Extrapolation

It was an epic test of will, wherein the champion of the Wizarding world struggled against the steaming goblet of blood red potion that stood in front of him with deceptive innocence. Deceptive because Harry knew exactly what it would do if he drank it. And because he knew, he asked himself one more time why he was sitting here at this small table, staring down a potion like it was something to be fear. Though perhaps it was.

It wasn't because Dumbledore had asked. The headmaster had requested many favours of him over the years, but Harry had long since repaid any debts he owed to his old mentor. And it was not because he had any desire to save the world yet again. That was duty; not a favour owed. A given, a constant in the turmoil of these tumultuous times.

What it all boiled down to, he finally decided, was that he needed to do something to fill the void in his life, so that he didn't have to think about all of his losses. Once he did, he was afraid he would never be able to stop. And maybe he wanted to know what had changed Tom Riddle from star pupil to the most feared dark wizard since Grindelwald, because there was always the fear that the same switch lurked in him, however many times he triumphed over evil. Then there was the irrefutable fact that, in essence, he'd already done so for Dumbledore to have remembered him.

Here it was, his chance. Once he spoke one last time with the headmaster, all he had to do was drink the potion.

It would undoubtably be easier if it did not look so much like blood. The maroon fumes that floated off the surface of the brew, dispersing the nauseating smell of old socks mixed with the too familiar odour of burnt human flesh, did nothing to bolster his eagerness, either. But Harry had spent much of his life doing brave things while inwardly cringing. It grew easier with time, until you had to remember how to cringe again.

Not to say that he felt the need to. Nothing really frightened him anymore. Somewhere on his journey from insecure student to outcast Auror, he'd lost that ability. Shock after shock piling up one after the other until the trauma reached a point where it couldn't touch him anymore. Or he couldn't touch it. He wasn't sure which it was. Perhaps once a year, he spent a moment regretting that loss. Fear was a survival trait. The rest of the time, he regarded it as a kind of blessing. In its absence, he was able to meet the death he witnessed every day without flinching. Or screaming. Though some days, he really wished he could.

What he did miss was laughter. Not the bitter and black kind; that he still had ample access to. No, he missed the simple ability to see the humour in everyday things and take enjoyment in life. That gift of innocent humour (which he had realised, too late, was indeed a gift) had departed swiftly the day he'd lost his two best friends. He had friends now, of course. They were named cynicism and pragmaticism. But they were poor substitutes, like trying to satisfy oneself with the shadow of a thing rather than the real thing itself.

That loss had been enough to give him the strength to meet Lord Voldemort on equal ground and imprison him. Not destroy him, no, because the secret of doing so was still unknown to everyone but Voldemort himself. But here, and now, when the world was grateful enough for a chance to catch its breath, it was enough.

What Harry could still do--very well--was hate. And his hatred for Voldemort was legendary, undiluted. It bordered on unhealthy, according to his remaining friends, but they didn't know that he had another name for it. Strength. Strength that gave him the fortitude to fight the desperate fight every second that could be spared. And even that determination had failed to do more than see Voldemort neutralised for three short years, imprisoned in so mild a manner that the irony bit.

A sleeping enchantment. That most powerful wizard in centuries could be contained by so simple a means was laughable, but for all of his research, Harry had been unable to think of anything else. A more permanent solution for the Dark Lord, preferably death, remained as elusive now as it had been a year ago. Worse, it was near impossible to contain a wizard of Voldemort's power for very long, so even this enchantment would not last. But Harry would continue to lend his time and skills to finding a way. He was used to achieving the impossible.

By no means was his predicament simplified by the fact that Voldemort was immortal. Immortal, in the sense that he would not die of old age--or anything else that they currently knew of so far, for that matter, so perhaps a more fitting term would be invulnerable. Though in becoming ageless, Voldemort had inadvertently passed the ability on his enemy, Harry Potter, through the twisted bond they shared since that fateful day when the dark wizard's Killing Curse had failed to kill the small child.

A small victory, but like most victories these days, bitter. Harry didn't share Voldemort's fierce desire to live forever. In his opinion, even the typical wizard lifespan of two hundred years was too long. After all, he had no family to go home to after a hard day's work. The friends he had were few and scarce. Remus, Sirius, and Minerva; two were one generation ahead of him and the other, three generations, but there were times he felt impossibly older than them. Tonks was closest, but both of them were always so busy, they hardly had time to spend together anymore.

He was twenty-three years old and had no plans for what to do with his life should he ever defeat Voldemort. Even Quidditch held little appeal for him anymore, a fact that his old schoolmate Oliver Wood could not seem to grasp. He owled Harry occasionally to bemoan the loss of what he called "the greatest Seeker ever born." How could he explain that after being at war so long, you started seeing it in everything? In something as simple and innocuous as a Quidditch competition?

