Authors Note: Hey guys. Sorry for how long my updates are clearly going to take! I haven't written properly in around ten years and I'm trying to get back into it. All feedback is appreciated - both complimentary and constructive.

The Prophecy of Time

Chapter One

The wind howled like a werewolf, the trees whistling and shaking against the dark, murky sky. Harry could just about see them through shuttered, flickering eyelids, before the world blackened again.

He knew he should stay lucid. He knew something wasn't right, that something needed to be addressed, but the allure of unconsciousness was so powerful, a sweet but dangerous lullaby. He had wanted to just sleep, really sleep and forget, to feel a little peace, for so long. Weakly he twitched, attempting to grasp onto wakefulness, but sleep took him silently and with ease. The wind settled.

Harry came to, his eyes flickering as a gentle sun rose. The sky swam in his vision in pinks and golds, and the fresh scent of heather lingered in the air. His hands feebly grasped for purchase on dew-dotted grass, as he struggled to awaken fully, almost unwilling.

Harry froze. Hang on, grass?

He sat up abruptly, eyes flying open, and stared around at the Forbidden Forest in which he had died. The trees loomed over him, casting shadows.

Am I dead? Is this the afterlife? Am I a ghost, not permitted to move on? Would be my luck, he thought, breathing speeding up, his chest tight.

He'd gone to Voldemort to meet his fated end. He hadn't envisioned or prepared for ... whatever this was. Tentatively he brought a hand up to his line of sight, examining. Cuts and bruises lined the surface of his pale skin, the lettering of his scarring smeared with blood. Well, I look real enough ...

Pulling himself up, he stared critically at his surroundings. It looked to be morning now, but for some reason the sun seemed a little lower in the sky than usual, shining directly into Harry's eyes and making him wince. The dark fir trees imposed on the clearing, somehow fuller than Harry had remembered them. The air was frigid, even compared to that of the witching hour Harry had last seen, and a breeze fluttered against his cold skin, convincing him further of his continued survival.

Groaning, he dropped his head in his hands. But of course I would survive the Killing Curse twice. Even when I wanted to die it wouldn't work, he thought miserably, eyes burning, threatening to well with tears. I just needed to save everyone. Where are they now? Where the hell is Voldemort? Where are the Death Eaters and why am I still here?

Tempted to sit and scream in frustration, he instead dragged himself up, pushing against the grass with his hands, dirt and twigs falling from his torn jeans. He stood with difficulty, pain radiating from various wounds, and then froze in place.

Oh. The grass, yes. He was sure there was no grass within the clearing before. There had been a lot going on, but this detail was throwing him off balance, compounding the confusion. It had been a wider space, more stumps than trees, and the ground had been barren, he was sure of it.

"I must have gone mad," he croaked. "All these years, everything that's happened, and I'm finally over the edge. Great."

Shaking his head, bewildered, he staggered a turn, moving to face the direction of the castle. Over the thicket of trees, Hogwarts loomed in the distance, high and imposing. He wondered whether the battle was still raging on, whether Voldemort had announced his death to the school, cruel words igniting anger and violent revolution. Clueless as to the ferocity of the fight he might return to, Harry nevertheless set off to face his fate once more. Splitting pain flared in his side, and he gasped and gritted his teeth, lifting his tattered shirt with shaking hands to see a bloom of purple bruising adorning his ribs. I must have fallen on this side when he cursed me, he thought. As if he hasn't marked me enough.

Memories of the hours gone dwelled in his mind as he weakly marched onwards, the bruising a dull, constant throb. He had thought Voldemort would crow, thought he would seem more victorious and mocking, but he seemed almost pensive, cautious. He had been as cruel as ever, and as cold as ice, but for the first time Harry had seen him uncertain, his unwavering belief in his own infallibility tempered by the long struggle to kill his enemy. In the end, Harry had gone to him, and that must have stung. As much as Voldemort wanted him to accept his death, and as satisfying as it would have been to force his enemy to acknowledge and submit to his superiority, Harry knew he would have preferred to be able to know he had truly won, that he had found Harry and destroyed him while he begged for his life, cowardly, and the fact he hadn't would have made the victory taste bitter, his dominance still not fully exacted.

Harry was rather uncomfortable with how well he seemed to understand the Dark Lord's mindset and motivations these days. Those long months feeling alone in the tent, the Horcrux whispering darkly to him in the shadows, had changed him, whether he liked it or not. Felt like they had infected him.

