Reginald Hornbeam was of an old wizarding family. The sixth child, and the only boy, he often went unnoticed. He was a small, mousey man, who wore a worn bowler hat like a shield, and stood hunched over, intelligent blue eyes shadowed by eyebrows like caterpillars, bushy and white and slightly hungry looking.

But Reginald was a kind soul, of the type that Voldemort would simply overlook, despite his bloodline, and Reginald was content that way. He was one of those wizards who pitied muggles; for all that they lived without. Though he had not a malicious bone in his body, Reginald possessed more than his fair share of pity.

And so, ministry clipboard and auto-answer-quill firmly in hand, he set off for the marshland. They said that nobody cared about the marsh people, but Reginald did – at least in the way that a shepherd cares for his flock, and this particular sheep was several weeks overdue for her post-natal check-up at St. Mungos.

There was something odd and still about the cottage, for the marsh people were a suspicious folk, and always kept a light on in their small swamp dwellings. Reginald did not notice this, however. He had never bothered to ask.

So he stepped up carefully to the door, adjusting his bowler hat and nervously smoothing the wrinkles of his suit before knocking. After a moment, he cursed the young mother for her careless disregard for he child before taking out his wand and whispering Alohamora at the door.

It swung open, but Reginald was surprised at what met him on the other side – not a poor delinquent wretch, ready to receive a lecture, but a snake, larger than any he had ever seen in his rather uneventful life. Its eyes glittered a deep yellow, even in daylight and its scales were a strange mottled blue like moonlight on a mountain lake.

The last thought Reginald had, as it wound itself carefully around his neck, was to feel sorry for this poor disfigured serpent, with patches like mouths where its diamond pattern should have been.

---

"McKay!" Colonel Carter was shouting. "I didn't authorize this kind of power usage."

"Oh," he waved her away, like the annoying horsefly that she was.

Carter growled. Normally, Rodney might have stopped to take notice (yes, he was in a loving monogamous relationship, but he was still human), but his heart wasn't in it. John was taking a three-week vacation to England – land of rainy days and sexy accents, and the fact that the Brits had bad teeth probably wouldn't even deter Colonel Manwhore. The thing was, John never set off trying to seduce the chieftain's daughter or end up in a drunken and naked in a ceremonial hut with the shaman and his ritual towel boys, Rodney trusted him enough to know that John would never go out looking to cheat on anybody. But that didn't mean he could be left unsupervised. He was the kind of man who would find a guy's cock half-way up his ass and wonder, ‘Hm, I wonder how that got there?' Besides, he got in enough trouble with Rodney there to guard his back (and his front). And three weeks was a long time. Rodney was perfectly justified in worrying.

"McKaaaay." Carter waved her hands in front of Rodney's face, blue eyes glittering.

"Hmm?"

"As much as I hate to ask . . . are you feeling all right? You seem distracted."

"Oh, well, yes . . . fine." He snapped his fingers a few times for good measure, pointing in the direction of the pile of equipment they were supposed to be working on.

Carter rolled her eyes. Not that Rodney cared. He was so over his superior-blonde-bimbo phase.

His fingers twitched, fingering the Ancient Data device currently burning a hole in his pants pocket. He'd told himself that he wouldn't look – that he trusted John. It wasn't like the device could pick up him having sex with Dr. Pinloop in the bathroom of Denver International Airport anyhow.

Rodney was 37 years old, with 3 PhDs, head of a group of world-class scientists saving the galaxy on a regular basis, and in the best relationship of his life, surely he could manage to demonstrate a modicum of self-control.

Carter gave him a suspicious look. She was right. Who was he kidding?

With a long-suffering sigh, Rodney reached into his pocket and pulled up the program he'd tied into the Daedalus' orbital scanners, and . . . what the FUCK was John doing in London? He'd kissed Rodney goodbye before leaving for the airport two hours ago. That wasn't even enough time to get through airport security.

Rodney closed his favorite laptop, threw it in its bag along with a handful of powerbars from the box some frightened-looking airman had dropped off, some pens and paper, his cell phone, and the lab's bottle of hand sanitizer. He stuffed his sidearm and a few clips into outer pocket for good measure.

"McKay?" Carter asked, looking genuinely worried. Good for her.

Unfortunately, Rodney couldn't use his usual ‘world's ending, have to go save the day, leave me alone you incompetent moron' excuse, because Carter got all nosey and proprietary about that sort of thing. Rodney pointed over his shoulder at the door. "Personal . . . thing . . . gotta go. You just . . . keep up the good work."

He edged away from Carter's bewildered look and out into the hallway, tapping his radio the second he arrived. "Novak, this is McKay, if you don't beam me up this second, you'll be hiccupping your last."

A second later, she and Rodney were face to face standing onboard the Daedalus, where it was in orbit making repairs.

"Good to . . . [hiccup] . . . see you, sir. Are you here to help with the engine . . . [hiccup] . . . manifold problems? [hiccup]."

Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently. "Lock on to Sheppard's subcutaneous transmitter and transport me about fifty meters away."

Novak hiccupped, looking at him with wide doe-like eyes. Too bad Rodney ate doe-like animals for breakfast (unfortunately, sometimes literally, if the mess staff was feeling particularly adventurous).

"I hear that it helps if you stand on your head and drink a cup of egg whites and vinegar through a straw," Rodney offered sarcastically. "Now, what are you waiting for?"

"Yes, sir," Novak squeaked, dematerializing him before she could hiccup again.

Rodney rematerialized in a bar. It figured. John wasn't an alcoholic by any means, but he did love his beer – Guinness, particularly, and regardless of how he magically arrived in London, it was no surprise that the first place he hit was a pub (and the associated British hussies).

And trust Sheppard to find the most beat-up depressing run-down bar in the city. Rodney looked around, annoyed not to even earn a drunken stare, due to the fact that he'd just appeared out of thin air. But then again, the only customers were an old woman with skin so stretched and gnarled it was a miracle food managed to find her two yellowed teeth and a younger man wearing a women's nightgown, a maroon cummerbund, and yellow rain slicker. Plus they were drinking at three in the afternoon.

Rodney hadn't been to London for years, but judging by this place, it'd managed to get even bleaker and more traditional – the place was light by candles for christsakes.

Luckily for Rodney, the customers seemed equally nonplussed when Rodney pulled out his scanner as they did when he appeared out of nowhere. Now, according to these readings, John was out the back and around the corner, in a crowd of people. With a nod to the guy in the rain slicker, Rodney walked out the back, only to be met with a brick wall.

"Huh," he remarked. He'd have to go around.

Except, there was no way around. The lifesigns were there blinking happily away, but he didn't find any back doors in the two shops next to ‘the Leaky Caldron' (what the hell kind of name was that – sounded like food poisoning). And a long walk around the block revealed no entrances to the alleyway that should have contained all those lifesigns.

After several trips around, Rodney finally consented to asking for directions, but he was met only with blank stares and mutterings of ‘Crazy Yanks.' If he weren't so annoyed at the John-dot hovering so tantalizingly close, he might have let these idiots know that he was Canadian, thank you very much.

He was ready to suffer through another round of hiccupping and get Novak to beam him into the stupid alleyway, when one of the three lifesigns in the pub moved through the back to join the other lifesigns in the huddle. Maybe he'd missed an exit.

Rodney made his way back to the pub, ignoring the barkeep of Notre Dame and the gnarled-looking grandma-gin and followed the man in the rainslicker's route out the back, to . . . a brick wall. Running the scanner over it, Rodney was surprised to find an interesting power reading coming from the wall itself – three bricks in particular. He pulled out the scanner's focusing tray and touched it to each of the bricks, seeing he could figure out what was inside. Trust Sheppard to wander into the only bar with Ancient devices buried in the brickwork.

Except, there was nothing buried in the brickwork, because when Rodney next looked up, there was a doorway in front of him, and beyond, a street of the most strangely dressed people Rodney had ever seen. What was this? One of those pride parades? Was John leaving him for a British linguist because he wasn't gay enough? He was plenty gay! And if John really wanted him too, he'd drape himself in a black cloak and shirts with ruffles and such. Love was supposed to involve some compromise, after all.

Rodney looked down at the scanner. John was in one of the shops, about fifty meters ahead. Rodney crept forward, sparing barely a glance for the gay-sex-shop, claiming to sell ‘wands' or the antique bookstore, or even new-age medicine shop offering dragon's liver at half price. He did pause for a second to look at a particularly hideous cat laying curled in the window of what appeared to be an exotic pet store, however.

John was in the shop with nothing but brooms in the window. They looked sleek and stylized, with large signs proclaiming ‘Cleansweap' or ‘Nimbus3000' and other things far too sophisticated for a broom. It swept, it was less confusing than a vacuum cleaner. What more was there too it? In fact, on behalf of homosexuals everywhere, Rodney was rather insulted that the British didn't seem to think that people who could clearly operate an electric ‘wand' could handle a dustbuster.

Not wanting to be spotted, Rodney ducked into the shop across the street, regretting it almost instantly. A plump woman wearing a red robe trundled up to him, a bright smile on her face and a pointy stick in hand. She looked like a walking tomato.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed, taking in Rodney's ‘Astrophysicists have the biggest telescopes' t-shirt, his worn khaki expedition pants and leather necklace with the dinosaur tooth on the end of it (Ronon had given it to him after he'd managed to get three of his six bullets into it before it ate Teyla). "You poor dear. You look like a muggle!"

Rodney didn't know what to make of that, so he blinked and replied. "Actually, Canadian."

"Ah, they do have some strange trends there, across the pond. What can I do for you, Mister . . ."

"McKay. Doctor Rodney McKay."

"Very well, Doctor. Are you here for dress robes, or just something casual to wear about town? If you're headed for the Ministry, I'd suggest a simple black, with the velvet collar – one of our top sellers."

Rodney looked at the woman nervously. John was still in the cleaning supply store and Rodney was beginning to think that these people weren't so much gay as in some crazy cult (which John and Carson and Dr. Pinloop clearly belonged to). What if they were headed for some cult ritual? What then? Maybe he should get something, so he didn't look too conspicuous.

He turned to the woman, who was eyeing him sternly, still brandishing the stick. "I'm just here waiting until my . . . friend is done at the broom store. Maybe . . ."

The woman's round face lit up like a pumpkin at Halloween. "My dear, if you're trying to impress a young woman or man, you just had to say so. Madame Malkin has just the thing." She grinned and proceeded to wave the stick around behind Rodney's back. He felt a measuring tape across his shoulders and promptly focused his attention back out the window, checking to see if John had exited the shop.

There were seven other lifesigns in there, one sticking close to John – Pinloop, no doubt. Rodney gritted his teeth, not even noticing Madame Malkin bustling out of the room.

She retuned five minutes later (though it felt like thirty to Rodney), holding out an embroidered silk robe of the most ridiculous color cerulean blue that Rodney has ever seen. "What the hell is that?!"

Madame Malkin smiled one of her most patient smiles and replied, "Just try it on, dear."

Rodney grumbled, but decided to humor her, seeing as how he'd have to wait for John here anyhow. He pulled the robe over his head, managing to get lost in it, before Malkin pulled it down.

"There, there, perfect, dear! Brings out those beautiful blue eyes. You'll have the lucky witch or wizard faster than Krum can snatch a snitch."

"Hm . . ." Rodney answered, flipping the scanner to track energy signatures and marveling at how they seemed to be jumping and nearly exploding all around. He'd be off tracking them, if it weren't for the fact that he was here spying on John and needed to keep hidden. He was so absorbed in wondering what could be causing so many spikes like this, that he failed to notice the needle and thread making the finally fittings on his robe, gliding through the air by magic.

"You look very handsome," Madame Malkin pronounced, the second the last stitch was sewed. "Twelve galleons, please."

"What?" Rodney asked.

"Payment," she held out a hand, sternly.

"Oh, right." Rodney fished out his wallet and a MasterCard.

"Not muggle money, dear. I don't know how they do things in Canada, but this is Diagon Alley. You'll have to go to the bank and exchange it."

Rodney was just about to ask what the hell was a ‘muggle' and demand to know what respectable shop didn't take credit card, when he spotted Dr. Pinloop heading out of the cleaning store, carrying a broom-sized package and trailing a blonde John Sheppard behind him.

"Oh my god, he's having a midlife crisis," Rodney breathed. Though John looked gorgeous with blonde hair, his aviator sunglasses and more piercings than Rodney could count. "He's joined the gay antiques roadshow cult, died his hair blonde and decided to have an affair with a social scientist!"

Clearly spotting an impending panic attack, Madame Malkin patted Rodney's arm, waved the stick at him, muttering something about cheering charms, and told him. "Why don't you run along and talk to him. When he sees you in this, he'll forget his crisis. You can send me the money by owl. I'll cast a credit spell, so just make sure you remember to send twelve galleons within three hours or the robes will transport themselves right back here, with interest."

Rodney nodded, not really listening. John . . . blonde . . . it was like a moth to the flame. Rodney stumbled out of the shop, transfixed by the unruly yellow tufts, as John and Pinloop made their way into a store called Weasley's Wizarding Wheezies. A toy store – it figured.

This place was packed, crowded enough that Rodney could get close if he ducked behind racks of strange candies or spinning talking tops or other (admittedly) clever inventions. John and Pinloop were standing next to a large display of rather impressive fireworks, and if Rodney pretended to bend over and tie his shoe, he could maybe inch closer and . . .

Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a kid with violently red hair crouched next to him, slinging an arm around Rodney's shoulder. Rodney yelped, but thankfully, nobody seemed to hear over the grating noise of what appeared to be a singing fichus plant.

