OK so this is an unfinished one. The plot is all there but my birdbrain will not fill in the scenes. It's been sitting on my drive for a few years. I thought I'd clean it up and share in case anyone wanted to read it.

This one is M for really bad language and suggested sexual activity.

16) The song remains – June 2003

Embee closed out their show with an encore. They always did cover songs as an encore, and this song – I'd Love To Change The World, originally done by Ten Years After decades before – was one of the songs they'd agreed would be both challenging and could sound great. Rolf had the pipes to sing it, and Gary had the chops on the axe. Martin had to switch up to guitar, but that was no challenge for him. The stadium was sold out – The AOL Arena in Hamburg held 57,000 and they were all quite involved in the American band's performance. Embee had been a last-minute replacement on the tour for another, more well-known band whose lead singer had checked into rehab. By the time the tour was entering the European leg, Embee had a good following of their own.

Their music was an odd, eclectic mix due to the mix of background of the members. Songs ranged from hard-ish rock to Radiohead-like introspective pop.

Embee was a quartet – lead guitar, bass, drums, keyboard/ rhythm guitar. The two founding members: lead guitar Gary Corbyn and bassist Martin Fahey were from Britain and Boston (by way of Ireland). Drummer Rolf Weber was a Berlin-native and the oldest member of the group. The final member, Gillian Soto, was a classically trained musician from LA who was taking a gap year when she first jammed with the rest. The group gelled in Boston in the summer of '99 and (unusually) found success almost out of the gate with their first album.

In the four years of their run, they had worked hard and played hard but kept clear of the drug epidemic that seemed to be felling many of their fellow musicians. Unbeknownst to most of the world, that was because the members of Embee were not affected by "muggle" drugs. Embee – MB – stood for magic born.

Martin and Gillian were both squibs; Martin had been disowned by his family when he'd not been invited to magical school at 11. Gillie had been raised to be a successful muggle, but she'd never quite gotten over the fact that everyone saw her as… broken. Or that a few of her relatives advocated that she be "put down" or "discarded" to spare the family honor. Rolf and Gary were both wizards who had left the magical world. Rolf, as a muggleborn, had a terrible time with the magic society that existed in East Germany. He was not able to go to Beauxbatons in France because of muggle politics, and blood politics meant he was not invited to Durmstrang. Unless he paid for tutoring, he'd be bound, which usually ended up with serious mental damage (if not death) where he came from. He'd hidden, his family hunted by the magic squads, and fled Europe at the first opportunity.

Gary was actually Harry Potter. Not that the rest knew that. As a weak metamorphmagus, he could change subtle things like the color and texture of his hair and the color and shape of his eyes. His scar and need for glasses had both been gone for ages, since he'd had magical healing and Lasik. (Contacts were ok, but not needing them was certainly preferable.) He was medium height and thin and carried himself with more than a little standoffishness. The rest of the band just knew he bolted from Britain when Voldemort rose again. He wasn't a pureblood; You Know Who's thugs would kill him for shits and giggles. Everyone in the magical world knew that.

And why on Earth would they suspect that magical Britain's most wanted (still! only now it was as a "treasure" instead of a "suspect") would be hiding in such plain sight!

They went backstage with their usual camaraderie present. Playing was something absolutely rewarding to all of them, and the audience fed the high that they got from making music.

Their manager, Mitchell Foley was there, congratulating them and briefing them on the next leg of the tour.

"So, we have two more gigs on mainland – Amsterdam and Paris – and then it's a hop over to England, Scotland and Ireland for a trio of shows to end this tour. Are you guys ready to jump right in to recording a new album or do you want to take some time?"

"I won't do it. I've told you, I won't play in Britain," Harry interrupted the chatter. They all looked at him, surprise and a small amount of resentment in their eyes.

"Corbyn, you're being unreasonable."

Harry looked at the manager, "Unreasonable? What the fuck have I EVER asked for, Mitch? I play whatever shitehole clubs wherever you want, whenever the fuck you want. I don't get caught being a bad boy… much. I take sodding interviews; I bloody well never complain about that shite, though I wish all reporters to hell. I have one. Fucking. Requirement. I will NOT EVER go to Britain. Doesn't matter if they've offered you plate fucking gold instruments for us. I won't go. So fuck right off if you're going to try to sneak, guilt, or demand. You booked this knowing I wouldn't go. It's on you, asshole." With that, he stalked out of the room.

The silence could be cut with a knife. Gary had never flipped out before. Even though he was the youngest member, he was the anchor of the group. Even Martin could be a petty little ass sometimes, but Gary was just in it for the tunes. Until today.

"I'll talk to him," Martin stood up, brushing past Mitch. He wasn't stoked about going back to Britain, either. But their Voldemort issue seemed to be contained to the magical world, mostly, so he wasn't sure what Gary's problem was. It wasn't as though they planned on traipsing down Diagon Bleedin' Alley.

He found Gary on the porch, puffing on an herbal cigarette. It was a habit that Rolf had picked up years ago, but Martin had never seen Gary indulge. He looked both pissed and pensive, and it wasn't a look that the usually-laid-back guitar player sported.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Fuck no."

"We won't even be going into the magical enclaves. Just the stadiums, then back to the airports, if that's what you want."

Harry glared at Martin, throwing down the half-gone cigarette and stomping it with his boot.

