Out of Time

A/N: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Written for laurel_tx's Mistaken Identity Challenge over on LiveJournal.


”Look out!”

“Harry, no!”

Ron and Hermione both shouted and jumped forward. She, to grab at Harry. Ron, to pull her back. Then everything swirled away.

* * *

Harry woke with a pounding headache, much like a hangover, but he couldn't recall when he would have had a hangover. He glanced around to take stock of his surroundings. Cobblestone pavement, uneven brick walls, empty wooden crates bearing the logo of a German herbal supply that Hermione insisted was the best source for madwort...

Hermione? Who was that? Harry wondered. He tried to call up an image to go with the name, but a vague memory of frizzy brown hair and a wicked overbite only surfaced briefly before melting like multi-coloured candle wax. He tried to bring the memory back into focus, but that only made the pain in his skull upgrade from pounding to stabbing. He swallowed a couple of times to push down the sick he felt rising and slowly got to his feet. He waited until the vertigo eased and made his way to the mouth of the alley, one hand on the rough bricks for balance.

Before he reached his goal, there was the sound of an explosion from somewhere not too far away. The ground shook slightly and screams echoed. Harry moved faster, reaching into his pocket for his wand. He stumbled out of the alleyway into chaos. People were screaming and running every which way. He turned his head to see a cloud of greasy-looking black smoke rising lazily into the air. Most of the people seemed to be running away from it, so Harry began walking against the flow of the crowd. Arriving at the center of the disaster, he saw that the front of a shop had been blasted out and the building was in flames. Wizards and witches in red robes attempted to control the crowd while the yellow-robed Fire Suppression Squad alternately froze and extinguished parts of the fire. Healers in their lime-green robes treated the casualties, occasionally Portkeying away with a more seriously injured patient.

“James! What the bloody hell are you doing here? You know how dangerous it is. What if one of His people sees you?”

Harry blinked at the red-haired witch grabbing his shoulder and all but shouting in his ear. “What? I don't--”

“Oh Merlin, were you in the blast? Did you take a knock to the head?” She looked about frantically. “I've got to get you out of here. Hang on.” She took his arm in a very firm grasp and turned in place. Harry felt like he was being sucked through a narrow tube as the witch Apparated them both away.

He reeled and would have fallen but for the vicelike grip on his arm. That'll leave a mark, he thought. There wasn't time to think much of anything else before the witch dragged him forward to an ivy-covered cottage.

”Alohamora,” she said, pointing her wand at the door. The latch clicked and the door swung open under its own weight. She shouldered it the rest of the way open, pulling Harry inside and kicked the door shut behind them. She steered him into a chair and lit the end of her wand with a muttered, ”Lumos.”

She brought the wand close to his face and peered into his eyes. He winced as the light brought back an echo of his earlier headache.

“Sorry,” she apologized brusquely and dimmed her wandlight. “Pupils equal and reactive to light,” she remarked, more to herself than anything. “Did you take a knock to the head?”

“I don't--” He stopped as he realized he didn't remember anything from before he woke up in that back alley. Well, nothing clearly.

The witch pushed her jaw forward and ran her free hand through his hair, feeling his scalp in a very businesslike manner. “No bumps. You seem disoriented, though. Never have known you to not have some smartarsed comment ready for any situation. Always thought your eyes were brown, too, not green. Faulty Polyjuice Potion?”

“I don't know,” Harry said.

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“Just that.” He grimaced. “I don't know where I am—was—or how I got there. I don't have any idea what's going on and I don't know who you are. I don't. Fucking. Remember. Anything.”

“I'll thank you to watch your language in my house, James Potter,” she snapped.

That was the one thing he was sure of. His name was Harry James Potter. Obviously he sometimes went by his middle name, but he was more used to being called Harry.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Just frustrated. I'm supposed to be doing something. Something important, and I can't remember.” He pressed his fists to his temples.

“I'll take you to St, Mungo's. This sounds like spell damage and I have to get back to Diagon Alley before I'm missed.”

“No. No hospital.” Harry wasn't sure how he'd known that St. Mungo's was a hospital, but the thought felt right.

“You can't just be wandering about--”

“You seem to know me. Just let me stay here. If I remember where I'm supposed to be before you come back, I'll leave you a note.”

