Chapter 2:


Harry had no intention of squandering his time by skulking at the Dursleys' until school began, so as soon as morning dawned, he set out for the wider world.

As he passed the same mirror in the hallway, he paused, considering his options. There were a lot of things he had to do before returning to Hogwarts, but he didn't want the name Harry Potter attached to some of the more insidious acts he was planning. He stared at his reflection and focused.

This was one of the subtler aspects of Chronomancy; simple enough that it didn't need a wand or preparation. Harry had always thought of it as his own equivalent to the animagus transformation. He stood there, and let time rush by at an accelerated rate, aging his body. Wrinkles appeared, and his hair lengthened, turning grey. He grew taller briefly as he passed through his prime, and then lost some height as age set in. Harry held the transformation for a moment longer, and then released the spell, leaving his body displaced sideways in time and almost unrecognizable through the changes that an extra sixty years had made.

Harry was amused to notice that his hair had grown much longer, but there was a shiny bald patch atop his scalp. His hunched posture and bony physique was actually closer to his fourteen year old body than his adult one had been, but he looked completely different.

Now his reflection showed an old man, battered by time into an unrecognisable stranger. It was the perfect disguise, thought Harry - and technically he still looked exactly like Harry Potter, which he had always found a touch ironic. He had often used this disguise in the past, hiding in plain view.

Pleased with his appearance as a shabby old man, Harry Apparated away, into Diagon Alley. It was the work of moments to find a suitably worn robe to match his disguise in a second-hand clothes store, so a handful of sickles later, Harry was dressed the part.

Looking poor had its advantages. Harry noticed the way that the other shoppers made way for him to pass. It wasn't much; most people would hardly notice it, but after years of war Harry had learned to pay attention to the actions of the crowds around him. It was always a good indicator of the mood of the day, and he was all too used to being ambushed in the street to let his guard down.

He didn't let the emotion reach his face, but Harry was pleased by the reaction of the people around him. Parents pulled their children a little closer, and the better-dressed members of the crowd either sneered or made a point of not looking at him. Yes, this would do. He looked suitably shabby to be down on his luck, and dodgy-looking old men were the archetypical petty crook of the Wizarding World.

Without having exchanged a word with a single other person, Harry Disapparated back out of the Alley. This time, however, he didn't go back to Privet Drive, but instead to the office of the Daily Prophet. Which was located in Diagon Alley, sure, but all the way on the other side, and Harry didn't fancy testing his knees for arthritis. Or at least that's the lie he told himself - in truth, he just couldn't be bothered to walk half a mile.

"I'm going to get so fat when I'm old," Harry muttered to himself, before dusting off his robes, straightening his shoulders, and pushing open the front doors to the office.

A bored looking witch in sky-blue robes sat at the front desk, reading a newspaper. Harry walked up to her, and opened his mouth to speak, but then noticed what she was reading, and chuckled. The receptionist of the Daily Prophet was reading a copy of the Quibbler.

She looked up at the sound.

"Can I help you?" she asked, turning her attention back to the Quibbler. Harry tried to catch a glimpse of the front page, but the angle was wrong, and he couldn't see much more than the name Stubby Boardman. He resolved to purchase a subscription for himself so he could keep up to date on Sirius' Quibbler-edition escapades, but that would have to wait. Today he was here to get an even more outrageous fiction published.

"Here to see Rita Skeeter," he grumbled. He didn't have to fake the unhappiness in his voice. That blasted witch had caused no end of trouble for him, and he was none-too-pleased about dealing with her.

"Name?" asked the receptionist, putting the Quibbler down and pulling out a long roll of parchment. Harry winced. From what he could see, it was a list of appointments for the day. He craned his neck, trying to pick out an appropriate identity to steal. The receptionist put the parchment face down and gave him a flat glare.

"Name?" she asked again, in an irritated tone of voice.

"Stubby Boardman," Harry tried.

The corners of her lips quirked upwards at that, but then she shook her head.

"Even celebrity musicians -" she paused, flicking her eyes back at the Quibbler " - or hardened criminals have to make an appointment first. Unless you have a name that's actually on the list?" she asked, clearly doubtful, but at least the earlier irritation was no longer in her voice.

"Mr Source," suggested Harry.

"There's no Mr Source on today's list."

"Anonymous Source? Rita's an old friend. Surely you've seen her quote me in her articles! We're practically colleagues," Harry claimed.

"Sorry," said the witch, despite her smile. "I can't let you in without an appointment. If you owl Ms Skeeter to arrange a time, I'm sure she'll be happy to take your story, but she's a very busy woman."

Harry wasn't too bothered by the refusal. He hadn't expected it to be easy, but he had an ace up his sleeve. The same one, in fact, that Rita Skeeter used herself. Blatant lies. He leaned forward on the desk, bringing his face closer to the receptionist. He noticed her pull back slightly, and remembered the face he was wearing. Yeah, not many young witches liked having badly dressed old men get in their face.

"Harry Potter's in St Mungo's," he whispered. The witch raised her eyebrows, and Harry seized the opportunity. "I was there when they brought him in. All very hush-hush. Took him to the isolation ward so nobody would know, but I overheard them talking. Heard how it happened. You wouldn't believe!"

