Time and Again

Disclaimer – This is a work of purely speculative fiction. It is not intended to infringe on any rights by and of the companies and/or individuals involved in the production of any series mentioned here. The characters involved are the intellectual property of their respective authors/creators except for the ones that are listed as an OC, which are mine.

A/N – 1. I will clearly state that yes, the idea and premise behind this fic has been taken from “Across Time” by Izwan. Do check it out, it's available on fanfiction.net and it’s a good one.

And yes, I have asked for and gotten their permission. But as I am neither adopting his work nor using his writing, I believe it matters little. But I thought it prudent to at least be respectful of the unwritten rules.

Though I do have to say that it has many typos and quite a lot of errors that take away, at least, some of the pleasure of its otherwise intriguing plot. And it’s one of the many reasons that I thought I should write something similar to offset that in my mind.

That said, apart from the premise and some of the characters, I will try to make this concept my own.

That is all. Enjoy the chapter.

-x-x-x-x-x-

(Potter’s Cottage, Godric's Hollow, November 2057)

Silent harrowing winds buffeted against the windows of a modest-looking cottage house as the storm increased in its intensity.

It was the seventh day since its arrival. Seventh-day, since their reprieve had ended and their days had turned dark and gloomy once more. And with how the ominous clouds were hovering over the village, showering the residents with angry hails and gale winds, it looked as though the pattern would not abate before the reason for its arrival was satisfied.

Green eyes, weary and old, looked at the thunder high above as the clouds fought for dominance and the right to punish the mortals with their wrath.

His strong, calloused hands gripped the windows in a fierce grip, fighting against the gales, and he closed it before the pelting hail and rain could flood the cottage.

A seventy-seven-year-old Harry Potter heaved a tired sigh as he closed the curtains and turned his steps back towards the only other occupied room in his home.

A glint from a glass caught his eyes and his steps slowed down as he passed through the multitudes of pictures that decorated the corridor wall, showing his life story.

Fifty-Six years.

It was hard for him to believe that this place had been his home for all these long years and had become something he had longed for all his life.

Memories, good and bad, remembered and forgotten, lived in these very halls as they rushed in his mind, whispering tales of the times past.

He had endured this life for far too much and far too long than he should have had to really. He had experienced pain, loss, anger, happiness, joy, peace and almost every other thing that an average witch or wizard went through in the period of their lives.

And as with them, he too had a few regrets to go along with the happy times that he had shared with his loved ones.

But despite his grievances and all his complaints, shared or unspoken, his life had given him the one thing that had made living through every single instant that had gone wrong in his long life, worth it.

His family.

A beautiful wife who loved him with everything she was for more than forty years of their lives together and two perfect children who had given him more than enough reasons to be proud of them in every facet of their lives.

It was his perfect little paradise that had, quite successfully, shadowed the reign of misery that had been his youth.

But as was the nature of things, it too, was at an end…

Just a step away from entering the bedroom, Harry steeled himself and erased any sign of stricken grief from his face before the lone occupant of the room could lay her eyes on him.

Gently as they could, his nimble hands closed the door and latched it with nary a sound escaping into the room.

His searching eyes caught sight of her sleeping form and focused on the rhythmic sounds of her faint breaths. A relieved sigh escaped his lips when he saw her chest moving in tandem with her shuddering breaths.

He had not lost her.

At least not yet.

Fleur Isabelle Potter née Delacour. His beautiful wife.

Even now, nearing eighty years of her life, she was just as beautiful as she had been when he first saw her all those years ago.

Faint wrinkles around her magnificent blue eyes and her world-weary but still somewhat sharp features accentuated her mature beauty that he had marvelled for as long as she had been in his life.

As his thoughts lingered on her form though, a familiar pang erupted in his heart as reality reared it’s ugly head once more. It cackled in glee as it shouted in his mind the one thing that he had begun to fear ever since her prognosis had been delivered by the healers.

He would be alone again.

“Har…Harry?”

