Chapter 5: Almost Famous

Harry spent most of the day trying to hide from Tom and the rest of his patrons. It appeared that everyone who frequented the Leaky Cauldron had read that morning's Prophet, and were able to recognize him. He briefly considered putting on a glamour charm to conceal his features, but decided against it. At least it wasn't nearly as bad as the Boy-Who-Lived hype he'd suffered through in his younger years. After eating a modest breakfast at the pub, Harry spent a few minutes debating whether to risk actually going outside.

It was only when he caught a group of girls pointing towards him as they chattered in excitement, holding up a copy of the Prophet, that he decided that braving the outside might be a good idea. The last thing he saw as the door to the pub swung closed behind him was the girls getting up from the table in an attempt to follow him. A last-minute decision turned Harry around and took him through the door to the Muggle part of London. Harry was glad that he had decided to just wear a simple pair of jeans and a shirt with his coat.

He stood outside in the frigid air for a moment, holding his breath and praying that the girls didn't follow him. They didn't, and he let out a sigh of relief. He hated fan girls. Zipping up his windbreaker and muttering a quick warming charm, he set off in no particular direction. He spent an uneventful day wandering around the streets, enjoying the way he could just blend into the Muggle environment. It was Christmas Day, and aside from a few straggling shoppers who were desperately trying to find Christmas gifts, or were trying to return them, the streets were deserted. It was snowing lightly, and the ground was coated with a fine sheen of white that crunched under his feet.

He didn't realize how much time had passed until the ringing of old Big Ben announced that it was late in the day. With a start, Harry looked up. The sun was already setting, which was no surprise this late in winter, even though the clock had just only chimed five in the afternoon. Harry quite easily found his way back toward the Leaky Cauldron. It was ironic that, as much as the wizarding world disliked having anything to do with the Muggle world, in the later days of the war, it had been their salvation. Safe houses in the Muggle world had been used to house government officials and high-ranking Order members in an attempt to protect them from assassination attempts. Voldemort's forces had initially been wary to venture out into the Muggle world. Their first few forays were met with vicious force. It was then that they quickly discovered that Muggle authorities were quicker to respond to disturbances than aurors.

It had rapidly become a bloodbath, and while a single dark wizard could very easily kill many Muggle policemen, Voldemort had quickly realized that he didn't want to. Now was not the time to attract the attention of the Muggle world. There were too many of them for him to wage a two-front war and come out victorious. It had forced the Death Eaters to come up with another means of locating and killing off their primary targets, which had given the Order precious time to keep relocating them. However, in the end, all it did was buy them time.

He stepped through the door of the Leaky Cauldron an hour later, quietly brushing the snow off his jacket. It was just the time between tea hour and the rush for supper, and Harry was glad that the pub was almost empty. It took only a few minutes for him to locate the dress robes that Bellatrix had insisted to buy, though it did take much longer to change. Sometimes he wondered if dress robes hadn't been invented by a sadist to torture poor wizards. It was only when he stood in front of the door, hand on the doorknob, that he realized he didn't really have any idea how to get to No. 12 Grimmauld Place the Muggle way. It had never really been an issue, since he had always either apparated, or flooed there.

"Can I help ye?" Tom called out from behind the bar.

Harry turned around and smiled sheepishly. "Mind if I use your floo?"

"Go right ahead, lad. Powder's up on the shelf next to the fireplace."

"Thanks." Harry nodded gratefully and went to the back of the room. " Tempus," he muttered, expecting to see the time displayed at the end of his wand. He yelped in surprise when, instead, the wand erupted in a shower of sparks and hissed angrily. When he tried again, the wand stubbornly decided to stay silent. "Great," Harry muttered. "Just great." Looks like I'll have to pay Ollivander a visit, after all . It wasn't like he had expected the wand to work for him indefinitely, but it sure would have been nice.

He dug into his robes and found his wristwatch. He was surprised and pleased to discover that he still had almost an hour before he was expected, and briefly wondered if Ollivander's was open right now. He didn't exactly want to bring attention to himself by getting a new wand, but going into the proverbial lion's den, a party attended by who knew how many pureblood families and potential dark wizards, without a means to defend himself, didn't sit well with him, either. Maybe it was for the better, after all, he thought as he turned the dysfunctional wand over in his hands. Someone there might have recognized the wand if he had drawn it, and he wouldn't have a decent explanation for how he got his hands on it.

"Tom," he called out.

"Yeh, lad?"

"Is Ollivander's open today?"

There was a brief silence as the barkeep rummaged around in a cabinet. "No, I don't think so. If it's an emergency, you can try Wanda & Wandel's."

Harry arched a curious eyebrow, never having heard of that place before. "Any idea where I can find them?"

Tom paused and thought for a moment before giving Harry some directions. "They probably won't be open, strictly speaking, it being Christmas an' all. But the owners live right above the shop, so they might not mind helping ye."

"Thanks."

Hoping that it wouldn't take too long and make him unfashionably late, Harry stepped out of the pub into Diagon Alley and attempted to follow the barkeep's directions as best he could. The wizarding street was nearly empty, especially in contrast with the Muggle parts of London he'd just left. Most of the shops were closed for business, and there was very little snow, something Harry attributed to the magically regulated weather in Diagon Alley. After all, it wouldn't do to have the British wizarding government shut down by a blizzard or a freak hurricane.

