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Decades | ||||||
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Category: Alternate Universe, Post-HBP Characters:Harry/Ginny Genres: Action/Adventure, Romance Warnings: Mild Language, Violence Story is Complete Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 30 Summary: Trapped in a world where my ex-girlfriend thinks the irony is bloody hilarious, I have foreknowledge - a powerful (and dangerous) tool that should help me win the fight before the enemy knows what hit them. Little did I know that the fight was not only with the enemy. Pre-seventh year, canon ships, celebrating the 10th anniversary of the Deathly Hallows release. Hitcount: Story Total: 23090; Chapter Total: 1994 Author's Notes: A belated Happy Birthday to both Harry, who recently turned 37 and to Jo, who is slightly older than 37. This chapter contains violence and coarse language; hopefully I have kept it within the PG-13 rating. And because it also contains overt references to the real world:
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; anything that resembles an actual person, place or event is used fictitiously. Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling and others, and this is all just for fun. |
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o o o 3.01 1540 WEDNESDAY OTTERY ST CATCHPOLE DEVON “I thought you weren’t seeing my sister anymore, Potter.” I felt Ginny shift to my left so I could get a better view of a fuming Ron from my position on the ground. “Erm,” I responded, “we had our eyes closed?” I probably shouldn’t have been so cheeky with Ron’s wand trained on me, but it was worth feeling Ginny giggling beside me. “And he’s already apologized for being a stupid prat, so leave it alone. Or else.” Ginny may have been smiling, but now she had her wand pointed menacingly at her brother. Ron finally came to his senses, lowering his arm. I could see Hermione stifling a laugh behind him. “Alright there, Hermione?” I said, sliding around to a sitting position once more and settling Ginny sideways in my lap. “Why, yes, Harry,” Hermione beamed, “it’s wonderful to see you in such good spirits. How did you get away from your relatives?” “Dobby was kind enough to bring me over for a bit. We’ve got some things to talk about before next week.” “Like how you’ve been messing Ginny around?” Ron retorted. “You may be my best mate…” “Ron,” Ginny growled, “I warned you already. Now Harry has some very important things to say, and you best keep your gob shut and listen.” Ron was about to make some indignant retort, but Hermione — smart girl she is — wisely grabbed his arm and motioned him to sit with her. He reluctantly complied. I then retold the events of my day, waking up confused as Harry Potter after living a different life but having the foreknowledge of the next year after reading a book from ten years in the future, and how I had begun to use that knowledge to complete my mission for Dumbledore. Hermione focused on the part of my story that she didn’t understand. “Harry, there are so many things about this that just don’t make sense,” she said with agitation. “No spell I’ve ever heard or read about comes even close to what you claim has happened to you.” “Hermione,” I countered, “a little over a year ago we didn’t know one could split their very soul or that there were real prophecies out there. I dare say that the Hogwarts library does not contain the entirety of human knowledge about magic or any other topic.” Hermione stole a nervous glance at Ginny, who was looking over Ron’s shoulder, together reading the opening pages of Philosopher’s Stone as we sat at the edge of the woods. “Should we be discussing this here?” she whispered to me. “It’s okay. I’ve told Ginny everything, even some things about the future that I can’t tell you yet, at least not until after certain events happen.” “Harry, I've told you how dangerous it is to attempt manipulating the future — “ “That’s rubbish, Hermione. We are creating our own future, now.” As I told her about my discussions with Dumbledore’s portrait, I removed the two founders’ relics I had collected so far from my rucksack. “Do you know how many months it would be before we figured out where to find these, if I had not read that last book?” I asked, holding them in front of her. “They were exactly where the book said they were.” “That’s Hufflepuff’s cup?” Hermione asked in wonder. “Then if the tiara was Ravenclaw’s... no, it couldn’t be...” “What was lost has been found,” I smirked. “It was quite the story, how Tom acquired it and hid it in the Room of Requirement. I didn’t know it at the time, but I saw it when I went there to hide the Half-Blood Prince’s potions book there after my little altercation with Malfoy that landed me all those detentions. The cup Tom gave to Bellatrix to keep in her Gringotts vault. The goblins were only too glad to be shed of it after realizing what it was. Kreacher is