"They have given me the right, Magus, now stand aside. A boon must be honoured, and its cost must be paid."

Pain, as they say, is painful. It's why they call it pain. I groaned, a deep bass rumble which started in my chest and forced its way free. Unfortunately, that meant opening my mouth. Ugg. I started spitting, trying to rid myself of the horrible, gritty flavour. That only made things worse.

My body ached, the kind of bone deep, muscle filling pain which only came from a full body beating or the tender mercies of the Cruciatus Curse. I'd experienced both at the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and this was as bad as any of those times. It was a heavy pain which ran in pulses from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Even my hair hurt.

I forced my eyes open and tried to rollover. It wasn't to be. I stayed face down in the dirt. Quite how I came to be there, I couldn't recall. My brain seemed to be made of milk. It sloshed against the inside of my skull and was too opaque to let any but the simplest thoughts propagate.

As I moved further from the almost motherly embrace of unconsciousness, smaller pains became apparent. No little number of rocks dug into me. They were small and sharp, particularly the sadistic little example located under my left thigh. It seemed tailor placed to spear the fleshy part of my leg. If this was some Death Eater game, they deserved points for originality.

After a few seconds, I tried to move again. This time I managed to twitch my fingers. Dirt shifted between them. The small victory kindled a spark of happiness within my chest; that said a lot about my life. While I had many goals, being Mad-Eye Moody version two was not one of them.

Over the next few minutes I managed to move the rest of my limbs. Miracle of Merlin wrought miracles, they moved mostly as they should and appeared intact. Maybe I was becoming cynical at the ripe old age of eighteen?

After achieving that momentous, neigh titanic, victory, I took a moment to centre myself, 'then rolled over. My arms gave out mid-way and I collapsed onto my back. Ouch, but I could at least see. That had to be a plus, right? Old thigh-knifer decided to use this as an opportunity to bore into my spine, which wasn't.

Above was the night's sky, a black cloak swept with a wash of stars. Ripped apart earth, upturned mud, dirt covered rocks and uprooted grass lay to the sides. No tropical beach then? Just once I would like to wake up on a sunlit beach surrounded by beautiful women, but that was impossible, not with my luck. Well maybe if the beautiful women were cannibalistic amazons but that's about the only situation I could think of.

I groaned again, spat and managed to force myself into a sitting position. My initial assessment seemed to be right. One hole, large. One wizard, Harry Potter. And one large scaly green thing, green and scaly. Okay, that last was new and unexpected.

Once more into the breach.

Legs shaking, I staggered to my feet, managed the few tottering steps needed to reach the creature's side and collapsed down. It was roughly human in shape but more closely resembled an oversized house elf than any wizard or muggle I'd ever met. Come to that, if Dobby took up bodybuilding, grew to around seven feet tall and painted himself a lizardy green, I might mistake the two. Other than that rough, fanciful and slightly worrying comparison, it was unlike anything I'd ever met. I'd known goblins, mermen, centaurs, veela, hags, trolls, giants and Merlin only knew what else, not to mention unique specimens like my Uncle Vernon and cousin Dudley. This thing didn't look to share a species with any of them. The only things I could think of? A potions accident or self-transfiguration gone very, very wrong.

His clothes — 'he' only because the green thing didn't look at all female — looked to be made from an artificial material, like a muggle wetsuit, but with no pockets, zips or similar. It was one whole. I moved forward and touched the creature's neck, looking for a pulse. Its flesh was cold and felt like snake scales but that was all. There was no sign of life. No answers there.

Steeling myself, I rose to my feet, thigh muscles quivering, and this time managed to stay erect; great, I was now matching the achievements of my one and a half million year gone ancestors. My clothes were a mess, black trousers mud trodden and tattered jumper almost as bad. Despite that, the important fleshy bits underneath seemed mostly okay, only a few minor scrapes and a handful of bruises. Given how I felt, that was remarkably few physical injuries. That wasn't necessarily a blessing. Pain without damage meant the Cruciatus Curse, which in turn meant Death Eaters. I repressed a shudder at the memory of that foul creation and its equally foul masters.

My hand automatically went for my wand, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I felt its comforting form. I pulled it out and looked it over. It was eleven inches of holly with a phoenix feather core and thankfully very intact. I held it close to my eyes and turned it gently. Time had not been especially kind to it and there were a number of long scratches along its surface, including a recent addition, a long thin wound which ran the length of the wand. Thankfully it was shallow, meaning it would not affect the wand much. Ollivander might not agree but he wasn't here.

Now that I was standing, the hole looked more like a crater, the kind a thing a muggle bomb might make or some of the more impressive forms of wizard blasting magic. The walls were made from loose stones and freshly broken apart earth. I didn't relish climbing it but there wasn't much choice. I needed out of the hole.

My first attempt left me sprawled on my rear end; even the larger stones couldn't take my weight. Grumbling, I pushed myself back to my feet and this time climbed with more care. After a bit of effort I reached the top of the slope, grabbed a handful of proper grass and hauled myself up. The last few feet were a mite undignified but no one was around to see.

Now that I had a much better field of vision, I turned a slow circle, taking in my situation. There was the large pit behind me, an electricity pylon about half a mile away and a group of black dots, rapidly growing bigger.

That gave me pause. Black dots did not make a habit of growing bigger in my experience. When they did, it meant trouble. I tapped my glasses and cast a Magnifying Charm, a simple variant of the spell I used to adjust my glasses. During war, a trip to the muggle or even magical opticians really wasn't an option.

Space warped and the black dots resolved. They were not birds or men on broomsticks but a trio of helicopters. I had never seen one up close but they were on television often enough. These were sleek and dark with spinning rotors. Something told me their current heading wasn't a coincidence. Between my presence, the hole and the whatever-the-green-thing-was, that would be one hell of a chance. Since I had no intention of staying around to deal with irate muggles, especially the muggle military, it was time to take my leave.

I cancelled the spell on my glasses with the appropriate counter-charm and prepared myself to apparate. Destination, Determination and Deliberation, those were the key. I might not have the snap apparition skills of some who fought the good fight but I got by. I pictured the gates of Hogwarts, span on my heel and—

Have I mentioned pain is painful? Well, it is. Something exploded in my mind, and I went over backwards like a bludger had hit my head. I don't know if it was that or the ground but the world became black and fuzzy for quite some time.

