AUTHOR'S NOTE: Faith in chaos. Otherwise, faith in apple pie.
AUTHOR'S NOTE 2: Minimal quoting.
"Prisoner number 6785," a bored sounding voice called out.
Harry's world was still dark. Tiny beams of light shone through the holes in the carrying box he'd been shoved into for transport to wherever the hell he now was.
"Experiment number 0034," the voice continued.
Light flooded Harry's world. The front of the box had been opened and Harry stepped out onto a wooden platform. Two men, perhaps the same two men from the prison, attached him to the platform with chains. In front of him, was a sight that made his underused eyes widen in shock.
"Modified version of the confundus charm, woven into the arch using Hypthorn's static enchantment protocol; dated the third of September, 2002, approved by the Chief Unspeakable."
It was the veil of death.
"Begin the transfer."
Without making a sound, the platform started moving towards the veil leaving Harry no possibility of escape… not that he wanted it.
'For neither can live while the other survives,' he mused, grinning manically. He was about to die, but he knew that what was going on here was something Voldemort certainly didn't know about, or authorise.
He was halfway to the veil now and suddenly terror flooded his mind, but the raw primal emotion wasn't his.
A loud crack sounded behind him and Voldemort's voice screamed "Accio Potter!" but the chains held him fast to the platform and before another word could be uttered he'd plunged through the archway and darkness took him.
Light. Spectacular light. Cleaning light … burning light … calming light. Unwavering light.
Light filled his eyes; magic filled all his other senses. Magical power he could sense no limits to.
Power, perhaps, without limits to sense.
"Good morning, Mister Potter." The voice was empty and distant, so far away and yet so close. A voice so clearly from wherever the power flowed.
He no longer could say he agreed that it was good.
"Good morning," he lied by way of reply. He could not see the speaker, and he felt no reason to offer truth. In the instant he spoke, he wondered at how undamaged his voice sounded … perfectly clear as though he had not been silent for years.
"You are of spirit at present, Mister Potter, not of flesh. There is no need for wonder that you speak clearly."
Harry wondered if this statement had been meant to reassure him of something. He felt no reassurance; he did not like that his thoughts were apparently open for reading.
"There is no cause for fear, Mister Potter. Where you are should be beyond fear's reach."
Harry suppressed the snort that would have come instantly if he'd had a nose.
"I see you are determined to be difficult," the voice continued, sighing as if overcome by fatigue.
It was then that Harry finally saw the speaker. A man stood before him, for all the world looking perfectly average.
It was a lie. There had yet to be cessation of the sense of power.
"Are you Death?" Harry asked.
Death raised a perfectly ordinary brown eyebrow. "Would I be anyone else?"
"You look like the last maths teacher I had before Hogwarts," he said, bewildered.
Death smiled. "An image for your benefit." The smile disappeared. "I'm a touch displeased at the moment, Mister Potter." In spite of the power previously having no detectable limits, it now somehow grew.
Harry recoiled. "With me?"
Death shook his head. "With Tom Riddle, and so with you by extension."
"But," Harry tried to begin speaking and tried to recoil away further from what, he found, could not be recoiled away from. He might have choked from fear. "Is it my fault I was a Horcrux?"
"No," Death responded, "but I do not like it when what I am owed is withheld. You are now dead, but Tom Riddle still lives. I am not pleased."
"I don't know what you expect me to do about it," Harry replied sarcastically, flippantly.
And this, to his great surprise, seemed exactly what he had needed to say. Death positively beamed.
"We want you to do your job," came a second voice, this one feminine. A woman appeared next to Death.
She was very old, immensely fat, and clothed in a pink silk dress. She wore far too much makeup on her face. She rather resembled a melting iced cake.
Her voice was beautiful though.
"Who are you?" Harry asked.
"I am Death," she replied. "Or perhaps I am Fate. Or perhaps we are Fate, or Death … for the fate of everyone that lives is death." She smiled.
"Why would you be separate from him, then?" he asked, while seeming to nod in the direction of the figure of Death.
"Because," replied the woman, still smiling, "for most beings Fate is incomprehensible. Death nearly always is as well. Or perhaps people do understand death, but do not wish to admit they must die."
Harry felt filled by disgust. He certainly had never had any trouble comprehending death, and since he had learned of the existence of prophecies the concept of fate did not trouble his mind either. He felt no attraction to immortality either.
"You are wiser than your years, Harry Potter," Death finally used his name, "far wiser than most mortals. Certainly far wiser than Tom Riddle."
"What job?" Harry suddenly asked. "The prophecy wasn't fulfilled … there's no longer any job for me to do."
"Death is not so simple as you believe, Harry Potter," remarked Death. He smirked.
"Nor is Fate," added Fate, also smirking. "You were supposed to kill Riddle, but never got allowed any chance to develop into one who could. As much as we are vexed by Tom Riddle, we are vexed by others."
"Albus Dumbledore," said Death, no longer smirking. His face was cold.
"And John Potter," added Fate. Her face was no warmer.
"My brother?" Harry asked.
"The same," Death said. "The same one who knew he was not the Boy-Who-Lived, knew that you were, knew that you were completely innocent of the crimes for which you were charged … and still did nothing."