"Don't scare a man like that!" Rodney exclaimed in a harsh whisper. "If I died of a heart attack just now, you'd have both the Nobel committee and the fate of the world to answer to."

The kid grinned, looking skeptical. "George Weasley." He grabbed Rodney's hand and shook it.

Rodney looked at him blankly.

George gave a put-upon sigh. "George Weasley, co-owner of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezies."

"Aren't you a little young to be co-owner of anything? Shouldn't you be off, terrorizing the rational adult population or something?"

"Exactly the reason we started this shop, mate."

"Nice to meet you, now will you leave me to eavesdrop in peace?"

George grinned, looking altogether up to no good. "Actually, that's why I popped over here. Couldn't help but noticing you spying on Professor Lupin and that blonde guy and I thought you could use one of these." He pulled out something that looked rather like a pink string of silly putty, rolling it out over the floor, right behind John's foot and handing the end to Rodney. "Extendible Ears. I'll tell you what. I like you, so the first one's free," he patted Rodney's shoulder lightly. "Hope you get your man."

What was this place? Alley of the robed yentas? Rodney sure hoped this wasn't the sign of another sex ritual coming on.

But then any pondering of his strange surroundings (and the things that seemed to happen to people when they put the candies in their mouths) were wiped from his mind by the conversation he was hearing through the listening device.

"But I don't know what to get him," John was whining. A present for a lover? The bastard. Rodney knew he was trouble the second he'd first cocked those narrow hips in
Rodney's direction.

"You don't need to get him anything," Pinloop replied with a sigh. "I'm sure you turning up will be more than gift enough."

"Yeah, well I still want to get something. I know he's been through a lot. Just something to cheer him up."

"Look, James . . ." JAMES! Since when did John have a blonde alter-ego? And . . . if Rodney wasn't mistaken, he'd been speaking with a British accent. Oh, Jesus. If only he could think of an explanation other than ‘jealously stalking my boyfriend' he'd have an SGC extraction team here right now, checking for Goa'uld. "Harry donated his prize money from the Triwizard Tournament to the Weasley twins so they could start this place – he has his pick of all their products. He's not one for material goods. He'll just be happy to see you." Pinloop was squeezing John's shoulder now, and Rodney was getting increasingly angry (at least as much as he was freaked-out).

John smiled, his sweet shy smile – the one that only Rodney was supposed to see. "He won the Triwizard Tournament? He gave away his winnings?"

Pinloop returned the tender smile. "He's something, James. And I think it's time you stopped stalling and we went and saw him."

John grinned, taking the broom-shaped package and practically bouncing towards the door.

"Are you sure we can't take the train?" Pinloop shouted, trotting after him.

Rodney rolled up the listening device, making a note to himself to figure out how it worked in the lab. By the time he made it outside, John and Pinloop were standing on a dais in the middle of the street, straddling a broom in a way that screamed sex-ritual, before John kicked off and they were . . . flying, on a broomstick.

Rodney blinked. He pinched himself. He looked down at the scanner, watching two dots speed off frame. And finally, he settled on numb gaping. He'd call the mountain and get a pick up and a team here. Whatever crazy energy readings John had led him to in London was clearly some sort of Ancient-implanted hallucination machine. Robes and broomsticks and eye of newt?

Rodney made his way toward the forbidding marble edifice of the bank, figuring that it looked like a safe place to make a phone call, and maybe regain his sanity – solid.

But then he saw a midget with long pointy ears, a shriveled face and spectacles. "I'm going crazy," he whispered in the voice he saved especially for the end of the world. And with that, he drew his gun.

---

Harry Potter sat staring out at the shimmering surface of the lake. The giant squid lay next to him, basking in the first rays of spring sunlight. There was still a hint of winter chill floating on the wind, but Harry leaned into the numbing breeze that ruffled his hair. He let his fingers run absently over the bandages he kept tied tight across his forearm. Even under the thick wool of one of Mrs. Weasley's sweaters, he could feel it burning into his skin, worse than a scar. And with every touch, the memories came flooding back – so many thoughts - his, Voldemort's, dark and swirling and poisonous. Harry felt wiped clean, numb only because he had not choice. It was either empty himself out like the ebb of the tide or let the darkness consume him. Voldemort's soul was an evil one and his life an open promise for more death and hate and destruction, but Harry had ended that life nonetheless, and a death, any death, split your soul in two. Souls knew that rule and they didn't separate good intentions from evil.

Harry sighed, wondering, not for the first time, why he was here. Yes, nearly all of his classmates (except for Neville Longbottom, buried beside Dumbledore's white tomb), had returned to finish off their schooling, regardless of the lessons they'd learn in the fight. If Harry wanted a future in the wizarding world, he would have to graduate too, if only to prove that he was subject to the rules just like any other boy. But the truth was that his teachers (with the notable exception of Professor Snape), let him off easy. Even McGonagall would just sigh, accepting his work in late, compassion in her old, wise eyes. He could see what they were thinking – they were wondering how long Harry would last.

He was wondering that himself. He turned to the giant squid, his best companion these days – Ron and Hermione had been through war too, yes, but they couldn't understand and their presence was cloying at best, excruciatingly awkward at worse. Nobody knew what to say, except for the giant squid, who blinked a lazy yellow eye and him and bleated, "Wanker!"

Harry gazed across over towards the castle, expecting to see students milling around on the grass, reading on the great stone steps or holding hands and ambling through the gardens. Even Ginny was an unwanted presence now. Her skin felt rough and ice-cold on his, and though she tried to kiss him or draw him down and into her like that one desolate night hiding in the forest, he couldn't stand the thought of touching her – a girl he knew only as innocent and good, with the disgusting thing that he had become. The hurt in her eyes when she looked at him now was too painful, so he avoided her as he avoided everything.

But, there were no students out on the lawn today. Instead, two men were arguing, their shouts drifting in as a soft murmur on the wind. Harry leapt to his feet, recognizing Professor Snape, his black cloak drawn around him like the most righteous fury. He had his wand out and right before Harry's eyes there was a flash, the other man, in a black shirt and jeans, ducked easily out of the way, throwing a curse right back. Was this man a Death Eater? Harry didn't recognize the shock of dark hair or the pointed handsome features from this far away, but he was running now, wand drawn automatically.

The voices were clearer now.

". . . kill you, Severus . . . you were with him. If you knew, you did nothing to stop it!" the stranger was shouting, ducking behind a stone statue and hurling a wordless curse.

Snape looked calm, not even breaking a sweat as he effortlessly summoned a shielding charm. "And you? How I am I to believe that you are really here? At best you are an imposter, or a piece of dark magic gone horribly wrong. At worst, you have succeeded where the Dark Lord failed and are a thousand times more dangerous."

Harry had made it to an all out sprint by now, watching them continue to send spell after spell at each other, Snape advancing until the stranger flung himself at him, hands and arms moving so fast and smoothly that Harry was convinced he'd used a spell to achieve such grace. Snape was on his knees, hand twisted behind his back with a wand at his throat.

"I'm none of those things!" the man shouted. "But what the hell are you, Severus? At best the same old Snivelus, at worst, the man who claimed to love a girl and then let the enemy into the house to kill her family? Was it worth it? Your jealousy? Did you go out and celebrate with your Death Eater buddies?"

Snape struggled, unable to throw the stranger off, or seeing Harry creep in from behind. "You can't possibly know the guilt I felt! You don't know how I worked from that day onward as a spy for the Order, how I turned on the Dark Lord in the end! I did it because of what happened to her! Because he broke his promise! Why else would I still be here, James?"

Harry stopped dead in his tracks. James? His father? He was dead. It couldn't be. James Potter had died and Harry had lived his life an orphan. His father couldn't be alive, because his father wouldn't have let his son live in a closet under the stairs at number four Privet Drive. James Potter wouldn't live hidden away while his son went off to face the greatest evil known to the wizarding world time after time. James Potter never would have let his son face that enemy in the final showdown, and he never, ever would have let his son grow up without a father, if he could have been there.

But then, the man grabbed Snape's wand, pushing him down to the ground and pointed his own wand at him. "Stand up. I'll let Remus explain it."

"If you're really here, then you're still the man who left his son alone in a fight a boy never should have had to fight," and there was more than just accusation in Snape's tone. Harry was blindsided by he care inherent there – Snape wanted to protect him. After all the times they clashed, Snape had wanted a different fate for Harry and that shook his perception of the world to its core.

"I know," the stranger . . . his father, whispered, lowering the wand.

Harry pounced, then. He barely understood what he was doing, but he was tackling his father into the elongating shadows playing out on the grass, staring into intelligent hazel eyes, and sharp familiar features he'd traced in a photo a million times. The punches came swiftly, anger burning through him, thicker than the emptiness, brighter than the darkness. He was crying, sobbing, punching and screaming until the emotion flowed out of him and he was collapsed on top of a warm, solid chest, rising and falling with deep, stuttering breaths.

His father had not fought back, not once, and when Harry was tired, emotionally wrung out and almost unable to move, the man reached up, cupped his cheek and smiled. "Harry."

---

In his 35 years as an Auror, Mad-eye Moody had never seen anything quite like this. He watched the man in the holding cell carefully through the Spy-mirror mounted on the wall of his office. Now the man seemed to be using some form of muggle portable communications device to wave at the wall. Nothing happened, of course, this was the Ministry of Magic.

His eye tracked Kingsley easily as the tall, severe-looking man made his way into the office. Mad-eye grunted his acknowledgement.

"I apologize for my late arrival, some business with a missing record-clerk in the marsh. But, eventually the aids to the Wizengamot say that they have no idea if we can even try him," Kingsley announced, scratching his head. "What's he doing now?"

"I don't have a clue." The man had finally stopped yelling, and put down his device, though he seemed to be grumbling about ‘shielded from transporters' or something like that – as though he expected the room not to be charmed and apparition-proof. "He must be a wizard. He walked right in to ‘the Leaky Caldron.' Witnesses saw him apparate, he made it back into Diagon Alley."

"Yes, but where's his wand? Why does the Department of International Magical Cooperation report that neither the Canadians nor the Americans have them on their registers? Why did he scream about somebody flying off on a broom as though it were impossible news?"

Mad-eye growled, "Maybe he's putting on a show."

"For what purpose? You certainly don't think that he was trying to rob Gringotts with a muggle weapon? He is a muggle – and he was scared of the Goblins. That is the only logical explanation."

Mad-eye glowered, standing and heading for the cell, not waiting for Kingsley to follow him.

"Oh, finally," the man said. "What are you going to keep me in this horribly 16th century prison cell until I crack and join your crazy robe-wearing, wizard-fetish cult? I'm a very important man, you know. And they'll be looking for me . . . . Hermiod won't just sit on his little grey hands when he needs me to solve his ridiculous hyperdrive efficiency equations. He'll tell Caldwell and we'll see how you like the Air Force going medieval on this place! Hey, there's something wrong with your eye."

Mad-eye rolled said eye, using a quick charm to draw a chair out of thin air, force the man into it, and securing him with magical bindings.

"We are going to have to perform a monstrous memory charm if you keep on like this," Kingsley remarked blandly.

"What?" the man gulped, eyes going wide and scared – exactly how Mad-eye liked his prisoners. "How did you . . . oh, right hallucinations." He pointed to his head. "Energy signatures, something wrong with the transporter, maybe I really did crack my head open against the cave floor on PV8-937 and this whole thing is just a coma-induced nightmare."

"If it helps, I can assure you that I'm real," Kingsley replied, offering the man a smile. Good-Auror, bad-Auror, it was an interesting game.

"Well, my last hallucination did admit to being a hallucination, so . . ."

"Maybe he's crazy, that's how he wandered into Diagon Alley," Kingsley offered.

No, no, far too convenient. Mad-eye glared. "Your wand."

"Excuse me?" Kingsley demanded.

"Give me your wand."

When Mad-eye's fellow auror reluctantly handed it over the man, a muggle ‘Doctor' as Kingsley had explained it, looked at him with wide eyes. "You actually meant a magic wand? It just keeps getting better and better."

Mad-eye handed the wand over, moving around to point his own at the man's neck and releasing the bonds on one of the man's hands.

"Why, thank you, I now have a stick. What am I supposed to do with this, exactly?"

"Swish and flick," Kingsley replied.

The man was muttering something now about ‘like Ancient technology, think on . . .' and sure enough, a plum of red sparks shot out of the tip. "Aha!" Mad-eye crowed. "He's a wizard, Kinsley, and we can do whatever we want with him."

"No, no, you can't. I'm not a wizard. I just waved the stick. Nothing to see here. Just let me go and . . ."

Mad-eye grinned, "No what are you afraid of Mister . . . McKay? There are ways other than the Cruciatus to earn your compliance."

McKay gulped. "It was stupid, okay? I was being jealous and petty and I know he wouldn't cheat on me. I swear! I know he wouldn't have said he loved me if he didn't mean it. I just . . . it's hard to believe that someone like him would really want someone like me, that's all. But I've learned my lesson. I'll just go back to my own country, pretend this was a strange energy-spike-induced set of hallucinations. Nobody will be the wiser, eh?"

"I don't think so," Mad-replied, conjuring a jar and whispering, "Accio spiders" until it filled. "You look to me like an arachnophobic."

"Wait. Who was it that you were following?" Kingsley stopped to ask.

"John. John Sheppard. You know, tall, rakish-looking, dark messy hair . . . well, blonde now thanks to the midlife crisis, smile that causes women (and some men) to spontaneously disrobe."

