A/N: Hi everyone. Thank you for your patience during the rewriting of this story. Formerly called Harry's Trip in Time although much has changed. I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to vote on the new title and everyone who reviewed. I hope you enjoy the new version of the story and will take the time to comment in a review.

Summary: Harry is thoroughly depressed after the events of his fifth year; he is having nightmares and spiralling into a deep depression. Several parties are afraid he might do something drastic. To make things worse he accidentally lands himself in the past, in his parent's era, what will he do? Plagued by memories of what has happened and what is to come, he struggles to cope with life and come to terms with his destiny.

How will he survive with teenage versions of his parents: An immature and suspicious James, a confused Lily, a childish Sirius and a slightly bookish Remus and what of their betrayer Wormtail? Will he ever be able to get back? What of his friends in the future, or is it the past? More importantly will our favourite hero find the family he has craved his whole life? Is this just the thing he needs to heal from his grief and come out stronger?

Rating: 12A

Warnings: Contains some swearing

Pairings: None

Chapter I: Summer Holidays

Thunder clapped overhead. There had been torrential downpour on and off for the past two weeks, even though it was mid-July. There were floods in some parts of the country. The government was getting quite anxious as to the sudden climate change; the weathermen were baffled as to the reason for this, and the BBC were being bombarded with calls from angry citizens who had been leaving the safety and security of their homes for the foretold sunshine, only to be met with heavy downpour. Amidst all this chaos there was one teenage boy lying lethargically on his bed in the smallest bedroom of number four Privet Drive who hadn't noticed; in fact, this boy had barely noticed anything for just over a month. The thunder and heavy raindrops splattering on his window were nothing more than meaningless, irrational noise, after the loss of his godfather, Sirius Black.

Harry Potter was an orphan, his parents murdered when he was only a year old, by the most evil wizard to emerge in over a century, Lord Voldemort, leaving him with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead when the curse that had killed thousands of fully grown witches and wizards had backfired on its originator. The only reason he had survived was because his mother had sacrificed her life for him, thereby sealing an ancient spell. This scar was what he was famous for in the wizarding world. This scar had burdened him with a life of worry and unhappiness. It was this scar that made him marked man, a human target, and although he hadn't known what it meant until a couple of weeks ago, he knew that he was going to be targeted by Lord Voldemort ever since his first year at Hogwarts.

He'd just finished his fifth year ― and he wished the end of the year had never arrived, he wished he had learned Occlumency properly or been smart enough to realise that Snape could not have spoken more clearly in front of that cruel hag they called a teacher, Umbridge; he should have recognised the glance Snape had given him as one of assurance that his message had been understood, and he should have come back to find out after they had led Umbridge into the forest. Maybe then, just maybe, Sirius would still be alive, maybe Harry would be with Sirius right now, maybe he wouldn't be here, jealous of the Dursleys, of all people going about their daily lives as a family. He wasn't included in their nice normal family, but it would have been nice to have a family he could call his own, and he had killed the last chance he had had at getting that.

Professor Dumbledore had eventually come clean with him, telling him that he had been prophesised to be the one with the power to kill Voldemort, he was destined to kill or be killed by Lord Voldemort. Oh, how he hated the word destiny. Did he not have a choice? Could he not have his own life, where no one dictated what he was to do? Or who he saw or met? Where he went? His entire life seemed to have been controlled by one person or another, and at the very top of this control hierarchy lay Dumbledore and Voldemort. All his misfortunes seemed to lead back to one or the other ― intentional or not was a different matter, but the result was the same.

Voldemort was officially back now. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, who had adamantly denied his return for the past year and sought to discredit both Harry and Dumbledore, had been forced to admit that he was back after the fiasco at the ministry. The 

Daily Prophet had done a complete one-eighty and portrayed Harry as a tragic hero who was "the lone voice of truth, forced to bear ridicule and slander." Never mind the ridicule and slandering was done by them. The articles portraying Harry as a stupid, attention-seeking teenager who wanted to stay in the limelight had bothered him last year, but now they seemed like a petty thing to have been worrying about, a mere nuisance that he could have done without because they caused no real harm.

He wished that he didn't have to worry about such morbid things, and that the reality of war hadn't really hit home and had affected his godfather in the worst possible way; and to top it all off he had the prophecy to worry about; the prophecy that was the cause of his parents' death and now Sirius'.

Sirius. Harry's heart ached. He hadn't really realised before what the expression heartbreak meant ― he had dismissed it as melodramatic and exaggerated ― but now, now his heart bled at the mere thought of Sirius, his heart really was breaking, and he didn't know how to stop it, he didn't want to stop it. He had relived the process of Sirius' death so many times this summer. Every waking moment was filled with Sirius' last moments replaying themselves, as if imprinted on the back of his eyes. His nights were full of Sirius. The night time was the worst; the dreams had additional events, accusing glares, betrayed glances.

