DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling is the gem responsible for Harry Potter and his world. I only remixed her work (with a dash of some other people's) a few times.

Transrational

Outside of the Well of Lost Plots, 18 March 1965, 7:14 am

The moon had set and the werewolf that Lyall Lupin and Alastor Moody (mostly Moody) had spent the entire night subduing finally reverted to human form. Unsurprisingly, it was the so-called "Muggle tramp" Lyall had accused of being a werewolf just over a month earlier. One stunner later, and the wandless, clothesless, and clawless werewolf was fully unconscious.

"I hate werewolves," Moody groaned.

Lyall was about to murmur his agreement when he remembered the werewolf who'd helped protect his family. "I need to go."

"I can handle things from here," Moody told him, "just a quick portkey and this werewolf will be sitting in a Ministry cell and I'll write up the incident report. But before you go, I must ask: why in Merlin's name did you think it was a good idea to bring him here in the first place?"

"I...I can't remember," Lyall realized. "I know R.J. came to help protect the house from Fenrir Greyback—I can remember that much—but as for the actual attack there or how we got here...nothing."

"You should probably head straight for a mind healer and see if you can get your memory back," Moody advised. "It can be harder to heal the longer you wait."

"I know that," Lyall snapped, then felt guilty for it. He should really go to bed before he did something he regretted, but if he didn't help R.J. he would regret it. Then again, if his memory was wiped, Lyall couldn't be sure whether R.J. was actually the one behind it.

Better to know the facts before rushing into a fight that had started hours ago.

"I was just making sure you remember," Moody placated. "The memory of how to treat memory loss is usually the best thing to attack when you want to make sure the victim forgets. Whoever used the memory charm on you probably wasn't very good or just didn't have the time. Where does your memory pick up again?"

"Somewhere in the middle of the fight, I think," Lyall said. "Do you remember how I got here?"

Moody stared at him a moment, then began swearing. It looked like Lyall's trip to the mind healers was not going to be made alone.

Outside of the Well of Lost Plots, 18 March 1965, 7:18 am

Some days, Alastor Moody really hated that wizards invented memory charms. Other days, he was glad that wizards had made an easy way to make Muggles forget the magic they'd seen. Today was most definitely a day for hating it.

The Ministry had mind healers, of course, but Moody didn't trust them much. They were a part of the bureaucracy and probably had instructions to keep the deep, dark Ministry secrets mum. And Alastor didn't really trust the people who decided what was worth keeping secret. So, instead, he and Lyall went to St. Mungo's—it wasn't that much better, but at least they were nominally apolitical. Luckily for him, a mind healer he knew and had a decent amount of trust in was on duty.

"Alastor, what brings you here at this early hour?" Healer Strout asked. She nodded her head towards Lupin. "Did he see something you want recovered?"

"Something from earlier tonight, I think," Alastor said, "but whatever it is he isn't remembering, I've got a blank spot there too. I'm guessing we were both blasted by the same wizard while we were wrangling with one werewolf."

"My, you do get up to a lot of excitement," Healer Strout laughed, taking out her wand. She pointed it at Lupin's head and started muttering incantations. A minute and a half later she stopped.

"Well?" Lupin asked.

"I've never seen an memory charm this clean," she admitted. "Meddling with the mind almost always leaves traces, a hint of what's missing or at least fading in the memories surrounding it, but I found a perfect bubble of nothing in your head. Alastor, let me verify it's the same for you."

Alastor lowered his mental shields and let Healer Strout in. He felt her lightly touch his mind, occasionally letting a memory of the previous night flash before dying down again. Alastor had only opened that period of time to her, but his vigilance was unnecessary: she only touched upon that stretch of memory.

She withdrew. "It's exactly the same, down to the second. I'm going to need some help with this."

"Healer Strout," Lupin interjected, "you wouldn't happen to remember if there was anything noteworthy going on at that time, would you?"

The healer was silent a moment before she too became a shade or two paler. "Merlin's beard, I'm affected too. I won't rule out some sort of magical mental parasite I somehow picked up from examining you two, but if it's not... For all we know, all of London might be affected, maybe even the whole country. You—we—don't need mind healers; we need to make sure the Department of Mysteries can contain whatever this is."