The Forbidden Forest was dissipating from sight now, trees making way for fresh air and frosted hills. Harry had thought he would be able to hear noise from the castle, shouts and curses flying, and wondered if there had been another ceasefire. A terrible thought that they may have surrendered, too low in numbers to carry on, assaulted Harry's mind, but he continued to stumble up the hill with renewed fervour, refusing to consider the possibility. He had to fight. He had to help, whatever the cost.

The castle was close now, around a hundred metres away. He was almost there. But the pain in his side grew with each step, and battle wounds were reopening again, blood slowly seeping through his clothes. His head felt woozy, like it was floating. He staggered on -

"My boy, whatever has happened to you?"

His already pale face drained of all colour, and he crumpled to the ground.

Harry felt himself being dropped into an armchair, and a wave of diagnostic spells moving over him.

"Starting to get used to passing out every two seconds," he rasped to himself, momentarily forgetting he wasn't actually alone. Then, warily, he opened his eyes.

A familiar face watched him pensively, eyes looking down at him through half moon glasses. Presented with this visual evidence, Harry internally accepted that he had in fact either died or gone mad. Dumbledore was dead, not walking the Hogwarts grounds, and not in control of the Headmasters Office Harry seemed to have resurfaced in. The office was as grand and imposing as ever, all stone columns and staircases, portraits surrounding them, staring unabashedly. However, he was unsettled once more - the room felt off somehow, as if someone had shifted everything a centimetre to the left.

"From the sounds of it, you seem to have formed a habit. Might I ask how you have ended up in this situation, if you can recall?" Dumbledore handed him a goblet of water, his eyes still piercing Harry's. "I have healed your external injuries, but seeing as you were bloodied and intending to enter a castle full of my students, I must query the nature and intent."

Harry went to stutter a response, and then began to notice some odd details. Dumbledore had the same clear blue eyes and half moon glasses, but his face was less lined than he had last seen it alive, and his hair, though streaked with grey, was auburn. This must be the afterlife, Harry thought dazedly. Some strange afterlife world where Dumbledore is young, and there is still a Hogwarts for the dead, or maybe its all in my mind ... and I've imagined my home here as a comfort. But then why would Dumbledore be concerned about anyone? We are all dead here ...

Harry stared in blind confusion, taking in Dumbledore's countenance. The man looked concerned at the lack of a response, and subtly reached again for his wand, twirling it lightly in his hands.

That is not the Elder Wand. That must be the wand that chose him ... "Where's the Elder Wand?" he asked, brow furrowed. "I don't understand why you wouldn't have it here ... where is it? Is it because he took it from your grave?"

Dumbledore's eyes widened, his face white as a sheet, jaw dropped. He didn't reply for a long moment. "Where do you think we are?"

"The afterlife? Heaven? Something along those lines," Harry replied wearily, gazing around the room, trying to work out what was bothering him about it. "He killed me, right? It's all over now. I did my duty, Sir, I did what you needed me to do. It's gone for good. Only the snake remains, and I told Neville how to end it-"

Dumbledore stood abruptly. "What is your name? What year do you believe this to be?"

Dumbstruck, Harry's eyes snapped back to meet Dumbledore's. "It's nineteen ninety eight. Professor, you know me. What on earth do you mean? It's nineteen ninety eight, and my name is Harry James Potter. I'm not completely mad, you know. Is the battle still going on without me, I need to know-"

"Mr Potter, the current year is nineteen forty four, we are very much alive, and I'm afraid I've never seen you before in my life."

Harry barrelled upright, moving backwards hastily, like an animal threatened. Dumbledore stared at him with an unnerving blend of sympathy and fear. Harry was frozen, stock still as he frantically sought an escape from the situation, to no avail. He had stumbled backwards, backing up until he hit the grand bookshelves, and he was intelligent enough to know not to attempt an escape past an Albus Dumbledore presumably at the height of his magical power, who didn't even seem to recognise him. Why doesn't he recognise me? What on earth is happening here?

"What on earth are you talking about?" he gasped. "This is manipulative, even for you!"