"What I want is for my wishes to be listened to. Just one flaming thing I asked for. Don't fucking book us in bleeding Britain. But that asstard couldn't handle that one fucking requirement. If I had balls, I'd fire the fuckwad and just deal with the broken contracts."

"He's not a total shite. We have a really good contract. He gets us kick-ass gigs. I get that Britain is a shithole for you – hey, me, too. But their gold spends just like any other."

"Martin…" Harry took a deep breath then threw himself in a chair. "It's not that I don't want to go to jolly fucking olde England. It's that I can't. I'm a wanted man there."

Martin shook his head. "What? What the fuck dude? Did you kill somebody or something?"

"Nah, more like I didn't kill somebody." He raked his hands through his hair as the two other bandmates came out. He looked at them: his best mates. Better than any he'd ever had, save one. She was his best mate forever, even if she'd never forgive him.

It was time.

He let his hair go back to its natural black birds' nest; his eyes go back to green, his features to that of James Potter.

"Holy fucking shit," Martin breathed.

"What? What the fuck, Gary?" Gillian demanded, her eyes cold.

"Not Gary, Gillie. Harry."

Rolf's eyes widened. "Fuck, man. You're Harry fuckin' Potter."

"And there's no fucking way I'm going back to Britain," Harry confirmed, changing his looks back to those of Gary Corbyn. He was almost as comfortable in his Gary skin as he was in his Harry skin, now. Almost. "Someone will recognize me, somehow. I wouldn't be surprised if they don't have a net looking for my magical signature, though that's probably significantly different than it was when I booked."

Gillian sat next to him, and Rolf sat on the low stone wall around the porch. Martin paced. This was not cool.

"Can you explain? Your story was never that well known in the States, and my parents sheltered me from much of the magical world, anyway."

Harry set his jaw, wanting another smoke. Or a drink. Or a hit of heroin - if only there were a magical version. Anything to forget again.

His mates would never look at him the same. But they had the right to know, so he told them.

"It was war, you see. My parents were in this war, and for some reason, the Hitler of that war - or maybe Goebbels is more apt - came after my family personally. He'd killed hundreds with no problem. But something happened. He killed my dad, then my mum, then he tried to kill me, and he got blown up."

Gillian kept her questions to herself – they all did. They wanted him to tell them, to clear it out. And he did. He told it all – from the seriously abusive "home" he'd grown up in, to being thrown into a paparazzi fishbowl with zero experience as a magical, to the countless brushes with death in school, to the reanimation of his worst nightmare, to being attacked by dementors in a muggle neighborhood.

"Those dementors," Harry puffed on his fourth cigarette of his tale, his voice hoarse from the retelling, "they were sent after me. The British magical government controls them. It was a pretty obvious attempt to silence me. I'd seen them silence my innocent godfather. I'd seen them silence Barty Crouch, Jr. If there's a problem in the British Magical Society, they'll use whatever means necessary to cover it up. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not actually stupid. I ran."

"How'd you end up in Boston, then?" Martin asked. Martin had a distant squib cousin who'd immigrated to the city of Boston a decade prior. Rolf had won a lottery that MACUSA had sponsored to bring newbloods to the US from the newly-opened Eastern Bloc. As Rolf had no close family left (he had his own horror stories, but apparently, they were fairy tales compared to Gary… Harry's past) he'd grabbed the opportunity with both hands.

Harry smiled humorlessly. "Winky, will you please bring tea?" The house elf popped in, serving tea to her master. The other band members were silent in their shock.

"De fuck vas dat, Corbin?" Rolf asked, his accent thick with the shock of seeing that being.

Harry laughed for the first time that afternoon, "House elf. And that was pretty much my reaction when I met first Dobby, my other elf. They're a symbiotic creature native to Britain. They are hugely magical, and without a bond to a human magical or a magical place, the magic burns them up in a decade or so. Bound, they can live for centuries. Dobby and Winky were freed by their former masters and bonded with me during the stupid ass tournament. They saved my life, and with their help, I prepared to run at the next sign of someone trying to kill me… well. I actually would have beat feet earlier in the year, but I was afraid if I didn't show for the tournament events, I'd be squibbed. No offense," he said to Gillian.

"None taken," she answered quietly.

"Anyway, the elves popped me to northern Scotland first, then to the Faroe Islands, then Iceland, then Greenland… pop, rest overnight in a warded, magical tent, lather, rinse, repeat. Took us about two fucking weeks to get to the closest city that had a MAC USA division I could claim amnesty in – I wanted USA because Canada still trusts the British Ministry. The rest is history."

"De math is wronk," Rolf said. His German accent hadn't lessened at all during his decade plus in the states, and had been exacerbated by their time in Europe. "You vere new on de scene in 98/99. Dat tournament vus like 94?"

"Fall of 94 to early summer of 95, yeah. I ran the summer of 95. Well, I was granted asylum by MACUSA, but there were conditions. They finished my education – both sides – and they healed some major things I had wrong with me, but I had to give them information, and eventually… fuck. I can't talk about it. Literally. I'm not allowed to talk about it. But I'm serious persona non fuckin' grata over in the UK."

Martin nodded. He, more than the others, got it. The Ministry of Magic in Britain was something out of the Dark Ages. Their music wasn't worth Gary's freedom – or worse, his life.

"We'll figure it out, mate," Martin said. Rolf nodded in agreement.

