Harry Potter Alternate Reality
Eleven years ago…
The world was silent, as if it was holding its breath. No wind, no footsteps, and no light except the moon, half obscured by a swath of slow-moving clouds. For the third time that minute, Peter Pettigrew stopped and looked around. As with the countless other times he'd looked that night, he was alone. And like all the other times, his solitude offered him no sense of security. Peter was worried, and he had more than enough reason to be.
The houses on either side of him went past, each one more uniform than the one before, each one impassive and cold as only inanimate objects can be. And each house, each street, seemed to bring him no closer to the hill in the center of the town, and the massive mansion that lay on it.
He could easily have apparated there, but he didn't, for a multitude of reasons. First of all, he didn't know where exactly the meeting would take place, and it would be easier to search the area on foot than to teleport at random among the grounds and interior of the massive house. The last thing he wanted to have happen was for the Ministry to come just because he had Splinched himself. And he couldn't possibly know whether or not the Dark Lord had managed to devise a spell or potion that allowed him to sense when someone apparated into his vicinity. Peter wouldn't have put it past him. He was no friend of the Dark Lord's, at least not until he gave him what he wanted. He didn't want to be killed before he could speak because some Death Eater or other identified him as a friend of the Potters. So he walked.
After a while, he came to a bend in the street. After that, it widened and he reached the town center. And here, finally, there were people. Muggle adults talked about whatever they talk about off to one corner, while kids in costumes rushed past him, waving bags of candy and laughing. Peter sighed with relief: a normal Halloween scene, with no Death Eater in sight. Of course, he couldn't know that for sure—any adult there could have been one of the Dark Lord's servants waiting to strike—but the sight of other, normal people comforted him.
"You can turn back now, said a voice in his head. You won't be betraying anyone. He won't go after you."
And for a moment, Peter saw it: how he could live a normal life, and still be a true friend to James. He was about to turn around and leave, but then the moment passed and he was back in the real world, where He-who-must-not-be-named was at large, and where if Peter didn't join him, he would be killed. With a massive effort of will, he walked forward out of the square. Another side street: like the past few, this one was inexplicably free of trick-or-treaters. He walked down it, now with a quickened pace, even though he knew that once he got there; there would be no turning back.
The mansion and its hill loomed large ahead of him by now. A few more streets and he would be there. He turned out of another lifeless side street and found himself staring at the place. It was a massive structure, complete with half-fallen balconies and dry fountains that had obviously been designed to show off the wealth of the people who had once lived there. Now, however, it was a rotting shell. Peter could understand why the trick-or-treaters stayed away from the place: he would have been scared even if he hadn't known that Lord Voldemort was waiting for him inside.
He walked forward to the house, and only then did he realize that it was surrounded by a towering wrought-iron fence. Using magic at this point would be stupid, not to mention that there were Muggles a few streets away. Besides, if the Dark Lord really spent time here, then the fence would be protected by spells a lot more powerful than his. He walked along the fence, which seemed to lead all the way around that side of the house. He turned the corner and saw what looked like a gate in the fence. Now running as quickly and as quietly as he could, he ran up to it and looked through the one open door and saw a graveyard.
His instincts of self-preservation and his conscience both screamed at him to turn around, but he blocked them out and walked into the graveyard. On the far side of it was a path leading up to the house, but he doubted he'd make it that far. There was a clearing in the center, dominated by a massive headstone on one side.
"Crucio!"
He fell to the ground screaming, although he knew no one would ever hear him. Pain seemed to press on him in every way imaginable. He was actually somewhat surprised that he hadn't been killed instead.
His head was lifted up by the hair, some of which came out. He found himself staring at the white mask of a Death Eater.
"Pettigrew," said the Death Eater, as if the word had a bad taste and he was spitting it out. "What business do you have with the Dark Lord?"
"It's only for him—it's only for him—" said Pettigrew desperately.
"What?" said the Death Eater. "If you'll tell him, you'll tell me too. What is it?"
Pettigrew could only scream for a few moments. "I'm—I'm the Secret-Keeper, I'm the Secret-Keeper!"
The Death Eater tilted his head at Pettigrew, who realized his captor had no idea what he was talking about. There was a flash of light, and suddenly his head dropped to the ground, and in the same instant the pain stopped. He lay there panting.
"Be civil, Lucius," said a calm voice from above them. "Peter here is our guest, and you will treat him well."
