A/N: Warning for some suicidal ideation in the first scene.

Sorry for the wait, you guys! I'm including a summary below in case you've forgotten what's happened so far. I'll try to update once a month from now on, thereabouts. I have this story planned out; it has an ending and it will be finished.

Before: After studying soul magic, Harry realizes he is dying — his soul was damaged when the horcrux that was in him was destroyed. He goes back in time, leaving his broken soul behind in what is now the future (which he plans on changing) via the use of a phylactery (for which he had to sacrifice his invisibility cloak and wand, among other things). He arrives in the past, successfully sharing his past-self's soul. Unfortunately, something goes wrong, and Harry arrives a year later than he expected — in 1981, right after his parents died.

Now: A series of tragedies as told by a selection of photographs.

Chapter 5: Snapshots, Moving

There is a picture of him in the paper, a candid photograph of an infant, black and white. Harry looked to be just a few months old, just barely managing to sit down unsupported. As it was, he seemed to be having trouble with it; baby Harry in the photo leaned precariously to the side as he tried to shove his entire foot in his mouth. Gentle hands would push him upright again whenever it happened, followed by a flash of light — his mother, taking the picture — and little Harry would stare dazedly at the camera before once again attempting to eat his foot, and the whole thing would start over.

The photo commemorated no special occasion. It is a personal photo, just a mother wanting to take a picture of her baby. It is a snapshot of a tentative peace caught forever on loop.

It is under the headline HOW HARRY POTTER SURVIVED DEATH.

Journalists were having a field day. The Daily Prophet kept printing new issues, hastily titled after the approximate time they were printed, trying to keep up with the sudden influx of breaking news. Not only had the Dark Lord been defeated, but a massive Auror raid had led to the arrest of twelve Death Eaters and twenty-three of their un-Marked recruits. They were running, scattered and scared, and the Ministry was utilizing all available forces to take advantage of the situation. Moreover, several Ministry officials — alarmingly high-up — claimed with equal amounts horror and relief to have just been released from the Imperius Curse. The Prophet was of the mind that the public needed a play-by-play of the arrests and ongoing investigations.

And the Potters. There wasn't a single issue in which they weren't mentioned. Every account of how exactly Voldemort came to be defeated grew steadily more detailed: It happened in Godric's Hollow and the Boy Who Lived survived with no more than a lightning-shaped scar, said one article. Lily and James Potter fought bravely in their home, said another. The Killing Curse rebounded and there is no known explanation, said a particularly helpful article in the Noon Prophet.

Bloody vultures. Harry feels sick.

The offending article is less an account of how to survive the impossible and more of a compilation of all available information, including crime scene observations from the Aurors, testimony from Bathilda Bagshot, and quotes from Albus Dumbledore himself confirming that the scattered ashes they found in the wreckage of Godric's Hollow was in fact what remained of Lord Voldemort.

It doesn't matter what the article says. He has no idea where they got such a picture. He's never seen it before. He was supposed to have seen it before. It was a family picture. Just a few hours ago, Harry had had a family.

It's been hours, he thinks. He's been sitting on his upturned trunk in a dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron for hours. He's not sure. Time has passed irrationally. A single minute stretches on with Harry hyper-aware of his body, every ache magnified to the edge of unbearable. His breathing is deafening, it's difficult to make out even the raucous voices around him. He can feel his heart throwing itself against his ribcage, too fast, too loud, just this side of painful.

And then the torturous minute ends, and four hours have passed and Harry has no recollection of them passing.

It occurs to Harry that he's having some sort of nervous breakdown.

It does not occur to Harry that he could stand up and stretch to ease his aches. That he could grab a drink from one of the many patrons who have cheerfully declared to the whole pub Next round's on me! and ease his thirst.

Harry cannot comprehend the idea of relief at the moment.

There is an emptiness clawing at his insides, tinged with desperation. The simple act of holding himself together in public summons a fatigue that goes down to his bones.

It is tempting to never move again at all.

The celebrations continue around him, what seem like hundreds of people popping in and out throughout the day simply to confirm the news and spread the word about other celebrations taking place around Britain. They pay him no mind.

Likewise, Harry ignores the coming-and-goings of the wizarding world. This corner of the Leaky Cauldron is a world all on its own. He notices his fingers trembling as they hold the copy of the Noon Prophet, so he sets it aside and clasps his hands together, brings them close to his body. Hunger, he tells himself. Magical exhaustion. From the time travel. He closes his eyes tightly.

Harry is alone.

Get up, Harry.

It should not be this difficult. He's always been able to get back up before.

Enough wallowing.

Then again, Harry had never been alone before. Ron and Hermione had always been there, whether or not he'd wanted them to be. As had the Weasleys. Dumbledore's Army. The Order. Even Snape, though he hadn't known it at the time. Hell, even his parents — through both Priori Incantatem and the Resurrection Stone — had found a way to be with him. Harry was never truly alone.

He isn't even supposed to exist in this time.

In 1981, he is not Harry Potter.

He could die, right now, and no one would know any better. The timeline would remain unchanged.

(Dear lord, Harry! How long have you had these thoughts?)

As long as he didn't die via soul magic — as long as he didn't use the Killing Curse — young Harry Potter, his present counterpart, would grow up just the same, oblivious to the sacrifice he would have to make. And his present counterpart would make it, just as he had. Perhaps this time, instead of Dumbledore, young Harry Potter would encounter an older version himself in that all-white world between life and death. Perhaps they could depart together, their shared soul undamaged, horcrux and all.

And let the rest of the world deal with Voldemort.

Let the rest of the world deal with the war, and its consequences, and a dark lord who may or may not be defeated without his aid.

Let the friends he has already mourned die once again, let an unknown amount perish in addition to them. Let Hagrid carry his truly dead body out of the Forest, and the fight resume around his corpse. Let the survivors mourn him instead.

(Do not pity the dead, Harry.)

Would he have done it, had it not been Dumbledore who greeted him? At seventeen, had someone explained to him the damage he would be doing to his own soul by reviving and leaving the horcrux behind, would he have still gone back? At seventeen, not knowing the despair a broken soul causes, could he convince himself to leave his friends in the uncertainty of war for the certainty of an afterlife?

…Could he even do it now?

Harry heaves a great sigh, runs his hands down his face, tired.

"Damn you and your conscience," he mutters.

The cobblestones look the same, Harry thinks idly. Head down like this, he could almost pretend he hadn't just traveled thirty-three years into the past.

…Thirty-two.

Diagon Alley is crowded, not busy. People are out and about, blustering and loud and rushing from one store to another, but they trade only in gossip and news. Some stores — Potage's Cauldron Shop and Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment, Harry notes as he walks by — have signs proclaiming themselves closed for the festivities, please drop by tomorrow, thank you. Slug & Jiggers is mercifully open, even as the witch behind the register is deep in conversation with several chatting customers when Harry steps into the apothecary, a small bell at the door jingling as he steps inside.

