Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Three: Don't Go to Hogsmeade

The realisation that you were shortly to die would doubtless put some reservations in the stoutest of hearts. That his death was necessary to defeat the villain and win the war was something not-quite-right, a sort of oblique wrongness, hiding from him, as best it could. Yet, even despite this, he accepted the fact that he was living on borrowed time. He did.

Sirius had not. He'd raged and ranted as much as Harry had expected, when Harry at last spilt the entire contents of the prophecy to him. They'd broken it down, the two of them together, and gone over it all, line by line, as Harry had thought it best not to do with Dumbledore. So many secrets that man kept! And so many that Harry had to keep, especially now, when Dumbledore the enigma was an even greater mystery than he had been.

And Sirius had reacted quite as Harry had expected to those lines. He'd known at once what they must mean. ("You ought to tell Ron," he'd insisted, to which Harry had had the ready response that Sirius was the human equivalent of Ron. At least Sirius wouldn't set things on fire, or cause a sudden storm surge or a shift in the jet stream, Harry thought it was called. Sirius had not been amused.) But, in the traditional way that prophecies had of muddying these waters, he didn't know whether or not the second half of the prophecy had occurred yet, or not. Did it speak of the catalyst caused by his death as a baby? Or did it speak of a death in the future?

If he died, what would happen? Would he go into the Beyond, and be reborn again? There was no chance of his doing as Mother had, and taking up refuge in the soul of another. Ron might or might not be a biological relation of his (that was a rather convoluted question for another time), but the circumstances that had allowed his mother to live on in his blood and soul were very specific. To his knowledge, it had never happened before or since, and his situation was already different from hers, having access to his memories and some of his abilities, as he did.

If Ron had died during the chess match first year (and Ron's case, Harry knew, was different again), Harry knew (could guess) what Ron had believed would happen: he'd shed his earthly body and go home, or even merely become who he really was. But, of course, Ron's situation was very different, and they hadn't had the chance to see whether or not Ron's conclusion was right, anyway.

He thought of the lines again, leaning against the wall outside the Room of Requirement. It was a remote place, a decent one for being alone to think. Business nor class never brought anyone to this part of the castle. Malfoy had been spotted in the area, sometimes, on the Map, but Malfoy wasn't his primary concern. He was considering summoning the Room. But, for the moment, he turned over the lines in his head.

"The lost soul, trapped between realms/Bound in exile; freed in death." Exile itself a form of bondage, mortality also an option, but the entire prophecy had spoken, again and again, of chains tethering Riddle's soul to this world. The ivy grows bound by seven roots/Seven links in seven chains. That interpretation seemed to suggest that their fates were bound together until Harry died. Death, the great liberator, yet again.

Harry gave a humourless laugh, leaning against the wall, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling, high above. Death, the price of redemption. An end to exile, proof of worth.

As it had been for his brother before him. But, he had lived, back then (in the future past). And Stephen didn't seem to think that Harry had died. He didn't seem to know that Harry had died.

What did that suggest? That Harry had backed out? No. Even now he'd resigned himself to the inevitability of the thing. He was not going to bow out.

These were the sorts of thoughts he was thinking when Ginny came along, and his thoughts shifted to a different, but no more beneficial, track. Dumbledore's words echoed in his head—about reluctance to forge bonds, to care, when you knew that you were soon to die. Almost, Harry thought Dumbledore spoke also of himself with those words. That curst hand could not be overlooked!

But, it had certainly been intended to have relevance for Harry's own situation. And Harry did have those whom he cared about. His brother, Ron. Hermione, his friend (and future sister-in-law). Sirius, his dogfather. Remus, an old friend of long standing. Stephen, who had been willing to overlook that Harry had nearly killed him, back when first they'd met. And, Ginny….

Ginny….

There was no world in which this was fair for her, he realised then. Only one path of three kept them from the star-crossed fate of Romeo and Juliet. He might die. (Let her not join him in death, if he die in the war!) He might apotheose, as the Greeks called it—unlikely, but possible, in which case he would live on long after her death. Or, they might both be mortal, and he might survive the war, dying again for the last time before a truer death could claim him, sometime during the war. Perhaps, even at the end of this year. All of those cruel to Ginny, although the last was far less so.

These thoughts made him understand Dumbledore's words, even if he didn't approve of his decision. How could he be with Ginny in good conscience, when he knew that he was to die?

