Replay

Replay

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Chapter Thirty-Eight

Dangerous

Tilda swallowed and looked at him; he was leaning against the headboard as though he were made of stone. She couldn't believe how very close she had come to going back on her resolution to not just give in to this man, this amazingly grown up version of Harry.

When she'd first laid eyes on him she'd thought she was hallucinating. She'd been wondering, just that morning, what Harry would look like as a man, even wishing that he were her age, and now here he was! She wondered if her own fragile wish had had some effect on the time-travelling spell Harry had cast, whether that had come into play at all. When he'd removed the cloak, it was like being in some strange dream. The Harry she'd kissed was taller than she was, but this one was taller still. When he'd smiled at her a maturity had shone behind his green eyes that was arresting, even more so because she could see the love there, the affection that he still held for her. It took her breath away, something she'd been working very hard not to show.

Harry was definitely no longer a thin little boy, which was also making her nervous about looking directly at him; she didn't want him to think she was leering. She sat next to him and leaned against the pillows, facing straight ahead. He was everything she'd wanted young Harry to be and was not. Especially not young. But she'd been telling the truth; it was the young Harry with whom she'd fallen in love. Wouldn't she be cheating on him if anything 'happened' with the older one? Or did it matter, since she couldn't--and shouldn't--be with the younger Harry anyway?

Her mind was swimming. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his right thigh; his knee was raised and he was resting his forearm on it. She could see the hint of taut muscles under the fabric of his lightweight summer trousers... Stop it stop it stop it, she ordered herself. With a sigh, she closed her eyes; young or old, she had to admit that she was attracted to Harry Potter. It was no good to pretend otherwise.

But she had to anyway.

She didn't know this Harry, technically. She dared to glance up at his face now; he smiled at her, and she saw very, very faint lines at the corners of his eyes. She smiled back at him, thinking how much she liked his smile lines. It was just how she thought he should look at thirty-two, as though he'd spent a lot of time out in the sun, and she remembered his mentioning Quidditch in passing, but saying that she couldn't possibly want to hear about a game played in the air on broomsticks...

"Tell me about Quidditch," she said suddenly. He looked surprised.

"Quidditch?"

"Yes, Quidditch. I told you I had wanted to talk to Harry--er, him--some more tonight, and one thing I was curious about was Quidditch. We never got around to discussing it before."

He grinned. "Quidditch. You want to talk about Quidditch."

She crossed her arms and looked at him expectantly, noting that at some time in the previous sixteen years he had finally bought new glasses that were a little more flattering to his face. He finally shrugged and threw up his hands.

"Okay, fine. I'll tell you all about Quidditch--"

"Not just about the game, but the first time you played, or your most memorable matches, all of that."

He nodded. "Fair enough. Quidditch Through the Ages, my version."

When he smiled at her, it felt like her heart was turning over and she had to look away, swallowing.

"Take it from the top," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was still dark out when Tilda opened her eyes; the only light came from a combination of the street lamps and the nearly-full moon shining whitely through the windows. She wasn't certain when they'd fallen asleep but she must have been first as she didn't recall turning out the light. Harry must have done it. She and Harry had talked for hours, the conversation about Quidditch merging into one about how he'd felt the first time he'd arrived at Hogwarts, about the teachers, the other students, then more details about his fifth year, which he'd only done in brief when he was young, other than his unsuccessful relationship with Cho Chang and giving the interview that appeared in the tabloid.

She was appalled by his full account of Snape's Occlumency lessons, Umbridge's detentions and Educational Decrees, and she gasped at the news that he and his friends had ridden the fearsome Thestrals to London! After hearing about Umbridge, it was very hard not to rant about her own boss, Old Soberley. (She did rant a little, but refrained from really going off about what she thought of Greater Whinging's primary school and the state of education in Britain in general.)

She had finally stopped avoiding looking at him, absorbing everything about his appearance: his broad, capable hands, which were actually very much like young Harry's hands but with more wear-and-tear; his face, which showed a regular dark stubble near the middle of the night; and the messy black hair that was as unruly as ever and yet looked quite right on him, which it hadn't always on young Harry, who always seemed to have misplaced his comb.

He was fast asleep now, wearing his glasses still. She watched his face in repose, as she had done that morning with the sixteen-year-old version of him. This Harry also seemed more right, somehow, as though the other one was just biding his time until he reached this point in his life. The skin didn't look slightly loose anymore, as though it was a costume that didn't quite fit or some of the old clothes belonging to Dudley that Harry had been forced to wear as a child. His jaw had a nice firmness to it; she had to resist the urge to run her finger along it, up to his ear...

Instead she gently lifted his glasses from his face and set them on the bedside table, turning to look at him again. He'd turned out quite nicely, and she caught her breath, remembering that she'd insisted she wasn't going to just leap into his arms again, because it was the other Harry with whom she was in love.

But was it?

During their hours of conversation, the differences between that Harry and this one seemed to have faded to nothing, and she knew that she was in a very precarious position now, that if he merely touched her or attempted to kiss her she would be lost. Luckily, he seemed to be as sound a sleeper at thirty-two as he was at sixteen. (She still didn't understand why the mad owl that had delivered his exam results hadn't woken him up.)

He may be different on the outside, but inside he's just the same as ever...

But no--he wasn't completely changed on the outside. On his brow he still bore the mark of his celebrity in the wizarding world: his scar. She started to reach out to trace it with her finger but pulled her shaking hand back. No. I shouldn't do that. It's sort of--sacred. And then she noticed the other scar, the other thing that was still the same about him. She remembered the young Harry telling her about the graveyard, about being tied to the tombstone while he was cut, his blood taken to resurrect his enemy...

This time she did not pull back her hand; she gently traced her finger over the still-raised flesh on the inside of his elbow, the remnant of the battle that had ultimately made him a man. She could not help assuming that he was with her this night, sixteen years older, because he had in fact defeated his enemy. He became a murderer, she thought for a moment, trying to see a killer in the gentle face. She could not. I'm sure he did what was necessary, she told herself.

