Welcome back!

Thank you for the great reception of the first chapter, I could have never imagined the amount of people enjoying the stories. The next chapters will be around this length again and coming soon! I would love a review and a kudos for the story!

Have fun…

This chapter is dedicated to Mel, my best friend since twenty years! Thank you so much for all your support, I am really glad to have you as a part of my life.

Harry's body started to stir, aching in the most uncomfortable way it ever had, making him want to scream out in agony. The constant slight pain in his scar that he had carried with himself since the night in the graveyard felt like it was about to rip his head apart, maybe even his whole body. His mind was entirely consumed by the sheer hurt that he was feeling; Harry didn't notice the voice trying to talk to him, attempting to soothe his pain.

I want to die. Please let this not be what the afterlife feels like. Harry thought desperately, tears of pain streaming down his face.

When he thought the pain couldn't get any worse, another wave of hurt washed over his body, and he felt his scar physically rip apart, a blood-like liquid running down his forehead, but black and thick as honey. The more of the liquid emerged out of Harry's head, the clearer his thoughts were and the pain slowly began to fade away.

"Harry, come back to me. It will be over soon, just hold on a little longer," a comforting voice of a trying to tend to Harry kept repeating over and over again as if singing a weird chant when Harry finally was conscious enough to hear and understand the words said to him. The tone of the voice was oddly familiar to him; he remembered it but couldn't put a name to its owner.

This was when Harry noticed that the texture of the ground beneath him was different. Gone were the rough paved stones of privet drive that had been hurting his resting arms and legs since he had crashed down, replaced by a warm but still hard floor of the granite he was now laying on. Continuing to explore the floor around him with his hands, Harry expected a large pool of blood to be right in front of his face but was surprised by the lack of it. The only thing he could feel was a steady stream of the liquid seemingly flowing away from him.

Still feeling the blood-like liquid oozing out of the wound on his head, Harry tried to slowly open his eyes. However, he couldn't see anything, as if a thick white fog was lying over his eyes. In shock, Harry started searching for the glasses he had been wearing since he was an infant. When he noticed that they weren't on his face, panic started to flood his mind.

Where are my glasses? Harry wondered, desperately fidgeting around on the floor, trying to locate the glasses he seemed to have lost when he had been deposited from the Dementor.

The scariness of the situation, as Harry was lying defenseless and blind on the floor, started to overwhelm him; the panic taking a firm hold of his actions. His movements became more uncontrolled and erratic as if Harry was in a frenzy.

"Everything is alright, my boy; you are safe here," the voice, a male one, was trying to calm him. It was a steady and friendly voice, but its authority was unmistakable. The man sounded like somebody in his mid-twenties but it had the experience of a year-long, battle-hardened veteran.

Harry was sure he never heard the voice of the older man, but it was soothing to him nonetheless. He knew now that he wasn't alone and didn't doubt the unspoken promise of this man even for a second; he would keep him safe here, a feeling the young man didn't know.

Being safe was a foreign concept for Harry. He had never been safe before, not in Hogwarts or any other place in the wizarding world, and never when he had lived with the Dursleys. But now he felt safe, being protected by the robust and warm man that was next to him. It was a feeling Harry was savoring, making him relax entirely in the soothing warmth it radiated through his body.

Harry didn't know how long he was lying like that, unable to talk yet, when he felt a tingling, cold feeling under his skin moving towards his eyes. The feeling was foreign but familiar at the same time. It felt similar to the times Harry used powerful magic, especially transformations. But it was different than usual. It was cold, so very cold. He couldn't understand how something could feel so warm and freezing simultaneously.

He noticed the presence moving around in his body, poking and probing every now and then, making Harry shiver. It went higher and higher, starting from the tips of his toes. When it reached his eyes, he could feel the feeling slow down, as if taking its time to figure out what issue was within them since his birth. After what felt like an hour, the sensation started moving something in his eyes, evicting a small wave of pain throughout Harry's body. He felt the pain ebb away in the blink of an eye, replaced by a sense of happiness that, strangely, didn't feel like his own. It felt a bit like how the sensation had felt just a few seconds ago; it felt familiar.

