Author: Nope (nopejr on LJ; nope on IJ)

Rating: PG-13/12+.  

Author's notes:.   With huge thanks to Strangemuses.  

Summary: In order to set right what is wrong, Dennis Creevey travels in time with unfortunate consequences.  

WHERE WE COME IN:

They always said school was hell; Colin Creevey just hadn't realised it could be this literal.  

Screams rose in the haze, some of pain, more of grief and rage.   It was impossible to tell who was winning.   The Death Eaters had the advantage, the experience, the will to kill.   The teachers and the children had desperation, drive, and the home ground.   Hogwarts moved around them, battered and broken but guardian to the last, turning stairs, opening and closing doors, letting students back in who should have gone home -- who shouldn't even have been at the school at all.  

He'd come to war with a bunch of stink-bombs in one pocket and a collection of flashbulbs in the other; not exactly conventional armaments, but Colin knew the risks.    He knew it wasn't all basilisks glimpsed through cameras and vanishing arms on Quidditch pitches, that Pomfrey could not fix all the strange and terrible with some simple, foul tasting potion.    He knew Cedric; he had actually talked to the boy -- mostly about the badges, admittedly, but still -- and had photos of him, before and after.    Colin knew this was real.    Hadn't he made Dennis stay behind, as a good brother should?  He knew -- but he couldn't leave them.    They had worked together.    They had trained together.    Harry had saved them all.    How could he just let that go unanswered?

He was a Gryffindor, by God, and a Gryffindor never retreats, never backs down, not even in the face of impossible evil!

Like people who tried to curse children (never mind that he was one) and Colin leaped out over the rubble, snapping off stunners at the white masks -- thanking them for that touch of melodrama, guys, it made it so much easier to distinguish the bad guys from the good -- and rolling as soon as he hit the ground.    Their return blasts sliced past close enough that he felt the heat but, like in Quidditch, close to the goal didn't score you anything.    Not that all of his own shots had struck home, but he was going at least one in five, which wasn't bad considering half the time he couldn't see a bloody thing.  

Rubble blocked the corridor again.    Colin sighed and took off in the other direction, knowing better than to run but striding hard, eyes everywhere.    It was a shame, really, not just the whole war thing but the way it turned out years of practicing finding the best picture -- the most perfect composition in the shortest time, before opportunity was lost -- didn't actually help all that much in a warzone.    He was too used to seeing everything at once, looking at the whole picture, when he needed to pick out friends and enemies.    Extraneous details kept slipping in.  

Like, for instance, how nicely the stairs and smoke framed that hole in the roof, something to shoot slow and high contrast, print in black and silver gels.    Like the way Victoria's portrait, empty now and with the frame burning, centred over those cracks, would have made the perfect fast full colour shot.    Like the way the smoke, fire, and filtered spell-light made that section over there look like a dragon, or maybe a giant rabbit: a giant, deadly rabbit of death.    Like how he'd turned the wrong way and was suddenly in open space, people rushing round him, people and things -- statues and suits of armour, desks and wardrobes, all manner of things, everything come alive to fight.   His fingers itched for his camera.    He closed them tighter around his wand and doubled back.  

Someone called his name, maybe.    Colin wasn't sure and, in the rush, he couldn't see well enough to pick them out.    Too many details, all at once -- concentrate on specifics, he reminded himself.   Death Eaters were for cursing.    All the other people were for helping.    He had to put everything else one side.    Well, almost everything, noticing the missing steps was quite important, so, people and where he put his feet.    That was it.    His feet and--

Was that Blaise Zabini? Hadn't the Slytherins all left already?  Dennis would have said that wasn't fair, but if you couldn't be sure of some of them, it made sense to Colin to send them all away.    They would be safer that way, whether the 'they' in question was the Slytherins or everybody else.    Anyway, he figured everyone who really wanted to fight, good or bad, would have done as he had done and sneaked back.    He wondered which Zabini was.    The boy was looking his way, annoyingly well dressed in the chaos, annoyingly photogenic too, and Colin raised his wand forgetting in that second that it wasn't his camera.    Zabini was already gone, though.  

Realising he should be too, Colin leaped over the missing stairs and bounded the rest of the way up, pausing at the top to gasp for breath.    It came in smoky and filled with foul smells and he coughed and choked, stumbling for the corridor at the landing's edge and ducking down, hoping the air would be clearer below the smoke and above the dust.    It wasn't particularly, but it was better than nothing was.  

From this angle, he could see back and down through the gap left by the missing railing.    There was a flash of platinum blond, presumably a Malfoy -- he couldn't be sure it was Draco -- and someone who looked so much like Dennis that Colin's heart froze before he remembered that this was impossible.   He edged forward to get a better look, but there was a clatter behind him.    Backing slowly towards the stairs, he looked around, trying to find the source, glancing down to check on the two he had just seen in case they were coming up.    They were not, but there were Death Eaters now on the bottom landing, cutting off his retreat.    Swearing under his breath, he moved the other way, towards the noise.  

Towards, it turned out, one slim boy dragging a much larger one; clearly, he had been right not to be sure that was Draco below because he was entirely sure it was Draco right here.    A deathly pale, singed, scratched up Draco and a--

"Goyle's hurt!" Draco snapped at him.    Help me!"

Colin gaped at him, wand still at the ready.    "Help you?"

"I don't have a wand; I'm not going to do anything.   This isn't about Potter or the Dark Lord; I just need you to help me help my friend.   That's what Gryffindors do, isn't it?" Draco spoke in the sort of deliberate way that attempted and yet completely failed whatsoever to hide any of the edge of panic and desperation in his voice.   Still, it wasn't until the other boy's voice cracked in the middle of the haughty "please" that Colin's paralysis broke.  

"There's a room," he started, because they were in the right seventh floor corridor, but Draco shook his head.  

"We can't go there.   There's a music room on the next floor.  " He pulled at Goyle again, getting them moving.   "We'll stay there, out of the way.  "

Colin jumped quickly to his side, getting under Goyle's other arm, and they were back on the landing before he pulled them short.   "There are Death Eaters on the stairs, we can't go this way.   Death Eaters who are probably your friends and--! What am I doing? You're the enemy!"

"Ethical treatment of prisoners of war," Draco suggested, with unexpected humour.   "I hear you people go in for things like that.   Suggestions would be helpful.   If you have a time-turner, we could nip back six months and order Goyle to diet.  "

"If I had a time-turner, I'd go all the way back and stop any of this happening," Colin said.   He pointed his wand.   "Accio tapestry!"

One ripped its way off the far wall at his command and soared towards them.  

"Ah," said Draco with the thoughtful tone of one who has just decided his newfound saviour wasn't so much a hero as a crazy person.   "Of course; a tapestry is the obvious solution to ... almost nothing.  "

"Shut up, Malfoy," Colin snapped, catching the cloth and quickly tearing a large strip off.  

He pulled the flash bulbs from his pocket, dropped as many as he could fit onto the cloth and wrapped it around them, which went a lot quicker once Draco worked out what he was doing and took all of Goyle's weight.   He hefted the makeshift grenade in his hand, wished fervently that he had practiced more Chasing, and chucked it down the stairs.   A flick of his wand set it alight.   Fire and flashes blazed and there were startled yells from below.  

"Up," Colin hissed at Draco unnecessarily.   The other boy had already started pulling Goyle towards the stairs up.   Colin retook his position, helping with the carrying.   Spells hissed below.   More flashes went off, stroboscope, cutting everything into bright slices.   The shadows of the remaining railing, sharp and black, cut across them -- first this way, then that -- making it hard to see.   He caught snatches of Draco's sickly, determined face, of blood on robes, of steps, of burning portraits, all in short jumps, as if time itself was broken.   Time and space and--

The eighth floor landing -- technically a tower level now, Colin thought absently and bizarrely -- was empty, but the corridor beyond it was not.  

They were both startled to see each other.   Perhaps the Death Eater recognised Draco.   Perhaps he did not.   Draco was saying something Colin couldn't hear.  

Colin tried to raise his wand.  

The man raised his first.  

Everything burned away green.  

FIVE YEARS LATER

It wasn't five years, exactly, but that was bureaucracy for you.   It was summer still, though, late and warm and spread around them like honey or maybe amber.   It was hard to breathe.   There was no place to move.   A row of robes on either side, in front and at back, and Dennis wondered if each of them could feel the sweat collecting in their armpits, trickling down.   He wished, not for the first or third or tenth time, that he could pull his wand out, cast a cooling charm or five, but he didn't feel much like having every Auror in the grounds descend on him in case he was a yet another long-lagging Death Eater sympathizer ready to disrupt the show.   Service, he was supposed to say, as Croaker had insisted on -- five-year memorial service, and never mind your lip, lad, and try to look at least vaguely presentable.   Yes.  

Sir, yes, sir -- and by the way, my brother is still dead.   Do you remember that? I do.  

His gaze slid across the crowd, because looking at the clothes was much better than listening to the Minister talk about things he remembered far too clearly.   Whoever had arranged the seating had grouped most people by occupation, although a few were standing with their boyfriends and girlfriends, husbands and wives, fathers, mothers, sisters...

Dennis was standing with Blaise Zabini and the other Untouchables.   His girlfriend Natalie was by his side.   Over there was Graham Pritchard in Ministry of Education blues, carefully holding up the retired but still somehow going Griselda Marchbanks who seemed thin as tissue paper.   Over there, the Weasleys stood all together, mostly, absent Charlie but with Fleur and Gabrielle, and Arthur too, away from his department; Perkins stood on the far side, six rows down from Dennis.   Ginny was standing with her family, no doubt to avoid the constant flash of the cameras and the never ceasing whisper of auto-quills, some focused on the Minister of Magic, but most to the other side and down a bit, on the Aurors.   On the one in particular, the one everyone praised or blamed for the situation.   One who had refused to stand at the Minister's side to stay with his own, but who was still standing alone.   No one wanted to crowd the great Harry Potter after all.  

For Dennis, five years had seemed -- well, not a blur exactly, but like a stack of quickly riffled photographs, little snapshots of moments as he surfaced briefly and randomly from his studies, pushing and pushing to be better, to be best, to make up for not being good enough before.   It hadn't felt like five years and when he looked in the mirror, he could be fourteen still.   That growth spurt his father had always promised had never really come and he was still scrawny and clean shaved and half lost in his robes.   However, Harry was... Harry was Harry, but more so, older now; adult; a proper man.   Harry was wearing his age.   A little tired perhaps, a little sad; there was something in his eyes, in the way he held himself, in--

Dennis frowned.   Now that he was paying close attention, he could see that Harry wasn't looking at the Minister at all, was probably paying less attention to the man than Dennis himself was.   Harry was looking, in fact, in an entirely different direction, one which, annoyingly, was blocked for Dennis (always too short, damn it!) by the lines of people.   He stretched up on tiptoe, shifting sideways a little, trying to see, failing.  

It wasn't important.   Anyway, it probably wasn't any of his business and, even if it was, because, right, Unspeakable, mysteries were his thing now, it was also Harry's and if anyone deserved some privacy it was Harry.   It was Harry, who was standing far too still, the stillness of someone desperate to fidget.   It was Harry, who held his hands behind his back, one on the wrist of the other.   It was Harry, who kept looking away from whatever -- whoever -- and then slowly sliding his eyes right back.  

Colin was still dead, his brain reminded him, just in case he had forgotten, which he had not, obviously.  

It was an odd thought to be having in some ways, because it was a memorial service for everybody and he had known the other people that died.   Maybe not as well, but he had known them all; at least to the point he could put names to faces.   A fair few had been genuine friends.   Even if you had won the day and made the world a better place, it was still very sad and you missed all of them.   You should miss all of them.   Frankly, it was a bit insulting to their memories to be focusing entirely on one person, even if that person was your family, even if he shouldn't have been there that day -- not alone, not without his brother.  