Fame had always been a thorn in Harry's side, but this time around he was going to make it his bitch. He'd long since grown out of his childhood shyness, and didn't hesitate to drop his name whenever he needed a little extra impact behind his words. The fact that he was pretending to be someone else also did wonders at alleviating his discomfort at using his reputation so blatantly.

"Alright," the witch said at last. "Second floor, corner office. It's the first door on your left once you pass the framed photograph of her shaking the Minister's hand," she said, rolling her eyes at the mention of the photo. "Don't expect a finder's fee if you're taking out of your arse."

Harry smiled genially at the receptionist, and headed off in the directions given. The first step of today's plan was a roaring success. Now it was time for phase two - launch a smear campaign against the Boy-Who-Lived. He snickered at the thought that he'd be setting in motion what Skeeter had ended up doing of her own accord. The difference was that this time, he'd be pulling the strings.

Skeeter's office was easy enough to find. The receptionist's distaste for the photo had been well earned. Everything about it was revolting, from the putrid lime robes worn by Skeeter to Fudge's jowls wobbling as he shook Skeeter's hand, over and over again. Harry wouldn't be surprised if Skeeter had charmed the photo to loop those few seconds over and over, rather than acting like most moving magical photographs. Fudge's face looked like a mixture of pork and jelly, wobbling atrociously. Trust Rita Skeeter to find a way to humiliate every public figure she came across, even when being presented with an award. Harry didn't even know what awards were given to journalists, but she was clearly being given some kind of accolade in the scene pictured. An Order of Merlin, No Class? That sounded about right.

Not bothering to knock, Harry walked straight into Skeeter's office. It was empty.

"Bollocks," he swore. He should have realised that she spent more time harassing the public with her quick-quotes quill and bad perfume than in her office. The receptionist had seemed to think that Skeeter was in her office, though, or surely she'd have told him to come back another time.

Harry flopped in a chair in the corner of the room, and decided to wait for the infuriating woman to turn up. Hopefully she was just getting a cup of coffee in the staff room, or something of that ilk. He tapped his feet idly, and hoped that she wouldn't take too long.

After half an hour, Harry decided he'd had enough. He cast a proximity ward to alert him when somebody entered the room, disillusioned himself, and began to do what he did best - meddle with time.

It was impossible to travel into future. Harry had done a lot of impossible things, but that barrier was one he'd never been able to crack, no matter how hard he tried. But along the way, he'd picked up a few tricks from his experiments in accelerating time, and after a lot of practice, even learned how to perform them on purpose.

Harry spun his wand in circles, slowly at first, but then faster and faster, accelerating the passage of time around him. This was one of the first pieces of time magic he'd developed entirely on his own, as opposed to improving existing spells. He was rather proud of it, but it had hospitalised him more than once through carelessness. While it accelerated time around him, making hours pass in minutes, or even seconds, should he wish, it only affected his mind. His body was still experiencing time at a normal rate. The first time he'd tried doing this, he'd skipped several days in the future, and immediately collapsed from dehydration, hunger, and fatigue.

For Harry, only a few seconds passed before his ward triggered. He immediately inverted the flow of the spell, slowing time. This was another of his tricks, but one far harder to perform. He couldn't just cast it as a spell - it was more like channelling the backlash of his acceleration.

He figured he'd been waiting for a couple of hours, which meant that he only had a few seconds before the magic snapped back into place and time resumed as normal. He looked to the door, expecting to see Rita Skeeter walking back in, only to furrow his brow in confusion. The door remained shut. The handle wasn't even turning. Nobody was coming into the room that way.

The flow of time returned to normal, and Harry realized his mistake. He still couldn't see Skeeter, but the buzzing of wings could only mean one thing. Harry grinned. This was perfect. He'd planned to cajole and persuade Skeeter into airing dirty laundry, playing on her natural vitriol to his own ends, but this opportunity was too good to pass up. If the story was a carrot, he'd walked right into the stick.

Skeeter transformed back into her form, and slouched in her chair, staring at her desk. She looked exhausted. Harry guessed that flying around all day snooping was tiring work, though somehow he couldn't bring himself to sympathise with her.

As soon as she was in her human form, Harry tapped himself on the head with his wand, cancelling the disillusionment.

"Bribery, blackmail, and a beetle animagus," he said, trying to resist the urge to smirk. "Has a nice bit of alliteration to it, doesn't it?"

Skeeter's reaction was immediate. She jumped, startled by his sudden appearance, attempted to grab her wand, and fell out of her chair.

Harry simply laughed.

"If you think you can come in my own office and blackmail me," Skeeter blustered, but Harry cut her off.

"Easy there, I didn't come here to grab your secrets. I'm more interested in sharing someone else's. Got a story for you, don't I?" he asked, hoping she'd take the bait.

Skeeter pulled herself upright and regained her composure, but Harry noticed that her hand remained in the pocket of her robes. He suspected he wouldn't lose any money betting that her wand was in there.

"I should just Obliviate you and throw you out for trespassing," Skeeter bit out, glaring at Harry, who was paying a great deal of attention to the fact that she hadn't tried to yet. He took that as a sure sign that she was interested in what he had to offer. Cautious, yes, and likely dangerous if she felt threatened after having her secret uncovered so easily, but eager for whatever pieces of slander she could dredge up from her mystery visitor.

