Harry Potter and the Knife of Klingsor, Part 17

The fallen boy stirred in the damp grass of the forgotten cemetery, wincing in pain as he came to. There wasn’t a single inch of his young body that didn’t ache. There was also not a single part of him – inside – that didn’t hurt as well. Very slowly, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, regained consciousness.

“I’ve failed,” Harry said to himself, his frail and broken voice very nearly shattering the oppressive silence of the night air. “It’s all MY fault! I’ve failed them all!”

Crickets chirped in the hot, muggy summer night and somewhere off in the distance, a frog croaked. It reminded Harry of his friend Neville Longbottom, and his toad Trevor, for some odd reason. He thought back on them all, his friends from Gryffindor House. Those that would be coming back in a month to school, and those who would not.

Neville, of course. Poor blundering and shy Neville, who couldn’t get anything but Herbology right. Dean Thomas, one of his other roommates. Friendly and outgoing Dean, raised as a Muggle, just like Harry had been, with only diversions to his uncle’s Inn every summer for a look at the Wizarding World. Oliver Wood, his Quidditch captain, with his warm smile and thick Scottish brogue that was so endearing as he shouted orders to his team and demanded a murderous schedule of practices. Alicia and Angelina and Katie, his teammates, the Chasers. He also thought of his other friends of different Houses, and also of his mere acquaintances and his enemies.

And Hermione Granger. How could he possibly give HER the news? Still, he was grateful that she hadn’t been there to see any of it.

“I’m sure to have even more of those now,” he sighed, thinking about enemies. “Or worse yet, I’ll be even more popular then ever for bringing down Voldemort yet AGAIN. Hell, I may even be cursed with a fan club.”

He thought of Fred and George Weasley, the Gryffindor Beaters and their partner in many high crimes, Lee Jordan, the Quidditch Announcer. And there were Arthur and Molly Weasley, his best friend Ron’s parents who thought of Harry almost like the dark-haired son they’d never had! But what would he say to them? Would they even want him back, after what he’d just done?

He doubted it.

Harry snorted when he thought of the Dursleys. No doubt they’d be furious with him for getting so many others killed while he’d escaped with only maiming, but healable, injuries. Madam Pomfrey would surely fix him up, as best she could; Harry was sure of that. Then he’d be left to face the Weasleys, the Finnegans, the Kearnys, and rest of the lot. But whom would he have to face for the sake of Darby? Darby O’Gill, Seamus’ holiday time friend, who hadn’t even made it to Hogwart’s to even get sorted? Poor little Darby, who’d never even gotten to see Hogwart’s grand Castle and learn to be a proper Wizard.

And then there was the Staff. Harry thought of Hagrid, the giant man who’d come to save him from a Muggle life of misery on his eleventh birthday, just over a year before. So large that he almost didn’t seem to be real was Rubeus Hagrid, a great man with a tender heart who had cried at the loss of his baby Dragon and had put together a collection of Wizard photos of Harry’s late parents, collected from friends from all over the world. The man who had rescued him, he’d said, when Voldemort had tried to kill him the first time - when he’d been just a baby in diapers. More than anyone else, Harry thought that he might be able to face Hagrid just then, wishing that he were there.

Professor McGonagall, the sponsor of his House at School, and teacher of Transfigurations Class. So stern, so prim and proper. Harry whimpered. She’d be so ashamed of him, that even if he DID go back, he’d never be able to face her again.

Professor Snape, he knew, would be in total bliss over his failings, and Harry could just hear his cruel and scathing words: “Fame isn’t everything, Mr. Potter. You may have defeated the Dark Lord yet again, boy, but look at what it’s cost you! Ten thousand points from Gryffindor, for complete, total stupidity on the part of Harry Potter!”

At least Severus Snape would be happy in his Potions classes.

He thought about the Professors Sprout from Herbology, Madam Hooch in Broomsticking, and tiny little Flitwick from Charms and Wands. He doubted that he could even face them, much less hold his Wand without a shaking hand.

Professor Binns probably wouldn’t care, in History of Magic. After all, Binns was a ghost and already dead. This gave him a flicker of hope, in a strange way. If dying hadn’t stopped Binns from teaching, then maybe he’d be seeing some of them again.

That left only Defense Against the Dark Arts, and since there was no teacher for that class yet, Harry didn’t ponder it. The last one, Professor Quirrell, had fallen to Voldemort as well the previous term.

And Argus Filch, the caretaker, well … he’d just be happy with a few less students to muck up his clean floors, Harry figured.

But then he thought of Professor Dumbledore.

THAT was going to be the worst. There was simply no way that Harry could show his scarred and bloody face to Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwart’s. After all that Dumbledore had done for him. And certainly not after what he’d done to repay that kindness.

Somewhere off in the forest, a dry twig snapped.

Still, he didn’t bother to get up. Not that he could have if he’d wanted to, since his left leg was broken in several places. A weak breeze ruffled his hair, blowing it back from his scarred and bleeding forehead. The bright light of the nearly full moon just shy of one month past Summer Solstice shone down upon him, making his torn and bleeding skin glow with an otherworldly cast. He sniffled and lay in the dew soaked grass, staring up at it as it rode the western sky down. The bright moon was fuzzy and indistinct, and Harry pulled off his shattered glasses and threw them over his shoulder in disgust.

“Maybe a werewolf will come along and eat me,” he choked, fighting back the tears with all his might. There was, of course, no one left to see him. No one to care. He stared around at the carnage in the moon-haunted darkness, taking in the wholesale slaughter that he alone was responsible for.

The breeze picked up, cooler but not any more comforting in the mugginess, and then Harry Potter finally broke down and wept like the broken hearted little child that he was.

He cried for quite some time as the moonlight shone down upon his small form, his Muggle clothes still smoking here and there from the fight and covered in blood. There was hardly an inch of flesh on his body that wasn’t bruised or burnt or bleeding in some way.

And not all of it was his own.

Clutching his battered and cracked Wand in his right hand, he remembered why he’d done it. Why he’d done ANY of it. Why he was laying, alone and perhaps mortally injured, in a deserted graveyard under a raging moon.

There was only one reason he’d done it.

Seamus! He howled, his head tilted back and his emerald eyes clenched shut in agony. His voice, so very close to changing, screeched and echoed in the darkness as tiny night creatures for miles around took flight or sought shelter from the hellish wail of despair that swept over the land. Somewhere off in the trees, a lurking Banshee turned and fled from the boy’s piteous wailing.

No one answered him.

The silence closed in again, drowning him.

He coughed, spraying blood all over the small tombstone in front of him. It was carved from white marble, in the shape of a lamb. He squinted, wiping his eyes, and could just make out the name “Ralph P. Moss” in a fancy font. Ralph had been seven years old when he’d died in 1900, and Harry so desperately envied him.

There were no decorations on that little boy’s forgotten grave, however, and Harry knew just how he must have felt.

“It should have been me,” he choked, coughing up more blood as his head pounded mercilessly. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and he couldn’t get enough air. His lightning bolt scar, a souvenir from his first fight with Voldemort, burned and ached. It had been broken open again, and Harry doubted that it would ever heal up.

Every muscle in his body was on fire, and his breathing was labored as his heart skipped. He clenched his Wand tighter, remembering Draco Malfoy’s words on the train ride home only a few weeks before. You cahn’t kill yourself with your own Wand, Potter, did you know that?