Mad-eye and Kingsley exchanged a look. "Never heard of ‘em," Mad-eye remarked, summoning one of the spiders out of the jar and making it creep up McKay's arm.

"What about Dr. Pinloop!" McKay was squealing. "What was his first name . . . John was always saying . . . Remus! Remus Pinloop!"

Mad-eye dropped the spider, watching it scurry away and into the corner. "Lupin?"

"I'll summon him using our old Order channels," Kingsley replied, stalking out of the room, a man on a mission.

"I knew that man was trouble!" McKay crowed, right until the fancy blue robes he was wearing vanished, and Mad-eye got more than a magical eye-full of things he really did not need to see.

---

Harry couldn't believe it, as he helped his father up, guiding him and his already darkening black eye up the main steps and towards a private place where he hoped they could talk, he couldn't help stealing glances out of the corner of his eye. It really was him. It was James Potter. Harry could barely believe it. It was as though all the breath had rushed out of him at once – the world was spinning out of control and no matter how he clawed at this lightheaded feeling circling him, it would not tilt back on its axis.

"Now, Harry, I . . ." his father stuttered. "I don't know what I can say to you to make any of this better. But I'm sorry and I will explain. I . . ."

Before he could finish, Professor McGonagall was rushing at them from down the corridor with the biggest smile Harry had ever seen on her stern face. "James! James Potter, you're really here. I read the notice myself, but I hardly thought . . ." she exclaimed, stepping forward and embracing the man, fussing over him and his black eye, before hugging him once more and finally letting him go. "It's wonderful to have you back," she finished, before finally seeming to notice Harry. It was truly the most excited Harry had ever seen her. She looked at him with a twinkle in her wise eyes and said, "Well, I'll let the two of you catch up. Come on up to the headmaster's office when you're ready, James. The password's ‘treacle tart.'"

"Of course, Professor McGonagall," he replied.

"You're almost forty years old and a father of a Hogwarts student now, James. You can grow up and call me Minerva."

Harry's father smiled shyly, nodding. "I'll see you then, Minerva."

"See that you do. Good evening, Harry,"

But before she turned to go, Harry grabbed at her robes, desperate. "Is he really my father, Professor?"

She smiled at him kindly, clasping his shoulder. "Yes, Harry, he is."

Harry nodded, letting the information sink in. His father. Alive. Here. His father was already making his way up the winding corridors towards Gryffindor Tower, looking over his shoulder and grinning, sheepishly.

Harry followed, as if in a dream, silencing the Fat Lady's squeals of delight at seeing her old pupil with a curt, "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," one of Hermione's stranger security measures. Harry tried not to think of Neville and what he would have made of that.

It was nearing dinnertime, so the common room was void of anyone but a few giggling first years and Ron and Hermione tucked in a corner by the fire in one of those silly couples' poses they'd been so fond of recently, Ron's arms tight around Hermione's waist. Of course, the second she spotted them, Hermione was pushing Ron off, ignoring his annoyed complaints and staring at Harry, mouthing, "Is that . . ."

Harry nodded, smiling wanly and mouthing back, "I'll explain later," before grabbing his father by the elbow and leading him up the staircase to the boy's dormitory and the individual rooms reserved for the seventh years. Harry cleared his potions homework off the bed, and plopped down, watching his father straddle the desk chair, scrutinizing Harry with open, astonished eyes.

"Harry," he said, squirming.

In Harry's mind, his father was calm and gentle and brave, and always knew the right thing to say, but maybe, this man was none of those things. "Where were you?" he demanded, because that was the most important thing.

And what a story it was – death, so strange and indescribable, barely a flicker of memory, a group of people that lived on in the mysteries Harry had glimpsed in the whispers beyond the veil. And then waking up to a new world – America, Antarctica, flying machines instead of brooms and a mission beyond the stars to wonders Harry had never even dared imagine. Perhaps if he were still a child, and not the war-hardened man he'd grown up to be, he might be awed by these stories of planets and people and technology, the way he was once awed by magic.

"I wanted to come back to you," his father said, looking down at his hands in shame. "You have to know that I would have sacrificed myself again and again so you'd never have to go through what you did." There was something fierce in this man, unexpected too – it was the kind of love that Harry felt for Ron and Hermione and Sirius and Mrs. Weasley, it burned soul-deep and bright, and yet still, it left him feeling angry.

"Then why didn't you?" If anything, Harry had needed a father. And as viscerally as he loved this man he barely knew, he hated him for not moving the world to be with Harry.

"Dumbledore came to me in America, after I appeared without my memory. He had charms to let me retrieve it, but also to create a new life for myself among muggles. He believed that . . . the ultimate reason that you were the only one who could defeat he-who-shall-not-be-named was the fact that you're so much like him, only you chose the path of love instead of hate. There was balance in that, and he was afraid that my return would upset that balance that allowed your soul to so fully destroy his."

Harry didn't think it was possible to hate somebody dead and buried, but he did at this moment. Dumbledore had no right. He'd been meddling with Harry's life from the moment he deposited him on the Dursley's doorstep seventeen years ago. Yes, Dumbledore's intentions had always been good, but the power he wielded over people was just as dangerous as that of a dark wizard. He molded the universe to fit his viewpoint and his plan - that was why magic flowed so perfectly through him. And in his hubris, he dared to presume that Harry . . . that everyone would be better off if he was denied the one thing he wanted more than anything else in the world. Dumbledore knew it, too. After what Harry had told him about his vision in the Mirror of Erised, how could Dumbledore turn this man who was now looking at Harry with nothing but love away. What if he had died at Voldemort's hand? What if his father had died in a war a galaxy away? Because of Dumbledore's machinations, they never would have met.

His father chuckled hollowly, noting the anger in Harry's eyes. "Maybe he was wrong and maybe I should have told him to shove it, because despite his best intentions, fathers shouldn't be kept from their sons. But maybe he was right, because you're here now and so am I and now we get a second chance. I mean . . . it worked out, right?"

Harry stood, tempted to grab something and hurl it at the wall, except he didn't have very many things – he'd grown used to a simple life because he'd never had parents to spoil him. "It didn't work out! Working out would have been if Voldemort had died and I had a mother and a father to show me what to do? I had to defeat him! And I was alone! I had to drag my friends into it, even they were even less prepared than I was, because I had no one else!"

James sighed, burying his head in his hands. "That's not what I meant. I know it was difficult for you and there hasn't be a moment when I didn't wish that things happened differently, but you a good kid, Harry. You should have had a mother and father, but you were strong enough to survive it. Anyone would be happy to have you as a son."

Harry looked down guiltily, pulling off his robes and sweater before unwrapping the bandage around his forearm. "I'm not as good as you think." The symbol of the skull and the snake was familiar to them both, and his father couldn't seem to hide a sharp intake of breath, because even without a single piece of evidence, Harry was convinced that if his father had been there to tell him about magic and help him fight his battles, the sorting hat never would have considered anything other than Gryffindor and he'd never have this abdominal mark.

But instead of the condemnation Harry was expecting in his father's eyes, James stood up from the chair, pacing and frantic. "He did that to you? He marked you like that?! If he weren't already dead, I'd burry my nine-millimeter in his chest and I'd kill him!" He ran his hands through his hair. "Jesus . . . Harry," and then he was on the bed, hugging Harry to him.

"After I killed him, I looked down and it was on me," Harry stuttered, clutching at the soft fabric of his father's shirt, feeling comfortable with his own father's heartbeat pounding fiercely against his chest.

"I've been a soldier," his father spoke slowly and deliberately. "And as a muggle, I've killed more people that I could even imagine as a wizard. But if you do it without hate and you feel the pain afterwards, it's . . . it's good. The pain tells you that your soul's intact enough to feel, even if you can't help being marked by it. If it protects good people from evil, then it's worth it."

Harry nodded, accepting the words he realized that Ron and Hermione had been trying to say to him for months. He gripped his father tighter, realizing that here was flesh and blood and no matter how he loved anyone else, there would never be an understanding quite like this. And now that his father was here, Harry didn't ever want to let go.

His father didn't seem like he wanted to let go either, gripping Harry just as tight. "I don't . . . I'm not very good at discussing my feelings. That was your mother's skill. But I want you to know that I . . . I love you and I'm so goddamned proud of you."

Harry was embarrassed to find tears threatening to spill again, clutching his father tight and breathing in his unfamiliar scent. "I love you too," Harry whispered, as though it were some great secret.

After a long while, they broke, Harry embarrassingly wiping the tears from his eyes, gratified to see that his father's eyes were shining as well. "Mum?"

His father sighed and Harry sagged. But then, he'd already been granted this much. It was selfish to ask for more.

Just as the silence was starting to get awkward, the door flew open, revealing Remus Lupin, looking harried and slightly wild, but like a great weight had been lifted for him too. "James," he announced, "look who I found in a cell at the Ministry of Magic?"

A stocky looking wizard in brilliant blue robes was standing behind him, complaining loudly up until the point that he saw Harry's father. "John?" the man asked. "I thought you'd dyed your hair blonde. Not that you're not gorgeous as a brunette, but I have to admit that . . . wait, what in the hell are you doing here? In a castle in the middle of nowhere, flying broomsticks and parading around with these idiots who wave sticks around and act as though they've never seen a computer before, and . . ." The man's voice trailed off, staring at Harry with eyes as wide and intensely blue as his robes. "John?"

Harry's father, known as John to this man, sighed, explaining reluctantly. "Harry this is Rodney McKay. He's the scientist on the team I told you about. Rodney, this is Harry . . . my son."

The man, Rodney, gaped, looking thunderstruck, and hurt. "You never told me you had a son."

His father stood, clasping Rodney's arm. "I never told anyone." James slung an arm around Rodney's shoulder. "C'mon, I'll explain everything."

Harry wanted to beg him not to go, but then he played the thoughts back again – muggle scientist, cell at the Ministry. It was probably best that his father sorted things out with his friend, before the angry-looking man had a heart attack.

Harry's father looked over his shoulder, smiling fondly, with a look that promised that he would still be there tomorrow.

"So, how'd it go?" Lupin asked, grinning.

---

"Son?! Son?!" Rodney exclaimed, pacing back and forth in the large guest room they'd been assigned. "That's your idea of ‘a little thing I need to take care of?!' And these people . . . with the wands and the . . ." Rodney spluttered, throwing up his hands.

"If it makes you feel any better, you were never supposed to find out - if you hadn't been spying on me."

"Oh, so now I'm the bad guy, after you hold me at arms length for a year, then sneak off to England where you have a son you don't even trust me enough to tell about. What, did you think I'd leave you? Because I meant what I said. Even with the cult and the broomsticks and the hidden family life, I still love you. I have no idea why. I think I'm cursed."

John smiled idly. "You're not cursed. I checked."

"Yes, because I forgot, the man who I thought was suicidal, but ultimately rational turns out to be some sort of lost savior of the cult of voodoo. With a son." To say Rodney was angry would be a vast understatement. He was livid, and positive if someone had handed him one of those wand devices, he'd light this place up with sparks of anger. John might even lose his head. He sighed. "Do you really think I would have cared?"

John collapsed down on the bed, looking as tired as the days under Wraith siege, or coming down after the being fed upon and regifted his life. "No, Rodney. It's not like that. I'm a wizard. It's . . . it's something you're born to. Carson thinks it's actually the possession of the ATA gene that marks it. I come from an old wizarding family."

"I always knew you were inbred," Rodney grumbled.

John ignored him. "I was born to secrecy, Rodney. The wizarding world is separate and independently functioning – our own schools, like Hogwarts, our own government, our own towns. In our society, using magic in front of or on a muggle (a non-wizard) is a high crime. Like with the Ancients, it's to protect you from us. And to protect ourselves from our own will to power."

"And from burning at the stake," Rodney added.

"Yes, well burning isn't much of a threat to someone who can make cool flames, but if it makes you feel better, now we have a lot more reason to be afraid of muggles."

"Can't made a cool nuclear fallout?" Rodney quipped.

"Something like that. You know, I went through my whole life without even knowing anybody who didn't have magic."

"Yes, because the Air Force is chock full of magicians. That's clearly why the military is doing so well these days."

John looked truly uncomfortable then, wincing. "So, um . . . I might have kinda . . . died."

"Died! Died?! Like the transparent guy with the jack-in-the-box head?"

"No . . . Rodney. I was murdered. And I Ascended."

Rodney gaped. "You Ascended and you thought this was perfectly irrelevant information that you didn't need to share with us?"

"Hey, it's not as though I remembered any of it. I started a new life – assumed the identity of a major in the Air Force, at apparently the exact wrong time."

"Afghanistan." No wonder John was so screwed up – dying and then almost dying in a war he had no clue about almost immediately afterwards.

"I just sort of . . . it's complicated."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Since when has complexity ever troubled me?"

John smiled then, wearily, telling Rodney his story. And the thing was . . . it explained so much – John's awkwardness, the way he sometimes seemed too average – a caricature of an all-American soldier, his fear of commitment, the sorrow that seemed to lurk at the edges of his laconic exterior. Rodney barely noticed how he ended up on the bed as well, arm slung over John's shoulder.

"And why didn't you just come back? Like Doctor Jackson?"

John chuckled. "That's even more complicated."

"Try me."

John turned into Rodney then, pushing them back on the bed and pillowing his head on Rodney's shoulder. "Remember how I said that we keep our world a secret to protect you from our desire to dominate?"

Rodney nodded. He could see the analogy to the Ancients and the Ori, of course. With the kind of power, it was tempting to demand obedience – to see others as lesser beings. And maybe keeping yourselves separate was the only way to prevent it. But Rodney truly believed that if you could help, it was your duty to do so. That was what their game of Ancient Civilization had been about, after all.

