Make a Difference

Summary: Harry is summoned, after a harrowing victory in his war against Voldemort, to a world in which he is still needed. Some would say that he would be upset and even reticent to help, but those would forget that Harry is a hero, even if at times, he wishes he weren't.

Harry took a deep breath. "Professor Dumbledore..." he began, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath. "I don't know what you were sucking on, or smoking or what have you inhaled, but I'd like to know what in the world possessed you to think this was a good idea!" he said, surprisingly with a startling lack of obvious vitriol. Instead there was a cold, sharp anger that dripped like thick venom from his every word, metaphorically speaking of course.

"Alas, my boy, I was outvoted. Perhaps I must assume the blame even so, considering it was my own research that brought us to this point, but know that it was never my wish to steal you from your world. The circumstances, however, are dire," the long bearded man said, solemn and sincere, as he looked at the boy he had summoned with eyes trained through years of reading boys much as himself. He did not like what he found. "Lord Voldemort is stronger than ever, his forces assemble while our resistance crumbles. He is winning, my boy, and the Order is not enough anymore. We need a hero. We need... you."

Harry looked at his desk. "I owe you much, and yet not enough, to do this for you, professor. You can be directly blamed for much of the pain in my life..." he explained, looking at Fawkes' perch on Dumbledore's desk, where the tiny, wrinkly chick was wiggling in its own ashes. He absent mindedly reached to pet its head with a finger, watched like a hawk by Dumbledore.

"I fear the differences in our worlds might be more significant than I thought. I have not meddled in your life in this world, my boy, as I believe your parents more than adequate for their task," Dumbledore said, frowning almost invisibly behind his significant amount of facial hair.

"Then they are alive?" Harry asked, looking somewhat surprised.

"Yes," replied Dumbledore, nodding. "I am to assume they perished in your world, instead of the Longbottoms?"

Harry nodded, not particularly liking to be reminded of his status as an orphan. "The Longbottoms, to my understanding, suffered a fate worse than even Death," Harry said, reminding himself why he fought the Death Eaters with those words. The monsters that would leave a child to grieve living parents... Nobody deserved something like that. It was just mindlessly and pointlessly cruel.

It was the act of a rabid beast.

"Your counterpart, young Harry, should be beginning his third year. He is a rather exemplary student, and I daresay he is a candidate for prefect and most likely Head Boy when the time comes. May I ask for details from yourself?"

"I'm a drop out," Harry stated, bluntly. "Never did go back to take my NEWTs," even though that should've been embarrassing, he said it with a wistful smile. "Your legacy sent myself and my two closest friends in a search for Voldemort's horcruxes across the country."

"Then I was right, he has extended his life unnaturally. These are most dire and grave news," spoke Dumbledore. "We cannot be certain they remain the same, but..."

"His diary, Slytherin's Locket, Hufflepuff's Cup, Ravenclaw's Diadem, his pet snake Nagini, the Gaunt Signet Ring and, unintentionally, myself. I imagine Neville is the Boy Who Lived?" Harry said, seeing Dumbledore nod. "Does he have a dark magic scar on his forehead?"

At this, Dumbledore shook his head. "Young Neville has a scar, yes, but it is a perfectly ordinary curse scar. Nasty, of course, but it would be obvious to me if it were anything more than that, even if I could not tell what it was specifically," said Dumbledore, sighing.

"Good. Because I have no idea how to rid someone of that Horcrux. I got rid of it by fluke," he said, smiling slightly. "I'm not certain if it could even be reproduced. I was struck down with the Avada Kedavra casted through the Elder Wand, but I was its master at the time and accepted my death," he said, shrugging.

"You... know about the hallows?" asked Dumbledore, somewhat startled.

Harry chuckled. "Trinkets with overblown importance. The Stone brings back only shades, the cloak might as well be the same as any other, and even worse because, frankly, it's more of a blanket than a cloak, and the wand? It's just a wand that works for anyone who 'earns' it. The only reasons it is as powerful as it is are because it's really old and because a lot of people have used it. Also, the title of 'Master of Death'? Completely worthless. No strange or crazy powers of any sort."

"I... see. So you have come into contact with all three hallows?"