"Madam Jiggers," Harry greets with a small inclination of his head.

"Be right with you in a moment," says Mrs. Jiggers behind the register. To the small cluster of witches, she bids hasty farewells.

Harry stays on the far side of the counter and begins pulling jars out of his trunk. By the time Mrs. Jiggers finishes her goodbyes ("—yes, of course, the minute Horace drops by, I'll let him know—") Harry has about a dozen bottles and glass mason jars of varying sizes full of potion ingredients all set out.

"Ah. Selling, then?" Mrs. Jiggers feels around beneath the counter and pulls out a pair of heavily-magnified goggles with smaller stackable lenses to boot. The result is Mrs. Jiggers appearing to have one massive eye and another eye slightly smaller than would be normal. "Let's see here — oh!" Her comically disproportionate eyes blink in surprise as she takes in the amount of ingredients in front of her. "My, but you've been busy. Been doing some traveling, then?"

"Yes," Harry answers stiffly, not in the mood for conversation. Then — realizing just how long this is going to take as Mrs. Jiggers pulls out several cotton swabs, small vials of clear liquid, eye-dropper tools, and various strips of what he recognizes as enchanted paper used to test the quality of ingredients — Harry adds, "Just made it back to London."

Mrs. Jiggers hums her acknowledgment as she inspects a bottle labeled Dragon's Blood (Antipodean Opaleye) with the materials. "First of many, by my reckoning, now that You Know Who's gone. I know plenty of your lot fled the country when things started heating up."

"…'My lot?'" Harry asks, knowing full-well he won't like the answer.

"I mean muggleborns, of course," Mrs. Jiggers says easily, looking pointedly at Harry's old coat and trousers. "Now, I've nothing against muggleborns," she continues, completely missing Harry's expression as she sets aside the dragon's blood and begins unspooling a unicorn tail hair. "But one can't help but notice that, for people who insist they belong in our world, they sure do jump ship the minute the political climate doesn't favor them! Now that You Know Who's gone, they'll all come flooding back."

Harry grits his teeth and reminds himself he really needs this woman's money.

"Not all muggleborns left, of course," the woman just doesn't stop. "Credit where credit is due. You've heard of the Potters, right? I hear," — she drops her voice to a conspiratorial tone — "that the wife was a muggleborn herself!" She looks Harry over once again and nods. "Did you know her?"

Harry lets out a deep breath. "I did not."

"Pity." Mrs. Jiggers drops her attention back to the ingredients. "She was one of the good ones, I tell you. A good witch. Good wife, stayed with her family until the end. Ah —" She looks up at Harry as if just realizing something. "I don't blame the ones that left, of course," she says, hands up in a gesture that is somehow just as condescending as it is meant to be placating. "I appreciate the trade opportunities that come with travelers."

Harry hopes the grimace he gives can be taken for a smile. "Of course."

It takes far too long for Harry's liking, but Mrs. Jiggers is thorough with her examination of some of the most expensive potion ingredients her store has to offer, despite the uncomfortable silence on Harry's part only increasing with her every small comment. At around the hour-mark, Mrs. Jiggers makes a half-hearted attempt to sound interested in Harry's supposed travels — a conversation he cuts short, since he didn't actually gather all of these ingredients in the wild and has only a faint idea of how such things are managed. His shortness seems to reinforce whatever estimation the witch holds of him; she looks slightly smug throughout the rest of her inspection.

Finally — finally! — Mrs. Jiggers re-seals the last jar in the lineup, one containing seven beozars, and looks up to him with a smile. "Such high-rate ingredients! And variety, too… Let's call it an even two hundred galleons, hmm?"

It's less than a fifth of what he paid for them, but then, he knew they'd be worth less in the eighties, and had taken into account that what he'd bought had been marked up. Still… "I think this is easily worth eight hundred."

Instead of haggling, as Harry knows is common practice when selling to a shop in the Alleys, Mrs. Jiggers continues to smile sweetly at him. "I think I'd know quite well what these are worth, seeing as I sell them. You won't get a better offer anywhere else. Really, I'm doing you a favor."

Harry scoffs. "Well, I think you want to take advantage of any odd muggleborn that comes your way, betting they won't know any better. Too bad for you, I do know how much my ingredients are worth."

"I don't think you're in any position to argue with me, son." She pushes the jars on the counter a little farther from him. "You clearly didn't gather all of these yourself. One can only imagine where you actually got them."

It's been a long time since Harry has last been wrongfully accused of stealing. Indignation is quick to rise. Harry leans forward slightly over the counter, voice is low and dangerous. "And where, exactly, are you suggesting I got them from?"

Mrs. Jiggers backs away slightly, eyes flicking from Harry's face to his hands and back again. Harry doesn't have a wand — wouldn't have drawn it for something like this anyway — but Mrs. Jiggers doesn't know that. "I — I'm sure I don't know!" she stutters out before giving him another once-over and seemingly finding confidence in what she sees. "The Aurors are sure to find out, though! I've — friends — who are Aurors, you know!"

"Your friends would be hard-pressed to find any evidence of wrongdoing!" he snaps, even as his heartbeat quickens. It would be all-too easy for Aurors to look into his trunk and find a half-dozen ingredients whose sale is highly restricted by the Ministry. She could be lying, but given that Harry knows the Slughorn family co-owns Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, he has little trouble believing she has friends in high places who would happily investigate any suspicious individual giving her trouble.

Stupid, he berates himself. Neither he nor Ron or Hermione — (a sudden pang of grief goes though him, a wave of hopelessness; he corrects himself) — he hadn't foreseen this. He'd known anti-muggleborn prejudice would be at all-time high while Voldemort was about, but he hadn't realized it would extend to him personally, even knowing he would be wearing muggle clothes and have no established connections to the wizarding world.

Mrs. Jiggers remains undeterred as Harry contemplates his stupidity. "Oh, please. As if anyone could gather four different types of dragon's blood while gallivanting out in the wild — on the run, most likely!"

"Funny thing about friends is that anyone can have them — as I do, in a dragon reserve in Romania," Harry says impatiently, tapping his fingers against the counter. "Even funnier is that you think you can scam me by threatening to call the Aurors for merchandise you clearly want—" he gestures to the way Mrs. Jiggers has subconsciously leaned protectively over the ingredients "—and have already tried to buy, even while you're the one claiming it's stolen. So you can Floo your friends, and I can Floo mine, and we can drag this out for however long it takes to verify each of our claims — and then, when your baseless accusations turn up nothing, we'll see which of our good names has been dragged through the mud."

There's a pause in which Mrs. Jiggers glares daggers at him, no doubt weighing his words and her chances, the legitimacy of the ingredients and his alleged friends, who they might be and the weight they may carry, his blood status and the political climate, her reputation and what he may be capable of doing to it — until, though gritted teeth — "Five hundred galleons."

