1

It was a dark and stormy night.

Well, the first was obvious, and the second, well, it's Britain, so stormy is definitely plausible for the last night of October.

The Forest of Dean, second largest of the Royal Forests, over a hundred square kilometers of ancient woodlands, criss-crossed by roads, trails, and assorted hamlets. Had things not gone differently, in seventeen years, give or take a few months, two teenagers would, while camping, discover an ancient artifact that would allow them to defeat an evil that had been temporarily defeated seventeen years before.

Give or take a few months.

A few hundred kilometers away from the forest, in a small village not unlike many that dotted the English countryside, a godfather was handing over his motorcycle to a groundskeeper, intent on finding a betrayer.

For now, though, let us focus on the forest, particularly a dense part of the ancient woodland, the ground covered in fallen leaves and underbrush. Suddenly, as if by magic, someone, or something, appeared. They were thin, emaciated, one could almost call them skeletal, and dressed, if one was charitable in using that word, in barely more than tattered rags. Beside them was an ornate box, sealed, and topped with a standard yellow C5 envelope, addressed, in green ink, to "nobodez".

Suddenly the body seized, and whomever they were, seemed to be panicking. After attempting to hyperventilate, and failing quite dismally after discovering that they had no lungs with which to hyperventilate with, they passed out. A half hour later, they seized awake once more, and after determining that, no, they weren't hallucinating, or else on a very bad trip that didn't look to be ending anytime soon, they took stock of the situation.

"Well, frak," they said, though were quite surprised to be able to speak, what with the whole lack of lungs, and not to mention the rest of their pulmonary system with which to speak with. Then, after looking around, they found the envelope, and after removing the contents, a folded sheet of A4 paper, they began to read in the surprisingly bright waxing crescent moon.

"Hello," they read aloud, their voice seeming to have a few sub-harmonic echoes lending it a distinctly sinister demeanor. "I'm sure you're quite freaked out at the moment."

"No fraking shit sherlock," they snarked, then continued.

"… with you being…well undead and all but there is a good reason for all this. You must entertain me."

"Entertain you?" they asked aloud. They then looked around. "Who the frak are you?" They then shouted, "WHO THE FRAK ARE YOU?"

Only the startled sounds of animals fleeing from the shout of the undead responded.

They then continued reading, though only spoke aloud the pertinent parts.

"… turned you into a lich … undead sorcerer of unimaginable power … total confidence … phylactery …pocket dimension … one creature per day … crossbows … reverse engineering … exotic materials … same universal plane … un-vistable … grand adventure … magic book … spell, rituals, and upgrades … finger tips …" and this they paused and looked at the white tips of their distal phalanges. They rubbed the tip of their thumb, now only a bone, across the tip of their index finger, and surprisingly, felt it, but then, as a lich, they had to expect some magical senses. They then returned their attention to the letter, "… scan and store … can be damaged … fumation … directly related … strict and unbending … Forest of Dean, Halloween, 1981."

Just then they stopped reading, then chuckled, then gawfawed, then outright laughed out loud, eventually succumbing to something close to maniacal laughter. A few minutes later, after discovering that their lack of lungs made laughing for a long time almost enjoyable, they finished the letter, and watched as it, in a flash of bright light not unlike that which characterized the nearly omnipotent powers of the being Q on Star Trek, was either transformed into, or replaced with, a thin, nondescript black book. At first glance it looked almost indistinguishable from the notebooks favored by techies and hipsters over thirty years from now in an alternate future.

The lich, intrigued, opened the book, and smiled when, on the front endpaper, or rather end-parchment, a familiar symbol was illustrated. It consisted of a crudely drawn circle, almost exactly the same style as found in the Intel logo, that served as the head of a stick figure, though one that was missing its body and had two-fingered hands. The lich knew this symbol, for it was one they had designed, in the past which was an alternate future, to accompany their nickname on the internet. A stick figure with no body, appropriate for "nobodez".

The lich then began to page through the book, discovering spells, rituals, and "upgrades", as the letter described. To the lich's horror, though, most of them where either quite gruesome in utility or frightening in their brutality. Others, though, seemed more useful. Luckily the lich had memorized the "proper" ratio for gunpowder, 75% saltpeter, 15% charcoal, and 10% sulfur, and so would be able to give their minions at least basic firearms until they could get to either a military base, a terrorist hideout, or across the "pond" to the United States and their more liberal firearms laws.

