Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.
This is my first foray into the HP-verse. It will be an AU time-travel story. Here, Harry took after his mother and father academically and put more effort into his education and practice than his OG canon self. This story will avoid any bashing. IMPORTANT: This is not going to be a particularly fast-paced fic.
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Nextdooreditor and Ashestodust. Cheers to nicknm, who tossed this idea to me, and after quite a lot of reworking on my part, here we are.
2nd of May, 1998
Harry lay face down on the carpet, his mind racing madly. He thought he would see the secret to victory in that pensive. And he did, just not in the way he'd expected.
The dreams of creating his own cosy little family and his plan to travel the world and see its wonders were dust in the wind. He would never enjoy the taste of treacle tart or feel the wind blowing on his face as he rode a broom ever again.
Because Harry Potter was never supposed to survive.
What did he work and fight so hard for? What of his years of relentless training and studying had been in hopes of becoming a powerful wizard and avenging his parents? And now, as one of the final two anchors tethering Voldemort to the mortal plane, Harry had to die. His heart was thundering like a drum, and even the air tasted bitter on his tongue.
He had never contemplated death much. His will to live was always way greater than his fear of death. Yet now, faced with the inevitability of death, Harry could feel all his joys and sorrows slipping away like water from a sieve. He tried to lift himself from the floor, but his shaking, tired limbs buckled. It felt as though the weight of the world was crushing him to the floor, and Harry remained on the floor, feeling defeated without even a fight.
The headmaster's betrayal stung the hardest. Was his purpose always to just perish before he even got to live? It was never about him or the prophecy, but just ending Tom Riddle, he realised. Were all those words of wisdom and advice just given to prepare Harry for that final leap better? Was the grandfatherly demeanour just a masterful facade crafted for the sole intention of deceiving him?
It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
The words of the headmaster rang in his head. Burning fury welled up in his gut.
How dare he?!
How dare Dumbledore have the nerve to tell him straight-faced and standing tall, staring him down without a care in the world, when his mind swam with the knowledge that Harry was going to die?!
But the headmaster never truly hurt anyone. And would Harry even be here if it wasn't for his meddling mentor? His rage subsided. No, Dumbledore was not bad, nor was he evil.
He felt just as foolish as he was angry. Was it a betrayal to spare a child from the knowledge that he had to die? Would he do otherwise if he was in Dumbledore's shoes?
A sigh rolled from his dry throat, and Harry deflated like a balloon. The headmaster gave him the task of hunting down the Horcruxes, and, at the finish line, he was supposed to die to complete it. Why waste other people's lives when Harry's was already forfeit? Dumbledore had observed him over the years and knew he would not back down, even if it meant death. And the damned headmaster was right. Harry would not turn away when he had gotten so far.
But, he had failed. Not only would he have to die, but by the end of it, Voldemort would remain immortal. The snake was still alive. For good or for bad, Dumbledore had encouraged him to tell Ron and Hermione about the Horcruxes, and now he knew why.
His friends could finish the task should Harry fall before he managed to complete his quest.
He half-heartedly attempted to lift himself from the carpet. But, his trembling limbs betrayed him once again. They felt as though they were made of lead. Harry was tired. It was a weariness that ran deep into his bones, mind, and soul. Especially after a year on the run, surrounded by cold and hunger, worry and fear with no hope in sight. Just this day alone had already been full of fighting and death, and the final grain of hope Harry had so desperately clung to had died the moment he had dived into the pensive.
A thought wormed itself into his head. If only he could stay here and fade out of existence.
But the thought of giving up alone infuriated Harry. Harry angrily gritted his teeth; he would not just give up. No more running. He was not a coward.
Yes, Harry would die, but he would face death the way he lived – bravely, with a wand in hand. Even if he had to face death today, he would not go quietly into the night.
His friends, his teachers, even his rivals - they would know. Harry Potter might fall today, whether through the Killing Curse or by Fiendyre, Cutting Curse or explosion, but they would know his name.
He slapped himself hard, and the slivers of pain gave him just the jolt he needed. With tremendous effort, Harry stood up despite his shaky legs. He took deep, slow breaths, and as determination filled him once again, so did the strength in his limbs return.
