Summary: Harry Potter AU based on this premise: What if Voldemort didn't survive and escape Godric's Hollow the night he murdered Harry's parents- at least, not the way you think? And what if Harry figured out he was a wizard years before he received his acceptance letter? An AU fic that follows the basic model of the books but with more than a few twists. In which Dumbledore is plotting, Harry's seeing things that haven't happened yet, there are ghosts everywhere and Voldemort will take over the wizarding world if he has to destroy himself to do it. Very slow moving.

Rating: T, I suppose. Some violence and some language, but nothing too explicit.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any related merchandise, all is the property of one J.K. Rowling. All I own is this fan-made story, and I'm not making any profit off of it.

AN: To clarify, yes, this is an AU… of sorts. This story takes place in the same universe as HP, but I've changed around a few of the major elements to suit my liking and I'm moving forward from there. Hopefully this won't be too confusing to read, and hopefully it won't all blow up in my face in the end. XD One thing I'd like to add: I have changed things for the purpose of this fic. These changes stem from large plot points to tiny little details. One thing that I know I am going to get complaints about is Harry' appearance. Now, in this fic Harry still has his scar, and he still greatly resembles his father, but he no longer wears glasses, and I have changed his eye color. There is a reason for this, and it will become clear through time. So don't freak out.

I hope you all enjoy it, and I would like to offer about a million and one thanks to my beta, Sarah, who was kind enough to read this whole thing and provide feedback and just generally put up with me and my crap. Well, if that's all, off we go.

Chapter One

The first dream came when Harry was only nine years old. One moment he had been lying in his cupboard, curled into a ball on the dusty mattress and marveling that he could hear Dudley's snoring even through two closed doors and a flight of stairs, and then he was standing with his back pressed against the wall in a long, shadowy hallway.

Shadowy was the correct word- there was an odd, fuzzy quality to the images around him, like a black-and-white movie where the film had faded with time, and the darkness was swirling like smoke around his body and climbing the walls. It was all too strange and frightening to be real. The curves and swells of the walls and the peeling brown-and-grey striped paper that covered them could be seen by a light streaming in from the end of the hall. Harry, after a moment's pause, began heading towards the source of the light. He was moving very slowly, stepping on the pads on his feet so as to make as little sound as possible. His whole body was tense, with something that might have been fear, or maybe anticipation. As he came closer, the patch of light formed itself into an open doorway. He could see a fireplace burning with in the room, an old decrepit couch, and the back of a man's head through the opening. He heard the sound of voices, too faint to make out any words, and a short laugh. Something in his stomach twisted at the noise.

He was still walking forward, though his feet were surely not taking directions from his brain. He was aware of something clenched in his hand, a stick of some sort, but he couldn't stop to think about it. His breath began coming faster as he crept closer, closer, straining to make something out. The man laughed again, louder than before, and a woman's voice rose in answer. "Now now, be serious Tom-"

Harry awoke with a gasp, finding that he had sweated through his sheets and that Aunt Petunia was rapping furiously on his door, screeching for him to get up already. His head was pounding and the scar on his forehead stung, but luckily that faded after a few minutes.

The dream hadn't been particularly special, or even interesting, but it still stuck with Harry, and he found himself still thinking about it later that day. Something about it made it seem so vivid, so much more real than any other dream he'd ever had. But it couldn't have been real, not unless he could sleepwalk through a door with a lock on it.

The dream had not made much sense once he thought about it, but then, dreams usually didn't, and soon enough Harry had forgotten about it. There were far more important things to worry about, such as finding ways to avoid Dudley and his very active fists, especially when school was out and Dudley had a constant bad mood from the heat. Or, even if he managed that, how to de-weed the garden and clean the house without doing something to earn a reprimand at screaming-level from Aunt Petunia, which was at least twice as difficult. By that night, he had put the dream it entirely out of his mind.

