12 Good Byes take Time

Day: 10 (The Return)

Harry's vision blurred for a moment, and the scenery changed a bit. The clouds that had been coming in from the east now blanketed the sky, and the warm weather had disappeared, letting the chilly November air reach up to meet him. He looked unsurprised about the change and merely continued to trudge up the path to the school.

When he reached the gates, he came to understand some of the problems involved in time travel. Harry latched onto the bars and shook; the metal was locked tightly and it did not move a whit at his attempts.

Harry raised his fist and pounded on the gate. "Hello!" he called. It didn't do much good, as everyone was probably getting ready for dinner. Harry's own stomach growled in protest. He looked up at the castle in the distance. It was getting dark and the lights gleamed and twinkled mockingly.

"Alohomora?" Harry tried, not much hope in his tone. The door didn't budge. Once more with feeling, he supposed. "Alohomora," he called, forcing the remainder of his magic into the unlocking charm.

"Ouch!" Harry cursed and rubbed at his hand where he had been struck by a shot of electricity from the gate.

"Hello?!" Harry called again. He gazed at the empty grounds unhappily. He looked up. Could he climb over the fence? A levitation charm? Harry considered the snap of electricity that had struck his hand moments ago. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to try and sneak over the castle's protections. There had to be a reason why Voldemort never entered through the front door.

"Can someone OPEN the gate?!" he called louder, hoping his words would manage to carry on the wind that was picking up.

Harry crossed his arms to try and retain heat; his clothing from the warm September day wasn't adequate for this new weather. Above, the dark clouds thundered ominously. Already a few drops were falling heavily, the splatters of moisture making his still-damp shirt become wet again. He'd managed to dry his drenched clothes a bit but it seemed he wasn't 'fated' to be dry today. He cast a charm to repel the water just before the sky opened up. It caused the drops to avoid him some, but the pouring rain still found a way in. His shoes squelched in the mud and his toes felt cold. But he was too tired from the afternoon's fight to care.

He was still gazing up towards the castle when an ancient-looking gray umbrella scuttled into view. It was carried by a bony hand and positioned in such a way that Harry couldn't see its carrier's face as they approached. But the shuffling walk and the faint wheezing cough that emerged from under the large tattered umbrella left Harry little doubt who his rescuer was.

"Mr. Filch," Harry greeted in a voice that might sound friendly.

The Hogwarts caretaker stopped short of the gate, raising the umbrella and allowing his small eyes to rest on Harry. They were not kind eyes.

"Well, well, well," he intoned darkly. "What sort of mischief have you been up to?"

"Well, funny story," Harry began, still trying to sound chipper as the rain continued to pour down upon him.

Filch sneered. "You'll be in it for this, leaving the school grounds...tsk," he continued, licking his gums in a manner that expressed some level of enjoyment, as if he were tasting one of his favorite dishes.

"Yes, well..." Harry shifted his weight on wet feet. "Are you going to let me in?" He offered a smile that might have given Lockhart a run for his money.

Filch dug into his pockets slowly, laboriously hefting a key ring that was littered with over a hundred keys of all shapes and sizes. The ring shook slightly in the man's bony grasp.

"Isn't Hagrid keeper of the keys?" Harry found himself asking as Filch fiddled.

Filch muttered to himself. "Messy brute—sniff, know how he got his job—cough, not so warmhearted we'd have a decent grounds keeper."

Harry tried his best to ignore the quiet complaints and insinuations. "Bet he'd have found the key by now," he couldn't help saying.

Filch's movements slowed, his pale eyes meeting Harry's gaze harshly. He smirked before choosing the first key on the ring. "Let's give this a go then, shall we?" He attempted to insert it into the keyhole...seeing as the key looked more suited to a Muggle bike lock, it was unsurprising that it didn't fit. Filch's face screwed into a disappointed expression.

"Oops. Well, the next one then." Filch moved on to the next key in the row. Harry looked at the massive key ring, his spirits dropping quicker than the temperature.

This was going to be a very long evening.

When Harry Potter finally made it up to Hogwarts, dinner was almost over. It probably would have been entirely over if Filch had been given his way. Luckily, at key number eighty-six a stray bolt of lighting had managed to strike Filch's umbrella, mercifully sparing the caretaker but not the umbrella. Suddenly, torturing Harry wasn't as much fun when he had to stand in the pouring rain to do it.

Harry shook his somewhat damp hair as he entered the Great Hall. His appearance was enough to spark silence followed by much conversation.

"Harry!" Hermione called, her voice rising above the others. One of his best friends rose from her seat at the Gryffindor table, waving him over excitedly.

Harry approached, dripping water, feeling very tired, cold and hungry. And oddly enough when he spied Ron he couldn't help but feel strangely annoyed at the redhead. He'd been unaware of any ire up till now, but suddenly seeing Ron Weasley dry, happy, and still eating a particularly large piece of tart, put the whole thing in perspective.

"Had to tick Binns off?" Harry questioned, his voice raising above the chatter.

Ron smiled. "Hey, Harry! Good to have you back, mate." Ron snickered as he took in Harry's damp appearance. "How was your trip?"

But Harry wasn't quite in the mood for friendly banter. "Had to upset the one ghost with the ability to send us back in time!" Harry continued.

