It was three days later, on Christmas Eve that Harry returned to the dingy little building in a back corner of Knockturn Alley. He had those three days making half-hearted inquiries about job openings near Diagon Alley, but he had quickly found that without proper documentation, the only people that would hire him were those on the wrong side of the law. He wasn't prepared to get himself involved with that sort of thing, so he'd resigned himself to learning everything about the time period he was in. Sitting in the Leaky Cauldron and listening to the people chattering around him, picking up whatever newspapers he could find, and asking the occasional question-all without seeming suspiciously ignorant of current events had been a harder task that he would have thought possible.
Sabine had mentioned that she and her father worked in the Muggle world, so he had decided to come after what would be the end of the business day for most Muggles. When he stepped through the front door, he was pleased to find the young woman behind the counter of her father's business reading a newspaper. When she heard the door open, she jumped, looked over, and smiled brightly when she recognized him.
"Harry!" she greeted him cheerfully. "You're a day late!"
He shrugged. "I decided to give it an extra day, just in case."
"Well," she said, putting the newspaper away and standing up, "you'll be glad to know that we've gotten everything done a bit quicker than we thought. We've got a full set of Muggle and magical documentation, the whole package minus the apparition license. It's drawn up, but it still needs to be registered with the Ministry, so we hope it'll be done and active by as soon as next week."
"That's great," Harry replied with a smile. He was surprised that everything had come so easily; he had thought that black market transactions such as this would have involved a great deal more tension. Perhaps it was his inexperience combined with the inviting and charming personality of the forgers that put him at ease. Glancing at Sabine as she reached up to one of the shelves set on the back wall of the room, he figured that was probably it. They were nice enough, not at all what he had expected. He desperately tried to ignore it when he noticed the way her skirt rode up as she stretched to reach the top shelf, exposing her shapely legs.
He had barely managed to compose himself again, mentally berating himself for acting like a hormonal teenager, when she turned around and placed a thick envelope on the table. She noticed that he was slightly flushed, and giggled, batting her eyes at him flirtatiously. The giggling increased when he blushed more.
This is ridiculous, Harry thought to himself as he smiled back sheepishly. It's as if I'd never seen a pretty girl before. The irony was, he hadn't, at least not one that looked as good as Sabine did, and wasn't afraid to show it. Most wizards and witches wore loose, flowing robes that very effectively hid any trace of their figures underneath. The Muggle clothing Sabine seemed to enjoy wearing was the exact opposite, accentuating her petite form and hugging all the right curves. And try as he might, he wasn't that far off from being a teenager.
She correctly divined the thoughts going through his mind and placed a calming hand on his arm. "Don't worry about it," she said gently. "I get stared at a lot, it's no big deal."
"It's not that, I just…" Harry flustered and pulled his arm back. "Sorry, I'm not usually like this," he told her wryly.
"Oh!" she glanced down at herself. "I should've realized that you probably haven't seen this style of clothing before. It's a bit more provocative than robes, isn't it?"
Harry opened his mouth and was about to correct her when he realized that it would probably be best to say nothing. The less people knew about his true origins, the better, even if she was likely to never make the connection between his Muggle upbringing and his being from the future.
Oh, I've seen things like that before, he thought to himself. But damn, Aunt Petunia had never looked that good in a skirt and blouse. He chuckled to himself as he realized he was acting childish, but then again, he'd never actually had the opportunity to, before. He'd never been able to do all the things people his age did - go out at night, flirt with girls, have girls flirt with him, go dancing with his girlfriend… he'd missed out on all of that because of the war. He felt a brief sense of sadness at that, but pushed it back down, along with his physical attraction to the beautiful daughter of the master forger. Now was neither the time nor the place for this.
"It's fine," he finally said with a small shrug. "You're right, it's a bit unusual… but it looks good on you."
"Thanks," she blushed and giggled. Finally, she slid over the envelope. "Here's the documentation. Feel free to look through it and check if everything is there and to your satisfaction."
"All right," Harry said, glad for the distraction. He opened the folder and began thumbing through the accumulated life of one Harry Evans Ashworth, born in December, 1955. He had initially been concerned that he wouldn't get his money's worth, but one look at the thick stack of papers told him that that particular fear had been unfounded.
The documents and background seemed real enough that, after a few minutes of skimming through the papers, even Harry began to believe that Harry E. Ashworth existed. Everything was there, all of it down to his precise specifications, all the details of his alleged travels, his complete medical history, schooling records, correspondence addressed… everything he had made up with Sabine the other day, with details filled in that he hadn't even thought of but that made the whole thing even more believable.
"Look good?" Sabine sidled up to Harry with a proud smile.
It took a moment for him to find his voice at the elaborate documentation before him that spelled out the life of a man who had never existed, but had proof so real that he might as well had. "Yeah. It's - it's great," he finally said. "You and your father do good work."
"Thank you," she grinned.
Harry reached into his robes and withdrew a shrunken bag of galleons. A quick whispered word and wave of his wand returned it to its original size. "I have no idea how to complete this kind of transaction," he began slowly. "Would it be acceptable if I paid you eight thousand now and the remainder when I pick up the license?"
"That's perfectly all right," Sabine agreed.
Harry nodded gratefully. He hadn't yet returned to the Black vault, and he had no intention to. For one, he had no key, and secondly, the goblins probably kept a record of who accessed each vault. It wouldn't do to arouse suspicion by having a stranger walk into the vault of one of the most well-known and feared pureblood families around. This combined with his lack of a wage and steep price of a new identity meant that his funds were dwindling quickly. He waved his wand and floated eight thousand galleons out of the bag, then shrunk it back and tucked it into his pocket again.
