A/N: Warning only for a bit of a cliffhanger ending.
This chapter gave me quite a bit of trouble. Let me know what you think of it!
Chapter Four: The Past, Present
Most soul-related rituals rely on the influence of the sun, and so one would ideally perform them under direct sunlight while it is highest in the sky. Ritual magic, as a rule, should be performed during a day of power — Samahain, Beltane, etc. — when the latent magic of the world is most readily available, in case the wizard performing the ritual is not strong enough to carry out the magic he has set in motion. Harry has no idea whether the three of them together would be strong enough to send a person thirty-three years into the past and remove their soul at the same time, but it's best to err in the side of caution. Even after they have everything ready, they wait for Samhain.
The goblins delivered the rings to the specified clearing in the Forest of Dean within the week, earning double the gold, just as Harry promised. It now sat safely within various wards, undetectable to both muggles and magical folk.
Hermione had scolded him for his carelessness with money when she'd heard the deal he'd made, but trailed off once Ron pointed out that this was Harry's last time to use it. The silence after that had been awkward.
"If something goes wrong," Harry had started.
"Oh, don't even start," Hermione said.
"If something goes wrong," Harry said more firmly, "I've split what's left of the Black fortune between Teddy, you two, and the Hogwarts fund. Teddy gets the house, but you get the library books… and my research. Don't throw it away, please. I know you think it's dark and dangerous and, well, it is dangerous if you don't understand it fully. That's why I'm leaving it to you."
Hermione looked uncomfortable at that. "I think I've had just about enough of soul magic for a lifetime. I don't know if I'm the best person…"
"It's my life's work, Hermione. Please take good care of it."
"Your life," Hermione's tone had brokered no argument as she spoke, "is worth much more than however much research you made into whatever subject for however long. You've accomplished more than that." She'd swallowed thickly. "But fine. I'll take care of it."
The silence after that had been tense as well, heavy and uncomfortable. Harry had turned to Ron. "I'm leaving you all my Quidditch gear," he'd said, aiming for a lighter tone.
Ron had stared at him for a good twenty seconds, jaw clenched. He'd let out a little huff and said, "Thanks, mate. But we're not going to get any of it, alright?"
The three of them stand in the same clearing now, weeks later, only fifteen minutes till the sun is at its highest peak on Samhain. The ritual circles — the ritual rings, more accurately — stand before them. The two inter-locked metal rings are seven feet in diameter, carved with the necessary runes, and crossing each other perpendicularly so that the array is able to stand on its own, slightly sunken into the soft earth of the Forest of Dean. One of the rings is golden, to represent the Sun and the soul; this is the ring that will separate his soul from his body and direct it towards a phylactery. The second ring is made of silver, to represent the Moon and the passage of time; through the center of this ring runs another thin crystal ring — a vial, essentially, holding an unbroken line of Time Sand, which will facilitate Harry's time travel. From the angle at which Harry stands, the rings look like a big gold-and-silver X against a forest backdrop.
Harry is wearing old muggle clothes and a long coat obtained at a thrift shop, all manufactured before 1980, courtesy of Hermione's meticulous eye. The same can be said of his trunk, which is an ordinary trunk save the fact that it is filled with expensive potion ingredients and what few necessities Harry will immediately need once in the past. They'd considered magically expanding the space, but dismissed the idea given that they could not predict how magical space might interact with large-scale time travel. In his hands, Harry holds his old moleskin pouch, on which he'd painted a string of archaic runes. His invisibility cloak is draped over his left shoulder, glistening silver in the sunlight.
Ron hangs back next to Harry, who's quietly contemplating the objects he's holding, as Hermione clears the forest floor of any dry leaves and double checks that everything is ready. "Is that…?" Ron asks, looking at the moleskin pouch.
Harry nods. "This'll be my phylactery."
Ron gulps, eying the pouch with a small crease on his forehead. "What's… what's in it?" Then, noticing Harry's discomfort — "Sorry, never mind. I know it's personal," he says, sheepish. "I was just curious, is all. I dunno what I would choose if I had to pick things that represent my soul. Where do you even start?"