Ron grinned sheepishly, looking around the table at other accusing stares. "Now, Harry," Ron placated, raising his voice so that the other Gryffindors around him could hear, "you know that it was partly Hermione's fault as well."

At these words, Hermione's eyebrows raised skyward. "And just how am I to blame?" she argued.

But Harry was having none of that. Hermione squabbled with Ron her fair share; now it was his turn.

"And you have the gall, THE GALL, to complain about being sent to—when was it?" He turned to Hermione.

"1213," Hermione answered simply. She was accurately reading the situation and settled down into her seat. She did, however, cast a drying charm in Harry's direction which seemed to lessen the dripping a bit, even if it did make his hair stand up more messily.

"1213! And you smugly complained about the food!" Harry pounded the table for dramatic effect, making a few of the dishes clatter about.

"You tell him Harry!" Seamus Finnigan called, pounding the table in a similar manner. The Irish student had apparently not forgotten his own historical field trip spent as a prisoner.

Ron bit his lip, looking a little nervous. "So, I guess you weren't sent anywhere nice, huh?"

Harry sat down next to his friend. "Imagine the worst time I could be sent to."

Ron exchanged a look with Hermione. "Um...1213?"

Harry's head sank into his hands. "Pass the trifle," he ordered weakly.

"I know, you were sent back to the time of the Founders!" Hermione said excitedly.

Neville was listening and handed Harry the dessert he'd requested; Harry helped himself to a large portion.

"Having to meet the original Snake-face himself, eh?" Ron shook his head. "I'm real sorry, Harry."

"I wasn't sent back to the time of the Founders," Harry corrected amicably, feeling less annoyed as he helped himself to his dessert. He decided to remain silent, rather enjoying the guessing game that was starting.

"What about when...You-Know-Who was going to school?" Neville offered quietly. People around the table shivered, looking at Harry pityingly.

"No," Harry said.

"Harry, you didn't!" Hermione chided. She seemed to have reached another idea. "You were sent back to when Voldemort was a baby and tried to kill him!"

"Hmm, good idea, that," Ron said with a serious nod.

"No, I didn't," Harry said with a sigh. Although Ron did have a point: that one might not have been so bad.

The table grew quiet as they tried to consider when he might have been sent.

"The Giant Attack of 1423?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head, sipping his pumpkin juice.

"I'm stumped," Ron gave up.

"The 70s," Harry answered.

The table looked stunned for a moment before someone snickered. Soon, most everyone was laughing. His fellow Gryffindors passed the information quickly and a few other tables joined in smiling and laughing at what they assumed to be Harry's joke. The Slytherins seemed terribly disappointed; most had hoped that Potter would draw a particularly horrid fate.

"Good one," Dean Thomas said. He struck a pose, breaking into disco moves that had the entire House laughing.

Beside him Seamus watched his friend, feigning fear. "Nooo, not disco—anything but that!"

This sparked more laughter and soon everyone was going back to their meals.

"Yeah, not the best period for trousers," Ron scoffed. "You had me thinking it was something serious." He slugged Harry's shoulder grumpily. "I was thinking I'd—" he paused to look at Hermione, "we'd really messed you over."

Hermione's face however had fallen some; her brown eyes had become gentle and her lips narrowed. "Oh Harry, I'm so sorry," she said quietly. She reached across the table and placed an extra piece of cake on his plate, her eyes a little watery as she did so.

Ron paused somewhere mid-bite, setting his fork on the table and watching his friends with confusion. Hermione, daughter of dentists, never encouraged Harry in his cravings for sweets.

Harry shrugged. "It wasn't that bad..." He lifted his fork to take a bite. Chocolate: his favorite.

As he rested his other hand on the table, Hermione reached over and grasped it tightly; he couldn't avoid the wince. He looked up at her all-knowing gaze sheepishly.

"Not bad, hm?" she questioned.

Harry tucked his still-burnt hand into his lap. The steam serpent thing had left a mark: a cruel-looking blister was forming on the red hand.

"It's nothing, I'll put some ice on it later. Just a little tussle with Voldemort," Harry said.

"What!" Ron looked around to see if anyone was listening as he leaned forward. "What's going on here? Why were you fighting with— "

Hermione ignored him, her eyes locked on Harry. "You didn't!" she hissed, trying to remain quiet.

"You keep saying that," he replied. "Yet I'm pretty sure it happened." He smiled at her in a calming way.

Hermione worried her lip as she looked down at the table. "How could you have fought with Voldemort? How could you risk meddling in time like that?"

"Nothing happened," Harry appeased.

"You can only hope nothing happened," she muttered darkly.

Harry waved her concern away. Nothing bad had happened.

"I'm missing something," Ron said, knowing that any adventure Harry tried to tone down had likely been much more serious. But why had Hermione been so sorry for their friend before? And now that Hermione had pointed out the burnt hand, Ron was noticing other signs of exhaustion and wear on his friend, and not the kind a walk up to the castle in the rain would cause.

"The 70s, Ron," Hermione said.

