Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make any claim of ownership. All rights belong to the copyright holders and J.K. Rowling.

A/N

Hello again, everyone! Sorry it's been a good few days since the last update, I've been a bit busy this week with my graduation from uni - took them long enough to have it, I finished in June! Now that it's out of the way though, I've had more time to work on I'll Keep Coming, and so proudly present, chapter seven!

On another note, three days ago (November 24th) this story hit 50 followers! I still can't quite believe that so many of you like my work, it's really encouraging, so thank you all, and please, enjoy!

- JudgeKnox


Harry blearily opened his eyes. He tried to move his head, but the energy just wouldn't come. Breathing shakily, his throat sore and scratchy, he recognised that he was lying on his couch in the dungeon, and that he was alone. Concentrating, he tried to recall what he'd seen. The only thing that would come to him was-

Ginny.

Even as he remembered her face, the way that her hair gleamed in the light of the flames, the memories of their discussion came flooding back with shocking clarity.

Lying limply on his couch, Harry couldn't even move as tears ran down his face, awful, choking sobs wracking his body with pain.

For what felt like hours, Harry lay there crying quietly, until he had no more tears left to shed. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he thought back to before his meeting with Ginny, and how he had ended up here. A hazy memory flashed in his mind: pain, fire, and-

"…Dobby…" Harry whispered hoarsely.

With a sharp crack, the elf appeared in front of Harry, concern in his tennis-ball-sized eyes.

"Harry is awake?" Dobby asked tentatively, which Harry confirmed with a quick blink, unable to manage a more strenuous movement.

"…Where'm I?" Harry rasped quietly. Dobby clicked his fingers, summoning a glass of cool water which he began to pour carefully into Harry's mouth, Harry slurping it loudly as he drank.

"Harry Potter is back in his dungeon, sir," Dobby said quickly. "Dobby heard Harry's call at bad master's house and brought him here. Harry Potter has been unconscious for nearly fourteen hours, sir."

Harry's eyes went wide at the mention of the Manor, and in an instant, the memories of the night before came rushing back to him, how he'd faced Lucius Malfoy and tried to flee from Voldemort, taking the-

"…Locket…" Harry whispered, his throat hurting a little less after the drink. Dobby nodded at the unspoken question, waving his hand and bringing the Horcrux floating over to the couch, holding it in the air over Harry's face so he could see it. Harry remembered the magical shock of touching the Locket, and mentally berated himself for being careless enough to grab it in his hand. At the thought of his hand, and how it had looked when he was feeling the Manor, he looked back at Dobby, panic in his eyes. "…Curse…" he groaned, the words difficult to form.

Dobby's face fell, and his eyes brimmed with tears. He looked at Harry in despair as he responded.

"Dobby tried, Harry Potter, sir. Tried his hardest to stop the curse." The elf's body was shaking as he pulled on his large ears dejectedly. "Dobby managed to get the Locket out of Harry Potter's hand, sir, but the curse was dark, evil magic, and Dobby could not reverse it."

Harry's eyes widened at the implications, and he tried to turn his head and examine his arm, his breath coming shallow and fast. Dobby saw his efforts, and cradled Harry's arm in his, lifting it gently so that Harry could see what had happened. Harry could only stare, shocked and disbelieving at what he saw.

Where before there had been plain – if weathered – skin, there was now blackened, dead flesh. Harry's one remaining arm was ruined, the hand skeletal and withered. Angry burns ran up the arm to his shoulder, where they then turned and pointed toward his chest. Dobby clicked his fingers again, and a plump feather pillow inserted itself beneath Harry's head, lifting it so that he could examine his body. The veins above his heart stood out, a sickening black against the pale skin of his chest. Bandages were wrapped around his splinted leg, and what was left of his fatigues (large parts had been torn away to expose the wounds) were coated in brick dust and dark patches of dried blood.

Harry's stomach dropped as he examined himself.

No, this can't be true. I can't die yet! A voice screamed in his head. Why not? Another, quieter voice stated. You remember what Ginny said, don't you?

Even as the debate raged in his head, a strange feeling of calm was descending on Harry. His heart beat slowed and strengthened, and he felt the bizarre sensation of a weight being lifted from his shoulders.

