I don't own Harry Potter

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Lost Time

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Buried History

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“Can you believe it? It’s outrageous! How could they? Years of dedicated, loyal service and they bring in a prison warden to audit you?” Colin Creevey fumed. He was leaning on the inside of the door to Harry’s office. It was early in the morning and they were gathered around before starting the day.

“Technically she’s the Chief of Criminal Rehabilitation at Osbourne.” Daphne said with a frown, crossing her long slender legs. She was sitting on his desk, arms propped up behind her.

“Can they do that?” Colin asked. “I mean, Harry’s the best there is. If he’s taking more than a few days, what hope does someone from a Reform Center have?”

“Apparently she’s just as qualified as Harry. The law allows a Senior Detective to pick another Forensics investigator to audit the first if he or she feels that the current investigator is incompetent or suspect to provide altered results. Since all our other guys are out on the field, Longbottom can bring in anyone he wants from the outside.” Daphne sighed. She looked at Harry, who was slouching in his office chair, resting his chin on his fist. “You’re taking this awfully well.”

“I’m not really surprised Neville would pull something like this. He doesn’t exactly like me that much these days.” He replied, fingering the photograph he had taken of Alan Stranger’s corpse. He put it down and leaned back into the chair, interlocking his fingers. What was Hermione doing for Neville?

“He’s always disliked you a bit. Ever since that mess with the two Death Eaters you defended yourself against. The man really thought you were guilty of something, and wanted you in jail for that. He only halted the investigation to avoid looking ridiculous.” Creevey said.

“You have to be careful of him, now more then ever. He’s heard you agreed to endorse us, so he’ll be digging for dirt in your history to undermine you. Don’t be surprised if he brings this all back. This auditing business can only be his first step in undermining your credibility.” Daphne added in, looking worried. “You have to end this investigation and make it ironclad. Father’s going to go public with your endorsement by next week, so there can be no question in your judgment. He’s out for blood now.” She drew an edition of the Daily Prophet from her robes and dropped it in front of him. It was folded to the back page, showing a small article circled in red.

PNRP Massacred!

The People’s National Reform Party suffered a major blow this morning when it was discovered that all but one of the nine remaining leading party officials have been found dead.

Neville Longbottom, Senior Detective in the newly renamed Department of Magical Peacekeeping Affairs, is the only sole remaining party leader. He was nominated by the party’s caucus to lead their bid in this year’s elections for Minister of Magic. Mr. Longbottom now lacks the support and guidance offered to him by the many high placed Ministry officials in the PNRP leadership. He was unavailable for comment.

The news comes less than a week after two more PNRP leaders were found dead in similar circumstances, an event that was not widely circulated and is still under investigation.

These losses, however, are not only shared by the PNRP but by the Ministry itself. Four of the eleven lost to what almost certainly is murder are Department heads. Others are Detectives, Undersecretaries, and Senior Aurors.

The Office of Forensics, headed by Chief of Forensics Harry Potter, has not commented on these new developments, but it is assumed that previous comments – that the murders are the result of a sole assailant – still stand. It is thought that all the deaths have occurred from the same, unknown cause.

The murders come at a time of unrest between the government and terrorist factions. The Knights of Walpurgis have been suspected of the act, but there is no evidence as of yet to support this accusation…

--

Harry walked through the hallways of the Ministry, dropping off the various preliminary reports to the Aurors and Junior Detectives who had requested them.

He didn’t have to do it himself – Colin could have easily sent them out through the paper plane mail system, but he wanted to see if he could find Hermione and perhaps find out some more information on the future in general.

The recipients – all firm PNRP supporters – grabbed the reports out of his hand and wordlessly stuffed them away, leering at his retreating back. He rounded the entire DMPA, wasting as much time as he could listening to conversations and looking for the brown haired witch.

“Ah, looking for someone?”

Harry snapped out of his thoughts and looked down upon a thin, malicious looking man that looked vaguely familiar. Lichter, he remembered quickly. The man looked no worse for wear, he noticed disappointedly, having healed up impeccably since their last encounter.

The Magical Law Enforcer grinned horribly. “Neville wants a word. He’s a bit disappointed on how you responded to his first offer and all.”

“Where’s your troll friend?” Harry asked in annoyance, staying in place. Lichter’s lips thinned, and his nostrils flared.

“He’s recovering in St. Mungos.” He spat out after a few moments, glaring almost childishly at him.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Harry replied in faux politeness. “He should have known an entire pitcher of firewhiskey would hurt in the morning.” Lichter’s left hand dropped to his wand, but Harry was quicker. His own wand was pressed into the Enforcer’s chest before he had even reached into his pocket.

“Listen, Lichter. I might not be able to cast too many curses these days, but I know plenty of small charms that can starve your heart of blood and kill you faster than anyone here can help you. I’d hate to make good on my proposal to you last night.”

