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Summary: A freak accident sends Harry hurtling through time . . . right into the Marauder's era. But things take a turn for the worst when Harry is sorted into Slytherin. Will James ever accept his son for who he is, or will the age-long prejudice keep them apart?
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I do not own.
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Chapter Two
In the center of Diagon Alley, not three meters from Ollivander's wand shop, a boy appeared out of thin air. He was seventeen years old, with black hair and green eyes, and was relatively skinny.
His name was Harry Potter.
He stood up, disorientedly, and stumbled. Everything was black and fuzzy . . . he couldn't see a thing. Where were his glasses? And where was he? The last thing he remembered was Voldemort –– Voldemort and his piercing, dark red eyes, throbbing with hate. His words rang over and over again in Harry's head . . . 'I have found a solution . . . You shall plague me no more, Harry Potter!'
Harry tried to take a few steps, but found himself too weak. Unable to go any further, darkness overtook him.
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"James Potter?"
Harry groaned and opened his eyes to blinding light.
"You're not James Potter!" The voice exclaimed in an accusatorily surprised tone.
"No, I'm Harry . . ." Harry mumbled. He sat up slowly, drowsily noticing that he was now wearing his glasses. He was laying on a soft couch somewhere . . . unfortunately, he had no idea where that somewhere could be. Of course, this could be heaven. That would explain why he had been mistaken for his father . . .
"Harry Potter?" The voice asked incredulously.
"Yeah." Harry looked around for the voice's source. It was . . . Ollivander? But that made absolutely no sense. Ollivander wasn't dead . . .
"Oh, dear," The supposed Ollivander mumbled to himself. Then again to Harry, "Are you sure, boy? You weren't hit with a jinx of some sort?"
Harry sent the man an annoyed look. "Yeah, I'm sure."
"But 'Harry Potter' doesn't exist. You seem to be confused . . ." Ollivander then brightened considerably. "I'll get Dumbledore, that's what I'll do, yes . . . stay here, boy, I'll only be a moment . . ." the wand maker waved vaguely in Harry's general direction before walking out the door without so much of a backward glance.
Not five minutes later, Ollivander returned. But this time, he was not alone. He was accompanied by - and Harry had to do a double take as he saw who it was - Albus Dumbledore.
Harry's heart skipped a beat, and he thought he might faint on the spot. Although, considering that dead people don't usually come back from the dead, Harry thought he was reacting rather well. He was half expecting a 'congratulations' when Dumbledore spoke:
"Who are you?"
Harry blinked. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. Wouldn't Dumbledore recognize his 'Golden Boy' even if he was dead?
"Harry Potter." Harry replied.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
Dumbledore frowned, and stroked his wispy beard thoughtfully. He turned to Ollivander and mumbled something incomprehensible to Harry. The old man turned and left the room.
"Harry." Dumbledore started slowly. "Harry Potter . . . I wonder . . . where do you live?"
Harry stared at the wizard in confusion. "What? You know exactly where I live . . ."
"I do? On the contrary, Harry, I'm afraid I have never seen you before. Therefore, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you some questions . . . or would you rather the Minister perform that service?"
Harry stared at Dumbledore, horrified. After everything the ministry had done so far, how could Dumbledore possibly suggest this? "Oh, no, sir." Harry said. "Definitely not Scrimgeour . . ."
"Who?"
"Rufus Scrimgeour. The Minister of Magic."
"Rufus Scrimgeour? I'm afraid he's not the minister quite yet, Harry, although he does seem to have the ambition . . . our minister is Terrell Gluss."
Harry couldn't do anything but stare. What in the world had happened? Of course, if Scrimgeour had been sacked Harry wasn't about to complain, but things like that didn't just happen overnight.
"Harry –– what year is it?" Dumbledore suddenly asked.
"1997." Harry replied uneasily. Dumbledore's eyes widened in comprehension. "Sir?"
Dumbledore sighed, before launching into his explanation. "I have figured out your problem, Harry. You see, it is not 1997, but 1977. Somehow, you have been sent back twenty years into the past."
Dumbledore's words echoed through Harry's head . . . he had been sent into the past, which was why Dumbledore was still there. Because he hadn't been killed yet.
"Unfortunately, I will have to ask some questions of you to verify that you aren't a Death Eater. Your full name?"
"Harry James Potter."
"James's son?"
"Yeah."
"And who might your mother be?"
"Lily Evans." Harry shifted on the bed uneasily. How much could he tell without spoiling the future? Even if it was Dumbledore . . .
"Lily Evans . . ." The headmaster repeated thoughtfully. "Unexpected. Now tell me a little about yourself—just a little bit though, mind you. Time travel can be a dangerous business . . . also mention how you got here. That would very useful information, indeed."
Harry swallowed the lump in his throat before attempting to paraphrase his life's story. But what to say . . .? "I go to Hogwarts . . . I'm in Gryffindor. I'm seventeen years old . . . I, uh, don't know how I got here. Voldemort just said some spell . . ."
"Voldemort?" Dumbledore interrupted. "You were fighting Lord Voldemort?"
"Erm, yeah . . ."
Dumbledore's stony expression clouded for a moment, before he finally replied.
"I feel confident that you are no Death Eater, and so I have decided that, until we can send you back into your own time, you may stay at Hogwarts and continue your education. You will be an exchange student, from Durmstrang. Harry . . . Patterson."
Harry stared at Dumbledore, unsure whether to feel happy or sad about his fortune. Currently, he felt neither. Just numb. Everything seemed so fake, like he was watching it on T.V. instead of living it.
"Professor . . ." Harry began. "I've been told I look just like my father . . . do I need to change the way I look, or just pass it off for coincidence?"
"I'm afraid 'coincidence' will just arouse suspicion . . . I will cast a few enchantments. Ollivander will take you to Hogwarts tonight, and you'll be sorted with the first years. I know you said that you were a Gryffindor, but if we don't we'll have to answer unwanted questions. If you are a true Gryffindor, you'll remain in that house. Goodbye, Harry. I'll see you when fate draws us together again."
Harry smiled weakly. "Alright, Professor."
The old headmaster swished his wand about, casting non-verbal enchantments. And then without another word, Dumbledore was gone. Harry didn't move, but gave himself a moment to absorb the news. He was twenty years in the past . . . his parents should be in their seventh year. He would be able to see Sirius again . . Not the tired, tainted Sirius from after Azkaban. The fun-loving, pranking Marauder.
And then there were his parents. What would they be like? Was James a prat, still, or had he matured enough for Lily to finally say 'yes'? Harry had heard so much about them, and now was his chance to finally separate fact from fiction.
But then there was that pressing problem lying dormant in the back of Harry's mind. How would he get home? Would he ever see Ron and Hermione again, feel Ginny's gentle touch again? Or would Voldemort . . . win? Harry sighed wearily, and rubbed his temples with his forefingers. This situation was a whole lot more complicated than he would have liked . . .
0-o-0
"I would like to give a welcome to our new students, and to our returning students, welcome back!" Dumbledore began, in his traditional 'welcome' speech. "I can only hope there will be fewer . . . accidents, shall we say?, this year." Dumbledore's eyes paused at the Marauders, who returned with an all-too-innocent smile. "Mr. Filch would like to add that if any of you have questions as to what objects are banned, he has a complete list in his office. The Forbidden forest remains forbidden, the reason it was named as such. Also, Professor Slughorn has requested that I relay to you that the love potions in store are for Potions class only. You'll have to acquire dates the old fashioned way, I'm afraid." Some students snickered.
"And now onto a lighter topic; the sorting . . ."
Only a few rows down, James Potter felt his attention drifting. He had heard this speech so many times . . .
"I'm starving!" Sirius Black announced, rubbing his hand against his stomach for emphasis.
"That's great, Padfoot." James commented dryly.
"Of course it is," Sirius replied, oblivious to James's sarcasm.
Across the table, Remus Lupin had to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Will you two be quiet? I'm trying to listen." He asked, somewhat teasingly.
"'Course you are, Moony!" Sirius said. "So. Got any pranks lined up yet?"
"Nope. Still thinking." James replied.
"Dang. Guess we won't beat our record then, huh?"
James grinned before turning his attention to the first years, who were now lining up in their traditional placing. Professor McGonagall stepped up and announced the first name.
"Patterson, Harry!"
Not one first year moved.
Instead, a blonde boy - he looked to be around James's age - stepped up from the side, and over to the stool. His eyes remained glued to the floor, but other then that he didn't seem nervous at all.
"Who's that?" James asked aloud.
"An exchange student," Remus said matter-of-factly. "Which you would know if you'd been paying attention."
James grinned sheepishly.
"But that's what you're for, Moony." Sirius cut in. "What would we ever do without you?"
"That's a very good question," Remus muttered.
"But . . . I thought Hogwarts didn't have exchange students?" Peter Pettigrew, who was sitting beside Remus, said.
Remus frowned, realizing that Peter was right.
Sirius, on the other hand, just brushed the comment off. "Well, obviously they do, Wormy."