Harry could answer that question, at least. "Souls are very isolated," he says, turning the pouch idly in his hands. It weighs hardly anything. "It's just you and your thoughts. So it all comes down to self-perception. Never mind what anyone else thinks of you — how would you describe yourself?"
What made Harry who he was? Was it a series of events? Was it his blood? A prophecy? What shaped Harry's soul into the bloody mess that it now was, and what could best hold it together?
A phylactery , unlike a horcrux, must be some sort of container. A box, a bag, a jar — a moleskin pouch gifted to him on his seventeenth birthday by the man who delivered him to both the muggle and magical worlds. A phylactery stands in place of one's body. It is an inanimate representation of the wizard who made it, and must be filled with whatever makes the wizard who they are, representations of their soul.
The first object Harry chose had been the most obvious. He is a wizard, he has a wand. Storing his wand in a container that is not supposed to be opened ever again might have been a difficult decision had he just been a normal wizard making a phylactery, but given the circumstances… Harry had taken his holly and phoenix feather wand from the mantle above the fireplace in Grimmauld Place where it had lain, covered with a fine layer of dust — the first wand to have chosen him, proof that he belonged in the wizarding world — and snapped it. His magic had been so unstable for the past few months, he didn't even remember the last time he'd used it. His magic was broken, his wand should be broken. Harry had carefully placed the two halves into the moleskin pouch, fingers brushing against the red feather feebly holding them together at the break.
He would need a different wand in 1980 anyway.
The second thing he chose had been in the pouch before — his first snitch, with the memory of his touch. Let that snitch represent all the fun he's had, all the lighthearted times in his life, his love of flying. Freedom and thrills and relatively friendly competitions. Winning.
And never mind what it had once contained. (If Harry is honest with himself — and he is, he has to be for this to work — the lack of Resurrection Stone, the last time he saw his family… it is just as representative of his soul as the snitch.) It went in the pouch.
Admitting that he needed something to represent the decade of his formative years spent at the Dursley's was… difficult. Almost as difficult as actually finding an object to represent those years, having purged himself of any memorabilia as soon as he'd left. He almost hadn't done it. Harry was a lot of things, however, and coward wasn't one of them. He and Dudley exchanged letters on holidays, and the occasional postcard between — stilted, impersonal things written to a person they both knew intimately as family, and didn't know at all as people. Harry was therefore surprised, relieved, and confused when Dudley admitted to having kept "his things" in a box all these years, deep in a storage shed full of old furniture they'd taken from Privet Drive when they'd moved and had never bothered getting rid of. "His things" in this case referred to old, frayed hand-me-down clothing Harry had deemed too threadbare to pack, unneeded school textbooks that Dudley must have rescued, some broken trinkets they'd found under a shelf in the cupboard, as well as a couple of drawings Harry must have made in primary school that had somehow made their way into Dudley's pile of cherished childhood drawings. Harry had taken the box with a strained smile, exchanged pleasantries so awkward they were painful, and did not look back.
There was a small toy soldier among the trinkets, originally part of a set that had been given to Dudley, made Harry's only because it was bent beyond repair. He could remember being grateful for it, once upon a time. He could remember playing with it while in his cupboard, the way the light from underneath the locked door would reflect dully against its surface as Harry mobilized it against the dust bunnies on the floor, how he pretended the soldier's disfigurements were battle wounds, proof only of his strength. Six year-old Harry had not thought about pain, or consequences. The soldier weathered on in his games, completely unaffected.
Perfect. It went in the moleskin pouch with no small amount of bitterness on Harry's part. Everything else in the box found its way to the bin.
At least, everything would have, had Harry not idly flipped through his first-year copy of A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot. There — stuck to the inside of the back cover, preserved only by the fact that Harry had never once reached the end of that book — was his Hogwarts acceptance letter. The wax seal of the letter had left an imprint on the last page of the textbook, it had to be pried off.
Mr. H. Potter
The Floor
Hut-on-the-Rock
The Sea
…He must have stuck the letter in the book for safekeeping while searching for names for Hedwig. He'd completely forgotten. The edges of the parchment were soft, the folds so fine that the slightest tension as he unfolded it might rip the page.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
But this was good, Harry thought, trying to ignore the deep ache in chest. He'd been looking for something to represent Hogwarts and the pivotal role it played in his life. Hogwarts was more than his school — it was the first place he ever felt accepted, loved. What better to represent his home than the first time he ever saw its name?
