Chapter One
I
When Harry Potter fell, the world fell with him.
It was a thing of legend, a moment so grand only the masters of old could ever truly capture its magnificence and the repercussions it would have. Because the whole world held its breath when Harry's heart stopped beating; when Bellatrix Lestrange ripped it out of him.
There had been no sounds then, life draining out of the surroundings like blood did from Harry's chest. The world was a blank canvas, painted in rivers of red.
And when he fell the grounds shook. They shook with rage and dread and fear while Harry crumpled to the ground like a marionette that had its strings cut. In the end he was one of the countless dead lying around Hogwarts' fallen remains. One of many stone-cold faces lying amidst half-collapsed heaps of brick, mortar and magic.
But he was by far the most important.
And when Voldemort's high-pitched laugh broke the spell of silence that surrounded us it felt as if he was leeching the world of all hope. Without Harry we were lost, broken and shattered. And the fucker knew it. He told us to run, to scatter and live. Live to see the world restored to its rightful glory. Live and see the folly of your mistake. Run the like vermin you are, for death will be a gift when we are done with you.
We ran.
It was amidst the ruins of Hogsmeade village that Hermione Granger told them of her plan.
Neville answered first, watching her with a thoughtful gaze. "Why the year of the Triwizard Tournament?"
"To stop his reincarnation and seize control of the cup without Bellatrix' interference. I want to get Moody up and running before the year starts and have both Crouches dead before Junior can start his little plot. We also have to vanish you-know-who's father's bones and-"
It was Ron who cut her off, scarred mouth turning down in a grimace as he held up both hands in a silent plea for her to stop talking. "What's the catch, Hermione? Because there sure as hell aren't any bloody timeturners for us to grab."
He spat the words out with such venom as if it hurt him to say them. Ron's blue eyes were narrowed and his brows furrowed in contemplation. It made the scars on his pale skin stand out, the marks winding up his face like silvery snakes. They stretched from the tip of his brow to mar the skin of his collarbones and shoulders. They curled down one corner of his lip in an almost permanent painful scowl.
Marks made with magic forged in too-dark shadows never healed well.
"Did you know that hunchbacked-curflees come in two kinds?" Luna piped up serenely, gazing at Hermione with a strangely lucid expression for a second before turning to face Ron, "they look exactly the same but one can only fly forward and the other only ever goes backwards. And when they meet they are so confused that they both die."
Ron's face softened, placing an arm around his girlfriend's shoulders. He hid his face in her blonde locks and just kept it there. A moment of solace in a shabby tent amidst ruins. A minute of nothing but peace before he was once more part of a four-man resistance. Just one moment of not being Ronald Weasley.
Neville did the same, choosing to grasp Hermione's hand and giving it a soft squeeze. His hand was big and warm around hers, and she met his eyes for a few too short seconds. Brown met green and for a few moments the world froze with fragile tranquillity.
(moments like this kept them together, but it was a Sisyphean task. They were too broken to ever be whole. But together they were a better kind of broken, less shattered and more cracked.)
And then Hermione drew in a breath and the moment was gone, the harsh reality falling back down on their shoulders as it enveloped them in its icy embrace.
"The Black library had a tome that spoke of-"
In the end there was only magic and those willing to master it all.
And in between the running and the hiding and the fighting they mastered every minute detail of the ritual. They gathered supplies, raided abandoned mansions and left the country burning in their wake.
The scorched earth policy; leave behind nothing but ashes.
But it was Hogwarts they chose to put in motion their grand plan. For months they had prepared, had filled their moleskin pouches with all they might need. Had emptied libraries and robbed all Death Eaters they encountered of their wands. Neville's pouch held the sword of Gryffindor, Hermione's held tomes so old and dark and saturated in magic merely having them was a crime.
Their circle, painted in blood, was painted around where Harry had fallen so long ago. The memorial you-know-who once put up already blasted clear off. The abomination a mockery of Harry's legacy, a stain on his memory.
"I am the Master of Death," Hermione called, "master of the beyond, master of the past and present and all that has been. I hold all three, it is me they chose. And in blood and bone I command all."
