Disclaimer:I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to J.K. Rowling.
Author's Note #1: This is the same person as storysinger2300—whatever glitch affected this account has been fixed, and so I can actually use it again (thank goodness)! My Chosen Destiny fic andBond's Formation fic will accordingly be moved over here. I'm actually in the process of adding both those stories—as well as the corrected content of my other stories—to my Sentimental Star account now. Thanks for bearing with me!
Author's Note #2: Hi, folks! I had tried this for a while under a different penname (Aelinwyn, for anyone who might have read it there)—mostly because I thought I might be incorporating slash in this story and because I wanted to experiment. Suffice it to say, I got impatient with my experiment. As to the slash aspect, still not entirely sure I'll incorporate it. If I do, I'll give a warning out ahead of time.
As it is, I'm really excited about this story. The format's a little different than what I usually use, but I've been mulling over this story and reworking it ever since the fourth Harry Potter movie came out. Now that I've finally posted at least the first portion, I can't wait to see what people think. It is not HBP or DH compliant, although there may be spoilers for both. Objects, ideas, etc. from those books may appear in this fanfic, but they may not be quite the same as they are in J.K. Rowling's stories; just thought I'd give everyone a heads up. This is officially alternate universe, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!
Rating: T
Pairings:Harry/Hermione
Summary: 'You can save one life, but you may lose another. Make one change and completely rewrite Destiny'—Sixteen year old Harry is given the chance to go back in time to his Fourth Year to fix what came to pass. There he finds that even the smallest change can completely alter Destiny's course. But there is always a price with magic…
"Speech"
/Personal Thoughts/
'Telepathic Speech'
New Dawn
By Sentimental Star
Chapter One: Ye Of Little Hope
It was no longer rare for him to have dreams. They could actually be more accurately called nightmares. After the insanity that had been his Fifth Year at Hogwarts, he wondered if he would ever sleep properly again. Therefore, when he shut his eyes that night after he, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were shooed up-stairs, he—not for the first time since their fallout—wished he'd tolerated Snape and learned Occlumency. It would have fixed so much.
As slow tears leaked out from underneath his closed eyelids, the soon-to-be-Sixth-Year Gryffindor turned away from Ron's bed and burrowed his face into the pillow. He finally fell into a restless sleep like that some forty-five minutes later and his psyche—not Voldemort this time—did not fail to disappoint:
(Sequence Beginning)
Dark. That is all things ever seem right now. Dark. Painful. Lost. Chilled. He did not dare let anyone get too close and his heart wouldn't let anyone get too far. They were the last of the Resistance, the army in the shadows fighting a losing battle.
Severus Snape had died just days before, murdered in cold blood by Voldemort, for a relic he did not even properly possess. Their last link to Hogwarts…gone. Any who had not fled the school at the first in-surge of Death Eaters, or who had not yet graduated, were surely killed. And that meant McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick. Hagrid. Neville, who had returned as a Professor to help protect the students. Luna, who would have been a Seventh Year. And Merlin knew who else; the death tallies were still coming in.
He had cried bitterly when he'd heard the news of their last spy's death. Because he'd grown to respect the man, knew how Dumbledore could have trusted him and why. Had finally understood, and acknowledged, just how much the former Potions Master and one-time Headmaster had given up for their cause. Had given up for him
The Slytherin was—had been—undoubtedly, one of the bravest men he'd ever met.
He'd snuck into Hogwarts when the news had arrived, hoping to salvage something of their people, if not the bodies. He'd found the bodies thrown haphazardly across the floor of the Great Hall. At least fifty of them, and more were being dragged in as he watched, safe (or as safe as he could be in the giants' den) underneath his Cloak.
So many.
An alarm spell had been set in Hogwarts—indeed, in the Headmaster's very office. And Army and Order alike would rush to answer it if it went off.
Snape—Merlin bless the man—must have somehow, in some way tripped it.
But they had been too late.
Hollow and aching was the comfort of being alerted, then, especially when faced with the identities of those dead: besides Luna, Neville, and the respective Heads of House, there was Mad-Eye Moody. Colin Creevey. Tonks. Fred Weasley…Remus. And so many others he knew.
His stomach liquidized and he retched, right there on the cold stone floor of the once-grand Great Hall.
What worth was there to this? Why fight…when heartbreak and death were all you were repaid with?