He felt more than one wand press into his own back. “Drop the peashooter, Potter. We all know you’re shooting blanks.” A gruff voice said behind him. Harry gripped his wand tighter and watched Lichter for several more moments before putting his wand away.

He plastered an insincere smile on his face and bid the faint looking man goodbye as he was pushed into Neville’s office. Harry felt himself pass through several heavy wards on the way in. The door shut behind him.

The Senior Detective was seated behind an imperious desk covered in papers. He looked up sharply at his entrance and put down the quill he was scribbling signatures with. The walls of his office were covered in newspaper clippings and the faces of criminals with red Xs through them. In the corner sat a small stone penseive.

“Sit down, Harry.” The man intoned. Harry considered disobeying, but he sat himself down instead. There was no point in antagonizing the man further.

“What do you want, Neville? I’m working on the autopsies, and I’m confident I’ll get the reports in by Friday. There’s no reason to bring in an auditor on me – ”

“There’re plenty of reasons, most importantly the fact that you’re talking with Paul Greengrass again. I hear you’re going to endorse his party. I can’t trust you to bring him to justice.” Neville interrupted curtly, voice wavering with thinly concealed hatred.

“There’s nothing wrong with Paul, Neville. You’re grasping at straws.” Harry replied, remaining calm. Something like worry fluttered through him as the veins in Neville’s neck bulged as he stood and leaned forward on his desk.

“Am I, Harry? You know better than I how much Greengrass shielded the Death Eaters from capture. He obstructed justice at every chance and appointed dark sympathizers everywhere.” He ground out, face reddening in anger

“He was in the same position as Amos, Neville. Amos Diggory was fearless, sentenced scores of the enemy to Azkaban. But when they took his family he was worse than Paul. Greengrass never had the mark and didn’t break a single law.” Harry could feel Neville’s magic stirring in the air. He squashed his childish fear and met Neville’s eyes - the man wouldn’t dare lay a finger on him in public.

A myriad of emotions passed through the shorter man – hatred, frustration, and finally despair.

Neville dropped back down into his chair and shot him a wary look before turning away completely.  “You’re in his pocket too. You won’t see the truth. I made a mistake trying to intimidate you physically to help me. I’m not going to press charges on your assault of the two officers.” He took a tone of an indulgence, acting as if he was doing him a favor.

“They attacked me, Neville. You couldn’t charge me anyway. ” Harry interrupted, but Neville had ceased listening to him. Harry wondered if that meant Neville believed he was beyond reason – a lost cause. That couldn’t be a good thing.

“But you still understand threats. Remember when I told you I’d show the world what you did to those two Death Eaters? I’m making good on that, starting today. When does Greengrass plan to show you off to the press?”

Harry didn’t want to sell out Paul. The man had given him his job and was fighting a crooked foe already. Giving out his political plans was betrayal.

“I’ll ask again, Harry. When is he planning to show off his newest fan?”

He stared back stone faced as his stomach knotted uncomfortably. He didn’t have much of a choice. Neville was forcing his hand and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. What would Paul do if he found out? It felt childish, but he didn’t think he could stand the man being disappointed in him.

The Senior Detective sat silent for several moments, watching him struggle. “Harry, I have all the case files. Would you like to see the pictures? The evidence analyzed by your own coworkers – the ones they’ve suspiciously forgotten? The memories from all the people that saw the bodies?” He reached over and swirled the surface of the pensieve with his wandtip.

“And how long is this going to last?” Harry finally asked as a tortured looking torso rose from the silvery depths of the pensieve and began floating at its surface. “Do you really think you can hold something like this over me for the rest of my life?”

Neville chuckled, watching bits and pieces of a body join the floating mass of the eviscerated corpse. “Just until you can get me something to secure me the election, Harry. I understand your hesitation. Paul gave you your job back when you thought you’d have to go live in the Muggle world. He wanted to be your new father-in-law. Hell, he’s your new best friend. And with the trust your new whore affords you I’m sure you’ll dig up something on him.” Eyes gleaming in triumph, he flicked his wand and dispelled the gory carnival of carnage.

Harry curled his fist around the armrest, beyond anger. A rage born of helplessness made his blood burn. “Maybe it’s you, Neville. You got your nomination so you don’t need them anymore. Then you can make it look like you’re a poor, innocent target. Funny that the tragedy you’re suffering from only supports your rhetoric. I bet you’re angry the article didn’t even make it the front page.”

“Hardly.” Neville offered, standing up and brushing himself off. “Maybe that kind of thinking gets you places in the PPB, but this party isn’t run by Death Eaters. I don’t pimp my daughter out for political gain.”

Pouring himself tea, he offered a cup to Harry, who took one after some hesitation. He didn’t want to appear petulant. It was better to swallow his pride than lose it completely.