Ron lowered his head. He still wasn't getting it and it made him feel like a real prat; it must have been a big deal if Hermione was using her 'Let's protect Harry' tone. "Yeah...?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"That was when Harry's parents were at Hogwarts." Hermione provided the information gently, keeping her voice low. Harry kept eating.

The knowledge blossomed over Ron's face, making him drop his own dessert clumsily. "Cor, sorry about that," he apologized. It was past the point of assigning blame; he just felt bad for his friend.

"Suppose you didn't ask Binns to go off his gob," Harry allowed with a crooked smile.

Ron nodded. "Yeah, well, still mustn't have been pleasant." His face suddenly darkened and his eyes widened. "Er—your mum didn't, well, she didn't fancy you or anything, did she?" Ron's face went somewhat green.

"No," Harry said. What was it with people trying to pair him with Lily? Bunch of twisted fellows there.

"What year was it Harry?" Hermione probed.

"It was my parents' sixth year too, so that would make it 1976."

"Ooh," Hermione gushed excitedly. "That was a very important year in Voldemort's rise to power."

Harry and Ron looked at her blankly.

She cringed. "That was a bit uncaring, wasn't it? But aren't you ever going to read The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts?" she asked, waving her own question away even as she said it. "It was during 1976 that Voldemort—"

Hermione was bumped when Parvati, who was sitting near her, flinched at the mention of the Dark Lord's name.

Ron grinned. "Gosh, Hermione, don't startle people," he teased. "Bad enough Harry can't get it right."

"That is precisely my point. Did you know that he wasn't even called "You-Know-Who" until 1976? After Pratchett Manor was burned to the ground in January of '76 some people did, and he wasn't usually openly named, but it wasn't until the Black Strikes of 1976 and '77 that he was listed by the Ministry as You-Know-Who. The Black Strikes..." She shook her head. "They were really quite brutal, using dark creatures, Death Eaters, and so many cases of the Imperius curse that no one trusted anyone. That was when people truly started to fear him."

"You don't say," Harry replied dryly.

"Yes," Hermione said, speaking rapidly, as she fell back into her teaching mode. "After one terrible attack on a Hogsmeade weekend, visits were banned for the next five years. Hogwarts was terribly divided then. Oh, it must have been a very interesting time to observe..." Hermione trailed off as she managed to spy Harry's disinterested face.

"But I suppose we can talk about it another time." Hermione took a breath and then turned to meet Ron's eyes. The redhead laughed at her under his breath, which she replied to with a dirty look.

"That sounds nice," Harry said, ignoring the interplay between his two friends. He negligently rested his elbow in a bit of pudding as he balanced his head on his knuckles. He was falling more and more into the fatigue that had been swallowing him. He had just fought a Dark Lord, he reminded himself; if anyone had the right to a little lay in, it was him.

"Ah, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore's familiar voice said. Harry's neck craned up to look at his tall headmaster. Filch, he noticed, was clinging at the man's side, looking damp but smug.

"A word, if you wouldn't mind."

Harry looked at his plate desirously. "Well, I was rather planning on finishing some pudding and—" Harry flinched as Hermione planted a deft kick to his shin, her flashing eyes reminding him that he was speaking with the headmaster. "Er, well, sure. Why not?" he conceded.

"By all means, bring your dinner," Dumbledore allowed. "The pudding is excellent."

Harry rose to his feet, taking the gold plate with him as he followed the headmaster and caretaker out.

"I hope you had an enjoyable trip," Dumbledore said cheerfully, "in whatever time you were sent to. A good vacation..." the headmaster trailed off at Harry's glum expression.

"I take it didn't go well."

"It was fine," Harry waved off as he took a bit of dessert. "Ruddy luck when it came to the when but should have expected no less." He paused for a moment. "It was educational though," he allowed with a light smile on his face.

Dumbledore noticed the expression and provided an even larger grin of his own. "Harry, you always call it bad luck but it seems that you also always manage to get out of whatever situations you are thrust into." Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled in a manner that Harry found annoying. He dropped his attempt at a smile and replaced it with a yawn.

"So when, if I may ask?"

"1976," Harry answered briefly, another yawn breaking through.

Dumbledore stumbled on his long robes. "Hm, you do end up in the most tangled of situations. I underestimated...so you're the reason I have trouble remembering the beginning of that year." He paused once again. "So that's why..." Dumbledore trailed off, a smile at the edges of his mouth.

"Headmaster," an irritated voice interrupted. Dumbledore smiled at Filch who was looking grumpier and grumpier as the conversation continued. "I think I can handle things from here, Argus," the headmaster dismissed cheerily.

Filch's lips puckered. "No," he said quite clearly. "This brat was outside the school grounds and I want him punished. Punished!" The man stamped his foot, which must still have been wet as it produced an interesting squelching sound.

"Well, I'm sure there were..."

"I will hand in my notice!" Filch continued to whine bitterly.

Dumbledore opened his palms wide and waved him down. "There, there," he placated gently. "He'll be punished."

Filch didn't look like he believed the headmaster but he turned on his heel and began chasing after some third years who were walking too loudly.

"Funny, professor," Harry said, taking another bite of pudding.

"When was I joking, Harry?" Dumbledore didn't look in his direction as he spoke and Harry found it was difficult to swallow down the bite of cake.