“Oh, Draco,” he murmured, sadly turning his head to look at the limp and cold little form hanging over a marble cross just to his right. Blood still dripped from his hands, and his barren crotch gave mute testimony of what he’d unknowingly sacrificed for a lost cause. The dead boy’s pale eyes were wide open, fixed upon the full moon as if studying it for an Astronomy lesson. For a moment, Harry thought of the tale of Jesus Christ, crucified on the cross to save all of Mankind from his own sins. Draco Malfoy, however, probably wouldn’t be rising from the dead on the third day.

“I’m so sorry, Draco,” he gasped, rolling over onto his back with a cry of pain. Moving was a BIG mistake, he found out.

His broken spectacles suddenly dropped back onto his chest, and he gasped. Somewhere on his left side, a badly cracked rib broke and he screamed in pain and surprise both.

“You’ll be needing those,” an older voice told him, a voice that was somehow familiar. “Occulus Repairo! It said, and a wisp of sliver light hit the glasses, mending the shattered lenses and twisted frames. They sprang back onto Harry’s face, sitting cockeyed on his broken nose.

But Harry didn’t care. Tears ran down to his ears, one of which was oozing blood, as he lay there. He was simply hurt too badly to care, or to move again, for that matter. Whoever owned the voice could do with him as he saw fit. It no longer mattered.

“Come to finish what the Malfoys started?” He asked dejectedly, “Or come to gloat first?” He coughed in disgust.

“Neither,” it replied sadly.

“Finish me off then? I don’ know what became of Voldemort. Mr. Malfoy got away, though.”

“I know.”

And then a warm hand touched his bloody face, wiping at his tears. Very gently, that hand held his aching head up a bit, and Harry opened one eye just enough to see fingers holding a bottle to his lips. He realized that his throat was burning with thirst, and he gulped it down.

“Atta boy!” The voice congratulated him. Harry choked. “Careful, now!”

It wasn’t water, however. It was something clear and sweet and thick, and it seemed to sponge away all of his pains and worries. A strange musical song was filling his ears then, and despite the horrible pain in his heart that even Madam Pomfrey could never hope to cure, he smiled. He was suddenly warm and light headed as if he were floating … as if he were dying …

“It’s not so bad,” he sighed, as whoever had found him wiped at his face and held his hand, not daring to move him.

“It’s bad enough, Harry,” that someone replied with a heavy sigh. “I never thought to have to see all of THIS again.”

Still, Harry didn’t look back at him. “No, I meant dying,” Harry explained, “Isn’t this how it feels to die? Comfortable, peaceful, happy? Just slipping away?”

“I wouldn’t know. Besides, you cahn’t die, you silly boy, you’re very nearly immortal,” the voice replied, “Or did you forget that already?”

“Huh?” Harry squeaked, his hopes dashed by that one word as it all came crashing down on him again.

Immortal.
He could hear Hermione explaining it once again to Ron and him in the library. “The Elixir of Life makes the drinker immortal.” ..… ‘Immortal?’ Ron has asked, and Hermione had replied, ‘It means you can never die.’ ….. Ron had snapped back that he knew what it meant…..

Then it hit him.

“The Sorcerer’s Stone,” they said together, and then Harry groaned in misery, “I DID forget. Bloody fuckin’ mother of hell!” He swore angrily, disappointed that he wasn’t’ dying after all. He pounded a small fist on the ground in impotent fury, finding that his left hand wasn’t working too well either as he ran through his entire vocabulary of swear words. When he ran out, he started repeating himself until he was winded.

“I got that Stone’s juice in my damn cut end of last term, when my hand was ripped open by one of those flying keys! It leaked in, didn’t it?” He asked, trying to swivel his aching head around to see who was helping him. He couldn’t manage it though, as his neck was too stiff.

“Harry,” the voice tried to comfort him, “You have a busted head, a broken nose, you’re bleeding from an ear and your nose, coughing up blood, the half of your ribs that aren’t broken are cracked, you’ve a punctured lung, and your leg is broken in about four different places. AND YOU’RE STILL ALIVE AND COHERENT! What do YOU think?”

The boy thought for a moment, but it didn’t make sense. WHY was he still alive? He wasn’t the only one who had fought hard that night. He wasn’t the only one…...

“Seamus isn’t,” he cried, a fresh batch of tears spilling down his smooth and blood-streaked cheeks. “They used it on him too, the Stone, I mean, when they emasculated him. WHY’S HE DEAD THEN!?” Harry screamed, struggling to squirm around as the Potion made his injuries hurt somewhat less. “WHY?!” He demanded again of his unseen and unwelcomed rescuer.

The man sighed deeply again, looking about the horrific battlefield with sad green eyes. The night wind rustled his mop of unkempt black and gray hair, and he adjusted his round glasses. To the left of them lay the still form of Ron Weasley. His right hand was missing, the arm ending in a bandaged stump. Ron’s freckled skin was very pale, almost white, telling them even in his stillness that he had died of shock. Down the row of gravestones from him lay Darby O’Gill, unmarked and perfect in his dirty Muggle clothing, yet quite dead. He almost looked surprised, his eyes wide and his mouth open, gazing up at the sky much in the same way as Draco Malfoy was.

“Killed by the Avada Kedavra Curse,” the man moaned, “An unforgivable sin, a Curse that only YOU survived, Harry. The Curse that brought us to where we are now.”

Very gently, Harry felt himself being carefully lifted up into an adult’s arms. The Potion was working hard on him, and he could feel broken bones mending, blood rushing back into his open wounds as they closed over, and a feeling of warmth spreading all over him as he miraculously mended. Steam began to roll out of his ears, which were filled with the unearthly song that only he could hear.

The man laughed dryly. “So my Potion worked after all. I was never any good at Potions, always too runny,” he commented. “Lucky you didn’t sprout a second head or something. Professor Snape hated me.”

“Me t-too! Wh-what was in it?” Harry asked nervously, flexing his leg and taking a deep breath as he winced. The bones had all mended, but it still hurt like hell. “You mean I’m not going to die?” He managed to turn his head and straighten his specs as his crooked nose lined out.

Sadly, the man holding him shook his head, his mop of salt-and-pepper hair waving in the breeze. He was dressed in a blue robe with yellow stars and moons all over it, and he was quite old. “One part PepperUp, one part Phoenix tears, two parts Mandrake, and one part Elixir of Life. Oh, and a dash of mint for good measure. I’ll probably be sent to Azkaban for life when I get back, for doing this - not that it matters anyway. If I hadn’t done this, you’d not be about to do what you have to do so that I won’t have to do this … again. Circular argument, I suppose. I wish Hermione were here to explain it all.”

“What’s Azkaban?” Harry asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

The boy looked at his oddly familiar face closely, and began to cry again. “Dad?” He guessed, as the man pulled him close and hugged him gently as to avoid hurting him more as his ribs healed.

“No, Harry,” the man sighed as if in deep pain, and the wind blew his long salt-and-pepper bangs out of his face.

A nasty red scar shaped like a lightning bolt ran from his right eyebrow to his hairline. It was very deep and dark red in color, and it looked very painful. Harry thought that it might break open and start bleeding again if he were to touch it.

Harry gasped, staring into those familiar emerald eyes. They were so green, yet so old. They looked pained and haunted, as if over the long years they’d seen far too much. Yet Harry knew those eyes; he knew this man. He knew him well, because he stared at him in the mirror every morning of his life. His blood ran cold, despite the warmth of the Potion coursing through his veins and restoring his badly injured little body.

His mouth fell open as he stared again at the robes. They were identical to Dumbledore’s robes! And the man had a Wand, a Wand of holly – eleven inches - with a long crack in the handle! But it was the scar on his forehead that told the story. Harry reached up and touched it gently, tears still streaming down his face.

“People have been looking at me that way for all of my life,” the man told him in a somber voice. “And what a long, interesting life it’s been.”

“I know,” Harry replied, afraid to let go of him, afraid that it might all be a dream and that he might really be dead after all. It was simply too much to hope for.

And then the man kissed his cheek. He also began to cry, hugging Harry as tightly as he dared and not wanting to let go. “I’ve not held a little boy in my arms in so very long,” he moaned. “Not since … not since THIS night so long ago!”

Never having been the greatest of students, it amazingly came to Harry in a sudden rush. “You’re Harry Potter,” he stated, “You’re me …a ‘me’ that will…..that came to be…..after tonight, aren’t you?!”

He nodded to the injured boy, wiping at his tears again and kissing him. Then he pointed, turning, with young Harry in his arms as he rose up from the ground. He handled the wounded boy as if he were made out of thin glass, and his grasp was tight and secure.

Down the row of tombstones a bit was another body, nearly naked and almost unmarked. His old black robe was open, smoking a bit still, and he was very, very pale.

The Wand that had killed him was still sticking out of his right eye, driven deep into his brain. Much like Malfoy, his emasculated little form bore mute testimony to the lengths that some men would go to, to attain Ultimate Power.

Seamus Finnegan, Eunuch Wizard and Bearer of Wild Power, lay low upon the earth in the dewy wet grass with his head resting in the dirt.

It was too much for young Harry, and he buried his head in old Harry’s shoulder and sobbed as what was left of his little heart broke the rest of the way.

“B-b-but h-he had the Elix-x-xir,” young Harry sobbed desperately, grasping for a reason. “We w-were both exp-p-posed. But he … he’s d-d-dead! He c-c-cahn’t be d-dead! We’re both immortal, r-right?! YOU can do something, cahn’t you? You’ve got some Spell, right? He’ll w-wake up and he’ll b-be alright?! Flamel was 665, wasn’t he? Is that why you came back?”

Old Harry trembled a bit, and then began walking towards Seamus’ body. “No, please, no,” young Harry begged him, burying his face in his older self’s shoulder again, “I don’t want to see him, not like this! Please don’t make me see him!”

But old Harry simply waved his own cracked Wand, and Seamus’ body was Magically swathed in scented burial dressings of red and gold, much like an Egyptian mummy. The ground seemed to open a bit, and two strange little black and furry animals exploded up out of it. They looked much like black duck-billed platypuses, and as Seamus sank, something new arose from the freshly broken earth. They loosened the dirt, and Seamus Finnegan sank further into the earth beneath a new headstone carved out of solid gold in the shape of a lion.

“I never loved … YOU never loved … anyone again after tonight, Harry,” old Harry told the boy.

Young Harry gasped, staring at him in disbelief and shaking his head.

“Yes, Harry. Hagrid and Dumbledore found you here, all alone and dying. They’d be along soon, I suppose, but I told them not to come. They took you back to Hogwart’s, where Poppy healed you up as best she could.” Old Harry paused then, wondering if he should go on.

“It took six months before you could walk without a crutch again, and another year of being held back in School before you could even talk again. Mrs. Weasley did all she could that summer; she even stayed on at Hogwart’s with you throughout that disastrous Second Year when…when the Chamber … never mind.”

Old Harry sighed, looking deep into the boy’s puffy eyes. “You flunked your Second Year’s, Harry … we did, that is. It’s hard to get good grades when you cahn’t talk. The bones in your leg knitted fine, thanks to Madam Pomfrey, but much like the scar on your … our … foreheads, it was a vile Curse Wound. The pain never went away, and it was stiff as a board for those six months or so. Any weight on it at all was pure agony, and the forehead, well, suffice it to say we went through a lot of Willow Juice to keep that pain in check. McGonagall and Wood both wanted to keep you on the Quidditch team, since you don’t need a leg to fly, but your heart just wasn’t in it. A rogue Bludger took you off your Broomstick in the first match of our Second Year, busted up your arm pretty badly, and you…I…quit playing after that.”

Young Harry shook his head again, his mouth hanging open, as his Fate was so delivered in fine detail. He looked down at the ground, avoiding his older self’s eyes.

He couldn’t believe that he’d ever lose his heart for flying.

Then a wan smile came over Old Harry’s face. “The only good things about that Second Year, I think, was Hagrid coming up to the castle every evening to carry me – you - down to his cabin. We actually got on well with Fluffy, imagine that! I think that without Hagrid’s loving touch and Fang keeping our face clean, we’d’ve gone mad. Well, and having a three-headed dog following us around all the time certainly kept the Slytherins off of our back!

“And then there was Oliver Wood.”

Young Harry looked up at him sharply.

“Every night, Wood came down to Hagrid’s cabin to get you. He’d carry you back to the Castle, help you into your pajamas, and tuck you in. His goodnight-kisses on the forehead, I think, helped with the pain more than the Willow Juice. Many a night, I … you … well, we … would wind up in his bed in tears over some vile nightmare. But he was always there, Harry. He never turned us away. He did all he could, and I … you … were devastated when he finally graduated. You wanted to tell him so badly, Harry, but you couldn’t. No matter what anyone did, no one could get a sound out of your mouth. Only Wood could … if a giggle counts when Oliver would tickle …me…us.”

Young Harry couldn’t believe it as he felt the Potion still working at him. They’d all done that for him? They’d all cared that much? It was hard to believe in the face of what he’d done; yet recalling Wood’s words only a day before, Harry finally accepted it. He clenched his jaw, determined not to crumble into the pathetic wreck of a boy that his older self had just described.

It seemed as if Old Harry’s face changed a bit then, and he sighed. “It’s a start,” he said cryptically.

“When summer came again, the remaining Weasleys took you home with them, but it didn’t help much. I suppose being surrounded by so many memories of Ron wasn’t a good thing after all. They gave you his old room, you know. If there’s any comfort at all there, you never went back to Privet Drive. We never saw the Dursleys again.

“Hermione tried, Neville and Dean tried. Fred and George never let you out of their sight. You even made some new friends who tried so hard as well. But even raw admiration and open hero worship didn’t help. There was even little Colin … ah, what a lost chance there! I know what you’re thinking, boy, because I’ve lived it already.”

Old Harry then dug around in his pocket and produced a wallet-sized picture for young Harry to see. It was in color, and in the image, Harry as a child was sitting on Oliver Wood’s lap in the Gryffindor Common Room. Wood was smiling and holding Harry, but Harry’s eyes were duller than the rest of the picture and looked haunted. “Little Colin Creevey took that, he was quite the photographer. He simply adored us, Harry,” the older man told him with a look of regret on his lined face.