So Harry was caught by surprise when it returned the very next night. Same as before, he could not remember falling asleep, or even being drowsy. He had laid down on the mattress, and what felt like less than a second later he was back in the hallway, watching the fire's light flutter across the carpet like dancers twirling on a darkened stage. He stood not at the end of the hall this time, but just outside the doorway. He had the same view of the fire, the mold-stained couch, and a seated man from behind, but this time he did not move. He was frozen in place, pressed as tightly against the wall as he could be without fusing into it.

The woman's voice came far clearer than before. Her voice was low and strained, like she was speaking around something lodged in her throat. "So how is the lovely Miss Weston doing, Tom? Come on, let's hear it. Don't spare any details."

A man's laugh, oddly high-pitched and familiar. "Well, I hate to disappoint you, mother, but there's not much to tell. She is well, she said, and she certainly seemed pleased to see me."

"Oh, and why wouldn't she be, dear?" The words sounded affectionate but her tone was distant and cold. "And did she say anything about…?"

"She told me she would be interested in… 'furthering our acquaintance'… but not much beyond that, no."

A snort, from a third speaker. "You should consider yourself lucky she's said that much. Considering what happened the last time you two saw one another, I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd thrown you out the moment you said 'good day'."

"That's quite enough!" the woman's voice cut in sharply. "Thomas, dear, I thought we agreed not to speak of that."

"It's alright, mother. Father's right, it's a miracle that Cecilia has forgiven me at all, much less consider spending time with me again. I'm just grateful that she has. It was a horrendous mistake that I made, and I won't let it ruin what we have."

"So you haven't heard from her then?" The flames in the fireplace were dwindling, casting shadows around the room, but none of its occupants noticed.

"Goodness, no. It's been years now, hasn't it? She might even be dead by now. She was a wreck when I left her, let me tell you. I remember she kept screaming about how I couldn't leave her, it was my duty to stay with her… bloody madwoman. I still don't know what kind of… trickery she pulled on me to make me run off with her." Harry saw him shift slightly in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. There were several rings on his fingers. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. She's probably lying off in some gutter somewhere, like that rotten brother of hers."

Harry was aware that he was shaking, and that it was taking all of his control not to run into the room and… what? What did he want to do? The stick, rod, whatever it was in his hand trembled along with him.

"He doesn't still live there, does he? In that house?"

"Who knows? No one's bothered to check it out since the old tramp passed, did they? "

"It he doesn't, we ought to have it cleared away, finally. It always was such an eyesore, and they wouldn't move no matter how much they were asked… It's nice to be rid of them, I say."

The woman's voice interrupted, finally. "I've heard quite enough about the Gaunts, thank you." There was a rustle of fabric that might have been her shifting in her seat. "You said yourself that we shouldn't let the mistakes of the past taint the future; please, let's not speak of them. Come on, Tom, you haven't told us nearly enough about your night with Cecilia."

Once more, a laugh. "I did tell you, mother. We talked, that's all. Unless you'd like a detailed description of the cloud patterns we saw on our walk?"

"Now now, be serious Tom…"

Harry awoke, with a jerk, staring blankly up at the low ceiling and trying to calm his pounding heart. The seats were tangled around his legs like chains and he quickly kicked them off. He reached up to brush his sweaty hair away from his scar, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly along the cut.

He had no idea what the things he had seen and heard meant. Indeed, he hadn't understood most of what was being said in the dream, only that these people, whoever they were, did not seem very kind. But what stunned him was how angry it made him. Something about those people- Tom, he'd heard Tom, and his parents- and the cruel things they'd said had made him so furious his hands were clenched into fists even as the emotion faded along with the dream. He still didn't know where it came from. Usually Harry dreamed about far more incredible and interesting things, like a flying motorbike.

But, as always, there was no time for him to think on it. The knock on his door came as expected, and he opened the door and half-stepped, half-crawled out to meet Aunt Petunia's scowling face.

"About time. Now go fix the eggs before your Uncle wakes up. He's got an important meeting today and I don't want him to be stressed."

Harry nodded and stepped in the kitchen, almost stumbling over the doorstep. He'd known how to cook eggs since he was about five, and waking up to orders like these wasn't a surprise. Today, however, he still felt ill from the dream, and had to cook while his head was pounding. He nearly set fire to his hand as he turned on the stove, and promptly dropped the pan in a sticky brown coffee puddle on the floor.

