "Christ, it's been years."

A cheering roar comes at his back all of a sudden, and Harry turns to see a modest crowd in the bleachers, mostly young students, with a few parents and teachers whose faces he barely recognizes.

"All right, mate?" Hands land roughly on his shoulders. Piercing blue eyes, a shock of red hair, a thin face split by a wide grin.

"Ron?" Harry says incredulously. He's no older than fifteen, taller than most of his peers. Then Harry looks down at himself, and realizes that he, too, is the same age. The vigor of youth is injected into his muscles; the familiar energy and adrenaline that comes before a game sends his heart pumping.

"Who've you got your eyes on, then? Stockley? O'Donnell? De Rosa?" Harry follows Ron's gaze to the opposing team, warming up, black and white ball passing between their quick feet. He can't help but notice Ron's accent, strongly Bristol, not yet tainted with a New York drawl.

"Got my eyes on?" Harry echoes. "What d'you mean?"

"Who's the one to beat, Harry, quit being queer for two seconds," Ron says good-naturedly, ruffling his hair.

Harry punches him in the arm to shut him up. "I'm not queer," He hisses.

"I know, mate, I'm just taking the piss," Ron laughs.

"It doesn't matter anyway. I'll beat them all," Harry says, stretching casually.

"You'd better. I bet Ginny two quid you'd win by at least ten."

"Those are shit odds; you deserve to lose that money." Fifteen-year-old Harry can't help but look for Ginny in the crowd, but her flaming hair must be covered with a hat.

"Not shit odds when it comes to you, Harry. I'm counting on you." Ron gives him one last thump on the back before disappearing back up the bleachers.

"Win this one for me." Draco's voice is markedly different, and when Harry turns to look at him, his heart gives a stutter.

Isabelle, He almost says, but bites back the name. A sleek, blond ponytail, tortoiseshell frames, a green plaid skirt. Then the boy, hardly sixteen, flickers, changing back to the broader thirty-something.

"What's happening?"

"I…" Draco's voice is still high, and he forcefully clears his throat. "Damn it all." He changes again, the man hidden in an awkward, feminine shell. "I don't know. This is your England. The real me doesn't fit in here. It's like I'm…her again."

"Hey. Hey, no." Harry takes Draco's face in his hands, forcing him to solidify. His figure settles, short platinum blond hair, a jersey, soft lips, a jaw that could cut glass. "You're a man, Draco. You're my boyfriend, and nothing is going to change that."

Draco, a young Draco that Harry has never seen before, stitched from imagination, nods. "Win this one for me," He says again.

Harry kisses him, hard, uncaring of what people will think of two blokes snogging at a football game, of all places. "I will."

And then he's running, cleats over grass, bruised knees against the fog, teammates pulling into formation around him.

"Potter!" One of them calls and kicks the ball over. Harry takes it with ease, dodging one opponent, passing off the ball when he can't handle the next. The sun begins to peek through the clouds, and Harry uses the extra visibility to his advantage, watching, waiting for an opening.

"Wood! Over here!" Harry screams, and his teammate kicks it. A gap, a beautiful gap, opens between the keeper and the goalpost, and Harry takes the opportunity. The ball sails straight into the net.

By halftime, Harry's Salisbury Middle is five against Andover's nil, and the break feels like a victory. Another thirty minutes, and it's official. Harry's sweaty hair is tousled by all his teammates, who pat their captain on the back with words of congratulation, but Harry has eyes for only one girl.

Ginny Weasley stands on the sidelines, arms crossed, brown eyes glittering warmly in the afternoon sun.

"Not bad, Potter, not bad," She says, nodding.

"You came," Harry says stupidly, blinking and wiping the sweat from his eyes. He feels - he is - only a clumsy teenager, rendered useless by one smile from a pretty, brilliant girl. He doesn't mind it one bit.

"'Course I did. Couldn't miss the chance of you getting beaten, could I?" Ginny grins, nudging him in the shoulder.

"Very slim chance, I'm afraid, and it looks like I've crushed your dreams," Harry replies.

Ginny shrugs. "No, you haven't. You're still here, after all." She tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

When she pulls away, Draco has taken her place. Harry's smile broadens.

"Can't let her get you all to herself, now, can I?" Draco asks coyly, pulling the front of Harry's shirt. "Thought I lost you for a second."

Harry shakes his head vehemently. "Never."