The lich known as nobodez only stopped reading the book when the sun rose above the trees, casting the lich's shadow across the book. With a snap the book was closed and stock taken of the environment.

"I'm going to need a backpack, and then I'm going to need a safe deposit box," nobodez said to themself. "And quite possibly I'm going to need minions. Oh yes, minions are a definite." Nobodez punctuated their decision with a solid three minutes of maniacal laughter.

nobodez knew that they'd be unable to stop Dumbledore from placing Harry at the Dursleys, so that wasn't an option, and as a neophyte necromancer, they didn't want to go up against Albus, Minerva, and Rubius when the sun set. So, they had to play a long game. The first step, and easiest, would be to determine if they could stop the impulsive Black from either going after Wormtail, or at least prevent him from getting thrown into Azkaban without a trial.

Luckily the spell book had a spell for illusions, and illusions were something they'd need, especially if they were planning on going into the civilized world. "Or even the magical one," they added aloud as a joke.

With a bit of concentration they were able to produce an illusion of how they looked before. Six foot tall, twenty-five stone, or at least the appearance of twenty-five stone, with long brown hair tied back at the base of the skull. They were dressed in black, or at least the illusion was, with black boots, black jeans, a black t-shirt, a black button-down shirt, and a black hooded sweatshirt. Nobodez picked up their phylactery and their spell book, and began to make their way out of the forest.

It took longer than expected to find a road, though mainly because they had chosen the absolute worst direction to start going in, and had they chosen almost any other, direction, including the one opposite, they would have reached a road in nearly a third of the time.

But, they were on a road, however rough, and continued headed in the same direction, roughly north, and an hour or so later, they found themself being passed by a lorry, and then, steadily, as they progressed further and further from their starting point, and closer and closer to civilization, passed by more and more vehicles. Eventually, they came across a clearing in the forest, and at the intersection ahead, saw a stereotypical English country inn, what they'd soon find out was the Speech House Hotel.

Luckily for nobodez, the illusion also carried a vocal illusion, though not a tactile one, so they had to be careful.

"Hello," said the nice older lady in greeting as nobodez cautiously walked into the Hotel.

"Um, hello, I know this is going to sound weird, but where am I?" asked nobodez. While they knew they were in the Forest of Dean, and that the aforementioned forest was in England, that's about all they knew.

"Got lost in the woods dear?" asked the woman.

"Something like that. You might not believe me, but I woke up in the middle of the forest, and I've been walking for a few hours now, and aside from a few trucks and cars, this is the first sign of civilization I've seen," they replied. They knew that the key to a reliable lie was couching it in truth, so it'd be easier to remember under duress.

"You look surprisingly good for someone who just walked through the forest," said the woman, doubting the claim.

nobodez looked down, and noticed a rather obvious flaw in the illusion, it looked just the same as it had when they cast it, hours before, and had changed not at all, not a rip, nor a stain, nor even a crease that wasn't there upon casting. Something they'd have to correct the next time they cast the spell. "Ah, yes, well, how about I just woke up a few minutes ago, and my mates stole my wallet?"

The woman rolled her eyes, "That's a bit more believable," she said. She then glanced up at the clock, "Were you staying in Cinderford or Coleford?"

"Cinderford," replied nobodez, though wasn't sure why the woman was asking, nor where either place was.

"The bus to Cinderford should be through in a few hours, I'll give you enough for the fare to get you back to your hotel there, but that's it. No booze, no food, no room to let, just enough to get you on your way," she replied.

"Thank you, most kindly," said nobodez.

As they were waiting for the bus, they realized that, as a side effect of being an undead monster, there was a bit of a problem with people being either afraid or at the least antagonistic to them. Luckily the woman at the Speech House was overly kind, and so her antagonism just got him a ride into town, rather than a swift expulsion. They spent the rest of the wait reading their spell book, hoping to find a way to enhance the illusion, and perhaps some way to charm or befuddle the minds of those they met. While they didn't want to start out their new life, or unlife as it were, with a crime spree, they need to get the supplied they needed to get their plans to succeed.

The ride to Cinderford, and out of the Forest of Dean, was uncomfortable for both nobodez and the rest of the passengers of the bus. For nobodez because it required a bit of adjustment to the illusion to sit down on the bus, and the other passengers because of the undead aura.

