November/December 2028

I wanted to tell them that I wasn't the little hero they seemed to think I was. They seemed to be under the mistaken impression that most of the good things I'd done had been accidents, and that I hadn't made any mistakes that I'd had to fix. They didn't remember the other futures. Uncle Ron had no memory of returning to the Burrow after a thirty year absence; he couldn't possibly have any idea what that had been like. Uncle Percy likewise didn't know that he'd once been the owner of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in honor of Uncle Fred and Uncle George's memory. Grandma was alive and well, and so was Granddad and Uncle Charlie.

Sirius Black had lived to give his son a strange name (what, exactly, had compelled him to name his son Elvendork when Michael was such a normal name?) and to have a daughter whom my brother loved desperately. Remus and Dora Lupin were alive. Severus Snape was not only still among the living, but had not been disfigured by Fiendfyre. Albus Dumbledore had lived through the war and had passed in his sleep when I was seven.

I'm not going to lie. It felt pretty good to know that even though I'd fucked up a lot of things with my temporal meanderings, I had family and friends around that I'd not had before my first jump. I had opportunity after opportunity to tell them the truth, but I didn't take it. It seemed like I spent every waking moment with a member of my family (by the end of the planning stages, I was getting a bit sick of them), and it got harder and harder to not blurt out the truth.

I'd been extraordinarily selfish. I'd gone back in time to try to subvert Dad's destiny and try to get someone else to carry the burden. I couldn't help but remember what Mum had yelled at me right after I'd placed the Imperius Curse on Uncle Ron. More and more, I realized that 'always and always' had never been more than words for me. A part of me (a large part) wished that someone else -- someone like Uncle Ron or Aunt Hermione -- could have gone back this last time. I didn't feel like I deserved to save their lives.

The Order of Merlin that sat on the mantle seemed to mock me.

I tried, once, to broach this topic of conversation with Uncle Percy.

I sat back in my chair one week before Christmas when I was scheduled to leave (if nothing else, my family has a fine sense of dramatic timing) and rubbed wearily at my eyes. If I had to look at one more map of the Ministry of Magic I would go insane. And honestly! It wasn't like I hadn't worked there for years and broken into it. I wasn't entirely incompetent. What'd they think I'd do without it? Start banging off the walls? I needed a distraction.

"Uncle Percy?"

"Yes," he said wearily. Apparently he had noticed my mumbled complaints.

"When you first met me, what'd you think?"

He pulled off his glasses and scrubbed his face. "Honestly, Al, don't you think I feel bad enough? Wasn't the letter sufficient?"

Note to self: destroy first letter and write new one when not drunk, I thought darkly. I'd been ridiculously emotional and pitiful; apparently, Uncle Percy hadn't fully grasped that I'd been drunk (and unusually sad; believe it or not, I am typically a happy drunk) when I'd written it. I was disgusted with myself when I remembered actually writing the words: I hope someday you find it in your heart to realize that I love my family completely, and if I've used Unforgivable spells on you, I didn't do it with malicious intent. Same with the kidnapping. I just wanted someone to help me. Is that too much to ask?

"I'm just wondering," I shrugged.

He sighed. "I didn't believe you one hundred percent, as I think you noticed. And -- the part of me that did believe... well, I thought you were dangerous."

This seemed very sensible, and I wondered why in the name of Merlin he'd changed his mind about this.

"It just seemed very unwise to muck about in a time when you weren't even born," he admitted.

I couldn't help but agree with him. And that was the confusing part. If Dad and Mum could be saved... everything I'd done would have been worth it. But it had been foolish of me to leave the future and attempt to change the past. I'd been a hurricane rather than a butterfly. I'd caused horrific things to happen to those I loved. But if I hadn't royally fucked up and had to make so many jumps to try to fix it, I never would have noticed the oddity of the twenty four years and twenty four days. I wanted to tell Uncle Percy this, but my throat closed down.

"But after you told me you were in Slytherin and my memories were unlocked, I found my view of it almost completely changed," he said, staring at me intently. "Years in the future, I listened to what you'd actually said in the past. I compared your actions to the Al I'd known since he was born, and it fit very nicely." He turned and looked out the window and watched the snow fall. "Ever since you were a small child, you wanted to be just like your dad and you loved him very much. It was something we all used to joke about actually..."

I remembered.

"It was hard to get my head around it," he said. "It was almost too cyclical, you see. I'd watched you grow up and head off to Hogwarts -- a young man -- and suddenly I had a memory of another not so young man -- in fact, you were older than I was at the time, I believe -- telling me that Harry was to die of a curse, and you were going to try to stop it." He made a face that was half a smile and half a grimace. "I could see the eleven year old in the man, and I could see why your dad and mum's death would affect you so much that you were compelled to go and change it."

I saw his point, and wondered if he suspected how selfish I'd originally been. "Why did you tell everyone?" I blurted out the question before I could stop myself. I'd wanted to know why ever since I'd woken up to find them surrounding me, knowing pretty much everything.

He stared at me, perplexed. "You've no idea, do you, how much hope I suddenly had because of you. How could I possibly keep that to myself? I know you asked me not to, but it would've been criminal to allow them to grieve without knowing that things could change." He regarded me steadily, and looked poised to defend himself had I made more of an issue of it. But I just shrugged; it had turned out well (though Aunt Hermione was excessively obsessive with the planning -- why did I need to know where Lestrange was hidden? I had no intention of using him for anything).

"Just curious," I muttered.

"Imagine if we hadn't told you immediately that there was still hope," he said quietly. "If we'd waited and waited and let you suffer, thinking there was nothing you could do. It wouldn't have been right."

The pressure was almost a physical thing. I could feel it resting on my shoulders, pressing me down. One chance to save them. Just one. If you fuck up, all is lost.