He passed a few shops he was familiar with, but as he took his time to wander the street, for once without having people muttering and pointing at him and reporters on his heels, he took in all the little details that he had missed on his whirlwind shopping trip with Bellatrix a few days earlier. There were a few shops he recognized - Eyelops Owl Emporium was still there, though the storefront and windows looked a little cleaner than they did in his time, and, of course, there was Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor, which, to his great surprise, was actually open and selling ice cream.

There were a few other stores he remembered from his time, and he walked by quite a few he didn't - for one, there was a weaver's shop where Flourish & Blott's had been, and the bookstore itself had moved two houses down from where it had been in his time. Upon closer inspection, it turned out that the weaver - McWeird and McMurdo, Weaver's Inc. - was selling flying carpets. Harry at first shook his head at the impossibility of such a thing, before realizing that since there were actual flying broomsticks, it probably wasn't that much of a stretch for wizards.

The biggest surprise, however, came when he found himself standing in front of a place whose sign proudly proclaimed "Wanda & Wandel, Wandcrafters." The surprise, of course, was due to the fact that the wand shop occupied a location that was very familiar to him. It stood in the place of Quality Quidditch Supplies, the one store he had always liked to frequent with his friends, before the war had forced the government to shut down Diagon Alley. There were no brooms in the showroom, no "Quidditch Through the Ages," editions, no gleaming snitches and brightly polished quaffles. Instead, in their place, resting in ornamental display cases on a blanket of dark purple velvet, was a collection of some of the most beautifully crafted wands he'd ever seen.

Where most wands from Ollivander's were simple affairs, usually nothing more than a thin stick of wood that tapered off to a wide end to form a grip, these were elaborately carved with motifs ranging from flowers to mystic dragons. Harry blinked in surprise - this store looked rather classy, and no one in his time had ever mentioned it, nor was there any trace of it left in the Diagon Alley of his time.

Shrugging it off, Harry stepped up to the front door and discovered a sign announcing the shop's hours. As Tom had warned him to expect, Christmas Day wasn't included. Keeping the barkeep's advice in mind, Harry knocked anyway, hoping that the owners were home. When there was no answer, he peered into the darkened shop, his breath fogging the clear glass as he leaned in close. He couldn't see anything, and knocked again, a bit louder this time.

He let out a sigh of relief when a light turned on in the back of the store. Soon after, the lights in the shop proper came on, and Harry spotted a couple making their way to the door. The man was quite tall and thin, whereas the woman was shorter and stockier in build. Both of them appeared to be in their late forties, and Harry was briefly reminded of Uncle Vernon's sister - Aunt Marge. Unlike Aunt Marge, who seemed to like wearing an atrocious amount of makeup in an attempt to hide her continual sneer, this woman's face was clean and friendly, though the man looked rather irritated. Not that Harry could fault him, considering it was Christmas Day, and he was knocking on their door unannounced.

The woman reached the door first and pulled it open a bit. "May we help you?" she asked, her voice warm.

"I'm sorry to bother you on Christmas," Harry said quickly. "It's just that my wand fizzled out a few minutes ago, and I really need a new one."

"Ah, an emergency!" The woman smiled widely, nodding in understanding, though there was a slightly predatory gleam in her eyes that made him feel a bit uneasy. "Come on in, we can get you set up in just a couple of minutes."

"Thank you," Harry said, stepping into the shop.

The woman bustled around the place, looking for something, while the skinny man stood behind a counter, seemingly bored.

"Just give me a moment to find our measuring tape," the woman called out from the back room.

"Forget the tape, dear, he looks like a nine-incher to me," the man called back.

When she didn't reply, Harry glanced around the room nervously, trying to make some conversation to ease the awkwardness. "So… you're Wanda and Wandel?"

"No," the man said with a shrug. "They were my grandparents. They're now both dead. I'm Wendell - that's my wife Wendy."

"I see."

Apparently, the wandcrafters' grandson decided to continue to carry the conversation while his wife continued to bustle in the back room. "So, what exactly happened to your wand?"

Harry smiled sheepishly. "It kind of fizzled out when I went for a time spell. Nothing serious."

"Ah." Wendell nodded knowingly. "Badly matched wand?"

"Something like that." Harry was saved from having to explain further by Wendy's return. She held up a measuring tape, and, just like his first time at Ollivander's, Harry held out his arms as it measured him out.

"Nine inches," she finally read off after a moment. Harry blinked. That hadn't taken nearly as long as it had at Ollivander's. Maybe these people really knew what they were doing.

"Told you," Wendell said with a grin.

"All right," Wendy conceded. She turned back to Harry as her husband began pulling out wand cases from the cabinets. "What was your last wand made of?"

"I never found out," Harry confessed as he quickly spun a story about the wand's origin. "It was a bit of a loaner. Belonged to an ancestor of mine. I figured it might work out fine seeing that I was able to use it in a couple of tight spots, but apparently not."

Wendy's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You used a loaned wand for years?"

"Just a couple of days, actually. My first wand kind of broke before that."

Wendy shook her head dramatically as she took some cases from her husband. "Antique wands are utterly useless. We believe that one ought to buy a new wand every couple of years or so - why, we have clients who go through their wands in a few months! After all, if the wand chooses the wizard, what happens when the wizard changes who he is, a couple of years down the road?"

"I've always wondered about that," Harry mused.

"All right… nine inches. Come over here, dear."