Once in Cinderford, the lich began their journey in earnest, and after canopying a map of the area it into their spell book, they realized that it wouldn't be easy to get from where they were to where they wanted to go. Getting to London, and particularly Charing Cross Road to get to Diagon Alley, was not going to be easy, and it might just be easier to walk than to figure out how to hitchhike there instead. At least in London, or even Birmingham or Bristol, the other nearby cities, they'd be able to go after the criminal element to acquire funds, but until there, money would be more difficult.

It got the lich thinking that either they would need to compromise their ethics, or their mission, to get things done expediently. Perhaps it would do Sirius good to spend a few days in Azkaban to realize that he needed to be less impulsive.

Perhaps not, though, if the Ministry of Magic affair, that would have happened in '96, would have been any indication of what Azkaban would teach Sirius. Well, nobodez would make it a point to inform the man he rescues from Azkaban of what they thought about impulsive behavior (that it had it's place, but not when one's life, or unlife, was on the line).

"It's going to be a long walk to London at this rate," the lich told themself, and began to walk along the A4151 towards the A48, and eventually, London.

The trip into London, again, took longer than expected, but the hundred and twenty miles, give or take a few, was walked in just over a day and a half, since nobodez had gotten distracted a few times, and stopped at a few libraries, first in Gloucestershire, and then more importantly in Oxfordshire (though with so many books there, it was put on the "go back and steal everything" list). Plus, walking through South England in the middle of the night tended to get boring. But, on the morning of the third of November, the lich, now looking to be only about fourteen stone rather than twenty-five, walked into the Leaky Cauldron pub.

"What can I do for your stranger?" asked the Publican, a balding hunchback of a man. He looked suspiciously at the oddly-dressed stranger.

"Just looking for entrance to the Alley," replied the stranger. "I've lost my wand, and I've never been good at apparating."

"Ah, tough luck," said the publican. "I'll have my son open the way for you." He then turned and called into the kitchen, "Tom, get out here, there's a man who wants to get into the Alley."

nobodez was intrigued to hear the name, having assumed the Publican was Tom. Instead a man in his late twenties, barely younger than the lich had been, before, came out.

"You wanting into the Alley?" asked Tom.

"Yes, thank you. Lost my wand, and I'm rubbish at apparating," explained nobodez.

"You a Yank?" asked Tom.

"Used to be, just moved here to Jolly Old England, though I've yet to find a place," explained the lich.

"Well, luckily you just missed out on the dangerous bit, what with looking all muggle and all," said Tom. "You-Know-Who just got snuffed a few days back, and with his lieutenants in custody, it's much safer than even a week ago."

"I'm sorry, who?" asked the lich, glad that as an undead monstrosity emotions like amusement were softened, and the illusion cut even that pale imitation of emotion to a bare minimum, unless of course they desired to express emotion, then it heightened it instead.

"You-Know-Who," explained Tom, as if it was obvious.

"I'm sorry, I don't," said nobodez, glad they no longer felt the need to repress the laughter that the small prank would otherwise elicit.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" asked Tom, hoping for some sort of recognition, but received just a head shake in response. "The Dark Lord?"

"Grindlewald?" asked nobodez, purposefully getting the reference wrong to string the future publican along.

"No, he was defeated ages ago, no, this one was," and Tom paused in the back yard of the pub, at the entrance to Diagon Alley. "Lord Voldemort," he said softly.

The lich just shrugged, "Eh, never heard of him. I've just flown in from the States myself, hoping to make a new life here in England, so to speak."

"Never … heard?" stuttered Tom.

"Guess your Dark Lord isn't as infamous as you thought," said the lich, repressing the urge to express the smile that their previous life experience would insist be plastered on their face for the prank.

"Oh … well … guess so," said Tom hesitantly, before shaking his head, and opening the entrance to the Alley for the strange American.

"Thank you," said nobodez, passing Tom, and being careful not to brush up against him. While he could get the feet and hands to interact right through the illusion, arms, legs, and the rest of their body was still just an illusion over bones.