A glance at the battered golden watch he had received from Mrs Weasley for his seventeenth birthday told Harry half of his allotted hour had run out. Harry wondered how Mrs Weasley would feel after he died but quickly stopped himself. If he thought about the people he cared about, it would make his decision all the more difficult.
The descent down the floors was easy, with his invisibility cloak wrapped around his body. The sight of students carrying the corpses of people he knew made his insides twist with anger and guilt. Thinking about Ron and Hermione made him feel even heavier. How could he even tell them that he had to die? Were they even alive anymore? Harry banished the morbid thought quickly. Ron and Hermione always survived, no matter what. Yet they would not allow Harry to walk straight into his death.
But if Voldemort won here, all the resistance against him would be gone. His death had to come now, and there was no use delaying it; Harry could only pray someone would succeed in slaying Nagini. Otherwise, the immortal Dark Lord would eventually breach Hogwarts and slaughter its defenders. Riddle never forgave those who opposed him. Harry knew that if he tried to say goodbye to his friends, he would lose what little determination he had mustered. So, he trudged on, trying not to look at the grim yet familiar faces surrounding him.
As he passed Hagrid's hut, he couldn't help but remember all those visits to the jolly half-giant. Yet the windows were dark - the jolly half-giant was not here.
The ghastly chill of the dementors covered Harry like a carpet as soon as he stepped into the Forbidden Forest. His limbs started to tremble again, and he knew he could not summon happy enough memories or feelings to create a corporeal Patronus. It seemed that the foul wraiths had not yet noticed him, though. It was weird, especially since they had always been drawn to him. But, he would not look a gift horse in the mouth, especially not now. As he was trudging onward, Harry remembered the snitch Dumbledore had willed to him and the motto 'I open at close'.
It was his first snitch, the one he caught with his mouth.
Harry halted midstep then and gazed at the golden ball.
Could it be?
With some trepidation, he brought the snitch to his mouth. The moment his lips touched the gold, it broke open, revealing the destroyed ring Horcrux encrusted with the chilly dark stone. The Resurrection Stone.
The tale of the Cadmus Peverell was fresh in his mind - the man had taken his own life after speaking to the ghost of his deceased lover.
Harry snorted bitterly; it felt like a nudge from Dumbledore from beyond the grave. A reminder that he had to die. His gaze settled onto the gem-like stone, and a thousand questions ran through his mind - he could see his parents or even Sirius again.
And yet, it did not matter. Harry would meet all of them soon enough. Harry dropped it to the ground and soldiered on.
"Someone's there," a rough whisper was heard nearby. "He's got an invisibility cloak. Could it be?"
Harry stilled as two figures emerged from behind a nearby tree. As their wands lit up, he recognised Dolohov and Yaxley, and his grip on Malfoy's wand tightened. If he would die anyway, he might as well help those who still lived on after his death.
"Definitely heard something," said Yaxley. "Animal, I reckon?"
The duo were less than two metres from Harry and were facing away from him. Filled with decisiveness, he brandished his wand.
Pumping his magic through Draco's wand, he extended it from the invisibility cloak. Harry mustered his fury and aimed at Dolohov first, as he was the more dangerous opponent.
'Ignis Sectum'
He jabbed twice, casting two angry, searing red crescents from the tip of his wand. Dolohov tried ducking and turning, but the spell hit him just beneath the eyes. Harry felt bile rising in his throat as the Death Eater crumbled on the ground, with his brain, skull, and blood splattering on the nearby leaves and tree roots. For a short moment, Harry watched with morbid fascination as the freezing evening air was quickly filled with rising smoke from the remains on the ground. That moment of hesitation almost cost him, though, as Yaxley had managed to dodge the second spell and raise his wand.
Harry swished his wand, and the warning sparks were snuffed out before they could be launched into the sky. With a flick, he transfigured the nearby roots to hold Yaxley's legs, who, in return, sent a sickly yellow spell his way. Harry sidestepped it and angrily retaliated with another cutter.
With his legs bound, Harry's opponent panicked and barely managed to put up a Protego in time. The crimson crescent hissed through the air and tore through the shield as if it were paper, and Yaxley's head rolled down near Dolohov's mangled corpse.
