There was an itch at the back of her mind.

Not a literal itch, mind, but it was the closest she could get to describing it.

Hermione glowered slightly and tried to focus on the task in front of her. They were supposed to be Vanishing a cat that day.

(Vanishment is the third most difficult branch of Transfiguration. While they are easier than Conjuring Spells, it's still among the most difficult subjects they would have to be tested on their O.W.L.s.)

"Evanesco."

This would be the third cat she Vanished within the period.

Her professor was notably impressed, as she was the only one who had been able to succeed in this feat of magic within the last hour. Somehow, her heart didn't swell in pride as it normally would. The unease at the back of her mind wouldn't leave her.

"How are you doing that?" The person next to her hissed. Brown eyes snapped to the dark girl next to her. Her arm movements were rigid and impatient—too curt for this kind of spell work.

"You're restricting your movements too much," Hermione noted absently. It took her a moment for her to connect to the words that left her mouth, but the damage was already done. She frowned. It wasn't in her nature to be so curt in her answers; she tended to elaborate. Her friends were rubbing off on her.

The girl beside her huffed, affronted, but took her advice anyway. She aimed the wand at the striped feline in front of her and allowed her arm to move more freely. A muttered spell later, the cat flickered in and out of the state of being for a few seconds before the spell ultimately failed.

Seventeen seconds. That's seventeen seconds longer than her other attempts, at least.

Hermione watched her try again anyway, frowning all the while.

There were fifteen of them in the class. The spell was notorious for being one of the "first" properly difficult spells to master in their O.W.L.s, so it wasn't much of a surprise to see the lack of success around her. However, while it usually didn't take too long for her to master a spell before the hour was up, this level of success was off even for her.

(In Transfiguration, there is a number of variables that directly influence the outcome of the desired Transfiguration. The body weight and "viciousness" of the subject limited the success of the spell, which is why Transfigurations involving larger animals were tricky. The amount of wand power and concentration you pour into a spell would increase the chances of its success, but there are also factors that can work in your favor—such as wand movement and pronunciation of the incantation—that vary from one wizard to another)

Hermione usually started with the fundamental understanding of the magical theory involved in the Transfigurations process, followed by the understanding of the limiting factors of the subject to be Transfigured. She was able to determine the wand power needed for the spell based on that criteria, and concentration was something that naturally came to her while working anyway. What she usually had to tweak with a bit of practice were the other factors like wand movement.

She had gotten that correctly on her first try. It felt completely natural.

Others would have been pleased with this. Others would have brushed it aside and assume that it was a sign of progression on their part. Others wouldn't have doubted the inconsistency in their development. (Wizards always did tend to lack the logic more common to their Muggle counterparts.)

It wouldn't have caused worry if it was her wand power that spiked (—the growth of the magical core during puberty was common, and magical spikes due to hormonal imbalance wasn't unheard of—) but the fact that she executed the spell as easily as if her movements were practiced unsettled her.

Maybe she was getting a more instinctive grasp on magic, due to the amount of time she's spent practicing? But this was a new spell. It had only been demonstrated to them not even an hour ago. Besides, none of the other spells she's casted had been this accurate. If this was part of some "natural settlement" into magic, it should have showed signs of progress earlier. To have suddenly just "become good at it" was out of the question.

She'd been trying the spell several times over, and her arm still moved in the same way as it had the first time she casted it. She ignored the dark murmurs of "show-off" behind her as she waited for her movements to deviate from the pattern. Wand waving during the first hour of the application was usually erratic, and slight changes constantly had to be made.

Once again, she aimed her wand at the cat in front of her.

"Evanesco."

She was already absently Summoning another cat from the box beside her before the spell even hit. Her eyes never strayed away while she watched the feline flee into nonbeing before her (it didn't start Vanishing from one end to the other—it Vanished completely and instantly—unlike how the other students around her were finally progressing), and it was this intense concentration that made her take minutes to realize that no cat had taken the place of the previous one.

"Very well done, Miss Granger!" A gruff voice startled her out of her observation. "However, I think you may want to leave some for the rest of the class. There's only a few boxfuls left, and we aren't to start discussing Conjuring until next month."

(Conjuration is absolute opposite of Vanishment; the ability to transfigure objects "out of thin air". Usually only taught in advance Transfiguration to N.E.W.T. students due to its complexity, the only form of Transfiguration that exceeds Conjuration in difficulty is Human Transfiguration.)

"Oh," she replied, slightly pink. "Yes, of course."

