Ride the Storm
Intro: What if another Time Lord had survived the Time-War, an exceedingly familiar Time Lord, an old enemy who hadn't escaped quite as far as the end of the universe, but a little closer to Earth. As for Harry Potter, well he's is about to discover the truth, what was kept from him, both of what he truly is, and of the universe itself. When he opens the watch, then it will begin…
Warnings: Slight Dumbledore bashing. Slight language.
Pairings: Doctor/Harry!Master (poss), Ianto/Jack, (one-sided) Rose/10th, (one-sided) Martha/10th, Hermione/Harry!Master, Luna/Neville.
Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter nor Doctor Who belong to me…
A/N: I have yet to decide as the definite pairings for both The Doctor and Harry!Master. It will fall to popular vote as to those. Similarly any minion ideas from amongst the Wizarding world, though Luna and Hermione are highly likely to be amongst those. Read and Review XD.
'Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.'- Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams.
Chapter 1
Harry Potter had always assumed himself normal, well normal for a wizarding-saviour around whom an inordinate amount of things always seemed to go haywire, notably in a manner that was considerably life threatening. Double-trouble.
Harry Potter was not, however, normal. No matter how much he tried to disillusion himself.
The oddness, could be argued as beginning on the day of Voldemort's attempted murder an exceedingly 'threatening' one year old baby, which could prove the source of many 'taking candy from a…' jokes. Which, it thankfully wasn't, as no-one really wanted to be Avada Kedavra-ed that eagerly.
Nevertheless, it could have begun that Halloween Night. With a child left on the cold step of the Dursley family's from porch releasing hiccups of golden energy every now and then. With the patterned silver pocket watch hidden deep within the folds of his baby blanket but unnoticed by anyone. The end of the chain clenched within a chubby fist in an almost-death grip.
Or maybe it began with a 2 year old with a perfect vocabulary, having taught himself.
Or the 3 year old who'd learnt to read on his own and was already adding, subtracting, dividing and multiplying with little difficulty.
Or the 4 year old who was already aware of scientific theory.
Or the 5 year old who's bruises disappeared within hours of his uncle causing them.
Or the 6 year old who created a working remote control car from scraps and wire, or at least in worked until his highly obese cousin sat on it…
Or the 7 year old who'd figured out a system by which his marks were always a certain percentage lower than his cousins without fail. Not that his teachers noticed, but such is life.
But really, where the major part of our tale began to unfold was on the child's eleventh birthday. Upon his discovery that magic was in fact a reality and his visit to Diagon Alley, filled with child like wonder, but at the same time the watch the child always wore around his neck, thrummed into his skin, filled with eagerness and interest.
Having just rescued him from the Dursleys, Hagrid had taken him there to see about the things he would need to attend Hogwarts, which had been revealed to be the school where magic was taught, real magic. Just thinking about it send a shiver down Harry's spine as he stared around the cobbled, Victorian style streets bustling with wizards and witches, in increasingly ridiculous outfits. The fact that he was going to collect money that he owned rather dazzled him, filled him with an urge to laugh and laugh in excitement. Before this moment, Harry couldn't imagine owning anything that the Dursleys wouldn't have had first, or that they wouldn't have swiftly 'confiscated'.
All except…
Harry reached under his shirt to subtly run a hand over his pocket watch, he always had it, maybe a left over from his parents; because the Dursleys never seemed to notice it.
Ever…
Hell, no-one had.
He eyed it thoughtfully, considering.
Could the battered, broken pocket watch be magical?
His attention quickly faded from the watch, almost as though it no longer held his interest. His concentrating shifting when the vault in the goblin bank opened in a billow of (quite unnecessary) green smoke to reveal heaped piles of gold coins and many other items, such as medieval looking weaponry, and odd piles of books. There was very little order to any of it, reminding him of some sort of pirate's hoard, a mishmash cave of wonders. That only added to how impressive it looked however, and Harry couldn't help but stare at it all with open-mouthed wonder.
The watch burned with energy once more…
Hagrid then turned to talk to Griphook the goblin again, temporarily leaving Harry to his own devices.
Wandering out amongst the stacks, which all dwarfed him by a significant amount. Staring in curiosity at the strange yet marvellous items which stood out in the higglty-pigglety mess with child-like amazement that he had never been allowed to display at the Dursleys, what with their mantra of 'don't ask questions' which made a great deal more sense now that the child knew of his heritage. Despite his below average marks, Harry was not a fool, indeed by most interpretations little Harry James Potter was a genius especially with regards to scientific knowledge, and already that child like mind was attempting to figure out just what it was that allowed some the ability of magic- genetics most likely, or maybe those theories of ESP were correct or….
His attention was captured by a glint within a mount of cascading golden coins the size of hubcaps- Galleons, he reminded himself- which drew his gaze like a magpie to something that shines. Sliding forwards, he reached a tentative hand…
After all, it technically belonged to him, wasn't like anyone would stop him taking it, right?
The glimmer which had caught his eye was a rather peculiar glimmer, but then it would have to be to stand out from the rest of the glittering gold and silver and bronze.
It was a box, a box of a strange metal that he'd never seen, an almost-black with a lustre to it, smooth to the touch, yet he knew it was hard as diamond without even trying to open it.
Which he did.
He lifted it out of its spot amongst the jewels and coins and weaponry, the construct fitting perfectly into his palm like it belonged there, but in a larger grip at the same time. Which was in itself inexplicable.