Harry was heaving. His heart beat like a drum, and he felt his limbs go heavy as the adrenaline wore off. He almost made a fatal mistake. If one of them had shouted, or if the sparks had been shot in the air successfully, his location would have been exposed. He slowly looked around as he tried to regain his bearing.
The aftermath made his stomach churn. He tried holding it in but couldn't. Harry ended up kneeling and emptying his stomach right next to the corpses. Channelling his rage into the spells always made him feel emptiness afterwards, and the feeling of hollowness exacerbated his nausea. Could he truly kill more people in such a way?
He vividly recalled the corpses of his fellow students being carried in the Great Hall. It was not a sight he could ever forget, as it was seared deep into his mind. It took him a few moments to get up again and steel himself once more. Every Death Eater he killed now was one Death Eater less for his friends to face. He couldn't help but admire his spell's brutal power. A spell he had spent a few months creating while on the run. Admittedly, more magic was channelled than necessary, but not only had his cutting curse cleaved through bone and flesh effortlessly, but it had cleanly sliced through a third of the thick tree trunk behind.
His cloak had fallen off in the scuffle, so Harry gingerly covered himself again and headed in the direction the Death Eaters had come from. A few minutes later, he finally saw a light. Harry sneaked into a clearing with a bonfire in the middle; Voldemort and his followers had gathered around the roaring flames.
Most wore their masks, while some had discarded them. Two giants could be seen on the outskirts of the group. Nagini was coiled near the Dark Lord's feet. But Harry doubted he could take her out without going through Voldemort first. He might as well try, though; it was not as if he had anything to lose.
Everyone was deathly silent in the clearing, and only the fire crackling could be heard. Faces were filled with apprehension, anger, and even anticipation.
"Dolohov and Yaxley should have returned by now," Bellatrix's voice rasped in Harry's ears and made his insides twist with fury. Even two years after his godfather's death, he could only feel uncontrollable anger when seeing her. All his plans had been forgotten.
His wand slipped outside the cloak, and he channelled all his rage into a silent Ignis Sectum. Voldemort instantly raised the Elder wand, and Bellatrix was simply pushed out of the way of the spell that would have cleaved her in two. Harry inwardly fumed at this missed chance. He started moving around erratically, holding the cloak in one hand. With the other, he was flinging cutting and piercing curses as fast as he could into Voldemort's followers. Some of his spells hit their marks as screams of pain could be heard. He tried hitting Nagini, but the snake slithered away too fast, and he could not aim properly.
"He's here under that invisibility cloak of his!" a furious voice yelled while people were ducking around, casting blindly in retaliation and panic. Chaos engulfed the clearing, and spellfire was flying all over the place. As he kept moving, a few spells came close to Harry, but most of them harmlessly sailed past him or even hit some of their casters' comrades.
"Accio cloak." Voldemort's cold voice sent shivers down his spine. Harry gripped his cloak with both hands, but no pull ever came.
The dark lord frowned and twisted the Death Stick, causing a tidal wave of water to erupt from its gnarly tip in every direction. While Harry was invisible, the droplets of water now covering his cloak were not.
With another flick of Voldemort's wrist, a smouldering sickly red flame in the form of a basilisk formed quickly and lunged directly towards Harry's location. He tried to run from it, but his limbs felt like lead, and the fire was fast approaching. He gritted his teeth and willed his heavy hand to raise once more.
"Protego Maxima!"
Harry poured everything into the shield. For a quick moment, he regretted not putting in the time to create his defensive spell, not that it would have done much against fiendfyre. The translucent shield held for little more than two heartbeats before it broke.
The last thing he saw was the fiery maw rapidly closing in on him, and then searing darkness took him.
"Get up, boy! Breakfast is ready!" Harry groaned at the shrill voice, which he was not supposed to hear again.
Did he somehow end up in hell? Was he going to be tormented by his relatives even in the afterlife?
He groggily reached for his glasses. There was a taste of ash in his mouth, and moving his limbs felt incredibly awkward and tiresome. After listlessly rubbing his face, Harry placed his glasses on and opened his eyes, only to be met with one giant botched blur.