"I'll get Albus Dumbledore down there too," Alastor volunteered. The headmaster was as impartial a party as there could ever be, and he might even have some instrument in his office that had measured something of the anomaly. Alastor didn't make a habit of utilizing Albus' knowledge when he didn't have to, but he figured that mass inexplicable memory inaccessibility was adequate reason.

He flicked his wand, saying "Expecto Patronum." A flash of white started running north.

Albus, I've just ran into three cases of perfect memory loss over the period of one hour last night, myself included. I don't know how many people have been affected but I have reason to suspect that it's quite a lot. Go to the Department of Mysteries. I'll meet you there.

Outside of the Well of Lost Plots, 18 March 1965, 7:27 am

Albus Dumbledore was on his way to the fireplace before Alastor's message even finished. If the paranoid Auror was bringing him into a potential crisis, he knew it was serious.

He arrived in the rotating room of the Department of Mysteries and found that Alastor was already there. With him were Ms. Strout and Mr. Lupin, two of Albus' former students and likely the two others to be confirmed to have lost memory. Mr. Bode, yet another Hogwarts alumnus (though Albus had not personally taught him, as the young Unspeakable's school years were concurrent with Albus' headmaster ones), came to greet the group. Greet was not the right word. Mr. Bode more or less demanded at wandpoint that they all go home.

Albus cleared his throat, making the young man flush when he realized just who it was he was talking to. "Mr. Bode, I'm afraid that a rather urgent matter has come up. I am sure Mr. Moody was about to explain it to you."

Alastor took that as his cue to start talking. "Three out of three of the people we've checked so far had memory loss between the hours of 6 and 7 pm this past night, during which time the moon rose and we both started fighting a werewolf. Lupin and I weren't together beforehand, but as far as we can tell, Healer Strout had no opportunity to be exposed to whatever conditions we were unless it was a mental contagion or widespread spell of some sort."

Albus had already run through his memory for holes and found none. He was about to say as much when Mr. Bode just about dropped his wand.

"I...I can't..." Mr. Bode stuttered.

"So you've got the blank spot too?" Alastor asked, grimacing as he returned Mr. Bode's wand to him. "And they say you're all protected from major anomalies down here. How big is this thing? Just London or..."

"Alastor," Albus interrupted, "I believe I may have insight into this problem. For one, I was not affected—"

"So Scotland's safe, that's good," Alastor said.

"I was not affected this time," Dumbledore finished.

"You've seen this happen before?" Mr. Bode asked.

"Indeed. Five years ago, on July 31st, I—along with what I believe is every other person on the planet—lost an hour of memories. I did not realize that I had a blank spot until earlier this past month, when an individual who called himself R.J. Thewlis brought it to my attention."

Mr. Lupin started. "R.J.? What does he have to do with this?"

In that moment, Dumbledore noticed a great deal of resemblance between the man to whom he was speaking and the man about whom he was speaking. "I suspect quite a bit, Mr. Lupin. And it seems equally likely that our mutual friend has just fallen off the face of the Earth again."

"Again?" Alastor repeated. "Who is this guy?"

"A werewolf," Mr. Lupin said. "Not the one we fought, though."

Albus blinked. "I was not aware of Mr. Thewlis' lycanthropy, but I think it has little bearing on the fluctuations of whether or not he exists." He held up a hand before those present could bombard him with questions. "I am bound to not speak of it, but I may be able to figure out the spell that protected my mind from being affected during this iteration. I'd need a test subject, though."

"Test it on me," Mr. Bode said. "I might be the lowliest of them, but I'm still an Unspeakable. Whatever your secret method is, it should remain with the Department of Mysteries until we have proved it non-lethal. It's my job to take these risks, not civilians."

Albus nodded, rather certain that this bright young man might not be "the lowliest of them" for long, if his inclination towards proactiveness was any indicator. He raised his wand and placed it on Mr. Bode's temple.

Albus concentrated on the moment that 'Mr. Thewlis' had protected his own mind, looking for something that felt like that feeling. It took some time, but eventually he found that sensation of weightlessness that was much like existing and not existing. It was more intense, being on the caster's side of things, but he had no doubt that this was right.