James turned to watch the new kid's sorting, vaguely wondering which house he'd be put in . . . he looked like a Ravenclaw. Their eyes met fleetingly, but James looked away quickly. Those eyes seemed . . . haunted. Groping for something out in the distance, just barely too far from reach . . .
"SLYTHERIN!"
But Patterson didn't move. His eyes only widened in panic, his lips moving frantically.
"He's arguing with the hat!" James exclaimed in surprise.
"I don't blame him—I wouldn't want to be a Slytherin either." Sirius remarked. "Oh, look. He's caved."
Patterson walked to the Slytherin table, looking like he wanted to melt. His fellow Slytherins moved to make him room - right next to Snape. The boy seemed to hesitate, and his face showed a brief moment of loathing shock, before melting into a blank mask . . . but why? Not that James blamed him for not wanting to sit next to the slime-ball, but Patterson hadn't even met Snape yet . . .
James's thoughts were interrupted when McGonagall announced the next name.
"Darling, Anne!"
And the real sorting began.
0-o-0
"It's time, Harry." An old wizard said quietly. Harry gave him a sideways glance.
"Patterson, Harry!" McGonagall's voice echoed throughout the Great Hall. Well, it was time to go. Harry walked over to the Sorting stool, his eyes locked on the floor. He couldn't trust himself to look at his parents just yet . . . his eyes would give him away. But he couldn't resist a small peak . . .
Harry's eyes flickered to the Gryffindor table. His eyes found James Potter like a magnet. There he was, in all his glory . . . his dead father, prankster extraordinaire. Black, messy, hair, mischievous hazel eyes, the man who gave his life for his family, who . . .
No, Harry told himself. The floor, look at the floor. Those dirt covered tiles preparing for a cleaning appointment with Filch tomorrow . . .
James Potter, the man who became an illegal Animagus to accompany his friend . . .
No, his black dress shoes, bought on sale at Madam Malkins . . .
Harry sat down on the sorting stool, picking up the old hat and stuffing it on his head. At that moment, his eyes locked with James's . . . and then James turned away and started talking to Sirius, his Godfather . . . only now he was only a hormonal teenager. And then there was Remus, the bookworm, who strangely didn't seem at all out of place with the other two Marauders. Last of all was Peter. Harry bit his tongue to keep from shouting out . . . he wanted to do something horrible to the treacherous rat. A one-way ticket to Antarctica might suffice . . .
A deep voice coming from what seemed to be inside his head startled him:
A time traveler, eh? Interesting . . . but where to put you? You have courage, oh yes. And you've definitely got some brains . . . and cunning. Ambition . . . revenge. Lots of snaky qualities about you, Harry Potter. The hat seemed to chuckle.
Harry's eyes widened as he saw just where this was going. Surely getting revenge on the man who killed your parents and your godfather did not qualify for 'Snaky qualities'?
"No, no . . . not Slytherin!" Harry whispered frantically. "Gryffindor . . . I'm a Gryffindor!"
I told you once that you would do well in Slytherin, yet you turned to Gryffindor, the hat reasoned. I stand by my future self; you would do well in Slytherin. Learn a few life lessons, I daresay . . . another chuckle.Aand it is only for a little while. You will be back in Gryffindor soon enough. I've made my decision . . .
"SLYTHERIN!"
"No!" Harry hissed under his breath. "My parents . . . Sirius . . . the Marauders . . . I'll –"
"Mr. Patterson, if you'll please join your house." Professor McGonagall said curtly.
Harry shook his head stubbornly. "Come on, you stupid hat. Choose again!"
"Mr. Patterson!" McGonagall snapped.
Go join your housemates, Mr. Potter. All will be well in the end . . . The hat whispered in his ear.
Harry turned a pleading look to Dumbledore, but he only raised his eye-brows and inclined his head toward the Slytherins. With a sinking feeling, Harry stood to join the Slytherin table.
They all slid away, giving him room. Although, Harry wished they had just ignored him. In front of him was a seat . . . right next to Severus Snape. Dumbledore's murderer, arch nemesis of all things good . . . Harry wanted to kill him right on the spot. Dumbledore had trusted him, had convinced the entire order to trust him, and Snape had betrayed him.
"Are you going to sit down?" Snape said, an annoyed expression on his face.
Harry only nodded, teeth clenched, before sliding onto the bench. He could feel the many eyes glued to him, but tried to ignore them and keep calm. This was nothing new. He could handle this. No, he would handle this.
"Are you a pureblood?" Snape asked.