Harry followed her over to the table, where her husband had set out a long row of wands in parchment envelopes. Each envelope was printed with a different pattern - after a brief moment, Harry recognized them as the same motifs carved on the wands on display in the window.

"Just pick a design you like and try it out," Wendy encouraged.

Staring at the available motifs, Harry immediately found a few that he was sure he didn't want to pick. Running around with a wand carved with little bunnies wasn't exactly something that was high on his list of priorities… and he wouldn't want to be caught dead with a wand carved in rat motifs, of all things. Some of the designs were a step up from that, but roses just wasn't his thing, and he didn't think he'd garner a lot of respects with a wand covered in tiny dragons or unicorns - although, he had to admit, they did look rather cute.

He finally opted for an abstract design that did look rather nice, and was about as close to a plain wand as he could come in this place. He reached in and picked up one of the corresponding envelopes.

"Excellent!" Wendy exclaimed. "Open it and give it a try."

Harry was pleased to discover upon opening the envelope that it contained a rather plain looking wand with an innocuous carved motif that he decided he could come to like. It was a dark brown hue, oak, maybe. He gave it an experimental wave, and was delighted to see sparks fly out. "I guess it works," he observed, though he noticed that they were distinctly duller and smaller than they had been when he had been matched with his original holly wand.

"Wonderful!" Wendy declared gleefully. "Will you be taking this one, then?"

"I guess so."

"That'll be five galleons."

Harry fished out the requested money, wincing internally at having to shell out more of his dwindling stock of gold, and handed it over. "Thank you for your time," he said, grateful that he wouldn't be facing a whole party full of potential dark wizards unarmed.

"Not a problem," Wendell replied curtly.

Harry took his leave and briskly returned to the Leaky Cauldron, giving Tom a grateful nod as he passed the bar and was asked if he'd been successful. He drew his new wand and tried for the time spell again, relieved when instead of sparks, the actual time did come out of the tip of his wand. If he floo'ed now, he would be there at precisely seven o'clock.

Harry grabbed a pinch of floo powder, tossed it into the fire, and stepped into the green flames. Only then did he remember he hated to floo, as vertigo overtook him, turning him around and around in a dizzying display of spinning fireplaces and possible exits. He thought he spotted No. 12 Grimmauld Place, and tentatively stepped toward it.

He tumbled out of the fireplace of a very familiar living room, though the furnishings were rather different than he was used to. It took all of his self-control and willpower to remain standing and instead of stumbling out of the fireplace.

"Who are you?" A suspicious voice greeted him. Harry's head shot up as he straightened, and he came face to face with the late Mrs. Walburga Black. Well, she was dead in his time, but here she was alive and well in the flesh. Her portrait, Harry absently noticed, barely did her justice, as it probably had been painted a few years in the future. Right now, she was a strikingly beautiful woman, somewhere in her mid-forties, he guessed, though she looked about as young and fit as any thirty-year old. Her voice also wasn't nearly as shrill as her portrait's had been, but the piercing glare that seemed to evaluate him and measure him up to some unknown standard was already present.

"Mr. Harry Ashworth." He straightened his posture and made to absently brush some soot off his cloak, schooling his face into a neutral expression. It wouldn't do to give away the fact that he recognized her now.

He resisted the urge to squirm under her intense scrutiny, and after a second, he seemed to have passed as she nodded haughtily and waved him in. "Madame Walburga Black." She gestured to another woman who had just entered the room. "This is Druella Black, nee Rosier, my sister. The dining room is that way. Bellatrix!"

"Yes, Aunt Walburga?" the familiar voice came from upstairs, where Harry remembered Sirius's room to have been, along with a few other bedrooms.

"Your guest is here."

"I'll be right down."

The infamous Black matriarch nodded to herself, then turned to Harry. "Have a seat. The remainder of the guests will be here shortly. My husband and I will be with you in a moment."

"Thank you."

Harry didn't particularly want to wait for Bellatrix to arrive, and since he knew his way around the house anyway, he found the dining room without much trouble. A few people were already there, though from the sounds of it, and judging by the number of empty seats, he was one of the first to arrive. He stepped into the room and suddenly found himself grabbed by the arm and spun around.

"Hey, look at what the cat dragged in," a voice to his left spat.

"Yeah, the punk from Diagon Alley yesterday," another one added.

Harry frowned as he looked at the three young men in front of him. He vaguely recognized them from the incident in Diagon Alley the day before, and there was no doubt that they recognized him, as well. The three of them were, he guessed, between twenty and twenty-five, dressed in garish clothing that they seemed to think projected wealth, but in reality just spoke of bad fashion sense.

It works in the movies, he thought to himself with a slight shrug as he waved one hand in front of him. "I'm not the wizard you're looking for."

"Wha-?"

"You will let me pass." Another wide, arcing wave of his hand.

"Like hell we will!"

Oh well, it was worth a try, Harry thought with a mental shrug.

He reached for his wand at the same moment the three other men did. There wasn't enough time for him to cast a spell that would take care of all three, and they were too close to risk casting a spell, anyway. He snapped his wand hand up in a trick that an auror in his time had taught him. He slammed the back of his rising hand into the other man's wrist, taking a step forward as he did so. A flick of his own wrist around the other man's arm brought Harry's wand tip to bear against his throat, causing his three assailants to still abruptly.

"You punk!"