"Potter's in Mungo's," said Harry.

Ah. That did it. Harry saw the wariness in her expression turn into greed. This was exactly what he'd been hoping for. He knew what she wanted, having been the victim of it too many times to count. He waited a second for her to speak. Another second passed. Another. He began to feel the barest edge of concern, and then she pulled open her handbag to reveal a notebook and quick-quotes quill.

He couldn't help it. Harry grinned.

"This is all being hushed up. Department of Mysteries is all over it. Keep my name out of this, and I'll keep your beetle to myself. Deal?"

"I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine," Skeeter said breathily. She was suckered in. Harry gave the story a quick run-through in his head, and then jumped right into it.

"So I was in St Mungo's last night. Potions accident. Don't ask. Just me and the sod at the front desk. Told me I had to wait four bleeding hours to be seen, and I was the only one there! Disgrace, what this country's coming to. But that's why I'm here, right? You've always been one to speak up. Tell the truth about what those Ministry nitwits are tryna hide. I knew you'd have the guts to run the story, no matter what politician came stomping down to cover it up. Always admired you for that," Harry said, leering at Skeeter. He felt like vomiting, but he knew how the woman's mind worked.

True to form, she preened at what she saw as a compliment to her prowess as a journalist. When Harry was sure she was looking, he eyed her up and down, paying attention to the curves beneath her robes. She didn't interest him in the slightest, any more than she was interested in the attention of his aged body, but the lecherous act had its purpose. If Skeeter thought he was just a sleazy old man, stupid enough to believe the trash she wrote, and gullible enough to be used for her own ends, Harry could turn that back on her.

"I never hide the truth," proclaimed Skeeter. Harry stifled his snort of derision. Luckily, she didn't hear it over the sound of her own voice. "But you still haven't got to the juicy part. Potter at St Mungo's? Was he injured?"

"That's the thing, he wasn't. Not in any normal way. That's why those Unspeakables were there. Overheard them talking. Damn kid was fooling around with a Time-Turner. Who the hell would give a kid one of those? I dunno what he was doing with it, but somehow the damn thing exploded. They've got no idea what's happening to him. He could die!" exclaimed Harry, faking a note of maudlin glee.

The despicable woman opposite him was every bit as enthused about this as he'd hoped.

"Oh yes," she murmured. "Terribly irresponsible. Favouritism for the Boy-Who-Lived, letting him play with such dangerous artifacts? And such incompetence from the Ministry. Time-Turners are highly regulated. Did he get it on the black market, I wonder? A leak in the Department of Mysteries? Or did they just give their favourite boy an extra special toy to play with?"

The expression on her face was truly awful, and it was everything Harry had come here to get.

"I expect they'll deny everything," said Harry.

"They always do," said Skeeter. "But our readers deserve the truth, don't they?"

After extricating himself from Skeeter's clutches with the promises of future collaboration and malice, Harry felt the need to have a hot shower in FiendFyre to get the grimy feeling off his hands. Was her perfume so insidious that it stuck to him through a mere handshake. Harry grimaced, and cast a quick scourgify on his palm.

It didn't hurt a thing. Now that was a surprise. As that particular charm as intended to be used on objects, not people, it often felt a little like it cleaned by scraping a piece of sandstone over the recipient of the Scouring Charm.

Guessing that the substance was liquid in nature, Harry opted for a more specialised cleaning charm. Tergeo didn't work, either. Commonly used to remove stains like grease, potion spills, and, more commonly in Harry's experience, blood, it should have done the trick. He'd seen Snape use it every other lesson to remove makeup from teenage students. Snape had always given sneering lectures about proper codes of conduct and adhering to the principles of school uniform and decorum while within his classroom, but Harry was pretty sure he just liked the look of terror whenever he got the opportunity to point his wand in a student's face.

Harry looked down at his hand in surprise. Well now. Looks like the beetle had a few more tricks up - and out of - her sleeve than just her animagus trick. Whatever gunk was coating his hand proved entirely immune to the Scouring Charm.

He grimaced. Mystery sticky subjects were worrying, even in the Muggle world. Although those were for much less ominous reasons. Harry had used them to his advantage in the past, himself, although in truth he couldn't claim credit for it.

In the past - or future, now, he supposed, Snape had come up with a rather ingenious solution that was every bit as sticky as Rita and slimy as Snape. At Harry's suggestion, he'd been able to develop a potion which, upon being struck by magic, would incinerate everything within several feet with a blast of white-hot fire. Snape had doused a set of Voldemort's robes with it, and sat back to watch and wait.

It took an infuriating amount of time for Voldemort to wear those robes. The bastard had an annoying trend of transfiguring clothing instead of keeping it, but those robes were a gift from Lucius Malfoy, and he'd worn them to a dinner held in Lucius's honour, to celebrate a recent victory.

Naturally the order had attacked, focusing all their efforts on Voldemort. Even a Tickling Hex would have ignited the potion, but not even Moody could land a hit on the slippery bastard. With a dozen other Death Eaters in the room, the Order members were being picked off one by one until, in a final act of desperation, Snape blew his cover and shot the Killing Curse at the Dark Lord's back.

Only Voldemort's shock at the betrayal kept Snape alive, but his confidence in the situation was shaken. Without knowing if any more traitors lay in his ranks, he decided to make a tactical retreat, and Apparated away.

