A/N – Many thanks to goldentree, who pointed out a typo I made in the first two chapters. Yes, it is Heinrich, not Heimrich. Harry, being Harry, seized on the first name he thought of that was similar to his own name. Just his luck that it was German.

Not mine.

Chapter Three

Wake up, Potter. You'll miss all of the fun.

Harry moaned, bringing his hand to his forehead. He smiled slightly, when he cautiously stretched his fingers and realized that the pain was gone.

"He's awake," Prince's voice intruded. Harry's smile widened as he carefully rotated his shoulder.

"Yes, boy." Prince's voice sounded patient. "You're mostly healed." Harry frowned, and opened his eyes. He was still lying on the sitting room couch, his injured leg propped up in front of him.

"Mostly healed?" He croaked, before wincing and putting a hand to his throat.

"Sorry, boy," Prince said indifferently. "Couldn't do anything for the leg or your throat. Looks like someone injected you with some sort of venom – I saved your arm, but you're going to be limping for the rest of your life. Doubt that the voice will ever heal, either." He cleared his throat. "Sorry about that," he added awkwardly.

Harry stared at him dumbly. Limp for the rest of his life? His voice – it would never recover?

Really, Potter. I don't know what else you expected when you chose to fight the greatest wizard of all time, the voice said smugly.

"Sir – how will that impact my magic?" He asked nervously.

"You mean pronunciation of spells, and all that?" Prince shrugged. "No idea."

Harry frowned, and glanced around the room. "Wait – where's my wand?" He stared at Prince, who stared back. "What did you do with it?" Prince did not reply. Harry surged to his feet, grimacing in pain as his leg nearly gave out under it. "Where is it?" He yelled.

"Please, Mr. Evans," a voice behind him said. "Be calm. Your wand is safe."

Harry froze. That voice – he turned around slowly, and almost swore.

Of course. It was 1932, which meant that Albus Dumbledore was at Hogwarts. And he was apparently highly thought of, enough that he would be called in on the strange case of the mystery boy.

Harry stared at Dumbledore, taking him in. His hair was still auburn – and where were the flamboyant robes and hat? This Dumbledore wore a drab olive robe. As he stared at Dumbledore's face, shrouded in shadow, it struck Harry that it seemed that Dumbledore was in mourning.

"We mean you no harm," the professor continued. "But we do have some questions for you."

This was bad. This was very bad. Harry had no doubt that Dumbledore, of all wizards, was the most qualified to help him figure out what had happened and how to get back to his own time – but Harry couldn't risk telling him. He could just imagine that conversation. "Oh, Professor, I need to get back to my own time – and, well, you see, I'd really appreciate it if you don't send me back to Hogwarts. Why? Oh, no, sir, I love Hogwarts, it's just that Voldemort has taken it over… who's Voldemort? Why, sir, don't you remember Tom Riddle? Yes, he killed my parents, a good fraction of the British wizarding population, and then had you murdered… oh, and he's split his soul into seven pieces. Great to see you alive again, though, sir!"

Somehow he didn't think that would go over particularly well.

He transferred his attention back to Professor Dumbledore and tried to figure out how to get out of this particular mess. If only Hermione was here –

Why don't you just ask for her, then, Potter? The voice sneered –

If only Hermione was here, she'd be able to tell him what to say.

"Mr. Evans?" He realized he was still staring at the professor, who appeared somewhat uncomfortable.

"Oh – sir, I'm sorry," he replied awkwardly, struck that he could tell Dumbledore was awkward. Perhaps it was simply because he had been close to the murdered headmaster – but Prince was also eyeing Dumbledore askance.

How odd to meet a Dumbledore who was anything less than completely self-confident! Between the plain robes and the – timidity? The voice suggested – he scarcely knew him.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Yes, Mr. Evans – that is your name, correct?" He asked, peering at Harry over his glasses.