Harry paused and sighed. He really wasn't in the mood for this, and making enemies of the younger purebloods probably didn't bode well for his future relations with their parents, but there wasn't anything he could do about it now. The best thing he could do was avoid confrontation at this point. "You're not even worth my time," he finally muttered and shoved the man aside, leaving him and his two companions glaring at Harry's back as he walked to the table and found himself an empty seat.

Before he could sit down, however, Harry realized that his actions had not gone unnoticed by the occupants of the room. The attention of every person in attendance was riveted on him as he walked past the three men. They also noticed this attention, and clamored to not let the incident go without saving their pride.

"You think you can just walk in here and show us all up? Who do you think you are?"

"Someone ought to teach you to respect your betters!" another said hotly.

Harry turned around and glared at them, putting every ounce of the accumulated hardship of the past few years of his life into it. The intensity and harshness of the look froze the three young men in place, but before either could say anything, they were interrupted by a loud cough from the head of the table. Harry glanced over to discover an older, pale-looking wizard sitting there. His grey hair was combed back neatly, and despite the wrinkles on his face, his figure looked remarkably healthy for someone Harry estimated to be in his late seventies to eighties. He sent Harry's three assailants a long, deliberate glance before looking away to something else. When Harry turned around, he found that the three would-be aggressors had quickly retreated to the other side of the room.

"Already getting yourself into trouble, Ashworth?" a quiet, husky voice asked from next to him.

Harry spun around and found Bellatrix standing next to him. He plastered on a grin. "Good evening, yourself."

Bellatrix nodded to the old man at the head of the table as she sat down. "That's my uncle, Orion Black," she told him.

Harry nodded quietly as he sank into his chair, carefully glancing around the room. Everyone had gone back to minding their own business upon the Black patriarch's silent command.

"What did you do to get yourself into trouble, anyway?" she asked once they were both seated.

"Nothing," he hissed back. "They're from Diagon Alley the other day."

Bellatrix was fighting to suppress a smirk; Harry could just see it briefly flitting across her face. "I see. Well, lucky for you, those guys are idiots. No brains and think they're the cream of the world."

"Crabbe and Goyle," Harry muttered under his breath with a slight chuckle as he remembered Draco's two brainless henchmen.

Bellatrix's eyebrow arched sharply. "How'd you know?"

"What?"

She nodded over to where the three were now huddled with a group of other wizards and witches their age. "That they're the Crabbes and Goyle."

Harry cursed himself silently for having actually voiced his thoughts - he hadn't thought she would have picked it up, but apparently, her ears were very good. "Lucky guess," he muttered.

"Oh no, I'm not buying that."

"Fine, I talked to an auror after they arrived. He told me a few things about what's going on." It wasn't a complete lie.

Bellatrix eyed him suspiciously, and he got the distinct feeling that she didn't really believe him. She seemed willing to let it slide for now. When more young people arrived and began taking up seats around the table she spoke again. "Come with me." She rose from the table and led him to the far corner of the room, well out of earshot of most people.

"What?" Harry asked when they stopped, figuring that she wanted to talk without the risk of being overheard.

"My mum thinks that Uncle Orion is going to die soon, and she's hoping we'll inherit something. I don't think we'll get as much as a mention in his will, though. Aunt Walburga is going to be around for years, and she isn't going to let anything come our way." She glanced at him sharply, violet eyes piercing into his green ones. "Based on your knowledge of the future, would you agree with that assessment?"

Harry groaned as he realized what she was doing. She wanted to prod him for more information. He glanced over at the Black patriarch. "He looks rather healthy to me. I don't think he's going to die anytime soon." Unless he gets assassinated, he amended silently.

"There's always a chance that something happens to him," Bellatrix commented, seemingly off-handedly, but he could tell she fully understood the meaning of her words.

Harry stared back neutrally. "Whatever happened to pureblood loyalty?"

Bellatrix met his stare for a moment before shrugging. "All hypotheses aside, would you agree that if he died, that is what would happen?"

"Based solely on the knowledge of your family, you'd probably be right." Harry agreed carefully. He wasn't entirely sure about the history of the Black family, but judging by the fact that Orion Black seemed to be a very healthy, very powerful - if aging - man, and that there were wizards who were far older than he, he figured that something must have happened to him in the years to come.

"Damn it," Bellatrix muttered angrily. "What's the use of being a part one of the oldest, most prominent, pureblood families if you don't even get to be rich?"

Harry shrugged, suppressing a mental smirk. It seemed that Bellatrix wasn't so different from the other young purebloods, after all. Money and power still were at the top of her priorities, which meant she could be manipulated. She was just being a little more intelligent about choosing which battles to fight. That, at least, gave him some sort of ease as he figured he could probably safely judge the way her loyalties would shift in the future, and when he would have to start watching his back. "I never saw any particular advantage to being rich, myself," he commented absently.

"How ironic," she sighed, absently turning her attention to the other guests in the room. "You don't care about ancient and noble names, money, or power, yet you become the heir to the entire Black fortune while my sisters and I get married off to the highest bidder - probably chosen by my overbearing aunt."

All Harry could do was shrug again. She was right - at least as far as she and Narcissa were concerned. Andromeda had gotten away, but it had gotten her disowned, not that that had been a bad thing, considering how the rest of her family had ended up.