And darkness clung to his life, never quite disappearing for all of his efforts. Whenever Harry defeated one evil wizard, another would claw his way to the top of the pyramid of dark power to challenge him again. Nature abhorred a vacuum. The unfairness was almost enough to make Harry abhor nature.

And there was also Voldemort to consider, always. Harry tried not to think of him too often, because he couldn't help but shudder at the memory of sick hunger in the wizard's eyes. Hunger for power, insatiable ambition. He desired all power he could get his hands on. Harry, a powerful wizard in his own right and one with a very close link, had been one of his most sought-after sources. But Voldemort had never gained access to Harry's own power, he thought with fierce satisfaction.

Not for a lack of trying. The nightmares, waking and otherwise, blackmail, trickery and murder...all of it to lure him in. Don't start, he instructed himself, but his mental voice quivered. Perhaps he was still capable of fearing one thing. Voldemort.

"I am loath to dispel any suspicions you might hold about this potion, but the headmaster insists on seeing you now. I have not poisoned it, Potter, so you may cease your examination. It's hardly as though you would be able to differentiate between a properly brewed potion and a dangerous one, if you are still as incompetent at potion making as you were in my class."

Harry didn't even turn around. He'd known the instant Severus Snape had entered the room. His rapidly growing ability to discern magical signatures was causing him a good deal of discomfort, but he knew it would be useful for a person of his profession, so he did nothing to hinder the learning process. What was not immediately dangerous had potential as a future weapon. Let Snape keep his petty delusion that he'd managed to sneak up on the notoriously alert Harry Potter.

"Professor," he said, finally turning around and facing the potions master. "Excuse me. I didn't hear you come in."

He received the dubious reward of a cynical smile from Snape. Vaguely, he wondered if the man gained pleasure from anything other than one-upping other people, then firmly told himself that it was not his to pass judgement. He knew too little about Snape to form any opinion that would be more than a guess. Nor had he ever felt the desire to.

"You are prepared?" the professor asked unnecessarily, his black eyes assuming their usual probing stare. Occlumency was a difficult habit to break oneself of, particularly for someone who had practiced it for as long as Snape.

"Yes." He'd packed, unpacked, repacked, and repeated the process several times before he was satisfied with what he was bringing.

"The headmaster would like to speak with you before you leave. See him in his office."

The man turned on his heels and strode out of the small, dark room Harry used whenever he visited Hogwarts, whether for business or, increasingly rarely, for pleasure. For the thousandth time, Harry pondered the professor's strange hatred for him. Over the years, that hatred had tapered down to something like grudging acceptance, but there were times when that old spark of anger resurfaced to remind Harry that people were not as predictable as he liked to think.

He mentally shook himself and picked up his magically lightened trunk, making his way to the headmaster's office. As he walked down the corridors, Harry tried to move quickly. There were ghosts walking beside him in every hall. Not the Hogwarts ghosts either; these ones existed only for him, vivid memories brought to life through the magic of Hogwarts or otherwise, he wasn't certain.

He could see Hermione, bushy-hair and all, lugging a bulging pack to Arithmancy class. Ron leafed through a new Quidditch book he'd checked out of the library, after Hermione had nagged him to borrow some book, any book. Draco hovered sulkily, almost out of sight, just another pawn of darkness who had not even lived past Hogwarts. Without Crabbe and Goyle flanking him, he looked curiously small and alone.

Sometimes, his mind conjured up Ginny and Cho, when it was feeling particularly malicious. Cho, with her bright eyes and ready smile, running a hand through her glossy black hair. Graduating from Hogwarts had done much to help her recover from her own losses, so much so that Harry had hardly recognised her upon first meeting her during an Auror training exercise. He'd been smitten all over again, but by a woman that time.

And Ginny, the uncomplaining pillar of strength that had never failed Harry. His best friend when it was death to have such a hold on his heart. His little sister, she'd scoffed often, or maybe his nanny. Often both. It was he who'd failed, in the end. Ginny had paid dearly for his mistakes. His fist clenched at his side.

Harry closed his eyes carefully and opened them again and the ghosts dimmed. He'd completed that emotional gauntlet to reach the gargoyle statue that guarded Dumbledore's room. Harry murmured the password quietly. It never failed to amaze Dumbledore how he managed to "guess" the sweet right on his first try. Harry, who'd learnt to guard the secret of his strange, slowly developing abilities, never told him how he knew. "Reading" magical objects, like speaking Parselmouth, was considered a trademark of dark magic. Another inheritance from Voldemort, he supposed.

"Ah, Harry," said the headmaster with a pleasant smile when Harry entered. "I would offer you tea, but our time is regrettably short. Could I interest you in a sherbet lemon, instead?"

Harry graciously accepted, blank faced and polite. He could not bring himself to tell the headmaster he'd lost his liking for sherbet lemons after a harrowing encounter with one dark witch, Helga, who had specialised in the universally despised school of blood magic. That little girl's pile of sherbet lemons, coated in the blood that oozed from cuts all over her small body...Harry discreetly slipped the candy into a pocket with intent to dispose of it later.

