Title: Coalescence
Rated: M
Pairings: Harry/Severus main pairing, One-sided Regulus/Severus with the possibility of sexual relations and possible threesomes, Rabastan/Regulus developed over time, some instances of Harry and Severus with OC's
Warnings: Time Traveling,OOC (mostly Severus but a bit of everyone), slash, bottom-Severus, Mpreg, possible threesomes, time-paradox?
Summary: After viewing Snape's memories in the pensieve, Harry is given another option. When he goes back in time and change the course of history, how many lives will be alter? What sacrifices will he have to make?
UchiSays: This is my first time travel fic and the idea has been in the making for a while, so please review and let me know what you think. I've read some really good time travel stories and some really bad ones. Hopefully this will be at least moderately good. I'm trying to stay away from all the cliches and overdone plot lines (which I consider to be different from a cliché) but really, there's only so many original takes on any given idea.
Also, I only have one other chapter written and I intend this story to be a long one. I've been sitting on this too long not to post, but I'm working other stories that have top priority. So, updates will be infrequent at best. Based on feedback, I may rearrange my priorities and give you more feedback more often.
Also, also, I always said that when I go to Hogwarts, I wanted an Elf Owl named Widgit. Well, when Voldemort took over the Ministry, he destroyed my Hogwarts' letter, so I couldn't get my Widgit. So, I gave Harry Widgit instead.
Coalescence
Chapter One: Letters
Harry pulled himself out of the pensieve with more force than necessary, barely keeping himself from going sprawling to the floor. With shaking hands, he used his wand to retrieve the memories from the large dish and put them back in the little glass vial they'd originally been stored in and clumsily slipped the vial into his pocket. Then he stepped backwards away from the desk, accusatory eyes fixed on the memory viewing device. His back collided with a shelf on the wall behind him. His legs trembled, before they finally gave out and he sunk to the floor.
There was a war going on inside of Harry. Warring feelings of confusion, anger, regret, disbelief, hopelessness, respect, gratitude, fear, and determination all battled it out in Harry's mind and heart, trying to make themselves known and influence his decision. But he didn't really have much of a decision to make. What he'd just seen left him with only two options: accept what he saw and walk to his death, or deny what he saw and runaway leaving the world to fend for itself. Option one was terrifying to even think about. Option two was selfish and he felt shame just considering it. But why? Why couldn't he be selfish just this once? He'd lived his life for everyone else up until this point, and where had it left him. Trembling on the floor of the headmaster's office, all alone, with a death sentence looming in his immediate future, already knowing which option he was going to choose.
It wasn't fair. He'd fought so hard to stay alive this long, and now he knew it was all for naught. He'd thought Dumbledore was on his side. He'd thought the former headmaster cared about him more than this. Had Dumbledore only fought so hard to keep him alive only so he could die in the right way at the right time?
It hurt.
It hurt to think that Dumbledore saw him as nothing more than a sacrifice for the greater good. It hurt knowing that he was nothing but a pawn on Dumbledore's chessboard, a puppet dancing as the headmaster pulled the strings. That's all he was. A pawn. A puppet. Absolutely nothing to anyone. He'd thought Dumbledore cared. Harry had cared about Dumbledore. He saw the old man as something akin to a grandfather to him. And he wouldn't be lying if he said he'd thought of the old man as his savior. After all, it was Dumbledore that had sent Hagrid to get him when his relatives tried to hide him away. It was at Dumbledore's orders that he had be whisked away to this truly magical world.
Had that just been part of Dumbledore's manipulations? Were these acts contrived with the goal in mind to make Harry a complacent little fool willing to give anything for the safety of this magical world? And Harry had played right into his hands. He had been willing to give anything, do anything, no questions asked to save everyone else. If Dumbledore willed it, Harry would have done it. And now, Dumbledore willed his death.
Angry tears burned their paths down Harry's cheeks. It wasn't fair! He was only seventeen! His life was just beginning. He hadn't even truly lived yet! Why had it come to this? Why was this his only option? Why couldn't he have a chance at living? He'd had so many plans! There was so much he'd wanted to do with his life. He was young. There had been so much laid out before him. And now it was over.
Had Dumbledore even thought for a second that he was asking too much of Harry, of a child? Harry wasn't Jesus! He didn't walk on water! It wasn't his job to die for the rest of the world. Was his death at least worth more than thirty pieces of silver?