Gillie's forehead creased in concentration. "We can say that you're scarred from how they treated you there. Just in a physical or emotional way. If you give Mitch the child abuse thing and we stick with you, it'll get us out of it."

"Fuck. He'll make me do a fucking interview and I'll have to fucking share my feelings or some shit."

"Least you can do, mate, after losing your shit on him."

Gary ran his hand through his hair. "Yeah, I guess."

~~ this is a scene break~~

"This is Kurt Loder with MTV News. Up and coming band Embee bowed out of the last part of the Anger Management Tour and it wasn't due to rehab. An interview with lead guitar Gary Corbin gives a much deeper and darker reason for their withdrawal."

"I want to apologize to the British fans. Seriously. I just… I can't go back there, mate."

Kurt looked very solemnly at the young musician. "Bad memories?" he asked.

The younger man took a heavy drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke in a manner that indicated his inner turmoil.

"Look, all four of us come from bad backgrounds. Only Gillie still talks to her family at all. I won't talk about their situations. But mine… well. My parents died when I was a baby. I was dumped on my aunt." The silence stretched as Harry puffed and thought on what he wanted to say. "If there were child abuse laws on the books in the eighties in the UK, they weren't enforced."

"Are you saying you were abused?" Loder asked.

Ice cold blue eyes stabbed at the interviewer as he stabbed out his cigarette. "They kept me in a f*bleep* cupboard. Literally. They had a closet under their stairs and that was my f*bleep* room the first ten years I was there."

"Well, if it was a small house…"

The snide sneer would have been something his old potions teacher would wish he could emulate. "There were four bedrooms upstairs, mate. My aunt and uncle shared one. My cousin had two – one for him and one for his toys. The fourth was a guest room reserved for my uncle's b*bleep* of a sister who visited one week each summer and one week at Christmas. I got a sodding cupboard. S*bleep*. I didn't even know my own f*bleep* name until I went to primary. Thought I was just 'boy.' Then, in school, all the teachers had been warned about me by my f*bleep* relatives and the f*bleep* neighbors. A five-year-old was supposed to be some kind of bleeding criminal. Every single adult and child I met played their part in giving me the s*bleep* childhood a kid could have. F*bleep* Brits. Hope the whole sodding island sinks." The last was under his breath but was still clearly heard.

"That's a horrific mental cruelty. I'm so sorry you went through that."

"Mmmhh." Gary looked away from the camera and the interviewer and swigged on his coffee. He was obviously seriously uncomfortable.

"There wasn't any physical abuse, though?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry chuckled humorlessly and pointed out a large a scar on his arm. "I dropped the f*bleep* roast getting it out of the oven. When I was f*bleep* four. The glove was too big, see, and when I tried to get it to fit right, the pan moved, burnt my arm so as I could even smell it burning, so I dropped the sodding roast. My b*bleep* of an aunt slapped me so hard that my ears bled and I couldn't see straight for days. Not that I could see much in the f*bleep*cupboard, anyway. They did that s*bleep* to me all the time. My parents were both tall. Dad was supposedly like 6"1' and mum something like 5"9'. I'm lucky I got to 5"8'."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Loder hadn't expected the musician to be so open about the details of his abuse, and the interviewer felt a (very) small amount of guilt at exposing such darkness. (He was also gleefully sure this interview would be re-played for decades.)

"I'm sure the fans you've won in Britain will be shocked to hear this, but at the same time, I don't think anyone can blame you for not wanting to go back to the place you were tormented. If I may ask, how did you escape?"

Gary pulled out another cigarette, lit it, and blew the smoke toward the camera as he grinned. "Well, now, that's a long story, and one I'll put in my auto-f*bleep*-biography… if I live long enough to write one."

Loder laughed, glad to see the attitude back on the younger man.

"Fair enough. Thank you for being so straightforward. I'm sure most will understand you not wanting to go back to a place that spurs such memories."

Gary just grunted

"You've probably heard this, but it's pretty amazing that you've put yourself back together like you have. You're an inspiration. Really."

At that, Gary openly laughed. "Nah, man. Music saved me. Without the tunes, I'd have given up a long time ago."

"So if anyone's in your position…"

Harry took another deep drag. He didn't fear lung cancer - magicals didn't get that - but he still didn't want the weakness of an addiction. The sooner he got through all of this nonsense of dredging up the past, the sooner he could move forward. But now, he had to act all insightful or some shit.

"Nothing's forever. Not the best, and not the worst. You just have to make your path and stick to it. Even if the band falls apart, if everyone hates our tunes, I'll still make my way. I'm the f*bleep* master of my own f*bleep* fate, yeah?" The grin was not quite maniacal, and Loder chuckled.

"This has been MTV news, interviewing Gary Corbyn from Embee. Thanks again."

"No problem, thanks for giving me time to explain, mate."

~~ this is a scene break ~~

Rolf and Gillie were fussing with the engineer on the last track they'd just finished recording. It was one of Gillie's, so she was feeling motherish. Gary put his fender up and went to stand behind them, watching them fiddle with the board and listening to the differences it made.

It would never be his forte, production. But it was neat to watch.

They were recording at their favorite studio in a converted barn on the outskirts of the remote suburbs of Boston. Most of the band still lived in Beantown; Gary lived farthest out in his remote coastal-Maine home. But it was an easy apparition to Martin's yard, and a quick walk to his garaged car from there.

