I don't own Harry Potter. It belongs to JKR

Reality of a Hero

Chapter 2: Back

"BOY!"

The shout startled Harry out of his drug induced want-to-be-coma and made him bury his face in the ratty pillow with a groan. His head felt worse then it had in a long time, probably as bad as his first experience with strong alcohol and a need to forget. He slid his hand out from under him and sent it questing for the hangover potion that usually spent it's time on his locker. That was the first inkling he had, that something was very, very wrong. His old plastic glasses were on his locker.

Pulling his head away from the pillow, he looked around the room focusing as best he could through the pain haze in his mind. Privet Drive? What, by all that was holy was he doing here? Reaching around behind his neck, he fumbled with the locket on the chain he wore until he got it back around to the front and opened it. Groaning, he pulled out the miniature bottle that rested inside. It resized the moment it was out and he eagerly downed the contents, feeling his hangover, and the other side effects begin to fade away.

With a sigh of relief, he gripped the chain firmly and gave it two short, sharp tugs.

Nothing happened. The second tendrils of unease swirled around his stomach and he quickly tried again. The portkey didn't activate. Glaring at the chain, he sighed and looked around the room, confusion, and then panic flashing across his face.

There were books on the desk. Parchment, ink ands quills littered it. His old school cauldron, looking far newer then it had last time he had seen it was in the corner of the room and his Firebolt was resting against the wall. He focused on the broom, trying to make sense of what he saw. The broom has been destroyed in his seventh year, burnt up when he cancelled the speed control charm on it to escape the death eaters… he still remembered every moment of that wild ride.

Rising to his feet, he got the second shock of the morning. Harry had never been that tall. The Dursleys had ruined any chance he ever had of that by trying to starve him to death, but he hadn't been this small in years. His clothing was hanging off of him and it wasn't because they were Dudley's cast-offs. He was still in the same outfit he had worn to the club the previous night. With trembling fingers, he opened his shirt. Both nipple piercings were still in place. Pushing the left hand sleeve down a bit to expose his shoulder, he could still see the top of the Celtic style eagle that covered his left arm, shoulder and part of his neck. A de-aging potion?

"BOY!"

The yell made him jump. Shaking his head to try to regain some equilibrium, he decided to play along for the moment, at least until he had a better idea of what was going on, "I'll be down in a minute." He called back and then made a beeline for the shower, stripping off the club gear as he went.

Standing naked, on front of the mirror twenty minutes later, he desperately tried to reconcile what he was seeing with what his brain was telling him should be there. He was fourteen again, his body only just beginning to mature. The tattoos were still there, but they looked strangely out of place on his partially developed body. They had been originally done over layers of muscle, muscle that was now mostly gone and they seemed almost… lopsided. The piercings were another story. The one in the nape of his neck was invisible under his still waist length hair, along with the ones in his ears and the small rings in his nipples didn't look that bad. Even the Prince Albert and ampallang weren't that out of place. He had always been… disproportionate in that department. Explaining how a fourteen year old had managed to get not one but two genital piercings might be a problem though.

Darting back into his room, he sorted through the clothing Dudley had outgrown until he found a pair of black jeans from about two years previous that were just about long enough for him to get away with and a plain black long-sleeved shirt with a high enough collar to cover his neck. A glamour charm took care of the top of the tattoo on his neck and he quickly plaited his hair and tied it off with a conjured band, hoping that if somehow it was his uncle downstairs, he wouldn't notice the length of his hair against the shirt.

The house was just like he remembered it from the summer before his forth year. Even the trophies Dudley had gone on to win in boxing were missing from the mantelpiece. Forcing those thoughts from his mind, he made his way into the kitchen. Vernon Dursley, or someone who looked remarkably like him was sitting at the kitchen table, across from his son. Hesitating for a moment, Harry made a snap decision and carefully reached out with a hissed command of 'legilmens'. The thoughts going through the man's head were those Harry would have expected of Vernon Dursley. In fact, the man was Vernon Dursley and as far as he was concerned it was the 20th August 1994. His eyes flashed over Petunia and Dudley and he had to fight to keep the expression off of his face as he got the exact same results for both of them.

Breakfast, unsurprisingly, passed in silence. By the time he had finished eating; Harry had decided to take the situation at face value. Somehow or another, he had been dumped into the past. He'd continue to take things as they came until either a) he had proof that this was real, or b) if it wasn't real, he figured out who was responsible and killed them.

It was early afternoon when Harry finished his chores. Really, it should have taken him longer, but magic was tracked by spell usage and Harry had long been adept at using intent rather then spells. He remembered sadly how annoyed it had always made Hermione that she couldn't do it. Her logical, orderly mind simply couldn't not use the spell. Ron had never been particularly good at it either, but for a very different reason. The thought gave him pause, pulling his mind back to the previous night… he could clearly remember, in the swirl of heat and light and drug-fuelled euphoria, wishing, wanting a second chance to make Ron and Hermione understand, to make them see him and not the Boy-Who-Lived. He was arguably the most powerful wizard in the world. He was also one of only a handful of people capable of using high level magic with intent, rather then spells. Could his drunken, high wish have been taken as intent by his own magic?

He blindly entered his room and sat down on the bed, trying to sort his thoughts out… The portkey wasn't working. The last clear memory he had was triggering it to get home and then waking up here. He hands shot up to the chain, and opened the locket, his eyes widening as he remembered one of the items he always carried with him and his own thoughts identifying which of the items stored within he was looking for. There was nothing in it when it spilled open onto this palm.

The Time-Splitter wasn't exactly illegal. Of dubious nature, yes and most definitely not something the wizarding world would like the idea of its hero owning, but not illegal. It took you a half-second out of time with everything around you. Useful in a fight though very unfair, to Harry, its main use was for avoiding the reporters who frequently took up residence outside his front door. When he had bought it, he had been given a warning. Don't ever, ever use a portkey at the same time. Portkeys worked by pulling you across the time and space between you and your destination at a fraction under the speed of light. The half-second difference the Time-Splitter made could very well push the traveller to that speed. No one who had ever tried it had been found.

He hadn't consciously activated the Time-Splitter, but could he have done it accidentally? Accidental intent magic was hardly rare. "Merlin…" he breathed out. If he was right… well, it might be enough to get the Time-Splitters declared illegal and there was no way he wanted that to happen.

Running a hand through his hair, he jumped to his feet and began pacing. Here and now, he was getting ready to start his forth year at Hogwarts, the year of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. The year of Voldemort's return and of Cedric Diggory's death. The year his life pretty much went to hell. And now he was getting the chance to do it again. Sometime around the end of the week, Wormtail would kill Frank Bryce. The first strike in the second war. The war itself wasn't going to be long or even that bad. Or at least it hadn't been the first time round. Surely, he could speed it up a bit this time as well? Another thought demanded his attention, Dumbledore.

The Old Man had pretty much decided that the wizarding world was more important then he was. He had destroyed Harry's childhood, ran his adolescent like his own private chess game and made sure that any adulthood Harry lived to see was a mockery of everything he had fought for. It was not a future the suddenly teenaged boy was looking forward to. But how to make Dumbledore back off? Telling him the truth was out of the question. Dumbledore was as guilty as everyone else of seeing The Boy Who Lived, the Weapon against Voldemort, rather then the child and the old man was worse then anyone Harry had ever met for not being able to admit his mistakes. Dumbledore would be far more interested and worried about turning Harry back into the Gryffindor Golden Boy then taking his information seriously and that was if he even believed him.

Harry paused his pacing on front of the window, absently tugging his plait. The two things Dumbledore held over Harry were information and adulthood. The latter only time could fix, but the former could be severely weakened, if not destroyed by a few carefully made plans. First, he needed to write some letters. Secondly, he needed to get some new clothing and third, he needed to sit down and have a long talk with his aunt and uncle.

Taking the desk chair, he felt the leg creek beneath him. He stood back up, new plan. First, he'd sort out his room, then he's write the letters. Concentrating on the bookshelves above his bed, he felt his magic flow along his arms. He pictured in his head clearly what he wanted and sent that intent to the magic in his fingertips. The bookshelves disappeared, along with the rest of the furniture and for a heartbeat the space was empty before a large four-poster bed with black silk sheet, curtains and a forest green duvet in the same material appeared where the bed had once been. The pillows were suddenly large and fluffy. For a second, Harry was almost tempted to return to bed.

He quickly worked through the other things he wanted to change; the floor became hardwood with a soft, forest green rug at the side of the bed. The desk changed to heavy oak and became larger with a green leather blotter inset into it. An inkwell inlaid with silver along with a matching quill holder appeared at one side of it. The chair became larger as well, turning from cheap red plastic to expensive black plastic and black leather. Harry sank into it as he continued to let his magic follow the image in his head. The small bookshelf was changed to oak, matching the desk and the bed before growing larger until it almost reached the ceiling. With a smile Harry pushed the chair over to the bookcase, and began to move the books onto it as he absently followed the changes his magic continued to make. The chest of drawers and wardrobe changed to match the rest of the furniture before they flew open and the clothing piled up in the centre of the room. With a glare from the young man, it shrank until it fit in a matchbox. The matchbox went into the back of the bottom drawer. The tattered curtains that covered the windows turned to heavy velvet, the same colour as the rug and with a sigh of relief; he finally changed the walls to cream.

He leaned back into the comfortable chair and pulled a sheet of parchment out of the top drawer of the desk, followed by a quill, and began to write.

"The Record's Office

Ministry of Magic

Dear Sir/Madam,

I have recently been wondering more and more about what happened to me and my parents on the Halloween Night, 1981. There seems to be little information in the public domain beyond the basic story of what happened.

I am aware that it is not always a good idea of give children any and all information that they want, but as the only known survivor of that night, I feel I should be entitled to this information, if you have it. The few scattered memories I have of the night, dug up by the dementers during the last school year and given me some information, but not a huge amount and given me more questions then ever before.

If there is anymore information on that night, I would greatly appreciate it, as the questions are slowly driving me mad.

Yours Sincerely,

Harry James Potter."

He signed his name and read over the letter one more time. It sounded like a fourteen year old, he decided. He just hoped he got the reply he wanted. Folding the letter and addressing it, he put it to one side, noticing Hedwig looking at it expectantly, "I have one more to write, girl." He said softly.

Hedwig hooted and Harry laughed before pulling out another sheet of parchment and frowning at it. He had no idea what to say.

"Healer Gerrant Llewellyn,

St Mungos,

Dear Healer Llewellyn,

I'm sure you don't get many people voluntarily asking to see you and I'm probably one of the last people you would have expected to be writing this, but something has happened to me that makes me think I might need your help. Can I please make an appointment to see you at your earliest convenience?

Yours Sincerely

Harry James Potter."

It wasn't the best letter he had ever written, but at the moment it was more important to get Gerrant's help then anything else. He was probably the only person besides Dumbledore who could help him, and Dumbledore wouldn't.

He folded the letter and after addressing it, gave them both to Hedwig. "Here you go girl and wait for replies, please?"

Hedwig hooted and nipped his fingers. Then she flew out the window.

Harry watched he go before pulling out another sheet of paper. He had one more letter to write.

"Snuffles,

Something strange has happened. It's nothing to worry about, but not something I can explain in a letter. If I seem a little bit off for the next while, don't worry about it and know that an explanation is coming. I have a question that I need answered and I need the answer from someone who will give it to me straight with none of the usual lies, omissions, half-truths and you're-to-young-to-understand speeches. I just need to know and I'm hoping I can trust you to give that to me. Here goes, can I trust Dumbledore to do what's right for me?

Harry"

He underlined the 'me' and looked over the letter again. It was manipulative and Sirius was savvy enough to realise he was being manipulated. He also doubted his godfather would pay any attention to the 'nothing to worry about' bit. In fact, the letter was almost guaranteed to bring Sirius running, but that was the point.

Sirius was still alive; on the run maybe, but alive. He had the chance to save his godfather, and by Merlin he was going to do it. Sirius was also on the very short list of people he completely trusted, a list that currently consisted of only five names, two of whom hadn't even met him yet.

Sighing in irritation at both the direction of his thoughts and his sudden depression over his lost friends, he got up and left the house, locking his bedroom door as he went.

The park was quiet, Dudley was at a party at Malcolm's and most likely wouldn't come round to vandalise it. The late afternoon sunshine was warm enough that he didn't need a jumper, but still cool enough to have driven the young parents and children closer to their homes. He found a tree and sat down at the base, grateful in more then one way that the unseasonable heat of the beginning of the summer had broken.