The world held its breath once more as all sounds died out. A presence was building, heavy and smothering as it weighed down on them. There was power in the air, sizzling and burning as flames burst out of the Elder wand gripped tightly in Hermione's hand.
They formed shapes, faces of people known and unknown burning around them. Flashing back and forth as they took on more shapes. Dumbledore, Snape, the Carrows, the gaunt faces of malnourished children they had seen scurrying off in the shadows of what once was Diagon Alley. Hermione's parents were followed by a pair of complete strangers as the ghastly shapes encircled them all, hovering over the line painted in their blood.
(for a second Ron swore he saw Harry there, staring at them with sad, sad eyes)
The flames died out, only to rise up with twice the vigour as a single silhouette of fire stepped forth.
"Your tribute," it rasped, formless face directed only at Hermione.
"All that once laid your feet, all deaths here have already been yours to take. All deaths we will cause will also be yours."
The form was silent for a moment before it moved its head in a mockery of a nod, the movement almost too slow to be discernible.
They spoke the date they wanted to return to in unison, their words mixing in the air and sounding like one. They each raised their wands then, the horrific spell slipping past their lips as if they were breathing a promise in a lover's ear. More flames sped out from their wands then, adding to the already meters-high wall of flame that lit up the sky like a beacon. Dragons and phoenixes and other beasts of deadly fire rose and fell with an imaginary tide; shooting up at the sky and prowling around the circle as they each awaited the moment of the kill.
"Your tribute has been accepted, Master of Death, master of the way. The price, however, is yours to pay."
The figure disappeared back into the flames and for a second the sky was on fire as torrents of flames shot up to the heavens above.
And when they receded, dying out and leaving nothing but untouched grass, the world trembled once more. Because when the flames flickered out all who stood in that circle were dead.
The Great Hall shook and quavered once more when four figures appeared with nary a sound. Their feet touched the stone floors silently, their laboured breaths the only noise that breached the silence. They remained frozen in their spots, muscles not moving an inch and their wands clasped tightly in their hands.
But all four sets of eyes were anything but still as they roamed the vast expanse of space around them. Taking in every nook and cranny, lingering on the walls before straying to the ceiling and then back again to the –currently- empty space behind the head table where once four banners hung.
But the castle was whole, the tables still standing and the floor untouched by rubble or blood. Here there was not the heavy, oppressive mantle of ghosts of the past that hung back at the edge of their consciousness. Here there was only the tangy feeling of breached wards, the familiar embrace of magic that –just moments ago- had been nothing but a frail sense of wrongness, a void desperate to suck in any that lingered too long.
The doors to the Hall flew open and the torches lining the walls flared to life in a single swoosh. Their flames bathing the hall in dim orange and red. But from the threshold strode Albus Dumbledore, night robe billowing around him as if he were facing a storm. His face was set in a frown and his footsteps echoed loudly throughout the Great Hall, shattering the fragile peace.
It was Ron who stepped forward, wand drawn and scarred face contorted in a disdainful mask. His mouth was naught but a thin line and his nostrils flared as he adjusted his grip on his wand. Neville stood behind him, hands twitching towards the pouch on his hip; itching to grasp the familiar handle of Gryffindor's sword.
Dumbledore stopped his approach a few feet from where Ron stood and opened his mouth only to close it after a mere seconds. His face was too guarded to read but the flicker of familiarity that rushed through his eyes was noticeable enough for all four to see.
"Who are you," the elder wizard asked after more moments of tense silence.
"I am Luna Lovegood," Luna piped up serenely as she smiled brightly at Dumbledore and performed a mockery of a curtsy. "And with me I have Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley."
"That," Dumbledore said immediately after Luna finished talking, "is very unlikely. For it was here, in this very school, that miss Granger and mister Weasley both died. I also have the misfortune to know of miss Lovegood's and mister Longbottom's own deaths. So I would ask you again, who are you?"
His words echoed throughout the Hall, the wizard putting such force behind them that Hermione swore she could feel the room ripple with power. It was an impressive display, that for sure, but they had not been impressionable schoolchildren for a long time.
Her wand danced through the air, guided by her hand as she swished and flicked before ending the display with a single, angry slash through the air.
