*Notice*

This fanfiction is a rewrite of one I wrote when I was 14, and never got past the first few chapters. I'm now 17 so I'm giving it a go again, as I've always thought it was a shame that I never finished it. However, there have been changes to the canon in this time that does affect the writing:

i) We now know the background of the Potter family,that Fleamont and Euphemia Potter died within a couple of days of each other in 1978-1979 of Dragon Pox

ii)Longer term timeturners do exist (from the Cursed Child, which I still don't want to recognise as canon but if JK says it, it is so

So even though I'm pretty sure everything else is canon (apart from the whole plotline, but you know what I mean ahah) I'm warning you in advance in case you're as pedantic as I am.

Harry woke with a start. Something was wrong; he was not sure how he knew it – after all, his eyes were tight shut and he could feel his half-worn mattress beneath his back. It was light outside. In the fleshy pink of his eyelids he could see the warmth of the day seeping through the widening crack underneath his eyelashes. There was the sound of Little Whinging stirring from its slumber, the stuttering and spluttering of wheels sliding off pavements and the steady chattering of the neighbours outside – asking, no doubt – should the Polkiss' really be using their sprinkler once again when the hosepipe ban had only just ended? And when would that mysterious Mrs Figg take responsibility for the abundance of cat litter polluting the stretch of road ahead? Groaning, Harry rolled over in his bed. His instincts had clearly been wrong. As much as he hoped for some excitement to break the dreary monotony of life in the house he was forced to return to every summer, it was, at least, a relief to hear the reassuringly dull signs that everything was as it should be. He could even hear the Dursleys whispering about something downstairs. Wait - whispering? The Dursleys did not whisper. There were neighbours to scorn and posh company cars to yell about so why were they being so secretive?

It was only then that it struck Harry that he may not be in Number Four Privet Drive at all and with that, his eyes flew open.

He was sitting – or rather, lying – in a decent sized room with large bay windows overlooking a quiet street. It was evidently was not yet midday, as the sky outside was glowing orange and heavy dew seemed to glitter on the long grass over the road. As curious as this may have been, Harry did not start; there was nothing to suggest that he was anything other than quite well – this could be a mirage, perhaps, or a very vivid dream. If it was the case that he had indeed apparated somewhere in his sleep – rather impressive, he thought, for being a year shy of eligible for testing - then he had clearly picked a comfortable spot. He glanced down. His body remained in one piece. Glad for this knowledge, Harry's curiosity spiked; now that he was sure that no harm was about to come to him, the absurdity of the predicament set in. Where on earth was he? Preparing to swing his legs out of bed, his eyes flickered up to the ceiling. He froze for a moment and stared.

Banners of red and gold were streaming in the gaps between beams holding a sloping roof, and several tens of faces were peering inquisitively down on him. He knew now where the chattering had been coming from. Realising the image was blurred, he threw on his glasses, relieved to find they were still wedged along with his wand in his back pockets (he'd been sleeping like that since fourth year, when he had returned from the graveyard) and looked up again, the faces staring back once more. He breathed a sigh. There was not a gaggle of people watching him from above, but a series of similar photographs pinned on to the same high beams as the banners, the people in them beginning to smile and wave at him as he examined each one. He laughed out loud. This had to be the work of Dobby. For it was not strangers glaring out of the images, but his own face – at a Quidditch match, arms raised in victory; in Herbology class, doubled over laughing as Professor Sprout attempted to calm a seething mandrake by singing to it and once again, as a small first year in oversized uniform quavering on platform nine and three quarters. Had he been whisked to the Room of Requirement in his sleep? A rude awakening, perhaps, but a welcome one… Many thoughts crossed his mind as he gazed absent-mindedly at an image of him at the Japanese Quidditch World Cup. Hold on, something was wrong, he had never been to Japan…

Harry looked upon the images with renewed interest and found that the eyes blinking rapidly down at him were not his own, emerald green, but a definite hazel. Unless someone had put some sort of colour-changing charm on the images (and this seemed almost absurd) then he was unmistakably looking into the eyes of James Potter.

Not a moment after he had come to this mind-numbing realisation, a voice came calling through the house.

"James? Are you up yet? James!"

Thinking that the owner of the voice would be surprised to see 'James' pointing his wand at the ceiling, he hastily stowed it underneath the bed, rolled over, and pretended to be asleep. He was tired, and it was too early for confrontations.

"Son, why are you still in bed? Get up! You're meant to be at Dumbledore's today. I'm an ill old man and if your mother was still alive – "

Harry muttered something as incomprehensible as he could manage. The voice continued.

"You're lucky I haven't told Lily anything about this, you know. Turning up in the middle of the night like that? I needed a Calming Draught after that one. Started thinking the Death Eaters had come knocking, I've been expecting it ever since I told that Yaxley where to stuff his wand. I know times are rough at the moment James, but drowning your sorrows in firewhiskey isn't going to get rid of You-Know-Who. Honestly, sometimes I forget you're a grown man, the way you're behaving. Oh, what would Euphemia say?"

Harry could hardly dare to breathe. This had to be some sort of elaborate joke, or trick of the mind – wizards could not time travel, or not properly anyway; he and Hermione may have ventured an hour into the past to rescue his godfather a mere couple of years ago but he had never heard of anything like this. If he could have done so discreetly, he would have washed out his ears; yet, somehow, this was beginning to make sense. He had, after all, woken up in a room brimmed with Quidditch memorabilia and photos of James Potter scattered all over the ceiling; had he not longed for this moment? The chance to meet someone whose blood ran through his very own veins, but didn't shudder at the thought? And maybe, thought Harry excitedly, maybe he had not travelled back in time at all! Maybe in some kind of glorious miracle, it was still 1996, yet his mother, father and grandfather had made an unprecedented return to life…No spell can reawaken the dead, Harry, he thought, as his great headmaster's voice rang in his ears. That reminded him. As he lay there pondering, Fleamont Potter was still peering around the open door onto the very bed where Harry lay, muttering about 'late for Dumbledore,' 'irresponsible' and 'what are you going to tell Lily?' There was nothing for it, thought Harry. If he opened his eyes, his grandfather would realise he was not who he thought he was. On the other hand, if he continued to pretend to be asleep, Mr Potter would think that James had fallen down drunkenly on the doorstep last night. As silently as Harry could muster, he confunded the man who stood before him. Before the charm wore off, Harry spluttered "Sorry, did you say something about Dumbledore?"

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you thought, should I keep this going? I haven't been on here for a while due to GCSE'S/A levels etc and I don't know how many people are still on here but I remember that it's a great community. It would be amazing if you could leave a review!

All the best,

Elizabeth xx