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Lost Time

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In Due Time

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Harry arrived into his kitchen to see breakfast already set.

His wife, clad in little but her nightgown stepped up to him from the stove and kissed his cheek, smiling as she fixed his poorly done tie. Harry grinned back shakily, startled at how quickly she had become so adoring. He wanted to shake her, to warn her against the despicable man she was married to before remembering that man was himself.

They sat together at the table and ate. Harry tried to make idle conversation by talking about his case. He didn't think it was at all interesting, but she listened with complete focus, nodding and allowing him to speak freely as he wished. It was somewhat liberating to have someone so dedicated to his thoughts and feelings – caring for his welfare other than mere survival. He only wished he could bring himself to tell her who he really was. That he wasn't from her time, that he had done the impossible and leaped through the years. That he wasn't her deceitful, unfaithful husband.

He wondered if she would be happy.

Harry felt guilt at not completely reciprocating her devotion. No matter how much better he was than his older self, he couldn't bring himself to completely love Hannah. He was only eighteen, fresh in mind, inexperienced and new to the concept of romance. The word sounded to him like a wistful dream, a thing of fairy tales that didn't belong in the harsh battlefield that made up most of his grown life. She was something new.

Finishing his breakfast, he grabbed what seemed to be the newest Daily Prophet and headed for the fireplace. Hannah lingered behind him, eyes bright and steady, watching him go. She handed him his briefcase and made one final adjustment to his shirt before sending him off, hands brushing his face lightly before he entered the fire. Harry awkwardly uttered a farewell before disappearing, the image of the young woman seared into his mind.

--

Harry entered the newly renamed Department of Magical Peacekeeing Affairs, and confidently made his way to the stairs leading to the Office of Forensics. It was as busy as ever, filled beyond capacity, bustling with wizards of all sorts. Among them, he noticed several Aurors and Hit-Wizards stared at him as he passed by, most with thinly veiled dislike.

Even Tonks could not do more than nod in his direction before hurriedly resuming her work. He found it somewhat disheartening, and began to realize just what he had gotten himself into. A large, burly Auror crashed into him purposefully as he walked, sneering out an unsympathetic apology without even turning back.

Neville's desk was in a small glass office, within a clearing before the stairwell leading to the Office of Forensics. The man watched him stonily as he passed by. Harry returned the look, knowing full well he'd be seeing the Senior Detective soon.

Just as he entered the stairwell, a streak of magic flew at him from the corner of his eye. Reflexes born of battles long lost to the past leapt to action once more and drove him to step to the side, the curse only barely missing his side. The door creaked loudly at the impact and absorbed the blow, the wood slightly darkened by the curse, faint smoke rising from the mark.

Harry looked back to see several of the men in chuckles, the large man from before dropping his wand with mock regret. His hand went for his wand before realizing he had too little magic to use it.

"Sorry old boy, it must have misfired." The blonde hulk said with a laugh, before turning away. "You're lucky you never make that kind of mistake, right?"

Murderous rage flew through him to no end, and he could do no more than dream of tearing the Auror to pieces. Sending one last glance at an amused looking Neville, Harry turned his back and descended into the stairwell.

He hadn't much improved when he arrived in his office, too angry to even begin his work.

He missed magic. He missed it so much it seemed as if he would do commit any sort of crime, trade anything, surrender all of his beliefs to get it back. That feeling of loss that he had experienced when he first woke was the gaping hole in his soul, the tear in his soul that reminded him he had lost what made him who he was. The agony was unbearable, unthinkable. How had Dr. Potter survived with his sanity intact?

He paced the small room and eventually settled in himself in front of the wall of awards. Dr. Potter's pursuits after losing much of his abilities in wizardry had been mostly in higher learning. He read off several of the institutions he had supposedly studied at – one was clearly muggle, a famous university he remembered hearing even as a child with the Dursleys. He imagined a benevolent friend in the institution had allowed this – without any sort of formal muggle education beyond primary school, Harry would never normally be admitted into such prestigious schools.

