Through the Puddles of Time

Chapter Seven

*Author's Note: Hi, guys! Sorry it's been so long since I last updated this story. I have been crazy busy with schoolwork, but I've had a little time of late so I have decided to get back into this one. I wouldn't leave you hanging (forever...)! Hope you guys like it!*

Pier head. Liverpool. Midnight. Shadowy figures populate the darkness. Two groups, standing on the cobblestone pathway lining the riverbank. On the opposite side of the pier, buildings glow with artificial light. The towering mass of the Royal Liver Building rises up, its clock towers gleaming a spectral blue. Its duplicate wavers in the waters of the River Mersey. But on this side of the river, everything is dark.

The two groups of wizards stand facing one another, eyeing each other up. Two figures move up from the masses, emerging to stand face to face beside the metal railing on the edge of the pier. The air around them smells crisp and cold, the salty river breeze mingling with the sickly sweet stench of sewage leaking from a vent nearby. An icy breeze licks over them. Neither reacts.

"Ready?" asks Harry, looking up at the patch of even denser darkness he knows much be Tom's face.

"My people are indeed in position," replies Tom. "It would seem your… little group is all accounted for as well." He looks pointedly at the clearly much smaller amount of people standing behind Harry, raising one dark brow skeptically.

"Yeah, well, when your people are this good you don't need to compensate with numbers," snaps Harry, his temper beginning to warm. But now is not the time for such squabbles. There are larger concerns here, concerns he needs Tom's help to deal with. Only cooperating isn't quite as easy as it sounds.

"Anyways," Harry continues quickly in an attempt to prevent the argument from escalating any further, "our spies within the Youngest Sons tell us that Albus' and Grindelwald's rooms are up on the top floor, and that they tend to turn in by around half past eleven. So I was—"

"Your spies are wrong then," interrupts Tom smugly. "My sources tell me that while Grindelwald does go to bed around half past eleven, Albus stays down in the main office on the third floor until at least one every night. I'd hate to let him just sneak out of here while we're all up on the top floor on your false information." A muscle flickers in Harry's jaw, but he manages to maintain his polite expression.

"Fine, then," Harry says. "I'll believe you. After all, I can't fight a man I can't find, and neither of us wants that, I'm sure."

"Naturally," agrees Tom, an amused smile twisting the shadows of his face.

"Our people will go to the third floor then," continues Harry, "and your people can deal with any of the Youngest Sons on the other floors while you handle Grindelwald." He says it like a statement, almost an order even, but there's a question in the words. Is Tom still willing to play this little game, still willing to go along with Harry's only half-explained plan? Tom's smile widens, a dark twinkle in his black eyes. He nods.

"Sounds like a plan," Tom agrees, his tone deceptively airy and polite.

"Right, then," says Harry. "Let's go." He turns, stepping back to rejoin the rebel group behind him. Even in the darkness he can still make out his friends' faces amidst the strangers'. Both Lunas and Nevilles, Seamus, Percy, Fred, George, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Aberforth, Lupin, Sirius. Everyone Harry cares about. Harry's gaze lingers on the last two in the group: Lupin's scarred brow and touseled light brown hair, Sirius' gaunt cheeks and handsome features. He's lead these faces into battle before, lead them with equally good intentions and equally bad odds. And they were lost. Lost forever. Dead, and bloody, and gone. Harry doesn't know if he can go through that again, can feel that pain and bear that guilt, but he has no choice. He needed them in his world and he needs them now, needs them to fight. He can only hope that this time they will win.

"Everyone ready?" Harry asks the group. He looks around at his friends, taking in their familiar features. In their expressions Harry sees his own feelings. Worry, anticipation, determination. But the determination is winning.

"You betcha, Harry," says George.

"One hundred percent ready to jump in and kick some Youngest Sons arse," says Fred.

"Don't worry, Ronny. We'll spare you," says George.

"Probably," adds Fred. Their voices are teasing, all jokes and laughter and smiles, but Harry can see the way George clings to Fred's hand, holding it tight, close, and Harry knows: George can't lose Fred again.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," snaps Ron, rolling his eyes. "Very funny, aren't you?"

"I think we are all as ready as we're going to be," interrupts Remus, his tone serious. His wand is in his hand, held up slightly as if already in battle. Harry glances around the group one last time, evaluating. But now is the time. Now, or never. And never isn't an option.