"Eight hundred."

"Five fifty. I'm being reasonable."

"Seven ninety. So am I."

She makes a half-strangled, disbelieving noise. "I'm not going to-"

"Then I'll take my business somewhere else." Harry makes a move to grab the nearest jar.

"Six hundred, final offer." Mrs. Jiggers puts her hand on top of the jar.

"Seven fifty and you might still have my patronage after this."

"Seven hundred and you never set foot in my store again!"

"Deal!"

Mrs. Jiggers puts away her horribly-magnified inspection goggles with a few blinks and an indignant huff. She pulls out her wand, a thick receipt book, and a quill from under the register — the latter which promptly starts making note of the transaction, then sets about making a copy — and disappears into a backroom for a couple of minutes. When she comes back, it's with a small bag of gold in her hands, which she drops in front of him unceremoniously. "Seven hundred galleons. Now get out of my store."

Harry peers inside the bag, grabs a handful of galleons, and lets them slip back down through his fingers, raising an eyebrow at Mrs. Jiggers. It's common courtesy for the storekeeper to cast the Counting Charm when dealing with large amounts of money, but he supposes he shouldn't have expected courtesy from this particular storekeeper.

"Numera," he says, concentrating on the money in his hands, and a smoky number 700 momentarily rises from the bag. He hears Mrs. Jiggers gasp, but pays her no mind. "That's in order, then. Goodbye."

He leaves the apothecary with both his gold and copy of the receipt in his pocket, trunk trailing after him, and looks around. That was too close for comfort. It is much too soon for all their plans to fail — though their plans failed the second he arrived in 1981 — especially for something as silly as a disagreement over potion ingredients.

Harry tries to think helpful thoughts.

He's just congratulating himself on successfully avoiding a confrontation with Aurors — he's near the intersection between Diagon and Vertic Alley, just past the offshoot to Knockturn — when he runs straight into an Auror raid.

Auror certification takes three years of training and at least five NEWTs no lower than an E. Once Kingsley Shacklebolt became Minister of Magic, he waived the need for NEWTs to anyone who survived the Battle of Hogwarts, but not the three-year training regimen. Which put Harry in the odd position of being an authority figure in the public sphere, a war hero, and a bottom-of-the-latter new recruit within the Auror corps.

Harry was about a year into training when he realized he just couldn't do it.

He'd already been looking into soul magic by then, had already performed the Soul-Viewing ritual and was desperately trying to find out all he could about souls, unwilling to believe the damage was permanent. The Black Library, while large, was hardly the end-all be-all to soul magic. It was probably horribly out of date, Harry reasoned. If there was anything out there — anything out there — Harry was determined to find it.

It's just that, well, books on soul magic — any type of records, really — were difficult to obtain, especially during the wave of no-tolerance policies against dark magic that the Ministry had just passed and that the Aurors, specifically, were supposed to enforce. That's why he was nervous when, one morning, he received a summons to Head Auror Robards' office and found not just his boss waiting for him at his desk, but Minister Shacklebolt himself, sitting on one of the seats opposite him and looking grim.

"Morning, Kingsley," Harry greeted as he sat down beside him, stomach in a twist. Robards gave a disapproving huff at the casual address, and it only made Harry feel a little worse; Robards had never been impressed with him. "I didn't know you'd be here as well. Is something wrong?"

"Your indiscretion has come back to bite us in the ass, just like I said it would," said Robards.

Kingsley held up a hand and Robards quieted. "Hello, Harry," he said with a tired smile. "I wish I didn't have bad news every time we met."

"'S not your fault," Harry had said, staring at his intertwined fingers on his lap. He wished he'd gotten more than four hours sleep the previous night, maybe then he would be less jittery. Though he now had proof that the scar horcrux was gone, the nightmares had not abated, had only morphed to include a world of white — an incredible, unbearable white — and his skull being slowly pried open as the ghosts of his family watched and did nothing.

"Yes. Well, culpability aside, it is up to me to take responsibility for these things. Let's get right to it, I've a meeting at ten." Kingsley took a deep breath. "Harry, have you read Skeeter's new book?"

Robards pushed the book in question forward on his desk with a single finger, as if in disgust, and Harry was treated with the sight of a fifteen year-old Tom Riddle smiling smugly at the camera, holding his plaque for Special Services to the School on the cover.

Death and His Followers: From Head Boy to Dark Lord was Rita Skeeter's most controversial book to date. Released on the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, it received harsh criticism from the press, but that didn't stop it from selling out the same day.

Harry swallowed tightly. "I've skimmed it."

"You may have noticed, then," Robards began lowly, "the entire chapter dedicated to horcruxes, for which Skeeter cites — you."

"She doesn't—" Harry stumbled. "She describes the basic idea of them, but she doesn't even say what they're called—"

"Which only goes to show — the wizarding world's worst gossip monger can restrain herself better than the thrice-dammed Boy Who Lived!"

Harry had flinched, drawn into himself, which had only made the Head Auror scowl deeper. Perhaps, if he could have had more than a couple of night's full rest in a row, if he hadn't already been so on-edge, wasn't being followed by what felt like a deep ache in his chest that left him so constantly tired… he might have been in a state of mind to defend himself.

Kingsley sighed, again the sound of disappointment. "You know we would have preferred it if you had not mentioned the fact that Voldemort made horcruxes to a courtyard full of people at the Battle of Hogwarts. I know," he raised his voice slightly when Harry looked like he would speak. "I know you had your reasons to goad him so. I am not here to discuss that. What's done is done. We must move forward." Kingsley looked down at his wristwatch. "Head Auror Robards and I set up a watch in a few underground markets. Undercover Aurors — and several inside sources — keeping an ear to the ground for anyone who might request information on horcruxes, necromancy, soul magic and the like."

"Oh?" Harry wondered whether his prison cell could be comfortable if Kingsley succeeded in his latest endeavor of taking the dementors out of Azkaban. "Why's that?"

"Use your head, Potter," snapped Robards. "The first thing any stray, loyal Death Eater is going to do will be to try to revive their master. My Aurors may have purged wizarding Britain, but we know several small players fled the country, and we know he had quiet supporters in the continent. They may even feel optimistic about it, now that it's public knowledge that horcruxes were involved. Who's to say there isn't any way to repair one of them, to bring Voldemort back?"

"There isn't. He's dead." And Harry should know. He was studying 'horcruxes, necromancy, soul magic and the like', after all.

"I believe you," Kingsley said, placating. "That won't stop them from trying, however. It also won't stop any curious young witch or wizard interested in the term they overheard in that final battle. So we set up a watch, kept an eye out for signs. There were a few leads. We caught the Greengrass patriarch attempting to smuggle back some of the books that were confiscated from Malfoy Manor, for one.

"There has been an increase in activity lately, however. We may have a copycat on our hands. Head Auror Robards believes this is due to Skeeter's book bringing it to attention, and I'm inclined to agree."