Selecting one of the books he had contributed to, Harry flipped to the pages in the end, looking for the short biography that accompanied many works. His picture, identical to his current state, stared back at him, animated and clearly in possession of the mind of his older self. The picture representation of himself narrowed its eyes and adjusted its glasses, studying Harry with all the interest in the world.

He ignored the off-putting figure and read the text beneath.

Dr. Harry Potter is best known perhaps for his defeat of the Dark Lord Voldemort, both as a child and a final time at the age of eighteen.

Though he never formally completed his Hogwarts education, refusing to return after his final duel with Voldemort, he enrolled himself in a muggle institution of study and quickly graduated within a couple years. During this time, he was widely courted and sought after, though he expressly avoided contact with the Wizarding World.

He returned to Wizarding Life in his early twenties, having completed his studies of the muggle biological sciences and became a student in the St. Mungo's School of Healing, using his background in forensics to revolutionize the field in magical law enforcement. Graduating with the highest honors, he became a natural candidate for the Ministry's Office of Forensics, and quickly became Chief Forensic Officer of the British Ministry of Magic.

Publishing several other books and contributing to many scholarly papers, he is heavily involved in tracking criminals all across the Wizarding community, and is personally responsible for countless high profile arrests.

Dr. Potter currently lives with his wife of seven years in Ravenglass, Cumbria.

The length his elder self had gone to keep himself in the wizarding world was admirable. Still, it evoked a sense of sadness in him when he realized he too would face the same life Dr. Potter had worked years to overcome. Life without magic must have been difficult… was difficult.

His wand was always close to his hand, but it never quite responded to him in the way he had come to expect it would. Magic was what made him more than just an unwanted orphan locked in a cupboard. Perhaps it was slightly elitist, but Harry knew he could never again tolerate life as a muggle. The ability to cause change beyond physical means was such an addictive extension to his being that he often wondered how his older self hadn't gone insane. Perhaps he had. He himself could feel the strain of being an outsider among wizards, a mere squib among the most powerful, fantastic beings alive.

His bittersweet defeat of Voldemort had likely driven Harry away in shame, pushing him to make something of himself without magic. But he had returned, driven and dedicated to make his place. But how much of his success was his own? He remembered Lichter, the thin assailant from the bar, talking about how he had secured his place in the Wizarding world through deals.

There seemed to be evidence of patronage. Squibs were not allowed beyond basic clerical work in the Ministry of Magic, a fact that Harry doubted had changed. Though some revered the pureblooded and looked down upon muggleborns, there seemed to be a widespread sense of ridicule of squibs. Even Ron, steady in his dislike for pureblooded bigotry looked down upon Argus Filch even more when it was discovered he was a squib. Harry himself remembered thinking even less of the ill-tempered man than ever before. The caretaker's overall disposition toward fledgling, able wizards seemed to be a direct result of his own lack of magic – and the ridicule he must have suffered because of it.

He looked on towards the last paragraph. Wife of seven years. Harry knew it was accurate – books imbued with magic often updated ages and the like to stay correct. He had married Hannah at the age of nineteen, a year after his defeat of Voldemort. Since he had apparently left the Wizarding world at eighteen, he must have met her at that age as well.

Harry struggled to think of Hannah's whereabouts during the last days of the war. She had been a mediwitch he remembered, studying under several healers to join them in their trade. He had seen her talking with some of her old school friends, and even recalled being patched up once by her himself. After the death and carnage had been dealt, she spent her time tending to the injured while he swore revenge.

It was only a week ago, he had to remind himself. He was having difficulty keeping his own life straight with Dr. Potter's at times, and had begun thinking of his final battle as a distant memory, a fragment of a year lost to the ages. He desperately wanted to return, more than ever he wished to live his own life. The hellish existence of his future self was a warning of things to come. He could go and change things, make things better. If only he was aware of what his duel would result in – perhaps he could choose another path.

--

Harry finally relented to his sense of duty and resumed his dissections. Most of his tests resulted in nothing. The organs in the chest cavity looked fine, the brain was intact, and there was none of the indications of Avada Kedavra. The characteristic look, the residue of dark magic – none was present.