They exchanged a pleasant farewell, with Harry asking her to give her father his regards and thanks for a job brilliantly done. Before he headed out the door, she leaned over. Thinking she was going to kiss him on the cheek again, Harry started to lean back, only to find her whispering into his ear.
"If you'd ever like to go out for dinner, you know where to find me," she muttered softly, before pulling back and pushing him through the door with a playful wink.
Harry stood in front of the closed door, his jaw agape and thoughts awhirl for a few moments. Well, a mental voice that sounded too much like Fred and George for his liking finally said, looks like little Harry got hit on for the first time! Let's celebrate! He groaned and tried to silence that gleeful little voice, but was only partially successful as he made his way out of Knockturn Alley, muttering about annoying twins being a bad influence on him all the way.
Then there was the other problem that had been nagging at him for the past few days. He hadn't yet run into Bellatrix again, something he was inordinately glad for, because "having mixed feelings" about her didn't even begin to describe the issues he had with that woman. Sure, she was, what, close to seventeen in this time, and nowhere near as twisted as she had been when he had first met her, but she was still the same person. The person who would grow up to become the most feared witch of the decade, the woman who would kill and torture countless people. The woman who would torture Neville's parents into a vegetative state, the person who would duel his godfather and eventually cause his death.
The person who had laid, broken and forced back into sanity by the pain in the same cell as him. The same person who had asked him to kill her. The woman who had bled to death in his arms. Try as he might, he couldn't shake that image from his mind. He could still feel the sticky blood soaking his hands, could still smell the faint scent of copper as it soaked his tattered robes, could still see the peaceful expression on her face as she died. And that was part of what was bothering him. She had looked at peace as she died, something he hadn't thought possible of her, something he hadn't believed she had deserved, not after all she had done.
He had wanted her dead for a long time - probably ever since he heard about what she had done to the Longbottoms. Sirius's death had only compounded to that desire, and each of their meetings on the battlefield had become progressively more intense and savage as they threw everything they had at each other, losing themselves in the fight, forgetting everything around them until all that was left was the other… and the burning desire to see her dead. He had finally gotten his wish, and he had tried telling himself that it was merely the manner of her death that had him disconcerted, but after three days of migraines pondering the subject, he had come to the realization that the way she had died was only a small part of it.
It was the peace, the release she had found in death that vexed him. He couldn't understand it, couldn't fathom how she could have found that, least of all while in Voldemort's dungeon. He had just gotten used to one side of her - the cruel, ruthless Bellatrix who crushed everything in her way in a withering barrage of cruelty and bloodshed. Then she had done an about-face, and suddenly decided to turn sane. And young . And despite all that she would, or, rather, could, become in the future, she wasn't yet. Harry found it hard to reconcile the annoying, irreverent, but, most importantly, sane, Bellatrix he had found during her few lucid moments in Voldemort's basement and here in the past with the crazed, bloodthirsty witch he knew so well in the future.
He wanted so much to hate her, for who she was, who she would become, but found, much to his irritation, that he couldn't. It would make everything so much easier if she were crazy and evil now . But she wasn't, at least not completely, and try as he might, he couldn't find a way to equate her with the witch he knew she would become. There were traits they shared, sure, but it was nearly impossible to believe that it was the same person. Even physically there were differences. The Bellatrix he knew was gaunt and thin, her body was scarred and weathered from malnutrition, years in Azkaban and on the run, and decades of black magic. This Bellatrix was young, and vibrant, and witty, and beautiful .
Harry gritted his teeth and banished that thought from his head. Her physical beauty would do nothing to mar the ugliness of her soul. She was evil, he tried to remind himself, but that quickly turned into she will become evil . He didn't want to affiliate himself with her, didn't even want to be in the same city as her, though that was unavoidable at the moment, but with a sickening feeling, he realized that as much as he disliked her, he could not hate her for something she hadn't become yet. The dichotomy of who she was and who she would become, or rather, who she had been, and who she was now was driving him crazy.
He was still muttering to himself about it and trying to figure it out when the building next to him exploded in a huge fireball that threw him through the air. He groaned and shook his head as he struggled to regain his equilibrium, his ears still ringing from the explosion, and his back aching from where he had hit a brick wall.
This is becoming way too familiar for my liking, he thought darkly as he glanced around. He had almost completely lost track of where he had been going, letting his feet wander as his thoughts drifted to Bellatrix. It took a moment for him to recognize where he was - close to the Ministry of Magic complex, on the other end of Diagon alley. He was wondering what had caused the building across the street to blow up when a very familiar sound reached his ears: spellfire. On instinct, he dropped down into a crouch and drew his wand, scanning the street for the source of the noise.
The noise of fighting was coming from across the street, near the side of the burning building, he finally realized as he barely made out flashes of red and green as wizards and witches dueled. I didn't think Voldemort had organized the Death Eaters yet, Harry thought as he focused on where the flashes of red and green were coming from. Getting a fix on who was fighting who was difficult because of the shadows cast by the nearby buildings and flames, as well as the panicked bystanders who were screaming, fleeing, and hiding from the firefight. What concerned Harry the most was that both parties involved seemed to be using illegal spells - he could swear he caught the distinctive green light of the killing curse a few times as he watched.
Who the heck are these guys? Harry wondered as he crept closer, careful to keep some sort of cover between him and the fighting. He jerked to an abrupt halt when another brilliant fireball erupted from the location of the two warring parties, but this time the aftermath was suffused with screams of the injured. He shook his head warily. Whoever was fighting was secondary, right now they needed to be stopped before they hurt any of the innocents that were frantically trying to get away from the fighting. He didn't know if the aurors of this time were just as slow as the ones in his - he hoped not, but he couldn't take the risk and wait for them to arrive.
