It took one month to bind my memories to my body. One long, painful month for the body. And one long, painful month for my mind. As the memories swamped me, chill after chill swept over me. Grandma Weasley was dead. Sirius Black was dead -- Michael and Sarah Black had never existed. Never existed. Mum and Uncle Ron had always said that Dad had blamed himself. And that it had been completely ridiculous after everything he had done, the deaths still weighed on his shoulders.
I had never understood. Why would Dad, of all people, ever think that he was to blame? I'd always placed the blame squarely on Voldemort's shoulders. Dad had been a hero. He'd saved people. And to be perfectly honest, I'd thought his self-blame was a bit silly.
I lay on the floor of my small flat. My body tingled and my muscles ached. Tears leaked steadily out of my eyes, and I didn't bother to brush them away. Dark holes dotted my memory, and waking up to discover that my actions -- and I'd thought them to be so pathetically minor -- had caused the deaths and (almost worse) the nonexistence of people I cared about... it was singularly the worst feeling in the world.
I leaned over and vomited onto the carpet, glad that I was not at home or at the Burrow. Mum would fuss...
As if summoned by the thought, a large screech owl swooped in through the open window. I recognized it immediately as Rubeus, the family owl. In his beak was a scarlet envelope, and with a sinking feeling I realized that my absence had obviously not gone unnoticed.
"ALBUS SEVERUS POTTER!" Mum's voice screamed. I winced, and held a hand to my ear. It came away flecked with blood. "I DON'T CARE HOW OLD YOU ARE, YOU WILL CONTACT ME OR I'LL KNOW WHY! YOU'VE BEEN GONE A MONTH -- NO NOTE -- YOU HAVEN'T BEEN TO WORK -- YOU HAD BEST MARCH STRAIGHT HOME!"
I sort of just laid there, disoriented, and feeling a strong sense of guilt that clawed at my insides. My stomach felt like it was on fire. I lifted my hand and stared at the livid red scar that marked my passage through time. It seemed absurd that I once thought that Dad and I would exchange scars; his would no longer mar his forehead, and I would wear mine proudly.
I need to talk to Albus. The thought sprouted in my head. Albus was dead, but he had a portrait. I thought back, trying to figure out what had happened to Albus in this time. But all I could remember was Dad saying that Albus had given his life to help him, and so had Severus. But where the details should be, I only found a misty fog.
I hoped this didn't mean that my actions had killed him, but the fact that my father hadn't wanted to speak of it was ominous.
With extreme effort, I pulled myself to my feet. Rubeus glared at me reproachfully. I grimaced and scrawled a quick note, letting my mother know that I would come for a visit later... or tomorrow. I didn't know how long my interview with the portrait would last, but afternoon was waning and questions burned inside me.
Rubeus left. I hobbled around my flat like an old man. My hand felt as though I had placed a rather large brand on it, and every time it brushed up against something, it pulsed with fresh agony.
The pain would have been worth it had I not managed to fuck everything up.
It didn't help that I dreaded seeing the portrait. The last time I had seen Albus Dumbledore (admittedly, this was only a month for me, but was several decades to him), he had locked me up. I'd resented it but Merlin, I wished he'd locked me up sooner. I sat down at the edge of my rumpled bed and pressed the heel of my uninjured hand against my eyes.
I could just not go. The idea was tantalizing. No one had to know. I could just... get on with my life. Pretend like nothing had happened. Albus was dead. He was in his portrait, and he was the only one (besides Severus who, for all I knew, didn't have a portrait at all) who knew. I wouldn't have to see him at family functions or anything, not unless one of the aunts or uncles went really odd and started lugging him around.
I was tempted. I really was. I was more than ready to pull the bedclothes up over my head and pretend like nothing had happened, that I had not been the cause of even greater suffering. But...
I wouldn't be able to live with myself.
With that thought in mind, I pulled up my big boy pants and gathered the tattered edges of my courage and resolve and Disapparated.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
It took some finagling to get a change to speak to Albus' portrait alone. The current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was genuinely curious about what had brought me to his office. He'd always been my least favorite professor, too, and he kept trying to stall leaving the room by offering tea and biscuits. I finally had to be rude and use the fact that I am an Unspeakable. It didn't help that Albus was obviously faking his snores.
"And what brings you to Hogwarts?" Professor Macmillan asked pompously. Despite the fact that he was obviously a former Hufflepuff (we used to call him the Puffy Prize, because his eyes are always red and runny, and he's got this way about him, like he's the Prime Minister of the world, or something), his eyes glinted with unhealthy curiosity. He might've added a bit of Slytherin to the mix. Not much, though. If I'd wanted information out of him, I'd have spiked the tea with firewhiskey. And maybe added a drop or two of veritaserum.
"Can't talk about it," I said repressively. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. And -- even though I had to bite back a yelp to do it -- I flattened my injured hand against my leg. I think Albus was staring at it. Professor Macmillan was too busy trying to figure out why an Unspeakable had come to Hogwarts. "Listen," I grimaced apologetically. I widened my eyes and tried to look contrite and forthcoming. "I know this really is an inconvenience, but my superior... he needs to make sure that no one knows about this. Could I have a bit of privacy?" Blame it on the superior. Macmillan could sympathize with that; he hadn't always been Headmaster. "You know I trust you, but we've got to follow protocol." Macmillan loved rules. I was prepared to lean forward and whisper something totally inconsequential and completely unrelated to my real reason for being there.
But resignation flashed in his eyes. I hid my triumph, and he sighed, standing up and dusting his sleeves. "Well, I know how that goes, young man," he said. "Tell your mother I send her my regards."
"I will," I forced myself to smile pleasantly at him. He was all right, I supposed, but I had the urge to lift him up bodily and throw him out of his own office. "Thank you, and I really regret the inconvenience."
He patted me on the shoulder and opened the door.
It slammed shut with an air of finality. I stared at it, feeling a growing sense of dread. I had my back to Albus' portrait. My wound burned, and the silence swelled horribly. I could not bring myself to turn around; instead I stared at my hand. It was growing difficult to breathe. "What have I done?" I asked finally. My voice cracked.
"It was not entirely your fault, namesake," Albus said. His voice was far gentler than I expected.
"That's impossible," I said flatly, implacably. "It was all my fault. People I love have been dead since long before I was born because of me. I remember when they were alive. I drank with my depressed brother at Sarah Black's wedding in -- in... what the hell is the date? But that doesn't even matter! She doesn't exist. Because I went back in time, and did something that caused her dad to die before she could be conceived."
I prowled around the room. I kept my eyes everywhere but on Albus' portrait.
"All right," he said pleasantly. "Assign all of the blame to yourself. Continue to be selfish. Wallow in what you have done for the rest of your life."
I whirled on him. "I haven't got a choice!" I shouted.
"Or," he continued as if I hadn't spoken, "you could go back and fix it. And this time I'll help you do it."