"A copycat?"

"Many of the requests for texts on necromancy can be traced down to one man," said Robards. "Slippery bastard. He's been making plenty of noise, but no one who's dealt with him has seen his face. He calls himself Thomas."

No one has seen his face. Harry schooled his expression into one of mild concern, despite wanting to slouch in relief. "It's a common name," he said.

"It's a pseudonym," Robards said slowly, as if explaining to a child. "And after this thing came out—" he pointed to Skeeter's book "—calling themselves Thomas while dealing in necromancy is a statement."

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from correcting Robards. Harry hadn't been making any sort of statement by blurting out 'Thomas' when a suspicious back-room seller had insisted on a name. He'd just been caught off guard, and since he'd recently been reading Death and His Followers, 'Thomas' had been the first name that came to mind. Truly, this was all Rita Skeeter's fault.

Harry hadn't even been researching necromancy, just soul magic theory in general. Authors tended to lump the two subjects together, but he doubted that defense would hold up in court. After being hounded for the worse by the Ministry, the press, and the general public over the last few years, Harry wasn't keen on relying on his popularity to keep out of trouble. His fame would turn on him; it always did.

Kingsley had been saying something while Harry contemplated his name-choosing skills. "—ardless of that. We can discredit Skeeter's claims, misdirect anyone trying to follow his footsteps. That's where you come in, Harry."

He snapped back to attention.

"We need you to claim, publicly, that Rita Skeeter made a lot of incorrect assumptions about Voldemort's life. That you, being the man who defeated him — who researched his life in order to find his weaknesses — know better than she does. We need you to claim she misquoted you — that you never described any… what does she call them? 'Soul tethers'. You will claim that the objects you mentioned having destroyed at the Battle of Hogwarts — do not say the word 'horcruxes'! — were simply powerful, ancient enchanted objects, which Tom Riddle stole and twisted with dark magic in order to make himself powerful enough to temporarily resist a Killing Curse. There was no soul magic involved. Understand?"

Harry didn't answer.

A small crease formed on Kingsley's forehead and Robards bristled. "Harry," Kingsley continued, "I can have my secretary draft a script for you, if you're unsure. We have Barnabas Cuffe himself on standby, willing to take your thoughts on Skeeter's book."

"An interview," Harry said tonelessly. He'd lost track of how many interviews he'd had by then. Journalists had literally tripped over themselves to reach him the first time he'd been out in public after the Battle. One of them had splinched themselves in an attempt to grab on to him as he Apparated away. Most recently, he'd taken questions after his speech during said Battle's one-year memorial.

(Mr. Potter, do you feel responsible for the lives lost while — care to comment on the claims that you possess the Deathstick? — to the families whose children were present during — opinion on the tracking of spells in certain households?)

"Is there something you're not grasping, Potter?" asked Robards, but Harry continued to stare at Kingsley.

"You want me to lie," said Harry. "To the press."

"We need you to misdirect potential copycats," said Kingsley.

"It's a stupid lie."

"Potter!" Robards snapped. "Show some respect!"

Harry gritted his teeth and ignored him, much more confident now that he knew they weren't on his trail. "I can't take back what I've said already. And it won't change the truth of what Voldemort did. People should know what he did, what he was like, what fear made him capable of doing… it was his undoing. He made horcruxes and it didn't work. What does it matter if people know how he destroyed himself?"

"It matters because it puts others in danger," said Kingsley, frustrated. "A dark wizard will not think of horcruxes logically, Harry, any more than Voldemort did. They will see only an opportunity where others have failed, and we cannot allow them even to fail at making a horcrux, because every attempt means another death. Can you not see that?"

"Me lying won't fix that!"

Robards slammed a fist down on the desk. "My apologies, Minister, but this is getting nowhere. Potter, we are not asking for your input. We are informing you of what you — as an Auror trainee and Ministry employee — are going to do. Whether or not you want to! It is your duty—"

"My duty? Really? Is this what a typical Auror mission looks like?" Harry ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in odd places. "Do you usually rely on an Auror's public image to mislead the masses? I will not lie for your convenience."

"No, you will lie for the good of the wizarding world!"

"Who are you to decide what—"

"I'm Head Auror. And this is the Minister of Magic — telling you that if you wish to continue a career as an Auror, you will learn to follow orders!"

"Fine!"

Robards looked triumphant at Harry's declaration, but the small, self-satisfied smile graced his face for only a second before Harry started pulling at the badge affixed to his robes declaring him an Auror trainee.

Kingsley sighed — that same tired, disappointed sigh that Harry had just recently begun to think so insufferable — and massaged his temple. "Harry, please think about what you're doing."

"I have." He undid the clasp of his badge and slammed it on Robards' desk. "I quit."

It is perhaps more accurate to say a particular Auror runs into him, Harry thinks. To be fair.

The Auror completely bowls him over, having made a sharp turn into Diagon from Vertic, bringing both of them down painfully over Harry's trunk. He doesn't apologize, doesn't even acknowledge Harry apart from pushing himself off of him and scrambling up as quickly as possible with a low and fervent curse.

Spells whiz out of the offshoot to Knockturn Alley behind Harry, where some altercation is clearly going on. There are loud footsteps — someone running, successfully avoiding all spellfire, heading their way — and just as the fugitive emerges from Knockturn at break-neck speed, the Auror straightens up completely, places himself in between the still-downed Harry and the offshoot, and shouts "Protego!" all in one fluid movement.

The fugitive smacks headfirst into the invisible barrier that was just formed in front of him, hard enough that the "Stupefy! Incarcerous!" from the second Auror giving chase are clearly procedure, as they hit an already unconscious, prone form.

Harry feels like he might as well have taken that same Stunner to the face, for all he's able to process the scene in front of him. There is a part of him that tells him he should leave now — it grows increasingly urgent the longer he lays there like a deer in headlights — but there is a much larger part of him, one which he has been repressing ever since he left the Leaky Cauldron, which has just broken through a dam. It is a sort of helplessness that he hadn't felt since his teenage years. A complete lack of direction.

The two Aurors are efficient (and of course they are, Harry knows they are). The first one — a broad shouldered man with wide ears — brings down the barrier between them while the second — a woman with a round face and prim, short blond hair — tries to disperse the crowd that has gathered around them.

"This isn't a show!" she snaps to a young couple who'd begun a wave of clapping through the crowd. "Go about your business — and steer clear! We're just wrapping up here."

Her partner levitates the body of the unconscious fugitive — a fleeing Death Eater, Harry would assume, given the robes he's wearing. It floats behind him as he finally turns to look back at Harry, an apologetic smile on his face.

It is immediately replaced by shock.

"Frank, what—" Alice Longbottom comes up behind her partner and husband, only to gasp when she sees Harry's face.

Harry has the odd, fleeting thought that Neville looks a lot more like his mother than his dad.

