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Decades
By gryffins_door

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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: 22994; Chapter Total: 1641





Author's Notes:
Finally, Harry gets some answers, but alas, more questions as well.




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8. Manipulations and Speculations

o o o

8.01

1010 TUESDAY MINISTRY OF MAGIC LONDON

The title of the large leather bound book stared at me, defiant in the impossibility of its very existence.

"Harry?" squeaked Hermione, reading over my shoulder.

My blood felt like ice as I quickly turned through the pages of neatly inked parchment. It was all there — the escape from Surrey, the wedding at the Burrow, the frustrating months of endless searching for the pieces of Tom's soul — and the story of the Hallows.

Beside Hermione, Ron looked up, bewildered. "Is this what I think it is?"

I shook my head in disbelief. "It's what happens… this summer until next May… in the other timeline."

"Yes," Scrimgeour crowed, "fascinating stuff, how you three manage to elude He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, breaking all sorts of laws in the process, using Unforgivables, breaking into the Ministry of Magic and Gringotts…"

"We break into Gringotts bank?" Ron said, incredulous.

"Yeah, we convince a rogue goblin to help us sneak in to get the cup. Unfortunately, we're discovered and we make quite a scene, busting out on the back of a dragon…"

"A stolen drag on, Potter!" Scrimgeour was enjoying this far too much. Even Kingsley appeared to be smirking slightly.

"Wicked…" whispered Ron, as Hermione could only gape in astonishment — scandalized, no doubt.

"And it follows with a huge battle at Hogwarts with Tom dead but lots of others as well. Wouldn't you agree, Minister," I challenged, "that desperate times require desperate measures? Besides, none of this will ever happen now; it's all fiction, a fairy tale."

"Ah, you're right, Potter, except now we know that the Deathly Hallows are no fairy tale!"

"The Deathly Hallows?" questioned Hermione. "Harry, what is he talking about?"

I sighed heavily. "Pick up your book of Beedle the Bard, Hermione, and read 'The Tale of the Three Brothers.'"

"Hey, I know that story!" Ron exclaimed.

"I know you do, Ron, just listen while she reads it."

After a moment of careful thumbing through the fragile little book, Hermione began to recite the tale of the three brothers who cheated Death by building a bridge to cross a river, were each granted a gift and tried to outsmart him — one by demanding an all-powerful wand, the second by getting a stone that could bring someone back from the dead, and the third — wisely asking only to hide from Death — received Death's own Cloak of Invisibility. The first brother died violently, the second went mad, and only the third was successful in leading a long life, and when he was ready to meet Death, it was on his own terms, as an equal.

She finished and looked up with a frown. "This is just a children's object lesson, right?"

"Apparently there's more to it than that," I muttered. "The three brothers were named Peverell and really existed, and they each had a powerful magical item that fit the story's description. According to legend, whoever united the three items would become Master of Death. You've probably heard of the Elder Wand as the Deathstick or Wand of Destiny; its ownership is frequently transferred through violent duels that are recorded throughout history. It was Grindelwald's until Dumbledore defeated him, and Dumbledore used it from then on. He was buried with it. The Resurrection Stone, as it became known, became part of the Gaunt family ring; they were probably descended from the second brother."

"That ring that cursed Dumbledore?"

"That's the one, and now it supposedly resides inside my snitch." I held it up as she regarded it with skepticism.

"The third brother was an ancestor of mine. His cloak was handed down from father to son, eventually to my dad…"

"Your cloak belonged to Death himself?" Ron exclaimed in horror.

"Dumbledore thought that the presence of Death personified may have been an embellishment of the story, but the artifacts are definitely real."

"Dumbledore told you of these?" asked Hermione.

"Not personally, no, but he does in here," I said, indicating the book.

"And Dumbledore thought you were the better man to become Master of Death, didn't he, Potter?" Scrimgeour was dangerously quiet now. "Saturday night, you disarmed Draco Malfoy, didn't you, Potter? Made sure you were master of the Elder Wand, knowing you already had the cloak and were going to be receiving the stone, right? Well, Potter?"

I stared levelly at him. "You've got it all figured out, I see."

"Yes, this book has been most enlightening, Potter."

"Then you should also be aware that had I not acted you would be dead by tomorrow night, Minister, and the British magical world would be in a death spiral for months. Surely you can see —"

"Of course I can see, boy, I am not that greed-blinded fool Fudge. I gave you everything you asked for in court today — some highly unusual requests, I might add — because I knew what might happen otherwise. If not for this book, at this moment you might well be playing gobstones with the dementors of Azkaban."