Suddenly, the knowledge that when he eventually left her house he wouldn't be going to his certain death made her feel so happy and relieved at once that she pressed her lips to the scar. He'd tried to keep the future from her, from himself, by using that memory charm, but even if he hadn't told her that Voldemort was gone his very existence was a piece of information about the future that couldn't be denied.

Harry was going to be all right.

She no longer had to wonder and worry. She already knew the outcome of the war, assuming that it wasn't still going on. She didn't know how many people would die, what the cost would be, but she knew that Harry had survived and Voldemort had not. Surely he wouldn't be doing something as frivolous as travelling back in time to see her if he was supposed to be focussing on a war.

She traced the scar with her finger again and then ran her fingertip gently along the soft skin of his inner arm; tears started running down her cheeks and she didn't bother wiping them away. Instead, she bent down again and pressed her lips to the scar once more, so grateful that he was here, so grateful for what it meant....

He will live, he will live....

"Tilda?"

She looked at him; his eyes were still closed. He reached out blindly and put his hand on top of her head, then stroked downward, cupping her cheek in his hand.

"Do that again," he whispered hoarsely.

She swallowed; her heartbeat seemed to be in her ears, louder than anything else, and she could barely hear him over it. Without a thought, she lowered her lips to his skin again, watching his face. When she made contact with the scar once more he let out a small moan, and she could not deny the effect the sound had on her.

But a moment later she felt a twinge of guilt. What am I doing? she demanded of herself, even as she continued to trace her lips over the scar. She'd just been thinking that if he merely touched her or kissed her she would be lost. This is dangerous, her mind warned her, even as she looked up at his face to see his reaction.

His eyes opened slowly and she caught her breath; that was the other thing about Harry that hadn't changed. His eyes. Even in the combination of moonlight and street lamps they were still utterly arresting. Good reason to always wear glasses, she thought, to minimise the effect of your eyes on vulnerable women....

He sat up slightly, his eyes boring into hers. She swallowed again, her stomach fluttering within her, unable to look away. He grasped her shoulders, lightly but firmly, and pulled her up so that her face was over his, her hair a curtain around them. She let herself be moved, as unable to govern her own body as a doll or a puppet. Or as unwilling, she wasn't sure which. Sliding his hands up her shoulders to her neck, he brushed his fingers along the sensitive skin at her nape, then gently, slowly, pulled her face down to his.

She gasped into his mouth as their lips touched; he pulled her fully against him, their chests crushed together, one of his hands laced into her hair, the other running down her back, pressing her to him, holding her tightly, as though he was afraid she would disappear if he didn't. She shuddered and surrendered, her hands on either side of his face, her tears ceasing with the first contact her lips had made with his. She had no reason to cry now.

She was lost.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was getting very close to dawn when Tilda opened her eyes slowly, feeling very disoriented. Her head was on Harry's chest and his arm was around her shoulder. Neither of them had bothered to dress; they'd already been asleep before she'd started kissing the scar on his arm, and exhaustion had overcome them again as they'd held each other closely after--

Bloody hell, she thought, looking down at both of their bodies. What now? She thought of young Harry in the living room, who, according to his older self, had spent a perfectly miserable and frustrated night alone on the couch, while here she was, wrapped around his thirty-two-year-old counterpart, a feeling of completion and content filling her.

Guilt suddenly overwhelmed her, and she remembered that she had at one point thought of this as cheating. But had she cheated on Harry? And could she cheat on him with anyone (let alone his older self) when she shouldn't even have considered being with a sixteen-year-old in the first place?

Her head ached; she needed to get out of the bed, to stop touching him. She ran to the wardrobe, finding her blue dressing gown, and after looking at the sleeping man in her bed for a moment that made her feel that her heart had stopped, she slipped quietly out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.

After she flushed the toilet and washed her hands, she sat on the edge of the tub, rocking back and forth, wringing her still-damp hands, wondering what on earth she was going to do now. She'd told young Harry that they were going to Brighton today. How would she do that now? She went to the sink, splashing cold water on her face, then staring at the water swirling downward. There are just too many Harrys for me to deal with right now, she thought. And the real problem is--I think I'm in love with both of them.

She straightened up and looked at herself in the mirror. Am I glowing? Please, don't glow, don't glow...

That thought, however, did make her redden as she recalled what they'd done. He seemed to know things, presumably more than his sixteen-year-old-self, anyway, and more than some other men she'd known (but less than a couple of them, as well). She laughed for a moment; of course he 'knew' things, even if a spell had buried the specific memories. His body obviously remembered. The idea that he might have waited this long to have sex for the first time was ridiculous. Or was it? Was that why--? No, he'd obviously been with someone else. Perhaps someones, plural. How stupid to be surprised....

Then she wondered who the other women were, and one possibility suddenly reared up in her head, making her bolt from the bathroom and return to the bedroom. The slamming door didn't even make him stir in his sleep. She stalked to the bed and made a great point of bouncing as she sat down on it, but he still didn't wake. So she decided to find out what she wanted to know herself; his left arm was lying along his side and she reached over and pulled it across his body, peering intently at the third finger.

There was a very tiny pale line of skin about an inch below the second knuckle. It was only the width of a coin at most, and there were slight indentations at the top and bottom edge of the pale line. She knew what that meant; she'd seen it too many times in clubs not to know. She looked at his face; he continued to sleep peacefully, snoring softly, so she pressed her fingernails into the top of his hand and waited for the pain to wake him.

"Ow!" he cried out, pulling his hand away quickly, his eyes flying open in shock. She sat back and glared at him.

"Would you care to tell me the meaning of that?" she said, pointing at his hand. He frowned at her, then held up his hand.