"Dobby is so sorry, Harry Potter, sir." Dobby was weeping in earnest now, his mournful cries more painful to Harry than the throbbing in his chest. "Harry trusted Dobby, and Dobby failed!" Throwing himself to the floor, Dobby began sobbing hysterically.

"…S'alright, Dobby…" he whispered quietly, "…you did your best." The elf looked up at Harry, his eyes red, sniffling. Harry stared back as warmly as he could, his mouth twitching a little into a lopsided smile. The elf took a deep breath, before breaking out into a small, sad smile. Standing up, he clicked his fingers again, and Harry's couch was transformed into a comfortable four-poster bed that was startlingly similar to his old one from Gryffindor Tower, Harry's ruined fatigues changed into comfortable pyjamas. Gently rolling Harry onto his side, Dobby began to change the dressings on Harry's wounded back. The position was good for Harry too, so that Dobby wouldn't see the tears that ran gently down his face, dampening the pillow beneath.

I'm sorry, everyone. I've failed.

After the elf was done, he sat Harry up in the bed, feeding him another glass of water.

"Dobby, can you fetch my album for me?" Harry asked quietly, his voice recovering quickly under Dobby's ministrations.

"Of course, Harry Potter, sir." Dobby replied kindly, hopping off of the bed and getting the weathered book from the table. Climbing back onto the bed, he set it down in Harry's lap, and after a nod from Harry, opened it up to the first page, the smiling faces of Lily and James beaming up at their dying son.

"Thanks, Dobby," Harry choked out, his eyes wet. "Can you stay here with me, and turn the pages? I can't do it alone," he asked sadly. Dobby nodded, and at Harry's prompt turned to the next page, and the next, and the next.

For a few hours, they simply sat like this, Harry staring fondly down at the faces of his friends and family, crying gently. Dobby held Harry's ruined hand in his, and continued to turn the pages of the book. The gesture of affection wasn't lost on Harry, who seemed to take a little strength from the closeness of his last friend.

Many minutes later, they finally reached the last page of the book, in the centre of which sat a single picture.

Taken sometime during Harry's sixth year, the candid photograph showed Harry sat on one of the sofas in the Gryffindor Common Room, next to a girl with fiery red hair. The smile on Ginny's face was wide and affectionate, and she shuddered with laughter from some bad joke that Harry had told.

Sitting on the bed, Harry stared down at perhaps his most prized photograph of all, and smiled sadly. Gesturing to Dobby, the elf closed the book with a small thump, returning it to the table a moment later.

Turning his head to the elf, Harry fixed Dobby with an affectionate smile. "Thank you, Dobby." He said quietly.

"Dobby has always been there for Harry Potter, sir." The elf replied. Harry sighed, knowing what he had to say.

"Dobby…" he began, "…I'll be dead in a few days. You've always been there, even after everyone else was gone. I… thank you, Dobby. For everything. And," Harry paused, trying to find the words, "I'm so, so sorry. I've failed, and I'm sorry that I'm leaving you behind, in this awful place." Harry's sentence trailed off, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks.

To his surprise, Dobby suddenly smiled at Harry toothily.

"Er… Harry Potter, sir," Dobby responded unsurely. "Dobby might be able to help." Harry's heart thudded loudly in his chest, his fatigue receding as energy flooded into his limbs. He felt alert, focused.

"What did you say?" Harry asked, his mouth dry.

"Dobby said that he might be able to help Harry Potter, sir." Dobby replied, now not meeting Harry's eyes. "Dobby cannot cure Harry Potter's curse, but Dobby might be able to stop it having happened at all."

"What do you…" Harry trailed off as realisation hit him like a freight train. "Dobby," He continued slowly, "are you saying that you can turn back time?" He didn't dare hope that he was right.

The elf clicked his fingers, a dusty, worn tome appeared in his hand. "Dobby cannot, sir," Harry's face fell, before the elf continued. "But Dobby may have discovered a way that Harry Potter can." The elf took a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself. "Dobby is… sorry for keeping this from Harry Potter, sir, but Dobby has been researching time-travel for some months now."