Harry sobbed.
He didn't want to die. No one wanted to die really, but Harry particularly felt a strong desire to keep living. Just knowing he had so little time left alive made him desperate for the chance to live his life. He could almost sympathize with Voldemort's insane desire to live forever.
Dumbledore had said death was nothing but the next great adventure, but Dumbledore was a self serving, manipulative, hypocritical, old fool. Dumbledore had lived for over a century, Harry hadn't even made it to two decades yet. Dumbledore had gotten to choose when he was going to die, Harry wasn't allowed that option.
Harry's magic whipped around him furiously as the self pity he felt slowly shifted to anger and resentment. The miscellaneous items on the shelves and desk around him began to shake and rattle under the onslaught of his furious power. He wasn't going to spend his last moments sitting here feeling sorry for himself. He jumped to his feet controlled by his rage. He angrily knocked all the items on one of the shelves to the floor with one furious swipe of his arm. He repeated the action with the next shelf. And the next. Then he went over to the desk and froze in his tracks.
The pensieve sat atop it looking so innocent, it's liquid contents gentle rolling within it's confines. A hatred like no other boiled up inside of Harry. He placed a hand on either side of the dish and lifted it. It was surprisingly light for a fluid filled container, but Harry knew it was heavy with a weight not at all physical. Carefully he raised the dish over his head and threw it to the floor with all his might.
He was almost disappointed when the pensieve didn't break in half and splash it's contents across the floor. The magic within the damn thing must keep it from being able to break or spill. Glaring at the memory viewing dish with distaste, Harry stepped around it and continued his destruction of the office. All the papers on the desk went up in flames that extinguished shortly after there was no more fuel on top of the wooden desk (it wouldn't do to burn down the office while he was still inside of it, after all.) He wasted no thought about whether or not he was going overboard when he began pulling drawers open and emptying them on the floor. He was filled with an anger that knew no limits. He emptied every drawer until he got down to the last. It was locked.
"Alohamora," Harry spat. A soft clicking sound told him the simple charm had worked. He slid the drawer open, determined to continue his destruction, but once more found himself frozen in place.
Inside the drawer, sitting on top of what looked to be a tan colored messenger bag, was a folded piece of paper with Harry's name on it, a potion's vial with a purplish colored potion in it, and a simple gold ring like what one would wear as a wedding band. He slowly, almost hesitantly, reached into the drawer and picked up the ring and paper. His name was written in a familiar scraggly scrawl he'd become accustomed to seeing in the margins of his returned potion's essays tearing his efforts to shreds.
All his anger evaporated.
"Snape," he said soft, his fingers lightly caressing the letters of his name. While the memories in the pensieve had nurtured in him anger and resentment towards Dumbledore, they had caused a deep feeling of respect and gratitude towards Snape to nestle into his heart.
Snape was just like him.
He was another pawn in Dumbledore's game. Another puppet dangling from the strings in Dumbledore's hands.
And Snape had died. Right in front of Harry, the man had died before Harry even knew of the good he'd done. Snape had loved Harry's mother so much he was willing to do anything for her. He had died to protect Lily's son. He, even at his last breath, had loved Lilly so much.
"Look at me."
Snape had gone to Dumbledore looking for help and redemption and had found only a life of subterfuge and manipulation until eventually he met his end. Snape would have died with his purpose unfulfilled had Harry not been in the right place at the right time. Harry would have never known any of Dumbledore's machinations had it not been for Snape. And Harry felt no anger towards Snape. He did not blame the potion's master for giving him this information. Instead, he saw Snape as a kindred soul, trapped in Dumbledore's web.
Harry placed the gold ring on the floor next to him and unfolded the paper.
Mr. Potter,
If you're reading this, you've probably destroyed my entire office by now or are just being a nosy little idiot snooping through things that are not yours (as you are known for sticking you nose in other people's business.) For some reason, I cannot bring myself to be angry over that prospect.
I will not waste your time or mine right now with long winded explanations. For once in your life, follow my directions. Take the potion, put the ring on your finger, and grab the bag in the drawer.