The wards fell, the walls crumbling down around them and the ceiling shattering like glass. Flashes of light burst around them as shades of people ran and fell and did not get up again. Laughter could be heard, screams and shouts and blood-curdling roars that grasped hearts with ice-cold hands and brought nightmares for years.
The illusion broke, the images fading back into the ground as the screams died out. The Hall was untouched again, the walls whole and the floor clean. Stars shone bright above them in a ceiling that still held fast, the magic not broken anymore.
"That, Headmaster Dumbledore, is the future of this school. That is what we are here for, to stop it all. And that is why you will let us do our job."
Albus Dumbledore laughed and gave a nonchalant wave with his hand as if he were swatting away a fly rather. He smiled then, for the first time since he entered the Hall, and his blue eyes twinkled merrily even in the dim light.
"Time travel, you claim? I must admit, I had expected many things when I felt the wards being breached but this was not it. Now, tell me your real story."
Luna spoke up again, but this time her face was ashes and her smile too sharp at the edges of her mouth. The shadows in her eyes seemed to grow, shifting their colour from blue to grey as she regarded Dumbledore impassively.
"Once upon a time there was a boy, a brilliant, amazing boy. He was loyal and brave and kind and even ambitious. And when he met another, older, boy, as brilliant and amazing as him they became fast friends. And that boy was ambitious as well, and kind and brave and loyal. They left to travel the world and together they lived, loved and laughed. But the older boy had something the younger lacked; he didn't mind getting his hands dirty."
Luna stopped talking then, gazing up at the ceiling with thoughtful eyes.
"The acoustics here are much better when the walls still stand. They help keep out most of the nargles, you see."
Hermione chuckled from where she stood, arms crossed over her and nodding for Luna to continue.
"So the younger grew afraid, he dared not put in motion the plans he and his friend had drawn up in blind, foolish ambition and he backed down. They argued and then they fought. And their fight was the kind of clash only the most brilliant of minds could produce. It destroyed everything in its path. And the younger boy shot spell after spell never once noticed how-"
"Stop," Albus whispered angrily as his grip on his wand turned bruising, had the wood been flesh, "you have no idea what you are talking about."
"We have plenty more dirty laundry to air," Hermione chimed in happily, twirling her wand around again with a manic glint in her eyes. "I had a chat with Gellert once, you see. Charming man, very knowledgeable. Told me of your adventures in Russia, he did. But that's not why we are here, you want proof of our allegiance? Of our identities? Tell me, did Trelawney ever divine a prophecy?"
The minute nod could easily be missed, but all four caught it.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches …"
Albus gestured for her to stop with another wave of his empty hand, looking like the old man he was as every wrinkle stood out against the pale of his skin. His eyes had lost their twinkle and instead grew dim; weary. It was as if a curtain had dropped and the actor threw off his costume, revealing the man behind the mask.
"Yeah, pretty bloody awful, isn't it?" Ron spat disdainfully, his battle-ready stance never wavering and his eyes not leaving Albus' wand. "Hermione's probably going to tell me the reason as to why I'm suddenly dead –err, not me, sorry. As to why the younger me is dead, but let me tell you that a year from now we're going to be fighting for this prophecy. But we're on the ruddy same side here, okay? We are pretty much the last of the Order of the Phoenix. Or were. Or will be. I don't bloody know, okay? Snakeface bad, anything not snakeface good."
"The taboo is gone, Ron," Neville whispered slowly as he glanced at Ron's heavily breathing frame, "he hasn't put in place yet."
"The Order doesn't recruit teenagers," Albus said slowly as footsteps echoed from the hallway leading up to the Great Hall. "And a future where it does –I cannot imagine."
Ron's eyes snapped from Albus' wand to the figures standing in the doorway, flickering over their forms before deeming them the lesser threat as he focused once more on the elderly wizard standing in front of him.
"That future is gone." Hermione spat as she regarded the newcomers with haughty indifference, "we will make sure of that. But please, lower your wands. All of you. Ours is a story best told without Ron and Neville ready to blast you all to pieces."