"HE KNEW!" Harry more yelled than asked.
"He knew," Fate confirmed. "He knew the truth, and kept the lie going because he enjoyed the rewards. He liked the fame of being the Boy-Who-Lived." Fate sighed. "That is, I suppose, not surprising. Fame of any kind is very attractive to many." She went silent.
Death continued. "We are vexed by John Potter because he failed, utterly, to do the job he took on."
"What job," Harry asked, suddenly suspicious.
"Yours," Fate replied simply. "Harry Potter … you saw, via Riddle's eyes, the death of John Potter in the graveyard at Little Hangleton. What you are not aware is that this was his second death at Riddle's hands. You are from a second timeline … John Potter is from the first."
Harry was now stunned beyond words. He started forcing his thoughts to coalesce. "He … was a time traveler … no wonder he seemed so much more powerful, so much older than he had the right to be. He was older." Harry paused. "How much older was he?" he asked, wanting confirmation for what he suspected,"
"Four years," Death replied, confirming what Harry believed.
"When did he learn the truth?" Harry asked, wanting those answers badly.
"He learned it from Dumbledore's own mouth shortly before he first went to Hogwarts," Fate replied.
"Dumbledore," Harry muttered, thinking about how much seemed to come down to the Headmaster's actions.
"It is more than you suspect, Harry Potter," said Death. "It was Dumbledore who first created the fiction about John Potter to begin with. He concealed the truth, lied to your parents, and let the lies stand despite knowing the truth."
Harry had not realized he could be more startled. "But … why … why everything?" He asked, almost pleading.
"In this, your parents are simply dupes," Fate said. "They held no ill-will against you at the start, and simply went along with the plan a man they believed to be good had worked out, because they thought him honest. Perhaps that makes them fools, but then fools are hardly rare." She stopped speaking.
"And Dumbledore," Harry asked, when no more seemed forthcoming
It was Death who continued. "Albus Dumbledore heard the prophecy that Sybill Trelawney spoke months before your birth. He had seen in his life the rise of two terrible Dark wizards … and felt keenly responsible in both cases. More responsible, perhaps, than he should have in either case, but even that is arguable. Yet it is pointless speculation. The facts are that once Riddle had marked you as the prophecy dictated he would, Albus Dumbledore acted to make sure you would never become the threat to the wizarding world he felt you could be."
These words took Harry aback. "Threat? Voldemort was real; what did it matter that I was a threat?"
"What indeed," Fate broke her silence. "Dumbledore decided that any child who could be Riddle's equal was too dangerous to be allowed to fully develop their potential; he feared that any such child would inevitably become a Dark wizard, could not become anything else in fact. And so he placed you in a home where he believed you would be neglected at the very best, and abused at worst. His goal, simply, was to keep you weak … but even he did not guess how abused you would be in that house."
If Harry had a body, his eyes would have been pinched closed and his fists clenched, and he would have been trembling from anger. "So Dumbledore … traded the rise of a possible Dark wizard … for the certain success of one who was already established?"
"Yes," both Death and Fate replied simply.
Harry might have collapsed, in seeming defeat. "Some trade." For a while, he was silent. "What do you want from me?" He hadn't forgotten, but he wanted it explicitly said.
"We are," Death began, "intervening," Fate completed the sentence.
In spite of lacking a body, Harry blinked. "I'm dead. The prophecy was unfulfilled." He ignored that they had sent his brother back once already.
"We can send your soul back," Death said. "We are, as we said, intervening. Tom Riddle needs to die."
Harry Potter stared at Death, no longer blinking. "You have a plan." It was plainly obvious on the beings' faces.
It was Fate who spoke for the pair. "You made the best of a terrible situation, Harry Potter; many terrible situations in fact. Raised by the Dursleys, you might have become a monster; but instead you are innately good – much better a person than anyone could have guessed, much better a person than the world deserved. And while you were confined to Azkaban, once Riddle had risen, you used your time well, taking his knowledge for yourself. You even learned well from him when he forced your consciousness to watch his brutal acts. Yes, you made the best of terrible circumstances."
Death continued when Fate fell silent. "We plan to send you back to your eighth birthday, three years before you would start Hogwarts."
Harry thought about this, but could not see all the connections. "What's the change?" he asked. "The real change … there's got to be something much bigger that you're not saying. Knowledge itself, I don't think that's enough."
Both entities now beamed. It was Fate who responded. "You have just proven that you are far more capable than your brother, Harry Potter. He thought knowledge was more than enough. Knowledge and brute force."
Harry felt disgusted. "I am not my brother. I at least like to think that I know how to think. What will stop me from being thrown in prison again?"
"You must save Ginny Weasley," Death said.
Harry nodded. "Fine. What then? Even if I save her, Dumbledore still wants me out of the way." Permanently, he did not add. He did not know that it was not entirely correct.
Fate clapped her fat hands. "The way you think is more proof of your worth, Harry Potter. I confess myself disappointed we ever relied on John Potter."
"Why did you?" Harry asked. "He was never marked by Voldemort. He was never the subject of the prophecy."