"You wanted to talk?" he said, reigning in a sudden impatience to get away--from the room or from this time, he was not certain. From himself and his memories and Voldemort, the only things he couldn't ever get away from.

"Yes." Dumbledore popped a candy into his mouth, sucking enthusiastically. Harry kept his face impassive, though it was difficult not to wince. "I wanted to make sure you were prepared for this mission. It will be difficult, especially for you, I would imagine." The light in the headmaster's eyes shuttered slightly, but his voice retained its impressive blend of cheerfulness and solemnity. "My past self should under no circumstances learn of your purpose. I can vaguely recall a serious young man with dark hair and impressive green eyes that helped me defeat Grindelwald, but at that age, I fear I was a bit jumpy. Almost paranoid, if you can envision that!"

A thoughtful frown pulled Harry's lips down. It was hard to imagine the merry, if rather loopy, headmaster as a paranoid part-time Auror and Transfiguration professor. Strange as it was, he'd have to keep it in mind after arriving in the past.

"Do you remember anything else about me or what I did, Professor?"

"Surely we have known each other long enough for you to call me Albus, Harry." There was the kind smile again, the one that invited you to unburden yourself. "I do recall that you spent some time as a student. How long, I do not know exactly. I suspect that you placed a low-strength memory charm on me before you returned to the future."

Harry gave his future-past self a mental nod of commendation. It was a comfort to know that he had kept his senses even in a strange time, on a stranger mission.

"If that's all, I suppose I should begin," he said. "I've taken care of everything I could think of."

"Ah! That reminds me." The headmaster went to his desk and retrieved an odd cylinder with a red button on top. "This is what I have fondly termed the 'Panic Button.' If you find yourself in a situation that you doubt you can escape, press this red button and say 'mayday' and I will send another Auror after you."

Dumbledore certainly did hold great affection for Muggle things, Harry noted. Then he raised an eyebrow. "Another Auror?"

"Yes. A Mr Remus Lupin, I believe you know him."

Harry gave Dumbledore one of his rare half-smiles. "I may have met the fellow once or twice."

"Splendid!" Harry suspected the headmaster was thrilled at managing to coax a smile out of him. "And you will not be without an Auror companion. You received my parchment on Perseus Hudson?"

Harry nodded. "My contact."

"Just so. Perseus will be delighted to have your company. It was a lonely time for him, as I recall, and a young wizard should be just the thing to brighten matters up for him."

Harry had doubts about his ability to "brighten" up anyone's life, unless that person was particularly fond of torture and death, which were the only fortunes that ever seemed to visit his friends. He kept his doubts to himself, however, managing just another nod.

"Now, if it isn't too much trouble, I have one last request." The headmaster's cheerful demeanour became stern as he continued. "I consider chronic loneliness to be just as inescapable a situation as being surrounded by a dozen dark wizards of Voldemort's calibre, and one worthy of a press of the button. Your mental health is just as important as your physical health."

"I understand, sir," said Harry complacently, mentally scoffing at the thought of using the button for so trivial a purpose. He hadn't cracked yet and had no intention of doing so in the near future.

"I somehow doubt that, Harry," sighed the headmaster. "I do wish you would consent to seeing a psychowizard. I know you dislike the thought of having your thoughts 'dissected and formed into neat piles for analysis,' I believe was how you described it, but you will need to unburden yourself someday."

"Yes, sir," he said flatly.

"Even simply a pensieve....oh, don't frown so, Harry. No-one is going to force you, least of all me. I just wish that you took better care of yourself." Dumbledore gave the closest thing he had to a helpless shrug and made a shooing gesture at the young Auror. "I won't hold you up any longer. Good luck, Harry."

"Thank you, sir." He started out rather more hastily than he had arrived.

"And if you don't really want a sherbet lemon," the headmaster called out from behind, "next time you may just say so. I will not be devastated, I promise."

Harry paused mid-step, then continued out the door determinedly, mentally shaking his head at himself. It had been pretty foolish to assume he could deceive the headmaster. He doubted that Professor Dumbledore had even needed to use Occlumency. His long years of dealing with troublesome students had sharpened his perception to the point where Occlumency was superfluous.

He strode quickly back to his room, thanking whatever merciful deity had chased the ghosts away for his return trip. Burying his doubts deep where they couldn't bother him, he picked up the ornate goblet of potion, swirling the contents and, in the universal warding ritual for unpleasant tastes, pinched his nose. Feeling something like a child, he held the rim to his lips and drank.

Then he reeled, gagging. Had Snape poisoned the potion after all? He should have run tests before drinking, should have checked. Shouldn't have trusted the professor so implicitly. He should have--should have...

The world started spinning in sync with his twisting stomach. It exploded in a rainbow of colour and faded to a black. Harry just remembered to grab hold of his trunk before he lost consciousness.