I glared at him with contempt, then glanced at the table and the pages documenting events that I had read about a decade from now and a lifetime away. A decade from now...

"I… where… How did you get this book?" I finally demanded.

"My guests would be better able to answer that. Gentlemen?"

The two strangers stood and stepped forward. The older one with gray robes had a full head of white hair and a goatee; his slightly pear-shaped body spoke of many years at a desk. The other in maroon was tall and slim with sandy hair, probably no more than thirty. He appeared ill at ease, his eyes downcast.

"This is Donald Terwilliger, an Unspeakable from our Department of Mysteries…" At least I was correct about his occupation.

The older man held out his hand and shook hands with each of us. "Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, so pleased to meet you. Mr. Potter, it is so very good to see you again, and congratulations on your success."

"Erm… have we met before?"

He glanced around nervously. "You… no one has told you?"

Statements like that always meant trouble. "Told me what, exactly, Mr. Terwilliger?"

"Oh, dear, I wasn't expecting… Minister Scrimgeour?"

Scrimgeour didn't seem to notice our exchange. "And this is his American counterpart — a sleep agent in their Department of Magic…"

The younger man finally looked up. "That's undercover agent…" he muttered wryly.

"Yes, whatever — John Wilson has been most helpful in this entire operation, and made it possible for us to recover this valuable information from the future."

Something about this John Wilson tugged at the back of my brain, but I couldn't manage to bring it forward. I took the proffered hand and gave him an appraising look.

"So… Agent Wilson, how many others know about what's in that book? Or the earlier books?"

"As I am working on a joint operation between our two magical departments, I've given a preliminary report to a select committee from each. They have been given strict warnings about information regarding soul mutilation and are taking it very seriously. A task force is beginning a worldwide search for all published references, most of which only mention the ritual without specifics. Works that provide any sort of instruction will be immediately confiscated and pertinent parts destroyed. It will take some time, of course…"

"Of course… right. Sounds like you have that covered." I hadn't thought beyond keeping the current situation secret. "And the Muggle stories? Do you have some sort of contingency plan for when those become public knowledge?"

"That is still being discussed," said Unspeakable Terwilliger, "but the prevailing opinion is that most will consider these books as fantasy, an impossibility to cheat death in this fashion. We are aided by the facts that murder of an innocent is the only part of the ritual mentioned and the fictitious name of 'Horcrux' will frustrate any who try to seek the missing portions."

"But will it be enough?"

Terwilliger shook his head. "We cannot know for certain. However, we do have some time to prepare and take a more definitive course."

"What about the Hallows? Who knows that they have been located?"

"Those same committees received a separate report," Agent Wilson responded. "They saw little need for secrecy as the items were already generally known, and the reports were forwarded to several magical research organizations to gauge the level of interest. Your Royal Academy of Magic has been particularly emphatic about wanting to study them."

"Well, they can't," I insisted. "These things should have been left to fade into the fog of legend. Didn't you listen to the Bard? The wand and the stone are both the products of arrogance and folly. They are too dangerous and too great a temptation. If I had my way, they would disappear permanently. And the cloak is a family heirloom, therefore private property and no business of others."

"Getting a little possessive, are you, Potter?" Scrimgeour cackled. "Feeling a little of that temptation, just as Dumbledore did? Trying to play God, are you, boy?"

At this I had to laugh. "That's really funny, minister, because I rather thought I was trying to prevent some other fool playing God. And if you really read those seven books, you would know enough not to ask that question."

"He hasn't had the chance just yet," interjected the older Unspeakable. "We started our transcription at the seventh book, of course, wanting to know what was coming, and we will be working backwards through the set. The volume from your sixth year should be finished this afternoon, at which time we will start on the fifth year volume."

"But," I asked him, "how did you manage it? This book won't be published for another ten years, and it describes things that haven't happened yet in this timeline or its own."

"Pensieve memories, Harry," clarified Agent Wilson. "I read each volume out loud in that timeline, then when my memories jumped back the decade, I simply dropped that memory into a pensieve down in the Department of Mysteries and a dictation quill automatically records it onto parchment as the memory recites. A little time-consuming, but it gets the job done."

That timeline… memories jumped back the decade

"Hold on! Are you telling me you were there? The other timeline?"

"Oh… yes, of course, but… I suppose there's no easy way except to just say it. Harry, or Jimmy as it were, I was Wiley."

If my jaw could stretch to the floor, it would have. In my other life, Wiley Johnson was my next door neighbor as a youth and a friendly thorn in my side for years, a favor I returned whenever I could.

"Right — if you're Wiley, who told us to join the army?"

