In Time

On the thirty-first of October, in the year two thousand one, twenty-one year old Harry Potter disappeared, along with his three-year-old son, within thirty seconds of his defeat of Thomas Marvolo Riddle.

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     Being eleven, and living in the neighborhood for seven years, Mark Evans knew to stay clear of Dudley Dursley. Dursley was rumored to weigh over three-hundred pounds at sixteen years of age, and Mark had even heard just last week that he had clobbered all of the competition in the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Championship of the Southeast for two consecutive years. Yes, Mark knew talking to, or even looking at Dudley Dursley meant dark blue bruises, and even possibly a broken rib. So, as he felt a fist collide with his jaw, he wondered he had gotten into the position in which he was currently arranged. Well, he knew very well that it was Piers Polkiss and Tobey Wells holding him against a tree, with his feet dangling two feet off of the ground, and that his left arm was bent so awkwardly because of a particularly firm blow from Dursley, but the position he was currently questioning was regarding more so the situation, rather than the state of his body. More bluntly, Mark wanted to know how, or why, Dursley, Polkiss, and Wells felt the need to pound his body until it melded with the large tree his back was placed securely against. In his own opinion, his body was rather harmless, maybe even innocent.

But for what ever reason, Dursley had decided to target Mark that warm summer night, and the boy would be the first to admit it hurt. Faintly registering that Dursley had moved from his jaw to his chest, he mumbled a few choice words to the older boys: “Uh - Please, please stop it--argh--hurts. . . . Umph--please. Help! Help m--Uh ohm.”

“Shut up, Evans,” Mark heard a voice snap from his left. “Shut it, or Big-D will only make it hurt worse. Ain’t that right, D?”

“Urgh huh,” Dursley answered intelligently, concentrating hard on packing his fist into Mark’s chest.

“Oi, Dud, here comes Potter,” a voice from his right hissed. “He’s heading right over here.”

“ ‘S he running?”

“Yeah,” Piers answered as Mark bent forward in reaction to a punch to his gut. “Think he supposes he’ll break us up?”

In answer, Mark heard a voice that sounded far away. “Eh! Get off him! Dudley, get your fists off him!” And he saw a pale fist smash into Dursley’s face, instantly causing blood to flow from his nose.

“Urgh! Potter! What the hell was that for?”

“Get away from him, I said.” Still, Polkiss’s and Wells’s held his shoulders to the tree. Taking his chances, Mark squirmed, as Dursley regained his composure.

“What are you doing here, Potter?”

“I’m stopping three sixteen year olds from beating up an eleven year old.”

On Mark’s side, Piers laughed. “Wha ‘cho gunna do? You’ve got nothing against us, Potter.”

Potter smirked, though. “Oh, I know a thing or two. . . Isn’t that right, Dudley?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was Dursley’s response.

But Potter only raised an eyebrow, and said, “Don’t remember last summer, then?”

“You - you’re not allowed to. You’ll get expelled.” Now, Mark could tell that Polkiss and Wells were as lost as he was, but still, Dursley went on. “You almost got kicked out last year.”

“But I didn’t, did I? And I won’t this year either. Now let him down,” Potter stated with confidence, and even nonchalance in his voice. But when Dursley didn’t answer, Potter narrowed his eyes, and clenched his fists. “I SAID NOW!”

Dursley looked back towards Piers, and nodded downwards, towards Mark’s feet. “With mutterings of “Damn it” in low voices, Polkiss and Wells pushed Mark towards the muddy grass below.

“Now get out of here,” he heard Potter’s voice order. A moment after the three sets of footsteps could no longer be heard, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?” Looking upwards, Mark squinted against the sunlight, and saw a dark silhouette lingering above him. “You’re going to get a bad bruise there,” he commented, pointing towards his shoulder.

Nodding absently, Mark allowed Potter to help him to his wobbly feet, and then did not even think to protest when he threw an arm around his waist, holding up the weight Mark would not be able to support alone. “You’re Mark, right? Mark Evans?”

“Mmm. ‘S right.” With a numb mouth, and blood rushing from his bitten lip, Mark was finding it hard to talk.

“I’m Harry Potter, and Dudley’s my cousin.”

“Oh,” was the only thing Mark could manage.

But Harry only smiled sympathetically at Mark’s loss of words. “I’m going to take you home, okay? Then your parents can take care of you.”

“Okay. ‘S m‘ Dad.”

“Where do you live?”

“Erm. . . Magnolia Road. N’mber eighteen.”

“All right. Try to keep your weight on me, or you’ll hurt yourself more.”

But when Mark Evans and Harry Potter arrived at number eighteen, Mr. Evans wasn’t home.

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“Dad? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it's me, Mark. How was your day?”

“Horrible.”

“Oh. Why’s that?”

“Dudley Dursley beat me up. . . . Again.”

“Mark! Are you all right? Are you hurt badly? Come lie down, and I‘ll just -”

“I’m fine, Dad. Harry Potter chased Dursley away.”