"--Colin Creevey," said the Minister as if on cue, and Natalie squeezed his hand again as he jerked back around, away from Harry to look.   "Joseph Dorny.   Evan Dunkirk.   Katy--"

It was just the recital.   Well, there wasn't anything 'just' about it, really, having to stand up there and name all the dead -- not the naming, not there being people to name.   Dennis tried to listen, but it was all a blur of noise.   Listing them seemed to somehow deprive them of meaning, reduce them to a random string of phonemes.  

"God, this is depressing," Zabini murmured in a bored sort of tone.  

Natalie and a few of the others who were in hearing range glared at him.   Dennis choked back his laughter and felt bad when Natalie gave him a sympathetic look.   He almost started to explain it hadn't been a sob but then figured sympathy was much better than glaring and the inevitable lecture to follow, so he attempted to look sad instead.   Natalie looked confused in response so Dennis quickly looked back to the stage.  

"--and Jessica Zelazny," the Minister finished.   "We remember.  "

The words, repeated back, rolled across the crowd, less like an ocean swell and more like rain hitting a lake, a confusion of intersecting ripples.  

"I remember," Dennis said, quietly.  

There was more to the speech, but it was all round up stuff, and other people were beginning to shift restlessly in their seats now, ready to have it done with.   The Great Hall awaited them, cool and dim and with readily accessible food and drink.   Workers had finished the final restorative touches, including the Fred Weasley memorial plaque by the little roped off square of swamp and the much larger Remembrance Wall the Minister had unveiled earlier.   If Dennis stretched, he could just about make it out, three thin blocks of something like glass, names engraved and highlighted in white, lights below and water running down.   It was very pretty, he supposed.   The lake was beyond it, visible through it.   Not a ripple disturbed the surface.  

Harry was still sneaking glances.  

The thing about Colin was, it wasn't just that he was Dennis's brother, although that too, it was that it was incredibly, totally, unbelievable stupid.   Colin shouldn't even have been there, at all.   No one should have been there.   Who holds a climatic battle in a school of all places? Colin should have doubly not been there, because they were muggleborn wizards -- and you were supposed to say it like that, as if 'muggleborn' wasn't just another way of saying 'mudblood' for those people too involved in their own liberalism to recognize the inherent racism in there being any need for a term at all.   It had been a weird, messed year all over, to be honest, and none of it, not one bit of it should have happened.   It wasn't heroic or cool or an adventure.   It was just plain and simple, complete and utter stupid.  

A sudden urge to yell SHUT UP at the stage grabbed him, but the Minister got there first, finishing his thank you and inviting people to join him inside the castle.   By the time that the applause had died down and people had started to move, the urge had thankfully receded.   People began to move, making it easier to breathe, and Dennis stretched as best he could to work the kinks out.   He turned to Natalie to ask her if she was okay but she was already moving off.  

"I'll meet you inside, Den," she called back, "I just want to talk to--"

To whom he missed under the rise of conversation around them as the crowd broke into chunks, slowly thinned out.   There was Harry again.   Dennis debated calling out to him, Gryffindor alumni and all that, but each time the shifting crowd gave him a view of the other man, something stilled his tongue.   Perhaps it was because the conversation would inevitably turn to how sorry they were about all the dead people.   Just as bad, it could end up stuck in meaningless awkward small talk.  

Maybe what stopped Dennis was the way Harry was still staring.   What was so bloody fascinating? It wasn't as if Harry was looking at the memorial or even Ginny or anything.   He wasn't even glaring at the press, which was very unusual for the man now Dennis came to think about it.   Harry, after all, had mastered the press-glaring art.   He did it so often the press sometimes wrote articles about it.   Yet Dennis still couldn't see.   It was very annoying.   He reached for his wand, then froze when five different Aurors all looked in his direction, and very carefully moved his hand back again, forcing a smile.  

Suitably cowed, Dennis gave up and -- with one last glance back at the lake, but still no Squiddy -- turned towards the school.   The universe, clearly having a strange, childish sense of humour, chose that exact moment to give him a clear, unimpeded view.   Right there, standing alone in the middle of a wide empty circle was a young man with a very familiar set of pointed features, crowned by platinum blond hair in a striking sort of way, if you were in to that sort of thing.   As Colin had always said, "He's a right stuck-up prick, Den, but he doesn't half take a good photograph.  "

Harry Potter was staring directly at Draco Malfoy.  

The atmosphere in the Great Hall was, if not party, at the least bordering on jubilant.   Conversation rumbled and laughter rang through the music -- some Ministry supplied orchestra now, nothing too fancy, just a few people playing the old Wizarding classics.   This was yet another sign of unintentional division; Dennis only knew they were Wizarding classics because everyone at the place over the age of fifty had felt the need to say so.  

He would have preferred just to go straight home but Natalie had said she would meet him inside, so inside he was, along with everyone else, crowded under a freshly charmed ceiling that was currently pretending to be a pleasant summer's sky.   This was rather unfortunate, as he wasn't so much in the mood for company as in the mood for being depressed, emotional, and getting drunk.  

"Which," Dennis tried to explain to the drinks table, "is perfectly legal; I'm nineteen! Give me a fire-whiskey!"

The drinks table didn't say anything, probably because it was a table and even in the Wizarding world inanimate pieces of furniture are unlikely to speak; nor did it deliver the drink in question.   The doilies stared back at him in a vaguely disapproving sort of way.   Stupid lace-like placemat type things with their stupid eight-fold symmetry and their stupid mirrored cutting technique that, now he thought about it, one could easily encoded into an iterative generator and use to create endlessly different (if almost exactly the same) variants on a theme and--

"Don't blow anything up.  "

"I wasn't going to!" Dennis complained, and then frowned at the table before looking around to see who had actually spoken.  

"You had that look on your face," Graham said.   "The 'I wonder what happens if' look.   Judging by past evidence, the answer is nearly always something explodes.   The hassle I got after you blew up the Slytherin common room!"

"I did not--!" Dennis started hotly before his brain caught up with his eyes and Graham's grin.   "Oh, ha, ha.  " He managed his own smile.   "Hello, then.   How's being a teacher?"

"Education overseer, thank you very much.  " Graham smoothed down his robes with unconscious pride.   "Assistant, admittedly, but it's important to start at the bottom so that you know everything by the time you reach the top, which is where I'll be in ten years.   Minister Pritchard! It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Yes?" Dennis supposed it did, if you were into that sort of thing.   Personally, he thought having to refer to himself as 'Unspeakable Creevey' was a bit of a mouthful and he only introduced himself that way when it was required absolutely.   Still, he wasn't a Slytherin; not enough ambition as people forever told him.   All those 'what do you want to be' and 'where do you see yourself in five years' questions -- he never had an answer to them.   Graham had had his answers for ten years.   It was both impressive and depressing.   "Stupid drinks table.  "

Graham looked at him quizzically and he realised that had been aloud.  

"It won't give me fire-whiskey," Dennis explained and instantly wished he had not.  

Graham's eyes softened with pity, and Dennis had sudden, uncharitable urge to hex the other man.   Best friends for four years, even if they had slowly drifted apart after the Battle of Hogwarts, and now here he was, ready to draw his wand.   He forced his hands deep in his pockets, waiting for the inevitable comment, which turned out to be, well, evitable, because what Graham actually did was pull a slim, burnished metal hip flask out of somewhere and wave it at Dennis.  

"Flask of holding," he said, grinning.   "Turn it one way for water, turn it the other..." He seized an empty glass from the drinks table and poured.   "A nice glass of your finest fire-whiskey -- by which I really mean 'cheap', because have you seen how much good quality fire-whiskey costs these days?"

"Yeah.  " Dennis accepted the glass and sipped.   It was cheap, but it was drinkable.   "Thanks!"

"Sure.  " Graham resealed the flask and made it disappear back inside his robes.  

"That was your birthday present in the third year," Dennis remembered.   "I bought it for you so you could smuggle butter-beer into classes.  "

Graham nodded.   "And McGonagall caught on in about three seconds and we ended up spending a whole week undoing class transfigurations and then another week tidying up because you let all those rats escape.  "

"Not on purpose!" Dennis complained.   Graham laughed.   Dennis smiled.   "I didn't know you still carried that old thing around.  "

"Always," Graham assured him.   "You know, you should come down sometime.   I know you have all those mysteries and things -- seriously, what is it you do? No, no, I know, you can't tell me.  "

"It's the rules! They're pretty stupid rules," Dennis added, "because everyone knows I can't tell them which seems to make them ask more often.   It's just research stuff! I'm not even a proper Unspeakable yet.   I don't see what all the fuss is about.  "

"I've always suspected that Unspeakables don't actually do anything but no one knows because they never answer questions," Graham mused.  

"Generally I clear stuff up.  " Dennis frowned.   "Do you think they are secretly all janitors? If it takes me five years to find that out, I'm not going to be very happy!"

Graham laughed.   "You never change.   You really should come down, Den.   I, you know.   I miss having you around.  " In addition, perhaps you could stop moping.   I mean, it sucks and all, but it has been five years.   Five years, Den.  

Okay, maybe that last bit was only in Dennis's head.   He tried to find his smile.   "I'll floo-call you.   Work is really busy -- I'll call you, promise.  "

"You better," Graham insisted, clapping him on the shoulder as he took his leave.  

"I will," Dennis called after him.  

Graham waved.   His smile didn't reach his eyes either.   They both thought Dennis was lying.  

Dennis knocked back the rest of his fire-whiskey.   You could have asked him about Draco Malfoy, a voice piped up in the back of his head, if you still knew how to talk to each other.   It was the same one that pointed out Colin was dead or that he wasn't paying enough attention to Natalie.   It was sort of like having an evil conscience.  

It wasn't so much that Draco didn't have a right to be here as -- no, actually it was exactly that.   He had been on the wrong side up until about twenty minutes before the end, if you were being generous, or always, if you weren't.   How many of Draco's friends had his associates killed? Not many had been hurt at all, although, okay, yes, that was probably because the school had kicked all the Slytherins out just before the big bang.   Turning up at the show was tacky, even if it was a meaningless Ministry showpiece, more political public relations stunt than actual memorial.  

Malfoy was probably why Harry was drinking, Dennis mused, catching sight of the other man with an all-but-empty flute of champagne in his hand.  

Sadly, this reminded Dennis of his own deplorable lack of drink.   He was busy trying to come up with the means to blame this on Malfoy as well -- if there was going to be a scapegoat at all then there was going to be one very well used one, thank you very much.   So busy, in fact, that he totally failed to spot Ginny Potter until he had almost walked into her.   They both moved awkwardly for a moment, as if in some bizarre mockery of dance, before regaining their balance -- and both apologised at the same time.  

"No," Dennis assured her, brushing a few drops of her spilled champagne from his arm, "it was my fault; I wasn't looking where I was going, sorry!"

"It's okay, Dennis.  " Ginny smiled.   She was wearing flat heels and still managed to be slightly taller than Dennis, who added 'being short' to his 'things to somehow blame on Malfoy' list.   "How are you?"

"Good," he lied, "and yourself?"