-- -- -- -- --

Harry's transition back to consciousness was abrupt. Almost before his eyes were open, he found his wand and grasped it tightly. He sprang to his feet, immediately regretting his haste as the world jumped at, and then backed away from, him. He put a hand to his head, rubbing his temples. Then, with a practicality borne of several years as an Auror, he took stock of his surroundings.

He was in a thickly wooded area, with no immediately evident civilisation. The undergrowth was untouched by human feet, and the cloudy sky was barely visible through the thick trunks and their branches. Harry tried to employ the use of his sensing ability, but it was still fairly new to him and too weak and inclined to desert him more often than not. Was he in the Forbidden Forest? The possibility disquieted him.

He needed to apparate, somewhere near Diagon Alley so he could grab a paper and verify the date. He held his wand up and concentrated, closing his eyes.

When he reopened them, he was right next to the brick wall that would take him into the wizarding establishment. Purposefully, he passed it and entered Diagon Alley with the impression that the layout and stores would likely be radically different than what he'd known from his many visits, but he was wrong. In fact, with the exception of the Quidditch shop, he could detect little variance.

Not paying as sharp attention to the people around him as usual, he accidentally stumbled into a tall, scraggly man, who growled, "Watch where you're going!"

There was a similar tension in the crowded streets. People studiously avoiding one another's eyes as they passed, careful not to see anything that might be dangerous seeing. One witch, balancing a collection of parcels, tripped on an uneven patch of road but no-one stopped to help her. Well, Harry amended as he stooped down to help her collect her purchases, Diagon Alley had not changed in appearance, but perhaps in spirit. The witch acknowledged his help with a mumbled thank-you and a wary smile that vanished almost as suddenly as it had appeared.

Such a lack of unity. The marked absence might have affected Harry more a few years back, when Diagon Alley had still been a bustling place of street merchants shouting their advertisements and multitudes of children crowding around the window of the Quidditch shop admiring the newest broom model while their parents took care of their boring errands. But the Diagon Alley he'd left behind had been a sombre shade of its former glory, where everyone travelled in packs and no-one let a child wander alone. A place of short smiles and shorter tempers. Not so different either, then. He walked up to a young witch who was selling the latest edition of the Daily Prophet and quickly purchased a copy.

Tragedy at Post-Quidditch Cup Celebration Leaves 21 Dead, 7 Injured

In a vicious attack carried out by unified dark wizards under the leadership of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald, the celebrations following the Quidditch Cup in France were cut short. The attack occurred late in the night, catching both Aurors and Ministry officials in charge of protections off guard. Twenty of the wizards killed actively opposed Grindelwald, whose rise to power began in 1931. Other casualties include officials from the French Ministry of Magic and neutral fans of Quidditch.

Says one witness of the attack, "They appeared out of nowhere, they must have broken the anti-Apparation wards. I didn't even know there was an attack until I heard the screams. Awful screaming, the kind you know you can't ever forget."

One Auror present during the attack comments, "This was one of the most organised attacks we have seen to date. It had obviously been planned weeks in advance and they knew precisely which protections to dismantle. This begs the question once more: just how deeply have our ranks been penetrated by dark wizards? Make no mistake, this attack would not have succeeded without inside help."

When asked to make a statement about the attack, the French Minister assured the people of France as well as visiting Quidditch enthusiasts that Ministry officials are investigating the attack around the clock.

This attack is just the most recent of many on the wizarding world. While not as deadly as the Groulesville attack of June, which caused many thousands of galleons worth of damage and resulted in the deaths of over forty-five people, the Quidditch attack is obviously aimed at striking at the...

Harry put the paper down slowly, sickened. He had escaped nothing, and though escape had not been his goal, he almost felt betrayed. This was so similar to his own time and Voldemort's attacks, it was eerie. History repeating itself in reverse. He gripped his wand more tightly for reassurance. The last time he'd been caught without his wand....

He pressed his lips into a thin line and began walking purposefully toward Ollivander's. The wizard handling the sales was the very same man who had sold Harry his own wand so long ago. He didn't look a day younger, which raised the question of just how old Ollivander was.

Ash. Eleven inches. Unicorn hair. Excellent for charms work, Ollivander assured him. The wizard seemed a bit put out when Harry had accepted the third wand he'd tried. Ollivander kept insisting that he could find a wand of much better fit. Half the fun of Ollivander's job, Harry suspected, was finding the right wand for the right wizard. Which would make him a bizarre sort of matchmaker. Harry smiled slightly.

He had declined Ollivader's offer. After all, this was not the wand he would use against Grindelwald. This was only for Hogwarts--and the term began in less than a week, according to the date on that paper. Snape's potion had worked far better than he'd dared to hope for, though he should have known better. Even Sirius allowed that Snape was a genius in his field, though his phrasing hadn't been quite so complimentary.