Running his hand across the lid, he shivered at the warmth that spread up his arm. A warmth that was answered by the watch at his chest that hummed with a gentle warmth.
Reaching down to unlock the box, the littlest and only Potter found, that much to his disgruntlement, that no matter how hard his fingers scrabbled at it, the damned thing remained shut tight.
"Well, that was anti-climactic now wasn't it." He muttered, pouting ferociously.
"'Arry!" came Hagrid's voice. "'Arry, we 'ave to go now!"
Jumping in surprise at the giant's voice, which succeeded in removing him from his little pity-party, Harry quickly shoved the box into his pocket, where it easily slid into the oversized pockets of the pair of too-big and formerly Dudley-owned trousers.
"Coming!" he called as he emerged from behind the piles of gold, attempting to act innocent, hoping that it wouldn't be noticed.
Deep down he knew the box was important, though how he hadn't a clue. Similarly, he was somehow perfectly aware that he had to keep the box secret. No one else could know of it.
Griphook the goblin shot him a suspicious look as they climbed back into the cart, but Harry met his gaze evenly. Under normal circumstances, there was no way Harry would have dared to take the watch without asking if he could first, and the warning from the front of the bank played through his mind briefly, but he shrugged all of that aside. From the moment he had first laid eyes on the watch he had just known it was meant to be his.
No-one else's.
His
He mentally blinked his confusion at the possessiveness that filled him, but was swiftly distracted by a gruff question regarding the cart speed.
Though he was convinced that despite the Goblin's claims of 'One speed only.' that the little ankle-biter had deliberately upped the contraption's velocity. Not that he was complaining, after all, he liked the adrenaline rush.
Invisibility was proving to be a let down with regards to how promising it had first appeared when he'd decided to go for a midnight hunt amongst the restricted section of the library to find clues on the mysterious package hidden on the third floor. After all, the Invisibility Cloak he had got for Christmas was only useful for hiding things from sight- it did absolutely nothing for noise. This was how he found himself running from Professor Snape and Filch after attempting to sneak into the Restricted Section.
Mentally, the boy-hero cursed the library-stock. Seriously, who thought that 'oh, the quiet library is running low on information that can be obtained in a quiet and peaceful manner. I know, lets purchase a text that screams when it's opened.'
Who ever that little spark of genius belonged to deserved to be kicked. Repeatedly. On multiple occasions. In a variety of new and creative ways.
It also turned out that, in the narrow corridor he was trapped in, with the two approaching him, that the cloak wouldn't do much against touch, either. Like in those cartoons where the wolf-thing ran into glass on numerous occasions whilst chasing the irritating, running bird (he wouldn't know the names as allowing him access to humorous televised cartoon mayhem was most likely exceedingly low on the Dursley list of priorities, right down there with treat Harry like a human being) anyway, just because the mentally challenged coyote couldn't see it, didn't mean that the glass wasn't there. Same principle with an invisible person. He may not be seen, but he could be hit quite easily. Granted not as easily as someone visible, but still…
Fortunately, one of the doors in corridor was stood slightly ajar. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he edged through the slight gap, never having been so pleased to be as glaringly -pathetically- thin as he was. Both Snape and Filch kept walking down the corridor, neither having noticed anything.
It was at this point that Harry realised he was in some sort of unused classroom, and the reason that it was unused was the large, ornate mirror placed against one of the far walls. On its gold frame there was an odd inscription that Harry couldn't understand a word of, reading:
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
Still under his invisibility cloak, Harry stepped out in front of the mirror.
He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He whirled around. His heart was pounding furiously— for he had seen not only himself in the mirror, but a whole crowd of people standing right behind him.
But the room was empty and he was invisible….surely?
Breathing rapidly, he turned slowly back to the mirror.
There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least ten others. Harry looked over his shoulder — but still, no one was there.
He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing right behind his reflection was smiling at him and waving. He reached out a hand and felt the air behind him. If she was really there, he'd touch her, their reflections were so close together, but he felt only air – she and the others existed only in the mirror.
She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair and her eyes —her eyes are just like mine, Harry thought, edging a little closer to the glass. Bright green — exactly the same shape, but then he noticed that she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just as Harry's did.
Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly touching that of his reflection.
"Mum?" he whispered. "Dad?"
They just looked at him, smiling. And Harry realised that he was seeing his family for the first time in his life.
Slowly, Harry took notice of said parents' surroundings. His parents' exceedingly bizarre surroundings. The red sky hung above them, lit by the light of two suns, and trees of silver glinted whilst in the distance were mountains capped with snow. And somewhere, deep down, he knew that behind those mountains was a place of the utmost importance.
The watch at his neck warmed him through and through, and when his fingers brushed its engraved pattern the image within the mirror altered once more.
His image shifted to a man sat upon a picnic blanket staring up at the background already present, with his eyes glinting with intelligence, barely restrained knowledge and something…inexplicable. His hair held a hint of the Potter-mess, but had been somewhat tamed. Lips were curled into a calculating if amused smile, and he was dressed in an impeccably cut black suit, yet uncaring that it was becoming highly rumpled by his regal, but sprawled position on the blanket. Twirling a metal tube-like contraption in one hand as he gazed up at that crimson sky.
Beside the man was a second and equally strange individual. With chestnut hair that was quite possibly more of a mess than his own, wearing a pinstriped suit and a manic grin, his mouth baring white teeth. As he emphasised some point by failing his arms, almost upsetting the flask of liquid that was beside him on the blanket.