“No one hated you, Harry, but you thought that they all did. Sometimes,” his older self went on, “something so terrible happens that even the most powerful Magic cannot hold up under it. So much Dark Magic was released here tonight that even you and Seamus – the most Powerful Wizards to come along in centuries – couldn’t stop it. But he didn’t die in vain, Harry. Sadly, it’s going to take you most of the rest of our life to realize that – to realize that YOU … we … didn’t kill them.

“Voldemort did.”

“But he cahn’t die!” Young Harry wailed again, “The Mark, the Elixir, the ruddy Stone!” He cried in frustration.

“The Stone’s Powers saved you, yes, along with what our Mother gave us. But the Power is finite, Harry. It is not without end. You were both consuming so much Power and being injured so grievously and so quickly that you burned up more Power than most Wizards do in a lifetime.

“Seamus took enough damage to kill a thousand Wizards, Harry, and despite his Powers and the Elixir making him technically immortal, he died of it. Even Nicholas Flamel died after 666 years, you know. How many of those green fireballs did Seamus take for you? And why?

“Only one thing is without end, and that, Harry, is what Dumbledore told you last year when you took down Professor Quirrell and Voldemort far below the School to save The Sorcerer’s Stone.

”LOVE, Harry, he said in tender voice that shook the wounded boy the very core.

“Seamus loved me – loved you so much, as much as you - as we - loved him, that he willingly surrendered up his own life to save yours. I think the he must have known, and I’ve pondered it for years, now. He KNEW that if he got between you and Voldemort that last time to save you, that something cataclysmic would happen. He always was good at blowing things up, you know,” old Harry observed, glancing around at the shattered tombstones and smoking trees in the moonlight.

Young Harry laughed, remembering the first time that Seamus had tried to turn water into rum, or to levitate his feather in their first Charms Class with Professor Flitwick. Both had resulted in smoking explosions and the loss of his eyebrows. The Charms explosion had also very nearly taken Harry’s left ear off in the process.

They nodded to one another then, and young Harry snuggled into his older self’s lap as the man sat down and leaned back against the beautiful stone that he’d created to mark Seamus’ final resting place. He did the same for little Darby, and then took young Harry’s wrist in his hand. He helped Harry aim his battered Wand at Ron, and whispered the words into his ear, kissing him as he did so. He kissed him right beneath his earlobe, and Harry was reminded of Mr. Kearny and his love for Darby.

Young Harry began to cry again as Ronald Weasley, his first and best ever friend, floated down the row and came to rest next to Seamus’ plot. He sank out of sight into the earth beneath a blazing golden headstone around which hovered a Golden Snitch that buzzed around on silent wings. Another piece of young Harry’s broken heart went with him.

“He loved Quidditch so much,” young Harry choked, as old Harry simply held him and comforted him as best he could. Then his eyes wandered towards Draco Malfoy, or what was left of him.

“He deserved better,” old Harry said somberly. “It really wasn’t HIS fault, you know. He never knew what they were doing to him.”

“I know,” young Harry agreed. “On the train home last term, he was … he was almost nice to me. He was afraid, you know. So very afraid of his father.”

“I know,” old Harry replied, using a simple levitation Spell to bring Draco Malfoy’s broken body back down to earth. As Ron, Darby, and Seamus had all been, Draco Malfoy was buried alongside of them with a shining silver stone in the form of a coiled serpent with the Slytherin House Crest upon it.

“He’d have liked that,” young Harry said, sighing heavily and then beginning to cry again.

Old Harry Potter held his younger self for a long time, simply holding him and basking in the joy of having a little boy in his arms once again. He relived that horrible night over and over as the moon began to set, and young Harry finally fell asleep in his arms as he rocked him like a baby. When morning came, he was still awake. He shook young Harry a bit, and the boy came awake and stared up at him with a gasp.

“It WAS real!” He cried, jumping up and looking madly around the cemetery. His leg gave a jolt of pain that more than proved that it had, in fact, happened. Three brilliant gold headstones and one silver one stared back him, and his head fell, chin resting on his chest.

“I’ve failed,” he moaned, another wicked pain shooting up his leg as he paced about. He clenched his eyes shut, trying hard not to start crying again.

“No, Harry, I failed,” old Harry told him again, “I’ve lived with all of this for nearly two centuries, and I’m so tired. Here, take this. You’ll need it.”

Young Harry felt something cold being secured about his neck, and when he opened his eyes and wiped them, he saw a tiny, mirrored hourglass on a broad silver Herringbone chain about his neck. The chain had no clasp, no beginning or end. Old Harry studied him, standing there in his torn and ruined Muggle clothes, bloodstains and dirt caked about his face and hands. Only his glasses looked unscathed.

“That, my boy, is a Time-Turner that I’ve been modifying for years. It only goes to three places, and it will only work thrice before vanishing. Spin it and say Tempus de-fugit each time you use it. Use it well, for I’ve put a lot of thought and Magic into what all went wrong that night. This night. As I said, I failed. YOU won’t.”

“But where do I go?” Young Harry wondered aloud. “Where do I go and why? Why don’t you do it?” The thought of scrambling Time didn’t really appeal to him. He didn’t think that he could keep it all straight, and he really wished that Hermione was there to help him.

“I’m too old, Harry, and I’ve lived for far too long already. This is YOUR time, not mine. MY time is past. Remember what’s in the Potion I brought back to you? One of the ingredients?” Old Harry asked quizzically, and young Harry’s emerald eyes suddenly lit up.

“YOU used the Sorcerer’s Stone!” He cried, fingering the tiny hourglass. His eyebrows shot up then, scrunching up his scar and making him wince. “But Dumbledore destroyed it last term so that Voldemort couldn’t get it!”

“Exactly,” old Harry told him, “Just spin that, and we’ll take it from there. I’m counting on you, boy. We both are. So are Ron, Darby, Seamus, and even Malfoy, that worthless git! Gods, I hated him!” Then he paused, pulling young Harry into a last embrace. “It sounds silly and rather perverse, Harry, but … I love you. Be well. Make me … make us proud of you …us!”

He then hugged him tighter, kissed him passionately for a moment on the mouth, and patted his disheveled head of black hair. “Seamus wouldn’t’ve wanted it to happen like this, Harry. He couldn’t bear to see me … you … so miserable.”

He took a step back, and waved goodbye. Then he closed his eyes and vanished with a loud BANG of Disapparation in a shocking blue light, leaving his younger self alone to stare at the tombstones of his fallen friends. Harry limped back over to the large ash tree, where he’d left his Nimbus 2000. As he took it in his hands and he leaned against the rough bark of the tree, he thought he heard someone saying, “…cut from the Tree of Life itself with the Knife of Klingsor…”

An idea began to form up in his mind, and he smiled.

With a cold determination in his glittering green eyes, young Harry Potter, the twelve-year-old initial version, took a deep breath and spun the Time-Turner. Tempus de-fugit! He cried in triumph.

The world spun madly away from him as the Time-Turner took him away from the horror. It was like traveling via Floo Powder, only millions of times faster. He closed his eyes against the whirling colors, dizzy and freezing cold, and held his breath. It seemed as if Time were not even passing. The wild ride went on and on, and he began to think.