Fire blazed in my skull. I moaned, tried to right myself and—

An immense hammer of pain and force slammed into my back and I went down, wind blown from me. I had no idea what was happening. Someone was shouting something right behind me but it was muffled, as if heard through water. I was far too gone to understand.

I took a deep breath, trying to draw some life back in to my frazzled brain, and remarkably it worked. The world grew clearer, the full sensory spectrum equivalent of putting on my glasses. This was however not entirely a good thing; I could now hear what the voices were saying.

"Stay on the ground!" screamed one.

"Hands on your head!" said another, only a hair less shrill.

Carefully I tensed my fingers around my wand and began to lift my hands towards my head, complying with their commands. If the men came with the helicopters, that made them military. I would need to be smart, quick and lucky. Unfortunately, I had a track record of only managing two out of three on a good day.

Protego! I shouted the incantation in my mind. There was no time to try anything fancy so I didn't even attempt it. A blue barrier ripped into view, blocking the guards from me.

"Drop the stick!" shouted a voice.

"He's armed!" screamed another. "Open fire."

Guns roared and what felt like cannon balls exploded against my shield, but I kept it raised and threw myself to the left. Without me to support it, the shield was ripped apart but that didn't matter. I rose like a phoenix from the ashes, wand extended.

Three soldiers were in my direct field of view. "Stupefy!" I screamed and sent a blazing red bolt into the nearest. He collapsed, scarlet lightning cascading over his armour.

The remaining two swung their guns towards me, big things with barrels fit to shoot grenades and ammunition clips that surely must run afoul of the Obscene Publication Act. They fired at the same moment as I recalled my shield. Blue energy arced into place and two large black projectiles thundered against it. The impact shook my arm and rattled my bones, but I held on.

That's when something slammed into the space between my shoulder blades. Pain exploded, my whole back aflame, and I smashed forward. I lost my wand along the way, 'then there was a whole new set of pains. Something crushed me into the mud and something else screamed in my ear. To say I was a little shell shocked would be an understatement.

After a few seconds, the voices resolved enough for me to hear.

"What did you do to the Lt!" shouted the man on my back.

I mumbled something. The dirt tasted no better than before.

"He's still breathing!" shouted another.

I tried again. "Stunner. Be okay."

"We have no time for this," said a new voice. "Pentland, Powley, take the Lt to Chopper A and get him back to base. Arfman, Dimond, Vickers, perimeter-guard with me. Griffiths, Johnson, Davies, prepare the prisoner for transport. Smith, Sorin, Williams, check the crater. Remember people, we have ten minutes before Thirteen shows up and need to be gone by then. Move it!"

Before I could even begin to process what was going on, someone ripped my hands off the ground and pulled them together behind my back. A boot pushed down on my spine and a soldier snapped something into place around my wrists. A half second later that something was ratcheted tight, a band of hard material which bit into my flesh.

The process made my bones move in ways they really weren't meant to, and I let out a guttural cry. The soldier responded by wrenching my arms higher and pushing down harder on my spine. I bit back any further utterances, but a whole host of things were brewing inside.

Black panic flittered around the edges of my awareness. Wandless, captured, battered and alone. I'd been in worse situation but it was a close run thing. The only bright spark was the lack of skull masks.

"Skrull!" said a distorted voice. "We have a dead Skrull at the bottom of the pit!"

My heart jumped but he'd said 'skrull' not 'skull', whatever that was.

"Pentland," said the voice of the leader over the radio, "take the body and get back to Copter B. We are getting out of here. Griffiths, Johnson, Davies, get the prisoner to Copter C now, unless you want Thirteen to have him. No accidents. If there is even a slim chance that he's another Skrull infiltrator the big men will want to know."

Two strong sets of hands yanked me off the ground and manhandled me forwards, towards a mottled green helicopter. Up close, it clearly wasn't black but from the distance and in the dark, there was very little difference. The same set of hands half carried, half shoved me up a small set of steps and then down into a seat. It was hard plastic and they were none too gentle.

For the first time I got a look at my abductors; there were three opposite me, dressed in green and brown mottled camouflage with balaclavas pulled over their heads. All three held impressive looking guns, barrels pointed right at me. The enchantments woven into my clothes had saved me once but I was in no hurry to test my spellwork a second time. More importantly, my wand was still in their hands, stuck in the shoulder webbing of the leftmost soldier. It might as well be in another universe for all the good it did me.

"Everyone aboard," said a voice from the cockpit. "Take off in three."

With a thump of G-force, the helicopter took off. Waves of vibration passed from the blades, into the passenger compartment, up my chair and into me. My teeth vibrated in my skull. If I'd had fillings, they would surely have been shaken loose. Even the soldiers, who were presumably used to such things, took a few moments to steady themselves. Their attention returned to me before I had a chance to do anything however.

As the helicopter continued to climb into the sky, I found my wand and stared at it with hungry eyes. If I lunged forward, maybe I could get my teeth around it... And then what? I wasn't even sure it was possible to cast spells using just your mouth.

The middle soldier focused on me. "You're lucky you're not having an accident. If the Lt doesn't..." He let the sentence trail off but the look on his face left me in no doubt: any 'accident' I had would be a) very violent and b) not very accidental at all.

"He'll be fine in a few hours," I said and shifted in my seat. My hands were still bound behind my back and were rather uncomfortable. It also occurred to me that I'd just done some rather bad things to the Statute of Secrecy. "I could undo it if you gave me my wand— I mean stick back." I nodded to where it hung in the webbing.

From the looks they gave me, that wasn't happening.

"Enough of this," said the one on the left. He reached up and grabbed a black hood from the helicopter's equipment rack. He moved towards me, opening it as he did.

Not good. Not good at all.

"Look," I said. "There's no need for that."

He kept coming.

I threw my head back but he moved forward just as quick. The silky black hood ripped down over my face and a drawstring narrowed around my throat. Inside the hood, I couldn't see, sound was muffled and my breath was hot and humid.

It wasn't a pleasant journey.