He stood covered in a white apron long stained red, peeling back the outer muscles of the heart while it still remained attached. The body before him was now a thin husk, long since dried of blood to ease the autopsy. As Harry readied himself for another round of tests, he saw Daphne enter from the doors to the side.

"Bad news," she intoned, looking as if she were presenting anything but. Her low cut robes drew Harry's attention more than he liked.

"I really can't see how that's possible," Harry replied stonily, frowning as cardiac valve blockage was ruled out. The chambers of the heart were open and clear, the passages between them showing no abnormalities. It was becoming unsettling how quickly he had adapted to the work, as if he was resuming something he had forgotten long ago…

"Well, several high ranking officials were just found dead today. They're coming in threes and fours, maybe a dozen or so in all. Probable time of death was over the weekend, before even our first find. Neville looks like he's going to have a heart attack. Can't say I'm not amused by the idea," she said, shrugging, "Bastard would probably come back as a ghost and still belittle me."

Harry ignored the banter. "Several high ranking officials?" He echoed. "They're coming here?"

"You're the only one available, Harry. All the other guys are busy with work out of town. Besides, they want the best for this stuff. You know they wouldn't let some new guy take it."

The praise didn't do much for the wariness that seemed to creep at his mind. One body was enough to take care of. The dead were surprising difficult to manage. Meticulously taking apart twelve would be hellish.

"Well, you forget that they're probably all killed by the same guy, the same way. Initial reports indicate no physical damage, no visible magical residue – the usual stuff we see from our guy." Daphne pointed out.

"Joy." He commented dryly. "When do they come in?" There was no way he could ever go through them all. Likely he'd keep working on his second corpse. What applied to the first most likely applied for them all.

"They'll be coming in as soon as the person Neville brought in for the cursory evidence collection is done. We're not going to be around though. My father is giving a speech on this – it's an important event to discuss for the nation. There's obviously going to be some increased support for Neville and stiffer security measures against anything perceived even remotely bad. He needs to address it and soothe tensions, otherwise the PRNP's going to capitalize on it all and tip the polls. It's an open event – everyone's invited – but I think he'd like you to be there. Come – it's starting soon!"

He couldn't think of a reason against going. Looking back at the gorged man he'd been working on, he carefully took off his apron and gloves and accepted, knowing there would be several opportunities to perhaps learn something more of the current time.

--

Harry stood in the massive crowd of people gathered before the raised podium, barely able to hear Daphbe's chattering amid the senseless noise in the conference hall. It was a large room, not quite as imposing as the Atrium but certainly enough to hold a thousand people. There seemed to be just that many, nearly a fifth of them press.

The room was to the side of the security desk on the first floor, at the end of a long hallway. The walk there had been slightly uncomfortable, having left the DMPA with more glares and dirty looks than he had entered with. The silence between them had disappeared quickly with a humorous jab at the PNRP, and they quickly resumed their talk.

Now he stood waiting, trying to get his tie fixed correctly and straining to retrace the steps Hannah had taken in straightening it out and making it presentable. Daphne laughed at his effort but didn't motion to help - something that made Harry think more fondly of his wife than ever.

The time wore on, and the minutes stretched by. People were becoming uncomfortable. Several members of the press spoke to each other in hushed tones about a string of high profile murders.

Daphne suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled him to the back, where he saw Paul sneaking in, looking as confident and collected as ever. No one seemed to have noticed him yet.

After greeting his daughter, he turned to him.

"Harry! It's good to see you here. I asked Daphne to bring you along because I thought you would be interested in getting a better handle of what we stand for." He said, smiling broadly.

"I certainly am, sir." He said honestly. Paul looked amused.

"No need to call me sir, Harry. I'm not your father-in-law." He said humorously, eliciting a groan from Daphne. "Now I have to get going – they're getting restless."

And with that he darted to the front, appearing behind the podium and drawing a sudden round of cheering. He waved to the crowd and shook hands with many of the officials near the front. The noise seemed to die down as soon as he turned around and made a cutting motion with his right hand, silence following within seconds.

--

The audience drew forward somewhat, their eyes fixed on the pristine, charismatic figure of the man before them. He commanded attention, his voice powerful and believable, carrying the weight of honesty. As he began to speak, Harry felt himself drawn into the words, the curtain of focus blocking every other concern in his mind.