He could read the indecision on her face. “There are people that need your help more than I do. I only need a safe place to stay while I get my bearings.”

She huffed out an impatient sigh. “All right, Potter. Don't make a mess. I most likely won't be back until late. Help yourself to the larder, but try to remember that I'm just regular Magical Law Enforcement. We don't pull down the same sort of pay that an Auror does.”

Harry nodded his agreement and she turned to leave. “Wait! Umm, I mean, what's your name? I'm sorry I can't remember, but I need to know what to call you.”

Her gaze softened to something very like sympathy. “Bones, Amelia Bones.” Then she was out the door and gone.

* * *

Harry spent the next few hours testing his memory. He remembered ordinary, everyday things such as how to cast a Levitating Charm. He'd found a copy of The Daily Prophet and read about the latest Quidditch scores, some controversial case being tried by the Wizengamot and an editorial on a speech by Minister of Magic, Millicent Bagnold. All of that sounded more or less familiar, though people's names meant little or nothing to him. He could remember his own name, but not the names of any family, friends or even rivals. He couldn't remember where he lived, where he worked or how he'd ended up in that alley. Attempts to remember any of these facts just brought back his headache, so he gave up and went in search of something to eat.

Wandering about Amelia Bones's cottage while trying not to drip jam from his sandwich, Harry tried to piece together a picture of his inadvertent hostess. She lived alone, that much was clear. There were a few photographs on the mantel. One of an older couple that Harry assumed were her parents and one of a younger Amelia in her red Law Enforcement robes, shaking hands with some official as she received an award. There was a family group with her and the couple from the other photo, as well as two wizards who looked a few years younger than Amelia. The last two photos were each of Amelia, her brothers and witches in bridal robes, obviously from the young Mr. Bones' weddings.

When Amelia came home that evening, Harry had tea waiting for her. "Made yourself at home, I see," she commented, but there was no disapproval in her tone.

He grimaced apologetically. "I tried everything I could think of to find out what I know. I-erm-looked around a bit too. Who are the people in the pictures on your mantel shelf?"

"My parents. They've passed away. My brothers, Edgar and Irwin and their wives, Sophie and Charlotte."

"No nieces or nephews?"

"Edgar has three little hellions. Even their pictures won't behave, so I keep those in an album. Irwin and Charlotte don't have any, but they're looking into adoption. Any luck with your memory?” she asked, changing the subject.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head slowly. “I remember spells and potions, and bits of information like thestrals being attracted to blood, but nothing about myself. Can't you just tell me what you know about me? Perhaps it will trigger something.”

“I could, but I talked with Irwin today. He's a Healer specializing in disorders of the brain. He says that it's better for you to remember on your own. If you would go to St. Mungo's...” she broke off with a sigh at the grim look on Harry's face. “Well, I'd send you home, but apparently no one knows where you live.” She paused. “You don't seem surprised by that.”

“I get the feeling that I'm in hiding or something. I knew I shouldn't go to St. Mungo's unless it was a matter of life and death.”

“And yet you walked right into the middle of the aftermath of a Death Eater attack.”

Harry shrugged. “I was already in the vicinity and if there had been anything I could have done to help, I wouldn't have felt right just standing idly by.”

“Well, you certainly sound like the James Potter I know. I'm still a little concerned that you haven't reverted to your normal appearance yet. Polyjuice only lasts an hour. Your eyes should have gone back to brown and that scar faded.”

“I don't know what to tell you,” Harry tuned his hands palm-up in a helpless gesture.

“Perhaps a good night's sleep will help. I'll make up the sofa for you. It's surprisingly comfortable. Excellent dinner, by the way.”

He grinned. “Who knew I could cook?”

* * *

Harry came awake all of a sudden, snatching up his wand and glasses and rolling to the floor in one fluid movement. A strange, muffled sound issued from the bedroom. Was Amelia being attacked? Keeping low, he crossed the living room and flattened himself against the wall. A strangled moan seemed to confirm his suspicions that his hostess was in some distress. Harry threw open the door, lit wand extended.

The sight that greeted him was most definitely not what he expected: Amelia with one fist half stuffed in her mouth and the other hand between her wide-spread thighs. He stared, mesmerized by the glistening pink flesh and dark ginger curls exposed to his gaze. Shock, embarrassment and lust kept him rooted to the spot even as she removed the hand from her mouth to whisper, “James?”