"Right, well, look after one another, yeah?" Harry says. "All you have to do is take care of any of the Youngest Sons we meet along the way. Just leave Albus to me, alright? Remember the plan." Dark heads bob in the night, affirmative nods, and Harry turns round once more.

"Done with your little pep talk?" asks Tom scornfully, raising one dark brow.

"Yes," says Harry, not taking the bait. "You first." He gestures down at the inky waters of the river beside them. Farther out, light catches the water's surface, glinting off the ripples and swirls of the water's current, but here the water is just black. The unknown. Tom glances down at the river, then back up at Harry's face. He snaps, pale index finger sliding soundly across the pad of his thumb. Behind him, cloaked figures leap into motion. Ten men rush towards the water's edge, vaulting the metal railing easily to plummet down into the murky river. The splashes of their landings are never heard. The absence lingers in the air, conspicuous, ominous.

"Always best to let more expendable people go first," comments Tom, his gaze still fixed intently on Harry's features.

"Coward," retorts Harry, and jumps. The water rushes up to meet him, dark and solid, but its cold touch never reaches Harry's skin. The River Mersey parts before Harry like a curtain quickly pulled away. In its place is a wide corridor of sapphire stone. Harry winces, expecting his feet to slam down hard after such a drop. But instead his body slows, gently lifted down as though buoyed by an invisible cloud. Up above Harry, the river is gone. He is completely surrounded by stone. The corridor is at least nine meters wide and six meters tall. Pale blue orbs of light hover in the air by the ceiling, bathing the room in a cool glow. Upon first glance, the stones lining the hall seem to be a deep blue. But as Harry looks more closely, he realizes that he can't tell if the blue is actually in the stone or is merely reflected from the light.

"You might want to move," drawls a deep voice behind Harry as a hand grabs his shoulder and tugs him backwards. "Otherwise the others may end up on top of you, and wouldn't that be a pity." Harry stumbles backwards a few steps, then jerks his shoulder free, spinning around to face the man addressing him so coldly. Harry's heart stutters in his chest, green eyes going wide as breath suddenly becomes hard to come by. Standing before him, swathed in midnight black robes is a man Harry never thought he would see again, never thought he would even want to see again. But standing here, looking into those black, button eyes, Harry feels as though he could cry. This Severus looks exactly as Harry remembers. Sharp cheekbones, long, pointed nose, pallid, white skin. Harsh features, always held in an expression already halfway to scorn. But as Severus sees Harry's face, his carefully schooled expression cracks around the edges, wavering into shocked awe. Even in a world where Harry was never born, Severus knows those features. Most of them are stolen straight from a man he does not remember fondly, but those eyes, those bright green eyes, they belong to another face. A face he has seen every night in his dreams for the last eighteen years. Harry can see the question forming.

"She was my mother," Harry whispers. He has to tell Severus now, now before Tom comes down and ruins it. "Lily Evans. I'm her son. In my world, I didn't die that night. I made it because she protected me. It was her final act. She died protecting me from him."

For a moment, Harry catches a glimpse of something in the other man's eyes, something raw, something painful. A love that even after all these years has refused to die. But the breach only lasts for a moment. Within seconds, Severus' face is perfectly blank once more, as white and empty as a piece of parchment.

"I see," his says, his voice rich and deep. Then, suddenly, people are raining from the sky.

Ron and Hermione rush up to Harry, looking around curiously at the corridor of blue stone stretching out in both directions. Then, they notice whom it is Harry is talking to. Ron's blue eyes go wide.

"Professor—" he begins, but Hermione cuts him off, elbowing him hard in the side.

"Ouch," Ron complains, frowning over at Hermione and rubbing his side. "What did you do—?"

"It's nice to meet you," says Hermione, nodding politely at Severus before shooting Ron a meaningful glare. No one can know that Harry, Ron and Hermione are already familiar with Severus, let alone glad to see him. If Tom somehow found out that Severus had been secretly working against him in Harry's world, this Severus wouldn't stand a chance. And a man who had once stood against Voldemort to protect the child of his lost love might be willing to do it again.

"Mmm," murmurs Severus dubiously, his lip curling in distaste as he takes in Ron's freckled face and Hermione's bushy brown hair. Then Tom is landing elegantly behind them.

"My lord," says Severus, bowing. "The entrance has been cleared." Only then does Harry notice the two bodies on the floor, one man and one woman bearing the blue robes and triangular tattoos of the Youngest Sons.