Despite a post Hogwarts insistence that all the old gang should get together at least once a month, a sort of Dumbledore's Army reunion bash, Dennis hadn't actually seen Ginny to talk to since probably the wedding.   It had been a very nice wedding, especially after Bill and Andromeda had driven off the press pack pressed up against the gates.   Ginny had looked radiant then in white; she looked radiant still in a deep forest green that somehow managed to not clash horribly with her hair.   Dennis wondered if that took magic, if the Weasleys had just had a lot of practice, or if Fleur had picked it out.   The French woman had spoken to him only once at the wedding, to criticise his clothes, even though he had worn a nice suit.   A nice Muggle suit, admittedly, and one a little old and oversized for him, because it belonged to his father, but nice nevertheless.   He suspected she would have criticised today's robes too.  

Ginny was saying something about Puddlemere's Chaser options, and he ran the preceding bit of the conversation back through his head and then promptly interrupted her to ask, "You're quitting the team?"

She chuckled.   "Not yet and then only temporarily.   Luckily -- although if asked, I intend to swear it was entirely intentional -- the season break happens to be just in the right place.  "

"Right," Dennis nodded.   That made sense.   Well, no, actually that didn't make sense at all.   "What?"

Ginny gave him a funny look.   Her hand was resting on her belly in a protective sort of way.  

"Oh.  " Dennis blinked.   Well, that was a good thing, wasn't it? New life, new hope, and so on and so forth: everybody was moving on with things.   Everybody else was moving on with things, that annoying little voice put in.   He swallowed, and managed a smile.   "Congratulations!"

"Thank you.  " Ginny smiled.   "We were going to keep it under wraps for a while, but you know how reporters are with Harry.  "

Dennis, who had witnessed the infamous Rita Skeeter at work in her prime, nodded.  

"Still," she added, "I know you won't go around telling everybody.  " That seemed to be a rather pointed statement, and Dennis was half expecting a lecture on the benefits of socialising, but what she actually said next was, "Oh -- Harry was looking for you.  "

Dennis frowned, confused.   "He was? Did he say why?"

Ginny shook her head.   "I assume it was Ministry business or something like that.   He's been on edge and I didn't want to pry too much.  "

The memorial show was another to put anyone on edge and Dennis figured it was probably a dozen times worse for Harry who was the only one who had actually come back from the dead -- and with a baby on the way...

"I couldn't help overhearing," someone said smoothly and they both turned to see Blaise Zabini artfully leaning against a handy pillar right behind them, a matching flute of champagne dangling prettily between long, slim fingers.   "I don't wish to speak ill of our humble saviour; personally, I would never hide things from my wife.  "

Everybody had champagne except for Dennis.   The universe had a very strange sense of humour indeed.  

"You aren't married.  " Ginny pointed out and continued in a cheerful, friendly tone.   "Do you think this could have something to do with you being both terminally arrogant and ridiculously promiscuous, you inbred fake?"

Dennis gaped at her.  

"Perhaps," Blaise mused, and sipped his champagne before blithely adding, "Or perhaps I just discriminate more than awe-struck blood-traitors clinging to impossible, naïve, and juvenile notions of true love.  "

Dennis stopped gaping at Ginny -- who was, oddly enough, smirking into her champagne -- and gaped at Blaise instead.   Blaise responded by tilting his head and running an appraising look all the way up Dennis.  

"Creevey.  " He smiled warmly.  

"Um," said Dennis intelligently.  

Ginny lightly smacked Blaise's arm.   "You have no shame.  "

"None whatsoever," Blaise agreed, checking her out with equal care.   "Are you putting on weight?"

"Yes," said Ginny happily, patting her belly.   "Thank you for noticing.  "

"You're pregnant.  " Blaise sounded amused.   "It is Potter's, I take it?"

"Don't assume, simply because we're surrounded by Aurors and journalists, that I won't throw champagne at you," Ginny said.  

"Er," said Dennis.   They both looked at him expectantly.   "Sorry, but, well, should you be drinking if you're, you know--"

"Up the duff?" Blaise suggested.   "Knocked up? Got a bun in the oven? Joined the pudding club?" He beamed.   "Please tell me it's a secret.  "

"It isn't," Ginny said to Blaise, "and I'm not," she added to Dennis.   "This is a prop to stop people offering to fetch me a drink.   People try that all the time to get to speak to me, usually in the hopes of getting to Harry.   It's rather insulting.  "

She gave Blaise a pointed look from which Dennis surmised that he had missed something, but neither seemed inclined to explain.  

"Our good friend Draco is here," Blaise said.  

"I'd noticed.  " They smiled at each other.  

There was definite subtext going on.   Dennis wondered what it was about, but the conversation swung immediately back to babies.  

"Blaise is a good name for a boy.   It's a good name for a girl.   It is," Blaise said, "a very good name, and I'd be more than happy to allow you to use it for the darling child.  "

"He'll be named James if he's a he, and Lily if she's a she," Ginny said, "but thanks for that useless and entirely narcissistic input.  "

"You're entirely welcome," Blaise said easily, and offered her his arm.   "We shall dance now, Mrs Potter.   Everybody will be jealous, but such is our lot in life.  " He smirked lazily at Dennis.   "Creevey.  "

"Um," said Dennis.  

"It's fine," Ginny said, taking Blaise's arm, not looking in Dennis's direction even as she handed him her champagne.  

"I'm always better than fine," Blaise demurred, doing likewise.  

Ginny chuckled and let Blaise spin her away, leaving Dennis behind, a glass in either hand, gaping after them.  

"I have no idea what just happened," he said to the empty air.  

The champagne bubbled enticingly.   You weren't supposed to mix the grain and the grape, he remembered, although whether that was actual potions advice or just one of those things people said he didn't know.   Still, he had only had the one glass of fire-whiskey, so it was probably fine.   He tipped Blaise's half-finished glass and his head back, emptying it in a few gulps.   Bubbles tickled his nose and heat swelled in his belly.   Clearly, they hadn't skimped!

Natalie would appreciate the other glass, he decided, assuming she would have had as much trouble acquiring alcohol as he had.   Everybody should have a glass of champagne at a Ministry party.   It was tradition or, at least, he assumed so from all the photos he had seen.   There would be photos of this one too, spread across the front pages of the Prophet and the Quibbler and Witch Weekly and so on.   He wondered if any of them would include him.   Maybe there would be shots of Mrs Potter dancing with Unspeakable Zabini in an impressively graceful if disturbingly charged sort of way.   Maybe there would be shots of Draco Malfoy.   There would definitely be pictures of Harry, which reminded him of what Ginny had said -- and also brought Colin back to the front, damn it.   He started to sip from her glass of champagne but quickly reminded himself that it was for Natalie.  

Provided he could find her, of course.   Alas, the other guests would probably consider standing on the drinks table to look as incredibly bad manners.  

He turned his head.   The crowd parted.   It was a perfect moment ruined by the way they parted to reveal no one in particular.   Dennis added 'the universe' to his list -- then, just as the gap started to close again, he saw Harry step into the space across the Hall and pause for a moment, tipping his glass back, throat working.   Dennis headed in that direction as fast as he could, which turned out to be quite slowly because people kept moving into his path, forcing Dennis to apologise and sidetrack so often that by the time he got to the spot where Harry had been, the other man was nowhere in sight.  

"Bugger," he said under his breath.  

Dennis turned around again, only to spy Madame Greengrass's feathered hat moving towards him, foreboding another endless, un-enthralling discussion of Wizarding chamber music.   The other direction was clearly his; he took it with gusto and an energy that barely lasted ten minutes of obstacle filled crowd and endless hat ducking.   Of course, statistically speaking, there were many different ways to be nearby and only a few ways to be far away, so in all probability, she wasn't actually stalking him, but it did rather feel that way.   Blast! There she was again! Damn you high probability clustering effect!

And Natalie's glass was empty.   How had that happened? Bugger!

Seeing the side-entrance to the Great Hall, he quickly ducked out through it, pressing himself back against the wall in the shadow of the doorway where no one following him out would immediately spot him.   No one did.   He risked a look.   There was no sign of the hat.   It was all clear, unless Madame Greengrass had had the same idea and, even now, was lying in wait just around that doorframe.   That wasn't a pleasant thought and he was contemplating ways to check -- a mirror on a stick was currently topping the list -- when by raised, familiar voices coming from around the corner distracted him entirely.  

"It's already done," the first said.   Dennis was almost entirely certain it was Draco Malfoy.   "You cannot change it.  "

The second voice, he was entirely certain, belonged to Harry Potter.   "Why can't I? If he is--"

"It already happened!" Draco practically yelled, and then added something too quiet for Dennis to hear.   Harry replied, and Draco laughed, sharply.   "Do you think I wouldn't change things if I could? Do you think this is what I wanted?"

"Yes! You always get what you want, don't you?"

"Isn't that my line?"

"I need--" Harry started.  

"I know what you need," Draco said, and the next part of the conversation was again too quiet to hear.  

The sensible thing to do would have been to leave, of course.   The thing was, though it had been five-plus years, there was still the possibility that Draco meant Harry harm in some way.   Gryffindors should stick together, in a champion the good cause sort of way, not in a weird Hufflepuff way.   Not that here was anything wrong with being a Hufflepuff, and Dennis himself had friends from the house, and, anyway, they were all out of school now, so houses weren't important -- and by now he'd reached the end of the corridor and was, ever so carefully, peeking around the corner.  

There was a suit of armour.   There was a small display table, although Dennis assumed the bottle and glasses were a recent addition and not the usual ornament.   There were Draco and Harry, close together, cheeks flushed, hair ruffled -- although, yes, Harry's hair generally looked ruffled and Draco's was only so in relation to his normally well-coiffed look.   Harry was holding Draco back against the wall and Dennis, who had been at least vaguely considering defending Harry from Draco, started to think that perhaps the other way around would be of greater necessity.   Harry's eyes were dark and intense.   It was no surprise that neither had noticed him.  

"Ginny's pregnant," Draco said.   "That is what you want, isn't it? That's your family.  "

"You," Harry started, but Draco shook his head, lifting a hand to press against Harry's chest.   Not quite pushing him away but a definite 'let go' gesture, Dennis thought.  

"There's nothing to change," Draco said.   "What is, is, Potter.   We both know that's how it works -- and family, well.   Family is all.  "

"I don't believe that," Harry said, but he let go and moved back.  

Draco straightened up.   "Yes," he said, tonelessly, "you do.  "

Harry turned away.   Draco did too, towards the display table, and picked up the bottle.   He thumbed it open and poured a generous measure into one of the glasses, put it back, picked up the glass, and -- before Dennis could duck back out of sight -- turned the rest of the way and saw him.   An expression Dennis couldn't identify briefly twisted its way across Draco's features before he schooled them back into icy perfection.  

"Creevey," Draco said.  

"Malfoy," Dennis acknowledged, stepping out into the corridor.  

They both stared silently.  

"Well," said Draco eventually, putting his glass down without drinking from it.   "This is horribly awkward.  "

"I think you should know that I blame you for everything," Dennis said, and finished off the champagne that he had just realised he was still carrying around with him in one huge gulp.  

"No change there, then," Draco muttered.  

Dennis, trying not to burp, didn't quite catch this.   "Huh?"

"Never mind; it's not important yet.  " Draco looked back at Harry, and then sighed.   When he pushed his hand back through his hair, he looked exhausted -- but Dennis assumed it was a trick of the light or something because, as soon as Draco's hand was down, he looked as well appointed as he always did.   "Potter wants to talk to you.  "

"Ginny said.  " Dennis agreed.  

Draco's lips twitched up, almost a smile.   "Hooray for Mrs Potter.   I hope you listen with your usual level of attention.   Excuse me.  "

He swept away without waiting for a response, leaving his glass on the table.  

"You forgot your--" Dennis called after him, but the other man was already out of sight.   Obviously, unlike Dennis, Draco had had practice moving at speed through a party -- another unexpected advantage of a pureblood upbringing, perhaps.   Dennis shrugged and helped himself to the fire-whiskey.  