"The meaning of what? It's my hand. If I recall correctly, not too long ago you were rather pleased with it--"

"Shut up!" she said, smacking the hand, making him pull it back. "And put something on!" she snapped at him, irritated by the fact that even while she was angry with him his exposed body was making hers respond in mutinous ways. She pulled the neck of her dressing gown together with her hands, wishing that she had put on more.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, not moving to dress yet. "What did I do?" he added, his voice going up a little into a whine, reminding her very forcibly of his younger self.

"What's wrong? What's wrong?" She grabbed his wrist again and attempted to shove his fingers directly in front of his eyes. "That's what's wrong, you cheater, you!" She remembered the way she'd felt when she was twenty, when she first discovered that a married man will say just about anything to get a young girl into bed....

"Wha--? I don't understand," he said, staring at his hand, clearly perplexed. She sighed and grabbed his fingers, pointing at the white line on the third one.

"Here! There's clearly a mark that indicates that you usually wear a wedding ring. Which you conveniently did not wear to come on this little trip. How could you?" she demanded, her own voice verging on a whine that she strongly disliked.

He stared down at his hand, shaking his head. "I'm--I'm sorry, Tilda. I honestly--if I'm still married, I--I don't really remember anything about it, or who it is.... All I remember is Parvati telling me that I needed to make sure I wasn't seen by anyone other than you and that I couldn't tell you about the future. Some things are obvious, of course, such as my still being alive and all, but--"

"So," she said, standing and pacing, "the purpose of the memory charm was to make you forget you were cheating on your wife?"

He shook his head. "I told you, Tilda, I don't even know why I decided to come back, except that I learned at some point that I had already done this, so I needed to do it to preserve the timeline..."

"Well, I think I do know why you came back," she growled at him, pacing the floor by the foot of the bed, refusing to look at him. "I think it was for shagging--"

"No!" he cried, springing out of the bed and going to her.

He still wasn't wearing anything, and as he held her shoulders she stared ahead at his chest, thinking, Chest hair. Harry has chest hair now. She'd seen it while they were making love, but she hadn't really thought about it. She squeezed her eyes shut, hating herself for being distracted by something as stupid as chest hair.

"I was perfectly willing to just see you again and talk to you. Listen, do you want to know why I think I came here?"

She dared open her eyes again and looked up at his pleading face. "Why?" she whispered.

He looked very grim. "Well, I probably shouldn't be telling you this, because it's still in the future for you, but it's the very near future, so...."

"Get to it!" she snapped, pulling away and turning her back to him, clenching and unclenching her fists, trying to maintain her composure.

"When we get back from Brighton tonight--"

She whirled. "We?"

"Yeah. You took me to Brighton on my birthday. Our birthday. Well, you said you would and you did."

"But you said we," she reminded him.

"Yeah, about that.... Like I said, everything about this time of my life is really clear in my head right now, the memories are very strong. And now that I think about it, there are some rather queer things that happened when we went to Brighton that can only be explained by my having gone with the two of you...."

"Gone with? I thought you weren't supposed to be seen by anyone but me?"

He shrugged. "Invisibility Cloak," he said simply. She nodded, having forgotten that.

"Yes. Right," she said, as though she hadn't forgotten. "Well, what about tonight?"

He looked reluctant to speak again. "Something is going to happen when we get back. And I think I'm needed for that. I can't say anything more. I shouldn't say anything more. Just trust me.... I think I need to be here for something very important."

She tried to continue to glare at him, but she was rather forcing it now, so it was difficult to maintain. She collapsed on the bed, her head in her hands, unsure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. "I'm sorry, Harry. You understand how I could think--"

"Yeah, I do," he said softly. She felt the mattress shift as he climbed on the bed behind her; a moment later his hand was pressed to her back, rubbing in gentle circles, and when he started loosening the belt of her dressing gown and removing it from her shoulders, she leaned back against him, sighing, feeling lost again and yet also wonderfully found...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry opened his eyes; Tilda was asleep again, curled on her side with her cheek pillowed on her hand. He smiled and brushed some hair from her face, tracing the outline of her cheek with his finger. To him it felt like it was just yesterday that he'd spent the frustrated, lonely night in her living room after being rejected by her. Now they'd made love twice, and he didn't know how it could be possible to feel happier or more content.

He pulled back his hand, staring at the pale line on the third finger, trying to remember, closing his eyes and thinking as hard as he could.

Do you take.... to have and to hold.... to love and to cherish....

As much as he tried it kept slipping away from him. Am I married? And if so, why am I here? He wondered for a panicked moment whether he was changing the timelines by sleeping with Tilda. If he had come into the past to do something that evening, during the confrontation with the Death Eaters, should he also be with Tilda? And yet--Parvati had told him that Tilda was the only person in this time he could talk to. And the memory charm would guard against his being able to give away too much about the future. But what if I've altered the future by making myself forget some very important details of my life, such as having a wife?

His head spun as he considered this; he wasn't fully awake yet. It was too early to be considering the philosophical problems of time travel. Glancing at Tilda's clock, he saw that it was exactly seven o'clock. Even without looking he would have known that, as his body was telling him that it was time for his morning visit to the loo. He ran his hand down his face and yawned before hunting for where Tilda had put his glasses. After pulling on his boxers he padded to the bedroom door, yawning again, but he'd no sooner opened the door than he was confronted in mid-yawn by his sixteen-year-old self, also about to enter the bathroom.

The two of them stood frozen for a moment, staring at each other; then the younger Harry pulled out his wand and cried, "Stupe--!"

"No!" he cried, leaping forward and covering young Harry's mouth with his hand and physically wresting the wand from his grip with the other hand. Being a little taller and stronger it wasn't very difficult, but he worried about what unpredictable things his younger self might do, being confronted with a thirty-two-year-old Harry. Suddenly he felt no confidence at all that he wasn't changing time; his younger self could do anything, not necessarily what Harry remembered doing, and for some reason he didn't remember confronting his older self at all, so now he probably was changing time, which could result in complete chaos... What he did remember was Hermione telling him in third year that wizards who'd used Time-Turners had killed themselves by crossing paths on the same timeline....