Any reminiscing about Hogwarts was cut short as it reminded him of the last object he was considering, had been considering from the beginning. He knew — the knowledge churned within him like a stomachache — that when considering a vessel for his soul, Harry hadn't been the only person this past century to think of Hogwarts.
He thought back to the night Dumbledore explained to him the concept of horcruxes, to that haunting conversation in which he extrapolated on why Voldemort would not have simply made any old piece of junk into a horcrux. Voldemort was incredibly self-important, the two of them had reflected, and so he had chosen only objects that were worthy of the honor of containing a piece of his soul. Grand objects of historical importance. Looking back, Harry thought they'd been too hasty in their conclusion. Harry did not feel self-important while choosing objects for his soul. Gathering pieces of himself was harrowing; Harry felt vulnerable, strangely exposed even though he was the only one who'd know what the objects would be. From this position, he could see the choice of horcruxes in a new light.
The diary was proof Tom Riddle was the Heir of Slytherin, proof he had a place in the wizarding world. The ring belonged to his family. Nagini had protected Voldemort when he was at his weakest. The locket, the cup, the diadem — Hogwarts.
Family and acceptance and safety… All these things that should be home.
It was difficult, when considering where to store your soul for eternity, to not think of home.
Personally, I wouldn't have stolen the priceless historical artifacts, Harry had thought as he carefully folded the letter back into its envelope and placed it inside the pouch, but the sentiment's the same, I suppose.
He had then turned to consider the final, dreaded object again with a grimace.
When Kreacher had died two years ago, he'd been buried in the Black family plot with a locket around his throat, as per his dying wish. At the time, Harry had implied Kreacher had wanted the locket. Ron and Hermione had handed Harry the shattered remains of the locket horcrux under this implication, and Harry had not corrected them.
Kreacher was buried with the locket that Regulus had conjured, a token of his beloved master, the last piece of magic he had cast.
Harry kept Slytherin's locket.
The diary had been seized by the Ministry along with the rest of Dumbledore's possessions that had not been bequeathed to anyone in his will. The ring — the Stone — was lost. The diadem had been destroyed completely by the Fiendfyre. Nagini's corpse had also been burned during the clean-up after the Battle of Hogwarts. Hermione probably still had Hufflepuff's cup, the one horcrux she'd personally destroyed, a trophy of sorts tucked away in a dark corner of her Gringotts vault.
Harry kept the locket in his room, under a loose floorboard behind his wardrobe.
It made sense, didn't it? If a sick sort of sense, at that. Being a horcrux had most definitely made an impact in his life — changed him, changed his life. More than that, being a broken horcrux had dictated a good part of his actions for the past fifteen years. He'd be a fool to deny it.
The light played on the ornate S on its surface, glinting on a jarring crack in the metal as if mocking him. The clasp was loose, the face was dull. He could hear the clink of broken glass from the shattered windows inside it when he turned it around. Damaged beyond repair, Harry thought.
And so it joined the rest of the seemingly worthless objects in Harry's moleskin pouch, no matter how sick it made him feel. A wand, a snitch, a toy soldier, a letter, and a locket. Useless, broken, sentimental things.
A phylactery.
"Compared to everything else we had to do, it was easy," Harry says, and he and Ron trail off into an all-too-knowing silence.
He watches Hermione pace in front of the ritual rings, taking last minute measurements again and again. She won't find anything wrong, he knows; he was here last night double-checking everything himself. The runes are carved perfectly, the arrangement impeccable. There is nothing else the trio can do to make sure Harry travels safely thirty-three years into the past, to midday November 1st, 1980. One year before his parents died. One year before his soul became host to a Dark Lord.
One year to stop it from happening.
Hermione joins them, worrying her bottom lip. "Everything is ready," she says. "Five minutes."
Harry nods and sets the moleskin pouch directly in front of the ritual rings, in a clear patch of dirt where he'll have an unobstructed view of it. He's nearly tackled down by the force of Hermione's hug as he straightens up.
"Find us," she says, and tightens her grip on him.
