This was written for the Care of Magical Creatures assignment at Hogwarts (write about someone who is fiercely protective of another person). I didn't mean to start another MC but I seem to be unable to stop myself.

Chapter 1: In The Beginning There Was a Boy

Harry doesn't really know what led his feet toward Privet's Drive. Sentiment, perhaps. It's a bad idea – his worst one yet, probably – but once he's had it there was no ignoring it.

It's weird though, to be back there, much weirder than it was in the magical world. For all the time that Harry had spent there, it's only now that he has gone back in time that he realizes how little the wizarding world has changed over the years.

In contrast, stepping in the muggle world is like stepping in another country. Everything is different, and for perhaps the first time Harry truly does realize that this isn't his own time anymore.

It had been so easy to fool himself, back in Diagon Alley, to think that maybe it was all a joke or a mistake. But this – the way Privet Drive looks exactly the way he remembers it looking before he had known the wonders of magic – this can't be faked.

This drives home the fact that he really is back in the past – in his own past, actually – no matter how impossible such a thing should be.

He nods absentmindedly at the people who were once his neighbors, noting with a kind of amused contempt that they don't appear to hate him for once – and why would they, really, when in all appearances he is rich and powerful and everything they like to gossip about?

It would be so easy to hate them – hate how blind they were to what the Dursleys did to him just a street over, how nobody ever, ever helped him – but Harry has seen too much of what hate can do to spread it so freely.

With luck, he will never see those people again, and that will be enough for him.

It isn't until he stops in front of the number 4, the perfect little house he remembers spending days upon days cleaning, that he realizes that there is more to this little trip than simply going down memory's lane.

His younger self is there, pruning the roses under the glaring sun with no protection whatsoever. He looks so small in the baggy, ratty clothes Harry knows belonged to Dudley, and almost as resigned as he is afraid, shooting back furtive looks inside the house to see if anyone is there.

The worst thing about all this is that Harry doesn't remember this day at all. Or rather he does, but it's lost in an endless sea of days just like it.

Harry can already tell how it will end: if he's lucky, the boy will be send off to his cupboard with a glass of water and a piece of too dry bread after he cooks dinner for his relative, and is forced to watch them eat. The next day will be much of the same, until Harry gets sick under the sun and is stuck inside his cupboard while he recuperates.

If he's not – if he doesn't finish all of his chores, if they're not done to Petunia and Vernon's impossibly high standards, he won't get to eat. There's no school for him to go to, not in the summer, so they can keep him locked up for days, and while that will be a respite from the sun, Harry only remembers too well the feel of the walls pressing down on him or the way his legs cramped after staying still for too long.

It burns in the back of his throat now, to remember this.

It hurts, to know that no one will come for the boy in front of him – because no one ever came for him, not really.

He's moving before he realizes it, crouching in front of the small boy he used to be, looking straight into his own emerald eyes – only they're not his own, are they, because for all that this boy has already been through he still holds more tightly to his hopes than Harry could ever manage to these days.

"Hello Harry. Would you like to come with me?"

The words slip out of his mouth like they're the most natural thing, like the conclusion of some story Harry hadn't even know he had been writing, and Harry can see the moment they register in his younger self's mind by the way his eyes suddenly brighten, shining with tears and a terrifyingly fragile hope.

And Merlin, but if this is a bad idea let it be the only one he ever needs to make, because right now, there is nothing he wouldn't do to keep that shivering hope alive and well – to keep this boy safe.

Is it selfish, to want your younger self to be happy? Harry think it might be, but as the boy slips a (too) tiny hand in his, Harry finds himself contemplating the future this could bring, and he can't find in himself the will to regret it.

But if this means that this Harry never has to spend another night locked in a cupboard again, let him be selfish. If this means that this Harry can grow up with something akin to real family, then anything Harry does or has ever done will have been worth it. Will be worth it.

Of course there are some things to consider first. Harry will have to deal with the Dursleys – it shouldn't be too hard, Harry knows, and it is terribly bittersweet to know that the boy's only blood family will probably let him go easily. He will have to make himself room in this time too – will probably have to change his name too, because there can only be one Harry Potter, and that place should be taken by the one who has all of his life before him.

There are so many things he could do, even more he will do, probably, and it almost seems like more than he can bear, more than he can possibly conceive.