Harry had finished eating by the time they had arrived at the headmaster's office. He settled his plate on the wizard's desk as he found a place in the chair that sat before it. He was still tired and his eyes were drooping noticeably.

"I'll only take a brief moment," Dumbledore said with a quirk of his lips. "While my memory is a bit hazy, I suppose you have had a very busy day."

Harry nodded. "How much do you remember, actually?" he questioned curiously. He hadn't asked many questions about the potion that Slughorn was brewing, but he would hazard to guess that it had done its job effectively. He was still curious, however, about how much his presence might have affected the people and time he'd come to know.

"About you, nothing at all," Dumbledore replied cheerfully.

Harry told himself it was pointless to feel upset.

"But I do recall the terrible week I had after your disappearance." Dumbledore rubbed his spectacles on his brightly colored robes (fuchsia today) and a well-defined wrinkle appeared in his forehead.

Harry listened as the headmaster leaned back in his chair.

"I was under the impression that perhaps something like this had happened, due to a note I had written myself. But I apparently was not very clear on all I would need to know. The Ministry was ruthless in attempting to congratulate the 'Hero of Hogsmeade', particularly as no one seemed to step forward for the honor. I had a very difficult time trying to explain away a situation I could not remember. I am afraid they thought me a little senile," the headmaster chuckled to himself.

"You don't say," Harry replied.

"Yes, devilish week, but then...things sorted themselves out well, I think."

"No consequence with time, then? I didn't cause, or not cause, anything to happen?" It was a rather simple question, asked lightly and without any pressure to respond in one manner or other, but Dumbledore paused.

It was a distinct pause; a few ticks passed and the room was silent as Dumbledore sat very still. He seemed to be thinking, deciding something, and Harry wondered if his face had paled some.

"No," the man finally answered merrily. "I'm certain everything happened as it should." There was a sharpness about that smile: it seemed almost forced. Most people likely wouldn't notice it, but Harry did and acknowledged it with a slight nod.

"So was there anything— " Harry broke off with a yawn.

The headmaster's eyes twinkled as he watched his student on the brink of falling asleep. "No, not really; it can keep until morning."

Harry wondered how bad Dumbledore's week in the past had been that he'd decided to drag Harry up to his tower when he was ready to drop. But then he supposed he had probably left his fair share of trouble when he'd been spirited away.

"Oh, Harry...you'll have detention this weekend. Polishing the trophy room, I should think," Dumbledore nodded absently.

"Professor?" Harry questioned weakly.

"Well, Filch is right: you were outside the castle grounds and— "

"It was a Hogsmeade weekend," Harry protested.

"Did you have your permission slip signed by a parent or guardian prior to visiting the village?" Dumbledore asked simply.

"Err—" Harry hesitated for a moment. "Not as such. I do have one now though."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Twenty odd years later is a bit late. I'm afraid you'll have to forfeit one day to Mr. Filch."

Harry thought up a pretty good argument. There had to be a legal precedent regarding promissory documents with regards to time travel. And there was the little matter of life and Death Eaters. If he had to force it, he figured he could skate on the old 'public hero' clause. In his experience, heroes were allowed to disregard little rules and matters of private property when in the act of rescuing. For Merlin's sake, the man across the table had awarded him points in his first year for venturing into the forbidden third floor corridor.

Harry yawned. It really wasn't worth it.

"Where and when, sir?" he asked.

Dumbledore was hiding a laugh, Harry knew he was. "Report to Mr. Filch on Sunday, nine o'clock," the headmaster said simply.

Harry nodded, his expression becoming thoughtful. "That reminds me, sir; what is the day today?"

"Ah..." Dumbledore nodded understandingly. "Thursday," he said simply.

"Time travel," Harry cursed sullenly. "How else could I manage two Thursdays in a week." He rose to his feet, rebelliously leaving his dirty dish stacked on the headmaster's desk.

"'Night, Harry," Dumbledore wished him gently.

Harry waved in acknowledgment before slipping out the door and heading with lead feet to the Gryffindor Common Room. But so help him if the password wasn't the same, he and the headmaster were going to have words.

It was late and most of the school was asleep. Harry had been asleep hours before everyone else. He'd drifted off while Ron had been nattering on about the other students who had gone and returned in his absence. Dean Thomas had ventured to 1896, which hadn't been too bad, at least from Ron's point of view, considering that Hogwarts had fashioned some sort of indoor plumbing by that point. Draco Malfoy had left only a day after Harry. It must have happened sometime in the evening because no one had seen it and the Slytherin House wasn't sharing any details. The blonde pure-blood prince had yet to return, something Ron seemed pleased about.

But sleep still wasn't as soothing at it should have been. Harry was lost in his mind of muddled dreams and hazy emotions again. Just when he was becoming accustomed to the nothingness, he felt a sharp pain rocket through his temple and his dark dream was blinded with intense light.

He awoke breathing heavily, his pulse beating erratically. He was filled with a sense of certainty, the sort of thing you really shouldn't listen to at a little after three in the morning. He would have felt better if he could have simply rejected the knowledge that had invaded his head, but he knew it was impossible.

Somehow, somewhere, Voldemort had awoken.