With his wand purchased, that left only lodging to worry about. Reminded now of his obligation to seek out Dumbledore's contact from the past, Harry pulled out a small slip of paper. Perseus Hudson. Committing both the name and address to memory, Harry hurried out of Diagon Alley. As soon as he was far enough away from any wizards or Muggles, he Apparated, arriving at a tidy, old house that looked like it could fit comfortably in the eighteenth century.

He opened the gate and passed beneath a tall arch, experiencing the transparent feeling that usually accompanied a magical probe. This Perseus fellow was a cautious person, Harry thought approvingly. Something to be expected of an operative of Dumbledore's.

He knocked at the door, just as the grey sky finally unburdened itself. Large raindrops pelted Harry, causing him to regret not bringing an umbrella. And between his trunk, wand, and knocking, he couldn't transfigure anything in the interim. Fortunately, it was only a few seconds before a middle-aged man opened the door, smiling broadly at Harry.

"Stormy weather we've been having for this time of year," he said. The statement was punctuated by a bright flash of lightning.

"Hopefully I'll be able to clear that up," replied Harry stoically, wanting to wrinkle his nose in distaste. Dumbledore was quite the amateur at inventing coded conversations. If a Death Eater initiate had been unable to tell the conversation was staged, Harry would have been surprised. Even Voldemort had standards.

"We could use a good umbrella," Hudson added.

Could we ever. His hair almost plastered to his head now, a remarkable indication of the downpour's intensity, Harry scowled. "Yes, yes. I have just the right umbrella for you."

"Indeed? Will it be enough for this weather?"

"Yes," Harry said, feeling the moisture begin to penetrate even his thick robes. "It's a wide umbrella of sturdy make."

Hudson nodded sagely, not budging from the doorway. "What colour?"

"What colour?" Harry repeated incredulously, blinking away some water that had run into his eyes. As far as he knew, the script had ended with his last statement.

"I need to know the colour," the other man said firmly, and Harry was ready to swear that he was taking a sadistic pleasure in watching Harry be miserable in the rain.

"Bloody pink with yellow stripes and a giant green boar on the very top," Harry growled, beginning to think that hopping into a lake might be drier than standing out in the rain, "are you quite satisfied?"

"This boar," Hudson said thoughtfully, "is it a very lar--"

He didn't get any further, Harry tackled him to the floor, stood up, and closed the door behind him with a quiet, wounded dignity. He shook his head and his hair instantly settled in its normal messy style. A few drying charms later, and he looked almost human again, except for the great scowl on his face. Perseus Hudson picked himself up off the floor with an agility at odds with his apparent age. But then, he was only sixty-five. He only looked like he was a hundred.

"Now what was that all about?" Harry demanded.

"Consider it," Perseus Hudson said primly, "a test of character."

"A test of patience, more like," Harry muttered, but most of his ill-humour left him.

"Patience is just a facet of character," the older Auror said, gesturing to a seat. "Sit, please. Might I interest you in some tea?"

Harry nodded, and sat in the offered plush chair. As he waited patiently, he planned and analysed and planned some more. When he arrived at Hogwarts, he would not be sorted with the First Years. There was no need to draw undue attention to himself. But what house to try for?

Hufflepuff. He smiled, but there was a bitter edge to it. That would be the part to play. The innocent Hufflepuff Seventh Year who possessed far more power than he did common sense. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen it before. And if he played well enough, Grindelwald's Hogwarts recruiters would be almost salivating. And how better to get close to Riddle than to be as unthreatening as possible? Just not boring. As though he could be, he thought wryly, even if he tried.

That sorted, so to speak, he ploughed on. The year was 1944, that left a year to set in motion the events that would lead to Grindelwald's downfall. Naturally, he would have to start small in the Hogwarts circles and gradually work his way--

"Tell me, my boy: how is the old man?"

Harry's fingers leapt to his wand. When he realised there was no immediate danger, he relaxed marginally, mentally berating himself for not paying attention to magical signatures. Hudson looked at him expectantly, reminding Harry that he was waiting for an answer.

"He is well," he said. "In good health."

"Good to hear, good to hear," the man said, absently stroking his dark beard, which was mottled with specks of grey here and there. "He told me all about what you are doing here, of course. And your name--Harry Potter, isn't it? You are to pose as my nephew."

This was something Harry had not been informed of, but he supposed it made sense enough. "Oh?"

"Yes. With a few small altercations to the shape of your face, you'll even look something like me. We'll have to change your eyes as well. Too unique, very powerful. An interesting shade, almost the same green as...hm."

The man leaned forward, squinting at his eyes. Trying to ignore the scrutiny, Harry thought for a moment. "Mirror, please?"

He studied his reflection carefully. His chin was a bit pointy; another inheritance from his mother, Remus said, one that had set him more apart from his father as his face had matured and thinned. Sirius commented every once and a while that it made Harry look almost elfin, especially with his "ridiculously giant-sized" eyes. He took the mirror away from his face to look at Perseus Hudson.

"I'll square my chin some and lighten my hair, so it's closer to your hair's tint. As for eyes, brown should suffice. Unless--do you have a picture of my supposed parents?"