The lich walked down Diagon Alley, noticing the darkened entrance to Knockturn Alley, as well as a few other businesses they knew from the books. And just the books, for the Alley wasn't anything like the movies. They were, though, able to find the bookstore, Flourish and Blotts, where they planned to put the duplicative powers of their spell book to good use. Hopefully the experiments they'd done at various along the way, with removing unwanted romance novels from the spell book's contents, would work with the more magical books within. For they had no intention of even trying to read any of Lockhart's books, even if he'd likely not written any as of yet.

Two hours of "browsing" later, and after copying the entire stock of Flourish and Blotts into their spell book, the lich exited the book store and made their way back down the Alley, knowing that without any coin, or any money at all, they had no need to go into Gringotts. After coming nearly back to the Cauldron entrance, they turned and made their way down the darkened Knockturn Alley.

"We don't need mudbloods like you pollutin' our street," said a rather gruesome looking character as the lich got deep with Knockturn.

"I wouldn't say I'm a mudblood," said the lich, for truthfully until a day and a half before they'd been but a 'Muggle', though they detested that appellation.

"So you're a Yank half blood?" asked the would-be mugger.

"I've not got any blood to have half of," said the lich, having worked on this bit for a few hours outside of Oxford. "You see, my old lady, she took everything in the divorce." Just then, nobodez dropped the illusion, "All I got left is my bones."

nobodez had been practicing more than just their illusions and their ability to walk and read at the same time. They'd also been practicing the more practical aspects of lichdom, that of the ability to channel negative energy. While they weren't quite at the "touch of death" stage, being immune to almost any offensive spell, save a well-aimed bone-breaker, the death of the mugger was inevitable.

As the last of the would-be mugger's soul was drained by the lich, they shuddered, as everything the mugger knew flowed into their mind. Luckily the lich no longer felt bad about killing the mugger, for they knew that the mugger, one Alex Smith, was a most despicable character, and likely would have joined Riddle in his quest had Smith been more skilled. And skilled he was not, for not only had he been killed by an unarmed lich, but he'd barely passed enough OWLs to maintain his wand, and had dropped out before even attempting his NEWTs.

But now nobodez knew much more about the Wizarding World, about what it was like to live in Slytherin, what it was like to cast magic, and what it was like to use magic and cast wanded spells.

They then looked down at the dead body, "Waste not, want not." They began to search their would be mugger, taking the wand first, and after realizing that the illusion didn't actually give them any pockets, stripped Smith's body of his robe, pouch (containing all of five knuts and two sickles, as well as over a dozen pawn tickets and a key to a flat), and even shoes. Then, realizing that, if just left here, Smith's dead body would attract more attention that they desired, retrieved their spell book.

With the book in hand, they began casting a spell, and after a few minutes, mainly accounting for inexperience, sent Alex Smith's body to the Jupiter-sized pocket dimension under their control. Smith would hopefully serve as a pattern for a magic-capable undead minion, as the skeletal warriors, while interesting, left much to be desired in the subtlety department.

nobodez, using the knowledge stolen from Alex Smith's drained soul, returned to Smith's flat, back under the fourteen stone illusion, and began to second phase of their plan. The Dursleys would take a few years before leaving their indelible mark upon Harry Potter, and Sirius' impulsiveness needed to be punished for a few more days. Plus, after learning about Dementors from Smith, they had an idea about how to both grow their own power, and limit the powers of both the Ministry and the Death Eaters.

The lich had discovered that safe deposit boxes were hard to come by when you've got no identification. Money was no longer a problem, as nobodez was exploiting the pound to galleon exchange rate in comparison to the mundane price of gold. Unfortunately, time was slipping away, and by the time the lich realized that they'd finally amassed enough resources, including the ability to summon ghoulish mages that had the magical talent of a sixth-year Hogwarts dropout (as gifted by Alex Smith and the half dozen other idiotic blood purists that had tried to tangle with the undead monster), it was the one-year anniversary of their arrival in the Forest of Dean.

"Well, so much for saving Sirius," the lich said to themself as they read the Daily Prophet's article on the one-year anniversary of the defeat of "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named".

"Perhaps it is time that I made my public debut?" the lich asked themself. Then with a nod, they left the flat, still being rented under the name of Alex Smith, and went out in Knockturn Alley. The illusion had improved to a point where, with a bit of preparation, they could perfectly interact with almost anybody, if only because only their body was illusionary, the clothes they wore were not. And since gloves weren't exactly unheard-of as a piece of fashion in the Wizarding World, only the lich's illusionary face was exposed. This disguise wouldn't work as well in Miami or Majorica, but here in London, it worked perfectly fine.