He rolled over, wishing his mind would allow his aching body to sleep. But despite how tired he was, he crawled out of bed and sat beside his window, looking down at the Hogwarts grounds that had been painted silver by the almost full moon that hung overhead. A few dusty gray clouds remained in the sky. A small puffing of flakes that would be gone by morning were being tousled about in the wind. Harry rested his forehead against the chilly panes, allowing the cold to sooth the ache that emanated from his scar.

A flash of white wings presented itself, blocking his vision.

"Hedwig," he greeted softly, opening the window and allowing his owl to land on his arm. He stroked her gently as her beak brushed his face. "You always know when I need you." She soared to a perch on his bed posts when he rose to his feet. At the foot of his bed his resized trunk lay open. The Boa Vine was still inside and he took it out, setting what currently amounted to a small stick by the window.

"You can grow now," Harry hissed gently. However, there was no movement from the plant.

Harry returned to his trunk and pulled out the paper and quill he had been searching for.

Dear Dumbledore,

Things I think you ought to know:

1) Voldemort is awake.

2) I am running low on lemon drops. Please get in touch with your contact again. (I'm still not giving him a signed picture. I don't care what sort of deal he'll give us.)

In a somewhat unrelated way, was wondering if you knew anyone who was skilled in Muggle fighting. Might be a good recourse, you know, given my history. Anyone skilled in teaching the 'touch of death' would work, or maybe a Mr. Miyagi type of person. Wax on, wax off...got that skill learned when I washed Uncle Vernon's car. Did you see that movie? I think you'd like it.

Night,

Harry P.

He folded the letter and let his owl wrap her claws around it. "Wake him up if you have to, I'm sure he'll think it's important."

Hedwig swept back out into the chilly night air, and Harry closed the window behind her to keep the cold out of their dormitory. He continued watching the moonlight scenery for a bit before climbing back into his four poster and falling asleep.

Somewhere else an old man pulled on a mismatched dressing gown, wrote a short letter, and sent it with a brown school owl. Then he sent his patronus out with a very important message. He was running low on lemon drops as well.

Day: 11 (Where we stop counting.)

The next morning Harry wasn't surprised to see that the front page article of the Daily Prophet was dedicated to cheering on the Puddlemere United Team as they traveled to Germany to play the Munich Merlins. No mention was made of Voldemort's return to the living, but seeing as the wizarding world at large had been cheering his death for the last few months, it was to be expected. It was also quite possible that they didn't know.

Harry was settled at the Gryffindor table. He'd brought down with him a small clay pot that seemed to contain a short little stick. Hermione was gazing at the stick, but hadn't said anything about it yet. Harry admitted it did seem strange that he had brought the Boa Vine to the table. It had reverted back to its previously dour state, and it could not be said that Harry had ever been much of a Herbology student. Ron was too busy eating to question the plant that had joined them.

"Why so curious about the paper?" Hermione asked, her eyes leaving the Boa Vine. She seemed to have decided to ignore his newest oddity.

Harry looked around and noted that no one seemed to be giving their conversation much attention. "Just wondering if they commented on Voldemort waking up," he answered with a shrug.

Hermione swallowed. "He woke up..."

Ron spluttered his food across the table.

"Yeah," Harry nodded, his eyes looking somewhat serious. "Guess the vacation is over, eh?"

Hermione accepted this with a brisk sip of tea and Ron collected himself as well, rubbing his hands steadily as his thoughts left breakfast.

Harry was right: they had fallen back into a false world where only the going-ons of Hogwarts mattered. They would be stepping out of that again, the way they had stepped out of it before. There was no more discussion on the matter. No more was needed. The three Gryffindors had chosen their roles long ago.

"Morning, Harry," Neville Longbottom said, sitting next to him. "Taking an interest in Herbology?" the other Gryffindor asked, peering at Harry's pot with some interest.

"Sort of; the thing was shut in a trunk for a few days and now it's sulking," Harry stated. He raised an eyebrow at the Boa Vine, as if to let it know that he wouldn't tolerate this behavior.

Neville looked a bit defensive on the plant's behalf. "I'm sure it just needs a little water and, uh—well, being locked up like that can't have been good for it."

Harry nodded but still looked suspicious. "I'm taking it to Professor Sprout; maybe she can look at it after class."

The conversation and meal were wrapping up when Harry saw someone he wanted to speak to.

"Colin," he shouted, finally spotting the short mousy brown head further down the table. "Can I speak to you for a moment?"

"Me!" the Muggle-born student squeaked.

Harry nodded.

Colin scampered down the aisle between the tables, wringing his robes in an excited manner. He stood before Harry with a wide grin on his face.

"What...Morning, Harry, um, what were you needing?" He managed not to stutter or stare at Harry's forehead during the entire greeting; as such, it was something of an accomplishment.

"Just something to discuss," Harry said, rising to his feet and walking beside the younger boy.

Colin continued to smile as Harry swung an arm around his shoulder and began leading him away, whispering quietly.

"Harry, don't forget about class," Hermione called as they passed through the entrance to the Great Hall. Harry made no move that he had heard and the two disappeared from sight.

"What was that about?" Ron asked.

Hermione turned back to the newspaper she'd been skimming. "He'll tell us when we need to know."

