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Two Out of Time by Tuxedo Kamen
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Two Out of Time

Tuxedo Kamen

A/N: See chapter one for full notes. As usual, I own nothing. All feedback is appreciated. Enjoy.

July 4, 2153.

2200 Zulu

Tokyo, Japan

The last thing Harry remembered was watching Ron finally manage to pull Ginny up. It was exceedingly hard to focus on them - or anything else - by that point, but he saw his friend tighten his grip on his sister, then throw himself backwards as he pulled up. They tumbled, and Ron landed hard on his back, with Ginny sprawled out on top of him. Ginny was trying to climb off him then, but Harry's vision was deteriorating rapidly at that point, as though someone was dragging him deeper and deeper into a rather dirty lake. Then he felt very cold, and everything went black. And after that, there was nothing.

Until now. Somewhere in the back of Harry's mind, deep in the part that was struggling to wake up, he knew someone was shaking him. Someone with small hands was pushing hard on one of his shoulders. But he didn't want to wake up. His body hurt and sleep seemed very appealing. Harry … a voice whispered, somewhere very far away., Harry … wake up … you need to get up. It was odd. His subconscious had never sounded so worried before, or been so persistent. Wake up Harry. I need you to wake up for me. Please. Now that certainly wasn't right. One of two things was going on here. Never in his entire life had any of the instinctual little voices in his brain told him "I need you" to do anything. Either he was developing split personality syndrome, and some new entity sharing his head with him was trying to gird him into action, or there was someone speaking to him. But it was so hard to tell. It was so easy to just stay asleep, and not worry about anything.

No, he thought finally, I do need to get up. Something's wrong. The worried voice was getting louder, and his increasingly alert mind recognized it. Hermione's here. She needs me to wake up. Hermione. Suddenly, he remembered exactly what was going on. Wormtail's attack came flooding back to him in vivid detail. All of it - the way the Cruciatus Curse felt as it worked its way through his body, the horrible sound Wormtail's hand made when it cracked Fred's skull, the look on Ron's face when he realized he wouldn't be able to help either of his friends without condemning his sister to a very painful death, the blue energy that enclosed he and Hermione - it was all there. His last conscious thoughts before blacking out had been of the crying girl beneath him. He had tried his hardest to save her from whatever Dark magic Voldemort had prepared for him.

He heard her voice now, and knew, with that special, sickening sort of certainty, that he had failed. Yet they were both still alive … somewhere, and that meant there was only one thing to do. Shoving away any remaining impulse to sleep, he forced his eyes open, preparing himself to deal with whatever was waiting for him.

It was bright, and the light hurt his eyes. The sky was blue, and he couldn't make out any significant cloud coverage. But then again, it was hard for him to make out anything. There were dark shapes rising high into the sky on either side of him, and he figured he was in an alley. Nothing he saw had any sort of definition. It was all blurred, meshing together into a completely useless jumble of color and shape. He realized he had lost his glasses. That was odd, really. He couldn't remember them falling off, but figured they must have done so after he blacked out. He started to sit up, but a new object abruptly came into his scope of vision, and he stopped to study it. It was a creamy alabaster colored thing (in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that it was a pretty color), with bushy brown fuzzy stuff around it. That's all he could make out without his glasses. He couldn't see the relieved smile that flashed across the amorphous blob's face. Some part of his brain must have still been resisting the call to arms, because it took him a full second to realize he was looking at Hermione. "Hi," he said softly, squinting at her in a futile attempt to make out her features. He began to try to sit up and felt her hands on his shoulders, steadying him. "What happened? Where are we?" The back of his head was stinging, and when he brushed the spot with his fingers, they came away covered in a sticky red liquid. Blood, he thought, frowning sardonically, great. "Hermione?" He was becoming concerned by her lack of response when the shape abruptly moved towards him and caught him in a tight hug. He felt something warm and wet fall on his neck. Tears.

"I couldn't get you to wake up," she said finally. Harry could tell from her voice that she had indeed been crying. It was hoarse, and he began to wonder how long he had been unconscious. She released him, careful to stay in his field of vision, and started speaking very fast. "I've been trying since I woke up here, but all you did was mumble. I almost used the Ennervate Spell, but according to everything I've read, it's only supposed to be used to reverse induced sleep, and any other usage can have complications, especially if the sleeping person has a head injury, and even then should only be attempted by a trained mediwizard. I wasn't sure what to do," she finished, eyeing his bloodied fingers worriedly.

"It's alright," he said calmly, subtly sliding his bloodied hand beneath the folds of his robes, "I'm awake now, and it's just a small cut. At least the Silencing Charm he put on you seems to have worn off. It must not have been very powerful." And my head is the least of our problems right now, at any rate. Wormtail said something about ceasing to exist. Yet we're still … somewhere. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe he screwed up and just Apparated us somewhere. We need to find out. He leaned against one of the alley walls, feeling his broomstick pressing against his back. At least I haven't lost that. It might prove useful. He knew Hermione thought they were very much alone, otherwise she wouldn't have mentioned magical things for fear of being overheard by Muggles. "Any idea where the two of us are?" Something warm and soft crawled into his lap and almost growled, and he looked down, able to make out a ginger colored blob. He almost grinned. "Excuse me," he said, rubbing Crookshanks' back, "the three of us." The cat's presence was reassuring, but he frowned just the same, remembering that Hedwig was still on the Hogwarts Express. He couldn't explain it, but in that instant he knew that Hogwarts and all his friends were impossibly far away, and he felt a chill go down his spine.

"No," Hermione said miserably. "None at all. I haven't left the alley yet. I … I didn't want to leave you alone."

Harry nodded, then started running his hands along the ground. "I need to find my glasses," he said. "They must've fallen off when we got here. It looks like I hit my head when we landed, assuming we were floating when we showed up. Probably knocked them loose."

He couldn't see Hermione's frown deepen. "Harry," she said slowly, almost guiltily, "I've already searched the alley. When I couldn't wake you up, I looked around. They're not here. I found our wands, though. But watch where you put your hands. I almost stepped on something I think was a used glass syringe." She cringed.

Harry slumped against the wall and rubbed his temples. His head hurt. At least my scar isn't burning. "Well, that's just great," he said sarcastically, before he could stop himself. He looked at her. "I didn't mean to snap at you. Thanks for finding my wand."

Hermione smiled, even though she knew he couldn't see it. She felt better now that he was awake. She was still confused and anxious, but being able to talk with Harry was very reassuring. She reached into her pocket and pulled out Harry's wand, putting it in his hand. He pocketed it, half-grinning. "We need to find out where we are," she said abruptly.

Harry nodded. "Any ideas at all?"

She sighed. "Like I said, I didn't leave the alley, but …" she trailed off, shifting enough for Harry to notice.

"But what?" Harry urged gently.

"It's really odd," she said finally. "Nothing looks right. I've never seen architecture like this. It's all ultramodern, or something. And from what I can see from here, there are no power lines, or phone lines, or anything like that. And about five minutes ago, I saw someone blast by the entry to the alley on a motorcycle," she paused, and when she continued she spoke in the tone of someone who didn't completely believe what they were saying. "It was a floating motorcycle Harry. Vehicles don't hover. Muggle technology isn't that far along."

