Harry woke up in his bed. Which was odd for a number of reasons. First, he didn't remember falling asleep. Second, the last thing he did remember was falling into Lake Michigan with a couple fatal gunshot wounds. Third, last he checked his bed had burned down with the house he rented from.

Harry laid there for a moment, just silently processing that he was, despite all evidence saying it was impossible, in his bed. He even could feel the warm weight of his cat Mister across his legs. Without moving anything but his head, Harry surveyed the room. Certainly looked like his bedroom. Harry looked to the wall to his right and, sure enough, there was the calendar. Which, if it was accurate, said he was waking up in March of 2000.

Harry had lived through many Marchs in his time, but March of 2000 stuck out. It was the month he'd gotten sucked into the Victor Sells case. Victor Shadowman, with the ThreeEye and the orgies and the heart exploding.

Feeling like he was in a dream, Harry woke Mister and got out of bed. He walked into his living room, which was decorated the way he'd had it in 2000. Harry checked the cabinets and made breakfast for him and his pet. Then, feeling he might as well play along with this vivid flashback, Harry grabbed his keys and his duster and walked outside. His wards were nonexistent, like they'd been in 2000 when Harry was younger and less paranoid. His left hand was free of any burn damage, completely unmarked.

Harry found the Beetle where he always parked it. It still had its back seats, like it had in 2000. Harry checked the nearest newsstand and the paper confirmed it was March 2000. Harry drove to his office, climbed five flights of stairs, and unlocked his office. He looked around. Yep, how he'd kept it in 2000. He sat down in his chair and pondered his current predicament. Either your life flashing before your eyes was an in-depth multisensory experience or somehow, someway, he'd woken up in the past.

He pinched himself. Pain, check. Not a dream. Harry concentrated hard on his wizardly senses, and felt no illusion or mind magic trick on him. Which didn't guarantee he wasn't under one but it was telling. Deciding to wait for some sign he was truly in his past body with future knowledge, Harry grabbed a novel from his box full of them and began to read.

Around 2:00, Harry heard footsteps outside his door. They stopped, a man snorted, and then there was a knock. Feeling an extreme sense of deja vu, Harry opened it to see a mailman that looked like a sunburnt basketball.

Harry, vaguely recalling this conversation, headed the man's questions off. "No, I don't do parties. No, I'm not psychic. Yes, I'm a wizard. Subtle and quick to anger, etc. May I please have my mail?"

The mailman blinked. He handed over the late notice from Harry's landlord and asked, with a hesitant curiosity, "So, can I see some magic?"

Figuring what the hell, Harry conjured some heatless fire to his palm.

The mailman's jaw practically touched the floor.

Harry dismissed the flames and held a finger to his lips. "That'll be our little secret, okay?"

The mailman nodded like a bobblehead. Harry waved him goodbye and closed the door.

If this wasn't fake, Harry might have to face consequences for his little display. But that had been the same new mailman he'd met the day Monica Sells dragged him into the case. Which means the wife of the sorcerer should be calling any minute.

Harry sat down and waited. Less than 10 minutes later, the phone rang. Harry answered "Harry Dresden."

"Um, is this Harry Dresden the, ah, wizard?"

Word for word what she said in his memory. Harry slammed the door shut on the part of him freaking out at his Groundhog Day-style time travel. "Yes it is. How may I help you, ma'am?"

"I, um, need your help. Something's gone missing and your ad mentioned you, you know…" she trailed off.

"Finding lost things is a specialty of mind. I'd be happy to help out. What is it that you need me to find?"

"My husband," she said after a pause.

Harry decided to vary the script a little. "That's well within my powers. If you could come by my office with something of his, a comb or a pair of socks or something he touched often, I can find him today."

"Really? You're sure?' Monica Sells asked.

"Indeed I am. But if I may ask, what makes you sure he's missing?"

"He just disappeared. Not in a spooky way, more like he just packed a bag and left. I can't go to the police, they'll never take it seriously." She drew a breath, like the effort of so many sentences without an 'um' tired her.