It was much better than Graham's had been -- rich, smooth, and warming all the way down.  

He looked towards the bottle to see what the blend was and found himself instead meeting pale green eyes behind glasses that could probably do with a good cleaning.  

"Hello, Harry!" said Dennis, because this was what he always said when he met Harry and practically a decade of doing it made it entirely unconscious.   It was almost Pavlovian, which had nothing at all to do with trifles, which was a shame because Dennis right fancied one.   Possibly this was just a side effect of the fire-whiskey.   He had another sip to check.  

Harry was staring at him.   Dennis blinked back.  

"Um," he said.  

"Dennis," said Harry.   "Den, Den, Denny Den, Den, Den, Dennis..."

"Usually it's just Dennis," Dennis said, "or just Den, and very rarely Den-Den.   It gets a bit redundant after that.  "

"Have I ever told you," Harry started.   He frowned.   "Have I ever told you--?"

Dennis waited.   Harry stared at him some more.   It also got a bit redundant after a while.  

"Ginny said you wanted to talk to me," Dennis said eventually.  

Harry nodded.   He was doing the intent looking thing still.   It was starting to border on the creepy.  

"Malfoy said the same thing as well.  " Dennis added when nothing more was forthcoming.   "And then he said 'hooray for Mrs Potter', only I'm not entirely sure why.   I think I'm missing things, possibly because of all the champagne and fire-whiskey that I've been drinking that I wouldn't ordinarily be drinking.  " He frowned.   That sentence had gotten away from him a bit.  

He waved Draco's glass of fire-whiskey at Harry to illustrate his point.   Harry stared at it intently.   It was like a theme.  

"I think," said Harry, "I think--"

"Yes," prompted Dennis.  

"I think," Harry repeated and, apparently, third time was the charm because he followed it up with, "I need another drink.  "

"Sure!" Dennis offered Harry his own -- in the purloined from Draco sense -- glass.  

Harry shook his head.   "Finish that up and I'll pour us out some fresh ones.  "

Two fire-whiskeys and two glasses of champagne were a fire-whiskey and two glasses of champagne more than Dennis's usual limit, a fact on which he would later blame his instant, ready agreement; that, and it being really good fire-whiskey.  

"This is really good fire-whiskey," he told Harry, holding out his now empty glass and wobbling a little.  

"It should be.  " Harry poured Dennis a more than generous measure, and then did the same for himself.   "It's from Slughorn's private stock.   I think it might have been a bribe.  " Harry frowned at the bottle.   "To be honest, whenever he speaks to me all I hear is 'blah, blah, famous person, blah, blah, moustache'.  "

"He does have a very big moustache," Dennis agreed.   "It looks like handlebars or a walrus or maybe a walrus with handlebars, which would be useful so you didn't fall off when travelling by walrus, as people have known people to do.  "

Harry ignored this in favour of raising his glass.   "I," he said solemnly, "would like to propose to toast.  "

"You're already married," pointed out Dennis, blinking at his own glass that had somehow become empty again.   That was a neat trick!

Maybe it was a vanishing glass; not one that vanished but one that made its contents disappear by means of an inbuilt banishing charm.   People often used them in pranks.   George Weasley sold them at Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, which should really be Weasley's now, Dennis supposed, which was another very depressing thought.  

Harry distracted him from his distraction by pouring another glass.   "A toast," he said, "to friends, and family, and lovers, and second chances.  "

"Second chances," Dennis agreed, taking a sip, a big one, which some people might have mistaken for a gulp but that was really just a very large sip, he was sure.   He frowned.   "Second chances at what, though? We already won, mostly.  "

The 'mostly' part was the one that fucked you over.  

"At everything," said Harry portentously.   "Second chances at everything, Dennis; you have to look at the bigger picture.  "

Dennis looked at the bigger picture.   "I think it's a reproduction of Randolph Saltzerburg's 'E Pluribus Unicorn' painting, a title that's both bad Latin and also stolen from a collection of fantasy and science fiction stories by the noted author Theodore Sturgeon.   They never should have given him the Golden Paintbrush award; Dean's 'Hogwarts At Large' was a much better piece.  "

For a start, Dean had partly based it on some of Colin's photos.  

"That wasn't quite the big picture I had in mind," Harry said.   "...although, you're right, it is, and they shouldn't have.   You see though, right, it's like Hermione says; our battle isn't truly over until we have confronted an intrinsic culture of Wizard privilege and entitlement.  "

"Of course," Dennis agreed.   "Absolutely, we should do that.  " He nodded for a bit until he remembered to stop.   "What does that have to do with the picture?"

"Society!" Harry proclaimed.   "Society is a, a, a, a-- Well, I don't know, but it is one, and an absolute one at that, and do you know whose fault it is?"

"Everybody who, consciously or otherwise, allows their selves to become part of a culture in which somewhat arbitrary definitions are used to divide a common society into an unspoken hierarchical class system, even while vocally disagreeing with people who promote the same openly," suggested Dennis.  

"Voldemort," said Harry.   "That's who! His second rise encouraged the darkness in people to rise to the surface.   If only someone had stopped him sooner, Dennis.   Eh? Eh?"

He waggled his eyebrows and nudged Dennis pointedly with his elbow.  

"Um," said Dennis.   "Ow? And, also, what?"

"It's okay," Harry said.   He tapped his nose with his finger.   "I know all about it.  "

"It's strange," mused Dennis, "and maybe it's just because of the fire-whiskey, but -- oh, thank you," he added as Harry happily topped his glass up.   "Maybe it's just because of the fire-whiskey, but I can't help feeling there's a great deal going on that I'm completely missing.   Everyone seems to be having very complicated interpersonal relationships and all I really wanted to do was have a lot to drink and feel sad about how much I miss Colin.  "

"Me too," Harry sighed.   "Well, not Colin.   I mean, not that I don't miss Colin, it's very sad, but I miss many people.   I miss Remus; I miss Sirius; I miss Tonks, and Hedwig and even Dobby.   Poor brave Dobby.  "

"Dobby," said Dennis, and they clinked their glasses together and drank.  

"This really is very good fire-whiskey," Harry said.   "I wonder if I can get Slughorn to give me another bottle.   I could pretend to consider going to his stupid club thing.  "

Dennis nodded.   "He invited me once.  "

"Really?" Harry sounded more intrigued than surprised or, anyway, that was how Dennis decided to interpret that.  

"Just after I started NEWTs; he said I was an exceptionally bright polymath and would I like to come to this meeting of his? Then I got distracted during potions and turned everything green and he didn't invite me again.   It was a bit rude, really.  " Dennis pouted.  

"Bastard," agreed Harry cheerfully.  

"Bastard," said Dennis, and they clinked their glasses again.  

"I bet that's something you'd like to do over again, huh?" Harry did the nudge-nudge, wink-wink, eyebrow waggle thing again.  

Dennis shook his head.   "Not really, no.  "

Harry sighed.   "This isn't going at all how I thought it would.  "

Dennis wanted to ask what was going on with Harry and Draco, or Harry and Ginny, or Ginny and Blaise, or Blaise and Natalie, which there better bloody not be without him, or lots of things really, but he couldn't seem to get his tongue to work right to start talking about any of them.   When he opened his mouth, what came out was "did it hurt? Dying, I mean.  "

"No," said Harry.   "Yes.   No.   I don't know.   I don't remember.   Anyway, I try not to.   I--" He rubbed at his hair.   "I don't think I could do it again, Dennis.   Not like that.  "

"Everyone dies," Dennis said.   It was a thing they said.   To all things a season, to live, and to die.   Everyone dies, eventually.   Even brothers.  

He lifted his glass to drink, but Harry grabbed his arm, looking at him with some intensity and impressive focus given the way Dennis could smell the alcohol on Harry's breath.   He hoped it was Harry's anyway, and not his own.   It-- Harry squeezed his wrist to get his attention.  

"Don't say that," Harry said, forcefully.   "Don't just say it like that.   Death isn't something that just happens.   Everyone lives, that should be the important part.   That's where Voldemort got it wrong, you know.   It's not about stopping death.   It's about making life count.   Life and love.   Friends and family.  "

"Second chances?" suggested Dennis.  

"Them too," Harry agreed.   "To life.  " He raised his glass and waited and, when Dennis didn't move, said, "To life" again, and his glass clinked against Dennis's.  

After a long moment, Dennis drank.   He couldn't make the toast.   Colin was dead.   He knew it was bad that he kept coming back to that, that he wasn't moving on, but there it was.  

"Time's a funny thing," Harry said, thoughtfully, and then was quiet for a while.  

When they both had finished their glasses -- the two of them now sitting side by side on the floor of the corridor, backs against the wall under 'E Pluribus Unicorn' -- he started back up with "do you remember--?" In moments, they were regaling each other with anecdotes from their school days, jumping from year to year, person to person, point to point, until everything dissolved in laughter and silence and somehow it was hours later and the bottle of fire-whiskey was only a fifth full.  

"It really was good to see you again, Harry," Dennis said.   "Really, really, I mean, people keep saying I should talk to people and you are people and it was good, really.   I mean, I love you, Harry.   Not in boyfriend/girlfriend -- boyfriend/boyfriend sort of way.   In a Harry sort of way.  "

"Plutonium," Harry agreed, draping an arm around Dennis's shoulders and giving him an awkwardly angled hug.  

"I don't think that word means what you think it means," Dennis said, leaning into Harry, mostly because it was easier than trying to keep his head up.   "That's from a book, that is.   Or a film.   Maybe they made the film out of the book or the book out of the film, I'm not really sure, but that's a quote type thing from a thing I've seen or read.  "

He blinked down the corridor.   The suit of armour looked a lot like Draco Malfoy from this angle.  

"Have you noticed," Dennis said to Harry, "how much that suit of armour looks like Draco Malfoy from this angle?"

Harry looked.  

"You know what, Dennis?"

"What?" Dennis asked.  

"I think that is Draco Malfoy.  "

It was.   Harry and Dennis both looked at each other, then they looked at Draco, then they looked back at each other, and then they cracked up laughing.  

"Potter.  " Draco kicked him.   "Are you drunk?"

"No," said Harry, in the slow tone of someone who thought they were about to be very clever, "but the fire-whisky is! Eh? Eh? The fire-whisky is!"

"I'm going to kill you," Draco said in an absent sort of way.   "I haven't decided how, yet, but it will be apt.   And protracted.  "

"You can't kill Dennis," Harry said which made Dennis go 'hey!' in the background because he had been pretty sure Draco was talking about Harry, who continued, "He's our second chance!"

"Living people don't need second chances," Draco said.   "We get to keep on trying with what we've got.   Only the dead don't get that.  "

Dennis and Harry both stared at him blankly.  

"Why do I even bother?" Draco asked the ceiling.   "Come on.   I'll take you home.  "

Dennis and Harry continued to stare blankly.   Draco rolled his eyes and kicked Harry again.   "You, Potter.   I'll take you home.   I have no idea where Creevey lives--"

"I have a flat in London! It's in Tulse Hill which is nice enough, but a bit of a slog to get in to work," Dennis explained.  

"--nor do I particularly care.  " Draco tried to pull Harry up and Harry tried to help him and, between them, they achieved bugger all.   "Some help would be appreciated.  "

"Archimedes describes the principle of leverage as," Dennis began, before his eyes caught up to his brain and his brain caught up to his mouth.   "Oh, did you want me to help you help Harry help himself up?"

Draco gave him a 'yes, you moron' look which Dennis totally missed.  

