Summary: (AU) The final battle has been won, but was it worth the cost? Harry, alone and determined, sets out to rewrite history for a better world. Pity the bloody time-turner isn't working right…
Disclaimer: All belongs to the one and only J.K.Rowling
Italics on pre-tense, emphasis and thoughts.
…Chapter Eight…
Wherein Repercussions Haunt
He came onto the street corner with a soft, resounding crack. A snap of his fingers and all yellow light seeping from the lampposts cut out. The stars above were strangely muted, heeding the irrevocable turns of night.
All was dark. All was quiet.
The street, aroused, visibly shrunk in his glorious, odious wake.
Bile raised, burning in his throat, his stomach churning with blindly suppressed revulsion. He felt tainted, contaminated, just to be in such close quarters with them, to breathe in the same air - the cretins, the scum, the muggles. Level green garden beds, straight level homes, shiny level cars, littered periodically in a mirage across the dividing wet pavement.
Rain pattered down on his cloak.
Lord Voldemort stepped forth, half hidden in the animosity of shadow, stopping shortly at the glossy, golden embossed number four.
He paused, glowering at the damed house, pure vehement hatred burning, consuming his being.
His servants - his followers - were gathered there already, waiting, lurking about the impeccably tidy - impeccably dull - front garden.
Joining them a group of seven wizards was formed - his favored number.
No words were spoken, not a sound uttered. Privet Drive slept on, oblivious to the intrusion.
It was Harry Potter's seventeenth birthday and they had come to share their coming-of-age congratulations, a buoyant surprise of well-wishers. Tom Riddle laughed. Lord Voldemort toyed impatiently with his wand.
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Harry awoke with a start. He was having nightmares again. Just nightmares, he reminding himself calmly. Only nightmares.
He tried to believe it. Only lies don't work so well when you're telling them to yourself.
And you can only run so far before the past catches up.
Harry hadn't left Cho's tiny flat for all of the upcoming week. By Friday, though, he was quite sick of her bed and her dithered mothering - he thought he might strangle her if he didn't get out. The prophecy sat snug in his pocket, untouched, unopened.
He snuck away when she was in the shower, leaving a hastily scribbled note on the kitchen table.
Sorry. Got to go out. Will be back soon.
He almost signed off Harry.
And he supposed she might be hurt - but then, she'd just have to get over it, wouldn't she?
He enjoyed the casual stroll back up to the castle, happy to be outside, to revive in the unforgivingly cold, brittle breeze.
When Mcgonagall had sternly told him to take the week off, Harry had been more than obliging. But the Ministry had made him restless, had made him consider that he might have been wasting his time at Hogwarts. Harry had thought he wanted to rest, to relax in this world, but now he wasn't so sure at all - he wasn't really sure of anything anymore, he could hardly remember who he was, who he had been. And that was what angered - or frightened - him the most.
Time had always been of vast importance to Harry - he'd never quite felt like he had enough of it, nor had his fair share. He hated to see it go to waste. The seconds of peacetime were slowly wearing down, cheering for Harry's prolonged downfall - for the truth of his past to finally resurface.
As he went past Hagrid's hut, Harry had to squelch the desire to drop in and pay a visit. As he went past the Quidditch pitch he could think of nothing he'd like better than to carelessly grab a broom and fly about all day. Harry strung his hands in his pockets, determined not to look back at the pitch, at the terribly tempting sky and the green, green grass. As Harry clambered up the first lot of stairs into the castle, he spotted Hermione and was about to call out - but this was not his Hermione.
Harry didn't know her. She didn't know Harry.
As he entered the Great Hall, Harry thought on the first niggling premises that he might have made a mistake in venturing back in time, to where he had landed in this world.
The thought did not bode well at all.
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Harry hadn't slept in seven days, seven nights, one hundred and sixty eight hours.
He considered such a luxury beyond his worth, if sleep kindly chose to give in to his nightmares, which it didn't often - time was of the essence.
He lit a cigarette, nicked from his cousin, inhaling deeply.
Smoke rippled through the air, obscuring the small room.
Heavy lidded eyes glazed for a moment, flicking from the stacks of grimy parchment in his lap to look at the old clock on his bedside table. Soon his friends Hermione and Ron would be arriving, and together they would leave in the dead quiet of morn for adventures to come, in the search for Voldemort's Horcruxes, leading to the final destruction of their world's greatest evil. The idea hadn't seemed so stupidly ridiculous, so fanciful or surreal until that moment when Harry really considered it.
Only, now, Harry had begun to feel resentful.
Why should it be his obligation? Why should it be he to constantly risk life and limb alike? What did he care, really?
He was tired of the weight, of the loss. Of sleepless nights and the damned Greater Good. The task lay daunting at his feet, but Harry felt no incentive, no bloody compulsion -
He thought of running away, starting a new life, enjoying what was left of his short-lived youth.