"James?"

He keeps his face carefully blank, but forgets to breathe.

How long has it been since someone commented on his likeness to his father? He's twelve years older than James was when he died last night. Harry looks his years, perhaps even older with his newly-acquired scar and bags under his eyes, and has a different build than his father besides. But he knows the resemblance is there for anyone who cares to look for it, for anyone who knew James personally.

(It would not have been much of an issue, had James's face not been recently plastered over all major print media. Their similarities may have been an asset when it came to explaining the plan.

There had been a plan.)

Alice is the first to come down from the shock. Her face falls, surprise making way for deep grief as she shakes her head slightly. "No," she says slowly, disappointed. "No, I thought…" She shakes her head more firmly and steels her expression into something professional. "My apologies, sir. You look a lot like someone we… used to know."

Frank similarly tries to compose himself. He offers Harry his hand and helps him to his feet, looking at him oddly all the while. As Harry is righting his coat, he asks, "Would you happen to be related to James Potter, Mr…?"

"Thomas," says Harry, and immediately curses himself for it. "Er — Evan Thomas. I don't know a James Potter, though the name does sound familiar."

The two Aurors introduce themselves as Frank and Alice Longbottom, shaking Harry's hand in turn. The unconscious floating Death Eater drifting next to them draws some curious eyes, but the crowd disperses when they see there won't be any more action.

"Yes, I expect it would sound familiar," Frank continues dryly. "He's been getting a lot of press lately. Always knew he'd be famous, that James. Always knew he'd make the front page with all the trouble he got up to. He had the makings of a fantastic Auror, he doe— he did. Everyone thought…"

Alice places a comforting hand on her husband's shoulder. "We should bring the scumbag in," she says, nodding towards the Death Eater. Then, in a smaller voice, "And we can ask for a break. I think we've earned one."

Frank nods halfheartedly and turns back to Harry with a forced smile. "Sorry about… you know. I didn't see you there. You're not hurt?"

Harry shakes his head, uncomfortable. "I'm sor—" he has to clear his throat, "I'm sorry for your loss."

The words taste like ash in his mouth.

"That's very kind, Mr. Thomas," says Alice. "But we really must be going now."

(There had been a plan.)

"Wait!" Harry calls out before the two can Disapparate.

You're in danger. The words are on the tip of his tongue. But he is not Harry Potter in 1981. He is Evan Thomas, a wandless muggleborn who returned to London just in time to see the war end, after presumably fleeing the conflict. His only possessions are contained in a trunk that, additionally, contains potion ingredients questionable enough that they cannot be sold to a normal apothecary. Were someone to look into his background, they'd find no record of his existence beyond this very morning.

Evan Thomas, as he is, should have no knowledge of future Death Eater plans. He cannot tell them how he knows they are in danger. He cannot even specify how much danger they are in.

The Longbottoms pause and look at him expectantly.

"I… I'd like to thank you," he says, thoughts going about a thousand miles a minute. "That man — that… Death Eater — he was heading right my way. You protected me. Let me… let me take you out to dinner. Both of you. It would be an honor."

Frank and Alice look at each other. Alice raises an eyebrow.

"We're only doing our jobs, Mr. Thomas," Frank says. "Thank you for the offer, truly, but it is unnecessary."

"Please, I insist. I know it's not much, but… it's nice to feel safe. Let me thank you properly."

"Really, Mr. Thomas—"

They go back and forth a few more times, Frank insisting the danger to Harry had been minimal in the first place, as the Death Eater was already disarmed by the time he took off running, and Harry doubling down on his gratefulness. Harry catches himself using some of the same lines that he'd personally been given after saving someone.

"Perhaps it's not such a bad idea," Alice interjects, glancing quickly at Harry before looking her husband in the eyes. "We could use a dinner out. Mr. Thomas is being very gracious."

Frank huffs out a chuckle. "I suppose he is," he admits. Alice looks at him pointedly. "Oh… alright. It's not exactly protocol, but Bones can hardly dictate our free time."

Harry's ninety percent sure that, in the end, the Longbottoms agree out of pity. Perhaps it is something in his tone of voice, a sort of desperation that amplifies his claims that the Aurors made him 'feel safe', but they look at him with compassion and misplaced understanding when they agree to meet with him at six o'clock in Carkitt Market for a casual dinner. It isn't the first impression he had hoped to make on the Longbottoms — not as people who had known his parents, not as law enforcement, not as members of the Order of the Phoenix — but there are more important things at stake than his pride.

The Death Eater floating behind them begins to stir and Alice absentmindedly Stuns him again over her shoulder. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Thomas," she says, and the two take turns shaking his hand again. "We'll see you at six."

"See you at six," he replies weakly.

Frank and Alice Longbottom Disapparate with a wave in his direction, unconscious Death Eater between them. Harry stands in the middle of Diagon Alley, staring mutely at the spot where they had just been.

He's going to need a wand.

Vertic Alley intersects with Diagon at a ninety degree angle, just a couple of stores down the offshoot into Knockturn and opposite the path besides Gringotts that would lead one to Carkitt Market. Vertic is, as far as Harry can tell, both more expensive than Diagon and less popular. The alley is just as wide as Diagon, but he lack of street vendors give it the illusion of being bigger. The flagstones lay in straight rows, and the stores are small and have only a ground floor, which makes the sky look bigger behind them.

Harry doesn't come here often — not out of any dislike; Vertic is charming enough, and generally less crowded than other wizarding streets — just because the shops here aren't ones he usually has any need for. As he walks down the alley, he passes a florist, a photography studio, a children's clothes and toy store, a tea parlor, a travel agency, a divination shop — ugh — and a store that seems to be dedicated entirely to candles. The particular shop Harry is looking for is at the end of the street, its window displaying a world map with various pins on it and a table holding several wand holsters in different designs.

People visit Romero's Widely Ranging Wands — as the sign above the door establishes — strictly to buy wand accessories. Holsters, custom handles, polish, and the like. Or so they claim. It's a matter of national pride, after all, that Ollivanders provide all the wands for British children. And everyone knows Ollivander's wands are best — who would settle for some imports? Even if the smaller sign beside the shop's door did claim to be selling 'Fares from acclaimed Wandmakers all around the world!'

Harry misses his holly wand, but is acutely aware that it cannot be his this time around. There is another Harry to whom it belongs. Besides, it's been so long since he last used his holly wand, and the fact that the last time he'd held it in his hands, Harry had broken it… it would feel wrong to hold it again.

There is no chime to signal his entrance to the shop, but it is unneeded. Romero's Widely Ranging Wands is a small store, with only space for a few shelves (packed with wand accessories), the counter, and a narrow door which Harry can only assume leads to the back. Behind the counter sits a bored looking woman with more flyaway hairs than those pulled into the thick, black braid that falls onto her back. She stares blearily out the window until Harry stands right in front of her, at which point she startles so badly she nearly falls off of her stool.