"Good," says Tom, barely even glancing at the bodies. "Dolohav, Avery, scout up ahead. Check for any traps." Two cloaked figures head off down the corridor, wands raised. Occasionally, their wands spout sparks, warnings of wards and protection charms. But soon those defenses are dismantled and the pair move on.

"I don't understand," murmurs Harry, frowning after the two Death Eaters. "It shouldn't be this easy. The Dumbledore in my world knew all about protection charms. Strong ones. It shouldn't be this simple to just dismantle them."

"Arrogance," explains Tom, a hint of smugness tinging his words. "They would never expect anyone to try and invade these headquarters. Prior to our little truce, no force large enough existed."

"Arrogance," echoes Harry. "Good thing you avoided that little pitfall, isn't it?"

"There's arrogance, Mr. Potter," says Tom, "and then there's just knowing one's own value."

"Clear," calls Dolohav. The pair has reached the end of the corridor. They stand, looking back expectantly.

"Time to begin, it would seem," says Tom. "Best of luck with your end of the bargain, Mr. Potter."

"Right," says Harry, "yeah, you too." Harry wishes he had something more poignant to say, something flippant and confident, but sweat rolls down his body, slick and cool, and his muscles are twitching from being on alert. His nerves have kicked in, sudden and strong, and a comeback is suddenly completely out of reach. Tom glances at Harry once, taking in the determined set of the other boy's tan jaw, then glides off down the corridor. Death Eaters stream after him, a river of inky black cloaks that part and flow around Harry and his friends like they're mere rocks in the stream. And then Harry and friends are alone in the blue light of the hall.

"Ready?" asks Hermione, laying a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "We'll lose any element of surprise if we don't go now."

"I know," says Harry. But he allows himself one breath. A breath to settle his rattled nerves, to straighten his spine and set his shoulders back. He's about to go kill his teacher, his mentor, his oldest protector and friend. He needs that breath. "Let's go."

The corridor seems so long, but the group crosses it in mere seconds. At the end, around a corner is a huge set of staircases. An army could stream up such an expanse. An army had. In comparison, the rebel group seems so small. Fragile. Ready to break. They continue upwards anyway.

At the first landing, Remus and the others pause.

"We'll head in here," Remus says, nodding towards the row of closed doors leading further into the Youngest Sons' headquarters. "Good luck, Harry,"

"Be careful," adds Sirius. He grasps Harry's arm firmly, giving his bicep an affectionate squeeze. "You'd better meet us back here safe and sound, you hear?"

"Right back at you," says Harry. He smiles lovingly up into his godfather's face, giving the older man's hand a comforting pat. He should have had an entire lifetime looking into this face. In a better world, Harry would have never lived with the Dursleys, never slept in a cupboard under the stairs or spent his childhood abused for the magic flowing in his veins. Or even later, when Scabbers was revealed as Peter Pettigrew, that could have been their opportunity then. But it never happened. Over and over, their chances slipped away. Now, this is another one. And once again, Harry has to turn away from his godfather and go. Sirius runs through the metal doors onto the first floor, and Harry, Ron and Hermione sprint away up the stairs. On the third floor, in his office, Dumbledore is waiting. Even if he doesn't know it yet.

The third floor landing looks the same as the two before it: sapphire stone floors melting away into an entire wall lined with silver doors. The number three is painted on the wall beside them, black and imposing. Harry inches forward, grabbing the handle of one of the center doors and tugging it open just a crack. On the other side is another hallway, coated in the same blue stone. Silver sconces hang on the walls bearing tall, white candles. The flames that flicker on their wicks are a frosted blue. The hall is empty. Eerily so.

Harry slips his wand away into his robes, reaching into an interior pocket to grab the textured wood of a very different wand instead. The elder wand feels strange in Harry's hand. Heavy, larger than it should be. It holds a power all its own, separate from Harry's. But it recognizes his grasp. He can feel its greeting like a tingling in his palm; it senses its true master's hold. Slowly, Harry pushes the door open the rest of the way, creeping out into the corridor on the other side. Hermione and Ron follow.

"Right," whispers Harry, glancing around at the completely identical doors lining the hall. "All we have to do is figure out which of these leads to Albus' office."

"It could be any of them," mutter Hermione, glancing around.

"Actually," says Ron, "I bet it's that one. Over there. You know, the one with the little sign next to it saying: 'Office of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.'"

Silence.

"Well, no need to look so surprised," snaps Ron indignantly. "I figure things out sometimes, too."