Two paths diverged in a yellowed woods, and neither looked more promising than the other. In fact, both paths looked rather bleak. So, instead of picking blindly and justifying the choice with a lie saying it was the road less traveled by, why not turn around and find a new way to go. You'll be surprised by the difference it'll make, because it is truly the road not taken.
Ce n'est jamais vraiment fini,
Severus Snape
Harry placed the letter down and frowned. He wasn't sure what Snape was up to, but he'd already wasted a world of opportunity by not trusting the man. He picked the ring up from the floor and slid the cold metal onto his left ring finger. Then he grabbed potion and the tan colored satchel from the drawer and pulled the strap over his head. He slowly uncapped the potion, staring curiously at the dark purple mixture. He raised it to his nose and sniffed it. It smelled as horrid as Harry was sure it would taste. He moved it slowly to his lips. It wasn't poison, he knew that. Snape might have despised him for the last seven years and perhaps even longer, but Harry finally accepted that that man did not want him dead. He trusted Severus Snape with his life.
He downed the potion in one gulp, not letting it sit on his tongue long enough to get a full dose of just how badly it tasted. He closed his eyes and waited for to sit what it would do. A full minute passed and nothing happened. Harry wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but he was slightly disappointed.
Now what? Was the ring a Portkey? Then it must be activated by a password. He picked the letter up from the floor and read it again. As far as passwords went, the closing salutation looked the most promising. Was it French? Was he supposed to translate it in order to activate the Portkey? Since Snape had spent six years insulting Harry's intelligence, Harry was sure he didn't expect him to be able to translate a foreign language. Maybe he just needed to read it aloud. He tried, and even knowing nothing of the language he knew he'd managed to butcher the short sentence beyond recognition. Maybe it wasn't the password.
He reread the letter. The last paragraph confused him. It sounded vaguely familiar…oh, he remember. It was referencing a poem one of his teachers in grammar school loved. She'd read it to the class and had a framed copy of it hanging from the wall in the classroom right by the door. Harry remember walking passed it every day, his eyes drifting over the words. The poem was called The Road Not Taken. That teacher had also had a banner with the last line of the poem written on it hanging over the blackboard. Harry would often stare up at it at random times during the class. "I took the road less traveled by, and that made all the difference." But who had written the poem, Harry couldn't remember.
Harry frowned, his brow crinkling in deep concentration. Who was it… Something cold…like ice…winter…snow…
"Oh!" He exclaimed, snapping his fingers at the sudden spark of memory. "Robert Frost."
He felt a familiar tug behind his navel, and he was gone.
…
Harry felt like he was going to be sick. He'd never been very fond of Portkey travel, but this time seemed exceptionally bad. Not only had he gone twisting and spinning helter-skelter through space causing his stomach to stage a revolt and try to escape through his mouth, but it felt like his body was being torn apart and stitched back together with a fishhook and no anesthetics while a quartet of monkeys banged pots and pans inside his skull. By the time his feet once again connected with solid ground, Harry felt queasy and dizzy and achy and confused. He stumbled over to a wall and instantly began to retch, not even taking the time to observe his surroundings.
Once he was done spilling the meager contents of his stomach across the ground, Harry leaned his back against the wall and squeezed his eyes closed trying to regain his senses. The Wizarding World really needed to come up with less...jolting methods of transportation. Everything except broom travel was enough to make people sick, and some people got sick on brooms too, so...
Harry took a deep, grounding breath and opened his eyes. He was leaning against the side of a building in what seemed to be an alleyway just out of sight of pedestrian traffic on what seemed to be a Muggle street. Except it seemed more like Wizards pretending to be Muggles, because all the passersby were wearing very outdated clothes, some of which were quite outrageous.
Harry stepped closer to the entrance of the alley and peered out at the street, trying to find a hint as to where exactly he was. The street looked both familiar and completely unknown to him. In the way he imagined a place would look after being away for a long period of time. Like leaving your hometown and returning years later only to find that progress had changed all that you knew. He was in London, but it was a London unknown to him.
A noise from overhead drew his attention away from the baffling sight of the London street. An owl circled above him, hooting out a call, before swooping down to land on the arm he outstretched for it. The bird was small, not much taller than Harry's hand was long. Harry stared at his hand. Something was strange about it. Something was off. His hand seemed...smaller. The bird hooted, once more drawing Harry's attention to it. It blinked it's large eyes, before nipping Harry's ears softly, as if chastising him for allowing his attention to wander.