"Welcome to Widely Ranging Wands, how may I help you?" she says hurriedly and automatically, with a slight Spanish accent.

Harry lets her gather herself before answering, "I'm looking to buy a wand."

"Really? I mean — yes. Yes, of course, we have many wands to choose from." The woman — Romero, Harry assumes — stands up straighter. "Do you have a preferred Wandmaker or style? An affinity you want to strengthen?"

"Erm, just… whatever fits best, I suppose." It sounds more like a question.

Romero gives him an unimpressed look. "Yes, of course whatever fits, but how do you want it to fit? We can emphasize — oh, but don't mind. I can show you the wands that resonate the best with your magic. Unless you want a custom-made."

Harry didn't know one could have a wand custom-made, and briefly wonders whether he could simply ask for a new holly and phoenix-feather wand, but abandons the idea with a small shake of his head. He doesn't have the time to wait for any custom orders. "No, thanks. Whatever you have available is fine."

"Very well. Here we go."

Romero's wand fitting goes very much like Ollivander's in that Harry is accosted by a tape measure whose measurements are indecipherable to any but Romero herself, who takes ample notes. Apart from this, Romero asks him to hold several other objects: a small crystal sphere that turns a muted green in his hands after about a minute; a cup of water that doesn't seem to do anything in his hands, but which Romero drinks from in between notes; and a small jar of seashells, which Romero asks him to shake and then pour over a velvet cloth which she'd set on top the counter. At this point, the tape stops measuring the distance between his ear and shoulder, and moves to measure the distance between individual seashells.

"Hmm." She pauses in her note-taking, though the tape measure continues in front of her. "You know, Mr…?"

"…Thomas," Harry says after a pause, trying to sound like the name is familiar. "My name is Evan Thomas."

Romero nods slowly. Her eyes are dark in direct opposition to Ollivander, but they hold the same kind of unsettling depth when she looks at him. "You know, Mr. Thomas, most wands grow along with their wizards, so they always 'fit'. There are arguments in the community — can the wand influence the wizard with its affinity just like the wizard can influence the wand with its use? It is very debated. What we do know, however, is that both wands and people change. And if they are not together during the change, wand and wizard can clash. You see it a lot when someone loses their wand and finds it again much later. That is most of my business, you know. Wizards too ashamed to go back to Ollivander because suddenly the wand that chose them when they were eleven does not choose them anymore…"

She snaps her fingers twice; the tape measure, cloth, and seashells clear themselves off the counter.

"As if change is something shameful," she scoffs, still looking right through him.

Harry doesn't say anything.

"I have several wands for you," she says, turning to the narrow door behind her.

It opens and Harry can see that it does not, in fact, lead to the back, but into a closet with cubbies chock-full of thin, rectangular boxes. Romero takes a hold of a shelf and drags it to the side; the shelves slide easily, revealing even more shelves and wand boxes. She continues sliding the shelves — browsing — for what must be the distance of at least the entirety of Vertic Alley, plucking a box from here and there, humming to herself. When her arms are full, she places them carefully upon the counter and pushes the door to the closet closed with her foot.

"These might all choose you. The one you pick depends on where you are right now and where you want to go." She waves her hand over the wands as if saying go ahead. "A simple Lumos will do."

The process that ensues is very unlike his experience with Ollivander. The first wand he picks up responds to his magic well enough, he casts Lumos with no problem. When he looks up at Romero, though, she shakes her head and insists he try them all, focus on what he wants his magic to feel like, and take his time. Harry acquiesces and realizes that all the wands on the counter respond to him, though in minutely different ways. The short wand made of some dark, intricately carved wood feels almost sharp in his hands, as if impatient with him. Another, made from a light wood, makes his Lumos particularly bright, but the casting leaves him feeling exposed and there's an undercurrent of dread to it. He puts that one down quickly.

He tries them all as requested, and then tries them again, feeling for those minute differences. After about a quarter hour of going back and forth, he comes back to a particularly vibrant wand. It is made of a light caramel brown wood with a couple of pink streaks running lengthwise. It feels… almost heavy in his hand, but in a comforting way. Familiar. When he casts, the light of his Lumos seems to shine up to and only up to the places Harry wants to reach, withholding the rest with an almost grim understanding of his magic. Resolute.

"Plum wood, White River Monster spine core," Romero says quietly. "Twelve and one quarter inch. One of Thiago Quintana's last masterpieces before his retirement." She begins putting away the rest of the wands, though Harry gave no indication of having chosen this one. He supposes it's obvious. It feels obvious the longer he holds on to it, like a natural extension to his hand. "Good for precision and protective spells."

"How much?"

"Eight galleons. And I can throw in a holster for thirteen sickles."

Harry declines the holster and pays without a fuss, not letting go of the wand for a moment. He tries to keep a pleasantly polite expression as he exits the shop, but gives up after a few seconds, grin spreading ear to ear.

Wandless magic is useful, but this is… this is…

He's lightheaded with joy.

Harry has his full range of magic at his disposal for the time in years. He still feels that slight pressure on his shoulders, that subtle heaviness in his heart that he identifies as the foreign piece of soul lodged in his own, bogging him down. But for a moment, feeling the ease at which this wand calls on his magic, feeling that thrill of power — knowing he's not helpless anymore — he could swear he's eleven years old again, having just discovered magic.

He twirls the wand in his fingers, relishing in the simple act of holding it in his hands, and points it at his trunk. "Reducio," he says, smile growing even wider when the trunk shrinks rapidly. He has to restrain himself from flipping it in the air like a coin, instead places it in his coat pocket.

Let's see, what else…? Ah!

He doesn't even have to concentrate to cast. "Expecto Patronum!"

Silvery light erupts from his wand, immediately forming into a familiar stag. Harry feels like bursting. He grips his wand tighter.

Yes, just for a moment, everything is right with the world. Harry watches his patronus trot around for a moment, drawing the attention of a few shopping wizards and a couple of young children, who begin following it in delight.

Harry's smile steadily fades as he watches. He can almost pretend it was worth it.

After a few minutes, the patronus comes back to him, looks at him with what Harry could swear is a chiding expression.

"I know," says Harry. He swallows thickly. "I know… Prongs."

Harry releases the spell. The stag patronus inclines its head toward him as the light fades in the wind.

"You quit the Auror program?"

Ron had payed him a visit during his lunch break, though Harry hadn't realized the time back then, glancing at him just long enough to notice Ron's Auror trainee robes — a lighter shade of burgundy than those of full-fledged Aurors — before turning back to his drink. He hadn't heard Ron come in, but that was hardly surprising. He wasn't sure how long ago he'd asked Kreacher to bring him the strongest liquor available in the house, but judging by how the kitchen was swaying slightly beneath him, it had been long enough that he was on his way to getting quite smashed.