"Should I even ask why you're here?" asked Ginny, leaning next to him on the wall.

Silence. She continued after a moment, "You've been in a right state for the past few days—ever since Trelawney showed up at breakfast. She have some sort of disastrous prophecy for you?"

Harry cast his gaze down to his shoes, in lieu of a response. He was pretty sure that magic was the only thing holding those together. They made for a fascinating tutorial on modern cobbling. It was much better to study them than to say anything to Ginny. But, he owed her that knowledge, at least. He supposed. And maybe, just maybe, he'd been hasty…?

"She gave a third prophecy, but it's all in symbolism and lyric. An 'incomplete prophecy', Dumbledore called it. It told us how to defeat Riddle."

Ginny had every right to flinch at the name, but she didn't. She waited, instead. He knew by the quality of her silence that she knew that none of that was what bothered him.

"It told us the way to beat him. What artefacts were keeping him alive. Only, they weren't all artefacts," he continued. He turned his head to look up at her, leant against the wall almost ninety degrees to Ginny's almost upright stance.

"Nagini, for instance. His pet snake is one. Most of the rest have been destroyed already. Three remain. The cup created by Helga Hufflepuff. Nagini, the snake who tried to kill your dad, and—"

He cut himself off, and she turned to look at him, and her puzzled frown softened. At no point did she say, "Well, if you know how to beat him, that's a good thing, isn't it?", even though she had every reason but one to say those words.

A moment's hesitation. A thought flickered across the back of his mind—could Ginny outwait him?—but he gave it no attention, and it disappeared back into bleakness.

"And I," he finished, in his softest voice. "Sirius took it very badly. You mustn't tell Ron. He'll overreact."

Ginny was also capable of overreacting. "Don't you think he deserves to know?" she all but shouted. "He came here for you, you idiot! Gave up everything, and if you die, it will all be for nothing—"

"The war can be fought without me. He can still save Mother. And his brother, in the future, I suppose. All he need do is make different choices—or convince his future self to. Ginny, this isn't the sort of thing spoken of in the open."

He'd already gathered a ball of localised anti-eavesdropping, but it was a conspicuous thing. The inhabitants of the portrait of dancing trolls were distracted with violence at the moment, but that might change.

Harry straightened up, and marched past the doorway of the corridor three times, thinking of a comfortable room, but one that couldn't be invaded, one that none would access whilst they were within, and besides that, had anti-eavesdropping wards sunk into the walls.

Ginny visibly gathered words inside her head, face going very red as if she were holding her breath, and not her tongue. He yanked open the door the moment it appeared, and gave her a sweeping bow. "After you, milady," he said.

"Prince Charming you're not," Ginny muttered, as she passed him, and he blinked, following her inside.

"Where did you hear of him?" he asked. Ginny was a mystery at the best of times, but Ron hadn't known the fairytales of the muggle world.

"There was a library down in the village." (Ah, yes. Libraries. He should think of them more often, given how often he'd gone, back when he was ten.) "They had muggle fairytales. I got curious and went down there to read some and see how they were. They're different from wizarding fairytales, but I liked some of them. But, don't try to change the subject!" Her tone turned accusatory in the last sentence.

Harry was already making a circuit of the room, infusing it with anti-eavesdropping intention. That didn't mean that he didn't hear Ginny, however.

"I'm not changing the subject, Ginny," he said. He felt exhausted. "There's nothing more to say. I suppose this is quite unfair to you. I would understand if you…wished to pursue other relationships."

He turned to look at her just as she blinked, face frozen, as if stricken, tears gathering in her eyes. She swiped angrily at her eyes, as if they'd betrayed her.

"You're—you're breaking up with me? After everything we went through together last year, and—and before?" Her voice was almost steady.

Magic vanished from around Harry's hands, and he took a glance around the rest of the room. It would be a mock replica of the room where he'd first met Sirius (that he remembered). So many memories in this room.

"It doesn't seem right. If I'm going to die, why put you through that?"

"'Til death do us part, Harry," Ginny said. "I wanted us to get married…start a family…but even if that can never happen, I'm not leaving you. I told you I wouldn't, last year. I'm with you to the very end. I told you that. I'm not leaving you for anything." She gazed up at him defiantly, where she sat on the sofa. He came over to stand before her.