“Harry Potter?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“You told me once that you knew Harry Potter, but can’t talk to him. Only watch.

“I know him still. And I can only watch, you are right.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“Yes. . . Your Hogwarts letter came today.”

“Oh. I thought you were going to tell me why you can’t talk to Harry Potter.”

“I am. It has to do with why you can’t go to Hogwarts, my own letter, and the death of your grandparents. But most of it is about Voldemort.”

“I know about Voldemort.”

“I know. But I never told you about Harry Potter. It begins with a prophecy, Mark. It could have been one of my old friends, Neville, instead of Harry, but it wasn’t.”

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Time, it has been discovered over the centuries, is a very interesting concept. It is theorized, though, that all moments always exist and are being played out, always, and humans simply are being sent from realm to realm through portals. But sometimes, other portals can be made, so once in a while, a person does not go to the correct realm, but is sent to another time. Often, it is intentional, but in other instances it is not. Yet in the end, it is still time, and still life, and still the soul.

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                                  I am Harry Potter.

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         “What does that damn kid want to do?”

“Sir, he said he wants to. . . to find a way to open the space-time continuum. From his reports, it seems he believes rifts, as he calls them, can be opened when a soul collapses upon itself. I’ve read over the evidence, sir, and it seems, well, it seems logical. He could be right.”

“And he wants my money to research it further?”

“Yes. With a grant, he says he can properly develop a spell or possibly a potion to induce the collapse of the soul. From there, he wants to experiment with the portal that should be created.”

“He knows there will be some type of portal?”

“Oh yes, sir. Its all in his research; very interesting, if I do say so myself.”

“And how will he test the nature of the portal?”

“Tracking serums, Mr. Lowry. He’s planning to apply tracking serums on objects, and toss them into the portal. In theory, if there is no response in the receptor, the object is no longer existent at the moment.”

“Interesting, very interesting, I’ll admit. Brewing tracking serums is very expensive. Involves Griffin bladders, unless I’m mistaken. How much is he asking for?”

“One-thousand galleons, sir.”

“One-thousand galleons. . . Whose souls does he plan on collapsing?”

“Er. . . Well, as you know, Minister Somag is very pro-Dementors. In the past month, according to Oates, fifty people have been subjected to the Kiss. Oates is hoping to borrow a few of the men appointed to be subjected to the Kiss.”

“And his research is thorough? Planned, controlled experiments? Logical ideas? I don’t want to be wasting my money.”

“Oh yes, sir, his journal is very details. Charles Oates is a very intelligent man, despite his young age. In 1623 he graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with tops marks in all his exams.”

“1623? Then he’s. . . he’s twenty-four. Young. You say he’s intelligent, though, Claude?”

“Very, Mr. Lowry.”

“All right, then. I will provide two-thousand galleons in the form of a grant to Mr. Charles Oates for further research on portals in the space-time continuum. Withdraw the money from my personal account, Claude; this will be a private investment.”

“Yes, sir.”

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         In the spring of 1947, as the villagers of Little Hangleton slept soundly in their warm beds, twelve deep chimes originated from drawing room of the Riddle Manor, and resounded throughout the entire house. The utterances of two words, barely audible above the chiming of the grandfather clock, were repeated three times.

Then there was green.

And silence.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, happy to be rid of any exasperating family concerns, slipped into the dark comfort of night, and began his journey to Romania.

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                             I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

I have to do this.

I can’t do this.

I have to.

I have to do this, and the chattering of students is floating out from the Great Hall. Her hand brushes mine, and I grab it, then squeeze it lightly. I have to do this. Ron’s on my other side, and I lick my lips, and then turn towards him in mid-stride, successfully stopping Hermione from moving any further, and then Ron also.

“Harry?” Ron asks.

“Ron.”

“What is it?”

“I’m. . . I’m not going to dinner tonight.”

“What?” he asks again.

“I said, I’m not going to dinner tonight.”

Her hand glides up my arm, and she looks concerned. “Are you all right, Harry?”

“I’m fine, Hermione. I’m just not going to dinner tonight.”

“Harry, mate,” Ron begins, “its our last dinner here! You’ll never have Hogwarts’ mashed potatoes or turkey again!”

“Of course I will, Ron. We can visit Dumbledore whenever we want to.”

“No Harry. You can visit Dumbledore when you want to. You aren’t going to dinner tonight, but I am.”

“Okay. Enjoy your meal,” I say. I have to do this, I remind myself.

Hermione stands in front of me now, and her face is soft, and her eyes concerned. After taking my hands in hers, she licks her lips. “Are you feeling well, Harry?”

I smile gently in return. “No, I’m very nervous, actually. And how do you fair, yourself?”

“I’m. . . I’m fine, Harry.”

“Good. Will you come with me?”

Biting her lip slightly, she nods once. “Yes. Where are we going?”

