Temporality, a harry potter fanfic

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I'd be quite wealthy. Unfortunately, I don't—those rights remain with JK Rowling.

A/N:

So… this is my new big project. I suppose it's an issue that I can't stop myself from straying from my main fic, but this idea just won't go away. Anyway, as a heads-up, there's not going to be any romance here—sorry if that's disappointing. This is going to be purely a genfic (at least for Harry). Plus, without giving anything specific away, any relationships he'd be able to have would be quite creepy. As a final, semi-unrelated note, this is a no-bashing zone.

Well, without further ado, here's chapter one. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One: A Boy and his Dreams

The street was dark, only illuminated by the occasional streetlight and the pale glow of the moon. Each house was nearly identical, something made eerie by the black of the night.

The street was known as Privet Drive, and within the fourth house, Harry Potter slept fitfully...

"Bow to death, Harry," the Voldemort in his dreams whispered, his voice a sibilant hissing.

"Never!" Harry yelled back, twisting in the invisible grip that held him in place in the graveyard. A fresh corpse laid a few meters away—the haunting visage of Cedric Diggory staring up at him with empty, accusing eyes. "I'd never bow to the likes of you!"

"But wouldn't you?" Voldemort asked, almost sounding genuinely curious as the scene shifted. They were no longer in the graveyard, but this was much, much worse.

Harry could almost see it in his mind's eye—it had seemed to take Sirius an age to fall. His body had curved in a graceful arc as he had sunk backward through the ragged veil hanging from the arch... and he'd seen a mingled look of fear and surprise on his godfather's wasted, once-handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as though in a high wind and then fell back into place.

"See, Harry?" Voldemort said, and Harry spun around to spot the man lounging against the entry to the chamber. "You must bow to death, for all living things do. It has known you, Harry. It has known you like no other. It calls you home, now go—"

With a gasp, Harry shot up in his bed. His hands were tangled up in the sheets, white-knuckled as he clutched them.

"Bow to death, huh?" Harry whispered absently. With a sigh, he pushed aside the thoughts of the, by now, familiar dream and got out of his bed, stretching languidly and sighing again, but this time of appreciation, as a few of his joints popped.

He moved to the small desk crammed into the corner of his tiny room and sat down, pulling out a scroll of parchment to begin his summer homework. He knew it would be good to get in a few good lines before he had to go downstairs and help make breakfast because his uncle had gotten him a job this summer and he took all the time he could to crank out a bit of his work from Hogwarts.

Most of his days went like this, at least in the summer. The distraction of his routine was welcome, however, as it took him away from his darker thoughts of Sirius, and sometimes even Cedric. It wasn't until mid-July that anything had changed.

It had started with the dreams. They would begin in Little Hangleton's graveyard, and Voldemort would make his speech about "bowing to death." By now, Harry was getting bored to death, having heard the line so many times. It was strange, having the same dream over and over again, and a small part of him, deep down, was uneasy about it, occasionally thinking: Maybe I should tell Professor Dumbledore about this? Something about doing that rubbed him the wrong way—partially because Harry didn't want to bother the busy old wizard, but also because there was an odd, niggling sort of feeling in the back of his head telling him that it was a bad idea.

Harry had learned that it was wise to trust his instincts, however, so he kept it to himself.

As he went got into bed that night, Harry couldn't help but feel apprehensive. Something was different tonight, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. For the entire day, he had been distracted by the dreams. For some reason, he couldn't seem to get it out of his head—something that struck him as odd, since he usually had little issues with concentration.

However, he was tired. He wanted to just... go to sleep. The day had been long, and he'd broken more of a sweat than usual at work. Feebly pushing away the thoughts about his dreams, he closed his eyes. All too quickly, he drifted off to sleep again, greeted by the familiar malice-filled expression of his enemy.

"Bow to death, Harry," Voldemort whispered, his voice a sibilant hissing.

"But wouldn't you?" Voldemort asked, almost sounding genuinely curious as the scene shifted. They were no longer in the graveyard, but this was much, much worse.

Something was different, Harry could tell. A shift in perception, or perhaps a change in the scales of power. Nevertheless, he suddenly felt infinitely more aware, and the murkiness of the dream exploded into sharp, jading reality.