At least, it wasn't in 1995, Harry thought suddenly. He began to fear that he had been thinking about Wormtail's proposed non-existence far too literally. His mind was forming a hypothesis he didn't like at all. If he was right, Voldemort had done something infinitely worse than killing them. "Hermione," he said quietly, "I don't think where we are is that important right now."

Hermione blinked incredulously. "Harry, what could be more important than finding out where we are?"

He felt a half-awed, half-sick feeling welling up in the pit of his stomach. "When. When is more important." He held his wrist out to her, gesturing at his watch. "Press the button, and it'll switch to time display. It's got a charm on it so it sets itself to local time automatically."

She looked at the watch face, confused. "Harry, what kind of watch is this? It's got pictures along the edge, but no hands." This looks familiar … where have I seen it before? Ordinarily, she probably wouldn't have had any trouble remembering, but at the moment, her mind was less than completely clear.

Harry swallowed hard. Ron's hand is gone. Any lingering doubts he had (namely, the last of his Muggle rationality asserting that such things as what he was considering were completely impossible) died at that point. According to the directions, hands only disappear on their own when the person they're associated with dies. Ron's … gone. "Hermione," he whispered, blinking furiously at the tears trying to form in his eyes, "please press the button."

Something in Harry's tone sent a chill through Hermione's body, and the look in his eyes didn't make her feel much better either. Unlike Harry, her Muggle rationality and personal belief that there was a logical explanation for everything (even magic was logical, in its own way) prevented her from piecing the puzzle together. At least they were, before she pressed the button. She stared blankly at it for a few moments. "That's not possible," she finally managed. "No …"

The watch face had changed dramatically when Hermione pressed the button. Gone were the intricate little symbols. It looked almost like a digital watch now, with a black face and white lettering that seemed painted on. It showed the time and full date, including the year. For a moment, she couldn't speak.

Harry broke the silence. "What's the date, Hermione?" he urged softly.

"I don't believe it," she said after a brief pause. "It can't be true. It says it's the Fourth of July … and the year is 2153."

"Does it look broken at all?" Harry asked, his voice hollow.

"…No."

Harry put his head in his hands. "Oh, God. I guess … I guess that explains the bike." He slumped against the wall.

"Harry?" He looked up, suddenly very much annoyed that he couldn't see her face. "What are we going to do?" He didn't need to be able to see to pick up the faint tone of desperation in her voice - the beginnings of panic.

He wondered why he wasn't feeling any panic. Maybe it was because he hadn't been awake as long as she, and was still too shocked to really stop and think about just how wrong this whole situation was. Or maybe it was the fact that Hermione wasn't dealing with it very well at all, and his brain knew at least one of them needed to be thinking clearly right now. "At least," he found himself saying, "we're not dead." Hermione might have nodded then, he couldn't be sure. He put a hand on her shoulder. "We're going to figure this out."

"How?"

I don't know yet. "Are you hurt?" he asked. It suddenly seemed like very important information.

She shook her head. How can he be so calm right now? She couldn't come up with an answer, but it was infectious just the same, and she felt herself relaxing. As long as Harry wasn't (openly) scared, she wasn't going to be either. That was reasonable, right? "No, not really. My face is kind of sore. Maybe I hit it when I fell. I'm not sure how long it took me to wake up."

Harry would have very much liked to examine Hermione's face, but without his glasses there was no possibility of that happening, unless he got his face so close to hers that their lips would practically be touching. That seemed like a bad idea. "Okay. What do you have with you? I've got my wand, my broom, and the pocketknife Sirius gave me. Everything else is … was in my trunk."

She frowned. "All I've got is my wand. So you don't have any money either? That's not good. Not that we could have spent it anywhere around here. This is distinctly Muggle territory."

"We could have pawned the coins," he said darkly, "but there's no point in worrying about it now. First thing's first: we need to figure out where we are. Maybe we can find some wizards or witches - I mean, if there are any on the street they'll recognize our clothes, won't they?" Okay, Harry, that's a totally stupid plan. Just wander around blindly and hope a wizard sees you? "I'm sorry, Hermione, but I don't know what else to do."

"No, Harry, that's a fine plan," she said, brightening. "We'll find a public library. It'll be safe there, we'll be able to find out where we are, and we can look at the history books for free and get some idea of how much the world's changed. We need to know what's going on. And we can ask someone there about getting your glasses replaced. I've read about goodwill organizations that give away free glasses and things like that. I don't know what you have to do to qualify, but we'll worry about that later."

Harry blinked at her, and for the first time since Wormtail attacked, he grinned. Leave it to Hermione to come up with a plan involving a library. "Hermione," he asked, suddenly remembering that they had no idea where they were, "how are we supposed to find the library?"

Hermione frowned again, standing up. "We'll just have to ask someone, I guess."

"Yeah," Harry sighed. "Try to pick out someone who looks especially friendly."

Hermione looked at her friend, concentrating on his eyes. They weren't blank, but they weren't really looking at her, either, like he wasn't bothering to try and focus on anything. "Harry, just how blind are you without your glasses?"

"I can make out the tip of my nose … and that's about it."

Hermione sighed and set down next to him. "Oh, dear. This is going to be difficult."

"Well," Harry said, "we don't have to worry about it for a minute. I just realized something." He tapped the Gryffindor House badge on his robes. "I don't think we need to worry about not using magic. I mean, we shouldn't just flaunt it in front of the Muggles, but if we need it, we shouldn't hesitate. If it attracts any Ministry of Magic officials working here, well … that would be good. We wouldn't have to try to find them."

Hermione nodded hesitantly. She didn't really like the idea of using magic outside of Hogwarts, even under these circumstances, but Harry had a point. "What about Dark wizards? If any of them are lurking around …" she trailed off nervously. "Not that I consider myself a pushover," she added after a moment, "but I'd rather not have to face them alone. And you're …"

"Useless at the moment?" Harry knew what Hermione was getting at. One-hundred-and-fifty-seven years were a long time, and if the wizarding world assumed both of them were killed on the Express, all but the oldest of Dark wizards and witches would likely fail to recognize him as Harry Potter. And they probably wouldn't recognize Hermione either, but he suddenly remembered running into Malfoy after a band of Death Eaters showed up at the World Cup. "If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay where you are." If there were Dark wizards around they might decide they wanted to indulge in a bit of tormenting, and she was right, he wouldn't be much help without his eyes. He refused to think of them as Death Eaters - Voldemort would have either been defeated by now or taken over. The existence of what was apparently a free Muggle city ruled out the latter. He should be dead by now, no matter what, Harry thought suddenly. Dumbledore said the Sorcerer's Stone was destroyed, and the only known makers left only had enough time to "get their affairs in order." They must be gone by now, too. Voldemort couldn't have become immortal. Dumbledore and Voldemort made it sound like the Elixir of Life was the only way. It wasn't really any kind of empirical, fact based conclusion, but it made him feel better, so he went with it. "I'll tell you what. Given our situation, being a little optimistic and assuming we won't run into any maniacs wouldn't hurt. But just the same, let's not make it any easier for them. Use the Severing Charm on your Gryffindor badge and mine and pocket them. We can take off the robes and carry them around with us, but they're the most conspicuous part of our uniforms. We don't need to draw any extra attention to ourselves yet." We'll need them if it gets cold at night, he thought darkly.