For a moment Harry thought that their plan had failed, not daring to wonder which of his friends lay dead on the floor.

And then the potion struck. Moving his robes as well as his body, Voldemort's Apparition had triggered it with the necessary flux of magic.

He screamed with inhuman agony as it began. First his robes crackled as if with static electricity, tendrils of blue and white scattered across the fabric, but it rapidly built into a blinding flash of heat and light.

For a moment Voldemort was a figure of solid white light, save for the vibrant red glow of his eyes. He looked for all the world like a fallen angel, hell-bent on vengeance.

And then he exploded. It was messy.

A concussive wave of force and fire emanated out from where he'd been standing. The Death Eaters caught the worst of it, knocked back on their feet and covered in burns. The distraction was enough for the order to gather the fallen bodies of their comrades and disappear.

Harry, ignoring the blistering pain as he ran through the air still charged with heat and magic, sprinted past where Voldemort had stood, and grabbed Snape by the arm.

After Voldemort, Snape had suffered the worst of the blast, as he had been standing so close. He resembled a charred corpse more than a person, and for a moment Harry feared the worst. He wasn't moving.

Harry paused. How do you check for a pulse under burns like these? Was the man even alive?

"Idiot boy," hissed Snape. Harry grinned. That was good enough for him. He grabbed Snape's arm and prepared to Disapparate, only to interrupted by the cheers of the Death Eaters remaining.

Harry looked backwards in horror. That couldn't be good.

It wasn't.

Where Voldemort had stood, a black mist had formed, growing more tangible by the second. Soon it resembled a wraith of Voldemort, like a twisted Patronus Charm fuelled by hate. The apparition took a step forward, and solidified further. The mist began to dissipate, slowly transforming back into the form of the self-proclaimed immortal Lord Voldemort. Harry had never believed those rumours to be anything more than Death Eater propaganda, but for the first time, he began to fear the worst.

Harry gritted his teeth, torn between frustration and rage. There was nothing he wanted more than to blast that abomination into a thousand pieces if it took a thousand Killing Curses and a jam jar to seal his wraith in, but he had a more pressing matter at hand.

Grabbing Snape tightly by his left arm, above the elbow, he Apparated away before Voldemort could regain a corporeal form.

After landing them both in one of the Order's hidden bunkers, Harry collapsed into a chair, wondering which of his friends he'd lost that night. Surprisingly enough, it was Snape who snapped him out of his misery.

"Did you Splinch me on purpose?" the charred corpse demanded. Okay, it was more of a croak, but Harry had to give him points for effort. Being a dick through unbearable agony was a difficult skill, and one Harry had spent many years practicing.

Harry contemplated lying. Considered claiming that with the desperation of the moment, with Snape's critical injuries,he'd been unable to avoid leaving behind a souvenier. Fuck it, he thought. Snape was a better legilimens than he would ever be, and would eke out the truth eventually. And although they still hated one another, they were still friends, of a sort. The type of bond forged in the terrors of war that went stronger than personal feelings. Comrades, perhaps. Even if all they had in common was mutual loathing of each other and Voldemort.

"Yup," said Harry, and waited for the reaction. Normally he'd have expected a curse, but the man before him was pretty much dead on his feet. Well, the floor. Where Harry had dumped him

Snape looked up and down his unrecognizable left arm, paying particular attention to the part which was missing. Hand. Forearm. Dark Mark.

"Thank you," said Snape, almost too quietly to hear. "I've wanted that thing gone for almost as long as I've had it."

"Lucky accident," said Harry nonchalantly. "Are you going to die?" The two men had long ago learned to be blunt in their dealings with one another. Neither of them flinched from harsh truths, and despised being treated like invalids.

Snape snorted.

"You know I can see through your lies, even if the Dark Lord," said Snape, and then paused, hesitantly. "Even if Voldemort can't." He let out a long sigh. "So this is the price of freedom?"

"Worth it?" asked Harry.

"Ask me again if I survive," snapped Snape, back to his good old self - unconscious on the floor, just the way Harry liked him. He was much more pleasant company that way.

Harry growled, low in his throat, and pulled himself back into the present. For all that Chronomancy offered, the side effects were damn inconvenient at times, even the non-fatal ones.

He tried to remember what he'd been doing before losing himself in memory, but his mind came up blank. Luckily, he had a wand pointed at his hand. A clue!

"Right," he muttered. "Skeeter's goop."

Harry ducked into a dingy-looking nearby shop without bothering to check the sign. He couldn't see anyone at the counter right now, and that should give him enough privacy to cast a few spells of a somewhat dubious nature. He doubted that anyone would recognise them, but a sketchy old man casting spells at his hand would inevitably look suspicious enough to draw unwanted attention.

He ran a few basic diagnostic charms,and wasn't too surprised when the first two caused his hand to flash in confirmation. Basic recording and tracking charms. Harry rolled his eyes. He'd expected such things during the war, but Skeeter was one sneaky bitch. Out of habit, he ran through his usual assortment of safety checks, but the rest came up clean, save one. A self-replicating charm attached to the potion stuck to his skin. He prodded at it with his wand, careful not to make contact.