---

Harry returned to his desk and dropped himself into the chair, staring at the closed door of his office.

He had been given a few more days to gather more information. The full details of his use to the PPB were due along with his report by Friday. It didn’t seem possible for him to give Neville either of the documents.

Paul had told him he’d be holding a press conference somewhere in London to reveal the PPB’s newest supporter. It would be a huge boost to the populist party, using his fame and background to capture the hearts of the people and assuage the fear generated by the PNRP that their success would mean a return of Dark Wizards.

Dark magic, it seemed, had all been wiped out. Knockturn Alley had been torn down and reconstructed into the respectable Cobblepot Alley, a residential district with small shops intermingling between the upscale apartments. The roads were literally paved with gold in some areas.

Heavy restrictions had been placed on the Hogwarts Curriculum, and the Restricted Section had been moved to a separate part of the castle. All citizens had to reregister their wands every three years and pass an inspection that would screen the wood for traces of dark magic.

The laws had been put into effect shortly after Voldemort’s defeat with little resistance, which made Neville’s proposed changes even more frighteningly plausible. Perhaps the man desired the same turmoil that had lingered after the Dark Lord’s second downfall – it would easily justify his draconian measures.

Neville’s seemingly total lack of concern for his autopsy reports indicated something more important at stake. He looked at the photo of Alan Stranger’s corpse, vowing to find the link between the Detective and his suddenly dead party leaders.

He continued holding the photograph, eyes taking in every detail as his mind wandered. None of Dr. Potter’s tests revealed details so far. Everything seemed normal – the man appeared to have simply fallen over into death - forever stilled.

His eyebrows furrowed as a fleeting thought captured his attention. He leapt to feet and made his way over to the wall of autopsy pictures his older self had created. Each and every one of the bodies blurred and jerked occasionally, the limbs twitching and rattling, eyes flying open while their jaws opened and shut in a horrific likeness of tortured screaming. It was a terrifying display, but the fact that the bodies moved in the pictures simply meant the dead were wizards, their corpses leaking magic that had been captured into the camera’s film.

The corpse of Alan Stranger was completely still in the photograph. The image appeared completely muggle in his hand.

“Colin!” Harry called, navigating between the various dead PNRP leaders to stand above Stranger’s gurney.

The young man poked his head into the examination room after a few moments, resolutely avoiding the dead bodies and looking straight at him. “What do you need, Harry?”

“Come here, take a look at this.” Colin entered and closed the door behind him, looking slightly sick at the prospect of getting near so many corpses. Harry waited patiently as the mousey secretary nervously scampered his way toward him. He held out the photograph.

Colin reluctantly took it, somehow anticipating its morbidity. He stiffened as he caught a glimpse of it. “It’s a dead guy,” he said, letting it fall to his side.

“Thanks, Colin. I hadn’t noticed,” he said dryly, “Look again. What’s wrong with the picture?”

He brought the photograph back up and gave it another glance, his eyes falling from the image to the body by Harry’s side. “It’s Alan Stranger, isn’t it? The Hit-Wizard, or somewhat?”

Harry nodded, motioning for him to continue.

Colin’s eyebrows furrowed and Harry could tell his vast enthusiasm for photography was finally replacing his fear of corpses and all things dead. It had become increasingly clear the only reason Colin was working in the Office of Forensics was Harry Potter and the fact that he worked on scratchy paper and stamps – not chest cavities.

“Wait – wasn’t Alan a wizard? I don’t remember his forms marking him as a full Squib. He was a Hit-Wizard after all, so why isn’t the photograph moving?”

“That’s my question. Is there any way you can end up with a muggle picture like this?” Harry asked.

Colin paused in thought. “If it wasn’t developed correctly, but that’s never happened before. The developers we use in the Ministry are smart guys – they’re held under countless confidentiality spells and watched night and day. They’ve never screwed up.” He held the picture closer to his face, gazing at something in the background.

“See? It is a wizarding photograph,” Colin continued, “Look at this.” He handed the picture back to Harry. “Look at your wand in the background. See it on the desk? It’s got a slight blur to its ends – that’s where the magic of the core interacts with the world. Cameras catch that.”

Harry’s hand brushed the polished instrument in his pocket as he looked back down on the picture. The wood was smooth and unmarred. It appeared Dr. Potter had taken better care of the instrument once his magic had been all but stripped from him.

“There’s nothing wrong with the picture. So if there’s no movement in the photograph then there’s no magic being captured by the camera. But Alan Stranger was clearly a wizard.” Harry gazed at the pale white corpse. He was glad Colin had no medical training – it was almost painfully obvious the body had been stitched up messily and crudely.

Colin shrugged, turning somewhat. Harry caught him eying the door. “Wait just a moment. Let’s say the body had been around for some time. Would you say the magic would leak out enough over time to result in a still image?”

