A/N - Here we have the last chapter, the finale, what-have-you. On behalf of both Scholar and myself, may I say we sincerely hope you've enjoyed our little story.

Mark found himself once again outside of Donald's office. The walk back had been awkward, to say the least, but Alastor hadn't tried to kill him. Mark could feel bruises starting on his ribs and face from the fight earlier—the first fistfight he'd ever been in, actually.

Knocking on the door, Alastor called, "Don, you in?"

The door remained shut. A voice answered, "That would depend on why."

"Someone wants a word with you," Alastor said, jerking his thumb towards Mark even though Donald could not see.

There was a moment of silence. "Send him in then."

"What, we're not invited?" Alastor asked, sounding a little cross. There was no response from within, and after a moment Alastor turned to Mark expectantly.

Reaching past Alastor, Mark opened the door. "Thanks. See you guys later."

Tiberius nodded. Sticking his hands in his pockets and stepping out of the way, Alastor gave a curt nod as well. Mark entered the room, shutting the door behind him. It looked the same as last time, with the view from the windows and the extreme cleanliness. If it hadn't been for the smell of cigarettes, Mark would have felt the room more fitting for a countryside manor than an office in the middle of the city.

Donald was seated at his desk, tinkering with some silver instruments and a small globe of some sort. "I have a question," Mark said, watching him.

"I thought you might," Donald answered, straightening. With a series of smooth motions, he put his tools aside, shrunk the globe, and motioned for Mark to take a seat. Mark sat in the chair opposite Donald's desk, his journal in his lap. He could not help looking at the globe with interest. Donald caught the look, and answered, "I've been doing some work with Croaker, from the Time Division. And I'm afraid that's all I can say." He smiled. "They do call us Unspeakables for a reason."

"Ah," said Mark, leaning back into the chair. "I'll try not to read your memories, then." He smiled, but it faded as he continued. "My question pertains to your remark about prophecy. But first, did the thought thing work—did you see what happened?"

Donald became suddenly solemn. "I saw what you saw, yes."

"What did you think of it?" Mark asked, leaning forward again.

"I think... I think you have an interesting talent," Donald said slowly. "And you'll forgive me if I say that I hope this is one prophecy that does not come true."

Mark nodded in agreement. He pressed closer to the question he really wanted to ask. "You said that the future is never certain. It's just possible. Do you think that people can change the future, then?"

Casting a shrewd look overtop his glasses, Donald said, "The future is never set. It's a pattern of choices." He paused, and an understanding came into his eyes. "But you're not really trying to change the future. What you want to change is what's already happened, am I correct? It's the future to me, but to you, it's the past."

"But it hasn't happened yet in the real timeline of things," Mark protested.

"Who's to say which timeline is real, though?"

"History is real, and history just moves in one direction," Mark said, trying to draw on his Liberal Arts education. "I'm the one moving outside of it."

With some amusement, Donald said, "I believe thousands of scholars just began wailing in agony at your suggestion." He took a cigarette from his pocket, and put it between his lips. Raising his eyebrows, he offered another one to Mark.

Shaking his head, Mark said, "No thanks." He watched as Donald took a zippo lighter out of his pocket. "But there has to be one reality. Time moves forward."

Donald shrugged, lighting the cigarette and returning his lighter to a pocket. He leaned back into his chair and took a long draw from the cigarette, thinking. "True enough. Who's to say reality has only one facet?" Reaching forward, he picked up a quill pen and pointed it towards Mark. "From certain angles, you can only see parts of the pen, yes?"

"Right."

Slowly, Donald rotated the pen until it faced the opposite direction. "But really, it has several sides, several ways of looking at it. Sometimes though, we can only see things from" –he pointed it back towards Mark— "one perspective."

Sighing, Mark said, "This is why I stick to science."

Donald laughed. A puff of smoke escaped, and when Mark glanced at it again it seemed to be turning into a raven. "It's a science, in its own way. Not quite so exact as a scientist might like, I suppose."

Though the raven made Mark almost smile, he kept his voice serious as he said, "Well... Then I suppose I'd like to have the copy of the book you made."

"Really now?" Donald asked. "I certainly don't mind, but might I ask why?"

"I need to cover my tracks." Donald waited for an explanation, blowing out another bit of smoke that shaped itself into a cat. Taking a deep breath, Mark said, "I've messed up enough. I need to make sure nothing more leaks out about the family. Just in case something else goes wrong."

"Safe-keeping, then?"

Shifting, Mark said, "More I would like to destroy the book so there's just one that has to be looked after."

"So whenever you make your departure... I'm to remove the book in whatever manner I see fit?"

As much as Mark thought Donald was trustworthy, he shook his head. "Or you could give it to me and I'll do it. That is what I was originally thinking."

"I can't say I mind either way," Donald said. He reached into one of the drawers of his desk. "You're quite concerned about all this time traveling business, aren't you?" he asked, still fishing through the contents.

Mark dropped his eyes to the wooden panels of the desk. "I think I may have killed my family by coming here," he said after a moment.

With a little click, Donald pushed the drawer closed. He set the copy of the book on the desk. It looked almost exactly the same as the one Mark held, but it was in a much better condition. Looking at Mark, Donald blew something like a smoke bear out of the side of his mouth. "What makes you say that?"