"Yes..." Voldemort hissed, his voice clearer than ever, "you have heeded the call! Bow to death, Harry, bow to death!"

Against his will, Harry's back bent into a bowing position and he struggled against the rough grip of magic locking his muscles into place. Suddenly overcome with spite and anger, Harry finally retorted. "You first! Maybe it'll make this whole prophecy business a lot easier!"

Voldemort laughed, and it was a truly chilling sound. "Ssssssilly boy..." he was laughing so raucously that parseltongue began to sink into his words. "I am death! But... how would I bow first if you have already done so yourself?"

Green eyes alit with anger as untamable as his hair, Harry roared and thrashed against his invisible restraints.

It was useless, however, as Voldemort continued to speak unabated. "Such a defiant little child," he mused, peering down at Harry with an odd expression. "While I had would never have expected someone pliant, your defiance speaks well to your character."

Struck dumb by not only the out-of-character comment from the visage of the dark lord but also the sudden change in the tone and pace of the one-sided conversation, Harry stopped his struggling to stare.

"Oh, so now you see," the one who wore Voldemort's face said idly, meeting Harry's eyes. "I am no longer what you expected, yes?"

"If you're not him, then who are you?" Harry growled, having recovered from his momentary shock.

The red eyes glimmered with amusement. "Oh? Why, pray tell, should I tell you? It would take all the fun out of it! Still, you will suit my goals, Harry Potter. I bid you adieu."

"Huh?" Harry said, startled once more, as the invisible force trapping him finally vanished and he fell to the floor. "You bid me adieu? Wait, where are you taking m—!" He was cut off as the Voldemort look-alike gestured absently with his left hand and sent Harry hurtling through the Veil.

While it had seemed to take Sirius an age to fall, it only took Harry a moment.

The world blurred and shook and Harry had to take a moment to remind himself that this is all just a dream—!

Harry blinked.

Hedwig chirped.

Harry blinked again, and took in the impossible sight of his owl, looking a few years too young, perched inside her cage on top of his trolley. As the rest of the world came back into focus, Harry blinked again. King's Cross? Crowds of people bustled around him, and children protested as parents dragged them along, complaining about being late.

For a dream, everything felt awfully real...

"Now, what's the platform number again?" yelled a familiar voice, and Harry's heart lurched as he spotted Mrs. Weasley leading her large family down the walkway.

Harry's heart stuttered again as little Ginny piped up, "Nine and three-quarters, Mum!" A few passers-by chuckled, likely amused at the antics of the red-headed family.

It only took Mrs. Weasley a moment more to notice that Harry was staring. "Oh, hello young man, are you lost?"

"Er," Harry said, mind blank. "Er, yes—I mean, I think! Uh..." Bollocks. Harry internally cringed, wanting to slap himself.

Mrs. Weasley only chuckled. "Don't worry, young man," she said as she eyed his owl. "I suppose you're looking for the platform, then?"

Harry blinked. "Yes?"

As he trailed after them towards the pillar, Harry tried to reflect. This had to be a dream. It had to. How else would he be here, with the Weasleys not even recognizing him, with Hedwig looking so small, with his oversized clothes he dimly remembered wearing to the train on his first day— No, it had to be a dream, even if it didn't feel like one. Time travel wasn't possible. It couldn't be... right?

But... it was possible, Harry realized with a sense of dawning horror. He and Hermione had used a Time-Turner back in their third year, and no doubt there were other methods that he didn't know of. "Bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time, Harry," Dumbledore had once said. Harry wracked his brain, trying to remember anything else about that conversation pertaining to the actual theory of time travel, but it had simply been too long ago. With a sigh, Harry gave that train of thought up as a lost cause.

So deep in thought was he, that when one of the Weasley twins—Fred, Harry thought—came to an abrupt stop in front of him, Harry couldn't stop in time and his trolley crashed into the boy's back. "Ah! Sorry!" Harry exclaimed, rushing around to help him up.

"No worries," grinned the redhead as he dusted himself off.

The identical boy to his left shot Harry an identical grin. "It's his own fault for stopping so fast, anyway."

"Oi!" protested the first one. "My fault, George?"

George grinned wider. "Yeah, Freddie, doesn't Mum always tell you to watch your step?"

"Knock it off, Fred, George," Percy warned from the side, his prefect badge gleaming on his chest.