"Yeah. So?" Harry mumbled, pouring himself another two fingers… or thereabouts, anyway. He was having a hard time measuring.

He jumped a little when Ron took the bottle from his hand out of nowhere. "So," Ron said, ignoring the little noise of protest Harry gave as he placed the bottle out of his reach on the table. "Where'd this come from? You never said anything about wanting to quit." He sat down on the chair opposite Harry, trying to catch his gaze. "You really left me to the wolves, you know? Everyone rushed me the minute the news got out. A little warning would have been appreciated."

"Sorry," Harry said in a small voice, guilt as deep as his cups.

Ron waved him off. "Nothing I can't deal with. But what happened?"

Harry shrugged, took another swig. "I'm so tired, Ron."

"Of training?"

"Of… just in general. I'm tired… Did you know—" Harry looked up, saw the deep concern on Ron's face, and looked down at the table again. He drank the last of the liquor in his cup. "I missed my NEWTs," he said quickly. "I told McGonagall I would self-study, you know? And take my NEWTs in June, even if I didn't need them. But — NEWTs were last week. And I just — forgot, Ron." Harry laughed helplessly, hands tightening in hair. "McGonagall, she — she said she looked forward to seeing what I could accomplish. And I—" He snapped his mouth shut, suddenly self-conscious.

"Hey," Ron started. "You've had a lot on your mind lately. No one would blame — no, come on, Harry." Ron moved the bottle further away when he tried to reach for it.

"Kreacher!" cried Harry.

The elf appeared in the kitchen with a soft pop!

"Harry needs some water, Kreacher," Ron said before Harry could remember what he was supposed to say to get another drink.

"Whatever Master needs." Kreacher snapped his fingers and Harry's cup refilled itself with water.

"Thanks, Kreacher, that's all," said Ron.

The old elf bowed and was gone just as quickly as he arrived with another soft pop.

Harry gave a long, mournful no and plonked his head on the table. He heard Ron give a small sigh, the sound of a glass against wood, and then felt something cool against his fingers; Ron had pushed the cup of water into his hand.

"Come on, Harry," he said gently. "I'm sure McGonagall hasn't changed her mind. She never changes her mind." A pause. "Is… that why you quit? So you have time to study for next year?" When Harry refused to say anything, he continued in a sort of aimless ramble. "It's not a bad idea. Take some time off, maybe figure out what you want to do. Give yourself options, as Hermione would say… She'll be thrilled for you. Probably go on one of her 'told you so' speeches, but thrilled, I'm sure. She never misses an opportunity to draw up a study schedule."

A minute passed. Harry could feel Ron's eyes boring into the back of his head, but he continued to study the fine wood grain of the table.

"Harry."

He could feel shame crawling up his neck. He held very still, despite the kitchen's persistent swaying.

"You can go back if you want to," Ron said quietly. "Robards pulled me aside. He said to tell you — you're welcome back, at any time. Said they could chalk up news of your resignation to rumors."

Harry scoffed lightly. It figured. Harry Potter Resigns! was hardly the headline they'd hoped for.

He still couldn't bear to look directly at Ron, but slowly he pushed himself to an upright position. He stared listlessly at the water glass in his hand, took a sip. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

"I'm so tired of interviews, Ron," he said quietly.

"I don't blame you, mate," said Ron. "No one blames you."

He hides in an alcove at the entrance to Knockturn Alley and changes his appearance before going any further; he has some foresight. Harry conjures a handheld mirror and points his newly-acquired wand at his face. Transfiguration has never been his best subject, but he manages to give himself a wider nose and higher cheekbones. Eyes are tricky, even for a Color-Changing Charm, so he opts to simply tint the lenses of his glasses slightly. He gives himself long, mousy brown hair and a scruffy beard that together conceal most of his scar, despite the fact that it's much longer now. He knows from experience that nothing short of disfiguration will completely conceal his scar, not while he's still a horcrux. Once he figures out a way to safely extract it, the scar should eventually fade.

(If he can safely extract it.)

The finishing touch is simply changing his coat's color and concealing the pockets' metal zipper, which is what Harry thinks gave it away as muggle clothing.

Knockturn Alley is never crowded, but it is outright deserted when Harry emerges from the alcove. The recent Auror raid probably has something to do with that. He doubts the raid constituted solely of the Longbottoms after a lone Death Eater; Harry had likely ran into the tail end of it, and the Daily Prophet would report just how many Death Eaters had been captured in tomorrow's paper. As it is, he can see some evidence of a fight — a few scorch marks on the walls, some overturned merchandise — and there is an official-looking notice placed on the front doors of the local pub, the White Wyvern, declaring it closed while under Auror investigation.

The alley is narrow, the buildings looming, the shadows long. The sun sets early in Knockturn Alley.

Mr. Mulpepper's Apothecary gives no indication that it is open. There is only one sign Spellotaped to the dusty display's window: We DO NOT sell unicorn blood — DON'T ASK!

Harry doesn't bother with the front door, knowing it's closed so soon after a raid. He goes straight through the small gap between the buildings and gives three quick raps on the apothecary's back door. It takes nearly a minute, but the door cracks open as much as it can while still locked with a chain.

"Business?" asks a raspy voice from within.

"Selling," says Harry.

"Hmph." The door closes, there's the sound of a chain clinking, and Harry is ushered quickly inside.

Mr. Mulpepper is a wiry old man who doesn't waste time on pleasantries — or any sort of chatter, for that matter. Harry places his merchandise on a worktable in the backroom of the shop, and Mr. Mulpepper appraises each of them. The process of selling and checking potions ingredients goes much the same as it did at Slug & Jiggers, albeit with ingredients whose sale is restricted and minus the strained conversation. If Mr. Mulpepper thinks his ingredients are stolen, he doesn't mention it.

His eyes widen when he opens a particular wooden box. "Are these—?"

"Basilisk fangs," Harry confirms. He's only selling four of them, keeping nine fangs to himself. Enough to destroy all the horcruxes with some to spare, because why risk it? "Venom still intact," he adds, and watches the storekeeper's eyes glint with newfound interest in amusement.

Mr. Mulpepper is just as stingy as Mrs. Jiggers, and drives a harder bargain, but Harry still walks out of the store with nearly triple what he had before.

He passes once more by the closed-off White Wyvern, its windows dark and empty, the Ministry notice glaring at him from where it hangs on its front door. He grits his teeth and keeps going.

The Leaky Cauldron is full — not nearly as chaotic as it had been in the morning, but full. He half expects there to be no vacancy, but Tom just smiles at him and points him to his room. It's only after he's safely behind a locked door that he drops the transfigurations on his body, slumping down heavily onto the bed.

It is mostly silent in the room; he can hear various voices from Diagon Alley through the slightly open window, carried in the wind, but the raucous still ongoing celebrations within the Leaky Cauldron itself are muted behind his locked door. As if everything were happening far, far away from him.