His heart was pounding excitedly, as did the watch, yet there was an odd ache there as well that didn't die as he scanned over the two figures more closely. He had no idea who the second man was, but he seemed exceedingly familiar. Yet he was certain that the former of the pair was…him.
He wondered if the mirror might somehow know what the future would be. However, that was ridiculous. The background of that scenario and the presence of his parents were assurance of that.
But still, that man….So very familiar…
A fleeting image of jelly babies, celery, multi-coloured scarves, bad teeth and a police box slipped through his mind, before fading.
Leaving Harry James Potter even more 'pleasantly' bewildered.
Not much change from usual there then…
It was only later that he remembered the two men, having previously tried to push them out of him mind, especially following Dumbledore's explaination of the Heart's Desire mirror. After all, Harry had no idea why the heck he'd desire to be in such a weird looking place, older and having a picnic with someone who looked to be a complete and utter nutter.
Thing was probably a dud.
It was some time later before he would see the mirror of mystery once more.
Trapped with Quirrell in the room that was meant to be protecting the Philosopher's Stone, his odd response to the mirror was, quite possibly, the last thing on his mind. All he knew was that he must somehow find the Stone before Quirrell did.
"Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."
Harry walked toward him, desperately trying to figure out a way to lie his way out of the entire situation and a little voice at the back of his mind was reprimanding his Gryffindor tendencies, notably, looking before leaping.
Stepping before the familiar reflective surface, he closed his eyes, breathing a sigh before opening them once more. Instead of his expected reflection- pale, pre-pubescent and scared-looking- it was the man with his eyes once more, seemingly rolling his eyes at Harry's current predicament in a 'not again' fashion.
The figure smirked, before holding up the philosopher's stone allowing it to glint in the twin sunlight, shooting him a sly wink before dropping it into the pocket of the expensive suit.
Harry almost jumped a mile in the air, when he felt something drop into a pocket of his trousers, and with a start he realised it must be the Stone. Somehow it had passed from the other-him in the mirror to his own pocket.
But the figure wasn't finished, capturing Harry's gaze with his almost hypnotising eyes. Harry was all but frozen in place, as the figure reached into his breast-pocket pulling out a watch which bore a familiarly intricate pattern.
His Watch…
This one was fastened to the inside of the jacket by the chain which Harry used to keep it around his neck. Holding the watch in one hand, the figure show him a wry grin and used the broken clasp to open it.
How when it was broken?
Magic maybe?
Suddenly a strange golden cloud rippled out of the watch and then…
He was being ripped away from the glass by a visibly impatient Quirrell, who had apparently decided Harry was taking too long in getting his enemy's desire.
'I hate idiotic minion types…'
He blinked in surprise, wondering where that thought had appeared from, as for all his knowledge he'd never met a minion before, unless you counted Dudley's gang of cretins but they hardly counted, as their IQ combined easily beat out their leader's, hands down. Not that this was particularly hard, ah the policy of working with the guy with the biggest rock/stick/etc. in their hand. Had to pity the standard bully 101…
"What do you see?" demanded incompetent lackey no.1 . "What do you see?"
Harry knew at once that he would have to lie. He couldn't explain about the watch, the hell he'd let that turban headed weirdo even touch the watch with those pasty little hands. And there was no chance that he would reveal that he now had the stone.
"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I've won the house cup for Gryffindor." Lying through his teeth, in what he saw as a rather impressive manner considering his situation.
Quirrell cursed again. "Get out of the way, useless boy."
Useless, so says the man who's trying to get said object for his master and failing miserably.
As Harry moved aside, he felt the Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it? But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell wasn't moving his lips.
"He lies… He lies…"
"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"
The high voice spoke again. "Let me speak to him… face-to-face…"
And so it was that after eleven years, Harry Potter met Lord Voldemort for the second time. And his appearance had doubtfully improved.
After preventing the Philosopher's Stone from being taken, almost getting killed (once again) by the Darkest wizard of the age and somehow making Quirrell's pasty flesh burst into boils and burns at mere touch; it was unsurprising that Harry Potter found himself as a semi-permanent resident of his Hogwarts hospital bed.
Something which would become extremely common during his tenure at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, not that he would know this for a while; though it may have given him an inkling as the unsafe nature of the school in general, if the evillest wizard that ever evilled was able to get away with spending Merlin knew how many months moulding the next generations right under the Headmaster's exceedingly crooked nose. Well, who knew what else could happen…
Needless to say after first waking up in a bed in the hospital wing, Harry had too many visitors at first to think about what he had seen in the mirror. After talking to Dumbledore, Hermione and Ron, he was finally visited by a crying Hagrid, who blamed himself for the entire situation and came bearing a photo album of his parents.
Which oddly enough reminded him of the whole mirror incident and of the watch…
Madam Pomfrey hadn't touched the watch around Harry's neck, further confirming the young wizard's belief that the object had magical properties of some kind. The rest of him had been seemingly strip searched, which in itself was kind of disturbing, but that the consistently hawk-eyed matron hadn't noticed the time piece, well that was pretty much all the confirmation Harry needed.
Pulling the object from its usual place against his chest, Harry stared down at it thoughtfully, attempting to understand the connection between it and the man in the mirror. Turning over the time piece in his hands, he traced the pattern of obscure symbols which he'd even considered researching in the library, but thought again for fear of it being noticed and the watch taken.