"Where to next?" Draco slings an arm over Harry's shoulder, uncaring of the sweat. Harry memorizes the feeling of his body, cool compared to his own, pressing against him. It smells like grass, and spring, and Harry wishes that this childhood friendship had really existed. He would have treasured it more than anything.

"Ice cream, of course."

"What flavor will you get?"

"Hmm…chocolate, strawberry, vanilla. Sprinkles, chocolate chips, fudge, you know. All that rubbish."

"Good. As much as I am astounded by your fit figure," Draco says teasingly, poking Harry's stomach, "There's not enough for me to hug."

"You like me better tubby?"

"I like you the way you like yourself," Draco replies matter-of-factly.

Harry removes Draco's hand from his shoulder in favor of interlacing their fingers. You have no idea how happy that makes me to hear you say that. "What kind of ice cream do you want?"

Draco closes his eyes in blissful imagination. "Vanilla. With caramel on top."

Harry keeps a firm hold on Draco all the way to the sweetshop. For once, he doesn't disappear.

Justin and Luna float together on clouds of smoke, her leaning against the pullout couch, him watching the thin blunt dance between her pale fingers and powder-pink lips. A cassette player, mercifully found among the less-than-exciting vinyl, whirs steadily with his mix.

"Porcelain / Are you wasting away in your skin?" Anthony Kiedis's plaintive question treads softly on plucked bass notes and a gently shuddering snare. Justin smiles, delirious, and takes Luna's offered puff of marijuana.

"Isn't it amazing?" Luna breathes.

"He's a musical genius," Justin agrees, watching her admiringly.

"How she lets people begin again."

Justin realizes they are, once again, on the topic of the indomitable Dr. Patil.

"A fresh start," Luna continues, rambling. "A clean break. In what other universe is that possible? I mean, h-how did she…" She stammers, overcome with awe. "How did she even come up with this?"

"She's a neurologist," Justin offers gloomily from the carpet. He waves off Luna's next offer to share the blunt.

"Yes. Hard work and a creative mind, then." Luna exhales, smoke wreathing her bright blonde hair like the halo of a goddess. "I admire her."

I know you do, Justin almost says, but he holds his tongue, and instead rises wearily from the floor to check on the computer monitor.

There's substantially more green than red than there should be. Justin rubs his eyes beneath his glasses and looks again, but the brain scans haven't changed. "Shit," He mutters, and begins typing rapidly.

"What?" Luna calls dreamily.

"Where did he go?" Justin says, scrolling through all the images, but not a single section blinks in activation. All processes have halted.

Luna, sensing that something is terribly wrong, stands, wavering and unsteady from the high. "What's going on?"

"He's not on the map. He dropped off the map, I have no idea where he…" Justin breaks off, abandoning the computer, and reaches for Harry's house phone instead, dialing Pansy's number as fast as possible. "Come on, pick up, pick up…"

Frowning, Luna glides over to Harry, still unconscious. She can't bring herself to touch a stranger, so she stays back, wondering how hard he's fighting - and why.

The dial tone's negative murmur makes Justin grit his teeth, and he replaces the phone. "Shit," He says again. "We need Padma on this."

"Dr. Patil? Here?" Luna blushes, realizing that she's about half-dressed and buzzed out of her mind. "Isn't there anything you can do?"

"I wish, trust me," Justin says, dialing again. "But I have no idea what. Harry's out of my grasp now."

Cauliflower, potatoes, and curry sauce sit over a bed of steaming rice, while pieces of buttery naan fan the edge of the plate. A tall glass of mango lassi, sweet and thick, stands next to it. Harry's mouth waters, and he eagerly spreads his napkin on his lap.

"Ah-ah," Lily, her bright red hair pulled back from a kind, pale face, shakes her head at her son. "What do you say when someone cooks for you?"

"Thank you, Mummy. Thank you, Dadi," Harry says, bowing his head to his mother and his grandmother, an elegant, brown-skinned old lady with silver hair. He's forgotten her name, but remembers her smile, her warm, cooking-genius hands, and the smooth ivory of her saree.

Harry glances at his blond-haired friend, staring open-mouthed at his own lunch. "Draco," Harry mutters.

"Oh! Thank you, Mrs. Potter. And, erm, Mrs. Potter."

"You're welcome, my darlings." Lily tousles their hair affectionately while Harry's grandmother nods, smiling. They fade away, perhaps back to the kitchen, but Harry's childlike mind hardly registers it.