This can't be good.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Ginny, what are you doing here at this hour?" Theo demanded. He pointed his wand at the candles mounted on the paneled wall on either side of the bed and opened the huge old wardrobe, scanning the clothes for something he could throw on quickly. He'd opened a window against the hot summer evening before she'd arrived and through the casement Ginny could see the roofs of the shops in Diagon Alley, Madam Malkin's, Flourish and Blotts, Quality Quidditch Supplies, her brothers' shop, Parvati's...

She thought she might have stayed in this room once, with Hermione, perhaps just before her second year, when they'd ridden in Ministry cars to the train because Harry was with them and he had to be protected from Sirius, no matter what... or so they'd all thought. She stepped into the room, closing the door while Theo pulled a tee shirt and jeans from a shelf. "I was just at Parvati's shop with Harry. I--I needed a friend to talk to, Theo..."

"And you couldn't have gone to Hermione Granger? Or Luna Lovegood? Or anyone else?" he grumbled, digging in a drawer for some socks. "Would you mind turning around?" He gestured at the clothes he'd thrown on the enormous four-poster bed, its purple velvet hangings moving in a light breeze from the window.

"Oh! Of course," she said; he saw that her face was glowing with embarrassment before she turned to face the door. He also saw her stiffen when she heard him taking off his dressing gown, and possibly to avoid thinking about his being just behind her in only his boxers, she babbled, "Well, erm, Luna is--well, she's my sister-in-law, and as much as I like her, I don't think she'd understand what I'm going through. Or feel the same way about it. And Hermione... well," Ginny said, snorting. "She usually takes Harry's side. She'd only tell me how important it is for Harry to maintain the timeline, and then I'd get a lecture about time travel... from her! After she had that Time-Turner thing all during my second year and never said a word!" Ginny sniffed. "And I never gave away to Harry and Ron--especially Ron--that she was going to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum, either... And then there's Tonks, but she wouldn't know what I'm going through, either. Not being married to Remus. I mean, Remus would never... and they're trying to have a baby now..."

There was a crashing silence in response to her rambling; she glanced over her shoulder, seeing Theo sitting on the rumpled bed, putting on some battered trainers. She turned around fully, waiting for him to say something. He looked up at her finally, saying, "Are you finished?"

"Erm, yes," she said awkwardly, starting to wish she hadn't come.

"Because you failed to explain the real reason that you're here. Namely that I'm not gay or married, so if you cheat on your husband with me, for revenge, I'm someone who might be interested but you won't be putting a wife in the same position you're in right now. No one else gets hurt. Apart from Harry, of course, and you're trying to hurt him. But what about me? Did it ever occur to you to consider how I might feel? Or did you think I'd be thrilled to finally get to be with you, since I've been in love with you for years, something you thought you'd finally take advantage of because it suited you, because it was convenient for you?"

Ginny looked at him, aghast; her face immediately crumpled and she held her hands to her mouth, horrified, unable to stop her tears. "Oh, Theo! I'm so sorry! I--I didn't think about your feelings at all..."

He nodded miserably, wishing he didn't feel like taking her in his arms, rubbing her back until her tears stopped, kissing each drop away... "No, you didn't," he said, still sitting on the bed.

"And--and I was very selfish. And thoughtless," she added, taking her hands down from her face; he wished now that she could manage to actually look ugly while crying, but the tears just made her large brown eyes look even larger and shinier than usual, so he had to move his gaze away from her. Chastising her was so much easier when he didn't want to kiss her senseless.

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, you were," he said, staring at the still-open wardrobe.

Suddenly Ginny laughed, and if he'd thought she was beautiful while crying, that was nothing to how she looked when she was laughing; he couldn't help but look at her again. Which was part of why he'd found it impossible to get her out of his heart.

"Well, you know, it is polite to disagree with someone criticising themselves," she informed him, wiping her tears from her cheeks. Theo joined in her laughter, feeling like his heart was walking a tightrope.

And there was no net below to catch him if he fell.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Harry had made contact with himself for the first time, it was painful, which he hadn't expected; a spark had leapt between them. Perhaps it was because they were one person, and they weren't ever supposed to be in the same time, let alone touch. Young Harry's eyes were wild behind his glasses; it was clear that he was taking in the appearance of the man restraining him, the scar on his brow, the green eyes and messy hair.

"It's--it's me," Harry said to him. "I mean--you. Your future self. I travelled back in time, but I didn't mean for you to see me. Please--promise you won't do anything rash if I release you and let you speak--" His younger self nodded and Harry felt the tension leave the boy's body as he ceased to fight against his older incarnation.

They stood staring at each other as though they had access to a mirror that could see across the years. Young Harry looked as though he'd just woken up, blinking sleepily still. He continued to examine the older man with a wary, hunted expression on his face, as though not trusting that this was his own self.

"If you're me, then--then what did I see the first time I looked in the Mirror of Erised?"

Harry looked at his younger self, wondering whether he had thought for a moment that he was again seeing his--their--father. "Mum and Dad," he whispered. "And other relatives..."

But the teenager wasn't satisfied yet. He evidently decided that questions should be fired thick and fast now:

"When did I first notice Cho Chang? What was the happy thought that let me conjure a Patronus down by the lake in my third year? Who did I talk to at the pub in New Stokington? What did I eat? What did we have for pudding at my aunt's house that night?"

"Third year, just before playing Ravenclaw at Quidditch, which Gryffindor won even though I was trying to be nice to her.... Oliver ordered me knock her off her broom if I had to.... I realised that I'd already conjured the Patronus, so I knew I could do it... I suppose that was the happy thought.... I talked to Gary, a footballer who'd just won a match and a couple of hundred quid.... I had some crisps and a Coke, but they weren't very good so Gary bought me some bacon sarnies... We had trifle, but I think Dudley ate most of it, including Aunt Marge's....