"He could try," it was Severus Snape that stepped from the shadows, satin drawl as unmistakeable as ever. "I doubt he would succeed."
But this was not their Severus Snape, he couldn't be. His hair was clean and shiny and bound back in a low –and short- ponytail. He wore deep blue robes that stubbornly refused to billow behind him and his face held a healthy sheen. The bags around his eyes were gone, the lines of premature aging and worry gone. He looked healthy; happy.
"Hermione," Ron growled again as he kept glancing at Snape and then back at Dumbledore again, "what happened to Snape?"
"I- I-" Hermione swallowed, "I don't know."
"Well, if it's any consolation; I think you look really good this way, professor Snape," Luna said seriously, nodding to herself.
"Albus," Severus nodded to his colleague and boss though his eyes never left the four teenagers standing in front of him, "care to explain why I am currently seeing ghosts. Because last I checked Molly and Arthur were still mourning the loss of their youngest son, not celebrating his miraculous return."
They ended up leaving the Great Hall in a most uncommon sort of parade, a quartet of ragged teens striding amidst all four heads of the houses and the headmaster of Hogwarts. But the halls were empty, devoid of students to gawk and point. School was not even in session yet, wouldn't be for another three days.
Not that Neville consciously noticed that. Not with his mind running in so many different directions.
He wasn't the clever one, that wasn't his role. It was Hermione who filled that part, who lost herself in books and forgot to eat unless he was there to remind her. Hermione who could spin her wand and bring the world to its knees; who could read a book a dozen times and still consider it not enough.
He was the muscle, the loyal guard dog. The lumbering knight, the watchful guardian. It was Ron though, who always fought at the front line. Casting spell after spell, curse after curse. His heart a never-ending well of courage and fearlessness that he drew upon day after day, his steps never wavering as he fought his way through throngs of enemies.
So he was always one step behind. He had always been and he didn't mind. He covered their weak spots, saw what their eyes failed to see. Deflected spells they didn't notice, cut down those they failed to kill. He had hands that could nurture the most delicate of life from seed to flower, he had hands that would grab and turn until he heard a snap.
Hermione pointed and Ron went. And Neville would always follow. Because Ron was blinded by anger and fear and hope and was a Gryffindor all the way. And Hermione blinded herself with her constant worrying, sweet- sweet Hermione who needed him like Luna needed Ron.
So he followed, walked past portraits he had seen torn up and burning. Past statues and chainmail that once fought by his side. Past the corner where Charlie had fallen and not gotten up again, past the wall where the Death Eaters had nailed Seamus to. And his steps never wavered. His breath never hitched.
But when Hermione grabbed his hand with an almost feverish need he knew she was as afraid as he was. He could almost feel the fast hummingbird-heartbeat of her heart through the touch of her palm to his.
Because besides Minerva McGonagall and professor Sprout there were two people walking besides them that did not belong.
Snape, with his nice hair and blue robes and calm face. With what Neville knew to be the Ravenclaw emblem stitched over his chest. With a bloody ring on his finger and a face that did not speak of the horrors the man should have seen!
And Sirius Black, someone Neville only knew of that one, disastrous adventure in the Ministry of Magic. The man Harry had spoken of so fondly, the Gryffindor from one of the blackest families of England.
Sirius Black, who walked with his nose up in the air and his face frozen in a nasty smirk Neville had often seen Draco don. He wore black, lined with green and silver and embroidered snakes and it was only Hermione's tight grip on his hand that kept him from pushing the man against the wall and demanding what the bloody hell had happened.
Because Neville might not be the cleverest or the one who always charged in headfirst. He was not even Luna, who surprised them with her wit and utter ruthlessness at every turn.
But even he knew that whatever had happened, whatever they had done; it had gone spectacularly wrong.
I own nothing but the idea, and even that has been done before by minds infinitely more brilliant than mine.
Also, I took some liberties with Grindelwald's age.
Also, all (inevitable) mistakes are my own. I have no beta to speak of and am not the person to go over my own work with a fine-toothed comb. English is not my native language, it is technically not even my second. So please don't judge my mistakes too harshly.
I would be terribly happy if you took the time to leave a review.