She nodded. She could see the faint anxiety in his eyes now. They were a lot easier to read without the glare from his glasses. She had the feeling he was trying to sound more confident than he felt, and bizarrely, that made her feel a little bit better. She knew Harry well enough to know that if he was trying to keep it together, for whatever the reason, he would be able to. She performed the Severing Charm on both sets of robes perfectly, and it was impossible to tell that anything had ever been sewn to the black fabric. The colorful patches disappeared in her pocket, and Harry started to stand up, taking off his robes in the process. Hermione had already removed hers, and was folding them carefully. She was wearing a pair of pale khakis underneath. After he was on his feet, he came to a startling realization. Well, technically, the epiphany came when he tripped over his own feet and cracked his chin against the pavement. He was totally uncoordinated with out his glasses - he wasn't going anywhere. "Ow…"

"Harry, are you alright?"

"Yeah," he said, "I guess my subconscious was jealous of the bruise over your eye and decided I need one of my own."

Hermione started to reach down to help him up, but hesitated for a moment. It wasn't that she didn't want to touch him, but she was suddenly nervous. I don't have time to be stupid. It's not like I haven't held his hand before. She put her arm out and smiled. "Give me your hand. I'll try to keep you from running into anything else." They started out of the alley, Hermione leading the way with Harry holding their robes under his right arm. I never realized how rough his hands were. And they were. Most wizards had calloused fingertips around the point where they gripped their wands, but Harry's hand was uniformly toughened. It must be all the broom flying. Either that, a dark little voice sounded, or the Dursleys never let him wear gloves when they make him wash the dishes after they gorge themselves.

She realized suddenly that that would never be a problem for her friend again. Overhead, a helicopter passed so silently neither of them noticed.

A few miles away, at a relatively small compound in Tokyo's industrial district, very odd things were happening. Or, at least that's what Harry and Hermione would have thought, if they were around to observe. It was actually a rather routine type of event, if not completely unwelcome and highly unfortunate. This particular compound was comprised of a parking garage, a fifty story whitewashed building with a number of black, completely opaque windows on any given side, and a grassy knoll scattered with picnic tables and park benches. There was a large sign planted in the ground that read, in bold letters, "Dyntatech Systems." All of this was enclosed by a simple fifty-foot high concrete barrier lined at the top with a strand of new, mint condition barbed wire that glittered brightly in the sun. It had one gate - two thick slabs of a reinforced, armored adamantine alloy that the federal government of the United States of America spent billions of dollars to have developed. This high-grade armor was in fact at the core of every barrier wall. Nothing short of heavy anti-tank weaponry would have been able to breach it. This is probably why the mercenaries raiding the building had decided to completely bypass the gates and the walls. They simply didn't feel it was in keeping with the stealth philosophy to drive a heavily armored tank down a freeway. But it didn't matter. Their employers had a much more subtle way to get them in and out of the compound. It wasn't something they completely understood, but they were not being paid to understand, so none of them gave it much thought.

No one had come to work yet. Things didn't really get rolling at Dynatech Systems until 7:30 in the morning, so it was practically deserted. But if anyone had been roaming around the grounds and happened to look up, they would have gotten quite a shock. Hanging between a pair of windows about thirty stories up on the south wall, apparently by nothing more than his fingers, was a man a little over five feet tall. Most of his body was covered in distinctive two-toned set of blue metallic body armor, with the major exception being his white gloved hands. His black hair was hidden by a helmet of similar coloration with a large red gem embedded in the spot directly over the middle of his forehead. On either side, perfectly parallel to his ears, was a light blue ring-like piece of molding, with a special red polycarbonate material designed to allow for sound to pass through without being muffled adhered to the inside of the donut and covering his ears. His eyes were a brilliant emerald green.

Okay, X thought, digging his fingers deeper into the side of the building in an effort to avoid being blown off his precarious perch, this could be going a lot better. He went over the last fifteen minutes in his head, trying to figure out where he had screwed up. The Hunters had been notified, by means of silent alarm, of a Maverick break-in in progress at Dynatech Systems, which supposedly sold advanced microprocessors and other components used to assemble supercomputers. At first, X and his comrades had been a bit confused by the fact that this was being reported to them as a Code One Emergency Event - examples of which included attacks on military research and development sites housing sensitive or highly dangerous materials and attacks on the governing bodies of any nation within the Maverick Hunters' jurisdiction, which encompassed every country in the world that was currently a member of the United Nations. The obvious question: what was so dangerous about a break in at a tech firm's corporate office that it warranted a Code One?

The answer came from a representative of Ryu Tomoe, the Japanese Minister of Defense. Even as the men and women on call in the Maverick Hunter Command and Control Building were receiving the initial reports from the automated security system, another set of computers at the Ministry was getting the same information. The people that monitored these terminals knew that Dynatech Systems was nothing more than a front for a weapons development facility operated by the Japanese government. But that wasn't the point. The point was that at the moment, that facility was home to a few dozen gallons of a new kind of liquefied nerve toxin that made VX look like Clinique Gentle Moisturizing Mist. When news of what was going on at Dynatech Systems went public, there would be tremendous uproar, and the bulk of the UN Security Council would be breathing down Japan's neck. But none of that would really matter if the nerve toxin was successfully stolen. So, within five minutes of the alarm, Ryu Tomoe gave the proper authorization, and the call to Maverick Hunter Headquarters that would explain exactly what was going on went out.

The computers connected to Dynatech's surveillance systems indicated that there were fifteen people involved in the infiltration, but that was all the Hunters knew. The satellite link-up was terminated shortly after the information was received. This was another oddity - why would someone break into a facility and then disable the alarm system? It was usually far more prudent to do it the other way around, especially when striking in small numbers. But it didn't matter to the Hunters. Given the situation, the only thing that actually was important was stopping them. Righteous indignation, anger, shock - that could wait for later. They needed to act quickly and decisively, so they sent X.

According to the surveillance satellites, all fifteen perpetrators were loitering on the roof of the building, apparently waiting for something, so that's where X materialized. His sudden appearance startled all of them for about two seconds, so he took that opportunity to study the scene. He was standing in the middle of the roof, and his targets were standing in a circle around the edges. Unfortunately they all had their weapons - a variety of automatic rifles and built in arm cannons - activated and ready. X didn't really mind, he'd beamed into the area with his own weapon systems activated and waiting. His right forearm was gone, replaced with a large cylindrical cannon capable of producing super-heated, deadly plasma. The blue gaseous substance was brimming at the edges of the weapon. He was ready. They were all humanoids, of various heights and builds, but they had one thing in common - they were all wearing the same solid black body armor. These people weren't simply Mavericks. They were mercenaries, and by the look of their equipment, they were very well funded. He didn't see anything that looked refrigerated storage containers and assumed that the nerve agent was still somewhere inside the building. That was good. He wouldn't have to worry about not blowing it up. By the end of second two, he was ready to go to work. He sprang forward then, not bothering with the standard order to disarm and surrender. If they had managed to secure the canisters, they had already killed the fifty Japanese Army officers standing watch in the underground portion of the facility. When he realized this, he felt a great pang of sadness - fifty people had lost their lives before anyone knew anything was wrong. As far as he was concerned, the battle had already begun, and he never attempted to negotiate in the middle of a firefight.

