Notes: This is my take on the cliché time travel idea, but obviously I'm trying to make it my own. This is also my first story, so I'm hoping to receive some reviews with good criticism. I'm betaing for myself, so I apologise for all the mistakes I've made. I would be glad if, on the occasion of it happening, someone would point the mistakes out.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, though some ideas, the non-cliché ones if you manage to find any, do belong to me.
Warnings: I'm not quite sure where this will go, but… slash, language, possible het, mild violence… if something unusual happens, I'll state it in the beginning of the chapter.
This chapter was uploaded on: 12 May 2009
This chapter was edited on: 2 April 2010
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Chapter One: Headaches
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Bronze skin under his fingertips. He felt amazement. Maybe joy, although he guarded it well.
He turned on his back and blinked slowly, savouring the moment. He might have scoffed at himself under other circumstances, but as he was here, feeling what he was, seeing what he was, he couldn't feel the usual need to belittle himself or any other person at that. He might not go as far as to say that now everything was perfect, life was good and he saw things in a different, more beautiful light, but perhaps something in that direction wouldn't be too far off. He was actually quite content at the moment, which came as a surprise to him, even while he was sure he must have unconsciously recognised the feeling a long time ago. But while he knew he was... happy, for the lack of better word... he also knew himself.
He shifted and felt a hand pet his hair before the fingers tiptoed carefully to flick at his nose and settle above his heart. He smiled briefly, but he was glad his heart couldn't give away his depressing thoughts to the hand resting above it. He hadn't been born to a happy life and in general life wasn't fair, much less so to those like him, and he had been laughed at too many times for it not to count. So, he closed his eyes again and tried to empty his mind of everything else but what was real here and now. He couldn't seem to shake off the queasy feeling of dread that hung around him like a cloak because he knew it had been there for too long and for the thousandth time he couldn't do anything but wish he had been born as someone else.
His thought swirled around in a momentary panic. It wouldn't do to seem too excited. Might seem ridiculous. He didn't want to be ridiculed, laughed at, not by him. Other people he could stand, but not him.
His friend… his lover?
He needed to focus on something, so he grabbed the idle hand and wove their fingers together. He felt strong as he looked at their intertwined hands, his own slightly bigger one almost glowing in its paleness against its tanned companion. He felt strong in the presence of this person. Easily shattered strength, he knew, but strength nonetheless. He let his gaze wander away from their clasping hands. Those muscles, that square jaw. Those fierce eyes. He felt them lighting up the part of him that still believed in all those clichés like goodness and beauty and... true love... he felt himself hesitate, so he buried the last thought at the back of his mind. There was danger in those eyes as well. He didn't really know this person. He knew that, he did. But he felt that he didn't care enough.
Not a girl. He felt that he didn't care about that either. No soft curves and giggles. Never interested in that. But… no red hair, no everything that was… her. The same eyes, though, but still different. Harder than hers. Darker. Once he had thought that maybe…
…but he had been stupid. He felt his mouth turn downwards into a scowl and stopped it. He didn't want to think about that. Not now. Not ever. In a sudden spasm he felt like punching something and for a moment was sure he was going to do it as well. But before he could decide if he would, there was a hand landing on his arm. Long, thin, calloused fingers on his arm. Strong grip. Looking at that face, avoiding those eyes, he lunged forward in a surprising act of boldness. Concentrating on that mouth. Concentrating… on the… kiss… and he would... just savour the moment... as long as he was... able.
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Harry's head felt horrible. It was as if Snape had been experimenting with some foul potion of his and chosen Harry as his test subject. The potion would have been something that slowly travelled to one's brain and started melting it. The shrinking, nauseating feeling was uncomfortable and the harsh pounding inside his head didn't make it any better.
Quite against what someone might have guessed, the blame for his suffering didn't fall on the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. No, the scar had stopped aching the moment Voldemort had been vanquished about four months ago, luckily. Neither was his pain caused by too many pints of certain liquids not allowed down the throats of underage wizards, witches or muggles. No, his headache was solely stress based.