As he debated on whether to interfere, the firefight escalated as both sides begun using spells of increasing destructiveness. Fireballs and killing curses gave way to sprays of acid and venom, only to be replaced by lightning storms and deadly pressure waves. Harry had seen some of those spells before, used on the battlefields of his time, and he knew the results, and they weren't pretty. He had inched his way close enough to be able to vaguely make out the forms of the combatants. Who are the good guys? he mused as he watched the devastation unfolding. Either way, I can't let this keep going. If they take any longer, they'll start blowing the entire bloody street to pieces!
Leaning out of his cover, Harry fired a series of stunners at both parties. He didn't want to use any of the more dangerous spells he knew yet, there was no reason to if he could just knock them all out. He realized he'd made a mistake, though, when both parties noticed that someone was shooting at them from the sidelines. Figuring that it was a sniper hired by the other side, both parties opened fire on his position, causing Harry to scramble back into cover as the concrete he was hiding behind shuddered from the spell impacts.
"Bloody hell," Harry swore. He began poking his head over his cover to take a look, but pulled it back just in time to avoid a series of nasty-looking hexes that flew overhead. The constant drumming of spells against his cover and the sounds of crumbling rock told him that he was well and truly pinned down - and that his makeshift cover wouldn't last forever. From the sounds of it, they wouldn't get tired of shooting at him anytime soon, either, and he figured that if they were smart, he could be expecting a flanking attack anytime… now .
" Stupefy !" he roared as he threw himself to the side. The blasting hex tore a fist-sized chunk of concrete out of the block he was hiding behind, but his return stunner caught the shooter square in the chest, causing him to crumple to the ground. Harry rolled to his feet, adrenaline pumping through him. His eyes darted across the road when he found himself out in the open. He hesitated for a brief second to note the location of the incoming fire, then made a mad dash for the nearest available cover, throwing himself behind a set of wooden barrels that contained something he didn't want to identify. He rolled to the side as the barrels begun exploding under a withering barrage of fire.
"All right, you want war, you've got it," he muttered to himself as he reached the last barrel. Hoping that whoever was shooting at him was still where he remembered them to be at, he silently counted down as his cover was reduced to rubble. Just my luck that I get to pick a fight with two groups of people who stop shooting at each other, just so they can shoot at me, instead, he thought darkly.
The last barrel splintered as a Reducto hit it, and Harry threw himself into a forward roll, his wand flicking through the air as he went, firing back with a series of low-powered hexes and jinxes that would hopefully send the opposition scurrying for cover themselves, and buy him some breathing space. He sprung back to his feet, sweeping his wand wide to raise a wall of flame between him and the people shooting at him, and then dashed to the side as it obscured their view of him.
Remembering his lessons in tactics that Moody had insisted on drilling into him, Harry made his way around until he was almost behind one of the groups, covered by the smoke and flames of the fire he'd just conjured. Anyone stupid enough to exchange spells with a large group of hostiles, the old auror had taught him, was just asking to be killed. The trick was to outflank them, use superior mobility so that they couldn't use their numbers to their advantage, and then take them all out with one heck of a spell. That was what they had trained Harry in, for the war.
During the short-lived war with Voldemort in his time, there hadn't been enough time to run him through the extensive training regimen that would make him a fully qualified auror, and the skill and experience of an expert duelist he would only acquire with time, something they were sorely lacking at that point, so both Dumbledore and Moody had agreed that it would be best to take advantage of his innate talent and raw magical power to get him through battles. Since he was a prime target for Voldemort's forces, he had been mostly kept in reserve, only to be brought out for the really big battles that could not be avoided, or for missions where he was the only one available.
Because they were pressed for time, Harry had been forced to focus his studies on a select few spells that took advantage of his above-average magical power, most of which were heavy hitters that were sure to put an opponent down for good. Since he was often deployed in mass battles, it had been prudent, and advantageous, for him to learn spells that were capable of taking out multiple opponents, or target large areas, since he was one of the few wizards who had the power to pull of those sorts of spells. That lack of variety usually didn't bother him, since he really didn't see the difference in using a fireball or a flame arrow, or a spray of acid compared to a disintegration curse. On the battlefield where chaos reigned, he was more than capable of holding his own.
It was somewhat of a handicap in duels, though, where his opponents could focus on barraging him with a much wider variety of spells that forced him on the defensive. He had usually relied on his raw talent and magical power to pull him through those instances, something that worked quite well when dealing with the average Death Eater who thought that the Boy-Who-Lived was an easy prey. It did, however, fail when faced with vastly more experienced opponents like Dumbledore or Moody. While Dumbledore had a leg up on Harry in terms of power still, it was the headmaster's experience that allowed him to repeatedly defeat Harry in their practice duels, despite the fact that he favored transfiguration spells. Bellatrix was another opponent he had trouble fighting regularly, mainly because she was so insane that her fighting style was near unpredictable, and she was able to shrug off debilitating blows without even having to try, something he attributed to her long exposure to pain curses.
Harry smirked as the smoke cleared with a wave of his wand, and he found himself staring at the exposed backs of one group of hostiles, while the other was looking at the place where, seconds ago, a raging fire had blistered in the air. He raised his wand, putting much more force behind the spell than it was designed for. " Pulsus !"
The overpowered banishing hex blasted into the combatants closest to him first, tossing them though the air, and into the second group of fighters. He had been careful enough to tone down the power to something that would cause bruises, but wouldn't kill them - he had found out early on that even the simplest spells could be lethal, if one put enough force behind them. He raised his wand as the majority of the people tried to scramble to their feet, but the distinct pop of multiple apparitions prevented that as the aurors arrived. He quickly sheathed his wand, stepped back, and made sure to keep his hands clearly visible.