It was then that the feeling started to retreat into Harry's core, and his vision slowly began to clear. The fog lit up in small patches, letting glimpses of scenery through it, with the first thing in sight being a newspaper rack.

The daily prophet! Harry thought cheerfully.

But something wasn't right. The displayed papers were plain white as if they had never seen a drop of ink. And now that Harry had a moment to think about it, he started wondering why the rack was so transparent. It reminded him a lot about the ghosts of Hogwarts in their silvery, shiny visuals.

After taking the rest of the scenery in, Harry was able to recognize the place he was at. Memories flooded him - his first meeting with the Weasleys, the hope of a better life, and the enormous big red train, the Hogwarts Express. Standing in front of the majestic vehicle, Harry knew that something weird had happened. He was at platform 9 3/4, at King's Cross station in London, clueless about how he got there.

Not a soul was around, and the only things he could see was the Hogwarts Express, ready for departure, and the trickle of blood that had finally stopped flowing from the wound in his head. The remaining liquid continued like a snake towards one of the benches at the platform, the end starting to trail away from Harry.

Filled with curiosity, the boy stood up, noticing the apparent ease of his movements. Only a faint glimpse of the pain he had been in during his whole life was left. He knew that it came from the sheer amount of abuse he had to endure in his youth; all the broken bones and concussions, followed by the neglect of those injuries seemed to affect his body in the long term. Even Madam Pomfrey hadn't been able to fix the issues in his time at Hogwarts, stating it would be permanent, so he had come to terms with living with the pain as best as he could.

But now, it seemed to be almost gone. Harry didn't feel the aching of his muscles anymore; his bones felt normal. Most importantly, his constant headaches were also gone, both the one in his scar and the usual ones. He only felt a tiredness he wasn't accustomed to, a deep, satisfied tiredness from the feeling in his core.

Standing straight, Harry took a few cautious steps towards the bench where the trickling of blood had fully disappeared. The sight that he was greeted by left the boy in shock. A sickly-looking baby was lying under the seat, the last drops of blood currently pushing into the infant's navel area, penetrating the skin. The young body was trembling as if dunked into ice water, even through the warm temperature at the station, its body sickly thin.

When it opened its eyes, Harry recoiled. He immediately recognized the eyes looking back at him, the pure red slits being burned into his mind from the duel he had at the end of last year.

"How is this possible? Why does this child look like Voldemort?" Harry shouted in utter confusion, unable to understand why he was there and what this baby was. He recognized the face. Now that he was able to connect the dots, he saw the expression of his year-long foe. The enemy that found him year after year, making his life terrible. The enemy that killed his parents but couldn't kill the one-year-old Harry Potter. The enemy that ripped away all the happiness the boy was supposed to have.

"Harry. I will explain."

The boy spun around swearing under his breath; How could he forget the two people that had been here with him? He recoiled again at the sight that awaited him when he turned to face the voice. It was as if he was looking into a mirror, the man he was standing in front of had exactly the same features as him. From the black untamed hair to the high facial cheekbones, even his ears. If the person in front of him hadn't looked around a decade older, Harry would have sworn it was his clone.

That's when their eyes locked, and Harry could see their difference. The glistening eyes filled with unshed tears looked at the boy before him. They were the only thing revealing the fond and saddened soul of his father through the reserved stance the man portrayed in his body language.

"Dad? Is that you?" Harry asked incredulously as his eyes were starting to water up, even though he was dreading the answer. It couldn't be; his father had been dead since he was one year old; how could he be here?

"Yes, my son. It is me. Come with me. We have a lot to talk about and not enough time." James Potter said to his son, careful about keeping his composure, as he held his hand out for the younger Potter to take.

Harry wanted to take the hand, immediately reaching out, when he remembered the baby under the bench. He didn't want to leave it there. It looked so miserable, he had to do something to help it, even if it looked like the foe that had inflicted him and his family so much pain.

"Can we do anything about the baby? We shouldn't leave it here," Harry pleaded to his father.

"I am sorry, son, but we can't. It doesn't have a chance anymore. There is only a faint piece of a soul left, and that part will be collected as well soon. Son, we need to go," The older man wore an apologetic look on his face.