The mix of magical and muggle worked well for Gary. He was good at household charms – figured that he'd probably taught himself them through accidental magic when he was chief cook and bottle washer for the Dusleys. He liked having enough room to have a fly once in a while – on his broom or as a crow. But he also liked being able to go to cinema or a good pub with his mates.

Martin came back into the room from a potty break. He indicated with a jerk of his head that he needed to talk to Gary, privately. Rolf noticed, his brow furrowed, and sent a questioning look to Martin. Martin nodded, indicating Rolf should come, too. Rolf excused himself from the console.

"There's a bird here," Martin said quietly as the three met in the corner. "Says she won't go 'til she talks to Harry."

"What she look like, mate?" Gary asked, grinning. He had an itch – it'd been a bit since it'd been scratched. Between dredging up the Dursley past, writing it out as songs, and recording them, he'd been a busy bee. Time to pollinate some flowers.

"You're not hearing me," Martin said with rare gravitas. "She asked for Harry, not Gary."

Gary froze then, his honed survival instincts taking over. He turned to the only other full magical in the room.

"You all need to be ready to blow, fast. Yeah?" Rolf nodded, and Martin paled. "Put a listening charm on the door. If I say the word "dance," get gone. If you can't get out the door, call my elves – Winky and Dobby will hear you." At this point, Gillie was now paying attention to the hushed but obviously tense conversation between the men. "I think you might be better off getting out without magic." His heart was racing, his throat was dry, but his voice was calm.

After all, if it was a death eater, they wouldn't have asked for him. Probably.

He made his way to the studio door as he spoke, made eye contact with his mates then nodded once before leaving. He saw Rolf circumspectly pulling a wand as he did so.

Gary looked through the window of the door to the front desk area, his wand in hand and his father's cloak firmly in place.

She was pacing, vibrant, furious. Her hair was pixie short, and it suited her.

She was beautiful. She was his best mate. And she'd probably skin him alive for his sins. He pulled off the cloak, removed the silencing charm, and straightened. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand through his hair. "It's okay, guys, she's friendly. Mostly. I'm done for the day." He laughed a little and opened the door to the reception area.

"Hello, Hermione."

She turned, stopped her pacing, and looked at him. Then she ran to him and threw herself around him. "Harry, oh Harry. You're alive. You… you…" She was crying as he carried her back to his private studio. When the door was shut, she fell off him, sniffed, and wiped her tears.

Then she hit him. It was a slap, it was on the shoulder, but more than anything it showed how angry Hermione was. She would never have hit him.

"You great prat! You left us. You left ME!"

"They sent fucking dementors after me! They kissed my cousin and my uncle! What was I supposed to do? I saw them take Hagrid to bleeding Azkaban. Sirius was there for more than a decade, and they kissed him even though we knew he was innocent. Neither of them even had sodding trials! If they didn't kill me, they were going to put me in that hole with the fucking dementors! I couldn't stay."

"Language, Harry. You could have trusted Dumbledore!"

He stopped and pinned her with his own cold, now blue, eyes.

"First off, Mione, you came here on my fucking turf. I'm a fucking adult and a fucking rock star. You don't fucking get to fucking tell me to watch my fucking language," he enunciated each cuss more exactly then smiled grimly, "Clear?"

"As crystal," she said with a stony set to her chin.

"For your other point: trust Dumbledore? Really? The same bloke who never bothered to get Hagrid out of Azkaban – I did that – or stand up for Sirius? He was the head of the fucking court system. That tosser, Snape was released on Dumbledore's word alone. But he couldn't get a fucking trial for Hagrid or Sirius?"

"Fudge and Malfoy blocked his power in the Wizengamot. They even ousted him that summer. You still should have trusted him…"

He raised one blonde eyebrow at her.

"Trust Dumbledore who, although he had witnessed Riddle's original opening of the Chamber of Secrets, couldn't figure out where or what the monster was? The same tosser who BAITED TRAPS for a dark lord in a sodding SCHOOL full of CHILDREN? Traps meant as tests for me? No, I couldn't have trusted that old schemer."

Hermione was oddly silent, unable to refute what Harry said. She'd had her own time to reflect on their years at Hogwarts since she'd left, and had come to some of the same conclusions. But still, Dumbledore was the only one who kept Voldemort's power in check.

But Harry wasn't done. He shook his head and looked out the window at the white world of winter the studio in Massachusetts provided.

"I figured out the headmaster was talking out both sides when he made me stay in that bloody tournament. I got a copy of the rules. They were going cheap in Hogsmeade over Yule – guess they printed too many. Anyway. He could have contested my placement the first night, cancelled the drawing and had the names redrawn. Whatever his purpose in life, that wanker is not someone I can trust."

Hermione sat on the leather couch; her shoulders rounded in defeat.

"You left me." Her voice was weak, but the pain – the utter despair she'd felt when she knew Harry was gone still echoed in her voice. Harry sighed and sat next to her, taking her hand.

"I sent a note! To you!"

"Have to take a powder?" she laughed without humor. "Yes, I remember your note. I had to explain to the others that you weren't going to take a muggle drug or something…"

"I figured they might read your mail. I hoped that was why you weren't writing anything to me," she looked shamed at that reminder of how she'd put Dumbledore's orders before her friend's safety and happiness.

"I would have helped you. Remus would have. You weren't alone."

"I didn't want anyone stopping me. I had to get away," he stated, exasperated that she didn't want to understand. He thought she, of all people, would.