Dudley was already seated in the kitchen when he entered, stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth with his eyes fixed on a handheld video game. Harry watched him out of the corner of his eye. He had been noticing more and more as he got older that he and Dudley didn't look very much alike at all, considering that they were cousins. Dudley, like his father, had canary-blond hair and small like blue eyes that were set too close together. His mouth was as wide and his face was the dull pink of an overripe peach. Harry, on the other hand, was taller and skinner, with cloudy pale eyes like Aunt Petunia, though his were grey and hers were tinted green. His hair was dark and wavy and curled slightly around his forehead, doing a very poor job of hiding his one unique trait- a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt, etched into his skin.

The one time he had asked about it, Aunt Petunia had said he must have gotten it in the car crash that killed his parents before quickly changing the subject. Harry wasn't sure he believed that story. How did a car crash result in a scar that oddly shaped, and only on his forehead? And why, when he tried to remember that did, did he see some sort of green light flashing at him? He had no idea where that could have come from. He never bothered asking, however, knowing that he'd just be told to "stop asking stupid questions". He'd realized a long time ago that "don't ask stupid questions" meant "stop asking me questions I don't want to answer or I'll make you pay for it" and he wisely learned to keep his mouth shut.

Harry assumed that since he obviously didn't take after this part of the family, he must look like his parents. But he didn't know for sure, as he had never even seen a picture of them. Most of the pictures in the house were of Dudley. Harry didn't know why his aunt and uncle kept so my pictures of their son around. It wasn't as if there was any kind of lack of Dudley in their lives. No, Dudley was always the center of attention, just the way he liked it.

The boy in question had caught Harry staring at him. "Get on wif' it!" he said with a full mouth, gesturing towards the stove with one pudgy hand. " 'M hungry!" A jaundice-yellow smear of butter dripped down his chin.

Harry gave him a sour look but did not reply, turning to dig the eggs out of the fridge. The pain in his head had begun to fade for a moment, but Dudley's squeaky whine brought it back full-force.

Dudley pulled himself out of his chair, which looked like it took more effort than it should have, and all but skipped over to Harry. "You know it's my birthday next week."

"Yes, I know." He'd mentioned it about fifty times in the past month.

"I'm turning ten, you know."

Harry could think of a million things to say to that but focused instead on the eggs; cracking a few and watching them sizzle in the pan. He purposely did not look at Dudley.

"Mummy and Daddy said we're gonna go to a theme park for the day. Us, you know. Not you."

Ah, so that was glanced back at him, face blank. He had to tilt his head up slightly to look Dudley in the eyes, a fact he hated. "Alright."

That had not been the reaction Dudley was expecting. "Alright? What do you mean alright? Don't you care?"

"No."

"But- but you're gonna stay here. Alone."

Harry shrugged. "I doubt I'll be alone. They'll probably get Mrs. Figg to watch me." He held in a sigh at the thought. Mrs. Figg wasn't half as unpleasant as the Dursleys, but Harry had a feeling she was getting a bit… old, for a lack of a better word. She didn't always seem entirely aware of what was happening around her, and every time she visited she insisted on telling him all about each and every cat she'd ever owned, regardless of how many times he'd heard about them before. Every time he pointed this out to her she'd just look at him for a few seconds, blinking repeatedly as if there was something in her eyes, and then continue on as if she hadn't been interrupted. "That's what they usually do, anyway…"

"You know that's not what I meant!"

Harry ignored him. "Do you want some eggs on toast or no?"