"We are constantly pushed and prodded to remember the lessons of the Dark wars. Of course the real issue is not remembering, but rather knowing what the pertinent lesson of those sad years were.

Here he paused, looking down at the podium for the slightest moment to let the words sink in.

The then-named Department of Magical Law Enforcement released a report after the first downfall of the Dark Lord Voldemort. It was made after the many inquiries by the Wizengamot into the heavy handedness shown by the Aurors and Hit-Wizards under Barty Crouch's command.

Harry noticed that no one had flinched when the evil wizard's name was spoken. It was as if the audience was basking in the bold power of the speaker. Paul looked across the hall, eyes hardening. Disgust lined his voice.

It was inconclusive. It was neither self-condemning or even apologetic. It was estimated that close to three hundred and fifty innocent wizards and witches, even four muggles were either sent to Azkaban or became casualties of war after 'enhanced interrogation'. The report even had the audacity to praise its makers as being proactive.

But common sense already tells us the tens of millions of galleons spent by government agencies, whose job it is to provide security and intelligence for our country, failed. A bloated, overbearing police state is not the solution. Though the pendulum swung too far to the other side in Voldemort's return, this is no reason to bring back the brutality and injustice of the past. Fear of yet another dark resurgence has allowed certain people to get away with trampling on our freedoms, our liberties, and the inherent rights we deserve as wizards and witches!

Scattered cheers broke out, but most were far too lost in the truth of the words, gripped by comprehension.

Remember that it wasn't the state-sanctioned tortures that defeated Voldemort. It wasn't unreasonable search and seizure. It wasn't suppression of the press, enforced curfew, or excessive force. It was a child gifted with magic, born with a noble heart and empowered with the ability to survive the most lethal of all curses.

The opposition would have you re-register your wands monthly, and have it checked for 'non-approved' spells. This list would be completely arbitrary, and subject to the whims of the bureaucracy. Do you wish to invent a new spell? If Mr. Longbottom has his way, you would be prosecuted for doing such a thing. Does your family have a certain charm you keep for your own? A passing novelty, perhaps? You could be seeing the grey of Azkaban by noon.

This new Ministry would tell you what you can and can't do – down to what spells you can use and how and when you perform them. A permit for powerful cutting charms useful for yard work. Registration for anything that could possibly hurt a human being. Don't even think about using a curse to get rid of those gnomes – an Auror will be notified and you will be a criminal. And most degrading of all – the Trace will remain forever. The demise of your privacy will be complete. Grown wizards and witches will be treated like mere children, forced to endure Mr. Longbottom reading through every single spell they cast.

The proponents of the PNRP do not hesitate to impugn the character of those who point out the shortcomings of current policy, calling them unpatriotic and appeasers of terrorism. It is said that they are responsible for the growing armed resistance, and for the killing of British wizards and witches.

The Sons of Warlocks, the Common Wizard's Liberation Front – even the so called neo-Death Eaters, be them a nostalgic new group or a more sinister fragment of the past - would not be enjoying a rapid growth of their ranks. By denying that our outright brutality has brought support to those that wish to harm us, it's easy to play the patriot card and find a scapegoat to blame. When your father is beaten mercilessly to death at your doorstep for being seen casting a marginally dark curse – merely to rid his home with a rat infestation – what do you feel? How can you deny not feeling anger and hatred at the Ministry? At law and order? Can you deny not wanting revenge – death and destruction perhaps?

The PNRP ridicules its opponents and tells the public that its policy has boiled down to testing our resolve. The only path now offered is to escalate our battles and avenge the deaths of British Aurors – if they kill one of our men, we'll kill ten of theirs. But the more we kill, the greater the incitement of the terrorists. The more we imprison and give the kiss to not only criminals, but innocent people fighting for their civil liberties – the more legitimate their cause becomes.

The opposition asks me what I plan to do about the dark wizards that are murdering our people, that incite harm and sow discord and destruction. Their solution is to impose more rules and take the right to defend yourself from your own hands.