"That's beside the point…" pulling her wand, she conjured a handkerchief as she could feel herself getting emotional. Flicking the wand back into its holster, she squeezed his hand in a plea for him to understand.

"It just was awful after you disappeared," she whispered, her brown eyes glistening with tears. "Malfoy and his goons stepped up their torment – aside from calling people names, they hexed and cursed to their black hearts' content. With Lucius Malfoy practically owning the government at that point, the teachers wouldn't even stop them. Then the defense person – I won't say professor as she didn't teach - was this truly deplorable woman, Delores Umbridge. She was a ministry plant in the school. She had it in for all the muggleborn. Tortured us, literally," she held up a hand with scars of the words "I am a mudblood" etched into it. "You would have helped us. Without you, no one would. And the death eaters started getting bold. They've got fingers in every part of government, and He Who is still out there. Every time anyone gets any kind of power against him, they disappear."

"And anyone with a fucking ounce of sense will leave. Like I bloody well did. Like you did, apparently. And why don't you say the wanker's name?"

"He's linked it with a taboo. Say it and he can apparate behind any wards. Apparently, it's something he did in the first war. That's why people got so upset hearing the name."

"Huh. I've called him Riddle for years, since that's his real name." Harry chuckled without humor. "People must've thought me such an arrogant wanker for saying his name. Why on earth didn't anyone ever tell me about the taboo?"

Hermione blushed. "Ginny tried to tell me once, but the Headmaster told me I should say the name, and you said the name, so I ignored her. You're nodding. You're not surprised."

"Two words. House Elves."

"Shut it, you." Hermione had fought him tooth and nail when he'd told her that elves needed bonds or the magic burned them up. The house elves of Hogwarts had declared her mortal enemy as she kept trying to free them. He finally found a book on sentient beings – at that point in their lives, Hermione trusted books more than anything else – on where house elves came from and why they needed a bond. She tried to find other books to contradict it, but in the end, had to concede the point.

She wasn't at all graceful about the concession, either. Made him like her a whole lot more, as she'd seemed a bit too perfect before that.

He grinned briefly, then sobered. "Why isn't the dark twat out killing everyone? I go to a magical enclave at least once a month to get the news, supplies. There's been nothing about overt terror in Britain since I left."

"He doesn't appear often, and his power isn't as terrifying as it once was, according to Remus."

Harry grinned again, and this time there was menace in it.

"You know something, Harry Potter."

"I know a fucking hell of a lot. When I first came here, declared asylum, part of the amnesty agreement was that I tell them abso-fucking-lutely everything. MAC USA had some kind of healer – they took this leech thing out of the blasted scar. And they did some sort of blood reclamation ritual."

"That must have been fascinating," Hermione declared, squeezing his hand again. He squeezed back as he chuckled.

"You'd have thought. I thought it was pretty much boring and fucking painful. But it freed me of all ties from the great wank, Riddle. What do you want to bet that conjured fucking body of his used some of my magic? I know my own levels went through the roof after the ritual. How do you think I suddenly figured out how to morph?" He let his features fall back to Harry and a tension Hermione hadn't realize she held faded.

"I wondered. Not Polyjuice, then?" She asked, but already knew the answer.

"Not on a bet. That shite tastes like the ass end of a sick dog, that does."

"No need to be graphic. Why didn't you have them take care of the Dursley scars?"

Harry sighed. Did he want to bring all of this into his work space?

He didn't.

"Look, you really want to talk? We can go to my house. I need to key you to the wards, but I think you'll like it. "

She looked at him. Really looked at him. Did she want to go to his house? Did she want to see what he was now?

~~they pop to his house and have conversation and canapes~~

"I thought it was you, in that interview, but I needed to be sure. I tracked down your band and gave myself three days to find you. My luck was in finding you so quickly."

He grinned and leaned back, all swagger and mischief. "And now you've found me, what do you plan to do with me?"

It stirred desires she'd ignored for a long while. What did she want to do with him?

Oh, the list was certainly long. She blushed and he grinned. Deciding to ignore his blatant flirting – when had Harry become a flirt? – she continued.

"I watched you go out to lunch today. You still have the same tell, putting your hand through your hair. And you walk the same. And I knew it was you. My Harry, my best friend." Her voice choked on it. She'd felt so alone for so long. Sure, she'd had friends, but none like him. And the atmosphere she'd found herself in didn't exactly encourage the trust she'd had in him.

Once. Before he'd "taken a powder."

He sobered and gave a curt nod, then brought his free hand up to her cheek, whispering gruffly, "I've missed you, you know. You're actually the only thing I miss from then. I knew you'd be mad. I knew you'd never forgive me. I'm so sorry, Hermione. So, so sorry I left you behind. You're absolutely the only thing I regret about doing what I did. I've missed you every day."

She stifled a sob, closed her eyes and sniffed. Then she stiffened her lips and looked resolutely at him.

"I understand," she nodded. "I even understood, then. I was really, really glad you'd gotten away. The headmaster was so angry. He tried to keep it quiet at first, work through side channels to catch you. He had no idea how you'd blocked all of the tracking charms he had on you – I guessed it was Dobby and Winky. I never said so, I swear, Harry, I never told! But after talking to me, he seemed to know you'd bonded them."

