Echoes through Time
A Harry Potter Fanfiction
Summary: Harry Potter is affected by his trip into the Department of Mysteries in more ways than he realizes…Please read Author Note before reading.
A/N: SPOILER WARNING for anyone who hasn't read the books or seen the movies.
This story is AU and based in 6th Year.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Anything you recognize from the series belongs to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. I make no profit from this story.
I
The Death Eaters had chased them back into the Time Room. Harry barely registered the rows of small Time-Turners stacked neatly on mounted, glass-covered shelves along the walls, when different coloured spells whizzed past him, smashing into the shelves. Harry tried shielding himself with his arm, prophecy still in hand, as he ran across the room, glass and what seemed to be sand raining down on him from the broken hourglasses; his glasses kept most of it out of his eyes, but some still got past the frames; Harry blinked furiously as he felt sand hit the corners of his eyes, and he spluttered a bit as he tasted it on his tongue.
Harry burst through a door ahead, realizing it was the room with the spinning wall, and then hurried to help Neville support the unconscious Hermione over the threshold. They slammed the door behind them…
Sometimes, Harry Potter had the worst luck in the world.
Trying to do anything magic-related around the Dursleys was risky business, as they were averse to anything and everything magical. The Dursleys were Muggles, and they always over-reacted if Harry mentioned something in relation to his kind (they even flinched if he said the word 'broomstick'). They used to give him chores, neglect him, ignore him, but they rarely got physical with him (unless to cuff him over the head or lock him in the cupboard under the stairs). Harry avoided doing magic-related things like homework or practising wand movements (without doing the actual spells as he wasn't allowed outside of school while he was under-age) whilst in the Dursleys' company, so he had to resort to doing it in secret- in the dead of night or early hours of the morning while his relatives slept.
It was just his luck that this time he got caught; and he knew that the excuse of "cooking, and there were no clean pots or saucepans" wasn't going to work when they could clearly see it was a small cauldron sitting on the stove, and there were several ingredients of obvious magical nature lined up on the counter next to a set of brass scales, a silver knife, a mortar and pestle, and a few glass vials.
The Order of the Phoenix may have warned the Dursleys not to mistreat Harry this summer, but Harry knew, the moment he saw Uncle Vernon's and Aunt Petunia's eyes spy the cauldron and supplies, that the warning had just been forgotten. In the eyes of the Dursleys, he had just done something that was taboo.
It had been a long time since Harry had trembled with fear when faced with an irate Uncle Vernon. Whilst with the Dursleys Harry had put up with their overdramatic reactions to his magic; he suffered their insults, neglect and controlling behaviour- and had done his best to ignore it all to the point of not caring. But Harry knew, as soon as he saw his uncle make a beeline for him, teeth bared and rage etched into every line of his face, that this was different…
Harry sat back against the pillows, feet on top of the bed covers, and massaged his painful wrist. He hoped it was only bruised; there was discolouration around the joints and he could hardly move it without a hiss of pain escaping his lips. Sighing, Harry rested his head against the headboard and gazed at the cracked ceiling of the room he was in.
Uncle Vernon hadn't been so rough since before Harry started attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry had believed that his relatives had kept from outright beating him from fear that someone from the magical world would come and curse them or turn them into fruit bats. At first they feared this from Harry once he'd been to school, but once they'd learnt that Harry wasn't allowed to perform magic away from school the Dursleys had forgotten their apprehension. The fear returned, however, when Harry had informed them that his wizard godfather (who happened to be an escaped convict accused of murder that they'd seen on TV) would come and see to them if he heard they were mistreating Harry. Harry had conveniently left out the fact that Sirius was innocent.
Sirius Black had died just a few weeks ago. Harry, angry, depressed, and still trying to come to terms with it himself, hadn't bothered informing the Dursleys. They wouldn't care anyway. Plus, Harry would lose his last weapon against them.
At the end of the last school term, members of the Order of the Phoenix had warned the Dursleys not to do anything that would cause Harry harm or unhappiness. The Dursleys had obeyed the subtle threat and mostly ignored Harry. Harry knew they did this only to keep wizards from marching to their front door and alerting the neighbours to the fact that the Dursleys' lives weren't as normal as they appeared.
Well, thought Harry as he rubbed his tired eyes, the Order's threats were now null and void too. Harry had been caught brewing potions in the kitchen in the dead of night and, not only had Uncle Vernon shouted more insults and threats at Harry but he had also manhandled him. In his fury at his nephew's audacity to perform an "abnormal ritual" (as he had called it) in their house, Uncle Vernon had grabbed Harry and thrown him across the kitchen.
Harry winced as he remembered colliding painfully with the kitchen table and chairs, pain shooting through the wrist he was still nursing. Uncle Vernon had ordered Harry to clean up his things. No doubt he hadn't wanted to touch any evidence of Harry's- abnormality.
That might have been the end of the argument- had it not been for Dudley (woken up by the commotion) spotting Hedwig returning through Harry's bedroom window, dead frog in beak. Dudley's yelp of surprise alerted his parents, and then Aunt Petunia had started shrieking about the mess while Uncle Vernon bellowed accusations that Harry had "trained that bloody pigeon to bring you toads for more effing rituals! What's next? Bird entrails on the kitchen table while you figure out their meaning? I won't have it, boy!" He had then proceeded to stomp into Harry's room, padlock the window shut, and then had locked Harry in his room with Hedwig- all the while issuing more threats and promising harm to both boy and bird if they tried anything. Seething, Harry had reminded his uncle that if his friends didn't hear from him for three days they would come and confront the Dursleys personally.
Still sitting on the bed and following the jagged lines across the roof and walls, Harry grimaced as he remembered the results of that argument.
He had thought he'd won, having used their greatest fear against them. He was shocked, then, when Uncle Vernon, laughing nastily, had told Harry that it didn't matter if any wizards sought them out as, in a few days, they wouldn't be here. Apparently, the Dursleys were leaving to go on holiday in a couple of day's time- and, it seemed, they were planning on leaving Harry locked up when they left. They hadn't said this out loud, but Harry could read between the lines.
Harry had paced in his room, clutching his smarting wrist and waiting for the Dursleys to fall back to sleep. Then, as dawn broke across the sky, he had packed his things (making sure Hedwig was safely in her cage), picked the lock on his bedroom door (a handy little skill he had learnt from the Weasley twins) and quickly slipped out of the house and into the warm night. From there he had repeated what he'd done three years previously and called The Knight Bus.
Now Harry lie on his bed at The Leaky Cauldron, trying to get his mind around the fact that just two weeks into the summer holidays and he had already run from the Dursleys (again); he was free of them for the rest of the year- and he was very much alone.
Harry ran a hand through his messy black hair, sighing. He then took his glasses off, placed them on the bedside table, and then lain back down on the bed, not bothering to get under the covers.
These were dangerous times and, whichever way he looked at it, Harry knew he was in trouble. He didn't have a clue as to what to do now.