Those who hadn't managed to make it back to their feet were roughly hauled up by the aurors as all of them were rounded up by the Ministry's forces. It took them a few seconds to realize the precarious position they were now in, but one by one, wands clattered to the floor and hands raised into the air.
Good thing I picked up my documentation, Harry thought in quiet amusement at the visibly upset visage of the people that were now being placed under arrest. The aurors, quickly supported by Ministry officials, soon got around to questioning the few bystanders that were left, and Harry groaned as he watched a number of them chatter rapidly and gesture towards him when asked by the aurors. I should've left when I had the chance, he groaned mentally. Attention from the Ministry was something he really didn't need right now.
A half-dozen aurors turned around and approached Harry, their wands drawn and aimed at his chest. He smiled cheerfully and raised his hands in surrender. Leading them, much to Harry's chagrin, was someone he had hoped to avoid for the time being. Twenty-five years younger, with his right leg still intact, a little less grizzled, and without a magical eye, the man leading the squad approaching Harry was still unmistakable: Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody.
He took a moment to give Harry a quick once-over, and then turned to the aurors following him. "Go help the others with those idiots in the mud over there," Moody growled. He waited a moment until they had left, then took a few steps towards Harry, eyeing him very, very carefully.
Harry knew that he was being evaluated as a potential opponent by the man who would become his teacher in the future. Knowing that he needed to appear as non-threatening and uninteresting as possible, he decided to let the auror take the lead. No point in attracting unwarranted attention now.
"What's your name?" Moody finally asked.
"Ashworth. Harry Ashworth," Harry replied neutrally.
Moody glanced up sharply, and Harry had to fight down the urge to flinch away from that piercing gaze. "You're the one who took down all of those… people… back there?" he asked with unmistakable disdain for the combatants, who were in the process of being rounded up and transported to Ministry holding cells.
Harry took a moment to study the people who'd been fighting before responding. None of them appeared to be Death Eaters - they lacked the distinctive masks and black robes, for one. In fact, they didn't even appear to be any sort of trained fighting force. Instead, they were young and Harry guessed, barely out of school. Probably the restless sort that was convinced of their own superiority, spoiled, or dissatisfied with current affairs. The sort Voldemort never had any trouble recruiting, he mused. Those who haven't found a place in society, and blame it on others.
With some surprise he realized that Bellatrix might actually fit into that category, which was ironic. For some reason, he couldn't quite picture her in the same group as Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. And there was no denying that these… goons? Hooligans? Whatever they were, Malfoy and his posse would have fit right in with them. Well, Harry thought with quiet amusement, Malfoy is probably a little better dressed that them .
Was this what Bellatrix had meant when she had said with her dying breath that she had just "gone with the flow?" Could Pansy Parkinson or Millicent Bulstrode have become the next Bellatrix Lestrange? It seemed so unlikely. For starters, while he hated the Bellatrix of his time, he quite readily acknowledged her skill, talent, and power, all of which took time and effort to cultivate. He couldn't see the Slytherins of his time as willing to put in enough time and effort to become that skilled.
No, while Bellatrix may have fit in with those misfits currently being arrested from an ideological point of view, she certainly wouldn't have been part of these kinds of groups. For one, they were dressed atrociously, and looked - and smelled, now that he thought about it, and he was several dozen feet away! - like they desperately needed a bath. No, Bellatrix and her sort would probably have fit in with a more sophisticated group which comprised the more intelligent of the dissidents.
Harry returned his attention to Moody, a bit embarrassed when the auror had to clear his throat loudly to get his attention. "Sorry," he muttered, which the older man rewarded with a nonchalant shrug. "I wouldn't exactly say that I took them down. I just happened to be in the right place when I cast a banishing charm. I guess I got lucky that I caught that many, but I couldn't let them keep going. They'd probably still be fighting if you hadn't shown up."
Moody nodded quietly, and Harry could almost see the man thinking over all the possible holes and flaws in his explanation. He wasn't aware he had been holding his breath until he released it sharply when Moody nodded. "You got identification on you, son?" Moody finally asked, more pleasantly than Harry would have expected.
"Of course." Harry reached inside his robes, glad to find his passport quickly. He didn't want to have to pull out the entire envelope and have to explain why he just happened to be carrying his entire life history's worth of documentation around with him. He handed the Muggle passport to Moody.
The auror browsed the pages for a few moments with a crooked smile. "Muggle passport?"
"It's pretty convenient, especially since I sometimes decide to wander out there." Harry shrugged. "I'm sure I can find some wizarding ID, if you'd like me to."
"That's all right, son. You like travelling the Muggle way, eh?"
"I like seeing the world," Harry replied noncommittally.
"Good for you. You travel a lot, eh? Born in Australia, and most recently from the States. And lots of stops in between."
"Yeah." Harry chose not to elaborate, deciding that he couldn't tell a lie if he just kept quiet.
"Guess that explains your lack of a distinct Aussie accent," Moody grumbled to himself. "Parents move you around a lot? You must've been pretty young on a lot of these moves."
Harry merely shrugged and nodded, deciding not to make up anything about his imaginary parents unless the auror asked. If Moody jumped to his own conclusions and figured he didn't need to ask, Harry saw no reason to elaborate.