"There are three possible outcomes. I don't think you understand. Only one of them involves anything like a normal relationship."

"It doesn't matter," Ginny said, and he knew that she was deliberately avoiding using the phrase "I don't care", regardless of the relevance of the sentiment.

"I'm not breaking up with you," Harry said, sitting down next to her, and staring at the table before him, unseeing. "But, we do seem to be dating under false pretences. There are situations where I would accept false pretences, but not…not in a place that's supposed to be built on trust."

"I trust you," Ginny interjected, leaning forwards to look to the side at him. She was so earnest, and seemed, in that moment, more innocent and untried than she was.

"You don't understand what you're getting into," he insisted.

"You don't know what happened at the end of last year!" she shot back. "I had to deal with—I had to try to talk sense to—and you wouldn't listen to me, and I—!"

"Yet, you'll accept that, and even worse, in the future. Because, one way or another, it will find a way to come to that."

"You're worth it to me!" Ginny cried, and really only the pink in her ears was a blush of insecure embarrassment at admitting it.

Harry had no good answer for her. She managed to make clinging onto his upper arm and resting her head on his shoulder into an act of defiance. Shoo me off, if you dare, she seemed to say.

There would never be someone else like Ginny, who could keep up with him, defy him, make him think in new ways, challenge his beliefs without making him feel the lesser for it. What would he do without her?

What would he do when she inevitably died? What if he…didn't?

"We never talked about it, you know," she accused. "Not enough. I don't know what it's like. You're right. But, I'll take everything as it comes. That's what it means, to be a gryffindor."

He found himself smiling, without knowing why. He wrapt an arm around her, and wanted to be content. But, everything was in flux, and his mind was in turmoil, and no matter what Ginny thought, this wasn't right, or fair to her, and maybe Ron didn't care about that in his romantic relationships, but Harry did….

"What do you want to know?" he asked. "I'm sure you've heard most of the relevant story from Ron. I remember telling some of it to you, at the end of last year."

"I don't know," she said. "I don't know what I want to know. It feels as though I know so little. There's so many centuries, you know. Centuries like years. I can't understand it."

Neither could he.

"One thing I wonder about, though. It always felt to me as if—it felt as if something connected us, even before first year. It was part of the reason I didn't know how to act around you, before you went out of your way to get my attention. That made me think you felt it, too. As if…as if we were meant to be. I can't imagine…I just feel…I don't think I'd be happy with anyone else."

Ginny stomped her foot, thankfully not on his, and huffed, and managed to do it without moving her head, of loosening her grip on his arm. "That's not it. It's not just that I think we—we were meant to be. Although I do. I mean to ask…in the future. Do you think that he—do you think that you—?"

He could put together a bit of her question from this cryptic hash of words, but not enough. He waited.

"Do you think he'd feel it, I mean? Do you believe in love that transcends lives and times?"

He didn't like thinking of that time. He hadn't been his best back then, and he didn't like to be reminded of it, but he tried to think of it….

"I don't know," he said. He didn't know the answer to any of her questions. But, this didn't seem to be enough for Ginny.

"Do you believe in true love, Harry? In soulmates?" She looked up at him beseechingly, and he looked away, trying to silence his pounding heart so that he could try to think of the answer to her question.

"I suppose anything is possible," he said, keeping his answer noncommittal. This did not seem to please Ginny.

"Do you think he'd love me?" she asked.

Harry still didn't know. He knew what she wanted him to say, but it seemed a violation of an almost fragile trust to just say it. He tried to work through the other questions, instead. His mother had married his dad, but why? They didn't seem to be soulmates, certainly. But, her marriage didn't invalidate her love of Father, and he knew that that was real.

But then, too…what Ron felt for Hermione felt almost…superficial to Harry, and he'd never been able to place why. They cared about each other, as was obvious to any onlooker. They did the usual couple things of kissing and holding hands and sharing jokes and enjoying one another's company. He knew they married in the future. And, Hermione knew what Ron was.

It was ephemeral, fleeting, and neither of them spoke of that. Neither of them planned for the day, not that far into the future, when Ron would be erased, or reabsorbed, or whatever would happen. Particularly problematic if Thor were dating Jane at the time. And what would happen to any children they might have?

It was as if they'd deliberately not thought any of this through—as if they both intended that relationship to be a prolonged fling, one which would run its course in a few decades, and they didn't want to form any sort of real bond. They wanted to be free to go their own way, when that time came.