She started packing her things instead. It was a moot point anyway; aside from the abnormally perfect execution of the spell, she wasn't able to note anything significant from the exercise. Her notes were lacking in this subject, and if she wanted more data she would have to wait for the bell to get to the library.

The party lived up to Slughorn's usual style. The room was large enough to be filled with the most important and the well-connected, mingling and weaving through dancing crowds. The food was plentiful and exquisite, and there was a band playing on upbeat trumpets in a style not too far from the jazz Tom heard from the surprisingly resilient bistros he had to pass by when walking back to the orphanage.

Nested cozily in one of Slughorn's fine chairs and watching the gold plates magically fill themselves with pastries Tom had never even known of out of thin air always hit him with a curious mix of contentedness and wrath.

Ever since he stepped foot inside Hogwarts, he knew that this is how his life should be. Watching every menial interaction between entitled purebloods who knew nothing of the privilege of simply having food fit for one on the table showed him how living among muggles had denied him his rights.

But here, in Slughorn's little club for the elite…it was among his favorite places.

This was his court, where the food was better than even Hogwarts food (—a feat he had not even thought was possible—) and those who counted knew to respect him. He was deserving of all this luxury more than half of them, he knew. With every sleepless hour he spent pouring into practice, every House point earned, every measured word that came out of his mouth—he deserved this. He deserved their looks of envy, their malicious eyes that screamed of frustration at having been beaten by someone "beneath their status". He'd transformed himself from that lowly creature of coal and hunger to one made of diamonds with all the force he could muster.

Even better still was when he was with his Knights in these gatherings.

There were six of them at the table. He let a fraction of a smile slip through when one of them—Avery—apparently made a joke, not really minding the trivial conversation that went on. He was busy admiring his collection.

He'd always loved collecting, ever since he learned the merits of keeping things. Books, discarded clothes, old photos—the orphanage had been conducive to his little acts of keeping, especially when it came to keeping things that would keep him safe.

(He still frowned whenever he remembered Dumbledore setting his closet on fire when he was eleven. He would never forget the amount of fright that filled his heart the moment he thought he no longer had Juniper Jones' doll to keep her boyfriend from beating him)

Years ago, when he was starting to make a name for himself, he supposed that the reason why he could play old Sluggy like a fiddle was because he understood his collection of people. Now, though, he knew that Horace Slughorn didn't nearly make use of his collection as productively as he could.

"—did you know? Well—I suppose it is too soon, but your sister's bound to have passed the word by now, about that incident in the Department of Mysteries—"

"Not from Athene, no. She does value her internship, and you know how the Unspeakables are. But Althaea Smethwyck's a student healer at St. Mungo's, and she had to help rush some poor bloke to the Spell Damage floor. There was a fit over whether or not they should send him straight to the Janus Thickey Ward—"

And what a collection it was.

In front of him was Avery, whose elfish features added to his overall appearance of poise and whose measured smiles betrayed the barest hint of self-assurance. To Tom, the way he carried himself screamed of the pride he had that stemmed from his privileged background. His restraint from flaunting the fact showed him that it wasn't because it he was modest, but because it wasn't necessary.

"—that bad? And what was he doing in the Department of Mysteries, anyway?"

"Why, indeed!" Slughorn said, eyes glittering. "And why the Time Chamber, of all places?"

"The Time Room?" Avery asked. "Did he try to nick a Time-Turner or something?"

Beside Avery was Nott, who was pale as a corpse, with dark eyes large and sharp—always ready to carefully pick out weaknesses to take advantage of. He was Tom's least favorite type of Slytherin; the weak seeking for protection, with too much cowardice to accommodate the grandeur of their ambitions. His only redeeming trait was his willingness to serve the powerful, but he supposed it was good that he had one more family from the Sacred 28 (the 28 "truly pureblood" families in Britain—to which Avery and Lestrange were included) on his side.

"What was he doing there, professor?" Nott asked. "Surely you must know about it."

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to let out this little secret," the man replied coyly before continuing. "They found him all roughed up and bewildered in the Time Room saying he's from a decade in the future!"

Mulciber sat beside him on his left. Mulciber who was always almost as brilliant as Tom himself, but whose soft, mercurial eyes betrayed his kinder nature. The gentleness of his soft features made a sharp contrast with his nature; quick, lively, and hands rough with callouses from tinkering with metals.

"—planning to admit him in Hogwarts when he's right again, but they do believe it's genuine—"

To his right and seated at the head of the table was Lestrange. The boy had his body turned towards Tom, attentive, despite the latter's lack of contribution to the ongoing conversation. Black curls stylishly swept to the right side of his face, well-dressed and laid-back, he made the perfect picture of a well-off schoolboy.