“You want to know where we are going?” I ask, and she nods twice this time. So I pull her close, and then press my lips to her cheek.

“Outside. We’re going outside.”

Even though I know she’s thinking that it’s raining out, and even though she’s surely going over some rain-repellant spell, I lead her to the door. “You won’t need it,” I say softly. “The rain-repellant spell, I mean. We’re staying on the front steps, under the overhang. I just want to go outside.”

“Oh. Okay,” she replies, and I can feel scarlet radiating from her cheeks; she’s embarrassed. Of course, I want to tell her. Of course I knew what she was thinking.

I hold the heavy oak doors open, and she passes through, and I follow, and then, motioning towards the cold stone steps, I set myself upon the highest terrace, and she mimics my action. Again, I take her hand in mine, and then we just sit. Its raining, but the sound is nice, and the droplets are appealing as they splash onto the silver surface of the lake, and cling to the sharp blades of grass. A bead leaks over the outcropping of the castle, and lands silently on my black sneakers, and for a moment I stare at it, until I hear her.

“Harry?” She asks tentatively. My eyes shift to her, and I remember I’m nervous. I remember I have to do this.

“Hermione,” I say as I crouch forward, in hopes that it is a proper response.

“You said you were nervous.”

“I am.”

“You are.”

“Yes,” I reiterate, and then come to my feet two steps below. “I’m nervous.” As I begin to pace the stair, I regulate my breathing, and remind myself that if I don’t do this now, then there may be no other opportune time. “I’m nervous because I have to do this.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” and I stop pacing for a moment to look at her. “You. . . I. . . We’re young, both just seventeen.” She nods in agreement, and I begin to pace once more. “We’re young, but that doesn’t mean. . . that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. And you say you love me too.”

“I do love you too, Harry,” she says, and her face is looking concerned, and I wish this could be easier.

“Yes. I love you, and you love me. But we’re young, and young people, they say, can be foolish. Dumbledore, though, says I’m not foolish anymore.”

Oh, dear, this isn’t going good, I think, as I stuff my hand into my pocket and fumble around with the tiny object I find there. I’m rambling. I have to do this. I have to continue.

“He says I’m not young anymore, either. I’m not young anymore, and I love you. And there are things I’ve always wanted, but never could really have, you know?”

And here, I glance at her, and she knows, of course, what I’ve wanted, but had never really had since the night Voldemort killed my family. I don’t have to say any more about what I’ve always wanted, so I keep going.

“So I wanted to. . . I mean, I’m not going to stop loving you. I know that, because I wouldn’t have brought you out here if I didn’t know that. But I’m not sure if you’ll ever stop loving me.”

“Harry, I -” But I can’t let her interrupt; she’ll be calm and soothing, but even if that is what I most often need, I have to be nervous and jumbled and near-crazy right now, or it won’t happen. And I have to do this because I’ll always love her.

“No, wait, Hermione. I know I’m not the best for speaking, and I’m much more eloquent on paper, where I can rewrite this a million times, but this isn’t the letter sort of conversation. I will always love you, but. . . but there’s Voldemort, and I’m going to be a murderer, or a dead man, so I have to decide. If I‘m not dead before I have the chance to be a murder, that is. But that’s not the point,” I go on, shaking my head a bit, still pacing, grinding my feet upon the stone, still fiddling with the tiny item in my pocket. “The point is that I love you, and always will, but I need to know if you’ll always love me. Or maybe I need to know if you’ll love me if I’m a murderer. So, can I. . . Will you allow me to ask you a question?”

“Oh,” she says with wide eyes, as she exhales, and all she does is nod. And I think she knows now.

With closed lips, my mouth curves into a tiny smile, and I kneel on a step before her. My hand is still twiddling with the tiny trinket from before, and rolling it between my index finger and thumb, and I blink a few times, and then set my eyes upon hers.

I would like to know,” I begin, and pull my hand from my pocket, still holding the ornament, “if you would. . . I’m asking you if. . . I mean, that is. . .” But I trail off, more nervous than before, and look down at the object in my hand.

Of course, I know what it is: the ring I had bought for her. My eyes flicker to her hands, wrapped together on her knees, pulled close to her chest. My own hand, the one not fiddling with the ring, reaches out for hers, and holds it delicately. Sliding the ring gently up her finger, I bite my lip slightly, knowing that I love her. With a glance up, I see a smiling face, and glossy eyes. “Will you marry me?” I ask so softly that I wonder if she heard me above the patter of the rain.

Her eyebrows crease lightly, and her face is nodding, and I can’t believe it. She wants to marry me, and I choke on the air I just inhaled. She wants to marry me. Keeping my hand in hers, I pull her close, and hold her tight, smiling, and smiling, and smiling. She wants to marry me. With her head buried in my neck, the light, warm breathing tickles my nerves. Then, amid a tremble of her wiry hair, riotous in the showery weather, I feel her lips move towards my ear.