The first mercenary he slammed into had reacted too slowly, and X dug his elbow into the pit of her abdomen, doubling her over. He brought his cannon up, level with her head, and fired off a ball of plasma approximately the same size as his torso. By the time she fell to the ground, now and forever unmoving, he had already rolled to the left and come up in a crouching position, very much aware of the dozens of high-caliber slugs passing over his head. He looked at the closest of the fourteen people now closing on him - the one currently bringing his rifle around in an attempt to turn him into Swiss cheese. He sprang up at the last second, somersaulting over the man's head as his rifle filled the roof with scores of pockmarks. X landed behind him and fired a second blue burst into the back of his knees. They buckled, and he fell. X's cannon wasn't brimming with energy anymore. He would need to recharge it before he could fire such large shots again, but for the moment, that wasn't his intention. He quickly pressed it against the back of his opponent's neck - the only place on his body that wasn't covered in some sort of protective armor - and fired three rapid bursts of non-charged plasma: baseball sized balls of golden, destructive energy. It was enough, and in less than one minute, fifteen had become thirteen.

The mercenaries became more careful, and the skirmish continued for several minutes. Eventually, thirteen became five. X was dancing out of the way of some maniac's built in rapid fire plasma cannon when it happened. The tactical scanner system built into his brain flared to life, and the soft red and blue tones of his internal Heads Up Display informed him that a human had just appeared behind him … out of thin air. He spun around on his feet, more out of reflex than anything else, and sure enough, there was a human man in thick black robes of some kind. X couldn't see his face - it was hooded. For an instant, his concentration faltered. It was one instant too long. The hooded man pointed a hand at X - a hand that was holding a long, black stick of some kind. By the time X registered this, some sort of invisible force was pushing hard against his chest, throwing him off his feet. Within seconds he was over the edge of the building. Gravity took over at that point, and he was falling.

His training kicked in then, and he snapped out of his confusion induced stupor in time to sink his fingers into the side of the building before he was turned one hundred and twenty-four pounds of blue turf goop. His legs were dangling beneath them, the blue armor on one of them stained with a dark red liquid. One of the mercenaries had managed to nail the edge of his hip. At the moment, he was still hanging there, trying to figure out how a human had instantaneously appeared on the roof and knocked him over the edge by pointing a stick at him. The speaker built into the left side of his helmet chirped once. Incoming communication signal. He gave the mental command that would put his communication system in active mode, and a familiar feminine voice flooded his ears. He smiled thinly. She sounded just as he expected her to - calm and professional, if not slightly urgent. But he knew her better than most people, better than she probably wanted him to, and didn't miss the hint of anxiety in her voice. "X! Are you alright? I lost your transponder signal for a few seconds. When it came back on line, you were hanging on the side of the building. You're showing minor damage to your right thigh."

"I'm fine, Alia." When he spoke, his voice was soft and gentle, but it held an urgent edge. "But I'm not completely sure what just happened. One second, I'm in the middle of a firefight with five heavily armed, half-terrified mercenaries," And it sure took them long enough to get terrified … they were all very professional … which means they were highly expensive, "and the next, a human just … appears behind me, waves a stick at me, and some sort of energy field that doesn't clearly register on my tactical scanners is pushing me off the roof. I managed to get over my shock in time to get a grip on the wall."

"A human just … appeared?" He could hear the total confusion she was trying desperately to mask. "Did he teleport in? Humans can't teleport …"

"No," X said softly and quickly. Technically, he didn't have time for this conversation - the nerve agent and the mercenaries were still here, somewhere. But both of them needed to understand exactly what was going on - and since that technically wasn't possible, considering X had no idea how he'd come to be in his current predicament, at the very least both of them needed to be in possession of all known facts about the situation.

No one had bothered looking over the edge. They must have assumed I'm dead. Cocky. Maybe they're not as professional as I thought. "My radar didn't pick up any incoming teleporter signals. There was this strange popping noise coming from the stick. Actually," he paused, his eyes alight with realization, "I didn't have time to think about it at the time, but I'm pretty sure that my radar system overloaded for about five milliseconds right when he appeared. My communicator winked out too - primary and auxiliary transceivers. Like you might expect it to do when exposed to a lot of ionizing radiation." He looked up, mentally ordering his visual system into active thermograph mode and activating the zoom function built into his eyes. He had hoped he would be able to look through the walls, floors, and roof of the building and check the status of the five people still on the roof. It worked, but only partially. The walls and floors were just too thick, built with a lot more reinforced steel and concrete than was normal - he got as far as the forty-eighth floor, but no further. Much to his chagrin, the cold storage tanks he was trying to secure - which should have been vivid blue cylinders in thermograph mode - were nowhere to be seen. Which made sense, really. They would be as close to the roof as possible. Various bodies were littered here and there on each floor, all showing up in various shades of blue. From what he could see, they were Japanese Army officers who attempted to pursue the mercenaries. He frowned, deeply. "Alia," he began again, "I need you to pull up satellite images of this compound. I need to know what the people on the roof are doing. Before my abrupt departure, they were all standing around, waiting for something. Location of the nerve agent is still unknown. I'm going back up. Let me know what's waiting for me."

Alia's voice was missing the anxiety he'd picked up earlier, and that made him feel better. "Understood. Working on it. I'll have satellite uplink in forty-five seconds. We're in luck. One of the Oracle's Eye Geosynchronous Orbiters just happens to be right above you right now. And people say there's not some divine force at work in the universe constantly watching our backs."

X grinned for an instant. "I know that's not true. I'm talking to one of them." Before she could say anything, he added, "I'm going in. I'll leave the line open." His right leg, which had been dangling limply beneath him up until this point, snapped up so fast an unaided human eye would have seen it as nothing more than a blue blur and slammed into the black window next to it. The bulletproof, earthquake-resistant six inch slab of glass yielded instantly to the several tons of force he was capable of putting through his leg, and its remains either flew into the building or floated down to earth, the smallest pieces glittering like black snow. For an instant, X allowed himself to be glad that no one was on the ground waiting be showered by the black fragmented glass of death. Then he swung his torso around, loosened his hands, and rolled onto the thirtieth floor of Dynatech Systems, activated the buster cannons on both his arms, and made for the emergency stairwell. By his estimates, it would take him approximately a minute and a half to dash his way to the roof if he really hauled it. Time was the critical factor here, so that's exactly what he planned to do.

Exactly forty-five seconds later, the voice was in his ear again. " You've still got five on the roof - two with busters, three with assault rifles. They're gathered around the helipad. No sign of anything that looks like the nerve agent canisters, and I've got pretty good resolution - I'm looking at it from fifty feet up."

X nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "Understood. I'll find them. They're not on the roof, so they've got to be inside somewhere. After I neutralize the five people still on the roof, we can bring in a search team."