Huh. It was charmed to spread onto Dumbledore if they ever touched, but nobody else. A clever bit of spellwork, and cunning besides. Harry knew of Skeeter's love for tearing into Dumbledore in the press, but he hadn't even noticed her casting the spell, and making one so specialised was particularly difficult. He supposed that, as a witness to an incident featuring Harry Potter, she expected the headmaster to pay him as visit sometime soon. Harry's respect for Rita's sleuthing went up a notch. Pity she applied her talents to tabloid journalism instead of something more useful. She could have been a great help in the war if Hermione hadn't used her for a potion ingredient.

Turns out beetle eyes and animagus beetle eyes didn't work the same way in a cauldron, but Harry was pretty sure that Hermione was well aware of that. Only Harry and Snape had ever known. It was one of the few times Harry had seen Snape congratulate somebody outside Slytherin on their brewing process.

Harry's reminiscing was interrupted by soft footfalls coming from the back of the store. He swore, considered disillusioning himself and slipping out, but quickly disregarded that plan. Too obvious, and would raise too many questions if he was too slow with the spell, or the shopkeeper saw a door open and close with nobody moving through it.

Harry turned to face the music, and found himself eye to eye with Ollivander. Another lost friend from the future. He smiled at the sight of his mentor, careful to tone it down to a level more polite than personal.

"Charlus Potter?" he whispered, in that eerie voice of his. Too much time dabbling in arcanistry had left Ollivander a touch on the weird side - although Harry could hardly criticize the wandmaker for something he was doing himself, albeit in a different field of study. But that train of thought was immediately diverted by the amusement at being mistaken for yet another member of the Potter family. He briefly entertained the thought of transforming into a baby and revealing himself as Harry's illegitimate child, but Ollivander was still speaking, so he shelved that idea for another time.

"I had thought you long ago passed from this world. I can understand the need to hide from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but he has been gone these past thirteen years. Thirteen years, Charlus! And what of your family?"

Whoa. I'd never seen Ollivander this riled up before. I didn't even know that he was friends with my grandfather. For all our time together, our conversation had been sparing, and devoted to our wand-work. We'd spent a fair bit of time together, but I didn't really know Ollivander that well, beyond his passion for his work. There was no alternative. I had to wing it as best I could.

Thankfully my plan for this whole time travel escapade had featured lies, larceny, and the meagre hope of not getting caught, so at least this surprise attack played to my strengths.

"It was for my family, Garrick," I said softly. The shame in my voice was real, although more at lying to Ollivander than for whatever perceived betrayal he say in my grandfather.

"Faking your death, with a son so young? It may have distracted the Dark forces eager to coerce you into their ranks, but had you no thought of his wellbeing? Alone, at such a time!"

Harry was startled at this sudden revelation. He'd discovered how his grandparents had died in one of Voldemort's attacks a long time ago, but this - this accusation that he had acted like Pettigrew and abandoned the people dear to him out of fear, why, it brought Harry dangerously close to losing his temper. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. Ollivander thought he was talking to another man. About another crime which had not been committed. Harry felt truly lost, but decided to let the situation play out, and see if he could gain another ally in this important time. Even if under false pretenses.

He took a moment to consider his next words, and when he spoke, it was with sincere regret in his voice. After all, Harry understood the bitterness of losing a family.

"He had his friends. They were family to us, Garrick. If we could keep them out of the Dark Lord's attention for just a while, just until -" Harry's voice faltered as he failed to think of a suitable excuse, but he quickly masked it with emotion. He didn't need to fake the longing in his voice at the thought of the family he might have had. "I had hoped it would be enough to keep them safe until we could. None of us could have seen what followed."

"Teenagers are no match for parents, however close that bond may have been. And we all know how that turned out, don't we? James, Lily, and Pettigrew dead, Sirius turned to the Dark Lord, and now escaped from Azkaban!" The anger in Ollivander's posture was almost palpable. Had he been any other man, Harry wouldn't be surprised to see a wand in his hand. This was the most human Harry had ever seen him. He supposed that time changes everyone, and rarely for the better, especially given what times they'd lived through.

So this was what he thought? His friend had run away, abandoning his children to die. Harry didn't blame Ollivander for his rage, but was still startled by this overt display of emotion from a man who could teach Dumbledore a thing or two about maintaining a mysterious and abstract persona.

"It felt right at the time. Do you think a day goes by when I don't regret what happened that Halloween?"

Ollivander sighed, and rubbed at his cheek.

"I didn't just mean James, Charlus. No wizard alive could have missed the story. The legend, even, dare I say it. The Boy-Who-Lived. Boy!" Ollivander's last word was in a raised tone, almost a shout, and it took all of Harry's composure not to flinch. Harry could beat Voldemort himself in a staring contest, but Voldemort was an angry bastard. The anger of a man so composed as Ollivander was more frightening by far, no matter that there was no expectation of torture or dismemberment to follow his wrath.

Harry did his best to hold his tongue. He had stronger feelings than anyone else on this matter, but it was rare that he heard somebody else's opinion - and whenever he had in the past, they were heavily biased by coming from somebody he was close to.

"I remember seeing him come for his first wand," said Ollivander quietly. "He went through almost my entire stock before finding his match. I see so many students come through, terrified of never finding one. Of being revealed as a Squib and disowned, or Muggleborns who couldn't believe they were capable of such wonders as magic has to offer."

