Time Travel Isn't All Bad, Guys.

This is a work of fiction based off of the Harry Potter books and Supernatural the TV show. I do not own the characters nor do I mean to insult or mock them. Sincerely, SilverSmithLols

It has been a long day. The waitress, a young blond girl, saunters over interrupting my pity party. Setting down a cup of steaming, hot tea with a wink.

"Thank you.", I choke out. My voice still raw from the ritual a few hours ago.

"Not a problem, Harry. Anything you need just holler for your girl Sal and I'll be over in a second.", she said with a grin and a quick bump to my shoulder.

Why were American's so touchy? Everywhere I looked since coming to America people where fist bumping, hugging walking hand in hand. And not just for a little bit either. A few hours ago, I went to the mall just before it closed to buy more clothes. I left nearly everything in England – well, the England from my past not the England of my present – and got stuck behind four girls walking hand in hand. Through the entire store. I acknowledge that my personal bias of not wanting to be touched probably affects my opinion but even the other people in the store were grumbling. So there, Hermione. It's not just me.

I huff out a breath trying to calm my racing pulse. Taking a sip of tea, I check my watch. A quarter past one in the morning. I managed a whole two minutes without thinking about Hermione and Ron. God, I miss them. This whole insane plan couldn't have happened without them. All three of us had mistakenly gotten involved with the Men of Letters, British Chapter. They somehow had connections to the Wizarding World and recruited heavily from the light side after the war was over. We believed a world without feral, muggle creatures running amok and killing everything in sight was for the best.

Of course, they forgot to mention that they killed anything and everything that wasn't human. Everything from good witches to werewolves who locked themselves up when the moon was full. Once Hermione discovered the depths of their depravity and general lack of conscience, we began to plan to move against them. Some other wizards we had fought with in the war agreed to help us in our rebellion. But, in the end, we found out we had trusted the wrong people. They caught Ron and I as we were erasing the warding and sigils around London, threw us in a cell, and then – then things got real bad.

Taking a steadying breath, I check my watch again and sigh. Barely three minutes since I last looked. Taking another sip, I cast my eyes around the room. The two woman sitting at the table across from me are glaring. What did I do? Subtly trying in my chair I look behind me. Noone's there. Shit. It is me they are glaring at. Time to go, I do not need any trouble.

Quickly, I head out of the small diner, going the longest way around so I don't have to be near the two women. Sirius's old bike, a glossy black beauty that's tinted a deep red, sits in a spot out front, as ready and waiting to finish this long trip as I feel. Hopping on, I rev the engine. It rumbles, growling in approval. Time to go see the American branch, I need to know how far this corruption wrought by the British Men of Letters has spread. I can only hope it is limited to Britain, France, and Denmark. If it spreads much further – no. Not a thought for now. I need to confirm the spread in America before I worry needlessly.

I glance up at the night sky. The city lights in the distance preventing it from being a perfect inky black. I hope I don't bollocks everything up. Helmet on, I flip the kickstand up and set the GPS on my phone for Lebanon, Kansas.

I'm shivering by the time I make it to the outskirts of Kansas. The wind is unforgiving today, whipping my hands red from the cold. Only a little farther, I can finally get the answers I need.

It's morning by the time I stop in front of a low to the ground concrete building, smaller than I thought the main American branch would be. I wish I still had enough magic in me to tell if this building was warded against wizard kind, they usually aren't but you never know with the Men of Letters. The emptiness that was a constant numbness at the back of my mind threatened to push forward and overwhelm me again. I shoved the feeling down. Hermione sacrificed her life and her entire existence in the past to send me back in time to prevent too spread of the British Men of Letters ideology. Compared to her sacrifice, giving up my magic alongside my shitty past was the least I could do.