It wasn't what Harry felt about Ginny. He didn't want to let her go her own way, even though he suspected that this was quite selfish. He wanted to think that regardless of circumstance, they'd come together. And wasn't that what Ginny meant, when it came down to it?

"I hope so," he said. In the ordinary way of things, he would never be so sappy, but he said, "I can't imagine being with anyone but you, Ginny. I do hope you're right. It's almost…it's like a source of hope."

She rubbed her head against his shoulder, and said, "Then, it doesn't matter. None of the bad stuff ahead of us. No matter what happens. As long as we're together for it. Promise me you'll come back for me. That's all I want."

It was asking a lot. But, he glanced back over at her, and swallowed. "Of course, Ginny. I'll be there for you. I promise."

Let this not be one of the promises he was forced to break.

"Thank you," Ginny said, smiling at him through eyes full of tears. He was always making her cry.

"I don't even know what you look like, you know," she said, her voice almost accusing, but mostly teasing. His heart skipped a beat. He knew what she meant, now. They were on the same page.

He stood up, and pulled her up with him (her grip on his arm was still so tight). He turned to look at her, to give her a chance to change her mind.

"Are you sure, Ginny?" he asked. "No takebacks."

She huffed, and released his arm to cross hers, staring down at the floor. "I want to know," she insisted.

He shrugged, and, as he had back at Grimmauld Place, back in fourth year, he held his hand out, in a sign usually used as a "stop" signal. He swept it around in a semicircle around him, and the world shifted as he did. Even Ginny's clothes looked different (and felt different), but that was just an illusion.

Ginny caught sight of her bright blue dress first, staring at it despite the simplicity of the design. (And what did he know of women's fashion in any world?)

"Couldn't I at least have gotten trousers or breeches or something?" she huffed.

"Easier to make a seeming of a dress from a robe, than trousers and a surcôte," he said, and she at last looked over to him, eyes widening.

"Harry?" she asked. "What are you wearing?"

"Just what I was wearing before," he said, with a smile.

"You look a lot taller," she said, tilting her head to the side as if he'd look different that way.

"An illusion," he repeated.

"Have you changed your mind?" Ginny asked, as if this were the most important question in the world. "About us, I mean?"

He knew what she was asking. There was only one real way to answer her, as it seemed at the time. He bent down, much less than she thought he did, and kissed her.

"If you say that we are friends, then you do you intend to replace me?" he asked, sure to put particular belligerent emphasis on the word, "friends". Thor sat, tense, beside him.

"And, what, you don't believe me?" Sirius demanded, tossing back his hair and looking his most inscrutable.

Ginny glanced up at him when he spoke, but then hung her head, again, as if anyone hadn't noticed that she was crying.

"I find it difficult to believe that you are who you say you are," Loki replied. "Were it not for a certain difficulty I am having in understanding whether or not you are speaking the truth…."

"Yeah, well, Azkaban does that to you," Sirius said, his eyes going dark. Loki looked as contrite and regretful as he ever did, bowing his head, and reaching out a hand in apology. There was no malice in his gaze, as if he realised that he'd gone too far on that one.

Hermione looked as if she wanted to drag the conversation onto any other topic but this one, and caught Stephen's gaze, as if pleading for him to fix things, somehow. Well, that's what he planned on doing, now that he knew, more or less, what had caused this.

"You tell me that we are friends," Loki said, back to the subject at hand. He turned to face Stephen, but he kept an eye on Sirius, for some reason. "You say that you have a means of traveling back in time, and preventing any of this from happening. There are those who would make better use of your ability. Ah, but I digress!"

He turned without warning, and reached out a hand covered in something, across the gap in the aisle between beds, to Sirius. Stephen rather suspected that was raw magic Loki was holding out at Sirius. Not that it mattered, really, what it was.

"Did you bring any parchment?" he asked Hermione, in an almost-conversational voice that had her shivering, but she pulled out a stack of unrolled sheets of parchment (being raised a muggle meant that she was sometimes more comfortable unfurling them and laying them out).

He spared her a glance. "Good," he said, instead of thanking her.

He turned to Ginny. "Let go of my hand," he demanded, and Ginny withdrew, both physically, and if Stephen were any judge, emotionally. Loki could be a right jerk, sometimes.