Dumbledore moved forward cautiously, regarding Harry as if he were a landmine that would explode with one misstep. "It would be convenient for me to assume you insane, but you seem to know me well, and know details you should not. Time travellers are exceedingly rare, but not unknown to me. Headmaster Dippet should be returning soon, and we need to discuss how to handle your situation."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, and then his words died on the tip of his tongue. He had worked out what was bothering him about the office. The portrait of Armando Dippet was nowhere to be seen. The most recently dated portrait in sight, that of Phineas Nigellus Black, stared at him with rapt curiosity.

Oh Merlin, it's true, he thought. How?

His world felt like it was crashing down around him. He could not be further away from the people who needed him, and the distress of that was worse than the existential fear, the feeling of complete misplacement, clawing at his chest.

"I ... I didn't mean to come here. I need to go back home. As soon as possible." He cleared his throat and tried to steady his voice. "Can you help me?"

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "I fear this will be rather a longer endeavour than you imagine, Mr Potter. You should establish yourself as a student here for the time being, and I will aid your return to your own time, as best as I can. Come sit, and we will discuss this."

Green eyes stared back at him as he examined his appearance in the mirror. Dumbledore had assured him everything would be taken care of, and so far he had been true to his word. Harry had been granted a guest room while he waited for the evening's impromptu Sorting, had arrived to find everything he would need for the moment on the bed, and he was all set to embark on this new life for however long he would need it. But a trickle of unease felt as if it was constantly running down Harry's spine, ice cold.

He had bathed in order to get ready for the inevitable, but no amount of water could stop Harry seeing the blood on his arms, black in the moonlight, or stop him feeling the pain in his side, in his shoulder, or in his soul.

Just thinking about Ron and Hermione's faces made him feel hollow. Thinking of Fred made him want to collapse.

But I can't, not yet, he vowed.

Attempting to flatten his messy hair with his hands, as usual with no avail, he fastened his robes. They were Hogwarts robes, yes, but they were different from Harry's time ... blacker, and a little longer. A feeling of implacable wrongness seemed to loom over everything Harry encountered within this time. The small differences bothered him more than the glaring ones. He wondered if he should Glamour himself slightly, give himself a bit of the wrongness too, so no one was sure to recognise him back in his own time, but he decided against it. He needed something to feel real in this strange new time ... he didn't think he could cope trying to get used to a new face and a new name, not even feeling like himself any more.

Losing his glasses had been bad enough. Harry imagined they were smashed to pieces somewhere in a Forbidden Forest in nineteen ninety eight. Courtesy of Hermione, he knew a temporary spell to correct his vision, thankfully, but losing the glasses felt like a loss of identity. He found he didn't quite recognise the solemn boy in the mirror staring back at him.

A sharp rap at the door broke his contemplation sharply, and he sighed, opening the door to see Headmaster Dippet awaiting him. They had spoken briefly after the man had returned to the Headmaster's Office, when Dumbledore had introduced him rather vaguely as a new student transferring in. Harry supposed he should try to consider creating a backstory ... with all the shock, he hadn't considered much of the lies he would need to spin to stay unknown.

"Mr Potter, we are ready for your Sorting now. If you could follow me to the Great Hall? I will talk you through the way as we walk ... you will need to learn it."

Harry could hardly tell him he knew the way better than the back of his hand, so he dutifully listened to the man drone as they walked, staring around the cobbled walls of corridors and noting any differences.

All too soon, they approached the towering double doors that led into the Great Hall. Thankfully they were closed, and Harry let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. At least he had a moment to prepare before he was unleashed to the wolves.

He wished he could summon up some of that famous Gryffindor bravery, but faced with the profound strangeness and sheer unknown of the situation, he found himself at a loss.

"Now, Mr Potter, I am going to announce your Sorting to the students," Dippet said brusquely, levelling his gaze with Harry, who hoped he didn't look as apprehensive as he felt. "It shouldn't take me a moment, and then I will open the doors for you to follow through. You will walk to the front of the Hall, near to the staff table, where the Sorting Hat will rest on a lone chair. Please put the Hat on and you will be Sorted. Don't be alarmed by the Hat's manner, it can be quite ... cutting and cavalier." The man sniffed and turned away, the doors opening and closing with a simple gesture from the wizard.

Harry could hear the man introducing him, his voice magically amplified. Before he knew it, the doors were opening once more, and what felt like a thousand eyes were set upon him.