"Well," John continued. "There was a wizard did give into the temptation. He believed that pure bloods were superior to muggles, or muggle-borns, and he set about conquering. Actually, he reminded me of your Hitler." And wasn't that strange – John referring to the Nazis as a thing of Rodney's world, when one of the things that had drawn him to John in the first place was there commonalities in a galaxy of strange cultures and uncertainty.

"Hey, he's not mine. Blame the Germans, if you must."

John chuckled. "I doubt Doctor Vogel will appreciate that."

"And he'll do what? Spite me by eating all the jelly doughnuts?"

"Anyway, this wizard started a war. And Lily and I . . ."

"Lily?"

"My wife."

Rodney shot up at that, turning to fix John with a glare. "You had a wife too?!"

John shrugged. "Well, yeah. How do you think I got Harry?"

Rodney flapped his hands, in a little bastard born of Colonel Manwhore way. "You um . . . sowed your seed."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm so glad that I fell in love with a man who thinks so highly of me."

Rodney couldn't quite hide his grin at the ‘fell in love with' comment. "Well, considering how you flirt with everything that moves . . . . And if you don't, your hair does it for you."

"Harry wasn't an accident . . . well, not that kind of accident. We wanted children. He just came at the wrong time."

"Let me guess. Then you couldn't just sit on your hands staring at the playpen – you had to go off and charge the evil wizard and sacrifice yourself for the greater good."

"No. It was hard to stay off the radar, but Harry was more important than what I wanted. But there was this prophecy . . ."

"Prophecy? This really is the land of voodoo. The very nature of quantum mechanics . . . the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, means that you couldn't possibly predict . . ."

"No, you see, it was the self-fulfilling type. It said that my son, Harry would be the only one to challenge the evil wizard and that neither could live while the other survived. So, it sent the wizard searching after Harry, meaning that he either had to fight back or die."

"And he didn't die, so . . ."

"Lily and I died protecting him. That was enough to defeat the evil wizard for a time, but he returned, and Harry was forced to fight him several more times. I got banished protecting him one of those times, but I couldn't go back because the path of events that had been set in motion couldn't run their course with my intervention. I was supposed to be dead – that was a critical component of what gave Harry what he needed in order to fight."

"That, is the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Rodney replied. If you acted as though the future were written, you'd be paralyzed by inaction. But, on the other hand, Rodney was glad that John did what he did, because otherwise, they might never have known each other.

"Well, he was my son and this was potentially the most important war on the planet, forgive me for wanting to do the right thing."

So, John was getting defensive. Rodney lay back down, kissing John briefly before settling in. "I'm not doubting your intentions – just your critical thinking skills."

"Maybe it was stupid, but there's nothing I can do about it now. And Harry did defeat the evil wizard, in case you were wondering. He's the savior, not me."

"Well, with the way you cast about for crosses to martyr yourself on, I wouldn't count you out just yet," Rodney huffed.

John leaned up then, kissing Rodney inquisitively. "So, we're good?"

"Not remotely," Rodney replied, kissing back. "You come from a people who run around in black muumuus and wave sticks at things. You've been hiding all this technology you can operate from me," he gestured to the wand. "And you have a son."

"But you still love me, right?" John demanded playfully, insinuating himself between Rodney's legs.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Of course I still love you, idiot. I just . . ." he deflated, flirtatious mood gone in a second. "You have a son."

"Five minutes ago you were whining about how I supposedly thought you were a bad man who would leave me over a detail like that."

"And I'm not stupid enough to break up with the best thing that's ever happened to me because of that. But you have a son."

"Yes, Rodney, we've established that."

"You have a son. On Earth."

John looked off into the distance, as sad and beautiful as the man Rodney had fallen in love with. But so much had changed since the arrival of Remus Lupin (the name finally drilled into him on the train ride over). In the last twelve hours alone, Rodney felt as though the world had been turned upside down and inside out.

But then John turned to him, eyes glittering and as intense as Rodney always expected. "We'll make it work. I promise." Rodney believed him.

"Now, about these ‘magical' powers of yours . . ." Rodney asked, nipping at John's neck.

"Oh, the Great John Sheppard can perform many tricks, make lube appear out of thin air, float himself up and down on your cock . . . you name it."

Rodney grinned, absorbed in that image and yet . . . "Hold on, just let me set up a sensor and then you can float yourself wherever you want."

John dissolved into a peel of laughter at that, yanking Rodney back on top of him before he could grab his scanner. "Only you," he whispered, just before they kissed.

---

Draco Malfoy stalked through the empty halls of the castle, feeling righteous and yet out of place. From day one, Hogwarts had been both his legacy and his bane. Under Albus Dumbledore, it was an honor twisted into a curse – filled with mudbloods and teaching methods that shunned the old ways and the ways of his family. And yet, among the Slytherins, Draco had felt at home. Slytherin was ripe with both ambition and eager followers and in that deep dungeon, Draco had flourished. But his house was a temple of defeat these days, and he himself was an untouchable – hated by those who still supported the cause for his betrayal and feared by all the others for his deep involvement with the dark arts and the mark of guilt by association.

Used to the empty echoing corridors of Malfoy Manor and the poised isolation that had earned him leadership in those early days, Draco did not mind the solitude. It was only that now, the regal history of the common room seemed dreary and dull – all tradition and rules and power structures left forever unchanging. Draco wasn't a brave (and idiotic) Gryffindor or a bookworm in search of knowledge without power, and he wasn't loyal if it didn't suit him, but he'd seen what came of the old ways – his parents had died for greed for power and fear of an ally they could neither trust nor love. He'd tasted freedom, if only because he had nothing left to lose, and change seemed inevitable.

If anything, he had outgrown the common room, and Slytherin itself. The only time he felt a part of anything was high on his broom, the crowd cheering in the background as he searched for the snitch. And yet, the job of the Seeker was still a solitary one.

Draco sighed, ducking away from the library, where Granger was most likely be lying in wait to ambush him with more questions about the Dark Mark. Just because he'd ended up fighting on their side, it by no means meant that they were friends, or even well acquainted enough for the mudblood to assume that he was a walking Dark-Arts dictionary. The truth was, when Draco received his Dark Mark, he'd had little choice in the matter. He rubbed it absently, remembering the searing pain of it burning its way into his flesh. The Dark Lord could have made the process painless, Draco was sure – it was a mark of the things wrong with their movement that he did not bother to.

Draco found himself wandering up into the towers, always to the corridor he knew led up the stairs to the Gryffindor common room – high amid sunshine and clouds. Potter was most likely there. Even though Draco was largely outcast, even he had heard the rumors of a mysterious man who had been seen with Potter all around the grounds – one who looked disturbingly similar.

Draco could care less about the melodrama that was Potter's celebrity life, but he had to admit that even he was curious about this man, and what was so special about him that had caused the headmistress to bend her own goody-goody rules.

Passing the corridor yet again, Draco made his way towards the large painting of the bowl of fruit and the room of requirement. He no longer spent his days and nights there, experimenting with magical cabinets and fretting over what would happen if he did not fulfill the task set to him by the Dark Lord. Instead, he would spend the days requiring any number of things – a room of baths, golden scented pools even better than the prefect's bathroom, or a room of windows where he could look out over the grounds, without burning his pale skin. Sometimes the room was filled with books – embarrassingly, he had become fond of muggle literature, with its many vicarious adventures – anything to take him away from Hogwarts, this useless year and all of the thing he'd become.

What would he wish for today? Not the library. Perhaps he would wish for a room full of spyglasses, so that he might find out more about the mysterious man and what he was doing with Potter. Draco was busy contemplating it, when he rounded the corner to find someone already there. It was a man, the age of a teacher (though Draco had never seen him before). He was slightly overweight, but in a broad and solid sort of way that reminded Draco of Goyle. But, even though the man seemed to be yelling at some figure in one of the paintings (something about gossiping and how rude it was to watch people having sex), Draco recognized a spark of intelligence in the man's intensely blue eyes. Had Draco still been in the position to command obedience, this man might make a fine minion.

"You, kid! Come over here." The stranger snapped his fingers. Not such a fine minion, then.

Draco leveled his most haughty, commanding glare. Walking past the man and wishing for a place to hide and make it all go away.

"Wait!" the man shouted. "What'd you do?"

Draco ignored him.

"You walked past and there was an energy spike in the room behind this wall. How did you do that? Do you know how to get in there? It's not one of those fireplace things, is it? Because that's even worse than a wormhole."

Draco slowed his pace. The man knew about the room, but he hadn't accessed it. How did he do that? Not even Dumbledore had known about the room.

"See, now when I walk past it," the man paced, idly, "nothing happens. But you . . . what are you waiting for, an embossed invitation?"

He was waving some sort of flat translucent tile now, motioning for Draco to continue. Maybe it was a form of crystal ball. Though divination seemed as reliable as a bag full of leprechauns, the prophecy the Dark Lord had become so obsessed with did turn out to be true.

"And if I help you, what's in it for me?"

The man appeared baffled by the response. "The thrill of discovery? The honor of having contributed, even in a minor lab-rat kind of way, to the research that will someday win me a Nobel Prize? I don't know. Just shut up like a good little boy and walk in front of the wall."

Draco frowned. "What's a Nobel Prize?"

The man through his hands up in the air. "What are they teaching you here? I thought England was supposed to have an excellent educational system. Grodin, that filthy liar."

When Draco passed, he again wished for a room to hide from this horrible man.

"There!" the man exclaimed. "It happened again! More intense this time."

And, despite himself, Draco found that he was interested – more interested than he had been in any of his useless subjects. He moved over to stand behind the man and look at what he was seeing in the crystal tile. And sure enough, there was a map, like some of the ones he had seen drawn on parchment. Only on this one, the room of requirement showed up. Not even the map he and Potter had used to break into Hogwarts for the final battle showed the room.

"Well don't just stand there," the man barked. "Do whatever it is you just did again!"

"I don't have to do anything I don't want to do," Draco replied, crossing his arms across his chest primly. "I've killed, you know," he preened, even though it made him sick to his stomach just thinking about it. "I could kill you too."

The man just snapped his fingers some more and said, "Yeah, yeah, and I blew up five sixths of a solar system. Now will you stop being such a spoiled brat and walk in front of the wall?"

Draco rolled his eyes, though something told him that the man wasn't joking about the solar system. "If I do this, you'll tell me where you got that crystal ball and show me how it works."

"Crystal ball?" the man squawked. "Next thing I know, you'll be telling me that you people believe in astrology too."

"Do we have a deal?"

The man huffed, looking put upon. "Yes, fine, we have a deal. Now, please, my time is very valuable. I don't know long I'm going to be able to spend here before Radek blows up the city or Caldwell starts another war or something happens and I need to find out as much as possible before I go back."

The man's voice was loud and grating, and Draco hated being ordered around, so it was easy to think about wanting to get away a third time, getting the room to appear. The man seemed incredibly impressed by that, eyes sparkling and hands flying as he rambled on about energy and Zed-someone and an ATA something and several other things that Draco couldn't possibly hope to follow as he threw open the door and looked around at a quiet room, filled with pillows and a small fountain, shelves of relaxing books and a hammock or two hanging from the ceiling.

"So, who the bloody hell are you, anyway?" Draco asked, upset that the room seemed to have no problem letting in the man that Draco wanted to be hiding from.

"Rodney McKay. Doctor Rodney McKay." The man didn't stick out his hand for Draco to shake, instead focusing on the crystal tile and what it seemed to tell him about the room.

"I'm Draco Malfoy." Draco was surprised when his surname gained no special attention from McKay. Then again, America was a long way off.

McKay stared down at his tile in astonishment. "Now the energy has dissipated. Almost as if it was potential energy, discharged when we opened the door."

"Well, it's the Room of Requirement. It's already manifested itself. Why would it need more energy after that?"

"Manifest?"

For a man who seemed to know so much, Rodney sure was slow on the uptake. "Look, it's simple. You walk in front of it three times wishing for something and it becomes what you require." He took the man by the arm and dragged him back outside, watching the door seal up before walking back and forth, thinking about wanting to work on his magical cabinet, like he had for nearly a year. "Last time, I wished for a place to hide. Now, I'm looking for a place to hide something."

Rodney looked skeptical, but followed, keeping his eyes on the crystal. This time, when Draco opened the door, he gaped. "But it's bigger."

"A lot of Hogwarts students have needed a place to hide things." Draco declined to go into what he'd used the room for.

"It's a replicator . . . the Star Trek kind, not the evil machines trying to kill us kind."

"Whatever you say," Draco replied. "So, does it look bigger on your map?"

"Of course it does. I just don't see how it can do that without some kind of power source."

Draco bit his lip, not sure what to tell this man. Hogwarts and its teachers were all about methods, understanding how to make a potion or perform a spell. Even subjects like numerology or ancient runes dealt only with component elements – assembling more basic things. But nobody here seemed concerned with why. Students weren't taught how to come up with something new, and the only way to go further with one's education was an apprenticeship with a great wizard, who most likely just made you mash up his roots and roast his eye of newt while telling you that you could just feel your way into a new spell by some invisible path etched into the fabric of the world, like a channel.

It was Dark wizards that wanted to know why. They wanted to take the world apart and put it back together newer and better. They wanted to cheat death and know all the secrets of life, if only for their own gain. And historically, they were the only ones who bothered with the origins of magic – why the majority of humankind didn't have it and what it was exactly. But Draco knew some of the secrets (what his father had told him before his death). The question remained – was this man worthy of knowing them?