The helicopter touched down with a thud and the rotors slowed to a whining stop. Once they had stopped entirely, I was once more manhandled to my feet. The soldiers' fingers were like iron bars biting into my arms, and they dragged me towards the door. The floor disappeared from under me but then I found my feet and half walked, half fell down the stairs.

Outside the passenger compartment the air was cold. A frosty wind hit my hands and chilled my flesh through the rips in my clothes. It made my teeth chatter and pushed the black hood flush against my face.

"This way," said the soldier to my left, the hood giving his voice a deadened quality.

"Watch your head," said the one to my right, and the final member of their number pushed me down and forwards from behind.

I ducked and shuffled forward. Crack. A long hard something smashed into my forehead. I saw stars and my brain rattled against the inside of my skull.

"I said watch your head," said one of the soldiers but I was too rattled to tell who. Whoever it was, I could hear the smirk.

Moving only half under my own power, I stumbled forward again, felt something against my knees and clambered up and in. From the gentle vibrations running through the floor, my money was on a car or van. The car/van/whatever dipped slightly as my bookends got in behind me, did so again as the rear guard entered and shook as the doors were slammed shut, a rubbery thud. Once everyone was secure, the vehicle jumped into motion.

"Take off the hood," said a voice, and I thought I recognised it as the one who'd been giving orders back at the crater.

Hands grasped around my neck, the hood lifted and blinding white light assaulted my eyes. I hissed and drew back but it was only temporary. After a few seconds of pain, the light dimmed and I could see again, first blurs, then shapes and finally people.

I looked to be in the back of a van, if one a bit longer than the classic muggle dodge sprinter, beloved of film criminals everywhere. There were no windows but padded benches lined both walls. Most of the space was filled with armed and armoured soldiers, the men from the helicopters. Dobby Max Plus — now available in a range of greens — lay on the floor. I counted the soldiers and there were ten of them. Not good odds at all.

"What's your name?" said the man opposite me. He was tall and muscular, wore the bulky armour like it was made for him and had three chevrons, those upside down arrow things, on his shoulder. I couldn't see his face because he still wore the balaclava but if I could, I doubted it would stray from the image overly much. None of that made me eager to answer his questions but it couldn't really hurt. Anyone who meant 'Harry Potter' harm would know me from the black hair, green eyes and lightning bolt scar.

"Harry Potter," I said, and if my voice was a touch petulant, I think I was due.

"You registered?" he asked.

"What?" I said. Registered to what? For what?

"Any aliases, codenames or secret identities?"

That made no more sense than the 'registered' question.

The possibly-some-sort-of-officer touched a radio on his chest. "I want a Reg check on a Harry Potter," he said. "Possibly some sort of energy projector."

"He said he could undo what he did to the Lt with this, Sarge?" said the soldier with my wand. "Using this stick thing."

'Sarge' nodded. "Possible intel," he said into the radio. "Might use a special stick of some kind. Possibly magic, possibly supertech."

'Possibly magic', what else was there? What in Merlin's name was supertech and, come to that, how come these soldiers even knew what magic was? I shifted in my seat. Whatever they'd bound my wrists with was digging in painfully.

Almost as soon as he was done, Sarge's radio buzzed and a voice came out. "Sarge," it said. "This is Pentland. The Lt just woke up. Docs say he's going to be fine. The red thing just knocked him out. Bit of pressure on the heart but nothing major."

A wave of almost tangible relief spread through the soldiers, muscles sagging and breaths let loose.

"Right, Potter," said Sarge. "You've got some explaining to do. What in fucking hell are you doing near the Skrull?"

"The green thing?" I said and looked down at it. It was no less ugly.

"You don't know what a Skrull is?" said Sarge. He clearly didn't believe me.

It was my turn to be confused. "Why should I? Listen, I don't know how, but you clearly know about magic but that thing is like nothing I've ever seen."

"Listen, you little punk," said one of the soldiers with menace in his voice. He raised his gun so it was pointing almost but not quite in my direction. "My sister died in the Skrull attack, and I'm not going to let you sit there and pretend the Earth wasn't invaded by aliens."

I shied back but inside was reeling. Alien invasion? Could the muggle military have mistaken Voldemort's second rise as an attack by extra-terrestrials? Muggles had been known to mistake wizards for little green men — as the international wizarding gardening contest come crop circles attested — but this stretched belief.

Sarge nodded. "Cut the silly buggers," he said, and if his voice was less overtly hostile it didn't endear him to me. "I don't think you realise just how much trouble you're in. This is the twenty first century. The Earth has been invaded multiple times. There were Skrull ships over London and fighting in the streets. And here you are, found with a Skrull."

The man was insane. There was no two ways about it. Alien invasions? The very idea was stupid, and not even the Wizarding World could miss that kind of thing, as insular as it could be. Then I noticed the second thing. Sarge had said twenty first century. That was still years off.

"It's nineteen ninety eight," I said.

Everyone in the cab looked at me like I was an idiot.

"Try two thousand and eight," said Sarge.

I stopped talking after that and so did they; it was clear we were at an impasse.

Near the end of the journey, they put my hood back on. I didn't even bother to fight this time; it wouldn't do any good.

Once the engine was switched off, I was bundled out of the van by two strong sets of hands, possibly the same as before, and shoved through a confusing maze of passages. Or possibly one large open room with an especially sadistic set of guards.

Finally we came to a stop and my hood was yanked off. The material clawed at my face and knocked my glasses squint but it was worth it for my first gasp of un-muggy air in what felt like hours. The burning white light which blasted my abused retina was less welcome but it was probably for the best too.

"Hands," said someone. I squinted and the blur in front of me resolved somewhat. It was a man, wearing military dress but not the flack-jacket armour of the soldiers. The room was also small, little more than walls, bed, toilet and sink.

"What?" I said.

"Show me your hands," he clarified, now annoyed. The shadows of his face deepened.

I shuffled around until my back was to him, and lifted my hands as best I was able. They were really sore now, the dull ache of trapped blood. There was a moment of pressure then I was free, and pain. Couldn't forget the pain. I hissed as blood rushed back into my abused extremities.

"Take off your clothes and put these on." I turned around; he was motioning to a pile of clothes laid out on a chair beside me. The two soldiers who dragged me here stood outside the door. The looks on their faces said only one thing: Just you try something.