“I guess it’s possible. I don’t know how long it takes for all the magic to drain out of the body. I sort of stick with living people, you see.” The younger man was beginning to look restless and it became clear there wasn’t much point keeping him around much longer.

“Alright Colin, you can go.” The secretary bobbed his head hastily and quickly shuffled his way out the examination room.

The explanation only raised more questions. With the bodies still far from decomposing, there had to have been preserving charms – the same sort used on bodies for funerals. He had casted those far too often than he would have liked to remember. The charms lasted up to two weeks at best. Were the members dead for two weeks?

If that was true, then the members had been killed far in advanced, preserved, and replaced with imposters using polyjuice potions. With the bodies on hand, it wasn’t difficult to procure pieces of hair. The whole thing just seemed unlikely.

He took the camera and took a shot of each and every corpse, leaving his wand in the frame as reference. The camera flashed eight times, the light illuminating the long dead officials. All looked more or less the same as Stranger. Empty shells devoid of feeling. Simply as if they had ceased to be.

Even if the bodies had been dead for some time, they had to have been killed in some manner. Merely falling dead without physical or magical symptoms was seen only in the victims of Dementor attacks. Harry clearly remembered the soulless husks of the worse than dead simply giving up in the dark of the night. Their hearts would stop simply for lack of purpose.

But even they had their marks. The impossibly sharp mandibles of a Dementor left gruesome punctures on the faces of its prey.

Harry looked up from the lifeless eyes of the nearest corpse and covered the body with a sheet. He did the same with the rest of the dead and retreated to his office.

---

“What adventures lay in wait for our hero?” A voice called behind him.

Harry tried to stop the smile that began to grow on his face. He only succeeded into making it into a rather unconvincing grimace. “Tonks.”

“Oh come on, Potter. You know you’re happy to see me.” The Auror caught up him as he began walking down the steps from the Peacekeeping Affairs floor. She grabbed his arm with both hands and beamed at him as they descended the stairs.

“I try, Tonks. But you’re trouble. Last time I saw you, I got into barfight with corrupt Enforcers. I also remember you taking Zabini’s form. How’d that feel?”

Tonks shuddered. “Disgusting. I had to guess most of his body, and thankfully I can’t really say what’s under all those clothes, but my prejudices sort of worked against me. Err, him. I think smaller was more comfortable.”

Harry chose not to comment, giving her an odd side glance.

“Oh, you. Always being so judgemental. What happened to the cute, amiable boy I met years ago?” She asked, pulling on her hair and lengthening it into a bright pink curtain. Several wizards paused in genuine astonishment before being pushed along by the crowd.

Harry bit back the urge to tell her the number of people the boy had killed, but settled with a emotionless grunt. “He grew up.”

“Yeah, yeah. So did I. Haven’t changed a bit. So what’s the news on our mystery killer?” She stopped him and turned to face him.

 Harry watched her for a few moments, surprised at the change of topic “You’re looking for information before I publish it to the entire department?”

Tonks looked at the ground for a few moments in embarrassment before stepping closer and looking at him pleadingly. “I need a little help. I’m the political black sheep in the department surrounded by PNRP wolves. If I can get some information it’d help with the boss and all that. Do you have any useful information?”

“Yes, there is information and you’ll wait until Friday when it’s ready for distribution to the rest of the Aurors,” a sharp voice interrupted.

Daphne Greengrass appeared behind Harry and stared at Tonks with distaste and poorly concealed mistrust. The Auror’s expression faltered only slightly and continued looking at Harry. “It’d be unfair and unethical if you were to be given the information ahead of time – especially since it has neither been checked, referenced, nor even cleared by his supervisor.”

Tonks finally looked down at Harry’s superior, her smile turning falsely sweet and apologetic. She turned back to Harry after a few moments. “My apologies, Harry. It’s a bad idea that might get us both in trouble. I’ll see you later.” With that, she turned heel and walked away with a seemingly unconcerned air. Daphne watched until she disappeared into a fireplace before glancing at Harry, eyes hard and wary.

“Be careful, Harry. Nymphadora Tonks may or may not be a friend, but even if she is, she reports to Neville. He has ways to turn even the most committed of family into loyal spies. Keep your guard up around any of his Aurors.”

Harry wanted to protest, but he knew the truth of her words. His own reality was too similar. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Daphne’s look softened at his pained expression. “Hey, cheer up. I know all this cloak and dagger stuff is all pretty stressful. I bet you never thought politics was going to be so dangerous.” She grinned. “Remember, if you have any problems, tell Father. He needs your commitment.”

He hid the guilt that passed through him at those words. He was letting the man down. But if he didn’t, his current life would be ruined. It would be impossible for him to get back to his own time if he was in whatever facilities passed as jails in his strange, twisted future. He decided to press for some information.