His younger self stared, open-mouthed, during this recital. Harry spoke very fast, so it would be clear that it was unrehearsed. He was glad that he threw in the part about the bacon sarnies and Dudley eating most of the trifle, as he didn't think those were the sort of things he'd tell anyone about. No one else would have a way of knowing.

They continued to stare at each other for a minute, but then the younger Harry's mind leapt forward much more quickly than Tilda's had. "So--in your time, Voldemort's gone? Or are you still trying to get rid of him?"

Harry clamped his mouth shut, then sighed. "I was afraid you'd work that part out... Damn. Listen, about the future--"

Young Harry snorted. "Well, you do realise that just by existing you're rather giving a lot away, don't you? Then it's already happened for you? How do I do it?" he asked with a shaking voice.

"Do what?"

"Kill Voldemort."

Harry raised one eyebrow, crossing his arms. "And you honestly expect me to tell you that?"

The boy shrugged. "Why not? It's information from me to me."

"But it's still in the future for you! I'm not supposed to-- And anyway, you seem to have forgotten that Dumbledore told you not to do any magic. What were you thinking, trying to stun me?"

"What was I thinking? You should know!" he spat out, irritated.

He shook his head. "I've got a memory charm on me so that--" His voice shook and he felt like an icy finger had touched him. Am I changing the timeline? he wondered again. Oh, God.... "No, don't tell me--" he said quickly, trying to pre-empt young Harry from answering. What would he have thought? "You were thinking that I must be a Death Eater--"

"Yeah," his younger self said, looking suspiciously at the older man. "And I thought you just said you had a memory charm on you. Which means--I thought time couldn't be changed?" he said suddenly in confusion.

Harry-the-man shook his head. "Not easily, no. All I know is that I did travel back in time to this time, and that if I didn't do this, then the timeline would be changed. I really am supposed to be here..."

"But are you supposed to be doing this? And how old are you, anyway?"

"I--I don't think I should tell you that. Otherwise you'll know when--" He stopped suddenly, remembering something else. "But then, if you don't remember..."

Harry wracked his brain; although specific events in his life after turning sixteen were inaccessible, things he had learned were not. Somehow he remembered a spell he'd learnt at the Ministry--had he gone through Auror training? He remembered very clearly the morning he received his exam results... He could apply now, he'd received an Outstanding in Potions on his O.W.L.s....

"You're going to Obliviate me?" young Harry said immediately.

Can't put anything past you, his older self thought, not wanting to be quite so sarcastic out-loud. He sighed. "I really think I should. You know how it is."

The boy nodded. "Well, if you're going to memory-charm me anyway, can I ask you something first?"

"I'm not going to tell you how old I am."

Young Harry waved that away. "Fine. Just--do I get to be an Auror?"

Harry sighed. "Well, the spell I need to perform first is one I don't think I learned in school. That's all I can say."

A grin spread across his face. "That's brilliant! But--what spell?"

Harry took a deep breath. "It's a tricky little shield charm, undetectable, a bit of wandless magic. It's to place a barrier around a small area, so that spells can be performed within that area without being detected by anyone looking for magic. Which won't be just the Ministry, you realise. That's why Dumbledore didn't want you doing magic."

The boy nodded. "That makes sense." He looked at his older self very thoroughly now, up and down, then dwelling on the left hand, as Tilda had done. "But--but can I ask you something else?"

The young eyes were clearly taking in his clothes now, or the lack thereof. "Earlier--was I hearing--hearing you and Tilda--I mean--" He swallowed, looking even younger than his sixteen years now, and very hurt.

Harry couldn't take it any more. He closed his eyes and stepped closer to Harry, moving his hands in circles over young Harry's head and his own head. "Aegis!" he cried, feeling the power emanating from his fingertips. When he opened his eyes, there was a bluish column of light surrounding them both.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder, shuddering at the inevitable spark again. "I'm going to put the memory charm on you, and then a stunner. I'm sorry," he said again, "but you'll be meeting the future soon enough."

Young Harry started to open his mouth in protest, but very quickly Harry pointed his wand and cried, "Obliviate!" Harry's knees started to give way, but he grabbed his younger self under the arms, wincing at the electrical charges shooting through them both at every point of contact, and then awkwardly pointed the wand at the boy's chest and cried, "Stupefy!"

Young Harry was quite stiff now and senseless to what was going on around him. Harry looked down at himself, sighing for a moment, before calling out, "Tilda!" She swung open the bedroom door, her eyes wide in shock when she saw him supporting the weight of the younger, stunned Harry.

"Get my Invisibility Cloak!" he said, grunting in pain as charges continued to bounce back and forth between their bodies. Something in the universe just did not like the two of them having physical contact and he wanted to end it as soon as possible. She quickly returned with the Cloak. "Hurry!" he urged her. "The shield charm will collapse in a minute!"

When he was concealed again, he pointed the wand at young Harry through the Cloak. "Enervate!" Immediately afterward the magical shield evaporated and Harry quickly stepped past Tilda and his younger self, dashing for the bedroom. Tilda could no longer support the boy's weight, the rejuvenation spell having caused Harry's body to lose its stiffness; he collapsed on the floor, wincing as his tailbone struck it rather hard. The older Harry winced too, hidden under his Cloak.

Young Harry looked around in confusion. "What--what's going on?"

Tilda started to kneel over him, still wearing only the blue dressing gown, which had clearly not escaped the teenager's attention. She stood hastily, holding the neck together with her hands. "I--I don't know. I heard a thud and I came running out here. What do you remember?" she asked with a shaking voice.

He stood slowly, rubbing his bottom with a pained expression when he was upright again. "Not much. I woke up, needed to use the loo--"

"Why didn't you use the one downstairs? Jack fixed it, remember?"

His face looked utterly blank and, his older self thought, rather stupid. "Oh. Right. Forgot. I'm so used to coming up here. But I don't even remember coming up the stairs, and the next thing I'm lying on the floor here with my bum aching--"

She forced a nervous laugh. "Oh, you're just sleepy still. Go on, use the upstairs loo as long as you're here already. I can wait. And then we'll work out what we want to pack for Brighton."