"Come on then, Harry.  " Luckily, the other man's arm was still slung over his shoulder and so, between them, Draco and Dennis managed to get Harry some semblance of upright, one under each arm.   "It's a long way to the gates! We could put an animation charm on the painting and then stand on it and then tell it to take us to the gates!"

"Alternatively," said Draco, "we could just walk down this corridor, turn left, and use the floo in Professor Slughorn's office.  "

"Walrus handles," said Harry.   They both looked at him, but that seemed to be all.  

"I still blame you for everything," Dennis said, cheerfully.   There seemed to be something off about this whole thing, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was exactly.   Maybe it was the fire-whiskey.   He grabbed the bottle on the way past, just in case.   "Hey, didn't you give poisoned fire-whiskey to Professor Moustache that one time? What was that all about?"

"I was trying to save my family," Draco said, an edge in his voice.   "That's what people do.  "

"My family's dead," Harry said sadly, "except Ginny, who's my awesome pregnant wife type lady, and Hermione and Ron, who are also awesome but neither pregnant or my wives, so far as I know.   You're not dead," he added to Draco.  

"Unless he's an inferi," Dennis suggested.   "They walk around too!"

"Fire's good for those," mused Harry.   "I forgot that once.   Never again!" He tried to wave his fist, sending the three of them careening from side to side before Draco got them back under control.  

"Get the door, Creevey," he said.   "It isn't locked.  "

Dennis slipped out from under Harry and fumbled with the doorknob until it turned, and then fumbled some more until it turned in the other direction.   Harry mumbled something and moaned a little.  

"If you vomit, I won't be held responsible for my actions," Draco said.  

"You're pretty; petty; pretty petty.  " Harry frowned at Draco, and then giggled.   "Petty pretty!"

"In a pointy sort of way," said Dennis, half sort of stepping and half sort of falling into the office.  

It was a very nice office, in an office sort of way.   It had a nice sturdy looking wooden desk, a deep burgundy carpet, and a big stone fireplace with a fire lit and a box of floo-powder waiting ready on the mantelpiece.   There was a box of bezoars.   There was, for some reason, a small cuckoo clock in a stoppered glass jar.   There was a big painting over the mantelpiece, except it was mostly empty, just a chair with a 'The Potions Master Is Out' sign on it.  

"Alas, poor Snape," said Harry.  

"Actually," said Snape from a tiny portrait on the next wall, "that one is Slughorn.   He keeps a picture of himself in his office.   The man's as bad as Lockhart was.   Hello, Draco.  "

"Hello, Severus," Draco said.   "If you would please excuse us? Potter's quite drunk.  "

"The fire-whiskey is drunk," Harry said.  

"That's as funny now as it was a moment ago," Draco said.  

"Um," Dennis said, from where he had accidentally spilled floo powder all over himself.   "Hang on; I think I've got the hang of this now.  "

"That used to happen to me a lot," said Albus Dumbledore from the other wall.   His portrait was also tiny.   It faced Snape's.   "Of course, now I can just travel from portrait to portrait, which is really quite useful.  "

"My wand may only be paint," Snape said dangerously, "but I can still poke you in the eye with it if you even think of coming over here.  "

"Can we please just use the floo?" Draco whined.  

"Professor Dumbledore!" gasped Harry.   "It's you! You were always my favourite professor, even if you did almost get everybody killed with your pointlessly intricate scheme that relied on a great deal of coincidence and stupidity.  "

"I've always found coincidence and stupidity to be the guiding principles of life," Albus mused.   "And love, of course, being the strongest of the three.   Hello, young Malfoy.  "

"Bugger off," said Draco.   "Harry--"

Harry had pulled himself away from Draco to stumble across the office and grab the portrait of Albus.  

"I love my dead gay headmaster," he wailed.  

"Winona Ryder's hot in that," Dennis said.   "Christian Slater!"

Snape glared at them all from his portrait, except Draco.  

"I have no idea what either of you are talking about," Draco said, grabbing up the soot brush from the mantelpiece and using it, rather more roughly than was necessary, to get the floo powder off Dennis.   "Potter.   Home.  "

"Hogwarts was always a home to me," Harry said.  

"Yes," Draco said, "but you don't actually live here anymore.  " He tossed the floo powder from Dennis into the fire, calling out "Godric's Hollow!" The fire sputtered a bit before finally flaring up and turning green.  

"If I had a Time-Turner," Harry started.  

"If I had a time-turner," Draco interrupted, "I would go back six hours and make sure you didn't have a drink in the first place -- and do put the portrait down, there's a nice Potter.  "

"Oh," said Harry.   "Sorry.  " He let Albus go.   "Bye-bye, Professor.  "

"If I had a time turner," Dennis said, "or, well, not really, but something equivalent, because a straight forward time turner wouldn't be good enough, so more like, I don't know, a time-floo or something, I would go back and fix--"

"Everything!" yelled Harry.   Draco smacked him.   "Ow! That's abuse, that is.  "

"You can't fix everything," Draco said.   "Things wouldn't be better; they'd just be broken in completely different ways.   You can only fix some things.  "

"Important things," said Harry.   He clutched at his head.   "Oh.   I don't feel so good, Draco.  "

"Remember what I said about vomiting?" Draco warned him.  

"I would though," Dennis said.   They both looked at him.   "Not vomit," he clarified.   "The other thing.  "

"There's a difference between what you want and what you need," Draco said.   He pulled Harry towards the fire and then, one foot on the hearth, stopped and looked back at Dennis.   "You have to decide what's really important to you, and go for it, any way you can.  "

"But not by walrus," Harry put in, "because that would just be weird.  "

Draco sighed.   "You see what I have to put up with? It's times like these, Potter--"

The floo swallowed the rest of Draco's sentence as the two men flashed, whirled, and faded away.   After a long crackling moment, the green flames dropped back to the more usual yellows and oranges.   Dennis went to pour himself a drink, realised he had no idea what he had done with his glass, and raised the bottle instead.   The firelight caught in it, splintered, sending little shards of brightness scattering across the room.   It reminded him of the doilies, except with much more complicated symmetry.   As the light danced across them, Albus beamed from his frame and Snape snorted from his, the two caught in paint and opposition, symmetry within symmetry.  

Time floo, Dennis thought, and, right on top of that, one after each other: symmetry; vanishing glass; the principle of levers; times like these -- and somewhere in there, connections were made, patterns were seen, equations were formulated using the sort of fuzzy math you only get in Douglas Adams novels and somewhat rather inebriated minds, provided they had a NEWT level background in Arithmancy and experience working for the Department of Mysteries.   Which was a lot more common than you would think, and Dennis was briefly sidetracked trying to calculate the probabilities, which lead, via branching theory, back to his original thought, in a massive, complicated, overlapping and criss-crossing super-spiral and--

And.   ...huh.   Huh!

It could be done, he realised.   Malfoy was right.   The living made their chances.   Harry was right.   Everybody deserved a second chance.   It could be done.   More importantly, he could do it, which was good, because his plan was also very, very, very illegal.   He fumbled for the floo powder.  

"You'll blow yourself up," Snape said.   "You were always terrible at potions.   Your mind always wandered too much, boy.   No focus!"

"Love," began Albus, "love is--"

"Oh, do shut up, you twinkly eyed bearded busy-body!" Snape yelled and stormed out of his portrait, vanishing from view.  

"Good luck, my boy," Dumbledore said, doffing his hat at Dennis, and he too left, although at a rather more sedate pace and chuckling to himself, which was actually a bit off putting.  

"Department of Mysteries," Dennis said as he tossed the powder into the fire.   Once more, the flames rushed up.   Once more, they turned green.   Dennis took a swig from his bottle, recited his personal over-ride so security didn't shunt into the reception floos non- and off-duty personnel were supposed to use, and dived in.  

Charm sequences whirled through his head, even as he whirled through the void, which was a bit nausea inducing and left Dennis briefly wondering what would happen if you did vomit mid-floo -- would it explode out of random grates to the disgust of strangers, or follow you to your destination, probably also to the disgust of strangers? Yet even this somehow seemed to fit into the great pattern he had suddenly somehow seen, the hub from which all things radiated.   It was glorious.   He had no idea why no one else had thought of it before, except for that small part where there was a chance you would explode, possibly even before you started because of inverted causality and the temporal fragging effect.  

The Department of Mysteries grate swung into view and he dived for it, tumbling out in a mess of flame and smoke and ash.   A quick hand, pressed to the mouth of the bottle, saved the last of the fire-whiskey as he rolled out of the hearth and came to a stop of the floor.   He had never looked at the ceilings before -- at least not properly.   They were very dull.   That was probably why.   Also, they could do with a new coat of paint.   He made a mental note to write that on the jobs board and then completely forgot about it because he had a plan, oh, yes! A plan, by whatever it was you swore such things by.  

Damn but that was some fine fire-whiskey.  

Suddenly realizing that he had been at the party quite a long time and that the other Unspeakables could come back any minute and get in his way or arrest him, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered across the room.   The private floo opened out into the Department of Mysteries break room that was as empty as usual since everyone used the canteen in the Being Division, which did very nice pastries.   Dennis cracked the door open and peeked out.   Anyone around? Not obviously.  

Looking carefully both ways a few dozen times, Dennis carefully sneaked out into the middle of the outer room and then quickly closed his eyes until it stopped spinning.   It wasn't spinning because he was drunk, which he was not, it was spinning because it was the room that span to make the doors line up because where the rooms actually were and where the doors were happened to be entirely different.   Magic was all well and good, but it also made logic and obvious convenience go bye-bye in strange and annoying ways.   He opened the nearest door.   It was full of stars.  

"Huh!" he said.   "That's not right! Shhh!" He pressed his finger to his lips, muttering "Not so loud!" around it.  

Okay.   If that was the room with all the planets, then the room without the planets must be behind a different door.   He tried one.   It was an amphitheatre with a spooky veil.   That would definitely by useful.   It wasn't what he was currently looking for, though, so he went on to the next door, which was actually the third one along because he was having trouble with straight lines, and opened that instead.   Stupid revolving room; it was going on his list.   Soon he would need a bigger list.   Not having a big enough list was also going on his list, goddamn it.  

"Ah hah!" Dennis exclaimed, and then quickly clamped his hands over his mouth.   "Ff mnf ngmgh!"

It was the right room.   It was the room of clocks, of time turners -- except not, obviously, on account of how no one had gotten to making any new ones since they were all exploded the last time -- and of the far more important thing, on a desk at the back: a giant bell jar full of temporal distillate, perfect for when one needed a power source in order to bend the very fabric of space-time and weren't willing to irrevocably destroy your own timeline in the process.  

(Also, there was a bird in the stream, repeatedly turning into an egg and back into a bird.   Huh.  )

The equations were still buzzing in his head and trembling in his fingertips, although maybe that was just the fire-whiskey.   Either way, he was totally psyched up.   The day would be saved! Not this day, obviously; a much earlier day, of fighting and stupid arse brothers getting their stupid arse stupidly killed, the arse.   He would go down in history, although not in the notoriety sort of way, hopefully, since this was the sort of thing they sent you to Azkaban for, or worse, which would be bad, and he was a Gryffindor and they were forces for truth and justice and good things and fluffy bunnies and stuff.  

Maybe Dennis would get a pet, later.  

First, however, the bell jar of temporal distillate needed him to wire it, mystically speaking, into the veil chamber, obviously; a few ancient runes here, a few arithmetical equations there, a certain series of swishes and flicks and Bob was his uncle, especially if he screwed up and changed the wrong thing.   He would not, of course.   He had a plan, a drunken plan admittedly, but a plan of awesomeness anyway! Huzzah!

The bell jar, apparently unaware of this, proved to be ridiculously heavy.  