He leaning forward and lowered his voice. “Do you know when I’m being introduced?”

Daphne stood silent for a few moments before nodding. “The PPB is going to have you introduced next Wednesday, on the Ides of March. There’s going to be a large press conference outside Gringotts. The press knows, but we’re not giving a date or location on the day of the event. They still have no idea what it’s about, but they’re all dying to get any sort of information. Only my father and a few others know who is being introduced, so all they’ve managed to coax out of the lower party members is that there’s going to be a new high profile member.”

What would Harry do as a high profile member? He hoped it wouldn’t be anything beyond using his face and fame as a form of support. He needed to avoid interaction with the greater public as much as possible if he was going to maintain his secrets.

He looked back at the expectant looking Daphne, who seemed to be waiting for a response. He grinned playfully.

“The Ides of March? Are you sure I’m just being introduced? I’d rather not end up with multiple knife wounds.”

She laughed good-naturedly and played along. “And leave the killer who’s been wiping out our enemy uncaught? That’d almost be helpful.”

Harry shrugged. “Carpe diem. Binns said it over and over again. Best way to take care of a problem – magical or otherwise.”

Daphne squeezed his arm and walked past him towards the fireplace. Harry watched her stroll away casually. She flipped her hair out of the way and smiled appreciatively at him over her shoulder. “It’s a shame we’re honest folk.”

Harry looked up at the office where he knew Neville was working, undoubtedly working long into the night to find some way of manipulating another poor soul into his play for power.

“Shame indeed.”

---

The image of himself, Hannah, Ron, and Hermione waved blissfully at Harry through the paper boundary that separated them from the bitter future that Harry was beginning to fear he’d never escape.

The date behind the photo placed its inhabitants at the age of twenty-two, four years after the supposed defeat of Voldemort. His older – or perhaps, younger now that he was in the future – it was so difficult to keep his memories and those which he imagined were Dr. Potter’s separate – self had just recently finished his muggle studies and had enrolled in St. Mungo’s program in Investigative Medicine.

The sound of soft footsteps alerted him to Hannah’s presence behind him. She walked around the small, ornate couch and sat next to him, smiling at the picture in his hands.

“Happier days, I suppose.” Harry said quietly, looking at Hannah’s wistful face. She nodded sadly. Lifting her wand, she deftly left a glowing message in the air.

Harry looked away, uncomfortable with the question. “Yeah, I miss him. He was my best friend.” But he wasn’t dead yet. Not in his world. Ron was just another missing character in the strange reality he had stumbled into. He didn’t have any sorrow.

Hannah pulled his hand into her own, squeezing it carefully. The honest warmth of her being gave him little comfort. Dishonesty tended to put a damper on close emotional ties.

Harry used his other hand to replace the photograph back into the album he had found in one of the living room cabinets. He removed another that caught his eye.

Here, it was only him, Hannah, and Ron. Hermione seemed to be missing in the photograph. The date put it only a year and a half later. At twenty-three, his older self was revolutionizing magical forensics in a way that was rewriting all previous knowledge of the subject. He had written his first book on the subject and was well on his way to being awarded an honorary degree by St. Mungo’s.

Hannah seemed to realize the emptiness in the picture as well. Another message materialized by her side, accompanied by another squeeze of her hand.

“I wish I could talk to her. I’ve tried, but she’s hostile. She’s also investigating my work as an outside auditor. No one can believe it.” He explained the whole situation to her, releasing his frustrations to the woman beside him.

Her inability to properly respond was frustrating at times, but Harry found her listening invaluable. And though the silence in the house was unnerving without proper responses to his voice, he found himself depending on her to let out what little information he could.

Hannah looked at him for a few moments. Biting her lip, she seemed to come to a decision and left the couch, running upstairs silently with her bare feet. Harry watched her curiously and followed her up the stairs.

She emerged out of their bedroom with a small letter, the crème colored envelope marked only with Hannah’s name and their address. He looked at Hannah and couldn’t understand the importance. She led him back downstairs and pressed it into his hand. He looked at it for a few moments before finding his eyes averted and thoughts on more mundane matters.

Hannah gave a silent ‘oh’ of understand and pulled her wand. With a slight flick of the oak wand, he found himself able to focus. The notice-me-not charm worked exceptionally effectively on squibs and muggles. Still somewhat puzzled, he turned over the letter in his hand, instantly recognizing it as one in the pile of post he had found on the living room table the first morning in this new time.

Pulling it open, he took out the small note within.

 

Dearest Hannah,

How odd that I write regularly to you of all.

I make no secret of my dislike for your husband. He has ruined my life in ways he can never understand. But then, perhaps he does. And yet, I cannot help but keep you, my closest, perhaps only true friend – the one that shares a bed with the man responsible for my misfortunes! – no further than the scrawl of my quill away.

