A/N – Not mine. Many thanks to everyone who reviewed or added me to their story alerts – that made my day. I do know that I am playing fast and loose with the timeline – there is a reason, which will become clear as the story progresses. As for whether Tom Riddle makes an appearance… well, you'll just have to see, won't you? He might not necessarily be in the form you expect.

Chapter Two

Half an hour later, Harry was sitting on a bench outside of the hospital, staring miserably at his aching leg and awkwardly attempting to adjust the old wooden crutch under his arm. The nurse had, as expected, confiscated the hospital robe; unexpectedly, she had handed him a shabby but serviceable jumper and trousers to replace it. Harry had muttered a thank-you, grabbed them, and hobbled out of the room as quickly as he could – only to sheepishly return once he realized that, as he couldn't apparate, the staff would have the show him the way out.

He had no money – no food – and the name he had picked at random was German. So much for the wizarding world having nothing to do with muggle politics, the voice muttered. He looked around again, gazing at London of the 1930s.

The economic problems the nurse had referred to were obvious. The entire street seemed rather shabby, and the people walking by seemed dispirited. Their clothes were clearly old, if clean and neat; he noticed that one woman's skirt had been carefully hemmed up from where it originally hung mid-calf to hide the fraying seams. He had initially frowned at the shabby set of clothes he had been given – now, he realized that he fit right in. Absently, he touched his wristguard, running his fingers again over the grommets.

There were a few old-fashioned automobiles (well, in-fashion now, he was reminded) parked parallel to the sidewalk. Harry noticed that the people walking by gave them angry glances; one man spat on the car trunk. That man, Harry noticed, was wearing a small pin on his coat lapel – a red flag with a hammer and sickle.

"Still here, boy?"

Harry started, and twisted slightly on the bench. He stared at the healer he had spoken with in the hospital. He had changed, Harry noticed absently, from his healer's robes and into a Muggle suit.

"Not like I've got anywhere else to go, do I?" He asked with a shrug.

The healer looked at him thoughtfully. "True enough, boy. Especially not with a name like Heimrich Evans." He nodded at Harry. "The Great War's over. But," he scanned the street, "We still feel it. Every day. Of course, Germany feels it, too. Probably worse."

Harry fought back a grimace as he thought of the Second World War. "Yes, sir. I imagine they do," he agreed, as neutrally as possible.

The healer looked at him again for a moment, and stuck out his hand. "I'm Prince. Abner Prince."

Harry eyed it for a moment, then reached out his own hand, wincing as his collarbone twinged in protest. "Heimrich Evans. But," he continued grimly, "You knew that already."

Prince smiled briefly. "I have a soft spot in my heart for lost German boys," he said. "You have no place to go? I'm heading home, now. You can stay the night. Have some food. Maybe," he eyed Harry's injuries pointedly, "I can even fix you up."

Harry blinked. He had no place to go – and Prince's home was probably better than sleeping on the street.

"Fine," he said, hefting his crutch. "Let's go." He stood shakily, carefully supporting himself on the crutch. They set off, Prince walking at a pace slow enough that Harry could keep up but briskly enough that he was soon out of breath.

Wait. Prince. Wasn't that – Harry blinked at the healer's back. Was he walking behind Snape's grandfather? He briefly entertained the idea of casting a well-placed Castration Hex on the man.

Before that pleasant fantasy could go any further, Prince stopped. "We're here," he said gruffly. He gestured at a door set back into a brick wall.

Harry raised his eyebrow, and looked up and down the street. It appeared they were standing in front of a derelict warehouse. "Bit musty, isn't it then?" He asked drily.

Prince grunted. "Damn muggles," he muttered, taking his wand from his pocket and tapping the lock. "Always ruin the real estate." He walked in, gesturing for Harry to follow behind him. "Shut the door, boy."

Harry obeyed, awkwardly balancing on his uninjured leg as he maneuvered about to shut the door. He finally succeeded, grinning triumphantly, when he heard a cough behind him. Prince was staring at him with mild surprise.

"Very flexible," he commented. "I'd forgotten about the injury. You kept up damn well. You play Quidditch? You've gotten the reflexes for it, I think."

"Uh – yeah. I play seeker," Harry replied. Of course, running from Voldemort and dodging curses had also done a lot for them. Yes, Potter. Pity you couldn't duck that last one, isn't it? Damn mudbloods indeed. I'd forgotten what 1930s London looked like… Harry frowned, and smacked his wristguard against the doorsill. Prince noticed, and frowned – Harry quickly pretended to wince and massaged his shoulder.

"Yes," Prince said after a pause. "I thought so. Well, come in. Sit down. I'll look at the leg." Prince waved his hand towards the door to what Harry assumed was the sitting room. He swung through, and sat down on the couch. His eyes closed – the couch was soft and the room was dark, and he felt fairly confident that he would not have to jump up again in the next ten minutes to fight off a Death Eater attack.

"None of that, boy." Prince walked into the room. "I need you awake to take this." He waved a steaming mug at Harry. Harry looked at it, and grimaced. He wondered if Snape's talent at creating truly foul potions was an inherited ability. He reluctantly took the potion, closed his eyes again, and sipped resolutely.

To his surprise, the potion tasted faintly of cherries; he made a pleased sound. Prince chuckled. "Amazing how much better it tastes, isn't it?" He commented lightly. "I'm going to start looking at your injuries. This might hurt, even with the pain reliever."

That, Harry thought, keeping his eyes closed, was probably an understatement.

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Dumbledore was almost relieved when the floo chimed. He smiled politely at Romilda Puddifoot, the proprieter of Madam Puddifoot's in Hogsmeade, who had been chattering about her new business venture for the past hour and a half in his office.