"Of course you do, Ron," says Hermione.

"All the time, mate," Harry agrees. Ron glances back and forth between their carefully innocent faces.

"I see how it is," he grumbles. "No bloody faith. Let's just go, yeah?" For a moment, no one moves. Then, in the distance, they hear a faint yelling, the blasts of spells ricocheting off walls, so far away, like echoes of a dream remembered upon waking. The battle has started. Somewhere downstairs, far off, but it's started. They need to move now while there's still a chance at surprise. The trio creeps down the corridor, placing their feet as gently as possible so as to avoid making too much noise.

"Remember the plan," whispers Harry, staring fixedly at the door to Albus' office. "When the fighting starts, you two get out of the way. I can't worry about protecting you. Find a place to hide. Only step in if I'm defeated." He can't be thinking about them during the fight, can't be worrying they'll be hit with a stray curse. This is Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard Harry has ever met. He needs to focus on the fight, not his friends. The only reason he agreed to let them come along at all was that someone needs to know if he fails. Someone needs to be alive to warn the others to retreat, to get the hell out of these headquarters and so far into hiding they'll never be found again.

"We know, Harry," whispers Hermione, her voice soft and reassuring. "Don't worry. We'll stick to the plan."

"Right," agrees Ron. "No funny business here."

Harry nods, then pushes the office door open. The door swings smoothly, silently. Clearly well maintained. The room inside is bright, flooded with the warm light of daylight despite being under a river in the middle of the night. It appears to be a waiting room. Sofas line two of the walls, white and sleek, facing dark coffee tables covered in wizarding magazines. At the end of the room, facing the door, is a reception desk, currently unmanned. Three doors go off from this room, imperious doors of dark wood with intricate carvings: one beside each row of sofas, and the third on the wall behind the reception desk. The room is empty. Albus isn't here.

Hermione gestures to the door behind the reception desk.

"My bet is that's his office," she whispers, the words barely audible. Harry nods. It makes sense. If he were going to plan the layout of this place, that's certainly where he'd put the most important room.

"I'll head that way then", Harry murmurs. "You two check out these other doors." Hermione and Ron nod, splitting up to each creep over, half-crouched, to one of the doors. Harry walks straight ahead, edging around the reception desk to stand facing the door he knows in his heart must contain Albus. He inhales, pausing for just a moment, wand held at the ready. He has two options here, creak the door open a crack in the hopes that Albus won't notice and that he can get a hint of the layout of the room beyond before attacking, or slam the door open and hope that the element of surprise will save him. But Albus has always been observant. Harry can't imagine him not noticing a door opening, even just a crack. He bursts open the door, leaping head first into the unknown.

Albus' office is bigger than Harry would have expected. The room is long, with an endless expanse of empty white marble floor before finally reaching the matching marble desk at its end. The ceilings are incredibly tall, looming up towards what surely must be mock skylights, since daylight filters through them from bright blue skies. Sitting at the desk, in long, flowing robes of midnight blue, is Albus Dumbledore. He looks just as Harry remembers. The same silver hair, the same river of beard, and even from here, Harry can tell, the same twinkling blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles. But something about Albus' expression is different. Not the mildly amused, knowing look Harry is used to, but an arrogant amusement. The look of a man who knows his power, who is willing to flaunt it. The Dumbledore Harry knew never looked so un-modest.

To Harry's surprise, Dumbledore doesn't jump to his feet or shoot a curse Harry's way. In fact, he doesn't even look angry. Nor, on a less pleasant note, though, does he look surprised to see Harry.

"Well," says Dumbledore, his tone light and casual, as though merely making small talk in line at the store, "you must be my would-be-assassin. A bit young, don't you think?"

"If only you knew you the irony of you saying that, sir," Harry says, his wand still raised. His heart is pounding in his ears, throbbing in his throat, but his words come out steady. He's ready. "You knew I was coming, then?"

"But of course," replies Dumbledore, his smirk growing. "You don't think an entire army could just trundle in here without me knowing? Or a boy come over from another universe without me hearing about it? I hear you killed dear old Tom over there. Is that right?"

"It is," says Harry flatly. There's no point in lying. It wasn't really a question.

"Too bad you don't seem inclined to do it again," Dumbledore comments, his tone still light as air. "That boy can be a bit of a pain now and then, when he sets his mind to it. Always was a troubled child, as I recall. I did hope for a while there he would simply grow out of it. Apparently it just wasn't in the cards for him."