When Harry reluctantly took his hand, James led Harry towards a bench on the other side of the platform, right in front of the train.

"Am I dead?" Harry blurted out the moment they sat down.

"Not yet, my son. We are in Limbus right now. You are neither completely alive nor dead at the moment. You are right in between," James explained. He then stopped to think about the best way he could explain everything to Harry. "I believe you can decide which way to take. It is your decision if you get on the train and join the next big adventure."

"You sound just like Dumbledore when you say that," Harry chuckled, having heard that exact wording multiple times from his headmaster. Pondering about it, he realized that the headmaster seemed to have had a huge influence on James. The stoic man in front of him was not the careless prankster he was back at school anymore. James Potter had aged considerably.

"What happens on that great adventure? I don't think I want to go back. There is nothing that is holding me there. I am scared, Dad," he admitted to his father, bitterly seeking comfort.

"I know Harry. The world treated you badly. You shouldn't have to deal with the problems you have to deal with." James' words were filled with sadness. "You never chose any of this… Let me share something with you before you make your final decision.."

"When you were born, a prophecy was made, and ever since, it has been affecting both you and Voldemort, Harry. You were born into a war, a war so cruel, I had nightmares about it every night. That prophecy demands that YOU have to be the person to kill the Dark Lord. It can only be you, and we went into hiding to protect a mere baby from the wrath of a serial killer." James was finally able to tell his son the things that he had been keeping inside for so long. "I am sorry, but we let you down. He found us in the end. I cannot tell you the full prophecy. I am not allowed to. Find it in the ministry, my son, and listen to it. The magical world is probably on your shoulders. I would rather have you join us, but it's not the right time yet. Not until you are truly ready and have lived a long and happy life, maybe even some grandchildren for me and Lily." James winked suggestively after the last statement.

Harry was confused by all the information disclosed to him. How could a teenager be expected to kill a full-grown wizard, especially the most potent wizard of the generation? However, things were now starting to fall into place for him. He was finally able to understand why Voldemort had been trying so hard to kill him repeatedly. Why had the wizard taken Harry's blood for his resurrection ritual? Why didn't nobody tell him? Why was he treated like this if he was meant to kill the Dark Lord in the end?

"But why should I go back? I just want peace. I don't care about the wizarding world anymore. They can die for all I care because of how they treated me!" Harry shouted into the face of his father.

He was furious, hurt by the secrets that were kept from him, the pain he was subjected to, and the training that he would have needed. Disappointed in the support he had been given from Dumbledore and all the other wizards. His anger rose higher and higher until he felt two strong hands pull him into an embrace, causing his rage to collapse like a house of cards, replaced by deep sadness. Because he already knew that his father was right. He would need to return, unwilling to let the wizarding population lose this conflict. Even more than that, He wanted the dark lord dead, killed by his own hands. He wanted to punish Riddle for what he did to him.

"I know, son. I know. But that isn't you. I've seen it. You are a protector, just as my father has been. As much as I would like you to, Potters don't run away from their res-" James tried explaining to his son, but he was interrupted by the teenager.

"Is it my responsibility? I don't think so, and maybe I should just run away like you did." Harry blurted out, but once he saw the evident hurt in his father's eyes, he regretted his words in an instant. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"It is alright," a saddened James Potter said, "I've never been as brave as you or Charlus. I never had to. Being born into a world of peace, there was no need to be scared my whole life. I never learned my family's magic because it wasn't needed. Until the war started and you have become a target, we tried living a normal life. Then, it was too late; nobody could train me anymore when Charlus and my mother, Dorea, were killed by the dark lord. The only thing I tried since then was to protect you. I did EVERYTHING I could. I'm so sorry it wasn't enough, Harry."

The boy could see the feeling of utter defeat his father had experienced. He understood him. There was no need for a warrior, so his father developed into one only when it was almost too late.

"But I am not a fighter either, Dad. I am not taught well, I have bad grades, and I'm not overly powerful." Harry confessed. "I won't be able to defeat him. I am nothing."

Harry could feel the arms around him tightening, squeezing him a little, the warmth of his father radiating towards him.