“Want to go make a baby?” she asks me.

Yes, that sounds nice. A baby. A family. A wife.

Although we make it to Hermione’s Head-Girl dormitory, we never reach the Great Hall for dinner that night, but that’s okay, because my sperm never reach Hermione’s egg that night either.

Yes, my sperm do not reach Hermione’s egg that night, so fetus won’t be growing in Hermione’s womb tomorrow morning, as I hold onto her tightly. No baby tonight. No baby tomorrow.

Not yet, but that’s okay, because I know it will happen in time.

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Two days after their final school year ends, Harry, Ron, and Hermione go to Number Four Privet Drive. Using only magic, they march into Harry’s bedroom, and pack all of his belongings into two trunks. On their way down the stairs, and out of the house, Harry quickly sends Body Binding jinxes towards the cowering Dursley family. As they stare at him, with darting, wide eyes, but unmoving bodies, he speaks to them: “Thank you for food. Thank you for shelter. Thank you for safety. Live happy lives. Goodbye.”

And then he leaves, never planning on returning to the neighborhood, but not realizing that plans change.

Once outside, they stuff the trunks into the back of a Ministry-rented car, and prepare to leave when they hear a voice: “Harry,” it calls. “Harry!”

Glancing around, he spots a boy he remembers. “Hello Mark,” he says. “Hello Mr. Evans.” Harry has never seen Mr. Evans this closely before, but has always thought him to be very eerie. Mark, though, Harry spoke with often around the neighborhood after an event just before his sixth year.

“James. Call me James,” Mr. Evans says, watching Harry closely.

“All right, then, James,” Harry replies strangely, taking in the man’s oddly colored eyes. There was something about the bright blue color that seemed wrong for his complexion. . . . “And I’m Harry. Mark and I are friends.”

“ So - so I’ve heard. Moving out, are you?” James asks.

“Yes. I’m done with school now, so I’m planning on starting my life.”

He nods, and then glances towards Ron and Hermione, and then freezes.

Ron looks at James oddly.

Hermione stares, unmoving, at James.

Harry watches James watch Hermione.

Mark’s glance switches between James and Harry.

“Let’s go, Mark,” James snaps suddenly. He then turns on his heal, and marches down Privet Drive, with Mark in tow a few feet behind him.

“G’bye, Harry!” Mark calls after a bit. “See you!”

With Hermione and Ron both watching James hurry down the street, Harry is biting his lip. “Hermione? Ron?” Suddenly, they both snap their gazes to him.

“Yes?” they inquire simultaneously.

As Harry walks towards Hermione, and slips his arm around her waist, he says, “He’s an odd man, isn’t he? Familiar, though.”

“Odd,” Hermione agrees. “Very familiar.”

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Three days after Harry’s, Ron’s, and Hermione’s final school year ends, Mark Evans sits at the kitchen table with James Evans. “Is it odd?” he asks his father. “Was it strange talking to yourself, and seeing her so young, while you’re so old?”

“Yes,” James replies. “Is it odd seeing your father only four years your elder, standing with your mother at your left, while the same man, nineteen years older, stands at your right?

For a moment there’s silence. “Yes,” Mark says, and then continues. “You just got out of Hogwarts.”

“Yes.”

“You went to Hogwarts.”

“You already knew that.”

“I want to go to Hogwarts.”

“Mark! We’ve been over this a thousand times. What will we tell people? Besides, you’ve learned more at thirteen than any sixteen year old knows at Hogwarts. In time, in a few more years, we can go to Dumbledore and explain all that happened, but not yet, okay? It won’t work yet. We have to wait. . . . In time.”

With a sigh, Mark nods. “I’m going to bed, Dad,” he says, glancing at the night falling through the window. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight. I love you, Mark.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

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     They lie in a bed in small bedroom, breathing evenly, in a quaint house, in a small village, in Scotland, and as her hair tickles his bare chest, his sperm meets her egg. “Hello,” it says.

“Hello,” the egg says in return. “Want to make a baby?”

For a moment, the sperm looks thoughtful, and flicks its tiny flagella a bit, but in the end, it nods. “Yes, let’s make a baby.”

She startles awake in the bed, but then only smiles. She knows.

And Mark Potter, made equally by Harry and Hermione Potter, is floating around in his mother’s womb.

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     The thing about time travel, Harry Potter learned in his third year, is that you can’t be seen, but you can watch. So you watch. But sometimes, you have to been seen. So you’re seen. But nonetheless, he learned this in his third year. This was only practice, though. This was only practice for his life. And for his son’s life.

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It is late on the thirty-first of October. It is late, and they are fighting. All around them, wizards and witches fight, throwing curses at each other, desperate to simply get out of this battle alive. Remaining in offensive stance, Harry feels them move, and then quiver. The wards around Hogwarts are being attacked, he knows. Voldemort is removing the wards around Hogwarts. Voldemort is going to enter the Hogwarts grounds. His son, his wife, his friends, his mentors, and all the students are on the Hogwarts grounds right now, some fighting, others not. But Voldemort is going to be on the Hogwarts grounds for the first time in over half a century, and that is not good; not at all.