"No," Harry said, forcefully ending the conversation.
McGonagall cleared her throat and called out, "Tanners, Perry! . . ."
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
"So, how does a mudblood make his way into Slytherin?" A girl asked from the other side of the table. Harry recognized her at once . . . Bellatrix Black. She certainly hadn't changed much over the years . . . she had that same flowing black hair, same maniacal eyes, same pale hands that grasped the wand that had blasted Sirius into the veil. Harry subconsciously felt his temper rising.
Harry caught her eye and glared. "Blood isn't everything."
She raised her eyebrows skeptically, and gave a sarcastic, "Of course not." The surrounding Slytherins snickered.
Harry took a deep breath. It wouldn't do for him to lose his temper here, of all places. No, he would keep it in check, and nothing would go wrong. Absolutely nothing . . .
Finally, after, "Weasley, Bill!" was sorted into Gryffindor, the feast began. Harry had been a part of it many times, but the magic of it never ceased to amaze him. Food materialized before their very eyes, and high above cumulus clouds swirled in the artificial sunlight. Students of all ages reached for the golden platters before them, to satisfy their groaning stomachs. Harry was no different. He had no sooner reached for a drumstick and had taken a bite when a disturbing though reached him . . . the Marauders were pranksters. The Marauders hated Slytherin. Put two and two together and you get . . .
Harry's limbs began to tingle, and then all of a sudden, when he looked down, he was covered in reddish-orange hair, about a foot long. A quick glance around told Harry that the Slytherins were the only house that had been 'pranked'. Not a millisecond later, the table seemed to be surrounded by a crowd of angry chimpanzees.
It wasn't hard to figure out who the culprit was; all evidence pointed straight to the four beaming Marauders, who were being congratulated by their friends for a job well done.
Harry couldn't help but feel his father had gone a bit overboard, however, when somehow he was forced to stand up and . . .
sing.
He couldn't even understand the lyrics, but his mouth seemed to know them by heart. He found it strangely ironic that while he could easily withstand the Imperius curse, he seemed to be failing miserably against this potion created by four teenagers. Good thing the Marauders were on the good side.
And then it was over. The Slytherins sat down quickly, humiliated. Snape wisped a wand out of his pocket, and popped the hair away before sinking to the bench, desperately trying to conceal his red-tinged face. The other Slytherins (Harry included) weren't so lucky; they were stuck with their carrot-color manes until someone came to free them . . . and unfortunately, no one seemed to want to. Laughter echoed throughout the Great Hall, most noticeably from the Gryffindor table. Even the teachers, Harry noted, seemed reluctant to stop it.
And then— "Potter! Black!" An icy, female voice exclaimed venomously. It didn't need volume to be heard . . . it had a malicious, commanding presence about it, the kind no one would dare challenge even if it belonged to a ladybug.
Harry craned his neck to see who had spoken. It was a woman. She looked so familiar . . . where had he seen her before? She stood up and glared forcefully at James Potter, and then even more so, Sirius. "De—"
"Walburga," Professor McGonagall interrupted, an amused expression in her eyes. "These students belong to my house, therefore, I should be the one responsible for their punishments. Don't you agree?"
The woman eyed the Head of Gryffindor with utmost loathing.
McGonagall nodded curtly, before turning to the Gryffindor table. "Fifty points each, and a week's detention should suffice."
The Marauders grinned at each other, fully aware that they had gotten off very easily.
The other professor, however, looked like a fuse about to explode. Her lips pressed so tightly they were all but invisible, she sat down stiffly, hand clenched.
The remainder of the feast passed so slowly, Harry was sure someone must have paused time. He didn't dare eat anything, and so he was forced to sit quietly among the unfriendly Slytherins, unable to do anything to prevent A) the continuous laughter coming from the students and B) his growling stomach. In short, Harry was not in a good mood by the time the feast ended. He was angry - angry at Dumbledore for not doing anything to help him get rid of the itchy hair, angry at both his father and godfather for making him grow hair in the first place, angry at the Sorting Hat for having cause it all by putting him in Slytherin. He made a mental note to look up some sort of revealing charm for breakfast tomorrow . . .
When Harry was sure he could take no more, Dumbledore rose, finishing his speech. He said nothing Harry hadn't heard before— the houses should unite against Voldemort (although considering most of Slytherin was on the same side as Voldemort, Harry didn't think this likely to happen), to never lose faith, safety regulations, a more detailed description of Filch's list of banned items . . . etc . . .
etc . . .
etc . . .
And then, finally, they were dismissed. Harry dully noted that the hair was finally shedding.
