title: Permutation
rating: R
pairing: Harry/Ginny
summary: Harry has to make tough decisions to protect those he loves. It's all about power. Angel: the series/BtVS/HP x-over
a/n: Sequel to Revisionistic, so you may want to read that to get this. It's Harry pov, explaining just went on. This was a labor of love...so I hope people like it! Mildly AU, set in 1997, when Buffy first comes to Sunnydale, and right after the seventh book, logic be damned!

- - -

An hour after The Boy Who Lived wakes up from a coma caused by killing the Dark Lord Voldemort, a man named Christopher Ford enters his room at St. Mungo's, slips him a card, and fades back into the night. It is an hour after this meeting that Harry Potter places a phone call (not a Floo, but a phone call, the Muggle way) to a business-place in London. And hour after this phone call, Harry walks up and out of St. Mungo's without anyone stopping him, or indeed, noticing him at all.

So really, it takes three hours total for reality as Harry has always known it to begin to crumble and fall away.

Time-efficiency is something Mr. Ford talked in depth about during his visit. Wolfram & Hart doesn't just do the job--they do the job before their clients can change their minds.

- - -

"...the job was finished with exceptional ease. It is my belief that Vail's magic worked in completion, and the deployment of field agents to take care of the physical evidence was a success.

Consider that immediately after my visit with Mr. Potter and his subsequent phone call to the main branch for affirmation:

Somewhere in St. Mungo's Ron Weasley finds himself looking around his own hospital room in a state of confusion, wondering how he got there and why his arm is broken. Then he remembers falling from the tree in his backyard when he went climbing that morning, and relaxes. Wonders if he isn't perhaps a bit old for tree-climbing, and dreams of fire-lit battlefields and Unforgivables he shouldn't even know, all night long. No mention of Harry Potter is made by him or his mother, who is watching fitfully by Ron's side, anxious for reasons she cannot even begin to fathom.

Many miles away, Hermione Granger wakes up from an already unfitful sleep, looking wildly about for phantoms she can't quite name. Her wand is gripped in her hand, and her friend Ginny tosses and turns in the bed across the room, the fun of an evening's slumber party at the Burrow forgotten in the dark of a restless night. Hermione's heartbeat slows down eventually, but she closes her eyes with her wand still tucked securely in her hand. If she hears Ginny call out the name Harry in her sleep, and if Ginny hears Hermione do the same, neither mention it in the light of the next dawn's oddly subdued breakfast.

The peace of Number Four Privet Drive is rudely interrupted when Petunia Dursley finds a bundle of cobweb-covered drawings in the downstairs cupboard during her nightly cleaning of an already pristine house. The drawings are fantastical images too vivid for Duddykins to have etched, and anyways, Petunia has never let anyone into the cupboard beneath the stairs. It's made odd noises ever since they first bought the house, and she suspects an animal of sorts used to live nestled in the all the newspaper and random sheets of bedding she sometimes finds in the darkness. The drawing shows a woman with sharp green eyes, not unlike her older sister Lily's, but Petunia supposes it's silly to think of her now: Lily and her good-for-nothing husband died in a random boiler explosion in their home almost eighteen years ago. They died alone, childless and freaksome, and Petunia shivers as she crumples the drawing in her hand and throws it away like the trash it is.

Even at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, things are amiss. The trophies in Gryffindor Common Room are stolen overnight, causing general uproar. Most of the House labels Slytherins the culprit, but when the trophies are returned the next evening, safe and sound, Peeves is blamed and the incident forgotten. The ghosts of Hogwarts, shades of the people they once were, feel something in their minds being rearranged, but only the Bloody Baron is advanced enough to know Peeves isn't responsible for the trophy mishap, and that the name under Captain shouldn't read Ginny Weasley, but Harry Potter. Yet the Bloody Baron doesn't say anything because he quite enjoys the chaos, and what can only come from what is happening is chaos, indeed.

Academia, too, is not untouched. Dwell for a moment on the disappearance of several chapters in the latest edition of Greatest Wizards of All Time: 1900 to 1990. Mainly, the latter half of the book, which detailed especially--well, who can say? For oddly, the pages, and the content that had once filled them, are gone from not just existence but memory, too. The author has a vague sense of something missing, but cannot say for sure what exactly it is. Asked what seems to be excluded from what is widely acknowledged as commonly a heftier book, he can only scratch his head in confusion and stare at a spare page of preliminary outline that was found under his desk with the name Potter elusively scribbled in the margins.