I question my motives so often I have difficulty completing these letters. I remember our history. When we were all friends, you, Ginny, and myself always shared everything. We taught you to trust again when you where attacked by Death Eaters. When Ginny was killed by the Knights of Walpurgis and Ron disappeared into rage and vengeance you were there. And when he never came back from the PNRP meeting, found dead at the hands of the dark wizards he hunted under my very nose – you were there.

Your last letter had me thinking of all this, of Harry Potter. Your husband - you bear his name. I ask why you still love this man. Your platitudes mean nothing. He will do you no good in the end. He took my husband, my career, and my happiness.

Don’t hesitate to think he won’t spare yours.

Love,

Hermione

 

Harry’s eyes remained on the name written delicately at the bottom of the letter. His old friend had specifically charmed it with a powerful muggle-repulsion charm, which explained why he hadn’t at all noticed it the first time he had come across it. The insult was there.

“You’ve been writing regularly to Hermione? Without telling me?”

Hannah’s eyes dropped, but Harry stopped and didn’t press any further. He didn’t have much in the way of anger. Whatever tirade he had been about to launch into was not his. He extinguished the flaming anger of betrayal with cool, interested logic.

Hermione hated him because she thought he took her career, husband, and happiness. Daphne had mentioned she was qualified as a Forensic investigator. Harry’s position could have somehow derailed Hermione’s ambitions, relegating her to her current position as warden for a criminal rehabilitation institute.  What worried him the most as he reread the letter was Hermione’s mention of Ron.

If the letter was true, Ron had been a vengeful member of the PNRP bent on avenging a murdered Ginny before he himself had been killed. Hermione seemed to blame it on Harry – either for killing him directly or being a factor in allowing it to happen.

He turned back to Hannah, who watched him nervously as he deliberated over the actions of his older self.

“Thank you for showing me this, Hannah.” He said with a smile. He tried to soothe her by pulling her close, to which she quickly responded to by melting against him. He ran his hands through her long, soft blond hair. “Hermione’s simply confused. She’s angry and confused and she’s lashing out. Don’t you worry – I’ll sort it out.”

He’d need to prepare his report soon. If Hermione finished hers before him, than he’d be left at the mercy of her biased investigations. His expertise and competence would also be called into doubt. He needed to publish the information he’d learned before Hermione took credit – judging by her letter, she was out to prove she was a better Forensics investigator. Along with the report he’d have to hand in the date and location of his introduction to the PPB party base.

He waited until Hannah’s soft breathing became regular and soft before carrying her to bed. Placing her under the covers, he watched her for several moments before returning downstairs. Pulling out the half-written report he’d found on Harry’s desk, he began to describe his findings.

His quill seemed to move on its own accord, describing medical jargon he had familiarized himself with in the past week and others he only vaguely remembered. Glancing at past reports, words and phrases seemed to slip through his consciousness from a distant void, bringing with it an authenticity reflected in a professional examination. Hours later, his writings had surpassed all of Dr. Potter’s previous accounts in length and detail, filled with various notes, subnotes, and conjecture for every step of the murder’s procedure.

On a separate piece of paper, he scribbled out a date and time along with the words Outside Gringotts and attached it to the report, folding it between the other pages. Giving it one last regretful glance, he summoned Hannah’s owl and sent off the package.

---

Harry arrived at the Ministry late.

He descended down the stairs to the depths of his Department with Hermione and Neville on his mind. He supposed they were collaborating at that very second, picking apart his report for signs of his incompetence.

“You’re running behind schedule.” Colin said without looking up, a dozen or so of quills in front of him neatly writing on different sheets of paper, duplicating the work he was doing with his right hand.

“The dead don’t complain.” He shot back, not really in the mood to be chastised. Colin looked at him with slight surprise before continuing his work without a word.

Entering his office, he shut the door behind him and dropped into the comfortable chair Dr. Potter had earned for himself. He searched through his incoming mail with slight apprehension, heart pounding at the thought that Neville and Hermione had tore through his work and were preparing to throw him off his job or worse.

He pulled his wand out and dropped it on the heavy oak in front of him, staring at it with sudden fury. He hated the fact that he was fearful, that his heart was actually thudding in his chest, that his existence so far had been nothing but scurrying around for the whims of others – terrified of the wrath of pencil pushers. He had battled and cast dark magic so vile and disgusting that it seeped into your very being, faced that green light of death more than even the most senior of Aurors, and clawed and torn at the very fibers of life simply to survive.

What had he been reduced to? Was this Voldemort’s doing? Perhaps this was his last blow against Harry Potter, to take away what had rescued him from the cupboard and propelled him to greatness. And now he was scrambling to cling on to the very last connection to this gift he had lost. Dr. Potter’s life was a torture of its own. He had been a twisted man molded by his life, turned into an adulterer, terrible husband, and ruthless vigilante.