He seemed to forget about everything else when she said 'Brighton.' "You mean it? We're still going?"

"Of course we are. Why not? It's our birthday. We should celebrate."

From the look on young Harry's face, it was clear that he would have liked to celebrate by doing something else. With her. But instead he slouched toward the bathroom.

"Yeah. Celebrate," he said dully before closing the door.

Tilda collapsed with a sigh of relief against the wall, then wearily pushed away from the wall and shuffled toward the bedroom, sighing again after she closed the door and was leaning on it. When Harry removed his Cloak again, she started to cry out in surprise but quickly bit her tongue.

"Stop doing that!" she hissed angrily. "And I'm still not sure about this..."

"About what?" he whispered.

"About all of it! About going to Brighton at all, let alone smuggling you along in your Cloak...."

"Well, I'll go down first and get into the back seat. I'll lie down on the floor when you're ready to put things in the car. He'll never know I'm there, I promise you. It'll be fine."

She frowned. "Are you sure you don't just want to wait here?"

He shook his head. "I'm fairly sure I don't do that. So, since I've--"

"--already done it this way," she continued for him.

He nodded. "Right. I know you're tired of hearing that--"

"Damn right I am," she said grumpily. "Plus, it--it just sounds weird."

He laughed, impishly leaning down to kiss her on the nose before covering up again.

"I'm off to the garage now. See you later."

"Hopefully not, since I'll be with Young You."

"Figure of speech."

"I know!" she whispered in his general direction. "Just go before he gets out."

He left the room without another word, creeping as soundlessly as he could down the stairs and finally entering the garage, then settling down to wait invisibly in the back seat of Tilda's car.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry felt like he was waiting forever for the two of them to come down to the garage; it was rather uncomfortable to be lying on the floor of the car's back seat and he wondered how he'd tolerate the drive to Brighton. That would explain all of the noise in the back seat while we drove to the seaside, he thought, remembering that he'd spent a lot of time looking backward because Tilda had, and he'd assumed that she was doing this because she thought someone might be following them. He thought for a moment of trying to find some way to warn her not to do this, but he feared that would be changing time, so he tried to put it out of his mind. After all, if everything went as it did the first time young Harry would look back but not suspect anything.

At long last Tilda and young Harry appeared in the garage. When he saw his young self with the sunglasses, stubble and blond hair he almost cried out in shock; he'd utterly forgotten about his change in appearance. Then he realised that he might not have to spend the entire trip in the car after all; he might even be able to walk around Brighton without his Cloak if he disguised himself well enough. Both Animagus and Metamorphmagus magic were undetectable, so there was no danger of anyone--from the Ministry or otherwise--picking up on magic use in the area.

Tilda entered the garage first, opening the back door on the driver's side to put some more things in the car. "Are you all right?" she whispered when she felt the silky Cloak under her hand.

"Fine. Stop talking to me, though. He'll be here in a second."

She nodded and closed the car and then went to the door that let out onto the driveway. When young Harry appeared, she told him, "Just get into the front seat and put your Cloak on. I don't want to open the door until you're hidden."

Harry heard the front passenger door open and close as the boy got into the car; then he threw his bag into the back seat on top of a load of other things that Tilda had already heaped on top of Harry in his Cloak. The impact of the bag landing startled Harry, making him flinch, which in turn made some of the other things on top of him shift slightly. He looked up and saw young Harry looking at the back seat; he froze, waiting for him to turn away. The teenager finally did face front again, covering himself in his Cloak. Harry breathed a silent mental sigh of relief.

While she opened the garage door, backed the car out, closed it again, and returned to the car, Harry's heart was thudding so loudly in his chest he thought surely that he would end up changing time, for his younger self could not fail to hear the beating. However, he seemed to be utterly oblivious still to not being the only Harry Potter in Tilda Harrison's car.

"Next stop, Brighton!"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry tried not to think about the picnic hamper sitting on his back as the car moved down the motorway to Brighton. Just as he remembered from when he was young, Tilda glanced behind the car quite a lot. He thought of something else now in regard to that: she could have given his presence away! His annoyance with her was softened by the fact that he knew it hadn't happened, but at the time she didn't know that it wouldn't happen.

"Worried that we're being followed?" young Harry finally said, making Tilda--and his older self--jump.

"Harry! I forgot you were here," she said shakily.

"Sorry to startle you." Harry waited for his younger self to speak again but there was an extended pause. "Tilda," he finally said softly. She didn't seem surprised this time.

"Yes?" she answered.

"This morning...when I was out. How long was it?"

"Out? Oh, um, I don't know..."

"I was wondering--did I do anything, or say anything, before I--"

"I don't understand, Harry."

Harry wished with all his heart that he could throw off the Cloak and tell himself that it was all right, it was just him, that Voldemort hadn't possessed him or Tilda... But he couldn't. That was why he'd put the memory charm on the boy. He couldn't do a thing to reassure the boy he couldn't see under the other Invisibility Cloak.

"Did I--did I touch you?" he whispered. Harry glanced up between the front seats.

Tilda turned to look in young Harry's direction abruptly before quickly looking at the road again. "What do you mean?" She was barely audible.

Harry closed his eyes, listening to the two of them. He hadn't counted on how painful it would be to relive all of this again. Listening to his younger self, the cracking voice, the doubts and fears, the uncertainty... He hadn't been expecting this at all, but one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do was to let his younger self simply suffer, not knowing. He'd never anticipated feeling pity for himself, and it was breaking his heart.

He listened to the boy tell her about Ginny being possessed, about the roosters and the basilisk. During young Harry's narrative his mind wandered and he found himself fixating on the name Ginny.

GinnyGinnyGinny...

Why did Ginny stick in his mind so? He tried to remember what she was like during his fifth and sixth years, but the memory charm that Parvati had used was magnifying this day, his sixteenth birthday, to a crystalline clarity, with the side-effect of making the rest of his life recede into a fuzzy backdrop. The best he could do was picture her in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, curled in a chair by the fire on the night they were waiting for word of Mr Weasley; for some reason he remembered that the fire was reflected in her eyes. But that was all.