"I see. I'm free the rest of the day. Come by my office whenever you're free, and we can discuss business. If possible, bring the item he used. This could all be handled with as little wasted time as possible,``Harry said, talking out his ass just to see if it changed things as he remembered them.

"Is, um, 2:30 okay?"

"That works out fine. And just for the record, may I have your name, ma'am?"

"... Call me Monica. I'll see you at 2:30."

Harry hung up the phone. Approximately two seconds later, it rang again.

"Harry Dresden," Harry said, waiting to hear Karrin's voice.

"Dresden, it's Murphy. I need you," came the voice of his biggest what-if.

"Karrin, so good to hear from you. What is it this time? A kidnapping, property damage, grisly double homicide?"

"How'd you guess? I got two bodies at the Madison Hotel."

"I'll be right there," Harry assured her.

"Don't grab lunch on the way. It's bad Harry," Murphy told him, her words a tad green.

"I'll be there, hungry and ready to sleuth, in 10 minutes." Hanging up, Harry grabbed his duster, hung a note for Monica on his office door, and began the trek to the Madison. His freakishly long legs ate up the distance. He got out of breath disturbingly fast. He really had been out of shape in his youth. Best to fix that right away, might as well take advantage of the extra testosterone. He'd never be hulked up like Hendricks, but he could do better than having to catch his breath after only a few blocks.

Karrin was waiting outside the hotel for him. She looked so young. They'd aged together so Harry hadn't noticed, but seeing the weight of years gone from that beautiful face really put it in perspective. Harry walked up to her, a genuine smile on his face. "Murph!" he called, as if she hadn't seen him coming.

"Don't you own another coat, Dresden?' she sighed.

"The duster happens to be bulletproof. I care more about function than fashion,' Harry bullshitted. The coat would be bulletproof once he got around to enchanting it, though.

Murphy raised a brow and eyed the leather coat appraisingly. "You don't say. Anyway, come on. Special Crimes is itching to take this and I can only hold off forensics so long."

Harry raced her to the door and held it open for Murphy. "After you," he said smarmily. Murph gave him a feminist glare before walking past.

They took the elevator in silence. Harry braced himself for what he was about to see. He had the feeling already seeing it once wouldn't help him keep from hurling at the horror of it all. The elevator opened and the smell of blood hit him like a punch.

He and Murphy walked to the right suite, its door held open. Harry waited in the living room for a bit. Digging into the memory banks, Harry found the thong hiding on the floor behind the chair.

"The luv suite. You see anything, Mister Man?"

"Carmichael. As always, your condescension and slobbish appearance are greatly appreciated," Harry snarked, actually beyond pleased to see Murphy's partner alive and well. "Please get a bucket ready, I hear the bedroom is a sight and I get queasy easily."

Carmichael shrugged. "Sure thing, Dresden. Enjoy the horror show."

Then Harry walked into the bedroom.

He'd been right; seeing it before was not much of a buffer. Harry inspected the two corpses as dispassionately as he could, refreshing the details from his memory. The man and woman had died mid-coitus, their hearts exploding out their chests. The sad part was, Harry had seen far worse sights so while nauseating, he didn't think he'd actually puke. Maybe he should find another job.

"So, was this magic?" Murphy asked after a few minutes.

"The worst kind. Let's talk in the other room," Harry said mournfully.

He, Murphy and Carmichael gathered in the parlor of the suite.

"So? What do you got for us, Dresden?' Murphy asked, taking out a notepad.

"Do you want what I deduced from what I saw or what I gleaned with my magic powers? The latter may not be admissible in court," Harry asked in all seriousness. As far as he was concerned, the last 12 years had just been a prophetic dream. Time to put those future memories to good use.

Carmichael scoffed, but Murphy didn't even blink. "I'll take both."