Her whisper caught his ears and he realised she had awoken while he was lost in his wayward thoughts.

He was by her side in an instant.

“I'm here, love,” he reassured, taking her frail hand in his own.

Glistening blue eyes looked deep into his sad greens and they understood the world without either ever uttering a single word.

Fleur knew he was terrified. She was too, if she allowed herself that honesty during those few brave moments. This past few years had challenged her and Harry more than most. But it had also given her a better perspective on life.

Like how really short it was. Even for the magicals who boasted a greater span than most other species. She had become quite melancholic these days. Especially after her illness had taken a turn for the worse.

And they had spent every waking moment together since then.

Reassuring each other with their presence and trying to come to terms with what they both knew would follow them soon enough.

To some extent, it had even brought them the acceptance that they both needed for what was come.

Or, at least, that is what they told themselves.

Fleur knew though, her passing would hurt him. It would tear him up for god knows how long. She knew though, that he would not lose himself in his sorrow. She and their children were his life, and as long as he had them, he would continue to endure no matter the pain her absence brought him.

And she could not be more proud of them than she was now.

Her husband was a survivor.

He would survive.

And in that moment, she understood… It was time.

Despite the pain she was feeling, and the agony that had become her new reality, Fleur smiled. A genuine, happy, understanding smile that she had only ever deigned to show him.

“Call…them.”

And just like that, his heart broke into a million pieces.

-x-x-x-x-x-

He watched as the rain showered them all with its lilting sorrow as the minister read her last rights.

There was movement around him, as the four pallbearers moved beside her open casket, draping her forever sleeping form with the cloth that came from her side of the family.

But all he heard was the sound of her of voice, singing in his ears.

I give you this one thought to keep…

I am with you still. I do not sleep…

Her musical laugh rang within him as her soothing voice whispered a reposeful melody in his ears.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow…

His children stood before him, holding each other, tears of sorrow dripping from their eyes as her coffin was laid in the confines of her last resting place.

FLEUR ISABELLE POTTER

(31 Oct 1977 – 12 Nov 2057)

“There shall be no darkness nor dazzling but one equal light; no noise nor silence but one equal music.”

He could see they were hurting, as their grief wet their eyes. His heart constricted, fighting a losing battle to accept that he could do nothing but watch as the love of his life and mother of his children left them on a journey he was not yet allowed to follow.

For tonight, he was not the feared ex-Auror who had defeated many a dark wizard with the might of his magic, neither a captain who had led his squad safely in midst of enemies and brought them back safe and sound, not was he a wizard who had conquered the most terrible Dark Lord in the British Isles.

Tonight...he was but a man who had lost a piece of himself. He was merely...a grieving husband.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

A hand on his shoulder gave him a tiny solace, however, even if he could not feel it at the moment. Its presence told him that he was not yet alone in life. That there were still some left who yearned to see him living than to join those who had already passed through the veil.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush,

I am the swift, uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Shaggy red hair in a mop of grey flashed in his periphery and he saw his Best-mate standing beside him, silently.

He was thankful for his support and silence. But tonight, it would do nothing to soothe his sorrow.

And seeing everyone, crying as they sang laurels of the greatness of his wife, for the first time in a long time, he felt a bitter anger surge within him.

None but a precious few who were present at the service truly knew who she was and fewer still who could understand his pain. How could they? They hadn’t lost her as he had. They weren’t the ones who had seen their most precious treasure wilt and die right before their very eyes.

He was aware that It was his bitterness talking, seeing some of Fleur's best friends clinging to their partners to bear with their own loss, but he couldn’t muster any sympathy when he felt nothing but envy seeing them together.

But he knew one thing. Ron understood. He understood everything, having felt the same pain himself not so long ago.

When Hermione had passed last year.

And so, for sake of that understanding, Harry turned towards his friend and gave have him a solemn nod, knowing there wouldn't be a need for any words between them.

Hours passed and the crowd departed, leaving behind the family of three and a friend who was as good as one.