Yet the strangest event of all is the vanishing act of Harry Potter himself. St. Mungo officials don't know much except that the patient in Room 435 was there one moment and gone the next, and every nurse spoken to cannot seem to give a concrete suggestion as to looks, voice, name, anything. No clothing or personal affects were left behind except for what seems to be broken pieces of wood and tattered pheonix feather.

It's as if the patient had never existed at all."

--excerpted from the records of C. Ford, attorney at law, Wolfram & Hart File #1740, re: The Boy Who Lived.

- - -

It's been a long time since Harry took real transportation anywhere. The past year and a half was spent Apparating everywhere, and not that it wasn't convenient, but Harry could certainly see the allure of getting from Point A to Point B without wanting to vomit all over oneself. So minutes after he leaves St. Mungo's, Harry begins to walk three miles towards the nearest Muggle town and the busy roads that could make him an anonymous hitchiker instead of a man leaving a whole life behind. He finds his answer in the form of a tiny, battered car with peeling green paint and a broken headlight.

"Get in," the voice says gruffly, and Harry does, because he really doesn't have much to fear these days, least of all pervy men who pick up hitchhiking kids by the road. Let the old man try and slit Harry's throat--hell, Harry would tilt his fucking chin for the bastard, if only he would be put out of his misery. When one's wishing for death but too cowardly to kill oneself, the easiest way to go about things is attack every aspect of life with an unrestrained vigor to get killed.

Harry slides into the car, noting he must look quite strange himself, dressed in a St. Mungo's gown with a robe thrown haphazardly over it, trainers without socks, and his skin a mottled map of bruises and scars. (Yes, more scars, lovely.)

"Thanks," he says dully, looking out the window as meaningless scenery whizzes by.

"Where are you headed?" the voice in front asks. Harry's sure it's a man, and older than twenty or thirty, but not sure exactly how much. The accent is clipped, refined but short.

Harry shrugs. He hasn't given it much thought. Just lik the bloke at the hospital hadn't given him much choice.

"Wolfram & Hart," Harry says. "A place in London, not too far from here--"

"I know where that place is," the driver says, his voice neutral. "Just needed to make sure it's where you wanted to go." The driver turns, flashes bright, glittery teeth. "We at the firm don't like to drag clients there if it's not of their own volition." He chuckles. "Of course, we have no qualms about making sure our clients have no other volition but the volition to walk our way, but..." he gestures vaguely. "That's neither here nor there. Doing whatever it takes to get the outcome you want, it's not about good or evil, sir. It's about power. Who has it, and who has to bow down in the face of it. You understand, Mr. Potter."

Harry swallows. "Yeah," he says with difficulty, thinking of his family, his friends. All gone now, gone in a more final way then even death. Because they had too much power over him, and he had too much power in a world that would do anything to hurt him. Even go after people who'd never done anything but make the mistake of falling in love with him, or protecting him. To save them, he'd had to erase them from his new life.

Power, and who has to bow down in the face of it. Doing whatever it takes to get the outcome you want.

"Yeah. I understand."

The streets melt into each other as Harry's eyes drift closed. It was said there was no rest for the wicked, but Harry thinks this can't be true. He could sleep forever, weary of this life, of the choices he's had to make and will continue to make. He could sleep for fucking ever.

- - -

"I must confess, Mr. Potter. We are estatic that you chose to accept so readily the proposal Mr. Ford dropped off at the hospital. Most people would wait a day or two, savor the little things before giving it all up."

"I'm a bit trained in the art of sacrifice, yeah? Besides, one or two more days to savor are also one or two more days Death Eater fanatics could use to kill those I'm trying to protect."

"Touche. I can see you'll keep us on our toes here."

"Yeah, I fucking hope so. You came through your side of the deal?"

"We never renege, Mr. Potter. Our contracts are...binding. Every effort is made on our end to fulfill any bargains we happen to strike."

"Good. Then I'll keep my end, too. I'll be your enforcer, or whatever the fuck you want to label it, and you erase any inkling of me, Voldemort, and the whole sordid mess. We never existed."