There…
The catch, which had open so easily in the mirror…Broken…
The boy sighed with disappointment.
So much for that theory…
'It's not time yet…'
Harry's eyes widened as the voice thrummed through him, certain and utterly convinced. The watch would only open when it was time. Where and when this time would be was unknown. But it would be swift when it came, and the young wizard knew he'd have to be ready.
"You're more trouble than you're worth you know." He grumbled aloud at the time piece. Which warmed with what seemed to be…amusement?
And on the wake of that amusement, was something…different.
A noise like no other, and yet at the same time…so very familiar.
His ears were filled with the odd thumping sound, like the beating of a heart, and it made his whole body hum in time with it, almost like…drums.
Then Madam Pomfrey walked in. Startled, Harry pushed the locket into hiding, forgetting the woman's absent notice of the watch earlier and flopping down into the bed as if to sleep.
Once more, the nurse thankfully did not seem to notice anything, as she was muttering about Hagrid leaving muddy footprints all over her floor, students and their lack of respect and something about a laxative potion that Harry hoped to high heaven wasn't for him.
As for second year, well that proved as…eventful as the previous year.
And, okay, so running off to fight the basilisk wasn't exactly his best thought-out plan yet. But really, it was kind of anti-climactic to beat the evil-doer, defeat the evil minion, save the damsel in extreme distress (and with extremely distressing stalker like tendencies), found the unfindable chamber and…been poisoned in the interim.
Some what of a disappointment, it went without saying.
Staggering slightly, the sword he'd used to slay the beast slipped from weakened fingers. Clattering to the wet ground.
Harry slumped to his knees, feeling so very tired. His limbs inordinately heavy, it was difficult to even move.
Collapsing beside the unconscious body of the red-headed girl, he stared up at the ceiling of the chamber, losing the ability to even gather the strength to move as the fast acting venom shot through his system. The rock was patterned with the constellations of the skies, of all the ironies.
Gazing upward he stared at the star patterns, almost mesmerised by those beautiful patterns which he somehow held synonymous of adventure, discovery and freedom.
Heh…Star-gazing underground…
A giggle crossed his lips, and awareness of his delirious state struck upon this. Along with the accompanying pain that suddenly chose now as the prime moment to sweep through his system, like ice was tearing through his blood, freezing as it went.
Was it meant to be this cold?
So much for playing the hero.
Bet the Doctor never had to deal with this kind of shit…
He blinked in surprise at that thought.
Doctor?
What Doctor?
He didn't know any Doctors.
Wasn't like the Dursley-clan would ever let him see a medical professional, not matter how it, after all…Those kinds of people were trained to spot evidence of child abuse, and they couldn't have the neighbours know that they (the perfectly normal family) kept their supposedly delinquent nephew in a cupboard under the stairs for the majority of his life.
His attention was distracted from the conundrum as the red-golden phoenix landed on his arm and tears dripped off the beak onto the fang-wound.
At which point the agony in his body was replaced by an all-consuming warmth, flames of the endless fire filling him. A dozy smile crossed his lips, flames accompanied by a dull thrumming, the drums…
He was alive, because the drums were beating.
At least he had that reassurance, and oddly enough he was feeling better.
Of course, Phoenix-tears had healing powers…
Harry Potter sat up like a shot, hair wilder and messier than ever, green eyes wide, and (unnoticed) an odd glowing coming from the watch beneath his clothing.
"Right…" He let the word draw out as he considered his options.
Needless to say, he would not be informing anyone of the mysterious drums which had accompanied his foray into the realms of phoenix-healed. As Hermione had been as helpful as to provide, hearing voices and such was a worrying sign in the wizarding world. And after seeing what they'd done to Hagrid…well…They'd probably have him carted off to some asylum faster than he could say 'hallucination'.
"Time to wake the sleeping damsel…"
Though the hell, he'd do a sleeping beauty, wouldn't do to encourage that all consuming little crush that the red-head seemed to harbour for his person.
Added to the fact that her seven brothers would probably kill him.
Despite his hopes, third year proved as dangerous and mysterious as the two years before.
His meeting with Remus Lupin was fortuitous as was his discovery that the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was a friend of his father's. And proved a chance to ask about the watch, and possible heirloom of his family.
Questioning Lupin as to the nature of the strange watch that could, at times, provide the imprint of emotions and ideas, had proven somewhat futile. Indeed, the professor had no idea as to where the time piece had even originated. Remembering no such item belonging to either Harry's father or his mother.
However, the most curious aspect of the entire situation was that the moment the watch was out of sight in its usual place around Harry's neck, Lupin had completely forgotten about it.
Almost at once blinking and asking him another question regarding their Patronus lessons. Leaving a rather bewildered Harry, until he realised the truth of the matter, the watch had made Lupin forget.
Like a notice-me-not, but to the extreme.
'It's not time yet.'
No, no it was not.
With a decisive nod, Harry returned his attention to the Boggart, the watch humming warmth at his chest in the face of the inextricable cold that always accompanied the presence of the Dementor-Boggart.
And then there was the time turner.
As Hermione pulled a long, fine chain from under her robes after Dumbledore left, ignoring Harry's questions about what was going on; the Boy-Who-Lived failed to notice the sudden tingles that ran down his spine; excitement, eagerness, anticipation blended into one.