He retched again—so sick—and yet not able to muster the willpower or the courage to move. Retched and retched and retched, 'til there could not possibly be anything left in his stomach.
Why, oh, why, oh, why…
'Light-child!' the call rang crystal clear in his mind, the voice like bells and storms and hope. 'Light-child, do not despair! I will help! Light-child…!'
(End Sequence)
And sixteen-year-old Harry Potter woke covered in sweat, with a half-strangled gasp, to the pale early morning light spilling across the pillow of his bed at Grimmauld Place.
He lay there, all panic and fear, grief and pain, as nausea thundered through his veins.
Rolling over and out of bed, Harry staggered to his feet and barely made it through the door of the bathroom before he started retching again. This time, it actually made it in a toilet bowl.
Once he was quite sure nothing was left in him, he muttered a cleaning spell, before slumping wearily against the porcelain contraption. As soon as his stomach calmed, he stumbled upright and splashed his face with cold water, making sure to rinse his mouth.
He knew it was still quite early, and that no one was likely to be up at this hour. The thought of a shower after that horror was appealing, and he made haste to rid himself of the dream's final vestiges.
When he stepped out a full hour later and dried off, he still could not hear anyone stirring; nor did even Molly Weasley appear to be up. "What time is it, anyway?" he muttered to himself.
Wrapping the towel around his waist and gathering up his pyjamas one-armed, he quietly made his way out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
Ron snored away, undisturbed.
With an inaudible sigh, the conscious sixteen-year-old slowly started dressing, taking his time: pushed his glasses on; pulled over his head his two-sizes, too large t-shirt; pulled on his boxers and ridiculously baggy shorts, which actually fell more mid-calf than just below the knees as they were supposed to.
With a faint, disgusted snort, he wondered if he would be able to buy some new clothes at Diagon Alley when they went shopping for their school supplies. Or, for that matter, if Dumbledore would let him go shopping at all this year.
Having no wish to remain up here any longer, Harry pattered softly down the staircase and into the Sitting Room. Kreacher, the Blacks' rather surly House Elf, was nowhere to be seen.
/Thank Merlin for small miracles,/ Harry thought fervently. He did not feel ready to face Kreacher just yet.
Perching himself on the armrest of the nearest armchair, the young Gryffindor glanced around the parlor with a sad, pained frown.
He did not want to be here. Not without Sirius. Not with the memories of Sirius haunting every corner of every room, every corridor, and every doorway. It didn't feel right.
/Actually,/ Harry mused, slumping back against the chair/a lot of things don't 'feel right.'/
The ancient grandfather clock in one corner chimed six-thirty in the morning.
With a tired groan, Harry shut his eyes:
(Sequence Beginning)
The stones are cold—freezing, in fact—underneath his knees. They scrap his skin and bruise his knees, but he quite simply can't bring himself to care. He is so tired—so unbelievably tired…
(Sequence End)
Harry jerked his eyes open, shivering, to find he'd been moved from the chair to laying down on the sofa with a blanket tucked snugly around him. Confused, the Gryffindor glanced up, only to find himself on eye level with one of the Weasley twins.
He expelled his breath in a gasp, flashing back to the horribly vivid image of Fred Weasley sprawled lifelessly across the floor of the Great Hall.
Before he was even consciously aware of it, his hand shot out to grip the twin's shirt. "Fred," he forced out thickly, regardless of whether this was actually George.
As it happened, he'd said the correct name.
"Present," the bemused twin replied, approaching somewhere between amusement and astonishment. Not even the twins' own mother could tell them apart sometimes.
When Harry dropped his head against the older teenager's chest, trembling ever so faintly, Fred grew concerned. Settling his hands lightly on the younger Gryffindor's shoulders, he asked softly, "Harry, mate? What is it?"
Disregarding the fact that this was one of the only times he'd seen a Weasley twin so serious, Harry stubbornly shook his head.
Fred frowned thoughtfully, and wrapped his arms carefully around Harry's quivering shoulders.
There was a muffled sob into his chest.
The twin sighed sadly—and a trifle uneasily. George was better at comforting than he was, and he often found himself wondering if it was because his twin was actually about five minutes older.
Shrugging slightly to himself, still frowning, Fred started gently rubbing the smaller Gryffindor's back.
Harry sobbed dully for another ten minutes. By the time he calmed enough to pull back, George had joined his twin on the floor beside the sofa, both sets of dark eyes serious as they gazed back at him. "Sorry," came the semi-strangled croak, as Harry scrubbed ineffectually at the drying tear tracks.