Harry's eyes flicked upwards to meet hers. “S-sorry,” he stuttered. “I heard sounds. I thought—stupid of me—wasn't thinking at all. Sorry,” he repeated.

“Don't be. I've fancied you a long while. God help me, ever since—well, never mind since when, but you made me feel like a dirty old woman.”

“You're not old!” Harry blurted out.

Amelia smiled, finally removing her other hand from her swollen nether lips. “Come here.”

* * *

“Amelia! Melly!”

“Huh, whazzat?” For the second time that night, Harry wakened unwillingly.

“My brother. Get a robe on. There's something wrong.” Amelia threw on her Auror's robe, quickly fastening it over her naked form. Snatching up her wand and boots, she charged out of the bedroom.

Harry grabbed a plain black robe from the wardrobe. He wasn't that much taller than Amelia and most wizards' and witches' everyday robes were fairly unisex to the casual observer. He could hear the conversation clearly from the other room, such as it was.

“What's happened, Edgar?”

“Rogue Dementors, Melly. Attacking the village. We need help, now.”

Amelia stood up from kneeling on the hearth just as Harry came out of her bedroom. “I'm going with you,” he said firmly, shoving his feet into half-laced trainers. She didn't bother to argue, simply grasping his arm once again and Disapparating with him.

* * *

The battle was over quickly. Only a half-dozen Dementors had attacked, rogues being somewhat rare. Unfortunately, the Dementors had only been a cover for a Death Eater strike. The Dark Mark hung over the Bones house, painting the predawn sky a sickly green. Harry laid his hand on Amelia's arm in a show of wordless, inadequate comfort.

She turned to him, a terrible grief in her eyes. “Who are you?”

“Did you take a knock to the head?” he unintentionally echoed her question from the previous afternoon.

”Who are you?” she whispered harshly. “James's Patronus isn't a stag.”

“I don't know what you mean. I am James. Harry James Potter.”

She closed her eyes and laughed humorlessly, a short, coughing bark of a laugh. “I should have known. Even without his memory, James would never cheat on Lily.”

“Lily?” A strange roaring sound filled Harry's ears as disjointed images flickered in his mind's eye.

“I don't know who you are, but you're not who I thought you were. You're not James.”

Harry barely heard her as the fragments of memory began fitting themselves together like crazy jigsaw puzzle pieces. He clutched his head as lighting flashes of pain accompanied memories rolling though his brain like thunder. Just as his nervous system reached overload, the world swirled and rushed away, like so much water down a storm drain.

* * *

“Harry!” Gentle hands patted him down, checking for injuries.

“C'mon, mate. Open your eyes.”

Harry obeyed reluctantly. A young woman with frizzy brown hair and a freckle-faced, ginger-haired man peered down at him worriedly. “Hermione, Ron, what happened?”

“You tell us. One minute you were there and the next you were gone.”

“There was a trap of some sort on the Horcrux. You've been gone for over sixteen hours.”

Harry closed his eyes as recent events sorted themselves out in his mind. “Time. The spell sent me back in time.”

“How far back?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Before I was born. Late '79. September.”

Ever tactless, Ron asked, “Did you see your parents?”

“No, but someone thought I was my father.”

“Well, I know you probably would have liked to see him and your mother, but it's a good thing you didn't. You could have easily caused a paradox that might have resulted in you never having been born.”

“Like that Muggle movie you told me about, Hermione. Where that bloke went back in time and his mum fell for him. That would have been a nightmare, wouldn't it?”

Harry blanched. “Don't even joke about something like that, Ron. I couldn't remember who I was for most of the time I was gone. I wouldn't even have known she was my mother.”

Almost a week later, a horrible thought occurred to Harry. “Hermione,” he began as casually as he could manage, “you don't happen to know when Susan Bones's birthday is, do you?”

She frowned at him. “Sometime in June, I think. Her parents wanted to pull her out of school at the end of last year, but she refused to go. She said they couldn't force her, she'd just come of age. Why?”

Harry couldn't find the words to explain his suspicions. He shook his head. “No reason. Just a stray thought.”