Now that was a mannerism he recognized. "Yes, sir," Harry replied, keeping his gaze averted from Dumbledore's eyes. He stared as hard as he could at the familiar broken nose. "Heinrich Evans."

"A German name," Dumbledore murmured. Harry flushed. "Yes, sir," he snapped, "But it's an old family name. What, is it a crime to be German now?"

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "No, not yet," he said mildly, "Although I daresay there are some who would attempt to make it so. You are quite correct, however. I should not judge you based on name alone." Dumbledore paused; Harry braced himself.

"Your wand is of superb craftsmanship," Dumbledore commented. Harry blinked, surprised. "Where did you get it?"

Harry swallowed. He had a feeling that there was a trap hidden somewhere in that question. "Uh – I inherited it," he fumbled. "It was – my great-uncle's. My mum – she didn't want to buy a new one, she just gave me his to use instead."

Dumbledore looked at him silently for a moment. "No doubt," he agreed pleasantly. "What was your – er –great-uncle's name?"

Harry flushed. "H-his name? Ah –" he thought quickly – "Ronald. Ronald Evans."

"Your last name is Evans," Dumbledore pointed out after another moment. "But you say great-uncle of yours was on your mother's side?"

Harry swallowed and ducked his head. "She wasn't married," he muttered, hoping that they would accept his avoidance as humiliation over his birth.

"I see." Harry looked up, fancying he heard a bit of sympathy in the professor's voice, and meeting his eyes in the process. He quickly focused on a rather large mole on the professor's upper lip. "Mr. Evans? Can you tell me about your arrival at the hospital?"

Harry stared at the mole, fascinated as it moved with the professor's speaking lips. "Uh – what, sir?"

Dumbledore's lips compressed for a moment before he repeated his question. "What can you tell me about arriving at the hospital?"

"I – I don't remember anything," Harry answered, staring as hard as he could at the mole. "All I remember – is – " he hesitated for effect – "Sir, I remember pain. A lot of it. I remember" – he swallowed – "screaming" – he paused again. "Sir," he said softly, trying to exaggerate the damage to his vocal chords, "Do I really have to talk about this?" He summoned up the expression used to convince Dudley during the Harry-Hunting sessions that Harry was in a great deal of pain, more than he actually was. It had usually worked, sometimes convincing him to abandon the game; judging from the way Dumbledore's lips twitched downwards, it was working on him, as well.

"Of course, Mr. Evans," Dumbledore said softly. "But what will you do now?"

Harry licked his lips. "I don't understand, sir."

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Will you return home?"

Harry shut his eyes, cursing slightly. Brilliant, Potter, the voice mocked. He massaged the wristguard, trying desperately to shut the voice out.

"Mr. Evans?"

He opened his eyes. "Sir, I don't have a home any longer," he said matter-of-factly.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrow. "Your mother is dead?" he asked.

"No, sir." Harry paused, and took a breath. They could check death records… there couldn't be all that many female Evans who had died recently who could be his mother…

"I was disowned," he said quietly. "My mum – she hasn't dealt with magic all that well –" He noticed Dumbledore looking slightly surprised. "There was some magic in my family," he hastened to explain, "Like in my great-uncle, but most of us are just plain Muggles. My mum – she was kind of upset that I got it, and her sister got it, but she didn't." Harry was surprised his tongue did not curdle as he strategically referred to Aunt Petunia his "mother".

He had another bright idea. "My mum wouldn't even send me away to be educated, I never attended any sort of magical school," Harry continued. There. That should explain the lack of any official school records.

Dumbledore pursed his mouth and nodded slightly. "I see. Well, Mr. Evans," he began, as he emerged from the shadows, "I am very glad that Healer Prince was able to treat you. I will take my leave, now – " Harry let out a breath of relief, which caught in his throat as Dumbledore's tone abruptly sharpened – "As soon as you explain where that wristguard comes from. I can sense the stench of soul magic from here."