Harry pretends not to notice she's wiping her tears on his coat shoulder. "I'll be old enough to be your dad," he says gently. And you won't even know we were friends.
"Find us anyway," she insists urgently. "Promise. Promise me."
"I…" Harry hates breaking promises.
While Harry is debating with himself, Hermione reaches out behind him and drags Ron into the hug, who tries to embrace both of them. The result is Harry being sandwiched very tightly between them, nearly smothered by Hermione's hair.
"Best to just promise her, Harry," Ron says, voice soft.
It's a fairly chilly day in autumn, but Harry is warm between his best friends. He smiles sadly, just to himself.
"Okay," he agrees, and if he sounds choked up it's because of the tight space. "I'll find you. I promise."
"Good," Hermione says fiercely. Then a small chime sounds from her wristwatch and she pulls away, drying her eyes. "It's time."
The sun is at its apex in the sky.
Harry steps into the ritual rings along with his trunk, invisibility cloak hung over his left shoulder. There is a small fire pit in front of him, within the rings, in which several logs of wood lay waiting. Hermione stands to the left of the rings, wand out. Ron stands similarly off to the right.
Harry slips the cloak off his shoulder, runs his fingers through its silky surface. It shimmers in the sunlight, like woven water.
(The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.)
Whether one believes this is Death's Cloak itself or simply a beloved magical heirloom that has aided Harry in countless adventures, this cloak is without doubt his most valuable possession.
Harry grips the cloak tightly, feeling very much like a child clutching a blanket. This cloak has always been his last defense.
(Use it well.)
The ritual calls for sacrifice.
(He asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death. And Death, most unwillingly, handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility.)
His own father had died before he could give Harry this cloak, but James Potter's story wouldn't end like that again. Once Harry arrived in 1980, he'd make sure James would live to hand this cloak over to his son himself, with no old headmasters in between.
"I'm ready," he says.
Hermione waves her wand in a complicated motion with a look of deep concentration on her face, ending with a slash pointed at the fire pit in front of him. "Inflamari Diabolica!"
Green fire sprouts from the end of her wand, lighting the logs. There are shapes in the flames — birds and snakes and small rodents made of fire — straining against Hermione's control, eagerly devouring the wood. Before Harry can lose his nerve, he drops his invisibility cloak unto the fire pit. The Fiendfyre immediately turns blindingly white, the figures lose all semblance of shape, and it releases a cold burst of wind and what sounds like the shriek of nails against a blackboard.
Harry isn't sure whether that was supposed to happen or whether that was something unique to his cloak being destroyed, never having made a phylactery before. He has no time to think about it. Breathing in the smoke deeply, Harry begins incanting the Ancient Egyptian spell required of him. He's memorized the sounds, but from what Harry was able to translate, it says something along the lines of "I have naught but my soul. It is precious. It is mine."
At the same time, Ron begins his own chant, wand tip pressed against the silver ring, whose runes slowly begin glowing.
Another deep inhale. The smoke smells like damp earth. He repeats, "I have naught but my soul. It is precious. It is mine."
Harry looks directly at the moleskin pouch, sitting innocuously some fifteen feet in front of the ritual rings. Its own runes have begun to smoke, seemingly burning themselves into the material. The white smoke is everywhere around him, his eyes are burning, his lungs protest at his persistently deep breaths, but Harry does not look away from the pouch.
"I have naught but my soul—"
Harry becomes aware that his cloak has finished burning, Hermione has successfully called off the Fiendfyre, inexplicably shapeless and white until the end. He can see her leaning heavily against a tree in his periphery vision, exhausted. The smoke continues to hang heavily around him, confined to the ritual rings.
"—It is precious—"
Ron has finished chanting his part, the silver ring is alight and shimmery with power. An echo of it — a mirage double of the ring — appears to emerge from the original and begins to spin horizontally, on its axis. Harry cannot hear his friends as the sound of rushing sand fills the air, seemingly from nowhere.
"…It is mine."
Just before the mirage of the silver ring would have obscured his view of the phylactery in its rotation, Harry feels something tear inside him.