“Let…let her rest, papa.”

Her sweet voice returned him back to the living and he looked into the familiar blue eyes of his daughter.

Her face, her mannerisms, even her personality was every bit as her mother’s as it could be without them both being the same person.

Even grown-up as she was, he knew, she would always be…his little girl.

Victoire Potter.

Now a woman in her own right, having married the love of her life a couple of years back, she was well on her way to becoming just as great a healer as her mother had been.

How could she not, when Ron's eldest, Daniel, her husband, was ever so supportive of his little angel.

He couldn’t have picked a better man for her than she had on her own.

Her soft hands on his face broke his reverie as he registered her words.

He nodded and looking into her red-rimmed eyes, hoarse out a whisper. “Get your brother and return to the house, Vickie. I'll…I'll be there soon.”

Thankfully his daughter knew well enough not to argue. Gods knew he wouldn’t allow himself to break down in front of his children.

Perhaps it was because she knew it herself, that she rose on her heels and kissed his cheek before leaving with James, who nodded at him with a clenched jaw, and their steps receded back to the cottage.

Harry returned the gesture, recognising for what it was. His son had ended up a clone of him in every possible way, emulating him throughout his life. With the same black, messy hair and the same sharp features that were distinctly Potter, he had even inherited from him the same penchant for trouble, which, no doubt, followed him in his work.

James, like him, had become an Auror. With a keen mind and attention for details, he was every bit as competent as Harry had been during his time at the ministry.

And in times like these, when they were all hurting, James was nothing but a better part of him, even to the end of pushing past his own grief to console others.

That one single nod shared between father and son held quite a few words that not many would have understood, much less felt comforted as they both did, in their own ways.

But despite that, and the similarities between him and his son, Harry knew that Victoire understood him the best after her mother, having learnt the secrets of his heart from her.

And thus, even when they both knew he had lied and that he had no intention of returning home tonight…she let him.

An acute pain pulsed in his heart as another reminder of his wife's absence wrenched his wayward thoughts.

So, he stood there.

Waiting.

Watching.

Allowing the rain to wash away his sorrow, even if it seemed like an impossibility at the moment.

So not think of me as gone I am with you still…

In each new dawn.

-x-x-x-x-x-

(St Jerome’s Cemetery, Godric's Hollow, January 2058)

A month. A whole month had gone by and it was all still the same.

Harry wasn’t even sure why he'd expected anything to be different at all.

Behind the same church, in the middle of the village, the same rows of snowy tombstones protruded from a blanket of pale blue that was flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the snow.

And in the midst of it all, surrounded by pleasant souls, lay his love.

Resting beneath the mossy ground, Fleur remained ignorant of the world still living and unaffected by the chill that permeated the air he breathed.

Walking slowly, so as to not disturb the peaceful slumber of those departed, he moved towards the corner where a corpse of Birch trees stood, solemn and awaiting, as they shone with a magnificent luminance of the moonlight that fell upon their skin.

It was the Birch Moon tonight.

Some used to say that when a forest was burned, Birch was the first tree to grow back. Some say that it was the vengeful land that gave the trees the power to live again.

But it was the magicals, who knew the truth of it all.

The Birch Moon was a time of rebirth and regeneration. After the setting of Winter Solstice, it was the time to look towards the light once more.

The Celtics & druids called it Beth. A time of healing and protection.

And that defined his presence here tonight.

Like in many towns and villages that witches and wizards had seen fit to make their homes, Godric’s Hollow too had a tradition of its own when it came to their loved ones who had left them on their journey beyond time.

With shaking hands, Harry tied a white ribbon around the trunk of the Birch tree that stood closest to his wife's resting place and watched the fabric flutter in the gentle breeze until it subsided as the spell was absorbed by the land.

It was a small protective enchantment created by their ancestors that the magicals of the village had never let subside.

It had become a ritual of sorts for the people to wrap ribbons of varying colours that best described their loved ones around the Birch trees that surrounded the graveyard.