She threw the chain around his neck, twisting the minute hourglass around three times, and blinked. Harry couldn't help but be fascinated by the warm breeze that felt like coming home around him. And while Hermione did not open her eyes until they stopped, his green eyes remained wide, taking in everything he could. Watching everything rewind and finding an inexplicable joy in the sight, almost feeling as the he could see odd golden threads connecting things together. Almost feel the Earth rotating beneath his battered trainers.
Though that was impossible.
They jerked to a sudden halt, leaving the wizard feeling as though something important was missing. Something vital.
"We've gone back in time. We did it Harry!" Hermione crowed triumphantly, not noticing her companion's discomfort. Or the way he grasped at the right side of his chest, opposite where his heart was located on the left side, as though something had been torn out…
"Harry, we're three hours back…"
Harry knew she hadn't felt what he had, nor seen the wonder, or felt the loss. He said nothing, keeping his little experience to himself, and not questioning how he knew the exact time that they'd travelled back to (down to the very second) without being told. Instead he linked his hands with hers and ran.
Ran, to save a man who was innocent and didn't deserve the fate that he'd been given by life.
But then, who ever did…
He peered around, through a golden haze, knowing that the hanging substance was not the familiar…whatever it was of his dreams. A blasphemous imitation of his dreams, if he were a cat his fur would be standing on end as his hissed his displeasure, and the watch agreed.
Run it's not for us…
It's all Wrong.
Run…
The words echoed in his mind and that's when he heard the scream, and ran towards it unthinking.
And beneath him he felt the Universe run with him.
Stars burnt out.
Planets spun in their orbits.
Time twisted its golden webs.
And, if only for a moment, that illusive…something that came with the watch, seemed to have been solidified around him.
The summer of fourth year wasn't exactly enjoyable. With an absence of any and all contact from his so-called friends and Godfather, Harry was slowly becoming more and more depressed regarding his situation, and the strange dreams which had been affecting his sleep.
He would have understood if the dreams were of Cedric's death, Voldemort's return or of Crouch Jr. According a book Hermione (no surprises there) had worriedly forced him to read at the end of last year, those types of dreams were supposed to naturally come with the trauma of witnessing a horrific death.
What disturbed the wizard was that he wasn't traumatised. He did not feel the textbook symptoms of angst that the book described, despite Hermione ignoring his protests that he was not bottling up and repressing the entire incident and supposedly damaging his psyche. He was actually rather…well…distant from the entire thing. Sure, he was worried that Voldemort had returned, after all, he wasn't crazy- regardless of what hippogriff manure the ministry had been feeding the Prophet. And quite honestly the whole thing was insulting, if they were going to discredit him they could at least have had the decency to be subtle about the whole affair…
Anyway, yes he wished Snake-head was still writhing on ground of some messed-up Romanian forest like the worm he was, and yes he did feel kind of moronic for saving Pettigrew's life in third year, and yes he felt bad for Cedric Diggory's loved ones. But really, he hadn't been that close to the guy. It was pretty difficult to get worked up over the whole thing. Indeed, the death of one of his schoolmates had made very little impact on him.
Which was kind of worrying in itself, the delayed effects of a neglected childhood maybe?
Nevertheless, it was in fact the obscure dreams which made him somewhat of an insomniac these days.
Dreams of fire, pain, fear and…war, filled his subconscious, war against strange beings which could only be described as salt and pepper shakers…
"Run it's the salt-dispenser of doom." He snorted self deprecatingly, and yet it was no joke, the dreams were truly terrifying, and he had no idea where they'd come from. He'd have suspected Voldemort, had he not already known that old snake-face wouldn't have the imagination to think up such things. The 'Dark Lord' would also be unable to resist gloating, which was entirely ridiculous, almost every time that they met on opposing sides of the field, the man would essentially sit down and explain his dastardly plan in explicit detail so that Harry had the chance to think up a solution.
There was a lesson in itself, monologuing was bad.
Oddly enough Harry had a deep seated feeling that he'd never learnt that lesson before.
Around him night had fallen in the park of Little Whinging, which Harry often slipped away too, if only to avoid those bastions of all that was supposedly 'normal' the Dursleys. It had gotten late and the soft glow of a flickering streetlight provided the only source of light in the area. How long had he hiding out this time, he wondered. By hiding out, he was honest enough to admit that he meant moping. After all, the absence of any form of communication from his so-called 'friends' had hit him hard. Leaving his mind to linger on possibilities not just regarding his dreams but as to what the Death-munchers and Voldemort had been up to.
The Boy-Who-Lived was distracted from his significantly depressing thoughts by the sound of people heading his way, and he glanced up to catch. Swiftly recognising Dudley's so-called gang, and having no wish to repeat the humiliation of Harry-hunting, he pulled his invisibility cloak over his head and watched as they headed through the park back to Magnolia Crescent, from what ever they'd been up to- most likely beating up some small child that Harry would later be blamed for by the neighbours who would loudly discuss his 'bad influence' on the area. What fun that would be.
These days the Dursleys seemed to prefer acting as though he didn't exist, like some form of invisible creature, a demiguise maybe…
Needless to say, though it had given him more freedom- despite the nothing magical in the house bad being acting- it simly made the young man feel more isolated than before.
Possibly their plan, but who knew how their minds worked…
Certainly not him. It was enough to make him thankful for not being normal.
'Anyway, anyone moderately interesting in this world is at least a tad insane…'
"Quite right." Harry nodded aloud, then blinked worriedly at the realisation that he was talking to himself.