After Voldemort's demise there had been no relief for Harry. One would think that after defeating the darkest wizard of the last half a century for good, his life would have calmed down. But being hunted down by witches and wizards wanting to congratulate him and scoop-hungry reporters almost as bad as the Death Eaters wasn't Harry's idea of relaxing. The only safe haven for him was Grimmauld Place, but even with Kreacher as his company, he was bound to get lonely. And that was sarcasm.
He had already had more than enough this week. Just a few hours ago, while briefly visiting Diagon Alley, he had found himself almost drowned by excited witches and wizards, all of them wanting to murder him with their hugs and well-wishes. Harry was sure someone had even had the audacity to tug a few strands of his hair out of his head. He had had to force his way out of the crowd and apparate back to the vicinity of the former House of Black.
Someone could have though that things would have calmed down after four months.
Currently he was lying on his bed in his room. He could hear Kreacher clanking downstairs, far too loudly in his opinion. Even his neck and back hurt, but there wasn't much he could do. While he and Kreacher had quite a good relationship, asking the house-elf for a back rub wasn't something he was about to do. Neither had he any potions that would have allowed him to relax.
Unfortunately he couldn't just floo to Hogsmeade, walk to the Castle and pay a visit to Madam Pomfrey. The mediwitch had said, and not in a playful way by any means, that she had seen him far too many times during his schooldays and thus didn't want to see his face for at least a year. It had been only a little over three months and Harry didn't feel it to be safe enough yet. Hermione was out of the country, so Harry couldn't ask her either.
His last resort would have been Snape, but he couldn't go to see him either as the man had been at St. Mungo's for the past four months. The poison of Voldemort's pet snake had done a lot of damage to Snape's mind and body, but he hadn't died.
Unfortunately, the man was now as sane as Neville Longbottom's parents and Lockhart combined. Harry had visited him once and it hadn't been the most pleasant experience of his life. While Harry had never liked Snape enough to know him that well, he had still acknowledged that the man was intelligent. Before, looking Snape in the eyes had revealed either loathing for Harry's father or dry mirth at Harry's demise, occasionally something else as well, but now he couldn't make out even the slightest bit of sanity. The dark twinkle in Snape's eyes, very different from Dumbledore's twinkle, but a twinkle nonetheless, had simply vanished, and now those black eyes had dimmed to an even darker shade than before.
It had been very uncomfortable, sitting in the dark room beside the bed, being stared at by his former Potion's Professor. The Nurses had said that Snape could still talk, but he hadn't said anything to Harry. After fifteen minutes of stiff silence, a Nurse had come to give Snape his lunch and Harry had made his hasty retreat.
Harry sighed.
There had been so many deaths he didn't understand how all his friends seemed to have bounced back to relatively normal life. Ron and Hermione were currently travelling The Continent, although Harry could understand it to be a sort of an escape from the reality of what had happened, and everybody else was either busy with their school or work.
Harry still didn't know what he would like to do for the rest of his life. Becoming an Auror had been a good idea at the time, for the lack of any better ones, but after all he had been through, Harry didn't feel it would be the best choice for him. He wanted to do something important, but he wanted to be just Harry, not The Boy Who Lived or The Chosen One, while doing it. How that would be possible was still a mystery to him. Unlike Hermione, he wasn't really prone to do tedious research unless it had something to do with Defence Against the Dark Arts and that again led to becoming an Auror. He just couldn't figure it out. He had studied well enough in other subjects to be able to choose another career, but his heart constantly tugged towards that one subject. He didn't know if there were any other fields where he could use his skills in battling as well as being an Auror would let him.
Harry rubbed his temple with his knuckles in slow circles. The clanking downstairs had stopped and Harry was sure that he would be expected for dinner sometime soon. He groggily rose from his bed, swayed a bit and sat back down. Maybe he would have to ask Kreacher for a back rub after all.
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Harry's mood wasn't any better come evening. He was contemplating a second visit to Diagon Alley, specifically to the Apothecary. Kreacher had made him some tea with herbs to cure his headache. Feverfew, peppermint and a sprinkle of passionflower and some curious purple leaves which had seemed to be moving jerkily towards the edge of the counter (maybe to escape, Harry hadn't been sure) before the house elf had thrown them into the kettle. It hadn't helped at all. The bitter aftertaste had made him gag and cough and doubled the pounding in his head. Kreacher had looked so miserable that Harry had had to placate it by smiling widely trough his pain and walking out of the kitchen humming a cheerful and quick version of the Hogwarts school song, the first thing that had popped in his mind.