"He's Tommy Tomm, Marcone's bodyguard. She's Jennifer Stanton, an escort at the Velvet Room. Tommy was a regular client, Jennifer his usual partner. Yesterday was his birthday. They went out to celebrate. Foreplay in here, main event in the bedroom. The spell hit them right in the middle of it. Hell of a way to go, right?' Harry shrugged his shoulders.

Carmichael wasn't scoffing now. "How the hell did you know their names?" he demanded.

"I'm the psychic consultant, remember? I channeled the psychic remnants," Harry snarked. "Seriously, it's a power called clairvoyance. You can reach out with magic and learn things about people, places, and things." Harry wasn't even lying. Some wizards had clairvoyance. He just didn't happen to be one of them. It was more believable than "I'm from the future" in any case.

"Let's focus on the murder weapon. What can you tell me about this spell?" Murphy asked.

"It's thaumaturgic, so think voodoo. Someone used hair, blood, saliva, something of theirs to create a link and then ripped the heart out of a sacrificial animal to make theirs explode out. It also would take a hell of a lot of energy to fuel this kind of spell. My gut says he or she piggybacked off the storm last night."

"The storm?" Murphy asked.

"There's a lot of energy in thunderstorms. If you know what you're doing, a wizard or sorcerer can channel that energy to fuel a spell beyond their normal energy reserves. Most full-fledged wizards know better than to risk it, which tells me whoever did this is either new to the craft or incredibly reckless, possibly both."

"Damn," Carmichael said, sounding mildly impressed.

"Anything else you can tell me?" Murphy asked.

"Jennifer had a friend. 'Linda', I didn't get a last name. They worked together at the Velvet Room. She might know something about what Jennifer was involved in that warranted magical execution."

"Murph, no way he got that from ESP or magic or whatever. He's involved in whatever this is!" Carmichael told his partner. Murphy looked at Harry with ambivalent eyes.

"I swear on the life of my cat all I've done is tell you the truth. But if you want to throw me in lockup because I know more than I should, bring on the cuffs." Harry stared Murphy down, hoping she wouldn't call his bluff.

She looked away before a soulgaze could happen. "Rob, I'd really like some coffee."

"Karrin, come on!" her partner all but shouted.

She fixed him with a glare. "Black, two sugars."

Carmichael swore and stomped out of the room.

"So, any chance Marcone or Bianca will give you any clues when you talk to them?" Harry asked gently.

"When pigs fly," she snorted. "Harry, look me in the eye. Is there anything you're holding back? Any detail you're leaving out?"

Harry decided he valued Murphy's trust more than explaining away impossible knowledge. "Jennifer had a sister. Monica. And guess who made an appointment with me to discuss her missing husband?"

Murph perked up like a dog with a scent. "That can't be a coincidence."

"Odds are her husband also got his heart torn out or he's the one doing the tearing," Harry said with certainty.

"Give me an hour and I can get her into custody. She can shed some light on whatever the fuck is going on here," Murphy said authoritatively.

Harry winced. "Murph, she has kids. And if her missing husband is the murderer, who do you think he'll target with the next storm when his wife is arrested by police? I couldn't block a spell this big if I was safe at home. What good will steel bars be in blocking it?"

Murphy blew a breath out her nose. "What are you saying, Dresden?"

"I'm saying if your first goal is to protect this woman, then the best way to do it is to ignore her. Follow up on the Linda angle, but leave Monica out of it," Harry all but pleaded.

Murphy grit her teeth. "Fine. I'll let this one go. But if I find out you're running a scam on me, Harry, I will break your arm in three places before throwing you in a cell myself."

"Scout's honor. We both want the same thing, the murderer brought in and no more victims," Harry smiled. "Now, if I'm going to make the appointment with her, I need to split. Call me when you need me again." With a wave, Harry left the suite and went down the stairs. As he exited the building, he noted a blue Cadillac parked right outside the hotel.

Harry walked over and tapped the glass of the back passenger door. "Mr. Marcone! I understand you want to talk."