"Done and done, Mr. Potter. Believe me. Even as we speak, memories are being altered. Cyrus Vail is an accomplished sorceror in memory reconstructure--an adept storyteller, too, as it happens. He'll make sure you and your enemy are erased, and he'll give any who've come into contact with you good memories in your stead."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Let's use your former girlfriend as an example, shall we? Miss Ginny Weasley does not lie awake and cry for you any longer, Mr. Potter. She's quite happy with her current boyfriend Dean, and is in fact practicing for her last year as Quidditch Captain under his eye at his family home tommorrow. To her knowledge, Dean is and has been for quite some time, her loving, doting paramour."

"..."

"Something wrong?"

"No. No. That's...that's good. She should have good memories. Not the one I--she should have good memories."

"They all do, Mr. Potter. All of them, and better yet, no one remembers Death-Eaters or wars, so no vendettas still exist. Everyone is safe. It's what you wanted."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

"But now, we must move on to more pressing matters. Your place as Head of Control Ops. Your duties as an assassin. Things must go as planned, Mr. Potter. You must be willing to give up everything. We have assets to protect, and no money to waste frivolously on executions or...ah, disposals gone wrong with the muddle of morality. I trust you can make the necessary sacrifices in mindset?"

"I can. I have."

"Good! Then we're all set. A little prick of the finger here, and--ah! Yes, just sign and then smudge next to the line--and you're done! Welcome to Wolfram & Hart, Mr. Potter. You'll be well taken care of."

- - -

It doesn't take too long for Harry to settle into his new job, surprisingly enough. All his life, he'd hunted down monsters because he had to. Now he does it because he gets paid to, and not just hard-to-kill, psychopathic Dark Lord-type monsters, all kinds. A whole world Harry is only just finding out about: demons and vampires and werewolves and succubi, incubi, dragons, sorceresses and witch-power different than the norm. Rather than slow him down, however, the differences only serve to empower him. He attacks the literature and texts like Hermione (oh but she's the Old Life and this is the New Life and stop thinking of it all) and soon he learns enough to go out at night and perfectly execute maneuvers that he never thought possible.

It's physical work, sure, hand-to-hand combat, a lot of spellwork without wands, and virtually no Potions. But Harry picks it all up like...well, magic, and he's on levels that Wolfram & Hart workers buzz to be prodigious.

Harry learns to kill, too.

Without qualm, without pain, without any regret. He becomes methodical, surgical with his killing, knowing where and when to punch, kick, spear, gut. He knows how to inflict pain to get answers before the quarry dies, and then they do die and it's another strike off the list W&H gives him. More praise from the higher-ups, continued spellwork on the family he's left behind. Everyone's happy.

But Harry also knows how to kill so it will be almost merciful, a clean twist of the neck so the more innocent victims, the toadies, don't live too long in agony. He can do that, at least, and he does.

It's not a better existence, but it's simpler, just being a killer. No attachments, no goal. Just a deal, a deal he made and he intends to see kept, and Harry thinks all is as it should be. He even agrees when the Senior Partners send a suggestion that perhaps he take on a secretary and branch out a bit.

Then Ginny Weasley walks in the door and everything goes to shit.

- - -

"Mrs. Weasley.." Harry starts, making a show of looking at the resume placed in front of him. Really, he's eyeing her reflection in his marble desk. Her hair is longer, wavier, redder. Her skin is still pale as cream, but her eyes look sadder. Mor haunted. He frowns. That's not right--shouldn't she be...happier without him? Without his ghost?

"Miss. I'm a Miss. Only seventeen, sir, just going out into the real world. Don't need a husband weighing me down." Her humor is still there, at least. Duller, though. A show. False brightness in her smile.

"That's not fair to future husbands everywhere, Miss Weasley, maybe you just haven't found the right one yet." He tries to be genial, friendly. Different than she'd know. He adds a twinkle to his eye and leans forward. He's the boss here, and she the potential secretary who answered that infernal, fated ad. Nothing else. Nothing more.

"That may well be, but I think a little...excitement is due before I succumb to societal norms, don't you?" Merlin help him, she looks so coy. Almost like she used to. He wants to jump across the table and take her.

"Excitement. Well, here at Wolfram & Hart, excitement is never lacking." His voice is bitter. Laced with meaning.

"No, sir, I expect it isn't." Her raised eyebrow tells him she's caught on to the...unconventional nature of this business. He always knew she would be that type, the type to know and not ask questions when questions would serve no purpose.

"That doesn't bother you?"

