Disclaimer: All characters herein except those otherwise noted belong to J.K. Rowling, who I think, on occasion, to be some sort of goddess. Inspired by another fic of mine, and throught out while sitting through much boredom at work. Spoilers for all five books, I suppose.

Notes: Thanks so much to Kathy, for beta, and for helping over rough spots plotwise. Love ya, babe.

Through Time

Four: Opportuninty

Harry, Hermione, and Ron hung back after Charms, acting as though still packing their books and quills into their bags. Remus walked quickly to them after the last student had left the room, and the voices had faded down the hall.

"I suppose you've told them already?" he asked, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"No one told me I couldn't," Harry said. "Even if someone HAD, I would have told them anyway."

"Yes, well," Remus said. "Could you be a bit more discreet about knowing? If someone found out, and this got back to the Ministry of Magic…"

"I wouldn't worry about them," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Bunch of worthless gits, that lot."

"This is Ron," Harry said, a smile creeping across his lips.

"Ah," said Remus, smiling, and offering his hand to Ron. Ron shook his hand.

"You might worry about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, though," Ron said.

"For the last time, Ron, it's Voldemort. How many times have I told you that fear of a name—" Hermione cried.

"Only increases fear of that person. Excuse me for being raised to fear him like a good little wizard." Ron said.

"Oh, don't start!" Harry cried. Remus stood there, feeling awkward, scuffing his shoes on the stones of the floor.

"You'd better be going," Remus said. "I just want you to, you know, keep all this quiet."

"Sure, sure," Harry said, and hustled Ron and Hermione out of the room.

The day passed uneventfully, until N.E.W.T. Potions (Hermione and Harry had taken it because they needed it to go into Auror training, but Ron had not wanted to remain in Snape's class, even if he had gotten the proper grade required), which was really no different from a regular Potions class.

They were queuing up outside, waiting to enter, when the shouting began on the inside. The words were incoherent, but suddenly, the heavy dungeon door flew open, revealing a boy with light brown hair, and hazel eyes, red-faced and angry, holding the door for them.

"I'm Ja… Jeremiah James." He said. "The trainee teacher under Snape."

Harry stared at the boy in shock. His hair was neat and tidy, light brown, and his features, though still handsome, were sharper, and harsher. Vaguely, he still looked like Harry, like they may have been related, or it was just an odd coincidence. He slammed the door closed as the last student entered, and stormed back to the front of the room, where Snape was standing, wand in hand, arms crossed and looking very greasy, and very formidable, at the same time.

"You have already met my… trainee, I see," Snape said. "Now. He will not be teaching this class. You will not take questions to him, even if I am busy, as I am the teacher, and he is not. Remember that, now. The first rule…"

Harry tuned Snape out as he spoke at length about what he expected of his N.E.W.T. Potions class, knowing that if there was anything important, Hermione would tell him. He watched James, who spent most of the class sitting upon a stool, a frown drawing his eyebrows close together as he glared at Snape, bright spots of color over the tops of his cheeks.

Harry paused in the doorway as they were leaving the classroom, to look back at his father. James had not moved from the stool, but had moved so that he was looking only at the floor, his arms crossed over his chest. Harry and Hermione were the last ones to leave the room, and even then, she had to walk back to him, when she realized he had stopped. She put her hand gently on his arm.

"I'll go tell Ron where you are if you want to wait and talk to him," She said softly, looking up at Harry. He nodded his head, but did not move, even though Hermione turned slowly and continued down the corridor. But Harry did not move forward to talk to James.

He turned and hurried after Hermione. She stopped and waited for him, as he ran down the cold, empty corridor, away from having to face the boy who would one day be his father.

"Why?" Hermione asked, her voice soft.

"I just couldn't," Harry said.

"You will," Hermione said. "Don't worry."

"I'm scared, Hermione," Harry admitted. "Of everything."

"I understand," Hermione said, and for once, she really did. She didn't know what it was like to not have parents, and she didn't know what it was like to watch someone die right in front of her, but she knew what it was like to be scared.

She reached out and took Harry's hand, and they went upstairs to the Gryffindor Common Room.