With no other choice, I did as bid. Off went my jumper, shirt, trousers, shoes, socks and underwear and on went the new clothes. I tried to keep a little dignity but that was a mite on the hard side. The collarless shirt and trousers were made from a coarse fabric and were not particularly well fit. Then again, my old clothes had several large rips in them so it wasn't all bad. I'd miss the Counter-Curses woven into them, though. It hadn't been easy to produce a stable weave.

The guard next held up an overly complicated looking device, like a muggle asthma inhaler. "Blood sample," he said. "No trouble." He pressed it to my arm and pushed a button. I hissed as a sharp needle jabbed into my flesh. The back of the not-inhaler turned red and he withdrew it. Blood beaded on my skin.

His job done, the guard backed out the room and slammed the door. It clanged like the gates of hell. He and the two soldiers walked away.

I sat on the bed. I lay on the bed. I stared at the ceiling. I slept and woke and everything in between. Occasionally food came, slotted under the door on institutional trays. There were no clocks. I lost track of time.

Sometime after the ninth meal, a voice echoed into my cell.

"Anybody there?" It sounded Liverpudlian. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had views on Liverpool.

I sat up, eyes flicking open. It came from under the door.

"Um, yes?"

"Ha! Knew someone was brought in. What's your story?"

"Story?" I said.

"Yes. You're story. Why Six snatch you?"

"Six?"

"MI fucking 6. The f-ing spooks, man!"

MI6, I knew, was the Secret Intelligence Service, Britain's external intelligence agency. Was that who captured me? If so how and why?

"Who are you?" I said.

"Name's Fogg," said the voice. "As in Knight and Fogg. Heard of me?"

"No," I said. "Should I have?"

The voice sighed, a whispering wind. "Nobody's heard of Knight and Fogg. Shit, man. We were this close to making it big. I had the damn wallcrawler's neck in my hands and was moments from snapping it."

"Wallcrawler?"

"Spiderman, man! The damn wallcrawling spider."

"Who?"

There was a pregnant pause. Before that moment I had no idea how a pause could be pregnant but this one was about to give birth. With my luck, the mother would also bring suit against me in the Wizengamot for child support.

"Spider fucking man!" said Fogg and tendrils of greenish gas played under the door. "How can anyone not have heard about the spider?"

"Should I have?" I said. Quite frankly, Spiderman sounded faintly ridiculous. Like Batman, that guy from comics. You'd never catch me dressing up as a giant bat, or, as the case may be, spider.

"Never heard of Spiderman?" said Fogg. "Really? He's major league. Ran with the Avengers even."

"Avengers?" I said. Wasn't that a TV program? I seemed to remember Aunt Petunia watching something by that name. It had spies and stereotypical English accents to the point of self-parody.

There was a second pregnant pause. This one was having triplets. Before it could give birth, I had a sudden horrible idea. "What year is it?" I asked.

"Is it new year yet?"

I shook my head, realised that was stupid and said, "No."

"Two thousand and eight."

Merlin blast everything.

"So," said Fogg, slowly. "You from the past or something?" The casual way he said that did nothing to set my nerves at ease.

"Nineteen ninety eight," I said but mostly to myself. Fogg was mad. The soldiers were mad. Everyone but me was mad. Time travel existed, yes, I'd even done it myself, but Time Turners only went backwards. The only way to reach the future was the long hard trek.

"There were superheroes in the nineties," said Fogg. "Fucking hell, there were superheroes shoving their noses in back World War Two way."

"Superheroes?"

"Costumes," said Fogg. "Do-gooders. Bastards with flashy powers who try to keep a man from an honest day's work."

Given Fogg's earlier comment about breaking necks, I decided to take his explanation with a pinch of salt. Anyway, even I knew what a 'superhero' was, if only through cultural osmosis while growing up. They were people with special powers from comics. Superman, Batman, Magno the Magnetic Man and Captain Courageous. They were, well, the heroes. Of course, they were also just stories. The world had enough magic, wonder and danger without making things up. Fighting Death Eaters was hard enough. They didn't need laser eye beams or whatever. Even so...

"You were a supervillain?" I said, face slightly quizzical. Fogg was mad — that was the only explanation — but he was certainly playing to his delusion.

"So they call me. So they call me. I preferred solutions specialist."

Translation: murdering insane bastard. But there was the fog under the door...

"You have powers?" I said.

Maybe 'powers' were just magic. It was the only thing I could come up with. Fogg was a wizard who used his powers in strange ways. With the right spells, I could probably replicate a fair chunk of what I dimly remembered superheroes doing. A broom to fly, Blasting Curses for heat vision, levitation for strength and Shielding Charms for invulnerability. That was almost Superman right there.

"I can turn into gas," he said, sounding oddly proud.

"Is that how you're talking to me?" My eyes went to the bottom of my door but the green gas stayed out of sight.

"Yep. They've got a restraint collar on me but I can do that much. Send messages about the cell block. Talk to people. I'm the hub around these parts."

That could almost fit self-transfiguration. If he — I wasn't sure — transfigured his body into a living gas or something. It might not work. I wasn't sure if it was even theoretically possible. But maybe.

"And why are you here?" I said. The previous line of questioning was making my head hurt and this one was almost as important. Of course, the question I asked wasn't quite the one I wanted answered. Wrong pronoun.

"Bloody Six," said Fogg. "I told you, man. They snatched me. I wasn't doing nothing. Just a bank job. Stuck me in this hole. Fucker Alistaire Stuart wants me to work for him. Says he'll make my record go away. Give me a fresh identity. Fuck him I say. Fuck the man."

The air stirred and once more green gas played at the bottom of my door. I kept a careful eye on it and lifted my feet off the floor.

The gas retreated and Fogg said, "So what are you, then?"

I sighed. Things were already messed up. Why not make then more so? Some truth might even shake loose in the confusion. "I'm a wizard," I said.

"Wizard are you?" said Fogg. "I've worked with a few in my time. Even ran with Baron Mordo once. Not sure I believe in this magic stuff. Mostly just normal powers with added hocus pocus if you ask me."

That complicated my Fogg-As-A-Wizard theory. It also ratcheted up my confusion a few notches.