"I need to get a girlfriend….Or possibly a beard…" Harry pondered, until he realised that no girl who wanted to escape Dudley's wrath would ever date him; and it was doubtful that the amount of fluff-like stubble he'd begun to obtain would grow into anything resembling a truly impressive beard. "Cat's aren't that bad."
Hedwig would never forgive him.
But it wasn't like the old girl was here. Having disappeared on her last visit to Sirius.
Suddenly, he was distracted from his rather rambling thoughts when he realised that it had become absolutely freezing, puddles in his nearby vicinity icing over in a way that was definitely not natural.
His breath condensed into which puffs of smoke and his arms prickled with cold, the only warmth radiating from his fob-watch.
His suspicions as to the unnatural situation was shortly confirmed as the sky rapidly darkened with storm-like clouds that rolled in from no-where.
"L-Lumos," he cried, drawing his wand from its near constant hiding place up his baggy sleeve, a feeling of nervous foreboding flooding through his system.
The tip sparked up brilliantly in the darkness, revealing what he had already suspected. Darkened, hooded figures swam through the air like ghastly figments of smoke. Dementors. Two of the creepy little buggers, moving towards him with deadly intent.
"Expecto patronum!" he shouted, waving his wand in the motions that Professor Lupin had drilled into him two years ago, the words that had saved himself and Sirius that day on the shore of the lake. His stomach dropped as all that emerged was a wisp of silvery smoke, instead of that familiar spirit-figure of Prongs. The mist hung briefly before falling away to the Dementors' onslaught.
The cold was overwhelming now, the screams of his mother echoing in his mind, his father crying out for her to run, that flash of green that had haunted his dreams as a child, the flash of green was replaced by a beam of electric-blue.
'Exterminate…'
He was so cold now, as if he'd been shunted into the depths of empty space. His wand fell from icy fingers which were rapidly losing manoeuvrability as his motor functions failed in the onslaught of both the cold and the mental trauma that accompanied the guards of Azkaban.
He shook his head, trying to gather his panicked thoughts. Stumbling forward, desperately grasping for his wand on the tarmac, but that damned thing kept slipping from fingers that felt more like ice-blocks than manoeuvrable digits.
I'm going to die!
His was scared, so very scared…His heart was pumping double time as the hooded figures boxed him in.
'Not here, I refuse to die here!'
A burning determination filled him, almost centring on his chest where the watch swung, but that was of course, impossible. But he allowed the determination to fill him up, twist through his veins and erase the terror-imposed paralysis of the hooded creatures.
There was a voice like ice laughing inside his head. It filled all his thoughts, drowned them out, both good and bad. The Dementor's fingers were rough, like the skin had shrivelled away on them, and the dark space beneath the hood was no longer looking empty…
No.
The word filled his mind suddenly.
No. No.
No, no, no!
Each time it was louder and louder, backed up by the beating of drums, a tune his subconscious knew well, 'war drums' it seemed to inform him, thrumming through his body. A strong wind tugged at his hair, something that had nothing do with the Dementors. A feeling of power filled his body, indescribable power; the hands grasping his face loosened and the Dementor raised its head with a rattling hiss, before the whole world exploded.
Harry was at the centre of the explosion like a super nova, caught in the maelstrom of gold and red that seemed to melt the very air around him, singing with pure power that warmed his frozen form and made him hum with pleasure. The two Dementors screamed and writhed as they were caught up within it, their black bodies fading away beneath the onslaught of warmth, before fading from existence as though they had never been. Underfoot, the tarmac hissed as it returned to molten tar, whilst the rest of the street remained untouched, and a small smile crept across his face.
If Harry had been able to, he would have tried to stop what was happening, but he too was suffering from the explosion, only in a different way. He wasn't blown up or vaporised as his surroundings, but his body felt…different, the only way to describe it really. The sensation that twisted through him, he could feel everything and nothing, even though everything around him was burning. It felt as if he was expanding and growing in leaps and starts, until everything suddenly went quiet.
The gold and red glow faded away as if it had never been, leaving behind no evidence that it had ever occurred but for the slight shine added to the surrounding road at his feet.
Gasping, Harry glanced around. Bewildered.
No-one had seen it, but what had it been.
'Honestly, must you be so useless…Next time I'm not saving you on principle.'
That voice echoed in his mind, scorn-filled, and a throb of disapproval escaped from the watch. Making the wizard-in-training gape.
What the hell kind of a potential-family-heirloom had he managed to pick up?
Nervously licking his lips, he scanned the area to ensure there had been no witnesses, before reaching to grasp his wand with a steadier hand. Sliding it into his sleeve once more.
Giving a quite sigh he stood once more, mentally groaning as the owls descended on him. Flicking through the 'under-age sorcery' letter, he gave a mental groan, noting with slight relief that the watch had worked its usual, unusual brand of magic and hadn't been noticed. Having only gotten the reprimand and hearing over his use of a Patronus out of school.
"Bloody Ministry…" He snarled, turning to Arthur Weasley's letter telling him to just stay put. Yeah, some help that was.
With a growl of irritation he headed by to the Dursleys' home, failing to notice the four-beat tune he was tapping out on one thigh with his fingers.
Da-da-da-dum, Da-da-da-dum, Da-da-da-dum!
"Harry, you need to practise your occlumency." Hermione insisted in her own frantic way, that slightly touched him. It was nice to have some one to worry about him.