retrieving the locket as we speak, and then we only have Nagini and Voldemort himself.” Ginny gave me a surreptitious look without moving her head, noting my omission of the little problem hiding in my scar. She seemed to understand my reluctance to share everything just yet. “The goblins? Kreacher?” Hermione fretted. “Harry, you said Dumbledore wanted this kept confidential! How many have you told?” “I haven’t told Kreacher anything he didn’t already know.” I related the elf’s adventures, and Hermione was predictably horrified at what Voldemort had done to him and amazed that Regulus Black had actually been a hero for the light, sacrificing his life for that of a house-elf, something probably unique in the history of wizardkind. I could already see Hermione making use of that bit of information in her campaign for elf rights. “Bill was there with the goblins and they all realize the need for secrecy. I told Ginny because I felt she ought to know. Besides, once these books are published it will be common knowledge anyway.” “And that’s another thing,” she protested. “What about the International Statute of Secrecy? These books will expose the magical world!” For some reason, that problem had not occurred to me. “I’m not sure how it happened, Hermione, but Muggles look at the magical world as a fantasy creation, like Narnia or Middle-Earth. They are fascinated with the idea of a hidden society co-existing with their own, and that’s one reason the books are — or will become — so popular. That final volume that I just read was probably the largest first printing run of any book in history.” That last bit was enough to leave Hermione speechless, at least for a moment. “Hey, mate,” Ron said, still thumbing through Philosopher’s Stone, “this says your relatives are named Dursley, and they live at Number Four Privet Drive.” Ginny added, “It also talks about the Hogwarts Express leaving from Platform Nine and Three Quarters at Kings Cross, reached by passing through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. I thought it was just a mistake.” “Of course it is,” reasoned Hermione. “There’s no barrier there, even if that was the right platform.” Something clicked in my brain. “The book also says that the Leaky Cauldron is on Charing Cross Road,” I added with a grin. “But, they’re all wrong...” Hermione gaped at me for about three seconds before she figured it out. “They’re deliberate obfuscations!” Ron lowered the book. “Deliberate what?” “Like a Confundus charm,” I said, “except no actual magic is involved, just some verbal misdirection. It makes sense... If all the Muggles knew where these places were, they would flock there, looking for us, and Muggle repelling charms would be overwhelmed. Can you imagine Kings Cross on the first of September if they knew a magically hidden platform really existed? In the time I just came from, you can go to the area outside platforms nine, ten and eleven, and there’s the rear half of a trolley sticking out of the wall with a sign above that says ‘Platform Nine and Three Quarters’ and the Muggle tourists all stop to pose for pictures as if they were off to Hogwarts themselves. They see it as a fine joke.” “But why change your relatives’ name and address?” Ginny asked. “I reckon it’s for their own protection,” I laughed, and we all enjoyed a brief vision of hoards of angry fans descending on some street called Privet Drive and chasing Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon up and around the village. Hermione give me a calculated glare. “How do we know that you’re not just making this all up? What do you really know about the future?” I sighed. “The only thing I know about the future of the wizarding world is what I read in book seven, my seventh year in the Wizarding World, and believe me, the description of the next few months is pretty bleak. I want to prevent most of it from happening, but I have to act before things change too much. However, I remember a whole decade of Muggle events. What do you want to know about the future, Hermione?” She started to respond but was unable to form any words. “Right,” I said, “what would you say were the major happenings of the last decade in the Muggle world?” “Oh,” she brightened, “obviously there was the collapse of the Eastern Bloc, and great optimism about world peace, but fears about growing terrorism attacks and the spread of disease as world trade increases... There have been huge leaps in information technology — Harry, what about the year 2000? Some of my Muggle friends are saying that many computers and integrated circuits weren’t designed to roll from 99 to 00 — at the moment the new year begins, control systems will shut down — no power or transportation — “ “Relax, Hermione, everything important gets fixed in time.” “Oh, right, then...” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I assume that the World Wide Web isn’t just a passing fad?” Her last comment brought home how much had changed in just a decade. I told her about steady advances in technologies such as computers and televisions, and the quiet revolution that reflected fundamental changes in the ways people communicate. Hermione already knew about email, but was less familiar with other forms of instant messaging, especially with increased usage of mobile devices, and I told her the buzz about some new thing Apple was introducing called the iphone. “People will be in the same room and send these text messages to each other instead of talking?” she asked, incredulous. “Sometimes it’s so they can chat privately while around others,” I explained, “or to be able to listen to something else, or just to be clandestine about it. No need to pass notes in class anymore.” Ron and Ginny were sporting similar glassy-eyed stares, so I shifted topics. “There’s a lot more emphasis on protecting the earth, with more pollution controls, recycling waste material, energy efficiency, and the like, so there’s a lot of good happening. Politics and economies are always changing back and forth, so that shouldn’t be a surprise.” I paused, thinking how to say this. “It’s sad to say that the trends in terrorism have escalated,” I continued. “There are also civil wars sprouting up all over the globe. It makes me wonder about the timing... Voldemort’s Death Eaters without a leader...” “You reckon they like to stir up trouble among Muggles?” Ron asked. “I honestly don’t know, but it would be nice to prevent a lot of that bloodshed if we could. I fought in one of those wars, and believe me, it was not a pleasant experience.” “So what is happening in your other life right now?” Ginny asked curiously. “I hadn’t really thought about that,” I mused. “Let me think — this is the summer before my junior year of high school — oh, no! I’m in hospital right now, recovering from a car accident, speaking of unpleasant experiences...” My mind began replaying images — I was remembering things that had such a profound impact on so many that one would always remember what they were doing at that moment — one of those involved madmen in airplanes and wouldn’t happen for another few years and might be avoided, but another set came unbidden — returning to school after the traditional first Monday in September holiday in the States with sadness, impromptu memorials, a song by Elton John — “Hermione, if you knew that something bad was about to happen and you knew where and when, even though it would be just a tragic accident, would you try to stop it?” Hermione suddenly became conflicted. “Well, yes, but it still messes with history, causality, and all that! You can’t just change things without consequences!” “Even if it involves the death of the Princess of Wales?” Ashen faces were their only responses. 3.02 0710 TUESDAY EASTERN AFGHANISTAN “Rendezvous five minutes.” I pressed the helo up the narrow gorge, my UH-60 Black Hawk easily banking through the turns as we rounded each finger of steep rocky outcrop, racing against time. It helped that I had flown this same gorge before, hell, we had dropped the squad up here just a day ago, using a little more stealthy approach then. No need for that now. “Three minutes. Ranger 3-9, this is Dragon 4-2 on approach. Confirm target is marked.” “Dragon 4-2, this is Ranger 3-9 Alpha squad, acknowledged. Target is marked, 200 yards right and above our position.” As part of Operation Enduring Freedom, we were running transport and support ops for troops that were combing these rugged mountains for possible hideouts of Taliban and al-Qaeda insurgents. Ever since bin Laden was flushed out of Tora Bora and scampered across the border to who-knows-where, we’ve been trying to take out the sneaky bastards that seem to thrive like ants throughout this impossibly wrinkled landscape. “One minute.” “4-2, we’re taking heavy fire; repeat, target is marked. Appreciate a quick elimination.” Our boys definitely found somebody nested near a cave, who had them pinned down on the mountainside. I rose up to leap the top of the ridge separating us. “3-9, we should have visual in 3, 2, 1…” And there was the squad below, hunkered down on a small shelf across the gorge we just entered. Our scopes lit up with the laser marker to the right, higher up the same side of the gorge, muzzle flashes of automatic weapons confirming the target location. “Hellfire one and two, armed and ready. Lock, on. Hellfire one away. Hellfire two away.” Hellfire missiles were 5 feet and 100 pounds of concentrated whoop-ass, and we were fortunate to be outfitted with a dozen of these little bug-bombs, and the laser guidance system put them right on target, turning the nest, and everyone in it, into a cloud of rock and dust. I swung around and eased down to the shelf where Alpha squad was hoisting themselves over to where I touched down. The four of them looked pretty banged up, and our medic jumped out to help a couple of them who were holding bloody bandages to an arm or leg. “Thanks for