But his younger self is hanging on his hand like it's his only lifeline, and his eyes are full of hope and joy for all that they're guarded still, and well, there's no way Harry can turn back now. No way he can't do anything but protect the kid.

It makes him shiver, to think of the lengths he already knows he would go to do just that – but well, if anyone deserves it, it would be this child, who is already pulling at his heartstrings in the way every person precious to him always does.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Harry, don't worry about me," he answers with a kind smile, ruffling the boy's hair with his free hand. The boy's eyes are wide and he almost flinches, and Harry's heart feels too big for his chest.

The boy bites his lips but he keeps staring, and when Harry moves his hand away he asks, "Can I really go with you?"

"Of course," Harry answers. They stop in front of the door and Harry kneels, letting go of the boy's hand to place his on the kid's shoulders. "As long as you want to."

The boy's eyes water and he nods voicelessly before he moves and before he knows it Harry's being hugged. It steals his breath away and Harry himself even has to blink a few tears away as he pats the boy on the back somewhat awkwardly.

"Of course I want to," comes the boy's muffled voice against Harry's shirt, and Harry's lips quirk up as they echo exactly the thoughts he would have had in the boy's place.

"Well then you'll be coming with me."

The boy's answering smile, when he leans back to look up at Harry's face, is radiant.

Harry's knees creak when he stands up – a fact that makes his young counterpart giggle shyly – and Harry ignores it with practiced ease. The boy takes his hand again and holds it tighter than ever, and he seems to almost vibrate with excitement as Harry finally moves to open the door.

It opens easily, a silent invitation to come inside that Harry accepts readily, his younger self half a step behind, huddled against his legs.

This too, feels like stepping right into a memory. It is so much more potent however: where Privet's Drive was simply uncomfortably familiar, this feels like a punch to the gut. The cupboard that used to be his – that in this timeline, still belongs to the shy but bright boy who holds his hands – is closed, as it always is, but for all that it looks so common-place in this house, to Harry's eyes it looks like a gaping wound, raw and bleeding.

He's surprised at the strength of his anger – a burning fire storming in his gut, turning the edges of his vision just a little red, where he only expected the dying embers of the resentment mixed with the regret of lost opportunities he's long come to associate with his blood family.

But, he realizes slowly, this time he's not angry for himself – or well, not as such – but on the behalf of someone else, and if there's one thing Harry's learned about himself is that his anger can be a frightening thing when it's caused by injustice done to others.

It is only because his anger won't serve him well that he swallows it back, promising himself to deal with it later. He won't hurt the Dursleys, not even now, but there are so many ways to curse them without actually harming them. Sometimes, Harry even thinks the Marauders invented them all, and for all that Harry has never really acted on those instincts, he is still the son of a prankster and the godson of another – the Dursleys will never see it coming.

They find Petunia in the kitchen. Dudley isn't here – probably with his 'friends', running around the neighborhood and terrorizing every kid they find – and Vernon is at work, and for that Harry is truly grateful. This will go so much easier with just Petunia to deal with.

Petunia, for all that she hides it exceptionally well, holds in her heart at least a modicum of something like 'love' for her nephew, unlike the rest of her family. If she thinks he won't harm the boy – well, not more than they do anyway – and that he won't come back for her family, she will probably let him go without much of a fight.

His aunt looks exactly as he remembers. She has maybe a few less wrinkles, but she holds herself with the same kind of rigid strength as she busies herself in the kitchen, and her voice sounds as shrill as he can recall when she finally spots them.

"Who are you?! How did you get in?!"

Behind him, his younger self shuffles closer. Harry can see the moment Petunia realizes the boy is there as well because her lips purse even more, turning so thin as to be almost invisible, and her grips tightens on the back of the chair she'd grabbed when she had first noticed him.

He can tell the moment she takes in his features, so similar to the nephew she's been raising, and comes to the conclusion that whoever he is, he's the boy's family. She doesn't relax, not entirely, but knowing the woman's interactions with the magical world, Harry doesn't think he can blame her. She does look slightly less suspicious though, and Harry will take it.

"Who are you?" She repeats, tone biting and insistent.

He can feel Harry shiver behind him, burrowing on himself in an attempt to make himself seem smaller, and he only knows the name he's going to give half a second before it passes his lips.