His eyes welled up with tears. He couldn't take it anymore; everything seemed to happen to him. If only he wasn't so stupid, Sirius wouldn't have got killed, Sirius would still be alive… it was all his fault. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't he be just another random person who had parents and Sirius and a happy life? Why? Why?

Harry dimly registered the Dursleys getting ready for lunch. He could hear the plates clattering, but he didn't care anymore. Quite frankly, he had lost the will to live. He knew he shouldn't be feeling this way, since thousands of people were counting on him to kill Voldemort for them, but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment. These were the same people who had ridiculed him for the last year and printed false stories about him the year before. The same people who sat at home doing nothing, and then wondering why no one had done anything to stop the rising threat. It wasn't fair. He didn't want to kill anyone. 

His parents had already been killed because of the prophecy, and Sirius, too; who would be next? Ron? Hermione?

He hardly ate these days, and when he did it was very little, barely enough to sustain him. He liked the feeling of hunger. It was a different feeling than the hollow emptiness; gave him something else to focus on, other than the gaping hole in his chest. Most of the time he just felt sick, anyway ― it was a physical thing, he just couldn't eat, the smell of food made bile rise up in his throat ― and about the only things he could stomach were water and plain toast. He was a little hungry right now, but he could wait a couple more hours for the night to come, and then he would eat, undisturbed by his loving relatives. For now, though, maybe he should take a walk round the park to pass the time, get out of here. Hmm, yeah, maybe he should… he couldn't really be bothered, but he supposed that he really should. He hadn't left the house in ages, and maybe the change in scenery would do some good, even if it was a bunch of broken swings.

Petunia picked at her roast. She was glad it was the summer, even though the weather had been more reminiscent of autumn, but her Duddykins was home and her husband was here, and they were enjoying a nice meal together. Everything was great. The days had passed uneventfully during the school year; she had done the cooking, cleaning and the dusting as she usually did when the freak was away. He was back now, and she'd probably only seen him twice this whole summer. It was a bother to be doing the housework, but she found that she would rather do the housework herself than tolerate his presence. It was strange, though ― the only time they heard anything from him was during the nights.

Stupid, ungrateful brat, she thought, but her heart wasn't really in it. She looked at Vernon and nodded, making a noise of assent. Why on Earth did he think she cared about which football player was being transferred where?

"Mum?" asked Dudley hesitantly in the lull in conversation.

"Yes, darling?"

"Did…Did something happen?" he asked, keeping his eyes averted to his plate.

She noticed that he hadn't had much. "What do you mean, honey?"

"I mean, like, with Harry. He hasn't come out of his room all summer."

Petunia studiously avoided Vernon's eyes. She'd noticed, too. What had happened?

"I don't know what you're talking about, dear. Here, have some more potatoes."

"Do you think there's something wrong?"

"Why do you care?" she snapped.

Dudley looked taken aback. "I don't. I just wanted to know." The truth was, he was afraid for his cousin; one of Dudley's dorm mates at Smeltings had slit his wrists last year and went through intensive therapy, and the rest of them had been given lessons on mental health disorders including depression, and how to help someone suffering from it – if only he could remember them. It hadn't been pretty; Dudley didn't think he would ever get that image out of his mind. Harry was acting like that now, and he didn't want that to happen to his cousin

It wasn't that he liked him or anything, but Harry hadn't really done anything to him, and he had in fact saved Dudley's life last year from those Dementors. Dudley shivered slightly. He hated those things, and if he never met another one again, it would be too soon.

A lot had happened last year; not that he'd ever tell his mother or father, they didn't know anything. They would probably say that Michael would have deserved it if he had died for being stupid enough to slit his wrists. Dudley knew that no one deserved that. He had been one of the ones that had bullied Michael. He tried to make amends, but he still felt incredibly guilty. He was only having a bit of fun! He hadn't meant for him to take it so seriously! All that blood… He had done the same to Harry. Oh, God, what if Harry was going to off himself because of him? He had to do something!

Harry dragged himself out of bed, slipped on his oversized trainers and stretched, clicking his back in the process. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the window. "Merlin, I look awful," he thought detachedly– his eyes looked like twin bruises, his hair limp and greasy, and his clothes hung off him worse than usual. He closed his eyes briefly, hating his reflection, and turned away from the window, dragging his feet out of his room and down the stairs out the front door.

Dudley heard the front door close and frowned slightly. Had Harry gone out? That was odd, he never left the house. I wonder where he's going? Maybe he should follow, just to make sure. Yeah, that's what he would do. He took a quick look at his parents. His mother was clearing the table and his father had already moved to the sofa in the living room. He wouldn't be missed. He glanced out of the window; the rain seemed to have stopped. He stood up and grabbed his jacket off the sofa where he had left it earlier, checked his pockets to make sure he had his keys, wallet and phone, and left the house, intent on catching up to Harry.