the lift, Captain.” “No problem,” I replied, “we live to serve. Where’s Bravo at?” Squad Ranger 39 had two fire teams, Alpha and Bravo, and I wasn’t leaving without the whole squad. “We split up coming over the ridge. They’re about two clicks southwest, and they got hit harder than us.” “OK, time is money, gents. Let’s go, let’s go.” The medic got the wounds prepped for travel, and once all were strapped in, I took us up and away to find Bravo team. “There they are, 2 o’clock,” said my co-pilot, Lt Charles ‘Chuck’ Brown, as we rounded yet another rocky crag. “There’s not much room there.” As we closed the distance, I could see that they were even bloodier than Alpha team; probably targeted first. I radioed my crew chief, “Wiley, ropes out, send down the medic and one healthy Alpha, then the stretcher.” “On it, Jimmy.” I swung around parallel with the mountainside on my left and the ropes went down, and the crew quick-dropped immediately after. As we hovered above Bravo position, the first guy up on the stretcher had been leading and received multiple rounds in the torso and lower extremities; body armor had saved his life but he had a long recovery before him. It was then that all hell broke loose. The cockpit came alive in a hail of small arms fire, broken glass and shrapnel, screams and yelling, not the least was my own. “Enemy fire, 3 o’clock! Bravo, can you mark ‘em?” Someone down below was already returning fire across the narrow gorge, presumably to another group of bandits waiting in ambush for us to show up. I prayed silently that they still had their laser operational. “Affirmative, 4-2! On it!” “Need it yesterday, Bravo!” I swung the Black Hawk around to face the bastards. “Hellfire one and two, armed and ready.” “Target marked!” I heard, just as my scope locked on. “One away! Two away!” But the rounds had not stopped coming, and I felt a hot kick to my knee, followed by excruciating pain, just as the missiles blew apart the mountainside in front of me. “I’m hit! Chuck —” but as I looked over at my co-pilot, he was bent over, bloody hand to his face. “Shrapnel,” he moaned, “damn near ripped my face off, Jimmy, can’t see!” Crap. Pilots down. The helo was in a slow spin, dangerously close to the side of the gorge now. I grit my teeth and forced my left leg to work the pedal. Miraculously, it responded and I righted the Black Hawk, just as more rounds started pinging us from further up the gorge. I lowered the helo as close as I dared to the ledge sheltering the rest of the squad. “Jump in! Move, move, move!” They didn’t need telling twice, as they threw everything they were carrying on board and scrambled across the gap, dragging the wounded ones roughly through the impromptu chain of hands. “That’s all, Jimmy!” my crew chief finally said. “Move out!” “Hold on!” I yelled as I dove down into the gorge and out of range as quickly as possible. My knee protested the maneuver, but we seemed to be in the clear for the ride back to base and medical attention. Fate, however, had other plans. “Jimmy,” called my crew chief again, “ it’s raining fuel back here.” The fuel gauge apparently still worked, as I could see the level dropping steadily. Our overhead fuel tanks had been pierced in the firefight and we would be dry in just a few minutes. “Wiley, how far to that last ridge before the valley road?” There was no safe landing spot in this region and I’d be damned before I let my guys be taken by these bastards; they’d be better off dead. “Ten minutes at current speed,” my crew chief responded. “Fuel won’t last that long.” At current speed, he said. That gave me an idea, something I’d read about — some Navy jet pilot in Nam was hit, losing fuel somewhere over enemy territory, and burned it up as fast as he could to get as high as he could. “Not a problem,” I replied, “we’re heading for the ceiling.” I immediately pulled back into a power climb, shooting out of the gorge and setting a course perpendicular to the high ridge that we had to cross to be out of the insurgents’ playground, pushing the engines as hard as I could to use every drop of precious fuel still in the tanks while it was still available. “Thunder Base, this is Dragon 4-2, damaged during enemy engagement, losing fuel rapidly, aiming to set down on the north valley road. Crew taken fire, casualties critical. Request two MEDEVACs rendezvous at landing site.” “Dragon 4-2, Thunder Base acknowledged. MEDEVACs in route ASAP.” Higher and higher we climbed, a beautifully harsh land unfolding below, with little indication of the human conflict raging within. Then a cough by one of the engines, and I knew fuel was about gone, the gauge near zero for the last half minute. I leveled out and shut the engines off. It became eerily quiet except for the wind as I tilted down and adjusted the rotors into auto-rotation position. “Captain, you know how to fly this bird without power?” Alpha squad was getting a bit nervous. “Affirmative, just treat her