"Wingar," tried Dennis.   "Win-- Wingardium Levy-- Levio-- Wingard Levisasla -- Leviosa.   Win guard theorem Levis sofa.   ...Bugger.  "

The bell jar went on the list.  

He shoved the desk.   It rocked a little.   He shoved the desk again.   It rocked a little more.   He grabbed the bell jar before it could go tumbling.   Clearly, this required some more lateral thinking, or maybe just lots of oil to slide on.   Dennis bounded back to the canteen, careening off a few walls along the way, and started going through the cupboards before he remembered they were wizards and bounded back again.   Waving his wand wildly, he half cast, half burped out a lubrication charm -- who knew it had actual uses -- leaving the floor a smeary, glistening, slippery mess.   This time when he shoved the desk it, and the bell jar, slid a couple of inches towards the door.   Of course, Dennis rebounded back a couple of feet because of physics, but it was a start.   Taking another swig from the fire-whiskey bottle, he set to work.  

It took ten minutes to get across the time room, and almost the same getting the bell jar through the door that was only a few inches wider than the desk and, also, see earlier comments regarding Dennis and straight lines.   Once it was outside, Dennis stopped and rested against it for a moment, trying to get his breath back, which would have worked better if a young woman in trainee Auror robes hadn't stepped suddenly into his view.  

"What are you doing?" She asked.  

Dennis looked at the bell jar.   He looked at her.   He looked at the bell jar again.   He stared at the long, glistening trail back to its point of origin as if it would reveal the unspoken secrets of the universe.  

"It's a mystery?" he tried.  

"Oh.  " She stared at him for a bit.   He tried not to look like he was doing anything untoward.   "Should you be working while drinking?"

"Neurological cushioning," said Dennis.   Douglas Adams was proving to be very useful.   He wondered if the man was a wizard too.   "It's very important to stop the brain exploding.  "

The Auror took a careful step back.   "Is that likely?"

"It's certainly possible," Dennis agreed, on the basis that there was always the chance that all the atoms in your brain would simultaneously move apart, so the probability of it happening, no matter how small, was still non-zero.  

"Right.  " She edged away a little more.   "Well, I'll just let you get on with that.  "

"Thanks!"

Dennis went back to lubricating and pushing, which went easier now he remembered to cast cleaning charms as well, so the slippery bit was only in front and not under his feet.   Fortunately, the door to the veil room was much wider than that to the time room, which was an interesting trick as they were all the same size when closed, and he edged the desk through with minimal difficulty.   The Auror woman was still watching.   He gave her a little wave and quickly shut the door behind him, setting the atrium outside spinning again.  

Best to do this as quickly as possible, he decided, just in case Little Miss Suspicious decided to check up on him.  

Getting the bell jar down to the dais was easy, because there were ramped sections on either side of the steps, although getting it down intact turned out to be slightly harder because of the whole weight/velocity/momentum thing and Dennis being quite titchy and light.   Fortunately the bell jar proved to be surprisingly well made and ended up only slightly chipped and scratched, and he had said -- thought -- that he wanted it done quickly, so it all worked out in the end, probably.  

Dipping his wand in the temporal distillate -- a sort of glowy, glittery, rushing wind that clung to his wand tip like thick soup to a spoon -- and carefully ignoring the way the larger of the specks were reflecting things not currently around, Dennis quickly drew a series of (rather sloppy) runes around the veil.   He hoped that the drips caused by continuously rushing back to the bell jar for more 'ink' wouldn't have a too detrimental effect.   When he was done, he tucked his wand back into his sleeve and wrestled the bell jar into its final position.  

Nothing happened.   Dennis swore.   In seven different languages.  

"The entire bloody universe is going on the list," he informed the empty room, snatched up the fire-whiskey bottle, and drained it in one, long, guzzling swallow.   "I hereby dub you useless," he added to the bell jar, and hit it with the bottle.  

The bottle broke, scattering glass impossibly far across the dais.   The bell jar shifted the smallest fraction.   Silver light exploded up all around him.   The hanging veil, which previously had been shifting slightly in its own peculiar breeze, blasted out almost horizontal.   Silver-blue light filled the doorway and Dennis heard voices, dozens, hundreds of voices, shouting and whispering, singing and crying, all at once -- and then, loud and clear, Colin saying, "That's Harry Potter, that is!"

You had to decide what was really important to you, Draco had said, and go for it, any way you could.   For Dennis, that was Colin.   It was family.   Before that stupid little conscience voice could pipe up again and remind him that, actually, Draco being willing to do anything at all for his family had turned out be a very poor piece of decision-making, Dennis took a deep breath, pulled his wand out again, raised it in salute, and charged at the rippling veil.   The room door creaked open and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the trainee Auror raise her own wand and open her mouth to yell something, but it was too late.  

His wand pierced the surface and something immense grabbed him and yanked him in an impossible direction and someone was crying out and there was light, hideous, perfect light and then--

Then.  

There was a creak of wood.   Something was bobbing up and down and it took Dennis a moment to realise it was him.   He felt odd, which was possibly the fire-whiskey although he actually felt quite sober, except for the bobbing up and down part.   Possibly, it was brain explodey.   His hands and feet did feel much closer than he remembered them being.   The robes he was wearing felt too big and itched at his skin.   It was very dark.   He blinked his eyes a couple of times, had a brief moment of panic where he was suddenly convinced he was blind, and then realised the reason it was dark was because he was looking straight up at a storm-covered night sky.  

He was outside.   Outside and bobbing up and down.   In the rain.   This meant...

Dennis sat up quickly and looked around.   There, in front of him, was a very confused Graham Pritchard, a very confused, ten years younger Graham Pritchard.   Around them, Hogwarts Lake stretched from Hogsmeade behind to Hogwarts ahead, which was a whole lot of Hogs when you thought about it.   The castle itself, rain-lashed and bedecked in guttering torches, stretched up to the clouds, casting weird patterns of light and shadow through the storm overhead.   It was just like how he remembered it, his first day here.   It was exactly like, in fact.  

He'd done it.   He'd projected himself back in time.   Second chance, here we come!

"Woo-hoo!" Dennis yelled, leaping to his feet.  

And promptly fell out of the boat.  

TEN YEARS EARLIER:

It was very weird being in ones own past, Dennis thought, and waved to Squiddy through the rain.   It wasn't just the breaking the laws of causality thing.   It was the way he appeared to have possessed his own past self and was now eleven again.   Eleven and very, very small, which was an odd thing to feel because he hadn't exactly been tall in the present, which was the future now, but he was very, very small in the past, which was the present now.   Time travel gave him a headache, although possibly that was an after-effect of the fire-whiskey.   Could you go through a hangover backwards? He had very tiny hands.   He waved them back and forth.   Actually, it was more like being stoned.  

(Not that Dennis had ever been stoned or experimented with magical herbs and/or potions, definitely not during the post OWLs party in Hufflepuff, and even if he had, it was Kevin Whitby's fault.  )

"There yeh go," said Hagrid, draping his moleskin jacket around Dennis, which didn't make him any less soaked so much as it made him soaked in a big moleskin tent.   "There's no point yeh drownin' before yeh've even been sorted.  "

"I don't think there's any point me drowning even after I've been sorted!" Dennis said absently.   He waved to Graham who grinned and waved back.  

"Tha's a good attitude," Hagrid said, and clapped the boy on the back, which almost made him fall into the lake again.   Fortunately, the coat got in the way and, anyway, the boats had long since slipped under the ivy and into the tunnel and the cliff face and, right at that moment, they bumped up against the underground harbour and came to a halt.   Hagrid lifted Dennis out and put him down, so he could clamber across the rocks and pebbles towards a rising passageway in the rock.  

While Hagrid helped a few more people out and checked all the boats were empty, Graham caught Dennis's arm.   "That was so awesome," he breathed.   "I totally thought you'd drown!" He didn't seem very put out by this.  

"Nah," said Dennis.   "Squiddy always keeps an eye on the boats.  "

"Squiddy?" asked Graham, wide-eyed.  

"The giant squid!" Dennis explained.   "It lives in the lake!"

"Tha's right," Hagrid agreed.   "Everyone stay close to me, now!"

They clambered up behind him until the smooth rock gave way to sodden grass and still pouring rain and the castle rising triumphantly in front of them.   They quickly took the flight and, together, they clustered in front of the castle's huge, oak front door.  

"Don't worry," Dennis said to Graham.   "When the hat sorts you into Slytherin and me into Gryffindor, I'll still be your friend!"

"Is everyone here?" There was a chorus of agreement and Hagrid beamed genially down at them, and then raised a hand to knock at the door.  

It swung open at once to reveal a tall witch in emerald green who stared down at them through austere, square glasses

"Hello, Professor McGonagall! Hello Peeves!" Dennis waved at the poltergeist that had been sneaking up behind the professor with a water-balloon in his hands.  

Peeves quickly stuck it behind his back, which didn't help much as he was see-through.   "Ikkle firsties know my name," he crowed.  

"I'm Dennis Creevey!" Dennis said, realising they hadn't actually met before, yet.  

"Yes, thank you, Mister Creevey," said McGonagall.   "Peeves--"

The poltergeist pulled a face at her, stuck his tongue out at Dennis, and spiralled up through the ceiling.  

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.  

"Thank you, Hagrid.   I'll take them from here.  "

Her heels clacked as she led them across the flagstones, past the impressively marble main staircase (much less annoying then the ones that moved) to the waiting area for first years.  

"This doesn't look very big for a banquet hall," Graham complained.  

McGonagall started to speak, but Dennis had already jumped in with, "It isn't, it's just a waiting bit before they take us in there and make us sit on a stool and then the sorting hat tells us if we're going to be in Gryffindor or Slytherin or Hufflepuff like Kevin or Ravenclaw like Orla! Stewart, Malcolm, Eleanor and Owen all go before me!"

"Please do be quiet, Mister Creevey," McGonagall sighed.   "No one except the sorting hat knows which house you'll be sorted into.   I supposed you've learned all this from your brother.   I thought I recognised the ... Name.  "

Colin.   Colin would be here.   He was here, in fact, right in there.   "Um, yes, that's right," agreed Dennis absently.   "Can we please be sorted now, Professor?" Colin, Colin, Colin!

"In a moment," McGonagall said.   She gave him a look.   It was very much a 'you're going on the list' look.   Dennis briefly wondered if she blamed everything on Draco Malfoy as well, and then decided it was probably too early for that, and then, later, Snape was a much more likely target for the adults' lists.   She launched into her usual speech.   Dennis ignored it, pretty much as he had done the first time round and looked up at the far wall, waiting for--

"Ghosts!" squeaked Natalie -- not in 'oh, no, ghosts' way, in an 'oooooh, ghosts' way.   In addition, she was also very tiny! Everybody was! It was very weird!

"Good evening, Baron!" Dennis saluted, nudging Graham to do the same.   Natalie promptly followed, and Kevin, and all the other first years followed suit.   McGonagall stared.   The Baron frowned down at them, which Dennis ignored because it was the Baron's usual expression, and then almost smiled.  

"Good evening," he rumbled back at them, and then floated off into the Hall with the Grey Lady and the Fat Friar.   Sir Nick was already sitting with the Gryffindors, Dennis remembered.  

"Right," said McGonagall in a clipped sort of way.   Very sharp t.   She drew herself up, imposing.   "Right.   Everyone smarten themselves up.  "

The first years dripped on the stones, staring at her, blank and sodden and beginning to shiver.  