He had also tried meditating, but he hadn't been able to empty his mind. Having time to think was a horror Harry didn't want to face. Having time to think meant having time to fall deep into grief and regret. And there was a lot of grief and regret in him. Meditating offered him no peace.
He rose from the plush chair in front of the fireplace, flames merrily dancing in front of him. He didn't feel like Apparating.
"I'm going to Diagon Alley!" He wasn't sure if the house elf had heard him, but he quickly grabbed some floo powder from the jar on the chimneypiece and threw it in the flames. As the flames turned to the colour of his eyes, he shouted the name of his destination and stepped into them…
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The first thing Harry was aware of was the smell, like sweaty socks after an intense Quidditch match. It was very faint, though, like coming from a long distance away. Harry strongly suspected he hadn't arrived at the main fireplace of The Leaky Cauldron and instantly felt himself fall into the familiar alertness he always did in battle and other dangerous situations.
He realised he had his eyes open but that he couldn't see anything. No, that wasn't quite right. A slight sliver of light came from behind him, near the floor. The door, Harry guessed, fitted the doorframe almost perfectly. The hole between the door and the frame was so small a mouse wouldn't fit through. No air would be able to get inside the space Harry was in and he didn't wonder anymore why it smelled like sweaty socks. Harry couldn't remember turning towards the door… but he must have. He felt disoriented.
Harry could see a small part of the floor. Dust and pebbles. And something that looked like a dead rat. Harry didn't remember hearing his boots crunch on the pebbles, but he didn't feel so good… his senses felt… strange, like something was amiss. He suddenly realised that his headache was gone. He just felt… numb and strangely light. As if he could only bend his knees a little and push up a fraction and he would float up until he hit the roof. He was facing the door. He didn't remember using his feet.
He raised his right arm. It didn't feel heavy. Harry thought he could just see the outline of his arm, but he wasn't sure since… his eyes couldn't quite seem to focus on his arm… it looked very strange. Hazy. He needed to get out of the dusty little room and find out where he was.
Harry raised his hand to touch the door in order to search for a door knob or a lock. Feeling no door where he thought it should have been, he moved closer. A strange sensation moved from his fingertips to his palm to his wrist and up his arm. He moved even closer and the feeling intensified. Where was the blasted door! He pounced at it-
And floated straight through the door into a dimly lit hallway. Looking over his shoulder, he could still see the door in one piece. His mind seemed to freeze.
Okay. He had walked through a door when he was quite sure he hadn't been able to do that yesterday. But these sort of things happened to him all the time. Maybe it was the door. A door which is actually no door at all, just an illusion to keep the nosiest first years out of the… smelling closet. Because he recognised the hallway, even though he wasn't sure he had ever walked through this particular one during the years he had spent in the castle. There were far stranger things in Hogwarts than false doors. Harry closed his eyes and counted to ten. Everything would be okay once he opened his eyes.
…nine. Ten.
He looked down at his hands. He looked down at his feet. He turned his head and checked his backside.
He felt queasy. He was nearly transparent! Harry could see the pattern on the hallway carped trough his stomach and feet. Vines, white flowers and twinkly stars peeking through his whole being-
"What're you called?" said a clear voice just next to him.
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The lifeless body of Harry Potter fell from the fireplace of the very busy Diagon Alley pub.
Sentences cut in half. Stiff silence and blinking eyes filled the pub as all eyes turned towards the fireplace and the unmoving figure it had spit out.
Tom the Bartender let out a strangled cough and the glass he had been cleaning slipped from his fingers and rolled over the edge of the bar. It shattered with a loud crack, shards flying everywhere, then jumped up from the floor, repaired itself and flew back on the counter like nothing had happened.
Someone screamed and suddenly the whole pub was nothing more but horrified screams and breaking and repairing glasses and plates and running feet and flailing arms and scattered food and drink as every witch and wizard and goblin and hag and vampire sprung up from their seats to every which direction their instincts told them to.
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