Harry walked along the street towards the park, several nosy neighbours peeking out of their windows to catch a glimpse of the delinquent who went to St Brutus' for Incurably Criminal Boys. He came to a sudden stop. He was in Magnolia Crescent. This was where he had first seen Sirius in his dog form, before he knew of his innocence, just after he had seen the long-haired escaped convict on the Muggle news. His breath hitched and he tore his eyes away from the street corner, staring resolutely ahead. He picked up his pace and continued onwards towards his destination. He was not going to cry.

Dudley walked, scanning the street ahead for any sign of Harry. What was he going to say? Hi, Harry, I know I bullied you when we were younger, but don't kill yourself, please. That sounded stupid even to himself. How about, 'Harry, I know it's difficult to live with people who hate you'? No, that wouldn't do either; he didn't want to make Harry more depressed. Hmm, this was difficult. 'Harry, don't be depressed, I didn't mean to make fun of you when we were younger'? No, that was too obvious. 'I'm sorry, Harry, I didn't mean to bully you'? Ha, fat chance of him believing that! 'Harry, I know I was an idiot when we were kids, but'– but what? 'Hey, Harry, I didn't thank you for saving me from the Dementors last summer'– yeah, that sounded all right.

Harry reached the park, not quite in record time – that had been achieved a long time ago, before Hogwarts, when Dudley and his friends used to play Harry Hunting. He smiled wryly; it was a testament of how bad things had become, that he could almost call those good times. The swing was wet. So was everything else. He wiped the seat with his sleeve and sat, swinging morosely.

Dudley found Harry at the park, swinging lightly. His posture screamed depression and Dudley debated the best way to approach. Maybe from behind would be best. His attempt to advance silently was ruined by his trainers squelching in the mud.

"Harry?"

"What do you want, Dudley?" he replied, without turning.

Dudley looked at him, indescion clawing at his face. "Er ―"

Harry looked at him, and Dudley noted his eyes weren't as bright as he remembered them to be. "What is it, Dudley? I can't be bothered right now."

Dudley shuffled his feet awkwardly. What had happened to his script? "Um ―"

Harry looked away again.

"I…er…I justwantedtosaythatI'msorryforeverythingIdidtoyouwhenwewereyounger."

Harry looked at him blankly. "What?"

Dudley took a deep breath. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for everything I did to you when we were younger."

"Oh. It's okay," he replied, once again turning away.

This annoyed Dudley, because he didn't know what he was thinking.

"It's okay? What kind of shit answer is that?"

"What do you want me to say, Dudley? That it wasn't fair, I hadn't done anything? That I hated being picked on? That I hated being alone? That I wish none of it happened? Well, it did, and it's in the past now – I honestly couldn't care less about it. What brought this on, anyway?"

"I really am sorry. Maybe…maybe we could start over, or something?"

"Mmm," Harry replied absently.

"Truce?" Dudley asked, sticking out his hand.

Harry looked at him, trying to find some sort of lie. Dudley found it creepy. It was as if Harry was assessing his worth. Finally, seemingly finding no lie, he shook Dudley's hand, looking slightly apprehensive.

"Should we go home now?"

"You go ahead, I'll be back later."

Dudley scanned his face and was satisfied that Harry wasn't about to do something drastic. He turned and walked back home, feeling lighter, as though he had gotten something off his chest.



Harry watched Dudley's retreating back. Was he serious? He certainly seemed that way. What had happened? Harry sat on the swing for a while longer, and then headed back to Number Four Privet Drive.

"BOY!" thundered his uncle as he walked through the door.

"What?"

"WHY ARE YOU SO LATE? Dudley was back ages ago. Now that's a boy who knows what a reasonable time to be back is –" Harry tuned him out; he was used to these monologues. " – not that I'd expect a delinquent like yourself to know proper manners or have any form of social ettiquette. You'd better be on your best behaviour when Marge gets here tomorrow, I swear, I'm warning you, boy, if I hear –"

That broke Harry out of his reverie, his heart thudding against his chest. "What? Marge is coming?"

"THAT'S AUNT MARGE TO YOU, BOY."

"Why?"

"WHY? WHY? THAT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS," he shouted, face purpling rapidly. "AND YOU'D BETTER DO AS I SAY AND BEHAVE YOURSELF TOMORROW AND HAVE A SHOWER TO CLEAN THAT DISGUSTING HAIR OF YOURS. GET OUT OF MY SIGHT NOW, YOU FILTHY FREAK!"

Harry retreated up the stairs, his mind whirring. Why the hell did Marge suddenly want to visit? I swear, if she says one thing, just one thing about Sirius or my parents, I won't stop at blowing her up. Maybe the Cruciatus would be more successful this time, he thought, hands clenched tightly by his side.

A/N: Thank you for reading. Please review.