"Ah, so our laconic Auror can manage more than a sentence," commented his host. "Yes, I do have a picture. Do your transfigurations, there will be time to fine tune it later."

Harry ignored the jibe and raised the mirror to his face again. He waved his wand slowly, murmuring simple spells that would make him subtly different from the famous Harry Potter, using Transfiguration spells instead of illusion charms. He did not want to be revealed by poorly aimed Finite Incantatem. The ability to alter the body via Transfiguration was difficult to learn, but since he'd not yet worked on becoming an animagus, Harry had felt obligated to learn at least that much. Tonks, a Metamorphmagus, had been a great help in teaching him the few spells to alter facial features that those without her talent could manage.

"There's a nice bit of magic. But can you do something about that?" Hudson pointed a finger at the lightning bolt-shaped scar on Harry's forehead.

His hand almost went to his hair, in an instinctive move to smooth it over the scar. "It's difficult to disguise, even with the best of spells."

"I have just the thing for you," declared Perseus, disappearing again into another room and returning with a bottle of a creamy substance. "My niece left this here last time she visited. She would use it to cover up blemishes. A sort of facial cream, enhanced with potions."

Harry accepted the product dubiously, and he was halfway through checking for poisons and curses before he noticed the strange look Hudson was giving him. Keeping his face carefully blank to hide his embarrassment, he stopped and just smeared some on his forehead. The cream was delightfully cool, and effective, if the mirror was to be trusted. The scar was gone. Harry read the label on the bottle. 'Does not rub off. Lasts 48 hours.'

Perseus surveyed him with a pleased expression before disappearing into another room, emerging shortly with a large framed picture of a beautiful young witch and her husband, their fingers intertwined as they followed a forest path. Occasionally, she would twirl away from him, laughing without care, dancing in dizzying swirls and leaps before being caught in an embrace from the wizard, who seemed afraid that she might be carried away by the lightness of her steps and the heavy breeze the shook the trees in the picture.

"My sister, Andromeda. She hardly ever stands still," he said apologetically, handing the picture over to Harry. "Her eyes are more of a grey than mine, after our father. That's Curtis Williams, her estranged husband."

"Former? Huh. Well, is she married again?"

"Ah, no," Hudson said, giving Harry a strange look. Harry then remembered that wizards couldn't divorce, only separate. Though there was talk in his time of getting that changed, with the dwindling of the wizarding population of Britain. "We'll have to explain you as the result of that marriage. Since Andromeda has kept well away from Curtis since their separation, it will not be unexpected for her to have hidden your existence from him."

"What happened?" Harry asked, curious in spite of himself. "I mean--I don't want to pry, by any means, but...?"

Hudson smiled. "No, no. It's fine. Andromeda doesn't speak much about it, but she described him to me as too oppressive."

"Oppressive?" Harry echoed, putting a subtle twist to the word.

"It's an Auror thing, I expect, to look for a body where there is none," Hudson said with a shrug that took all sting out of his remark. "Goodness knows I have problems enough sticking my nose where it's unwanted. No. Curtis is a healer. Very skilled. He also is something of a Potions Master, but I understand that most healers have skill in that field. He hasn't a violent bone in him."

Harry nodded, wondering if Madam Pomfrey brewed her own potions or had Snape do them. Probably the latter, he decided. "Isn't it slightly over the top, concealing his own child from him?"

"No," Hudson said firmly. "Curtis could have contested custody and probably taken the child from her. They did not part on very good terms, and it seems something he might do, out of spite. From my observations, I find that Curtis feels perhaps too deeply, and tends to nurse his hurts, unfortunately. In fact, when you appear at Hogwarts, I should not be surprised if he were to try and visit you."

"Hm," Harry said thoughtfully. "I will have to be more convincing, then. Do you or your sister have a pensieve I might look into. I am also a Legilimens, so if you don't, it won't be much of a problem." At Perseus Hudson's slightly concerned frown, Harry held up a hand. "I assure you, I would not intrude on anything you might wish to keep private. It's not mind-reading, like some people think. It is very similar to browsing through a pensieve, except with more work on my part involved, and perhaps not so active a participation in the memory."

"Andromeda does indeed have a pensieve," he said. "It will take some time for me to get it from her. She'll give permission, naturally, so you needn't worry about that."

"What about her? Does she know all about this...charade?"

"Yes," Hudson said patiently. "Of course. It might help for her to meet you and learn something about you. Between the two of you, you can construct a thorough history. Perhaps over Christmas holiday."

"That will be fine." The witch finally turned and looked out of the picture frame, and Harry froze the picture. By luck, Curtis Williams was also facing front. He made more minute altercations to his disguise, glancing between the mirror and the picture as he went about his transfigurative work.

"Merlin, you look just like family," Hudson said with a grin. "It shouldn't be too difficult to pretend."