Harry nodded. "He uses legilimency like most of us use visual or verbal clues. That's why he has that cantrip of making his eyes twinkle. Brings your eyes to his. Lets him read your surface thoughts. No harm, no foul, right?"

Hermione's jaw dropped. She had heard the term legilimency in her healing elective. It was mind reading. She was, of course, more interested in occlumency, but had not found a great deal of information that would teach her how to do it. It was on her list.

Legilimency, however, if her recall served, was illegal to do without permission. Healers trained in the art and had to have patient sign off to perform it. It helped in diagnosis.

She supposed it would also help find the truth in most situations, which would be how Dumbledore justified doing it. But it was an awful invasion of privacy. She shook her head.

"That's fairly awful, and I totally believe he does it. He doesn't think anyone deserves secrets except him. When he found out you'd used emancipation from the tournament to block his access to your Gringotts vaults – and that you'd claimed the Black vaults – he knew you had enough funds to hide forever. I heard Remus talking about it – apparently when Bill delivered that information, Professor Dumbledore literally lost control of his magic. They were meeting at the Hog's Head and it was practically leveled. The bartender there verbally cursed out Professor Dumbledore and punched him in the nose. Straightened it out, actually," Hermione mused.

Harry laughed.

~~ I can't figure out how to get this stuff in, but it explains what's going on in Britain~~

"This house of yours is completely magical? Behind wards and all?" He'd added her to the ward book and a bit of her blood to the ward stone. She'd not seen those types of wards before and could almost feel them vibrating around her. It wasn't unpleasant, but not even Hogwarts sang with that kind of power.

"Yeah. I sold all my properties back Britain and bought this for less than the profit. It was abandoned for a century, since the last owner died. Apparently, it takes a magical punch to maintain residence behind these wards, and not many have enough of a core to do it. I did. The elves had a field day cleaning it up. It's an easy pop to Boston and there's a huge magical community in this part of the country."

"But the Americans are a bit weird about the statute. Do your band mates know?"

"Embee is really the letters M B. Magic born. We're a bunch of magical-world rejects."

Hermione nodded. "You all follow the rules for the most part. Makes sense."

He played with her fingers as he studied her. "What's it like over there, really? No one much cares about the isolationist British at this point, now your problems seem to be contained in you borders."

"It's a coalition government, now. Has been since you put the whammy on He… Riddle, I suppose. The dark faction got most of what they wanted, and they stopped killing magicals, so the light faction is happy, too. They still kill muggles and some muggleborn disappear, but no one makes a fuss. Neutrals pretty much rule, and they're die-hard traditionalists. So, they're not killing too many of us muggleborn anymore, but if we want to keep our magic, we have to sign a contract. We have to uphold the laws of our society and contribute."

It sounded like a nightmare to Harry. "Contribute how?"

"Well, through work or children, truth be told. I took two more years at Hogwarts, as a teaching assistant, and they offered advanced topics that us assistants could take – I did healing and ritual magics and animagus study. Wanted to see what I wanted to study."

"Animagus study? Did you find your form?"

Her nose wrinkled. "I'm a skunk." He chortled with laughter. "No 'that stinks' puns Potter. I've heard them all already. I completed it because, why not? But really. So not useful. You?"

He grinned. "A crow."

"Figures. You still get to fly." She stood and started looking through the books on his shelves. "You have your family libraries here?"

"Hmm," he agreed, sipping his coffee, watching her bum. It was a nice view. "I have Potter, Black, Crouch, and Malfoy libraries here."

She turned, shock and avarice on her face. "How? Wait. Winky and Dobby?"

"You bet. Elves rock." Harry nodded. Hermione shook her head and laughed.

"So, you know my life. It's public fodder, after all, and you had to do some research to find me. Tell me about you now. What are you studying?"

"I'm in a contract with Master Montauk to get a dual mastery in charms and enchanting. We don't have many enchanters in Britain, so they allowed me to leave so long as my contract was stringent and I would be getting a mastery that could be useful."

"You're apprenticed to an American master?"

"I'm a journeyman, actually. And I'll be done with my mastery this year. I'm putting the final touches on my project – fully functional communication mirrors that can be linked to other mirrors through a matrix. Like a phone system."

"Nice! No more talking through fireplaces?"

"Can't stand the soot in my hair," Hermione wrinkled her nose. "And if I get the patent, and anyone uses it, Britain gets a good cut of the proceeds. That should win me some freedoms." He pulled at her hand as she meandered next to him and she sat onto the sofa next to him again. She picked up her coffee and looked at her small hand in his calloused, larger one. Then she looked back up into his green eyes.

His brow was furrowed. "You make it sound like slavery. Is your training better or worse than what you had over there?"

"Over there, they know where I am at all times. With Master Montauk, I get weekends and one full day off a month. I banked a few last year but spent them on Yule – went home to see my parents. On my time off, I can come and go as I please. I had three days banked – used one of them today after I saw that interview on MTV last night. I didn't feel like cooking and wanted muggle, so I popped over to Syracuse to a restaurant. They had the telly playing. I was reading and eating but your voice – no matter what you look like Harry, your voice."

"So you get to go out to supper? Is that like time off for good behavior?"

"Now that I'm in my last year, I have free time from 6pm to 6am." Hermione protested. "With the strict contract from home in place on top of my journeyman contract, Master Montauk is very generous."

"Sounds like it. Do you have a cell?"

"What? No! I'm not a prisoner!" She stiffened in outrage. The contract was strict but fair.