"Oh, woe is me," deadpanned Fred.

George caught his eye and smirked. "Perfect prefect Percy, your disapproval wounds us!"

Percy sniffed and turned away, head held high. Fred and George snickered. However, Harry's grin was the brightest as he took in the scene in front of him. He hadn't seen the Weasleys in over a month, and it felt good to hear Fred and George teasing someone again, even if their voices were high and tinnier than he was accustomed to.

"Boys!" Mrs. Weasley yelled from next to the pillar that functioned as the entrance to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Hurriedly, Harry wiped the grin off his face and rushed to push his trolley forward quickly to keep up with the family. A minute or so later, it was time to go through to the platform.

"On you go, Fred, George," Mrs. Weasley said hastily. "You're going to miss the train!" After Fred and George had passed through, Harry quickly made to follow them, disappearing through the barrier with ease of experience.

After separating from the Weasleys, Harry made his way down the train, heading for his favorite cabin in the back. When he opened it, however, he was greeted with the surprised face of three sixth-years. After squeaking a quick "Sorry!" Harry slammed the door shut and hurried to the next cabin down. Luckily, it was empty and he let out a relieved sigh as he sat down, pulling out his wand to absently levitate his trunk up to the storage rack.

Finally with a moment to himself, Harry took the time to think—really think.

He'd gone to sleep the night before normally. Quickly, he scanned through the events of the day with his mind's eye, but couldn't think of anything out of the ordinary. The only thing that seemed to tie this whole thing together was the dreams.

In hindsight, Harry realized that he really should've talked to someone about them, given his predisposition to unusual dreams in the past. If he really was right, though, and this was the past, there wasn't much of anything that could be done about it now. He could hardly imagine going to Dumbledore for help in a situation like this anyway—really, who in their right mind would believe an eleven-year-old claiming to have time-traveled? Certainly not Dumbledore—Harry would probably find himself knocked out and carted off to St. Mungo's by the next morning.

The next thought to fly through his mind was that he was going to have to retake five years' worth of classes. He groaned and put his face in his hands. He was going to have to self-study. Hermione would have laughed herself silly at the thought of him voluntarily doing any kind of extra schoolwork.

A knock on the compartment door interrupted his thoughts, and he was filled with nostalgia as he saw Ron's young face peek through as it slid open. "Mind if I sit in here?" he asked, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice that Harry wasn't sure he'd noticed the first time. "Everywhere else's full."

Harry grinned. "Sure," he said.

Ron entered the compartment a lot more quickly afterward, looking a lot happier after the blatant acceptance. He sat down across from Harry with a soft pomph sort of noise and grinned back. "Hi there, I'm Ron Weasley, what's your name?"

"Nice to meet you, Ron, I'm Harry," Harry said, "Harry Potter."

"Blimey!" exclaimed Ron, suddenly awed. "You're Harry Potter? I thought you were supposed to be a first-year like me."

"Um," said Harry, "what?"

"Er, my Mum said she knew your parents, you see, and said that you were born in the same year as I was," Ron replied cautiously.

"I am a first-year, though," Harry said, confused. "Why d'you think I'm not?"

The tips of Ron's ears turned pink, the tell-tale sign of embarrassment. "Er, you look older than my brothers, Harry, and they're in their third year."

Harry blinked. What?

"Sorry to ask, but do you have any sort of mirror on you, Ron?"

It was Ron's turn to blink in a startled manner. "Er, no?"

"I do," said a superior-sounding voice that Harry found very familiar. Even as Ron scowled slightly, Harry couldn't help but grin.

"Mind if I borrow it really quickly?" he asked, quirking his left eyebrow up.

Hermione Granger smiled faintly and quickly extracted a small, hand-held mirror from her pocket. Prim and proper as ever, she held it out to him, and he took it without hesitation. As he looked into it, he couldn't see too much out of the ordinary, he did look younger, after all...

Wait... I'm supposed to be eleven, and I look like I did when I was fourteen. This might be a small problem...

"There, fixed it," he said, brushing the fringe that covered his scar as he did his best to conceal the pure panic that bubbled under the surface. After a moment, he gave Hermione the mirror back. "Thanks for letting me borrow it."