"Because perfection is a myth," Death said. "Even the gods can be flawed, can make terrible mistakes. Perfection is the antithesis of reality, unattainable by any. We decided, foolishly, that he was close enough to work, since he died fighting Riddle in the first timeline. We admit our error."
Harry seized the opportunity these words granted. "What happened to me in the first timeline? You said John is from the first, and I'm from the second."
"Your brother managed to save Ginny Weasley in Slytherin's chamber, but Dumbledore convinced your brother to submit false evidence that you had opened the chamber in the first place."
Harry thought his disgust had peaked. He had been wrong. He went over the connections in his mind, thinking of all the worst possibilities based on what the entities had said. "In the second timeline … did John let second-year happen? Did he know what was going on and tried to keep the timeline intact anyhow?" Harry hoped, just hoped, that he was wrong, but didn't believe he was.
"Yes," Death responded.
Any flicker of hope Harry might have had was extinguished. He didn't know why he'd tried to hold any. "Dumbledore wants me out of the way," he repeated himself. "So much so that he'll take any excuse and put forth any lie. What stops him from completely manufacturing a way to get me imprisoned?"
Death beamed again. "Your knowledge is one thing. You have all of Riddle's knowledge about himself and his Horcruxes, and all his other knowedge for that matter." He stopped speaking.
Fate continued for him. "You know how magical society works, how stratified it is. The true way to stop Dumbledore is to be higher up in the system, high up enough he cannot control you."
Harry seized at that. "How? He's the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Almost half of them are in his corner; I know they're the biggest group." And I don't trust the others either, he did not say.
"We are going to grant you a lordship," Death said.
Harry barely needed any time to respond. "The only way I can be Lord Potter is for my dad and brother to die, and you said I'd be eight years old. Lords have to be at least seventeen," his thoughts came out almost instantly.
"You are correct, but you would not be Lord Potter," Fate replied. "What do you know of your heritage?"
Harry could have spat. "You know I was taught nothing. I know you're in my mind, and you would have known that even if you weren't."
Death nodded. "There are other options. Three in total; we are not counting the Potter seat."
Harry thought about this. "Slytherin, I suppose. By right of conquest?"
Death and Fate both nodded. "It is an option. There are two you might claim by blood. Peverell … and Gryffindor."
Harry was taken aback. "Gryffindor? Really? I'd think the Potters would have celebrated that for centuries if it were the case."
Death shook his head. "It is not through the Potters. Lily Evans was the first witch of the Gryffindor line in more than six hundred years. It had Squibbed out long ago. Witches cannot hold family seats for themselves, so it did not activate one."
Harry wanted to laugh, but didn't. There was something else he wanted to ask. "If I go back, like you said, will I still be a Horcrux?"
Death and Fate both shook their heads.
Harry stayed silent for a while. They were, obviously, leaving the choice up to him. "I can only have one, right?" he asked, but it was only a formality. He knew there was no provision in the law for multiple lordships in one person. It simply was never done.
The entities nodded. Harry continued thinking.
He could see no advantage to Peverell … not like with the Hogwarts lordships.
He had been a Slytherin for the brief time he'd attended Hogwarts. The other people in the house (and the rest of the school) had made his time there miserable, but he'd liked what the Sorting Hat sang about it. It had appealed to parts of him he rarely displayed in public.
He had not liked what the Hat sang about Gryffindor … "brave at heart", "daring", and "nerve" all seemed the same thing.
And yet, he felt a distinct thrill for the prospect of taking the Gryffindor lordship and keeping it well out of the hands of anyone who would want it … or anyone who would want to use its new lord.
The Dark houses would want to destroy Lord Gryffindor on principle.
The Light houses could not be trusted not to try using him, and destroying him if they learned who he was.
Screw them all, he thought. My lordship, my rules.
"Gryffindor", Harry said, part of him wondering if he was, perhaps, insane.
"It is agreed," said Fate. She sounded pleased.
"There is one other thing I should tell you, Harry Potter," said Death. "Something for you to puzzle out. You wondered why I appeared to you in this visage. That has a very simple answer: None may know the true face of Death, for Death claims every face."
Harry looked bemused at this statement, filing it in his mind for later.
The trio continued to discuss minutia and tactical and strategic options for some time, before Fate and Death waved Harry on his way and his soul was flung back through the veil.
On July thirty-first in the year 1988, eight-year-old little Harry Potter sat bolt upright, banging his head on his cupboard ceiling.
'Oww', he thought, rubbing his hand on his bruised forehead. He felt a metal band on his finger. Closer inspection revealed it to be the noble head of house ring of Gryffindor house. A manic grin spread across his face like the opening to the gates of hell.
"Well, hello world, I'm baaaaaack."
{DF}
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Bolded text is lifted from the first chapter of "Dodging Prison and Stealing Witches". This is a plot-bunny that has been bothering me for a little while. I don't know if this is really a thing I want to write; I just needed to write this. I feel like Harry taking the Gryffindor lordship could make for a very different story in the fanfic world LeadVonE set up. If you're reading this, and you haven't read that story, you probably ought to. Credit to him for writing the story that inspired this bunny.