Dudley scowled, his mouth curling down and seeming to sink into his chin. "…No. By itself." He watched Harry for a moment. "Don't you care? I remember you got upset when you were alone that one time…"

Harry felt his face flush. That had been several years ago, the first of Dudley's birthdays that either of them could really remember, not that Harry really wanted to. Thinking back, it should have been obvious that Harry wasn't going to be included in Dudley's birthday; that he was just going to stay with Mrs. Figg for a few hours he always did when the Dursleys didn't want him around for whatever reason. But somehow he hadn't picked up on it, not until an hour before the event began when his Aunt and Uncle ordered him to clear out and laughed at his bewildered question about wasn't he going to come, too? His real mistake had been actually trying to complain, almost pleading at one point for them to let him go if he wouldn't be any trouble. It hadn't gone over well. He'd never seen Uncle Vernon's face turn that state of purple before. He had looked rather like a radish with a thinning mustache."That was ages ago, 'course I don't care. Hand me a plate."

Dudley shoved one at him. "You're lying." Harry scooped some eggs onto the plate and handed it to him. He noticed a few toast crumbs still stuck to his face but chose not to mention it.

"Believe what you want." Harry turned back to the stove and jumped when something wet slammed into the back of his head. He wiped around, a hand up to his hair and found Dudley laughing helplessly, his plate now empty. "What was that for?!"

Dudley didn't seem able to speak through his laugher, his stomach vibrating with effort. "Egghead… get it, Harry, you're an egghead…."

Whether it was the fried egg dripping down his collar or the bad joke, Harry felt something is the back of his mind sort of- crack, give way and a hot, angry river poured out, rushing faster than the blood in his veins. He moved forward a few steps, his mouth opening to say something that he knew he'd regret later- when Dudley was suddenly thrown, flung off his feet and across the room like a bird taking flight. He slammed roughly into the kitchen table and his round head bounced on the tiled floor. He didn't move, and for one horrible moment Harry thought he was dead. But then the boy sat up, his hair in disarray, looking around in bewilderment. There was a scrape across his ear, dripping blood onto the floor, and Harry felt a twinge of annoyance that Aunt Petunia was going to make him clean that up. "Ow- what-" Dudley babbled, his beady eyes landing accusingly on Harry, still frozen by the stove. Without warning Dudley's face screwed up and reddened until he looked like oversized Christmas ornament. "Mummy! Harry pushed me!"

"What?" With a sinking heart, Harry recognized his Uncle's voice, followed by thundering footsteps on the stairs. He quickly moved away from the door and narrowly missed being hit with it when his Aunt and Uncle burst in, immediately rushing to Dudley's side. Aunt Petunia threw her arms around him and began fussing over him.

"Dudley darling, are you alright? What did that awful boy do to you?" She glared at Harry suspiciously over Dudley's head.

"He pushed me into the table. I didn't even do anything," Dudley's voice cracked in all the right places but he was smirking at Harry through the circle of his mother's arms. Neither of his parents seemed to notice.

"Is that so," Uncle Vernon noted, his eyes glinting dangerously. Deciding it wasn't worth trying to explain, Harry made a dash for the door. Uncle Vernon caught him before he'd taken more than a step and yanked him back in by his collar. His face was stained scarlet and purple and he was still half-dressed, standing in a dress shirt and boxers with his hair uncombed. Somehow his sloppy appearance made him twice as terrifying. "What have we told you, boy? You lay one hand on Dudley and you'll be spending the next twenty years of your life in that cupboard!"

He knew it was no use, but Harry tried anyway. "I didn't push him, he just fell-"

Uncle Vernon shook him roughly, rattling Harry's teeth in his head. "Enough of that! Apologize to Dudley!"

"But-"

"Apologize!" He roared, making everyone jump.

Harry met Dudley's gaze, forcing back his fury. It was like swallowing bile. "I'm sorry."

Dudley grinned and stuck his tongue out.

"Are you sure you're not hurt, popkin?" Aunt Petunia asked, still looking panicked.

Dudley seemed to think deeply for a moment, though from what Harry knew of him that wasn't likely. "I think so… m' head still hurts a bit…"

"Oh, poor dear," she cooed, trying to get a good look at him. Uncle Vernon finally released his grip on Harry and walked over to his wife and child.

"Don't worry Petunia; Dudders is tougher than that, right son?"