Voldemort’s army, consisting of all from Death Eaters and werewolves, to trolls and giants, marched over the rugged mountains surrounding the school, and then trudged through the Forbidden Forest for days, until they rested for seventy-two hours, and then continued to march for another two hours, until they reached and attacked the school.

Yes, and now Voldemort’s army is attacking as Voldemort is tugging at the wards.

And now they are down.

The doors to the gate fly open, and Voldemort steps through. With a glance towards Dumbledore, who is busy keeping Death Eaters away from Mark Potter, along with Ron, Remus, and Hermione, Harry prepares himself for what is to come: neither can live while the other survives.

Immediately, Voldemort strides over to Harry.

His scar hurts. His scar is searing with pain. He mustn’t pay attention to that. He must live. He must fight.

“Avada Kedavra,” Voldemort screeches at once, but Harry skids to the side quickly.

“Expelliarmus!”

“A Disarmer, Harry? I really thought there was more to you! Crucio!”

“Protego!” And Voldemort is screaming in agony. He can‘t cast the Cruciatus curse, but he surely can reflect it. Of course, that shielding spell was not meant for curses so strong, but he knows how to bend the rules a bit. . . “Stupify,” Harry cries, aiming at the twitching Voldemort, collapsed on the ground. But he is not quick enough: in the second between the casting of the Stunning Spell, and the release of his shield, Voldemort rolls out of the way. Ducking a stray green flash, Harry cries out another Stunner.

“Avada Kedavra,” Voldemort cries, and it flies over Harry’s right shoulder, even scorching his robes.

He is determined. He will do this. He will live. For Mark. For Hermione. For his life.

“How fast is my heart beating?” he wonders. Too fast, he knows is the answer. Too fast.

He knows he needs to concentrate and focus on the spell he needs to cast. Yes, Voldemort is immortal, but only in body. It is not his body they need to attack, it is his soul.

Charles Oates researched the destruction of a soul.

Harry Potter researched the experiments of Charles Oates.

And Harry Potter can rid the world of Voldemort forever, but he needs to concentrate.

Instead of retaliating to a missed Stunner from Voldemort, Harry reaches deep into his robe pockets, and retrieves a long phial of a crystal-white potion. There is not a name for it, though. It is just crystal-white, and it is the first step. Clutching it tightly, Harry dodges to one side, and then chucks the phial at Voldemort’s chest, where it shatters, and soaks his robes and spatters onto his face.

“Its time to kill you, Harry Potter,” Voldemort says, not even taking time to ask about the thrown potion. There is no distraction in battle, Harry knows.

For a second, Harry’s eyes dart towards his wife and friends, who are still defending Mark, who is watching his father intently. But he can’t play with his son now, he has to save the world. Maybe later, he thinks. Its time for step two: stall for thirty seconds, at the least.

In thirty seconds, the potion is entering Voldemort’s blood stream, then racing through it, pushing red blood cells aside, until it reaches his brain. Upon approach to the brain, the molecules of the potion search out the portion of the mind that is responsible for creating a person’s soul. This is not located in a visual dimension, though. The soul exists only in time. The portion of the brain, called the Creanim, designated to control the soul exists partially in space, and partially in time. The crystal-white molecules locate, and centralize the Creanim, directing all spells that attack the body to be directed through the blood stream, to the brain, and then pulled towards the soul. A skillfully created spell can utilize this centralization.

Charles Oates was killed by protesters who were against the destruction of souls before he could successfully create a proper spell.

Harry Potter spent two years with Albus Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, and Severus Snape studying Oates’s research and potion, carefully designing a spell that would terminate Voldemort’s soul.

And it has been thirty seconds.

Step three, Harry knows, is ready for execution. Step three, he remembers, involves the concentration. Charging at Voldemort, wand pointed directly at Voldemort’s chest, Harry cries, “Petrificus Totalus!” And Voldemort isn’t moving, now, as he lies stiffly on the wet ground, covered in mud, polluted by both pure and muggle-born blood. Step three was immobilization.

Now, two years will be worth it. Voldemort’s eyes are wide, and frightened. Frightened. Voldemort is frightened. Yes, this is good, Harry notes, as he positions his wand directly above Voldemort’s eyes.

Dumbledore told him it did not matter what words he uses to cast the spell. Its isn’t the word, this time. It isn’t even the way. It is the will, and Harry has the will. The incantation, Harry knows, could be anything.

So after taking a deep breathe, Harry says, “to an ending,” and a crystal-light flash burns from his holly wand. In Voldemort’s veins, white energy is whizzing by blood cells, passing through the atriums and verticals of his heart, and arriving at his brain, and focusing-in on the Creanim.