"This is Harry we're talking about," Ron reminded her.

Hermione looked toward the doors he'd exited out of. "If he doesn't, we'll figure it out like always." She shared a grin with Ron.

The Golden Trio was going back to doing what they did best: following Harry into whatever mess he got into and finding a way to get out of it.

Harry arrived just in time for Herbology class, managing to slip in just as Professor Sprout was passing out sacks of dead mice, which they were feeding to the Venus Fly-trap. Unlike the Muggle plant of the same name, the magical Venus Fly-trap was exceedingly dangerous to humans. Particularly men. It took on the shape of a beautiful woman and used its charms to lure humans into a well-hidden set of jaws. (Not on the head; think lower.)

They weren't particularly fond of dead rats, or so they learned as they tossed the rodents at the plant. Apparently the trick was to get the plant to turn and go after a rat. Professor Sprout said that after seeing it eat, the 'charm', so to speak, was broken. The plant that Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville were sharing was looking at them very snootily as they tried to tempt her with the meat.

"I don't think she'd eat me," Neville insisted for the tenth time. He gazed admiringly at the beautifully portioned flower, one which resembled a human face to an alarming degree.

"She'd gobble you up," Harry argued again, giving the back of his friend's shirt a tug to keep him from nearing the dangerous plant. Neville's love for plants was really working against him here. Ron was staying sane by periodically glancing at Hermione, who was glowering at him.

Neville looked away from the plant, pulling himself together. "So, you went to the seventies, huh?" He was staring at the ground as he spoke. There was a great deal being said in those little words. Neville's gaze flickered up.

"Remind me to tell you some funny stories about your mum sometime," Harry said with a grin.

Neville's head jerked up suddenly. "Harry, what did you do with my mum?!"

Harry's laughter filled the greenhouse and the heads of even the Venus Fly-traps turned in his direction. He kept laughing even as Neville continued to call his name nervously.

After class, Harry finally had the opportunity to talk to Professor Sprout about the Boa Vine.

"Welcome back, Harry," the friendly head of Hufflepuff House said. "I hear you got the opportunity to meet my predecessor, Professor Pod."

Harry nodded. "He was interesting."

Sprout smiled. "Despite that, he did some amazing work with these greenhouses." Her eyes fell on pot that Harry was holding in his hand. "A talent you could learn from," she said sadly.

Harry rolled his eyes. "If you'd seen it a few days ago, you'd think it was different plant. Grows like crazy, but I had to keep it in a trunk if it wanted to come back to the future with me. Which it said it did." Once again Harry gazed meaningfully at the plant, as if the thing could understand.

Spout blinked before smiling at him gently. "Why were you so interested in bringing it back?" she asked curiously. "You've never had much dedication when it came to..." she trailed off with a smile.

With that, Harry went on to explain what he knew about the Boa Vine and its previously avid growing self. As Harry described how the plant managed to take over their dorm room, Professor Sprout bit back a chuckle as she pulled out a large dirty book that was settled on a potting table.

"Hm." She paged through the text, her soiled fingers leaving more smudges as she skimmed through the book. "Boa Vine," she said, finally landing on the plant's entry, her eyes widening as she continued reading. "Goodness." Her eyes switched to the plant in Harry's hand.

She reached over and placed the pot delicately on the table, her tongue running against her lip as she stared.

"Harry, you know this is really quite amazing. The Boa Vine no longer exists; at least, it didn't until now. The last attempt at cultivating it died in the 80s. You managed to bring back a—well, a somewhat living specimen."

Harry looked at the stick. "I think it's pouting," he directed this at the plant again, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I would too. The poor thing must be starved for conversation. I think the best thing for it is to stay close to you and provide it with some good discussion. Boa Vines only flourish around Parselmouths."

"Why is that?" Harry finally managed to ask. He still had the little black book that Professor Pod had provided, which hadn't been helpful at all.

Professor Sprout grew thoughtful for a minute. "You know," she said pensively, "I don't think anyone ever knew. They're supposedly terribly useful to Parselmouths, though. Now that I think about it, Salazar Slytherin had a patch growing on the walls surrounding the grounds. Apparently they would strangle any unwelcome visitors." Professor Sprout chuckled. "Little grim I suppose, but quite an amazing plant."

Harry nodded, looking at the plant closely. "Well then, me and the vine may have to have a discussion about good Parselmouths and bad ones."

The older woman raised a gray eyebrow. "Indeed."

As per Professor Sprouts's suggestion, Harry began chatting to his plant during periods of boredom. Certainly gave some students a turn: not only was Harry speaking Parseltongue, not something he would normally do, but he was also speaking to a plant. Harry could foresee the Daily Prophet publishing this little tidbit soon. But then he supposed it was about time he gave them something worthy of vilification. They'd been up on him lately; it was only a matter of time before he once again became a crazy delinquent with a hero complex. It kept the spice of life, after all.

It was dinner before Hermione commented on it; her attempt at not prying was certainly record worthy for the bushy-haired bibliophile.

"So you're talking to it, hoping it will grow?" she questioned.

"Not hoping," Harry argued. "The thing will grow like a bloody weed once it stops being mad at me."