Bellatrix observed him carefully, looking for any sign of a confirmation. "Well? Am I right? Did I get married to some rich bastard to breed his useless children and become his trophy wife?"

"I think it'd be better for everyone if I just kept my mouth shut about the future," he told her quietly, though he had to fight down the urge to grin like a maniac. Though Bellatrix had never had any children, her sister Narcissa had certainly given birth to a useless child. And the thought of Bellatrix being a "trophy wife" of any sort was a chilling contrast to what she had actually become. One could only hope, he thought to himself. The world might have been a much better place, and the war with Voldemort a lot easier, if she had been a trophy wife and nothing more.

"I don't think so," Bellatrix disagreed. "You have no desire to return to the future - that tells me one thing: you don't like whatever happens there, and you're planning to make changes. I don't know what you're planning to change, but if it's got anything to do with me, I'm entitled to know about it!"

"What I intend to do is none of your business." Harry replied evenly. He'd tried the nice approach, and went for bluntness now.

"The hell it is!" Bellatrix hissed. "You know me, or at least, you will know me. I'm certain of that much. That means whatever you do will directly impact what happens to me." She glared at him. "Trust me, you do not want me as your enemy."

Harry suppressed a smirk. Compared to the Bellatrix of his time, this version of her was no threat. She was skilled and powerful, that was for sure, but she was nowhere near what she would become in a decade or two. No, most of her power right now was in her social connections. Not that Harry cared much about those - they were merely a means to meet Voldemort, and kill him before he could start any of the madness that would erupt in the future.

"Like it or not, Black, whatever I do to change the future concerns no one but me." And old Tom, Harry added mentally.

Bellatrix's violet eyes flashed in anger. "Awfully high-handed, aren't we?"

Harry clammed up, deciding that the conversation was over. Arguing with her at this point was useless, and he refused to reveal anything more. He knew why she was angry. There was no altruism behind her reasoning - she wasn't trying to force Harry to reveal his knowledge of the future to make it better. Instead, she wanted that knowledge for her own personal gain, wanted to know if what he would do would benefit her. She felt threatened, because whatever he did without her knowledge would be beyond her control.

A crazy idea sprang into his mind, to feed her just enough information to convince her that he was on her side, that whatever he did would be beneficial for Bellatrix Black in the future. In a single move, he could snatch her up and deprive Voldemort of his most notorious and arguably most dangerous follower. However, as quickly as that idea had come, he discarded it. There were simply too many unknowns about the Bellatrix Black of this time. He didn't know if she would honor the commitments she made, and while he knew what motivated her - power, wealth, and ambition - there was no guarantee that she wouldn't find the coming Dark Lord's offer that much more promising. Or that she would strike out on her own.

No, for now it would be much too risky to let anyone know of his plans, even the seventeen-year old with the connections. "Yes," he admitted, "it is high-handed of me. I am making decisions for everyone I ever associated with in the future. However, it isn't as if I've got many options, and you can be assured that whatever the future is, any changes I make will make it better for everyone involved."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You're a fighter," she concluded. "You've been trained for warfare. I read the report in the paper, and listened to what those brain-dead idiots were saying after they got their parents to bail them out of jail."

"I used stunners and banishing charms," Harry defended himself.

"It's not about the spells. It's about this," she tapped her temple. "Tactics. Knowledge, experience. You didn't even blink when I asked you about demolishing a group of ruffians back at the inn, which tells me that you're no stranger to combat. The training and expertise it took to take down even those morons is not something you're taught in school or even in auror training."

Harry remained silent. There wasn't really anything he could say or do that wouldn't reveal more to her than she was deducting now.

"That means you were probably at war with someone in the future," she said. "And that means there was another side. Judging from the way you want to change things, I take it things didn't go so well for you, and now you want to change that." Her eyes hardened suddenly. "So don't give me that crap about making it better for everyone, because you're clearly not going to be making things better for whoever was fighting against you and kicking your butt!"

He stared at her evenly, trying to figure out how to derail her from finding out more. "And what," he began slowly, trying to appeal to her sense of self-preservation, "makes you think that you weren't on my side in this theoretical war of yours?" He paused to let the question sink in. "Let's assume for a moment that what you think is correct. You believe I was involved in a war? You also seem to believe that I know your future self. You figure it out."

He could almost see the wheels turning in her head as she mulled that new information over. Her eyes clouded over as she frowned, and finally shook her head. "So if I was on your side, why won't you tell me what's going on, then?"

Harry waved a hand dismissively. "It's all theoretical." At least, to her it was. He was almost afraid of how quickly she had deducted things from things that he had done without thinking about them.

She stared at him intently, and then sighed. "I suppose so. For now, at least. I suppose I can keep helping you… for a price."

Harry wasn't sure how much Bellatrix would value being one of Voldemort's lieutenants, but as far as his own opinion went, there certainly were better fates. "Let's just say that if you stick around and make the right choices, you've got plenty to gain." Including an actual life for yourself, he thought to himself.

"How much?"

"A lot."

She hummed in thought. "If you were to change the future… how significant of a change would it be?"

"Extremely," Harry replied curtly.

"Significant enough to become the Minister of Magic, if people were to find out that you were responsible, perhaps?"

"Sure," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Don't know who'd even want that miserable position, much less as a reward, though."

"You're sorely lacking in ambition," Bellatrix concluded dryly.

"It depends on your definition of ambition, I guess."

"I guess we'll see how it goes."