The spell pulls at the soul, so then it folds in on Voldemort’s body. The soul exists only in time. The soul is time. Time folds in on Voldemort’s body, and Harry Potter watches.

Mark Potter watches, also, but not Voldemort. Mark Potter watches his father.

Mark Potter watches his father watch Voldemort turn into a time vortex. Harry’s spell, though, is still pulling, but pulling inward now, in towards time.

To Hermione, it happens too fast. She misses it.

To Dumbledore, it happens before it happens. He already knows.

To Ron, it happens in the future. He does not accept it yet.

To Mark, it happens too slow. He is watching.

Harry is pulled towards the dark vortex of time, formally Tom Riddle, and at first it is easy to resist, and he takes a step back, but then, as the blackness grows darker, the pull strengthens. He does not hear Mark Potter yell for his father, but only hears the rushing of time passing by.

But Mark hears himself yell. Mark feels himself run towards Harry, trying to save his father. Harry is being consumed by the vortex, and so is he.

Then they are gone. They are in another time. The vortex pulls at itself, and disappears from space, now only existent in time. The body of Tom Marvolo Riddle does not exist, but his soul is passing through time, looking for another victim. He is lost in time.

Hermione screams. Any tracking serum on Harry or Mark Potter would not even flicker with response on the receptor. Her life, she believes, has left this moment.

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         A scar, it is said in the magical world, disappears with its creator. They are correct. The creator disappears. The scar disappears. A cut remains in the shape of the scar. Blood bleeds. The cut heals. And then it could be over, but sometimes, it is not.

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In 1988, on October thirty-first, late into the night, I am doing additional rounds for Professor Dumbledore. He felt a disturbance earlier, and asked me, as Head Boy, to make sure the grounds are in peace, and so far it seems so. At Hagrid’s hut, though, I hear something.

“Mark,” someone whispers. “Mark, can you hear me? Are you awake?”

“Who’s there?” I ask loudly. “Who is speaking?” There is no whispering now, though, and I can’t even hear breathing. I ask again: “Who is there?”

“Ahem.” There is a clearing of a throat behind me, and there stands a man, probably not much older than me, in torn robes, and he is holding a child.

“Who are you?” I ask automatically.

“Who are you?” he returns.

For a moment, I think. Certainly the man looks crazed: wild hair, sticking up in all directions, blazing green eyes, and blood seeping from some cut in his forehead, not to mention soiled robes. And is that more blood at the shoulder? Crazy indeed. “Barry Mann,” I stumble out, not wanting to frighten the man.

“I’m. . . I’m James. James Evans. This is my son, Mark Evans.”

“Son?” I ask automatically. “That kid’s your son? How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-one. Why are you asking?”

“You have a son. You seem to be young.”

“He’s three. My wife had him when I was nineteen.”

“Oh.”

“Oh is right. Now excuse me, please.” James walked past my shoulder, and then placed the boy, Mark, on a rock nearby. “Ennervate,” he stated with confidence, his wand pointed at the boys chest.

“Dad! Dad! Dad, don’t leave,” the boy was screaming the second he awoke.

James was kneeling by him in a flash of shadows, and gathered his small frame in his arms. “Sh. . . . Mark, it's okay. Its okay. I’m here, Mark.”

“Excuse me, but what are you doing?” I ask as politely as I can, wondering what this man was up to when his son fell unconscious.

“Comforting my son.”

“Oh.”

“What’s the date? Shhh, Mark, I’m right here.”

“Its October thirty-first. Maybe November first by now.”

James is silent for a moment, but then speaks: “No, it’s still Halloween.”

“How do you know?” I ask eagerly.

“I just do. Now, what’s the full date?”

“Er. . . Well, its Wednesday, October 31st, 1988.”

“Eighty-eight, huh? Not too bad.”

“Pardon me, sir?”

“Are you okay now, Mark?”

“I’m ‘k, Daddy.”

“Good,” and then, crouched over towards a grassy area nearby, he begins to search the ground for something. In the end, he returns to his feet, and tosses a large pebble into the air with his right hand and catches it, as Mark clutches at his wand, still sitting on the rock .

“Want to see London, then, Mark?” When the boy nods, he puts his hand out in an unasked question, and receives his answer when his son places his wand in his hand. “Portus,” he murmurs, his wand pointed towards the pebble.

“Hey,” I exclaim, “isn’t that illegal!”

“I think so. . . . ” James answers, looking thoughtful. “Yes, I believe it is.”

“But you can’t -”

“I also believe I am allowed to do whatever I want, with out regard to a thing you say.”

“You -”

“Ready Mark? Come here,” James pushes forth. “On three, all right?”

“Wait!” I cry

“One -”

“You can’t -”

“Two -”

“Just-”

“Three-”

“Leave.”

And I never hear of James or Mark Evans again in my life.