Rage filled him as he slapped the holly wand off his table, the feeling of loss elicited by its presence too much to bear. It skittered away on the floor and disappeared under the closed door of his office.

Placing his head in his arms he shut his eyes and tried to think of nothing at all. No magic – what was he trying to do? How could he ever find a way back to his own time if he couldn’t even cast a proper cleaning charm?

The click-clack of heels hitting the stone floor outside made him look up before his door opened to reveal Daphne Greengrass. She was holding several papers – a copy of his report he guessed – in her hand, her mouth set thin and her eyes hard. She stepped up to his desk and pointed furiously at the cover page.

“Do you know what this is?” She hissed, her head slightly cocked. Harry hadn’t ever seen his superior angry, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His problems seemed far worse at the moment.

“No. I only wrote it.” He said truthfully, his voice biting. Daphne’s delicate face reddened and her eyes narrowed further.

“Don’t play games with me Harry, you submitted this without my clearance. You went over my head and distributed a report that’s neither been checked, referenced, or reviewed for any sort of errors.”

Harry shrugged. “I made a mistake.”

Daphne leaned over his desk, her hair falling past her chin. “No Harry. You fucked up. The press is going to have a field day with this bullshit. A conspiracy with high cabinet members dead for weeks? That they’ve been impersonated all this time?”

Harry stood, looking down at her with resentment. “It was just conjecture. I made that clear.”

“It doesn’t matter. Your conjecture means fact for the rest of Britain. Do you understand that? You just added enough drama to this case to land this on the front page again. Reporters are going to be frothing at the mouth when this gets released. We’re going to get hounded.”

“What’s your point? That’s the PR Office’s problem. You think I care?”

“This is about more than just you. Before, the PNRP could say that a killer savagely murdered their leaders. Complete mystery. You gave them ammunition. Now their leaders were killed as part of a conspiracy theory, replaced with polyjuiced imposters. What are the people going to do? Show sympathy.”

Harry scowled, walking around his desk to face her directly. “So is that what this is about? Your election? That’s all you care about isn’t it?”

Daphne didn’t move, lifting her chin. “Yeah. That’s all I care about. You know? Maybe it’s wrong to ignore the very real possibility a revenge bent, crazy Neville Longbottom is going to come into power and make life unbearable for me and my family.”

Harry laughed in her face as he remembered his own recent memories of the Greengrass family.“Oh, alright. Play the sympathy card. That’s what you did after the war with everyone else. I’d expect as much from  - “

“From what?” Daphne interrupted quietly, voice trembling with ferocity. “Say it. You would expect as much from a little Death Eater whore. That’s what you’re about to say isn’t it? Fuck you, Harry. My father is a poor judge of character.”

She made to leave but Harry grabbed her arms and pulled her back so that he was between her and the door. She tried to tear her hands away but Harry’s grip was too strong. “That’s not what I meant to say.”

Finally getting her hands free, she rubbed her wrists and looked back at him coldly. “But you thought it. And as much as I hate to admit it it’s why we need you.”

Harry put his hands on her shoulders to reassure her. “And I’m willing to help. That’s why I’m going to stand up in front of all those reporters and pledge my support to your father’s party.”

She looked down, looking slightly awkward and embarrassed after her tirade. “I know, I know. I never did thank you for doing this.” After several moments she looked up, smiling mischievously this time. Her violet eyes captured his own, and before he knew it she was close – too close, her body nearly flush with his own. “You fucked up, but I owe you.”

Delicate fingers pressed into his back, pulling him closer and closer, her breath playing on his face. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had someone so close to him. His brief relationships were all cut short by the widening war.

Anxious hands responding in kind, pulling her head close. She captured his mouth with a hungry kiss. It was wrong. He was married. But Harry wasn’t even twenty. He was single. With hardly a thought he lifted her onto the desk, eliciting a surprised moan as he placed trailing kisses down her neck.

His hand moved across her thigh, disappearing under her skirt as it slid higher and higher. Harry cut off the slight gasp with another crushing kiss, fingers trailing through her hair in anticipation. She reached under his robe, reaching for his belt.

Guilt began tempering his excitement. He might not be married, but Hannah was. She was married to him, and regardless of what he thought that bond stood. Her face filled his vision behind closed eyes, her genuine, loving smile bringing him so much shame he grabbed Daphne’s hand and broke the kiss.

“I can’t do this. I’m a married man… this… this is wrong.” He said softly, avoiding her eyes. He stepped back from her, leaving her looking lost and angry again on his desk, clothes disheveled.

“Wrong? Wrong, Harry?” She said with a frustrated voice, her face marred by a scowl. “I didn’t know you cared. What made you start now? What changed?”

Harry turned around and walked away, unable to answer. What could he say? He had changed.