Ollivander paused for a moment, setting his hands on the counter wearily. Harry watched him curiously.

"From the day He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was vanquished, I suspected which wand would be right for him, but I did my best to find another. To spare him yet another burden. Alas, it was as I'd feared. Brother wands, holly and yew. Phoenix feather." Ollivander remained silent for a long time, and then looked up at Harry sharply.

"You've guessed who bought the other wand."

Harry nodded, unsure of what else he could say.

"He came in alone, you know. Not uncommon. Choosing a wand is a private affair. But there was no family waiting outside. I watched for some time after he left. Hagrid took him around the Alley for his supplies."

"Hagrid's a good man," said Harry, defensively.

"And yet when the other Muggle-raised students come to Diagon Alley, they don't just come with a magical escort. Their parents or guardians come with them. See the world which their child is entering. It is a profound moment. The one which bridges the gap between us and them"

Ollivander remained silent for a long time, now, but Harry knew that this was just his way, and waited for him to speak again.

"You should have been there, Charlus. I don't know where he lives or who it may be with. But I remember a boy in Muggle clothes worn threadbare, and shaped to a boy much larger than himself. I remember glasses held together with sellotape. And I remember how small he was, even for an eleven-year-old. I remember the bruises on his arms. But most of all I remember the wonder in his eyes as he held his wand, and my store was lit with phoenix song and joy."

Ollivander sighed, and looked over Harry's appearance.

"It looks like times haven't been easy for you, either."

"Nobody could find Harry Potter," said Harry, remembering the extensive blood wards set over Privet Drive. "I spent years. A fortune. Nothing worked, magic or Muggle."

"You could have simply asked," admonished Ollivander.

Harry had no answer, and stared, dumbstruck at Ollivander, who, to Harry's shock, laughed gently.

"You Potters. Tear the world apart when you need to, but you never stop to ask for help. Harry is at Hogwarts. Dumbledore will surely reunite the boy with his grandfather. I could owl him for you, request a meeting. He needs a family."

Harry didn't know what to say. Ollivander had always been distant, and even as a child, few had shown Harry such a simple act of compassion. But that was one thing. Ollivander worked closely with children, so it made sense for him to care for their wellbeing. It was widely known that Harry's Muggle relatives were distasteful. Most wizards assumed it was the simple fact that they were Muggles. Ollivander had noticed what ran deeper. Not the rough treatment, or the lack of care. The fact that, blood aside, they were not family. That he was alone.

It had been a long time since he had thought of such things, but the sudden upwelling of emotion reminded Harry that he had never truly forgotten. His friends had been as close as family. He had come a long way from the boy in the cupboard under the stairs. And yet it was with emotion thick in his voice that he said farewell to Ollivander.

"Thank you," he said. "But it might be best if I approach Dumbledore myself. He'll want answers that I wouldn't trust to an owl."

"As you wish, Charlus." Ollivander was silent until Harry opened the shop door, and the bell tinkling overhead interrupted his thoughts. "Charlus!" he said sharply, interrupting Harry's departure. Harry turned back to face the wandmaker. "I cannot forgive you for abandoning the boy. You may have had some good - if misguided intentions in leaving your son and daughter-in-law. I disagree, but understand. But Harry was an infant. Your grandson. I'll wait to hear why you failed him before I judge you for it, but…" Never comfortable with displays of emotion, Ollivander trailed off.

"That's an interesting wand," he called out to Harry's departing back. "I don't recognize the wandmaker, though, and there aren't too many of us."

Yeah, the question was obvious bait, but that suited Harry just fine.

"I made it myself," he shot back over his shoulder. "Maybe you could take a look at it for me. I'll owl you."

The door banged shut behind Harry before Ollivander could respond.

As soon as he was back out in the busy street, he remembered the spying solution Rita had planted on him. He bit back a curse, and then sighed. He had blackmail material if need be, but there was a chance that this could add another article to work in his favour. Unfortunately, that meant another meeting with his least favourite potion ingredient.

Going over the conversation he'd had with Ollivander in his head, Harry decided that there was nothing incriminating in their conversation. If Rita jumped the gun, she'd publish articles that worked to his advantage, but if the sneakery she'd shown so far was any indication, she'd hold off on setting anything out into the world without speaking to him first. He doubted she'd risk the enmity of somebody who knew her secret. At least, not without trying to squeeze some more juicy details out of him.

If he didn't speak to her first, Harry fully expected to be cornered by the witch and her photographer at some point, demanding answers for Harry's abandonment in the Muggle world, and quizzing Charlus on why he hadn't taken in his grandson, on why he'd faked his death, and why he'd fled Britain when the country desperately needed the support of all members of the Wizengamot. It'd probably happen regardless, but hopefully he could put the right spin - or censorship - into the mix.

Nevertheless, he resolved to keep to a younger form from now on. Going even older might also work as a disguise, but Harry was hesitant to push it too far in that direction. He'd once tried to make it to an even hundred years old, and almost died as a result. Wizards could live longer than Muggles, of course, but that was due to their magic adapting with their bodies. If he pushed himself too far, he had no doubt that he'd wind up dying too rapidly to undo the process. Sure, he'd come out the other end alive, be it ten years or a thousand, but the life expectancy of anybody a millennium old was bound to be a matter of seconds.

