Part 1
It was all a mess. After Sirius almost fell into the veil—the only thing saving him was an invisible jerk if his arm—Harry ran after Bellatrix. It was fuzzy and dazed, the duel—Harry was feeling a little light headed—but the next thing he knew Voldemort was there and it was a fully trained witch and a Dark Lord against a fifteen year old that was still in school—and wasn't even the best in class. It ended abruptly.
The mad woman's crucio hit first, and Harry barely had time to scream before Voldemort's own preferred curse slammed into him. And then he died. But that wasn't the end of it, because amid the screams and cries, something impossible happened. Harry Potter came back to life, but nobody noticed because they had disappeared. Harry stood up and tried to understand what he was feeling. He felt lighter than he had since he could remember; it was as if a balloon that had filled his head that had been swelling had finally deflated. He felt free.
Harry had never been that lucky though, and soon felt a pain that only the Cruciatus rivaled travelling through his body. It felt like he was being flattened and folded, only to be wrung out and stretched again. That was when he blacked out.
When he woke again, Harry was not in the Department of Mysteries anymore. He was in a white room, lying on a white bed, and this made him come to the conclusion that he was in a hospital—probably St. Mungo's. This made a lot of sense considering how sore he was, and how much pain he had been in before he passed out. On instinct, Harry reached over to the table beside his bed for his glasses, before he realised that he could see perfectly. Had the healers fixed his eye sight? Harry didn't know there was a way to do that, if he had known, he would have gotten that fixed up ages ago.
Overwhelmingly curious of what he looked like without glasses, Harry climbed out of bed. Why is the bed so tall? Harry wondered. That thought was viciously cast from his mind as he reached the loo attached to his room, and came upon a sight that was both familiar and horribly foreign. In the mirror was a face that he could recognize as his own, except his usually black hair was changing colors restlessly, as well as his eyes. There was also the fact that his scar—his lightning bolt curse scar—was practically gone. It was a thin silver line that was almost invisible, nothing like the red inflamed thing it was just days ago.
That wasn't what freaked Harry out though; no, what scared the pants off of Harry was the fact that he looked nine years old.
After much panic and a few emotional breakdowns, Harry decided it was best to just wait for Dumbledore or someone else to come and tell him what was going on. To distract himself, Harry examined the room, but there really was nothing to look at. Next, Harry concentrated on his hair—he could see it changing out of the corner of his eye—and tried changing the colors to what he wanted. It took quite a bit more concentration than he thought it would, and he decided that he would have to practice—he tried to ignore the voice in his head screaming that he wasn't a Metamorphmagus, because obviously he was now. That got a bit boring though, and so Harry picked up the Prophet that was on the side table.
He almost immediately wished that he hadn't.
It wasn't because of the news; there was nothing of real consequence there. It was the date.
1982. He'd gone back in time. And he couldn't tell anybody until he caught up, or else he would mess up the time line.
He was stuck.