After a little while, Moody finally handed the passport back. "The witnesses we've talked to seem to agree that you're not one of the people who started the trouble, Ashworth." Moody looked him up and down with a lopsided grin that looped positively creepy on his face. "Though I could have told that just from looking at you. We're not going to charge you with anything. Generally, I would say that you were a fool to even try to take on that many people, but they," he waved vaguely in the direction where aurors were still taking statements, "agree that you probably did save a lot of people from getting injured, and you seemed to have no problem handling yourself."
Harry took the passport back, relieved that the forged document had passed muster. "Thank you."
"Try not to make a habit of it. Constant vigilance, son."
"No problem," Harry said. "I didn't exactly want to start a fight with anyone. I don't even know what those folks were fighting about, in the first place."
Moody rolled his eyes. "It's purebloods. They're dissatisfied with life, the Ministry, each other, so they take it out on whoever they run into at the time. I wish that it was only the young ones doing this, but things are getting tense even among the family heads in the Wizengamot." The auror's tone told Harry all he needed to know about what Moody thought about those sorts of politics.
"I see." Harry hoped that Moody would keep talking and reveal more. He had tried to find out more in the news about what had facilitated Voldemort's rapid rise to power, and wished he had asked about it more in his time. Dumbledore had mentioned that it had involved a lot of sudden and unexplained deaths and disappearances, but so far, Harry hadn't heard anything even remotely like it in the current news.
"This incident is going to cause trouble," Moody grumbled, more to himself than to Harry. At the young man's curious look, he nodded his head over to the damaged building. "That's owned by old man Belby, he's related to Bagnold, and they're both going to be having wild ideas about who hired those amateurs to do this, even if they just happen to be a bunch of idiots who randomly picked this place to start a fight."
"Ah. Seems odd to me, though, that there were that many fighting back," Harry commented, trying to prod for more information.
Moody nodded. "True. Like I said, tensions are running high, and as much as I hate to admit it, neither side is playing entirely fair. I'm guessing Belby hired his own goons, just in case."
Harry decided not to ask about the Unforgivables. He was convinced he had seen them used, and dearly wished he'd paid more attention to the background of them when it was taught in DADA, since he knew they'd been regularly taught up to when the ban on the Unforgivables was put into effect, but he couldn't remember when that was.
"Well," Moody clapped his hands, apparently remembering that he did have a job to do, "you'd best be on your way. You planning to be in town for the next few days?"
The question caught Harry by surprise. "Yeah. Why?"
Moody gestured over to where the last of the group was being transported away. "Just in case those nitwits try to argue that they weren't caught red-handed and seen by a dozen witnesses. We might need the additional testimony at their hearing."
Harry glanced over at the people he'd knocked around. They didn't look particularly friendly or intelligent, but they didn't need to be to shoot him intense glares the likes of which he'd come to expect from the Death Eaters he knew in the future. It almost made him shudder that even before Voldemort's rise there were people like that in the world. It had become almost too easy to blame the dark lord for all that was wrong with the wizarding world, and it took quite a bit of effort to remind himself that Voldemort hadn't caused the evil, he had compounded it.
"I'll be around. Owl me if you need me. I'm staying at the Leaky Cauldron for the moment until I find a job, so Tom should know where to find me." Harry wasn't sure how exactly it was that owls found people by name, and hoped that there wouldn't be a problem with his assumed name. Even so, he could always claim some magical problem or another, which was why he'd let Moody know to ask Tom, just in case. He resolved to find out about the owling matter, and hoped that if there was a problem, it'd be a reasonably easy fix. With a muttered nod of acknowledgement, Moody shook his hand and turned away.
That evening found Moody and Dumbledore sharing dinner at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. They had known each other for years and met often. It was the auror's frank personality and disregard for money, wealth, and fame that Dumbledore admired in him. They usually had dinner together at least once every other week, just to keep in touch and to exchange news on their respective fronts.
Ever since the rise of Grindelwald, Dumbledore liked to keep an eye on what was happening in law enforcement, and Moody heard - and saw - much more than the average auror. How he did that, even Dumbledore didn't know. Generally, their conversation involved light topics, though, as of late, they had been speaking of progressively more serious matters.
"I hear there was another heated debate in the Wizengamot," Moody commented, sipping his ale. "What are those old crooks arguing about this time?"
"The same," Dumbledore sighed in resignation. "The influx of Muggleborn witches and wizards into our society isn't sitting well with certain people. They believe that magic should belong to the purebloods, that anyone who is descended from Muggles is somehow inferior to them."
"It doesn't help that our laws were written by idiots," Moody snorted.
"They are antiquated," the headmaster admitted. "But reform is slow in coming, and even if there were anyone willing to start it, traditionalists still hold much of the power in the council. I don't think any reforms would pass right now."
"Figures."
Dumbledore nodded in agreement. "It's been getting steadily worse for years now; I think it's because of the realization that a lot of Grindelwald's supporters were Muggleborn."
"No surprise there, considering how much freedom he promised them, and how much the purebloods did to suppress their entry into our world." Moody frowned. "It's pretty stupid."
"I won't argue with you there," Dumbledore acknowledged, "but there are many who believe that it is our birthright to wield magic, and that it should reside solely with the old families."
"And they're the ones spewing all that propaganda against Muggleborns."
"Right. They're playing on everyone's fears… we're slowly dying out, simply because the families are getting smaller. The old families are suffering from inbreeding, and with each year, there are more Muggleborn. People are afraid that eventually, they are going to be supplanted."
"That didn't work too well thirty years ago, now, did it?" Moody growled.
"They went to a lot of extremes thirty years ago, passing laws that shouldn't have been passed. They rushed the process, causing a lot of hurt among the Muggleborn at the time," Dumbledore explained, "now… they're proceeding much more cautiously, but their goal is the same."
"Get rid of all the Muggleborn in our society." Moody chortled with mild amusement. "Like that is going to happen."