And knowing the strength of this particular magic as he did, Harry had followed in their footsteps without askance.

After all, his life was proof enough that magic had a way of its own. And to deny it’s protection was a folly that he wouldn’t ever allow himself to make after the things he had learnt and seen in his long, long career.

Besides, Hermione's lilac ribbon fluttered just above Fleur's.

And his best friend had been protective of him all his life. He had no doubt she would do the same for Fleur, now that they were together again.

A muffled step behind him snatched his attention and he subtly moved towards the corpse of trees he had started leaving.

But the evasion proved pointless as the visitor's voice fell on his ears.

“Vickie and James were looking for you before they left, you know?”

A small smile came to his lips as he turned around to see his Best-mate walking towards him with his usual limp as he shovelled away the snow with his feet.

“I was here all afternoon,” Harry replied as he returned his gaze back to the stones.

An exasperated sigh that suspiciously sounded like 'should have known' caught his sharp ears and Harry snorted derisively. “Like you were any different, last year?”

Ron, who had finally crossed the kissing gate that stood guard between the village and the cemetery, halted in his resistive gait and looked sharply at the callous remark Harry had thrown his way. But a moment later, he shrugged, knowing the reason behind his friend’s clipped words. “True, I suppose.”

The two friends stood in silence beside each other, looking at their respective better halves as they rested in their peaceful slumber.

Ron had never missed a day to visit her in the churchyard. And had it been left up to him, he would have dug a tent right beside the tombstones to be closer to her.

But Vickie and Rose hadn’t left him that choice, Rose especially. His youngest probably knew full well that he would do something similar, with how enamoured both him and Hermione had been with each other.

A sad sigh escaped his lips as Ron thought about what his wife had left behind.

It was not difficult to see the sadness that lingered in his children’s eyes even after all the months their mother had been gone. Daniel had always been an emotional one, having gotten his heart from his mother. And Rose? Well, she was his daughter through and through.

They both loved with everything they were.

And now when the one whom they loved the most was not among them, they were trying to cling to each other to fill the hole that kept pulsating pain within them.

Ron laughed a bitter laugh inside. He’d always thought that it’d be him that kicked the bucket first. He had even admitted as much to her. And then his wife had quoted some muggle author he had never heard of and he had lost himself in the sound of her voice.

But then again, Hermione had always had a way with words. And the inscription on her gravestone was his personal favourite.

“Think of me as living in the hearts of those I have touched. For nothing loved is ever lost and I have loved so much.”

She was a passionate one, his Hermione.

He well remembered her ferocity outside and inside their bedroom. A steadfast friend and a brilliant woman, she had been his sunshine.

He looked at Harry beside him who was lost in his own thoughts as his eyes lingered between the two women he had lost in such little time and amended his thoughts. She had been their sunshine rather.

With her by their side, life had always been an adventure. No matter the kind.

But an adventure too perilous and an enemy too old had taken her warmth away from them in an instant.

His fond memories morphed into something painful as the sight of her remains flashed before his eyes.

He cursed the day he had let her go off to the fool's errand that she had called her final job.

He knew of her profession and what it entailed, but at the time, he hadn’t been able to forget that he had promised her his support. And after seeing the spark in her intelligent brown eyes as she told him of the request that had come from the upper echelons within D.O.M. itself, he hadn’t had the heart to stop her from leaving. Even when it had been more than a decade since she had left her employer's den.

Hermione had always said, ‘Being an Unspeakable was an undertaking one endured till the end of their days'.

And two of their own had written that very end for her with a masterstroke that none had caught a whiff of their treachery until it had been much too late.

Ernest Macmillan and Rodger Davies.

His blood boiled as his thoughts reminded him of his most hated enemies.

One, a supposed book-keeper of a tavern down in Carkitt, who earned his keep by snitching on the dredges of their world and another, the Heir of a Noble House who collected his gold from Hermione’s employers as one of their Chief Operators.