"Harry, it's a plant, it doesn't get mad," Hermione argued before helping herself to some dinner.

"She thinks you don't get angry," Harry hissed to the plant. "Why don't you prove her wrong?" he prompted. But the Boa Vine wasn't taking the bait and remained a rather dried up stick in its pot.

"Want to play some Quidditch tomorrow?" Ron asked, ignoring the plant entirely.

Harry was about to agree before his spirits dropped. "Can't; detention."

Ron laughed. "Oh, yeah: only you'd manage to get detention right when you get back."

"Eh," Harry said with a frown at his friend. "It was you that got me into this, I wouldn't be so light-hearted."

Ron growled to himself but seemed past the point of arguing.

"Harry, I've thought of something," Hermione said.

Harry turned in his friend's direction. "Revolutionary: Hermione thinking. Could never have pictured that."

Hermione shook her head dismissively. "If anything, this experience should teach you how foolish your 'Days of the Week' theory is. If you recall, this entire mess started on Tuesday, your one good day."

Harry was silent for a moment. "Tuesdays still aren't bad," he grinned cheekily. "Just have to watch for high chances of time travel."

Later that evening in the Common Room, Harry had been bullied into a game of chess with Ron. Ron claimed that Harry was his best mate and that if anyone should believe his side of the story then Harry should. Harry had mentioned that Hermione was also a very good friend of his, to which Ron had given him a suspicious look and asked 'what that was supposed to mean.' In the end, it was easier to lose at chess than debate the issue.

"Harry! Harry!" an eager voice called. Colin Creevy appeared suddenly, bouncing before Harry energetically.

"Hello, Colin," Harry greeted friendlily. "How'd it go?"

Colin grinned. "Well, I had to skip Potions to get it done for tonight, but I didn't have any trouble even though the camera was so old."

Harry cringed a bit. "I didn't say they had to be done by tonight..."

His protests were waved away by the excited younger student. "Here they are, Harry; Potions isn't important anyway."

"Don't let Snape hear you say that, he's very sensitive." Harry held out his hands and took hold of the small bundle of papers that Colin had clutched.

"There weren't many pictures so I made some copies," Colin explained. He continued waiting eagerly as Harry flipped through the prints, a small smile on his face as Harry progressed through the collection.

"Thanks, Colin, I'd say this is worth five autographs—make it six since you skipped class."

Colin cheered. "I'll go get the pictures and pen for you to sign with." The younger Gryffindor ran off as Harry continued looking through the images. He found one that he liked in particular and paused to stare at it for a moment.

"What've you got there?" Ron asked, peering over the chess board.

"Just some snapshots to remember my historical field trip by," Harry answered.

After a moment, he shifted his hand enough to allow Ron to see the one that had captured his attention.

At first, Ron thought it wasn't much of a picture.

Harry was scratching his head, looking tousled and more than a little annoyed. The town of Hogsmeade was in the background and it looked a right mess. Figures could be seen scurrying about, tending to a building that was smoking and carting things off the street.

It was only on a closer look at the other individuals in the picture that Ron began to understand how precious such a random piece of paper could be.

Harry's gaze never left the image. James and Sirius stood a little to the left, looking rattled from the battle they had endured. Lily was standing with her hands on her hips, her face a little red and looking like she was saying something very nasty to the reporter whose face was just out of frame. The pictures moved and James stepped forward beside Harry, his almost identical face gazing at Harry in confusion. Lily seemed to turn in his direction as well, raising her hand to gesture towards him. And for a moment, just for a moment, mind you, both Lily and James looked like they were standing beside him, both acknowledging him.

They weren't really, of course. It had only happened yesterday from Harry's point of view, so he knew the story behind their actions. James had merely been waiting for Harry to step forward and take the credit and Lily was actually gesturing behind Harry at the group of reporters that were interfering with rescue workers. But it was the first picture Harry had of both himself and his parents where he could remember the photograph's circumstances. It was more than an orphaned boy from Number Four Privet Drive could have hoped for.

Ron didn't ask about the picture, and seemed to know he wasn't supposed to. Harry tucked most of the pictures into his nearby satchel, but this one he folded and stuck in his breast pocket. Smiling, he began another game with Ron, one which he would surely loose.

When they finally went to bed that night, Harry set his Boa Vine on the table next to his bed.

He showered and changed, and when he was about to fold himself into his covers he noticed something had changed. The Boa Vine was once again tangling around his bedposts and resting in his canopy.

"Decided to forgive me?" he hissed gently.

"Home," was all the plant replied.

"Promise not to tangle the room again—no grow big," he directed.

"Yes," the plant agreed.

"It is good to be home," Harry agreed, knowing that in some ways, he only half-meant it.

The next day Harry reported for detention, he stood demurely while Filch inspected him and his fellow prisoner. Dean Thomas had also been hooked for this duty, having been caught adding to his mural in the fourth floor men's bathroom. It was actually an elaborate piece of work, managing to string together the Hogwarts gossip of the last few years into one cohesive masterpiece. Dean also had an impressive imagination about what some of their female classmates looked like under their uniforms. (Ron had decked him when he'd considered adding Hermione to the wall some time after the Yule Ball; he'd been forced to shift to Hannah Abbot instead.) But Filch was less than impressed with Dean's artistic expression. He'd spent years trying to erase the Spellnick's Permanent Ink ("It's there for life!") but had only just caught Dean recently.