Harry's eyes danced with humor. "A cell phone, love."

"Oh, a mobile!" Hermione laughed at her foolishness. "Yes."

"Gimme, I'll put in my number, yeah? You have weekends, and you're in New York? We can hang on weekends."

She handed over her mobile as she bit her lip. "Harry, they might find you if you're with me."

"They can find me any time they like. I'm a citizen over here now. They try any of their fucked up shit and they'll get MACUSA on their asses."

Hermione nodded. She didn't like the way he talked, but she heard the assurance in there. Being with her wouldn't put him in danger.

"So, you took today. It's Friday. You have weekends free. Stay?"

She smiled shyly, but nodded. "I thought you'd never ask."

~~ and he puts the moves on her that night after dinner. ~~

"Is there anybody?" he asked as they shared a flourless chocolate torte provided by Winky. The elf had been in her prime, fixing a romantic dinner for the master and his witch. She knew the witch didn't try to give clothes anymore, but she'd keep an eye out, anyway.

"No. Ron asked me out sixth year, but by then, I was all about trying to find a way out of the country. They registered us all by then, you see? If nothing else, they need cogs in their magical society and too many muggleborn fled the year after you left. So, they registered us and they track us. I'd just about resigned myself to having my magic bound when the coalition government was formed and the contracts came into play. Now I'm under one of those."

"Save us all from the British and their fucking contracts. They do like conscripting people for whatever they want."

Hermione sighed, remembering Harry's own experience with the Goblet of Fire.

"Well, Padma Patil – you remember your data from the Yule ball?" she ribbed him, "She's working on a double mastery in potions and history. She's looking for a way to recover the formula for building family trees. I imagine it's a blood potion, and the Light faction keeps trying to get blood magic outlawed. It forces her to keep her research on the quiet side. But I think, if she gets it figured, we'll find that most 'muggleborn' are actually descended from squibs. I mean, if magic is caused by a random genetic mutation, it's much more statistically probable and rational to have the recessive trait in the blood than that another random magic-causing mutation occurring."

"Unless you believe in Mother Magic," Harry murmured, thinking on the books in his library. Maybe he could find something there and forward it – anonymously, of course – to Padma. It could balance the karmic scales, as it were, for his rubbish treatment of her back in school...

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Like I said, not rational."

"And people turning into skunks is? The conservation of mass issues alone defy rationality."

His phone rang then, and he was quickly involved in a call with someone. Hermione got up from the table and wandered to the music room. She plucked out a melody on the piano and looked through the equipment – muggle made to work with magic- he had to play music. He had dozens of CD's and albums. And there was nary a Weird Sisters record amongst them.

She saw some pictures of Embee on the walls and on shelves: small venues, big stadiums, and candids… It was hard to see Harry in Gary, but that grin, that was still a Potter grin. It would completely drive Snape round the twist to know how successful Harry was.

His success was actually pretty stunning, actually. How many musicians were successful? But it was obvious the band was tight and had talent.

"Sorry about that. I took off pretty fast today. They wanted to know if I was okay and when I would be available again."

She wanted to ask about them. How did he meet them? What were they like? But something else completely popped out.

"How did you learn to play so quickly?"

He grinned a sly grin, sat, adjusted as though he was picking up an instrument, and played air guitar.

"Cute. Air guitar doesn't teach technique. And I've been listening and reading up. You've got good technique, Potter."

"Hmm," he agreed, "that's what all the lasses say. Come here." He tipped his head in invitation.

She rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. "What?"

"Come. Here. Please?" He gave her his puppy-dog look – the pleading bright-green eyes were, in Hermione's opinion – a power that he should use sparsely.

She sighed again and walked to him.

"Put your hand on my shoulder," he invited as his hands still moved.

She rolled her eyes. "Right." She said and did so. She was astonished to hear, just barely, the sound of scales being played on the guitar. A second hand on his other shoulder made the volume louder. She scooched behind him, putting as much body-contact as she could – her chest to his back, her hips cradling his, and her legs aside his.

And she saw the old, beat-up guitar, heard him playing the notes: in tune, but not as sweet-sounding as his other guitars.

Still, she turned her head and closed her eyes, resting her cheek against his back, feeling his muscles as he went from scale to song.

"I think it was the first time I admitted to myself I was magical. I'd been able to do spotless cleans and keep food warm or cool, as needed, for years. But in primary – year four – we got a new music teacher. He was a classical guitar player. But he could play rock, too, and he was so cool. All the boys wanted to be like him – a lot of the girls, too, I imagine. Dudley was no exception, and he got this guitar. But he didn't practice and got frustrated and broke it. I snuck into his toy room one day – I did that sometimes, sneak his broken toys, and I could usually make them better with wish magics. It's how I got my granddad's toy soldiers. Anyway. I snuck the guitar out. I snuck it into my cupboard. I'd already silenced that, obviously, since they never heard my nightmares. But I made it invisible, too. Took it to Hogwarts. Only I can see it or hear it."

~~ and I've no idea how to get from A to B and honestly can't write love scenes ~~

He ran his fingers through her short hair as she lay against his bare chest. He'd never had a woman in his own bed before. He wondered if he'd ever have another anywhere. He thought maybe Hermione had ruined the best game in the biz for him.

Bless her.

She turned her head and kissed his chest. "You're awfully good at that," she smiled.