The door opened to reveal 'Gentleman' Johnny Marcone, the devil Harry knew best, proof that pure evil is better than corrupt good. A borderline sociopath but one with principles. "Indeed I do, Mr. Dresden. Might I offer you a ride back to your office?"

Harry scooched in. He gave an insolent wave at Hendricks in the driver seat.

"You want to pay me to stay away from Tommy Tomm's murder. You also want to soulgaze me, but that's just not going to happen, no offence," Harry started just to speed things along.

"Hearsay failed to mention how perceptive you are, Mr. Dresden," Marcone remarked with ice-cold courtesy.

Harry shrugged. "Not that hard to guess. You want to handle the murderer yourself instead of letting him get arrested by police. I'm the cops' best resource on magic, and this was a magic murder. Without me, they'll be left clueless while you and your stupidly large resources solve the murder yourself. But John, may I call you John?

"If I may call you Harry," Marcone drawled.

"John, the guy who murdered Tommy, the guy making ThreeEye, he's from my world. Leave him to me and save yourself the casualties if you go after him yourself," Harry told the crime lord in all seriousness.

Marcone considered that. "Perhaps I should be paying you to handle this mystery mage and bring him to me."

"I wouldn't touch a penny if you had handled it at some point. No offence," Harry said in a very offensive tone.

Marcone frowned. "I understand you are behind on your rent. Why deny my generous offer?"

"Not because I'd lose sleep handing the murderer over to you. I just wouldn't be able to live with myself if I let myself be bought by a criminal. Again, no offence."

Marcone hummed. "If money cannot motivate you, what does?"

"Come on, John. I need to have some secrets. But as a thanks for the ride, I'll let you in on one."

"I'm listening, Harry." The Caddy pulled up to Harry's office building.

"Lawrence flipped on you. He's working for Tommy's murderer. Do with that what you will." On that, the last word, Harry got out of the car. That had been surprisingly fun.

Harry reached his office just as Monica was turning to leave. She jumped when she saw him and firmly looked at his chest. "Oh. Are you, um, Mr. Dresden?"

"Yes. Hello, Monica. Sorry I'm late, I got called in by the police to consult on a case." Harry walked past her and unlocked his office. He let her in and closed the door behind them. Harry asked if she wanted coffee and made some for himself when she declined. He sat behind his desk with his crappy instant coffee and waited for her to speak.

"So, um, the police call you when…" Monica trailed off.

"When something spooky happens," Harry finished for her. He could have revealed he knew all about Victor and ThreeEye, but then she could panic. And Harry NEEDED the $500 she had brought. "Now, I believe we're here to discuss your missing husband. First off, why come to me and not a private investigator?"

"He was interested in, um, magic. He bought a lot of books. Not that Dungeons and Dragons stuff, the real kind. He bought some tarot cards." She said it like 'carrot'. Nice touch.

"I see. Well, I'd be happy to find him, wherever he may be. There's just the issue of the item to trace back to him and my fee. I'm not cheap. You may prefer finding another investigator."

"We have quite a bit of savings. Money is no problem," she said flatly.

"In that case, my fee is $50 an hour. A retainer is customary," Harry told her.

Monica reached into her purse and handed him the precious envelope. "There's $500 in there. Will that be enough?"

"That will be plenty, thank you. Now, would you happen to have a photo of your husband? And it would help to know his name. For the record, wizards can't use a name to harm someone unless it comes from their own lips," Harry explained to the nervous housewife.

"... Victor. Victor Sells," Monica finally said. She handed a second envelope. "Here's a photo. Our number is in there." She produced a third envelope. "Here's something of his, like what you asked for. I hope it helps."

"Me too. Just to save time, though, can you think of any places he may have gone?" Harry asked leadingly.

"The lake house. In Lake Providence." She provided the address and directions.

"I'll check it out. Now, if there's nothing else we need to discuss, I believe school is letting out soon," Harry pointed out.

Monica paled. "How did you-"

"Nothing to do with magic. You just have that 'mom' vibe," Harry said with his hands up.