Though, neither she nor ickle-Ronnikins had yet to be forgiven for keeping him in the dark, out of the loop, uninformed, however you wanted to phrase it. Anyway you looked at it they'd kept vital information from him, so it was only fair that he kept vital information from them.
Harry never told them, hell never told anyone about how he physically couldn't clear his mind. He never told Snape about the drums so loud they hurt, drums that stopped him from calming his mind as the ponce constantly snapped that he should do. Indeed, Harry was sure that he would go quite mad should he clear his mind of the junk that cluttered it, leaving him alone with the drums.
Never told anyone, not even the great and powerful Dumbledore, who seemed to be ignoring him, that he could hide his inner-most thoughts, that Snape was only allowed to see what Harry wanted him to see. That in a way, Harry was pranking the greasy git to the extreme.
Dad would have been so proud.
After all, as far as Harry Potter was concerned, he would rather put up with the headaches and the occasional and painful visions from Voldemort. Anything, rather than those maddening drum beats that emerged every time he tried to calm his overworking mind.
Not that they would know that.
He'd made sure of that…
Harry Potter's temper was legendary amongst those in Gryffindor house, though it took a while to anger him as he had a habit of bottling things up, when they did come out…well, lets just call it volcano-day.
That was somehow what made his current attitude appear out of character. It was mere hours after his return from the ministry and Harry Potter had been docile and allowed himself to be lead to a hospital wing bed, where Madam Pomfrey had mothered him to the extreme as she healed hm via that creepy voodoo of hers that always tasted so nasty, seriously, was it too much to ask for banana-flavoured potions?
Seriously…
Sirius.
A thin smile cracked his features at the memory of that terrible pun that his Godfather had revelled in during their short time together.
Short time.
Sirius was gone…
……
It echoed in his mind over and over and over. Haunting him.
The last link to his parents. The only one who really cared about him, no matter what Molly Weasley had to say, stupid cow, she'd hurt Sirius so badly when all he'd wanted was for Harry to be informed of his own situation. Harry clenched his fists at the thought.
Dumbledore had told Harry not to blame himself, and Harry did not.
Oh-no, he blamed Albus-to-many-fucking-middle-names-Dumbledore.
He'd been the one to keep Sirius isolated, so that the animagus would jump the gun at the slightest opportunity, he hadn't given Sirius though it would have been easy enough for the Head of the damned Wizenegamot to do so. He hadn't told Harry the prophecy, though it was about him, which would have prevented the ill-thought out trip to the ministry. He'd avoided Harry when the young man had needed him the most. And most importantly of all, the old man had placed him with the Dursleys.
But why?
Harry stared up at the darkened ceiling of the hospital wing, deep in thought, when it clicked.
With horrifying, brutal clarity, everything fell into place.
Poor little orphan boy, left with relatives who would never treat him normally, would never care for him, nor tell him of his heritage. And who would sweep him away from that, why Rubeus Hagrid, who looked up to no one more than Dumbledore, who would tell Harry quite innocently of how great the Headmaster was, how Gryffindors were good and Slytherins evil, moulding the malleable child. So desperate for somewhere to belong. Who would feel the utmost gratitude to the man that returned to Harry his father's cloak. Would pass through tests each year specifically designed to mould the child into the weapon needed to fulfill the prophecy.
The only problem would be the Godfather who'd suddenly appeared and taken the central place in the little orphan boy's life, had given a damn about him. Problem for the master plan.
Solution, keep the two separate. And that it had led to said Godfather's death…well that just meant that once more the Headmaster could step into the role of mentor and continue forging his weapon.
What a bastard.
A bloody cunning bastard…
Harry's lips curled back in an angry snarl, and suddenly he couldn't stay there. Everything was Dumbledore, overwhelming him, boxing him in.
The entire castle reeked of the man's magic, and it made him physically ill.
He had to runrunrunrun…..
He quietly slipped out of the infirmary, uncaring of Pomfrey's wrath. He slipped quietly down the corridor to the only safe haven he could think of, away from Dumbledore's influence. He sprinted across the school grounds in his baggy pyjamas, poking the knot on the whomping willow, and hurrying down the passage into the Shrieking shack, before letting out a scream of rage, and anguish.
'He must pay' the voice echoed in his mind, the constant hum of energy from his watch altering to that double drum-beat, as his rage at what those fools had done on Dumbledore's orders, how the decrepit old fool had betrayed him came to the fore.
"Yes" he hissed, removing the watch from around his neck, and holding it out in front of him, his fingers slid to the once broken catch, as the watch whispered words of comfort.
It is hot to the touch and he can almost feel it ticking in his hand. His hand slides to the now mysteriously fixed clasp, and the time piece seems to get heavier in his hand as the thought formulates in his head, and the ticking gets louder and more defined, closer.
'It's time.'
"Counting down from 9-5-0, so many more miles to go…" He murmured as he flipped the clasp open.
The watch front opened and the golden glow that always glowed out of the time piece erupted, entering him through his eyes, nose and mouth. He was choking on the power of the golden inferno which bubbled through him, he was the eye of the storm, the centre of the power that rushed through him; simultaneously destroying the foreign soul piece attached to his lightening bolt scar, severing his connection to the Dark Lord with the sheer power of Time itself. He felt his body alter, his cells, his very essence. Oh Rassilon…
He was forced to his knees by the sheer power running through him like a live wire, the watch clattered to the floor, empty, just an ordinary watch, the perception filter no longer necessary.
His usually green eyes, however, glowed like a thousand suns, showing the true inferno which ran through him. He could see it all, the universe, time, the make up of everything. He could feel the Earth moving beneath his feet, feel as it rotated around the sun, felt the movement of time around him which enveloped him welcomingly in its current and it was like returning home. Whatever had been missing before had been returned to him, he could see everything that was, everything that would be, everything there could be and everything that had to be.
And he remembered…
He wasn't just Harry Potter, fate's bitch and chosen one, he was so much more than a pathetic human. He was of the old ones, the Gods of time and space, he was a child of time, a citizen of Gallifrey, he had looked into the untempered schism and he had seen the secrets of the universe, and become a Timelord in doing so.
He was Koschei of the Noble House of Oakdown, later 'The Master'.
How had this happened? How had he allowed himself to be manipulated by…by such an amateur as Dumbledore? And yet, he was pleased as that gaping hole that had once existed within him filled with the loving caress of time once more, empty of other Gallifreiyans.
What had happened?
He'd fled from the war, the Council had resurrected him deciding that one of his…ability, would be a perfect weapon against the Daleks. But he'd seen what they could not, that the war was lost and that those dusty senators had left things too long, had assured their own downfall, and he had run.
And judging by the mental absence of Gallifrey's song, he'd been correct. Yet a lone voice wailed in that dark silence. A familiar voice.
The Doctor.
How fitting that his intellectual equal would be the only one other than him to survive whatever had removed the Time Lords and the Daleks from the fabric. The Doctor, who's memory had inspired him to run as far as that blue green marble that the pacifist so loved, and attempted to hide himself and his new regeneration with a chameleon arch disguised as an ordinary fob watch. Something had gone wrong and he'd regressed to nothing but a baby. The same age as his regeneration, namely, one month old. Helpless.
A baby that had been found by James Potter who's son had died of early dragon-pox. A man who'd welcomed another child, never telling anyone but Lily Potter the truth, charming the child to appear like him and making said child his heir. The Potters had been kind to him, raised him as a son.
The irony however, was hilarious.
For technically he did not fit the prophecy, and it had been retained huon energy that had protected him from the Avada Kervada not 'love' as that insipid simian Dumbledore so claimed.
Fool.
Though doubtless, he did owe the Potters for his continued existence…
But, the pathetic group of sheeple known as the wizarding world had no such hold over him. If he were to defeat Voldemort, then he would do it to remove a rival.
After all, there was only room for one ruler and that would be him, not some jumped up, self-delusional racist.
After all, was he not of the more advanced race?
He collapsed as the genetic remodelling ended, feeling the familiar double beat of his binary cardiovascular system, and smiling softly. Weakly he stumbled to his unsteady legs and staggered over to the partially cracked mirror that took up a good amount of one side of the dilapidated room, studying his appearance with interest. This was the youngest he'd been in a regeneration since his original.
Eying himself with interest, he noted that not longer was he a clone of James Potter, the energy having overloaded that particular charm, yet he retained the hair and eye colour, though his face was more finely sculpted and angular. More regal.
His return to his Gallifreyan heritage was noticeable through various other aspects, his eyes for one, having previously been an ordinary green (granted an extremely bright green), they were now gleaming like a pair of emeralds set in pale ivory skin, and around the pupil leaking into the iris was a ring of pure gold, present in the eyes of every one of his regenerations, after the experience in front of the schism. Almost a mark to show they held knowledge unknown to any but them, and that no other mind could comprehend without shutting down entirely.
His skin had always been rather pale, consequences no doubt of spending the majority of his childhood locked in the comforting darkness of his cupboard under the stairs. But now his skin had a luminous tint to it, free of blemishes and scars but for the faded lightning bolt on his forehead, and held the soft smell of sweet honey that was natural to Gallifreyan; and he knew that his skin was now resistant to poisons (and love potions), ordinary cuts, and alterations from room temperature to extreme levels.
His heritage had also worked to remove the stunting of his growth due to neglect, and he'd grown taller, and his muscles already present due to extensive quidditch training had become slightly more defined. He would never be overly tall like Ronald, or bulky like Neville, he was built to be lean and wiry, a seeker's frame. However at least he would no longer be the smallest in his year, he was now probably taller than quite a few people in his year, and lot more aesthetically pleasing. He made a mental note to buy better clothing, he wasn't innocent little puppet Harry Potter anymore and he had an image to present.
And now?
What was there left? With Gallifrey and the council long gone…
Well there was plenty, though he no longer had simply a desire for vengeance, on no the urge to rule formed. No longer was he limited to revenge against this form's so called 'family', Dumbledore and his lackeys any more. Oh no, the wizarding world was such a fertile ground for forging a power base, so easily manipulated, all it would take was a little charisma, some hypnosis and then…
After all, who would ever suspect the honourable, noble, Gryffindor boy-saviour.
Oh yes, he would have this world, and as for both Voldemort and Dumbledore? Oh they would learnt to rue the day they had ever challenged him…
He was their lord and master and they would learn to kneel before him.
He smirked into the cracked mirror, starting to laugh. A cold sound he knew.
The drums beat themselves to a frenzy within as a manic grin crossed his face, his 'magic' racing through him like a wildfire, increasing his power twofold…
"That's interesting…" He smiled darkly, as the cracks within the glass spider webbed in the face of his power.
"That's very interesting."
The mirror shattered…
Fin.