He stood, crossing the aisle between beds until he stood before Sirius, and pressed the hand covered in magic against Sirius's temple.

Sirius screamed. Loki winced, Thor covered his ears, and Hermione backed away from the scene as fast as she could.

Ginny did not seem to notice. She stared at her hand, bereft, tears in her eyes.

"Brother, stop!" Thor cried, coming to his senses. He reached out to separate the two of them, but Loki shot him a reproachful glance, and Thor backed off, as if automatically. Then he shook his head, and reached out again, but by then, Loki seemed to have accomplished whatever he'd set out to do. Sirius slumped down to the floor.

The blue energy that had surrounded Loki's hand had turned into a sort of blue, syrupy goop. No one asked why he wasted no time in slamming his fist down on the blank parchment, and shaking the blue…stuff, from his hands.

Droplets flicked off, forming words, lines, diagrams, none of which Stephen could understand. A glance around at Thor showed that he hadn't even noticed the parchment. Hermione, by contrast, had noticed, but couldn't make heads or tails of it. A fledgling curiosity formed in her eyes.

"What is that?" she asked, but Loki gave her no response.

"The damage is not permanent, and it hardly matters, regardless." He shifted the parchment covered in blue goo to the side. It was already solidifying into a silvery blue ink. Stephen was reminded of gel pens, despite himself.

The room as a whole tensed as Loki gathered more of the blue magic around the same hand as before. It was a good thing that the Hospital Wing was, for the moment, empty. It was rare that Madam Pomfrey was called away from the Hospital Wing, but no one was here to hear the screams. That was why Stephen had picked now to arrive (or an hour ago, rather, which was how long it had taken for Thor and Loki, mostly Thor, to relate what had happened).

Thor was too busy trying to protect the others, that it didn't occur to him to protect Loki from himself. Everyone was giving him a wide berth, save for Ginny, who still sat motionless. There was no one near enough to stop him when he pressed that hand against his own temple, but Thor seemed to react without pausing to think to, when Loki screamed. He was on the other side of the aisle, trying to pull his brother's hand away, but to no avail.

It seemed to take forever, but Loki withdrew his hand, covered in that same blue goo of the previous parchment. Without a word, he slammed his hand down on the second sheet of paper,, opening it to let the goo spread out across the page. This was even more inscrutable than the previous parchment. And there was considerably more of it, somehow. It filled one sheet, and Loki replaced it with another sheet. And another. And another.

He worked in silence. No one knew what to say. Hermione looked terrified, and Sirius was still out cold. Ginny's head was bowed low, but everyone knew that she was crying. It had been one thing to think that he'd senselessly harmed Sirius, one of his oldest friends. But there must have been some purpose to it, for he'd done the same thing to himself. And hadn't they been quick to jump to the conclusion that his intentions were malign! Even Thor.

Perhaps not Ginny. It would never be known. She still seemed listless and lethargic.

If Stephen hadn't been a doctor, he would doubtless have recoiled when Loki thrust the stack of gel pen goo parchments at him.

"Take it, then. You say that you know my future self. These are my notes. If he is me, he will understand. The first sheet is my understanding of what ails Sirius, and how it might be fixed."

He ignored the way Hermione's eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth, and Thor opening his mouth to say, "Brother, I apologise. I misjudged—"

Loki cut him off, rolling up that first sheet of parchment, lest it become mixed in with the others, and confused. "And these…describe the progress I have made in my attempts to cure Remus of his lycanthropy."

No one felt the need to make some comment, to the tune that Harry was right, Loki had been researching that. They were still trying to come to terms with what had happened.

"Take them," Loki insisted, and Stephen grabbed hold of them, unthinking.

"There. Not that difficult, was it? And we shall see whether or not my notes continue to exist, in the myriad timelines that follow, if you speak truth. Let us see what my reincarnation makes of these."

There was a pause, in which no one else could think of what to say, even still. It would not occur to Stephen to ask, until it was too late to, why it was that the drain of whatever spell he'd used, the pain of it, hadn't knocked Loki unconscious. Stephen, attempting his best self-diagnosis, came to the conclusion that he was not quite in shock from recent events. He was in shock in the way most people used that word, but not the technical, medical way.

For now, silenced reigned, until Loki reminded him. "Was it not your intention to return to the past, and to warn my brother and my future self as to what was to come, and to tell…us, not to go to Hogsmeade?"

