12 Grimmauld Place, London, England
It was cold and dark. He looked around. He could hardly see what was right in front of him. He leaned his hand against a tall hard object. A grave, his mind told him. He was in a cemetery of some sort. Why was he in a cemetery?
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"Avada Kedavra"
He looked behind himself in fear, staring back at him, several feet away, was a pair of lightless, once handsome and lively grey eyes. He was tied up, he couldn't move or call for help. He felt the panic rise in his throat. He began to struggle, trying to free himself. He looked down. He was several feet in the air. He caught a glimpse of his arm. There was a scar made from a long thin blade
No, that's not right, his mind told him I shouldn't have that yet. Yet, why not yet?
"Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy" He saw a small trail of blood on his white sleeve no, that wasn't right, his sleeve was red, it had to be red. He looked down at the rest of his outfit. He was wearing an auror uniform. He wasn't an auror not yet, his mind told him. Why not yet? The smoke of cauldron was beginning to clear
"Robe me" a high cold voice muttered. He looked down at a puddle at his feet. A familiar but wrong face was looking back at him. It had his eyes, messy hair, glasses and even his lightning bolt scar. But the man staring back at him was too old to be himself. For he was only 14. No, that's not right. That was wrong but why?
"My wand, worm tail" He looked up and saw the man with the high cold voice coming near him.
"Ah, Potter, what a pleasure to see you again" No, none of this was right. He was dead. The man with the high voice was dead.
"No," he said
"An auror now, I see. That will not be a problem though. I will beat you, like I always have"
"No, you're dead" he quivered
"I'm afraid you are incorrect again Potter. You really think you found all of them?"
"No! this isn't right!" He roared
"Well, we will be meeting again, fairly soon actually," He jolted up. He looked up at his new surroundings. He was sitting upright in his bed. All of his photos and belongings were in their same spots and his walls were the same shade of blue. His auror uniform still sat on its hanger, ready for work tomorrow. His heart rate began to slow down. His name was Harry Potter, he was 19, an auror and his knife scar was five years old. He tried to remember his dream. He saw those red eyes and heard that cold voice, telling him that they'd meet again fairly soon. His heartbeat quickened, But that monster was dead. It was impossible, right?