HE had the Sorcerer’s Stone, to make the Potion, he said! In the future. He came back with it, which means that in the future, the Stone exists in his … in my care. That means that if HE has it, at some point, I have to get it. But Dumbledore destroyed it when he found me after Voldemort had fled. How can I have it, so he can have it later, so that we can even DO any of this? Much less save my friends?

Harry’s questions were answered, though, when the ride stopped. The whirling mix of colors about him coalesced into a sight that he remembered well.

He was standing in the torch-lit secret chamber far below Hogwart’s, his hands clenching the frame of the Mirror of Erised. He was staring at the room where he’d found Professor Quirrell, possessed by Voldemort, but something was wrong with it. Very cautiously, he peeked out around into the quiet room.

What he saw was himself, some months earlier, lying on the stone steps. He was unconscious, his hand and face bleeding. His red sweater was torn up, and his tan corduroy pants ruined. The air smelled like smoke and burnt things, and the ruins of Professor Quirrell lay in a dusty heap in front of his other self.

And there in his left hand, bleeding its own Elixir of Life into his deep wound, was the Sorcerer’s Stone. Very carefully, he looked down at his dirty hands. “But it wasn’t my left … it was my right hand,” he wondered, and then it hit him. He was IN the mirror, not in front of it. Everything was reversed!

He held up a fist, and it tapped against solid glass. He was reminded of his cousin Dudley in the reptile house last year, before he’d gone to Hogwart’s and how he’d made the glass vanish, setting the snake free.

Harry’s heart leapt, thinking that surely Hermione was helping Ron up off of the giant chessboard and running for help. Then another thought came to him: Ron had offered up his life for Harry that night, on that giant chessboard when he’d baited the white Queen to take him. True, he’d survived, but he’d made the offer nonetheless.

It was the third time that someone had done so for him, Harry realized with a start. His mother had died to save him from Voldemort when he’d been hardly a year old. Ron had offered but escaped last term, and he’d just seen Seamus Finnegan buried under a golden tombstone for his sake.

“That kind of love leaves a Mark,” Dumbledore had told him …

And Albus Dumbledore would be there any moment to take the Stone and find him, and that was where Harry’s heart sank and his mind froze.

What if the old man wouldn’t give him the Stone? What if he didn’t believe him? What if he thought that it was Dark Magic? What if he attacked him? Should he take the Stone and run with it before Dumbledore arrived, or should he wait?

His questions became moot, however, as a loud explosion filled the room. Albus Dumbledore had knocked down the doors and came striding down the steps two at a time, his movements fast and furious for one so old. In his right hand he held a Wand, which sparked and crackled with raw energy. A nimbus of pale blue light, almost like a shield, surrounded him. His face was panic stricken, and there were tears on his bearded cheeks. Harry choked.

“Oh, Harry!” He cried, running to the unconscious Harry Potter and taking him up in his arms. He gently lifted the limp boy up, about to go with him, when Harry – all battered and dirty – cleared his throat loudly and tapped on the glass of the Mirror of Erised.

“Who’s there?” Dumbledore demanded, a surge of Power coming off of him that brought Harry to his knees.

“Me, sir,” Harry replied, tapping on the glass of the Mirror of Erised again and nearly collapsing under the wave of Dumbledore’s Power. “It’s me, Harry Potter, a later Harry! I’m kind of stuck in here. Could you, uhhh…?” He asked, tapping at the glass and shrugging.

There was a strained silence, and then the old Wizard looked at him, looked at the boy in his arms, looked back, looked back at the unconscious Harry again, and then began to laugh. Harry’s hopes soared. He’d heard that laugh before.

“Only you, Harry Potter,” he commented as if nothing were amiss. “Surely YOU, as you are now, are not what I wish to see, nor desire the most in my heart, given your awful appearance. Right now, I dare say that I’d look into the Mirror and see Harry Potter, clean and healthy and happy, running about in the warm sunshine or riding his Broomstick with his friends. I’m not really all that surprised.” He then blinked at the Mirror, and Harry fell out of it.

“Sir?” Harry asked, confused, getting up and trying to dust himself off.

“Something horrible has happened to you, to him, I dare say,” he suggested, looking back down at the unconscious Harry in his arms.

Harry nodded. “I don’t think I can tell you, sir, and I don’t believe you’ll want to know, anyways. But you have something there, or rather, ‘I’ do, that I need badly right now. Or will need. You know what I mean.”

“You’ve come back for the Sorcerer’s Stone, then, Mr. Future Harry Potter?” Dumbledore guessed, grinning.

“How … how did you guess?” Harry wondered aloud.

“Catch,” the old man said, taking the Stone out of the unconscious Harry’s tight little bloody hand and tossing it to the latest Harry. He caught it and stuffed it into his pocket. “You look a fright,” the old man casually observed, as if discussing the weather.

“That’s it, then?” He asked, confused. Surely the old man would want a reason for seeing two Harry Potters at once?!

“Yes, Harry, that’s it. A much older Harry Potter has already been here to tell me NOT to go to Waterville, Ireland with Hagrid on that obnoxiously loud flying motorcycle of his in a month or so. He said he’d do it for me. Take the Stone and go back to where you came from, UP there, if you will, in the future, or the past. Whichever it is.” Then he winked slyly.

“Who do you think gave YOU the idea, anyway, to use a Time-Turner and the Sorcerer’s Stone?” Then he sighed, turning to go with the initial wounded Harry in his arms. “I shall simply take him … take you … to the Hospital Wing and say that I destroyed the Stone. Will that do?”

Harry Potter, the muddy and bloody version, smiled at the old man holding … Harry Potter … and clutched the Stone tightly through his pocket. He turned to go, and as he did, he stared into the mirror. Staring back at him were Ron, Seamus and Darby, and amazingly, Draco Malfoy. They were all smiling at him and waving, and Seamus was reaching out to him longingly.

Fighting back the tears again, Harry waved goodbye to Dumbledore as the old man left the room with the earlier version of himself cradled lovingly in his arms. He spun the Time-Turner again.

”Tempus de-fugit!” He cried aloud, and the cold waves of Time’s Arrow shooting backwards swept him away into the Mirror of Erised towards what he truly desired the most.

He fell face-first into the long grass, sending a flock of blackbirds screeching up into the sky. The sun was hot and blazing down from a cloudless blue sky as they soared off, and Harry looked about, confused.

BANG!

He hit the ground out of instinct, recognizing the sound of a powerful Spell being deployed. He peeked through the tall grass, and smelled smoke. A fireball hurtled over his head, and he rolled back into a small dip behind a fallen log to hide. Seconds later, a naked and frightened little boy came running past him. Two seconds later, Draco Malfoy followed, firing green bolts of energy from his wand – and missing again.

Avada Kadevra! Draco cried, and Harry’s hair stood on end. It was a forbidden Curse, and he remembered Old Harry just telling him that not long ago. The events that he had just survived were still fresh in his mind as well. Well, not long ago technically, in his own mind … actually, he hadn’t told him yet … they’d not even run away yet, as Seamus was screaming in the distance. Harry’s heart leapt, but he didn’t dare turn around as Malfoy’s black robe flailed out behind him as he ran.

He heard Seamus scream again, and then something very odd happened.

Malfoy seemed to be running in slow motion. The green fireball hung at the tip of his Wand, glowing, but not moving. Darby, Harry saw, was off the ground, as if frozen while dashing to duck behind a large tree. He was also naked and wet. Then he heard running sounds.