"Too bad," mutters Harry, his jaw tight. Hearing these words and the coldness in them feels wrong, completely and utterly alien, from such familiar lips. His Dumbledore would never speak in this way. Right? Except, somehow… somehow it strikes at something, some truth about his mentor's sharpness. Something Harry would rather not think about too hard right now.

"I take it we are to duel now?" Dumbledore asks politely.

"Unless you feel like giving yourself up," Harry retorts grimly. They both know where this is going. The words are pointless, just cruel play, the cat batting around the canary.

"Unfortunately, no," says Dumbledore, getting to his feet, and tightening his grip around his wand, "I am not currently feeling so inclined. Do try to avoid damaging the furniture. It would be such a pity to have to waste time repairing it."

There's no time to reply. A jet of green light shoots out at Harry, sudden and silent, without any verbal incantation. Luckily, Harry's instincts kick in.

"Expelliarmus!"

Crimson light meets green in a shower of sparks, but the moment is short lived. Another jet of light comes hurtling Harry's way, but he's rolling, diving away to the side as he shoots another disarming curse in Albus' direction. Flames lick at the edge of Harry's robes, a phoenix all of fire blossoming up from the ground where the curse hit. Harry quickly douses it in water. Surprisingly enough, that works. Probably the Elder Wand's doing. The wand is humming in Harry's hand, alert and ready, an entity with a mind all its own.

"Stupify!" Harry shouts, snapping his wand quickly in Dumbledore's direction. Dumbledore's wand flashes, deflecting the curse easily.

"Give up, foolish boy," Dumbledore snaps. "I can't be beaten. Especially not by the likes of you."

Then once more a killing curse is speeding Harry's way. So Harry does what he has always done, what his instincts scream at him to do, what has sometimes gotten him in trouble, but has also saved him when it most counted.

"Expelliarmus!"

Once again, green light meets red. But this time, Harry holds it, placing all his will into the spell. He can feel the Elder Wand trembling in his hand, struggling to cope with something that shouldn't be possible. There can't be two unbeatable wands. Sparks ooze from the point where the spells meet, thick and fast as liquid. Over the spells' light, Harry can see Dumbledore's surprised frown.

"Can't be beaten, huh?" Harry shouts. "Why not? Got an unbeatable wand, have you? Perhaps something like this one?" He can see Dumbledore's eyes go wide, can see his lips part slightly as if in a gasp, or perhaps to speak, but Harry doesn't listen. Instead, with his free hand, he pulls his own holly and phoenix wand from inside his robes, his real wand, the wand he has always preferred. He points this wand straight at Dumbledore's face, the face of the man who was once his mentor, whom he once admired so much in another lifetime.

"Avada Kedavra."

Bellatrix Lestrange had once told Harry that it takes hate to cast a forbidden curse. Harry had believed her. Certainly, hate and anger make the torture of crucio worse. But Harry doesn't hate Dumbledore. He merely knows what needs to be done, and this resolve is enough. The green light strikes Dumbledore right in the forehead. Instantly, the green light from Dumbledore's wand vanishes, as though it had never existed. For a moment, Dumbledore hangs upright, balanced on two legs, his face still a mask of surprise. Then he topples gently forwards, crumpling to the ground with a whoosh of fabric and a dull thud. Everything is silent. Everything is still. And Albus Dumbledore once more is dead.

-X-X-X-

Hermione hit the jackpot. Fingers scrabble through files, eyes greedily devouring the words on the page. Of course this Dumbledore was studying Tom, keeping tabs on him, figuring out the source of his power. Even in this world Albus is Albus. In the other room she hear crashes and shouts, but she's trying not to pay attention to that. Who knows how long she has? If Harry loses, then this may be her only chance to see what Dumbledore has collected on Tom. And they have to bring Tom down. They know where the Tom in their world kept his horcruxes, where he vainly tucked away the bits of his soul, but this Tom may be different. They can't take the chance.

And there, in fastidious loops of black ink is her answer. She breathes a deep sigh of relief. Then arms reach out of the shadows and grab her.

*Author's Note: Well, there you guys have it: Chapter 7 is done. Albus is dead, now just Tom to deal with. I will do my best to update reasonably quickly. Please let me know what you guys think of this latest installment and if you guys have any requests about what is coming next. Thanks everyone for sticking with this story, I appreciate you guys a lot! Have an awesome day!*