"Hm," Harry said noncommitally. "Until I can have access to the pensieve, we'll have to make by with what you can tell me. Maybe reinforce it a bit with Legilimency?"

At Hudson's suddenly ill expression, Harry relented with a sigh. "Or perhaps just talk. What do I need to know about you and my 'family,' sir?"

"First thing you have to start to do is call me Uncle Perseus," said the man with a relieved smile, appearing to have already forgotten he had been needling his guest minutes earlier. "You are Harry Williams. A pity, really, that my sister did not retain her maiden name."

"Could she have?" Harry asked. "I'm not always certain about wizarding customs."

"Oh. Yes, after the separation, she could have chosen to keep it. Before, too, I suppose, though that would be considered odd by modern standards."

"I see. What is Andro--I mean, my mother's--profession?"

"A quick study," Perseus said warmly. Harry had the impression that the man was thrilled to just have someone to talk to. He could certainly sympathise. "She owns a small shop in Diagon Alley, which specialises in rare book sales...."

He spent the rest of that evening having the history of his new family drilled into his head. Perseus Hudson was friendly, but very firm that Harry not forget a single detail. After he had talked well into the night, he stopped suddenly with an apology for forgetting his duties as a host (and an uncle, he'd amended) and led Harry to a dark bedroom. Harry put up minor protective wards on the room and crawled straight into bed, not bothering to even change. Exhausted, he thought he would be able to sleep without dreams just this once.

---

"You need to get out of here, Harry--now!"

When he shook his head in an emphatic "no," she glared and started physically pushing him to the hidden doorway that would take him to safety. The door could only be opened and closed from the outside, however, and Ginny would have to remain to operate it. If Harry ever met the designer of the passageway...well, perhaps it could be written off as justifiable murder.

"I'm not leaving you behind," he said, more than the smoke spilling through the crack between the door and the floor making his voice rough and harsh. "Don't be so quick to throw your life away. You're worth more than that." You're worth so much more than me, he wanted to say, but knew that to say so would only strengthen her resolve.

But it was as if she had not heard a word. She kept pushing, with more strength than Harry would have expected from a person her size. The sounds of screams in the safe house drew closer. Harry knew that they had only a few minutes at most until Death Eaters were literally at their door.

"It's you they're after, Harry," said Ginny. "After you escape, they'll probably leave everyone else alone."

She was playing to his guilt, but he was guarded against that kind of attack. He'd anticipated something like this from her. "Sure, 'probably.' You know perfectly well that they will kill everyone anyway."

"That's beside the point," she growled. "What's important is that they don't get you. Don't forget the prophecy!"

His growing fear for the life of one of his last friends and frustration at his inability to do anything combined like reactive ingredients into an explosive fury.

"Sod the bloody prophecy! Is my life worth more than all of these people's? Yours?" he grit between clenched teeth, struggling against Ginny's efforts. "So what if it's me that dies this time?" Maybe you're misinterpreting the prophecy, he thought privately, maybe all that will stop him is exactly that?

"Oh, Harry," she sighed, the softening of her voice in no way paralleling a halt in her efforts. "If we could do this any other way that would allow us to save some lives, I would. Gladly, and you know it! But we don't have anything. We have no Portkeys, no fireplace, no floo for our nonexistent fireplace, and there's an anti-Apparation spell up. This is all we can do. And yes, it's worth it!" She choked on that. "Are you the only person who's allowed to care? Haven't I lost enough brothers?"

At Harry's sudden flinch, she scowled. "I didn't mean it like that, you hopeless idiot. Stop taking the blame for everything! And this isn't the brave Order member Ginny giving her life to save the all-important saviour of our world. This is Ginny, saving one of her brothers, if only in spirit."

They both started at the shouts that were now almost outside the door of their room. Ginny finally let go of Harry, digging into her pockets. Harry stared at the door grimly, holding his wand in a fighting stance. Then he noticed the wand in Ginny's hand, which was pointed right at him.

"Don't make me do this," she said quietly. "I will, if you don't go on your own."

The yells were now almost deafening. The sound of boots coming to their door shook the floor, a stampede of death. The cloaked Death Eaters howled in victory. The walls shivered as the various protection spells withstood the first assault of curses.

"Please, Ginny," he whispered finally, hopelessly. "Don't you die too."

"Don't be silly, Harry! Everyone dies someday." She smiled with forced bravado that made his heart clench in his chest. "You can't change that."

"Ginny--"

"Harry, you are my best friend. I'm not doing this for the good of the wizarding world. I'm doing this for you, Harry, not for anyone else. And I'll ask you one more time: will you go willingly?"

He stared at her, trying to trap her gaze and use the ultimate of dirty tricks: Legilimency. But she knew better and didn't make eye contact. "Ginny, don't--you can't--!"

The glowing protections around the room, though erected by Harry, who was very skilled at protective shields, pulsed and fell under the Death Eaters' relentless barrage of curses. Now it was a matter of seconds.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Ginny said quietly, looking at him with something like compassion. "Stupefy!"