“Harry!” Seamus screamed, still wet from swimming and naked as the day he’d been born.

He looked to be on the verge of nervous collapse.

Harry jumped up and started to run for him, but Seamus turned his head. Harry followed that movement, and his heart very nearly stopped. Frozen in mid-stride was Lucius Malfoy, his eyes blazing with hatred and his Wand aimed at Seamus. Malfoy’s mouth was open, uttering a Curse, and a thin bolt of white energy had just emerged from his Wand. Behind him hung a cloud of black smoke that resembled the form of a man, and Harry sensed the dread presence of Lord Voldemort as his scar took fire and burned at his forehead.

Harry’s stomach lurched and his chest ached. Still, he ran towards Seamus. It was the moment he’d been awaiting for so long. He was going to take the boy that he loved in his arms, hold him, protect him, take him away!

I can grab him, spin the Time-Turner, and none of it will happen! He thought, but Seamus was shaking his head as if he knew what Harry was thinking. Very suddenly, as they crashed into one another, Harry was reminded of the first time that Seamus had brought him off. They’d been right in front of Ron, and Seamus had brought Harry to orgasm without Ron even seeing it!

“’Time flies’,” Seamus had said then, and as his mouth closed over Harry’s in a passionate kiss, Harry’s worries and fears seemed to vanish. There was only THAT one moment, only Seamus’ tongue in his mouth, only their hands touching here and there. Harry wanted desperately to take him down and roll about in the grass with Seamus, but ironically, there wasn’t time. Seamus broke the long kiss, looking flushed and heady.

Harry saw his Wand, the Ash Wand cut from the Tree of Life by The Knife of Klingsor, in his hand.

“They’re gon’ta take me, aren’t they?” Seamus asked, not the least bit surprised to see Harry Potter in the middle of the chaos.

Harry nodded, sudden tears spilling down his face. “Voldemort wants to possess you, Seamus, take over your body to get at your Powers, like he did Professor Quirrell! He wants you for a host, until he can get his own body back, or a new one that’s not … so he won’t be …” Harry fumbled, glancing down at Seamus’ crotch and very nearly exploding in his pants as he did.

“A eunuch?” Seamus finished for him, grinning and touching himself there. “Well, ‘e’s in fer a rude shock then, ain’t he?”

“Seamus,” Harry cried, as the frozen figures seemed to shudder a bit in forward motion, “Grab onto me! I have a Time-Turner! I can take you now, we can go…”

But Seamus was shaking his dripping wet head, his sandy hair all plastered down. Harry stared at him, captivated by the splash of freckles that ran across his pert little nose and over his smooth cheeks. Seamus was near tears, shaking in fear.

“So that’s how ya got ‘ere,” he realized, staring at the shiny thing about Harry’s neck. “Yer Harry Potter, from the future? Man, ya look like hell.”

“Yes, C’mon, we can go!” Harry cried, his fingers itching to spin the thing and be off.

“No,” Seamus replied, pointing his Wand at Draco and Darby. Harry turned, and his heart nearly stopped again. The green fireball was out of Draco’s Wand, and it was headed straight for Darby’s exposed back. Even though he was no math ace, Harry knew that the boy wasn’t going to make it behind the tree before it hit him.

Before it killed him.

“If I go now, Darby dies,” he said sadly, reaching up to touch Harry’s face with a trembling hand as he aimed his Wand at Darby. “I have more Power than Draco does. My Spell will hit Darby first. He’s going to run, Harry. I have this thing, you can see, like I did that time I made you cum, remember? Right in front of Ron? I can like, slip outta Time, but I cahn’t hold it fer long.”

Harry nodded, wanting so desperately to just grab Seamus and flee back into the Timestream. But doing so meant that Darby, Seamus’ best friend, would die here and now, and that he and Ron would never know him.

And what would that do to Seamus? Harry wondered, He’ll lose his best friend, he’ll still be a eunuch, and he’ll probably still be nothing but overlooked in our Second Year if the Charm makes me forget him again.

It was an agonizing decision, and as his heart wrenched and his conscience screamed at him, Harry Potter kissed Seamus firmly on the mouth one last time and nodded. “You have to Disapparate him,” Harry suggested, even though he didn’t know how to do it. Seamus nodded, and Harry took his hand, steadying it. Grimaldi’s words echoed in his head again, ‘You don’t have to know the Magic words…’

“I cahn’t hold it much longer, ‘Arry,” Seamus said, shaking badly all over as he took careful aim at Darby. “I ne’er held it so long before, they’re gonna start movin’ any time!

“DISAPPARTE!” Seamus then cried, and a pure white fireball flew from the end of his Wand. It passed Draco, passed his lethal green fireball, and struck Darby full in the butt. It surrounded him, and the naked boy vanished in a loud BANG!

Seamus then shoved his Wand into Harry’s hand, and took off running as Draco suddenly lurched forward. “Hide!” Seamus cried, his eyes drooping and his breath coming hard gasps. He looked exhausted.

It all happened at once as Harry fell back behind the log.

Harry grabbed the Time-Turner, clutching Seamus’ Wand as the Irish lad ran for all he was worth. It wasn’t much, however. After a few strides, Seamus stumbled, caught himself, and tried to run on. He sank to the ground, however, totally exhausted.

Draco snapped back into Time, ran a bit, as his green fireball struck the huge tree. It dropped all of its leaves and died. Darby, however, was gone – Disapparated to Seamus’ house. Any moment and he’d be calling Harry at Ron’s via the Floo, and Seamus was screaming those exact instructions as he ran. Lucius Malfoy was closing in on him, and the black smoky cloud that was Voldemort was engulfing Draco Malfoy.

“Leave the Muggle,” it hissed, “No one will believe him. We’ll get him later, my fine boy, yes we will, you and me!”

Harry’s scar burned as the shadow of the Dark Lord passed by him, and he concentrated with all his might to not cry out in pain as he clutched at this forehead.

And then Harry heard Lucius Malfoy shout, Stupefy!

He turned to see Seamus go limp and fall. Malfoy scooped him up into his arms, and Harry so desperately wanted to aim BOTH of the Wands he held at him and kill him! But Draco was coming back, pale and thin, with Lord Voldemort floating behind him.

“I have him, Master,” Lucius Malfoy said, and Voldemort – not quite a ghost but not quite carnal, either – smiled as he hovered protectively over Draco. Harry felt nauseated, unable to do a thing for fear of damaging the Timeline too badly and endangering Darby and Seamus further. He’d already gotten them all killed once, and he wasn’t going to do it again!

Harry’s mind raced as he tried to decide what to do, but just then, Voldemort vanished in a puff of black smoke, taking Draco with him as Lucius Malfoy Disapparated in a loud BANG, taking Seamus Finnegan with him as well.

Somewhere in the distance, Harry heard a car engine turn over.

“Not THIS time, Voldemort! I think I need some high caliber help,” he mused, fingering the Time-Turner and walking back up to the road that led to the Kearnys’ house as he reorganized his plans. He could still taste Seamus on his lips, still feel his touch on his skin. And he realized that ‘when’ he was, in his relative past, that all of his friends were still alive. Those two things drove Harry Potter – the version that was yet to be – onward towards the home of two complete strangers that he already knew.