"There are wizards, here?" I said. It was best to make sure.

"Hundreds," said Fogg. "Superheroes, supervillains. People just in it for the money."

"And you're not a wizard?"

"Fucking hell no. Won't catch me in a dress."

To summarise. One, there were wizards. Two, Fogg wasn't a wizard. Three, Fogg still had powers. To shorten things even further, Fogg was insane and nothing he, or anyone else said, made any sense.

"We mean the same thing by wizard, right?" I said. "Spells. Magic. Wands".

"Don't know about wands," said Fogg. "But spells and magic, so they say. Big flashy things, the ones I run with. Blasting holes in banks, raising zombies. Freakish shit like that."

"Don't they want to stay secret?" I said. There was meant to be a Statute of Secrecy, banning any wizard from revealing his or her self to the muggle world. Fogg was suggesting the exact opposite of that.

"Some do, I suppose," said Fogg, and I could almost hear him shrug. "Even if the hocus pocus is real, not much different from any other power."

"Other kinds of power?" Fogg was painting a very strange picture.

"You get hit on the head?" said Fogg. "Course there is. Mutants, mutates, you mystic types if you're not all off your rockers, aliens, guys with technology so advanced it might as well be magic. I've run with them all."

That was a lot to take in. Fogg was likely mad — no, definitely was mad — but... But I didn't know what to think. I'd seen the mist under my door. Fogg was doing something, even if I wasn't sure what.

Before I could come up with a response, Fogg broke back in. "Guards coming. Talk later."

Only a few seconds later, I heard them too: the thud thud of feet on concrete and the jingle of keys. Without a single word, the slot at the bottom of my door opened and a tray was pushed through. It was loaded with the kinds of mass-produced food I remembered from muggle school. It didn't look appetising at all. Say what you want about Hogwarts, but the food was good.

Between the next few meals, Fogg and I talked some more. He painted a very strange picture, a world filled with battling super humans. There was magic, yes, but only as a small part of the larger whole.

"And the Skrull were the ones who invaded?" I said. It was a tangled knot, and I didn't know what to make of it.

"Yep," said Fogg. "Shapeshifting buggers. Snuck in, replaced some people and tried to take over. Then the superheroes did something and every Skrull in Britain dropped dead. Course, the rest of the world was having its own problems with them."

"I still don't get this," I said. "The heroes were on the ship?"

"No, no," said Fogg. "You've got it backwards. Listen—" He stopped and a trace of green flickered under my door. "Guards coming."

No sooner had Fogg stopped talking than the sounds of booted feet echoed down the corridor, which was strange. The last meal couldn't have been more than a few hours gone; the next wasn't due for some time.

The footsteps stopped outside my door and there was a rustle of keys. They were coming for me?

I stood and backed up against the far wall. My hand itched from the lack of my wand. With my wand I could have blasted my way free. With my wand I could have turned invisible, charmed the lock and walked out. With my wand I could've ignored all that and disapparated long ago.

The door swung open and two guards stood there, big men in uniforms.

"Potter," said the left most. "You're wanted."

My eyes flickered over them, sizing them up. They could take me; there was no doubt about that. I wouldn't stand a chance, not without magic and I didn't have that without my wand.

Nodding my head, I walked forward, through the door and into the great grey yonder.

They led me along a long line of cell doors. As I passed one, a green gaseous hand waved from inside and a long angular face appeared at the window. It mouthed something, 'Fuck the man.' Fogg?

Bookended on both sides, I couldn't go back to find out and had no choice but to go where the guards led me. That was a small room, just off the cell corridor. It was bare except for two chairs and a table between then. All were made of metal and were bolted securely to the ground. The guards motioned for me to sit. After I did, they cuffed my hands together with a length of chain and ran it through a ring in the floor. I wasn't going anywhere in a hurry.

Once I was thoroughly secured — and I have to say, I took a perverse pride in the extent of their precautions — the door opened again and a man walked in. He was just exiting middle age, with closed cropped grey hair and a heavily lined face. His clothes looked expensive but also well lived in.

Time for a shot in the dark. "Alistaire Stuart?" I said.

"You'll speak when—" said the guard to my left before being cut off by a wave of the presumed Alistaire's hand.

"I don't have time for games," he said. "Yes, I am Alistaire Stuart and you are Harry Potter, currently held in custody by MI6."

So that part of what Fogg said was right. The knowledge brought me no relief; it just made me worry about the rest.

"Isn't MI6 external security?" I said.

"If I'm right, Potter, you are the very definition of external."

I did not like the sound of that. Not one bit.

Alistaire sat on the chair opposite and folded his hands on the table. His eyes were hard blue, like chips of ice.

"You claim to be a wizard," he said. It wasn't so much a question as a statement of fact. I suppose it was unreasonable to assume MI6 wouldn't monitor their own cells. So much for Fogg's secret. "Am I correct in assuming you possess a superhuman ability of some kind and that you are not referring to a religious belief or set of practices?"

"Yes," I said. There was no point in lying but a touch of petulance entered my voice all the same. "I can cast spells and stuff when I have my wand."

"That match's with the report from our Armed Operations Arm. You'll be glad to know that Lieutenant Tolson has made a full recovery."

"It was a Stunning Spell," I said for what must be the umpteenth time. "It knocks you out, nothing more." Okay, yes, in especially large quantities Stunners could cause damage but there was no point in going into that.

Unaware of my internal pontifications, Alistaire reached into his briefcase and pulled out a newspaper. He placed it open before me. "This is today's issue of the Times. Look at the date."

The first thing I noticed was the large picture on the front page. It showed a man in a red, white and blue spandex uniform, styled to look like a Union Jack. The title dominated the top of the page, written in large black letters. It read, 'Captain Britain defeats Syphon'. With a horrible sense of the inevitable, I looked up, already knowing what I would see.

'19th December 2008'. The day was more or less right, given my imprisonment. The month was also correct. The year, though, was very, very wrong.

The story was strange too and meshed with Fogg's twisted world. 'In a heroic battle,' the first line read, 'Captain Britain defeated Syphon, and stopped Syphon's plan to steal the life force of over one hundreds school aged children.' It then went on to cover other details of the event, and gave a short and somewhat convoluted history of Syphon. Not a word made me feel better.