"I agree; it'd be very detrimental if we suddenly closed our world to all Muggleborn. They are now a significant portion of the wizarding population, and some of our brightest minds are Muggleborn."
"That can't sit too well with them purebloods."
Dumbledore nodded. "It doesn't. They still argue that Muggleborn are unsuited to be taught magic."
"Let me guess," the auror snorted in disgust, "they're still going with the blood superiority spiel?"
"To some extent. I think by now that's mostly become secondary, their real argument now is that opening our doors to Muggleborn is a risk to our society. Since they live in both worlds, they could very easily reveal our existence to the rest of the Muggle world. Or take what we teach them and leave. Some believe we shouldn't waste time and resources on training those who, in the end, will abandon our world."
"That's stupid."
"Not entirely unfounded, though. A lot of Muggleborn have chosen to return to their old life."
Moody shrugged. "That's entirely the wizarding world's fault. If they treat them like crap, what do they expect? I mean, that restriction on Muggleborn to Ministry jobs is a crock."
Dumbledore smiled briefly, amused at the auror's colorful language. "I quite agree. Unfortunately, the majority of the Wizengamot feels that Muggleborn are not yet ready to take over positions that are so vital to our government, our safekeeping, and our economy."
"Then there's the idiots saying that the Muggleborn are stealing our jobs," Moody smirked. "Now those are a bunch of idiots if I ever saw them. Arrested a lot of them today."
"I heard about the incident near Knockturn Alley. Was anyone hurt?"
"A few," Moody replied, unbothered by that fact. "Nothing too bad, at least nothing that needed St. Mungos for treatment. A dozen or so ruffians decided to torch old Belby's shop. Coincidentally, Belby had his own set of goons on hand to fight back. I'm thinking he may have been planning something similar, they just hit him before he could."
"So what's going to happen to them?"
"Probably going to get a slap on the wrist and fined. Rich kids, mostly, though if they're so rich, I can't tell why they can't just buy themselves clothes that actually fit ." Moody wrinkled his nose. "Not to mention take a bath every once in a while. I'm sure you'll get an earful from Belby and his friends tomorrow."
Dumbledore nodded as he processed that information. "Actually, I think they're pureblood children whose families are declining. A lot of the old families are slowly vanishing. The Cromwells are almost gone, I think, except for their daughter Lisbon. Most of them aren't doing that well anymore these days."
"That's what they get for frittering away their family fortunes without ever bothering to earn any of it back," Moody commented neutrally.
The headmaster of Hogwarts nodded in agreement. It was an unfortunate fact of life that those with money more often than not chose to frivolously spend it without regard for tomorrow. That rarely ended well, and most ended up with next to nothing. Sadly, these days, your name bought you nothing. Money, however, did . It had been the downfall of a lot of families, especially over the last hundred years or so. Many prominent old families had vanished into obscurity that way, enough that there was a growing fear among the remaining families that the same could happen to them.
"The usual going on, kids blaming the Muggleborn for all their misery and taking it out on those who support integrating Muggleborn into our world," Moody shrugged and took a bite of his dinner. "Excuse is flimsier than a Sarmanic peelskin, but they keep using it."
Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore closed his eyes wearily. "I know. It saddens me to see that they make that choice so soon after leaving school. I was hoping we had taught them something, at least." It had happened often enough in the past few years that they referred to these incidents as "the usual," though it wasn't something that Dumbledore was proud of. Young witches and wizards, especially those from families that had been struck hard by the downturn of the last decade, had a tendency to go out and blame whoever was available to them. It was a fault in their education, the headmaster surmised, probably the inborn arrogance of their former station - since this particular ailment seemed an all-too common occurrence among purebloods especially - and the arrogance born of their powers.
"You're teaching them. They're choosing not to listen. Not your problem."
"I wish it was that easy, old friend." The last decade especially had been hard on the wizarding world. In fact, it had started even before the rise of Grindelwald. World War II had taken a much larger toll on the wizarding population that anyone would have thought possible. For all their centuries of stealth, all their magic wards and notice-me-not spells that enabled them to hide a wizarding town in the heart of London, their relative isolation had been their undoing. They had been ignorant of the events in the Muggle world, had not cared of what they had developed, what advancements they had made, so long as they were left alone.
And then Nazi Germany had declared war, and begun bombing England. London had been hit hard, but so had the rest of the countryside. And for all their magical protections, nothing could have saved them from the hundreds of bombs that rained from the sky. Even though they were invisible to Muggle eyes, wizarding towns and villages were struck and decimated, and they had had no defense against it. London had taken the worst of the bombing, and consequently, so had Diagon Alley, the Ministry, and the government complex. Almost the entire wizarding government and infrastructure had collapsed within days. And the wizarding world had been completely unprepared for such an occurrence.
Muggle weapons didn't care who was underneath, didn't care that there were charms and wards. Their bombs dropped and exploded, simple devices that they were. Bullets fired into seemingly empty air passed through the wards and struck wizards cowering behind invisibility charms. And when the war had finally been about to close, Russian tanks had rolled over the countryside, decimating entire villages without ever seeing them.
Amidst that panic and chaos, the dark wizard Grindelwald had made his bid for power, rallying Muggleborn and pureblood supporters around him with the promise to rebuild a better wizarding world, one more tolerant to Muggleborn and squibs, and magical creatures that were being cruelly suppressed at the time. And that war had cost even more lives. In the aftermath of that, with their population decimated, the wizarding world had had a much harder time rebuilding its economy and society. The Muggle world had the advantage of technology. War advanced technology, which drove their economy to new heights after the war, but the wizarding world didn't have that. In contrast, the wizarding world's economy was rather weak.