But I definitely hear, and have heard of Harry Potter. In retrospect, I should have realized the blood was seeping from his scar, and he had to be Harry Potter, but then again, who’s to expect Harry Potter to travel through a vortex, and land in front of you, at exactly the time you are standing in front of the vortex position? And besides, Harry Potter’s a legend right now: excluding the twenty-one year-old Harry Potter, there’s only the eight-year-old Harry Potter, who is said to be able to kill people with a glance.

I never thought I’d be the one to see him after he defeated the Dark Lord. Of course, that happens later, when I’m almost thirty. But still, here he was, after he defeated (or should that be defeats?) He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for the final time, and I’m only eighteen.

Time-travel is very confusing.

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The woman, of about twenty-five years of age, watches the man pull the “For Sale” sign out of the morning ground and stash it towards the front door of his newly purchased home with interest. The lady lives in Number Twenty-one Magnolia Road, while the man she is watching now lives in number eighteen. He’s good looking, she decides, studying him from head to foot. His short, dark hair looked recently cut, his pale skin contrasted it well, although his sharp blue eyes looked wrong on his face. Not tall, she noted, but not too short. In hopes of catching a date the next weekend, the woman flattened her shirt to her skin and tugged at the collar, in hopes of drawing up a little more cleavage. After playing with her hair a bit and slipping into a pair of shoes that would make her look shorter, she strolled across the street, and towards the man.

Flipping her hair once, she immediately thrust her hand out. “Olivia Gurson,” she said, with a lower-pitched voice. The man looked up, and blinked his eyes towards her, and then grasped the hand firmly.

“James Evans,” he replied, letting her hand go.

“You must be the new neighbor.”

“Yup, just finished getting boxes into the house last night.”

It was time to see if he was single, Olivia thought with purpose. “So, you seem young for such a family-oriented neighborhood. What brings you here?” she asked with a shifting of her hips.

He didn’t even glanced downwards, but he did blink, startled by her question.

“What brings me here? I - I want to watch,” he said with an air of uncertainty, almost questioning himself.

“Watch, eh? I know a few things there are to watch around here. . . .”

But then Evans’ shoulders straightened, and the side of him mouth twitched. “I’ve a few things to watch already, thanks.”

“You do, do you?” Olivia Gurson asked with a gruff voice, mistaking his comment for a sort of line. “I watch also, James,” she whispered, leaning towards his ear. She lingered there. He pulled away.

“Ms. Gurson,” Evans replied pulling himself away from the woman, “I was speaking of my son. I’m watching my son.”

“Son? You’ve got a son?” she exclaimed, aghast.

“I do.”

“Son! You can’t be a day older than twenty,” Olivia Gurson shot back, regaining her flirtatious tone.

“Twenty-one. Mark - that’s my son - is three.”

“And little Mark’s. . . mother?”

“Not - I mean - she’s gone.”

“Just gone?”

“Dead,” Evans said firmly. “She’s dead.” And then louder, he added: “Mark and I miss her very much. We are grieving deeply.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Mark is probably waking now, so I’ll head inside. She you about.”

“Yes. Goodbye, then.”

“Have a lovely day, Ms. Gurson.”

And he didn’t lie, Evans would reassure himself later. He would be watching. But not Olivia Gurson, and there is only so much that a three-year-old does that needs to be watched. A nine-year-old boy with green eyes and unruly black hair, though, Evans knew, is very interesting to observe. As long as he wasn’t seen. . . .

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“Well! Fancy you meeting you here, stranger!”

“You - Oh! Hello! How are you? Its been a while! Two months? How have you been?”

“I’ve been well. And yourself?”

“All right. I’ve been all right.”

“What brings you around here, anyway?”

“Oh, I’m doing a research case for the Ministry on Dumbledore’s death - they don’t seem to accept that the Great Albus Dumbledore died simply of old age, and a worn heart. So I was dropping off some files for them. How’s work for you?”

“You know the life of an Auror: always exciting.”

“And how’s the pregnancy going?”

“It’s going well, I’d say. Becky’s not in too much pain yet, so we’re still happy.”

“Good, good.”

“I come here, too, you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I always go out this way, that’s what I mean.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“It’s a great monument and all, but do you think Harry would have liked it?”

“Of course not; he would have hated it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“I have to get going, though.”

“Owl me, will you? We’ll have dinner, okay? I want to see you happy.”

“Okay.”

“Really, though. . . Its been two years since. . . since. . . Well, just have some fun.”

“Yes, I will. Bye.

“G‘bye. And don’t forget to Owl me!”

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                                 “Mark?”

“Yea, dad?”

“Want me to show you the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley tomorrow?”

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You see a man, of average height, walk comfortably into the pub, flattening his black hair, flecked with streams of silver to his forehead, as he tugs at the shoulder of a smaller man - maybe boy - behind him. The man is thirty-six. The man - maybe boy - is eighteen.

“This is it,” the man says. “This is the Leaky Cauldron.”