"I guess so," he said.

"For now, I'll stick with you, as long as it benefits me," she finally decided.

"How kind of you," Harry noted sarcastically. "I thought you'd already agreed to help me out in return for those thousands of galleons I helped you lift from your family's vault."

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. "I intend to keep my promise. I'm just saying that I'll be looking into any further opportunities to get you connected. If anything comes up, I'll make sure it works to your benefit, as long as I'm sure that it'll benefit me in return. But when you start making changes to the timeline, you better make sure you include me in your plans."

"I'll see what comes up," Harry told her noncommittally.

She looked like she was about to argue that point, but let it slide. Her glance wandered over to another group of pureblood children that had just entered. "Hate to break it to you, Ashworth, but you're going to be on your own for most of the evening, unless you want to keep clashing with those young idiots that my parents and Auntie insist I befriend. I suggest you stick close to the older folks and act as intelligently as you can. If you act competent and show that you can keep a secret or two, you just might pick up some."

"What, pick up some old people?" Harry was surprised he managed that with a straight face.

"Secrets, moron."

"Would you stop calling me that?"

"Then stop acting like one!"

Harry decided not to grace that with a reply. " Are there secrets to be had?" he asked as he glanced around the room.

"Maybe," she said, turning around to walk away. She looked over her shoulder one last time. "And Ashworth, don't even try to apologize to anyone about mangling their children in Diagon Alley. It shows weakness. Stay aloof."

"Aloof," Harry muttered quietly to himself as he watched her join a group of young men and women that were chatting near a window. He supposed that it was good advice. He was about to meander over and join a group of older men standing near the door when he found himself staring at a black-robed chest. He craned his neck up and realized that he was staring into the face of a much-younger Rodolphus Lestrange.

"Having a nice chat with Bella, are we?" he growled.

"What's it to you?"

"That's my future wife you're hitting on." The younger Lestrange brother cracked his knuckles menacingly. "And I don't take kindly to people trying to take what is mine."

Harry's mind raced as he tried to come up with a way to reply that wouldn't sound like either a lame excuse, or a challenge to a fight, but before he could, Walburga and Druella Black strode into the room. All conversation ceased, and all eyes turned to the two women.

"Dinner will now begin," Walburga intoned formally. Everyone took their seats, even Rodolphus, after sending one last venomous glare in Harry's direction.

Food appeared on the table the moment everyone had been seated, and Harry found himself joined on one side by a man that he thought might be Cygnus Black, Bellatrix's father, and someone who looked vaguely related to the Flint family, though he wasn't sure about that. The potential Flint grunted some sort of greeting, while the Black wordlessly began eating. Harry followed suit, glad for the decent meal, though the oddly ornate style of the silverware made him wonder about the sanitary standards maintained in the Black kitchen. He desperately tried not to think about Kreacher and the heads of the house elves that had been on display on the wall when he had first been to Grimmauld Place before his fifth year at Hogwarts.

Harry was silent for most of the dinner, until an old man who bore a striking resemblance to Lucius Malfoy addressed him. The young time-traveler could tell that the silence around him had nothing to do with a lack of interest on the part of those present, because as soon as he was addressed, he had everyone's undivided attention.

"So," Malfoy began slowly, "you must be that young fellow we've heard so much about. Harry Ashworth, is it?"

"That would be me," Harry responded evenly, setting his face into a blank expression and maintaining eye contact. "You must be a Malfoy."

An arched eyebrow was his reply. "Indeed."

"Your skills with a wand are rather impressive, if the paper is to be believed," the Black on Harry's left commented.

Harry glanced over. Never show weakness, he thought to himself. "Against a couple of untrained thugs who are too busy fighting each other to put up a decent fight? I guess they'd call it impressive."

To his surprise, the man laughed, though Harry caught his three would-be assailants from before bristling at the other end of the table, along with a few others. "A good answer. A good answer, indeed. Cygnus Black," he introduced himself. "I believe you know my daughter, Bellatrix."

"We've crossed paths a few times," Harry acknowledged neutrally.

"So she mentioned."

"I hope that's a good thing."

A loud shout from the other end of the table caused several heads to turn. A young man had shot up from his seat, his wand drawn and aimed in Harry's direction. Harry tensed, ready to leap out of the chair and draw his own wand, when the wand was ripped from the young man's hand and sailed through the air to land in Orion Black's outstretched hand.

"Calm!" The word was said in almost a whisper, but it echoed through the entire room with enough force and authority to make the youngster sit back down instantly.

Cygnus Black returned his attention to Harry. "It would appear that a few of our children don't agree with your assessment of them," he said with dark amusement.

Harry shrugged. "What else did you want me to call them? They hardly know how to hold a wand straight and cast a curse, and were so busy yelling insults at each other that they didn't notice how much destruction they were causing or that I was behind them."

"I take it you don't approve of their actions in Diagon Alley, then?" Malfoy asked evenly.

Harry looked over and met the man's stare. "Whatever their conflict, what I don't approve of is the manner in which they resolved it. They acted unbecoming of their status."

He must have said something right, because Malfoy nodded in approval. "Indeed. In fact, that is what most of us here believe." He glared down at the end of the table, cowing the few young purebloods there that had been in the process of rising up again. "But all speculations aside, I would be very interested to hear what a young man such as you does for a living, especially since you are a foreigner, yes?"