"You know something, don't you," McKay accused, poking Draco in the chest with an insistent finger. "Not that I can't probably get John to tell me."

"John?"

"Oh, sorry, James to you people. You know, Harry's . . . father."

Father? "Harry's father is dead," Draco replied. For as long as he'd known him, everyone was feeling sorry for Harry Potter, the poor little orphan boy who grew up among muggles (well, Draco felt a little bad about that part) and always sacrificing, never expecting anything from anybody in return. Well, at least Harry had some family, despite the fact that they were muggles. At least he had someone to care for him . . . and now his father, apparently. Draco had no one.

"Yes, well . . . dead is sometimes a less than permanent condition in our line of work. There's this guy, Jackson, who practically dies or disappears every time he sneezes." This was dangerous talk, so soon after everything that happened with the Dark Lord. But Draco found himself drawn to McKay and his almost casual mention of the things that had nearly torn the wizarding world apart.

"You work for the Department of Mysteries then . . . or the American equivalent."

"Something like that," Rodney replied. "Though for the record, I'm Canadian."

"It's that easy to just come back?'

"Well, not easy. Lots of meditation, clear blue skies. Helps if you have a friend up there, if you know what I mean. But, hey, I almost did it. Had my numbers in the zone. To Ascend, I mean. Coming back down is more of a mystery."

Draco was leaning forward eagerly now, biting his lip. This man understood everything that the Dark Lord had spent a lifetime searching for, and he was going to reveal it, as casual as if they were discussing Quidditch over a round of butterbeer. "But if you were there, why didn't you?"

Rodney shrugged. "It wasn't for me. I mean all the mediating and the non-interference and the sound of one hand clapping. There's so much to do here, I don't know if I could sit around with those naval-gazers and miss out on living. That's the catch-22 – you can have infinite power, but you can't use it. And really, what's the point in that?"

Draco frowned. He didn't know. He'd was as afraid of death as the next man, probably more than a Gryffindor, but he'd become a Death Eater because that's what his father was – and unlike the other bright-eyed students, he was fixed under the watchful eye of the Dark Lord. If he had any doubts or dared disobey, then his death was certain. And even that, in the end, hadn't stopped him.

"Well, that's enough of that," Rodney remarked, looking back down at his tile. "Interesting . . . the room still exists even in a state of potential, it just closes down the frequency that serves as a query . . . now if I can force it to . . ." he tapped at the crystal with his fingers. "There. Ask for something else. No . . . wait . . ." A chocolate cake appeared on a nearby table. "And this place is too cluttered, require something else."

Draco thought about a place to practice his Quidditch and the room opened up, bigger than even the vast storage space.

"You just pulled us into a pocket of subspace . . ." Cake was spilling down Rodney's robes now in an utterly unpolished way. "Just like . . . oh my god, a ZedPM."

The room transformed around them yet again, walls full of transparent parchments with scrolling numbers, terraces and platforms filled with crystal keyboards and long wires like roots of a plant system. Rodney was pulling out another tile from the bag on his shoulder and attaching it to one of the wires. "So I could wish for anything, then?" Rodney asked. "Because I could sure use . . ."

Draco shook his head. "You can't remove anything from the room that you didn't bring in with you. The cake came from your own energy stores. It won't sustain you."

Rodney seemed to deflate, even as he was tapping away at the tile. Draco looked over his shoulder to find a vast display of words and numbers and ruins, Rodney entering them in even faster than a quick-quotes quill.

"Of course, the space is contained. It's like being insidea ZedPM . . . except in our own universe, the energy is theoretically contained, we just can't tap into it because it's impossible to create a barrier that will turn background energy into potential energy."

That was the most concise explanation of deep magical theory that Draco had ever heard. But then again, the books in the restricted section were all incredibly dense. "But aren't we tapping into the background energy all the time? I mean everything in the universe is made up of energy . . . like floating in a sea, and objects and solid things are like the waves floating on top. We can change the shape of the waves, and we can draw up water from the sea, but we can't actually create energy."

Rodney looked at Draco, gaping, before vaulting to his feet. "So there is no power source. The things in the castle and in the alleyway, that's why the energy signatures were all over the place, you're actively using zero point energy . . . but what about exotic particles? Or maybe you're using those too . . . considering."

"Well, you know that not all magic does use the energy around us . . . well, only to kick start it. That's why we can transform a human into a animal and an animal into a teacup, but not the other way around, because it takes too much energy, and a wand is only like a bucket, not a bay – we can't take up that much energy from the ocean."

"Yes, yes," the man snapped his fingers. "If you must put it in the most unscientific terms as possible. E=mc2, yes, yes I know . . . matter is energy and energy is matter, but when you break the bonds and reform them, you don't get a nuclear reaction . . . you contain it somehow . . ."

Draco sighed, exasperated and not even sure why he wanted this man to understand so desperately, but things were coming together, even now, because despite all these wishy-washy wizards and their belief that progress is infinite and anyone is capable of anything and magic is simply a skill to be mastered, he knew that there were laws to the universe and the universe itself was built block by block like this great castle and if he just knew the rules . . . maybe then he'd know where he stood in all of it. This man, McKay, was one of the rare people in Draco's experience who understood. Hell, the only other one that dared even dream of it was the Dark Lord himself.

"Isn't that what a wand does?" Draco asked.

"You mean it's not just a stick?" McKay frowned.

Draco felt his draw drop, completely outside of his control. "Wait, you're a muggle." There was no way a man who understood so much . . . who could manipulate the Room of Requirement with just a crystal tile, could possibly be no more than an ignorant muggle.

"You say that as though it's a bad thing."

"That's because it is!" Draco exclaimed. How could this man not understand that? Not having magic . . . Draco almost felt sorry for him.

"Yes, it's so terrible to have science and rationality, and physics and actually understand what we're doing instead of just waving our sticks and making it so. I mean, how are you ever supposed to improve upon anything if you don't even know how to make it in the first place, eh? Given a significant level of technological progress, we can achieve all that you have and more, but actually understand how we got there."

Draco frowned, suddenly unsure of himself. McKay's offers of explanations and improvements were tempting, and he had demonstrated his skill with the Room and everything, but he was still only a muggle how much could he really know?

"Besides, I've had the gene therapy, so I can do all the same things as all of you. I even levitated a leaf today."

"That's first-year stuff. That means even an eleven-year-old could do it."

"Yes, well, considering I didn't even know magic existed until a few days ago, I'd say that's pretty good," Rodney huffed.

"So, somebody messed up and you never received your letter?" Draco asked. He supposed it was okay, if the man was really a wizard subject to a bureaucratic mix-up. He'd still be muggle-born, but now that Draco submitted to speaking to Granger, he supposed that he could talk to McKay without feeling any more tainted than he already did.

"No, no, I received the gene therapy."

At Draco's blank look, McKay threw his hands up in the air. "Well, if they're teaching you astrology, than I guess there's not enough time for actually useful information like genetics. Why would there be? Look, who you are . . . or, rather your physical characteristics, are determined by your genes. It's largely voodoo, but you can think of genes as sort of a map for how your body develops. To grossly simplify for your clearly deprived educational state . . . basically, your parents each contribute half of the instructions needed to build you. Seeing as how your one of these ‘pure-bloods' or some nonsense like that, you received the ‘wizarding' gene from both sides of the family, like John." Draco felt vindicated. So there was an objective reason why pure-bloods were better.

But then McKay continued. "Now, that doesn't guarantee that you have a strong expression of it. It's recessive and you're all are pretty inbred, so there's a slight chance that someone in the general populous could receive two copies and express the gene as strongly, even stronger if they also inherit the string of secondary genes that help control the ATA protein markers. Now, unlike you, I wasn't born with the gene, but had some of the secondary markers that allowed the gene therapy to work on me."

Wait, that couldn't be. McKay was made a wizard. "And how'd you get the therapy? Did someone give you their magic?"

"No! What kind of simplistic . . . . No. You yourself said that people don't have magic, they just have the ability to influence energy. It's not zero sum. I received a copy of John's gene, through one of our lesser muggle therapies. Other people too. So being a wizard is nothing other than drawing the right cards out of the genetic grab bag. In theory, we could make every baby born from now on a wizard, if we altered the secondary markers before they had a chance to develop. While you wizards have absolutely no idea what makes you what you are." He grinned smugly.

Draco had no idea muggles could be so arrogant. But then again, he'd never really met any before.

"In fact, we can probably figure out exactly what it is that allows you to do magic. Do you have a wand?" McKay said it as though it gave him a bad taste in his mouth.

Draco shook his head. That was what stung most of all. If it had been up to Draco, he would have retired to the Manor, away from the glares and the whispers behind his back and the useless teachings. But one of the conditions of him not ending up in Azkaban was a trial period, with wand use permitted only under supervision (and wasn't it a bitter satisfaction knowing that the Wizengamot hadn't trusted Potter's word enough to grant Draco a full pardon).

"Oh . . . well, that's okay," McKay pulled one out of his pocket, holding it upside-down. "John thought I'd break his or something and had one sent by owl. What a ridiculously inefficient (and unsanitary) system, by the way. If you guys can just pop around from place to place or hop across oceans using fireplaces, then why bother with disease-carrying birds?"

"Oh, and I suppose the muggle system is better."

"It's certainly more organized. And an email will beat an owl any day. Now just go ahead and do a . . . operate that, and I'll just be over here, taking readings," he pointed to one of the crystal instruments he'd ‘required.'

Draco smiled. He could stun McKay, then grab his wand and escape. But escape where? They'd look for him back at the manor, or anywhere really. He could brew some polyjuice potion and go into hiding, he supposed, but the difficult ingredients were monitored now – a lesson learned from the war. He could escape abroad, but in the end, any escape from his past would also be an escape from magic, and feeling the power of the wand singing in his hand, every fiber aligned to his will, Draco knew that magic was the one thing in his life that he could never leave behind.

"What spell shall I do?" he asked, because all of his life there had been distinctions between charms and spell and transfigurations, light magic and dark magic and love magic.

"It doesn't matter. Something that uses zero point energy."

Draco grinned; something Dark, then. He'd missed the secret thrill of something forbidden. "Legilimens!"

He'd expected Rodney's thoughts to be open and unguarded, unfamiliar with the concept of occulmency entirely. But though the thoughts were an open book, they were a kaleidoscope of scattered musings and numbers, foreign terms and images flashing by so fast that Draco couldn't possibly understand them. Even the Dark Lord would not have been able to penetrate the mysteries found here.

He was still reeling from the brief contact when Rodney declared, "Hmm . . . well there was an interesting spike when you . . . er . . . swished and flicked. But I didn't see anything happen. The creation of matter . . . or maybe you could blow something up. Something over there." Rodney pointed to a corner where several porcelain busts of very scary-looking long-haired, cat-eyed monsters appeared. Clearly, the man had issues.

Dazed, Draco complied.

"That's it!" Rodney exclaimed, a second later. "Something in the device is actually cutting through a part of the background energy, storing it up and releasing it – like a dam, building up water pressure. But I don't know how it can do that without creating an energy field itself, which it can't without a power source."

Draco frowned. "You do know what wands are made out of, right?"

"Wood?"

Draco sighed in exasperation. Talking to Rodney was simultaneously like talking to an encyclopedia and a toddler. "No. The wood helps mediate the interaction with between the wizard and the wand's core, but the thing that does the magic is the core itself – made out of some part of a magical creature; unicorn hair or phoenix tail feather or dragon's heartstring."

Rodney gulped. "You mean there are actually dragons."

Draco shrugged. "Department of Magical Creatures keeps them under control. I suppose the reason why we use them to make wands is because they can naturally manipulate your so-called zero point energy – unicorns especially. My father used to say that for a unicorn, moving through life was like swimming through a sea of infinite potential – that's why unicorn's blood can bring you back from the brink of death."

"Hmmm . . . are there any other objects that can draw energy like this?"

Draco thought about it. "There are other things that are like wands, but . . . other than objects that store magical energy, everything else will lose its magic if used enough, without taking energy from the user."

Rodney appeared excited then. "Can you take me to some of the devices that store energy?"

Draco nodded slowly, fiddling in his pocket to figure out if he still had the key.

Minutes later, in the musty dark of the Potion's store-room, Rodney dryly noted, "I'm going to have to teach you the definition of the word device aren't I?"

---

Harry found himself grinning and laughing for the countless time that day, which was strange, because not so long ago, he was positive that he'd never smile again. But here he was, sailing through the clouds on his new Firedragon broom, his father beside him, laughing as he used some downright dirty tactics to sneak ahead of Harry and grab the practice snitch. Harry was so busy smiling that he could almost forget that he was supposed to be angry at his father for never giving him this as a kid.

"I haven't done this in years," Dad remarked, slowing and flying backwards so they could talk, the snitch held firmly in one hand.

"Yeah, go ahead, rub it in," Harry teased, though in a way it was a relief to have someone who could really challenge him as a seeker. The Boy Who Lived, the Youngest Seeker in a Century . . . it was nice to just be a kid playing a pick-up game with his dad.

"Hey, flying airplanes is a lot more complicated than this . . . plus I'm used to combat situations. Hey . . . maybe when you're done with school, I can take you up sometime. It's not like a broom, or that flying car I heard you crashed into a tree." Harry knew what James and Professor McGonagall had talked about then. "But there's something thrilling about knowing that you're being held in the air by nothing more than muggle ingenuity." Dad extended the invitation in that aw-shucks almost shy way that had surprised Harry so much at first but was now becoming just another part of dad.