And it showed in the aftermath of the war. Even now, thirty years later, their economy still had not fully recovered, while most Muggle countries had advanced leaps and bounds beyond their pre-war state. Since much of the wizarding world's economy was based on the gold reserves of the old families and what Muggles would call the "service" sector, there wasn't much that could improve the current state of affairs. War and decades of spending had left their marks on even the deepest coffers, and now, there was an entire generation faced with knowing that their families had once been held in the highest regard, had been the richest of the rich… and they, themselves, had nothing.
And that was only part of the problem. Before the war, there had been many purebloods. Most rural settlements were entirely comprised of pureblood families, even. The war had decimated them, cut the wizarding world's population almost in half. They were in desperate need of new people, to replenish those they had lost, which had led to a large sudden influx of Muggleborn into their society. A lot of the older families had taken offense to that, while others argued that it was either accept them, or die out. Despite that, there had been put in place a great many laws that restricted the freedom of Muggleborn witches and wizards. Some were placed there out of fear, some out of contempt. Whichever had been the cause, the damage was the same. Many Muggleborn decided to leave behind the shackles imposed on them by the wizarding world and return to their own.
That sudden exodus had left the wizarding world doubly crippled once again. The careful balance between coming and leaving had been precarious at best, and many of the older families had taken this as a sign that Muggleborn were unreliable and could not be trusted to become a stable part of their society, something they had passed on to their children. The sentiment had only grown ever since the end of the war.
"Something interesting, though," Moody commented, jerking Dumbledore from his thoughts.
"Was there?"
"Yeah." Moody coughed and gulped down his ale. "The fight was broken up by a stranger before it could get too bad."
Albus Dumbledore wasn't a man who believed in coincidence, and ventured to take a vague guess. "I don't suppose it was some young fellow by the name of Ashworth?"
Moody arched a curious eyebrow. "Indeed. I talked to him at the scene."
"And?"
The auror grumbled with a mixture of suspicion and humor. "He seems too innocent and casual to me."
"How so?"
Rolling his eyes, Moody tore a piece off the loaf of bread on his plate. "All the people who stuck around to watch the fight agreed that Ashworth demonstrated remarkable skill in dealing with not one, but both groups and then ultimately ending the fight. When I talked to Ashworth, he passed it off as nothing."
"And you have a problem with that?" Dumbledore smiled briefly at his friend's irritation.
"I don't care who these hooligans are, but anyone who can take on two dozen of them and come out standing and without a scratch is someone who's got more than just a little skill and luck."
Dumbledore stroked his beard in thought. "So, what do you make of him?"
"If he's who he says he is, then he's a naïve idiot. If he isn't, then whoever taught him is good… damn good." Moody eyed the headmaster warily. "So, how do you know him?"
"I met him a few days ago," Dumbledore said vaguely. "I saw him in the company of Miss Black. She was about to get into a fight with young Mr. Potter when Mr. Ashworth - rather skillfully - disarmed both of them. He had some very interesting things to say about his opinions of the Hogwarts houses, but I think that's for another time."
"He said he's looking for a job."
"Yes, he did mention that to me. I thought it was rather odd that a young man such as he would wander to England without any firm plans."
"He's been almost bloody everywhere. Born in Australia, but his passport reads like a travel magazine. He's been to half a dozen countries at, mostly during his childhood."
"Restless parents, I suppose," Dumbledore mused, studying the wine goblet in his hands. "It certainly explains why he doesn't have any accent to speak of. And if he is so well travelled, perhaps his behavior isn't all that strange."
Moody snorted. "For some reason, he doesn't strike me as a rich kid getting his rocks off by travelling around."
"No?" the headmaster asked curiously. "What makes you think that?"
"Like I said, anyone who can take on a dozen people is someone I'd be looking out for. That takes more than just power or talent. It takes a grasp of tactics not many have these days. Also, he allegedly banished one entire group of them into the other group twenty yards away."
"I see," Dumbledore said. "Do you think he's especially skilled at fighting?"
"I don't know," Moody answered thoughtfully. "He didn't exactly seem like a fighter, considering his borderline frail stature and build. On the other hand, there's his skill and experience, so I wouldn't want to make the mistake of underestimating him in a fight."
"I see."
There was a brief silence, which was eventually broken by the auror. "I have a theory."
"Oh?"
"We have a lot of tensions going on, between purebloods and Muggle-supporters. A lot of hostilities towards Muggleborn, too. And then there's always those crazy bastards who think we should take over the Muggle world," Moody began.
"Go on," Dumbledore encouraged, leaning forward in interest.
"Of late, we've had a lot of these disputes escalate into some serious vandalism and violence. Groups of untrained or unskilled thugs fighting each other. Then all of a sudden, this well travelled, smooth talking, and magically skilled wizard shows up in the middle of a fight. What do you make of that?"
"You're thinking the pureblood families are bringing in outside help?"
"The purebloods, the other side, whoever. He had to come from somewhere ."
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled merrily and he smiled. "Are you suggesting that Mr. Ashworth is, in fact, a hired gun?"
"A hired what?"
"Never mind," Dumbledore said. "It's a Muggle thing. I think we'll just give Mr. Ashworth the benefit of the doubt for now."
"If you say so," Moody muttered, finishing his dinner.
They lingered together for a little while more before Moody called it a night, commenting that he had to be in the office at a fairly early hour the next morning to process all the people they had arrested earlier and arrange their hearings. As Moody opened the door to exit the pub after wrapping himself in his cloak, Dumbledore called after him.
"About Ashworth. Did you happen to see any Blacks nearby when you encountered him? Perhaps one of the people fighting?"