Harry knew enough to know that professing to do nothing would be the best way to utterly convince everyone that he was up to something nefarious. He opted for a neutral reply. "I heard that there were opportunities for the… ambitious sort here. And yes, I'm from Australia, though most recently of the United States."

Malfoy seemed interested. "There are opportunities- especially if one associates with the right sort of people, and depending on your view on… certain issues in the world."

"Which issues would that be?" Harry arched an eyebrow.

"Political ones. Concerning the future of our world," Orion Black responded gravely, addressing Harry for the first time.

Harry turned to the Black family patriarch. "I see. I assume, then, that some of these issues are related to the tensions between the old families and those that support Muggleborn?"

The entire room quieted as everyone stared at Harry. He was starting to think that he had made a mistake by revealing too much, when Orion Black nodded slowly. "Our way of life has lasted for centuries. The last few decades have brought great changes. There are some who believe that adaptation is the only way to ensure our survival. Others," the patriarch glanced around the table, "believe that we can continue as we are-that adaptation will eventually bring about our downfall."

"And which do you believe in?" Harry asked carefully.

"What I am more interested in, young Ashworth," the eldest Black said, staring him straight in the eye and, Harry thought irrationally for a moment, straight into the soul, "is just what it is that you believe."

Harry idly toyed with his goblet for a moment, slowly spinning its stem between his fingers and watching the wine slosh around the cup. He was dreadfully aware of everyone's attention on him, and had the sinking feeling that one wrong word would lead him to a heap of trouble. If there was any time to pick his words carefully, this was it. Time to appear smart, he thought to himself. He couldn't reveal how much - or little - he knew, nor would it be a good idea to seem too eager to approve of their ideals in his attempt to get close to Voldemort.

"I believe," Harry began very slowly and very, very carefully, "that the wizarding world, as it stands today, is incapable of survival. I believe that it is in desperate need of reform, of a strong, charismatic leadership that is not afraid to make difficult decisions, and that those in power need, above all else, the integrity, ability, and willingness to fight for what they believe in. That is what is missing in today's wizarding world." He had lifted his head as he spoke and was now proudly returning the Black patriarch's stare. He had spoken the truth - from a certain point of view. The best lie was one wrapped in truth, after all. The wizarding world of his time had gone down the drain exactly because it was being led by spineless cowards like Fudge, who were so engrossed in their own status that they refused to acknowledge anything that might rock their little fantasy world. He reckoned it probably was much the same in this time.

"A wise answer," Orion Black finally conceded after a moment of silence. "Our youth seem so eager to blame all of their problems on the Muggleborn, but it is the rare few that realize that we first have to find the problem with ourselves, before finding fault in others."

Cygnus Black smiled and raised his goblet to Harry. "It's good to see that not all youth are hot-headed and quick to resort to their wands to solve a problem. Though you do seem quite apt with one, anyway."

"And I am sure there will be many opportunities open to someone with as many talents as you, Mr. Ashworth," Malfoy added.

Harry nodded graciously, finally breaking eye contact with the Black patriarch. "Then perhaps one day I may be fortunate enough to be invited to the correct place at the right time to take advantage of such opportunities, then."

"I am certain you will," Malfoy agreed.

"You have met Bellatrix, and my wife, of course," Cygnus Black inserted himself into the conversation after a brief pause. "Have you met my other daughters?"

"I can't say I have had the pleasure," Harry replied. Bellatrix's father smiled widely.

"I have two others. Narcissa, my youngest, and Andromeda," he explained.

Malfoy grinned conspiratorially. "And I have been so fortunate as to be in the right place, as you put it, Mr. Ashworth, that my son Lucius is betrothed to one of Cygnus's beautiful daughters."

"Really?" Harry said, faking surprise. Narcissa Black had, of course, married Lucius Malfoy. Although, Harry had not realized that the betrothal had taken place so early in Narcissa's life.

"I believe you would get along very well," Malfoy continued. "Lucius is much like you - intelligent, ambitious… oh, so very ambitious."

"I would like to meet him some day." Harry tried not to gag at the thought. Befriend Draco's father? The man had been an utter scumbag in his time, someone who used his money and political influence to get what he wanted. In fact, if Fudge had had money, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if Fudge had turned out to be the same as Lucius Malfoy.

"I'm sure something can be arranged. Lucius might even learn a few things from you, considering your experience in foreign countries."

"An arranged marriage?" Harry vaguely recalled hearing something about the Black sisters' marriages having been arranged, but he didn't remember any specifics.

"Yes," Cygnus replied with some dismay. "I believe my sister seems to have her eyes set on giving away yet another one of my daughters." Harry followed his eyes to the end of the table and wasn't surprised to find Rodolphus Lestrange sitting next to Bellatrix, talking to her.

"I don't know if Bellatrix will take the bait, but at least she seems to be on speaking terms with him," her father added, "which is quite an improvement over when they were first introduced."

Harry arched an eyebrow, not really surprised. "Is that so?" He was actually surprised to realize that, now that he thought about it, Lestrange - either one of them - wasn't really Bellatrix's type. She seemed rather intelligent, self-absorbed, and egocentric. Lestrange, from what he knew of him in the future, was much the same and Harry would be willing to bet that he demanded that his future wife all but worship the ground he walked on. Right now, though, he seemed to be willing enough to compromise just to get Bellatrix's attention. Harry realized with a smirk that the girl had a bored expression on her face and wasn't really paying attention as he probably tryied to impress her with some story or another.