Monica Sells relaxed marginally, but she still fled his office with speed.

Harry pulled out the scorpion talisman, pulled off his shoe, and beat the arachnid several times against his desk. When it was a crusted, chitinous mess, Harry sweeped it into the trash. "Sting Murphy now, you damn beastie."

Harry left his office for the day, deposited the cash at the bank, cut a check to his landlord, and found himself hungry. It was late enough for dinner after waiting in line at the bank, so Harry decided to stick to 'canon' as he would now refer to his first go around. He went to McAnally's.

Harry walked down into the pub. He waved to two old men playing chess in the corner and took a seat at the bar. "Hey, Mac. Steak sandwich, fries, ale. And something for Mister if you're feeling generous."

Mac grunted, poured out the beer, and went to his wood-burning stove.

Harry reflected on all the years he'd known Mac. It occurred to Harry that, now that he looked, Mac hadn't aged a day over the decade and change Harry knew him. He somehow got his bar declared Accorded Neutral Ground. Ordinary humans couldn't do that. "Hey, Mac. If I asked you who or what exactly you are, would you tell me?"

"No," Mac said flatly.

"Didn't think so. Just figured I'd ask," Harry shrugged. So his bartender might not be human. That just didn't seem to matter. Whatever Mac really was, he was a good cook, an award-worthy brewer, and Harry's friend.

"Followed," Mac warned Harry.

Harry closed his eyes and braced himself to see the mother of his child he'd killed by his own hand. Except that hadn't happened yet. At the moment, Susan Rodriguez was just a human woman whom he hadn't had a first date with. "Hello, Susan. Grab a seat, get a beer, prepare to be stonewalled."

Her steps faltered, and then there she was, right next to him, looking young and glorious and sexy as hell. Harry allowed himself to fantasize just a bit. In another life, they could have been married. Maybe this life would be it, who knows? For now, just had to take it one day at a time.

"Harry. So good to see you," she grinned.

"If I so much as breathe a syllable about the Madison murders, I'll be out of a job. The answer to all your questions is 'no comment'," Harry told her firmly.

Susan leaned forward to offer a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts. "Off the record then. Something told in confidence between two people attracted to each other."

Harry knew Susan too well to fall for that. But maybe he actually could throw her a bone. "How about I give you a different story? ThreeEye."

"What about it?" Susan asked, straightening up as her reporter senses picked up a scent.

"It's a magic potion. Meaning it's being produced by a practitioner. Magic narcotics flooding the market, challenging traditional drugs. You can spin a story out of that, can't you?"

Susan's face lit up like the 4th of July. "That would be super!" she leaned in to kiss his cheek "Just for that, I'm taking you out! Ever eat at the Pump Room? At Ambassador East?"

Harry ignored how backwards it was to his sensibilities to have a woman treat him to dinner. Susan was worth a little emasculation. "Can't say I have."

"Steaks you wouldn't believe. And the most romantic atmosphere. Jacket and tie required. You able to manage that?"

"I own more than just jeans, sweats, and t-shirts, you know."

"Super." Another kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you Saturday night at 9:00. I'll be there. With bells on." She winked and sauntered out the door, fully aware Harry's eyes were glued to her ass.

Mac put Harry's plate down in front of him. His expression said it all.

"Hey, I don't see you beating them off with a stick. Don't judge me for trading information for food and sex," Harry defended himself.

Mac just shook his head and held out his hand for cash.

Harry paid him, ate his food, and finished his beer. Then we went home to load up for bear. Or rather sorcerer.

Harry grabbed his shield bracelet, his kinetic ring, his blasting rod, his staff, and even his sword cane and .38 Chief's Special. In the event he couldn't catch Victor Sells off guard, he wanted to be armed for war. He left food and water in Mister's dishes, keenly feeling Mouse's absence. Well, only five years until he got his dog back.