"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled. "Do you have a letter for me?"
The bird nodded and raised it's leg. Harry quickly retrieved the parchment tied to it's foot. "Do you need payment or a reply?" The bird tilted it's head to the side and Harry almost swore it rolled it's eyes, before shifting it's position and resting comfortably on Harry's shoulder. Harry looked out the corner of his eyes at the little bird, before shrugging (earning a protest from both the owl and his own body as remnants of pain shot through him) and unrolled the letter.
He was once more greeted by familiar scraggly writing:
Harry,
If you're reading this letter you should have arrived on the 31st day of August in the year 1973. You may be wondering how and why I've sent you so far back in time. Allow me to explain. The gold ring on your finger is a powerful magic artifact called a Cronus Key. The easiest way I can think of describing it is by calling it a cross between a Time Turner and a Portkey. Like a Portkey, a Cronus Key can transport you to any location set to it, and like a Time Turner it allows you to move through time. But compared to a Cronus Key, a Time Turner is little more than a child's plaything.
Cronus Keys are powerful bits of magic and they only work with equally powerful wizards (or witches). They are also highly illegal. The reason they are illegal is because it's impossible to use one without changing time. And, as everyone knows, tampering with time is risky business. But there's a reason I have given you this object. To put it simply: I want you to change time.
As I am unsure whether you and I talked before you received the Key, I think I should inform you that I am aware that Dumbledore left you with a task to complete and I know the details of the task. I also have information concerning that task that is crucial for you to know.
On that Halloween night in 1981, when the Dark Lord tried to kill you, only to meet his own untimely defeat, he left a piece of himself behind in you. You are a Horcrux, Harry, one that even the Dark Lord is not aware of existing. Dumbledore was aware of this, and he left me to inform you of it. If you and I have not had the chance to talk, I know there's no reason for you to trust me. But I swear that I am not lying to you.
I held nothing but the greatest respect for Dumbledore, but I shall admit to you that I did not approve of some of his actions. One of the actions is that he left you such a mission. That is why I have taken some actions of my own. I used the Cronus Key to set some things in place.
In the bag I left for you, you should find enough money to rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron for one night, as well as a key to a Gringott's vault made under the name Henry Frost (and some pain potions, as I know you'll need them). You'll also find in the bag most everything you'll need for a year of schooling at Hogwarts. Tomorrow, a thirteen year old boy by the name of Henry Frost will board the Hogwarts Express for the first time. He will travel to Hogwarts School and be introduced as a transfer student from a private magic academy located somewhere near Cardiff. The headmaster is already expecting him.
Henry is the orphan son of a pureblood wizard and a Muggle-born witch. They died when he was fifteen months old, and until he was eleven he lived with his Muggle aunt and uncle.
Now, I know this has left you with one very big question. You were most definitely not thirteen years old when you departed from 1998, so how is it possible for you to be now? The answer is quite simple, the potion that you hopefully took before activating the Cronus Key in combination with the traveling through time and space acted as a deaging drought. If you paid attention in my class, you would know that there is supposedly no such thing as a Deaging Drought. But, supposedly, there is no way to travel back in time more than a couple of hours either, nor is is possible to survive the killing curse. And yet hear you stand, seventeen years old, in a thirteen year old body, twenty-four years in the past. You are quite the remarkable boy, but don't let this go to that over large head of yours, it was my doing that enabled some of these things. I created the potion special and it only works in combination with the Cronus Key. It is my gift to you.
You have been sent back in time for a very important reason. I need you to destroy the Horcruxes and prevent the Dark Lord from making you into one. But before you do this, I want you to spend a few years a just another child. I am well aware of the sacrifices you've made in your life and of the pain you've gone through and I feel you deserve a chance to relax, as well as a chance to know your parents. Age thirteen is the youngest you could be deaged and still retain your seventeen year old mind, otherwise I would have sent you farther back as an eleven year old to give you the entire Hogwarts lifetime with your parents. But I am sure you will cherish the time you are given.