If time goes on, he is unaware of it. He can't breathe from the shock of it, and he drops to his knees, doubled over in pain. Except, it's not just pain, it's grief. He feels as if all strings tying him down to the Earth had been snapped all at once. All attachments — friendship, family, love, happiness, peace — everything is gone in one moment. The sense of loss so absolute it feels like a physical blow is the only thing keeping him grounded in reality.
He cannot close his eyes, does not have the presence of mind to process why he might want to. He can only stare, unseeing, as the silver ring spins faster, faster, as the world outside the ritual rings becomes blurred.
Day, night, day, night, a thousand times day and night, faster…
And then the real pain hits.
It hits a near-catatonic Harry like a lightning bolt straight through his heart. The pain is so utterly consuming he could almost believe he's been hit by the shortest Cruciatus in the world if it weren't for the fact that the imprint of the pain remains even after the initial burst.
Something's wrong, Harry thinks. Limbs too heavy to move, thoughts slow to form, pain radiating from his chest, Harry lays hunched over his trunk where he fell, unmoving.
Heavy white smoke, wet earth, day, night, day, night, so fast it's a strobe light, red, night, red…
Why is he seeing red?
I'm bleeding, is the last thing Harry realizes before he's hit with the same all-encompassing pain, starting at his head and traveling through him, like a sledgehammer to his temples.
Harry passes out just as everything abruptly stills around him.
…He's cold. That's the first thing he realizes. He's covered by a layer of dew that's sunk down through his coat.
Every muscle in his body is stiff, and the pain from his back and ribs rivals the pain emanating from his head after having spent an indeterminate amount of time unconscious draped over his traveling trunk.
He cracks open an eye… his left eye, as the right side of his face is completely crusted over with blood. There is a small pool of blood soaking into his trunk where his face rests on it. Judging from the occasional trail of warmth over his eyelid, he is still sluggishly bleeding.
He is cold, lying in his own blood, limbs too heavy to move, alone in a clearing of what is obviously the Forest of Dean, though the trees look different. It is daybreak.
One thing at a time, Harry.
He scrunches up his eyes, concentrating on his coat, and casts a Warming Charm. "Focillo," he croaks.
Warmth immediately surrounds him, and the relief is so intense Harry could cry. He laughs instead, ignoring the way the crusted blood pulls at his face when he grins. He cast that charm wandlessly, and it worked exactly as it was supposed to — his magic is working again!
Slowly, Harry lifts himself into an upright kneeling position, muscles and joints protesting all the way. The pain is inconsequential next to the fact that he can now use magic reliably, even if more complicated spells are beyond his wandless ability. He sways, dizzy — probably the blood loss, but that's okay. Hermione had made sure his first-aid kit was stocked full of useful, freshly-brewed potions. Harry opens his trunk with a click and Summons the first-aid kit just for the sheer joy of watching it fly those twelve inches into his hands.
He downs a small vial of Blood-Replenishing Potion first, because it would be a shame to pass out again at this point, and casts a gentle Tergeo to get rid of the dry blood on his face. He takes out the circular hand-mirror included in the kit to asses the damage.
As he thought, it's his scar that was bleeding. This was troubling in and of itself, but far more troubling is the fact that the wound has somehow gotten much, much bigger. Where there had once been a small, lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead — more reminiscent of the rune Sowilo — there was now one long, jagged gash that ran from the middle of his forehead down to his jaw, just barely missing his right eye. It is still bleeding a steady drip onto his chest, his shirt already stained red. He has suspicions about that, and — sure enough — when he looks down his shirt, he finds the scar he'd received from the second time he'd taken the Killing Curse has also been expanded. It now starts where his previous scar had been, precisely over his heart, and trails a deep red line down to the last of his ribs. They have not replaced the original scars, Harry notes, but seem to have been inflicted on top of them.
This… holds a lot of implications about Harry's method of time travel. However, seeing as how Harry can cast magic with an ease he hasn't experienced in years and is not currently a soulless vegetable, it seems his Sharing-Past-Soul Theory was correct, and that's the important part. He resolves to think about it later as he pulls out the Essence of Dittany from the first-aid kit. It burns something fierce, especially on his face, but three drops of the potion is enough for the injuries to completely scar over, as if they'd had months to heal instead of hours.