Initiating contact with Skeeter was the first part of his plan. Ollivander had been a surprise, but one that he could work with. Now the rest of the day was his. He slipped into an empty alleyway and disillusioned himself. A moment later he was back to being seventeen.

Harry grinned.

A quirk of his Chronomancy, as applied to him, was that even though he retained his memories, he was very much, body and mind, a seventeen year old. That was a wonderful and terrible thing.

Legally able to cast magic, morally bound by whims and fancy, and with all this free time to kill before he had any real work to do! Although Harry was eager to get back to Hogwarts, the opportunity to mess with people for the sheer pleasure of it and not just to avoid widespread murder was a wonderful thing.

Rita's article would likely make the evening edition of the Daily Prophet. Front page, he was willing to bet, despite the utter lack of proof and no witness testimony save from the infamous Anonymous Tip. Of course, Skeeter knew that Anonymous Tip was Charlus Potter now, and that would have to be dealt with, but all things in their time!

As Harry was supposed to be in hospital, he kept himself disillusioned and wandered Diagon Alley for a while. He considered shoplifting his school textbooks for the year head, but quickly disregarded that as too much of a bother. They'd be annoyingly heavy to carry. Besides, the Hogwarts Library had a wider selection than Flourish and Blotts, and they were free! The best part about money, Harry had always thought, was that you never really needed to spend it if you were clever, connected, or criminally inclined. Even if his fourteen-year old self hadn't really appreciated it as he did now, Harry was rather proud of his "three Cs". An integral part of wizarding education that seemed sadly lacking on the Hogwarts Curriculum.

While walking aimlessly about, looking for ways to amuse himself, Harry found himself faced with almost irresistible temptation. The Malfoy family, wearing matching sneers, were marching imperiously towards Gringotts.

It was definitely the teenager in Harry which spoke up first, urging him to give Draco a little treat. Funny how age gaps meant so much more while you were at school. Seventeen and you're an adult, eleven and you're a child. Fourteen, and you're caught in that dreaded nether-realm of puberty. It would be almost a kindness, Harry thought. A little judicious time-leech to alter Malfoy the way that Harry had been doing to himself all day. He remembered Malfoy's school days. Poor anger management, attempts to impress others constantly with boasts and posturing. The poor boy would surely be better off without all those hormones running around making him act like a fool.

Just a little leech, maybe two years, and Draco would be back to being a squeaky second-year. Harry wondered if he'd write an incensed letter to Daddy Death Eater about the horrible way his pubes had disappeared, and his shoes didn't fit.

Oh, Harry was tempted. He twirled his wand idly between his fingers, half-tempted to actually follow through with it, but in the end his better judgement won out. It was one thing for Harry's age to start fucking about, but there would only be trouble if he got Draco involved. Maybe later, after the news of Harry Potter's tragic accident had died down. Ah, fuck it. Harry couldn't bring himself to be that cruel to a child. At least not until he'd pissed him off enough.

If he was honest with himself, Draco didn't really deserve that sort of humiliation. He was just a spoiled brat with no life experience beyond what Lucius indoctrinated in him. Still, Harry's urge to taunt the Malfoys was too strong to resist, so he decided to go down a different route.

Maneuvering through the crowded street was difficult enough at the best of times, but that want doubly so when you were trying to move quickly and were tantamount to being invisible. Only his experience at doing this exact same thing stopped him from being barrelled to the ground or trodden on. Amazing how successful a point blank assassination in a public place could be, when the prison system found its coffers too empty and its cells too full.

Harry's intentions were a lot less lethal this time, but his reflexes were up to the job nonetheless. It was a pity that this particular aspect of Chronomancy required physical contact, or he could have skipped the Diagon Alley obstacle course.

Finally he reached the Malfoys, just as they were walking up the steps to Gringotts. The goblins on guard duty gave him a glance, but didn't say anything. Guards to the premier bank in the country tended to be trained to watch for the distortion patterns of disillusionment, but they didn't interfere with Wizarding business, though Harry could catch them watching surreptitiously, so he knew he'd be fine so long as he didn't try to enter the bank. The cold-hearted bastards would watch a murder on their doorstep and not do a damn thing, except maybe close the doors if it was a messy one.

Harry placed his wand as deep as he dared into Narcissa's hair, tightly wound as it was into a bun, and murmured an incantation. Of sorts.

"Saggy tits and a wrinkly arse," he whispered in Gobbledygook. It was one of half a dozen phrases he knew in that language, and of those six, the only one which wasn't an insult was "What's for dinner?"

Goblins ears are a lot more sensitive to sounds than humans, and by the amused glances the guard goblins gave each other, they'd definitely heard. Being magical creatures, they were more sensitive to magic as well, although Harry'd bet his left knut that neither of them knew what he'd done. They'd guess a glamour or charm of some kind, and laugh about it over their after-shift tankards of goblin ale.

Harry had developed quite a taste for the stuff before he'd learned how it was made.

As he had no intention of spending any money today, Harry walked jauntily away from Gringotts, and wondered how long it would take his little bit of tinkering to ruin their sex life. He was still smirking at his little prank when he reached the Magical Menagerie.