In fact, all of them were conscious of his presence despite his silence. All of them, despite their age or purity of blood, had their attention finely tuned to take note of his presence. And now all of them were faithfully at his bidding.

Tom covered his smile by raising his glass for a drink.

He'd forced them to notice him—to notice his superiority—them and everyone else. He'd work twice as hard and tripled their class performances combined, carefully treaded the social circles for the most useful, the most cunning, and the ones with the most potential, and now he was prefect. The poor orphan boy from a filthy muggle family, practically running the school.

"—just as well. I've been meaning to ask, Tom, if you could perhaps help orient him to the place? Show him around, get him to know others? Poor boy doesn't have anyone, you know?"

Help you keep your claim on him, you mean, Tom translated.

"I would be honored, sir," he smiled, ever the helpful scholar.

He was facing a familiar door—the one that haunted his dreams for so many months. But now, instead of a shadowy corridor, he was in a circular hallway that was simultaneously too large and too small. Doors circled all around him, always moving, pushing him too close to the walls.

Harry! They cried out with the voices of his friends. Harry, where are you?

He turned frantically around, trying to force open the doors. Where were they? The doors moved rapidly around him again, leaping over and under him, moving damningly fast such that he couldn't see the bright red X's Hermione seared unto them.

Which one, which one?

RON, he yelled. LUNA! GINNY!

They'd been separated, and now his friends were lost, vulnerable to the Death Eaters.

HERMIONE! RON! NEVILLE!

He could hear voices.

The room swung again and now he as facing a stone archway with a black curtain slightly fluttering. He tried to understand what the furious whispers meant, tried to see if it was Ron or Hermione waiting for him on the other side of it, but he couldn't hear it as well. It was as if the whispers didn't come from the archway, which didn't make sense. He'd heard the whispers come from it before, but now it was as if the voices came not in front of him, but slightly above him.

He could hear one of the doors creak open to his right. The long tentacles of a brain fell out and roped around his arms the same way it had around Ron's.

HARRY, DON'T GIVE IT TO THEM, Neville shrieked.

The tentacles wrapped themselves ever tighter, closing in near his neck—

Something cold and wet touched his head.

A damp cloth fell from his forehead as he bolted upright, heart beating wildly.

"Wha—?" He tried to voice out, his throat feeling all scratched up. The bright, clinical light of the room jarred him, making a great contrast from the darkness that previously engulfed him.

He blinked owlishly around, trying to make sense of the shapeless figures around him.

"Here," someone on his right said, handing him his glasses.

It took him a moment for the stranger beside his bed to come into focus.

A beaded headband pushed back the woman's hair like a miniature grey cloud, and the patient look she wore on her kind, leathery face was a far cry from the pale, gaunt faces of the dark wizards that pursued them—

The words flew from his mouth before he even thought about it.

"There's about a dozen Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries right now and they've trapped my friends—chased us from the room with the glass balls—prophecies, I think—through the one with the clocks—" he blurted, hands absently searching under his covers. "Where's my wand?"

"Son, I think you better take this," the dark-skinned witch said, handing him a cup of what he recognized as a Calming Draught.

He pushed the cup back. "I don't need a potion. Please," he clutched her had instead, thinking he hadn't expressed the extreme gravity of the situation to the witch. "It's five of us against a dozen dark wizards, and I'm sure at least three of them are from Azkaban."

"Tea, then, at least," the witch replied, patting his hands comfortingly.

True to word, a teapot appeared on the tray on the bedside table. She filled him a cup and handed it to him. He could smell the soothing scent of mint and raised the cup to his lips, only pausing when he noticed the woman's gaze on his right hand. I must not tell lies, the scars pressed noticeably against his hand. The witch caught herself and tried to cover it with a sheepish smile, but the damage was done.

Harry raised the cup again and pressed his lips against the rim, but this time only pretended to drink, remembering Umbridge's attempts back in detention. He didn't know how many rules they broke when they rushed out of their O.W.L.s, flew to London, and battled in one of the Ministry's departments—he was sure they'd broken at least one law somewhere—but he wasn't keen on burying the lot of them even further in this mess.

"They've got them surrounded," he continued, "the three of us got separated—Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Ginny Weasley—Ron got caught with a confounding spell of some sort—I'm with Neville Longbottom and Hermione—where's Hermione?"