Harry traces the scar on his face gingerly. It is sensitive still, after the accelerated healing, standing pink and slightly raised against his skin. He knows from experience that it will fade with time, but never truly disappear. No different than the first time, he supposes, though significantly more conspicuous. It isn't particularly thick — doesn't disfigure his face as some of Mad-Eye Moody's scars did his own, for example — but it will undoubtedly be the first thing people note about him.
It could be worse, Harry thinks, remembering the the image presented to him the last time he performed the Soul-Viewing ritual. The way his head had split open…
The thought makes him shudder, sets off alarm bells somewhere in his subconscious. Something is… off. He can cast magic again — which means his soul is healthy and whole once again, right? It means the two-fold ritual was a success, surely. The giddiness this had inspired is rapidly fading as an uneasy feeling settles into his stomach. It should mean his soul is undamaged, but Harry has learned to trust his instincts when it comes to his own soul. He feels whole and unfettered, but he also feels… heavy. As if he were carrying something.
Harry needs to see his soul.
He can't, of course. Cleaning and Warming Charms are all well and good, but Harry needs a wand to perform that kind of magic.
And he needs money for a wand.
Thankfully, this is easily remedied. Slug & Jiggers Apothecary has always been eager to buy rare potion ingredients from travelers looking to sell their finds, and Harry has plenty of merchandise.
He casts multiple counts of Tergeo and Scourgify on both his clothes and his trunk, making sure there are no traces of blood that might alarm people in Diagon Alley.
And Apparates to the Leaky Cauldron.
Into chaos.
Harry lands on top of someone, the trunk at his side hits a stout wizard upside he head, and they all fall in a heap. The Apparition point — usually kept clear for incoming customers — is packed with witches and wizards. Harry apologizes to both the elderly witch on which he landed and the stout wizard he'd knocked down, but is brushed off with a good-natured laugh all around.
"Not your fault, lad, not at all!" the wizard has to shout to be heard over the din of the pub. "Look around ya'! Today's no day to hold a grudge!"
Harry takes a few steps away from the Apparition point, forcibly dragging his trunk with him and knocking into a few more people on his way. The whole pub is full to bursting. He receives no more than a few annoyed glances as he forces his way to the counter, but it seems no one in the Leaky Cauldron can be put out this morning. All around him are the sounds of celebration. There are raucous toasts being made on all corners of the pub, several people standing on top of tables giving slurred speeches, and at least two different groups of drunk wizards are attempting to sing. Behind him, he hears the same stout wizard give another good-natured laugh as someone else Apparates on top of him. Near the entrance, someone seems to be shooting off different-colored sparks into the air in an imitation of fireworks, to the delighted shrieks of everyone in their vicinity.
"Excuse me — pardon — excuse —"
Tom the Bartender is harried when Harry finally reaches the counter. He watches Tom use magic to siphon butterbeer into a dozen tankards at once and send them levitating off to different tables with no small amount of spillage. There is no time to speak to the bartender before he begins on another batch with a look of near-manic concentration.
But that's okay. Harry doesn't need to ask Tom what the hell is going on. On the bar counter there are papers strewn about, newspapers and rags alike, discarded after only a cursory glance. It doesn't matter which one Harry reads because they all report the same news, they all bear near-identical headlines:
THE DARK LORD HAS FALLEN,
HARRY POTTER: BOY WHO LIVED
Harry could swear he feels his heart stop. He no longer hears what must be hundreds of witches and wizards crammed into the Leaky Cauldron celebrating all at once, he no longer feels people bumping into him or the press of the counter against him. Everything narrows down to a point — to the narrow point that is the small printed date on the corner of the copy of the Daily Prophet in front of him.
November 1st, 1981
A year after his intended target.
The paper slips from his fingers, but Harry doesn't notice. A young witch bumps into him and spills her drink on his coat, but Harry doesn't notice. He doesn't even hear her apology or the concerned "Okay there, mate? You look like you've seen a boggart!"
Past all the fog that makes it difficult to think and the ice that's running through his veins, Harry only has room for three thoughts:
It is 1981.
Lily and James Potter are dead.
And Harry Potter is, once again… a horcrux.
A/N: Note that Samhain lasts from sundown on October 31st to sundown on November 1st. So in order to perform the ritual at high noon, the trio had to wait until November 1st.
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