A few minutes later the bell above the door rung, and into Olivander's Wand shop stepped the illusioned lich.

"That's quite the disguise you've got there," said Olivander. "Though, I'm not sure I want to know why you've got no skin on your face."

"I've got a joke I could tell you, but only seven men have heard it, and they're all dead," replied the lich. "So, instead, I'll just say that, for the time being, I have no quarrel with you, and I hope to find a compatible wand in this fine establishment."

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd come by," said Ollivander, retrieving his magical measuring tape as he advanced on the lich. Unlike their original illusion, their current illusion had only a passible resemblance to their former self. They were still six feet tall, but instead of an overweight man, they looked more like a well-dressed muggle wearing a fashionable wizarding robe.

"You know of me?" asked the lich, surprised.

"A strange American arrives days after You-Know-Who's death, and mentions to the publican of the Leaky Cauldron that they lost their wand and was bad at apparition, but is never actually seen exiting the Alley via the Cauldron again. I expected you months ago, but you're here now, and I finally get to find your wand," explained Ollivander, seemingly excited.

"Come now, we both know that you know his name, and really, he's been dead for a year, shouldn't the fear be gone by now?" asked nobodez.

Ollivander looked surprised, "I assume to don't mean His Lordly name?"

"It's a Riddling matter, don't you think?" asked the lich, so used to speaking in puns that it had become second nature, though so far they'd only shared it with seven people, who also happened to be dead and their bodies used as the template for the lich's ghoul wizards.

"Ah, so, not quite the ignorant American young Tom made you out to be, then," said Ollivander. "Which is your wand arm?"

The lich shrugged, "No idea, really. Never really had a proper wand before today. I've used a couple, off and on, but they weren't good matches, and I got equal use either dexter or sinister." They spread first their right, and then their left hand, still gloved, in example.

Ollivander looked intrigued, "Well, which hand do you favor when writing or doing find detail work?"

"I write with my right hand, and use it for detail work, though my left is stronger, more for gross motor functions, so to speak," explained the lich.

Ollivander nodded, "Well, you should practice with both hands then." With a gesture the magical measuring tape began its work. As it did, Ollivander continued his questioning, "When were you born?"

"While I was born in February, I celebrated my thirtieth birthday two weeks ago," the lich replied cryptically. "Though technically, I could say I'd be born in just over two years."

"Time travel of more than a day isn't possible," declared Ollivander, though didn't look overly surprised. Either he knew more than he admitted, or he had a marvelous poker face. Perhaps both.

"Well, it was more diagonal than strictly backwards," admitted the lich. "Oh, and is there a limit on wands I can purchase?"

"While officially there isn't, it's commonly held that a proper wizard, or witch, has but one wand, one that has been matched to them by a professional wand crafter," explained Ollivander.

"Ah, good, then you'll be getting more than just seven galleons from me today," said the lich. "I'm not a proper wizard, nor a proper witch for that matter, and I plan on having every advantage I can get in a fight."

"And the wands you borrowed since arriving here?" asked Ollivander, as the measuring tape made it's final measurement.

"I've returned them to their former owners, as while they worked, they weren't, as the saying goes, proper matches," replied the lich.

What followed was something not dissimilar to something that would have occured in just under nine years, when a famous Boy-Who-Lived received his first wand. Finally, four hours later and five "good" matches, and one "excellent" match later, the gold finally passed hands between the lich and Ollivander.

"Who should I report purchased these wands, when the Ministry performs its inevitable audit?" asked Ollivander.

"Leonard McCoy," replied the lich with a smile.

"Really?" asked Ollivander.

"Well, I have been known to be called Bones, though I realize that it might get confused with another, local, family," added nobodez.

"I see, well, until next time, Mr. McCoy," said Ollivander, who began to put away the small mountain of wands that had rejected the lich. He knew there was something off about this so-called Bones, as all six on the wands had been rather macabre in theme, with three yews and three hollys, all made with cores from the same dementor-killed Welsh Green.

"And it's Doctor McCoy," said the lich, just before existing the shop, getting an idea for another alternate identity, one that would serve better than nobodez the lich or Doctor Leonard McCoy the American Wizard.