Now, this was not entirely selflessness on my part. The esteemed Headmaster Dumbledore did an atrocious job of choosing capable professors during your attendance of Hogwarts. I believe you only had one good teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts in your entire six years there. And that is not at all comforting, considering the future rests on your overburdened shoulders. So, I implore you, please continue your Hogwarts education. I'm sure you are eager to get this war over with, but your education is very important. I know you have the luck of the devil, but I'll feel better knowing that we're pitting a fully qualified wizard against the Dark Lord and not just a glorified school boy.
Do not worry, you have more than enough time to complete your education and your mission. If you take a look at the Cronus Key you'll see three sets of numbers wrapping around the band. These numbers countdown the years, months, and days until the Key will activate again and bring you back to the present. Essentially, I have given you eight years. More precisely, if you are reading this on the day you first arrived, I have given you eight years and fifteen days. Why this amount of time, you may ask? Well, that's partially to get you as close to Halloween of 1981 as possible, without you actually being there. (Events like what takes place on that night creates a lasting impression on the universe if you're there to interfere, who knows what the consequences may be.) But some of those years must go to re-doing your third through sixth years and attending your seventh year at Hogwarts, the rest of the time is for you to hunt down and destroy the Horcruxes. Your school years and summer vacations are a vacation. You are not a soldier here, not yet. Enjoy your rest, then fight when you're ready.
Don't worry about trying to hide the Key from others, people who see it will assume it is a Betrothal Band counting down the time until your wedding. Such rings are quite common among purebloods.
By this point, I'm sure you know where most of the Horcruxes are located, but as you are now in the year 1973 none of the ones you've found have been destroyed yet. There is no guarantee all the Horcruxes have even been hidden yet. I know for a fact that at least two of them aren't hidden until after 1977. As I said, you have been given the power to alter the past and change your future.
Now, as I said, tampering with time is very risky, and using a Cronus Key to tamper with time is even riskier. You face the chance of undoing the actions that made you travel back in time in the first place, which can cause time itself to unravel trying to undo the great paradox. I need you to write a letter to yourself along with a copy of all your memories, and leave them at Gringott's. Ask for a Time Capsule vault and the goblins will make sure you receive the letter and memories on whatever day you set. This is essential. Do Not Forget. Also, it is very important that you avoid making contact with Lily Evans after she falls pregnant and even more important that you never meet your infant self. Be careful.
Harry, I must press on you that it is very important for you not to run headlong into this by yourself like the foolish Gryffindor you've played a being all these years, as we both know you were meant to be Slytherin. You have five years of schooling; use that time to gather allies to help you. Here's a hint, if Henry Frost boards the train and travel back to the farthest compartment he will meet someone that would make great a great ally with a little pressing.
I'm giving you the chance to alter the course of time itself and in doing so save yourself and many others, do not waste this chance. Do not ask me why, but I have faith in you.
Ce n'est jamais vraiment fini,
Severus Snape
P.S. The owl's name is Widgit. He is yours to keep.
"Widgit," Harry said as if testing the word on his tongue. The owl on his shoulder hooted, before taking a lock of Harry's hair into it's beak and tugging softly. Harry frowned. He wasn't sure if he wanted a new owl with Hedwig's death so fresh in his heart. Hedwig truly had been Harry Potter's first friend. But he wasn't Harry Potter anymore, was he? He was now Henry Frost. Most definitely going to be nicknamed Harry Frost, but still not a Potter. Perhaps Widgit could be Henry Frost's first friend.
Harry glanced at the letter in his hand and frowned again. There was so many questions he wanted to ask. The biggest one being why. Why had Snape done this? For him? Was this really a gift? A second chance at life? But why? What did Severus gain from doing this? Did he expect repayment? Maybe in the form of Harry saving his life? But Severus had drafted the letter in a way that showed ignorance of his own death at the time it was to be read. Snape didn't know he would be dead when he'd prepared all of this.
And then there was the tone of the letter. Severus had sounded...kind. Less harsh than normal. Not as much vitriol and bitter sarcasm. He'd sounded caring. Almost fond.
It was confusing.
Harry read the letter one more time, then drew his wand—Malfoy's wand, a wand that worked but wasn't his perfect match—and cast a simple spell. He spared on absent thought to the fact that he was now physically only thirteen years old so he might get cited for underage magic, but let the thought slip from his mind as he watch the paper go up in flames.
"Come, Widgit," he said softly, "Let's see what he's left for us."
Widgit hooted, and Harry stepped out onto the street.