The flickering light Harry had read by suddenly popped out, bathing his surroundings in a taunting, eerie dark.
Startled, Harry reached for his wand.
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"Professor Evans!"
Harry turned, spotting Neville and Ron … and himself, hurrying up the corridor towards him.
"Professor," the blond Harry Potter began reverently. "Where have you been? Divination classes were cancelled for the entire week!"
Harry was startled. Why did they care?
"It's none of your concern, really," Harry told them, smiling - not just a little suspicious, as it could only do to be cautious right then, with them particularly. "Health troubles, as it happens. I'm back now."
Neville positively smirked - a sight Harry was definitely not accustomed to. "But we know, Professor."
Ron leaned forward conspiratorially, and confessed, "We know all about it."
Harry had no idea what the hell they were talking about. He raised an eyebrow. "And?" he prompted.
The three students exchanged a knowing glance.
"We've gotten much better at Occlumency, sir," the other Harry began, most politely. "And we thought you might … well …"
"See," Ron interrupted his friend. "We heard all about how you fought at the Ministry - "
"And Professor Lupin," Neville explained, "isn't exactly … forthcoming in that - "
Neville cut himself off abruptly at the sight of McGonagall storming down the hall, headed straight for them. Harry thought he was quite relieved to see her - he wasn't much sure if he wanted to hear what Neville had been so close to spilling, somewhere along the lines of a request that he might further teach them the darker shades of magic - which he certainly wouldn't. No way in hell!
"Ah! Evans, there you are," Minerva began, in a tone that rather implied she had known exactly when he had entered the castle, that he had been precisely there, and had come specifically to fetch him. "I must beg a word, if you aren't too busy - "
"No, of course not," Harry told her, plastering a look of apology to the three boys.
"Well then," Minerva nodded primly to the students, and gestured back the way she had come.
Harry waved goodbye to his counter-friends, favoring them with a roll of his eyes towards Minerva, and he followed her, trailing slightly, half way to the Headmaster's office before it clicked where they were headed. Harry stopped dead in his tracks, a warm trickle of dread filling him.
"What was it then, Minerva?" he asked. "What can I help you with?"
Mcgonagall stopped, turning to face him.
"I don't think," Harry continued slowly, "I much care for seeing Albus right this moment, see?"
Evidently by the tight pull of her ever-thinner lips, Minerva didn't see at all. "Albus would like a chat."
Harry didn't budge. "I have a sore throat."
She raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to go to the Hospital Wing, then? I can tell Albus to meet you there."
Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. It was a lost cause, then. He shrugged, taking her lead, and made his own way along the corridor, up another two flights of stairs, and stopped at the familiar gargoyle. When he looked back Minerva had gone. Harry stretched his shoulders, reinforced his Occlumency shields, and confidently made way to face his upcoming, inevitable doom.
Past the shifting gargoyle, up the steep winding steps, and then he was knocking steadily on the door.
Without so much as an answer, the door had swung wide open, inviting him in.
"There you are, Mr Evans," Dumbledore greeted him, seated comfortably at his desk on a hideously-bright scarlet armchair. "So nice of you to join me!"
Harry tried to grin - it came off more like a smirk.
"Please, do make yourself comfortable," Dumbledore went on, fussing around with his desk. "Have a seat, have a lolly - would you like a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you," Harry replied, his voice a little more terse than he'd have liked.
"Well then," Dumbledore leant back, suckling on a lemon drop. "I trust you've had adequate time to recover?"
"Yes, of course," Harry said, sitting himself down opposite the large, imposing desk. It was a struggle to keep his eyes from drifting to that draw … the draw with the time turner that had gone so wrong, had landed him back here - in this office, now, of all the irony. He wondered if Albus had known it was bogus, had known where it would really take him. Harry supposed he could never be sure.
"Good, good." Dumbledore paused. "You did a marvelous job at the Ministry, as I'm sure you well know - marvelous indeed."
Harry nodded solemnly, fidgeting impatiently with the hem on his sleeve. He hated waiting like this, knowing and dreading what he knew was to come. Gently, ever so very gently, Harry let a single thought slip from the shield on his mind - I wish he'd get on with it.
Dumbledore rustled a messy nest of paperwork in front of him, and began slowly, his voice unassuming, as diplomatic as was possible while still containing a barest hint of command. "Many odd things, Hadi, have happened around you since your arrival."
Harry didn't deny it. He would have if he had thought he might be able to get away with it - but it was preposterously useless.
Dumbledore sent him a piercing glance, wriggling his nose in discomfort. "And there are certain … discrepancies concerning your background."
"Oh?" Harry asked, shifting in his seat, inclining the older man with a warm, earnest smile.
Inside he was positively seething.