"Bloody hell," he muttered and took his glasses off. Just as he was about to clean them with the hem of his shirt, he realised everything was crystal clear. Harry blinked a few times. Confused, he pinched his hand and then promptly froze.
In disbelief, he looked down at his thin and small arm. His mind felt muddled. As if in a dream, he automatically put on some of the oversized clothes he found in the small drawer in the corner, and his feet walked him to the bathroom.
A small, scrawny boy with unruly hair and piercing green eyes blinked from the mirror above the sink. Dread began to twist his insides, and he felt bile rising. Did he have to go through all of it over again just to die in the end? Was this some sort of cruel punishment for failing to defeat the Dark lord?
Just as despair overtook him, he noticed something was not quite right with his reflection. Where was his scar? He leaned closer and carefully inspected his face but found it completely clear of blemishes. After squinting his eyes for half a minute, he barely saw it. The lightning bolt was still there. But, it was so faded, small, and thin that even with his sharper vision, he would have missed it had he not looked for it carefully.
Harry slowly ran a finger over where the shard of Voldemort's soul had resided and tormented him for the last few years. It did not feel any different from the rest of his face. There was no pain, itching, irritation, or even the slightest sense of discomfort.
Happiness filled him for a brief moment.
Terrible things happen to people who meddle with time.
At the oddly familiar voice, his joy was quickly replaced by terror. Harry had thought this was a second chance for him, a do-over, where he was not a Horcrux and got to live, really live. But when have good things ever happened to him?
Was this even time travel? He was not in his original body, and things were different. For one, he no longer needed glasses.
Harry gritted his teeth. No, things could not be worse than the last time. The only thing left to determine was how far back he was thrown in time.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he needed food. After splashing his face with cold water, he quickly headed downstairs towards the kitchen.
Sitting at the head of the table, Vernon was already hidden behind the morning newspaper. Next to him, Petunia was sipping a cup of tea, lost in thought. Both looked younger and stiffer than he remembered. Harry quickly sat down on the nearest empty chair and discreetly looked at the date on the newspaper from the corner of his eye.
Twenty-fourth of July, 1991.
His cousin was loudly munching on the last pieces of bacon, lost in his own world. Three toasts were left on a big plate in the middle of the table, and a still very young and very fat Dudley quickly grabbed the bigger two, leaving the smallest one for Harry.
Beggars couldn't be choosers, so Harry quickly snatched the last and devoured it before his cousin decided to stuff himself some more. He had forgotten how young Dudley was so fat he looked like a big, human-sized ball. If either his aunt or uncle noticed the lack of glasses on his face, they did not say a word. And Dudley was not exactly the brightest tool in the shed.
Yet neither of the Dursleys even pretended Harry existed, which suited him just fine. Soon after breakfast, Dudley played with his new Smeltings stick. The click of the mail slot and the soft thud of the mail hitting the floor were heard.
Today was that day, Harry realised.
"Get the mail, Dudley," Vernon grunted without averting eyes from his precious paper.
His cousin's round head looked around warily.
"I'll get it," Harry volunteered hastily. He quickly stood and headed towards the door without waiting for a response. He had no desire to trade barbs with his relatives. Not when he was weak, small and without a wand. Three things lay on the doormat. A postcard from Marge, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter adorned by a familiar crest. Harry's heartbeat sped up, and remembering what had happened the last time he was supposed to receive that particular letter, he quickly folded it in two and shoved it inside his oversized pocket.
He handed the rest to Vernon and headed towards his room.
"Don't forget that you have to weed the garden today, boy!" his aunt's high-pitched voice followed him as he climbed the stairs.
Just as Harry entered the room, he stilled. Before the Hogwarts letter arrived, the Dursleys had been content to let him sleep in the cupboard under the stairs, not in the spare room. Not that he would ever complain about not sleeping in the cupboard. Was this a result of accidentally messing up with time? If his accommodation in the Dursleys' house was different, what else had changed?
Shelving the matter for later, Harry carefully pulled out the letter from his pocket. Just as he was about to open the letter, he glanced at the address and froze.
Mr. H. Potter
The Smallest Bedroom
6 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey