((Hey there. I know I don't post much up here often, and I can't promise that I will. I've had a lot of health & job issues over the last few years. This little thing is the first piece of inspiration-sourced writing I've written in probably a year now... so I'm pretty rusty and its likely not great, but I wanted to post it up here anyway. I wanted to pursue the idea of someone going back in time - but in this case they'd enacted the magics some time ago, and were no longer so sure that, even if the future could be changed, if he was able to do it. People change - lose hope, lose faith in others, lose patience and so much more - what do you do when you're taken back into the past to fix things, but you don't believe that you can fix anything?))
Summary: He died surrounded by the people he'd fought for years to save. Darkness could spread into the hearts of the people if they lived in it long enough. His death triggered his return in time though, but now he's not so sure if anyone can be saved at all.
When he woke up, it was with a lot of noise. There was not so much bolting upright in his bed as making it half way before the tangled bedsheets stopped him and he flailed, tumbling off the bed with a choked off shout.
He'd died with blood on his face, on his knees on the wet stone cobbles. He remembered the torture as they tried to break him, remembered looking out at the crowd around him, exhausted and resigned to his fate. All those faces looking back at him, many looking just as resigned, just as tired, but far far more looking with blood lust in their eyes, shouting and jeering. By that point public executions weren't uncommon, especially for the more well-known faces of the resistance. That was what their society had descended to in just a few short years, it made him wonder sometimes why he was fighting at all.
But that was no way to think, especially not now. He hadn't come back here to waste this opportunity, no matter how much his faith in society - in humanity - had been damaged.
Because 'now' was synonymous with 'before'. Two years before, in fact - two years before his death, two years into the past. It wasn't far back in the scheme of things, but it was as far as he could go and he'd just have to hope it was enough. Knowing what was to come was a curse though - while the foreknowledge would definitely help him prevent what had happened from happening again, the horrors in his head... He shook his head to clear it, feeling his hair brush against his face. It was strange not to feel grime in his hair after so long living on the run and at the non-existent mercy of the Dark order. It did put him in the mind for a shower though - no matter how clean he was compared to his recent memories, taking a warm shower was something he'd not been able to do in months and he relished the chance.
Untangling himself from the sheets, he stood and looked around the room he was in. It was the Christmas hols, so he was in his room at Order Headquarters. It was just like he remembered it - dark blue walls, a large four-poster bed with the hangings tied to the posts. Dark wood furniture, only some of which had any of his belongings in it, and a few trinkets dotted around - not many, as he didn't keep much. If only he was the same as all this here, but he felt different, too different. The last year had changed him too much, he wondered if it was even possible to fix anything, especially given the changes in him.
When he'd first enacted the magic that would send him back in time, he'd been as he always was; determined, realistic but ultimately hopeful. It was part of why he'd been chosen to undergo the ritual. He wasn't that man any longer though - and anyone looking at him now would see the difference in him compared to just the day before. Now, he was without hope.
But he was here, and hope or not he had a job to do. He'd sent himself back and now he was here - he had to at least try. With that in mind the young man grabbed a change of clothes and headed across the hall to take a shower, mulling over in his head what steps he would need to take first. There were just so many things that had gone wrong in the future, he couldn't handle all of them - not in the least the people as a whole. Once the Dark Order had taken the government, the rest of the country just fell in line out of fear, accepting the changes that happened - descending into the darkness themselves. Their fear had forced them to keep their heads down, to give up their friends and allies to protect themselves, but it became so much worse than that before long. Perhaps evil really was contagious.
Shaking off such thoughts, the dark haired man finished up in the shower, intent on returning to his room. Anyone who knew him in this house would be able to tell the difference in him right now, would be able to see something was wrong, and he was in no shape to fend off their concerned inquiries. He'd been executed less than an hour ago in his memory, and it took some effort to shake something like that off. The shower helped, warming him and distracting him - it was good to be clean again, warm and alive despite the dark future ahead of them.
Rubbing a towel over his hair as he moved across the hallway to his room, he tried to remember how things were two years past for him. So much was different - for one, there were other people in this house. Last he'd been here it'd been empty - and half ruined by spell damage. They'd lost a lot of people when this place had been discovered. Trying to shake off such grim thoughts, he refocused; here and now, there were people, allies. They were Light for the most part, and in a way that was a problem - they were so light they had no idea how dark things would get. Having been more Grey in alignment, but always a Light ally, he sometimes clashed with them over methods and such - he disliked their 'kid gloves' mentality, even when dealing with the worst of criminals. Those who survived the next year would all be undeniably Grey at least, but right now they were all Light - and his Grey was far Darker than it used to be. Mercy wasn't something he'd been able to afford for a while now.
He could only put off seeing them for so long however, and he didn't want anyone coming up to check on him. As much as he may prefer to stay holed up in his room, realistically he wasn't going to be allowed to stay there for long without people coming up to ask after him. With that in mind, he reluctantly left the relative sanctuary of his room, warding it as he left so nobody would be able to enter - through the door at least - before doing so.
Downstairs he could hear voices bustling in the kitchen, forcing him to freeze in the hallway. Mrs Weasley's shrill tone, chastising one of her wayward children over something or other - he'd not heard her voice in a long time now. This house may be dark and dreary but the lightness of its occupants cut through it. He'd not heard such light-heartedness for some time himself.
It took him a moment to compose himself, and longer to convince himself that this was in any way a good idea. He couldn't come clean to them - they'd never believe him, and it could ruin everything if he did so. If the Dark Lord looked into their minds and saw the truth of him, he could barely consider the thought. If Voldemort knew that time travel was a possibility, they were all doomed.
He was abruptly pulled from his thoughts by Ginny Weasley rushing past him, excusing herself as she almost bowled him over, if he hadn't pressed himself to the side. Unnoticed by her, his wand had slid into his hand defensively but he wasn't so far gone as to have cast anything. A blessing truthfully - his idea of defensive was a bit more offensive than it used to be. "No problem." He muttered, resuming his walk towards the stairs and down to where the noise was coming from. He may as well show his face, get some breakfast and hopefully that'd satisfy the other occupants so they'd leave him alone for a bit to think.
In the future, they hadn't had much time to plan anything out. Honestly they weren't even too sure how much time that he would have. Most of their meetings had been about casting the magic rather than what to do once he got here, since they hadn't known when 'here' would be. He had a few outlines of ideas, or big things to try and stop if he could, but he was scarcely sure where to start. The ritual had been one cast out of desperation - that was the emotional component of it. They'd been so desperate, because there was no hope in the future. He had to try to do something, to stop things from going so wrong.
The first step though, was getting through breakfast. No easy task, considering how world-weary he felt, and how even the sounds of the voices of people he had seen lost was hard for him to bear. He grit his teeth all the same and stepped downstairs - now was the time for strength and determination. And if he couldn't be fueled by hope any longer, then desperation would be what drove him to stop what was to come.