"That reads like something from a comic book," I said even as I tasted self-deception on my tongue. "Superheroes aren't real."

"Numerous superheroes were active in the early nineties and many more during World War Two," said Alistaire. He looked oddly pleased with himself but his eyes remained cold and focused.

"I would know if that was true," I said.

"And yet you claim to be a wizard."

"Wizards are different. We're just people. We don't go running around wearing spandex and saving people like someone from a comic book."

"So in your world," said Alistaire as he steepled his hands, "there are wizards but no superheroes, history itself is different and there is a ten year time gap."

"What do you mean world?" I said. He'd put an odd emphasis on it.

"World, dimension, Earth," said Alistaire. "Call it what you will. There are countless of them, all connected but independent. I think you came from another Earth and travelled here to this planet."

"I did no such thing. I just..." Had a perfectly normal day, went to sleep and woke up at the bottom of a hole. Something tickled at the back of my mind. Boons, maybe? I couldn't grasp it. "I didn't do anything like that."

"Mr Potter," he said. "I work for MI6. That means I work for — and as far as you are concerned, am — external security." His ice-blue eyes flashed above his hands. "If you are not an external visitor, I might have to hand you over to MI-13. The penalties for failing to register a superpower are quite stringent. The penalties open to them under Anti-Skrull legislation are even more severe. Please remember your company when we found you."

My lips pressed themselves together, a white line. "You're threatening me," I said.

Alistaire didn't even blink. "Yes, Mr Potter, I am threatening you. You have something I want and I have something you want."

'Fucker Alistaire Stuart wants me to work for him,' Fogg had said. 'Says he'll make my record go away. Give me a chance at a fresh life. Fuck him I say. Fuck the man.'

"And what's that?"

"A way home," he said.

"A way home?" I said. "I don't even believe—"

Alistaire snapped his fingers and a section of wall burst to life. A second ago it was just another panel. Now it was a TV.

"On with us today," said the Channel Four news anchor, a woman in her mid-thirties, "is world renowned scientist and superhero, Reed Richards of the Fantastic Four, live from America. It is good to have you here, Doctor Richards. Or should I say, Mister Fantastic."

"It's great to be here Barb," he said, a middle-aged man in tight blue clothes. A stylized number four dominated his chest. "And let me just say—"

Alistaire snapped his fingers again. This time it was the BBC; the presenter was a dignified old gentleman, whose face I dimly remembered from life at Privet Drive though much older. "Today's top story continues to be the rescue of over one hundred school children by Captain Britain. We now go live to our reporter, Fredric Times at the scene.

"Now Fredric—"

The TV shut off and Alistaire just looked at me, daring me to object.

And it was an impressive display. I couldn't deny that. Not unquestionable proof but it did knock me back a few mental steps. Instead of questioning it further, I asked a different question.

"And what," I said, "do you want from me." I already had a good idea what the answer would be.

Alistaire smiled, but again it failed to reach his eyes.

"I want you to work for me, Mr Potter."

"Why?" I said. "You have a world full of superheroes."

"Because you don't exist," said Alistaire. "I know you've discussed some of my world's history with Mr Fogg but it wasn't overly in-depth and the devil, as they say, is in the details."

He took a breath.

"I need you because dedicated weird happenings organisations don't work. It didn't work for STRIKE, for RCX or for Black Air and it won't work for MI-13. Even WHO was corrupted and supplanted in the end. Each of those was a dedicated weird happenings organisation, each existed outside the conventional intelligence and security services, and each became the very things they fought against. All three were corrupted and turned against this country, and all three cost us to put down. Only supported by the conventional services can a weird happenings organisation succeed. That's why I built Mordred and that's why Pete Wisdom tore it down."

For the first time there was fire in his eyes, and it was a fire I recognised. It was the mark of the true fanatic, that infinitely bright spark of obsession which burnt at the heart of some souls. It was Voldemort when he spoke of muggleborns. It was Hermione when she spoke of House-elves. It was the mark of madmen and visionaries, and I just wish I knew which.

"As you might have gathered," continued Alistaire, the fire dying back, "all mutants, mutates, magicians and other odd balls who call our country home, are required to register their names, powers and abilities with the government. These laws were passed a little over two years ago in what the media dubbed 'The Civil War'. This was not a problem for me; in fact, it made my task easier. I cultivated a group of super powered operatives, supporting and working alongside more mundane assets. We called it Mordred, to contrast with Wisdom's and Braddock's Excalibur.

"Then, only a few months past, the Skrull invaded. It was chaos. Senior members of the government, people I thought my colleagues, were revealed to be infiltrators. Wisdom used the opportunity to activate reserve powers in the Registration Act. He seized control over every mutant, mutate, alien, psychic and magician in Britain and conscripted them into his MI-13. Most he lets do what they want but some, my operatives and any I try to cultivate, he keeps close. He tried to close me down. Wisdom hates the darker side of intelligence work. He's an ideologist who will destroy this country."

"And you want me?" I said. It had been quite a speech.

"Yes, I want you and others like you. People who don't exist. People who are dead. People who Wisdom doesn't know I have.

"And in exchange you'll send me home?"

"In exchange you'll have the full might of British Intelligence trying to get you home. Until then, you work for me."

What could I possibly say to that?

It felt good to be out of the cuffs and felt even better to walk on my own.

"I'll need my wand back," I said as I trailed after Alistaire Stuart.

"You shall have it," he said.

We reached an intersection and Alistaire turned left, away from the cell block.

"What's to stop me just leaving once you give me my wand?"

"Not a thing," said Alistaire. He stopped and turned. "I could have you implanted with an explosive chip. I could have you bound by a powerful geas. I could do many things. But I won't. People work best when motivated by rewards. Threat of punishment breeds only rebellion. You could walk out the door as soon as you are outside these cells. You will have the opportunity. But to do so would be a mistake. You are alone here, Mr Potter. You are without money, friends, contacts, identification or information. You're best chance to go home lies with us. I have travelled to multiple alternate Earths and returned. Trust me when I say it's possible to travel between them and we're your best hope."

His piece said, he turned and continued walking. I followed in his wake.