He looked about him as if his friends might just be around the corner, but stopped when he caught sight of the look the witch on his bedside was throwing him.

New-found terror crept into his heart as he became more aware of his surroundings. He was alone. (Not exactly—the hospital ward also had several other patrons, but he was the only one of his friends to be there and that was all he could think)

"Where am I," he said slowly, ears ringing, "and how did you find me?"

"You're in St. Mungo's Hospital's Spell Damage floor," the witch said equally slowly. "And I found you in the Department of Mystery's Time Chamber. I'm the Unspeakable assigned there. My name's Janna."

Harry didn't bother to introduce himself because it was around this time that he started to notice she smiled with an air of someone who knew more than they said, but didn't know how to relay it.

"I found you sleeping near one of the bell jars," she added when he didn't say anything. "Hauled you away. Believe me, you do not want to be near one of those."

Memories of a full-grown Death Eater with a baby's head instead of an adult one bumping and running against the walls flashed through Harry's mind.

"You're Harry Potter?" She said curiously, not really asking. "We found this on you," she explained, handing him a button. Harry Potter, Rescue Mission, it said.

"Who needed rescuing in the DOM?" She asked.

"No one—that is, it was a trap," he replied. "Voldemort made me think that my g—friend was held hostage, but he only wanted to get a prophecy for him. S'been trying to for months."

Not waiting for the witch to claim him mad (as Ministry workers had been prone to do as of late), he rushed on to say, "look, you say you're an Unspeakable? Broderick Bode? He's an Unspeakable, too. Death Eaters tried to Imperius him into steal the stupid thing for them, but he put up a fight. Got spell damage from whatever it is you spray on the shelves, but started to get better, so they snuffed him by sending a Devil's Snare as a Christmas present."

"We got to there and found out it was a false message," he said grimly. "Tried to get out of there as fast as we can, but we had to battle it out with those Death Eaters dead on our heels."

"Death Eaters?" The witch repeated. "What did they look like? Were they human?"

Harry shot her an odd look.

"Death Eaters—Voldemort's little workmen. You know—keeps their faces covered with metal masks, wears dark cloaks—typical dark wizard garb?"

"I see." The witch said. "Listen, you might really want to consider downing a dose before I continue," she added, nodding towards the Calming Draught she set on the nightstand. She stared him down until he complied.

"Alright," she started, looking very much like she was bracing herself to deliver Bad News. Harry's heart sank.

Please, please, let them be okay, he prayed silently. Ron, Neville—everyone. Please let them be safe.

"You see, Harry," Janna said gently, "when I found you, we immediately went and tried to call your Head of House." She nodded at his wrinkled uniform in acknowledgement. "We were surprised to discover that there aren't any records of a 'Harry Potter' in Hogwarts. There weren't any records anywhere else in the Magical Britain at all—I hope you don't mind, but we took some of your hair for that in case your name isn't Harry Potter.

"Even stranger, still, is that when we tried to match your magic to current living wizards and witches in search of a relation, there was a very close match in the Potter family, but the Potters have tried for a child for years, which doesn't seem likely of a chance given your age. In fact, your age threw off a lot of the results, so we wondered…why were you in the Time Chamber?

"So if you don't mind giving us a hand, Harry," Danna said, eyes sparkling, "if I handed you a copy of the Prophet, what date would you say it is?"

Harry, who was very taken aback by the sincerity with which Danna claimed not to know him—a truly remarkable feat seeing how the Prophet's has relentlessly been slamming his name for months—simply answered, "er, June. June eighteen…Nineteen Ninety-Six," he added when Danna held her expecting gaze.

"Remarkable," the elderly witch breathed wondrously. "Simply remarkable, son. Do you feel fine? Not feeling dizzy or anything of that sort?"

"…er, no…"

Danna nodded. "Of course. Well, then, there's no way round it. Mister Potter," she said, and even held out her hand like they were properly meeting for the first time. With both hands clasped around Harry's own, she smiled at him warmly and handed him the worst news he had ever had the misfortune to receive.

He took in the flashy headlines ('MAGIC TO THE RESCUE? MINISTER OF MAGIC IN CAHOOTS WITH MUGGLE PRIME MINISTER') with concern and a small amount of confusion.

Harry (who had been desperately praying not to see photos of his friends' corpses or the like on the front page) felt slightly relieved for a moment before something on the upper right corner of the page caught his eye and the world came crashing down on him.

It had to be a lie.

Another convoluted scheme Voldemort had orchestrated to mess with his head again.

It had to be.

'October 21, 1942' read the blasted paper.