Harry immediately sets upon the food, using his fingers and pieces of naan to scoop - or rather, shovel - food into his mouth. Draco watches for a moment with a mixed expression of disgust and amusement, then begins to eat his lunch much more daintily, taking intermittent sips of the lassi.

Harry pauses to come up for air. "Do you like it?" He asks Draco. He must like it. The Potters are the best cooks in the world.

Draco nods, legs kicking under the table. Harry's glad that he's here, in the Potter family's tiny London apartment, away from the Malfoys. The sprawling moors and copses of Wiltshire provide only so many hiding places from his father's wrath.

Draco's face, adorably button-nosed and chubby-cheeked, flickers, and suddenly they're both adults again, still dressed in T-shirts and shorts as they eat.

"I've got to hand it to you," Harry says, voice deep with age, "I think we've done it."

"Don't speak too soon," Draco replies, nervously gulping down mango. "I'm surprised it's worked so well for this long."

Lily walks back in again, unperturbed that the nine-year-olds have aged twenty or so years, and Harry's breath catches at the sight of her. His mother, as beautiful and comforting as a candle flame, lights up the familiar dining room. Harry's memory blurs the edges, but he remembers the smell of turmeric and cardamom, the smooth, dark wood of the table, the view of the sleepy gray city outside.

London. He misses it more than he can say.

"You're here now," Draco says gently, reading his mind, and he takes his hand. "Be here, Harry."

Harry nods, a quiet joy blooming in his chest when Draco rests his head on his shoulder. This is the present, Harry reminds himself, no matter how fabricated it may be. He's determined to make the most of this, the hidden paradise they've carved out for themselves, for as long as he can.

The ringing of the telephone abruptly breaks through Padma's thin, uneasy sleep. She wakes immediately, rolling on her side in the dark, and slipping out of bed. Behind her, Seamus stirs, and the lamp comes on.

"Who's that?"

Who's that. What an idiotic question - she hasn't yet answered the phone. But Padma is used to her new husband's plain, surface-level perception, the dull observations. Perhaps it's endearing. At the very least, he keeps her grounded.

Padma picks up the receiver and clears her throat before speaking. "Hello?" The digital clock blearily reads 2:34 AM.

"Dr. Patil! Thank God." Justin's voice, young and frantic, spills through the phone in a rush. "We've - well I have - gotten into a situation. With Harry Potter."

"A situation?" Padma echoes. Next to her, Seamus groans audibly and pulls a pillow over his head. Padma sits up, long hair cascading over her shift. "What happened?"

"He's gone off the map," Justin says hurriedly. "Disappeared completely. I can't find him anywhere. He's…hiding."

"Hiding…" Padma taps her lips thoughtfully. She's seen this a few times before, the flash of regret in the subconscious, the brain rebelling against such an invasive procedure. No person has yet managed to beat the Lockhart system, and Harry won't today.

Padma has a job to do, and by God, she'll do it right.

"Is Miss Parkinson with you?"

"No," Justin says slowly, sheepishness coloring his voice, and Padma stops him before he could go on.

"That's alright." The bedsprings and floorboard creak as Padma spurs herself to action, holding the phone to her ear and rummaging about in her dresser for something to wear. Seamus tosses and turns a bit more than necessary, and Padma feels a sting of annoyance. "I'll be right there. Don't do anything but keep him stable and unconscious."

"Yes, Doctor."

"Unconscious, Justin, I really mean it." Padma flicks on the light in the bathroom, shuts the door, and places the phone on speaker as she dresses. "If he wakes up fully before the process is over, you know what could happen."

The crackling silence on the other end is somber. Finally, Justin says, "One more thing, Dr. Patil. Um…So, before Pansy left…"

"Tell me now, Justin, I have to go," Padma says hurriedly, rapidly braiding her hair.

"Luna came over. She's still here."

Padma rests her hands on the marbled, laminate countertop and meets her own eyes in the mirror. "Can she leave?" She asks, politely, without giving anything away.

"It's late, Doctor. And we, um…" Justin trails off.

Padma sighs heavily. "How much did you smoke?"

"Couple of puffs. Luna more than me. I'm really sorry, Dr. Patil, I didn't think…"

"I have to hang up now," Padma interrupts. "Be there in ten."

"Thank you. I really appreciate it."

"Of course."

As the phone clicks off, Padma takes a moment to breathe, expelling the last of her sleepiness from her lungs. She has a long night ahead of her.