"Well, I don't see how I could possibly take you there, Harry. If you can't tell me the name of the place or where it is."

Harry jerked his head up; he'd let his mind wander during their conversation. He'd been trying to remember things about--who was it again? He felt like the name was on the tip of his tongue and yet also slipping away from him like mist...

Young Harry sighed noisily under his Cloak. "No, I reckon I can't. But I have made a decision. I'm going to turn myself in tonight. Next door, at Mrs Figg's. It's better than turning myself in at the Ministry. I might be able to find the entrance to that, but I'd rather not. There they'd probably let me into the entrance hall--which is ruined, because of me--and then break my wand as soon as look at me," he said in a voice dripping misery. "At least I stand a chance of there being some members of the Order at Mrs Figg's."

Tilda looked in his direction for a long moment, then back at the road. "You think--"

"I think," he interrupted her, "it would be a very bad idea for me to spend another night in your house," he said quietly. Harry fought the urge to sigh; he remembered the frustration the boy was feeling, the futility. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Last night I slept with Tilda. I betrayed my younger self, if that's possible. But is it, really? Or is there another reason I feel--guilty? But identifying what he was feeling was no help. Once more he had a nagging sensation at the back of his mind. He was certain that there was something very, very important that he was forgetting... Many, many important things... But he was supposed to. That was the point.

Tilda nodded. "You're probably right," she said, sounding like she was having trouble choking out the words. Or like she was remembering what she'd done with him, with thirty-two-year-old Harry. "You're probably right," she whispered again. Was she feeling guilty, too? It wasn't a good feeling; his insides were tied up in knots and he didn't think that was just because he had folded himself up and was wedged into the back seat of the car with the beach gear.

Now if I could be certain that I don't need to know whatever it is I've forgotten before it's time to confront Voldemort...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry was enormously relieved when they pulled up in back of Marvin and Brian's cafe so that his younger self could remove the Invisibility Cloak. After they went round to the front of the cafe he pushed some of the beach gear aside and scrabbled for the handle to let himself out of the car. This turned out to be a mistake as it was a sweltering hot day; it was also hot in the car, but it was at least shady. He felt like his lungs had had air pumped into them directly from an oven.

He glanced at the rear facades of the other shops and restaurants but no one was about. After closing his eyes and concentrating very hard on the transformation he removed the Cloak and stuffed it into the rucksack he was carrying, which also contained his wand. He checked his appearance in the mirror; he now had bright red hair curling over his head--hiding the scar on his brow--and a huge bushy beard and moustache. I look like a ruddy Viking, he thought; "a Weasley Viking."

However, he was satisfied that he at least didn't look like a Malfoy. His dark trousers and too-formal shirt weren't appropriate beach attire but he didn't dare use a spell to Transfigure his clothes; he had to settle for the wandless Metamorphmagus magic. Anything else would be risky and possibly draw attention to both his and young Harry's presence in Brighton.

His stomach moved within him and he inhaled the aromas emanating from the rear of the cafe with something like ecstasy. Food. Somehow being crouched down in the back of the car for the entire trip had made him absolutely ravenous. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for his wallet, which was usually filled with Muggle money, something of which he was very glad now. At least he wouldn't starve.

He entered the cafe cautiously. He could see Tilda, Harry, Brian and Marvin sitting at a table in the rear. Nodding at a waiter, he said, "I'm here meeting a friend. I see him back there."

The waiter was distracted and obviously far too busy; he waved in the general direction in which Harry had gestured. "Go on then," he said dismissively as he dashed past with an armful of dishes. Harry strode across the room to a young man sitting alone at a table near Tilda and the others.

He glanced at them briefly over his shoulder, then leaned over and whispered to the young man, "Could I please sit here to eat my lunch if I pay for yours?" The man had large blue eyes and very straight brown hair that flopped over his brow when he nodded vigorously, his mouth full of food; he pressed his napkin to his mouth, staring at Harry, who couldn't work out why he was getting this response. "Thanks," Harry said in reply to the man's nodding at him, his mouth still full.

He dared to look over his shoulder again, met Tilda's glance for a moment and saw her eyes flare with recognition. Then she shook her head at him, the most minute of gestures, before focussing on her friends again. Harry could see that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, though. I didn't tell her I'd be getting out of the car, he realised.

"Well?" the waiter asked. Harry felt a finger poke his arm; the young man sitting with him pulled his hand back, turning red.

"Um, he wants to know what you're having," the young man said apologetically.

Harry looked up at the waiter, his mind blank. "I'll--I'll have whatever he's having," he said, pointing to his lunch companion. "Thanks."

"Don't get on well with your dad, yeah?" Marvin was asking young Harry.

"Is it that obvious?" he heard his young self say. Harry tilted his head slightly and a trick of the light allowed him to see Tilda and the teenaged Harry reflected in his glasses, at the edge of the right-hand lens.

He heard Brian snort. "He can't be any worse than my dad. When I came out--"

"Brian," Tilda said pointedly, gesturing to Harry with her head.

"What?" Brian protested. "He's obviously not--" There were a few moments of silence and Harry could see Brian's hands reach out from just beyond his range of vision to frame Tilda's face in his hands. "Oh! I know what it is about you, Mattie-girl! I should have seen it before. You've been properly shagged, you have!"

"NO!" Harry and Tilda cried together, her voice much louder than his.

"No shagging!" Tilda said more quietly, in a desperate whisper, glancing at young Harry out of the corner of her eye. And then Harry saw her eyes move toward him, the Harry she actually had shagged. He swallowed and then realised that the young man sitting opposite him was looking at him very strangely. He smiled feebly.

"Sorry. Don't mean to be rude. I just--" Harry thought frantically for a moment, then leaned forward, speaking in a confidential whisper. "I'm a detective. Private, that is. I really appreciate your letting me sit here. I--I'm gathering some information..."