Her father noticed the direction of Harry's glance and eyed the young man curiously. "I was led to believe you've only known my daughter for a short time," he finally commented.

"Excuse me?" Harry started.

"The way you look at my daughter. It seems you've known her for far longer than a few days."

"It's not that," Harry replied glibly. "I was just thinking that I don't think she likes him very much."

Cygnus hummed noncommittally. "To be perfectly frank, neither do I." He arched an eyebrow at Harry. "That young man is boorish, uncultured, and lacks the finesse that we Blacks call our own."

Oh, he definitely lacks finesse, Harry thought with a barely suppressed chortle. Lestrange was about as subtle as a sledgehammer on the battlefield, the type that would shoot first, shoot some more, and then probably forget to ask questions afterwards. "From what I've seen of him, I'm forced to agree."

"Ah yes, your little run in with him before my sister so timely arrived."

"He struck me as rather un-Slytherin. One might even call his behavior almost Gryffindorish," Harry commented deliberately. He was taking a gamble, trying to probe the older man's opinion on the houses.

"I do not think even a Gryffindor would act like he does, though his tendency to act without thinking certainly fits." Bellatrix's father narrowed his eyes. "But that is not truly your opinion of the houses, is it?"

"Pardon me?"

"Bellatrix explained to me your little speech a few days ago. When you prevented her from having a confrontation with that Potter boy."

"I see." Harry frowned, realizing that he probably should have kept his mouth shut. As much as he hated to admit that Snape was right, he really did have a tendency to act first and think later. "You would be right, then."

"You seem to have a rather interesting view on things, Mr. Ashworth, not to mention the fact that you seem to know a lot about the wizarding world in England, despite the fact that you're not from here. Something like that hardly goes unnoticed."

"I like to know what is going on in the world." Harry shrugged. "In times like these, I believe it's important to know what is happening, especially somewhere I plan on going."

"Laudable." Cygnus eyed Harry critically. "I would have to say, I am impressed, Mr. Ashworth. I did not think much of you when Bellatrix first came to us with the idea of inviting you to this gathering. After the incident in Diagon Alley, some of us had begun to suspect that you may, in fact, be a mercenary of sorts from the radical wing of our political opposition."

"And now?"

"Some still believe that you are a mercenary, no doubt."

"How about you?"

"I do believe I would approve of you more than I do the Lestrange boy." Cygnus glanced sharply to the side at his sister. "Just make sure Walburga never hears I said so."

"My lips are sealed," Harry replied, fighting down his shock. The last thing he wanted to do was end up engaged to Bellatrix Black! He hated the woman, for heaven's sake! To his utter relief, her father switched topics, and Harry spent the rest of the evening in surprisingly pleasant conversation with him and the elder Malfoy.

When Malfoy and Black moved on to strike up conversations with others after the meal concluded, Harry took the opportunity to make his rounds. He resolved to at least become acquainted with everyone in the room, the more intelligent ones, anyway, before leaving. He managed to accomplish it by quietly joining the various cliques, one by one, who were grouped about the room and then participating in whatever conversation they were having long enough to at least make a couple of intelligent comments on the subject being discussed, and in some cases, even to tell them more about himself and the fake history he'd made up.

When the time came to leave, marked by the faded energy of those present as well as Harry's own exhaustion, he made for the fireplace to floo away after giving Walburga Black a grateful nod and wave. He was glad that she was otherwise occupied - he had a feeling that talking to her would be near impossible without thinking of her portrait in the future, which he didn't exactly have the fondest memories of.

He found the fireplace in the living room quite readily, though he couldn't find the floo powder to go along with it. He discovered an ornate urn that might qualify, but he didn't want to actually stick his hand into it - long experience with dark artifacts and, much more importantly, two generations of pranksters, had taught him that it generally was a bad idea. Especially in Sirius's home.

"Yes, that's floo powder, and yes, it's safe to stick your hand in the pot," Bellatrix's voice came from behind him.

Harry turned around. She had separated herself from Lestrange - quite a feat, Harry mused, considering how he'd been almost permanently attached to her side during the entire dinner and socializing afterwards. "Give up on your boyfriend?" he asked briskly.

"He's a complete bonehead," she informed him. "Actually, that's a lie. He doesn't even have enough brains to qualify as a bonehead."

"Then what's that make him?"

Bellatrix shrugged. "A slug, or something."

Harry suppressed a chuckle, especially knowing what he did about Bellatrix and her future husband. He couldn't help but wonder, just how much had that marriage changed her? And how much had she changed, to accept it as she must have done at some point in the future. "You want some advice from my secret knowledge of the future?"

"Always," Bellatrix replied, her eager eyes betraying her hope that Harry would tell her something useful.

"Remember that Lestrange - any Lestrange, really - has the brains of a slug, and you'll go further in life than you did in my time."

"Yeugh!" Bellatrix made a face. "Does that mean I actually marry him in the future?"

Harry frowned, realizing what he'd just let out. "Forget I said anything," he said as he turned back around and reached into the urn, grabbing a handful of floo powder. He tossed it into the fire and watched the flames flare up.

"No, wait!" Bellatrix took several steps forward. "Tell me! Please!"

Harry ignored her and stepped into the fire before she could follow him, cursing himself for letting something like that slip.