She sighed and deflated.   "I suppose it can't be helped.   Come along, children.  "

They formed a vague sort of line behind her.   The other annoying thing about being very, very small again, Dennis thought, was that even the other very small people were still all taller than he was.   The filed out until they were standing between the staff table and the whole of the rest of the school.   All those staring eyes.   Fun times.   Except he didn't care anything about any of that, because, Colin, Colin, Colin, and, seriously, why was the Gryffindor table all the way over there? People always talked about how the Gryffindors or the Slytherins got first billing all the time, but if you were coming in from the non-side entrance, it was actually the Hufflepuffs who got to their table first.   Like Cedric Diggory, who was dead, except not, yet, because he was sat right there.   But still not important, because, right over there, beaming right back at him, was Colin.  

Dennis really, really, really, wanted to run right over there and hug him, but he didn't, because that would have been insane and, in this moleskin coat he barely would have got three yards before he went tumbling, and, anyway, he would be able to go over there right after sorting, and he was practically first.   Instead, he gave Colin two thumbs up and mouthed 'I fell in the lake' at him, because that was always cool.   Colin's grin got even wider and he stuck his thumbs up back at Dennis and then continued to pull faces at him while the sorting hat got on with singing its song.   Dennis bit his lip to stop from laughing and almost missed when McGonagall called his name.   He staggered forward, tripping over the moleskin as he moved to the stool and sat down.   Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hagrid making his way towards the empty staff seat and then the hat--

(Which could read minds, he remembered, far, far, far too late.  )

--was being placed on his head, which meant it pretty much covered him entirely, down to the mouth.  

"Hello, again," said the familiar small voice in his ear.   "I haven't seen one of you lot for a few years.   Temporal projection into disjoint positions on your personal time-line is highly dangerous, you know.   Why, Salazar Slytherin himself once messed around with it, until he accidentally created a timeline containing nothing but clowns and realised the folly of his ways.  "

"Clowns," repeated Dennis sceptically.  

"Slapstick clowns, juggling clowns, trapeze clowns, ministry clowns, scary white face clowns, big clowns, small clowns, clowns with no noses -- they smelled terrible, before you ask.  "

"I wasn't going to," Dennis lied.   "Can I be sorted into Gryffindor again, please? I need to save my brother from a dreadful fate.  "

"Of course I'm going to do that," the hat complained.   "I'm not the sort of hat to go around changing things.   The smallest ripple reaches the farthest shore, my boy.   You'd be well advised to change--"

"I'm tired and I'm wet and I'm kind of weirded out and I really want to hug my brother," Dennis whined, "so please, could you just--"

"GRYFFINDOR!" yelled the hat to the whole hall and then the small internal voice came back with, "don't say I didn't warn you, Dennis Creevey.   Clowns!"

"Thanks, Mister Hat!" Dennis took it off to the sound of cheers, beamed at Colin, put the hat back on the stool with a pat on its point, and bounded -- as best he could in the moleskin -- over to the Gryffindor table.  

"Colin, I fell in!" He practically threw himself into the empty seat next to Colin.   "It was brilliant! And--" He almost said Squiddy, except he wasn't supposed to know that yet, and he didn't want to start anything until he had talked to Colin alone, so he settled for "--something in the water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!"

"Cool!" said Colin, excitedly.   "It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!"

"Wow!" said Dennis in what he hoped was a 'neat, giant squid' voice, but which was more a 'hey, Colin, you're so tiny and bouncy and alive and still taller than me, but that's okay, because did I mention the alive part' voice.  

"Dennis! Dennis! See that boy down there? The one with the black hair and glasses?" Colin pointed at Harry, beaming.   Harry looked away.   "See him? Know who he is, Dennis?"

Across the hall, Draco Malfoy was staring at Harry.   When he saw Dennis looking, he scowled and looked away.  

"That's Harry Potter, that is," Colin said.  

It was; tiny fourteen-year-old Harry Potter, who nine months from now would be in a graveyard, watching the Dark Lord rise again.   It was Harry Potter with his scar and his glasses and his mess of hair.   It was Harry, who would one day save all but five dozen or so of them.   It was Harry, who was resolutely paying attention to the sorting and not to the two mousey-haired boys staring at him with matching dark eyes, nor to the platinum-blonde boy on the other side of the room doing the same.   Seriously, what was up with Malfoy?

Dennis glared.   Malfoy didn't notice, although Zabini, who was sprawled nonchalantly at Malfoy's side, did and looked back, arching a perfect eyebrow.   Dennis rolled his eyes.   Zabini grinned and leaned sideways to say something in Draco's ear that made the other boy stop glaring at Harry and start glaring at Blaise instead.   Harry was still resolutely watching the sorting, so Dennis did too, and promptly stared at Madley, Laura as the sorting hat put her into Hufflepuff.   She just happened to be the suspicious trainee Auror woman he had met in the Department of Mysteries.   It really was a small world.  

"Cute girl," said Colin.  

"Natalie's prettier," said Dennis, and started applauding, which confused the rest of the table because the hat didn't call Gryffindor for the girl for another fifteen seconds.  

"They're all going to glare at me when I clap for Graham being put in Slytherin in a minute," Dennis told Colin.  

Hermione, overhearing, leaned forward.   "I think it's very good that you're promoting inter-house harmony," she said, "although you can't be sure your friend will be put in Slytherin.   Sometimes the hat surprises you.  "

It did not.  

"Oh," she said.   Dennis clapped.   Everyone glared.  

Dennis had a sudden disquieting thought because, except for the few things he had said, every other event seemed to be proceeding exactly as before.   He remembered falling in the lake.   He remembered Colin pointing out Harry.   Suppose changing things was impossible.   Suppose, because they had already happened, all the things that had happened must happen.   Dennis had made the future fixed by coming back.   Suppose he had set the course of events in stone.  

No, he decided, as the sorting ended and food appeared on the table.   He just hadn't done enough yet.   He needed to talk to Colin alone.   Colin would believe him.  

"House Elves need purpose," he told Hermione, but she wasn't listening.   Nick was talking about the kitchens and Peeves and, any moment now, Hermione was going to start ranting and refusing to eat her food.  

"This is very good food," Dennis said to Natalie.   "Hello! I'm Dennis Creevey! This is my brother Colin!"

He threw an arm around Colin and hugged him.   Colin pulled a face.   "You're still wet," he complained, knocking Dennis away.  

They were.   Dennis searched under Hagrid's jacket and inside his clothes until he found his wand and pulled it out.   He raised it to do a drying charm, and then realised he wasn't supposed to know any magic and he wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to do magic at the table.   "Um.  "

"You want the warming charm," Colin said, mistaking the source of the hesitation.   He demonstrated, speaking carefully and waving his wand in an exaggerated way.   "Instant-drying charms make your clothes itchy for days.  "

Dennis nodded, and did a wide area variant on the same so that soon everyone around them was starting to steam a little bit, as they dried out.  

"Cool," said Natalie.   "You did that like you'd done it before!"

Colin laughed.   "We're muggleborn, so we aren't allowed to do magic at home; the only time Dennis has done anything is when we were in Diagon Alley just before term.   You should've seen it: it was great! Every wand in Ollivanders flew down on him at the same time until there was just this one hand sticking out of the top of the pile holding his wand.  "

"That's an exaggeration," Dennis complained.  

"Only slightly," Colin said.   "Ollivander said you showed much promise!"

"And then he insisted I take good care of my wand because he didn't want to see me again for at least a year," Dennis added, "although he'll be here soon because of the Triwizard Tournament.   Colin's good at magic though! He was petrified for his whole first year, practically, and he still managed to come in the top five the following year.   Ginny came top! Hi, Ginny!"

He waved at the redheaded girl who stared blankly back.   "Er.   Hello? ...oh, it's another Creevey.  "

"He's Dennis!" Colin said.  

"I'm Dennis!" Dennis agreed.  

"Right," said Ginny, and went back to her friends.  

"I took loads of photos last year," Colin said.   "I bet Dennis knows everybody already.  "

"Yes.   Photos.   Ooh, puddings!" Dennis tucked into his dessert, snagging the hot chocolate fudge cake thingy for Natalie.  

"Thanks," she said, surprised.   "It's my favourite.  "

"Yep.  " Dennis nodded.   "Chocolate!"

"Right.  " She eyed him, spoon poised above the dessert.   "You're kinda weird.  "

"It's a Creevey thing," Ginny said.   "You get used to it.  " She smirked at Colin.  

Blaise was watching her from the other table.   It was as if the Slytherins had nothing better to do than just sit there and stare at the Gryffindors.  

"Have you noticed the pointy-faced blond boy at the far table keeps staring at the guy with glasses?" Natalie asked.   "Are they boyfriends or something?"

Colin laughed so hard he knocked his pumpkin juice over.   "That's Malfoy.   He's Harry's nemesis!"

"You-Know-Who is Harry's nemesis," Dennis corrected.   "Malfoy's like a small nemesis.   He's a nemesette!"

Hermione, overhearing, probably because she was the only one not eating her pudding, winced.   "Please don't make words up.  "

"Sorry, Hermione," said Dennis, and then remembered they hadn't been introduced yet.   He pointed his spoon at Colin.   "Pictures! Oh," he added, turning to Colin.   "You should've brought your camera with you.  "

"Why?" asked Colin in a whisper.   With the puddings finished, Dumbledore was reading out the usual messages -- Filch; Forest; Hogsmeade.  

"You'd be able to get a good shot of the fake Professor Moody who's about to dramatically enter the room," Dennis explained, while the people around them were complaining about the lack of Quidditch this year.  

"I wanted to take pictures of your sorting, but the Professor wouldn't let me," Colin complained.   "Who's Professor Moody?"

Dennis pointed.   Everyone looked at the door.   They looked back at Dennis.   He pointed harder.   They looked back at the door.  

The fake Professor Moody dramatically entered the room, eyeball whirling madly and then turning so that only the white was showing.  

"You're right," said Natalie.   "That was very dramatic.  "

"A little too dramatic," said Dennis, portentously.   Everyone looked at him.   He sighed.   "You'll get that later.   Moody's an Auror - a dark wizard catcher, only he's sort of retired because everything thinks he's crazy and paranoid although it turns out he's neither.  "

Colin was looking at him strangely.  

"Photos?" he tried.   "Ooh, hang on, listen to this bit, it's where Dumbledore says the Triwizard Tournament's being held here.  "

"You're joking!" yelled Fred Weasley.  

"No, really," said Dennis, before realising Fred had been yelling at Dumbledore and everyone else was laughing.   "Oh, right.   We're all too young to enter, though," he added to Colin.   "Can we meet up somewhere after they send the prefect to show us our dorms and everything?"

"Sure!" Colin nodded.   "Come down to the common room after.  "

After turned out to be a lot after, because he had stopped to change out of his damp robes -- steam drying really wasn't that efficient -- and then had to explain all his Muggle stuff to the pureblood wizards, which had been a lot more interesting the first time around.   Finally, everyone else went to bed, and Dennis sneaked out, hoping Colin would still be there.   He was, curled up in the seat closest to the damped down fire, keeping in the last of the heat.   He grinned when he saw Dennis.  

"Hey!" Colin started to get up, but Dennis practically threw himself across the room to wrap his arms around his brother, holding him as tight as he could.   Colin patted his back, confused.   "Um.   Hi? Okay, I'm starting to have trouble breathing, Den.  "

"Sorry!" Dennis yelped, letting go -- then, realising Colin hadn't been entirely serious, went back to hugging him, although not quite so tight.   "I really, really, really missed you.  "

"It's only been a couple of hours since dinner," Colin said.   "You're not homesick, are you? You can write letters every day, and I bet we could get Dad put on the floo system so you could floo call him, even though he's a Muggle!"