One minute later (Stupid slippery steps!) X was standing in front of the small set of stairs that would take him to the roof. His arms were hanging at his side, both of them in buster mode, brimming with blue energy. No one had blasted through the door and tried to kill him yet, and that told them none of them had their tactical radar systems activated. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was beginning to think he had seriously over-estimated their training. Either that or they were specifically chosen for this mission because they were incompetent. Someone wanted them disposed of. It made sense, but like several other pieces of information currently blowing in the breeze, for the moment it was irrelevant. He activated his thermal optics. Indeed, everyone still standing was gathered around the helipad. Helicopters. Suddenly, things were starting to make a lot more sense. They hadn't needed to teleport through the scrambling fields … they just jumped down off a helicopter, and now they were waiting to be picked up. That's why they hadn't disabled the security systems immediately - they had to actually get into the building to do it. When their flying vehicle arrived, they would likely produce the nerve agent canisters and be off. "Alia," he whispered, "monitor the airspace for an incoming vehicle - it's probably going to be a helicopter or a high altitude hovercraft of some sort. If you pick one up, let me know."

"You think they're flying out? That would certainly explain a few things, though I'd love to know how they expect to approach unnoticed. I'll go to a wider angle view of the area …" There was a brief pause. "Be careful, X."

"Always." Then he kicked the door off its hinges and ran onto the roof, busters raised and ready.

They all turned at the sound in time to see the metal door sliding across the roof with X close behind it. Shock and surprise took over their faces, and for an instant, none of them moved. X brought his left arm up and fired twice at a short, stocky man with gleaming black eyes. He reacted fast enough to duck the first ball of energy, but X was anticipating that. The blue armored Commander lowered his arm, and the second crashed into one of the mercenary's feet. He stumbled in an attempt to regain his balance, grunting angrily. His leg was bleeding profusely below the knee - dark reddish, nearly black liquid. He tried to move, and it abruptly gave way. When he fell, his rifle skidded across the roof, eventually falling over the side.

X became aware of a high-pitched noise behind him. He knew it well - it was the sound of a charging buster. He didn't move, waiting for it to discharge. When it did, he leapt into the air. He heard a gruff scream and realized it had smashed into the man he'd just hobbled. A moment later, there was a light thudding sound, and the mercenary behind him didn't make any attempt to get up. Four. He twisted his body around in midair, coming down facing his opponent. This one was female, a bit over six feet tall, thin, with blue eyes and blonde hair cascading out of the back of her combat helmet. X made a point not to focus on her face - she looked too much like someone he knew. She still had her buster - which was much smaller than X's - pointed at him, though there was no sign of charged plasma within its bowels. The look on her face was one of horrible realization. She could only charge one shot at a time, and her opponent still had one fully charged weapon, which he was now pointing at her abdomen. She started shifting her weight to her left side, preparing to lunge out of the way.

X saw this, and followed her course with his arm. If he let her complete the roll, she would have time to recharge her weapon, and he could already hear the sound of rifle bolts being thrown behind him. They would be firing long before he was able to move out of the way, so he didn't even try. He fired another pair of plasma spheres, watching them slam into her abdomen, eating away at the lightest part of her body armor. A moment later, she was screaming, and X could see dark blood seeping from her belly. He realized the protective plating there was thinner than he had anticipated, most likely built with an emphasis on speed. Without pausing he activated his tactical scanner - represented by a bright blue targeting reticule - and pointed it at her. Normally, he would have gotten a readout on what she was capable of: estimated speed, strength, type of weapon and maneuvering systems, armor grade - but instead small, capitalized red lettering flashed across his HUD: Warning … subject's generator is severely damaged. Overload imminent. In a few moments, she would disappear in a small ball of nuclear fire. Three.

The Blue Bomber turned on his heels just in time to see a pair of men pointing rifles at his head. They were already squeezing the triggers. If he did nothing, in less than a second he would be dead. He didn't move, mentally giving the order that would activate his Nova Strike System. Behind him, there was a flash and a horrible booming noise, and the girl was no more. Then the bullets flew.

None of them hit their mark. He was now incased in a sphere of white concussive energy that dissolved the armor piercing rounds on contact. The two of them didn't have time to think about this, because X's dash thrusters - the miniature propulsion rockets built into his boots as part of his armor's Emergency Acceleration System - chose that moment to fire, sending him blasting forward and lifting him off the ground. His busters came to life again, firing an unending stream of dense, white-blue plasma spheroids at the riflemen. Charging time was no longer an issue - in Nova Strike mode, his weapon systems drained power directly from his reactor, as opposed to collecting ambient microscopic particles from the atmosphere and converting them into something usable. It was for this reason that the attack only lasted several seconds and could only be used on a limited basis in normal circumstances. If he overdid it, his reactor efficiency would fall to dangerously low levels.

But in the few, fleeting seconds that X's busters sang, plenty of damage was done. The roof around the two mercenaries bubbled and dissolved, and their weapons - and the hands that were holding them - liquefied. Their mouths were open, and the Hunter figured they were screaming, but he couldn't hear anything besides white noise. X lowered his arms slightly, watching as half a dozen white, deadly spheres slammed into either man's stomach. Two more explosions filled his eyes, both surprisingly quiet, no louder than a car backfiring. One.

X was flying about eight feet above the roof when the Nova Strike System commenced its auto-shutdown sequence. His busters stopped firing just before his dash boots deactivated, and he curled into a ball in an effort to gain some control over his descent. He landed hard in a one kneed crouch, his systems working to shake off the effects of the energy drain. He hated having to use the Nova Strike, it always made him feel disoriented for a few seconds while his generator stabilized itself. He called up his system status. Generator's at eighty-eight percent efficiency. Good enough.

He got up slowly, his eyes locked on the lone mercenary about fifty feet away from him. He looked terrified and didn't even bother raising his arm cannon. X kept his arms limp at his side. This one wasn't going to try to attack him; he was just too scared. "Surrender," he said softly, "and you won't be harmed."

The man, a five foot tall, skinny sort of fellow with black eyebrows and brown eyes, did as he was told. His buster deactivated, a black gloved hand reappeared on his right arm and for the moment, X actually thought he was going to surrender peacefully. "Alright," he continued, "Where are the canisters?"

"Not here," the mercenary said. His voice was higher than it seemed like it should have been, and slightly wobbly. His eyes darted back and forth, looking at the ruined remains of his friends.

"I know that," X said, his voice perfectly calm. "They're not on the roof. Where are they?" Before the mercenary could answer, a number of simultaneous popping noises filled his ears, and the roof shook slightly. Just as before, his communications and tracking equipment failed, but this time the effect lasted for several seconds. When it resolved, his eyes widened, and had he been the type of person to swear wantonly, he would have let loose with something really improper. Instead, he simply whispered, "Oh, crap." He completely forgot about the mercenary in front of him, and turned back towards the helipad. It wasn't vacant anymore. There was now an empty idling Rolls-Royce BA4 Personal Jet Helicopter on the roof, surrounded by ten black-robed, cloaked figures hanging on to various pieces of its chassis. Already knowing what it would show him, he activated his thermograph. All human signatures. For several seconds, his mind simply stalled.

Then there was another succession of pops, and they all simply disappeared; simply winked out of existence, leaving the helicopter, X, and the mercenary alone on the roof. X's mind, forsaking its complete confusion, abruptly snapped back into gear. He started to turn around, realizing he'd left himself wide open, but it was too late. He felt something being slapped against his tailbone, and new he'd screwed up.

