D/C – Harry Potter and related characters and articles do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.
Before anyone gets any idea, the pairings will follow canon, with the exception of Oc/Oc.
Upstream the rivers of time
Prologue:
Harry Potter was in an utterly miserable mood that murky mid-November eve as he retreated to the quiet solitude that his room within the tent he was sharing with his two companions offered. Admittedly, if anyone had reasons to be so completely miserable, it definitely was Harry.
By the prophecy made before Harry had even come to this world, he was, supposedly the only one with even half a chance of vanquishing the earlier mentioned dark lord. In short, he was a marked man, with little choice in his own destiny.
Then, there was the ever growing list of lost or dead, Muggle and wizard alike, and the war that had definitely put a damper on everyone's mood.
And, let's not forget the little fact that so far all he had managed to achieve in the course of his crusade, he 'inherited' from, sadly late as of that June, professor Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore, that consisted of finding and disposing of the Horcruxes, pieces of Voldemort's soul scattered in various objects, was running into dead ends.
Rufus Scrimgeour, ex-Chief of Auror department, presently the Minister of Magic, was also making the matters difficult. Harry's second adamant refusal to involve himself into the petty politics of ministry, and play out the role of Scrimegour's poster-boy, had placed him as the 'enemy of the ministry. So, the minister had now made it one of his personal goals, nearly as imperative as fighting Voldemort and his army of followers and dark creatures, to harass Harry and his friends, inadvertently, or at least seemingly so, getting himself into Harry's way every second step.
The fact that he was daily exposed to his companions, and best friends, bickering over every trifle, was not helping either. Yet, deep down, the truth was, all of those reasons combined played only a tenth, if that much, of Harry's misery.
The true, major reason for Harry's depression was the absence of a certain red-haired, willful young witch that had inadvertently stolen his heart. The fact that he knew she would wait for him - she had told him that herself when they parted after Bill and Fleur's wedding - did nothing to ease up the longing that positively set his teeth on edge.
To, at least temporarily, decrease his anguish, he, as he thought about those days, only a few months prior, but that felt like an eternity ago, when the two of them were enjoying eachothers presence.
Alas, as fortune had it, he could not even begin to daydream before his scar exploded in pain, of the likes he could only compare to Cruciatus curse. Voldemort was not simply ecstatic; his emotions struck Harry through the mental link like a hurricane. And the next instant it stopped. So did the flame of Harry's room lantern. So did the entire universe.
After an eternity of sensation, that could only be described as vacuumed (but the same vacuumed feeling that Apparition felt like) nowhere, Harry found himself sunbathing on the shore of a vast, shallow river, next to himself.
The bizarreness of his current situation didn't seem to give Harry any hard time. In a weird sense, he felt that on some level, something similar to this was occurring his entire life.
And then, his other self spoke, in a voice that was simultaneously entirely Harry's and, in a weird way, that of Luna Lovegood, with a trace of Hermione.
"The rivers of time have stopped flowing." It was a simple statement, devoid of any emotion. "They have to be restarted at some previous point of history."
Although his mind was far from clear, Harry could not find it in himself to worry about it. Actually, he could not find it within himself to worry about anything. Thus, he responded to the obscure comment made by the other him with a simple question of: "why?"
The other Harry seamed to perfectly understand what was actually meant by that question, yet, evidently, he did not hold the answer to it. Instead, he shrugged, and offered, "Karma? How should I know? I'm not even real. Everything here is not real. It is simply an image your conscious mind conjured because of it's incapability to comprehend certain concepts."
Harry blinked.
"So, in essence, you are here because it was the only way I could understand what has happened."
He did not wait for an answer, since he knew none would come.
As Harry started towards the image of stopped flows of time his mind conjured, his astral awareness warned him.
"You cannot meddle with Faith, mind you. So, nothing that directly involves either you or Him."
Harry just nodded, and gazed into the 'water'. It took him only a second to realize that it was not the water that symbolized the time. It was the flow of time. The perceivable time was actually within the sand. Millions upon billions of tiny events that gently shaped the flow. He did not worry about making a wrong choice. After all, he had all the time in the universe at disposal, to make a decision. He chuckled at his own bad pun, as he stepped upon water. It held him.