We reached a set of closed doors and Alistaire swiped a key card through a reader. The doors clicked and he pushed them open. Beyond was a small sitting room, lined with soft furnishings, mostly low backed plush chairs covered in a coarse purple fabric. Alistaire motioned to a chair and said, "I'll be turning you over to Doctor Lorance Hartwell for the mystical portion of your evaluation."

"Evaluation?" I said, nasty images of my OWLs flashing before my eyes.

"Yes. I'm sure I can find a use for you, whatever the results, but for field operative status, I need a full workup of your powers, abilities, physical fitness and psychological condition."

I gulped slightly but nodded.

"Good. I'll send for you once I've examined the results."

The doors swung open and a man stepped in.

Alistaire gave a half-sardonic smile. "Mr Potter, this is Doctor Lorance Hartwell, Mordred's head mystic. Hartwell, this is Mr Potter."

Lorance was a smiling man in his early forties, around my height, which was to say the bottom end of normal. He had mouse brown hair, which lay limp on his head, and a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Hanging from his somewhat gangly frame was a bottle-green suit, and he clutched a leather-bound tome under one arm. The title seemed to be in Latin, which was Greek to me.

"Ah, yes, um," said Lorance. "A moment, please." Said moment was spent juggling his book and, once settled, he held out his hand. "A pleasure," he said.

I took it and shook.

"Very well, Mr Potter," said Alistaire. "I will leave you in Doctor Hartwell's capable hands." He nodded to us both and left.

"I'm Harry Potter," I said and smiled.

Lorance returned the expression, a look of faint relief covering the rest of his face. He looked like a kicked puppy. "Lorance Hartwell, Doctor Lorance Hartwell in fact, though not for much longer I fear. The University Council has been trying to strip me of it for years."

What could you possibly say to that? "Stuart said you were the top mystic here?"

"Oh, ah, yes. I suppose I am. I wrote my doctoral thesis on 'Demonology and the Occult' at Trinity College. There are some quite fascinating books in the college libraries. I remember one particular volume 'Philosophi Lapis et Camera Secretorum'... It was a raining that day, you see, and I was exploring the book crypts..."

He trailed off.

"You were to oversee the mystical part of my evaluation?" I said.

"That was right, yes. Now, Alistaire said you were from another dimension?"

"He seems to think so, yes."

"Splendid," he said. "Since I'm sure he has his reasons, we'll start there."

"Start there?"

"Yes. There are a number of spells I could try. They won't send you home but we might be able to find out where your home is. I would like to begin with a Ritual to confirm you are truly from another Earth."

My heart beat faster at the news. "Let's go."

Lorance led me to a small, quiet area, just off the plush sitting room. We both stepped inside and I looked around.

Dribbling candles illuminated the room. They danced in the wind from the door and cast moving shadows and false light across the bare stone walls. The floor was likewise stone but perfectly smooth. At the centre was a complex collection of circles, runic engravings, mystical writings and occult fetishes. In short, it was all the things a proper Hogwarts educated boy like me knew didn't matter. The circles, maybe, since a physical guide had its uses in enchanting, but not the rest. If this was what passed for a 'head mystic' in this world, they needed me a lot more than they thought.

"This is the ritual?" I said and raised an eyebrow.

"Ah yes," said Lorance. "The Ritual. It's really quite interesting, a combination of summoning minor spirits and the invocation of an overarching being's intelligence. If you would please stand in the circle, we can begin."

In perfect honesty, I was more than a little dubious at the prospect but if they planned to hurt me, they'd had ample and better opportunities. That didn't rule out damage from incompetence, of course, but I walked forward all the same.

"Please be careful not to smudge the chalk as you enter," said Lorance, and I was as careful as a lamb.

"Now what?" I asked.

"If you could just stay there and not move too much," said Lorance, his face obscured by the book he was reading.

After a few seconds, he set it down, loosened his cuffs and threw out his chest. Then, like every cliché magic pose from the muggle world ever, he raised his arms and intoned, yes intoned, "Fire lights of Avalon, I call thee. Guides of the astral plane come to me."

There was power in his voice. I couldn't express it better than that. It was like being near Dumbledore or Voldemort when they truly cut loose, a deep base resonance which entered via the bones and spoke to the soul. You couldn't feel magic, of course. That was silly. But there was something there. Lorance's hair waved as if in some astral wind and a symbol glowed upon his forehead, a multi pointed shape surrounding a grasping maw.

From the ground came bursts of light, like reverse raindrops. They fell upwards into the air, then hung steady, like enchanted beads caught in a Levitation Charm. There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, and they swarmed in a never ending dance.

"Saturnyne," continued Lorance, "guide these lights. Show the truth of our visitor, as is my right!" His voice peaked at the last and crashed in from all directions. Blue light boiled up out of his eyes and I almost took a step back.

Around the room, the lights began to circle and change. Their chaotic dance grew orderly, a cosmic pattern, and some shifted colour, most to red but a fair fraction to blue. After a few seconds, the dancing stopped entirely and the remaining white lights froze where they were.

I was afraid to move or speak lest I upset something but Lorance let out a deep sigh. The magic flowed from him. The glow left his eyes, the wind stilled and the mark on his forehead vanished. With the reverence of the moment broken, I felt free to ask my question. "What now?"

"Now, Mr Potter, we count the white lights. Ignore blue and red. If there are six hundred and sixteen, you are from this world. Any other number and you're not."

We set to work and it was a surprisingly hard task. Counting free floating lights in three dimensions... Let's just say 'have I counted that one already' was asked a lot. In the end, I came to four hundred and sixteen while Lorance got four hundred and twenty two. We split the difference and called it four hundred and nineteen. As Lorance explained, the exact number didn't matter, as long as it wasn't six-one-six. The spell was only calibrated on one point whatever that meant.

"So this is not my world?" I said.

Lorance shook his head. "To the best of my ability to determine, no."

Even with everything I'd been told and shown — from newspapers, to news programs, to men with gas for arms and magic which worked in completely alien ways — I still had a hard time accepting that. Even if things had changed, why did dimensional travel make more sense than, say, Voldemort changing history, me being trapped in an illusionary fantasy or any number of other things?