right, and she’ll glide right back down to earth.” “With no wings?” “The blades are like long, narrow wings, as long as they keep rotating. We won’t win any distance championships, but we’ll get there just fine.” “What about that ridge coming up fast?” Yes, the ridge was coming up very fast, and I was having to hold back nearly into a stall to eek out every last bit of altitude, aiming for the lowest point in our path. Even then, it was an extremely close passage, raising dust as we sailed over the gap, rocky peaks rising to either side. “Jimmy, you’re either planting us on a mountainside or giving us a heart attack.” “Not today, Wiley! Sit back and enjoy the rest of your flight. We thank you for flying Dragon Air.” Finally, the valley floor ribboned below us, and I adjusted the rotors into a more comfortable descent. I radioed our location as we followed the road, lower and lower, until I pulled back into a classic flare maneuver a few feet off the road surface, bleeding off speed, and dropped lightly to the ground. “Nice job, Jimmy, I’m sending the medic up front.” “Thanks, Wiley. Tell him to see Chuck first.” My co-pilot seemed barely conscious at this point. We sat there on the road, banged up and in pain, but laughing at the insanity we had just survived, and several comments about “crazy rotorheads.” A British humvee was the first vehicle that came down the road. It stopped before us and a tall man got out of the back, approaching my side of the Black Hawk at a determined pace. He walked up to the open doorway, raised his right arm toward me, holding a stick. He removed his hat, exposing a completely bald scalp, and I noticed with horror that he had no nose and red slits for eyes. “Goodbye, Harry Potter,” he hissed. “Avada Kedavra.” A jet of green light slammed into my chest, and I knew no more. 3.03 0420 THURSDAY LITTLE WHINGING SURREY Panting, sweating, chest compressed, hard to get breath, gut roiling, and a familiar stabbing pain in my knee. What the hell ..? I could move my right arm easily enough, and I groped for something, anything familiar. I was facing a cool flat surface and gravity told me down was to my left. Reaching behind, I discovered some type fabric that was also wrapped around my legs, and a horizontal surface that was more yielding… I exhaled a deep sigh and chuckled to myself. I had rolled out of bed and was trapped between it and the wall. Thank the angels that no one here on Earth could see me; they’re probably laughing themselves silly up there about now. I shoved the bed back far enough where I could free my aching body and re-situate myself properly under the thin blanket. I thought about the dream — my last mission in Afghanistan was a frequent visitor to my visions at night, but Tom had never made an appearance before. Of course, he had never been more substantial than a comic book villain before either. Once freed from the wall, my chest returned to normal, and the pain in my knee was also receding. Some of it was probably phantom recall of the pain from the actual injury but I apparently landed on my knee when I fell off the bed, adding a bit more realism to my dream. I was pondering the irony of it all when a crack resounded in the middle of the room. My wand found itself in my hand before I recognized that Kreacher stood before me, a shiny object glinting from between his bony fingers. “Kreacher found Master’s locket in nasty witch’s bedroom,” he sneered, dangling it from its chain. This was going to be a story I probably wanted as little detail as possible. 3.04 1030 THURSDAY HOGWARTS CASTLE After listening to Kreacher’s harrowing tale, I sent Hedwig off to Bill Weasley, stating that I had “collected all the fruit for the basket” and wondered if he wanted to share. Cleverly enough coded, I hoped, but easily figured out. Hedwig returned just a few hours later, after I had a chance to get a little more sleep. “Nicely done,” Bill wrote. “We’ll have a picnic at school with your fruit basket and your knife, as soon as you can make it.” Ha! Bring Tom’s trinkets and the Sword of Gryffindor to Hogwarts. Got it. I called for Dobby and got a report on his surveillance, then he took me to the great hall at Hogwarts, where I found Bill, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and Deputy Headmistress (now Headmistress) McGonagall waiting for me. The circle kept growing, but I planned on it not being an issue for not much longer. “Quite a party for the picnic, I see,” I intoned. “Not sure if I’ve got enough fruit to go around.” I greeted McGonagall warmly, since I hadn’t seen her since leaving on the Express a few weeks ago. Ginny sidled over for a hug and a chaste kiss. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Harry. Bill has found a possible solution to your, erm… fruit problem.” “No need to be coy around me, Miss Weasley,” huffed McGonagall. “Mr. Potter — Harry,” she corrected at my frown, “Bill has given me a synopsis of what has transpired and I must say that I am shocked — at what You-Know-Who has done to himself, at what Albus has required of you, and that you have managed to accomplish the impossible time and again, despite what little assistance I have been to you over the years. I do not wish to fail you again; therefore, I put myself and Hogwarts at your disposal, for whatever you require.” Stunned by her speech, I could only nod and murmur an appreciative thanks. “Harry,” said Bill, “I have been researching ways to eliminate the taint upon these historic founder’s relics without destroying the objects themselves. Oddly enough, the answer was here at Hogwarts the entire time. In the Headmaster’s private library there is a book of holy purification rituals, and one of these rituals seems well suited to our task. It requires multiple objects to be purified at the same time, and a magical focus item that has been tempered through a trial of great conflict against evil. Since you defeated Slytherin’s basilisk while it was under You-Know-Who’s direction, we feel that the Sword of Gryffindor, as the weapon causing its death, will qualify as that magical focus item.” “Really?” I asked, amazed. “That would be awesome if it worked. What do we have to do?” “First, we need to go to a more appropriate location.” Bill then led us down the entrance hall steps one level but then turned away from the dungeons into a corridor I had somehow missed before. The walls became very different, the stone was rougher cut and more worn at the same time. We stopped before a pair of doors of hand-hewn wood, that he opened into a dark room, which suddenly became visible as McGonagall swept her arm around the room, lighting torches along both of the longer walls. I walked to the center and gaped at what looked to be a very old church. “Welcome to the chapel,” said the Headmistress. “The oldest part of Hogwarts, predates the rest of the castle by hundreds of years.” “Amazing,” I said. “How did it get here?” “It is thought to be a house of worship built by the Picts after they converted to Christianity, early in the first millennium. Before that, it was rumored to be a site for sacrificial rites.” Bill added, “The natural magic of the area always attracted people here. The founders were allowed to build the castle only after promising to maintain the chapel for all time, so it became part of the castle itself.” Sacrifices, worship, no doubt many sacraments, all these things had happened here, and a place of powerful natural magic. There was probably no place better suited for a magical ritual of holy purification. “Alright. This looks good. How confident are we that this will be successful?” Bill shrugged. “About as confident as one can be in written spells that haven’t been seen in centuries and have no corroborating texts known to exist.” “But you said the arithmancy worked well, didn’t you?” fretted Hermione, who had been strangely quiet. “Yes, it all checks out fine,” Bill said, “but it’s not something we can actually practice.” I looked at Ginny, her bright eyes showing concern, but also encouragement. I turned back to Bill. “Let’s do it.” He directed me to place each of the relics on a raised dais that could have held an altar at some point, arranging them in a triangle about a foot apart — Ravenclaw’s diadem at the apex, Slytherin’s locket and Hufflepuff’s cup flanking — and to hold Gryffindor’s Sword pointing toward the three. Four founders, four priceless relics, that were about to be unified once again. I felt a shiver run through my body and noticed that we had an audience. The house ghosts — the Grey Lady, the Bloody Baron, the Fat Friar, and Nearly Headless Nick — had all come to bear witness to the ritual. A heavy weight seemed to settle on each of us. Bill taught me the words to say, but as always, “Intent is important. You must really want the taint removed from these objects.” I nodded, and everyone stepped back. I began the chant, pointing the sword at each relic in turn, until a golden glow began forming at the tip of the sword. And the next moment I realized that Fate must really have it out for me, because for the second time that morning I experienced an overwhelming magical attack, this time a ferocious golden blast right above the eyes. 3.b A/N 2: Yes, I really do remember where and when that I heard about Princess Diana’s death. Some things have that kind of overwhelming impact. And what I said about Kings Cross was exactly the way it was a decade ago; no idea what they’ve done in the latest remodel. As for the Afghanistan scene, I researched a fair bit but I knew I could only pay lip service to it without help from people who actually know what those situations were like, so if there are any real soldiers out there that would care to PM me to improve that scene, I would be very appreciative. It has been the biggest hurdle since I first conceived this fic many years ago. Thanks for reading! |
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