But, once in this state, figuring out what to do next was much more difficult. There was not precisely a light flashing "Touch me to protect this mind from intrusion!" Focusing on Occlumency techniques, no matter how simple or complex, didn't produce anything. He tried to find something on time travel, but that proved fruitless as well. Albus wasn't going to give up, though. He just needed to think about the problem in a different way.

Mr. Thewlis had used the spell as if it belonged more to those who had brief periods of non-existence than to those merely curious, like Albus. Was this strange spell even designed to protect a mind, or was that a side effect? Was the true spell more along the lines of making sure there was a copy of the mind that couldn't be erased? And if that was the case, would it be possible to recover the memories that had been lost? Admittedly, Mr. Thewlis hadn't tried to bring back Albus' memories of the lost hour with the spell, but was that because of ignorance on the time-traveler's part? Or even a matter of convenience, since they had proceeded to have the lost conversation again? Knowing what was coming, the conversation might have been improved the second time around, and pitfalls avoided. At least one pitfall was avoided, in that Albus didn't voice the presence of time travel that time through.

Albus started reaching out for something of memory restoration, repair, reintegration, something. And he got a response.

Reintegrate? Yes, reintegrate. Reintegrate your previous self with your current self and remember.

Young Bode started shaking.

Albus quickly ended the spell, but whatever change he'd just wrought upon the young man refused to let up. Bode grabbed his head sunk to the floor.

Healer Strout quickly knelt by Bode and looked into his eyes. They were unresponsive. "Albus Dumbledore, what did you do?"

"I'm unsure, Healer Strout," Albus said. "I believed I was using the spell correctly. He shouldn't be in pain like this."

"Everyone else get out," Healer Strout said. As Lupin and Moody went to do so, the healer pointed her wand at Bode. Before she could cast anything, however, the wizard regained some lucidity and pushed the wand point away.

"Don't look in my head," Bode managed to get out. "Too much."

The mediwitch assured him she wouldn't and began running through what Albus recognized to be physical diagnostic spells. They turned up no issues, and without the patient's consent to assess his mind, Healer Strout could do no more.

Nonetheless, Bode's breathing eased. The Unspeakable opened his eyes and looked right at Albus. "How in the name of Saint George did you make that spell do that?"

"I am not entirely sure myself," Albus replied, a bit confused as to why Bode had chosen to curse by the patron saint of England of all things. "What, precisely, are your symptoms?"

"If I told you, I think I'd might end up like that werewolf you all were talking about," Bode said. "Nonetheless, you did manage to protect my mind. You just did it the hard way. You're lucky that I was your guinea pig or that never would have worked."

"Can you explain?" Albus asked.

Bode sighed. "You could say I got a good long look at where your 'R.J.' came from. I don't know where he is now or how he managed to come back from there at all, but his origins? Saint George told me everything, including how that spell was supposed to work. You were supposed to access the Invisibility Function, not whatever thing you poked your wand at."

"I apologize for this, Mr. Bode," Healer Strout interrupted, "but if you still refuse to allow me to read your mind, I should take you to St. Mungo's for observation."

"To make sure I haven't gone completely mad, hm?" Bode asked. "Fine, it's not like intern duties were something I wanted to go right back to."

"May I have a private moment with you first, Mr. Bode?" Albus asked. To the mediwitch, he said. "You can consider this a part of ensuring his good health."

Healer Strout, though obviously miffed at the whole situation, acquiesced the request. Bode led Albus into the Time Room, where the headmaster cast several wards, in case the healer was too vigilant about keeping her new patient under watch.

"Tell me the year," Albus asked as soon as their privacy was mostly assured. They couldn't speak completely freely, if Albus' suspicions as to what Bode was were correct: a time traveler. Not quite like R.J. was, if Albus understood correctly, but close enough that 'Blair' (whoever he was) might get involved if Albus didn't tread carefully.

"1965."

"And if I were to ask you to give me some other year, you'd say...?"

"1992," Bode replied. Assuming that it was the year Bode had come from, that would make the wizard 45 years old—mentally, at least.

"And Harry Potter?" Albus prodded.