"Yeah, I'd like that," Harry replied, while desperately trying not to get his hopes up. This felt like that one glorious moment when Sirius had asked him to come live with him, before Wormtail escaped and ruined everything. But with his father right there,his smile as wide as Harry's, it was hard to remember that everyone who Harry had ever grown to think of as family was taken away from him. Even the most heartfelt promise might not work out in the end.

"And the puddlejumpers too. They respond to your mind just like a broom, but they can go underwater and into space – inertial dampeners so you can fly at speeds you wouldn't believe, plus weapons and room for passengers. I bet you'd be a natural."

"But I thought you said the puddlejumpers were on . . . Atlantis." It was still hard to believe – it sounded like a muggle action movie: a military base in another galaxy.

"Well, I was thinking . . . I know it'll be hard to convince the IOA, but I think that General O'Neill will pull some strings for me and I um . . . I thought that maybe . . . after you graduate . . . maybe you'd like to come stay with me for a while, on Atlantis."

Harry almost lost control of his broom, wanting to reach out and hug his father. He had to settle for squeezing his hand instead. "You'd really want that?"

"Well, it'd be dangerous, even if you stayed in the city, but I . . . you're the only real family I have and Atlantis is . . . it's better than magic. And I want to share that with you."

"Then, I would love to come."

"Yeah?" Dad grinned almost stupidly.

"Yeah," Harry replied, taking a moment to absorb the bright blue sky and the smile on his father's face and the fact that he was going to travel with him across the universe to a flying city floating on the sea.

"Hey," Dad whispered, after a while, "wanna see something cool?"

Harry nodded, and his father pulled out the snitch, letting it float a little ways away from him before reaching out and snatching it again and again. And just like that, Harry's smile faded into a frown, remembering Snape's memory from the pensieve and how this same man had played with the snitch so arrogantly, taunting at the same time he tried to impress Harry's mother. "You did that to try to impress mom," Harry accused.

His father stopped, not fully catching the change in mood and smiling wistfully. "I did a lot of stupid things to try to impress your mother. I broke half the bones in my body trying to use an angelicus potion to sprout wings and serenade her at her window. Sirius suggested the idea, the bastard."

"It's a wonder she fell for it," Harry spat out, curious as ever about how he'd ever won her over after he'd behaved like such an arrogant prick in Snape's memory.

"You know, I always wondered the same thing. I can tell you when she did, though."

"When did she?" Harry was curious, despite himself.

"It was near the end of our sixth year and I'd pretty much given up on her. I was even dating another girl, a Ravenclaw whose name I don't even remember. Moony was convinced that Lily was jealous, of course, but I didn't listen. She was still always angry at me for acting as though the rules didn't apply to me and I'd stopped caring, so when Hagrid asked . . . wait, I'm surprised Hagrid never told you this story."

"You were friends with Hagrid?" Harry asked, mesmerized, even though he'd known that it was Hagrid who delivered him to the Dursley's on Sirius' flying motorbike.

"He was young then, only a few years older than me, but already groundskeeper. Most of the kids our age didn't want anything do with him, but I liked him. Fifth year, he caught me running through the forest in my deer form and he understood that sometimes I just wanted to be a deer, so he negotiated with some of the other forest creatures and kept an eye out for me. So, you know Hagrid, if it's ugly and untamable and just plain nasty, he thinks it's a poor misunderstood creature that should be kept as a family pet."

Harry nodded. "Tell me about it. He went though a dragon, a giant spider, a hippogriff, a load of blast-ended skrewts, and a giant while I was here."

Dad chuckled, bobbing up and down on his broom now, just floating high in the sky facing Harry. "Yes, well, this time he'd adopted a Chimera, a female one about to give birth, actually. It was out in the forest ‘all alone and terrified' and he thought that as a deer I could find it and somehow convince it to come back to his cabin where he could tend to it. I didn't want the thing to die, but I didn't think I had a chance in hell of making it do anything it didn't want to do either. But, of course when I did find it, it wasn't distracted by giving birth, but on the prowl for a post-labor snack. I got a little torn up, but by the time I'd managed to subdue it, the snake-end had managed to bite the baby. It seems counter-intuitive, but it's apparently what they do, and by ‘tend to' Hagrid actually meant – keep from killing its own young. So, I brought the thing back to Hagrid's cabin, and Lily was there – apparently she wanted to know where I went every time I sneaked out. She helped Hagrid with my wounds and she was really quiet. I thought I'd just lost any chance I had with her, but then on the way back, she kissed me. You know, I never asked her why?" He smiled sadly.

Harry was pretty sure that he knew why: it proved that his dad wasn't the selfish showoff that he'd been every time he tried to impress her. He'd done something dangerous and brave just because a friend asked it of him. "Do you do stuff like that a lot?"

"What? Go chasing after Chimeras? Hell, no. While Hagrid was nursing that one, I avoided his cabin like the plague. He had to give it up, of course. I was there for that – I thought he was going to cry a literal ocean."

"No, dad, do you put yourself at risk doing stuff for other people?" Because that's what serving in the military of another muggle country sounded like to Harry – not the kind of thing a man with a family should be doing.

"Rodney certainly thinks so. And he doesn't let me forget it. But I don't think about it like that. Everything I do on Atlantis is because I want to keep the city safe."

"So you're never going to come back?" Harry gulped. Because he was sure that it would be fun to visit with his dad, but how much would they really see of each other if he stayed here and his father there?

"I'll spend as much time here with you as I can, Harry. But Atlantis is my home now. You can understand that, can't you?"

Harry thought about the day he found out that he was a wizard, trying to imagine ever going back to the muggle world for more than a quick visit, and he suddenly understood. "Yes, I can."

"Good," Dad said, before looking down, seeming to notice something interesting through the trees of the forbidden forest and dropping down to hover lowering. "Visuo," he commanded, though there was something about the way Dad drew his wand that unsettled Harry – even for the smallest things, he drew it like a weapon. "I think I saw Rodney down there. He hates hiking, so I doubt it, but I'd feel better if I could check it out." He darted down on his broom.

Harry followed, landing easily in a clearing beside his father, where a second later, his dad's friend Rodney and none other than Draco Malfoy stumbled in, twig-covered and sweaty.

"Rodney, what the hell are you thinking, running around in the Forbidden Forest?" Dad exclaimed. "Do you have any idea why kinds of things live here."

Rodney spluttered, "Yes . . . well, no . . . but he," he pointed to Draco, "said that it wasn't anything worse than he'd faced in some war and that he'd take care of it and I have my gun and he has my wand."

"Rodney, there are giant man-eating spiders," Dad said.

"What?!" Rodney rounded on Draco. "You are in sooo much trouble! You didn't tell me that!"

Draco shrugged. "Nothing a good killing curse wouldn't fix."

Harry didn't know quite why, but that comment made him angrier than he'd been in a long time. "What do you think you're playing at, Malfoy? You're not even allowed a wand and now you're talking about using and Unforgivable Curse as though it were nothing?"

"Hey, if it's man-eating spiders, I think he should be allowed to defend me with whatever force necessary," Rodney remarked.

Harry ignored him, feeling anger well up, cold and cleansing. "And what could possibly convince you to grow enough of a spine to take someone into the Forbidden Forest, Malfoy? Looking to add another muggle killing to your collection?" And it stung, because for a moment when they were fighting side-by-side, Harry had believed that Draco truly had changed. He'd believed that people could change and be something other than what they'd been groomed to be.

"No, Potter, what, are you off your rocker? You think I liked killing those people?"

"Then what are you doing out here?" Dad asked, suspicious, wand at the ready.

"Um . . . looking for a unicorn?"

Harry was surprised that his father's reaction to this was to stalk over to Rodney and slap him on the backside of the head. "Since when do you even believe in unicorns, McKay?"

"Since I did an analysis of the core of this wand and found out that it had some similar properties to a ZedPM."

"And that's an excuse to go traipsing around in the forest with only a muggle-hater for protection. I thought you were a genius."

"I'm sorry," McKay whined. "You were out bonding with your son that you never saw fit to tell me about and I didn't want to disturb you. Besides, he can do magic, what's there to be afraid of?"

Harry's father flicked his wand and McKay was suddenly hanging from one leg in the air, just like Snape had been all those years ago. "Other people who can do magic, for one," James growled, and the sinking accusatory feeling in the pit of Harry's stomach returned. As good as everyone always said James was, and as much as he'd sacrificed for Harry and others, he was still just a schoolyard bully at heart.

"Stop it! Put him down!" Harry yelled, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he drew his wand on his father. "He's just found out about magic. He didn't know any better!"

With a wave of his wand, James had McKay back on the ground and grumbling. "I just wanted to make sure he knew how little magic can really protect him – especially if his enemy is equally armed."

"No, you didn't!" Harry was shouting now. "You're no better than those muggle-haters . . . just a bully who likes to toy with people because they're less powerful than you!"

His father just stood there, looking stricken, so Harry was completely taken aback when he felt a hand rough on his arm, yanking him around to face an irate Rodney McKay. "
"Look, you little hellion, John . . . your father is a good man. He's done more good things and sacrificed more to save people he has no ties to than you could possibly ever know."

"Harry's sacrificed a lot too," Draco brought up, seemingly out of nowhere. If Harry weren't so angry, he might have stopped to marvel about Draco coming to his defense in any argument, let alone one about the very things Draco had always seemed to hate him for.

"You do not get to talk, Mr. Park Avenue ex-con," McKay snapped, turning his fiery blue eyes back on Harry. "I know it might be hard to see it, in this self-centered tragic little emo world of yours, but he loves you and as much as it hurt you to be without a father, it hurt him just as much, if not more, to be way from you. And you've inherited all of his moronically bad habits – like holding people up to his own ridiculous standards of honor and chivalry and judging them for it without considering the circumstances. This . . ." McKay gestured between himself and Harry's father, "we do because we care about each other and we're not young and stupid and romantic enough to believe that promises of undying love will actually work better than threats and an armored tank division. And how dare you . . ."

"Rodney," James was saying, tugging on the sleeve of Rodney's robe. It's okay, I deserved that."

McKay turned around, getting right up in James' face, like he wasn't afraid in the slightest of the man who had just had him hanging upside down. "I know you're having a field day martyring yourself over the emotional damage you've done to the kid by being dead for most of his childhood, but no matter how traumatized, he does not get to say those things to you!"

Not knowing what else to do, Harry looked to Draco, confused. Draco just shrugged in that ‘I'm too superior to care' sort of way that he had about him.

James was soothing McKay now, a hand slung around his shoulder. "It's okay. Just calm down." He turned back to Harry. "I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry, Harry. I . . . you have to understand, I'm not picking on Rodney, I . . . um . . . he's kind of . . ."

"Jesus Christ, Sheppard, try to act like the information isn't being tortured out of you." McKay rolled his eyes. "What your idiot father is trying to say, Harry, is that I'm his boyfriend and this is just his emotionally-handicapped way of trying to protect me."

Harry nodded, not sure what to say and reeling. His father was gay? And what about his mother? Yes, she'd been dead for seventeen years, and he didn't expect his dad to be celibate. But was this like how it was with his mother? All fierce and confused? Or was it different? Was it better? And though the bitter memory of what his father had done to Snape was still reverberated strong in Harry's mind, McKay did have a point. He was bloody short on context for it.

"Er . . . I hate to interrupt the touching ‘Pride and Polyjuice' moment here, but um . . ." Draco pointed to the edge of the clearing, where a brilliantly white unicorn was standing, gazing idly at them while it shuffled its hooves.

"That?" McKay muttered, staring at it with real awe, all of the anger of a moment ago seemingly forgotten.

Draco nodded, approaching it. Harry was nothing less than astonished to note that Draco was getting close, despite how Draco Malfoy had succeeded in ruining every Care of Magical Creatures class, either frightening the animals with he and Crabbe and Goyle's loud sniggering or not paying attention and therefore torturing them.

Unicorns supposedly didn't like boys, but this one was lowering her head, wise angelic eyes staring at him balefully as he petted it. McKay stepped forward then, pulling out a muggle computer tablet and scanning the unicorn, which seemed unbothered by even that.

Harry stared on in amazement, paralyzed and certain that if he took even one step forward, the unicorn would see the darkness in him and run off. His father, too, stood back, though he was watching McKay with a fond smile that made Harry feel foolish for assuming the worst about him.

---

"Ron, you can't go wearing that!" Hermione exclaimed, looking him over from where she sat on his bed.

"Why not? It's my favorite t-shirt."

Hermione rolled her eyes. That Ron was sometimes so naively unashamed was something she both loved and hated about him. "Because we're meeting Harry's father."

"We already met him, Hermione. He's all right. And a bloody brilliant seeker, too. Did you see him and Harry going head to head?"

Hermione sighed. "Yes, he might be fun, but he's still Harry's father and you should at least try to make a good impression." Though with Ron, impressions of any kind could be an uphill battle.

"Trust me, Herm. John's a man's man. He won't care. You're a girl; you couldn't possibly understand."

Hermione rolled her eyes, finally giving in and standing, yanking Ron's shirt off for him.

"Hey, don't you think he'll notice if we come in smelling like . . ."

Hermione handed him a wrinkled oxford, glaring. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Ronald." Not that she wouldn't have considered it, if they weren't meeting Harry's father and his boyfriend for brunch. She was nervous. Harry had been so down recently and the past week had been the first time she'd seen him smile in ages. He needed this and she wasn't going to be the one that ruined it for him. There was just the small matter of . . . "Ron?"

"Yeah?" Ron murmured, tangled up in his oxford as though getting seven buttons in the holes were a triwizard task.

"Have you . . . is there . . . I've never really known any homosexuals. Is there anything I should do . . . you know, to avoid upsetting them?" Hermione asked in a timid voice.