"Yes," Albus went on, confirming, "You don't exactly seem to exist now, is that correct?"
Harry shrugged, nonpuzzled, replying in his most evasive Divination-Professor tone, "Nothing is ever as it seems."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Right is right. Wrong is wrong. You, Mr Evans - you have some explaining to do."
Harry let himself grimace, bringing his gaze to fall awkwardly on the floor. "I fear it a tale far too gruesome to grace this beautiful room, or your own young, naive ears."
Albus raised an eyebrow.
Harry changed tactics, diverting once again to the role of his teaching position, coming up with the biggest nonsense he could. "The world does work in mysterious ways, Albus. I could not fathom to understand it."
"And I would not dare to try," Dumbledore insisted. "But that gives me no answer to who you really are."
"I am an a figment of your imagination," Harry told him.
Albus didn't look impressed. Not at all.
"I am whoever you want me to be," Harry tried again.
A flick of malice might have past over his face - or it could have been a trick of the light.
"I'm an enigma?" Harry asked, scowling.
"That you are," Albus agreed. "Rather odd, too, the surname Evans…" he stopped, again changing tracks. "And you do rather … resemble … James Potter. Don't you think so?"
Harry frowned, pretending to give the statement deep consideration. "No," he answered simply, shrouding the Headmaster in a wide grin.
But Dumbledore, instead of throwing Harry out of his office or out of a job as Harry had half hoped he would have, just smiled that damn grandfatherly smile, tossed his beard over his shoulder, and moved on to his next point.
"You're not really from Italy, are you?"
Harry could see no sense in denying it now. "No, I'm not. I'd have thought that was painfully obvious."
"A little bird," Dumbledore began slowly, wringing his hands in his lap, "Just happened to come by a certain … memory … you retain."
"What?" Harry cried, exasperated. "Who? And what kind of memory? I feel that a complete violation of my rights, Dumbledore, and if you even think - "
"It was a memory," Albus continued cheerfully, speaking right over the top of Harry, "of what appears to be your sorting at Hogwarts."
Harry stopped, grounding his teeth together, making no sign of giving any answer.
"But you've never attended Hogwarts as a student, have you Hadi?" Dumbledore asked him.
"Of course not," Harry scoffed. "Evidently, there's been some sort of mix up." Harry sniffed indignantly.
"No," Dumbledore carried on morosely. "But there has not."
Harry twiddled his thumbs, eyeing his wristwatch. The seconds ticked by torturously, devastatingly slow.
"Would you care to shed some light on that, Mr Evans?" Albus asked him kindly.
"No, I wouldn't!" Harry muttered. "Would you care to quit your insufferable meddling and let me be!"
"Have you ever heard of the Order of the Phoenix, my boy?" Dumbledore asked, heedless, twinkle twinkling madly.
"Yes," Harry hissed, dropping the act altogether. He'd quit. He'd go work in a circus, or a strip club, or anything - anything but face these grueling, pestering answers. "I know exactly what the Order is."
Albus pretended to look startled. Harry pretended to look like he couldn't care.
"And how is that, may I ask?"
"No, I'm afraid you may not ask, Albus," Harry leant forward in his chair, whispering, "I'm sworn to a code of secrecy." He winked. "But you understand, don't you Albus?" before he could reply, Harry finish, "Oh, good. I knew you would."
Dumbledore steadied himself, his scrutiny never in falter. "Briefly surmised, we are a group dedicated to bringing about the fall of Lord Voldemort -" here Albus paused, waiting for Harry to shudder. He didn't, so Albus quickly moved on, "In light of the most recent battle at the Ministry, I would very happily like to extend an invitation for you to join us in this most worthy cause."
Dumbledore beamed.
Harry scowled.
No, no - not again. He wouldn't take that path again. It was alone or nothing, his way or nothing, his life and no others.
He was a fool to have thought that he'd be anything but normal here, that he could make any semblance of an ordinary life for himself.
"Will you join us then, Hadi?" Dumbledore asked him. "Lend your services to the Light and I promise you now there will be no further questions."
"I wish to be of no part in your twisted little games, old man," Harry practically spat.
He stood up to leave - oh, let Albus try and stop him.
"And the prophecy, Hadi?" Dumbledore enquired merrily. "Have you looked at it yet?"
Harry thought, given a choice between throttling Cho or Dumbledore, right then he'd do in the latter gladly.
How the hell could the old codger know about that? And it hadn't read 'Hadi Evans', no - the prophecy was titled to none other than Harry Bloody Potter.
"No."
"And will you?"
"That is none of your bloody business, and nor will it ever be."
"But how can you claim that if you don't know what it predicts?" Albus asked.
Harry turned back on his heel, glaring and scowling and sneering all at once - Snape would have been terrified, in bountiful trembles of his own influence. "What does it say, then?" he asked unconcerned, a picture bluff. "You tell me."