"I tossed the Resurrection Stone into the Forbidden Forest. Then I thought better of leaving it there for anyone to find it once I figured out that a simple 'Accio' would call it, and tossed it into a volcano, can't even remember which. The Elder Wand is in the pockets of your robe in your tomb. Pink with purple polka dots, by the way," Harry answered Dumbledore's unspoken question, to an approving nod and a chuckle from the old man. Harry was not surprised Dumbledore was unfazed by thoughts of his own death, the old man was more than prepared to face it any day, and that was why Harry respected him. "As for the cloak? Eh, I figured that the world could use another generation of pranksters, so I'm keeping it on reserve in case I ever come across children that might need it."

Dumbledore chuckled once again. "Very well, then, Mr. Potter, I am proud to think that I had a hand in raising such an illustrious young man as yourself, even if it was another me. Mistakes were made, certainly, but you have risen above, and that is a credit to the strength of your character," said Dumbledore, closing his eyes and seeming pensive for a few seconds. "Have you thought about teaching? You seem to be the kind of man I would like to influence our youth, perhaps one even stronger than myself," Harry remembered that Dumbledore admitted to succumbing to the Stone's temptation, and his respect for him went up a few notches when Dumbledore admitted his own weaknesses, "though I find myself asking how skilled you are in the area of Defense against the Dark Arts..."

"I have some experience," Harry admitted. "Perhaps you could sit in on one of my classes. I trust you are still a legilimens?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"Then you could use that ability to search my mind for that. I will try to make it easier, but I'm not a good enough occlumens to help much. Sorry," he said, sheepishly.

"No worries, my boy, I am skilled enough in the art to make up for any deficiencies you might have. There is always an opportunity to patch up your education in Occlumency, you have to but ask," he offered.

Harry nodded and then looked directly into Dumbledore's eyes, neither blinking for a few long minutes, until both broke the staring contest and had to blink moisture into their eyes rapidly.

"I misjudged you, Mister Potter. I believed you a strong man, but it seems I was mistaken," Dumbledore began, and Harry looked slightly hurt, but he looked at Dumbledore questioningly. "You are the very picture of resilience. Indeed, you are the kind of man I wish to enlighten my students in defense against the most treacherous branch of magic. Your experience is more than enough to warrant my recommendation and approval."

"Thank you, professor."

"No, Harry, thank you for being as understanding as you have been. I understand that this must still be hard for you," said Dumbledore, nodding. "Perhaps the shock will settle tonight. If you need anything... again, you have to but ask."

Harry nodded. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Just... A word?" Dumbledore asked, as Harry started to stand up from the chair he'd been sitting in for their entire meeting. "I understand that you have unpleasant memories of some of our students. I would ask you to not hold their possible future against them..."

Harry knew he meant Malfoy, and how Dumbledore had witnessed his own assassination at the little snot's hands... or rather, how Malfoy had eventually been the cause of Dumbledore's death. Harry shook his head. "I am afraid I cannot do that, Professor. I know what they could become, and I won't forget it. But I'm not a saint nor a paragon... I can't judge anyone," he said, standing up fully and nodding solemnly.

Dumbledore sighed, but smiled. "You continue to impress me, Professor Potter..."

"I will never get used to that," Harry said, laughing.

All was not honky dory, as might be expected. Harry had dreaded one specific meeting, perhaps more than any other one, and he was having it right at that moment. The Order of the Phoenix would gather. It had never disbanded in this world, not fully, as too many members had lived, but it would still be a while before they were organized enough to gather properly. Meanwhile, Harry would meet with a few specific members of the order, on Dumbledore's request.

"Mrs. Potter, Mr. Potter," he said, almost stiffly, greeting the family he never had into his office. He struggled to maintain a straight face, struggled to not reach out and hug the parents he wished he'd had. Struggled to not hold onto them, fearing that the illusion would crash down around him. He couldn't help the hitch in his breath as the eyes that were so similar to his own bore into him.

"You look like my son," said James Potter, casually, clearly having blurted out his thoughts before he could filter them.

Lily Potter slapped the back of his head, looking apologetically at Harry. "I'm sorry, Professor, but he forgets his manners sometimes," which clearly didn't please her, given that he just smiled and she tossed a nasty, but playful, glare his way. Good god, his father was a child like Sirius! He was... He was perfect, Harry decided, exactly how he thought his father would be... well, a half of it anyway. It remained to see if his father could also be a responsible adult while still being a goofball. "I am Lily and he's James, but you know us already, as I imagine Professor Dumbledore introduced us. I'm afraid he didn't give us your name, mr..."

"Harry," began the aforementioned Wizard, deciding there was no point in lying to them. "My name is Harry James Potter," he said. "That is why I look like your son. When Dumbledore utilized the ritual to summon a hero from another world..."