He would have screamed when the electric shock flashed through is body, but his mouth, along with every other piece of his anatomy, was no longer under his conscious control. He mentally kicked himself - he'd managed to drop his guard long enough to have his nervous system frozen. He fell forward limply, his face slamming into the concrete. At least I couldn't feel that. Alia was talking into his ear again, and he vaguely wondered if she still had an overhead view of the scene. She probably did, and he hated that. But there was only one thing to do. The device on his back was a handheld thing - it felt like it was about the size of a golf ball. Which meant it likely would only carry enough power to keep him down for about forty-five seconds. Enough time to get the canisters from wherever they're hidden and fly off. He started trying to wiggle his fingers. Nothing. And I'm not dead yet. Good for me. He must figure I won't attack him after he has the stuff. Not. He activated his tracking radar again. Mercenary number five was on the other side of the roof, digging around the inside of something. He tried to remember what was over there. Then it hit him. Air-conditioner unit the size of a small office. Air-conditioning unit containing industrial super-coolant. The nerve agent canisters are filled with the same kind of super-coolant. That means they show up the same shade of blue as the inside of the unit on thermograph - making them invisible if they're placed inside the unit. They've been on the roof the whole time. I got played. Nicely. Damn it! Then again, it's not like this is completely normal, what with the disappearing humans and all. This is turning into a bad day. One of his fingers twitched. He would have full movement back in a few more seconds, and then he'd have figure out how to fix this. He wasn't really worried, just angry with himself. He hadn't lost yet, and he didn't intend to. His artificial muscles completely unlocked as the last of the shock cycled out of his systems. Here we go. He blinked - Alia was still trying to get him to answer. "I'm up, Alia. It was just a temporary stunner."

There was a soft sigh of relief. "What just happened? I was watching and, quite frankly, I don't get it."

X frowned. Me neither. "I'll try to ask our backstabbing friend in just a second. Stand by."

He got to his feet in time to see his target closing the door of the helicopter. He hadn't bothered to deactivate his thermal optics, so he could see inside the vehicle pretty well. The formally terrified mercenary (who, X suspected, hadn't really been terrified at all) was in the pilot's seat, trying to get it in the air before X had time to chase him down. He saw them on the floorboard, lashed down - two three foot long cylinders, both a bright, vivid blue. Bingo. No, you are not leaving this roof without me. X fired his dash thrusters. With his boots roaring he flew forward, his body nothing more than a blue blur racing across the roof. Another few seconds, and he was standing alongside the helicopter door. He sank his fingers into it and ripped it off in a swift, fluid motion, tossing it over the side of the building. He stepped into the helicopter. He wanted to blast the controls out, but he couldn't risk causing a major explosion and detonating the nerve agent. "Stop. Now."

The mercenary scrambled to his feet, glaring at X. He didn't activate his weapon either. He wasn't going to risk blowing his prize up after going through so much trouble to get it. He reached backwards with his left arm, unclipping something from the small of his back. X had a pretty good idea what it was and got ready for the wide sweeping motion that would next. The energy dagger in the mercenary's hand was a small black thing with a silver ring on one end. At the moment, that emitter was alight with a four inch long purple plasma blade. X crouched at the last minute, and the only thing that got sliced was the air where his neck had been a second before.

"Thanks," X said briskly, "but I would like to remain attached to my head for the time being." He brought his hands together and straightened his knees, slamming his entwined fists into the side of the mercenary's jaw. He felt it crack. But he paid for it - he saw the dagger coming back up, but couldn't move fast enough to keep it from slicing into his left armpit. He screamed, suddenly no longer able to feel or move his arm. Lovely. Just great.

"Give up? No one can best Armando. I can't believe you actually thought I was going to surrender. Unlike my friends, I'm not afraid of a name, X."

Well, at least I have a name to work with now. X reached forward with his good arm, two fingers extended. A few seconds later he pulled them away, leaving Armando roaring in pain and outrage. The mercenary stumbled away from him, covering his right eye socket with his hand. "Never." X opened his hand, and something that looked very much like an eyeball with wires leading off it fell on to the ground. He flattened his palm and brought the side of it against Armando's left wrist. Something inside snapped, his hand opened, and the knife fell to the ground. It passed right by X's left hand, but since he couldn't move that particular appendage, he had no choice but to let it fall to the ground. It clattered around on the floor - and rolled right on out the door.

X kicked high, catching Armando's head and snapping it back. "If all I had going for me was reputation," he said darkly, "I'd have died a long time ago." He followed with a quick spin kick to the right temple, and Armando crashed against the wall, momentarily dazed. X wasted no time in sending his fist through the mercenary's throat. When he pulled it away it was sticky and black. Armando gazed blankly up at him. He was dead. "Alia," X said softly, "I've secured the helicopter and the roof."

"Wonderful. Your transponder says your left shoulder is damaged. How bad is it?"

X grimaced. "My left arm is totally useless. Neural relays are likely severed. But at least it doesn't hurt. I can't get any more specific than that. According to my damage control system, it's no longer attached." He felt something warm and wet slide down the inside of his armor and realized he was losing a fair amount of circulatory fluid. Normally, his damage control system would have closed off the veins, but it wasn't functioning anywhere near his left arm anymore. I need to get out of here before I bleed to death.

He could almost hear her frown when she spoke again. "Lifesaver will be waiting for you when you get back." There was a pause. "What's the integrity of the canisters?"

X leaned over the pilot's controls, deactivating the engines. His gaze moved to the back of the vehicle. "I'm checking them out now." He set his vision back to normal mode and knelt between the two of them.

They were identical, and both looked undamaged. Each was made of some kind of black polymer he couldn't easily identify, and looked more like a giant opaque gel-cap than anything else. Probably made of something specifically engineered not to absorb heat - looks kind of like the heat shielding on space vehicles. At least it's intact. I can't believe how flammable they said this stuff is. There weren't any windows built into the storage canisters, but each had a small, twelve inch display set into the top with an array of controls beneath it. He pressed the one marked "view" and the screen came to life, showing him a low-light picture of the storage compartment inside. His eyes widened, his face paled, and for a long time, he didn't move.

Finally, Alia's voice sounded in his ear again. "X, what's going on?"

All of it, even the jiffy-pop humans, made perfect sense now. He still had no idea how they came and went, but implementation was irrelevant. They could come and go as they pleased, and that was the point. He was very good at spotting patterns. Everything that had happened on the roof, all the dead people inside the building, the helicopter, the seemingly sloppy way the mercenaries handled the alarm - all of it came together.

Some of the cloaked humans had appeared inside the building before the mercenaries even arrived, and disappeared with the nerve agent canisters, leaving the decoys he was looking at right now. That probably happened in a matter of minutes. Then the mercenaries had shown up and gone about trying to steal the fakes in a far more conventional way. They hadn't beamed in - the cloaked people had simply materialized them inside the scrambling field. Whether or not they knew they were going for the decoys, he didn't know. But it wasn't important. They had broken into the subterranean research and development facility, killed anyone who stood against them (though, given the earlier presence of the cloaked people, some of the soldiers and engineers would likely already have been dead at that point) and made off with the fake canisters. Then they went to the roof, hid their loot in the air conditioning unit, and waited for the helicopter to show up that would get them out. That's when X showed up, very likely right on schedule.