As Fred stared down with a furrowed brow at his somewhat damp shirt, George pressed a handkerchief into Harry's hands. "Here," murmured.
At a watery "Thank you" from Harry, Fred looked up and frowned at his brother in mock-thought. "You know, George, I think Harry might have ruined my shirt."
When George glanced up, askance, Fred pointedly nodded at Harry—who looked horrified. The other eighteen-year-old's mouth opened in a silent "ah." Then he grinned…and made a big show of closely examining his brother's turtleneck. "You think Mum should take a look at it?" asked accordingly.
"Hmm. What about that Muggle contraption—a…a whatcha-ma-call it…a clean dryer?" speculated by Fred.
"Dry cleaning, I believe, Fred," George corrected brightly. "Oy! Maybe we can make that into a prank—the Dryer Cleaner? the Clean Dryer? Why run your son's clothes through it when you can run your son through it?"
"Brilliant!...Except Mum'd like it too much," his twin replied with a devilish grin.
A thick laugh. "All right, all right, I get it. No harm done," Harry chuckled gratefully as with a quickly murmured spell, Fred's shirt was as good as new.
"That's right, Harrykins," Fred answered with a pat to his head. "No harm…"
"…No foul," George completed with another pat—this one to his shoulder. Both twins had plopped themselves on either side of Harry where he remained—sitting upright now—on the couch, keeping him firmly ensconced between them.
Within moments, Harry found two unwaveringly intense gazes locked on him.
"So…" Fred began.
"…What's up?" finished George.
Harry grimaced good-naturedly at both the question and the twinspeak. "Dreams," came the cryptic answer. It was all he would give.
The twins exchanged glances over Harry's head, sensing his reticence. "Well, brother dear, looks like we have our work cut out for us," Fred remarked with a large smirk.
"Indeed we do, dearest brother of mine," George agreed glibly, with an equally wide smirk.
Harry, suspicious (and rightly so), frowned.
IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOI
(Forty-Five Minutes Later)
A roar from one irate Ron Weasley woke the rest of Grimmauld Place's inhabitants that morning. "FRED! GEORGE!"
Fred and George, where they stood in the kitchen helping Harry make—of all things—breakfast, exchanged identical wicked grins. "Looks like ickle Ronniekins found our good-morning present," the younger of the two twins remarked blithely to George and Harry.
Harry coughed to hide his laughter.
The twins quickly schooled their faces into carefully pleasant expressions as a Slytherin-green-with-silver-streaks younger brother burst into the kitchen. Harry resolutely faced the sink, trying valiantly (and mostly succeeding) to keep a straight face.
"Good morning, brother ours," the twins chimed.
"GOOD MORNING? GOOD MORNING?! WHAT THE SODDING HELL DO YOU CALL THIS?" Ron snarled in return, accusingly pointing a finger at his…ahem…makeover.
"Oh! George, look! What a lovely color!" Fred remarked brightly, attempting to cover a snicker.
"LOVELY?! It's green! Slytherin green!" Ron howled.
"We know that, brother dear," George replied with a gentle pat to his cheek.
"And you know, I heard from Angelina that our very own Hermione likes that particular shade of green," Fred added with a wicked smirk. "I mean really likes it."
That was the very last straw. Ron turned beet red and roared, "YOU!" lunging forward as he did so.
Fred grinned widely and darted away, as Harry finally laughed.
George, where he'd been cooking a large batch of scrambled eggs, danced out of the way (still holding the spatula) as Ron and his twin tore past the stove. "Oy, watch it!" he exclaimed around a laugh of his own. Then grinned as Harry finally snickered.
As Fred, with Ron in hot pursuit, sprinted through the great double-doors of the kitchen, George deftly tossed the scrambled eggs in their skillet. "So this is how the Muggles do it?" he asked, amused by the novelty of using an actual tool to make their food.
"Yeah, and how your Mum does it, too, I'd wager," Harry replied from where he stood at the sink, thoroughly rinsing the berries—strawberries, blackberries, currants—by hand. "No conjured food tastes that good."
George silently noted that he seemed much happier and much more relaxed, and deciding that he and his twin had done good, gave another deft flick of his wrist—this time with his wand in hand—landing the completed and steaming eggs on a conjured plate. "Magic does have its merits, though," he pointed out with an impish grin.