He walked out of the examination hall while smoothing his robes. Colin looked up from his paperwork with mild curiosity.

“Where’re you going? It’s barely 11.”

Harry hurried up the stairs, not bothering to look back. “Early lunch, maybe take the rest of the day off. I don’t know.”

Opening the door to the renamed Magical Law Enforcement offices, he navigated past the crowds of Aurors, noting Neville was nowhere to be seen. Leaving the department, he crashed into a surprised Tonks, who promptly tumbled forward him.

Harry caught her by reflex, keeping her close to his chest a bit longer than necessary before setting her back on her feet. “You alright?” He asked, suddenly wanting to do anything but talk. His body burned with want.

Tonks wobbled a bit but grinned, fingering a lock of her hair. “If you wanted me that bad you could have just asked.” Harry noticed the hair had changed to a dirty blond – the exact same shade as Hannah’s.

Before he could answer, she flashed him another smile and sauntered around him, purposefully bumping into his arm as she strolled away.

---

The fire swirled around Harry as he spun through the floo system. He left the green flames of the fireplace with a graceful step, appearing in his living room.

Hannah looked up from the food she was making in the kitchen. She was still in her healer uniform. Harry knew she came home for lunch – he guessed her lack of speech made it difficult for her to socialize with others in the hospital staff.

She had scarcely finished creating a pleasant greeting with her wand when Harry closed the distance between them and held her close, shamelessly taking her in a searing kiss. She gave a muffled noise of surprise before relaxing into his form, deepening the kiss and encircling his back with her arms.

Harry mimicked his earlier actions with Daphne, roughly placing her on the counter while his hands roamed her lithe body. She was his. This was his. This was right. He smiled into her lips as she gasped in bliss, a slight shudder of pleasure rolling through her body under his arms as he traced upwards the indent of her spine.

Lust burned through his veins as he explored her delicate neck, nipping slightly at her ear. He slipped a hand under her Healer robes, feeling the smooth skin beneath. Her breath was becoming hoarse in his ear. This was his wife. Her beautiful hair flowed around her pleased face as he played with her, manipulated her senses. How could anyone betray such a gorgeous creature?

His own robes somehow came off, his buttoned shirt following soon after. He longed to feel her skin against his own. Crushing her lips, he tore off her clothes. She stiffened somewhat against, but he paid her no mind, holding her tight against his body.

Harry cupped her under her bra, making her retract somewhat from him. Raw desire filled his mind as he ripped it away, rubbing his thumb around her mound. His hand pushed up higher, making her squirm with anxiety. He clamped his lips on her once more stifling the objections.

He slid his hand under her underwear, causing her to push against his chest and increase her muffled noises of protest. He was lost in a fervor, impatience in every fiber of his being. He unbuckled his own belt as he tried to force off her last article of clothing.

He missed her hand grasping for the wand on the counter. A loud bang filled his ears as he found himself blasted away, soaring through the air. He felt his back crashing into the mantle above the fireplace, knocking over all the photographs as he slumped to the ground.

A retreating, distant sob was all he could hear as his vision swam, the world contorting and twisting as he recovered from his fall. He pulled himself to a sitting position, dizzily avoiding all the glass shards around him.

The photos of himself, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were burning in the fire, the occupants oblivious to their fiery fate. The paper blackened and curled away to reveal several other photographs behind it, including his wedding and graduation pictures. He cursed and tried to pull them out, only to hiss as the heat singed his hand.

Magic could have helped. His wand could have pulled all the photos, repaired them, and settled them back into mended frames. Magic could have defended him against humiliation. Magic could restore to him the vitality he had left behind seemingly forever.

In the end, he managed to save just one. It was a small, recent photograph of himself – Dr. Potter, rather. It was the same picture in the back cover of his text books, the intently curious examiner peering into his very soul.

---

Harry returned to the Ministry of Magic.

He descended down into the darkness of the staircase and past the empty desk where Colin usually sat. Entering the examination room, he walked by rows of dead cadavers looking heavenward with soulless eyes.

In the far end sat Daphne, filling paperwork neatly on a clipboard, checking numbers against the tags on the many cold, white feet resting on bare metal. She saw him before he made a sound, dropping her clipboard wordlessly with a smile.

He had her on an empty gurney within seconds, pressing her against the cold steel carelessly as she clawed at his back, meeting his frustration with eagerness. Her robes disappeared, fully this time, her skillful hands taking from him what Hannah would not. She sighed into his neck as he mercilessly took what he wanted, goading him on for more.

Her body writhed beneath him, long legs tightly wrapping around his waist as sharp nails dug into his skin. Violet orbs captured him whole and left him breathless. She was the picture of elegant, pureblooded beauty, and right there, bodies intertwined, her pale skin one with his, black hair flowing against black, he knew he had been wrong.

He hadn’t changed at all.

 

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