Harry took advantage of their distraction to slip out the kitchen door unnoticed, before Uncle Vernon could impart a worse punishment on him. He hesitated by his cupboard door, but decided there was no point in trying to lie down and get rid of his headache when he'd just be ordered out again. Shoving on his shoes, he ran out onto the front lawn. He didn't dare take a step past the Dursley's driveway. Harry wrapped his arms around himself and shivered in the chilly morning air.

"Now what was that about?" He muttered to himself. It wasn't unusual for him to be blamed for things he didn't do, particularly when Dudley was involved, but usually Dudley planned to get Harry is trouble. This hadn't been planned- it couldn't have been. The look of surprise and pain on Dudley's face when he'd hit the table hadn't looked fake, and he could never have jumped that far. But then what had happened? Harry hadn't shoved him, he knew he hadn't, he hadn't touched Dudley at all. But something had pushed Dudley off his feet, just as Harry had gotten angry…

Harry found himself thinking back to the year before, when he had been running from Dudley and his gang only to find himself sitting on the room of their school building, far out of reach. Or the time Aunt Petunia had given him a haircut at home, tugging and snapping off some strands and she tried to find a way to cover up "that ugly scar", only to have it all grow back by the next morning. Or the time Dudley had been threatening to hit him with Mrs. Figg's cane during one of her visits, only to have it fly back and hit him in the eye. True, these things didn't seem connected, but strange and lucky things did seem to happen to Harry quite often, particularly when he was in some kind of danger. Then again, he usually ended up in more trouble after the incidents than he would have been in to begin with.

Harry shifted and rubbed his arms against a sudden breeze, staring up into the grey slate of the sky. He didn't know what he was thinking, really. Those …incidents had been odd, but not enough to really need to be worrying about. What happened this day, as on all those other days, must have been luck, or a simple mistake. Maybe Dudley had tried to step away from Harry, and slipped on the floor. Or maybe Harry had pushed him without realizing it. He didn't feel well, he'd only woken up less than an hour ago, after a very bad night's sleep… yes, he was tired, he was ill, he wasn't thinking clearly...

Bloody madwoman, a voice from the past whispered, and Harry shivered, this time not from the cold.

He ought to go back inside and finish fixing breakfast before the Dursleys noticed he was gone, if they hadn't already. He knew that, but somehow couldn't bring himself to move. It was so peaceful and quiet out here, the kind of quiet he rarely every got, and even then it was in his cupboard, curled up in his mattress with his legs pulled up into his chest so that he would fit and the smell of dust constantly in his nose. He wanted to close his eyes and savor it.

Even as he thought of doing so, a movement in the grass caught his eye. He stopped to look at it, for a moment thinking that it was just the wind in the grass. Then he saw a gray shape curling and uncurling its body, like a feathered tassel waving in the wind… it was a snake, longer than his arm and just as thick. Its back was covered black and brown stripes, flat prison bars crossing from one side to the other. There were thinner stripes on its neck and jaw, and its eyes were gold. Harry peered at it with interest, but to be on the safe side, he took a step back closer towards the house. To his surprise the snake moved with him, sliding forward and turning its head. He stopped, and so did it. They stared at one another. Then, after a long moment, the snake slowly dipped its head, nose brushing the dirt, than lifted it again- a bow. Harry just frowned at it. It made no other movement before uncoiling itself and slithering away, across the Dursleys front yard and into the tangled hedges that divided their house from the one next door. As it went, it let out a long soft hiss, which Harry imagined for a moment sounded like his name.

He should have known then, as he watched it disappear into the greenery, that this was the point in his life where things were going to start changing. And that once they did, nothing was ever going to be the same for him again. But at that moment in time, Harry just thought that this may have been the most peculiar day of his life thus far, and he hadn't even eaten breakfast yet. The snake's tail vanished entirely, and Harry heard Aunt Petunia calling his name. With a sigh, he placed the animal and the strange events of the day so far out his mind. Hoping his so-called family would do the same, Harry walked back to the house.

AN: So that was chapter one. Thanks for reading, and leave a review if you like. Also, I'm from the states, and therefore most of the British lingo I'm using in this fic I got either from books or from some brief research online. If I use something incorrectly or if something sounds too American, please let me know!