"Bullshit, Harry. Yes, you shouldn't have been this lax with your education, but I can't hold that against you as a former marauder. But that isn't something you cannot fix. You have the drive you need!" James encouraged him. "And you are really powerful. Didn't you feel your magic repair your eyesight? All of the other injuries you had? I've bloody seen it. You were glowing. Not even the old goat has produced such an aura in a long time."

Harry thought about that, about the tingling he had felt a few minutes ago, and had to accept that his father was right. There was a lot of power inside of him. He could feel it. Power that he didn't have before everything that happened that day. It was enclosed in his core. However, he sensed it lacked the pure warmth he was used to. He felt like something had come back, something that had been inside of him for a long time, and was now settling back into his core, being readily greeted by the usual warmth.

"Dad, what is this feeling inside of me? This tingle. I remember it from using spells, but it is different now." Harry questioned his father, fueled by curiosity. "Why does it feel different after I got kissed by the Dementor?"

James Potter chuckled at his son's lack of knowledge until he saw the confused look on Harry's face. "You really don't know? What did the old goat Dumbledore even teach you? The answer is quite simple: It is your magic."

"Magic as we know it resides in all living beings, yes, even the muggles. But it depends on how much of it you have and if you can access it. If you want to know more about it, you will find a book about it pretty soon." James started to explain, taking a break after answering the first question.

An expression of uncertainty was painted all over his face as he continued. "About the second question, I don't know it either." The older Potter ended his explanation, a shimmer of guilt twitching in front of his hazel eyes.

"What should I do now, Dad? How should I continue?" Harry asked, missing the glimpse in his father's eyes. "Will I just wake up and train more than ever before? Get myself ready for the inevitable fight?"

The expression of the man changed into a more thoughtful look. "Yes, Harry. I believe you will just wake up. But even though it hurts me, I don't think you should return as Harry Potter, at least not yet."

Harry looked confused, not understanding what his father meant. "Not as Harry Potter? What do you mean, Dad?"

"I think it is time you become the lord you were destined to be. That would make your work a lot easier. You will have to take be Lord Potter soon." James explained further, raising his hand as he noticed his son wanted to talk back, silencing him. "Harry, stop. I know from experience that it is hard to go this way. I hated politics just as much as you do. But it is the only way. The ministry will be coming for you. I wouldn't even be surprised if they try to imprison you for performing a patronus on an open street. Fudge has always been a fool."

"But I DEFENDED myself, Dad." Harry roared in a barely concealed fury. "Aren't we allowed to use magic in life-threatening situations?"

James laughed. "I mean, yes, theoretically, you are. But these are politicians we are talking about. They don't have a sense of right or wrong and will use this to their advantage. I've seen it happen the last time around. To save you, they would have to admit that they lost control of these monsters if they didn't send them themselves."

Harry had to concede that point to his father. He knew which route the minister would take. They would lay the blame on 'The boy who lived,' would try to take him in, put him on trial, and throw him into Azkaban, just as they did with Sirius all these years ago. Fudge would never put up the courage to help Harry. The minister instead took the coward's way to deny all the proof presented to him. He had to help himself like he always had done.

"You are right, Dad. I need to be strong right now, a strength my name cannot carry yet." Harry accepted his father's advice just as he started feeling a pulling sensation right around his navel. "Dad, something tries to pull me away from here. I don't want to go yet."

James' eyes started to fill with tears, noticing that their time here was coming to an end.

"It will be alright, son. I feel it, too. We both have to go. Death wants me back and would like to take you, too. You need to go before he is here, son." The older Potter closed the gap between them once more and hugged his son tightly, trying to show all the love he was feeling for him with this simple physical act.

The boy reveled in the feeling a second time this day until he felt the pull strengthen. "Dad, I need to go. I can feel it. I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Harry! Lily loves you. She wanted to be the one to come and see you, but it had to be me. We will wait for you. But make sure to find a woman, just as wonderful as the one I've found. Someone who is going to tell me all your embarrassing stories." Chuckling, James reluctantly let go, stepping away as he saw Harry starting to fade away.

"Be careful, son." Was the last thing the man managed to say before seeing his son vanish with a determined look on his face.