Hermione affixed him with an appraising look, and Harry squirmed under her intense gaze. After a few moments, she relented, likely having found what she was looking for. "It was no problem, Harry—that is your name, right?"

Still feeling off-balance, Harry nodded uneasily. "Yeah, I'm Harry. You are...?"

Hermione blushed. "Oh, how rude of me. My name is Hermione Granger. It's nice to meet you," she said sheepishly, extending her hand for a handshake.

Smiling, Harry shook her hand with a firm grip. "Want to sit with us, Hermione?" he asked, oblivious to how Ron's left eye twitched as he said it.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said, "but I was helping another first-year—Neville, his name was—find his toad. That's actually why I came around to your cabin."

Oh, Harry had forgotten about Trevor. Neville really does lose him quite a bit, doesn't he?

"Well, you better go help him, then," Ron said, a hint of acid in his voice. Hermione's smile froze on her face.

Harry was quick to silence Ron with a fierce glare before turning back to Hermione, who looked ready to bolt. "Hermione, wait. I'm sorry about him... I don't know why he said that, but I'd love to help."

Unfortunately, it seemed that Ron wasn't quite as silenced as Harry had hoped. "It's cause she's bloody looking down on us, Harry!"

Hermione choked on a sob and tried to dash for the door, but Harry grabbed the end of her sleeve to keep her from leaving. "Let me go!" Hermione protested wetly.

"Okay, enough," said Harry, fed-up. While these weren't the friends he'd known in the future, they certainly squabbled just as fiercely. "Hermione, please sit down. Ron, just shut up, you've said enough. While I haven't known either of you for particularly long, it's easy enough to tell that this is going to be an issue unless it's handled now."

"And just how would you handle it, huh?" Ron spat, clearly not inclined towards listening. "As you said, you're just a first year. Just like us. Why should I listen to you? Bloody hell, we just barely met you a few minutes ago."

Harry gritted his teeth for a moment but sighed. "You're right," he said quietly. "I don't have any real right to tell you what to do or to force you to talk about it, and I'm sorry. I just don't want the year to start off like this—would you at least try to talk about it?"

Ron turned away to hide his scowl. "I suppose," he said lowly, not sounding particularly enthusiastic about the idea.

Hermione hiccupped. "O-okay, I can try... I'm sorry, Ron, I didn't mean to sound like I was l-looking down on you," she said, eyes downcast.

Ron blinked, surprised, and turned to look more closely at Hermione. "I'm sorry for assuming," he said after a moment, looking like the words physically pained him to say. Hermione blinked, also surprised. She looked up, a small smile beginning to appear once more. Harry leaned back against his seat, a tangible sense of relief flooding his senses. Crisis averted.

Just then, the trolley witch approached their door with her cart of candy. "Anything from the trolley, dears?"

Harry grinned at his friends. "We'll take the lot!"

"Here's your toad, Neville," Harry said as they got off of the boats, snagging Trevor from where he was quickly hopping across the ground.

Neville's eyes grew wide. "Trevor! Thank you, um..."

"Harry," Harry said, grinning. "Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter!" Neville shouted, going very red.

"Who?" Harry retorted with a grin, stepping aside to let Hermione walk next to Neville.

Hermione drew in a deep breath. "I'm sorry I couldn't find your toad, Neville," she got out in one breath. "We looked everywhere—couldn't find him!"

Neville looked overwhelmed. "Uh, it's okay, Hermione. I'm just glad you wanted to help at all."

Harry let the conversation fade into the background of his awareness as he focused on the magnificence of Hogwarts, feeling the familiar buzz of the wards as they weighed the intent of each and every student. While to some it may have been unnerving, Harry had always gotten a sense of welcome and belonging. They flowed elegantly around his wand and body, pressing into every mark, crevice, and even fluttering around inside his mind—taking stock of his magical signature and imprint.

The trek up to the school reminded Harry strongly of what he could remember of his first time at Hogwarts—only, Malfoy approached him as they were heading up to the castle, rather than on the train or just outside of the Great Hall. Harry responded in a similar way to what he could remember, because he was never going to be friends with a git like Malfoy, not to mention that the blond had insulted his friends again.

After her speech, McGonagall led them into the hall to be sorted. After the expected exclamations of wonder, the Hat sang its song, the rhymes ringing true once more with Harry's own recollection of his first year—further cementing his theory.