Albus reached forward into the glass cup on his desk, extracting another lemon drop.
Harry had to hold back a growl of impatience - no, it was useless. Harry could see it for himself, anyway. No matter. No worry.
"Am I to return to work on Monday, Professor?"
Albus considered him a moment.
"Yes, certainly."
And, without a backwards glance, Harry left.
He didn't feel the least bit childish for slamming the door after him, and thoroughly convinced himself afterwards that Phineas had not started blabbering the moment he had left. It didn't do any good, anyway.
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As the pulsing stroke of midnight hit, tightly woven threads between fate and fatality were pulled, stretched and torn - vague, hazed, blurred to incomprehensible focus. It was July 31st. The wards on number four, erected so many years previous, diminished then into the night to seek refuge in stormy grey clouds above.
Harry Potter, lying awake in his bedroom, felt his stomach toss, sensing the gathering of Darkness and mayhem.
Lord Voldemort entered the house alone, confidence in his stride, purpose lingering tight on his hold.
Harry swore and his scar started to tingle, to itch, to burn.
The party in Black stayed outside, passing blood-red champagne between them, the inevitable taste of victory dizzying their vision, their withering rationality.
The sky darkened then, warning those below, bleak and ominous.
Lightening cracked and thunder broke.
The Dark Lord carried down the hall without pause, up the stairs and along the corridor. He reached the door of the smallest bedroom and raised one fist, knocking firmly on the flimsy wooden paneled door.
"What do you want?" Harry called out softly.
The door creaked open, rusty on its hinges.
Emerald met crimson. Recognition hit. Curses flew.
The ceiling came crashing down about them.
The rain had stopped abruptly.
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Harry usually felt it took an age to reach his office, high up in the North Tower as it was.
It seemed then, though, in such a fit of confusion-mingled anger, it had taken him no time at all. Too little time, really, Harry thought as he paced his classroom, throwing spells this way and that to tidy the mess his students had made in consequence to their return of 'dull textbook readings' that week.
He felt at home there, now, and Harry wasn't sure he liked that at all. He couldn't possibly stay at Hogwarts - not after that. Not for much longer, anyway. After his chat with Albus, the brutal truth of his situation had finally sunken in, taken its toll.
Harry had thought he was alone before, in a world where everyone he had loved was dead - but he realized now that he had been wrong, so very horridly wrong. That they'd never left him till he had left them, that people had always been watching over him as long as Harry held true to their memory. In this Brave New World he could hope for no embrace, not when he couldn't even give people a chance to understand him. There was no appreciation, no respect. It didn't matter what he had been through, or what he had accomplished - none of that mattered anymore, not to anyone else.
No-one wants to adopt a teenager.
He could right all the wrongs, reinvent the history books, become again the worlds hero, their savior.
Only if he wanted to.
But it still wouldn't mean anything, because he couldn't have his parents back and he couldn't have Ron or Hermione the same as before.
Because they were dead to him, they were gone, and were not coming back - he had to accept that.
So what did any of it amount to, really?
What was the point in doing it all over?
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Harry leant back against the door, breathing hard. The familiar sight of blood had soaked and spilt itself everywhere, into every crevice, every crack; in his hair, his teeth, his nails. It clung to his skin, stuck to his clothes. Chancing a glance out of his window, Harry was startled to see a group of Death Eaters sitting on the front lawn of his relative's house, playing a game of exploding snap.
His eyes unwillingly carried on to the robes crumbled on the floor of his bedroom.
Harry smiled malevolently, his mind positively ticking.
He could hardly believe he was considering it, but then … it was tempting. All too bloody tempting.
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Dumbledore hadn't moved, had barely twitched, since the younger man had left him.
For the first time in a long, long while Albus was quite at a loss for words.
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Draco Malfoy collapsed into the most equitable chair of the Slytherin common room. Everyone else had long ago retired to bed - he was alone.
He liked it best that way.
Sweat stung on his forehead, stuck the cloth of his shirt to his chest, wriggled about his boots, slimy between his toes.
Lord Voldemort it was, then. Forever after. No regrets, no going back. He had made his choice and he would stick to it, hold true to the end.
So mote it be.
And his first assignment, his first ever mission, had been stentoriantly announced: the mysterious Professor Evans.
Draco was terrified.
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Harry, tired of the day and all of its ill comings, tried time and time again to reach sleep. But it wouldn't come, adamantly desisted to grant him peace.
His scar twitched. His mind convulsed.
In the pit of his stomach he felt sick, queasy. A feeling of foreboding doubt lingered in his mind, refusing to be suppressed.
The prophecy sat glaring at him from his desk, gaining new dust. Unopened. Waiting.
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A/N: Thanks again for reading ;) Reviews are very welcome.
xxoo