The situation was so like a nightmare, Harry half expected that the blackness taking over his vision would be him waking up, returning to reality. He could feel Ginny drag him through the doorway into the passage. She closed it and the click of the permanent lock cut right at his heart. The last thing he was aware of was her raised voice shouting out a curse. Then, nothing. Again.

---

Harry smiled widely at Headmaster Dippet, slipping into his role of good-natured-if-a-bit-simple wizard as easily as most people slipped into clothing. The headmaster took out a battered hat and placed in gently on his head and stepped back to wait.

How unusual! Sorting a student before the Sorting? The hat's thoughts were louder than Harry remembered.

The burning is upon us, he thought back. We must gather the ashes.

Oh. The hat sounded disappointed upon hearing the code. In an almost whining tone, it asked, Are you sure? Hmph. Well, fine then. What do you need?

I need to be placed in Hufflepuff, he told it. At least Dumbledore's cryptic sentence had worked. There could be no man fonder of being vague than the old headmaster.

Hufflepuff? The hat gave its equivalent of a surprised blink. The wolf among the sheep! Definite Slytherin material, in my opinion, or at the very least, Gryffindor. Are you sure about this, dear?

Harry did not answer. The hat sighed and muttered the selection sullenly. At Harry's mental prod, it shouted out the house choice. Somewhat startled by the vehemence in the hat's voice, Professor Dippet took it gingerly from Harry's head. He remembered himself and gave the headmaster a sheepish grin and a shrug.

"I suppose that's it."

"Yes. Thank you, Mr Williams," said Dippet. "You may join your house now. The actual Sorting will begin in a few minutes."

Harry nodded like this was a new piece of information and left the office, which seemed oddly empty without Dumbledore's various odd artefacts, though the many portraits still adorned the walls. It was strange, he reflected, how much larger Dumbledore's strange decorations made the room seem.

When he joined his table, the other students of his year were only marginally interested in him, except for one or two girls that batted their eyelashes at him none too subtly. He answered their questions distantly, the hardest of which to answer was "So why'd you decide to come to Hogwarts?" He spent the feast smiling and nodding when someone said something in his direction. He was more interested in the students from the other houses. Particularly Slytherin and Ravenclaw.

He spotted Riddle quickly, almost instinctually. The charismatic wizard was tall, which caused him to stand out from his housemates. Harry estimated that he was a little more than a two or three centimetres taller than himself, which set the boy's height at slightly less than two metres. Harry then swept his gaze over the other Slytherins, searching for slight differences in their magical signatures that could hint at dark magic, or more specifically, connections with Grindelwald. He gave the Ravenclaws the same treatment, since from past experience he'd found Ravenclaws just as likely as their cunning cousins to go to the dark side in their pursuits of knowledge.

"...do you have?"

"Er," said Harry, startled out of his evaluations. "Sorry. What was that again?"

The speaker was a curly-haired redhead that reminded Harry so much of Ginny for a brief moment, he almost felt a stirring of grief. Cool logic whipped the unruly emotion back into place. Smiling so widely he wondered if it were possible to pull a facial muscle, he waited for her reply.

"I wanted to know what classes you are taking," she said, smiling back under pale blue eyes.

Harry sighed inwardly, relieved. Ginny's eyes had not been blue. And why was he letting this girl get to him? Without the red hair, she looked nothing like Ginny.

"Oh, the usual ones. Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and Defence and Potions..." He glanced over the schedule on his lap. "And....Understanding the Dark Arts?"

"You are taking UDA, too?" she asked, pronouncing the word 'you-duh.'

Wondering what a class with that kind of name was doing at Hogwarts, of all places, he made some vague reply.

"Professor Grimm is brilliant," she continued enthusiastically. "He's creepy sometimes, but he knows his dark magic!"

Dark magic? He felt a sort of protective possessiveness at that. Not at his Hogwarts. What was the headmaster thinking, exposing the upper level students to the Dark Arts? Making a mental note to check up on this Professor Grimm, Harry left the feast with the rest of the Seventh Years. He settled into his new poster bed, squelching nostalgic feelings for the second time that night and massaging his face tenderly. If he had to beam so much every day, he was going to strain something. Immediately, he reprimanded himself.

You are a Hufflepuff, Potter, he told himself. Not a grinning, drooling idiot. You are twenty-three years old and a little acting won't kill you. Don't equate Hufflepuff with stupid unless you want to be as bigoted as those foolish pureblood wizards who think that all Muggleborns are incompetent. You should know better, the way you go on and on about overcoming house prejudices.

"G'night everyone," said one boy. Once again Harry was struck by the friendliness every Hufflepuff he'd met so far displayed. Then, almost stricken at forgetting the new student, the boy added, "Night, Harry. Glad to have you here."

Harry grunted in reply and snuggled deeper into his covers, luxuriating in the safety he felt by simply being back at Hogwarts.

---