Oh, I've seen things like that before, he thought to himself. But damn, Aunt Petunia had never looked that good in a skirt and blouse. He chuckled to himself as he realized he was acting childish, but then again, he'd never actually had the opportunity to, before. He'd never been able to do all the things people his age did - go out at night, flirt with girls, have girls flirt with him, go dancing with his girlfriend… he'd missed out on all of that because of the war. He felt a brief sense of sadness at that, but pushed it back down, along with his physical attraction to the beautiful daughter of the master forger. Now was neither the time nor the place for this.
"It's fine," he finally said with a small shrug. "You're right, it's a bit unusual… but it looks good on you."
"Thanks," she blushed and giggled. Finally, she slid over the envelope. "Here's the documentation. Feel free to look through it and check if everything is there and to your satisfaction."
"All right," Harry said, glad for the distraction. He opened the folder and began thumbing through the accumulated life of one Harry Evans Ashworth, born in December, 1955. He had initially been concerned that he wouldn't get his money's worth, but one look at the thick stack of papers told him that that particular fear had been unfounded.
The documents and background seemed real enough that, after a few minutes of skimming through the papers, even Harry began to believe that Harry E. Ashworth existed. Everything was there, all of it down to his precise specifications, all the details of his alleged travels, his complete medical history, schooling records, correspondence addressed… everything he had made up with Sabine the other day, with details filled in that he hadn't even thought of but that made the whole thing even more believable.
"Look good?" Sabine sidled up to Harry with a proud smile.
It took a moment for him to find his voice at the elaborate documentation before him that spelled out the life of a man who had never existed, but had proof so real that he might as well had. "Yeah. It's - it's great," he finally said. "You and your father do good work."
"Thank you," she grinned.
Harry reached into his robes and withdrew a shrunken bag of galleons. A quick whispered word and wave of his wand returned it to its original size. "I have no idea how to complete this kind of transaction," he began slowly. "Would it be acceptable if I paid you eight thousand now and the remainder when I pick up the license?"
"That's perfectly all right," Sabine agreed.
Harry nodded gratefully. He hadn't yet returned to the Black vault, and he had no intention to. For one, he had no key, and secondly, the goblins probably kept a record of who accessed each vault. It wouldn't do to arouse suspicion by having a stranger walk into the vault of one of the most well-known and feared pureblood families around. This combined with his lack of a wage and steep price of a new identity meant that his funds were dwindling quickly. He waved his wand and floated eight thousand galleons out of the bag, then shrunk it back and tucked it into his pocket again.
They exchanged a pleasant farewell, with Harry asking her to give her father his regards and thanks for a job brilliantly done. Before he headed out the door, she leaned over. Thinking she was going to kiss him on the cheek again, Harry started to lean back, only to find her whispering into his ear.
"If you'd ever like to go out for dinner, you know where to find me," she muttered softly, before pulling back and pushing him through the door with a playful wink.
Harry stood in front of the closed door, his jaw agape and thoughts awhirl for a few moments. Well, a mental voice that sounded too much like Fred and George for his liking finally said, looks like little Harry got hit on for the first time! Let's celebrate! He groaned and tried to silence that gleeful little voice, but was only partially successful as he made his way out of Knockturn Alley, muttering about annoying twins being a bad influence on him all the way.
Then there was the other problem that had been nagging at him for the past few days. He hadn't yet run into Bellatrix again, something he was inordinately glad for, because "having mixed feelings" about her didn't even begin to describe the issues he had with that woman. Sure, she was, what, close to seventeen in this time, and nowhere near as twisted as she had been when he had first met her, but she was still the same person. The person who would grow up to become the most feared witch of the decade, the woman who would kill and torture countless people. The woman who would torture Neville's parents into a vegetative state, the person who would duel his godfather and eventually cause his death.
The person who had laid, broken and forced back into sanity by the pain in the same cell as him. The same person who had asked him to kill her. The woman who had bled to death in his arms. Try as he might, he couldn't shake that image from his mind. He could still feel the sticky blood soaking his hands, could still smell the faint scent of copper as it soaked his tattered robes, could still see the peaceful expression on her face as she died. And that was part of what was bothering him. She had looked at peace as she died, something he hadn't thought possible of her, something he hadn't believed she had deserved, not after all she had done.