The young man looked very excited about this. More so than Harry would have liked. "That's brilliant!" he said in a shaky whisper. "Who are you investigating? Who hired you? Oh, I'm Harry, by the way," he added, extending his hand across the table.

Harry had been about to speak but stopped dead at that. "You're joking," was all he could think to say; the hand was still waiting so he put his out as well and shook it hastily. The other Harry looked rather puzzled about why Harry should say, "You're joking." Harry shook himself and went on. "At any rate--I can't really talk about it here, now can I?" he said quietly. "If you could just--just allow me to listen very carefully, I would really appreciate it." He gave the other Harry a small smile, hoping this would be enough of an apology.

It seemed to be adequate. "Harry" gave him a conspiratorial nod and resumed eating his lunch. "Got it," he said softly before putting a forkful of food in his mouth, followed by a wink that looked extraordinarily unnatural on the pale, bookish young man. After chewing and swallowing, however, he leaned toward Harry, who'd gone back to looking at the reflection of Tilda and young Harry in his lens. The young man hissed at him, "So what should I call you?"

Harry started to sigh in exasperation but caught himself in time; it turned into a cough, forcing him to pound his own chest vigourously and lose the train of conversation at Tilda's table. "Erm," he said, seeing his abundant red hair out of the corner of his eye. "Ron. Call me Ron."

"Here we are!" said the waiter suddenly; he seemed to have Apparated beside "Harry" and "Ron."

Harry looked down at the unfamiliar food on his plate and then up at the waiter, trying to seem grateful and enthusiastic. "Thanks. Thanks. Looks great."

From Tilda's table he heard Brian say, "So you're babysitting?"

"NO!" Tilda and young Harry cried together.

A number of people in the vicinity of the table turned and stared at the four of them, making Harry groan inwardly. Young Harry looked around and Harry remembered that feeling of deep embarrassment and the need to see just how bad it was, how many people were looking at them and wondering what was going on. Before he could meet the boy's eye Harry turned back to the other Harry and smiled feebly. He looked down at his strange food, put some on a fork and shoved it into his mouth; he immediately felt like his tongue was on fire and started casting about for a solution to his problem. In short order he held his napkin to his mouth, tried as discreetly as he could to eject the bit of food into the cloth, then reached for the nearest glass for something to drink. Unfortunately, it was his companion's glass; he was looking at Harry quite indignantly now.

"Listen, Ron," he said in an injured tone; "I don't care who you're eavesdropping on, but I didn't know I was signing on to watch someone spew up their food. And that's my drink--"

Harry fought the urge to spit the drink into his napkin next; as it was the second most vile flavour he'd ever put in his mouth in his entire life (after the food he'd just spit out). He swallowed with some effort and smiled feebly at the other Harry. "Please please please keep your voice down," he said quietly through gritted teeth. "I will not only pay for your lunch but I will give you another ten--no, make that twenty--if you will please just shut up now. All right?" He was barely moving his mouth. The young man seemed to be vacillating on whether to continue to co-operate. To help him make up his mind Harry took out his wallet and slapped some money on the table. "Okay, forty. Are you happy now?" he whispered fiercely, watching Tilda and young Harry in his lens again.

The other Harry picked up the notes and then looked at Harry as though he was mad. "What are you trying to pull? What's the matter, didn't have any Monopoly money handy? What did you do, make this up yourself on your computer printer?"

Bloody hell, Harry thought. He'd completely forgotten that the Euro was not being used in Britain yet. That meant that he had no money, none at all. Not a fiver, not a pound note, not a penny in his pocket, nothing. He didn't even have any Galleons, Sickles or Knuts. All he had was--

"Good God, man!" the other Harry was shouting now, snorting as he examined the Euros more closely. "You're the worst counterfeiter I ever saw! Not that I've seen any others. But you've put dates on these things that aren't for another fourteen years!"

Harry swallowed, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Marvin and Brian were making their way toward him. He also saw young Harry looking in his direction with interest; he quickly looked away so that his younger self would only be able to see the unruly red hair. I remember now, he thought. I remember the disturbance at the cafe now, the big red-haired man...

And he remembered what was going to happen next, as well. He thought about fighting it, but he knew that he shouldn't. If he did he'd be creating a new timeline, and there was no telling what could happen if he did that. Somehow I'll get out of this, he thought. Somehow I already did. He tried to feel confident about this, but it was difficult. Every moment he spent in this time he doubted himself; how would he know, from moment to moment, what was preserving and what was changing the timeline?

There simply was no way to know. Harry swallowed again as a very tough-looking young woman wearing a constable's uniform strode over to his table. Although she should have been sweating bullets in the heat, she appeared utterly cool and collected, raising one eyebrow at Harry.

"Is there a problem here?" She didn't sound at all tough, as Harry had expected, but rather like a concerned mother.

Marvin and Brian were standing on either side of him, he was alarmed to find; each had put a hand around one of his upper arms, so that he'd have to shake them off to escape. Which he wasn't going to do, but he understood that was what they were trying to prevent. As he was escorted from the cafe by the cop he remembered how this had appeared from the other end, how he had sat next to Tilda watching a tall man with messy red hair being dragged off for not being able to pay for his food, since the other young man stated very loudly that they didn't know each other and he wasn't going to pay for anything he didn't eat.

Harry wasn't handcuffed; he'd said he would come quietly and he did, but as they neared the police car he suddenly remembered the various things he had in his rucksack, things he really didn't want the Muggle police to see: his wand and Invisibility Cloak.

Looking over his shoulder at the door of the cafe, he suddenly stopped and roughly pulled his arm from the cop's grasp, sprinting for the pleasure pier as fast as he could. He'd thought for a moment of apologising first, but that would merely tip her off that something was about to happen. As it was, she recovered rather quickly; Harry heard her footsteps pounding after him, keeping pace.

"Stop that man!"

---