Now that the initial adrenaline rush of acceptance had passed, he had another worry. His original wish had been to have the chance to change his friend's minds, make then see him, but in the cold light of day, he had to acknowledge that there was precious little he could actually do. Ron was homophobic and incredibly bigoted against anything that didn't fit into his perfect view of the world. He had also been even more obsessed then Molly Weasley with setting him and Ginny up. He had never even tried to understand Harry, preferring to just refuse to deal with the pieces he didn't like. Walking in on him that day had been a slap in a face, forcing Ron to deal with the one thing he absolutely didn't want to. Once word had spread around the Burrow, Ginny had practically tried to kill him for cheating on her, despite the fact that they had broken up.

Hermione… Hermione was a creature of logic, of order. The whirlwind sensual rollercoaster Harry so enjoyed riding at the clubs would hold no attraction to her, nor would she ever be able to see the draw. He also didn't think she would want to. Furthermore, Hermione didn't really understand what the wizarding world had put him through or would as the case may be. She only saw him fighting, acting. Hermione had never been there on the nights when he had cried himself to sleep behind a silencing charm. And even if she had, she wouldn't have understood.

He was a creature of emotion, of sensation. Hermione was not.

He had lost touch with Neville sometime after their combined twenty-first birthday party. The other man had joined the aurors and was a fast rising star whereas Harry had abandoned the wizarding world shortly after graduating. He was also not the easiest person to keep in contact with. Luna had been the only one besides Hermione to keep in real contact with him and when she died… well…

They had grown up and then apart. He had always hoped that one day, Ron would come to his senses, but his former best friend had never been given the chance. After the death of the twins, he had fallen out of contact with the rest of the family, those that would still talk to him anyway. He had still seen Bill and Fluer every once in a while, but Molly had blamed him for her daughter's death and he knew he was person non grata at the Burrow. Ironic that she had never blamed him for Ron's. He never had found out what Arthur thought, but then, the man was rarely allowed his own opinion.

Then there was Remus, who for a short period of time, had tried to fill at least part of the gaping hole inside his adopted godson. The man really had tried, but like Hermione had never really understood the emotions driving the younger man. They hadn't parted on the best of terms, Remus accusing Harry of throwing his life away and Harry pointing out that like everyone else, Remus kept forgetting it was his life to do with what he pleased. Remus hadn't understood his disgust at the wizarding world, or his lack of sympathy for them.

Hedwig found him there as it was beginning to get dark, perching in the tree and dropping two letters onto his lap. He flipped them over, recognising Gerrant's writing on the first one and tearing it open. The letter inside was short and to the point, giving little information to anyone who didn't know Gerrant.

"Mr Potter,

I am at your service from 1pm tomorrow if you can come to my office at St Mungos. If you can't make this meeting, please respond and we can arrange an alternative.

Gerrant Llewellyn."

Translation, 'I'm curious and bored, so let's see." Gerrant never had been one to follow either rules or procedures. A genuine 'Indigo Child' as he has once told Harry.

The second letter was a bit longer and rather surprising. Harry has been expecting to have to work a bit to get where the writer was quite willingly sending him:

"Mr Potter,

Unfortunately very little more is known about what happened that night then what is in the public domain. I am aware there is a prophecy relating to yourself and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that is held in the Hall of Prophecies. I am also aware that there are some theoretical dissertations on how you survived being bandied around the Department of Mysteries every once in a while.

I mentioned your letter to a colleague of mine, who has expressed an interest in talking to you about it. As she is the one person who might be able to answer your questions I have taken the liberty of arranging a meeting for 4pm tomorrow. Hypatia Grayson will meet you in the Ministry Atrium and take you down to the Hall of Prophecy and from there to her office to talk.

Regards

Jonathon Whittaker-Prince"

Hypatia Grayson. The one person in the entire world, Albus Dumbledore didn't want Harry to even know about the existence of.

Hypatia Grayson, Dark Witch and the world's foremost expert on Assyrian Dark Magic.

Hypatia Grayson, former Unspeakable, Hit-Wizard and once teacher at Hogwarts.

Hypatia Grayson, the word renowned Duelling Champion who had retired undefeated after more then four decades on the platform.

Hypatia Grayson, who attended Hogwarts under the name Hypatia Dumbledore.

A feral smile crossed Harry's lips. He had expected to have to work a lot harder to get in touch with her. "Thank you, Jonathon Whittaker-Prince. You've just made things a lot easier."

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