"I've had some practice, though not as much as the tabloids would have you believe."

"Oh, I know. You've not changed that much. Too much honor, too much the hero. Too unselfish to just go around breaking hearts."

"I don't think that there are many hearts involved. It's a status symbol to be able to say you've slept with a famous person, oddly enough. But I don't think I'm much of a hero. After all, I ran away."

"You did, but you didn't give up on magic. What safety we have behind the mithril curtain is due to your actions, even if no one else knows it."

He shrugged. "I'm glad for you, but otherwise, I don't care much. This is my home now."

"Is it? I mean the house is here, but you've not got roots here. Your roots are there."

"My parents lived there, but I never knew them. They killed my godfather right in front of me. According to you, as a half-blood, I'd be enslaved if I set foot on the islands. No, I'll not go back."

"And yet, if you don't, we're doomed," She whispered.

He stiffened, looking down at her.

"What's this shite?"

Hermione sat up, pulling the sheet with her. She looked into his questioning eyes with sadness. "You're in a prophecy. I think Dumbledore kept it from you to try to protect you. But Riddle can't be killed unless you do it. He'll get stronger again and start killing unless…"

He sat beside her. "Do you know this prophecy?"

Hermione nodded briefly. "I snuck into the Headmaster's office, trying to find if he had done something to you. I found his pensieve. It's fairly horrific." She went on to tell him what she had seen; what had been burned into her mind. "I went to the hall of prophecies and found it. It's marked for you and Riddle and witnessed by Dumbledore."

"Marked as equal, power he knows not? Unless he's talkin bout my sodding axe, I don't know what power." Harry scoffed. "But I think Dumbledore fucked it up from the jump. See, I know a fair bit about Riddle. Thought about him a lot over the last couple of years. He was an orphan, like me, yeah? What you want to bet his childhood was complete shite. He was a freak in an orphanage in the turn of the century or some shit? If your precious Headbastard had bothered to get me healed, the leech would have been removed. 'Power that he knows' not could very well have been a fucking adult that gave a toss about me when I was a kid."

"It's still active. It's unfulfilled. Only you can kill him and free us."

He got up and pulled on his trousers then, the mood completely blown. And he had really wanted another round. "Why the fuck is it my fucking duty to go up against a fucking dark wizard, Hermione?"

"People are still dying – mostly muggles. The rest of us are slaves. Only you can stop him!"

"You've seen this fucking prophecy for yourself? Heard it from another source besides the pensieve copy Dumbledore has?"

"Well, no."

"And you, my best friend, just happened to stumble across this highly sensitive and important information? Can you not smell the fucking setup? Why do you still trust Dumbledore so much?! What has he EVER done for you? Because if you saw that interview, you know just what he's done for me."

"Oh, Harry, when you left, I gave him such an earful. I was so, so angry with him. But he has this way of talking, of convincing you." Her eyes filled with tears as she realized that she was betraying Harry again, this time in word if not deed.

Harry sighed. Hermione was so full of compassion, and she wanted to believe the best of everyone (except, of course, Draco Malfoy, which – to his mind – demonstrated her impeccable taste.) He sat back down on the bed and pulled her into his lap, just holding her and rubbing her back while she stifled her tears.

"It took me a while, and several murder attempts, for me to reconcile that Albus Dumbledore is a very, very flawed man who did not have my best interests in mind. And I never bloody well trusted adults. They'd given me utter shite for no reason all my life! But Dumbledore – he inspires trust for some reason. I get it. But I don't agree."

~~so this is where it's going~~

((plot ahead, not story))

Harry figures out that a marriage contract – magical marriage – would trump any stupid contract the british government would have. Gets Dobby and Winky to sneak Drs Granger out of Britain. He and hermione marry before she gets her mastery. Breaks her contract.

British are furious, want to see her magical husband. She gets her citizenship fast tracked; MACUSA stands behind her stating that they will not release a citizen to them, especially given the slavery they tried to enforce upon her.

Dumbledore has tracker on Hermione. Sees picture of Hermione with Gary Corbin and realizes it's Harry Potter. Does some research. Gives Harry's address to Snape to give to Riddle. The prophecy must be fulfilled, as Voldemort is getting stronger again.

The few death eaters that accompany Riddle to USA are burned up in the war wards that have been raised since Harry came to USA. Snape, Bella, Malfoy, and a few others are all casualties who die an incredibly painful death, their magic adding to the protections.. But not Voldie.

Riddle tries to get onto Harry's property. The property is really, really old. Has ancient lay lines and wards that are completely unknown to the magicals of today. Those wards pull riddle's magic out of him for the attack on the protected area. Kills him. The dark marks of the rest of the death eaters burn through the arm, severing it, and the left arm can't be replaced on any death eater. But otherwise, they live.

Few years later, Padma's research works, with Harry's help, and they prove no muggleborn really exist, ending the contracts once and for all.

Dumbledore tries to get Potters to come back. Harry invites him to a concert. Dress muggle. Hermione is pregnant at home.

Loud, racous show, but dumbles enjoys it, seeing how well loved his boy is. Until Harry sings a song he's written and the words ring too close.

You have too many names and not enough soul

You sacrifice everyone but yourself

Get bent

Get fucked

Go to hell

Go away

I'll never be yours again.

Dumbledore gets surrounded by MACUSA agents – he'd snuck in to try to retrieve Harry – and is banned from USA forever.