After Filch had left Harry and Dean with their silver polish, Harry managed to get the full story out of his roommate.

"Yeah, he caught me while you were gone," the artist explained. "I'd just got back from 1896 and wanted to add something I learned there. Did you know that Headmaster Dumbledore..." he trailed off and tugged on his collar.

"You went back to Dumbledore's school years?!" Harry laughed.

"He was fifth year," Dean said, "and let's just say he liked to study while watching the Quidditch team— and there weren't any girls on the team then, if you get my drift."

Harry chuckled. "If there wasn't any obvious drool he did pretty good for a fifth year; Quidditch players are hot," Harry said, laughing at the self-compliment.

"Sort of explains a bit though, eh?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and looking over at Harry from behind a large silver trophy.

Harry grimaced. "I prefer to think that after 150 years, those bits aren't working anymore."

"Prudish?" Dean accused. "Didn't expect it of you."

"Maybe I get it from my mother," Harry said with a grin.

"Anyway," Dean returned to his story, "I was adding that particular installment when Filch managed to catch me. It's been four years, I figured he'd find me out one day. So I'll be in here with you polishing the glories of the past, likely for the next few weekends as well."

Harry moved over to a three-tiered trophy that was awarded to Abigail Minty for instituting an 'oral hygiene programme' at Hogwarts in 1763. Real human teeth decorated the top. Harry could see why they'd needed a course on tooth decay.

"Ah, here you are, Harry." Albus Dumbledore had entered. He approached easily, humming slightly to himself. "I have good news for you."

Harry looked back. "Decided to reconsider this whole detention thing?" he questioned hopefully.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "Sadly, no. However, I have considered another of your suggestions, and it was met with surprisingly fast results."

Harry now was confused.

"About the physical fighting trainer," Dumbledore prompted.

"You taking up boxing, mate?" Dean asked. His polishing rag stilled while he listened.

"Some," a new voice added. "But also some of the Asian disciplines," a new voice added.

Harry found himself frozen for a moment, almost as if his breath had gotten caught in his throat.

"Professor Barten?" Harry asked, turning to the yet unannounced figure.

Indeed the man did look a great deal like the old Defense professor he'd known. There were more wrinkles and his jet black hair was shorter and turning gray. He entered further into the room. His boots clicked as they walked across the room and the same sort of robe trailed behind him in a flowing movement.

"Good to see you again as well, Mr. Tempus," the man said, his voice not sharing much but his eyes seemed to be smiling.

"Michael?" Dumbledore appeared beside the man. "I wasn't aware...Ah, I see." Dumbledore stood looking very smug.

"I thought you were dead!" Harry exclaimed, raising to his feet and approaching his former teacher. "How did you survive?"

"St. Mungo's is a 'magical' hospital," Barten said simply.

Dumbledore coughed at this sentence. "Michael, you were dead for over seven minutes. And lost more than the recommended amount of blood. If I recall, the nursed were forced to tie you to your bed for almost four months because you kept tearing the new flesh on your chest. Indeed, I was already looking for your replacement when I received word from Mungo's." Dumbledore smiled. "You nearly made the record for shortest time spent as Defense professor."

Barten shrugged away the implied concern. "The real pity is, the gut was pretty badly cut up; can't manage anything spicy or rich. Nothing too acidic, either." Harry and Dumbledore looked a little pitying at this last pronouncement, both thinking of the same sour sweet. "I did get better, and Mr. Tempus should hardly be pointing fingers at people who should have died."

Harry smirked. "Point there," he agreed.

"Although I was surprised when I returned to teaching to find one of my favorite students had disappeared, and odder still, no one seemed to remember him. It took a few years for me to realize the importance of a Potter-look-alike with a lightning bolt scar." Barten's eyes skimmed the fringe on Harry's forehead before meeting his gaze.

"Well," Harry said after a moment's thought, "it will be good to have you back again, professor."

Barten's lips quirked into what might be called a smile. "You as well," he agreed. His eyes flickered behind Harry, catching sight of Dean. His jaw tightened as if to express some emotion.

"You must be Dean," he said gruffly to the other Gryffindor.

"Do I know you?" Dean asked curiously.

Barten paused. "You could say we share a mutual friend," he said awkwardly.

Harry leaned toward Dumbledore. "I get the feeling this might lead to something good." Harry shared quietly.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "You may be right. But then, beginnings always share promise."

"And goodbyes," Harry asked in an conversational manner, watching as Barten began a stilted conversation with his roommate.

"Goodbyes...well, my dear boy, they are just the chance for new beginnings."

"Cryptic as ever," Harry congratulated.

"The key to my success," Dumbledore shared. The headmaster tapped his nose with a flicking gesture.

His lips hid a smile as Harry's hand reached up to brush his shirt pocket, where a certain picture lay. As he stood there in the gloom of old endings and new beginnings, he was certain that things had happened as they were supposed to. No matter how disastrous or terrible they might have been. But that was Harry Potter's life, and it was one he'd have to keep living. Because frankly, no one else would want it.

The End