He laughed. "That was your dad. Said you didn't have the discipline to be a stock car driver if you couldn't avoid the trees on the side of the road. Instead you became a helicopter pilot, went to war and came home with medals across your chest."

"Don't forget the shrapnel in my knee and my bum in a wheelchair. It's really you, isn't it? You couldn't resist adding that last bit?"

"Helicopters?" "Medals?" Hermione and Ron had yet to hear any of my other life.

John — or Wiley — spoke before I could stop him. "Oh, yeah, he was something else in the air. Saved our ass more times than I could count."

I shrugged. "What can I say? I like to fly… but how did you get here? How did I get here?"

"Donald, you need to give him the letter."

"Ah, yes, I knew I was forgetting something!"

A folded parchment was placed in my hands. A familiar looping script flowed across:

To Harry Potter

I nervously opened the letter and began to read.

My dear Harry

The fact that you are reading this means that my fears of leaving this world prior to the completion of our mission were well founded. A friend of mine in the Department of Mysteries has access to that commodity that I, through my own foolishness, was unable to give you. I asked him that should I predecease our adversary, he would use the means at his disposal to make time available to you, that you would learn what I was unable to teach. As I understand it, it is proxy magic that cannot harm you personally should it fail, but is extremely limited in its flexibility — exactly ten years, no more, no less. I trust that your detour will be enjoyable as well as enlightening. I have faith in you, Harry, and encourage you to have faith in yourself... and the power within. Godspeed.

Yours always,

A.D.

I took a moment to breathe before addressing the Unspeakable. "And just what is 'proxy magic,' or is that privileged information?"

He scratched his goatee. "Yes, it is a tightly controlled secret for obvious reasons, but I can tell you, as I did before, that by proxy it means that your physical self does not make the trip through time. In this case, a substitute was established with its own memory set, and although it carried none of your personal memory, it was essentially you, and returned to you at the expiration of the decade, rejoining your existing memory. If for some reason your substitute self was unable to complete the decade, your original self suffered no harm. We had several Unspeakables positioned around the globe looking for potential Muggle host candidates and found two American boys at the proper age, friends who were essentially both brain-dead from the same automobile accident."

I stared, aghast. "I was brain-dead after the accident?"

"How much do you remember of Jimmy's life before that night?"

It was true; I had always wondered why I had some kind of amnesia regarding my younger years. Wiley had some of the same symptoms, now that I thought about it.

"Our healers were able to bring back partial memories from the host, enough to be going on with, but as a new procedure, our candidates had to be relatively open mentally."

This was a blow from a totally unexpected direction, and my mind was in overdrive trying to process what I had just heard — "Hold on, you said you told me this before — what are you talking about?"

Unspeakable Terwilliger looked somewhat abashed. "I called on you at your relatives' home. Don't worry, they retained no knowledge of my visit. I discussed all this with you at length, and I must say that you were quite enthused about it after I showed you the letter from your late headmaster. Unfortunately, you are not an unspeakable, therefore policy dictated that your memories of our meeting had to be removed as well. You did sign the requisite forms."

I turned to Shacklebolt, who still seemed to be enjoying the unfolding events more than he should. "Can they do that? Get me to sign a form and Obliviate my memories of doing so?"

He raised his eyebrows. "They can if you signed the forms saying they can."

"Bloody bureaucratic bastards," I muttered.

"I can understand your indignation, Mr. Potter" said the Unspeakable. "However, you did agree to participate in the ritual after it was explained to you. And it was approved by the Supreme Mugwump himself. I believe Albus thought it a perfect fail-safe, as it is very low risk, and its success here is unquestionable."

Unquestionable indeed. More like unbelievable. Just when I was coming to grips with something Dumbledore had done, I find that there was yet another huge thing he had kept from me. I had to spend a decade ignorant of magic with my hateful relatives, then again as a young adult. I wished someone would confer with me when I am being used for the greater good, and let me remember the conversation afterward.

o o o

8.02

1930 TUESDAY OTTERY ST CATCHPOLE DEVON

"And then after taking out both Thicknesse and Umbridge, hero-boy gets the Minister madder than a rampaging cockatrice when he finds out who put Moldy in his place; he then tells the entire Wizengamot that the pure-blood bigots are all victims of the biggest prank ever — a half-blood Lording it over them!"

I could do with less "hero" references, but my birthday guests found Tonks' version of the hearing much more entertaining than mine, which had been a rather brief, "I got off…"

"Old Moldywarts a prankster? You-Know-Who would've thought?" said Fred (I think), before attacking his third slice of cake — the one which started off as a marvelously detailed and enticingly edible snitch, but now looked like, well, a half-eaten cake.