"Hadrian," he says, sketching a half bow that is more mocking than it is respectful. And then, because this will be the greatest joke he'll ever pull off – the greatest lie he'll ever tell, because it isn't even that much of a lie – and because he can't resist, he adds the only last name that will work for him in this time, "Evans. Hadrian Evans."

.x.

After the war, Hadrian had done some digging in his parents' past. He had heard only a few stories about them, passed on by Sirius and later Remus, before they both passed away, and all that Hadrian had of them were some pictures carefully preserved in a photo album.

It hadn't been enough, and so, with nothing better to actually fill his days, Hadrian had spent a few months looking for more stories, for more pictures.

Surprisingly – or perhaps not, considering how much more widespread photography was in the muggle world - finding information about the Evans' family had been much easier than finding true information about the Potter's. Then again, most everyone in James Potter's generation was either dead or in jail. Either way, they couldn't really talk.

Number Four had been left untouched – Hadrian didn't know whether or not he had been relieved when he had Apparated there and found the house as he had left it, but the boxes of memorabilia in the attic had been an unexpected treasure trove.

There had been a few journals, their dusty pages cracking with age, the handwriting childish and at times illegible, and even more pictures. Black and white stills of an older couple Hadrian had quickly realized where the grandparents he had never known, an envelope filled with the smiling faces of two girls Hadrian couldn't not identify as his own mother and aunt.

And then there had been the letters. Shared correspondence between husband and wife, between mother, father and daughter, tucked away in old books that Hadrian now knew had belonged to his grandmother, a woman who had loved a good crime mystery and had passed on that love to her youngest daughter.

It had been those letters that had allowed Hadrian to reconstruct a sort of timeline for his mother's childhood, and even, after some more digging, his grandparents' lives. It was because of those letters, where a young Lily had once tried to console her broken-hearted mother, that Hadrian had learned that his grandfather had not been an entirely faithful man.

Hadrian has the man's eyes – eyes he shared with his mother, and now with young Harry – and the Evans' small stature, and anything else can be explained on a black-haired woman who could have shared her son's delicate features.

It hurts Hadrian's heart, to lie so about his parents, but for Harry – to take care of the boy – he would do this and more without flinching.

"I don't have a brother," Petunia says, but Hadrian can see in her eyes that she's doubting, casting her mind back to her childhood, wondering can it be?

Looking straight into her eyes, it is no trouble to push the thought yes it can to the forefront, bringing back the memories of those days when her parents had been fighting, her father constantly apologetic, bringing home bigger and greater gifts each week, her mother in turns sad and angry, until it had all stopped and they had one day made up.

"I'm afraid that you do," Hadrian answers smoothly, forcing an apologetic smile on his lips. "I assure you, it was to me as much of a surprise as it is to you. My mother never told much about my father, and she certainly never said anything about any siblings." That much is true, at least, even if only because his mother never got the chance to tell him much of anything at all, and that truth helps him relax a little.

"A surprise, yes," Petunia echoes lightly. She looks the most taken-aback he's ever seen her, and later – once they're far away – Hadrian will laugh at the memory the way he wants to now. "It is certainly that."

Hadrian nods regally. Harry, who had stayed silent until then, chooses that moment to speak, his voice soft and full of wonder. "You're my uncle then?"

For some reason, the lie hurts a little more now – Merlin, he really doesn't want to lie to a child, much less this one, but what choice does he really have? "Yes," Hadrian replies nonetheless, tugging on Harry's hand so that the boy comes to stand beside him instead of behind him.

Harry subsides then, clearly considering the implications, and Hadrian turns back to the once-aunt he's now claimed as a half-sister. He smiles again, and this time he lets a portion of the rage he feels as how Harry was treated show.

From the way Petunia barely conceals a shiver, it must look pretty fierce.

"Imagine my surprise," he begins, taking care to add some bite to his words even as his smile turns cold and sharp, "when I found that I also had two nephews, and that when I finally decided to visit, I found one of them working harder than any boy his age should."

Petunia blanches at that, and Hadrian knows he has her now. It's almost sad, actually, how easy it was, but well. Petunia never really stood a chance, not when Harry is fighting to protect someone he cares about, not when he has magic on his side to ease the process.

Still, she tries to protest, to contest his claim. "The boy likes the work." Even to her own ears, it must sound weak, because she blanches even further, and Hadrian can feel his lips curl up in a smirk.