Walking down along the centre of the tables silently to the Hat, Harry's sense of nostalgia was more ... trepidatory than fond. Fate and an overwhelming feeling of deja vu weighed down on his shoulders as he moved, very aware of the soft thud of his footsteps.

The Great Hall looked much the same as it had in his time, palatial and grand. The four long tables seemed like they were stretching forever as Harry walked, nervous to get to the front and get the Sorting over with. Floating candles softly lit the space. The Hall was full, hundreds of students in dark robes turning, staring, but you could have heard a pin drop. Harry knew if he looked above, he would see the twinkle of the night stars high above him. He wondered what constellations the charmed ceiling would show in this time. Perhaps Sirius was near ... he had never been able to see it at home.

Dead silence rang around, all ears pricked and eyes questioning - just like when he was eleven. He supposed that at least rather than the usual reasoning for attention on him, no one here actually knew who and what he was. It was this knowledge that made Harry relax slightly. At least there was no real reason for anyone to take notice of him here, apart from being a new face. For once he could disappear into the shadows. It would help as he tried to figure out how to get back home, and if he was truthful with himself, he would just enjoy the peace and quiet for a change. He didn't have to worry here ... as much as Time was trapping him, it was also protecting him, and giving him a chance to prepare. No matter how long he spent here working on a way to get home, he would not miss the inevitable fight that at some point, he needed to face.

Nearing the front of the Hall now, he was thrown off again by the staff table. Most faces were unfamiliar, but he caught sight of a more corporeal Binns looking at him. Dumbledore, not yet the Headmaster Harry knew, sat to the left side of Dippet. His gaze was unfathomable.

Taking a deep breath, Harry sat down on the designated chair, while Dumbledore stood and placed the Sorting Hat on his head.

"Well, hello again, Harry Potter. Or should I even say 'again'? I suppose technically, this is the first time."

Flabbergasted, he replied, OK. Brilliant, so the Hat can see into the future. Anyone else I need to worry about?

The Hat snorted. "Just because humans are bound by the conventions of Time doesn't mean everything else is. All I am is magic, Harry Potter. Magic can slip and twist through Time how it likes. Will you tell me how the years have treated you? No need, I can full well see."

He attempted to hide his grimace from the rest of the Hall by ducking his head slightly. Look, if you can see everything that has happened then you know I need to be left alone without anyone noticing me. Put me in Gryffindor again and make this simple ... please. I can work on getting back to my time.

"I'm sorry, Harry Potter. You have evaded the house I designated for you once. It won't happen again."

Disbelief crashed like waves. You gave me Gryffindor. That was your decision. I didn't force you, I asked you, he retorted vehemently. My place here, like it was then, is in my House. Put me back there so I can do what I need to do in peace - you do realise the fate of the future is at stake here?

"You have strategised with me once, and it worked, but it will not work like this. I put you in Gryffindor last time because you requested it on account of your beliefs and character, not for some convoluted purpose and greater scheme. You are proving my point for me. I think you know exactly what I'm going to say to you now. SLYTHERIN!"

A polite applause scattered through the Hall, visibly pronounced from the Slytherin benches, as Harry's eyes flew to Dumbledore. The man looked resigned, eyes shadowed. His expression was carefully neutral, but having once known him, Harry could see straight through it. Almost unrecognisable from the jovial, kind man Harry knew, his eyes flickered away as Harry rose slowly, starting a walk to the Slytherin table that felt like a death march.

Most faces at the table were completely unfamiliar to Harry, but he felt painful twinges of memories when he looked at a few of the students. There was an older boy with flaxen hair, unmistakeable as a Malfoy heir, features haughty and proud. Next to him sat a girl with long dark hair. Harry could admit her face was objectively beautiful, but her cold black eyes had nothing behind them. She was instantly identifiable as a relation of Bellatrix Lestrange ... it reeked from the twitch of her smirk, every bit of her body language, from just a two second analysis. He looked away in disgust.

It might not be so terrible, he thought. I can blend in. The Hat has obviously put me here for some bizarre reason ... I can fake enough of their attributes to pass without too much unwanted attention. And at least I'm not the Boy Who Lived here ... I'm just a boy.

He was nearing the table, his gaze searching for an available seat, when his eyes fell upon another boy. A boy seemingly at the centre of the others, students hanging off his every word. Foreboding dark eyes snapped onto Harry as he approached the table.

Harry swallowed. Oh shit.