The Sorting, up until Harry, at least, remained the same. Neville and Hermione both went to Gryffindor and Malfoy strutted his arse over to the Slytherin table, looking like the cat who had caught the canary.

But finally, it was time. "POTTER, HARRY!"

Nervously, Harry made his way up to the stool and took a seat.

Hmm, what an interesting mind you have. Heaps and heaps of loyalty... plenty of courage, there's no doubt... a wonderful urge to prove your naysayers wrong... and talent, oh, the talent. But, where to put you...

"Gryffindor," Harry whispered hopefully.

Gryffindor would surely suit you well, the hat mused. Oh, what's this? You've been Sorted once before...

There was an odd sort of rustling noise and Harry's heart was in his throat. Then, the hat spoke out loud. "He has already been Sorted once before—I cannot Sort him again."

A murmur of confusion swept through the hall in a torrent of whispers and gossip. "Please, hat, elaborate?" asked Dumbledore, leaning forward in his seat at the head table with his hands clasped together.

"He has already been Sorted. No one can be Sorted more than once—no exceptions," the hat said.

There was a long moment of tense silence. "I see," Dumbledore said slowly, clearly not understanding. "Can you tell us where he was Sorted last time, then?"

There was another pause. "I suppose I can do that," the hat conceded. "He is and has been a member of Gryffindor House."

The Gryffindor table broke out into loud cheers and Fred and George stood on the benches and doing their usual "We got Potter!" chant. Harry grinned as the trim of his robes blossomed into a warm red and gold and the Gryffindor emblem appeared over his breast, magically replacing the general Hogwarts one. Relieved, he darted off towards the Gryffindor table and dropped into a seat between Hermione and Neville.

"So, Harry," began Fred as he and George plopped down on the couch in front of him.

George leaned forward. "We've all been wondering how a 'lil firsty like yourself is older-looking than the two of us? Right, Fred?" George asked.

"Well said, George," Fred said. "Maybe it's just a part of the ol' mystery of Harry Potter the Dark Wizard Slayer but then maybe it has an explanation you'd be willing to give?"

Harry grinned, eyes going back and forth between the two brothers. "No mystery," he lied. "I've always looked older than anyone else my age."

"Ding ding ding!" yelled George. "We've caught a liar in our trap!"

Fred nodded. "Indeed, brother of mine. No worries, though, Harry. We'll figure out whatever little secret you've got."

With that ominous note, the brothers quickly dashed out of the common room and upstairs to the dorms. Ron, who had been sitting next to Harry the whole time, rolled his eyes. "Don't mind them, Harry. Fred and George are just always like that," he commented without worry. "Just watch out for pranks—you're in their sights now."

Hermione snorted, though the sound was muffled by the thick copy of Hogwarts: A History that her face was buried in. After a moment, she put the book to the side and took a moment to look Harry up and down a few times. "You must admit, Harry, it is quite unusual..."

Harry couldn't do anything but shrug. What could he say? That he remembered another life? That he suspected he was in the past or that this was all just a dream? He'd already vocalized his only justification for his appearance, and saying anything more specific would provide Hermione a story to poke holes into—and if he knew Hermione, she'd definitely leave it tattered and bruised by the time she was done with it.

Luckily, he didn't receive any more inquisitions for the rest of the night. By the time he had finished unpacking his trunk (and magically resizing his clothes), he was feeling exhausted from the chaos of the day.

"G'night Ron, Neville," Harry said faintly as he got into bed.

He was asleep before they could reply.

A/N:

So, here's my take on the Harry-time-travelling trope. I know it's way overdone at this point, but I guarantee that this won't be a canon rehash—no, not at all...

I'll try to make it as original as possible, and I've already introduced a few major divergences, even if they're not all so obvious yet. Either way, without spoiling too much I'll provide a brief idea of some things you'll be seeing here (unless my plans change). Anyways: smart Voldemort who doesn't get smashed into bits by a deus ex machina, found family, big bro Harry, illogical magic, and kids being reckless little shits—not that anything different is expected with Harry involved.

Well, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I'll see you next time... whenever that is. If you have any comments or suggestions, drop a review or shoot me a PM. I'm usually somewhat prompt in answering the latter.