It was difficult to express how long he had been making the decision. Essentially, it was less than a thousandth of a thousandth particle of a second, and yet, during it he had witnessed over forty years of history, for every single grain of sand carried within itself its event, and from Harry's vantage point, he could interpret any grain he set his mind onto.
Finally, he drew his arm near the end of the flows of time, beyond which nothing existed yet. And picked up a single grain of sand from amongst uncountable number of others, and without removing his arm from the liquid metaphor he moved it at a point twenty-something years prior.
The very instant that the grain of sand touched the riverbed, the waters of time retreated completely, and before gravitation, if the said force even applied at that place beyond time and space, could pull onto Harry, the waters came back in unstoppable, irresistible rush. The moment it came to the repositioned event, one Harry Potter vanished.
-.-.-.-.-
Early January 1972.
Emmerick Thirstlebush had once again blotched on his Potion for his practical exam required for him to finally finish his studies of magical medicine. It wasn't that Emmerick was a bad potionmaker. Quite the contrary, actually. He had been among the top of the grade at potions back at Hogwarts. But for some reason he could not seem to be capable of producing the Strengthening Solutions above the most basic level.
He sighed dejectedly. It seamed he was up for another year of pointless lectures that he had, for the most part, already memorized by heart.
He was just about to get rid of his failed attempt at potion when his desk partner doubled over, made a rasping gasp, and then promptly fainted right onto Emmerick, whom in the process of trying to remain on his feat managed to knock down the failed potion onto both of them.
It later became the infamous anecdote of how, completely by accident, the remedy for Aracofie, the microorganisms that attacked directly the neural centers responsible for magic, leaving the infected dying from extremely painful allergic reactions, was found.
Nearly seven years later, in late November 1978, an advanced version of that very potion was used successfully to save life of one Loreal Potter.
-.-.-.-.-
November the first, 1981.
Albus Dumbledore had just picked up the small baby boy from the hands of his dear friend, and gamekeeper of Hogwarths, Rubeus Hagrid, with intention of placing him on the doorstep of number four private drive, where he could be taken into care of by the boy's aunt Petunia and her family, when a sudden pop announced a new arrival.
Esteban Potter was a calm man by nature, but once his temper was ignited, it was best to get as far away from him as possible. His temper was running at all times high at that moment, and the would-be recipient of his wrath was not hard to guess.
"I suggest you to handle me my grandson Dumbledore, before my patience runs out, at which point I'll take him by force." That threat, spoken in a tone cold enough to startle most men, would be laughable if spoken by any save this man. The reason for it was that it was well and wide known fact that no one ever, not once in his hundred and sixty three years, had managed to defeat the aged exWarlock in a duel, not even the twenty five years younger Headmaster of Hogwarts who was considered by most to be the most powerful living wizard.
"As it is, I'm only a shadow's width far from having both you and Hagrid shipped off to Azkaban for kidnapping." His tone never rose, not even for a bit, yet there was no mistaking the searing supernova hot fury in the old-man's voice.
Albus Dumbledore nearly managed to keep his face impassive. Still, a careful observer could notice a painfully well suppressed flinch, and the slightly furrowed brow revealing deep worry. Less could be said for Minerva McGonagall and Hagrid. They both displayed visible shock, no little fear, and, in Minerva's case, outrage.
Dumbledore mouthed to respond, but the seething Esteban cut him off before he could even start.
"I know perfectly well what your intentions were Dumbledore, and believe me, the fact that they were good is the only thing that saves you. The problem I find are not your intentions, but your judgment, which, as usual, is abysmal. I warned you more than once, but it seams it bounced off your thick skull. You are exceptionally intelligent, I give you that, but it does nothing against your proneness for misjudging! Now, hand me over my grandson!"
There was no helping it now; no amount of self-control could stop Albus Dumbledore from flinching at his berating. Oh, he remembered well the older man's rants about his lack of good judgment, and grudgingly, he had to accept them as true. He often remembered his own mother saying the same thing. She often murmured to herself that Abey had managed to scoop up Alby's share of good judgment, but Alby balanced it out by scooping a better piece of his brother's intended intelligence.
He admitted defeat to himself. He knew that if he wanted so, the patriarch of Potter family could, and would, make hell for his only son's child. And, he had to admit that he had no right to attempt to take young Harry from his sole family by patriarchal line. Still, even though he knew all of this, his fear for the child's safety stopped him from acting. He stood unmoving, and undecided.