Harry was shocked, suddenly feeling apprehensive and suspicious. Had Dobby already predicted that he wouldn't be able to stop Voldemort? Harry let the thought sit uneasily at the back of his mind, unable to confront the elf about it, not after saving his life. One other question, however, reverberated and repeated inside his head. Harry couldn't help but ask, the trepidation in his voice palpable.

"Dobby, why didn't you ever tell me this before?"

The elf looked incredibly guilty at that, his eyes once more brimming with tears. "Well, Harry Potter, sir, the ritual Dobby has discovered involves sending the soul of a wizard back through time to their past self. It is… dangerous, Harry Potter, sir, and there is great risk of failure, and… death. Dobby did not want Harry Potter to perform it unless there were no other choice, sir." Dobby buried his head in his hands, and mumbled, "Dobby hopes Harry Potter understands."

"I'm dead already, Dobby, it looks like my only other choice is to wait for this curse to finish me off." Harry replied bluntly. "I don't have much time left – do you think we can give it a shot?" As if on cue, an agonising spike of pain washed over Harry's chest, making him groan and grit his teeth.

"Dobby thinks so, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby has already translated the spell required." Dobby stated quickly, nodding vigorously. "Our first task is to decide to when we send Harry Potter's soul."

Harry bit his lip in concentration, closing his eyes and trying to think of where his return would be most useful. Already, wild theories were forming in his mind about how he could stop Voldemort early, and prevent the deaths of everyone he loved.

When? No point going back before school, I can't get anything done if I'm ten years old. First year? No, too many variables. Second? Maybe – Voldemort didn't get much done that year, did he? I could change the whole mess with the Chamber and Diary too…

Harry looked over to Dobby, and voiced a question that formed during his internal debate. "Dobby, do you know what might happen once I'm back in time, and I change something important?"

Dobby opened the book in his hands, delicately turning the old, stained pages until he found what he was looking for. Reading aloud, he quoted the author. "It says here, Harry Potter, sir, that 'in my studies, I have deduced that the most important rule of time-travel is thus: If one can predict, one can pre-empt. Know that the greater the change made, the more diverse and unpredictable shall be the consequences, eliminating the advantage of foreknowledge.'"

Considering the statement for a moment, Harry started thinking out loud. "So, if I were to stop the Chamber of Secrets incident from happening at all, what you're saying is that the future might change from what happened the last time, too?" Dobby nodded. "Damn, then that rules out second year. If I change everything then, I won't be able to know what happens after."

"Plus, if the events of Harry Potter's second year are prevented, then Dobby will not have been freed from the bad master." Dobby added, a cheeky smile on his face. Harry grinned in response.

"Of course, that too, Dobby." Falling silent in concentration again, he considered his options.

Third year? He asked himself, the answer suddenly appearing in his mind, clear as day.

I could save Sirius, and get him exonerated.

I could stop Pettigrew.

No Pettigrew, no resurrection. Those consequences sound pretty good so far.

"I've got it, Dobby!" Harry exclaimed. "Can you send me back to the summer before my third year at Hogwarts?"

The elf clicked his fingers again, this time consulting a piece of parchment that materialised in his waiting hands. After a moment or two, he looked up at Harry, and nodded with a smile.

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby thinks he can do that."

Harry's smile widened, the feeling of hope expanding in his chest.

"What do we need to do?" He asked, a spike of pain from the curse making him gasp suddenly. Dobby frowned, concern evident on his face. Harry waved him off, his arm shaking with the effort required for even such a simple movement. "I'm going to be in pain from here on out, Dobby – can you tell me what we need to do?" He repeated. The elf took a deep breath, looking uneasy as he flicked through the book until he found the pages he needed. "Well, Harry Potter, sir, we need to begin by drawing this ritual circle…"


It had taken the better part of six hours to prepare the necessary components for the spell, throughout which Harry's condition was quickly deteriorating. After the first hour, the pain had become a constant, agonising throb, in time with his pulse. After the third, he was sweating feverishly, and his temperature fluctuated badly. At the turn of the sixth hour, he was coughing blood.

He'd wanted to bury Fred and George's wands on the hill outside, but as his own, faithful holly wand was damaged beyond repair, he required one of their wands for the ritual. A small voice in Harry's head chuckled at the poetic justice: he was using the wand of one of Hogwarts' greatest pranksters, in order to cast a spell that was, from one perspective anyway, a prank on the entire universe – although the stakes here were much, much higher than house points or detentions if he failed.

Dobby had explained the spell in detail whilst he set up the ritual circle required, spreading salt in a wide arc and carving complicated runes into the dungeon floor with streams of golden magic. Once the circle was prepared, Harry would have to activate the runes with his own blood, repeating the spell's incantation, Chronos Reditum Anima, until a dome of magical energy formed around him. The dome would bind him to the circle, and the spell would have to be completed or he'd die. At the right moment – detectable through a dilution of time outside of the circle – Harry would have to perform the spell's wand movement and incantation, putting as much power into it as possible.

If this was done right, the soul would be severed from the body and cast back through time to the destination that Harry wished, as long as he was focused on that moment when he cast the spell.

The author hadn't written what might happen if this wasn't adhered to, which unnerved Harry slightly. But, he thought, what choice did he have?

Therefore, the stroke of midnight saw Harry kneeling in the centre of the ritual circle, George Weasley's wand already gripped in his skeletal hand as hard as he could manage with his diminished strength. With no other hand available to hold the silver knife Dobby had conjured for the blood runes, the elf was left standing uneasily outside the circle, levitating the knife in front of Harry's chest with magic.

Turning to Dobby and giving a small nod, the elf lowered the knife to the pale, sickly-looking skin of Harry's chest, before making a quick, deep cut. Harry grunted at the pain, coughing slightly as he fought down a convulsion from the curse. Dobby levitated the knife over the first rune, droplets of Harry's blood falling lazily into the engraving. Harry murmured the incantation, and the rune suddenly let out a pulse of magic, glowing white. Letting out a small sigh of relief, Harry gave Dobby what he hoped was an encouraging smile, his eyes vibrant, contrasting against the pallor of his skin.

The spell was underway.

Harry continued the process, muttering the incantation almost constantly as Dobby helped draw the blood needed to activate the runes. Unfortunately, Harry's strength was waning. By the time the runes were fully activated, and the dome of bright magical light thrummed over Harry's head, he was shaking with fatigue, slumping in his position on his knees and sweating profusely. Harry felt himself begin to black out.

Need… finish… spell…

"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby called out, his voice sounding distorted and oddly distant from outside the circle. "The resonance is approaching!" Seeing Harry about to lose consciousness, the elf shot a small bolt of electricity towards Harry, the shock making him jump, his eyes snapping open again.

Even as Harry turned his head wearily to thank Dobby, he realised that everything outside of the dome looked… odd. The elf's mouth was moving, but slowly – too slowly to be talking, surely? Suddenly, Harry processed what Dobby had yelled to him, and he struggled to raise his ruined arm high enough to hold the wand in front of him.

The dome crackled with energy, and Harry's hair began to stand on end, as if he'd received a static shock. Gasping at the pain of the movement, Harry managed to point the wand in front of him, right at the wall of the dome – which at this point was glowing a blinding, brilliant white. Grunting with the effort of holding his arm up, Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, before roaring the incantation as loud as he could.

"CHRONOS REDITUM ANIMA!"

Focusing his thoughts on the moment he wanted to return to, trying to recall his small bedroom at Privet Drive, the week before Aunt Marge's visit all those years ago, Harry suddenly felt a tug around his navel, not entirely unlike a Portkey. Surprise turned to shock as the sensation shifted from mild discomfort to sudden, unbearable pain, pain so bad that Harry couldn't even scream before convulsions wracked his body, collapsing in the centre of the circle as his soul was torn away.


Harry had the vague feeling of… motion, and of leaving something behind. Something evil, that had lingered like a shadow, was being torn from him even as he realised that he had never noticed it before. As everything began to fade away, he was aware of a single recollection. Blood, dust, and fiery red hair, fluttering in the wind like the rippling of a lake.

A moment later, Harry Potter ceased to be, his lifeless corpse flopping back down into the ritual circle with a thump, the skin smoking slightly.