"I'm not homesick," Dennis said, although, actually, yeah, he kinda was now Colin brought it up.   He shifted uncomfortably until Colin moved around a little, and the two of them ended up in the chair, a little squished together.   "I have to tell you something you're probably not going to believe, but it's true, I promise.  "

"I believe you, Dennis.  " Colin nodded.  

"I haven't told you yet!" Dennis complained.  

"Well, I believe you'll tell me the truth, and I believe the truth," Colin said, "so I reckon I'll believe you, so--"

"I've come back from the future to save your life," Dennis said.  

There was a long pause.   "Okay," Colin said slowly, "apparently I was wrong.  "

"We should've come up with key phrases so we would know if one of us had travelled back in time and was really us and not someone pretending to be us with polyjuice or something," Dennis mused.  

"If I come up with one now, and you have travelled in time, you'd already know it, so you could tell me it," said Colin.   "Like--"

"Antwerp," said Dennis promptly.  

Colin stared at him.   "That's right!"

"You always pick Antwerp as your password," Dennis sighed.   "Then we got panty raided by the Slytherins and they never let you pick the month's password ever again.   If you pick a password because I came back, then I don't know it, because in the timeline before I came back, you didn't pick one, and the me in this timeline's future would know it, but he won't come back, because you won't die this time, so in that time there won't be any point in time-travelling!"

"Right," said Colin nodding.   "...what?"

"Never mind," said Dennis.   "If you think about time travel too much your head can explode.   No, really! It's magic!"

"So you've travelled in time," said Colin, dubiously.  

"Yes!" Dennis nodded.  

"You still look ten to me," said Colin.  

"Of course I do," Dennis said, "I time-travelled back into my own body! It's more like time-projection than actually travelling!"

"Okay," said Colin, nodding.  

"You don't believe a word I'm saying," Dennis complained.   "If you travelled back from the future to save my life, I'd believe you.   Also, my 'identify person from future as from future' phrase would be 'Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!'"

Colin left that one alone in favour of asking "Save me from what?"

"You-Know-Who!" Dennis exclaimed.  

"If I knew who, I wouldn't be -- oh, that you-know-who?" Colin asked.   Dennis nodded.   "He's already been defeated, Dennis.  "

"He's coming back.   Quite soon, in fact, although you're okay for a bit, because I arrived four years early, but that's good, because it gives you lots of time to prepare for not getting yourself killed, which was really dumb of you!" Dennis smacked Colin's arm, earning a startled yelp.   "Don't do it again!"

"I haven't done it at all," Colin said.   "Ow!"

"Yet," Dennis said.   "You haven't done it yet.   Although you're not going to do it this time, so in a sense it's true that you haven't done it at all.   I think.  "

"I know that my being petrified for all those months was very scary," Colin started.   Dennis smacked him again.   "Will you please stop doing that?"

"I'm not making it up," Dennis insisted.   "I saw it! Well, I didn't see it, because I wasn't there, but I know all about it from the people who were there! Well, not all, because hardly anyone knows what actually happened because there was a lot going on and everyone was fighting all over the castle, so really, I don't know very much about it, except you were supposed to leave and you didn't and then they had your body because you were dead, which really, really sucked.  "

"Do we need to have the conversation again about the difference between things that actually happen and things that we only dreamed happen in our sleep?" Colin asked.  

"I can prove it!" Dennis said.  

Colin waited.   After a while, he said, "how?"

"Shh," said Dennis, "I'm still thinking.   Um.   Harry gets picked for the tournament!"

"Of course he will," Colin said.   "He's Harry Potter.   Everyone knows that already.  "

"Right.   What else happened this year?" Dennis caught Colin's expression and scowled.   "I would like to see you remember day to day happenings of things that were ten years ago.   Or nine.   Nine and a bit.   I'm going to prove it, you know.  "

"Okay.  " Colin nodded, clearly not believing him.  

"I am!" Dennis insisted.  

I am, he repeated to himself, and slipped back into his room, falling asleep the moment his head hit his pillow.  

The problem was, Dennis thought, that he really didn't have a clue how to prove it.   Aside from the fake Moody turning Malfoy into a ferret, -- he couldn't even remember when that happened in the term -- every other event he could think of related to the tournament and didn't happen for ages.   This wasn't particularly a problem, because he did have four years, but he didn't actually want to have to live through them all again, if he didn't have to, even if it would be a good way to get better marks this time around.   Of course, there was always the possibility that he did have to.   It wasn't as if he had done any research on this sort of thing, except for the vague theoretic tinkering while doing odd jobs in the Department of Mysteries.   That 'no going back' was probably something to investigate, because otherwise he had five years of History of Magic to look forward to, in the 'not' sense, except for the parts about Goblins because those were interesting.  

Pondering various options, including faking a sudden and complete allergy to spoken history older than himself, Dennis wandered into the Great Hall for breakfast and plonked himself down next to Graham Pritchard.   This, of course, meant he was at the Slytherin table.  

"Hello," he said to Graham, completely ignoring the older students staring at him and helping himself to an apple.   "I have a problem.  "

"You have many problems," said Graham without rancour.   "You're supposed to sit at your own table, Dennis.  "

"Nah, that's a myth.   If you check the school rules, there's no actual restriction against it, so long as people aren't fighting over spaces or whatever, and there's always enough room for another four or five people at every table, even at dinner.  " He waved the apple at the half-empty room.   "Even more so at breakfast.  "

He took a bite of the apple.  

"Anyway," he added, "we said we'd be friends no matter what house we got sorted into.   There was that whole swearing thing, so you can't go back on your word now.  "

"I'm a Slytherin," said Graham proudly.   "There is no contract, expressed or otherwise, that we can't get ourselves out of.  "

"You can have my waffles," Dennis said.  

"We get waffles?!" Graham beamed.   "Hogwarts is awesome!"

"Just don't let Hermione..." He pointed across the room to where Hermione, Ron and Harry were going over their class schedules.   "See her, the one with the bushy hair? Don't let her hear you say that.   She has this thing about House Elves being slaves or something.  "

"Yet another example of why mudbloods shouldn't be allowed into society," a sharp voice drawled behind them.   "They don't know their places.  "

"I have always wondered why Hogwarts has muggle studies for wizards but doesn't have wizard studies for muggleborns," Dennis mused.   "Hello, Malfoy!" He added, twisting around to see.   "I'm Dennis Creevey! Would you like an apple, they're very good?"

"There're gonna be waffles later," Graham put in, and then quickly shut up when Draco, flanked on either side by the bristling menaces of Crabbe and Goyle, glared at him.  

"Run back to your own table," Draco said.   He was attempting to loom, but Dennis had spent most of his life being the smallest person around, and that sort of thing just went right over his head.  

"So, anyway," Dennis said to Graham, "suppose, entirely hypothetically, that you had travelled back from the future into your own past, into your own body, and you needed to convince people that you actually were from the future, but you didn't know enough immediate detail to just prove it, what would you do?"

"Tell myself the 'I have travelled in time' passphrase?" Graham asked.  

"Do you mind?" growled Draco, a little put out by the way first years were totally ignoring his menacing.   First years!

"Morning," said Blaise Zabini, dropping lazily into a seat opposite, the collar of his robes casually left wide open in a gaze-inviting sort of way.   Dennis gazed.   Blaise looked right back.   "We seem to have gained a munchkin.   Hello, little munchkin.  "

"I am not a munchkin!" Dennis complained.  

"It talks.  " Blaise managed to sound almost impressed.   "How adorable.  "

"I'm cultivating links among the other houses to help further my own agenda," Graham announced in a deliberately casual sort of way that made Dennis think that Graham had been practicing that line.  

"It's a Gryffindor," Draco said with audible disgust.   It was the sort of tone in which people said 'kill it with fire'.  

"You shouldn't play with fire," Dennis said to Crabbe.   Everyone stared at him.   "That was a bit of a non sequitur, huh?"

"Go away!" Draco yelled.  

"Perhaps you need to say it in munchkin?" Blaise suggested cheerfully, deftly snagging a red apple from the table and rubbing it on his top before taking a bite.   He had very white, very even teeth.   Hermione's parents would have approved.  

"I'm pretty sure munchkins aren't real," Dennis said.  

There was a great noise of wings, and everyone looked up as the morning post came in, a hundred owls winging their way in through the open windows.   Dennis looked across to the Gryffindor table and saw Harry staring up at them.   There was no sign of Hedwig's white among the school browns, though.   A large tawny owl dropped a package into Neville's lap and an eagle owl came swooping out of the throng to land on Draco's shoulder.  

"Doesn't that hurt?" asked Graham.  

"He pads his shoulders out," Dennis said.  

"Why are you still here?" Draco complained, accepting the parcel of sweets and cakes from the bird and offering it some bacon.  

"Ooh, the Prophet!" Dennis snatched it up.  

"Perhaps you turned invisible and inaudible, Draco.  " Blaise suggested blithely, reading his own mail.   "I hear that can happen to people.   Oh, look.   My mother's getting married again.   What joy.  " He tossed the letter down, ignored Draco's incoherent fuming, and waved a hand royally at Dennis.   "Munchkin! Read me the headlines!"

"He's not your slave," Graham said.   "Dennis! Read us the headlines.  "

"I'm still not a munchkin," Dennis added, flicking through the paper.  

"I don't even know what a munchkin is," Draco said plaintively.   Crabbe and Goyle had gotten bored of menacing and had settled on stuffing their faces with sausages and fried eggs instead.   Draco had oatmeal, with honey.  

"There's an article here about Arthur and the attack on Alastor Moody's place," said Dennis.   Mister Weasley had insisted on being called Arthur ever since Dennis started working for the Ministry, although that hadn't actually happened yet, so maybe he shouldn't be calling Arthur Arthur.   Hmm.  

Draco snatched paper out of his hands while he was distracted.   "Blah, blah, blah," he said.   "There are far more important things going.   What are they saying about the Tournament? Have they mentioned Father?"

Blaise and Dennis both rolled their eyes.   Graham looked confused.   Crabbe and Goyle missed the whole exchange because they were busy nudging Malcolm Braddock out of the way so they could steal his hash browns.  

"Nothing much really happens until the Tri-wizard Tournament starts," Dennis informed Graham.   He considered this and then added, "in a news sort of way, I mean, there are lots of classes and stuff and generally someone blows something up in potions every few weeks, so that's always fun.  "

"Right," said Graham, meaning the exact opposite.   "Your brother gave you really detailed, um, details of the school, huh?"

"...yes," said Dennis.   "Talking of Colin, he's over there, where I'm going now, in a way that isn't suspicious or anything.  "

"I didn't think it was suspicious until you said that," Graham pointed out, cutting up his waffles.   "You're not very good at lying.   This," he added, drowning the waffle bits in syrup, "is why you need a Slytherin: to keep you off the straight and narrow.   You have to consider the rules more as guidelines.  "

"That's why you can have breakfast with us whenever you want, munchkin," Blaise said.  

"Um.   Thanks?" Dennis eyed him.   "You're just saying that because it irritates Malfoy, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Blaise and Draco both at the same time, Blaise cheerfully, Draco annoyed.  

"Why are we friends again?" Draco asked Blaise.  

"We're Slytherins," Blaise said.   This didn't seem like an actual answer to Dennis but, apparently, it did to Draco because he got up in a huff and moved down a few places, kicking Malcolm Braddock out of the way.   His new seat happened to give him a good view of the Gryffindor table, and he went back to glaring at Harry.   Dennis and Blaise both rolled their eyes again.  

"These are damn good waffles," Graham mumbled around a mouth stuffed full of them and Dennis laughed because Graham always said that.  

It felt like being back at school again, which was weird, because he was back at school again and, actually, he was before the 'again' part, so -- and here Dennis resolutely stopped thinking along tho