A new fire lit dangerously in the eyes of Esteban.
"Do you honestly believe that your concern for MY grandson's wellbeing surpasses my own, Albus?" and, before any of the three could react, Harry soared out of Dumbledore's arms, right to his grandfather. To add to it, Esteban's wand mysteriously quickly appeared in his left hand, his right being occupied by Harry, and a blinding flash, followed by several more spells, surged towards the three.
After the few minutes the blinding wave had passed and only Albus and Esteban were standing, Dumbledore unnaturally stiff.
"You have about a month to relocate the wards onto Rose and Andrew's house. Healers promise they will be restored back to their full health by then." and with those final words, Esteban Potter turned to leave. He stopped dead in his tracks, at the sight of great motorcycle. 'What foolishness had the poor boy got into now?' he wondered.
His voice now absolutely calm and neutral, he added, before he Disapparated, "I'll pay you a visit in the morning, Albus; we still have much to discuss."
-.-.-.-.-
Not surprisingly, the uncomfortable feeling of Apparition woke up little Harry, but the child did not cry. His big emerald eyes were firmly fixed upon his grandfather's face and his tiny face was scrunched up in an expression that was, more or less, mirroring Esteban's. Deep weariness was decidedly inappropriate for a slightly-more-than-one-year-old's face, and even as weary, sorrowful, and angry as he himself was feeling, Esteban's face melted in a smile.
It was simply the way life was. You could not control it. Although not cheerful in the least, as far from cheerful as a matter of fact, those thoughts eased up the wailing burden of Esteban's emotions.
Not more than a few seconds after they apparated into the mansion, they were greeted by quite tall, bald, Arabian man with a graying goatee, and slightly pointy ears.
"Master Esteban," he greeted the venerable man, with a slight bow of his head. He reached for the bundle of blankets that held the youngest member of Potter blood.
"If I might take young Master Henry..."
"Harry. His mother requested we call him Harry." Esteban interrupted his servant and old friend softly, in a sad voice as he handed his grandson over. He was answered by a soft, understanding smile.
After Harry was safely tucked in the arms of the one person Esteban trusted above all, he stopped his old friend from speaking further and heaved a heavy sigh.
"Ahab, how is Loreal?"
Ahab's face went blank, but his voice revealed worry as he answered.
"I daresay that the news of Master James' and Mistress Lily's deaths fell heavy on her already weakened body."
New pain flashed upon Esteban's worn down face, but he chose not to comment upon it. What he did do was start walking at a brisk pace toward the mansion's master bedroom. Wordlessly, Ahab matched his pace. When they finally traversed the third set of stairs, they found themselves at the foyer of the vast suit of rooms. Directly in front of them stood wide open set of double doors leading into the bedroom.
Raised into half-sitting position by pillows beneath her was woman whose face, despite her many years and abysmal grief, showed great beauty. Also in spite of her years was her long, just slightly grayed, jet-black hair.
At the sight of her husband, or rather, since her glasses were upon the bed-table, at the realization of her husband's presence, Loreal made a feeble attempt to collect herself, but it lasted only until Esteban kneeled beside her, and took her hand. She clung to him as wave upon wave of grief washed, yet again through her weakened body.
"Oh, Esteban..." were just about the only coherent words she could utter at that point. And, although he tried his best, none of the words of comfort Esteban uttered to her helped her any. What did stop her onslaught of tears was soft, sad word of a baby boy.
"Grema"
At that moment, it was as if time itself had frozen for Loreal, as she had become aware of the bundle in Ahab's arms. Without any need for communication, Ahab approached the bed, and angled Harry, so that his grandmother could see his face.
Sleepy, almond shaped, emerald-green eyes met puffy, blood-shot, hazel ones, and at that moment, a new strength and a new resolve entered Loreal. No words were necessary as she took her grandson from Ahab.
Due to various tidbit information from the canon (DD being chief warlock, warlock's convention, etc...) I took the freedom to assume that Warlock is a title for a member of Wizengamont, or other wizardly (and witching) court.
A/N Special tanks go to my most exceptional beta Gryffinpuff, who made this story posible.