"It's Patterson, right?" A voice asked from a few feet away. Harry jumped, and only barely stopped himself from stunning the person, who turned out to be none other than Rodolphus Lestrange. He turned curious eyes on Harry, measuring up his new recruit. "Nice reflexes . . . I'm the Slytherin Prefect, by the way. Rodolphus Lestrange." Lestrange held out his hand, which Harry grudgingly shook. Lestrange gave Snape a warning look. "Snape will show you to your dormitory,"
Snape's eyes narrowed but he didn't protest.
"Okay," Harry said tonelessly.
"You can ask me any questions you have tomorrow . . . I've got to go for now. Bye, Patterson."
Harry nodded, doubting that any circumstance would ever arrive to make him ask Lestrange for help.
Snape nodded stiffly before standing and walking out of the Great Hall, his face comprised of an emotionless mask.
Harry took a deep breath before following Snape out. If the feast was anything to show for it, he was in for a long night.
Snape led Harry wordlessly to the Slytherin dungeons, down staircases, past the many chattering portraits, through abandoned corridors . . . and then, at last, they arrived. The air was damp and musty, although Harry wasn't all that surprised considering how far below the ground they were. Through the dim light, Harry could vaguely see chains and various nooses chained to the wall.
All in all, it was not a very happy place.
Snape walked over to the left and stood still for a moment before saying the password:
"Serpent tongues,"
The wall split open to reveal the Slytherin common room.
It had the look of the dungeon, except not so grimy with velvety green couches replacing the nooses. Green-tinged lamps hung from the ceiling by chains. The room itself was a rectangle with a staircase leading up from either side. At the moment, an elegantly carved fireplace was the only source of light. Snape and Harry were the first to arrive.
Snape walked towards the staircase on the left without bothering with an explanation. Harry followed, assuming left was the boys dormitory.
Once in the dormitory itself, Harry found that he was to be rooming with Snape and two other boys. He sincerely hoped one of them wasn't Malfoy—Now, that would be too much to handle.
Harry collapsed on his bed feeling utterly exhausted when the door opened.
Time to meet his new roommates.
There were two, both with the remainders of red hair glazing their skin. One was a dark haired teenager who was very tall and well built, with a rather intimidating face - one that would better fit a war general than a seventeen year old boy. The other was shorter by a good few inches with dark brown hair and clear brown eyes. He seemed to be shrinking away from the other as if afraid of being attacked. But then again, with the number of Death Eaters in Slytherin, Harry couldn't blame him.
"I suppose I should introduce you." Snape said lazily. "This is Rabastian Lestrange," He gestured to the tall one.
"Pleasure to make your condolences." Rabastian Lestrange said coolly, his eyes glittering in malicious apprehension.
"And this," Snape began once more in a bored tone. "Is Regulus Black."
Harry couldn't help but stare. The name sounded so familiar . . . but it was someone related to Sirius, that much Harry was sure of. He decided to guess, "Sirius's brother?"
Regulus's expression turned hard. "Sirius's brother? Is that all I'm known as?"
Rabastian gave Regulus an annoyed look before turning to his trunk. "Just drop it, Regulus."
"No, it's not that," Harry corrected himself quickly. "It's just . . . I thought . . ."
"Thought what?" Regulus challenged.
Harry gave a noncommittal shrug and turned away. The boys all turned to their beds, unpacking their trunks in dead silence. Harry sighed and pulled out his new potions book. He was having Slughorn again. Well, it could have been worse. He could have had Snape . . .
Only now he had Snape for a roommate.
Harry gritted his teeth together in annoyance. Why had he been sorted in to Slytherin? Why? He was a Gryffindor. No Slytherin would have gone to rescue their godfather because of a dream, or recued their best friend's sister from a giant snake. He wasn't one of them.
The thing was, Hogwarts was a big fan of labeling. Ravenclaws were brainiacs. Hufflepuffs were blondes. Gryffindors were idiotically brave heroes. And lastly, Slytherins were unfriendly, mudblood-killing, Voldemort-supporting grease-balls. That was all there was to it.
Harry leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He was in the past, with his dead parents and his dead godfather. It was the chance of a lifetime.
And now it was ruined. All because the sorting hat had decided to turn him in to an unfriendly, mudblood-killing, Voldemort-supporting grease-ball.
Life was not going his way.
"Harry, turn out the lights." Rabastian drawled.
Harry bit back a retort and reached for his wand, telling himself that if he was going to get on Rabastian's bad side, he wouldn't do it tonight. Tomorrow, maybe.
The lights went out.