“This is,” you hear the boy say, “this is. . . Its. . .”

“Amazing?”

“I - You - Yes.”

“I know. I haven’t been here since I was twenty, way back in two-thousand.” That is odd, you think. Only twenty years old three years ago.

You watch the two take seats at a smoky table, where they don’t talk, but only see, absorbing in the atmosphere of the old pub. Missing it, loving it, and meeting it. Your head tilts as a man walks to them - Tom, you know he is. Tom clears his throat, and the older man looks up. And he smiles. “Erm, hello,” you hear Tom say. “Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron. May I get you anything, Mr. . . ? “

“Evans. James Evans.”

“Right. Can I get you anything Mr. Evans? Or perhaps for your companion?”

“Two butterbeers,” you hear James Evans say, with overwhelming amounts of enthusiasm.

You still watch them as Tom returns to his kitchen, preparing the two butterbeers. The boy is handsome, you think. He has green eyes, and light brown hair, much lighter than his father’s, although it is amazingly messy. You wonder if he ran a comb through it today. . . .

They are both very pale, though. Pale like ivory, you think. Beautifully pale. They are both gorgeous.

The father watches his son. The son studies the pub.

And then Tom is back again, placing a butterbear in front of each man. “Enjoy!” he exclaims. “Anything else I can help you with?”

Then, Mr. Evans looks up. “There is something you could help me with, yes.”

“Oh, wonderful. Just name it.”

“Do you know of a Remus Lupin? Does he still live?” you hear Mr. Evans ask, with the tiniest bit of fear in his voice.

“Lupin? Of course I know Lupin!”

“Do you?”

“He’s staying here, in fact, right now. Visiting some friends, he says.”

“Is he in?”

“He is. Just arrived back an hour or so ago.”

“Am I allowed to go see him?”

“ Of course, Mr. Evans. Shall I send him word?”

“No!” You are startled to hear Mr. Evans reply so quickly. “No, that will be all right. I will just go see him. What room is he in?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

The boy is still soaking in the pub, you think.

“Thank you, Tom,” the man says. “And Albus Dumbledore. Is Albus still at Hogwarts?”

“Mr. Evans, sir,” Tom begins uncertainly, and you know why. “Albus still remains at Hogwarts. He is dead, though, buried in the graveyard a year or so ago.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

And you watch as bits of milky butterbeer spill out of Mr. Evans’ tankard as it drops from his hand to the table. You think Mr. Evans knew Albus Dumbledore well. You are right.

“Mark, stay here.”

So, Mark is the boy’s name. Mark Evans. Not a bad name, although it doesn’t sound quite natural, just as the pale blue eyes don’t seem natural on his father.

But Mark doesn’t hear, you know. As you watch Mr. Evans fly away from Tom and his spilling tankard, Mark does not notice his father, but only the room. You don’t even think that Mark realizes his father had left the table until he had fled up the stairs.

You sigh, and take a long drink from your deep glass of firewhisky.

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         Remus Lupin was almost asleep when the frantic knocking began on his door.

He was almost awake when it did not stop.

“Remus!” a voice called from the other side of the door. “Remus Lupin.”

“Gur’wa,” Remus Lupin said, in what was most likely a negative answer to the calling.

The knocker was persistent, though. “Remus! Open the door.”

Remus Lupin seemed to recognize the voice slightly, though, or was just interested in who would want to see him, because he rolled over and began to judge the distance between the bed and the door. Ten feet, he told himself. He could do ten feet. That wasn’t so bad.

So he dragged himself to the door, and began to undo the locks, calling at the person on the other side to be quite. “I’m coming, I’m coming. One moment.”

With sleep eyes, and half shut lids, he flung the door open, and leaned against the door post.

“ ‘Lo?”

“Hello, Remus Lupin. Its been a while. Longer for me, though..”

Remus Lupin allowed his curiosity to give him the strength he needed to open his eyes a bit more, but then they were as wide as was humanly possible. The wrinkles in his brow seemed to deepen, but the ones in his cheeks disappeared as his bottom jaw fell from his top. “You - you’re -”

“I’ve missed you, Remus.”

“H- Harry?”

There was a nod, and Remus Lupin hugged and wept.

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         He is thirty-seven when he finally sees her again. His son is nineteen. She is twenty-four.

The last time they saw each other, he was twenty-one. His son was three. She was twenty-one.

It has been seventeen years since their last meeting for two of them. It has been three years for the other.

He and his son, with the help of his old friend - like a surrogate father to him - found her.

She was living in a small house.

He and his son found the small house and were currently standing just before the front door.

“Would you like to knock?” he asks his son.

“Yes,” his son replies.

His son knocks.

After a minute, she opens the door.

She is his wife. She is his son’s mother.

“Hello,” he says.

And the lives of Harry, Hermione, and Mark Potter begin again.

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A/N: Thanks to my beta reader, Senna Wells, for catching all the mistakes I know I never would have.