Moody gave Dumbledore a strange look. "No, I didn't see any Blacks anywhere, though there were folks who talk to the Blacks. You don't suppose the Blacks were involved in this, do you?" The auror clearly didn't believe the Blacks would involve themselves in that kind of action. They were still wealthy enough to be able to hire people to do that for them, and even if, they would have gone after a more high-profile target, and certainly with much more skill, grace, and stealth than two groups of younglings trading spells in a crowded street.
"No, no," Dumbledore answered quickly. "I was just wondering."
On Christmas morning, the day after his encounter with the pureblood delinquents and Alastor Moody, Harry was woken by someone persistently jabbing his chest.
"Wake up, Ashworth."
Harry reluctantly opened his eyes, slowly blinking at the sudden brightness in his room. His good mood from a restful sleep suddenly evaporated when he realized who was staring down at him. Bellatrix Black, violet eyes framed by long dark hair, was straddling him on his bed and looking down at him. He didn't think she fully realized what she was doing, but quickly shook the cobwebs from his head.
He wondered which deities he had managed to offend in this - or a previous - life that would ultimately lead to him being woken up on a Christmas morning by Bellatrix. No one deserved that - not even the Dursleys. It was right up there at the top of his list of things-that-he-never-wanted-to-happen-to-him, right after being woken up by Crucio .
"Go away," he muttered, trying to turn around and bury his head under his pillow.
"I love you too," Bellatrix retorted with a mischievous grin as she pulled the pillow away and slid off the bed.
"Gimme that," he said, reaching out blindly for the pillow she was holding in her hands. He was glad she'd gotten off the bed right then, before she'd found something between her thighs that he didn't exactly want her to. Waking up with an - admittedly beautiful -seventeen year old girl in his bed wasn't something he'd ever gotten used to.
"Come get it, Ashworth!"
With an annoyed groan, Harry rolled onto his side and sat up, reaching over to the night stand for his glasses. "It's too early to deal with you."
"Why, I would think you don't enjoy my company!"
"I don't," Harry mumbled quietly. Out loud, he said, "How did you get into my room, anyway?"
She gestured towards the door. "You think locks like that can keep me out?" She almost looked insulted at the prospect that he might think that.
"Apparently I need to put up wards if I want any privacy from you."
"Ah-ah!" Bellatrix held up a finger. "Is that any way to speak to someone who's come to invite you to a party?"
"Wha-?"
Bellatrix stepped back, performed a small curtsy, and twirled around grandly. "You have been invited to a small family gathering this evening," she declared with a wide, dramatic sweep of her arms. At Harry's odd expression, she stemmed her fists into her hips and glared at him. "What?"
Harry suppressed a grin, though he wasn't entirely successful, and he was sure she could see the faint smile on his lips. He couldn't help himself. Bellatrix Black had just done something incredibly silly.
"What?" she repeated.
"Nothing, nothing." He waved her off. "What's this about a party?"
"A family gathering," she emphasized carefully.
"What's the difference?"
It took her a moment to think about that. Finally, she settled on, "I don't think there's as much getting drunk as there would be in a party."
"I see." He didn't, not really.
"It took surprisingly little effort on my part, especially thanks to the little stunt you managed to pull yesterday."
"What're you talking about?"
Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "Well, I don't know. How many groups of boneheads did you destroy yesterday?"
"I didn't 'destroy' anyone!" Harry groaned. If that was what the press had been reporting, then he could kiss his blessed anonymity bye-bye.
"Well, they sure talked like you did."
"They're out already?"
"Aha! So that was you!"
Harry shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Please tell me I haven't made the front page of the Daily Prophet yet."
"You haven't made the front page of the Prophet yet."
"Good."
There was a long silence as they stared at each other, both of them resolved not to squirm despite the searing need to say something, anything to get rid of the silence. Harry sighed and shrugged. He hadn't wanted this much public exposure quite this soon, but it couldn't be helped. He wasn't about to back down and let a firefight get out of hand. Maybe it would even benefit him, if it had gotten him invited to a social gathering this quickly. And he could only imagine the sorts of people that associated themselves with the Blacks. It could potentially lead him straight to Voldemort.
Finally, Bellatrix spoke up, fed up with the silence. "So, did you pick up your documentation?"
"I have everything, except the license," Harry replied.
Bellatrix smirked. "So, how much did they rip you off for?"
Harry cringed. He felt like he'd done well, and the forgers had seemed like honest people, but under Bellatrix's inquisitive gaze, he wasn't quite so sure anymore. "Ten thousand."
Bellatrix involuntarily raised her eyebrows, displaying her increased respect for the strange time traveler. "Not bad, Ashworth."
"Thanks," he said sarcastically. If she noticed, she didn't show.
"Well, the party's at No. 12, Grimmauld Place. Show up at seven for dinner - oh, and wear something nice. I'd hate for you to do something stupid or embarrassing," she said, pulling out her wand to apparate away.
"I'll be there."
Bellatrix nodded in approval, a glint in her eyes. "Good to see you're familiar with the location." She waved her wand and was gone, leaving Harry with the realization that he'd inadvertently revealed more than he'd wanted her to know. On the other hand, she already knew he was the Black family heir, so knowing the location of No. 12 Grimmauld Place was almost a given. Deciding not to think about it any further, since he couldn't take back his words, he showered and cleaned himself up for the day.
It was only when he walked down into the pub for breakfast, and caught sight of a copy of the Daily Prophet, that he screwed up his eyes and cursed her name.
"You lied!" he hissed at the ceiling. There, on the front page, was a moving image of yesterday's firefight. And he was right in the middle of it.