X took them out, just as whoever had planned this whole fiasco intended for him to. It added believability to the illusion, after all. If he had been capable of it, he was sure he would have been violently sick by now. But he wasn't, so he simply stood there, carrying the argument to its logical conclusion. Then he'd secured the decoys, and here he was. The only thing that was really out of place was one of the hooded men showing up to knock him off the building. It broke the pattern. He realized it was quite possible that someone screwed up, and that wasn't supposed to have happened.

But why? What was the point? Nothing had to happen after the theft of the authentic canisters. He could only come up with one reason. Someone wanted him to be standing in the helicopter at this very moment, contemplating this very chain of events. Someone wanted him to know that, not only had he been beaten, but that he hadn't had a chance to begin with. He got the message loud and clear.

That's why both the canisters beneath him were completely empty, except for a small piece of paper in one of them, taped down so the camera could easily read what it said:

I know what you're asking yourself, X: "Hey? Where's the cream filling?" I could tell you, but what would be the fun in that? Have a nice day.

"See anything yet?" Harry and Hermione had gone at least five miles north, moving towards the densest part of the skyline. Crookshanks was walking between the two of them. Hermione figured the central branch of the public library system had to be downtown. Harry hadn't said anything yet, but he was beginning to wonder if there even was a public library system in whatever country they were in. If there wasn't, that would sort of ruin her entire plan, and that's why he kept his mouth shut. As long as she felt she had some control over the situation, she was less likely to panic.

"No … nothing. I was hoping there would be some signs or something, but honestly, this whole place seems a little disorganized and … dirty."

Harry nodded. He couldn't see, but he could tell he wasn't in the cleanest of places. He wasn't sure what he'd stepped in about half a mile back, but it definitely wasn't water. Hermione had apologized profusely for not helping him avoid it, but she never would say what it was. Maybe she doesn't know. That thought didn't make him feel any better. He felt her hand loosen in his, and abruptly remembered they had been holding on to each other for the last hour. It was funny. In the mere presence of girls like Cho, he had always been supremely uncomfortable. The thought of actually holding hands with one of them seemed totally nonsensical … he associated it with such unlikely events as Snape pulling him aside one day after class to discuss the joy of Quiddich. Hermione was slowing down, and for all the good it did him, he turned to look at her. He couldn't make out her face, but she was looking at the ground, and he realized her shoulders were rising and falling, just barely. "Hermione, are you alright?"

She turned to look at him, and the blurry thing he knew was her face was slightly pinker than it normally was. "What? Oh, I'm fine. Just getting a little winded, I guess."

Harry nodded, his unhidden eyes betraying concern. "Maybe we should find somewhere to rest for a bit." His feet were sore. The more he thought about it, the more the idea of a break sounded good, despite their situation. "What's that over there? It looks like it has tables and chairs in front of it." I think those are tables and chairs. Either that, or some sort of sculpture.

"Harry," she replied crisply, "we don't have time to just sit around. We have no idea what's going on around us. The sooner we find out -"

"You can't do any kind of research at the library if you pass out before we get there. We don't even know where we're going yet. The only good directions we've managed to get in the last hour were 'go somewhere downtown.' We'll just stop for a few minutes, I promise. I think that's a restaurant. Maybe we can get some free water. Besides, it'll be a good place to ask for better directions."

She nodded reluctantly, and began to lead him across the street. She knew he was right. They did need better directions. But she didn't really want to stop. Stopping meant not having the tasks of finding the library or guiding Harry around to worry about. When that happened, her mind would inevitably begin to think about the full implications of their situation. She wasn't sure she was ready for that yet.

Once they were across, she got a better look at the restaurant. "It's a sushi bar." She paused for a moment, reading something. "Oh, my," she said finally, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Harry could feel her hand quiver slightly. "What's wrong, Hermione?"

"Most of it's in Japanese, but there's an English bit. It says it's been 'rated the Best Sushi Establishment in the city by Tokyo Dining Magazine.' Tokyo. We're … we're in Japan, Harry."

Harry stumbled, and the fact that he couldn't see where he was going didn't have a thing to do with it. You've got to be kidding me. And I actually thought this couldn't get any worse. "Well, at least now we know where we are," he managed. He could feel Hermione glaring at him. "I don't suppose you know anything about the Japanese Ministry of Magic?" he whispered.

Hermione shook her head. "I'm afraid not. I only know that they have one, and their controls are much looser than Great Britain's."

"Controls?"

"Their Use of Underage Magic Law is much less restrictive. Anyone with at least three years of magical education is allowed to use magic, so long as they don't attempt any spells they weren't taught in school." Hermione's tone made it clear she didn't think this was anything close to a good policy.

Harry frowned. "There goes that part of the plan."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"We're fourth years. We've had more than three years of training. Unless we cause some sort of major uproar, they're likely to ignore us." He sighed. "The only way I know to cause a major uproar is to attack something or flaunt our powers in front of Muggles. The first choice is out."

"And causing an incident with Muggles wouldn't really be the best way to draw attention to ourselves, would it?" Hermione was frowning now, too.

Harry smirked darkly. "Uncle Vernon always said first impressions were the key to credibility … so no, I don't think that would be good. They're going to have enough trouble swallowing our story as it is." He blinked. "Did I just quote Uncle Vernon?"

Hermione giggled for the first time since she had woken up in the alley. "I'm afraid so. Does this mean you actually listen to what he tells you? I thought you said he was a maniacal idiot."

Harry shrugged. "He is. But when Uncle Vernon talks, you can't help but listen. Every once in a while, you might hear something almost useful." Harry was close enough to the tables and chairs that he could make their shapes out now. They were silver, and metal, with two chairs to a table.

"Looks more like something you'd expect to see outside a French bistro," Hermione mused. "Hmm … escargot."

Harry's stomach made a tiny rumbling sound. He blushed. "Sorry."

Hermione grinned, for some reason glad that he couldn't see her doing it. "Are you hungry, Harry?"

"Just a bit."

Hermione nodded. "I am too." She wasn't grinning anymore. "What are we going to do? We can't eat without money. We won't be able to get hotel rooms or anything like that, either. And we'll need more clothes …" She suddenly paled. "Harry, what if you have to pay to get in the library?"

Harry squeezed her hand without thinking about it. "Relax. We'll be fine."

Hermione wheeled on him, her face now inches away from his, looking him square in his barely-seeing eyes. What she saw there surprised her, but she couldn't stop herself from saying shrilly, "How can you say that? We're stuck in the 22nd century with no idea what's happened in the last one hundred and fifty eight years, no money, no possessions besides what we're carrying and … and," her voice faltered, "no families. They'll all be long dead by now …" She finally put a stop to her outburst, looking worriedly into her best friend's eyes. His voice was, for the most part, clear, calm, and controlled … it sounded just like she thought Harry was supposed to sound. But his eyes told a different story. She was peering into them now, and she could see traces of the anxiety, the sadness and the worry that were fighting to control him. Surprisingly, there was no fear. She didn't get it. Whenever he talked, he made it sound like he wasn't worried at all, He sounded like he knew everything was going to be alright. Then a thought struck her, and she wasn't sure exactly what to make of it. He couldn't be trying to act so nonchalant for me, could he? "Harry," she said, after what was in her opinion a short, very uncomfortable silence, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you, it's just … just … " she couldn't really find a suitable short description for what she was feeling right now.

