That day, Hermione was wearing a checked t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. She had packed everything into her extendable purse. She stood at the door of the Burrow, one foot outside, another holding her back.

"Mione, hurry. You'll be late for the portkey," Ron called from outside the door. We were leaving for Australia to find her parents. Ron was hyper-excited. "Corals reefs and beaches and bikinis, finally a trip without death threats and starvation and those bloody Horcruxes. Woohoo!" he had cried. I could only laugh at his exuberance. Hermione had nodded. "You apparate Ron. We will join you," she said. "Kay," saying which Ron disapparated. "Are you alright?" I asked her, one hand on her shoulder. She turned around, taking my hand in hers. She was staring at our conjoined hand. I could feel the unshed tears in her lowered eyes. "When I was little, I remember taking my dad's hand and feeling this sense of protection. Like nothing could touch me if he was there. Even after our fifth year at Hogwarts, even when I was keeping everything from my parents, I would wake up from some particularly vicious nightmare and go to my parent's room. I would curl up around my dad and he would pull me in a hug. We would sleep and everything would be fine. Then, I made him forget me. And this dread, this dread doesn't leave me. I will never be safe again, Harry. I will never be safe again." Her body wracked with sobs. I pulled her into a hug. "You will be fine. He will be fine. He will be fine. Your mum will be fine. Everything will be fine," I had whispered. "We will go to Australia, we will find your parents and we will restore their memory. The Unspeakables said it will work. It has to work. And then you will feel like the most protected princess of the world." That's why when I woke up with a pounding headache with a ghost of a memory of the world's most protective touch, I expected for a moment to see my dad. All I saw was white.

The blurry image of a healer appeared.

"Sir, could you tell us your name?"

"My name?" my voice was still hoarse. Did I hit my face that hard that the woman couldn't recognize me? Oh! Different time. Should I tell them my real name? Will anyone recognize me if I did? No, probably a bad idea.

"Porter," I croaked out.

"Potter? You certainly look like the patient on the other bed, a bit."

Had I said Potter? What would I do with an addled mind?

"No, no. It's Porter. Por-ter with an r."

"Okay, Mr Porter. It seems you were severely injured and travelling internationally has aggravated those wounds. With a bit of rest and the potions you are on, you would be fit as a fiddle in a few days."

She pumped me full of potions and I was soon asleep again.

"You are awake." It was a voice full of laughter. A voice somewhat innocent, of someone who has yet to feel loss very keenly. Could my voice have ever sounded like that?

I started looking for my glasses. They were not on the side-table. The voice called for a healer.

"Mr. Porter, you are awake. You are doing much better. Is there someone I can call for you?"

"Ronald Weasley."

"Okay."

Damn, the past. "Sorry, don't call him. He is out of the bloody country, like I was. I will discharge myself. Where are my glasses?"

"Sir, your glasses were a little scratched from your travails. I had them checked out. Rather impressive, these invisible glasses. The optometrist says we do not have them here."

Well, they wouldn't. The unbreakable invisible self-cleaning glasses won't be on the market till Weasley Wizard's Wheezes came up with their nice little trick during the war. The memory of Hermione's impervius charm on my glasses had given them the idea. After Fred's funeral, George showed it to me, a flicker of emotion in the eyes of his now stoic face. Fred's nice little invention, perhaps his last. "We just wanted to return to the good old quidditch matches in the rain. Good old quidditch matches where the worst things that happened were…" George was saying. "Dementors and killer bludgers?" I completed. "Dementors and killer bludgers." George began to laugh. It was not his full-throated laugh from before but like something broken had just exploded. The laughter soon turned to sobs, George had finally begun mourning a part of himself that would never return.

"Mr. Porter?" the healer called, calling me back to the present, or the past, whatever one would call it.

"Yes?"

"Your glasses."

I put on the glasses that the healer was holding out.

I turned around to be stared at by my copy. Dad. Well, not a copy perhaps but the similarities were there. He seemed taller, healthier, with a nice chubby face.

"So, what happened to you?" he asked me with a rather large smile.

I nodded, not saying anything. Was it really my dad's arms that had held me? No, he looked to be in pretty bad shape himself.

"What happened to you?" I asked.

"Just experimenting. Had a bad accident."

"Oh"

"Well, nice to see you awake buddy. Would have loved to have this conversation when I was lying here bored to death but couldn't disturb your beauty sleep. I am getting discharged now. Try not to die out of boredom." He was ready to jump off his bed.

At that point, a man in a trench coat with black hair swept over his pale aquiline face walked in. His walk portrayed pure arrogance and haughtiness. A pure-blood, surely. Yet, he looked very familiar.

"Siri, you came to take me home," James shouted.

"I wish, Jaimie. Lilykins will be here shortly. I have some auror business."

"Really, with whom?"

"With that man over there," Sirius said pointing his finger directly at me.