The Death Eater murmured a response, and Peter stood up to find himself staring into two crimson eyes like slits in the pale granite of the man's face. He backed away and shut his eyes.
"Well, well," said Voldemort. "You have come to see me. You have found me. What do you have to say?"
Peter Pettigrew, senseless with fear, knew what he had to do. It was far too late for anything else now.
Lucius Malfoy was leaving the graveyard. It had been an eventful night, and was about to be much more so. "Imagine," he thought, "a Fidelius charm, and that weasel the Secret-Keeper…fools. They will die for their resistance."
He paused. Another person was entering the graveyard, one he'd known for a long time, but only recently had entered service to the Dark Lord.
"Severus," said Lucius. "What brings you here tonight? Did he call for you?" Lucius was somewhat confused, as if he'd had reason not to expect Snape there that night.
"No," said Snape. "I came of my own volition. I was not called."
"In that case, you missed the party," said Lucius, chuckling. Snape stopped and turned towards him, so he continued: "Peter Pettigrew came to visit."
Snape smiled slightly. He had never liked him, or James, or any of that clique, and he had good reason not to. "Indeed," said Snape. "I take it he's dead now?"
Lucius grimaced behind his mask. "That's what you would think, but no. The Dark Lord let him leave alive, before he himself left."
Snape's eyes widened. "Really? What did Pettigrew do?"
Lucius smiled, despite himself. "It's not what he did—it's what the Potters did. Those fools had a Fidelius charm on their house. That was what was keeping the Dark Lord from finding them. And they made Pettigrew, that idiot, their Secret-Keeper!"
Snape's mask hid it, but all of the color drained from his face. "Not Sirius Black?"
"So you did know about that," said Lucius. "That's what we'd thought, but apparently they switched it to Pettigrew at the last moment. It was all some attempt to throw us off. Amazing how well it worked, no?"
Snape struggled to keep his voice under control. "So he gave the Dark Lord the secret?"
"Of course," said Lucius. "I thought he would have to steal the secret from his mind, but he gave it up willingly. That was why he had come. Some friend."
"And the Dark Lord's already gone to kill them?" asked Snape, knowing the answer.
"Naturally," said Lucius. "Tonight, the Potters die. If you'll excuse me, I have to get home to my wife and child…that way, when the Ministry comes knocking, I'll have had nothing to do with it."
With a laugh, he disapparated.
Snape waited, then checked around to make sure he was alone. He had no time to cast a spell to find out. Once he was sure, he disapparated, heading for Godric's Hollow. His doubts had long since fled; he was going to save Lily if he could, and die if he couldn't.
James Potter's head swiveled around as the front door imploded. Voldemort stepped into the hall, looking distant yet pleased. James instinctively reached for his wand, but it wasn't nearby. "He's here!" yelled James, and then a lethal ray of magic quieted him forever. Voldemort heard scuffling from the upper floors, as if someone was running around and moving heavy objects. Taking his time and savoring the moment, Voldemort ascended the stairs and turned to his right, where he found a closed door. Voldemort already knew it would be blocked from the other side. Not wanting to hurt anyone hiding there—that would be done by a different spell—he raised his wand and vanished the door and the objects behind it with one word.
Inside the room were a woman in her mid-twenties and a baby in a crib. Voldemort strode into the room, heading for the crib, but the woman stood in his way. With tears streaming down her face, the woman began to beg for her child's life, all meaningless droning to Voldemort. It didn't evoke any pity from him, not that anything could anymore.
"Stand aside, foolish girl…I said stand aside…Avada-"
He stopped. A patch of room next to the woman melted, then resolved to reveal a man, roughly her height and wearing a hooded Muggle overcoat.
"And you are?" asked Voldemort. He wasn't worried: the stranger could Apparate, but Voldemort was confident that he could kill him first if he tried.
The man didn't respond, but instead grabbed the woman's wrist. The woman, beginning to understand what was happening, reached for her child. By now, Voldemort was interested. If the stranger was one of the Order, then whoever it was was smart enough to know that he stood no chance at killing him, and could only hope to evade him. This showed more foresight than most of Voldemort's victims, who had mostly died either screaming or trying to kill him, neither of which had any effect. If the man wasn't one of Voldemort's enemies, then he had discovered Voldemort's plot faster than anyone else.
Either way, Voldemort wanted to know who the man was, and he had just enough time to find out before he killed him.