"I'm sure," he drawls, arching an eyebrow in his best Snape impression. "In fact, I believe that if I were to ask Harry for his opinion, he would say the same, wouldn't he?"

It takes a little nudge, but once Harry realizes he's being addressed his eyes widen and he stammers out the truth, that he really doesn't like being outside by this heat. "And the thorns on the stems keep cutting into my fingers too," he adds, voice so low as to be almost inaudible. He's trembling, and Hadrian knows it's because he's afraid of what the Dursleys would usually do to him for complaining in such a way.

Hadrian tucks him against his side, wrapping a protective arm around the boy's shoulders, and sends an unimpressed look Petunia's way.

"The boy doesn't know what he's talking about," she tries again, and Hadrian knows before she even starts that she's about to launch into one of her 'discredit Harry' speeches.

"I'll stop you right there," Hadrian interrupts, lips still curled up in contempt. "I will be leaving with Harry, and nothing you can say will change my mind." And then, because if there is anyone he can be cruel with, it is Petunia Dursley, he adds, "After all, I do believe I am a better more fit to raise such a problematic child than you are."

He drawls the word 'problematic' with such dry sarcasm as to make it undeniable that it meant anything but the word's actual meaning, and Harry giggles against his chest.

If possible, Petunia seems to blanch even more, before her anger colors her cheeks red. "You're one of them!" She accuses, pointing at his and backing away.

"I am," Hadrian replies, amused despite himself. He almost takes a step forward, just to see what she would do, but in the end he reconsiders and stays where he is. He doesn't have to wait for long.

"Take him then! Just take him!"

"Thank you," Hadrian replies, allowing his lips to stretch into a much truer smile this time. He lets go of Harry for a moment, looking the child in the eyes. "Why don't you go gather your stuff then, Harry? We'll be leaving as soon as you're done."

"For real?" The boy's tone, full of wonder and excitement, is almost painful to Hadrian's ears, but he forces himself to nod.

"I swear."

The boy practically runs off then, and Hadrian knows he doesn't have much time left with Petunia.

"I did my best, you know."

"I'm sure," Hadrian answers absent-mindedly, wondering why she even bothers trying to justify herself now.

"He'll be safe?"

"Safer than with you," Hadrian scoffs. To her credit, Petunia doesn't protest and only looks like she wants to.

They stand there in silence until Harry returns, a small ratty backpack on his shoulders, but by then Petunia looks at them with something like acceptance.

"Goodbye sister," Hadrian says, wishing the words didn't taste so slimy in his mouth. He holds his hand out for Harry, and the boy grasps it just as eagerly this time as all the others before it.

"Goodbye Aunt Petunia," the boy echoes timidly, but when he looks up at Hadrian, his eyes are shining with trust and happiness.

"Goodbye," Petunia replies, her lips pressed tight.

She doesn't escort them to the door, but her heavy gaze seems to follow them well into the street anyway.

Hadrian isn't sad to leave her behind, and from the looks of things, neither is Harry.

"Thank you," the boy finally mutters once the number four is no longer in sight. Those two words are like a dam that's been opened, because as soon as he says them, Harry starts crying, burying his head against Hadrian's stomach.

They don't move for a while, not until Harry's shoulders finally stop shaking and the boy leans away, rubbing at his wet face and runny nose with his sleeves.

"What is it?" Hadrian asks, even though he thinks he already knows.

"I didn't think anyone would ever come," Harry admits quietly.

"Well, I'm here now," Hadrian replies, projecting a confidence he's not really feeling into his words. "I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere."

He doesn't realizes it's the truth until he says it, but once he has – once Harry has looked up to him with those big soulful eyes of his, Hadrian knows he can't turn back now, can't go back on his word. It hurts terribly, to know that keeping Harry now also means renouncing to any hope of going back to his own time – to his own life (not that there had been much of it in the first place, but still) – but Hadrian wouldn't trade it away for anything.

"I'm staying right here," he repeats, and tries to ignore the way the words sort of make him feel like he's free-falling. With Harry there, it's almost easy. "Now come on, are you ready to go home?"

The boy's eyes go almost impossibly wide as his lips move to echo the word 'home', and Hadrian laughs.

It's perhaps the first time he's laughed since he crash-landed in this time, but it feels good. It feels like something new – like something that could even be great.

Maybe, he thinks as he Apparates away with Harry, coming here wasn't such a bad idea.