Prologue: The Boy Who...
It's unfortunately beautiful how life ends. How the flicker of what was once you dies, leaving this world with only possessions, memories, and the body left as reminders of what kind of person you were.
It was with this grim epiphany that Harry wondered about death. What was the moment like? Will he feel brave, loved, strong? Or will he be desperate to survive, tears in his eyes, begging for his life?
Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was about to find out.
With a sudden feeling of dread and slight anticipation, he tightly held his invisibility cloak, his most useful tool, besides his now broken Phoenix and Holly wand. It saddened him. It saddened Harry Potter to learn that he had to die, and that there was absolutely no other way; this needed to be done...
With a cocktail of mixed feelings, Harry breathed a grieving breath, and advanced towards the forest and his death.
It always seemed to end this way, it didn't matter what Harry did. It always ended with either his death, or the death of his loved ones. It mattered not how many times he used that damn thing to travel back in time, Harry Potter always died, and arrived at the same place, only to use it again.
He no longer felt the excitement, the dread, or even concern. This was his seven hundred and seventy second time, facing his imminent death. He no longer wondered how his death was going to play out; he knew. He no longer felt any desperation to save himself, he knew how this story ends.
Harry would have to die again, and frankly he was sick of it.
He stepped forward with absolutely no hesitation, awaiting Voldemort's killing curse, and his immediate, painless, pathetic death.
But, it was better than some of his other endings, as Harry had seen. In some instances, everybody but Harry had gotten executed by the Death eaters. In others, he had to watch Hermione and Ron die, tortured and brutally beaten in front of him. The worst part was that he couldn't save them. He had to stay hidden beneath his invisibility cloak, watching as they were murdered.
That ending was the most damaging to his psyche, and it hit him hard. From the many times he revisited his death, he learned one thing: He didn't want to be a hero. He just wanted to save his friends. As for the Wizarding World, it could burn it Voldemort's grasp.
"Harry Potter."
The voice was familiarly cold. Despite hearing it many times, it still chilled him to the bone. No one can never truly forget the sensation of hearing the voice of your killer and how he made the spine shudder. No matter how many times you heard it.
Not only can one never get over the voice, but one can't get over the acts that the despicable man standing in front of Harry had done. No one can truly get over the people Voldemort has killed and has ordered to kill.
"Harry Potter...The-Boy-Who-Lived. Such... A pleasure to meet somebody even more famous than myself." Voldemort said, sneering at his own statement.
Harry's fist clenched at the comment the sick bastard had made... No matter how this ended, Harry wanted to bring Voldemort down with him. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks, and wondered why he was crying. He had never cried the past times, and wasn't planning on crying this time.
"I think, Potter, a new name is suitable for that face. How about...," Voldemort paused to smirk at the seventeen year old boy. "The-Boy-Who-Failed."
As Harry's tears stained the ground around him, Harry braced himself for the constant, his death. He closed his eyes, he wasn't going to give Tom Riddle the satisfaction of ending his life with his eyes on him. He wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten the best of Harry.
"Open your eyes, Harry," Voldemort spoke softly, "You don't want to die like a coward," Seeing no reaction, Tom pressed on,"You wouldn't want to die like your father and mudblood mother did."
Harry's fist clenched as his anger flared up. He open his eyes to glare at Tom Riddle with an intense loathing. Harry wanted nothing but to have this man's very existence extinguished by his own hands. It had been a goal that costed his own, and his friend's lives on more than one occasion. The tears were still streaming down Harry's face as the two maintained eye contact.
"Good. That's good, Harry. That pathetic look of hate suits your pathetic form," Voldemort leered at the boy as he spoke," Hate me, Harry. Hate me for killing your parents, for ruining your life. Hate me as much as I hate you for ruining mine. Hate me for ending your life, just like you ended mine."
Harry hated him, despised the wretch of a man, if you could even call him that, that stood before him. He wanted to lift his broken wand, to finish this like he wanted. He wanted to live peacefully with his friends. His eyes never left Voldemort's. His fists never unballed. His tears never stopped flowing.
"Avada Kadavera!"
Harry Potter was naked.
He was tired, cynical, and begging for all of it to end. He had died and experienced his friend's deaths enough that when he awoke, laying face down, he had the strongest inclination to shut his eyes and let himself fall into the permanent abyss called death. He was so familiar with this scene that he needn't question how he was alive, or how he could feel after his death.