"Madame Puddifoot, I am sorry – but I've been expecting this call – it's very important – "

"Of course!", the pudgy witch giggled. "An important man like you, of course you've got all sorts of petitioners lined up at your door – and in your fire – " she giggled again.

"Madame, thank you for your visit –" he stood, putting a hand courteously on the small of her back as he desperately tried to eject her from his office while maintaining his Headmaster persona. "I assure you, I will give your proposition every bit of consideration it deserves." He shut the door, politely but deliberately, in the middle of the woman's flirtatious wink. He sagged against it for a moment, exhausted. Was the woman completely shameless? Even had he been given to– er – appreciate – the – er - company of women, Romilda Puddifoot was perhaps the last he would choose to dally with…

Not, he had to admit, that the business she was running was itself a bad idea. He had no doubt that if he did grant Hogwarts students the chance to visit Hogsmeade, she would amass a considerable fortune – even in the current times. Of course, she had added that those visits would require – she had winked – quite a bit of planning time with the Headmaster…

The floo chimed again. Dumbledore's eyes flew open as he quickly straightened his robes – today a drab, utilitarian olive – and hurried over to the fireplace. He took out his wand, and tapped the mantel, accepting the call, as he knelt down on the hearth rug.

"Abner!" He gave Prince his first real smile of the day. "What a pleasant surprise! If you have time, actually, I'd love to have a game of chess later this evening – "

"Yes, Dumbledore," Prince interrupted, scowling. "I know. And no, I don't have time. What I do have is a mystery."

Dumbledore swallowed, trying not to feel irrationally hurt. It always ended like this, it seemed, especially after Gellert –

No. He would not go there.

"A mystery?" He asked, trying to sound both jocular and interested. "Sounds fascinated. What kind of mystery?"

Prince paused for a moment. "You might want to see for yourself. He's knocked out right now, and the dose I gave him should keep him down for another three hours or so. "

Dumbledore frowned. "Kidnapping, Abner?" He teased. "How ignoble of you."

Prince silenced him with a glance. "Dumbledore. I'll expect you in the next fifteen minutes or so." His head vanished with a slight pop.

Dumbledore leaned back on his haunches with a slight sigh. Well. Abner was still obviously upset, and showed no signs of forgiving him – but at least he'd come to him with the mystery.

Although, to be completely fair, anything that would convince Abner Prince to speak to him again must be of earth-shattering significance.

Ten minutes later, he was standing in front of Prince's flat, hidden in the heart of Muggle London. He shifted from foot to foot as he tapped at the door, glancing about anxiously; he had never been fully comfortable with Muggles, especially after what had happened… he cut that thought off with the ease of long practice and rapped his knuckles again against the door.

The door opened slowly, Prince peering suspiciously through the crack between door and wall. After a moment of silent survey, he opened the door the rest of the way and gestured Dumbledore inside. "He's in there," he muttered, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the sitting room.

Dumbledore frowned, curious. "Who is? Really, Abner, you were very mysterious over the floo-"

"With good reason," Prince commented darkly. "You'll see." He guided Dumbledore into the room and waved his wand, lighting it. He pointed at the couch.

Dumbledore looked, and frowned. The boy lying there certainly looked the worse for wear. "A former patient of yours, I assume?" he asked lightly.

"No," Prince said. "He arrived at the hospital looking like this. Couldn't pay, so we had to kick him out." He paused. Dumbledore frowned.

"You are generally not in the habit of bringing destitute patients home with you," he said quietly.

"No," Prince agreed. "And I won't apologize for it." He glared at Dumbledore for a moment. "But this boy… well, look." He walked over to the boy's sleeping form, and gently raised his wrist. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose as he stared at the wristguard.

"Interesting," he commented softly. "I can feel the soul magic from here."

"It wouldn't come off, Albus," Prince said sharply. "I must've tried for ten minutes. It's practically Magicked onto his arm. And then – look here." He held up a wand. "This is the boy's. I tested it – you know, to see if he'd registered it with the ministry – Albus, there's no record of this wand ever having been created."

Dumbledore frowned, momentarily distracted by Prince's use of his first name. This mystery, he mused, must really have him puzzled. "And what name did he give you?"

Prince smiled grimly. "That, Albus, is where it gets interesting. He told me his name was Heimrich Evans."

Dumbledore froze, staring at the boy. "So-" he breathed softly. "We have a boy mysteriously arriving in a hospital ward with no money, and a Magicked wristguard. He has a German first name. There is no record of his wand ever existing – I don't suppose you traced his Apparation trail?"

Prince shook his head. "Tried it. It's like he appeared from nowhere."

Dumbledore walked closer to the couch and looked at the boy more closely. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old – black hair, unruly, cut short. He looked pinched, and thin, as if he had not had enough to eat in some time – and, Dumbledore added, seeing the scars littering his bare torso, probably been in a number of fights. There was nothing in his physical appearance to indicate he might be a danger. But – the name – the wand – the mysterious appearance –

"I am reluctant," Dumbledore said slowly, "To condemn the boy based on his name. One would assume that had –" he steeled himself to say the name – "Grindelwald – intended to introduce us to a spy he would have picked a much less suspicious way to go about it. At the very least, I would have expected a potential Hogwarts professor." He grimaced as he remembered the Potter problem.

He glanced at the boy again. "Have you treated Mr. Evans?"

Prince shook his head. "I told him I would, to get him in here."

Dumbledore nodded decisively. "Treat him – he'll be in pain. We have no proof that he's a spy, after all… I think the best way to answer our questions," he continued slowly, "Is to simply ask them to him."