As ready as he was ever going to be, Harry got in the Beetle and drove to Lake Providence. Miraculously, the engine survived the trip. Harry parked at the start of the long driveway leading up to the house. No need to alert the hopefully sleeping Victor that Harry was coming. Then, senses alive as he prepared for battle, Harry walked up to Victor Sells's lair.

When he reached the house, it seemed deserted. But Harry knew in his gut that Victor was there. It was his base, his home turf, the place he did all his magic. Harry just had to find him and neutralize him without violating any Laws of Magic. Which meant he could still kill the creep, he'd just have to use his sword or gun. Harry did his best to walk up the stairs leading to the second-story deck silently. When he got there, he found the sliding door locked. Well, there goes the subtle option. Time for plan B. Harry used his ring and unleashed enough kinetic force to shatter the glass of the door. Harry walked through, no threshold to worry about. Black magic eroded the protective bubble usually found around a household.

Victor Sells came out the bedroom in nothing but boxers. Before he could say a word, Harry gathered energy and shouted "Vento incarcerous!" A cage of air formed around Victor, locking his jaw shut so he couldn't speak. The sorcerer's eyes blazed with impotent fury as he tried and failed to counter Harry's spell.

"Hello, Victor. You and I are going for a little stroll. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine." Dragging the wind cage with him, Harry walked out the sliding door and down the steps. When he reached the driveway, Harry shouted so loud the neighbors a quarter mile away might have heard. "Donald Morgan! I wish to turn over custody of a black sorcerer! Don't pretend you didn't follow me when I left Chicago! Come out here and do your job!"

Morgan, sword out and looking 10 miles long, came out of the treeline. HIs expression was sour, and just a little puzzled. "What do you mean, Dresden? What evidence do you have this is a sorcerer?"

"His wife told me everything,' Harry answered. And she had, in canon. "This man, Victor Sells, is involved in serious black magic. He murdered those two at the Madison. He's summoned demons. He's manufacturing a narcotic potion and selling it on the streets. He's a true blue warlock, and since your job is to capture those who break the Laws of Magic, I figured I should hand him to you rather than the police."

Morgan frowned. "And what prompted the act of altruism of this citizen's arrest?"

"Self-preservation. Don't deny you'd happily see me dead. If I didn't capture Victor here and turn him over, you'd assume I was behind the murders and call the Council to enact the Doom based on your circumstantial evidence. I'm doing this to save my neck as much because it's the right thing to do."

Morgan narrowed his eyes. "... Your story makes sense. But there's only one way to verify it." Morgan walked up to the motionless Victor. "Look into my eyes," Morgan ordered. Victor must have obeyed because Morgan shivered like he suddenly needed a hot shower. Harry took a second to feel sympathy for Morgan. Victor's soul was a dark, twisted place, and now it was stuck permanently in Morgan's head.

"I agree this man is guilty of black magic. Several times over, at that. I will summon the Council to decide his fate. I will take over custody of him, Dresden. Expect to testify at his trial. Failure to appear will not be tolerated," Morgan grit out like it was painful to accept Harry had done a good thing.

"Sure thing. You got any thorn manacles on you or do you have your own prison spell?" Harry asked.

Margan narrowed his eyes. He pulled out a set of manacles, like handcuffs but bigger. "Yes I do. Release him on my word. 3… 2… 1!"

The same instant Harry ended the spell, Morgan moved like lightning, dragging Victor's hands behind his back and slapping the thorn manacles closed on his wrists.

"Die, both of you! Kalshazzak! Kalshaz- ah!" Victor's attempted summoning ended as the thorn manacles activated, robbing him of his magic.

Harry nodded goodbye to Morgan and walked back to the Beetle. All in all, a very productive 1st day reliving the past, changing the future. Victor was Morgan's problem now, and Morgan would sooner stick his junk in a meat grinder than let a criminal escape his custody. Now it was just a nice quiet few months until the FBI hexenwulfen fiasco. What could Harry get up to in a few months with all his future knowledge, wisdom, and power? Harry came very close to cackling.