Harry frowned, putting his hands on what he hoped were her shoulders. He wondered why she and Ron were always so good at reading him when they bothered to look him in the face. Admittedly, Hermione was better at it, but that was beside the point. At any rate, he thought, she's on to me. That didn't take as long as I'd hoped it would. "Hermione," he said quietly, "I'm just as worried and confused as you are right now. But I can't let that cloud my judgment." They were standing next to a table now, and he pulled one of the chairs out, motioning for her to sit in it. When she did, he surprised her by helping her scoot it back where it belonged. He sat across from her, his frown deepening. "I don't know what to do, Hermione. Not really. I mean, I'd like to hope that Hogwarts is still there, after all, it's been around for more than a thousand years, right? But I don't know how we're going to get there. It's on the other side of the world. I'd like to say I could fly us there … but even I know my limits. I have no idea what we're going to do, or where or how we're going to sleep or eat. But I do know that if we're going to figure anything out, we've got to keep our emotions in check. It would be so easy to get bogged down in fear and sorrow. But we can't do that. We're doomed if we do. The most important resource we have at our disposal now is our wits. When I said everything will be fine, I meant it - whatever it takes, we're going to figure this out and get help." Whatever it takes, Hermione, I'll make sure you're fine. I will accept nothing less. After all, I got you in to this. He shook his head slightly. He'd been down this particular thought path before. It had occurred to him once how much simpler - and safer - his friends' lives would have been if it weren't for the simple fact that they were his friends. It was perfectly logical, really. But maybe he was selfish … he simply never allowed himself to really consider it because Hermione and Ron were his family. He couldn't bear the thought of giving them up, not after the wretched, lonely first decade of his life. He had always done his best to look out for them - to try and keep them insulated from Voldemort's wrath - but that never really worked like he'd hoped, and today, it hadn't worked at all. He'd failed her, and she was going to have to suffer for it …

"Harry?" She was looking at him worriedly. "Are you alright? You kind of zoned out."

Harry's mind snapped back into focus. "Sorry, Hermione. I just … never mind. I'm fine."

"Sorry I yelled at you. I sort of …"

"Snapped?" She blushed, looking embarrassed. "Don't worry about it." He sighed. "Let's just try to get through today, alright?"

Hermione nodded, smiling at him in the vain hope he would be able to see it. "Deal."

Hermione sipped her water, gratefully feeling it slide down her throat. Harry had been right. She was nearly exhausted. In the back of her mind, she was vaguely annoyed that the only symptom Harry seemed to be showing of his recent hike through the city was a barely glistening brow. I can't be that out of shape, can I? She was deep in thought. "We need to get you some glasses," she said finally. "Before we worry about going to the library. You won't be able to help me if you can't see past your nose."

"I know," Harry mumbled, "but where and how are we going to get me any glasses? And more importantly," he suddenly spat, "how are we going to pay that bill the waitress just smacked down on the table?" The same cranky old waitress who's been treating us like crap since she figured out we weren't going to order food. The same waitress that said water is free and didn't really speak English very well. Oh boy. We've been had.

Hermione sputtered, picking up the bill. "This is absurd! We've been charged one and a half zenni - What happened to yen? - for each drink. We owe sixteen and a half of them, whatever they are."

Harry blinked and found himself staring at his glass as though it were filled with Essence of Dudley. "Oh … crap."

"Problem, young man?" Both of them looked up, vaguely alarmed to be staring at a smirking teenager who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He had dark eyes and long silver hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was white, with dark eyes and a rich complexion, and that part of Hermione's brain that was connected with identifying cute boys (indeed, the part she used the least) bluntly informed her that this was, in fact, a very handsome boy. He was wearing cargo shorts and a tie-died shirt. "You both have the look of someone who's just realized they don't have enough money to pay the check."

Harry wished he could see this person's face. He looked like he had long silver hair, and sounded about seventeen. The tone of his voice was friendly, though he couldn't help thinking it sounded slightly too much so. Still, he thought, one of us should answer him. Why's Hermione just staring at him? He felt Crookshanks leaving his lap and heading towards Hermione, and he could have sworn the cat was growling. Harry forced a smile. "That's about right, I'm afraid. I think we've fallen victim to a tourist trap. We got charged for the 'free water.'"

The man chuckled, genuinely amused. Suckers. "Bummer. How much did they get you for?" He sat on a table next to theirs. "My name's Dynamo, by the way." He put out a large hand.

Harry shook it. "Harry. Harry Potter. This is my friend Hermione Granger. I'm afraid they got us for about sixteen zenni."

"Pleasure to meet you," she said, her voice slightly higher than it was supposed to be. This, for some reason he couldn't place, bothered Harry very much. It was like they were talking to a young Gilderoy Lockhart.

Dynamo nodded sagely. "So, you're from Great Britain? I couldn't help but notice the accents. Scotland?"

"Yeah."

"Are you staying far from here? Maybe you could talk the waitress into letting you go back to your hotel room and get the money."

Hermione snapped out of her trance-like state (much to Harry's relief). She was looking at Dynamo now, clearly trying to figure out how to answer that kind of question. Harry knew from experience that she wasn't at all comfortable with lying directly to anyone. And whatever they came up with, it would have to be a total and complete fabrication. He decided to handle it with the best excuse he could think of - the truth. "We're not tourists," he said quietly.

Hermione turned to look at him, her eyes asking the obvious question. What are we then? What are you going to tell him? She knew she wasn't going to like it, whatever it was, but stayed silent.

"Oh?" Dynamo actually looked confused now. Harry was surprised to discover he liked hearing the slightly bewildered tone in the other boy's voice.

"We're," Harry let some of his discomfort surface on his face, for effect, "between residences right now."

Dynamo blinked, then nodded slowly in understanding. Homeless kids. He tried his best not to smile. This might be fun. "Oh." He tried a small frown, hoping it looked authentic. "I see. So, you have no money, then?"

Hermione blinked at Harry. How did he come up with that so fast? Then something occurred to her, and her heart sank a little lower in her chest. He hadn't come up with anything. He was telling the truth, save a few unimportant details.

"No," Harry muttered. "None." At least he's not about to call the cops or anything.

Dynamo nodded again, noticing for the first time the dried blood in the hair on the back of the boy's head. "Did you get in a fight or something?"

"Yes," Hermione said quickly, before she could stop herself. "We …"

"Got jumped," Harry cut in, smiling reassuringly at Hermione. She had run out of lie mid-sentence. Any other time, Harry might have thought it was funny. "They got the better of me and took our money … and my glasses. I can't see a blasted thing," he spat, giving voice to his frustration. He saw Hermione wince. She wasn't used to hearing him sound at all nasty. That brief period when he'd been plotting to attack Sirius Black didn't count … he was arguably acting very irrational.

"That sucks, man." Dynamo brightened. Lots of fun. "Tell you what - I'll settle your bill for you and take the two of you to Doctor Cossack. He's an ophthalmologist who does pro bono examinations for one of the homeless shelters. He'll get you fixed up."

Hermione couldn't believe their luck, and it showed clearly on her face. "You're serious?"

"Of course. He's not very far from here."

"That would be great," Harry said, smiling at the silver-haired boy.

In Hermione'sHemione's lap, Crookshanks shifted uneasily, but her owner was too happy with their turn of fortune to notice.