"Legilimens!" roared Voldemort, but the man's mind was such a cacophony of confused thoughts and conflicting emotions that Voldemort was forced to retreat. This gave the stranger the time he needed. Voldemort raised his wand for the death curse, but suddenly the stranger, the woman, and the child were gone in a blur of whirling world.
For a few moments, Voldemort was silent. Then he tilted his head back and screamed in anger. His prey had gotten away—for the first time ever, it had won. He raised his wand and blasted the ceiling and the roof above into woodchips. Then he swore to himself that someday, somehow, he would find the two remaining Potters and kill the child. He would hunt them until the day he died.
Chapter 1: Release
Harry Potter took a deep breath, then ran forward. Despite himself, he braced for impact, all of his muscles stiffening. He closed his eyes at the last moment, then opened them in amazement to find that he was in a completely different place.
"I'm really here," he thought. As if to confirm this, a massive sign above him read Platform 9 ¾ with a clock below it. Around him, other witches and wizards rushed around, some accompanied by their parents. Dominating the scene was the massive crimson-black train marked Hogwarts Express in a font that almost seemed to glitter.
Behind him, his father and mother walked out of the charmed pillar that served as the entrance to the platform, and only then did he realize he was in the way. He stepped back into the crowd as a group of kids, all toting owls in cages, walked through chatting to each other.
He wasn't paying attention. He was surrounded by more magical people than he'd ever seen in his life. He'd never known anyone his age before—his parents let him out of the house only rarely, and always with one of them accompanying him—but now he was going to Hogwarts, somewhere he would actually meet people, actually have fun for once. Finally, it was his turn.
His mother walked up to him.
She looked at the train. "I could almost think I'm coming here for my seventh year," she said. She looked down at him, and her eyes took on the unreadable expression they sometimes did. Whatever she was thinking about, she shook it off and smiled at him. "Do you still have everything?" she asked him. Behind her, his father turned to join them, but was greeted by a tall man with graying blond hair and an appearance that suggested money. "Severus," the man said, and his father turned to shake his hand.
"Of course," said Harry. "You don't need to worry so much, Mom."
She paused. For a moment, she closed her eyes and seemed to fight with herself. Finally, she reached into her purse. Harry, who knew that the purse was charmed to hold objects much bigger than itself, stepped back.
His mother pulled out a brown package tied with string. "It's a gift," she said, putting it on top of his bags. "For entering Hogwarts. You can open it on the train."
His eyes lit up with joy. "Thanks! What is it? Is it a surprise?"
"Yes," his mother replied. "Something of your father's."
"Okay," said Harry, somewhat confused. "Why did he have you give it to me?"
"No, not-" began his mother, then stopped. "He doesn't know I'm giving it to you. Trust me, though, he'd want you to have it."
"Fine," said Harry, not inclined to question her any further. From the sign above them came the sound of a bell, even though the sign had none. "You'd better get on," said his mother. "The good seats are all taken first."
His father came to her side. "Time already? Harry, study well and follow the rules. And above all, have fun."
Harry smiled as he started to pull his suitcases toward the train. "See you soon!" he yelled.
"Stay safe," his mother called back.
Harry joined the throng of students in front of the closest entrance. He reached into his pocket, feeling the wooden shaft with the phoenix-feather core that was his wand. The crowd thinned out in front of him and he walked forward, up the ramp, and into the car. He went into an empty cabin and took a window seat, pushing all his stuff into the compartments above, first his suitcase, then his books, then his owl, and lastly the package.
Sitting down, he looked out the window as the train began to move. A wall of yelling parents separated the passengers from the rest of the platform, some smiling, some with their hands cupped around their mouth, and a few with their arms stretched out holding a forgotten book or other. Harry turned his head around and saw his mother and father. His father was waving, but his mother had her hand to her face. She took her hand down and turned away, but not before Harry saw her face glittering in the sunlight. This took him as strange: some of the parents were having a hard time saying goodbye, if all the shouting was any indication, but none of them were actually in tears. It took Harry a minute to remember his mother's strange habit: how sometimes she would stare at nothing for a while, seemingly deep in thought, and how, in even rarer instances, Harry would see her crying silently for no apparent reason. He had always wanted to find out why, but had thought better of asking her. And it was too late now, because the train had finally shrugged off its three-month slumber and was picking up speed. Harry had time to watch his father wave one more time before they were gone, and he was on his way to the rest of his life.