Stephen had that moment of blinking rapidly, as if stricken, as if waking suddenly from a sound sleep, and turned away, forming a portal one handed with the Sling Ring, whilst clutching the parchments in his other hand.

Stephen visited about once a month, now that Sirius had been saved, Umbridge had gone, and Harry needed time to devote himself to figuring out Riddle.

No one had expected him to appear, emerging from behind the statue of the One-Eyed Witch, which hid the Honeydukes passage to Hogsmeade (and was mostly superfluous, now Harry had permission to go to Hogsmeade).

"Stephen!" he cried, genuinely taken aback, and startled. It was more than just one of those instances when you see someone familiar in an unexpected place. Stephen looked ragged and worn, and his cheek was bruised. He looked as though he'd been attacked, but he stumbled forwards, into the middle of the Hogwarts corridor, blocking their way.

"Don't go to Hogsmeade," he managed to say, although it was clearly an effort. He looked about dead on his feet.

Hermione looked back and forth, and then hurried over, settling him against the self-same statue, as Ron kept guard, lest anyone else sneak up on them.

"Whyever not?" Harry snapped. He and Ginny were building a safe haven, for when the war came. It was a crucial endeavour. Nor was this the future, where he might be able to call her up on a cell phone (although she wouldn't have one; they didn't work around wizarding magic) and tell her that something had come up.

"Something happened. Something bad. Death Eater trap. They'd prepared a whole ritual. Won't work after the end of this year. They were desperate. Voldemort's idea."

No one noticed Hermione flinch at the name.

"Ah, the plan that Dumbledore remains ignorant of," Harry said, waving a hand in dismissal. "I'm curious. What was it, exactly?"

"Don't know. Wasn't there. Heard about it afterwards, from you and Thor. Only…."

He paused, and took a ragged breath. He tried to recover, but he felt winded as well as exhausted.

"Only what?" Harry asked, after a minute. Ron was listening in, clearly, but fidgeting, waiting for Stephen's explanation to make sense. The downside to being straightforward.

"Voldemort took it into his head that that 'corrupted corner of your mind', as you put it, raised an intriguing possibility. He seemed to reach the conclusion that that was one of your past lives, that you'd tapped into, somehow, or had been shaken loose when he—"

"That's ridiculous," Harry said.

"Well, he doesn't know the truth. So, he prepared a ritual, something to bring him an ally, in the form of whichever of your past lives had views most compatible with his own."

Oh. Right. Former supervillain, and all. That's a fairly compatible worldview, even before you add in attempted genocide. Harry winced.

"…And?" he asked. He motioned to Ron to return to watching the corridor. Surely, Ron could listen and keep watch at the same time.

Hermione stood up, and moved to join Ron at his post, shaking her head with fond exasperation.

"Well, he doesn't know that there's only one past life to call up, does he? And, Thor had been captured along with you. The ritual didn't sound very pleasant, and it backfired on them, spectacularly. What with how Sirius and Remus are…Loki's old friends, and…and that they told you about Voldemort. He—You, well, to hear it secondhand, he did a number on the Death Eaters, and staged a breakout. I met up with all of you at the Hospital Wing, after it had all happened.

"I'd always assumed before that I'd need you to help me, in the future. To get my memories back. But, you weren't there, and Thor managed somehow, and he told me that I should go to the Hospital Wing, a few hours from now. Hear what happened. I did. The only good thing that came out of this, are these."

He held out a stack of parchment at least an inch thick, and a scroll of it. "Loki's notes. He said the scroll will help you to heal Sirius, and the parchment will tell you how far he came on his research in curing lycanthropy."

Harry looked up from the stack of parchments, pinched the top scroll between his thumb and forefinger, and took the rest of the stack into his arms. It was a lot of papers. He knelt down, and unslung his school satchel to stuff them in for temporary safe-keeping.

"They might not last. I don't know how much staying power any of these sheets of parchment has. They're from a future that I sure as hell hope I just prevented."

He was arriving at his second wind. Breathing was easier. But, he'd probably had enough of time travel, for the day.

"Let's see if they keep, orphaned from their proper time stream?" Harry asked.

"Yeah. Don't go to Hogsmeade, Loki. The Death Eaters are waiting for you, and there's too many of them to beat."