Having been struck by hard times, and owing more than a few financial favours to the wrong sort, Macmillan had been quite easier to beguile. And what with Davies already on their payroll, albeit, discreetly, the way had been clear for those who resented the reforms spearheaded by the three of them.

And they had targeted the only one among them whom they knew, would fetch them the least trouble of all.

Under the guise of a priority mission involving Macmillan – the informant she used to employ during her days as an active operator – the traitors had sold her out the very moment she had arrived at the meeting point.

Thirteen against one.

His ferocious wife had eviscerated eight of the cowards before the multitude of spells had become too much to defend, even for a powerful witch like her.

It was the weirdest thing, what one remembered during times like these. He remembered smelling the scent of wet parchment in the air when he and Harry had arrived at one of the D.O.M. debriefing rooms, having heard from their feelers of what had transpired.

An almost untouched face with a charred body and ashes.

It was all that had remained of his beautiful wife.

Ron remembered little after that.

Most of his memories of that time were jumbled – courtesy of the Ogden’s finest and his attempts to remove those painful images from his mind – but he remembered, vividly, what he and Harry had promised to the ones who had been involved in the making of this tragedy.

Right in front of three different departments heads, including one of their own, Proudfoot, they had sworn their vengeance upon any and all who had a hand in her betrayal.

As per the letter of the law for those of her profession and as per his wife's wishes, Ron had allowed Hermione’s body to be cremated, knowing full well that any evidence they could have gained would be destroyed in her pyre.

The craven bastards had thought that the very rules that governed the life of an Unspeakable would help them get away with it.

But they had wrought the day they had conceived the plan to take her away from them when he and Harry were done with them.

Ron knew, quite well, where he stood with his magic. After fifty years servicing as an Auror, last fifteen of which as a Senior, he recognised himself as more than a little heavy-handed than your average Witch or Wizard.

But on that night, thirteen months ago, he had matched his Best-mate spell for spell as they had carved their way through the vermin to reach the filth that had harmed his beloved.

The wretches had thought them old and frail. He remembered their pleading screams when they had proven them wrong with their wrath.

House Macmillan and Davies had each lost a member that night. Not to mention all those who had dared to stand between them and their targets.

But their bodies hadn't been found until months later.

Not until Ron had satisfied himself with their...punishment.

And Fleur?

She had supported her husband every step of the way, even going as far as keeping the vermin alive, until the very end.

In all the years he had known her, Ron had never really believed the quarter-Veela to be a vindictive woman.

Until he had seen her fury with his own eyes.

And then after the veil of grief and anger at losing the love of his life had lifted, and he had remembered.

Hermione had been her family too.

And there was nothing that Fleur Isabelle Potter didn’t do for those she considered family.

Then in the weeks that had followed, the bell had tolled for them all.

The very law they had sworn to uphold had come knocking on their doorsteps, looking for clues for the disappearance of quite a few upstanding citizens of their society.

Despite his protests and despite everything Ron had said to him in anger or with pleadingly cries, Harry had taken it all upon himself. Knowing full well, that the lack of evidence and him being who he was would get him out of the mess without much trouble. And so he had all but accepted every accusation in the internal investigation that had been opened against him on the behest of the families of those who had fallen in the clash.

A long time ago, Ron would have been jealous of the strength of Harry's feelings for his wife. But he had lived too long and all three of them had been through too much for him to remain the same insecure, little boy anymore.

But the closeness of the bond between his Best-mate and his wife had still astounded him somewhat.

While Ron knew, with a quiet certainty that came with decades of marriage, that his wife loved him with all her heart, he was also sure that Harry held an important piece of it as well.

If he was being honest, Ron knew, he could say the same for his Best-mate as well.

And so Harry’s decision, while hard to swallow in wake of everything that had happened, hadn’t surprised him a bit.

Angered, yes. Frustrated, yes. But surprise? No, Ron hadn’t been the least bit surprised by everything that Harry had done to protect them and Hermione’s memory.