They don't understand who assumes most of the responsibility for the security of our homes and businesses in a free society. It's not merely the Aurors or Hit-Wizards. They can help, but there are far too few of them, and it's not their job to stand guard outside our houses or places of business. We live in a society in which each of us is born with the ability to create fire, level buildings with curses, and counter against the most powerful nature can offer. Why is it we are incapable to defend against each other?

In a world where powerful magic is illegal, only criminals will use it. What motley group of scum would ever dare attack a populace armed as well as they? Take our spells away, and we will be powerless against those who ignore the law.

Magic is a powerful thing. It drives us, it enables us. It can divide us. Do not allow any man to take away your right to freely use your wand, to exercise your birthright, lest you find yourself tyrannized by the minority that can."

The audience roared. Paul stepped back and watched, his eyes gleaming in victory. He found Harry and smiled before stepping off the stage as his name rang out across the hall.

Daphne disappeared into the crowd, undoubtedly to congratulate him. Harry stood amidst the almost frenzied cheering, lost in thought. The message of the speech had cut close – the idea of losing the freedom to use one's birthright – and resonated deep. He knew how it was like. The idea of such a restriction being placed on the entire populace was unbearable, eliciting the same fury that arose every time he reach out to feel the emptiness within his being.

This was a consequence of Neville's increasingly draconian influence he had never thought of. He glanced back at the disappearing Paul. He might not have belonged in this time, but he knew he couldn't turn his back on such an important issue. The People's National Reform Party was a threat that needed countering. Strengthening the Populace Party of Britain was the only effective way to check the despotic influence Neville wielded in the Ministry. Public pressure – when gathered and focused – was more powerful than any sort of position of authority.

But one small detail bothered him. The speech hadn't at all mentioned the murders, instead pushing them to the side by the lofty (however true and credible) rhetoric. Perhaps Paul wanted to set a frame of mind for the press and public to receive the murders later – they would be hesitant to demand for harsher and more intrusive methods of law enforcement.

He moved toward the exit. The audience had finally settled down and was rumbling quietly as it shuffled out of the conference room, the quiet whisperings of the Ministry workers and reporters full of support for the charismatic and articulate Paul Greengrass.

The PPB had its support, but it needed a certain credibility that would cement it, harden it against the fear the PNRP spread to the public. He could lend it that credibility. Only a small minority knew that he had been stripped of much of his magic, and even they respected the name, the assurance of defense against the dark arts that the boy-who-lived provided. With his support, the PPB could show itself steady and strong against crime and evil – without needing to bind the essence of wizardry to needless regulations.

As he passed through the atrium, he saw a familiar figure leave the DMPA office one of the many floors above, walking down the stairs with arms filled with stacks of folders. The female figure was dressed in an examination coat similar to his own. He squinted at what he presumed to be the examiner Neville had brought in.

He moved closer to see who Neville had entrusted over his expertise, his honesty and loyalty. The move meant that he was in some way suspect, believed to capable of dishonesty. It was to be expected, but Harry still felt a bit of anger at the thought. He tracked the young woman as she descended down the many flights of stairs.

His irritation blossomed into a sort of giddy hope. He saw a sort of bushy brown hair, a short, purposeful stride, and a certain manner of carriage that were all characteristic of an old friend.

He raced towards her, fighting to get at the bottom of the stairs before she joined the large mob.

The figure took no notice of his frantic struggling, and wedged herself into the mass of people. She headed toward the long line of people exiting through the fireplace, looking impatient.

"Hermione!" he called, turning back and hurrying his stride to match hers. He called her several more times as he pushed through the throngs of people still leaving the conference. The woman turned back, apparently hearing him for the first time. Something like dislike flashed through her eyes as they narrowed. Her face – pale and appealing in adulthood - darkened, and she scowled as she turned away, moving faster and escaping his reach.

Within seconds he lost sight of her. He stopped and swore in frustration, drawing an offended exclamation from a nearby worker. The woman could only have been Hermione Granger – long time friend, one time lover, and an old face he needed to steady him in the uncertain world he had found himself in. Why had she fled?

And more importantly – what was she doing at the beck and call of the vicious PNRP?