"Hah! I told you Harry would be an awesome auror in the future!" James crowed, doing a small victory dance before reaching over and pulling Harry into a one armed hug. "You've grown so big! I think you're taller than me!"

"He isn't," Lily informed, rolling her eyes. "And of course our son is an awesome auror. He takes after his mother!"

James pouted, as he looked at his wife.

Harry... laughed. Heartily. He laughed more than he thought he should have. It hadn't been that funny. It was a poor joke. But... he loved it. He had wished, all of his life, that he could be part of something like this. The feeling warmed him, brought a nice feeling to his chest... but it left an odd hollow when he realized that these were not his parents. These were not the people who had brought him into the world and who would love him unconditionally. They had a son. They had a Harry. They didn't need him. He swallowed a thick wad and decided to get it over with. "I am... not your son."

The finality of the statement hit the Potters like a ton of bricks, as they both looked perplexed at the young man who had said that after laughing at the antics of the married couple. "What do you mean, honey? Of course you're our son!"

Harry shook his head. "I am not a future version of your son. I was pulled here from another world. He and I are different... I... My world is very different, I'm sure," he said, trying to smile, but failing to make it convincing in any way.

"How so?" asked Lily, perplexed.

James seemed somewhat more confused. "It can't have been THAT different. Are you from a world in which you are the Boy Who Lived?" asked the Potter patriarch, as if he'd hit the jackpot.

Harry nodded. "Voldemort visited Godric's Hollow instead of Longbottom Manor. You tried to hold him off..." he said, choking slightly on his words.

"No..." muttered Lily, as horrible realization dawned on her.

"I can imagine the result of that," said James grimly.

"Indeed," Harry agreed, looking grim himself. "When... after that, I was sent to live with Aunt Petunia. She... didn't like me."

Understatement of a century. "W-What?" Lily asked, startled. "But that... she's the absolute last resort in case there's nobody else who can take you in! Was there... that must mean..."

"If our Fidelius broke, then Wormtail betrayed us in your world as well, in which case he would have been taken off the list of potential guardians," spoke James, sounding almost as if he didn't want to believe his own words. The betrayal had cut him deeply and it hurt even today. "But even... even if he did, what about Padfoot or Moony?"

"What about Alice and Frank?" asked Lily, following in James.

"In that order? Azkaban, I don't know, and St. Mungo's Long Term wards," Harry spoke, sighing, knowing that Lily referred to the Longbottoms. "Like I said, Aunt Petunia didn't like me, and neither did Vernon or Dudley," he said, rubbing at an insistent itch on his right arm.

"Wait, Petunia remained married to that whale?" asked Lily, confused.

Harry blinked. Why wouldn't his aunt remain with his uncle? "Didn't they here?"

"Petunia left Vernon one month after Dudley's fifth birthday. The man is just unbearably annoying," James said, rolling his eyes. "She's just as bad."

Lily clutched at her heart. Petunia detested Magic. And Vernon had been even worse before he'd been obliviated from all knowledge of it, following his divorce from Petunia. So... this meant... this meant that... "Oh god," she nearly sobbed as she flung himself to cling onto Harry's lean frame. "My baby, what did they do to you!?" she asked, looking up at him and holding his face in her hands, running her thumbs through his cheeks.

Harry felt the tears rolling, but he couldn't fathom why he was crying so easily, so simply. He hadn't cried in so long... had promised him he'd never cry again since he was five... so why... why was he crying now? Why was he crying now that his mother was sobbing on his shoulder. Why did he cry now that he had what he had always wanted?

His arms acted of their own accord and he found himself clinging to his mother for support. At that moment, it didn't matter that they weren't the original pair. It didn't matter that Harry hadn't known her until then. He just squeezed his mother as tightly as he could and cried on her shoulder, as she cried on his. It took a very long time for them to separate, and Harry could only look at his father for a few seconds. It had taken a very simple gesture.

James' face had been serious and determined, and he'd only nodded at Harry, but that had been the only thing Harry had needed to take several steps forward and letting the stronger, bigger form of his father envelop him and the mother that had snaked her way into her son's side once again. It hurt, somehow. It hurt him deep inside, to know that he had missed this for so long in his life. That this had been the vast gulf that separated his facsimile of a mother in Mrs. Weasley from his real mother.

But that feeling had been squashed by the warmth of finally finding what he had been missing for twenty long and hard years.