And for once in his life, Harry's fame and his reputation since the war had proven a boon for them all just like his Best-mate had predicted.

In exchange for his silence regarding the truth about the involvement of one of the ministry's senior employees, Davies, and a confidential informant on their payroll, Macmillan, in the murder of one of Second Wizarding War’s greatest heroes, they had let him retire quietly from his post as the current Head-Auror of the DMLE in favour of dropping the investigation.

Harry being who he was, had, of course, agreed.

And a mere week later, Ron had followed.

Neither of them had seen any point in being the keepers and enforcers of the very laws they had broken in their thirst for justice.

There were still rumours though, some true some not, but as with every little thing in his life, Harry's decision to retire from the force without so much as a tata had been noticed by the vultures as well.

The Skeeter bitch had vomited all her vitriol onto the rag that was Daily Prophet.

But Harry?

He had simply smiled and settled himself for a life at home with his loving wife and children.

They’d been happy, Ron knew. And Fleur had not spared a word telling Harry how she slept better knowing that he wouldn’t be out in the field any longer.

No matter how dangerous his Best-mate had gotten during his tenure at the DMLE.

And despite his loss and the hole that Hermione’s passing had left in him, their support and love had stopped him from doing something that his wife would have, no doubt, thrashed him for when he inadvertently joined her all too soon.

The calm had been short-lived, however.

Fleur had gotten ill mere weeks later.

And it had been the storm ever since.

A nudge on his foot wrenched his thoughts back to the present and he looked towards Harry in askance.

But before the question could escape his lips, he felt it.

A subtle wave of magic that suddenly permeated the air of the chilly graveyard. A moment passed and Ron felt something constrict him ever so slightly as his hard-earned senses tingled with apprehension.

The infinitesimal pressure on his shoulders and static of active magic in the air, his thoughts all pointed to a single conclusion.

They had been caged.

-x-x-x-x-x-

He had caught their attempts well before their first spell had ever taken hold on the ground beneath their feet.

It was not for nothing that the name Harry Potter was spoken with hushed terror among those who lived on the other side of the law.

So when the flimsy anti-apparition and portkey ward finally hooked itself by the not-so-subtle cast, he knew, the few precious moments he had wished to spend with his wife were about to be shortened considerably.

He would have done something sooner really. But the truth was, he felt tired of it all. Tired of every fucker trying to prove themselves better than him when they didn’t could a wand without flinching when he began to cast.

But then came something that truly took him by surprise.

A constrictor ward.

A somewhat complex piece of magic that involved a bit of oomph from the caster which did exactly as its name suggested.

While it took no longer than ten seconds to shrug it off of himself, the fleeting hopes that he had been clinging to for the issue to not devolve into a merlin bedamned firefight in the middle of the village, died a quick and sudden death.

First, the morons had disturbed them in their time of mourning, and then to top it all of, they’d had the audacity to cage them?

As subtly as he could, he nudged Ron’s foot knowing full well that his Best-mate was as dense as an eight-inch concrete wall when it came to sensing wand-cast wards.

From the corner of his eyes, Harry saw three figures clad in black, open robes as they tried to hide behind the red-brick structure that was the mausoleum of an old witch who had been an army general back during Grindelwald’s siege.

“Three behind Litzieu’s tomb, six over the ridge,” Harry mumbled conversationally.

Ron nodded as his eyes caught sight of a few shadows coming towards them from the northern edge of the village. “Four near old Bagshot’s.”

Harry blinked. He had only counted a total of eleven on his end so far before he heard Ron’s tally. “Hmm. Fifteen then. More?”

“Too far to tell.” Ron shrugged. “Formation is shit though. Davies’ sent more, you think?”

Harry frowned as he considered that. It was, he supposed, possible that the morons trying to surround them were on the payroll of Davies’ patriarch. He knew for a fact that the stubborn fool had never bought ministry’s results of the investigation they had opened into his heir’s murder that Proudfoot had fed him.