"And Alternate Worlds are real?" I said.

"Oh yes," said Lorance. "Quite real. Demons, for instance, exist in sub universes attached to our own; full alternate Earths exist a bit further afield, metaphorically speaking; and there are any number of specialised energy planes, like the Darkforce Dimension which this facility was built to study."

"Darkforce?" I said. It was becoming something of a pattern. When Lorance started talking, I got lost.

"A negative energy and darkness realm. Many superheroes and supervillains draw power from it."

As if that made much more sense.

We spent the next few hours running through a half-dozen others spells, apparently designed to test for specific worlds. None of them turned up positive.

Finally Lorance had to admit defeat. "I do apologise that I could not be more help, Mr Potter," he said and ran a hand up through his hair. "I will of course research the matter further. In the meantime, if you are ready to move on with the others parts of your testing?"

I nodded. "I'll need my wand."

"Ah, yes. There was something about that... I have it here... Somewhere..." He shuffled around in the pockets of his bottle-green suit and there it was. My wand. My eyes locked to it, like needles to a load stone. It was eleven inches of holly wood with a phoenix feather core, slightly scarred by years of use, but perfect all the same. I wanted it. I needed it. Lorance threw it too me, and I caught it on instinct. Pins and needles shot up and down my arm. It was mine.

"Lorance," I said, my heart beating faster.

"Yes, Mr Potter?"

"I'm sorry about this; I might come back. I just need to know."

"What?" He turned, eyes open in confusion.

I didn't give him a chance to say anything more. I just span on my heel, wand held wide, and apparated away.

I appeared in a clap of sound Merlin-only-knew how many miles away. The air was cold and a winter sun hung over head. A shiver ran through me; my prison issue clothes weren't thick.

Before when I tried to apparate, I'd aimed for Hogwarts' gates. If this was truly another dimension, it wasn't surprising that had failed. My destination was some place which didn't exist. This time I aimed for a mundane location I knew well. This time I aimed for Number 4 Privet Drive.

The house was just as I remembered: a new build in the suburban style, complete with perfect garden and car in the driveway. Only... It wasn't the right car. I stole forward, towards the front door. There was a nameplate there, just as in the real world, but the name was wrong. Gone was 'Dursley' and in its place 'Wilkerson'.

I tapped the lock and muttered a spell. "Alohomora." The door clicked open and I crept inside.

It was eerie how similar this Number 4 was to mine, same carpet, same wall paper, same style and middle class aspirations. Of course Little Whinging attracted a certain kind of person, the window twitchers and false fronters. Probably also a hot bed of wife swapping but I didn't want to think about that.

On the wall was a set of family pictures, a father, a mother and a son. The father was red faced and overweight. The mother was tall and peroxide blond, what we called a potion blond in the wizarding world. And the son? He was pudgy and smiling. Despite that, they were not the Dursleys.

The potent blood protections might have gone with my majority but Number 4 was still well defended, and my relatives would not have willingly left. They had still lived here when I last checked, a few weeks before.

I shut the front door without leaving, flipped the lock and disapparated.

Apparition was seldom pleasant but I barely noticed this time. I popped back into existence, in a disused London back alley. Discarded newspapers blew passed and I couldn't help but notice some bore the same story Alistaire Stuart had shown me, Captain Britain saves the kiddies. Tits on page three. Grime covered the bricks and the place smelt terrible. Just as with apparition, those things happened to a different Harry Potter.

Ahead, the alley opened up into a slightly wider street but it was still minor. A payphone sat there, alone and deserted. I stepped inside. The speaker was broken but that shouldn't matter.

With a shaking finger, I typed a sequence of numbers. 6-2-4-4-2, MAGIC. Nothing happened. The floor did not open up. I was not swept away to the Ministry of Magic. Something twisted inside me. The phone booth shook as I apparated away.

In quick succession, I went to all the places I knew. First to 12 Grimmauld Place. It was occupied by a strange family. Next to Ottery St. Catchpole; the Burrow didn't exist. Finally I went to Shell Cottage. I'd saved it for last. Shell Cottage was where I lived, with Ron, Hermione, and the rest of my faction in the Order of the Phoenix. It was an abandoned ruin, walls crumbled, stones weather beaten and overgrown with weeds.

Falling roofing tiles crunched under my feet as I walked towards it, cold wind freezing my face. It was gone, all gone. My world. My friends. My fight. The stone walls lay heaped in the earth, moss-covered and broken. There was no sign of battle, no sign of struggle or hurried flight. There was no message left under a stone. This was caused solely by the ravages of time, pure and simple, and the damage was old, almost certainly more than ten years. My world was stolen from me.

I screamed and jabbed my wand forward, twisting my wrist. "Expulso!" Fiery force erupted from my wand and tore down a wall. It wasn't enough. "Deprimo!" I shouted and slashed my wand in a flicking cross. A stone detonated, sending red hot fragments in all directions. Not nearly enough. "Confringo!" I cried with all my heart and soul. I made a circle with my wand tip and stabbed right through the centre, sending the Blasting Curse bursting towards where the hearth had once stood. The remains of the chimney stack exploded into countless pieces.

Thud. I collapsed to my knees, breathing deeply, emotions raw. It was gone. All gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Someone had stolen my world. I didn't know who, I didn't know why, but I would find out.

With a crack I apparated again, this time to where Hogsmeade should have stood. I was very careful to aim for the land and not any of the buildings. That was good because there were no buildings in sight, just fields, open, earthy and waiting for spring. That didn't matter. I started across the fields, towards where Hogwarts should — would — stand.

It was hard going. The field was furrowed, full of fouls and foot traps. Halfway there, I fell and landed in the mud. Frozen earth bit into my arms and knees but I ignored it and pushed myself right back up. Hogwarts' lake came into view, a silver crescent, cold in the Scottish winter. I could almost taste it. The rest of the lake came into view and then I reached the shore. There was no Hogwarts. There was no castle. There was no Wizarding World.

There was no anger this time, just hollowness. It started in my throat but spread, taking in my chest, then torso, then everything I had. I was hollow. The hollowness was me. There was no Wizarding World here. Alistaire and Lorance were right. This wasn't my world. With one final crack, I returned to my once and future prison.