"No. I need the job." So. She will look the other way for the chance at something more. How Slytherin of her. He liked that about her back then, made them kindred spirits almost, but hates it about her now. He wants her to run away, to scream at him, to just disappear and leave him.

If she doesn't, he'll never stop wishing and wanting her with every breath in him, and he can't have that. Not ever again.

He signed a contract a long time ago.

He signs one again.

- - -

The feel of her is intense. Her skin against his, soft and supple. Warm with life. Still so many damn freckles. He traces each one, especially the constellations of her inner thighs. He knows them as he knows her, intimately and regretfully, and as he kisses her center with sad abandon, she moans a name that shouldn't be his, but is.

How does she know?

The spell is breaking down with every touch he gives her, every look they share. Ginny confesses things to her nameless boss sometimes, in between laughter and coffee and paperwork. How she's always felt disconnected and strange, how there's a ghost haunting her dreams, how she comes with a name unfamiliar to her on her lips.

He takes her because he can and because they're both desperate for it, this completion, this added touch of mystery.

When she kisses him, he remembers lakes and Hogwarts and sixteen. When they fuck, he thinks of Death-Eaters and Voldemort and everyone knowing he betrayed them, signed a piece of paper to essentially hire a man to perform some twisted form of Obliviate on all of them.

It kills him slowly, but a good death, the sort that bad men die because they know what they're doing is bad but they do it anyway. And then the memo comes and he's scared for the first time since that night he killed his mortal enemy and didn't know what to do next.

He takes Ginny on the floor, and says her name, watches her sleep. Thinks of Cyrus Vail and his memory spell and how tommorrow, he's going to have to walk away and become someone else again, if only to keep Ginny safe. Wolfram & Hart doesn't take well to betrayers, and either they'll kill him, or he'll find someone more powerful than them. He doubts it; although he's heard about a girl in America, a Slayer. Powerful, the Wolfram & Hart of the good side, he believes.

Maybe he can get her to help, maybe a little more memory reconstructure. Cyrus Vail owes him a favor or two. The more Harry thinks about it, the more he warms to the idea. He leans down and licks a trail up Ginny's neck and sucks at her earlobe. He loves the pulse that flutters there, the feel of her lifeblood pumping.

Vail could change both of their lives. Make them both over. Into standard American teenagers, allies of the Slayer. Make sure they're protected, because who doesn't want to protect their own?

- - -

"She looks good, doesn't she, Mr. Potter?"

"She looks unconscious."

"Yes, well, it's unfortunate, but she'd discovered your secret when we came upon her. We had to knock her out."

"Do what it is you need to, then get to the memory stuff. The Senior Partners are already..."

"Shhh. Let me work, Mr. Potter. Let me see...ah, yes."

"What?"

"Ms. Summers, the slayer, is alone in her struggle against evil. Only her Watcher comes to her aid, and even he is tired of fighting the fight with only his Slayer at his side."

"Yeah, so? I told you, I'm not going to do anymore disposals till me and Ginny are taken care of--"

"You misunderstand, Mr. Potter. I think Ms. Summers needs friends. Two friends with whom she has a history with already...who love her and whom she loves in return. Let's see...I think this shall be easy indeed."

"What will?"

"First! The physical disguises...a little tweak of the nose here, an arch of the eyebrow there, extend your height a bit, take away the musculature...the eyes and the scar. They will have to go, yes. Brown eyes? Yes, brown, I think."

"Wha--"

"For Ms. Weasley, though...darken the hair, browner, longer. More drab, or else she's recognizable. Less freckles, oh yes, by half. Brighten the eyes, green like yours, how ironic! Thin the lips...and...voila!"

"What did you do? Who are we now?"

"Once reality is dealt with, Mr. Potter, you and your lover will take your places at Slayer's side. Safety, I believe is imminent. But, hmmm. Now to work on the memories..."

"Mr. Vail, I paid an incredible amount for this to work. I want this to be perfect, flawless."

"Oh, it will be, Mr. Potter. Neither you nor Ms. Weasley will be anything like before. Nor will you have memories of this life at all."

"Good."

"Kiss your woman goodbye, Mr. Potter, in the life you wake up to, you will likely never get another chance."

A smile. "Oh, I doubt it. Things have a way of working out for us both."

- - -

A world away, Xander Harris wakes up fingering his forehead, wondering what's missing.

Willow Rosenburg tosses in her sleep, restless as always for a love she can never seem to have for her own.

--finis---