The boy laid there for a long time. He was taking in the static silence that permeated the realm Harry had landed in. Harry was broken. He didn't want to move, but he knew that he needed to have another chance to save his friends. Pushing himself up, Harry looked around at the familiar scene. The mist that wasn't like any other mist he had ever seen surrounded him, but it did not cloud his surroundings. He wasn't amazed at what he saw.
The-Boy-Who-Lived's body was unscathed and not modest. He stood up, balancing himself on the pure white ground that supported him. Crying soon filled the air, but it wasn't Harry this time.
The thing that was bawling its eyes out was the thing that could save him. It was a baby. It was, as he learned when he pressed Albus Dumbledore, a baby of extraordinary power. Not only was this repulsive, leathery, thing the remaining remnant of Tom's soul, but it had the power to turn back time. Harry didn't hesitate to think of the robes this time. He merely wanted clothes. Not that far away, the robes appeared, ready for his taking.
He headed towards it, ready to return to his pitiful life, ready to sacrifice himself for his friends again in a hope that things will be different. He grabbed the robes and then turned to face the baby. He was repulsed by the poor thing. Regardless of how many times he had to look at it, it was always repulsive. Harry put on the robes while his eyes remained on the bawling thing. The mist shrouded the baby as its tiny hands were grasping the air. The green-eyed boy headed towards the vociferous thing, his hands ready to carry it.
"You can't help it."
Harry paused. His movements stopped as the figure of Albus Dumbledore appeared before him. The old man was smiling, his face lit up brightly.
"It's good to see you again, Harry. How much time has it been since we last talked?"
Harry's fists tightened, he glared at Albus in a similar way to Tom.
"Since you died, and left me to your plan of self-destruction and sacrifice under the guise of 'Love,'" Harry didn't enjoy his company. He had learned to hate the man after the many (failed) attempts at subverting his plans and saving him and his friends.
"Ah, yes," Albus smiled again, before sitting down at a bench that appeared behind him. He motioned for Harry to sit next to him, to which Harry refused, "And it seems that everything went as expected. Well, almost everything."
Harry tensed, his eyes looking at Dumbledore with suspicion.
"What do you mean?"
Albus looked Harry over, and then he open his mouth to respond, "Judging by the way you went for 'That'," Albus's eyes went to the still bawling baby, "It seems you plan on going back instead of going forward and facing Tom. Now tell me, Harry, why would you do such a thing?"
The look and tone Albus used on Harry was one that a disappointed parent would use to speak to their child. It was a look that Albus didn't deserve to have on him. He wasn't Harry's parent. He wasn't even a good man. He was, at least in Harry's estimation, a man who will do anything, even use the innocence of a child, to get what he wants. That is not a man who would qualify to be a parent, let alone anybody Harry actually cared about.
"I want a better ending. I want an ending where my friends and I can live without the grief you and Tom created."
The bitterness in Harry's voice caused the bespectacled, aging, wizard to flinch slightly. Albus wanted to convince Harry otherwise, but the boy who stood before him was not known for changing his mind.
"Fine, Harry," Dumbledore resigned himself,"Do what you wish, but know this," Albus pointed at the baby, "This will be your only chance. If you fail again, you will have to live with the consequences."
The disappointment was dripping from Albus's tone. It couldn't be helped. He knew Harry would have never ever followed his plan if it wasn't in the best interests of his friends.
"No need, Albus," Harry spoke, "If I fail again, I will never live to regret it."
And with that, Harry picked up the baby, and closed his eyes.
A/N Note: Grrr! I know, it's not that good, but what can a man do when he is completely in love with a series, and has ideas gushing out like a waterfall, but he can't put his ideas to the keyboard properly. I will try to get a Beta for this story as soon as possible, so bear with me. Sorry for such a short beginning, but I felt like I needed to keep the prologue short and sweet. By all means, review if you think this is good, bad, or if you simply have questions. I love the feed back, and love communicating to the readers. Its one of the main reasons why I continue to waste away on this site instead of actually doing something productive with my life.
Pairings: I am going to have to mention this early, the pairing is undecided. There are so many, awesome, and appealing women in the Harry Potter universe that I am really leaning towards Harem. Now, Now, don't knock it till you try it. I believe that as long as it is written well, it could work, and I believe I can at least try to write it as well as I can.
Sorry for the spelling errors.