He wards the room for privacy anyway.

Harry pulls out the shrunken trunk from his pocket, re-sizes it. There isn't much left inside, with all the ingredients gone. A few sets of clothes and toiletries, the box of leftover basilisk fangs, the first aid kit, and…

There is a hidden inside pocket in the lining of the trunk, sewn in there by Hermione (And what makes you think I know how to sew? No, knitting isn't the same, you should know how — oh, just — you're doing it wrong, just give it here), sewn shut. Harry traces the seam of it, perhaps imagining the point at which it changes from an irregular line into small, precise points. It's incredibly difficult to spot, right at the corner of the trunk and well-camouflaged.

He retrieves the small scissors from the first aid kit and begins cutting.

There, in the isolation of a warded room at the Leaky Cauldron, with only the quiet snip… snip of the scissors breaking the silence, Harry lets himself think painful thoughts.

There had been… a plan. A carefully construed plan, devised first by Harry and meticulously edited by Ron and Hermione.

There had been research, a list of dates and locations of Death Eater raids, a list of names of those involved. There would have been a letter-writing campaign, a slow-but-steady approach to gaining the trust of the Order, of establishing himself as a reliable source of information, all while gathering horcruxes. He would have eventually approached Dumbledore, after proving himself an ally — and he could have met his parents.

Not as family, of course. He would have had to lie and, depending on how he was received by the Order, either claim to be a long-lost Potter cousin or change his appearance altogether. Best case scenario, he might reveal he was from the future to a few select people, and simply refuse to explain the how.

(Just tell them it's for their safety or something. The magic is just too dangerous, etcetera. Bet Dumbledore will love that.

Ron, darling, my love? If someone told me they found a way to change the past without paradoxes and then refused to tell me how, I would hate them.

Good thing you won't be there, then, huh, 'Mione?

Ron.

No, he's right. I could sell that.

Harry!)

They couldn't have been a family, but Harry had hoped they might have been… friends.

His parents, who had died last night.

(Take me instead.)

The plan would need to be revisited.

Harry puts away the scissors and digs out said plans from the hidden pocket. It's written in code, and mostly as keywords and strings of numbers that only Harry would be able to decipher as dates and locations — all crammed in ridiculously small handwriting into a few loose pages.

And tucked in between those pages, two things: a photograph taken at Ron and Hermione's wedding featuring the whole family plus Harry, and the last letter Teddy had written him before he left.

He catches himself staring blankly at the space between himself and the photograph for an unknown amount of time, puts it down and shakes his head. He can't… do whatever he's been doing so far. Shutting down.

He is in the past, is he not? Even if he isn't precisely when he wanted to be. (People need him to keep it together. People needed him a year ago. The countless people who died in the war with Voldemort in the past year alone will not be getting up again.) He has to keep moving, has to concentrate on helping however he can, and that means keeping the Longbottoms out of the crossfire for now.

Voldemort is still alive, even if only in the most generous sense of the word. Harry alone knows of the horcruxes. (Harry is a horcrux. In all his years of research, he never encountered a way to destroy a horcrux without destroying its container.) He may have been too late to cut the First Wizarding War short, but he is still in a position to prevent the second one.

(Years of research, months of planning, thousands of galleons…

And his friends.

Lost.)

Yes, the (useless, pointless) plan will need revisiting. It had been created under the assumption he would eventually be able to work alongside the Order. (It had been created under the belief that Harry's soul would be unharmed and untainted, that his very life would not be a fucking obstacle to their goals.) Things were different now; Harry would have to work alone.

(Harry is utterly alone.)

It's alright.

(Does the war even matter anymore? Should he concentrate on figuring out what went wrong with the time travel and trying again? He doesn't have access to the Hogwarts library, to the Headmaster's collection, or to the Black library anymore — he doesn't have the Black fortune. The ritual rings did not travel with him and he has no way of commissioning new ones, even if he were to suddenly know what he'd done wrong the first time. What hope does he have of undoing this?)

There are thoughts that would consume him, if he let them, if he stood still long enough.

Harry has to move.

And he does. First by re-placing the plans in the hidden pocket, additionally protected by half a dozen concealment and locking charms this time around. And then by taking a hot shower in an attempt to relax. It fails.

The sun has set behind Diagon Alley by the time Harry is ready to go meet the Longbottoms. (For dinner. Merlin, what is he supposed to say?) He's about to go downstairs when he hesitates, looking at his trunk. He's confident any average wizard would be unable to open it, but…

Harry shrinks his trunk and stuffs it down his sock.

Those few seconds of hesitation are the reason he's still inside the Leaky Cauldron when the news hits.

A barn owl flies in through one of the overhead windows just as Harry is about to reach the brick wall that leads into Diagon Alley. It is followed closely by a dozen owls more. A hush goes through the festivities as various patrons hurry to pay the owls out-of-pocket. It seems the Prophet has issued yet another bout of breaking news.

Harry gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. After this, he won't be able to think about the Leaky Cauldron without thinking bad news.

The group of wizards closest to him — three generations of one family, by their looks — make impatient noises as the youngest of their lot fumbles with the coin purse. Harry is frozen on the spot, waiting. Gasps resound elsewhere in the pub.

"Bastards trying to get in one last hurrah!" says an angry voice from the direction of the bar. "They know their days are over!"

"Hurry up, lad," says the eldest wizard of the group closest to Harry. "What's it say?"

By the time the "lad" unfurls the newspaper, most people in the pub are deep in conversation once again and the overall mood has taken a dive. "Twelve muggles and one wizard dead!" he announces to the table's various exclamations and disgust, eyes scanning the article. "But they caught the Death Eater that did it!"

"What Death Eater, lad? Who did it?"

Harry grimaces. He knows what the article says before the lad holds up the Evening Prophet for the whole table to see. MASSACRE IN LONDON, OVER 50 MUGGLE WITNESSES, reads the headline, accompanied by the photograph of a smoking crater in the middle of a street, right in front of an entrance to the London Underground and surrounded by muggle police cars and ambulances.

The lad points to a smaller picture further down the article, a photo of a young man being escorted by several Aurors out of the scene. The young man might have been handsome had he not been laughing and crying hysterically, covered in dust, ashes, and what one could only assume was blood in the black-and-white photo.

"Sirius Black!"

A/N: I chose Harry's new wand components based on Clover's tumblr posts at thecloveryone on tumblr (specifically Plum Wood in her wand wood series and White River Monster Spine in her wand core series). They're not canon interpretations, but they are good. Basically, Harry's new wand favors wielders who are:
-Stubborn, determined, resolute
-Self-sacrificing
-Good at adapting
-Highly attached to certain places and people
-Good at judging other's intentions
-Mostly honest, bad at lying
-Have high endurance and a tendency to believe they have to go at it alone

Do you agree with my choices? Comments and feedback keep me inspired, so review if you like! Thank you!