He was almost to the Kearnys’ when he heard hooves behind him. Instinctively, he dived into the bushes at the side of the road and watched as Mr. Kearny passed by in his rickety wagon drawn by the plump old pony. Harry smiled, realizing that old man didn’t know him yet. He knew Seamus and Darby, but technically, Harry Potter hadn’t come along yet. Then he realized something else.

Seamus had Disapparated Darby to his own house, for fear that Voldemort and the Malfoys would look at the young boy’s own house for him. Harry already knew that they were going to go there, in fact, setting fire to the house and killing Darby’s entire family. But he also knew that Darby wasn’t there, and that he – in fact – was about to be miles and miles away at Ron Weasley’s house. He checked the sky, since his watch was totally wrong. It seemed to be just the right time, but something was bothering him.

“Seamus lives in a Wizard’s House,” Harry breathed, realizing that Darby was probably already there, naked and confused, with no way at all to light the fireplace! Wizards didn’t keep things like matches or lighters, and they didn’t have gas-powered stoves. HE had Seamus’ Wand, and Darby hadn’t bought one yet! No fire, no Floo, no call to Harry at Ron’s house …

“Shit,” he grumbled, wondering just where in the hell Seamus lived. Of course he’d been IN the house, but he’d come in via the Floo and had no clue as to the geography of the neighborhood! He was on the far side of Ireland, without a map, and without a clue. Then he thought of Mr. Kearny.

Harry sprang up out of the weeds and ran for all he was worth, his mended leg screaming in pain. He caught up to Mr. Kearny after a bit, breathing hard and with a stitch in his side. “Excuse me, sir,” he called, and the wagon stopped. The pony seemed relieved.

“Kin I he’p ya, son?” The old man asked, smiling. “Hmm, don’t get many strangers ‘round here. You plan to sweep somethin’?” He asked, eyeing Harry’s Broomstick.

“I’m a friend of Seamus’, from school,” Harry replied, “And I, er, got lost. Which way is Seamus’ house?”

Mr. Kearny laughed. “See that there old house over yonder?” He pointed, grinning, towards a very large and very old house at the top of a small hill not a hundred yards from them. It was a Victorian style, almost, with a touch of something else. Being no expert at architecture, Harry couldn’t really say what it was; he was sure, however, that it didn’t look anything like the ‘proper’ houses along Privet Drive. It looked almost abandoned, but after blinking and adjusting his specs, Harry could see that it was actually well maintained and carried a Charm of some kind to make it look run down and empty. “Ya must really be lost, Harry,” the old man told him. “Maybe ya need new specs?”

“Thanks,” Harry replied, feeling stupid. He ran towards the house, and Mr. Kearny shrugged and continued on his merry way. “Another lost Wizard,” the old man sighed, “Wait’ll I tell the Missus!”

Harry slipped up to the backside of the house, tapped his Wand on the window, and it slid open. He silently thanked Seamus for telling the house about him, and dropped in with a dull THUD. His leg screamed in pain, but he ignored it. He listened carefully, and was just able to make out the sounds of Darby rooting about in Seamus’ room. Harry nodded, and quickly limped his way to the Parlor. He aimed his Wand at the fireplace, and said, Incendio! The logs burst into flame, and Harry headed back towards the window. He’d just dropped out onto the grass when he heard Darby screaming, “Harry?! Harry Potter? Are you there? I need to speak to Harry Potter!!!”

Harry smiled and crawled under the bushes, rubbing at his leg. It was going to be a long walk to the Kearnys’ place later on, and he decided to risk flying in the daylight.

He arrived at the Kearny farm just as night was falling, having gotten lost only once. Very quietly, he crept into the barn and made his way painfully up to the loft. He knew that he and Ron and Hedwig, along with Darby O’Gill, would be arriving at the farm the following afternoon, so he had to stay out of sight. There really wasn’t anything that he could do until they arrived and had fallen asleep anyway. He already had a plan forming in his head as he fingered The Sorcerer’s Stone in his pocket.

Last term, he’d found the Stone only because he’d been the one who wanted to find it, but not use it. Now that he had it, though, he really had no idea of what to do with it! He knew that he HAD to use it, but he just wasn’t sure how. He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it.

The Stone was much like a large ruby, just larger than a hen’s egg. It was not cut and polished, however. In fact, it looked very much like a rough piece of red glass with jagged edges here and there. Anyone who didn’t know what it was would probably have thought that it was simply a piece of glass slag and discarded it. It was pretty, in its own way, though, and Harry slipped it back into his pocket, wondering what in blazes he was going to do with the silly thing. He soon fell asleep in the sweet smelling hay, still worn out from his fight ‘the previous night’.

He awoke at first light, aroused by the sounds of Mr. Kearny chasing cows out of the barn. Harry sat up, rubbed at his eyes, and realized that he forgotten to take his glasses off. He blew the dust off of them and sneezed, the mooing of the protesting cows covering the sound. He watched Mr. Kearny herd them all out and head back towards the house. Not long afterwards, a wonderful smell of eggs and bacon came wafting along on the breeze, and Harry’s stomach growled. He didn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and he also realized that hiding in the barn was probably a mistake. He was sore, hungry, impatient, and at risk of being discovered.

What he did remember, though, was that Mr. Finnegan was gone, having left his wife and son over Seamus’ castration. Mrs. Finnegan would be spending a great deal of time with the Kearnys, probably starting that day, in fact, and Harry decided to move to Seamus’ house. He’d already seen it, and aside from the three of them coming back to snitch a pair of Seamus’ briefs for the Bloodhound Spell and Seamus’ father coming for the sack of outgrown clothes, no one would be there for days. Harry felt confident that he could dodge those two interruptions.

That, and it was a Wizard House, which guaranteed his safety from Muggles. As he’d seen at Ron’s, the house would be heavily bewitched. Sure enough, Mrs. Finnegan showed up later that morning with some policemen involved in the kidnapping and arson cases surrounding Seamus and Darby. When they’d all gone inside, Harry crept out of the loft and set off, limping painfully, back to Seamus’ deserted house. After about five minutes, he gave up and hopped back on his Broomstick, beginning to wonder if he was going to be crippled for life. “Stupid idea,” he mumbled, taking to the sky again.

When he arrived, tapping on the back door with his Wand and being admitted (Seamus had obviously been expecting him), the first thing that Harry did was to raid the pantry. Having had plenty of practice cooking for the Dursleys, he fixed himself a good meal and ate ravenously. He was just walking into the parlor again when he passed a mirror that spoke to him.

“Oh, it’s YOU again,” is wheezed at him.

“Don’t tell,” Harry said back to it, and the mirror laughed. Fortunately, he’d been prepared for talking furniture at Ron’s house already. He opened the high, double-doors to the parlor and went in, stretching out on a divan to rest his aching leg.

“It’s worth it, if I can fix this mess,” Harry said to himself, taking The Stone out of his pocket again. “Now how do I get it to drip Elixir?” He wondered.

“You should take a bath first,” the mirror told him, “You’re a mess.”

Harry hadn’t thought of that. He was still rather dirty and bloody, and probably smelly as well. He put The Stone back in his pocket, and went in search of the bathroom. He found one upstairs, remembering that he could ride the banister UP (for which his leg was grateful), and realized that it must be Seamus’ private bathroom. It was located just one door down the hall from his bedroom, in fact.