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Dumbledore stood quietly, watching the boy as his mouth hung open. He very much doubted the boy's story about his name – although, somehow, Mr. Evan's claim that he had been disowned rang very true. He had thought earlier that the boy's physical appearance did not suggest malevolence; however, now that Mr. Evans stood facing him, staring stubbornly at his mole with those brilliant green eyes, did he reconsider.

Perhaps it was that he was certain Mr. Evans was lying to him. Perhaps it was the presence of that wristguard. But he was irresistibly reminded of young Tom Riddle, facing him on the eve of Hagrid's capture and subsequent expulsion – and the conclusion of the Chamber of Secrets fiasco.

"Well, Mr. Evans?" He prompted when it seemed the boy would not respond.

Evans looked down for a moment at the wristguard, then flinched and put his hand to his forehead. Dumbledore could make out the movement of his lips – shut up, fool? – before he yanked his hand down and placed it behind his back. Evans paused for a moment, glaring in Dumbledore's general direction, and defiantly removed it from behind his back. "This, professor?" He asked, his voice trembling in rage. For the first time, he looked directly into Dumbledore's eyes. They seemed maddened, almost as if two different personalities lived behind them – half burning rage and half cold hate. "This," the boy spat, "Is my darling mum's legacy to me. She gave it to me – told me to wear it – I trusted her! And now," his voice turned cold, "I can't get it off. I go around all day – every day – with this brand on my arm!" He paused, glanced away, then refocused on Dumbledore. "Sir," he said, staring directly at him, "I don't practice soul magic. I don't know what this" – he shook his arm, with the wristguard, in Dumbledore's direction, "Is, but I want it off." His voice trailed off, and he looked away, almost ashamed, from Dumbledore's startled gaze.

Dumbledore frowned. The boy had seemed sincere – perhaps too sincere. He had no doubt that the anger the boy had shown was real; the question was, Dumbledore mused, who was it directed at? He glanced at the wristguard again, and frowned. The thing stank of soul magic; and if, as Abner claimed, it had been Magicked on, then it could not possibly be simply a gift from Evans' mother. Particularly if she was a Muggle – such a thing would have destroyed her.

But what bothered him most… Evans had been most careful to avert his gaze from Dumbledore's eyes throughout the interview. It was almost as though he was afraid of Legilimancy. But for what purpose? Dumbledore wondered. Everyone knew that Legilimancy was a blunt tool, with no subtlety; it was used by the Ministry of Magic on condemned prisoners, to ascertain information on their crimes, or by mind healers on patients to far gone to be self-aware. It was a lifetime's imprisonment in the Wizarding Tower of London to attempt to use it on an unwilling subject. He flicked a glance over at Abner, standing unnoticed behind the boy, and nodded slightly. Abner's lips compressed, and he turned away angrily.

"Mr. Evans," Dumbledore said into the silence, "I believe you." The boy looked up from an intense study of his feet, almost incredulously. "Many of us have encountered misfortune from our family members –" he shoved away the memory of Arianna, screaming in pain – "and it would be unkind of me to doubt your word." He paused, waiting to see if the boy would pick up on that particular semantic subtlety; if he had, he gave no sign. Dumbledore went on, "I would like you to remain with Healer Prince for the next several days, just until we are certain that you are healed. It would not do, after all, to have you drop dead on the street!" His glasses slid down over his nose again; he restrained himself from pushing them back up. Their habit of sliding down his nose when he tried to make a point was getting irritating. It would not do, however, to show discomfort.

The boy watched him, frowning slightly. "All right…" he agreed hesitantly. He paused for a moment, and then inquired, "What about my wand, sir?"

Dumbledore concealed a start, then pulled the boy's forgotten wand out of his pocket. "Of course," he said agreeably. "You'll be wanting this back." He held out the wand to the boy, watching as Evans took it hesitantly. "By the way," he continued, struck by an impulse, "What is the core of your wand? It felt quite powerful." The boy paused at the question.

