Harry Potter and associated names, places, situations, and events belong to J.K. Rowling.

No infringement thereof is intended nor implied.

Prologue

Harry Potter looked up from her potion cauldron into the faces of his two best friends, then back at the cauldron. It pained him to see what had happened to them, how the War had changed them, how it had changed him too. As he slowly stirred the delicate potion he thought back on all that they'd lost, and how, at the end, they'd finally found a way to win.

It had cost them dearly, this chance at victory, which is why it was just the three of them, and not four, or even five, that were going back.

"Got your wands?" he asked, without looking up.

Two wands, the first of willow, the other hazel, went into the cauldron, followed by Harry's holly. All had seen better days, but as Harry stirred the potion, they were dissolved into the potion itself, lending their power it the already potent brew.

"Thrice clockwise, twice anti-clockwise, one clockwise," said Harry, reciting the potion instructions from memory. Once done, he slowly retracted the glass rod straight up, not leaving a single element to chance.

"You ready?" he asked, looking up from the potion to his dearest friends.

The nodded, holding the glass cups they'd need for the next, and final, step.

With a heavy sigh Harry took his own glass cup, and dipped it into the brew, and extracted it full. Two more cups entered and somehow, once they were gone, the cauldron was dry.

"Bottom's up," Harry said with a chuckled, bringing the potion to his lips, then swallowing it in a single gulp. It tasted nasty, but he expected as much from his experience with potions.

After wincing from the flavor, he looked across to his two friends, who had likewise finished their portion of the potion.

Within seconds Harry felt a tugging behind his navel, the telltale sign of a portkey, and evidence that the potion was successful. He could tell by the looks on his friends' faces that they too felt the tug. With a smile, and a contented sigh, Harry let the feeling encompass him, and then, a second later, the three disappeared.

In the subsequent silence, a sheaf of parchment was blow by a gust of wind within the dilapidated framework of the suburban London house. It's final line read, "Thrice anti-clockwise, twice clockwise, once anti-clockwise."