Ron turned to her, bewildered, even as she moved to help him do up his shirtfront. "They're just like ordinary blokes, Hermione. Just don't say you think that taking it up the arse is an abomination and I think you'll be fine. I'm more worried about the muggle."

Hermione pursed her lips, remembering how it was when she'd taken Ron home to meet her parents. He'd been trying to engage her dad about oral hygiene and muggle medicine in general. Hermione was lucky she'd been able to stomach any of the meal at all.

"It's not that there's anything wrong with being a muggle. Honestly. It's just that I'm not sure what to talk about. Normally us guys talk about girls or Quidditch, but they're gay so girls are out, and muggle sports are so confusing. Dean explained football to me once, but then he said that the Yanks have a completely different kind, where they all pile on top of each other. How am I supposed to talk about that?"

Hermione finished the last button and sighed, grabbing Ron by the hand and dragging him down the stairs towards the common room. Harry was waiting for them there, wearing jeans and a worn t-shirt.

"See! He's not dressed up!" Ron protested, but Hermione ignored him, moving instead to kiss Harry on the cheek and wish him a good morning.

"So, Harry, how've you been, mate?" Ron asked. "How you like having your dad here?" Ron wasn't one for subtle.

Harry shrugged, though his smile betrayed his excitement. "He's told me a lot of things – about him and my mom. We've gone swimming in the lake and flying, but mostly just talked. He's in the muggle military, but stationed far away in this city . . . you wouldn't believe it, Ron. He's the commander of more than a hundred men and he spends his time exploring other planets. Can't tell any muggles about it though – they're not supposed to know it's possible."

"I don't think it is possible, Harry," Hermione replied. "You're sure he's not pulling your leg?"

"But it is possible! There's this device – like an interplanetary floo network and everything. And you know, I thought that magic was the best kept secret from the muggle world, and that the only real threat was Voldemort, but did you know that the Earth has almost been destroyed, like fifteen times? And there are aliens like some muggle television show?"

"I just think that we would've known about it is all . . ." Hermione replied. After all, there couldn't possibly be this whole branch of knowledge about the world that nobody had bothered to write down in a book. And would there be some sign, if the world almost ended? With Voldemort's rise to power, even the muggles had known something was the matter.

"Well, I'll have to get him to tell you about it. I think I'm probably explaining it wrong. Actually Rodney can explain it better, if you can understand him."

"So you're on a first name basis with his . . ."

"His boyfriend? Yeah. It was a little weird at first, but he makes dad happy."

"So it doesn't bother you? That he . . ."

Harry shrugged. "I think they really love each other, in their own way. Dad said that it's not the same as my mom though. He's told me all about her. She was brilliant, you know? Actually from some of things he said, she reminds me a little of you."

Hermione felt herself blush. She knew that Harry loved her, but they'd all grown apart since the end of the war. It was nice to hear that he still felt that way.

It wasn't long before Harry launched into a story about Draco Malfoy and a unicorn, something with Ron seemed to find a riot, no matter how many times Hermione assured them that the thing about only virgins being able to touch them was a misnomer. Harry seemed positively fascinated by it, though. So much so that Hermione pulled him aside to talk while they lingered by the castle steps and Ron caught Dean Thomas for a last minute quiz about muggle football.

"You're bothered that Draco managed to touch the unicorn?" she whispered. In her opinion, Harry had always been a little too keen on the subject of Draco Malfoy. At first it was a competition and then an obsession. And though Hermione read in the Prophet about how Harry had interceded at Draco's trial, he'd never told them exactly what happened to him that last fateful night.

But then again, in a sense, she understood. Draco had been the first kid Harry met in the wizarding world, and on their first night at Hogwarts, he'd offered Harry his friendship at the cost of Ron's. Harry'd said that the hat had almost sorted him into Slytherin, and it was meeting Draco and begging the hat not to be sorted into the same house that had been the only thing that prevented it. If Harry hadn't done that, oh, how things might have been different.

Though she doubted he was aware of it, throughout their years at Hogwarts, Harry had used Draco as a sort of meter, or maybe a mirror, against which he measured himself. Draco was cowardly when Harry was brave, deceitful and manipulative when Harry was honest and true. Draco stooped to do things Harry would never do. He was the embodiment of Slytherin and all the things that Harry fought against, and in fighting him all those years, Harry was just reinforcing that first rejection of darker side that lived in him – pride, ambition, skill, the coveted ability to speak to snakes.

But, as much of a royal arsehole as Draco Malfoy almost invariably was (Hermione never for a moment regretted punching him in the face), he was still a human being and Harry wouldn't have vouched for him if he hadn't done something truly spectacular to reform. And she wondered what it was doing to Harry, no longer being able to play the hero to Malfoy's villain.

And sure enough . . . "He's Malfoy!" Harry protested. "He's the complete opposite of the things a unicorn represents – innocence, purity, goodness."

Hermione bit her lip. "But though wild and intractable, unicorns are also supposed to represent a feminine lunar energy. They're compassionate. And creatures of healing. Maybe the unicorn knew that Draco needed to be healed."

"But why him? Of all the people who deserve . . ."

Hermione sighed. "Did you even try to approach it, Harry?" She knew the answer, of course, just as she knew the answer to her real question – did Harry ever dare ask for forgiveness?

The answer was clear in his eyes, but before she could press him further, Draco himself came strolling out to the main courtyard, making his way over to them and looking uncertain . . . well, as uncertain as he ever looked. "Good morning, Potter, Weasel, Granger." It was rather pathetic that Hermione counted any salutation as a friendly gesture.

"Morning," Harry seemed embarrassed, having been caught speaking of the devil.

"Rodney asked me to join you for brunch, though he neglected to mention we'd be dining with the whole jolly Gryffindor gang."

Hermione forced a smile. "Well, Mr. Potter neglected to mention that we'd be in mixed company as well."

Draco grinned at that. "Yes, well, apparently John . . . Mr. Potter, I mean, borrowed the sorting hat from McGonagall's office. Turns out he's dating a Ravenclaw." As expected, Draco used every scrap of information to his advantage. Hermione could tell by the way that Harry was gritting his teeth that his father hadn't shared that information with Harry himself.

"Oh, there they come now," Draco waved and Harry's father nodded back, continuing some argument he seemed to be having with his boyfriend.

"Well, if it isn't the Scooby Doo gang," Mr. Potter's boyfriend remarked.

Though it was a rude comment, Hermione couldn't help but smile. If they were Mystery Inc., then Ron was most definitely Shaggy.

Mr. Potter rolled his eyes, but proceeded to make introductions anyway, though he struggled a bit with the word, ‘boyfriend.'

As they were walking down the road towards Hogsmeade and the Three Broomsticks, where they intended to brunch, an owl swooped down, depositing Hermione's subscription of the Prophet at her feet. She was startled of course, and Dr. McKay had jumped nearly out of his socks at the occurrence, shouting imprecations at the owl and ranting about the possibility of heart attack and the bird flu, before turning to Draco and beginning a lecture on the finer points of email, as though Draco himself were the focal point for all things wrong with the wizarding world. Hermione actually found herself surprised that he put up with it.

She grabbed the paper, intending to just stick it into her bag for when they returned, but the picture on the front page caught her eye. It was like nothing she had ever seen before – a corpse, but so old and twisted that it almost resembled an Egyptian mummy, only far from Egypt. The title of the article was, ‘Mysterious Killing of Ministry Official in the Marshland: Marsh People Uprising or Darker Forces at Work?'

She was about to fold the paper back up when Mr. Potter snatched it from her, barking, "Rodney, come look at this."

"Well, that's certainly an improvement on paper," Dr. McKay conceded, only to go pale and nervous at the sight of the photo. "Does that look like . . ." he began, trailing off.

Mr. Potter squeezed his shoulder for a brief second before turning to Harry. "We need to get to this location immediately. Do you know anybody at the Ministry?"

Hermione looked to Ron sympathetically. Arthur Weasley would have helped them, once, she knew. Ron was still recovering from his death. In fact, Hermione was surprised that he wasn't disturbed by the fact that Harry'd jut gotten his father back after Ron had lost his. "Kingsley will help us," she offered. "We can use the floo in the Three Broomsticks."

Mr. Potter nodded seriously, launching into an explanation (directed mostly at Harry) about a race of creatures in a foreign galaxy that killed people in the exact same manner and the concern that they'd made landfall on Earth. As soon as they were outside of Hogwarts, Dr. McKay said something into his radio and disappeared in a flash.

"He didn't tell me he could apparate," Draco remarked.

"He didn't," Mr. Potter replied, and his explanation sounded to Hermione a little too much like Star Trek.

Madame Rosmerta was glad to oblige them with the use of her fireplace, though Hermione was becoming increasingly nervous, watching Mr. Potter and the worry etched deep into his handsome features. He looked so much like an older Harry that Hermione found it difficult not to stare.

After Harry's explanation, Kingsley seemed anxious enough to jump through the fire to them. When he arrived, Hermione could see the haunted bloodshot look to his eyes that she hadn't seen since the war. Whatever this was, it had obviously been troubling him, and most likely the entire group of Aurors at the Ministry.

He took a moment to hug and shake their hands in turn, but was quick to explain. "This isn't the first killing, as it turns out. Once we combed the area and another official had finished the survey Reginald Hornbeam set out to perform, we determined that there are at least five victims unaccounted for, with disappearances staring months ago."

"At about one every two months . . . subsistence level for a Wraith, even assuming it was injured and took several to get on its feet, that still means that if there's only one of them it's been here for at least six months. That's too long . . . they wouldn't have waited without attacking."

"On one hand, I'm glad to know that someone at least has an idea of what we're dealing with here," Kingsley replied. "On the other, I think this might be a good time to inform you that Ministry won't appreciate your involvement, James. They've already received word of your return, and well . . . let me put it this way – it's not a good time, politically, to acknowledge that it's possible to return from the dead. Your motives would be held highly suspect, even if the Ministry did feel inclined to admit involvement with you."

"It's okay," Mr. Potter replied. "We've got people trained to fight this kind of stuff. We'll get the Daedalus to beam over a couple of SG teams and we'll get it for you."

"Are these people muggles?" Hermione asked. "Because large portions of the marshes have been subject to anti-muggle charms."

"And most of our personnel with the gene are stationed in another galaxy. I guess that means we go to plan B."

"Plan B?" Kingsley asked.

"Normally it takes anywhere from five to forty round to bring one of these guys down. No different than a few reducto curses, I guess."

Kingsley nodded. "Moody is on site now, but once we get there, I can summon him with some of the old Order communication spells."

"And McKay's up there using the Daedalus to scan for Wraith lifesigns. So we just have to find it and kill it. Come over next to me, Kingsley, and I'll have them beam us up."

"Wait!" Harry protested. "I'm coming with you."

"No, Harry, this is going to be dangerous and . . ."

"And you're my father. I just got you back. I'm not going to let you fight this thing alone."

They stared at each other with matching looks of intensity, before Mr. Potter nodded. "I guess if you can defeat you-know-who, a single Wraith won't be too much of a problem."

"We're going too," Hermione added.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea . . ." Mr. Potter began.

"No," Kingsley interrupted him. "Don't mistake them for kids, James. They've seen more war and fought harder than most wizards do in a lifetime. There's safety in numbers and if the Ministry won't cooperate, then we need their help."

Mr. Potter nodded, looking slightly miserable as they all crowded around him (Draco even) and then Hermione felt a brief almost pleasant tingle and a flash of light, so different from the sick jerking sensation of apparition.

When Hermione opened her eyes, Rodney was standing there, framed by the most amazing view Hermione had ever seen – the Earth floating serene and blue in the isolated void of space, stars sparkling around it. And then she turned around and let out a completely undignified squeak. Standing there was a slender grey creature with empty black eyes and a tiny mouth, like something out of an alien abduction movie. It was wearing one of her S.P.E.W hats.

"What the bloody hell is that?!" Ron exclaimed. "And how'd it get a hat?"

"It was a gift from Dr. Lupin," the creature (it talked!) replied in a dull almost metallic sounding voice.

"Don't worry, the Asgard creep me out too," Mr. Potter whispered, stepping forward to discuss something with Dr. McKay, Harry trailing after him.

Ron was busy eyeing the alien warily when Hermione stepped up beside Draco, staring out the window at the Earth below. "And to think, muggles did all this," he breathed.

"A famous muggle said, ‘There are more things in heaven and Earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' I used that quote to convince my parents about magic," Hermione told him, though she did not expect Draco to appreciate her quotation of Shakespeare at such a young age.

Draco turned to her then, looking almost ethereally pale in the starlight. "I didn't tell you everything about the Dark Mark. To receive it, you have to have killed someone."

"That means Harry . . ."

Draco nodded. "He used the killing curse on the Dark Lord. They were grappling at each other like a physical fight. I just saw a flash of green and I was positive Harry was the one to die, until he stood up and walked away. He didn't even look back." Draco sounded as surprised by that fact as Harry had been about Draco touching a unicorn.

"Why did you change sides, Draco?" Before, Draco's lack of empathy had seemed as alien to her as the short grey being blinking at Ron resentfully, but she'd grown so accustomed to it that his sudden change of heart seemed even more mysterious.

"It wasn't a sudden sympathy for Potter and your lot, that's for certain," he spat, but then seemed to honestly consider it. "All my life, my father taught me about how the ministry oppressed us by not allowing us the freedom to chose whether or not to learn so-called Dark Magic, which they defined. But the Dark Lord never made things more free – he made them less."