"My wand, sir? I-I'm not entirely sure, actually. Like I said, it was my great-uncle's." He carefully studied the wand's handle as he said this, studiously avoiding Dumbledore's gaze.

Dumbledore concealed a frown. "Of course. Well, then, Heinrich – I would suggest that you lie back down. That leg still looks very painful, after all," he added, eyeing the injury. In fact, it looked gruesome – he doubted the boy had taken the time to fully study it, or he would be in a great deal more pain than he currently was. "I will be on my way – Abner, if you could accompany me to the door – "

Prince jumped slightly where he stood, as the boy nodded in thanks and sank wearily back down to the couch. Prince walked quickly through the sitting room door, and stood waiting at the front door while Dumbledore slowly made his way through to him. He opened his mouth to speak, before Dumbledore shook his head and gestured outside to Muggle London. Prince nodded, then opened the door, waving Dumbledore through.

"Well, Dumbledore?" He snapped, scowling harshly at him. "What do you think?"

Dumbledore sighed. "He's lying about the soul magic, I think –"

"What?!" Prince exploded. "You left a Dark Wizard in my HOUSE?"

"No, no," Dumbledore said quickly, futilely patting the air in an attempt to calm the healer down. "No, Abner. I do think he told the truth when he said it had been forced on him. I just don't think it was his mother who did it." He paused. "He's lying," he said reflectively, "About his identity, about the wristguard, and about the core of his wand."

Prince's scowl grew deeper. "And you're leaving him with me?" He snarled.

Dumbledore smiled. "Abner, we both know you have enough wards up on this place to incapacitate any dark wizard. But he won't be in any shape to perform magic for the next several days at least – why do you think I gave him his wand back?"

Prince gave him a penetrating stare. "And what," he said slowly, "Will you do afterwards?"

Dumbledore sighed quietly. "I am afraid," he said softly, "That I don't know. " He looked at Prince. "We both know who the current expert on soul magic in Europe is."

Prince's face grew still. As one, they looked back at the house.

"Do you think – "Prince swallowed. "Do you think he's connected to Him?"

"To Him?" Dumbledore paused to consider. "Perhaps. Grin-Grindelwald was always ambitious… this is the sort of experiment he would try." He stopped, trying to ignore how familiar with Grindelwald he sounded. Prince, by the look of his face, had noticed as well.

" I think, however," Dumbledore continued, determinedly forging forward and ignoring the pain both Grindelwald's name and Prince's expression had brought up, "That it is more likely that Mr. Evans was attempting to escape from Him. Grindelwald was many things, but he was not careless… he would never have entrusted the soul magic to someone he did not trust absolutely. This boy looks as though he's been tortured. And the one thing I am absolutely certain he is not lying about is that he has been in a great deal of pain."

"Yes, quite often, by the looks of it," Prince agreed grimly. He frowned back at his house, chewing on his lip, then swung around to face Dumbledore. "Fine. He can stay – but only," he emphasized, raising his finger to make the point, "only for three days. After that, you figure something else out for him."

Dumbledore sighed. "Of course, Abner. You needn't worry about that."

Prince eyed him warily. "Well," he said quietly, "At least that's one thing." He swung back around and walked into the house, slamming the door and locking it before Dumbledore had the chance to respond.

Dumbledore stood on the sidewalk of Muggle London, out of place in his robes and pointed hat, and felt old and tired. Now that Abner was gone, he allowed his face to relax from his Headmaster Persona; he sighed, and drew his wand to Apparate. There was more paperwork to be done, and doubtless Horace Slughorn would be back to champion Potter as the new Defense professor. As he gave one last glance around the outside of Prince's home, he desperately wished he could just turn this over to the Ministry of Magic and be done with it.

But – he couldn't. If this was what he thought it was, there was no way the Ministry would let either Evans or Dumbledore himself survive.