He paused outside, shook his head, and reminded himself of a conclusion that he'd come to a long time ago. Harry wasn't a prankster. He was just a bit of a bastard with a creative streak. The difference was slim, true, but Harry preferred to admit it than hide behind ideas of moral superiority and vengeance. just liked to fuck with people he thought were stupid, annoying, or out to kill him. And he saw nothing wrong with that.

Somebody jostled into Harry from behind, almost knocking him over. Harry scowled, and reached for his wand, about to hex the imbecile who'd charged into him - but then realised he was standing disillusioned in front of a busy shop's front door, and it was entirely his own fault. But more importantly, the wizard was roughly the size of Vernon Dursley, and was blocking the doorway. So Harry compromised by stealing the wizard's hat.

The wizard flinched at the sudden rush of cold air, and looked around for the thief, but Harry had stuck it onto his own head at a jaunty angle, and added it to the disillusionment. He watched for a while as the wizard alternately glared at passers-by and scrutinized the ground in case it had fallen off, but had no success in finding it. Luckily for Harry, the wizard had the patience of Vernon Dursley, too, and soon stormed off in anger, no doubt to report his grievances to the nearest patron of the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry stepped quickly aside as the wizard rushed through the space he'd just been standing in, and then slipped behind him, using the man's bulk as a cover to cancel the disillusionment.

It was probably a waste of time coming here, as Harry was pretty sure he knew the answer to the question on his mind, but he had to be sure. The store was a cacophony of every species known to wizardkind below XX rating and two feet high. He wandered through the maze-like walls of the store, reflecting on its resemblance to a library, should the books be replaced with very loud, very colourful caged beasts. Harry recognised a few of them from potions class. Or at least extrapolated what they were from certain parts of their anatomy, which he'd sliced, diced, and crushed all too many times.

He tried not to think about which of the creatures in front of him had been shoved down his throat in liquid form.

As if by magic, a store clerk popped up at his shoulder, an eager smile on his face.

"I see you've found our fire crab!" he claimed jubilantly. "A rather exquisite specimen, don't you think? They're a protected species, you know. We're the only menagerie in all of Britain allowed to sell them!"

Harry looked at it dubiously.

"This is the last we have in stock, I'm afraid. First day of August is supposed to be delivery day, but those international Floos and fire-creatures - oh, and fire crabs can't be imported by just anyone, after all, no they can't!"

Having grown long used to drowning out all sorts of distracting noises, from the cheering of Quidditch fans to the screams which accompanied a Dementor attack, Harry was well equipped to deal with an overzealous shopkeeper. He gave him a wayward glance, and noticed just how forced the smile was.

"I wasn't aware that any exceptions were made to the importation of fire crabs. Although those are exquisite rubies on its carapace. Quite a profit to be made on those, wouldn't you think?" said Harry, quietly but coldly, as if to himself.

"Oh no,no, this is a beautiful creature, not just jewellery with a crab underneath. We were ever so lucky to get them. Some kind of Ministry contract, but they never gave us the details, only said that they'd finished their project. Sold them to us for a fraction of their worth, I tell you!"

"Sounds like quite the tale," said Harry dryly.

"You have no idea. They tried to get use to take on manticores, as well. Manticores! Can you imagine, one of the most dangerous magical beasts in a pet store?" the clerk tittered nervously, his eyes roving between the fire crab and Harry.

"Good thing I'm not here for a manticore, then," said Harry.

"Indeed, indeed. So, for the fire crab, we'd normally ask for five hundred galleons, but as the Ministry offered us such an excellent bargain, it seems only fair to pass it on to you. How does three hundred and fifty sound?"

Even if Harry had wanted to buy the crab, the clerk had been annoying enough that he'd rather Apparate to Fiji and catch his own with a harpoon.

"Actually," began Harry," I'm more interested in snakes."

"Oh, okay," the clerk said, disappointment clear in his voice. "The tank over by the South wall. You can't miss it. Next to the tarantulas," he added nastily.

Harry chuckled. After not only escaping a colony of Acromantula in his Second Year, but riding one under the Imperius Curse into battle with a mob of enraged Quintapeds, spiders smaller than a house didn't really bother him.

He made his way over to the tank, and stared into it until one of the snakes met his gaze.

"Hello?" he asked, speculatively.

The snake ignored him, and curled around one of the twigs decorating their tank.

"Hiss?" he tried, expecting nothing. His expectations were fulfilled, and a broad smile split open his face. Nothing! It had worked. Junior's horcrux was gone. Harry had been afraid that it would transfer over to him. After all, Junior wasn't really dead, just moved around a bit. Into Harry's head.

"What are you doing?" demanded the clerk, obviously irate about his wasted spiel about the fire crab, and cottoning onto the idea that Harry was taking the piss.

"Just checking if I'm a Parselmouth," he said. The clerk said nothing, but stared at him in wide-eyed horror.

"Hiss," said Harry again, and the clerk flinched.

"Guess I'm not one after all. Who knew?" Harry asked, a cheek grin on his face. The clerk spluttered for a moment, his face turning a rather fetching shade of puce, before pointing his finger at the door.

"If you're not here to purchase anything, you can just get out! This is a respectable establishment!"

"Sure thing," said Harry, doing exactly as he was told and walking straight out of the for the part when he grabbed a bag of doggie treats for Sirius from the counter and Disapparated before the clerk could protest.