For the first time in his life, Harry Potter found parental love and support, and merely basked on it.

Harry sniffed. "It... it hurts," he admitted, finally, as he felt himself relax completely.

"What?" James asked, clearly confused.

"I... There's a part of me... that still remembers that I'm not your son. That... that I could never have this. Have you. And... and it's right. I'm not your son. I'm just a copy... a cheap replaceme-"

The resounding crack of skin on skin stopped him cold, leaving Harry busy cradling the injured, reddening cheek.

"Harry James Potter!" began Lily Potter, drawing herself to her full height. "I will not have you spouting that nonsensical drivel! I don't give a flying fuck if you're from this dimension or any other! You are my son, I love you, and nothing will change that!" She said, before she once again pulled him into a hug. "Don't say that..." she repeated, pulling him closer and tighter against herself. "Don't say that ever again..."

"She's right, you know," James said, smiling at Harry. "It doesn't matter to me what happens, Harry, or where you came from. You are my son, and that is all that matters."

All barriers broke and the pain of two decades spilled forth.

From behind the door, a bearded old man turned around and left, wiping a few tears with his sleeve, as he smiled. Nostalgia tinted his smile with sadness, however. As the old man reached his desk, he penned a letter. He had much to say and too little time. "Fawkes, old friend, would you mind taking this to my brother Aberforth?"

The phoenix thrilled and Dumbledore smiled faintly.

Later that day, Lily went to find her son, who had been laughing and playing around with his friends after the end of classes for the day, and simply hugged him.

"I love you, son," she said, once she pulled away. "No matter what happens."

She had left a confused boy behind. As she left, the boy had looked at his father, who merely shook his head and grinned before waving and leaving behind his wife.

"You don't need to do this," Lily had said, her voice soft, as he adjusted the Dragonhide leather armor that protected his frame against lesser curses and shrapnel. He threw long battle robes, with narrow, yet unrestricting, sleeves, long and flowing so that it hid the movements of his feet, yet charmed to never tangle with his movements. "This is not your fight. It was never your fight."

"No..." Harry said, shooking his head. "It isn't," he admitted, "but does it make a difference? This isn't my world, but what difference does it make? Is it any less worthy of living in peace, without having to fear a bloodthirsty maniac? It isn't. This world deserves peace. You deserve peace," he finished, softly.

"You shouldn't have to deal with this," James firmly spoke, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "We... We should be able to clean up this mess for you, so you and everyone else could have a bright future."

"But you can't," said Harry, resolutely. "No one can... No one but me," he said, firmly. "This is my responsibility because I have power."

Albus Dumbledore entered the Defense Professor's office, and nodded in approval. "Well said," he spoke. "Battle fast approaches. The castle will be ready for siege. The students will be kept safe at all costs. This is the final stronghold, the last line we'll ever hold," spoke Dumbledore, passionately. "We must not, we will not, let it fall."

Harry nodded. "That is why I must fight. Now and forever," he said. "But you... you have a child. You have someone who needs you. I have what I wanted. I have what I have always wished for. Even if it has only been a few months... I love you. Both of you. You are the parents I had always hoped to have," Harry said, embracing his mother one last time and then being pulled into a hug by his father. "I don't want the other me to grow up without you. Don't let him fall into loneliness, like I. Be there for him. That's... that's all I ask. Maybe a little sibling or two wouldn't be out of the question, though," he added cheekily.

Lily sniffed, before smiling. "We'll get right on it, boss," she said, mock-saluting.

James laughed openly.

But then, it was time, and Dumbledore put a hand on Harry's shoulder. With a snap and a crack, they were gone, and Lily let the tears of sorrow, of grief for her dimensionally stranged son, as he went to face potential death. Only her husband's embrace stopped her from falling to the ground and weeping in fright for his life.

Voldemort shrieked in rage, tossing a veritable rainbow of curses at the mere boy that even now, infuriatingly, kept pace with him. This was not possible. He was Lord Voldemort, heir of Slytherin, most frightening Dark Lord in centuries, he was the most powerful of them all, and he could not kill a simple boy barely out of his teen years! It infuriated him beyond belief, and the boy was taunting him by openly ignoring the fight to take out targets of opportunity, distracted Death Eaters who were confronting a member of the Order of the Phoenix or the odd Auror sent by Bones.

He growled in frustration as a chain of curses left his wand.