"Before my uncle died, he told me that no one in the family had been hunted until my mum grew up," Mark explained, motioning a little with his hands. "They went after her—eventually killed her—even though she didn't use her magic. The first few pages of the book is a letter from her. If they translated that, they would have been looking for her. That would explain why she died."

Donald looked at the book, taking another long drag from his cigarette as he thought. Finally he leaned back into his chair and looked Mark in the face. "So you think that had you not come back, everything would be different?"

"Basically, yeah," Mark admitted.

"Did you know, I have a theory. Several of us have a theory. Concerning time travel. In order for it to be possible, which, clearly it is, it has to have already happened."

"What do you mean?"

Donald waved his cigarette as he spoke. "If people were always jumping backwards in time, things would always be changing, events would alter. The universe would unravel. So what if these time travelers are in fact doing exactly what they're supposed to be doing? Events..." He paused to take another drag. "Events unfold as they do because of the choices people make. Time traveling doesn't change the past then. It's simply... part of it."

So I can't have changed it, Mark thought, staring at the desk. I killed them even before I was born. His chest felt empty, but he said, "I suppose that makes sense."

"Merlin, that was supposed to cheer you up a bit," Donald said, shaking his head and leaning forward again. "Listen, Mark, like I said, all sorts of choices affect what happens to us. You can't blame yourself."

Mark chose to ignore that last comment. It would be a while before he'd sort through this, and he wasn't ready to do that in Donald's office. Forcing a smile, he reached for the copy of the book. "It's fine. I got to meet a grandfather of mine, at least."

"I'm sure he enjoyed that," Donald said, also smiling.

"I think so." Mark shrugged. "He finally let me know how I'm to get home. But not before Alastor got a chance to give me a few bruises." Smiling a little, Mark touched the tender spot on his jaw.

"I take it he was a bit... irritated?"

"Ha. With reason, I guess." Mark stood, shifting both the books into one arm. "Thanks for all your help, Donald."

"Happy to help." He put out his cigarette and stood, too. "And I hope you know, Alastor and Tiberius were glad to help as well."

"I know," Mark said. "At the very least it was better than them filling out paperwork for the past couple of days."

"They do seem to detest the paperwork," Donald mused. "Especially if there's a fight to leap into somewhere else."

Mark held out his hand. "Well, feel free to look me up come 2010. I'll be around London that summer."

With a short laugh, Donald took Mark's hand and shook it. "Ha! I'll keep that in mind."

Mark walked to the door, and saluted Donald with two fingers before he stepped out of the room. Alastor and Tiberius were standing near the middle of the room outside, tossing bursts of light back and forth. As Mark walked out, Alastor caught the light with the end of his wand, made a complicated gesture, and sent the light zooming back towards Tiberius.

"Nice," said Mark, impressed.

Alastor turned, surprised. Tiberius reached up and caught the light, which he then vanished with a flick of his wand. They found themselves standing in the blue torchlight. Mark felt vaguely satisfied when the light revealed a small bruise forming on Alastor's chin.

"Chat go well?" Alastor asked.

"Fairly." Mark stepped away from the door. "Just wanted to say goodbye before I go. Thanks for helping me. I know I haven't been the easiest to look after, or get along with."

Alastor looked like he wanted to agreed, but Tiberius said, "'Twas quite an adventure, as promised. Nice ta have met you and all that."

With a sly grin, Alastor said, "And you're welcome, of course."

"You guys should definitely send me a postcard from your nursing home in 2010," Mark suggested, smiling crookedly. "Always happy to pay a visit."

"Nursing home?" Tiberius asked, lost.

"Where the Muggles send old folks," Alastor explained. He turned to Mark. "You seem to be assuming we'd need a nursing home. I plan to be catching Dark Wizards for a century, at least."

Longer life-span, Mark guessed. "Then we'll probably bump into each other some time," he said aloud. He held up his hand to wave goodbye, glancing from Tiberius to Alastor. Another flash hit him—apparently Alastor had a future that just begged for prophecies—of Alastor and his girl, Minerva, and years of quarreling and heartbreak. Apparently Alastor was considering proposing in the near future, but hadn't made up his mind yet.

"Oh hey," Mark said, "a word to the wise—just propose to Minerva. Save both of you a lot of heartache."

Alastor went slack-jawed, his eyes wide with surprise. "I…WHAT?"

Tiberius hid his mouth begin his hand, somewhere between laughter and shock.

With this final impression of them, Mark called, "See you!" He hadn't quite gotten the hang of magic without words yet, but he figured that since Old English wasn't necessary he could speak in the language of his choice. To himself, he whispered, "I'd like to go home." Best to be specific, he thought, and added, "London, June 14, 2010."

There was a roar of wind around Mark, and he shut his eyes tightly. When it died down again, he cracked one eye open, and then the other.

He was standing in Hyde Park, London, precisely where he had been when he read himself back in time. A quick glance around showed that trees shrouded him, and no one seemed to have noticed that he was there. For a moment, he glanced at the treetops and exhaled. When he breathed in, the air was thick with food and city smells.

"Well," he said to the wind, "apparently there are fish and chips nearby, and I am starving."

The End