Hermione nodded. After seeing the danger of dark magic, she couldn't see herself using it. But, she understood the argument.

Draco turned away then, focusing his attention on where Mad-eye had just appeared, going so far as to draw his wand when he spotted the alien. In the eight years they'd known each other, it was by far the most intimate conversation she and Draco ever had, and the thought amused her as much as it chilled her.

After a good (almost practiced-seeming) lecture on Wraith tactics, there was another bright flash and they were standing in a circle on the edge of a marsh island, the reeds that the Marsh people wove together to form floating islands were spongy beneath their feet. It was as difficult to walk as traversing a sand dune. Hermione kept her wand raised high, feeling almost preternaturally aware of Harry and Ron moving beside her. Mr. Potter had his wand, but Dr. McKay held a muggle handgun. Mr. Potter also wore one strapped around his thigh.

"50 meters, directly ahead," Dr. McKay remarked, staring down at device that looked much like a palm pilot, but seemed to function much more like the Marauder's Map.

Mr. Potter nodded. Gone was the laid back, jovial father she and Ron had seen flying playfully with his son. His jaw was tight and his eyes hard, wearing the exact same look of fierce intensity that she'd seen on Harry's face so many times. And yet, Harry always seemed to throw his soul into each battle, as it was as much a struggle with his own fear and anger as it was with the enemy. Mr. Potter's gaze, on the other hand, was professional and ice cold. He naturally moved to the front of the group, followed by McKay, Harry, Ron, and herself. Draco stood in the middle, with the two aurors trailing.

There was a cottage in the center of this small marsh island – the only place that the creature could be, and Mr. Potter motioned for them to surround it, settling into an odd stillness – even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.

Mr. Potter was making a vague motion, counting down on his fingers instead of a flick of his wand, as Hermione was used to. But if Hermione felt scared, it was quelled by the knowledge of her friends around her. It was just one of these creature, after all.

But then maybe she spoke too soon, because no sooner had she thought it, than she was thrown down, hands sinking into the spongy material of the reeds when something burst forth from the heart of the island, curling around her ankle like a vise.

There was the familiar cacophony of spells being uttered and light flying as they were cast, but the spells seemed ineffective. The grip tightened, dragging her downwards, even as Hermione caught the head of what was clearly a giant snake, lashing out so hard at Ron, beside her, that he went flying back into McKay, sending them both tumbling back and over the edge of the reed island and into the thick murk of the marsh.

Kingsley and Mad-eye were sending their most powerful curses at it now, but though the snake's grip on her leg did loosen slightly, it was continuing to inch its way up her body, the strange mouth-like patterns on its back almost clamping around her ankle.

Harry was shouting something now, only it came out a hissing keen, sending a shiver down her spine, just the same as any time she heard Harry speak in Parseltongue.

The snake stopped its progress at that, raising its head to stare at Harry with deep almost catlike yellow eyes, hissing its response.

"It's Nagini!" Harry shouted, before hissing something else – something that clearly offended the snake because the next moment Hermione felt a searing pain in her ankle. For a second she thought the snake had crushed the bones, but she soon realized it was something else entirely, her heart was racing and she was in more pain than she could ever remember being in – even more than the Basilisk.

"Our spells aren't strong enough!" she heard Kingsley shout.

"A killing curse?" Mad-eye shouted, as Aurors were permitted to use the unforgivables in life-or-death circumstances.

"No!" Mr. Potter shouted. Not while it's attached to her!"

The pain was screaming through her now, like someone was hollowing her out, dragging barbed wire down every nerve. And then, Draco Malfoy was somehow there, wandless hand stroking down along the snake's jaw line. Hermione felt the sweat flood of its release like falling down into a cloud-soft bed at the end of a long day.

"Accio nine-millimeter!" Harry's father shouted in the background and then Hermione opened her eyes to find herself splattered in blood and snake guts, leaning into the rotting surface of the island and emptying the contents of her stomach.

"Is it dead?" Draco squeaked, seeming to remember himself and taking a giant leap back from the snake's head.

"How'd you know to do that?" Harry asked.

"I saw Wormtail do it once, when the Dark Lord had ordered the snake to punish him."

"We'll, we're lucky that you and he were so close," Harry replied, and in the wake of so much pain and confusion, Hermione couldn't tell if he meant to be gratefully ironic or simply to condemn Draco again.

Kingsley was kneeling beside her now, wrapping her up in his robe and demanding to know if she felt all right. Hermione nodded, only to remember what Mr. Potter had said about the Wraith. "How many years . . ." she gasped out. She was too young.

"None," Kingsley replied, cupping her cheek.

"It must be more like an Iratus Bug than a full-blown Wraith – slower feeding," Mr. Potter offered, from where he was pulling out his wet and already complaining boyfriend out of the marsh. "Not that it's an anymore pleasant an experience."

"You would know," Dr. McKay retorted, significantly.

Hermione had no time to ponder the comment, however, because Mad-eye had pulled Ron from the water and he was now dripping all over her, hugging her tight against him and demanding to know if she was okay, and vowing to kill the horrible snake, despite the fact that it was already dead.

She grabbed his hand. "It's okay, Ron. Really." There was a more pressing problem, than even the lingering pain lancing up her leg, however. "If Nagini's still alive, than does that mean that Voldemort is . . ."

"No," Harry replied, leaning down behind her to support her, while they waited for the Aurors and Rodney to finish checking for more similar creatures. "She said that he was dead, and that the hunger was killing her. She thought that ‘taking a young soul' might sustain her." He shuddered. "I just don't know how it's possible. I stabbed her with the basilisk tooth, just as I did the diary."

Even though the pain and the exhaustion of the attack lingered, Hermione found her mind turning to the mystery before her. It at least kept her mind off the wound on her ankle that she now realized was bleeding freely. "Well, I don't think that anyone on record has ever used a living thing as a horcrux before. The other horcruxes didn't just cease to exist when the horcruxes were released from them. The diary wasn't as it once was, but you could still use it. What was killed was the part of Voldemort's soul kept inside it, not the diary itself. So, when you thought you killed Nagini, you were killing Voldemort's soul, not the snake's. But as a living, breathing thing, the soul had become a part of her, and she needed some form of soul in order to survive. Because having Voldemort's soul had conferred a sort of immortality to her. As long as she was a horcrux, she had Voldemort's soul to sustain her. But absent that, she's been consuming souls ever since, leaching them from the body. But the process is imperfect – it's not the same as the creation of a horcrux, so she's draining people of their entire souls and without the spellwork of a horcrux, she's burning through them."

"Because she needs the zero point energy," Draco pointed out, looking to Dr. McKay for approval. "And only a spell performed with a wand or a deeply magical creature has the power to tap into it. Souls can only contain so much."

"And the Wraith are the same?" Mr. Potter asked.

"Yes. Some idiot back in the day of Ascension research and the Ancients trying to live forever must have put his soul in an Iratus bug."

Mr. Potter shuddered. "Why the hell would you do that?"

"Because . . ." McKay snapped his fingers. "Because the Iratus Bugs reproduce purely through cloning . . . almost as though they all came from the same source. The Ancients probably created them specifically so they could be made into horcruxes, because as they cloned . . . they thought the so-called soul would be cloned and protected too! But it doesn't work like that, because like Draco said, the ‘soul' is a finite amount of energy . . . its the spell that sustains, and that was only done once. So there must have been a ton of bugs out there, cloning themselves and feeding, but the Ancients probably let them run rampant, believing they were extending their lives, until some genetic fluke allowed them to absorb the DNA of their hosts and evolve into the Wraith, at which point, the Ancients couldn't stop them."

"So . . . you're saying that there's no danger here. We've killed Nagini and that's the end of the line?"

"Well, it couldn't hurt to do more scans, but ironically, I think it's sex that's protecting us . . . I mean, like the Goa'uld, the Iratus bugs take a current sample of their DNA to form an egg, including any mutations caused by radiation, while human beings are born with all of the reproductive cells they'll ever have."

Mr. Potter nodded. "We'll stay here and do your scans, then. I'll have you all beamed up to the Daedalus' infirmary.

Mad-eye looked as though he was ready to protest the decision and Draco looked pale, undoubtedly rethinking his strange act of heroism, but none of it mattered, because she was leaning back into the comforting circle of Harry's arms and Ron was gripping her hand tight in his, and as long as they were together, they could do anything.

---

Draco Malfoy looked strange in the blue trousers and grey Air Force t-shirt he'd been given to wear in place of his robes (which were a fire hazard, according to Rodney). The grey walls of the base were similar to the harsh dungeon surroundings of the Slytherins, but the florescent lighting made Draco look wan and pale, too thin for the military clothing he'd been given.

Draco was sitting on the stairs leading from the conference room down to the Stargate, looking suddenly exactly like the innocent young kid everyone assumed him to be. Sitting on the stairs seemed almost too casual for Draco, but Harry had to admit that since the end of the war, he'd seen Draco do a lot of out-of-character things.

Harry plopped down next to him, feeling a strange kinship. Even though they had been nemeses for years, as two British kids alone on a top secret American muggle-military base, they had a lot more in common with each other than with everyone around them. Ironically, if they'd told any of the perturbed young airmen charged with babysitting duty that they were a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, he would have just blinked and asked what exactly that was supposed to mean. Then again, Harry could say the same if he were sitting next to Voldemort at the moment. They had far more in common than just both being wizards.

After a long moment, during which he could feel Draco scrutinizing him, Harry remarked, "So I here you filled up one of those ZPM things."

"It wasn't hard – more an endurance test than anything. Rodney thinks that he can get one of those muggle machines to do it now that he knows how. He's ordered about twenty wands from Olivander's to experiment with. That crazy old coot couldn't understand what they were for, of course – demanding Rodney come in and let the wands choose him."

"Dad says this means that they'll be able to run Atlantis at full power."

"That's a good thing, I suppose."

"Yeah."

The silence was once again awkward. They'd always had so many words for each other, but once insults were removed from the picture, very little remained. "Thanks what you did . . . last week, with Hermione. I mean, at least you're starting to make up for all of the times you've been such a spineless bastard."

"Yes, well, hopefully that means you'll start making inroads on being less of an arrogant arse."

Instead of shouting angrily back, Harry found himself laughing. "Hey, I'll try if you do."

"Rodney asked me to come back with him as a lab assistant, and see all the ways our ancestors first started using magic."

"Are you going to go?" Harry wasn't sure if he wanted Draco there or not. On one hand, this was his father's base and a silly juvenile part of him wanted to be the only one there for his father to joke with and dote on and protect, but on the other, he wasn't sure how he'd survive as one of a kind alone out there. Since he'd stepped into the Leaky Cauldron for the first time, Harry had been the one and only ‘boy who lived,' and after the war it had only gotten worse. It would be nice to be ‘just one of those British kids,' or the commander's son, or the genetic lightswitch (as his father had put it).

"Yes, I think I am," Draco answered decisively. "There's nothing left for me on Earth."

"What about your fortune and your huge house and your noble family tradition?" Harry sniped, because he knew that it would be hard for him to leave Earth (Ron and Hermione, especially) and he couldn't believe that it could ever be easy.

"You mean being an orphan in a big empty house, reviled as a Death Eater, despite having aided Harry Potter in his heroic last battle?"

Harry snorted. Draco hadn't been more than a distraction to get Harry face to face with Voldemort, but he was beginning to understand how monumental and life changing a step that was for Draco, essentially turning his back on everything he'd been taught to believe and making his own choices for the first time in his life, while at the same time Harry was for the first time really coming to terms with the fact that his fate had been sealed for him since he was barely one year, and that any ‘choices' had been an illusion.

Harry looked down at the dark burn of the skull and the snake against the pale innocence of Draco's skin. He wore the mark so unselfconsciously, smiling when Marines complimented him on his ‘Tat' and wearing all of the short-sleeved garments given to him. Harry himself wore one of the (exclusively long-sleeved) shirts his dad had insisted on buying for him after he'd seen all of Dudley's hand-me-downs.

Draco noticed Harry staring and stuck his arm out, practically into Harry's lap. "It's the same as yours."

"What'd you do to get it?" Harry asked, tentatively.

Draco turned to him then, remorse clear in his baleful grey eyes. "I killed a muggle. She was young and pretty and completely helpless. I don't know why I chose her . . . she was wearing a bright red belt and I think my eyes were drawn to it. Voldemort noticed and complimented me on my choice. After seeing the muggle method, I think that the one solace I can take in it was that it was quick."

"But you always hated muggles. I heard you saying you couldn't wait to kill ‘remove those scum.' Why the sudden remorse?" Even after everything, there was still lingering doubt about Draco's reform.

"I hated the idea that there were people without magic. And I thought I was better and more deserving then them, yes. I would've kicked them around or played pranks, or even made a few into servants. But I never wanted anyone to die."

"And now?"

Draco shrugged. "Rodney's not so bad." And for Draco Malfoy, that was the equivalent of calling for the communist revolution.

"You really have changed," Harry said, laying a hand on Draco's forearm where it rested on his thigh.

And somehow, to Harry's astonishment, the Dark Mark began to fade.

"Potter, what the bloody hell did you do?" Draco exclaimed, but Harry was too busy forcing his own shirt up, to reveal a clean stretch of forearm.

"What happened?" Harry asked, astonished.

"The thing that the Dark Lord could never figure out (though he dismissed it as irrelevant), was how to put a soul back together after it'd been split into pieces and put in horcruxes."

"I think we just found out how," Harry grinned. Forgiveness was a start, at least.

"Yeah," Draco agreed, standing and helping Harry to his feet so they could walk side by side down towards the Stargate and their future.

FIN