"You'll get no argument from me," Harry replied with a warm laugh, swiftly removing the berries in their colander from underneath the water flow.
It was as he was shaking out the excess water that George felt brave enough to venture a question: "You didn't fall asleep out there, did you, Harry?"
"What?" Harry turned to face George, puzzled, before comprehension dawned in his eyes and he turned back to his task, "Oh, you mean on the sofa," he clarified, spreading the berries out on a long swath of cloth. "No. I mean, not on the sofa, anyway. I did go to sleep in my own room, but…"
"…You had your dream and woke up at some ridiculous hour of the morning," George put in dryly, shaking salt and pepper over the eggs.
Harry bit his lip and gave a slightly sheepish smile. "Pretty much," he agreed, patting the berries dry before moving on to the cutting board where he began to slice apples. "I came down after taking a shower and sat in the den. That armchair, near the couch?" He stopped slicing as something occurred to him, and he leveled a curious stare at George, "In fact, I distinctly remember sitting in that chair and nowhere else. Did you or Fred move me?"
George shook his head. "No. You were already on the sofa when we came down."
Harry was baffled. "I couldn't have moved myself, could I? Was there anyone else up when you woke?"
George shook his head again. "Not that I know of. Except…" he frowned, trailing off, and gave the strawberries a few good, hard, chops.
"Except…?" Harry prodded.
The twin sighed. "You won't like the answer."
Harry rolled his eyes slightly. "Just tell me already. It's not like Snape was the one who…" He trailed off at the affirmative grimace on George's face. "You're joking," he finally managed after a few moments, looking rather…ill.
"Told you you wouldn't like the answer," the twin retorted, as they resumed the chopping.
"Yes, but…why? He hates me, George! He has absolutely no reason whatsoever to help me out like that! Does he even know what kindness means?"
George sighed again. "I agree, it's odd, but, Harry, Snape is still human, he still has a good heart—twisted and bitter though it might be."
Harry stopped cutting and gave him a look of clear disbelief.
George lightly knuckled his head with a small grin. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I say only what I've seen. You know how many times he could have done something to us? To you? To me? But he hasn't—especially not to you."
Harry frowned, and turned back to his cutting, but George was gratified to note the frown was a thoughtful one. He himself did not know why he was going to such lengths to defend Snape who truly could be a git at the best of times, but the man had given he and his twin extra potions lessons when they'd asked, not to mention this past year with Umbridge and Filch: the number of times he'd re-directed the duo's attention, the delicate hints he'd dropped…George even suspected he hadn't been particularly pleased with some of his Slytherins' decisions to join the Inquisatoral Squad.
He shrugged. "I'm not saying you have to like him, Harry—hell, I don't. But…I respect him. To some degree, anyway."
When Harry grimaced at him, George just smirked lightly. Finished chopping the strawberries, he conjured a large bowl and dumped them into it. Harry swiftly followed him with the sliced apples, blackberries, and currants.
"You know, Mum's liable to pitch a fit when she finds out you've made breakfast," George pointed out, mirthful.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't just me."
George grinned even more. "True. But she'd spend half the meal poking and prodding at the food if she found out we were involved in any way." He looked mock-sorrowful. "So sad, really. We make some of the most marvelous drinks."
Harry started chuckling. "Maybe I should check the food."
George gave an outraged gasp. "You don't trust us, either? I'm hurt! Hurt, I tell you!" And he made as if to faint, when…
"GEORGE AND FRED WEASLEY!" came Molly Weasley's shout from the den.
George straightened immediately, shooting a sheepish grin at Harry. "Oops. Guess it's time for me to scoot. I must find Fred and attend to that rather urgent business we have. And of course, all business takes place at the shop…"
Harry laughed again. "At least take breakfast with you," gesturing to the plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit salad.
"Will do, partner," George replied cheekily, quickly conjuring two containers and piling food into them both while Harry watched with a wide smile.
Just as George was preparing to Disapparate, Harry spoke up, still smiling but now serious, "Hey, George?" When the twin turned to him and hummed affirmatively, the sixteen-year-old continued, eyes glinting affectionately, "Thanks, and thank Fred, too."
The older boy merely ruffled his hair playfully, "Anything for you, little bro."
Then he disappeared, leaving Harry to contemplate his fate with a warm glow that had absolutely nothing to do with the stove in front of him.
Tbc.