String after string after string had turned the battlefield into a veritable wasteland, a big part of the Forbidden Forest having been consumed in the assault, but the castle remained ever tauntingly distant still. Only when there were no more worms distracting him from attacking the boy in full did Voldemort finally calm and start to act rationally. He stepped up his game, pouring all of his not inconsiderable skill into continuing to fight his opponent and began to gain the advantage.

The boy was powerful. Exceptionally so. But his reluctance to move to kill and the obvious inexperience in comparison to the Dark Lord were what sealed the deal.

It didn't take long for the James Potter look-alike to begin to feel the effects of the first Sectumsempra that the Dark Lord had managed to land on him. Snape's invention was an amazing spell for combat, as it didn't require to travel through the air to hit its target, being as instantaneous as if you were touching the target. It's downside was the long incantation and the fact that it would hit whatever you had your wand pointed at when you finished casting it, and usually, it was hard to aim it at someone. Voldemort was a master with his Yew Wand, however, and it showed when he sliced the boy's left arm open and very nearly split it in twain.

The Boy, which Voldemort was starting to refer to in his head as 'cockroach' due to the startling resilience, merely increased the intensity with which he fought, as they both engaged in a one on one, mano a mano duel of epic proportions, spells flying back and forth. A collection of wounds started to form on the both of them, though the Dark Lord was clearly holding the advantage with only superficial damage in contrast to the bleeding, open wounds that slowed down and debilitated The Boy.

Voldemort knew he would win soon, and his chance showed when an apparation left him in prime position to use his prodigious skill to banish The Boy to the ground... from point blank range. It had the same effect as if a giant had stomped on him, as it left him plastered against the ground, groaning and in pain. A torture curse soon followed, "Crucio" dropping from Voldemort's lips with practiced ease.

Curiosity filled the Dark Lord when The Boy attempted to lift his wand, and himself, to continue fighting. Perhaps even respect for a warrior of that caliber, but he ruthlessly squashed any sympathy. A flick of Voldemort's wand had the boy nearly shrieking in pain from another Cruciatus Curse, stopping him from continuing the fight even as he lay broken and beaten. "I must admit that your tenacity impresses me, boy," Voldemort admitted, smiling unpleasantly enough for it to be a sneer. "Although I can't fathom why you would offer such resistance. Accept your defeat, boy! Surrender, and you will be spared! Your power is magnificent! Your skill is rough, but I can polish it. I can make you greater than ever before... if you swear allegiance to me and take my mark!"

Harry chuckled as he heard the overly dramatic, pompous asshole's spiel. His high pitched voice made it far less dignified and threatening than it could have been. "You want to know why I fight?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, ignoring the itch on the back of his throat and the burning in his lungs. He was a wizard and thus tougher than your average person, but he wasn't indestructible, and that was probably his ribs poking his lungs. "It's really simple."

"And what, pray tell, could motivate such defiance?" asked Voldemort, raising an elegantly trimmed eyebrow.

"It's not about glory, fame or power. I don't want to be recognized and I am not seeking a reward. I don't need more power and I'm content with my station in life. I fight, Tom, because I have the power to. I fight for those who can't. I fight because I can make a difference!" he yelled, coughing a few times and splattering his dragonhide vest with blood.

"Foolish child! Lost to the meaningless, senseless notions that Dumbledore spouts, I see!" barked Voldemort, glaring at the soon to be corpse.

"You're right! I am Dumbledore's man, through... and through! But there's... something more important... you should note... than that!" Harry said, grinning nastily at the Dark Lord. "I have.. friends!"

"What the-" Voldemort didn't have the time to do much of anything as he was forced to turn around to erect a shield to stop several curses and charms from hitting him, realizing that the battle was lost and his Death Eaters had been rounded up and restrained while he'd been busy dealing with the overly difficult cockroach. He snarled in hatred as he prepared to destroy them all.

He was still going strong, and none of them stood a chance against him! They couldn't even crack his shield through sustained fire, and when a lull in the spellcasting came, as they needed a break to regain their breath, he lowered the shield and raised his wand, pointing it at the closest man.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Dark Lord Voldemort was no more, as his body slumped to the ground, lifeless. Behind him, a broken, beaten and bruised Harry Potter felt his arm hit the ground, all strength leaving him.

Only contentment accompanied him.

"I... did it..." he muttered, nearly delirious. "This... is the difference... I could make... I'm... glad..."

Darkness claimed him, and Harry Potter lay on the battlefield, next to the corpse of Tom Marvolo Riddle, with a smile on his face.