"So you do know something," Bode said, his mouth twitching up in a smile. "He defeated the Dark Lord. Again, I mean."

Albus nodded. Bode must be referring to the incident with the Philosopher's Stone. "If your presence in the here and now is less than permanent, I'd ask that you refuse any gifts of plants, especially once 1996 rolls around."

Bode started laughing. "I think your werewolf friend neglected to mention a few things to you. I know all about that. If he pops up again, ask him to tell you more about Saint George, then send him to me so I can fill him in on what he's missed out on in the year since the Time Turner Collapse. But first, I need to know: what part of the spell did you touch?"

Outside of the Well of Lost Plots, 18 March 1965, 7:31 am

Augustus Rookwood was stuck with late night/early morning shift at the Department of Mysteries. It was what all beginning Unspeakables did, keeping an eye on the experiments run by their superiors, who had earned the right to have office hours at a reasonable part of the day. At least the shift was almost over, Augustus just had to take readings on the brains. He didn't care for the task much. No matter how many precautions he took, the brains always ended up stinging him, most of the time right on his face. He'd probably have the pockmarks for the rest of his life. No, Rookwood would much rather be working in the Death Chamber, or maybe the Hall of Prophecies. Merlin, even the Love Chamber would be preferable to this, and that room terrified everybody so much that they always kept the doors locked.

Still, Augustus had to take measurements if he was ever going to move up in the world. He put his wand into the fluid of the brain tank and started muttering incantations under his breath. He soon discovered something odd: there'd been a period of total dormancy sometime earlier that night.

Augustus summoned the 1960–1969 Brain Logbook, to see if the underling Unspeakable who'd taken measurements earlier in the day had noted anything to watch out for. Nothing. He put his wand into the brain fluid again to test it again. He got the same result, except this time he also got stung on the nose by one of the brain's tendrils for his trouble.

Augustus carefully wrote his observations (invalid as they may be) in the logbook, then started skimming through it, looking for anything that might give him a hint as to what he should do. He didn't want to be flooing his superior less than an hour before he was due to arrive unless Augustus already had the answers that he'd just be ordered to look for anyway.

In an entry from almost five years earlier, he found something: a question mark instead of a number. The handwriting of this particular underling was spectacularly bad, and it might have been mistaken for a 7, even though that value made no sense in this context. The handwriting changed soon afterward, indicating that he or she had either been fired or moved to another department. Augustus would have to do some digging to figure out who that person was and track them down to see whether they could comment on the question mark. He checked the remainder of the logbook (nothing else of value), then went looking for the records of who was working here five years ago. It wasn't kept in the Brain Room, but rather in his superior's office. Fortunately, Augustus had borrowed the key.

He was about to enter the Rotating Room (it was faster to get to the offices that way) when voices on the other side of the door stopped him. Those voices were talking about memory problems. Augustus decided to wait outside and listen instead of intruding—what they were talking about may or may not be related to the brains issue, but he got the sense that his intrusion would be unwelcome. And even if the speakers did want him there, Augustus preferred having the option of simply leaving should the conversation turn out to be pointless—the least rude way of doing so was to pretend to not be there in the first place.

As he listened, Broderick Bode—yes, the only Unspeakable who was even lower in the hierarchy than Augustus himself—seemed to suddenly became the most knowledgeable person on whatever phenomena it was that had caused dormancy in the brains. However that knowledge came to Bode, it was clear that it hadn't been properly earned and that irked Augustus to no end. Even so, Augustus had heard everything he'd needed to. He could give a complete report to his superior, once he double checked who was working the Brain Room five years ago. Augustus had a little over twenty minutes before said superior would arrive.

But first, the things Augustus had just learned really ought to be reported to a certain Dark Lord to whom he had sworn. After all, the Unspeakables had all taken vows to not reveal secrets discovered by the Department of Mysteries. If Augustus told Lord Voldemort about something he'd overheard from civilians and the lowest ranking Unspeakable in the place, that didn't count as classified secrets, only hearsay—at least until he was ordered otherwise.

I adore loopholes, Augustus thought to himself as he made his way to a fireplace so he could floo-call the Dark Lord's headquarters.