He had wanted her dead for a long time - probably ever since he heard about what she had done to the Longbottoms. Sirius's death had only compounded to that desire, and each of their meetings on the battlefield had become progressively more intense and savage as they threw everything they had at each other, losing themselves in the fight, forgetting everything around them until all that was left was the other… and the burning desire to see her dead. He had finally gotten his wish, and he had tried telling himself that it was merely the manner of her death that had him disconcerted, but after three days of migraines pondering the subject, he had come to the realization that the way she had died was only a small part of it.
It was the peace, the release she had found in death that vexed him. He couldn't understand it, couldn't fathom how she could have found that, least of all while in Voldemort's dungeon. He had just gotten used to one side of her - the cruel, ruthless Bellatrix who crushed everything in her way in a withering barrage of cruelty and bloodshed. Then she had done an about-face, and suddenly decided to turn sane. And young . And despite all that she would, or, rather, could, become in the future, she wasn't yet. Harry found it hard to reconcile the annoying, irreverent, but, most importantly, sane, Bellatrix he had found during her few lucid moments in Voldemort's basement and here in the past with the crazed, bloodthirsty witch he knew so well in the future.
He wanted so much to hate her, for who she was, who she would become, but found, much to his irritation, that he couldn't. It would make everything so much easier if she were crazy and evil now . But she wasn't, at least not completely, and try as he might, he couldn't find a way to equate her with the witch he knew she would become. There were traits they shared, sure, but it was nearly impossible to believe that it was the same person. Even physically there were differences. The Bellatrix he knew was gaunt and thin, her body was scarred and weathered from malnutrition, years in Azkaban and on the run, and decades of black magic. This Bellatrix was young, and vibrant, and witty, and beautiful .
Harry gritted his teeth and banished that thought from his head. Her physical beauty would do nothing to mar the ugliness of her soul. She was evil, he tried to remind himself, but that quickly turned into she will become evil . He didn't want to affiliate himself with her, didn't even want to be in the same city as her, though that was unavoidable at the moment, but with a sickening feeling, he realized that as much as he disliked her, he could not hate her for something she hadn't become yet. The dichotomy of who she was and who she would become, or rather, who she had been, and who she was now was driving him crazy.
He was still muttering to himself about it and trying to figure it out when the building next to him exploded in a huge fireball that threw him through the air. He groaned and shook his head as he struggled to regain his equilibrium, his ears still ringing from the explosion, and his back aching from where he had hit a brick wall.
This is becoming way too familiar for my liking, he thought darkly as he glanced around. He had almost completely lost track of where he had been going, letting his feet wander as his thoughts drifted to Bellatrix. It took a moment for him to recognize where he was - close to the Ministry of Magic complex, on the other end of Diagon alley. He was wondering what had caused the building across the street to blow up when a very familiar sound reached his ears: spellfire. On instinct, he dropped down into a crouch and drew his wand, scanning the street for the source of the noise.
The noise of fighting was coming from across the street, near the side of the burning building, he finally realized as he barely made out flashes of red and green as wizards and witches dueled. I didn't think Voldemort had organized the Death Eaters yet, Harry thought as he focused on where the flashes of red and green were coming from. Getting a fix on who was fighting who was difficult because of the shadows cast by the nearby buildings and flames, as well as the panicked bystanders who were screaming, fleeing, and hiding from the firefight. What concerned Harry the most was that both parties involved seemed to be using illegal spells - he could swear he caught the distinctive green light of the killing curse a few times as he watched.
Who the heck are these guys? Harry wondered as he crept closer, careful to keep some sort of cover between him and the fighting. He jerked to an abrupt halt when another brilliant fireball erupted from the location of the two warring parties, but this time the aftermath was suffused with screams of the injured. He shook his head warily. Whoever was fighting was secondary, right now they needed to be stopped before they hurt any of the innocents that were frantically trying to get away from the fighting. He didn't know if the aurors of this time were just as slow as the ones in his - he hoped not, but he couldn't take the risk and wait for them to arrive.
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