"We could have hired him as a consultant for those backfiring wands," replied the other, probably George.

"Or nasty stains that last forever."

"Or a new line of snake-related products, in case any other Slytherins develop a sense of humor."

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Nah, never happen…"

"Definite money loser, that one…"

The birthday dinner was a relaxed affair in the garden of the Burrow with the Weasleys and Delacours along with a few Order members. And there was also a bloke who enjoyed embarrassing me with stories about my other life as Harry/not Harry.

"We wouldn't have won our district senior year if it hadn't been for Harry catching the football so well," related Agent Wilson, aka Wiley.

"Dean Thomas said you weren't supposed to catch the ball…"

"No, Ron," I interrupted, "this is American football, an entirely different game. It's a misnomer because only occasionally do you actually kick the ball, mostly it's carried or thrown. It's a little like Quidditch without flying in that the ball is about the same as a quaffle but more pointed, and the players all act like human bludgers, since part of the strategy is to knock each other to the ground. And when a 16 stone linebacker running full tilt slams into you head-first with that helmet, it feels just like a bludger, too."

"Sounds like fun!" the twins agreed. "Where do we sign up?"

But eventually they wanted to know about my war experience, and if I got those medals then, how come I was trying to avoid getting an Order of Merlin, or even that I had any involvement in Voldemort's demise.

I hated discussions like this, but I had to say something. "I signed up to be a professional soldier because it seemed like the thing to do, defend your country and all that, and that's heroic stuff to folks back home who like the safety and freedom that security allows. I only got those medals because I got hurt doing my job and getting my crew to safety, not because I wanted them. It's not that I wasn't appreciative, but there were lots of heroes still fighting, doing their job, that didn't get those medals.

"But here we've got people doing heroic things all the time — Aurors, healers, and the like, all doing it because it's part of their job. Ron, Hermione, how many times did we save each other during first year alone? Yeah, it was good to get house points, but that sure wasn't why we did it.

"Everyone seems to think I'm something special because of what my mum did, and I can never thank her for that, except to live as best I can, that it was worth it somehow. But she didn't do it for any award, either. Don't you guys think that if the roles were reversed, that your mum wouldn't give her life for you? You know she would! You think I have to be a really powerful wizard to beat Tom, don't you? Well, I thought I did, and after Dumbledore couldn't beat him, how in bloody hell was I supposed to? The only thing that kept me from going totally nutters was the fact that I trusted Dumbledore to find a way.

"I discovered it wasn't about fighting more skillfully with more powerful spells. David beat Goliath with a single stone and a lot of faith, and because no one thought he could. That usually means a higher power is involved. It was like that for me — the power of a mother's love, a healthy dose of elf magic, and the faith to not turn tail — that's how little things can overcome powerful things. But I only did it because it was my lot, my obligation to the fates, and I just wanted to get it over with. But I didn't do it alone; Dobby won't get any awards and wouldn't take them even if they were offered, so I don't want one either."

Everyone looked at me as if I had bubotuber pus covering my face. Trust me, I know the look. Is there something wrong with just wanting to be a normal guy?

After everything had wound slowly down and the guests were finally gone, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and I were still sitting at the lantern-lit table discussing strategy: what should I do about the Royal Academy of Magic and the Deathly Hallows. As much as I would like to, I couldn't put them off forever.

"I'm not sure if I can even get to the stone, anyway. It's locked inside the snitch, and according to the book I wasn't able to open it until I thought I was about to die. That's what the inscription meant."

"What inscription?"

"It shows when I touch the snitch to my mouth. Remember, this is the one I nearly swallowed?"

I reached into my wonderful new mokeskin pouch — birthday gift from Hagrid — and withdrew the slowly fluttering golden ball, pressing it to my lips. An inscription appeared, but it was not the one I was expecting.

"It's different," I gasped. "What did you do, Dumbledore?"

I held it up so the light caught it, and I read out loud, "I unwind and parte at a word, To where mourning ne'er is heard. He's given me yet another infuriating riddle…"

Hermione was in her element with a fresh puzzle to solve. She took the riddle apart word by word, explaining the etymology that might be hiding some possible obscure meaning.

We spent at least half an hour floating several theories about, getting slightly crazier with each new idea but not making any real progress. I finally noticed that my girlfriend had gotten very quiet.

"Ginny?" I whispered.

The others also looked at her with concern. She had a blank far-away stare on her face, and her voice came as a toneless escape of breath.

"I know what it means."

o

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