God, Hermione's family. They would never have a daughter to love and raise. She would never be born in this world. She would never grow up to be a powerful witch. Never meet Ron, fall in love. Her entire existence, in any past – present – future, given up to fate to fuel a ritual that would allow someone to go back in time and make changes to the flow of time that hadn't already happened. None of the restrictions of a time turner, all the benefits of idealized time travel. If the person going back in time was willing to sacrifice their magic, the soul of a person dear to them, and the existence of themselves and the person sacrificed. A heavy price when the person going back in time has no guarantee of actually fixing anything. One person against the world has never been considered "good odds".

Bloody hell, it should have been Hermione instead of me.

I jerk out of my thoughts. I don't have time to be upset over this. Why do I have to keep thinking about her. She no longer exists and now she never would. The ritual made sure of that.

Getting off my bike, I run my hand over the AMT Hardballer, made of 100% stainless steel and engraved with the DA coat of arms – three wands aiming in unison at a coiled snake below, with the words "Be heard. Be Equipped. Be Just" – a gift from Ron on my twenty-fifth birthday, on my hip. On my other hip was a Kukri knife, an interesting mix of ninety percent iron and ten percent silver with a bend halfway through the ten-inch blade that it curves at a forty-five-degree angle. A favorite of mine because of its ability to easily slit throats while still functioning as a basic utility knife.

I keep these two weapons out in the open in case a hunter gets the drop on me. For some crazy reason, they believe me when I say I only have two weapons on me. They get close and never bother to check for knives inserted into the rubber heels of my shoes or the silver whip I disguise as a belt.

Today is a special day though, so I brought along a Steyr AUG, an Australian bullpup assault rifle, which I admittedly mostly bought because it had the word bullpup in the title. I used to call it The Pup before Hermione told me how cute I looked asking for it –

I rub my hand against my breastbone. I need to get my head in the game. I double check all my weapons are sharp, loaded and in place. Time to find out what is going on in America.

I use the key I stole when I left the service of the British Men of Letters. I open the, honestly fucking overly heavy, door and peer around the corner. Nothing. No men or women scrambling around with stacks of ancient papers or high tech laptops. No one is dragging down the latest creature to be experimented on in the dungeons. Simply put, the place looks abandoned.

I head down the spiral stairs. It's a relatively normal building considering when it was built. It has a few sturdy, wooden tables in the middle of the room and floor to ceiling bookcases crammed with texts. Running my fingers over the nearest book shelves leaves my fingers feeling ashen and coated with a thick layer of dust. The soft yellow lighting giving it a homey feel, casting long shadows everywhere.

Creeping further into the entry room, I notice a book lying open on the table. Flipping it closed, the title states boldly "A Complete Guide to the Complex Social Hierarchy of Angels." This could be bad. I didn't even know angels were present on earth again, let alone how to deal with them. And without Hermione, I wasn't sure I would ever get an answer. Just flipping through the thick book's small print was giving me a headache.

Shhhweeat, the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric hits my ear. Turning around sharply on the ball of my foot I bring up my gun to aim at the man in front of me.

"Drop the gun. Now!"

"Like hell. I've had a hell of a trip getting here and I've got nothing to lose. So we can either put them down at the same time or we can stand here –

A sharp pain in my head causes me to stumble forward. The man in front of me rushes forward. Tucking my gun near my chest, I drop and roll to the left. Only to quickly knock into the wooden legs of chairs. The knock to the back of my head really messed me up. Lifting myself off the ground proved harder than I thought before I realized the chairs I rolled into like a bowling ball into pins had fallen on top of me. This sucks.

"What the fuck. Is this guy stupid?", I hear the one who hit me from behind grunt out.

"Dean, he's tiny. You probably hit the kid too hard."

"Shut up, Sammy."

This is so embarrassing. The one that had the gun pointed at me lifts a chair off my back and pulls me up by the back of my jacket. Violet and green spots dance accross the edge of my vision. Whoa, is the room shaking? Something grabs my jaw and forces my head still. I open my eyes and see the mammoth of a man that had me at gunpoint.

"Why are you here."

This was not a well thought out plan, I think before my vision fades to black.