But for him to go about this so openly? Harry shook his head slightly. They had to have known he would find out who had sent them one way or another.

They were fucking kids for merlin’s sake.

Focussing his thoughts into a razor-sharp edge, he shrugged. It had been quite a while since he’d stretched his magic, so to speak, he really didn’t mind the workout.

“Dunno,” he replied, finally answering Ron’s query. “Pacifier up on my count, Ron,” he commanded as everything in him reverted back to the days of old when he had led his own squad.

Ron heard the change in his friend’s tone before the words he had been waiting to hear for so long registered in his mind. A savage grin came to his lips as he palmed his wand within his long-sleeved robes. It’s been too long since he’d had any reason to open his hand a little. “A’right boss.”

A single shouted curse started it all.

“Ossus Diffringo!”

The bone-breaker left the wand of the one hiding behind the tomb of the old witch with an impressive force and hit…nothing.

Crack!

The attackers flinched at the sharp sound as their targets disapparated right before their very eyes despite the wards they had set up to prevent just that.

And then there was a scream.

“AAAAHHHHHHHH…”

The first of the lot, a blonde fresh-out-of-Hogwarts moron who had tagged along to have a bit of fun with two old mudblood lovers, snapped first.

Whirling around in a circle, he came out of his hiding spot behind the tomb and started throwing the stunners and cutters at anything that moved screaming obscenities all the while.

“Fuck!” cursed the one who had been saddled with the moron. “Get back here, you idiot!”

But the boy didn’t listen busy as he was gouging the dirt with his recently learned spells.

“Louse. Stun the bastard, there’s no way Potter didn’t see that!”

And a moment before Louise could do just that, all three froze as an amused voice broke their little soiree.

“Warding lesson 101 boys, until tweaked otherwise, Anti-apparition wards prevents the target from apparating outside the marked area…” A red stunner hit the bull-rushing teen with a flick of Harry’s wand and he toppled on the ground. “…not inside it.”

The two older wizards moved with the agility that came with their youth and with a spell on their tongue, almost hurled themselves towards him.

“Confringo!” “Effervo!”

Harry raised his wand in front of him with an almost casual ease and swatted the blasting curse aside as he caught it on the tip of his wand. Just as the blood-boiler was about to hit him, a silver shield shimmered in front of him and absorbed the curse with an ease that now terrified the two gaping wizards.

“A blood-boiler?” Harry remarked as though impressed with the spell selection of his attacker. “A powerful one that. Not many can manage it though.” He looked at the boy and grinned. “Good for you. Though I think a bit of remedial lesson is in order.”

The two attackers looked at him with terrified eyes but still held their wands aimed at him as though waiting for something to happen.

“What?” Harry asked looking at the two silent wizards. “Waiting for someone?”

The second he said it, the air warped in front of them and before the two could react to the possible new threat, Harry struck.

Two silvery bolts of light left his wand quicker than their eyes could follow and the two found themselves petrified with their mouth sewn shut by their very skin.

And in front of their eyes appeared thirteen of their fellows, bound and stunned without a stitch of clothing on their bodies.

“What took you so long?” Harry asked.

The air shimmered from Ron’s discarded disillusionment charm as he looked on amusedly at the scene. “Old age catching up to you, boss? You asked me to catch the ones who’d done the runner after we rounded this lot ‘member?”

Harry just shook his head. “Didn’t get them then?”

“Nah. Disapparated around the southern edge,” Ron returned, vaguely disappointed by the turn of events.

He’d really hoped for a challenge dammit!

“What to do with these lovely chaps?” Harry asked bringing the red-headed Weasley’s attention back to the delinquents at hand.

“Proudfoot?” Ron asked suggestively.

Harry winced. They hadn’t really left things on good terms with the current Director of the DMLE. “I don’t want to say yes, but he’d know about it soon enough,” he sighed.