It was shortly before midnight, and Harry was sitting alone by the fire, Hermione long since gone to bed, and Ron gone since he'd dozed off and slid from his chair.

He heard the clock strike midnight, and considered going up to bed, but didn't feel like moving. He heard the door of the girls' dormitory close, and soft footsteps making their way across the common room to the fire, but he did not turn. It was probably Hermione, come to make sure he'd gone to bed.

The girl moved to stand beside Harry's chair, but she said nothing. Finally, Harry turned to find himself looking up at her. Lily Evans. His mother.

Her hair was like liquid rubies in the light from the fire, shot through with gold and bronze. She stood there in her nightdress, just looking at him, her green eyes reflecting back the fire that burned in the grate, eyes that he saw when he looked in the mirror, except hers were not shadowed by grief and pain, or despair.

"I wanted to talk to you," She said. "I mean, about… you…"

"I don't…" Harry said. "I don't know what to say to you. If you'd never known your mother, and suddenly here's this girl who'll someday BE your mom, but right now she's your age, you probably wouldn't know what to say either."

Lily sat down in the chair next to him. "No, I might not know what to say, but I'd want to get to know her as much as I could, since I never… got to know her. I mean, you never knew me, right, because You-Know-Who killed me. And now someone's saying, hey Harry, here's a chance to meet your mom!"

Harry closed his eyes. He felt as though someone had stabbed him in the chest, and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't remember his mother. He had no memories of her holding him, singing lullabies to him. He couldn't remember what she sounded like, how she smelled. He'd never had her wipe away tears when he fell and skinned his knees.

"Harry," She said, and he opened his eyes and looked up at her, seeing tears glittering in her green eyes. "I'd want to take the only opportunity I might ever have."

Suddenly, a sob slipped out of Harry, startling him, startling Lily. "Don't make Wormtail your secret keeper," Harry said. "Anyone but him. Sirius, Dumbledore… I know he offered, and I can't understand why you wouldn't…"

Lily reached out and gripped his hand, crying herself. She reached out and put her arms around him, hugging him tightly. She felt as though she was his mother, the woman she would become, holding her sobbing child in her arms. Harry breathed in, taking in the scent of her, imprinting it on his brain, so that he could remember her always, that his mother smelled like flowers and being outdoors.

Lily slid to the floor, pulling Harry down with her, gathering him into her lap and rocking him, even though he was sixteen and not a child. It didn't matter, with his sobs shaking her body, this boy that she had never known.

Lily made a vow in that moment. She wanted to track down the Dark Lord, and she wanted to rip him apart with her bare hands, for what he had done to Harry. She didn't want revenge for her own death, or for James's, who she had apparently loved very much. She wanted to make Voldemort pay for causing her son to grow up in the Dursley household, because if the way Petunia treated her over the summer when she was home, Lily did not want to imagine how they had treated Harry for ten years.

No, Lily Evans, who would one day be the wife of James Potter, and the mother of this tired, emotionally drained, but far from broken child who was lying with his head tucked against her shoulder, wanted to destroy Voldemort for the sake of this boy.

The sob that slipped from her lips was lost in Harry's own. She understood why she had given her life for this boy, and knew that, when she returned to her own time—and she would, she was sure—she would not remember this, but she knew that she would have her love for her child burned into her. She and James had to choose Peter, to make Harry who he was. Anyone else, and everything could have been so different. She and James could have lived, could have raised their child—but how many more people would have died?

Lily held Harry until he fell asleep, exhausted from the release of all the tears he'd never been allowed to shed for his mother. She lay him down on the floor, unwilling to wake him, and covered him with a fuzzy throw that had been draped over the arm of a chair. She tucked a pillow under his head, and stood.

Lily looked into the dying embers of the fire, a plan forming in her head. She knew that, in this time, Voldemort was back. Twice already he had tried to take Harry's life. Lily was determined not to let it happen again.

She crept back up to her room in the girls' dormitory, her mind working frantically. She wanted to put this fledgling plan into motion as soon as possible.

As though her life depended on it.