Like the rest of the house, the bathroom had polished hardwood floors and a large woven throw rug on the floor in front of the claw-footed tub. One tall window let light in, and a wrought iron chandelier holding a dozen or so candles burst into flames when he stepped under it. The mirror, a brass framed job that was round and very oblong on the back of the door, advised him to throw his clothing away when he began to undress. Harry blushed. His Muggle clothing, actually borrowed from Seamus’ outgrown stock and Magically modified to fit, WAS in sad shape.

He pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it aside, kicking off his sneakers in the process. He figured that he could save them with a good hard cleaning Spell, and peeled his socks off. Those were probably salvageable too, along with his Gryffindor printed boxers. The cargo shorts were a wreck, though. He turned the taps on, although not seeing any connecting pipes, and watched the tub fill with steaming water. He turned around then, blushing furiously, as the mirror whistled at him.

Harry gazed at his own reflection – a skinny boy of twelve years old who looked underfed and wore glasses. His unruly black hair stuck up in every direction, as did his uncut cock. He reached down and touched himself, thinking about Seamus. He turned and got into the rapidly filling tub before the mirror could come up with anything clever to say. He leaned back in the hot water and sighed happily.

Harry had his eyes closed and was thinking, more like daydreaming, of Seamus. In his daydream, Seamus had his feet over his head, knees by his ears. Harry’s own dick got hard and raised up to its almost four uncut inches. Must’ve grown some, he thought, stroking it. Harry took a hold of his penis and started to slowly stroke it a bit harder.

In his waking dream, he saw his dick entering Seamus’ virgin ass. Harry’s dick was thrusting in and out of him while the smaller boy played with his own nipples, his other hand running over the area where his boyhood SHOULD have been. Harry grabbed the bottle of bath gel and squirted a big blob onto his hard cock. After dropping the bottle, he took his dick in hand once again and stroked it in time with his dream thrusts of Seamus’ arse. In Harry’s mind, he watched himself fuck Seamus’ arse, as the Irish lad played with himself as best he could.

He could see Ron standing there next to them, watching voyeuristically. Ron had his own dick in his hand was pumping it at the same speed that Harry was fucking his dick in and out of the ass attached to the smaller boy. Harry’s hand started to speed up the stroking motion on his dick. Harry’s boy balls were bouncing around really hard in their bag of skin, and so Harry took a hold of his jewels and rubbed them around in their silky bag that had yet to sprout any hair.

He felt his little boy nipples getting hard in the hot water as his sexual energy started to build up. Harry’s balls pulled up tight to his body and his breathing became small gasps for air. In Harry’s mind he saw Ron shoot cum all over as he climaxed, blowing a huge load.Harry’s hand squeezed his dick harder as he felt daydream-Seamus beginning have his first orgasm, which caused the butt muscles to be contracted tightly.

It was exactly what he’d been wanting to do since Ron had done it to him that night, proving that you didn’t need a cock to orgasm. He imagined Seamus finally feeling what he had, feeling that pure bliss that overcame him every time he orgasmed. He wanted for him to feel it so badly, yet feeling guilty that he could do it to himself at any time while Seamus couldn’t.

His fantasy turned out to be a bit too much for him, however, and Harry felt himself about to explode.

Harry let out all his breath and the first rope of cum shot out of his piss slit, blowing his daydream to pieces before his imaginary Seamus could climax as well. The blast shot out so hard that it hit Harry’s right lens of his glasses!

One more blast of cum shot out of Harry’s dick and hit his left nipple. Harry had three small dribbles that ran down his hand and cock.

After the orgasm died away, Harry relaxed back into the hot water for a little while and then grabbed up the wash cloth to wash all the cum off of himself and glasses. That’s how it’s going to happen, too, he swore silently as he cleaned himself up, amazed that the Potion that his older self had given him had even cleared up his bruises.

Once clean, he simply lay back in the tub and soaked. The water didn’t seem to be getting any cooler, but after about an hour, the mirror told him to get out before he turned into a prune! Harry jumped, splashing water all over. “Don’t DO that!” He snapped at the mirror, which laughed at him. He got out of the tub and pulled a large towel out of the cabinet, drying off as best he could and sneaking glances at himself in the mirror.

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” it told him in a confident tone. “Poor little Seamus, on the other hand…”

“You leave Seamus alone!” Harry snapped. “It’s not HIS fault he … he got cut!”

Then another idea came to him, and it made his flesh erupt in goosebumps. It didn’t factor into his plans so far, but it certainly would help to turn the tables as he thought about the nightmare he’d had while napping in Oliver Wood’s care. He made a mental note to make a Floo-call later on that evening.

Harry tossed the wet towel into a hamper, which burped at him and slammed shut. He emptied the pockets of the shorts, taking out his Wand, Seamus’ Wand, and The Sorcerer’s Stone. He threw the ruined shirt and shorts into a trashcan, and picked up his boxer shorts along with his shoes and socks. He put the shoes and socks back down, stuck the Wands in his mouth to carry them in his teeth, and picked them up again. That left The Stone. Wingardium Leviosah, he mumbled, his mouth full of Wands; it worked, and The Stone happily floated along beside him. He left the bathroom, listening as the tub drained itself, mumbling all the way to Seamus’ room about lippy furniture.

He paused in the doorway, gazing about at the room he’d already seen once. The covers on the twin bed were a bit rumpled, and he assumed that Darby had sat down on it to find the shorts that he’d shown up wearing at Ron’s. Harry dropped his shoes and socks on the floor, and carefully laid his cracked Wand, alongside Seamus’, on the desk in the far corner as The Stone floated to his outstretched hand. He then went to the chest of drawers, realizing that he was going to have to use an Engorgement Charm to enlarge a shirt and some shorts to fit him. Seamus was, after all, much smaller.

He touched his twitching cock again as he handled Seamus’ clothes. The room even smelled like Seamus, and Harry’s chest began to hurt. His stomach seemed to ache, but it wasn’t from the food he’d eaten. He sat down heavily on the bed, clutching a pair of black cargo shorts in his hands. He looked up at all of the cool things stashed in the headboard shelves, and he bit his lip as his eyes came to rest on the gold-framed 5x7. He picked it up, running his fingers over the frame and holding it tightly. He then pulled his specs off and laid them aside on the nightstand, tears spilling down his face. In the Magical picture, photo-Seamus and photo-Harry stared up at him in sympathy.

Harry then stretched out on the bed and pulled a blanket up over his head. He couldn’t do much of anything until nightfall, anyway. He yawned, stretched, and decided that an Engorgement Charm on a pair of pajamas was just too much work. He’d only slept naked once before, at Ron’s, but he found that he rather liked the idea. In a few moments, warm and clean and with a full tummy again, he fell asleep in Seamus’ bed …all alone … I wish he were here … with me… and dreamed of running through sunny meadows and swimming in cool ponds with The Boy Who Didn’t Exist. He dreamed of holding Seamus in his arms, simply holding him crying tears of happiness that he'd finally found him.

“Seamus,” he mumbled in his sleep, his hand clutching The Sorcerer’s Stone tightly and his head moving from side to side on the damp pillow, “I’ll fix it … this time …I won’ forget…I promise…”