And so with a resigned mind, they began the laborious process of converting the lengthy rope that bound the attackers into a portkey to a DMLE holding area that always had one or two Aurors stationed in it.

It was a marvellous invention, a portkey.

Almost any inanimate object could be turned into one. And once bewitched, the object would transport anyone who grasped it to a pre-arranged destination.

That was what most every witch or wizard knew about it really.

But what only a few knew, was the fact the magic that was capable of literally transporting a person, or more than a few persons for that matter, from one place to another by a means that was extraordinarily different from an apparition, it had a tendency to leave quite a powerful surge during its departure.

And it was this surge that the Ministries of Magic the world over, or their counterparts, used to keep track of the ones they had made from the ones that had been created without the proper authorization.

And it was a similar surge that erupted from the departure of the portkey taking away the nuisances that made Harry incapable of detecting the piece of magic that flew towards him and Ron before it was too late.

He only had the time to shout a warning before it hit the ground beneath their feet.

“Ron! Watch out!”

BOOOOM!

The earth exploded in a magnificently terrifying explosion of dirt and stone, flinging their bodies like rag dolls.

Stone, jagged and piercing, buried in their flesh mid-dodge as blood flowed freely from the gaping wounds that had appeared on their bodies in mere seconds after being hit.

Blinding pain shot through their being as their ears rung with an annoying sound that brought them back to the wakefulness.

Harry groaned and attempted to sit up as some faculties of his brain began returning in the aftermath. He cast a wild glance around himself and his eyes widened at what he saw.

Fire.

Red, hungry fire was eating away at anything and everything that came in its way as the ground beneath that had safely kept the departed for so long was littered with trenches and gouged earth.

He knew those flames.

Despite not having seen them for the longest of time, Harry was intimately familiar with Fiendfyre.

“R..Ron?” he managed to croak in desperation.

Silence.

“Ron?!” He tried again, hoping against hope that the savage blast hadn’t been severe enough to tear apart his friend.

And when nothing but the familiar ringing echoed in his ears, fear gripped his heart.

“RON!”

“Stop your *cough* *cough* bloody shouting, will ya?” The red-head grimaced from the other side of the Birch copse they had been thrown off to.

A relieved sigh escaped Harry’s bleeding lips as he saw the crawling form of his best-mate trying to heave itself over the fallen tree.

“G…get up, Ron,” said Harry as he tried to stand on his wobbly feet. “The fucker…cast the demon fire on our asses.…might come around…for another go.”

Bleeding profusely from head to feet, the two somehow gained enough strength to meet each other near a Birch tree that looked ashen and ancient even as the molten cursed flames surrounded them.

Harry had known that he was in bad shape when the pain had started earlier, but looking at Ron, he knew, it was much, much worse.

Where there had been a left hand firmly attached to his shoulder once, there was nothing but torn sleeves and bloody sinew that dripped blood onto the grass as Ron took heaving breaths.

The adrenaline was still pumping through their them.

The pain wouldn’t register now.

That would come later.

Harry gathered all his strength and attempted to gather his magic for the only thing that could get him and Ron out of this mess alive.

Destination, Determination and Deliberation…

Nothing.

He looked to his side and saw Ron trying and failing to breathe as he kept choking on his own blood.

“Hold on, Ron!” he cried in desperation, trying and willing to make his magic obey his command.

Destination, Determination and Deliberation…

He waited. And waited.

But the familiar feeling of being pressed very hard from all directions never came.

And then, at last, Harry felt it.

A last whispy breath left from the body of his best-mate beside him just as the tongue of fire touched Harry’s own flesh.

And then came the end, he’d been expecting all along just as a familiar white ribbon fell into his hands from above.

“AAAGGHHHHHHHH….”

-x-x-x-x-x-

On 27 January 2058, Harry James Potter and Ronald Bilius Weasley breathed their last breaths as their bodies turned to ash.

Their last thoughts…

That they could see the faces of their children for one last time before they joined their mothers for their next great adventure.

-x-x-x-x-x-

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